Let's face it folks - contrary to popular thought and advertising during each Presidential candidate race, your vote does not count. Not at all. How do I know this? The Electoral College tells me so.
In 1787, alongside our Constitution, the Electoral College was created. Why was it made, you ask? Well, quite simply because our national leaders at the time didn't think we, as a people, were educated enough to carry out an election based off the 'popular vote'. No kidding. Apparently, we were too stupid to choose.
Now fast forward to today - our over-stimulated, median-educated, well informed populace is still living by this fallacy of not being able to select a President. Even though we now have a wide-spread population reaching to all corners of our nation and every nook and cranny in between, our system still says that the Electoral vote for any state may oppose the majority vote of its people, and quite possibly not accurately reflect the populace of said state.
According to the regulations that govern the Electoral College, the amount of electoral votes a state has is equal to its number of US Senators (2 for each state) and US Representatives (determined by population). So for example: Texas has 2 US Senators and 36 Representatives for a total of 38 electoral votes. In theory, most of us assume that our state's electoral votes are cast based off the majority vote. However, it may not be not so. An electoral vote can directly contradict what the people of its state have voted for.
So, now that we are a more educated, more reliable nation, why hasn't the Electoral College been changed or for that matter, eradicated? The general explanation is that the Electoral College is too embedded in the Constitution and our government to be changed now.
A greater load of malarky I have yet to hear, folks. This is simply not true at all. Our Constitution currently has 27 amendments; the original 10 being the Bill of Rights, or the first amendments to be instituted all at one time. This means the Constitution has been amended, or changed, 17 times since its inception in the late 18th century. It can be changed as times have necessitated.
And as for government concerns? Seriously? I mean, really...seriously? Our government is slowly working its way towards Feudalism, Communism, or any other government-based negative "ism" we, as a nation, do not want. It's time to demand a change to this archaic and insulting "institution" and require our most exalted political seat (and all others for that matter) be based solely on the "Popular Vote", no matter who ends up in the chair.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
This May be What's Wrong with Our System
The other day my man found some rather personal and important papers for a young lady while walking around the block. Included in this stack was a checkbook and a packet of WIC information along with active WIC checks for food. Now, WIC is a government-run program which provides families with the ability to get some basic food items such as milk, cheese, and cereal as well as infant formula. We thought it was rather important to get this information back to this young lady but the checkbook did not have a phone number listed.
The following day I attempted to reach out to the local WIC office whose information was stamped on the back of the packet. A lady named Barbara told me that she could not provide the client with my name and phone number becuase it was a confidentiality issue. Stumped, I asked her to clarify.
"Due to confidentiality agreements we have in place, I am unable to provide your information to her."
"You mean you can't give her contact information to me." I corrected. "But I'm not asking you to. I'm asking you to have her call me so that I can make sure she gets her information back."
"Yes, ma'am, I understand that; however, due to confidentiality, I will not be able to give that information to her."
"But, I'm giving you permission to hand out my phone number. How is that a breach of confidentiality?"
"Ma'am, I can only tell you that I can't break confidentiality on this issue. But if you could come by..."
This wasn't a confidentiality issue, it was a lazy issue. Point blank. I ended the conversation abruptly with the woman, having too much to do in my day to waste precious moments dissecting the confidentiality issue.
That night, my neighbor attempted to locate the woman by the address left on the checks but to no avail - no one was home.
The next day, I discussed it with my man and we decided we would just mail the information to the WIC center. A few days passed while I tried to wrangle my unbelievably busy life, leaving the packet of information still unmailed.
Yesterday, I received a call from a different woman from WIC asking if I'd had a chance to mail the information. No, I had not, I explained.
She repeatedly attempted to relay how important it was to get this information back to the rightful owner and could I possibly bring it to the office today.
I relented that I could try to bring it by at lunch or after work. That wouldn't do apparently, as she tried to encourage me to drop it off in the morning since their offices opened at 7:30am. I don't think I've ever woken up early enough to provide ample time for leisurely strolls about the city, so the morning would not do for me.
I told the woman that I would come by at lunch; however, if I couldn't break away it would be after my day ended at 4:00pm.
Today I attempted to drop the stuff off, but the parking is atrocious and I soon found myself out of time and patience.
As I was leaving the county complex, I called and left the woman I'd spoken with just yesterday a lengthy message explaining how I was completely irritated that I had had to go out of my way to try to reach out to this poor girl to get her information back to her and was blocked at every turn while the government facility tried to make it my responsibility to get their client's private matters back to her. And then I let her know that, in fact, if it was such a confidentiality issue to provide the girl with my contact information, then the WIC employee had broken that very rule when she called me the day before without my permission to do so.
Needless to say it only took a few moments to get a return call. During this time, the woman (Christy) tried to tell me that she had informed me that it was not that they couldn't give the client my information, but that they couldn't share her information with me. That information was NEVER relayed to me during either the call with Christy or the original call I had placed to their facility. And quite frankly, duh...I'm not a moron, but apparently Ol' Barb is. I had tried and tried to get Barbara to understand during that first conversation I'd had with them. Then Christy informed that initially they were in fact going to give the girl my information but that since she'd had some things stolen, she wanted to talk with me direclty about where I found her belongings so they hadn't given my information to her yet. Umm...anybody else confused by this statement? Then why didn't they give her my information? They already had my name and phone number as well as my express permission to give it to her. Wow...
We ended the phone call abruptly when I, again, lost my patience with the woman who was desperately trying to pin some misguided fault on me and exonerate her employees for being too lazy to help a girl out who is a client of theirs so they can help her out.
Sad, really.
So, I'm sending the stuff return receipt, signature required for two reasons:
1. I have a trail should the information not make it back to the client's hands.
2. There's no way I can be held liable should they try to blame me for anything.
The following day I attempted to reach out to the local WIC office whose information was stamped on the back of the packet. A lady named Barbara told me that she could not provide the client with my name and phone number becuase it was a confidentiality issue. Stumped, I asked her to clarify.
"Due to confidentiality agreements we have in place, I am unable to provide your information to her."
"You mean you can't give her contact information to me." I corrected. "But I'm not asking you to. I'm asking you to have her call me so that I can make sure she gets her information back."
"Yes, ma'am, I understand that; however, due to confidentiality, I will not be able to give that information to her."
"But, I'm giving you permission to hand out my phone number. How is that a breach of confidentiality?"
"Ma'am, I can only tell you that I can't break confidentiality on this issue. But if you could come by..."
This wasn't a confidentiality issue, it was a lazy issue. Point blank. I ended the conversation abruptly with the woman, having too much to do in my day to waste precious moments dissecting the confidentiality issue.
That night, my neighbor attempted to locate the woman by the address left on the checks but to no avail - no one was home.
The next day, I discussed it with my man and we decided we would just mail the information to the WIC center. A few days passed while I tried to wrangle my unbelievably busy life, leaving the packet of information still unmailed.
Yesterday, I received a call from a different woman from WIC asking if I'd had a chance to mail the information. No, I had not, I explained.
She repeatedly attempted to relay how important it was to get this information back to the rightful owner and could I possibly bring it to the office today.
