I have stated before and I'll state again, I am not an expert. But, when it comes to movie-watching, my husband and I are the closest you can get without officially having that title. We've seen every new, recently new or straight-to-DVD new movie that you can imagine. Even the really bad National Lampoon's Blonde Bimbo movies.
So last night, using our brand new BluRay player, we decided to watch the movie SALT. The premise was good. The acting was fine. The storyline wasn't even too bad. However - SPOILER ALERT - there are spiders.
For all you fellow arachnophobes, don't watch the movie. Don't even attempt it. Unless you watch it with someone who has already seen it and can tell you the PRECISE moment to turn away? Don't watch the movie.
There I was, enjoying the first scene, when out of nowhere a big-ass tarantula appears in a glass jar. Relevant to the scene? NO! Then in the next scene, smaller spiders, more of the black widow or brown recluse size. Did we need an extreme closeup? NO!
My body started to shake, I started becoming paralyzed and I felt that incessant need to throw up. My husband, knowing my phobia, asked me if I was okay. And it wasn't the sarcastic, REALLY? It's just a movie, are you okay. He knew it wasn't funny.
Were the spiders an essental part of the film? Well, the thing wasn't called Spiders or Arachnophobia, now was it? There was a small, small part that a mere reference to spiders was needed. Certainly not worthy of multiple closeup shots.
Regardless, the movie sucked. With all its superstar power, it sucked. Spiders aside, it still sucked. But, they did open it up for the potential for Salt 2. So excited. Perhaps it will feature freaky-ass clowns.
The movie did leave an impact on me though. As with any time I see, hear mention of or just read the word spider...I couldn't sleep. It's not that I had nightmares. I had THE nightmare. The one that has plagued me since childhood. One that stars me hiding in a small closet in the attic (let's get real subconscious...where the hell do you think spiders are most likely to reside?)being attacked by plastic spider rings.
Why the plastic spider rings and not real spiders? I blame the scary-ass clowns at my childhood birthday parties.
Monica Stoneking
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Benefits of Dealing with Stupid People
I know I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed. Nor am I the nicest, most patient person of all time. But, I am not an idiot and I am not too mean either. Today, my patience was tested. The war between stupid people and me waged on. And for once, I was victorious in a single battle.
I hate stopping for coffee before work in the morning, especially when the temperatures are cold enough to freeze your snot. However, the two hours of sleep I was actually able to get last night would definitely not get me through the day. And the ignorant people at work would have definitely been decapitated had I not stopped for my caffeine fix.
The experience at the podunk, white trash gas station was strange to say the least. Frustrating, yes. Monetarily beneficial, surprising.
Clerk: Is that all?
Me: Yes.
Clerk: That'll be $3.23
Me: I hand the clerk a $20 bill
Clerk: She hands me $6.77 change
Me: Oh, um, I gave you a $20
Clerk: No, you handed me $15.
Me: No, I handed you a $20 dollar bill.
Clerk: No, you handed me $15.
Me: Well, if I gave you $15, the change would still be wrong. I gave you a $20.
Clerk: I could have sworn you gave me $15.
Me: If I had $15, I would have just given you the $5 for a $3.23 total
Clerk: Whatever
The clerk then handed me a $20 dollar bill and asked to help the next person in line. So, THANK YOU stupid person for giving me a free coffee, soda AND $6.77.
Before you think bad of me for keeping the $6.77 and not engaging in another discussion as to why I was handing the money back to her - there were people waiting in line. So, while the stupidity of the employee cost them more than the said $6.77, I saved them potentially-lost revenue by leaving when I did. I mean, how long would you stand in a line waiting for a stupid person to check you out?
You're welcome Speedway. I may have benefited from your stupid employee, but you benefited from my unwillingness to continue a stupid dialogue with your stupid employee.
I hate stopping for coffee before work in the morning, especially when the temperatures are cold enough to freeze your snot. However, the two hours of sleep I was actually able to get last night would definitely not get me through the day. And the ignorant people at work would have definitely been decapitated had I not stopped for my caffeine fix.
The experience at the podunk, white trash gas station was strange to say the least. Frustrating, yes. Monetarily beneficial, surprising.
Clerk: Is that all?
Me: Yes.
Clerk: That'll be $3.23
Me: I hand the clerk a $20 bill
Clerk: She hands me $6.77 change
Me: Oh, um, I gave you a $20
Clerk: No, you handed me $15.
Me:
Clerk: No, you handed me $15.
Me: Well, if I gave you $15, the change would still be wrong.
Clerk:
Me:
Clerk:
The clerk then handed me a $20 dollar bill and asked to help the next person in line. So, THANK YOU stupid person for giving me a free coffee, soda AND $6.77.
Before you think bad of me for keeping the $6.77 and not engaging in another discussion as to why I was handing the money back to her - there were people waiting in line. So, while the stupidity of the employee cost them more than the said $6.77, I saved them potentially-lost revenue by leaving when I did. I mean, how long would you stand in a line waiting for a stupid person to check you out?
You're welcome Speedway. I may have benefited from your stupid employee, but you benefited from my unwillingness to continue a stupid dialogue with your stupid employee.
Friday, October 29, 2010
All Hallows' Eve
It's that time of year when the leaves have turned, there's a crisp bite in the air and children (and adults) get cracked out on sugar overload.
I love Halloween. Correction. I loved Halloween. I love the Halloween of yesteryear, when there wasn't a care in the world. When kids would trek 5 miles to get to that one house that had the full-sized candy bars. There was no threat of tainted goodies. No worries of sexual offenders handing out treats. No concerns about 11 year olds going house-to-house, unchaperoned, begging complete strangers for candy just by screaming 'Trick or Treat'.
Today's Halloween is full of over-protective, PTA President parents that drive their kids to a mall to get a bag of candy (all while being attached to a kiddie harness). In fact, businesses and communities are holding Halloween events 4 days before the holiday - what is up with that?
That's like celebrating New Year's Eve on Dec. 26. Not cool.
And then you have your two extreme types of trick-or-treaters. The teenagers who throw a little face paint on and call themselves a clown. The lazy kids who throw a cowboy hat on and call themselves a cowboy. Then there are people who honor the Celtic festival of Samhain by developing the most elaborate costume ever (note Lady Gaga's meat dress? NOT creative).
You might be wondering if I pulled the Celtic reference out of my arse...in fact, I did not.
Some folklorists have detected Halloween's origins in the Roman feast of Pomona, the goddess of fruits and seeds, or in the festival of the dead called Parentalia, it is more typically linked to the Celtic festival of Samhain.
The festival of Samhain celebrates the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darker half", and is sometimes regarded as the "Celtic New Year".
The ancient Celts believed that the border between this world and the Otherworld became thin on Samhain, allowing spirits (both harmless and harmful) to pass through. The family's ancestors were honoured and invited home while harmful spirits were warded off. It is believed that the need to ward off harmful spirits led to the wearing of costumes and masks. Their purpose was to disguise oneself as a harmful spirit and thus avoid harm.
Any holiday that has an Irish history is pretty cool in my book. Ones that allow us to dress up like idiots and overindulge in treats are even better. St. Patrick's Day? Dress up like a leprechaun and drink lots of beer. Halloween? Dress up like a leprechaun and eat lots of candy.
Eating lots of candy I will do this year. I will go to the store and buy in bulk - justifying that it's for the kids. Knowing damn good and well they're all at the Safety Committe's Halloween Extravaganza at the mall. Then, not wanting the candy to go to waste, I will dig into the bowl and pick out my treats...until one by one they disappear into the crevices of my teeth.
Then next year? I won't have to dress up. I will go as a toothless bum.
I love Halloween. Correction. I loved Halloween. I love the Halloween of yesteryear, when there wasn't a care in the world. When kids would trek 5 miles to get to that one house that had the full-sized candy bars. There was no threat of tainted goodies. No worries of sexual offenders handing out treats. No concerns about 11 year olds going house-to-house, unchaperoned, begging complete strangers for candy just by screaming 'Trick or Treat'.
Today's Halloween is full of over-protective, PTA President parents that drive their kids to a mall to get a bag of candy (all while being attached to a kiddie harness). In fact, businesses and communities are holding Halloween events 4 days before the holiday - what is up with that?
That's like celebrating New Year's Eve on Dec. 26. Not cool.
And then you have your two extreme types of trick-or-treaters. The teenagers who throw a little face paint on and call themselves a clown. The lazy kids who throw a cowboy hat on and call themselves a cowboy. Then there are people who honor the Celtic festival of Samhain by developing the most elaborate costume ever (note Lady Gaga's meat dress? NOT creative).
You might be wondering if I pulled the Celtic reference out of my arse...in fact, I did not.
Some folklorists have detected Halloween's origins in the Roman feast of Pomona, the goddess of fruits and seeds, or in the festival of the dead called Parentalia, it is more typically linked to the Celtic festival of Samhain.
The festival of Samhain celebrates the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darker half", and is sometimes regarded as the "Celtic New Year".
The ancient Celts believed that the border between this world and the Otherworld became thin on Samhain, allowing spirits (both harmless and harmful) to pass through. The family's ancestors were honoured and invited home while harmful spirits were warded off. It is believed that the need to ward off harmful spirits led to the wearing of costumes and masks. Their purpose was to disguise oneself as a harmful spirit and thus avoid harm.
Any holiday that has an Irish history is pretty cool in my book. Ones that allow us to dress up like idiots and overindulge in treats are even better. St. Patrick's Day? Dress up like a leprechaun and drink lots of beer. Halloween? Dress up like a leprechaun and eat lots of candy.
Eating lots of candy I will do this year. I will go to the store and buy in bulk - justifying that it's for the kids. Knowing damn good and well they're all at the Safety Committe's Halloween Extravaganza at the mall. Then, not wanting the candy to go to waste, I will dig into the bowl and pick out my treats...until one by one they disappear into the crevices of my teeth.
Then next year? I won't have to dress up. I will go as a toothless bum.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
If My Husband Was George Clooney
I like lists. I make lists to go to the grocery store. I have a to-do list at work and a to-do list at home. I have a mental list of people that I absolutely despise (stupid people) and a list of things and people that I love. But, one list, in particular is a staple in the Stoneking house - The If-This-Celebrity-Comes-To-The-House-It's-Okay-For-Them-To-Have-Their-Way-With-Me list.
It's the list of five. The spousal privilege list. The list that I can not argue and, in turn, my husband can not divorce me over.
There are some general rules about the list.
1) People on the list can not be a neighbor, friend, co-worker or relative.
2) People on the list can not be reasonably attainable by person developing list.
3) People on the list must be celebrities in their own right.
4) Not mandatory, but people on the list have a beauty that is unattainable by normal people. (This point can be disputed by significant others but said viewpoint has no bearing on generated list).
I'm not quite sure who is on my husband's list today. Though it seems the people on the list get younger and younger. Or, perhaps, as Matthew McConaughey's character, David Wooderson says in Dazed and Confused, "That's what I love about these high school girls, man. I get older, they stay the same age."
My husband's list used to be all Ashley Judd with a little Kate Beckinsale thrown in. But, ever since she ripped his heart out (and thoroughly trampled on it) by marrying race car driver Dario Franchitti, 10 years ago...on his birthday.
If I were to guess, here is how my husband's list would be today:
1) Minka Kelly
2) Maria Menounos
3) Kate Beckinsale
4) Megan Fox
5) Jessica Biel or Alba (either will do)
Too bad for my husband, it looks like only one - Maria - is single. Although, some may argue that Megan Fox is available since she married David Green from Beverly Hills 90210 (the ORIGINAL). Good luck honey!
My list? It changes all the time. While everyone is gaga over Brad Pitt..he just doesn't do it for me. He can have Angelina and their baseball team of a clan. Denzel Washington? He made an appearance...but I'm worried that, like all of his acting roles, it would be same old, same old. I need diversity Denzel. Sorry. You may be one of the Sexiest Men alive according to People...you have been knocked off my list.
Colin Ferrel? Nah. New James Bond dude? No thanks. Justin Bieber? ew. and jail bait. What about Johnny Depp? David Wooderson himself (aka: Matthew)? He doesn't use soap. Adrian Grenier from Entourage? Looks like he could be related to Jake Gyllenhall. Someone must have punched both of them in the face.
The question I am always asked by my husband - why not George Clooney? Because I always thought he was overrated. But, as I was getting ready today - which was hard to do with two dogs and a husband in the bathroom - I saw GC on the Today show. Beautiful. In fact, so beautiful that the following conversation transpired:
Husband: Honey, if I could rewind my life, I'd want to come back as George Clooney.
Me: Um, okay. Then we probably wouldn't be married.
Husband: (split second pause) Small price to pay.
I wouldn't want my husband to come back as George Clooney. My husband is perfect (and one the sexiest (normal) men alive) the way he is. But...that being said...GC has officially made it on my list.
1) Ed Burns (that has never nor will ever change)
2) Blair Underwood
3) Patrick Dempsey
4) Matthew Fox (awww...my husband and I have a Fox on our list)
5) George Clooney
There are many that were honorable mentions and they may creep back on the list. Note to Ryan Reynolds - if you wouldn't have married Scarlet Johansen, you would still be in the running.
My husband wants to rewind his life and come back as George Clooney. However, if he does that, he drops from being number one in my life to number five on a hypothetical wish list. Of course, that could still just be a small price to pay.
It's the list of five. The spousal privilege list. The list that I can not argue and, in turn, my husband can not divorce me over.
There are some general rules about the list.
1) People on the list can not be a neighbor, friend, co-worker or relative.
2) People on the list can not be reasonably attainable by person developing list.
3) People on the list must be celebrities in their own right.
4) Not mandatory, but people on the list have a beauty that is unattainable by normal people. (This point can be disputed by significant others but said viewpoint has no bearing on generated list).
I'm not quite sure who is on my husband's list today. Though it seems the people on the list get younger and younger. Or, perhaps, as Matthew McConaughey's character, David Wooderson says in Dazed and Confused, "That's what I love about these high school girls, man. I get older, they stay the same age."
My husband's list used to be all Ashley Judd with a little Kate Beckinsale thrown in. But, ever since she ripped his heart out (and thoroughly trampled on it) by marrying race car driver Dario Franchitti, 10 years ago...on his birthday.
If I were to guess, here is how my husband's list would be today:
1) Minka Kelly
2) Maria Menounos
3) Kate Beckinsale
4) Megan Fox
5) Jessica Biel or Alba (either will do)
Too bad for my husband, it looks like only one - Maria - is single. Although, some may argue that Megan Fox is available since she married David Green from Beverly Hills 90210 (the ORIGINAL). Good luck honey!
My list? It changes all the time. While everyone is gaga over Brad Pitt..he just doesn't do it for me. He can have Angelina and their baseball team of a clan. Denzel Washington? He made an appearance...but I'm worried that, like all of his acting roles, it would be same old, same old. I need diversity Denzel. Sorry. You may be one of the Sexiest Men alive according to People...you have been knocked off my list.
Colin Ferrel? Nah. New James Bond dude? No thanks. Justin Bieber? ew. and jail bait. What about Johnny Depp? David Wooderson himself (aka: Matthew)? He doesn't use soap. Adrian Grenier from Entourage? Looks like he could be related to Jake Gyllenhall. Someone must have punched both of them in the face.
The question I am always asked by my husband - why not George Clooney? Because I always thought he was overrated. But, as I was getting ready today - which was hard to do with two dogs and a husband in the bathroom - I saw GC on the Today show. Beautiful. In fact, so beautiful that the following conversation transpired:
Husband: Honey, if I could rewind my life, I'd want to come back as George Clooney.
Me: Um, okay. Then we probably wouldn't be married.
Husband: (split second pause) Small price to pay.
I wouldn't want my husband to come back as George Clooney. My husband is perfect (and one the sexiest (normal) men alive) the way he is. But...that being said...GC has officially made it on my list.
1) Ed Burns (that has never nor will ever change)
2) Blair Underwood
3) Patrick Dempsey
4) Matthew Fox (awww...my husband and I have a Fox on our list)
5) George Clooney
There are many that were honorable mentions and they may creep back on the list. Note to Ryan Reynolds - if you wouldn't have married Scarlet Johansen, you would still be in the running.
My husband wants to rewind his life and come back as George Clooney. However, if he does that, he drops from being number one in my life to number five on a hypothetical wish list. Of course, that could still just be a small price to pay.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
A Joke That Needs Explaining...
Let's get something straight. I am not a comedian. I do not do stand up. I do not get paid to think up hilarious stories, off-the-wall jokes, or slapstick scenarios. But, I like to think I have a healthy sense of humor. Apparently, I'm wrong.
The other day, on my way to work, I went into a gas station to treat myself to a much-needed (cheap) coffee. This is a fairly routine move on my part, for if I didn't have my caffeine fix, dealing with stupid people all day would be detrimental to their health.
But something about that day was differrent. I poured my coffee, waited in line behind THAT guy who had to purchase every type of scratch off ticket known to Michigan. When I finally got up to the counter, the station clerk (all 18 years of her) looked like someone plucked every toenail out one by one THEN made her step in a vat of lemon juice.
"Is that all?" She looked dismissively at my 20 oz. coffee and I thought...what, am I supposed to spend $200 on pine tree scents for my car to get your approval?
"And the winning lottery ticket." Come on...that's witty. Albeit old and overused...but witty.
"Did you want a lottery ticket?" All the seriousness of a serial killer.
"Only if it's the winning one." (smile waning from face) hee hee?
"Do you want a lottery ticket or not?" Hide your kids. Hide your wife. 'Cause this gas station clerk is comin' for you. She's gonna find you. She's gonna find you. (Note: search Bed Intruder Song)
"Uh, no thanks." The joy of a steaming cup 'o Joe first thing in the morning trampled on by disgruntled gas station employees.
The moral of the story here is just because you think something is gut-wrenchingly funny, others may be too stupid to see the humor or too angry at the world to care. Then again, a joke that needs explaining (as has been done in this blog) isn't a very good joke in the first place.
Don't get me wrong, I will continue to attempt to be funny. I will continue to cast my failing jokes on innocent people everywhere. I will continue to share my witty attempts with anyone...until someone pays me to shut up.
The other day, on my way to work, I went into a gas station to treat myself to a much-needed (cheap) coffee. This is a fairly routine move on my part, for if I didn't have my caffeine fix, dealing with stupid people all day would be detrimental to their health.
But something about that day was differrent. I poured my coffee, waited in line behind THAT guy who had to purchase every type of scratch off ticket known to Michigan. When I finally got up to the counter, the station clerk (all 18 years of her) looked like someone plucked every toenail out one by one THEN made her step in a vat of lemon juice.