I relented that I could try to bring it by at lunch or after work. That wouldn't do apparently, as she tried to encourage me to drop it off in the morning since their offices opened at 7:30am. I don't think I've ever woken up early enough to provide ample time for leisurely strolls about the city, so the morning would not do for me.
I told the woman that I would come by at lunch; however, if I couldn't break away it would be after my day ended at 4:00pm.
Today I attempted to drop the stuff off, but the parking is atrocious and I soon found myself out of time and patience.
As I was leaving the county complex, I called and left the woman I'd spoken with just yesterday a lengthy message explaining how I was completely irritated that I had had to go out of my way to try to reach out to this poor girl to get her information back to her and was blocked at every turn while the government facility tried to make it my responsibility to get their client's private matters back to her. And then I let her know that, in fact, if it was such a confidentiality issue to provide the girl with my contact information, then the WIC employee had broken that very rule when she called me the day before without my permission to do so.
Needless to say it only took a few moments to get a return call. During this time, the woman (Christy) tried to tell me that she had informed me that it was not that they couldn't give the client my information, but that they couldn't share her information with me. That information was NEVER relayed to me during either the call with Christy or the original call I had placed to their facility. And quite frankly, duh...I'm not a moron, but apparently Ol' Barb is. I had tried and tried to get Barbara to understand during that first conversation I'd had with them. Then Christy informed that initially they were in fact going to give the girl my information but that since she'd had some things stolen, she wanted to talk with me direclty about where I found her belongings so they hadn't given my information to her yet. Umm...anybody else confused by this statement? Then why didn't they give her my information? They already had my name and phone number as well as my express permission to give it to her. Wow...
We ended the phone call abruptly when I, again, lost my patience with the woman who was desperately trying to pin some misguided fault on me and exonerate her employees for being too lazy to help a girl out who is a client of theirs so they can help her out.
Sad, really.
So, I'm sending the stuff return receipt, signature required for two reasons:
1. I have a trail should the information not make it back to the client's hands.
2. There's no way I can be held liable should they try to blame me for anything.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Can’t We All Just Stop?
We’ve all heard
the slurs. We’ve all encountered the
censure. Every one of us – in some way,
by some measure whether related to sex, color, class, creed, preference,
etc. But even though racism/prejudism
continues to be battled on all fronts, the separatist mentality continues to
grow.
For the record, it is not battling racism for one group to pick on another. It is not calling for equal rights for a group to ask for special treatment even though they may not follow the law. It is still hurtful to demand silence from one group and then publicly mock them in ways that would not be tolerated from them.
These hypocrisies continue to divide our people and live in the minds of women and men who claim neutrality. And this growing standard continues to plague our nation.
Racism is not just for the African Americans or Hispanics. It can happen to anyone by any other set of people. Reverse racism is the act of White Americans being targeted in ways that would not be tolerated were the roles reversed. However, we have a Supreme Court Justice who threw out a case of Reverse Racism while she was still actively on the bench, siting that reverse racism wasn’t possible. It sure is – maybe not the term, as the term would have someone believe that no racism is taking place – but the act of racism is rampant across all lines, not just a select few.
Every time a nationality or specific group of people picks, mocks, makes fun of, hinders, disrupts, or otherwise means to set apart another specific group of people, racism and prejudice have occurred.
How is it okay for a Black comedian to mock white folks on stage but not the other way around? Why is it okay for a hip-hop song sung by a black group to mention losing your black man to a white woman but that would never be tolerated were it sung the opposite way by a white group? If it’s alright for the Mexican population to claim a Hispanic Heritage month, why is it racist for a White population to claim a European-descent month? There is a Black Network, a Mexican Network, but no White cable or television channels. Why is this?
As some of you may know, I have a heritage that includes American Indian – Cherokee, to be exact. And as proven by archeology, American Indians and Mexicans are tied to the same lineage. Yet the American Indian people are one of our most censured groups, and still they remain some of the most silent.
In my teens, I was given the opportunity (although I would not have called it that at the time) to live with a large group of girls, made up of all kinds of ethnicities and backgrounds. I loved these girls – my housemates, my mentors, my friends. Sure, we didn’t always get along and didn’t always like each other, but never because of our skin or backgrounds. Sometimes personalities just clash. And sure, there were preferences…on music, clothes, boys, and all sorts of other stuff. So what that our hair was different; our eyes, our skin tone, our features…this is true in every culture. We had feelings and opinions and cares and experiences. And we were able to share them.
Every group has its bragger’s rights as well as its downfalls. Each of us has our “trailer trash” and our “Super Stars”. Yet we seem to forget this if someone else mentions our flaws. I’m constantly reminded of the adage “Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it.”
If it’s not alright for someone to mock your individuality or heritage, then respect that it’s not okay for you to do it to them. Period.
If we are truly one nation fighting for one country, why aren’t we wholly one people? We will always have differences and preferences that set us apart, but these should make us stronger, not more divided. It’s time we stop claiming victimization and unify ourselves as simply neighbors, friends, co-workers, associates, family and just plain humans.
Song: Overweight by Blue October
Ever carried the weight of another?
For how long?
And walk as far as they need to recover?
For how long?
But are we scared to take the ride
Or dare to look inside?
I wanna learn to walk with others as an equal
I want to treat the ones who love me with respect
I wanna tell the world I’ll give them all a piggyback
And try take away my negative effect
For the record, it is not battling racism for one group to pick on another. It is not calling for equal rights for a group to ask for special treatment even though they may not follow the law. It is still hurtful to demand silence from one group and then publicly mock them in ways that would not be tolerated from them.
These hypocrisies continue to divide our people and live in the minds of women and men who claim neutrality. And this growing standard continues to plague our nation.
Racism is not just for the African Americans or Hispanics. It can happen to anyone by any other set of people. Reverse racism is the act of White Americans being targeted in ways that would not be tolerated were the roles reversed. However, we have a Supreme Court Justice who threw out a case of Reverse Racism while she was still actively on the bench, siting that reverse racism wasn’t possible. It sure is – maybe not the term, as the term would have someone believe that no racism is taking place – but the act of racism is rampant across all lines, not just a select few.
Every time a nationality or specific group of people picks, mocks, makes fun of, hinders, disrupts, or otherwise means to set apart another specific group of people, racism and prejudice have occurred.
How is it okay for a Black comedian to mock white folks on stage but not the other way around? Why is it okay for a hip-hop song sung by a black group to mention losing your black man to a white woman but that would never be tolerated were it sung the opposite way by a white group? If it’s alright for the Mexican population to claim a Hispanic Heritage month, why is it racist for a White population to claim a European-descent month? There is a Black Network, a Mexican Network, but no White cable or television channels. Why is this?
As some of you may know, I have a heritage that includes American Indian – Cherokee, to be exact. And as proven by archeology, American Indians and Mexicans are tied to the same lineage. Yet the American Indian people are one of our most censured groups, and still they remain some of the most silent.
In my teens, I was given the opportunity (although I would not have called it that at the time) to live with a large group of girls, made up of all kinds of ethnicities and backgrounds. I loved these girls – my housemates, my mentors, my friends. Sure, we didn’t always get along and didn’t always like each other, but never because of our skin or backgrounds. Sometimes personalities just clash. And sure, there were preferences…on music, clothes, boys, and all sorts of other stuff. So what that our hair was different; our eyes, our skin tone, our features…this is true in every culture. We had feelings and opinions and cares and experiences. And we were able to share them.
Every group has its bragger’s rights as well as its downfalls. Each of us has our “trailer trash” and our “Super Stars”. Yet we seem to forget this if someone else mentions our flaws. I’m constantly reminded of the adage “Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it.”
If it’s not alright for someone to mock your individuality or heritage, then respect that it’s not okay for you to do it to them. Period.
If we are truly one nation fighting for one country, why aren’t we wholly one people? We will always have differences and preferences that set us apart, but these should make us stronger, not more divided. It’s time we stop claiming victimization and unify ourselves as simply neighbors, friends, co-workers, associates, family and just plain humans.
Song: Overweight by Blue October
Ever carried the weight of another?
For how long?
And walk as far as they need to recover?
For how long?
But are we scared to take the ride
Or dare to look inside?
I wanna learn to walk with others as an equal
I want to treat the ones who love me with respect
I wanna tell the world I’ll give them all a piggyback
And try take away my negative effect
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Mama always said, 'Stupid is as stupid does'...
Why does stupid always have the loudest voice? And, must we be challenged every so often with functioning in the face of stupid knowing that once released in to the atmosphere, it has the capability to act as a vacuum, sucking the sense out of every head in the vicinity?
My Monday started out like any other day:
By the time I pulled in to the Starbucks drive-thru I was practically crying with the anticipation of my first shot of cool caffeine. Starbucks has a new size called Trenta and it's basically a Super Duper Grande. I was so excited. I figured after the morning I'd had, I could excuse a minor indulgence in my day by grabbing the largest sized anything that the coffeehouse had.
The cutest little voice came over the speaker, all cheery and amped out on espresso shots, for sure.
"Welcome to Starbucks, what can I make for you today?"
I was already smiling. "Do you guys have the Trenta?"
"Yes, of course we do."
"Great. Can I get a Trenta Iced Chai, please?"
"Ohhh." She sounded like someone had a just taken her puppy away. "I'm sorry, we only serve iced coffee or iced tea in our Trenta size."
The dumbness of the statement struck me with enough force to render me speechless. While I stammered about with "umm...but...I thought..." and desperately searched the menu for some kind of clue to help me regain my senses, all I could really think is how thankful I was that there wasn't a camera recording my clumsy attempt at facial expressions and response.
Knowing I wouldn't be able to shut up the little voice in my head that was screaming, "but the chai IS a tea and I want it over ice, you twit!", I settled for a Venti size instead.
Sipping gleefully at my beverage, thinking it was probably best I didn't end up with the larger, I was certain that my encounter with stupid was over for the day, when my cell phone rang.
Shame on me for picking it up. Apparently, stupid had become an epidemic.
"Hi, is this Tracie?"
"Yes, this is sh-"
"I've got an order to get you in for a CT Scan on your neck. We need to get you scheduled."
"Um, well, I'm not-"
"I need to ask you a few questions. What's your insurance ID?"
This was the most abrupt, rude, crotchety old biddy I'd encountered in my life. And if you knew my maternal grandmother, you'd know just how serious a statement that was. I mustered up my 'serious tone'. "Now, wait a minute, who is this-"
"Hold on there, missy." She snapped. Missy!? Did she really just down-talk me? I was rendered silent once again. "I need to ask a few more questions. Do you have any metal in your body such as shrapnel or bullets?"
Umm...really? Last time I checked Colorado Springs wasn't a war zone. And this little "missy" wasn't in the military. "Yes, I have an implant in my lower left mandible. My jawbone."
She heaved an audible sigh as though she'd just been completely inconvenienced. "You're gonna have to hold."
"Well, actually, I...hello?" The sound of streaming hold music plagued my ear. Damn.
"Are you still there?" She didn't wait for my response. "The implant - is it metal or plastic?"
Umm...was this a trick question? "Metal." I replied, making sure to enunciate slowly and clearly.
Another put-out sigh. "Hold again." The music began playing once more before I could interject. She was back on in a moment.
"Is this implant to fix a bone?"
Really? Really? Was I being punked? "Yes, and it's got a fake crown on top of it too."
"Lovely." Did I detect sarcasm? "Any more metal or information you'd like to tell me about?"
Oh there was certainly some things I'd like to tell her about. But since I wasn't even really sure what she was talking about yet, I kept it simple. "I have two piercings on either side of my head, at my ears, that do not come out."
I had just had a MRI a few weeks back and knew that none of the metal posed an issue.
"Are you, " she began in complete frustration as though she was about to make some snide remark, then corrected herself. "I'm going to have to put you on hold again." She snapped.
As I sat waiting, I realized my temper had begun to simmer.
My lovely scheduler returned with her cheerful self. "Just exactly why can't you remove them?" She barked obviously disgusted with me.
I'd had enough. Stupid and rude have a way of gnawing at my skin and quickly replacing my facade of patience with who-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are.
"You know what," I began, and when she tried to speak over me, I quickly raised my voice and my attitude to let her know she wasn't going to interrupt me. "I don't know who you are or what's pissed you off so bad, but I'm done with this. And if you are the representation for your company, if someone interviewed you and said, 'I want you for this position', then I definitely want nothing to do with your facility. I will go back to my original imaging place. You have just managed to lose a ton of money for your organization."
"Well, ack," she began and I could envision her rolling her rheumy eyes but I wasn't taking any more of her.
Yeah, I don't think so, I thought as I hung up the phone.
That evening as I sat on the couch, I mused over my ability to handle myself well in the face of cute and stupid as well as crotchety and stupid. Proud, I snuggled in to the sofa as my man clicked through the TV channels. Slowly, I became aware that a message was being displayed instead of actual shows and that it was causing the mood of the man sitting next to me to darken noticeably.
I picked up the phone and dialed our provider, certain that it was something easy to resolve. Silly, silly girl. Once stupid begins, it takes an hearty effort to stop the rate of contagion. It was everywhere. And growing.
The technician gave me some line of BS on how to work around the situation but it wasn't going to provide a remedy and this was definitely not an end-user fault or responsibility.
I asked about what options were going to be available since we were paying for a service that we were not receiving.
"Well, ma'am, " he politely offered, "honestly, they have the ability to change lineup at any time without notification. It's in your contract."
Who was talking about channel lineup? We couldn't get access to the premium channels we were paying for. A giggle escaped me at the stupid response and his smugness. I heard my man chuckle, having overheard the evil in my laugh. This technician had unknowingly just entered in to the Southern woman's web. No getting out now.
I smiled in to the phone. "I'm going to chalk this up to you being a technician and not in customer service and I'm going to request that you have a customer service rep or manager give me a call tomorrow, hon. I know you may not be aware of this so I'm going to help you out." I could hear him shuffle uncomfortably and I hate to admit I got a little joy out of it.