"Is that all?" She looked dismissively at my 20 oz. coffee and I thought...what, am I supposed to spend $200 on pine tree scents for my car to get your approval?
"And the winning lottery ticket." Come on...that's witty. Albeit old and overused...but witty.
"Did you want a lottery ticket?" All the seriousness of a serial killer.
"Only if it's the winning one." (smile waning from face) hee hee?
"Do you want a lottery ticket or not?" Hide your kids. Hide your wife. 'Cause this gas station clerk is comin' for you. She's gonna find you. She's gonna find you. (Note: search Bed Intruder Song)
"Uh, no thanks." The joy of a steaming cup 'o Joe first thing in the morning trampled on by disgruntled gas station employees.
The moral of the story here is just because you think something is gut-wrenchingly funny, others may be too stupid to see the humor or too angry at the world to care. Then again, a joke that needs explaining (as has been done in this blog) isn't a very good joke in the first place.
Don't get me wrong, I will continue to attempt to be funny. I will continue to cast my failing jokes on innocent people everywhere. I will continue to share my witty attempts with anyone...until someone pays me to shut up.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Buy the Stupid Book
It never ceases to amaze me. We live in one of the most affluent countries in the world. However, stupidity abounds.
I have made it my mission to a) figure out why people are so stupid and b) find a cure. Both are deemed impossible quests, but I am determined. Don't get me wrong, I have been guilty of having a 'stupid' moment (reference: blog on leaving house wearing two different shoes). But, I like to think I have book smarts AND a semblance of street smarts.
Let me clarify...you do not need to possess multiple degrees to be stupid. Your walls do not need to be lined with certificates of achievements. But just because you DO have multiple degrees or a plethora of certificates, does not make you smart.
Case #1:
Highly-educated professional (or politician in many cases) has affair with a subordinate...and gets caught: Stupid.
Case #2:
An individual with a degree decides to continually purchase things on the company card, claiming it is for business, only to find out it was to pay the home electric bill: Stupid
There are employed people I come across everyday in which I wonder, "How DID you get this job?" But, they manage to keep it because they are BFFs with the CEO's daughter or the CEO himself. That's just plain stupid on so many levels.
Then there are the blatantly stupid people (reference: any blog on local super center). These are the ones that walk into a Dollar Store and ask how much an item is. These are people that are a few tacos short of a combo meal, just waiting for Jeff Foxworthy to approach them..."here's your sign".
Case #3:
A superstar decides to do a reality show (I know, shock...surprise) with her husband. Her husband, who for all appearances seems smart, agrees to do the show demonstrating a bit of stupidity (in addition to marrying her). On the show, for millions to see, she asks if the tuna she was eating was chicken. "It says 'Chicken of the Sea.": Stupid
Case #4:
A person who doesn't know how to 'reply to all': Stupid
As you can see there are so many examples of how stupidity has run amock in our society. There are too many to address in one, itty, bitty blog. But, I vow to write a stupid book. Not a book for Dummies. A book ABOUT Dummies. They are out there. At your local gas station. Your local watering hole. In the cubicle right next to you.
Do them a favor. Buy them A Stupid Book. Release Date: When I can get the stupid thing done.
I have made it my mission to a) figure out why people are so stupid and b) find a cure. Both are deemed impossible quests, but I am determined. Don't get me wrong, I have been guilty of having a 'stupid' moment (reference: blog on leaving house wearing two different shoes). But, I like to think I have book smarts AND a semblance of street smarts.
Let me clarify...you do not need to possess multiple degrees to be stupid. Your walls do not need to be lined with certificates of achievements. But just because you DO have multiple degrees or a plethora of certificates, does not make you smart.
Case #1:
Highly-educated professional (or politician in many cases) has affair with a subordinate...and gets caught: Stupid.
Case #2:
An individual with a degree decides to continually purchase things on the company card, claiming it is for business, only to find out it was to pay the home electric bill: Stupid
There are employed people I come across everyday in which I wonder, "How DID you get this job?" But, they manage to keep it because they are BFFs with the CEO's daughter or the CEO himself. That's just plain stupid on so many levels.
Then there are the blatantly stupid people (reference: any blog on local super center). These are the ones that walk into a Dollar Store and ask how much an item is. These are people that are a few tacos short of a combo meal, just waiting for Jeff Foxworthy to approach them..."here's your sign".
Case #3:
A superstar decides to do a reality show (I know, shock...surprise) with her husband. Her husband, who for all appearances seems smart, agrees to do the show demonstrating a bit of stupidity (in addition to marrying her). On the show, for millions to see, she asks if the tuna she was eating was chicken. "It says 'Chicken of the Sea.": Stupid
Case #4:
A person who doesn't know how to 'reply to all': Stupid
As you can see there are so many examples of how stupidity has run amock in our society. There are too many to address in one, itty, bitty blog. But, I vow to write a stupid book. Not a book for Dummies. A book ABOUT Dummies. They are out there. At your local gas station. Your local watering hole. In the cubicle right next to you.
Do them a favor. Buy them A Stupid Book. Release Date: When I can get the stupid thing done.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
There ARE Good People in Little Pockets of the World
You can't open a newspaper (if such things still exist), turn on the television or listening to the radio without hearing the onslaught of stories involving some type of crime. There are shootings, robberies, kidnappings, murders and cases of parental violence toward children. It's enough for any sane person to turn insane and any crazy person to feel like part of the cool people's club.
Being the news whore that I am, I watch these stories. I hear these stories. I recently discovered a new station on our Dish Network that runs old episodes of Dateline, 48 Hours Mystery and 20/20 - all crime related. I am now addicted...unfortunately.
Whereby I am legally sane, I can't understand what draws me to these shows. I guess I am intrigued by these people who commit crimes. Why did they do the things they did? Murder, theft, domestic abuse...conducting scams. But, at the end of most of these shows, the murderer, robber, spouse, conman is usually caught and found guilty. Perhaps I need to watch these shows to see that a happy ending is possible.
It's easy to get bogged down with the negatives of life. But, when I hear news stories about mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts, friends harming innocent children, it makes it hard to see the good in our society...the good in people. Alas, good people do exist.
And they don't just exist in Mayberry-like communities. They don't just exist in convents, churches, ministries or Beaver Cleaver's home. They are everywhere - yes, even at the whitetrash superstore down the road from me.
Many times you have to search to find an act of kindness. But, there is kindness across this country and around the world. I'm not an expert, but I do know this...kindness does survive in even the most wartorn of areas.
How do I know?
Because I have seen people with nothing give to others in need. I have seen the smile on a child's face when they are hugged. I have seen people share. I have seen people help. Monetarily. Personally. Voluntarily.
Everyday, millions of people help save lives of strangers by volunteering to donate blood. Everyday, millions of people are caring for their grandchildren, sisters, brothers, cousins because the parents can not care for them. Everyday, millions donate food to area food banks to help feed the hungry.
A simple act of kindness - letting someone to go in front of you in line, giving your seat to a pregnant woman - is still an act of kindness. Picking up the phone to tell someone you were thinking about them. Mailing a note to a friend (via the archaic postal system) to brighten their day. Visiting an acquaintance in the hospital. Offering to do housework. Offering to take care of a neighbors kids for free. Helping to find someone's lost pet. Providing encouragement at one's time of need. These are all acts of kindness.
What I have recently learned and observed is that goodness is all around me. The next time an irritating co-worker, an ignorant driver or an unpleasant store clerk threatens to spoil my day, I shall remember the goodness in people.
The saying goes that mean people suck. And they do. I figure, the only thing worse than encountering these people is having to BE these people. So, be a good person and have pity on the mean ones. It sure would suck to be them!
Being the news whore that I am, I watch these stories. I hear these stories. I recently discovered a new station on our Dish Network that runs old episodes of Dateline, 48 Hours Mystery and 20/20 - all crime related. I am now addicted...unfortunately.
Whereby I am legally sane, I can't understand what draws me to these shows. I guess I am intrigued by these people who commit crimes. Why did they do the things they did? Murder, theft, domestic abuse...conducting scams. But, at the end of most of these shows, the murderer, robber, spouse, conman is usually caught and found guilty. Perhaps I need to watch these shows to see that a happy ending is possible.
It's easy to get bogged down with the negatives of life. But, when I hear news stories about mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts, friends harming innocent children, it makes it hard to see the good in our society...the good in people. Alas, good people do exist.
And they don't just exist in Mayberry-like communities. They don't just exist in convents, churches, ministries or Beaver Cleaver's home. They are everywhere - yes, even at the whitetrash superstore down the road from me.
Many times you have to search to find an act of kindness. But, there is kindness across this country and around the world. I'm not an expert, but I do know this...kindness does survive in even the most wartorn of areas.
How do I know?
Because I have seen people with nothing give to others in need. I have seen the smile on a child's face when they are hugged. I have seen people share. I have seen people help. Monetarily. Personally. Voluntarily.
Everyday, millions of people help save lives of strangers by volunteering to donate blood. Everyday, millions of people are caring for their grandchildren, sisters, brothers, cousins because the parents can not care for them. Everyday, millions donate food to area food banks to help feed the hungry.
A simple act of kindness - letting someone to go in front of you in line, giving your seat to a pregnant woman - is still an act of kindness. Picking up the phone to tell someone you were thinking about them. Mailing a note to a friend (via the archaic postal system) to brighten their day. Visiting an acquaintance in the hospital. Offering to do housework. Offering to take care of a neighbors kids for free. Helping to find someone's lost pet. Providing encouragement at one's time of need. These are all acts of kindness.
What I have recently learned and observed is that goodness is all around me. The next time an irritating co-worker, an ignorant driver or an unpleasant store clerk threatens to spoil my day, I shall remember the goodness in people.
The saying goes that mean people suck. And they do. I figure, the only thing worse than encountering these people is having to BE these people. So, be a good person and have pity on the mean ones. It sure would suck to be them!
Sunday, July 11, 2010
When Two is NOT Better Than One
Last week I went to Kansas City on a solo excursion to see my family. I couldn't wait to get home. But, when I finally did, I realized I didn't feel too well. Perhaps the arctic freeze of the Hilton hotel rooms mixed with snot and daycare germs from my sister's children were a little to much for immune system to handle.
I managed to go to work the next day, there was so much to catch up on and I had been called, paged, emailed and hunted down on my time off. I wanted to make an appearance even though my throat hurt and my head was killing me.
By Noon, I couldn't take it anymore. I succumbed and went to the doctor. Verdict? Double ear infection and strep throat. Good times. I haven't had an ear infection since I was a kid and I remember how awful they felt and how miserable I was.
That came later. I had to take two days off work and I consistently got worse and worse. My throat was on fire. The antibiotics didn't help. But, I believe I slept for 15 hours straight, got up to go to the bathroom, and slept for 8 more.
By Saturday I was feeling better. At least, I was among the living. I wanted to do something. I wanted to feel alive and do something as a family. P-A-R-K? W-A-L-K?
I swear Kaeli can spell, because she bounded for the door, so excited that momma had gotten out of bed.
While I was gone, my husband was a busy man. One of the many things he did was completely organize our garage - to the point where we could fit both cars in our two-car garage. This is a feat that hasn't been accomplished since we moved into our house.
Usually I park in the garage, somewhere in the middle and my husband parks behind me, to the right. It's routine. It's a setup to which I have grown accustomed.
Rick had parked in the driveway on the left side and my car was to the far right side of the garage. We loaded the girls up and Rick waited for me in the driveway since he couldn't open the passenger side door.
"You girls excited? We going to the park? Yeah!"
I looked out my right side, careful not to hit the newly-hung bicycles or the recycle bin. I looked at Rick and just kept backing out, with no care in the world. Then I heard it.
"Crrrrrrrrrrunch."
Wow, that was a large stick, I stupidly thought to myself.
Then I saw Rick's reaction. Hands covered his face. Anger? No. Surprise? Yes.
I put the car in park and stepped into the garage to see what the noise was. Not a twig. Not a branch. Not a tree. Not a damn thing in the driveway...except MY HUSBAND'S CAR!!!
As though I had a head-on collision at 50 miles per hour, I took out his right, front corner - pulled three big bolts and a whole bunch of other parts right off his car. I demolished my left, rear corner - pulled the bottom part of the bumper right off the wheel base. And let's not forget the deep scratches.
It takes talent to wreck TWO of your cars in one outing. I literally killed TWO birds with one stone. I screamed. I cried. I laughed. I blamed the ear infections - they mess with one's equilibrium, right? But, in the end, there is nothing that could be done. So, we went to the P-A-R-K.
Good thing the girls enjoyed themselves, because that was hands down, the most costly trip to the park ever. And I thought Disney World was expensive.
I managed to go to work the next day, there was so much to catch up on and I had been called, paged, emailed and hunted down on my time off. I wanted to make an appearance even though my throat hurt and my head was killing me.
By Noon, I couldn't take it anymore. I succumbed and went to the doctor. Verdict? Double ear infection and strep throat. Good times. I haven't had an ear infection since I was a kid and I remember how awful they felt and how miserable I was.
That came later. I had to take two days off work and I consistently got worse and worse. My throat was on fire. The antibiotics didn't help. But, I believe I slept for 15 hours straight, got up to go to the bathroom, and slept for 8 more.
By Saturday I was feeling better. At least, I was among the living. I wanted to do something. I wanted to feel alive and do something as a family. P-A-R-K? W-A-L-K?
I swear Kaeli can spell, because she bounded for the door, so excited that momma had gotten out of bed.
While I was gone, my husband was a busy man. One of the many things he did was completely organize our garage - to the point where we could fit both cars in our two-car garage. This is a feat that hasn't been accomplished since we moved into our house.
Usually I park in the garage, somewhere in the middle and my husband parks behind me, to the right. It's routine. It's a setup to which I have grown accustomed.
Rick had parked in the driveway on the left side and my car was to the far right side of the garage. We loaded the girls up and Rick waited for me in the driveway since he couldn't open the passenger side door.
"You girls excited? We going to the park? Yeah!"
I looked out my right side, careful not to hit the newly-hung bicycles or the recycle bin. I looked at Rick and just kept backing out, with no care in the world. Then I heard it.
"Crrrrrrrrrrunch."
Wow, that was a large stick, I stupidly thought to myself.
Then I saw Rick's reaction. Hands covered his face. Anger? No. Surprise? Yes.
I put the car in park and stepped into the garage to see what the noise was. Not a twig. Not a branch. Not a tree. Not a damn thing in the driveway...except MY HUSBAND'S CAR!!!
As though I had a head-on collision at 50 miles per hour, I took out his right, front corner - pulled three big bolts and a whole bunch of other parts right off his car. I demolished my left, rear corner - pulled the bottom part of the bumper right off the wheel base. And let's not forget the deep scratches.
It takes talent to wreck TWO of your cars in one outing. I literally killed TWO birds with one stone. I screamed. I cried. I laughed. I blamed the ear infections - they mess with one's equilibrium, right? But, in the end, there is nothing that could be done. So, we went to the P-A-R-K.
Good thing the girls enjoyed themselves, because that was hands down, the most costly trip to the park ever. And I thought Disney World was expensive.
Riches to Rags in Just One Block
Last week, I made the 12-hour trek to Kansas City to visit my family. And to stick with the Stoneking tradition, I stopped overnight in Indianapolis. No, there were no Applebee's adventures, no '80s flashback or hotels 10 miles off the beaten path.
I decided to try Priceline and got a great deal on a hotel. $45 for a 2 1/2 star or above abode. No telling what the place actually looked like or where it was located. God knows I've had my share of 'nice' hotels and 'bad' experiences.
But, when I finally found the place (I believe I circled 69S a couple of times before finding the exit. I hate Mapquest) I was thrilled to see that it was a Hilton. While a part of me cringed at the thought of further contributing to the Hilton sisters' inheritance, I knew that the hotel would be nice. And the location wasn't too bad either.
When I got in, it was way past dinner time and I was starving. I ran my stuff up to my room (beautiful)and headed out to get grub. Since I'm deathly allergic to a lot of things, I typically stop at a grocery store to get veggies and snacks - and I save money - win, win.
I asked the concierge (yes, there was a real concierge) where the nearest store was and lo and behold there were TWO supercenters about a block away. Since I had to cross the highway, I decided to take my car. I would normally walk in these circumstances, but I was tired and didn't feel like playing Frogger in real life.
When I went the full block I noticed a WalMart on my left and a Meijer on my right. However would I decide which one to go to? Since in my former life there was a WalMart on every other street corner, I decided to go to Meijer and see if it was any better than the white trash magnet near my house.
The neighborhood was really nice. It was just a block away from the Hilton from Christ's sake. Millionaires have to go grocery shopping too, right? Maybe the Indianapolis elite congregate at this Meijer like Paris Hilton congregates at any and all hoity toity clubs.
Not so much.
The layout was the same.
The people were the same.
At 8:30 on a Thursday night, there were overweight, bleached-blonde hair (with dark brown roots), women in spandex screaming at their 2 year olds (who probably should have been in bed). There were ragged men with missing teeth, farmers hats, plumber's butts and bellies that looked as though they were expecting.
The attitudes were the same. Nobody was in a hurry.
There should be blinkers attached to shoppers. Move out of the freakin' way so that those who are not distracted by their own screaming and shoving can get their shopping done. And if you don't know how to work the self checkout...DON'T use it. And I swear all Meijer employees come from the same family tree - the one with one branch and one branch only.
I grabbed my stuff, hightailed it out of there and could not wait to sit in the lap of luxury - my very own Hilton hotel room. I entered the lobby, swaggered past the expensive hotel restaurant, casually pressed the elevator button up to the 4th floor and smoothly maneuvered my key out of my wallet and proceeded into the cool room.
I got my laptop out, thinking I would write my blog, and was sadly disappointed that the Hilton wanted to charge me $9.95 for an internet connection. Really?!? Even Motel 6 has free wifi. I guess that's how the Hilton's continue to make their billions.
That's okay. I sat back on the plush bed, with its down comforter and boatload of pillows and figured I'd just read my book with the television on in the background. I ate. I read. I froze my ass off.
The air conditioner was stuck on 60 and I could NOT get the damn thing to turn off. I tried to turn the thermostat up. It just kept blinking then went back to 60. I tried to turn it off. It made a buzzing noise and then went back to 60. Since it is the dead of summer and I didn't pack any long johns or sweatshirts, I took the towels from the bathroom and draped them over my shoulders. I hunkered down under the covers only to realize that the comforter was really the only cover. There was a sheet. ONE single, solitary sheet.
I finally dozed off and woke up to my internal alarm clock (surprised that it, too, wasn't frozen). I could not wait to get on the road. I took a hot shower and could swear I felt a cold coming on. I felt like crap and it's all the Hiltons' fault. I wonder if my case would hold up in court.
"Your Honor, I got a $185 a night room for $45 on Priceline...and the air conditioner didn't work."
"Did you call the front desk?"
"Uh, well, no."
Perhaps my fingers were too frozen to dial.
Yet another great adventure in the booming metropolis of Indianapolis. I literally went from a Paris Hilton BFF to Larry the Cable Guy's neighbor in one night. You're welcome Paris and Nicky for contributing to your party fund.
I decided to try Priceline and got a great deal on a hotel. $45 for a 2 1/2 star or above abode. No telling what the place actually looked like or where it was located. God knows I've had my share of 'nice' hotels and 'bad' experiences.
But, when I finally found the place (I believe I circled 69S a couple of times before finding the exit. I hate Mapquest) I was thrilled to see that it was a Hilton. While a part of me cringed at the thought of further contributing to the Hilton sisters' inheritance, I knew that the hotel would be nice. And the location wasn't too bad either.
When I got in, it was way past dinner time and I was starving. I ran my stuff up to my room (beautiful)and headed out to get grub. Since I'm deathly allergic to a lot of things, I typically stop at a grocery store to get veggies and snacks - and I save money - win, win.
I asked the concierge (yes, there was a real concierge) where the nearest store was and lo and behold there were TWO supercenters about a block away. Since I had to cross the highway, I decided to take my car. I would normally walk in these circumstances, but I was tired and didn't feel like playing Frogger in real life.
When I went the full block I noticed a WalMart on my left and a Meijer on my right. However would I decide which one to go to? Since in my former life there was a WalMart on every other street corner, I decided to go to Meijer and see if it was any better than the white trash magnet near my house.
The neighborhood was really nice. It was just a block away from the Hilton from Christ's sake. Millionaires have to go grocery shopping too, right? Maybe the Indianapolis elite congregate at this Meijer like Paris Hilton congregates at any and all hoity toity clubs.
Not so much.
The layout was the same.
The people were the same.
At 8:30 on a Thursday night, there were overweight, bleached-blonde hair (with dark brown roots), women in spandex screaming at their 2 year olds (who probably should have been in bed). There were ragged men with missing teeth, farmers hats, plumber's butts and bellies that looked as though they were expecting.
The attitudes were the same. Nobody was in a hurry.
There should be blinkers attached to shoppers. Move out of the freakin' way so that those who are not distracted by their own screaming and shoving can get their shopping done. And if you don't know how to work the self checkout...DON'T use it. And I swear all Meijer employees come from the same family tree - the one with one branch and one branch only.
I grabbed my stuff, hightailed it out of there and could not wait to sit in the lap of luxury - my very own Hilton hotel room. I entered the lobby, swaggered past the expensive hotel restaurant, casually pressed the elevator button up to the 4th floor and smoothly maneuvered my key out of my wallet and proceeded into the cool room.
I got my laptop out, thinking I would write my blog, and was sadly disappointed that the Hilton wanted to charge me $9.95 for an internet connection. Really?!? Even Motel 6 has free wifi. I guess that's how the Hilton's continue to make their billions.
That's okay. I sat back on the plush bed, with its down comforter and boatload of pillows and figured I'd just read my book with the television on in the background. I ate. I read. I froze my ass off.
The air conditioner was stuck on 60 and I could NOT get the damn thing to turn off. I tried to turn the thermostat up. It just kept blinking then went back to 60. I tried to turn it off. It made a buzzing noise and then went back to 60. Since it is the dead of summer and I didn't pack any long johns or sweatshirts, I took the towels from the bathroom and draped them over my shoulders. I hunkered down under the covers only to realize that the comforter was really the only cover. There was a sheet. ONE single, solitary sheet.
I finally dozed off and woke up to my internal alarm clock (surprised that it, too, wasn't frozen). I could not wait to get on the road. I took a hot shower and could swear I felt a cold coming on. I felt like crap and it's all the Hiltons' fault. I wonder if my case would hold up in court.
"Your Honor, I got a $185 a night room for $45 on Priceline...and the air conditioner didn't work."
"Did you call the front desk?"
"Uh, well, no."
Perhaps my fingers were too frozen to dial.
Yet another great adventure in the booming metropolis of Indianapolis. I literally went from a Paris Hilton BFF to Larry the Cable Guy's neighbor in one night. You're welcome Paris and Nicky for contributing to your party fund.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Patience...with a Pee
Have you ever had to go to the bathroom so bad that you wouldn't even care if you wet yourself in the middle of Grand Central Station? When the nearest bathroom isn't near enough? Or your day is so crazy, you haven't scheduled time for a potty break? That's not a 'going' problem. That's an 'I've got to go, but see no toilet in sight' problem.
In the past couple weeks, I have run into that issue on various occasions. It's nothing a little pill can cure. They seem to be issues in which only less chaos or better planning can help.
A couple weeks ago, I went to the Emergency Room. After pumping me with fluids (and being there for HOURS), I really had to go. But, the nurse wanted to hook another bags of fluids up right away and I HAD to go. I told my husband and without blinking an eye, he carried me to the bathroom (read previous blod regarding freak numbness in my legs). The nurse was perplexed and we explained, when I gotta go...I gotta go.
Thankfully, we made it in time or the nurse would have been even more upset if she had to clean up the mess!
Last week at work, I was bombarded with calls. I had three phones ringing at once, email pinging every two seconds and I was literally on the phone for 8 hours straight. I could not get up from my chair, the phone was glued to my ear. When my co-workers were emailing, asking if I was okay, the only response I could give them was, "I...HAVE...TO...GO...PEE - 9-1-1 - Emergency!"
Everyone thought that was really funny. I did not. My bladder did not. I think I did unrepairable damage.
I am not an expert. I only know by experience. When you gotta go --- go! Don't turn a little tinkle into life's big wrinkle. You don't want to end up with a 'going' problem for the rest of your life.
If your day is crazy and you find yourself without a minute to spare - speak up! To avoid a ruptured bladder, I actually told my boss, who did not know that I hadn't peed in 7 hours that I would have to call her back because I had to pee like a Russian racehorse on steroids. (I didn't say it quite like that, but she got the gist).
Those extraneous circumstances and people that are preventing you from going to the bathroom like a normal person can wait. They need to learn some patience -- with a capital P!
In the past couple weeks, I have run into that issue on various occasions. It's nothing a little pill can cure. They seem to be issues in which only less chaos or better planning can help.
A couple weeks ago, I went to the Emergency Room. After pumping me with fluids (and being there for HOURS), I really had to go. But, the nurse wanted to hook another bags of fluids up right away and I HAD to go. I told my husband and without blinking an eye, he carried me to the bathroom (read previous blod regarding freak numbness in my legs). The nurse was perplexed and we explained, when I gotta go...I gotta go.
Thankfully, we made it in time or the nurse would have been even more upset if she had to clean up the mess!
Last week at work, I was bombarded with calls. I had three phones ringing at once, email pinging every two seconds and I was literally on the phone for 8 hours straight. I could not get up from my chair, the phone was glued to my ear. When my co-workers were emailing, asking if I was okay, the only response I could give them was, "I...HAVE...TO...GO...PEE - 9-1-1 - Emergency!"
Everyone thought that was really funny. I did not. My bladder did not. I think I did unrepairable damage.
I am not an expert. I only know by experience. When you gotta go --- go! Don't turn a little tinkle into life's big wrinkle. You don't want to end up with a 'going' problem for the rest of your life.
If your day is crazy and you find yourself without a minute to spare - speak up! To avoid a ruptured bladder, I actually told my boss, who did not know that I hadn't peed in 7 hours that I would have to call her back because I had to pee like a Russian racehorse on steroids. (I didn't say it quite like that, but she got the gist).
Those extraneous circumstances and people that are preventing you from going to the bathroom like a normal person can wait. They need to learn some patience -- with a capital P!
Friday, May 21, 2010
TB or Not TB...That is the Question!
There are a wide variety of immunizations that people get. Some when they are young. Some every season. Whether it's the flu shot, polio vaccine or tuberculosis innoculation, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
I don't buy it.
Years ago, my mother received a flu shot, had an allergic reaction and became paralyzed from the waist down. Though she can walk like a toddler now, the long-term effects more than outweighed any flu symptoms she could have incurred.
Ever since that day, I've been a little skeptical of vaccinations. I would have rather had the flu thandeal with life-long complications. That's like prescription drug commercials: Have a chronic 'going' problem? Take our little blue pill. Side effects might be skin rash, nausea, irritable bowels...spontaneous combustion. But, as long as you don't pee yourself in public, all is right with the world.
Last week I had a TB shot. I waited the 72 hours to get my test results. They came back negative (obviously, or I would probably be taking a little pill that gave me the runs, preventing me from writing this blog). A couple days after my negative results, my arm started feeling heavy and there was a small, red ring where I was administered the shot. It looked like I had ringworm.
On Monday, I told my husband I didn't feel well (he's heard that so many times, I'm surprised I even solicited a reaction from him). He told me to get a good night's rest and I'd probably feel better in the morning.
I got up in the middle of the night - as I typically do (one would think I have a 'going' problem) - and couldn't feel my legs. I could barely make it to the toilet. Every muscle ached, my feet felt numb. But, I didn't want to wake my husband, so I went back to bed thinking it would go away.
When we got up the next morning, I stumbled downstairs to feed the dogs. I could barely stumble back up. I went to lay back down and barely remember anything after that.
I could hear my husband try to wake me up. I couldn't respond. Opening my mouth took too much effort. I couldn't walk. I couldn't stand. I couldn't even put my shoes on. That's when we knew we had to go to the Emergency Room.
I called work and slurred that I wouldn't be in and then I zoned out in the car. When we reached the hospital, my husband carried my sore, achey body through the doors. As we passed by two employees - engrossed in their own conversation - nobody rushed to help us. They kept on chatting away. It is so NOT like it is on television, where a handsome George Clooney comes rushing to the patient's aid.
After 12 hours of IVs, MRIs, multiple blood draws and no food - I was ready to go. Though the doctors wanted to admit me for more tests, I had had enough. I could finally stumble my way out. If I could walk...I was walking out the door.
What was the culprit? Stress. Stress from the TB shot, not TB. Stress from work. Stress from my everyday life. And what does stress do to your body boys and girls? Wipes out your Vitamin B level. Whereas the normal level for a woman my age is more than 200...mine was at about 30.
So, now I'm taking vitamin B complex ultra, super-strength gel caps to boost my energy level. I hope they don't give me the runs...because then I'd have more reason to stress and teh cycle would continue!
I don't buy it.
Years ago, my mother received a flu shot, had an allergic reaction and became paralyzed from the waist down. Though she can walk like a toddler now, the long-term effects more than outweighed any flu symptoms she could have incurred.
Ever since that day, I've been a little skeptical of vaccinations. I would have rather had the flu thandeal with life-long complications. That's like prescription drug commercials: Have a chronic 'going' problem? Take our little blue pill. Side effects might be skin rash, nausea, irritable bowels...spontaneous combustion. But, as long as you don't pee yourself in public, all is right with the world.
Last week I had a TB shot. I waited the 72 hours to get my test results. They came back negative (obviously, or I would probably be taking a little pill that gave me the runs, preventing me from writing this blog). A couple days after my negative results, my arm started feeling heavy and there was a small, red ring where I was administered the shot. It looked like I had ringworm.
On Monday, I told my husband I didn't feel well (he's heard that so many times, I'm surprised I even solicited a reaction from him). He told me to get a good night's rest and I'd probably feel better in the morning.
I got up in the middle of the night - as I typically do (one would think I have a 'going' problem) - and couldn't feel my legs. I could barely make it to the toilet. Every muscle ached, my feet felt numb. But, I didn't want to wake my husband, so I went back to bed thinking it would go away.
When we got up the next morning, I stumbled downstairs to feed the dogs. I could barely stumble back up. I went to lay back down and barely remember anything after that.
I could hear my husband try to wake me up. I couldn't respond. Opening my mouth took too much effort. I couldn't walk. I couldn't stand. I couldn't even put my shoes on. That's when we knew we had to go to the Emergency Room.
I called work and slurred that I wouldn't be in and then I zoned out in the car. When we reached the hospital, my husband carried my sore, achey body through the doors. As we passed by two employees - engrossed in their own conversation - nobody rushed to help us. They kept on chatting away. It is so NOT like it is on television, where a handsome George Clooney comes rushing to the patient's aid.
After 12 hours of IVs, MRIs, multiple blood draws and no food - I was ready to go. Though the doctors wanted to admit me for more tests, I had had enough. I could finally stumble my way out. If I could walk...I was walking out the door.
What was the culprit? Stress. Stress from the TB shot, not TB. Stress from work. Stress from my everyday life. And what does stress do to your body boys and girls? Wipes out your Vitamin B level. Whereas the normal level for a woman my age is more than 200...mine was at about 30.
So, now I'm taking vitamin B complex ultra, super-strength gel caps to boost my energy level. I hope they don't give me the runs...because then I'd have more reason to stress and teh cycle would continue!
Monday, May 17, 2010
The Big 3-NOOOOOO
Everyone reacts to birthdays in a different way. Some refuse to celebrate the reminder that they aren't getting any younger. Others like to shout it from the rooftops no matter the age. Some spiral into a deep depression when they hit thirty while others wait until the big four-zero before plummeting into a mid-life crisis.
My good friend turned 30 this weekend and I was reminded of my thirtieth birthday (spoiler alert - break out the violins).
I love birthdays. I think because I always had to share mine with my sister, I've always wanted people to make a big deal out of mine. Nobody has yet, but I figure I've got 50 good years left in me.
On my 16th birthday, I knew not to get my hopes up for a new car, a used car, or even access to a car. But, I was still excited because it was a turning point, validating my legality in being able to drive a car. But, there was no big family party, no mentions really, of my birthday at all. My brother and sister were away at college and I honestly think my parents forgot.
For my 21st birthday, I had to work. By the time I got home, my two college roommates were already hammered and didn't feel like going out. I had to hold their hair back while they puked everything out. I waited three weeks before celebrating with some friends in Kansas City - and got hammered off of one tequila shot (it was a REALLY big shot).
For my 30th birthday, I was hoping for a big shebang. Nothing. There was no surprise party. No bells and whistles. In fact, my husband and I invited a lot of people to meet us at a local bar to celebrate the milestone. Long in short - and very pathetic - nobody showed up.
As the years pass, excitement for my birthday dwindles. I've learned to keep my expectations low and not hold out for anything spectacular. Like clockwork, I'll receive a magazine subscription in the mail from my parents, calls from the siblings and cards from friends. As long as I have my husband and kiddos to 'celebrate' with, all is good on the birthday front.
Too all of those who think their lives are over at 30, I have to say, you're life is just beginning. The thirties have brought such happiness in my life. I'm married. I own a home. I have a great job. I have two canine companions. I have true friends. I have grown up and have learned to appreciate life.
You're only as young as you act and feel. Never 'act your age'. I may be in my thirties...but, I don't necessarily act it.
Wisdom comes with age. What I thought was the end of the world at the age of 16 wouldn't even be a blip on my radar today. Through the years I have learned how to love, who my true friends are and I have learned who I truly am and who I strive to be.
Sure, it's unfair that men get better looking as they get older and women get...saggier. But, I believe that beauty comes from within. I may have more wrinkles. I may have more gray hairs. I may have more sags. And I may have more desire for cat naps in the middle of the day. But, I wouldn't change a thing because every wrinkle, every scar, every gray hair has a story behind it.
So, to my wonderful friend who just turned the big 3-0 --- Congratulations! You have entered the best time of your life. A time when ever-present gray hairs, wrinkles, sagginess and exhaustion is a thing to celebrate not fear!
My good friend turned 30 this weekend and I was reminded of my thirtieth birthday (spoiler alert - break out the violins).
I love birthdays. I think because I always had to share mine with my sister, I've always wanted people to make a big deal out of mine. Nobody has yet, but I figure I've got 50 good years left in me.
On my 16th birthday, I knew not to get my hopes up for a new car, a used car, or even access to a car. But, I was still excited because it was a turning point, validating my legality in being able to drive a car. But, there was no big family party, no mentions really, of my birthday at all. My brother and sister were away at college and I honestly think my parents forgot.
For my 21st birthday, I had to work. By the time I got home, my two college roommates were already hammered and didn't feel like going out. I had to hold their hair back while they puked everything out. I waited three weeks before celebrating with some friends in Kansas City - and got hammered off of one tequila shot (it was a REALLY big shot).
For my 30th birthday, I was hoping for a big shebang. Nothing. There was no surprise party. No bells and whistles. In fact, my husband and I invited a lot of people to meet us at a local bar to celebrate the milestone. Long in short - and very pathetic - nobody showed up.
As the years pass, excitement for my birthday dwindles. I've learned to keep my expectations low and not hold out for anything spectacular. Like clockwork, I'll receive a magazine subscription in the mail from my parents, calls from the siblings and cards from friends. As long as I have my husband and kiddos to 'celebrate' with, all is good on the birthday front.
Too all of those who think their lives are over at 30, I have to say, you're life is just beginning. The thirties have brought such happiness in my life. I'm married. I own a home. I have a great job. I have two canine companions. I have true friends. I have grown up and have learned to appreciate life.
You're only as young as you act and feel. Never 'act your age'. I may be in my thirties...but, I don't necessarily act it.
Wisdom comes with age. What I thought was the end of the world at the age of 16 wouldn't even be a blip on my radar today. Through the years I have learned how to love, who my true friends are and I have learned who I truly am and who I strive to be.
Sure, it's unfair that men get better looking as they get older and women get...saggier. But, I believe that beauty comes from within. I may have more wrinkles. I may have more gray hairs. I may have more sags. And I may have more desire for cat naps in the middle of the day. But, I wouldn't change a thing because every wrinkle, every scar, every gray hair has a story behind it.
So, to my wonderful friend who just turned the big 3-0 --- Congratulations! You have entered the best time of your life. A time when ever-present gray hairs, wrinkles, sagginess and exhaustion is a thing to celebrate not fear!
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Tale of Two Working Girls
Everyone has their own definition of a 'working girl'. I tend to lean more toward the Harrison Ford/Melanie Griffith movie-version of the title. Others may lean toward the female American Gigolo version of the label. Regardless, a working girl makes money, whether it's donning a pin-striped suit for business or answering to a man in a pin-striped suit for business.
Last week, I made a trip to the booming metropolis of Flint, MI for business (why else, really, would people travel there?). I stayed overnight in a hotel I got off of Priceline - nice plug. I've had bad experiences with hotels - contracting bed bugs from a shady bungalow in the Thumb area - but I needed to save money and put in my bid.