"I am well aware that contractually your company can change channel lineup at any given time without notice; however, to offer a service, take payment for that service and issue a contract for it, then not provide that service or communication about it is not permissible. To do so would be illegal. And you should probably not say that again to any other customers calling in with this issue, as it could create the burden of liability for your company."
The line went silent. I smiled bigger.
"I apologize for that, ma'am. Would you like to speak with a manager?"
"I most certainly would. Thank you."
I waited on the phone thinking this painful study in stupidity had to be over when my next test announced her presence on the line.
I explained my grievance of not being able to access our paid channels, to which she replied: "I do apologize for the inconvenience, but this has come down from the premium channels' headquarters and we were given no notice either. In fact, we were only notified once customers started calling in last week."
And there it was...another slap in the face from the stupid fairy. Would this never end? I stared so long at the channel guide in front of me, that she questioned whether I was still on the line.
"I certainly don't want to come off as offensive," I began, understanding that stupid could be as volatile as a wild animal. "And I can understand your position; however, aren't you a broadcasting and telecommunications company?"
She had no choice but to confirm that.
"And as a digital telecommunications company, don't you have the ability to send out emails, scrolling notifications as well as messages posted on the channel guide notifying your customer base of issues, problems and outages?"
She was silent. Because I was right.
"So you can see where while I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me, I will still hold your company responsible for this, correct?"
In fact, she did. She so understood that she took $60 off our bill over the next 6 months.
And as I lay in bed that night I pondered the experiences I'd endured for the day. Realizing how thankful I was to be on the receiving side of stupid and not the giving. I dozed off wondering if I'd earned enough points to pass this stupid lesson and be exempt for at least the foreseeable future.
My Monday started out like any other day:
- Lag for work - check
- Trip over dogs and release a string of colorful language - check
- Stare blankly in to fridge while trying desperately to remember why it's open - check
- Start car but forget it's still locked; crack fingernail on door handle when it doesn't open - check
- Forget something and go back in to the house - check...check...check.
By the time I pulled in to the Starbucks drive-thru I was practically crying with the anticipation of my first shot of cool caffeine. Starbucks has a new size called Trenta and it's basically a Super Duper Grande. I was so excited. I figured after the morning I'd had, I could excuse a minor indulgence in my day by grabbing the largest sized anything that the coffeehouse had.
The cutest little voice came over the speaker, all cheery and amped out on espresso shots, for sure.
"Welcome to Starbucks, what can I make for you today?"
I was already smiling. "Do you guys have the Trenta?"
"Yes, of course we do."
"Great. Can I get a Trenta Iced Chai, please?"
"Ohhh." She sounded like someone had a just taken her puppy away. "I'm sorry, we only serve iced coffee or iced tea in our Trenta size."
The dumbness of the statement struck me with enough force to render me speechless. While I stammered about with "umm...but...I thought..." and desperately searched the menu for some kind of clue to help me regain my senses, all I could really think is how thankful I was that there wasn't a camera recording my clumsy attempt at facial expressions and response.
Knowing I wouldn't be able to shut up the little voice in my head that was screaming, "but the chai IS a tea and I want it over ice, you twit!", I settled for a Venti size instead.
Sipping gleefully at my beverage, thinking it was probably best I didn't end up with the larger, I was certain that my encounter with stupid was over for the day, when my cell phone rang.
Shame on me for picking it up. Apparently, stupid had become an epidemic.
"Hi, is this Tracie?"
"Yes, this is sh-"
"I've got an order to get you in for a CT Scan on your neck. We need to get you scheduled."
"Um, well, I'm not-"
"I need to ask you a few questions. What's your insurance ID?"
This was the most abrupt, rude, crotchety old biddy I'd encountered in my life. And if you knew my maternal grandmother, you'd know just how serious a statement that was. I mustered up my 'serious tone'. "Now, wait a minute, who is this-"
"Hold on there, missy." She snapped. Missy!? Did she really just down-talk me? I was rendered silent once again. "I need to ask a few more questions. Do you have any metal in your body such as shrapnel or bullets?"
Umm...really? Last time I checked Colorado Springs wasn't a war zone. And this little "missy" wasn't in the military. "Yes, I have an implant in my lower left mandible. My jawbone."
She heaved an audible sigh as though she'd just been completely inconvenienced. "You're gonna have to hold."
"Well, actually, I...hello?" The sound of streaming hold music plagued my ear. Damn.
"Are you still there?" She didn't wait for my response. "The implant - is it metal or plastic?"
Umm...was this a trick question? "Metal." I replied, making sure to enunciate slowly and clearly.
Another put-out sigh. "Hold again." The music began playing once more before I could interject. She was back on in a moment.
"Is this implant to fix a bone?"
Really? Really? Was I being punked? "Yes, and it's got a fake crown on top of it too."
"Lovely." Did I detect sarcasm? "Any more metal or information you'd like to tell me about?"
Oh there was certainly some things I'd like to tell her about. But since I wasn't even really sure what she was talking about yet, I kept it simple. "I have two piercings on either side of my head, at my ears, that do not come out."
I had just had a MRI a few weeks back and knew that none of the metal posed an issue.
"Are you, " she began in complete frustration as though she was about to make some snide remark, then corrected herself. "I'm going to have to put you on hold again." She snapped.
As I sat waiting, I realized my temper had begun to simmer.
My lovely scheduler returned with her cheerful self. "Just exactly why can't you remove them?" She barked obviously disgusted with me.
I'd had enough. Stupid and rude have a way of gnawing at my skin and quickly replacing my facade of patience with who-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are.
"You know what," I began, and when she tried to speak over me, I quickly raised my voice and my attitude to let her know she wasn't going to interrupt me. "I don't know who you are or what's pissed you off so bad, but I'm done with this. And if you are the representation for your company, if someone interviewed you and said, 'I want you for this position', then I definitely want nothing to do with your facility. I will go back to my original imaging place. You have just managed to lose a ton of money for your organization."
"Well, ack," she began and I could envision her rolling her rheumy eyes but I wasn't taking any more of her.
Yeah, I don't think so, I thought as I hung up the phone.
That evening as I sat on the couch, I mused over my ability to handle myself well in the face of cute and stupid as well as crotchety and stupid. Proud, I snuggled in to the sofa as my man clicked through the TV channels. Slowly, I became aware that a message was being displayed instead of actual shows and that it was causing the mood of the man sitting next to me to darken noticeably.
I picked up the phone and dialed our provider, certain that it was something easy to resolve. Silly, silly girl. Once stupid begins, it takes an hearty effort to stop the rate of contagion. It was everywhere. And growing.
The technician gave me some line of BS on how to work around the situation but it wasn't going to provide a remedy and this was definitely not an end-user fault or responsibility.
I asked about what options were going to be available since we were paying for a service that we were not receiving.
"Well, ma'am, " he politely offered, "honestly, they have the ability to change lineup at any time without notification. It's in your contract."
Who was talking about channel lineup? We couldn't get access to the premium channels we were paying for. A giggle escaped me at the stupid response and his smugness. I heard my man chuckle, having overheard the evil in my laugh. This technician had unknowingly just entered in to the Southern woman's web. No getting out now.