I was estatic when The Baymont Inn & Suites took my bid. They're a national chain. I've never had a bad experience with them, and the original room rate was for more than $100. What could possibly go wrong.
I got in on Thursday night to meet a co-worker at the hotel and sat on a small, quaint bench right outside the lobby to wait for her. As soon as my butt hit the wood paneling, I was accosted by a very drunk, self-proclaimed millionaire and war vet. He wore a Hawaian shirt and cargo shorts, accented by a farmer-style ball-cap which displayed all of his medals. Here is the conversation:
"Damn. You are beautiful," he slurred to the best of his ability.
No response. Minimal eye contact from me.
"Do you know who I am? I'm a war vet."
"Well, thank you for your service," I said as I tried to dodge his flying spit.
"Oh, it's too late for that. It was 40 years ago. This country sucks." He was pretty defensive as he continued to encroach my limited space.
"Well, I wasn't around 40 years ago, so thanks anyway."
He then proceeded on a long tirade about how he was meeting two girls at the hotel that night. His wife didn't know. He lived in Mexico (afterall, he HATES America). He's a millionaire who invented NASA or something. And then he looked in my eyes (or tried to) and stated once again that I was beautiful.
Just then, my co-worker arrived. I was relieved. I didn't want to be rude, but I needed windshield wipers to hold a conversation with him and a breathalizer test when the conversation was over. As I turned to greet her, a huge glob of something landed on my leg and Mr. Drunk Man tried to wipe it off. Needless to say, I jumped up and declared that we were late for a meeting.
He still didn't leave. So, we went inside the hotel and the clerk asked if he was bothering me and I asked that if my room was anywhere near his, I wanted to be relocated. No need. She called the cops and had him escorted out. Guess he wouldn't be able to meet his two lady friends after all.
Seeing as I had to get up at the butt-crack of dawn to do a live radio interview, I left my room at 5 a.m. and headed to my car. Coming out at the same time was a group of ladies sporting fishnet stockings and hoochie mama attire.
As they held the door open for me (very polite) I overhead, "Dang girl...THAT was a workout." Mental note - they just got finished working.
I began loading my car when a decked-out pimp mobile cruised by with two young men scouting the parking lot.
"Damn girl, you a working girl?" With the ladies of the night nowhere in sight, I felt obligated to answer him.
"Um, I think you and I have two different definitions of what a working girl is," I replied with as much nonchalance as possible. I wasn't scared, just annoyed.
"Well you sure are fine. You married?"
"Yes."
"Where he at?"
"Inside, packing up the rest of the stuff." (Lie)
"You faithful?"
"Yes."
"Damn girl. You are fine. If you ever decide to be unfaithful..."
"Have a good morning."
When I got in my car, I didn't know whether to feel complimented...or dirty. I started second-guessing my conservative suit. Did it look slutty? Only if one thinks Laura Bush or Hillary Clinton look like hookers too.
I decided to take the comments from drunken, anti-American spitter and Pimp-Daddy, creepy guy in stride. While they could never hold a candle to my husband, who compliments me daily, they've got me thinking - if this whole job thing doesn't work out...perhaps I could make it as a 'working girl' (in Flint).
Last week, I made a trip to the booming metropolis of Flint, MI for business (why else, really, would people travel there?). I stayed overnight in a hotel I got off of Priceline - nice plug. I've had bad experiences with hotels - contracting bed bugs from a shady bungalow in the Thumb area - but I needed to save money and put in my bid.
I was estatic when The Baymont Inn & Suites took my bid. They're a national chain. I've never had a bad experience with them, and the original room rate was for more than $100. What could possibly go wrong.
I got in on Thursday night to meet a co-worker at the hotel and sat on a small, quaint bench right outside the lobby to wait for her. As soon as my butt hit the wood paneling, I was accosted by a very drunk, self-proclaimed millionaire and war vet. He wore a Hawaian shirt and cargo shorts, accented by a farmer-style ball-cap which displayed all of his medals. Here is the conversation:
"Damn. You are beautiful," he slurred to the best of his ability.
No response. Minimal eye contact from me.
"Do you know who I am? I'm a war vet."
"Well, thank you for your service," I said as I tried to dodge his flying spit.
"Oh, it's too late for that. It was 40 years ago. This country sucks." He was pretty defensive as he continued to encroach my limited space.
"Well, I wasn't around 40 years ago, so thanks anyway."
He then proceeded on a long tirade about how he was meeting two girls at the hotel that night. His wife didn't know. He lived in Mexico (afterall, he HATES America). He's a millionaire who invented NASA or something. And then he looked in my eyes (or tried to) and stated once again that I was beautiful.
Just then, my co-worker arrived. I was relieved. I didn't want to be rude, but I needed windshield wipers to hold a conversation with him and a breathalizer test when the conversation was over. As I turned to greet her, a huge glob of something landed on my leg and Mr. Drunk Man tried to wipe it off. Needless to say, I jumped up and declared that we were late for a meeting.
He still didn't leave. So, we went inside the hotel and the clerk asked if he was bothering me and I asked that if my room was anywhere near his, I wanted to be relocated. No need. She called the cops and had him escorted out. Guess he wouldn't be able to meet his two lady friends after all.
Seeing as I had to get up at the butt-crack of dawn to do a live radio interview, I left my room at 5 a.m. and headed to my car. Coming out at the same time was a group of ladies sporting fishnet stockings and hoochie mama attire.
As they held the door open for me (very polite) I overhead, "Dang girl...THAT was a workout." Mental note - they just got finished working.
I began loading my car when a decked-out pimp mobile cruised by with two young men scouting the parking lot.
"Damn girl, you a working girl?" With the ladies of the night nowhere in sight, I felt obligated to answer him.
"Um, I think you and I have two different definitions of what a working girl is," I replied with as much nonchalance as possible. I wasn't scared, just annoyed.
"Well you sure are fine. You married?"
"Yes."
"Where he at?"
"Inside, packing up the rest of the stuff." (Lie)
"You faithful?"
"Yes."
"Damn girl. You are fine. If you ever decide to be unfaithful..."
"Have a good morning."
When I got in my car, I didn't know whether to feel complimented...or dirty. I started second-guessing my conservative suit. Did it look slutty? Only if one thinks Laura Bush or Hillary Clinton look like hookers too.
I decided to take the comments from drunken, anti-American spitter and Pimp-Daddy, creepy guy in stride. While they could never hold a candle to my husband, who compliments me daily, they've got me thinking - if this whole job thing doesn't work out...perhaps I could make it as a 'working girl' (in Flint).
Sunday, May 9, 2010
If Leap Year Came Around More Often
I've never met a Leap Year baby. Is it true that they can say they are 10 years old when they reach 40? I don't lie about my age (though I've been told I look - and act - a lot younger than my years) but, it would be wonderful to have a valid excuse for claiming that I was 21 when, in fact, I'm not.
I hear that Leap Year babies can celebrate their birthdays the day before or the day after February 29 if it is a normal year. I would choose the date that fell on a weekend...no explanation necessary.
This past weekend, I watched the movie Leap Year. I learned that it is an Irish myth that a woman can propose to a man on Leap Day. Apparently the Irish haven't entered the 21st century. And if they have, the movie industry hasn't read up on Irish tales. I mean, women propose to men all the time these days...and why not? But, the fact that there is a big enough stigma still lingering on that notion to have a motion picture made about an American girl's travel to Ireland to propose to her boyfriend is...well, sad.
Sadder than the stigma of female to male proposals is the movie that was written about it. Don't get me wrong, Leap Day was a cute movie. The writers and directors did as much as they could with such a weak storyline. It was supposed to be romantic:
Boy takes girl out on their 4-year anniversary. Boy gives girl...nope...not an engagement ring...earrings. Boy then leaves for work in another country. Girl ponders this and instead of telling the guy how she really feels, she decides to let him leave. THEN she managed to book a flight (because those are really cheap) and travel thousands of miles to propose because her drunk father told her that it was still acceptable to propose to him on Leap Day.
Obstacles and intended-hilarity ensues. Girl meets a local in her travels. She finally makes it to her boyfriend who wasn't at all worried that she not only booked this last minute flight but also didn't show up when she said she would. Instead, he embraced her as her male travel companion looked on and THEN he proposed.
Blah blah blah.
Apparently two days spent with a wooly stranger was enough to question her love for the man she agreed to marry. So, all of a sudden we see her in a cafe waiting for her Irish love interest. Surprises him. Expects him to drop everything for her because she traveled (once again) thousands of miles to see a man.
Maybe she has a great-paying job that she can afford all these hair-brained trips. Maybe she already dated everyone in the States. Maybe she hasn't found a good therapist that can talk her through her self esteem issues.
Long in short, don't waste your money on a rental. If you spent money on Leap Day in the theatre, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for you because you can't get your money back. If you haven't seen it, wait until it plays every day on Lifetime or Oxygen and you're sitting at home with nothing else on but 90210 reruns on SoapNet.
Right after this train wreck of a movie, we lept into Avatar. I give it an A for special effects. But I have a hard time understanding a universe where a human falls in love with a blue alien...so much so that he wants to become one. It was uncomfortable watching potential beastiality occur. Maybe I lost the ability to have a convention of disbelief agreement on romance after watching Leap Day.
I'll probably watch Avatar again - my husband thinks it's 'own-worthy'. But I think I'll watch a couple episodes of the Smurfs beforehand to warm up to the idea that blue creatures do exist and they do have feelings. Maybe there's an episode where Smurfette falls in love with Gargamel.
I hear that Leap Year babies can celebrate their birthdays the day before or the day after February 29 if it is a normal year. I would choose the date that fell on a weekend...no explanation necessary.
This past weekend, I watched the movie Leap Year. I learned that it is an Irish myth that a woman can propose to a man on Leap Day. Apparently the Irish haven't entered the 21st century. And if they have, the movie industry hasn't read up on Irish tales. I mean, women propose to men all the time these days...and why not? But, the fact that there is a big enough stigma still lingering on that notion to have a motion picture made about an American girl's travel to Ireland to propose to her boyfriend is...well, sad.
Sadder than the stigma of female to male proposals is the movie that was written about it. Don't get me wrong, Leap Day was a cute movie. The writers and directors did as much as they could with such a weak storyline. It was supposed to be romantic:
Boy takes girl out on their 4-year anniversary. Boy gives girl...nope...not an engagement ring...earrings. Boy then leaves for work in another country. Girl ponders this and instead of telling the guy how she really feels, she decides to let him leave. THEN she managed to book a flight (because those are really cheap) and travel thousands of miles to propose because her drunk father told her that it was still acceptable to propose to him on Leap Day.
Obstacles and intended-hilarity ensues. Girl meets a local in her travels. She finally makes it to her boyfriend who wasn't at all worried that she not only booked this last minute flight but also didn't show up when she said she would. Instead, he embraced her as her male travel companion looked on and THEN he proposed.
Blah blah blah.
Apparently two days spent with a wooly stranger was enough to question her love for the man she agreed to marry. So, all of a sudden we see her in a cafe waiting for her Irish love interest. Surprises him. Expects him to drop everything for her because she traveled (once again) thousands of miles to see a man.
Maybe she has a great-paying job that she can afford all these hair-brained trips. Maybe she already dated everyone in the States. Maybe she hasn't found a good therapist that can talk her through her self esteem issues.
Long in short, don't waste your money on a rental. If you spent money on Leap Day in the theatre, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for you because you can't get your money back. If you haven't seen it, wait until it plays every day on Lifetime or Oxygen and you're sitting at home with nothing else on but 90210 reruns on SoapNet.
Right after this train wreck of a movie, we lept into Avatar. I give it an A for special effects. But I have a hard time understanding a universe where a human falls in love with a blue alien...so much so that he wants to become one. It was uncomfortable watching potential beastiality occur. Maybe I lost the ability to have a convention of disbelief agreement on romance after watching Leap Day.
I'll probably watch Avatar again - my husband thinks it's 'own-worthy'. But I think I'll watch a couple episodes of the Smurfs beforehand to warm up to the idea that blue creatures do exist and they do have feelings. Maybe there's an episode where Smurfette falls in love with Gargamel.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Books vs. Movies: The Battle of Creativity
I have already confessed that my husband and I are addicts - movie addicts. We enjoy watching movies at home, stalking the $5 movie bin at WalMart and browsing the free Netflix on-demand movies every night, hoping that a new one has been added.
But, I am also a book addict. Every night, before I go to bed, I open a book and try to read a couple of pages. It allows me to drift off into my own imaginary land, forgetting about the woes of the day. I used to be a part of an informal book club, more of a book 'swap' really. My friend would read a bunch of chick lit, I would read a bunch of chick lit and we would swap books with our own editorials attached to each one.
My favorite author is Jodi Picoult. But, there are many authors who are fabulous manipulators of words. Descriptions so precise that I can live in their moment, visualize their story, their characters, their scenery. And the wonderful thing about books? They're FREE -- if you go to the library.
I used to get excited when a book I loved made it to the big time and the big screen. Lately, I've been more disappointed than anything. It's a shame when Hollywood takes the hardwork of a single author, tweaks it into a screenplay and pays hundreds of people to ruin it.
Cases in point:
Marley and Me - Hated the adaptation so much that my husband and I lasted 15 minutes before we both proclaimed - "That is NOT how it happened in the book." And the book was a true story...why ruin it?
My Sister's Keeper - The Cardinal sin in my world is to defacate on the creative genius that Jodi Picoult exhibits. First of all, Cameron Diaz as a mother? Really? What casting director (who actually read the book) would pick the 'I-have-to-shake-my-booty-in-every-movie' actress for the role of a MOTHER? A mother of a dying little girl? Top the poor casting with slightly manipulated storylines and you got one pissed off Jodi Picoult fan.
The Lovely Bones - I liked the book so much, I read it twice. Needless to say, I was more than excited when I saw a movie version was coming out...with Mark Wahlberg...and Stanley Tucci. So, when I saw the glorious red envelope in my mailbox announcing to the world that the movie had arrived for my viewing pleasure...I demanded that we watch it. And my husband obliged. He ended up liking it (he didn't read the book). I ended up, once again, being disappointed. Too artsy fartsy to me.
The moral of my tirade is that it's okay to be a movie addict AND a book addict. But in the battle of creativity, I would cheer on books every day of the week and twice on Sunday.
With books, YOU have free creative license. You get to be the casting director. The producer. Set designer. Make-up artist. You get to be the Steven Spielberg of any and all books you read. No need to run 30 takes before a look is 'just right'. No need to spend millions of dollars on 'key grips', 'sound technicians', pillow fluffer, etc.
If you don't really have what it takes to be a novelist, try your hand at being a take-someone-else's-story-and-tweak-it-a-bit-and-make-lots-of-money writer. It's called a screenplay and people make mucho dinero doing it. Then someone gets paid to develop and show THEIR version of the novelist's vision.
If you're going to write a screenplay 'based on a book by...' do me a favor and respect the author. Don't desecrate their work. If you think your stuff is better and movie-worthy, write your own stuff!
In the battle of creativity, I side with the books. Because I like what I see when I read books. I'm the best director I know. Where's my Oscar?
But, I am also a book addict. Every night, before I go to bed, I open a book and try to read a couple of pages. It allows me to drift off into my own imaginary land, forgetting about the woes of the day. I used to be a part of an informal book club, more of a book 'swap' really. My friend would read a bunch of chick lit, I would read a bunch of chick lit and we would swap books with our own editorials attached to each one.
My favorite author is Jodi Picoult. But, there are many authors who are fabulous manipulators of words. Descriptions so precise that I can live in their moment, visualize their story, their characters, their scenery. And the wonderful thing about books? They're FREE -- if you go to the library.
I used to get excited when a book I loved made it to the big time and the big screen. Lately, I've been more disappointed than anything. It's a shame when Hollywood takes the hardwork of a single author, tweaks it into a screenplay and pays hundreds of people to ruin it.
Cases in point:
Marley and Me - Hated the adaptation so much that my husband and I lasted 15 minutes before we both proclaimed - "That is NOT how it happened in the book." And the book was a true story...why ruin it?
My Sister's Keeper - The Cardinal sin in my world is to defacate on the creative genius that Jodi Picoult exhibits. First of all, Cameron Diaz as a mother? Really? What casting director (who actually read the book) would pick the 'I-have-to-shake-my-booty-in-every-movie' actress for the role of a MOTHER? A mother of a dying little girl? Top the poor casting with slightly manipulated storylines and you got one pissed off Jodi Picoult fan.
The Lovely Bones - I liked the book so much, I read it twice. Needless to say, I was more than excited when I saw a movie version was coming out...with Mark Wahlberg...and Stanley Tucci. So, when I saw the glorious red envelope in my mailbox announcing to the world that the movie had arrived for my viewing pleasure...I demanded that we watch it. And my husband obliged. He ended up liking it (he didn't read the book). I ended up, once again, being disappointed. Too artsy fartsy to me.
The moral of my tirade is that it's okay to be a movie addict AND a book addict. But in the battle of creativity, I would cheer on books every day of the week and twice on Sunday.
With books, YOU have free creative license. You get to be the casting director. The producer. Set designer. Make-up artist. You get to be the Steven Spielberg of any and all books you read. No need to run 30 takes before a look is 'just right'. No need to spend millions of dollars on 'key grips', 'sound technicians', pillow fluffer, etc.
If you don't really have what it takes to be a novelist, try your hand at being a take-someone-else's-story-and-tweak-it-a-bit-and-make-lots-of-money writer. It's called a screenplay and people make mucho dinero doing it. Then someone gets paid to develop and show THEIR version of the novelist's vision.
If you're going to write a screenplay 'based on a book by...' do me a favor and respect the author. Don't desecrate their work. If you think your stuff is better and movie-worthy, write your own stuff!
In the battle of creativity, I side with the books. Because I like what I see when I read books. I'm the best director I know. Where's my Oscar?
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
If THAT's a Dog's Life...I'll Take It!
In the English language, the word 'dog' has increasingly become an adjective of sorts. Mostly of the negative variety.
"I'm dog-tired."
"He's such a dog."
"He forgot his wife's birthday? Man, is HE in the doghouse."
Then there are the nondescript uses of the word.
"Wassup, dawg?"
"Dog-gone it!"
"Who, in fact, let the dogs out?"
But, regardless of the vastness of the three-letter word, I prefer to use it in reference to the four-legged, furry companions I have ruling my house.
Many people refer to someone who is down on their luck, or leading a less-than-adequate life as one who 'lives a dog's life.' However, when I look at the two canines who hog my bed, make themselves at home on my couch, take big bites out of the walls in my house and get to go for W-A-L-Ks more often than any other dog on the planet...I have to think, "Is THAT so bad?"
Apparently, millions of people agree with me.
According to whatever waste-of-money research was done to collect doggie data, Americans spent more than $41 million last year on their cuddly critters. That's more than twice as much as was spent on them in 1996.
So, what gives?
The research notes that despite the flagging economy, more designer doggie spas, doggie clothing lines, upscale boutiques and cream-of-the-crop, homemade food products are being launched and are succeeding.
I will be the first person to admit that my husband and I undeniably spoil KoKo and Kaeli. They are our little girls and we wouldn't bat an eye at spending big bucks to the vet to determine that they have a common, everyday cold. But, a line needs to be drawn somewhere people.
If you want to dress your dog up (why? I don't know), get a t-shirt or dress from your closet or go to Goodwill - they could use the money. If you really think that buying specialty foods for your pet that has better ingredients than some PEOPLE can afford - you need a lobotomy.
I mean, I understand picky eaters and owners who want to accomodate them. Kaeli is a very picky eater. She won't eat any dry dog food that costs more than $10 a bag. She's very frugal...no Science Diet, Iams or Rachael Ray name brands for her. And KoKo? She'll eat anything you put in front of her - and still looks anorexic.
But dogs are like kids. You shouldn't spoil them with money or designer digs. Because, after all, do they REALLY appreciate it? Do they really beg for you to dress them in sunglasses or frilly tutu? No. They beg for attention. They beg for love. They beg for you to scratch them behind the ears and whisper in your most annoying doggie voice, 'who's a good girl? yes you are. You're a good girl.'
Last week, I thought we splurged when we bought KoKo a brand new, bright red, big girl leash for a whopping $6.97. Then I felt guilty because we didn't buy Kaeli one. That'll be a separate purchase. I thought we spoiled the girls when we took them to the pond and let them get in my car bringing the stink of the fish crap and moss with them. Spend time with your animals people...that's all they really want.
If you have money to throw away and you want to spend it on canine companions or furry felines, visit your local animal shelter. They'd be more than happy to spend the $41 million my fellow Americans have laying around.
"I'm dog-tired."
"He's such a dog."
"He forgot his wife's birthday? Man, is HE in the doghouse."
Then there are the nondescript uses of the word.
"Wassup, dawg?"
"Dog-gone it!"
"Who, in fact, let the dogs out?"
But, regardless of the vastness of the three-letter word, I prefer to use it in reference to the four-legged, furry companions I have ruling my house.
Many people refer to someone who is down on their luck, or leading a less-than-adequate life as one who 'lives a dog's life.' However, when I look at the two canines who hog my bed, make themselves at home on my couch, take big bites out of the walls in my house and get to go for W-A-L-Ks more often than any other dog on the planet...I have to think, "Is THAT so bad?"
Apparently, millions of people agree with me.
According to whatever waste-of-money research was done to collect doggie data, Americans spent more than $41 million last year on their cuddly critters. That's more than twice as much as was spent on them in 1996.
So, what gives?
The research notes that despite the flagging economy, more designer doggie spas, doggie clothing lines, upscale boutiques and cream-of-the-crop, homemade food products are being launched and are succeeding.
I will be the first person to admit that my husband and I undeniably spoil KoKo and Kaeli. They are our little girls and we wouldn't bat an eye at spending big bucks to the vet to determine that they have a common, everyday cold. But, a line needs to be drawn somewhere people.
If you want to dress your dog up (why? I don't know), get a t-shirt or dress from your closet or go to Goodwill - they could use the money. If you really think that buying specialty foods for your pet that has better ingredients than some PEOPLE can afford - you need a lobotomy.
I mean, I understand picky eaters and owners who want to accomodate them. Kaeli is a very picky eater. She won't eat any dry dog food that costs more than $10 a bag. She's very frugal...no Science Diet, Iams or Rachael Ray name brands for her. And KoKo? She'll eat anything you put in front of her - and still looks anorexic.
But dogs are like kids. You shouldn't spoil them with money or designer digs. Because, after all, do they REALLY appreciate it? Do they really beg for you to dress them in sunglasses or frilly tutu? No. They beg for attention. They beg for love. They beg for you to scratch them behind the ears and whisper in your most annoying doggie voice, 'who's a good girl? yes you are. You're a good girl.'
Last week, I thought we splurged when we bought KoKo a brand new, bright red, big girl leash for a whopping $6.97. Then I felt guilty because we didn't buy Kaeli one. That'll be a separate purchase. I thought we spoiled the girls when we took them to the pond and let them get in my car bringing the stink of the fish crap and moss with them. Spend time with your animals people...that's all they really want.
If you have money to throw away and you want to spend it on canine companions or furry felines, visit your local animal shelter. They'd be more than happy to spend the $41 million my fellow Americans have laying around.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
When Life Gives You Lemons...Avoid Certain Cuts
Not a day passes that I don't hear someone complain. 'My job sucks.' 'So and so is being a jerk.' 'I had to stand in line for an hour (at the white trash super store no doubt).' 'There's too much to do.' 'If only there were more hours in the day.'
Build a bridge and get over it people. If your life is crap, take a step back, figure out the problem...and fix it!
I, for one, do not want more hours in the day. More time leads to more work. Instead of wishing for more time, how about wishing for less work? Don't get me wrong, I love to work. It's better to be busy than dead.
However, if all the people who shove more onto my pile of work would realize that I'm just one person, my life would be easier. And if all the people who shove THEIR work onto my pile of work would do their own...I wouldn't need more hours in the day...I would need help figuring out what to do with all my free time.
Right now I'm happy to be employed. I tell myself this everyday as I drag myself out of bed and face the day ahead. Got a sinus infection? Happy to go to work. Got so little sleep that the bags under the eyes are packed and ready to go? Happy to go to work. Break a shoulder AND a tailbone? Happy to brave all of the potholes in Michigan to plop my butt on a doughnut and go to work.
I'm lucky to have a job. I can pay my bills. I can afford food. I can feed my nasty habit of renting every movie that comes out when they come out. I can sleep well under my roof knowing that I don't have to worry about whether or not I will have to send my doggies to the local animal shelter.
One of the top stories in the news yesterday was the fact that animal shelters and humane societies across the state and the country have seen the highest number of dropoffs in their histories. People are relinquishing ownership of family pets who have been with them for 10 years. Some even tried to live out of their cars in a quest to keep their four-legged kiddos with them. But, with the economy the way it is, these people decided to try and give their animals a shot at a better life.
As a proud owner of two humane society rescues, I encourage those who have the resources and funds available to check out their local shelters and help an animal in need. I would give up my movie habit if it meant keeping my girls with me. I would buy all generic brand food to keep my girls with me. I would give up the smallest of luxuries and take on three additional part-time jobs to prevent sending my girls away.
I, too, would live out of my car...with Kaeli, KoKo and my husband. All nice and snug in my Honda CRV. They are my family and I love them. And when the going gets tough, I don't plan on sending them (Kaeli and KoKo) back to the Humane Society...
Just like the little boy who was sent back to Russia because of his 'behavioral problems', my dogs are not items of clothing that can be returned because they don't fit. They are not rental properties, 100% satification guaranteed or your money back.
If times are tough, skip the lemonade...water is free!
Build a bridge and get over it people. If your life is crap, take a step back, figure out the problem...and fix it!
I, for one, do not want more hours in the day. More time leads to more work. Instead of wishing for more time, how about wishing for less work? Don't get me wrong, I love to work. It's better to be busy than dead.
However, if all the people who shove more onto my pile of work would realize that I'm just one person, my life would be easier. And if all the people who shove THEIR work onto my pile of work would do their own...I wouldn't need more hours in the day...I would need help figuring out what to do with all my free time.
Right now I'm happy to be employed. I tell myself this everyday as I drag myself out of bed and face the day ahead. Got a sinus infection? Happy to go to work. Got so little sleep that the bags under the eyes are packed and ready to go? Happy to go to work. Break a shoulder AND a tailbone? Happy to brave all of the potholes in Michigan to plop my butt on a doughnut and go to work.
I'm lucky to have a job. I can pay my bills. I can afford food. I can feed my nasty habit of renting every movie that comes out when they come out. I can sleep well under my roof knowing that I don't have to worry about whether or not I will have to send my doggies to the local animal shelter.
One of the top stories in the news yesterday was the fact that animal shelters and humane societies across the state and the country have seen the highest number of dropoffs in their histories. People are relinquishing ownership of family pets who have been with them for 10 years. Some even tried to live out of their cars in a quest to keep their four-legged kiddos with them. But, with the economy the way it is, these people decided to try and give their animals a shot at a better life.
As a proud owner of two humane society rescues, I encourage those who have the resources and funds available to check out their local shelters and help an animal in need. I would give up my movie habit if it meant keeping my girls with me. I would buy all generic brand food to keep my girls with me. I would give up the smallest of luxuries and take on three additional part-time jobs to prevent sending my girls away.
I, too, would live out of my car...with Kaeli, KoKo and my husband. All nice and snug in my Honda CRV. They are my family and I love them. And when the going gets tough, I don't plan on sending them (Kaeli and KoKo) back to the Humane Society...
Just like the little boy who was sent back to Russia because of his 'behavioral problems', my dogs are not items of clothing that can be returned because they don't fit. They are not rental properties, 100% satification guaranteed or your money back.
If times are tough, skip the lemonade...water is free!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
He's Cheesy and His Name is Chuck
Remember the 'good 'ol days'? When you were a kid and you had no real worries in the world? Where birthday parties were simple - mom makes a cake, kids bring presents and if you're lucky there was a pinata.
But today, kids have elaborate birthday parties. There are pool parties where parents rent out a hotel's pool area. There are skating parties where parents pay for the entire rink and a private DJ. And if you're P-Diddy's son, there's a $360,000 car at the end of a party, which was filmed for the MTV reality show "My Super Sweet Sixteen," featuring performances by rappers Fabolous, Lil' Kim, and Jim Jones. Cast members from "Jersey Shore" were also there to wish Justin a happy birthday.
I remember begging and pleading for my parents to take me and my friends to Chuck E. Cheese (actually where we lived it was called Show Biz Pizza). Not having a care about the cost, I was sad when I had to settle for a game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey and a homemade cake.
It wasn't about the cool games at Chuck E. Cheese either. I knew back then that it was a waste of money to play all these games to collect tickets whereby you redeem them for little trinkets that cost a millionth of what you spent trying to 'win' them. I wanted to go for the music.
I really thought Chuck was God. Boy, could he sing. All of them up on stage, singing to ME. At Show Biz Pizza, a gorilla was the star of the show. Nowadays, it's all about the mouse. And nothing is more appropriate for a mascot of a pizza place than a MOUSE.
I went to Chuck E. Cheese last week with my Little. I had promised her I would take her for her birthday. And apparently I had a lot of surpressed feelings about the children's version of Dave & Busters. I went crazy.
I bought so many tokens hoping to win that little spider ring. And I'm proud to say we left victorious. I was a rock star at Skee-Ball (even with a broken shoulder). We raced (she won). We shot hoops (she won again). And we collected enough tickets to win TWO plastic thingamabobs and THREE things of Smarties candies. Victory was ours.
But, it was when the 'band' started to play that I truly reverted to my 10-year-old self. Chuck sang a song. His girlfriend sang a song. The weird dude on the drums sang a song. All accompanied by 1980s footage on a big-screen TV.
And then it hit me. That band sucks. I spent way too much money. At least at Dave & Busters you can drink enough alcohol that you don't realize how much the fun night out cost you. And you don't have to hear Chuck's rendition of various Jonas Brother's hits over and over again.
Thank you Mom and Dad for not wasting money on Chuck E. Cheese when I was growing up. Because afterall, Chuck is pretty cheesy!
But today, kids have elaborate birthday parties. There are pool parties where parents rent out a hotel's pool area. There are skating parties where parents pay for the entire rink and a private DJ. And if you're P-Diddy's son, there's a $360,000 car at the end of a party, which was filmed for the MTV reality show "My Super Sweet Sixteen," featuring performances by rappers Fabolous, Lil' Kim, and Jim Jones. Cast members from "Jersey Shore" were also there to wish Justin a happy birthday.
I remember begging and pleading for my parents to take me and my friends to Chuck E. Cheese (actually where we lived it was called Show Biz Pizza). Not having a care about the cost, I was sad when I had to settle for a game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey and a homemade cake.
It wasn't about the cool games at Chuck E. Cheese either. I knew back then that it was a waste of money to play all these games to collect tickets whereby you redeem them for little trinkets that cost a millionth of what you spent trying to 'win' them. I wanted to go for the music.
I really thought Chuck was God. Boy, could he sing. All of them up on stage, singing to ME. At Show Biz Pizza, a gorilla was the star of the show. Nowadays, it's all about the mouse. And nothing is more appropriate for a mascot of a pizza place than a MOUSE.
I went to Chuck E. Cheese last week with my Little. I had promised her I would take her for her birthday. And apparently I had a lot of surpressed feelings about the children's version of Dave & Busters. I went crazy.
I bought so many tokens hoping to win that little spider ring. And I'm proud to say we left victorious. I was a rock star at Skee-Ball (even with a broken shoulder). We raced (she won). We shot hoops (she won again). And we collected enough tickets to win TWO plastic thingamabobs and THREE things of Smarties candies. Victory was ours.
But, it was when the 'band' started to play that I truly reverted to my 10-year-old self. Chuck sang a song. His girlfriend sang a song. The weird dude on the drums sang a song. All accompanied by 1980s footage on a big-screen TV.
And then it hit me. That band sucks. I spent way too much money. At least at Dave & Busters you can drink enough alcohol that you don't realize how much the fun night out cost you. And you don't have to hear Chuck's rendition of various Jonas Brother's hits over and over again.
Thank you Mom and Dad for not wasting money on Chuck E. Cheese when I was growing up. Because afterall, Chuck is pretty cheesy!
Monday, April 5, 2010
Three Little Letters...One Big Pain
I have a high pain tolerance. Being an accident-prone individual, I've had to acquire this level of tolerance in order to survive. Need a root canal? No need for pain killers. No numbing necessary. Break your shoulder? I drive myself to the ER and go three days with no treatment. Break your butt-bone? I waited to see the doctor and drove myself to get an x-ray. The solution each of the doctors had? Prescription for drugs ranging from Tylenol to Morphine.
One thing none of my loved ones will ever have to worry about is me being a drug addict or a pill pusher. I actually returned a prescription for Oxycodone and Valium to my doctor saying I didn't want it to get in the hands of the wrong people...and I wouldn't be needing them.
Sure, I could have made a fortune pedalling these prescription drugs, but that little Jimminy Cricket on my shoulder was blaring in my ear, "always let your conscience be your guide..." Damn cricket.
So, when I went to the doctor and she said, we need to do an MRI to determine the severity of damage to your shoulder, I didn't flinch. I've had x-rays, CAT scans, ultrasounds and cardboard film shoved under my tongue. I didn't think twice.
I wasn't worried about being in a confined space for 45 minutes. I wasn't worried about having a wardrobe malfunction with the flimsy hospital gowns. I wasn't worried...period.
And then I showed up for the MRI. There are no words to describe the injustice that small, little acronym does for the procedure. There was no warning. There was no describing the preparation. There was no web-site to turn to prior to the process so that I could adequately arm myself.
When I showed up, I was told to change. I sat on the edge of the cold bed as the nurse began to sterilize my shoulder. And that's when I saw it. A needle the size of a meat thermometer. Where in the heck was she planning on sticking that? (I had a few ideas of my own).
"You'll feel something like a small bee sting and that should be it."
REALLY?
I don't know what the hell type of bees Nurse Cruelty studied, but I believe it was more like the whole hornet's nest. After jabbing my shoulder blade to get a burning fluid into my rotator joint, she then pulled out a tube the size of a fishing rod and inserted it into the meat thermometer needle. Bee sting...right.
Instantly, my shoulder swelled up. Completely disfigured with a shoulder on fire, they led me to the room where they had me sit on a bed that rolled (very slowly) into a space-age capsule.
Even with the loud beeping, slight rocking and throbbing pain throughout my right side, I fell asleep. The best 45 minutes of sleep I've had in a long time. No drugs needed.
M-R-I -- What a cute little way to abbreviate Magnetic Resonance Imaging to make it seem less intimidating.
A Fierce Fire-Inducing Procedure That Will Have You Begging to Cut Off Body Parts.
AFFIPTWHYBTCOBP - that's more like it!
One thing none of my loved ones will ever have to worry about is me being a drug addict or a pill pusher. I actually returned a prescription for Oxycodone and Valium to my doctor saying I didn't want it to get in the hands of the wrong people...and I wouldn't be needing them.
Sure, I could have made a fortune pedalling these prescription drugs, but that little Jimminy Cricket on my shoulder was blaring in my ear, "always let your conscience be your guide..." Damn cricket.
So, when I went to the doctor and she said, we need to do an MRI to determine the severity of damage to your shoulder, I didn't flinch. I've had x-rays, CAT scans, ultrasounds and cardboard film shoved under my tongue. I didn't think twice.
I wasn't worried about being in a confined space for 45 minutes. I wasn't worried about having a wardrobe malfunction with the flimsy hospital gowns. I wasn't worried...period.
And then I showed up for the MRI. There are no words to describe the injustice that small, little acronym does for the procedure. There was no warning. There was no describing the preparation. There was no web-site to turn to prior to the process so that I could adequately arm myself.
When I showed up, I was told to change. I sat on the edge of the cold bed as the nurse began to sterilize my shoulder. And that's when I saw it. A needle the size of a meat thermometer. Where in the heck was she planning on sticking that? (I had a few ideas of my own).
"You'll feel something like a small bee sting and that should be it."
REALLY?
I don't know what the hell type of bees Nurse Cruelty studied, but I believe it was more like the whole hornet's nest. After jabbing my shoulder blade to get a burning fluid into my rotator joint, she then pulled out a tube the size of a fishing rod and inserted it into the meat thermometer needle. Bee sting...right.
Instantly, my shoulder swelled up. Completely disfigured with a shoulder on fire, they led me to the room where they had me sit on a bed that rolled (very slowly) into a space-age capsule.
Even with the loud beeping, slight rocking and throbbing pain throughout my right side, I fell asleep. The best 45 minutes of sleep I've had in a long time. No drugs needed.
M-R-I -- What a cute little way to abbreviate Magnetic Resonance Imaging to make it seem less intimidating.
A Fierce Fire-Inducing Procedure That Will Have You Begging to Cut Off Body Parts.
AFFIPTWHYBTCOBP - that's more like it!
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
A Taxing Situation...