I smiled in to the phone. "I'm going to chalk this up to you being a technician and not in customer service and I'm going to request that you have a customer service rep or manager give me a call tomorrow, hon. I know you may not be aware of this so I'm going to help you out." I could hear him shuffle uncomfortably and I hate to admit I got a little joy out of it.
"I am well aware that contractually your company can change channel lineup at any given time without notice; however, to offer a service, take payment for that service and issue a contract for it, then not provide that service or communication about it is not permissible. To do so would be illegal. And you should probably not say that again to any other customers calling in with this issue, as it could create the burden of liability for your company."
The line went silent. I smiled bigger.
"I apologize for that, ma'am. Would you like to speak with a manager?"
"I most certainly would. Thank you."
I waited on the phone thinking this painful study in stupidity had to be over when my next test announced her presence on the line.
I explained my grievance of not being able to access our paid channels, to which she replied: "I do apologize for the inconvenience, but this has come down from the premium channels' headquarters and we were given no notice either. In fact, we were only notified once customers started calling in last week."
And there it was...another slap in the face from the stupid fairy. Would this never end? I stared so long at the channel guide in front of me, that she questioned whether I was still on the line.
"I certainly don't want to come off as offensive," I began, understanding that stupid could be as volatile as a wild animal. "And I can understand your position; however, aren't you a broadcasting and telecommunications company?"
She had no choice but to confirm that.
"And as a digital telecommunications company, don't you have the ability to send out emails, scrolling notifications as well as messages posted on the channel guide notifying your customer base of issues, problems and outages?"
She was silent. Because I was right.
"So you can see where while I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me, I will still hold your company responsible for this, correct?"
In fact, she did. She so understood that she took $60 off our bill over the next 6 months.
And as I lay in bed that night I pondered the experiences I'd endured for the day. Realizing how thankful I was to be on the receiving side of stupid and not the giving. I dozed off wondering if I'd earned enough points to pass this stupid lesson and be exempt for at least the foreseeable future.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Germs...Bacteria...Virus...Oh My!
It seems to me that America has gone 'germ-crazy'. Nowadays, almost every other commercial on the television is boasting about some antibacterial, germ-busting, protectant. Everyone carries antibacterial gel on their person and it's becoming one helluva racket. Even Kleenex brand has come out with a new disposable towel to replace bathroom hand towels. Nevermind the killing of more trees, must keep our babies from getting sick. Only, do you? And how beneficial is it to keep our kids and ourselves from getting sick?
The flu shot is now an annual trend that Americans desperately wait for. Because, surely it will work to keep you from getting the flu. Oh, wait...that's right - no it won't. It may keep you from getting a "known and untainted" strain, but the flu is this nasty, intelligent bug that mutates and recreates yearly. The shot may, however, keep you from getting really really sick. May.
Here's the problem with all these aids and practices, though: the human immune system works by exposure on many types of viruses and even some bacteria. This means that the body needs to have access to some degree to its natural environment in order to strengthen and enhance its defenses.
As an example, look at the now infamous Amazonian tribe that was wiped out in the '80's by the common cold that the silly white man so irresponsibly gave them. I understand that not every exposure is a healthy one and that a pandemic could and would dispose of a significant amount of people, but does sheltering our children and ourselves really work to keep this from happening?
Even when I was a child, shoes weren't worn regularly and fields and woods were free game for the adventurous. If you bumped it, you rubbed it. If it got cut, you tried to keep it clean. If it started slightly bleeding, you sucked it dry. If it were worse than that, you went to find Momma. And she usually put you in the bathtub and poured isopropyl alcohol on it. At least that's how it went in the South.
Of course, that was then and the times they are a-changin'. Still....I wonder how much are we protecting our own these days? By trying to ward off the microscopic villians that enter our airspace undetected, are we creating a more sterile environment or a more paranoid, weakened population? After all, it is said that the most sure-fire way to get sick is to go to the hospital...
The flu shot is now an annual trend that Americans desperately wait for. Because, surely it will work to keep you from getting the flu. Oh, wait...that's right - no it won't. It may keep you from getting a "known and untainted" strain, but the flu is this nasty, intelligent bug that mutates and recreates yearly. The shot may, however, keep you from getting really really sick. May.
Here's the problem with all these aids and practices, though: the human immune system works by exposure on many types of viruses and even some bacteria. This means that the body needs to have access to some degree to its natural environment in order to strengthen and enhance its defenses.
As an example, look at the now infamous Amazonian tribe that was wiped out in the '80's by the common cold that the silly white man so irresponsibly gave them. I understand that not every exposure is a healthy one and that a pandemic could and would dispose of a significant amount of people, but does sheltering our children and ourselves really work to keep this from happening?
Even when I was a child, shoes weren't worn regularly and fields and woods were free game for the adventurous. If you bumped it, you rubbed it. If it got cut, you tried to keep it clean. If it started slightly bleeding, you sucked it dry. If it were worse than that, you went to find Momma. And she usually put you in the bathtub and poured isopropyl alcohol on it. At least that's how it went in the South.
Of course, that was then and the times they are a-changin'. Still....I wonder how much are we protecting our own these days? By trying to ward off the microscopic villians that enter our airspace undetected, are we creating a more sterile environment or a more paranoid, weakened population? After all, it is said that the most sure-fire way to get sick is to go to the hospital...
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Wonderful World of Whackjobs
Oh the wonderful world of crazy people. And the scary thing is they don’t know they are. We’ve all heard the saying, “If you think you’re crazy, you’re probably not but if others question it and you don’t, you probably are.”
And the really frightening thing is that they are everywhere. Like those small roaches that infest homes when people don’t take care to clean. And they spread out like a contagion, making you wonder: if I’m around a looney for too long, can I catch it?” Sadly, if we take even a grain from the Nature/Nurture argument of our fine friends in the Psychology department, then yes – there most likely is that chance. After all, that which you surround yourself with…
And there are all sorts, from the type that blatantly himself in third person making you wonder, “Are you insane?” to the type that mumbles and laughs at herself when you’re alone in an elevator making you think, “Omigod, omigod, omigod”. But it’s the subtle signs of mental disorder that freak me out the most.
Take for example the woman that called in to the radio station this morning. She wanted the DJs’ help her connect with a man she had only had one date with. She really wanted to hook up with him again, but she also needed to tell him there was a chance she was pregnant.
When they get the gentleman on the phone, it’s obvious the poor bastard is afflicted with FullOfHimself disease. He tells the DJs that he is in a longterm relationship, living with his son and baby mama.
Then, Crazy pops on to the line, totally freaking the guy out. He hears her voice and immediately gets all jacked up, stating that she’d been pestering him for days and had finally found a way to get a hold of him. Of course. Crazy people WILL find you. They are more impressive than the CIA.
At the mention that she has something to tell him, he retorts, “What, that you love me?” And when the announcement is ‘no, I might be pregnant’, it’s like he’s been busted with an illegal kilo. But, here’s the kicker: she hasn’t taken a test yet and feels that they should do it together. Uh-huh. Feelin’ the freak in this girl yet? She has, of course, heard him mention that he'd crept out on another woman to be with her.