This past weekend my husband and I did what every responsible, red-blooded American does this time of year. We watched basketball. Though every single team we like ruined their chances of a Final Four appearance early on...we still watched. Ever since the Jayhawks choked, I've got a better vested interest in the tournament.
As it stands, I don't care who wins the NCAA Tournament. Though I live in the Land of Green, I wasn't raised a Spartan...and I don't bleed green. My loyalties are with the UNC Tarheels and the Mizzou Tigers. Both not present in the 2010 Final Four.
Don't get me wrong, I highly admire Tom Izzo. Great coach. Widely respected. Proven track record. He is the coach I want and believe Mizzou's Mike Anderson to be. I dream of the day he brings the Tigers to the Final Four. When Tiger fans can erase the Quinn Snyder days from their devastating memories.
This year, despite the many attempts by co-workers to convert me, I will be rooting for the underdog. I want Butler to win. Why? Because, like Mizzou, they were not expected to make it to the Final Four. Because they've never made it there before. Because, just once I want Mike Krzyzewski to know the pain of loss.
Once a Duke fan, I have to admit that I'm tired of Duke winning. If it can't be my Tarheels, I don't want a North Carolina team to win. Sorry Mike.
And West Virginia? They too, know the glories of a winning season. In fact, they are the only in the nation to win a BCS game, a NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament game, and a NCAA Women's Basketball Tournament game all in one year. Only three years have passed since that milestone...so let someone else have the spotlight.
Yes, we enjoyed a weekend of basketball - some disappointments, one potential Cinderella story. So GO Butler Bulldogs! Or shall I say GO Butler Underdogs?
btw - we did our taxes too this weekend, owing the government a lot of money. No Cinderella story there.
As it stands, I don't care who wins the NCAA Tournament. Though I live in the Land of Green, I wasn't raised a Spartan...and I don't bleed green. My loyalties are with the UNC Tarheels and the Mizzou Tigers. Both not present in the 2010 Final Four.
Don't get me wrong, I highly admire Tom Izzo. Great coach. Widely respected. Proven track record. He is the coach I want and believe Mizzou's Mike Anderson to be. I dream of the day he brings the Tigers to the Final Four. When Tiger fans can erase the Quinn Snyder days from their devastating memories.
This year, despite the many attempts by co-workers to convert me, I will be rooting for the underdog. I want Butler to win. Why? Because, like Mizzou, they were not expected to make it to the Final Four. Because they've never made it there before. Because, just once I want Mike Krzyzewski to know the pain of loss.
Once a Duke fan, I have to admit that I'm tired of Duke winning. If it can't be my Tarheels, I don't want a North Carolina team to win. Sorry Mike.
And West Virginia? They too, know the glories of a winning season. In fact, they are the only in the nation to win a BCS game, a NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament game, and a NCAA Women's Basketball Tournament game all in one year. Only three years have passed since that milestone...so let someone else have the spotlight.
Yes, we enjoyed a weekend of basketball - some disappointments, one potential Cinderella story. So GO Butler Bulldogs! Or shall I say GO Butler Underdogs?
btw - we did our taxes too this weekend, owing the government a lot of money. No Cinderella story there.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
A New Perspective on Stage Mothers
More than 5 years ago, the brilliant executives at VH1 decided to produce a show called 'Stage Moms'. The show follows six aspiring child actors and their families. The executives claim the show, “is about what stage mothers go through in their lives, professionally—as well as how this professional life influences their personal lives.”
I never knew there were such things as 'professional stage moms'. Isn't that just glorified child abuse? Aren't there child labor laws. Think of the Caulkin clan. The stress of managing Macauly's career led the parents to divorce each other and Macauly to divorce them.
Do the mothers on this show ever read the tabloids? Hello Lindsay Lohan. She went from the cute little redhead who played twins in the remake of Parent Trap (my husband had the hots for her then) to a strung-out party girl who's been in and out of rehab so many times they've named a new wing for her.
But instead of spending time with her daughter to help her cope, Mommy Lohan shoved her other daughter, Aliana, into the spotlight. In 2008, Mommy Lohan and Aliana starred in the short-lived reality show 'Living Lohan'. How did that work out for you? Now, the whole family is bankrupt. They don't even have the money to pay for a psychiatrist...no wonder Papa Lohan is a tabloid slut - I hear they pay good cash for controversy.
There is nothing wrong with wanting the best for your kids. There's nothing wrong about wanting to show them off. But throwing them behind the camera against their will and reaping the monetary rewards is just plain cruel.
I don't have children, but if I did...I can't promise that I wouldn't be a mini-stage mom. Not as dramatic as the 'stars' on 'Stage Moms', but there is something amazing about watching your kiddos be the star of the show. I would never take it so far as to traumatize them for life, but I wouldn't mind people seeing them shine.
As a child, I was in numerous commercials -- not because of my talent, but because of my family. My Dad is a small-time celebrity and the family had to participate in promotional commercials. We were all naturals, so thankfully my mother didn't have to sit on the side-lines and yell at us to do better. Regardless of our performance, we never got paid. I promised myself I would never put my kids through that.
Today, I broke that promise.
My little kiddo, Kaeli, was a superstar today. I always knew she had talent, poise and enough patience to rival the Dalai Lama. Our local Vet School was shooting a television commercial and they needed a canine actor, could Kaeli do it?
Could Kaeli do it? Could Kaeli do it? Momma Stoneking threw on her bandana and packed her up in the car quicker than you could say Kibbles 'N Bits. We got there and she did her thing. Kaeli sat on the waiting room table --- waiting for her turn in make-up. When the doctor came to get her 'suited up', Kaeli didn't even turn around. She trotted off proudly.
Then came her big moment. She was to walk out the emergency room doors with the doctor and straight into my arms, acting excited to see me. Bandaged from head to toe in gauze, Kaeli prepared for her first take.
I called for my beautiful little girl off camera and she came running. She didn't stop. First take...not so good. Second take...not much better. But when Stage Mom Stoneking got the bright yellow tennis ball out of the car, Kaeli nailed the shot. She jumped up, got the ball and just before the cameraman called 'cut', she looked over at her fake doctor and gave him a kiss.
Print take. A superdog has been born.
I hear Super Bud's owners made a lot of money off of his movies. I bet Spuds McKenzie got his own bedroom thanks to Budweiser. And Morris the cat? I'm sure his owners boasted the fact that their feline ate food from a real crystal goblet.
I'm a proud mom. And it's a big job. Bragging about Kaeli to my family. To my friends. To other dog owners. To strangers on the street. Perhaps I need to get her an agent to take over the bragging. Oh, I'll still brag on her...to all the employees at the bank!
I never knew there were such things as 'professional stage moms'. Isn't that just glorified child abuse? Aren't there child labor laws. Think of the Caulkin clan. The stress of managing Macauly's career led the parents to divorce each other and Macauly to divorce them.
Do the mothers on this show ever read the tabloids? Hello Lindsay Lohan. She went from the cute little redhead who played twins in the remake of Parent Trap (my husband had the hots for her then) to a strung-out party girl who's been in and out of rehab so many times they've named a new wing for her.
But instead of spending time with her daughter to help her cope, Mommy Lohan shoved her other daughter, Aliana, into the spotlight. In 2008, Mommy Lohan and Aliana starred in the short-lived reality show 'Living Lohan'. How did that work out for you? Now, the whole family is bankrupt. They don't even have the money to pay for a psychiatrist...no wonder Papa Lohan is a tabloid slut - I hear they pay good cash for controversy.
There is nothing wrong with wanting the best for your kids. There's nothing wrong about wanting to show them off. But throwing them behind the camera against their will and reaping the monetary rewards is just plain cruel.
I don't have children, but if I did...I can't promise that I wouldn't be a mini-stage mom. Not as dramatic as the 'stars' on 'Stage Moms', but there is something amazing about watching your kiddos be the star of the show. I would never take it so far as to traumatize them for life, but I wouldn't mind people seeing them shine.
As a child, I was in numerous commercials -- not because of my talent, but because of my family. My Dad is a small-time celebrity and the family had to participate in promotional commercials. We were all naturals, so thankfully my mother didn't have to sit on the side-lines and yell at us to do better. Regardless of our performance, we never got paid. I promised myself I would never put my kids through that.
Today, I broke that promise.
My little kiddo, Kaeli, was a superstar today. I always knew she had talent, poise and enough patience to rival the Dalai Lama. Our local Vet School was shooting a television commercial and they needed a canine actor, could Kaeli do it?
Could Kaeli do it? Could Kaeli do it? Momma Stoneking threw on her bandana and packed her up in the car quicker than you could say Kibbles 'N Bits. We got there and she did her thing. Kaeli sat on the waiting room table --- waiting for her turn in make-up. When the doctor came to get her 'suited up', Kaeli didn't even turn around. She trotted off proudly.
Then came her big moment. She was to walk out the emergency room doors with the doctor and straight into my arms, acting excited to see me. Bandaged from head to toe in gauze, Kaeli prepared for her first take.
I called for my beautiful little girl off camera and she came running. She didn't stop. First take...not so good. Second take...not much better. But when Stage Mom Stoneking got the bright yellow tennis ball out of the car, Kaeli nailed the shot. She jumped up, got the ball and just before the cameraman called 'cut', she looked over at her fake doctor and gave him a kiss.
Print take. A superdog has been born.
I hear Super Bud's owners made a lot of money off of his movies. I bet Spuds McKenzie got his own bedroom thanks to Budweiser. And Morris the cat? I'm sure his owners boasted the fact that their feline ate food from a real crystal goblet.
I'm a proud mom. And it's a big job. Bragging about Kaeli to my family. To my friends. To other dog owners. To strangers on the street. Perhaps I need to get her an agent to take over the bragging. Oh, I'll still brag on her...to all the employees at the bank!
Monday, March 15, 2010
Things That Go 'Bump' in the Night...
In 1994 Bump in the Night was an animated television series that ran on ABC. Mr. Bumpy, a small green, purple-warted monster living under the bed of a ten-year-old boy, where he eats dirty socks and dust bunnies as if they were delicacies. His best friends were Squishington, a blue monster that lived in the bathroom's toilet tank; and Molly Coddle, a Frankenstein's monster-like rag doll belonging to the boy's sister who acts as the straight man to the crazy antics of the other two.
But, in 1988 Bump in the Night referred to a suspense novel written by Isabelle Holland. It described the abduction of a little boy by a child molester who was acting in concert with a producer of child pornography movies. This book is not for the faint of heart.
Many things go 'bump' in the night. Some are scarier than others. Monsters hitting their heads as they try to get out from under your bed -- scary. A bolt of lightning hitting a tree in the backyard and 'bumping' against the house -- scary. Your house 'settling', making eerie creaking noises - not so much scary as annoying.
Stubbing your toe as you try to find your way to the bathroom in the dark of night - painful. Your spouse snoring rattling the windows - helpful (chases all of the monsters out from under the bed). Your dog falling on her head because in the midst of her deep sleep, she ran right off the bed - downright funny.
Bumps in the night don't bother me. It's the bumps during the day that scare the bejesus out of me. Bumping your head on a cabinet door - ouch to the head. Bumping your ass on a flight of concrete stairs - double ouch to the butt. Bumping the car in front of you because ignorant drivers believe that slamming on your brakes beats slowing to a full and complete stop - ouch to the pocketbook.
And then there are the people you can 'bump into' during the day. Your boss rounding the corner at the same time you're getting coffee and you have a report that's three days overdue. Or the guy that really fancies you and can't seem to take the hint that you are NOT interested (apparently he doesn't understand that 'go away' is not an invitation to 'come back another day). Then there are the people that you've blogged about and who are waiting to string you up by your toenails (what do you say when you 'bump' into them?).
Things that go bump in the night can be scary to everyone and anything. Take Scooby Doo for example. The cartoon version of my dog Kaeli was so scared of bumps in the night, the Allstars wrote a song about him:
Tell me who's spooking who
It's very Scooby Doo
You hear a shriek in the house
You know its freaking me out
You can not run,
And you can not hide
Yeah you gotta face it baby
Things go bump in the night
Where ever you run,
And where ever you hide
Yeah you gotta face it baby
Things go bump, bump, bump in the night
But, in 1988 Bump in the Night referred to a suspense novel written by Isabelle Holland. It described the abduction of a little boy by a child molester who was acting in concert with a producer of child pornography movies. This book is not for the faint of heart.
Many things go 'bump' in the night. Some are scarier than others. Monsters hitting their heads as they try to get out from under your bed -- scary. A bolt of lightning hitting a tree in the backyard and 'bumping' against the house -- scary. Your house 'settling', making eerie creaking noises - not so much scary as annoying.
Stubbing your toe as you try to find your way to the bathroom in the dark of night - painful. Your spouse snoring rattling the windows - helpful (chases all of the monsters out from under the bed). Your dog falling on her head because in the midst of her deep sleep, she ran right off the bed - downright funny.
Bumps in the night don't bother me. It's the bumps during the day that scare the bejesus out of me. Bumping your head on a cabinet door - ouch to the head. Bumping your ass on a flight of concrete stairs - double ouch to the butt. Bumping the car in front of you because ignorant drivers believe that slamming on your brakes beats slowing to a full and complete stop - ouch to the pocketbook.
And then there are the people you can 'bump into' during the day. Your boss rounding the corner at the same time you're getting coffee and you have a report that's three days overdue. Or the guy that really fancies you and can't seem to take the hint that you are NOT interested (apparently he doesn't understand that 'go away' is not an invitation to 'come back another day). Then there are the people that you've blogged about and who are waiting to string you up by your toenails (what do you say when you 'bump' into them?).
Things that go bump in the night can be scary to everyone and anything. Take Scooby Doo for example. The cartoon version of my dog Kaeli was so scared of bumps in the night, the Allstars wrote a song about him:
Tell me who's spooking who
It's very Scooby Doo
You hear a shriek in the house
You know its freaking me out
You can not run,
And you can not hide
Yeah you gotta face it baby
Things go bump in the night
Where ever you run,
And where ever you hide
Yeah you gotta face it baby
Things go bump, bump, bump in the night
Friday, March 12, 2010
Deception at the 'Dollar Store'
I pride myself on being frugal. If there is a deal to be found, I will find it. That's why when the concept of the Dollar Store came about, I was ecstatic. There was a store called Dollar Deals within walking distance to our old house. I was a proud regular.
You could get great deals at that place. Cleaning supplies. School supplies. Party favors. Gift bags. Greeting cards - TWO for a $1. And there was even the occassional surprise - name brand food items...for only a dollar! I loved being able to come home and show off my findings to my husband.
Don't get me wrong...there are some things that aren't even worth the dollar. That's how they make their money. It is not a place to shop for an awesome birthday or Christmas gift - unless your great aunt is in dire need of a 'hand-sculpted' porcelain angel ornament that was made in China. Or if you knew a child who wouldn't mind a cheapo doll made of straw that may or may not have two eyes.
Word to the wise - don't buy gifts at the Dollar Store...if it's a REAL dollar store.
When my husband and I moved to Michigan, I wanted to make sure we were in walking distance to a grocery store, a gas station...or civilization. In the event of a blizzard (not too far-fetched in Michigan), I would still be able to hook up our dogs to a sled and become the Stoneking Iditarod Team (SIT...ha!) in search of basic essentials.
We found a house that fit the bill. Lo and Behold!!! What resides in the strip mall not too far from our abode? A Dollar Store! I was so excited, I literally couldn't hide it.
And then the excitement turned to disappointment. The dollar store is NOT a true dollar store.
I was reminded of my disappointment when I stopped in there to get my dancers a few little trinkets to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. The store is more like a Dollar General. BIG difference!
There were some deals. But the only things that cost a dollar were the things that are actually WORTH a dollar. No cheap food items. No $1 cleaning supplies. No cheap greeting cards. No dog toys that I could bring home and not care whether the girls tore them to shreds or not.
I left with a few gift bags that I will have to fill later. I miss my Dollar Deals. I miss bragging about my finds to my husband (doubtful that he does). How deceptive you are Dollar Store. How deceptive you are.
I guess I'll go to Aldi.
You could get great deals at that place. Cleaning supplies. School supplies. Party favors. Gift bags. Greeting cards - TWO for a $1. And there was even the occassional surprise - name brand food items...for only a dollar! I loved being able to come home and show off my findings to my husband.
Don't get me wrong...there are some things that aren't even worth the dollar. That's how they make their money. It is not a place to shop for an awesome birthday or Christmas gift - unless your great aunt is in dire need of a 'hand-sculpted' porcelain angel ornament that was made in China. Or if you knew a child who wouldn't mind a cheapo doll made of straw that may or may not have two eyes.
Word to the wise - don't buy gifts at the Dollar Store...if it's a REAL dollar store.
When my husband and I moved to Michigan, I wanted to make sure we were in walking distance to a grocery store, a gas station...or civilization. In the event of a blizzard (not too far-fetched in Michigan), I would still be able to hook up our dogs to a sled and become the Stoneking Iditarod Team (SIT...ha!) in search of basic essentials.
We found a house that fit the bill. Lo and Behold!!! What resides in the strip mall not too far from our abode? A Dollar Store! I was so excited, I literally couldn't hide it.
And then the excitement turned to disappointment. The dollar store is NOT a true dollar store.
I was reminded of my disappointment when I stopped in there to get my dancers a few little trinkets to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. The store is more like a Dollar General. BIG difference!
There were some deals. But the only things that cost a dollar were the things that are actually WORTH a dollar. No cheap food items. No $1 cleaning supplies. No cheap greeting cards. No dog toys that I could bring home and not care whether the girls tore them to shreds or not.
I left with a few gift bags that I will have to fill later. I miss my Dollar Deals. I miss bragging about my finds to my husband (doubtful that he does). How deceptive you are Dollar Store. How deceptive you are.
I guess I'll go to Aldi.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Everything's 'Up in the Air'
I like to have a plan in life. Not necessarily a highly-structured, detail-oriented plan, because that only sets you up for failure. But I learned early on that even the best laid plans can fall in the crapper. Circumstances beyond our control are more than likely to strike if you have no wiggle room.
My husband and I recently saw the movie, 'Up in the Air' (yummy George Clooney) and I was reminded of a motto my father constantly shared. It was more of a running motif in my family's life. Whenever we tried to plan anything - 'It's up in the air' was our answer. Getting details on a family vacation? 'It's up in the air, right now'. Wanted to know if you could go out with your friends on the weekend? The answer would always be 'up in the air' until Sunday came along and then you got your answer.
In the movie, 'Up in the Air' takes on dual meanings. Sure, it's about a man who spends more time in an airplane than at home...but, there was a secondary plot that many may have overlooked.
Set in his ways, Clooney thought his life was perfectly planned. He scheduled his every move...right down to how he should pack his underwear to best utilize his carry-on luggage. But, all of his planning overlooked one important detail - happiness.
While he was hired to fire people for a living, his own future was quite literally 'up in the air'. His professional future was threatened by computer technology. His personal future was threatened by his lack of experience in the relationship department.
Living in the air with his future up in the air, forced me to look at my own life. One's professional career is always up in the air, especially with so many companies downsizing and everyone vying for an entry-level position. The future of my family is up in the air. Am I destined to go through life without a child? The future of my well-being is up in the air - it all depends on what the doctors say and whether or not my bones can heal without surgery.
Having a plan is a good thing. Hope for the best. Prepare for the worst. When I was growing up, my father's nonchalant 'Everything's up in the air' would irk me to no end. I wanted an answer. I wanted details.
But as I've matured, I've come to realize that somethings are better 'up in the air'. When you plan every detail, you develop expectations. When things don't go according to your plan, you set yourself up for failure, depression, anger and scrutiny.
'Up in the Air', the saying, is an excuse. For George it was an excuse to avoid commitment. A commitment to his personal life and a plan for the future.
But, 'Up in the Air', the movie, was also an excuse...to drool over GC!
My husband and I recently saw the movie, 'Up in the Air' (yummy George Clooney) and I was reminded of a motto my father constantly shared. It was more of a running motif in my family's life. Whenever we tried to plan anything - 'It's up in the air' was our answer. Getting details on a family vacation? 'It's up in the air, right now'. Wanted to know if you could go out with your friends on the weekend? The answer would always be 'up in the air' until Sunday came along and then you got your answer.
In the movie, 'Up in the Air' takes on dual meanings. Sure, it's about a man who spends more time in an airplane than at home...but, there was a secondary plot that many may have overlooked.
Set in his ways, Clooney thought his life was perfectly planned. He scheduled his every move...right down to how he should pack his underwear to best utilize his carry-on luggage. But, all of his planning overlooked one important detail - happiness.
While he was hired to fire people for a living, his own future was quite literally 'up in the air'. His professional future was threatened by computer technology. His personal future was threatened by his lack of experience in the relationship department.
Living in the air with his future up in the air, forced me to look at my own life. One's professional career is always up in the air, especially with so many companies downsizing and everyone vying for an entry-level position. The future of my family is up in the air. Am I destined to go through life without a child? The future of my well-being is up in the air - it all depends on what the doctors say and whether or not my bones can heal without surgery.
Having a plan is a good thing. Hope for the best. Prepare for the worst. When I was growing up, my father's nonchalant 'Everything's up in the air' would irk me to no end. I wanted an answer. I wanted details.
But as I've matured, I've come to realize that somethings are better 'up in the air'. When you plan every detail, you develop expectations. When things don't go according to your plan, you set yourself up for failure, depression, anger and scrutiny.
'Up in the Air', the saying, is an excuse. For George it was an excuse to avoid commitment. A commitment to his personal life and a plan for the future.
But, 'Up in the Air', the movie, was also an excuse...to drool over GC!
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Dog Tired!
My dogs have a tough life. Get dad up at 5:30a.m. while mom stays sleeping (for about 10 minutes), go to the bathroom, get fed, wait around until lunchtime to do bathroom business again, lay around some more and then get fed in the evening. Can't forget the jaunt from one couch to the next. The hopping on and off of the beds. And the intermittent breaks outside to make sure the tennis balls are safe and secure on the deck.
Every occasion deserves a treat too. Did KoKo only bite Kaeli's leg twice today? Treat! Did Kaeli only take a half hour to go number 2? Treat! Did both girls come inside after being called only three times? Treat! It's a wonder they're not morbidly obese.
What can I say? With no children to spoil, these two girls are my kiddos. They provide love, loyalty and happiness - unconditionally.
I would say that they are the perfect kids. Never fighting with each other. Never messing up the house. Never chewing on the walls. And never talking back.
But, they do talk back. Sometimes they just say, "Hey Dad" or "I'm okay, Mom. Thanks for asking." It used to shock us. Dogs talking back. But, then it turned humorous. And everytime they answer us, it gets funnier and funnier.
"Who wants to go outside?"
"I do, Dad."
What?!?! Kaeli spoke?
"Well hello KoKo...how are you?
"I'm fine. Thanks for asking Mom."
What?!?! KoKo spoke too?
It gets funnier and funnier. Or more and more pathetic.
I wonder what our girls would say to us if, in fact, they could speak.
"Do you guys really have to talk in that stupid, high-pitched voice EVERY time you talk to us?"
"You can blame me all you want, but you know it was YOU that produced the rancid smell that permeates the room." (Kaeli, apparently would have a very good vocabulary).
"You can try to spell words out all you want...but we know what O-U-T means. It means, it's time for us to go do our business."
At times I wish I knew what they were thinking. There are times when Kaeli looks so pathetic it looks as though we abuse her. All the while we're telling her how much we love her. Maybe she's just wishing she was able to imbibe in alcoholic beverages as a way to deal with her two 'loser' owners.
Then there's KoKo. You can try to reprimand her all you want, but she just wags her tail, places her paws on you or gives you her mastered puppy-dog eyes. How can you stay mad at that?
So, Kaeli and KoKo...put your feet up. Take over the entire couch. Mom and dad don't need more than a third to be comfortable. Take over the beds and have the run of the house. After all, you work hard to be spoiled. Oh wait, that's right, WE do...now go fetch me the paper. I said f-e-t-ch the p-a-p-e-r. OK, you're right. Fair is fair. If I expect you to get YOUR ball, I should get MY paper.
Every occasion deserves a treat too. Did KoKo only bite Kaeli's leg twice today? Treat! Did Kaeli only take a half hour to go number 2? Treat! Did both girls come inside after being called only three times? Treat! It's a wonder they're not morbidly obese.
What can I say? With no children to spoil, these two girls are my kiddos. They provide love, loyalty and happiness - unconditionally.
I would say that they are the perfect kids. Never fighting with each other. Never messing up the house. Never chewing on the walls. And never talking back.
But, they do talk back. Sometimes they just say, "Hey Dad" or "I'm okay, Mom. Thanks for asking." It used to shock us. Dogs talking back. But, then it turned humorous. And everytime they answer us, it gets funnier and funnier.
"Who wants to go outside?"
"I do, Dad."
What?!?! Kaeli spoke?
"Well hello KoKo...how are you?
"I'm fine. Thanks for asking Mom."
What?!?! KoKo spoke too?
It gets funnier and funnier. Or more and more pathetic.
I wonder what our girls would say to us if, in fact, they could speak.
"Do you guys really have to talk in that stupid, high-pitched voice EVERY time you talk to us?"
"You can blame me all you want, but you know it was YOU that produced the rancid smell that permeates the room." (Kaeli, apparently would have a very good vocabulary).
"You can try to spell words out all you want...but we know what O-U-T means. It means, it's time for us to go do our business."
At times I wish I knew what they were thinking. There are times when Kaeli looks so pathetic it looks as though we abuse her. All the while we're telling her how much we love her. Maybe she's just wishing she was able to imbibe in alcoholic beverages as a way to deal with her two 'loser' owners.
Then there's KoKo. You can try to reprimand her all you want, but she just wags her tail, places her paws on you or gives you her mastered puppy-dog eyes. How can you stay mad at that?
So, Kaeli and KoKo...put your feet up. Take over the entire couch. Mom and dad don't need more than a third to be comfortable. Take over the beds and have the run of the house. After all, you work hard to be spoiled. Oh wait, that's right, WE do...now go fetch me the paper. I said f-e-t-ch the p-a-p-e-r. OK, you're right. Fair is fair. If I expect you to get YOUR ball, I should get MY paper.
Friday, March 5, 2010
It's All Fun and Games...'Til You Fall on Your Ass
On an episode of The Brady Bunch, Carol Brady was lecturing her kids not to play ball in the house. But, when she left (to do what, I'm not exactly sure) the boys started tossing a basketball in the house. Result? A broken, cherished vase that they tried valiantly to fix.
In another episode, the boys were tossing a football, having fun in the backyard. But when Marsha walked through the back door, the football nailed her in the nose. I think all the neighbors in 1960s Suburbanville heard her cries of 'My nose! My nose!' Thanks to Marsha, the boys had to quit their game and got a stern lecture from Mom and Pop Brady.
Those are really the only two episodes I remember, but their message was clear..."It's all fun and games until someone f's up". All we are left with is a broken vase and a broken nose.
This week I was enduring a typical Monday at work when the Brady message became relevant to my life. Walking down a set of concrete stairs, I slipped on some slush and tried to grab myself to prevent my fall. Unfortunately, my almost healed broken shoulder couldn't withstand my weight, so I let go of the railing and fell right on my tailbone.
It really is a pain in the ass - for more than one reason.
No, I wasn't playing basketball or tossing a football during my trek down the stairs. But, I must have been preoccupied, not thinking that a girl who doesn't wear high heels and is very aware of accidents involving tripping, would find the one slick spot on the stairs.
At first I tried to ignore the fact that there were shooting pains up my butt. I chalked the soreness in my shoulder to my previous injury (remember the infamous tripping over the dog in November?). But, a couple of days ago, I couldn't take the pain anymore. I had to suck it up and come to terms with the fact that I may have broken my ass.
I went to Occupational Health Services where I was checked out by possibly the rudest medical staff in existence. They informed me that I have a hairline fracture on my buttbone and I rebroke a bone in my shoulder. Awesome!
The next step was to get me in to a doctor to begin my treatment - provided they take Workman's Comp claims. Two days later, I have yet to hear from the doctors. I called my Orthopedic's office, they have no record of the claim. I called Occupational Health Services, they say they sent my records forward.
Then I get a call from someone in Texas that had to take my statement in order for Workman's Comp to approve or disapprove my claim. Dragging out my humiliation, I recalled in detail how I fell. Verified (again) that I am not too graceful. Even went so far to defend myself stating that I never wear heels and the shoes I wore that day could have been straight out of Orthopedic Shoe Digest.
And now I wait. I wait for some doctor, somewhere to look at my ass. Until that happens, I am instructed not to drive or ride in a car. All fine and dandy if I was a hermit or suffered from agoraphobia (fear of open spaces).
But I am not a hermit. I like to go outside. But, even if I stayed inside, we still have stairs in the house. Perhaps I should put a sign up, "Watch Your Step". And I will. I will watch them go by as I fall to the bottom.
This whole thing has been a painful experience...a real pain in the ass!
In another episode, the boys were tossing a football, having fun in the backyard. But when Marsha walked through the back door, the football nailed her in the nose. I think all the neighbors in 1960s Suburbanville heard her cries of 'My nose! My nose!' Thanks to Marsha, the boys had to quit their game and got a stern lecture from Mom and Pop Brady.
Those are really the only two episodes I remember, but their message was clear..."It's all fun and games until someone f's up". All we are left with is a broken vase and a broken nose.
This week I was enduring a typical Monday at work when the Brady message became relevant to my life. Walking down a set of concrete stairs, I slipped on some slush and tried to grab myself to prevent my fall. Unfortunately, my almost healed broken shoulder couldn't withstand my weight, so I let go of the railing and fell right on my tailbone.
It really is a pain in the ass - for more than one reason.
No, I wasn't playing basketball or tossing a football during my trek down the stairs. But, I must have been preoccupied, not thinking that a girl who doesn't wear high heels and is very aware of accidents involving tripping, would find the one slick spot on the stairs.
At first I tried to ignore the fact that there were shooting pains up my butt. I chalked the soreness in my shoulder to my previous injury (remember the infamous tripping over the dog in November?). But, a couple of days ago, I couldn't take the pain anymore. I had to suck it up and come to terms with the fact that I may have broken my ass.
I went to Occupational Health Services where I was checked out by possibly the rudest medical staff in existence. They informed me that I have a hairline fracture on my buttbone and I rebroke a bone in my shoulder. Awesome!
The next step was to get me in to a doctor to begin my treatment - provided they take Workman's Comp claims. Two days later, I have yet to hear from the doctors. I called my Orthopedic's office, they have no record of the claim. I called Occupational Health Services, they say they sent my records forward.
Then I get a call from someone in Texas that had to take my statement in order for Workman's Comp to approve or disapprove my claim. Dragging out my humiliation, I recalled in detail how I fell. Verified (again) that I am not too graceful. Even went so far to defend myself stating that I never wear heels and the shoes I wore that day could have been straight out of Orthopedic Shoe Digest.
And now I wait. I wait for some doctor, somewhere to look at my ass. Until that happens, I am instructed not to drive or ride in a car. All fine and dandy if I was a hermit or suffered from agoraphobia (fear of open spaces).
But I am not a hermit. I like to go outside. But, even if I stayed inside, we still have stairs in the house. Perhaps I should put a sign up, "Watch Your Step". And I will. I will watch them go by as I fall to the bottom.
This whole thing has been a painful experience...a real pain in the ass!
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Ghetto vs. Trailer Park...Superstore Showdown!
I attempted to write this entry right after witnessing a true example of the demise of our society. However, after carefully crafting my account in image-inducing detail, the computer decided to send my words off into the universe - never to be seen again. Perhaps that's a sign that the first attempt actually sucked and everyone was done a service when the blog mysteriously disappeared. That was three days ago...so while the following story may be a bit cloudy on details, the message remains clear: Idiocracy surrounds us...especially at certain local superstores.
After a long day of enduring typical Monday antics, I decided to brave our local grocery store from hell and pick up a few things we forgot on our weekend trip. Let's just say, I took one for the team. And in hindsight, we could have survived without the onions and soda that were forgotten.
I rushed through the store with my basket and headed straight to the express self checkout. Knowing my track record with the service there, my expectations were way low. But what came next was truly unexpected.
I saw two young girls approach me from behind, close enough that I could smell their Hello Kitty lipgloss. About 10 feet away, I saw their mother approaching with a cart, shouting at them to wait.
I approached my scanner when I heard the following:
"Did you just cut in front of my f'n daughter? Who does that? You just cut in front of a little girl?"
I turned slightly and saw this woman get in the face of another woman with a baby in her cart.
"She was with YOU. I didn't f'n cut in front of her. Don't make me go ghetto on your ass. I'm from the ghetto girl...and I will kick your ass."
I picked up the pace and couldn't seem to scan my 11 items fast enough.
"You have an f'n baby in your cart and you threaten me? Classy."
"You have three kids with you and YOU'RE threatening me?"
They continued their heated exchange while one of the daughters hid her teary eyes in embarrassment. The baby started to cry and the line behind me grew (scan damn onion, scan!).
The kicker is that they both arrived at a scanner at the same time, right next to each other. They were shouting while scanning. I didn't know whether to be impressed or upset. They were able to multitask while I couldn't manage to get the 'Red Onion' button to work.
"Security to checkout. Security to checkout."
After a good 5 minutes of threats, screams, in-your-face brutality, the superstore staff FINALLY decided to take action. And so did I - I booked it to my car.
As I loaded my car I heard the sirens. Intrigued (as everyone is when a flashing light is involved), I turned to see police cars pull up. I wouldn't doubt it if the women were still yelling at each other. They must have had a lot of groceries, which begs the question: Why were either of them in the express lane in the first place?
I was so happy to get home. My husband and I may not eat caviar or live in a high-rise penthouse, but we do embrace a bit of sophistication. You will never see us go toe-to-toe with another at a grimy grocery store (we may feel like it, but we will never engage).
To all of you impatient superstore patrons...RELAX. No matter how much you fight it, there will always be a wait at the checkout. Ladies, you demonstrated a valiant effort, arguing for your place in trashy superstore world. However, you may have fought a fierce battle...but the war wages on!
After a long day of enduring typical Monday antics, I decided to brave our local grocery store from hell and pick up a few things we forgot on our weekend trip. Let's just say, I took one for the team. And in hindsight, we could have survived without the onions and soda that were forgotten.
I rushed through the store with my basket and headed straight to the express self checkout. Knowing my track record with the service there, my expectations were way low. But what came next was truly unexpected.
I saw two young girls approach me from behind, close enough that I could smell their Hello Kitty lipgloss. About 10 feet away, I saw their mother approaching with a cart, shouting at them to wait.
I approached my scanner when I heard the following:
"Did you just cut in front of my f'n daughter? Who does that? You just cut in front of a little girl?"
I turned slightly and saw this woman get in the face of another woman with a baby in her cart.
"She was with YOU. I didn't f'n cut in front of her. Don't make me go ghetto on your ass. I'm from the ghetto girl...and I will kick your ass."
I picked up the pace and couldn't seem to scan my 11 items fast enough.
"You have an f'n baby in your cart and you threaten me? Classy."
"You have three kids with you and YOU'RE threatening me?"
They continued their heated exchange while one of the daughters hid her teary eyes in embarrassment. The baby started to cry and the line behind me grew (scan damn onion, scan!).
The kicker is that they both arrived at a scanner at the same time, right next to each other. They were shouting while scanning. I didn't know whether to be impressed or upset. They were able to multitask while I couldn't manage to get the 'Red Onion' button to work.
"Security to checkout. Security to checkout."
After a good 5 minutes of threats, screams, in-your-face brutality, the superstore staff FINALLY decided to take action. And so did I - I booked it to my car.
As I loaded my car I heard the sirens. Intrigued (as everyone is when a flashing light is involved), I turned to see police cars pull up. I wouldn't doubt it if the women were still yelling at each other. They must have had a lot of groceries, which begs the question: Why were either of them in the express lane in the first place?
I was so happy to get home. My husband and I may not eat caviar or live in a high-rise penthouse, but we do embrace a bit of sophistication. You will never see us go toe-to-toe with another at a grimy grocery store (we may feel like it, but we will never engage).
To all of you impatient superstore patrons...RELAX. No matter how much you fight it, there will always be a wait at the checkout. Ladies, you demonstrated a valiant effort, arguing for your place in trashy superstore world. However, you may have fought a fierce battle...but the war wages on!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
What to Do When Your Spouse is a Dog
There are many times in a married person's life that he or she has cause to refer to their spouse as possessing dog-like traits. Didn't leave the toilet seat down? Dog. Shops too much? Dog. Doesn't pick up after themselves? Dog. Lying, cheating bastard? Dog.
Your significant other may have certain quirks or imperfections, but hopefully there are good times too. Dinner cooked? Angel. Laundry folded? Hero. Putting up with your crazy, dysfunctional family? Saint. Lifting a curse bestowed upon you by the dog gods? Superhuman.
I just read a story about a man in India who married a true bitch. And while the bride has been branded with the negative connotation, in her defense, the expectations for her are high.