He is quick to decline that invitation and states to her and the radio show that while he’s not interested in anything with her, if she is pregnant, he will do whatever it takes to provide for the child and be a good dad. Bravo (golf clap), Good Samaritan, bravo. (Um…way to do something to try and repair your dignity since the whole city now knows your rather unique name and that you’ve cheated on your current girl and weren’t even responsible about it).
He goes on to repeatedly blather about how this is all a big mistake, he’s got to do a lot of damage control, he does not want to have a relationship with her, blah, blah, blah.
Her ready response to all this is, “Well, you never know, this could all turn out to be something great.” Wait…what? Did you not hear him just say he has cheated on someone else and doesn’t even like you, you Jack Wagon?
The DJs ask her if she knows for sure, to which the answer is no. They ask if she has taken a test or gone to the doctor; another no. She offhandedly mentions she’s a week late. But she has a ‘feeling’ that she’s pregnant. She also says that she might have told him that she wanted to get pregnant when they were together. Hmmmm…no longer a mystery on why he hasn’t called back.
Then the DJs start taking calls and people are speculating that she’s lying, that she’s making it all up, that he shouldn’t have stepped out on his girlfriend that way. And while all these are good points, I can’t help but wonder: HELLO! Did anyone assimilate that she’s a STALKER who lost her mind in the parking lot of life? And if by some off chance she does give birth, this poor baby is going to grow up knowing that his momma is not right and that there’s a chance he might not be right either. Hell, it’s recorded for him to hear once he’s of age to understand.
Good Southern folk know that the best defense is to keep your crazy to yourself. Because it can come back to bite you on the butt over and over again. And if you’re unlucky enough to have earned the wrath of someone less balanced than you? Well, Crazy-karma is the absolute worst kind to create. But it is usually the quickest way to learn the lesson.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Dear American Government
Every year that I have lived in Colorado I have been hit with owed state taxes. And every year, like clockwork, I have paid what was owed. Even in 2010, when funds ran out, I kept paying what I could until I could pay it off. Because never in my adult life have I been 'one of those kind of people'.
Then, you decided to do a supposed personal audit of my taxes and hit me with the notice that apparently I owe AN ADDITIONAL $900 on my 2008 taxes and now you are coming after me for it.
At the intitial announcement, I did not have an income. This you knew. And how do I know you knew? Because you have now sent me a threatening notice of intent to garnish my wages when I've only had my current full-time job for one month. Lovely.
So, let me get this straight: I, one of many full-blooded, law-abiding Americans, am being harrassed and pursued for a paltry amount of money that I fully intend to pay (until such time as I can manage a review and investigation into this on my own) while many dodge their taxes, illegally fail to correctly report their income, or flat out refuse to pay what they rightfully owe.
And then, of course, there are those that have rights once they illegally find their way across our borders. No taxes paid for them at all, so what could they possibly owe at the end of the year? Yet, we shelter these trespassers and provide them free schooling, medical assistance, and legal aid even though no other country would allow these benefits for an American trying to take advantage of their country's opportunities.
I say to you, America - quit penalizing me, and all other good citizens, for the faults and flaws of those who would manipulate and steal. Instead, offer me small rewards for following the rules and helping to continue to support this country. Provide me with kudos and congratulations for continuing to choose right over wrong. And quit trying to get me fired from the damned full-time job I just landed by unjustly painting me in a bad light to my new employer.
Best regards,
Teege
Then, you decided to do a supposed personal audit of my taxes and hit me with the notice that apparently I owe AN ADDITIONAL $900 on my 2008 taxes and now you are coming after me for it.
At the intitial announcement, I did not have an income. This you knew. And how do I know you knew? Because you have now sent me a threatening notice of intent to garnish my wages when I've only had my current full-time job for one month. Lovely.
So, let me get this straight: I, one of many full-blooded, law-abiding Americans, am being harrassed and pursued for a paltry amount of money that I fully intend to pay (until such time as I can manage a review and investigation into this on my own) while many dodge their taxes, illegally fail to correctly report their income, or flat out refuse to pay what they rightfully owe.
And then, of course, there are those that have rights once they illegally find their way across our borders. No taxes paid for them at all, so what could they possibly owe at the end of the year? Yet, we shelter these trespassers and provide them free schooling, medical assistance, and legal aid even though no other country would allow these benefits for an American trying to take advantage of their country's opportunities.
I say to you, America - quit penalizing me, and all other good citizens, for the faults and flaws of those who would manipulate and steal. Instead, offer me small rewards for following the rules and helping to continue to support this country. Provide me with kudos and congratulations for continuing to choose right over wrong. And quit trying to get me fired from the damned full-time job I just landed by unjustly painting me in a bad light to my new employer.
Best regards,
Teege
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Christmas Day
Christmas morning and the thought of cooking after a sleepless night was not appealing. I wondered briefly if Mrs. Claus had ever just thrown a biscuit in the microwave after Kris' most-famous annual ride. Something told me that if she'd ever spent a night tossing and turning while her man snored to beat the band beside her, she probably did. Christmas Day or no.
My man lumbered in to the obscured view my cocoon on the couch afforded me, cheerful as though he were the one that was gifted cookies and milk throughout the night. As is tradition in my house, we begin opening a present a night at least three days in advance, leaving the biggest surprises under the tree. Presumably, this is what led to The Man's jolly mood as his largest present still sat under the tree like a saving beacon on a shipwreck night. But I, being that most non-morning person imaginable, could've cared less about a similar package beckoning to me.
I grunted someting about crawling back up the stairs to the bed now that he was done with his baritone solo and flopped on to my other side. Unfazed, his mood faltered only briefly as he sipped his first cup of coffee.
"I want to open my present." He declared.
"Good. Go ahead." I responded, muffled by the pillow I had shoved my face into. Better to block out that strange, bright laser people refer to as morning sun.
"Don't you want to open yours?" He ventured.
"Sure. At some point." I could hear the screaming of his dying holiday spirit as I crushed it out of him. Well, damn. It was Christmas afterall. I pushed myself up and braced against the back of the couch. "Go get 'em." I smiled. Something cracked. Ugh...mornings are for people with no nightlife.
Watching him bring back my present with a huge grin plastered upon his face had me warming up. Gifts opened, exciting surprises and I was almost myself. My stomach grumbled. It hadn't quite caught up with me yet.
"I want to go get Starbucks." Duh. It's an addiction - not like I'm gonna function long without it.
"Starbucks is open?"
"The one in Safeway is until two."
"Safeway is open?"
"Hopefully, or that would be awkward."
The parking lot was almost packed. Apparently the coffee shop and grocery store hadn't kept it a secret for only the priveleged. But, steamy hot chai in hand and I was practically skipping. Afterall, it had been a wonderful Christmas and now I could spend the day relaxing with my man. My stomach grumbled again. The chai was filling enough, I suppose.
"I want breakfast. Let's go somewhere. Wanna go to get something?" I asked as I rolled the car up the driveway.
"They won't be open."
"Oh, yes they are." I backed out again and headed towards my breakfast utopia. The main thoroughfare was quite busy at 10:30 in the morning as people made their way to other locations. We spied a Village Inn with a crammed parking lot. Undeterred, I headed on, looking for the Ihop I knew was just up on the left.
"See?" I beamed, snagging a spot close to the door. It was busy, but we didn't even have to wait for a seat.
"Wow. I remember when nothing was open on Christmas." My man observed with some reverance.
"Yep. But then people began to make a stink. I mean, I understand though. This country is made up of Christians, Buddhists, Jehovah's Witnesses, Athiests, Pagans, you name it. And our constitution separates church and state, yet everything was always closed on Christmas. Must've sucked growing up penalized for a holiday you didn't even celebrate."
He just nodded absently. Being a born and bred Baptist, raised in the church, I could understand that he wasn't exactly keen about Christmas revelers becoming so lax. But my belief system understands the plights of each and I have been taught to respect any personal endeavor that allows someone to be good to him/herself and that which surrounds her/him.
So, for me it's simple: those who do not wish to partake in a celebration or religious practice should not be forced to acknowledge it or limited by it, but for those who choose to participate in certain observances they should be respected and allowed that freedom.
I realized that although I am a bit of a slow starter for the Winter holidays and am not a Christian, I do enjoy the celebrations and thankfully I do not come under the radar of those groups who seek to destroy the beliefs of others. I do not see why Atheists must single out Christians. In my eyes, there is no need for a Catholic to fear a hereditary witch or an Agnostic person to feel the censure of a devout Jehovah's Witness. And so on. These things only seek to weaken us as a people. Me? I'm proud to celebrate my family and friends during this time of year and welcome the festivities closing out another twelve months of experience and learning.
My man lumbered in to the obscured view my cocoon on the couch afforded me, cheerful as though he were the one that was gifted cookies and milk throughout the night. As is tradition in my house, we begin opening a present a night at least three days in advance, leaving the biggest surprises under the tree. Presumably, this is what led to The Man's jolly mood as his largest present still sat under the tree like a saving beacon on a shipwreck night. But I, being that most non-morning person imaginable, could've cared less about a similar package beckoning to me.
I grunted someting about crawling back up the stairs to the bed now that he was done with his baritone solo and flopped on to my other side. Unfazed, his mood faltered only briefly as he sipped his first cup of coffee.
"I want to open my present." He declared.
"Good. Go ahead." I responded, muffled by the pillow I had shoved my face into. Better to block out that strange, bright laser people refer to as morning sun.
"Don't you want to open yours?" He ventured.
"Sure. At some point." I could hear the screaming of his dying holiday spirit as I crushed it out of him. Well, damn. It was Christmas afterall. I pushed myself up and braced against the back of the couch. "Go get 'em." I smiled. Something cracked. Ugh...mornings are for people with no nightlife.
Watching him bring back my present with a huge grin plastered upon his face had me warming up. Gifts opened, exciting surprises and I was almost myself. My stomach grumbled. It hadn't quite caught up with me yet.
"I want to go get Starbucks." Duh. It's an addiction - not like I'm gonna function long without it.
"Starbucks is open?"
"The one in Safeway is until two."
"Safeway is open?"
"Hopefully, or that would be awkward."
The parking lot was almost packed. Apparently the coffee shop and grocery store hadn't kept it a secret for only the priveleged. But, steamy hot chai in hand and I was practically skipping. Afterall, it had been a wonderful Christmas and now I could spend the day relaxing with my man. My stomach grumbled again. The chai was filling enough, I suppose.
"I want breakfast. Let's go somewhere. Wanna go to get something?" I asked as I rolled the car up the driveway.
"They won't be open."
"Oh, yes they are." I backed out again and headed towards my breakfast utopia. The main thoroughfare was quite busy at 10:30 in the morning as people made their way to other locations. We spied a Village Inn with a crammed parking lot. Undeterred, I headed on, looking for the Ihop I knew was just up on the left.
"See?" I beamed, snagging a spot close to the door. It was busy, but we didn't even have to wait for a seat.
"Wow. I remember when nothing was open on Christmas." My man observed with some reverance.
"Yep. But then people began to make a stink. I mean, I understand though. This country is made up of Christians, Buddhists, Jehovah's Witnesses, Athiests, Pagans, you name it. And our constitution separates church and state, yet everything was always closed on Christmas. Must've sucked growing up penalized for a holiday you didn't even celebrate."
He just nodded absently. Being a born and bred Baptist, raised in the church, I could understand that he wasn't exactly keen about Christmas revelers becoming so lax. But my belief system understands the plights of each and I have been taught to respect any personal endeavor that allows someone to be good to him/herself and that which surrounds her/him.
So, for me it's simple: those who do not wish to partake in a celebration or religious practice should not be forced to acknowledge it or limited by it, but for those who choose to participate in certain observances they should be respected and allowed that freedom.
I realized that although I am a bit of a slow starter for the Winter holidays and am not a Christian, I do enjoy the celebrations and thankfully I do not come under the radar of those groups who seek to destroy the beliefs of others. I do not see why Atheists must single out Christians. In my eyes, there is no need for a Catholic to fear a hereditary witch or an Agnostic person to feel the censure of a devout Jehovah's Witness. And so on. These things only seek to weaken us as a people. Me? I'm proud to celebrate my family and friends during this time of year and welcome the festivities closing out another twelve months of experience and learning.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
De-Motivation
When it comes to completing a schedule or a "To-Do" list, I can be my worst enemy. Don't ge me wrong, I'm not the personality type that is too susceptible to creating excuses or just whiling away the time through procrastination. All of my life I have had to keep a body part moving (even in my sleep) and I can get cabin fever rather quickly if I don't keep busy. No, I unfortunately fall vicitim to self-sabotage.
I can crank out the most impressive "Monday To Do List". As a writer, I must spend most of my time writing even on days when I just don't feel like or can't manage to envision where the story goes next. I can read over that list first thing Monday morning (which isn't exactly first thing, mind you) firmly set on knocking out each item in order. But somehow, I get led astray every time.
Okay, fold laundry, take upstairs and put away. That's an easy warm up to my day.
I fold the laundry and trudge up the stairs which can seem like the stairway to heaven some days. I place the pile of warm, folded clothes on the bed, turn to get hangers and spy a used glass lounging by the bed. I think, if I don't take that down to the kitchen now, I will forget and it'll sit there another day. So, back down I go. I rinse the glass out and go to put it in the dishwasher when I realize that last night's now clean dishes didn't get put away. Well, if I leave those, then the man may mistakenly start adding dirties tonight so those better get put up.
Finally done putting away the dishes and wiping down the counters, of course, I realize the dog food bin needs refilling. Well, that's just out the garage door. Grabbing the food and refilling take only moments, but upon replacing the large bag in the garage I spy a box full of office supplies. Now how did that get out here? It goes upstairs in the office/activity room. Better take that up before it gets left out here in the cold and that jacks up the pens and such.
Upstairs I realize that I've left the laundry on the bed, so I go back in our bedroom. The first shirt to hang is winter clothing and of course that goes in the spare room closet across the hall. I hang that and notice the thin layer of dust on the furniture. Already time to dust again. I quickly grab a duster and wipe everything down. I see my old boots that were to get donated to the thrift store. Those shouldn't be up here. They should be down in the donation box.