This marriage really takes the biscuit, and it could only happen in India, the land of the Kama Sutra. Of course, you won't find this kind of love story between man and beast in the ancient Indian sex manual.
The groom in question was a 33-year-old Indian farmer named Selvakumar, and he was wed to a female dog named Selvi.
He married his four legged bitch to atone for stoning two other dogs to death and stringing them up in a tree 15 years ago.
He believed the act cursed him and he had been suffering ever since, he told the Hindustan Times.
After he stoned the dogs he said his legs and hands got paralysed, he lost hearing in one ear, and his speech was impaired.
With doctors unable to help him, Selvakumar turned to an astrologer who told him he was cursed by the spirits of the dogs he had killed.
He could undo the curse only if he married a dog and live with it, the soothsayer warned.
Family members chose a stray female dog who was then bathed and clothed for the wedding occasion.
Selvi the bride was brought to the temple by village women and a Hindu priest conducted the ceremony.
The paper showed a picture of Selvakumar sitting next to his canine bride, which was adorned in an orange sari and flower garland.
The paper said the groom and his family then had a feast, while the dog got a bun.
It was reported that Selvi attempted to make a bolt for it -- apparently due to the big crowds -- but she was tracked down and returned to her new 'husband'.
"The dog is only for lifting the curse and after that, he plans to get a real bride," a friend of the groom said.
It was not reported whether or not the curse was actually lifted or whether the happily married couple consumated their marriage. But one thing is for certain...if Selvakumar DOES get married again (that would be an example of hell freezing over) his future spouse has nothing to worry about - he's used to being married to a bitch.
Your significant other may have certain quirks or imperfections, but hopefully there are good times too. Dinner cooked? Angel. Laundry folded? Hero. Putting up with your crazy, dysfunctional family? Saint. Lifting a curse bestowed upon you by the dog gods? Superhuman.
I just read a story about a man in India who married a true bitch. And while the bride has been branded with the negative connotation, in her defense, the expectations for her are high.
This marriage really takes the biscuit, and it could only happen in India, the land of the Kama Sutra. Of course, you won't find this kind of love story between man and beast in the ancient Indian sex manual.
The groom in question was a 33-year-old Indian farmer named Selvakumar, and he was wed to a female dog named Selvi.
He married his four legged bitch to atone for stoning two other dogs to death and stringing them up in a tree 15 years ago.
He believed the act cursed him and he had been suffering ever since, he told the Hindustan Times.
After he stoned the dogs he said his legs and hands got paralysed, he lost hearing in one ear, and his speech was impaired.
With doctors unable to help him, Selvakumar turned to an astrologer who told him he was cursed by the spirits of the dogs he had killed.
He could undo the curse only if he married a dog and live with it, the soothsayer warned.
Family members chose a stray female dog who was then bathed and clothed for the wedding occasion.
Selvi the bride was brought to the temple by village women and a Hindu priest conducted the ceremony.
The paper showed a picture of Selvakumar sitting next to his canine bride, which was adorned in an orange sari and flower garland.
The paper said the groom and his family then had a feast, while the dog got a bun.
It was reported that Selvi attempted to make a bolt for it -- apparently due to the big crowds -- but she was tracked down and returned to her new 'husband'.
"The dog is only for lifting the curse and after that, he plans to get a real bride," a friend of the groom said.
It was not reported whether or not the curse was actually lifted or whether the happily married couple consumated their marriage. But one thing is for certain...if Selvakumar DOES get married again (that would be an example of hell freezing over) his future spouse has nothing to worry about - he's used to being married to a bitch.
Monday, February 22, 2010
It'll Happen...When Hell Freezes Over
There are many questions in life that can be (and usually are) answered with the same snarky response: When hell freezes over.
When am I going to win the lottery? When hell freezes over. When can we get a puppy, mommy? When hell freezes over. When am I going to get a promotion, Mr. Bossman? When hell freezes over.
I remember as a little girl, I had hopes and dreams. I still do, but they have drastically changed. First I wanted to be a ballerina. But, as I began racking up the broken bones and number of times I conked my head on a wall, a table, a countertop...I realized that I would only be a ballerina if hell froze over.
Then I wanted to be an astronaut, or a pilot. My fear of flying be damned. I would make a great space traveler. My mind seemed to always be there anyway. But, as my grades in Calculus, Physics and Statistics grades continued to prove, I would only have a shot at controlling any type of flying machine...if hell froze over.
I never had the typical girly dreams of a white wedding. Never day dreamed about my prince on a white horse. Perhaps that's why I found my knight in shining armour before hell froze over.
I wonder if the people in Iqaluit, Baffin Island (it's in Canada, people...keep up with me) look out their windows and say, today's the day to reach my dream. Hell HAS frozen over. Or maybe they just stick to the Wayne's World mantra, "What I'd really like is to do Wayne's World for a living. It might happen. Yeah, and monkeys might fly out of my butt."
Monkey excursions or not, the people of Iqaluit are brave, brave souls...achieving their goals of survival everyday. Good luck trying to get me near the Arctic Circle. You'll achieve that goal when hell freezes over.
Hold up!
Today is colder than the North Pole (so I think...I've never actually been there). We have 10 inches of snow...more expected this week. Washington D.C. is still digging out from a storm 2 weeks ago...and TEXAS even saw snowfall. While there is no comparison to Iqaluit in the United States I believe we have achieved the impossible...
Time to dream boys and girls. Today I'm going to be a ballerina. An astronaut. A lottery winner. Someone with style, grace and no broken bones. Or someone on their way to the Arctic Circle (as promised)...because today, boys and girls...hell HAS frozen over!
When am I going to win the lottery? When hell freezes over. When can we get a puppy, mommy? When hell freezes over. When am I going to get a promotion, Mr. Bossman? When hell freezes over.
I remember as a little girl, I had hopes and dreams. I still do, but they have drastically changed. First I wanted to be a ballerina. But, as I began racking up the broken bones and number of times I conked my head on a wall, a table, a countertop...I realized that I would only be a ballerina if hell froze over.
Then I wanted to be an astronaut, or a pilot. My fear of flying be damned. I would make a great space traveler. My mind seemed to always be there anyway. But, as my grades in Calculus, Physics and Statistics grades continued to prove, I would only have a shot at controlling any type of flying machine...if hell froze over.
I never had the typical girly dreams of a white wedding. Never day dreamed about my prince on a white horse. Perhaps that's why I found my knight in shining armour before hell froze over.
I wonder if the people in Iqaluit, Baffin Island (it's in Canada, people...keep up with me) look out their windows and say, today's the day to reach my dream. Hell HAS frozen over. Or maybe they just stick to the Wayne's World mantra, "What I'd really like is to do Wayne's World for a living. It might happen. Yeah, and monkeys might fly out of my butt."
Monkey excursions or not, the people of Iqaluit are brave, brave souls...achieving their goals of survival everyday. Good luck trying to get me near the Arctic Circle. You'll achieve that goal when hell freezes over.
Hold up!
Today is colder than the North Pole (so I think...I've never actually been there). We have 10 inches of snow...more expected this week. Washington D.C. is still digging out from a storm 2 weeks ago...and TEXAS even saw snowfall. While there is no comparison to Iqaluit in the United States I believe we have achieved the impossible...
Time to dream boys and girls. Today I'm going to be a ballerina. An astronaut. A lottery winner. Someone with style, grace and no broken bones. Or someone on their way to the Arctic Circle (as promised)...because today, boys and girls...hell HAS frozen over!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Crouching Tiger...Hidden Bitch
We've all seen it done before, people taking credit for other people's work. Whether it's a simple idea or an entire strategic plan...acting like someone else's intelligence is yours is...wrong!
I'm a team player. I give props where props are due. If one of my employees or co-workers comes up with a bigger and better idea than I do in a brainstorming session? Let their light shine! Help their flower blossom! If they look good, you look good.
To take credit for someone else's idea is one of the most blantant displays of disrespect. But, the problem has always been around and it seems to be growing even more these days.
Perhaps it's a generational thing. You've got the 20-somethings, just graduating, who think they deserve a six-figure salary right out of the gate. You've got the single child who grew up silver spoon-fed who believes society OWES them a title. These individuals are the ones to fear in the workplace.
Hypothetical scenario:
Worker A has been working on a proposal for weeks. All the work is done and it just needs to be finalized by Client A who has been on vacation for a week.
Enter Worker B.
Worker B, who has contributed absolutely nothing to the proposal (creative, research, planning, etc.), takes a look at the almost finished proposal and throws in useless comments.
Worker B then contacts Client A stating that said client should be seeing the proposal come through soon. "On behalf of Company X, thank you for your business. It's been a pleasure working with you."
Though Client A is now confused as to who the real contact for the company is, Client A decides to sign on the dotted line...solidifying a huge deal for Worker A and Worker B's company.
In an email sent out to all staff, Worker B thanked the entire staff for their help in getting Client A on board..."I couldn't have done it without your help."
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Of course Worker B couldn't have done it without help. Worker A did all the work!
I feel Worker A's pain. I bet there are a lot of Worker As out there who would have felt the need to jump through the computer and rip the face off of Worker B while sending a reminder that there is no 'I' in TEAM - insert expletive here.
There are a lot of people who will do just about anything or step on just about anyone to get ahead. But, I take solace in the fact that they must be really unhappy and sad individuals. They must spend a lot of money on alcohol, therapy, calls to mommy and daddy begging for more praise. How lonely and pathetic their lives must be.
These spoiled, only-child syndrome sufferers, rookies in the workforce have a lot learn in the real world. Your co-workers will only put up with your crap for so long before they stand on top of a bell tower and try to take you out.
But until then, enjoy the motto you seemed to have adopted from an early age:
On the ladder of life, it's better to be the foot stepping up than the rung stepped on.
I'm a team player. I give props where props are due. If one of my employees or co-workers comes up with a bigger and better idea than I do in a brainstorming session? Let their light shine! Help their flower blossom! If they look good, you look good.
To take credit for someone else's idea is one of the most blantant displays of disrespect. But, the problem has always been around and it seems to be growing even more these days.
Perhaps it's a generational thing. You've got the 20-somethings, just graduating, who think they deserve a six-figure salary right out of the gate. You've got the single child who grew up silver spoon-fed who believes society OWES them a title. These individuals are the ones to fear in the workplace.
Hypothetical scenario:
Worker A has been working on a proposal for weeks. All the work is done and it just needs to be finalized by Client A who has been on vacation for a week.
Enter Worker B.
Worker B, who has contributed absolutely nothing to the proposal (creative, research, planning, etc.), takes a look at the almost finished proposal and throws in useless comments.
Worker B then contacts Client A stating that said client should be seeing the proposal come through soon. "On behalf of Company X, thank you for your business. It's been a pleasure working with you."
Though Client A is now confused as to who the real contact for the company is, Client A decides to sign on the dotted line...solidifying a huge deal for Worker A and Worker B's company.
In an email sent out to all staff, Worker B thanked the entire staff for their help in getting Client A on board..."I couldn't have done it without your help."
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Of course Worker B couldn't have done it without help. Worker A did all the work!
I feel Worker A's pain. I bet there are a lot of Worker As out there who would have felt the need to jump through the computer and rip the face off of Worker B while sending a reminder that there is no 'I' in TEAM - insert expletive here.
There are a lot of people who will do just about anything or step on just about anyone to get ahead. But, I take solace in the fact that they must be really unhappy and sad individuals. They must spend a lot of money on alcohol, therapy, calls to mommy and daddy begging for more praise. How lonely and pathetic their lives must be.
These spoiled, only-child syndrome sufferers, rookies in the workforce have a lot learn in the real world. Your co-workers will only put up with your crap for so long before they stand on top of a bell tower and try to take you out.
But until then, enjoy the motto you seemed to have adopted from an early age:
On the ladder of life, it's better to be the foot stepping up than the rung stepped on.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Congratulations! It's a....Disappointment?
It's an exciting time. Time to decorate the nursery. To buy cigars (of the candy variety). To announce to the world that a new baby is on the way.
But, before you pick the color of paint, buy the blue cigars or determine a name for your new addition...you may want to have a backup plan...In case your 'Patrick' turns out to be a 'Patricia'.
I was in the doctor's office the other day and as I pretended to be interested in a magazine from Spring 2006, I 'accidentally' overheard a family's discussion as they too, waited for the doctor.
The young (very young) couple was obviously expecting a baby and they were there to find out the sex. It looked like grandma and grandpa were there too (a true family affair). The nurse called the girl back - boyfriend and grandma went with her. About 20 minutes later - I was still enjoying the outdated magazine article - the boyfriend and grandma came back out.
"It's a girl" the boyfriend stated in less than happy tone.
Grandma and grandpa tried to console him.
"Well, maybe you could call her 'Joshette'?"
"I'm sure you can still coach the girls basketball team."
When the girlfriend came out, she showed the picture of the ultrasound to her parents...and her significant other.
"Look, she looks just like you."
"We can teach her to fish, play ball, race cars..." (grow a penis? I wanted to chime in.)
When they left, the boyfriend took the picture of the ultrasound and folded it enough times to fit in his pocket, creasing his daughter's first image. I imagine there will be many more image destroyers in the future.
Apparently 'proud' papa had his heart set on a little boy. Someone he could teach all of his loving ways to. But, now (the horror of it all) he has to settle for a girl.
So let's learn a lesson from Josh Sr.: Before confirming a name, the room color and what sports your child will fail miserably at when they get older...confirm the sex. Growing up a 'Joshette' is NOT the same as being a 'Rockette'.
But, before you pick the color of paint, buy the blue cigars or determine a name for your new addition...you may want to have a backup plan...In case your 'Patrick' turns out to be a 'Patricia'.
I was in the doctor's office the other day and as I pretended to be interested in a magazine from Spring 2006, I 'accidentally' overheard a family's discussion as they too, waited for the doctor.
The young (very young) couple was obviously expecting a baby and they were there to find out the sex. It looked like grandma and grandpa were there too (a true family affair). The nurse called the girl back - boyfriend and grandma went with her. About 20 minutes later - I was still enjoying the outdated magazine article - the boyfriend and grandma came back out.
"It's a girl" the boyfriend stated in less than happy tone.
Grandma and grandpa tried to console him.
"Well, maybe you could call her 'Joshette'?"
"I'm sure you can still coach the girls basketball team."
When the girlfriend came out, she showed the picture of the ultrasound to her parents...and her significant other.
"Look, she looks just like you."
"We can teach her to fish, play ball, race cars..." (grow a penis? I wanted to chime in.)
When they left, the boyfriend took the picture of the ultrasound and folded it enough times to fit in his pocket, creasing his daughter's first image. I imagine there will be many more image destroyers in the future.
Apparently 'proud' papa had his heart set on a little boy. Someone he could teach all of his loving ways to. But, now (the horror of it all) he has to settle for a girl.
So let's learn a lesson from Josh Sr.: Before confirming a name, the room color and what sports your child will fail miserably at when they get older...confirm the sex. Growing up a 'Joshette' is NOT the same as being a 'Rockette'.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
It Ain't No Booty Call
CAUTION: DWIs can be hazardous to your health.
No, I'm not talking about Driving While Intoxicated. Those types of DWIs are hazardous to the drunk person behind the wheel, their passengers and other drivers on the road...even pedestrians at a cross walk. Those DWIs are not funny, should be recorded and the offenders should be punished. There's a simple solution to DWIs that involve driving and alcohol - don't do it.
But there is another type of DWI that is rarely seen and if so, is rarely reported. Dialing While Intoxicated. During college, we called it 'drunk dialing'. Those calls inevitably led to a late-night rendezvous, otherwise known as the 'booty call'. I thought that as we aged, our maturity levels rose. But, I have been proven wrong.
The following scenario was brought to my attention the other day:
Friend A was called by Person B. Person B had been partaking in alcoholic beverages. Friend A told Person B to not call when said person was drunk. Friend A hung up. Person B (being intoxicated) did not clearly understand what Friend A said. Person B texted Friend A - I LOVE YOU.
Friend A ignored Person B. Hours later, Friend A found numerous texts and voicemails from Person B professing love and adoration and suggestions of the college-style booty call. The kicker? Person B is married...not to Friend A.
Person B woke up with more than a hangover the next day...there is written and recorded proof of hopeful discretion to answer to. No amount of aspirin in the world will make that go away.
Perhaps Tiger Woods was drunk when he texted and called his numerous mistresses. Look where that landed him. Sex rehab (allegedly), dropped sponsors, pending divorce. Looks like the booty call will no longer be connected.
Whether it's a DWI, TWI (texting while intoxicated), EWI (emailing while intoxicated) or FWI (facebooking while intoxicated)...it could all end up as TMI (too much information) that you will never, ever be able to take back.
So before utilizing all that communication technology has to offer us...put down the drink. You will have no control over your momentary lapse of brain function. Better to have loved and lost than to profess your undying love to your best friend's wife.
No, I'm not talking about Driving While Intoxicated. Those types of DWIs are hazardous to the drunk person behind the wheel, their passengers and other drivers on the road...even pedestrians at a cross walk. Those DWIs are not funny, should be recorded and the offenders should be punished. There's a simple solution to DWIs that involve driving and alcohol - don't do it.
But there is another type of DWI that is rarely seen and if so, is rarely reported. Dialing While Intoxicated. During college, we called it 'drunk dialing'. Those calls inevitably led to a late-night rendezvous, otherwise known as the 'booty call'. I thought that as we aged, our maturity levels rose. But, I have been proven wrong.
The following scenario was brought to my attention the other day:
Friend A was called by Person B. Person B had been partaking in alcoholic beverages. Friend A told Person B to not call when said person was drunk. Friend A hung up. Person B (being intoxicated) did not clearly understand what Friend A said. Person B texted Friend A - I LOVE YOU.
Friend A ignored Person B. Hours later, Friend A found numerous texts and voicemails from Person B professing love and adoration and suggestions of the college-style booty call. The kicker? Person B is married...not to Friend A.
Person B woke up with more than a hangover the next day...there is written and recorded proof of hopeful discretion to answer to. No amount of aspirin in the world will make that go away.
Perhaps Tiger Woods was drunk when he texted and called his numerous mistresses. Look where that landed him. Sex rehab (allegedly), dropped sponsors, pending divorce. Looks like the booty call will no longer be connected.
Whether it's a DWI, TWI (texting while intoxicated), EWI (emailing while intoxicated) or FWI (facebooking while intoxicated)...it could all end up as TMI (too much information) that you will never, ever be able to take back.
So before utilizing all that communication technology has to offer us...put down the drink. You will have no control over your momentary lapse of brain function. Better to have loved and lost than to profess your undying love to your best friend's wife.
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