I traipse back downstairs and drop them in the box. Wait...that blanket doesn't belong there. It's the dogs' ratty sleeping blanket. In the laundry room however, a pile of shirts for drycleaning are laying where the blanket should get deposted. Those better get run to the cleaners or they will never be done in time for wear this week. And I really should get some stuff for dinner while I'm out. It really will be a quick trip and it's still early enough (well...early enough for me) that I can certainly take a quick 15 minutes and get back home.
But it takes more like an hour to get to the cleaners and through the store. And of course, I'm right up the street from that one place that has that Christmas present I should really go ahead and get before it slips my mind, again. A quick glance at the clock leaving that store shows me that it's lunchtime and I should probably run something out to my man since I won't be home in time to get a sandwich pulled together. But I better make it quick or I'm liable to miss that appointment I setup last week and nearly forgot about.
Once on my way back home, it comes to mind that I promised to send my daughter those pics of the dogs I took over the weekend. I get those posted just as soon as I walk in the door and see a Facebook update email which encourages me to sign in where I inevitably get caught up in all the updates I'm scrolling through. Thirty minutes later and I think, I should take a shower now instead of later so I don't go to bed with wet hair like last night.
And now, well I might as well do my hair and makeup. Better to look good than risk looking bad. By the time I make my way downstairs, the sun is setting and if I don't start on dinner we won't eat until late and that's never a good idea.
Then my boyfriend is home and we chat a bit and catch a quick show before making our way to bed. While turning out the lights and locking up, I spy a sliver of paper about to fall from the table to the floor. I push it back in place and notice it's the list I'd made the previous evening.
To Do:
Put away laundry
Blog
Write
Respond to emails
File paperwork
Organize coupons
Well, damn. I snatch the pen up next to it and draw a line through Monday, scribbling Tuesday next to it before pinning it to the fridge with a magnet where it will most certainly get overlooked completely tomorrow.
I can crank out the most impressive "Monday To Do List". As a writer, I must spend most of my time writing even on days when I just don't feel like or can't manage to envision where the story goes next. I can read over that list first thing Monday morning (which isn't exactly first thing, mind you) firmly set on knocking out each item in order. But somehow, I get led astray every time.
Okay, fold laundry, take upstairs and put away. That's an easy warm up to my day.
I fold the laundry and trudge up the stairs which can seem like the stairway to heaven some days. I place the pile of warm, folded clothes on the bed, turn to get hangers and spy a used glass lounging by the bed. I think, if I don't take that down to the kitchen now, I will forget and it'll sit there another day. So, back down I go. I rinse the glass out and go to put it in the dishwasher when I realize that last night's now clean dishes didn't get put away. Well, if I leave those, then the man may mistakenly start adding dirties tonight so those better get put up.
Finally done putting away the dishes and wiping down the counters, of course, I realize the dog food bin needs refilling. Well, that's just out the garage door. Grabbing the food and refilling take only moments, but upon replacing the large bag in the garage I spy a box full of office supplies. Now how did that get out here? It goes upstairs in the office/activity room. Better take that up before it gets left out here in the cold and that jacks up the pens and such.
Upstairs I realize that I've left the laundry on the bed, so I go back in our bedroom. The first shirt to hang is winter clothing and of course that goes in the spare room closet across the hall. I hang that and notice the thin layer of dust on the furniture. Already time to dust again. I quickly grab a duster and wipe everything down. I see my old boots that were to get donated to the thrift store. Those shouldn't be up here. They should be down in the donation box.
I traipse back downstairs and drop them in the box. Wait...that blanket doesn't belong there. It's the dogs' ratty sleeping blanket. In the laundry room however, a pile of shirts for drycleaning are laying where the blanket should get deposted. Those better get run to the cleaners or they will never be done in time for wear this week. And I really should get some stuff for dinner while I'm out. It really will be a quick trip and it's still early enough (well...early enough for me) that I can certainly take a quick 15 minutes and get back home.
But it takes more like an hour to get to the cleaners and through the store. And of course, I'm right up the street from that one place that has that Christmas present I should really go ahead and get before it slips my mind, again. A quick glance at the clock leaving that store shows me that it's lunchtime and I should probably run something out to my man since I won't be home in time to get a sandwich pulled together. But I better make it quick or I'm liable to miss that appointment I setup last week and nearly forgot about.
Once on my way back home, it comes to mind that I promised to send my daughter those pics of the dogs I took over the weekend. I get those posted just as soon as I walk in the door and see a Facebook update email which encourages me to sign in where I inevitably get caught up in all the updates I'm scrolling through. Thirty minutes later and I think, I should take a shower now instead of later so I don't go to bed with wet hair like last night.
And now, well I might as well do my hair and makeup. Better to look good than risk looking bad. By the time I make my way downstairs, the sun is setting and if I don't start on dinner we won't eat until late and that's never a good idea.
Then my boyfriend is home and we chat a bit and catch a quick show before making our way to bed. While turning out the lights and locking up, I spy a sliver of paper about to fall from the table to the floor. I push it back in place and notice it's the list I'd made the previous evening.
To Do:
Put away laundry
Blog
Write
Respond to emails
File paperwork
Organize coupons
Well, damn. I snatch the pen up next to it and draw a line through Monday, scribbling Tuesday next to it before pinning it to the fridge with a magnet where it will most certainly get overlooked completely tomorrow.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
What Say You?
It's no joke that as you get older certain abilities begin to fade. And for most of us, hearing seems to be at the top of the list. And while I can't say that mine is wavering just yet, I have found that at my age and through the miracle of motherhood, I have learned how to tune people out. Sometimes without purposely willing it.
I have been blessed with an uncanny hearing ability that has served me more than I could have ever wanted; however, my mind will sometimes fill in words when I'm not paying enough attention or when I can't seem to make out the whole sentence. I assume this mental 'filling in' is a common plague as supported by how many butchered song lyrics we all have in our memories.
Oh, the humorous recollections I have of friends belting out such timeless classics as "there's a bathroom on the right" (Bad Moon on the Rise), "smooth opinion" (Smooth Up in You), and one of my personal favorites - "night aroma!" ("Night, I remember" - Bob Seger sang this at the end of Night Moves).
It's amazing the power the mind has to convince us of truths we do not know. This happens in all aspects of life from memories to sights to sounds. None are more easily corrected or embarrassing as hearing something incorrectly. An occurence that was never more prevalent than in my home a couple days ago:
Dwayne and I were sharing the couch when he notified me that Oklahoma had its largest recorded earthquake.
Too intent on what I was doing to grant him my complete attention, I offhandedly mentioned, "I wonder if my sister felt it."
The awkward silence brought my eyes up to meet his as he asked, "Why?"
"Because she lives in Sac, remember?"
His continued blank stare had me convinced that he had lost a bit of intellect. I employed my hands to help me create a visual. "You know, here's the Bay Area. San Francisco is here, Oklahoma is over here and Sacramento is up north." I smiled sweetly at my challenged boyfriend.
After another bought of silence, Dwayne began slowly. "Let me get this straight..." He put his hands up to emulate mine. "San Francisco is over here," he signaled with a slight wave of his left hand, "and OKLAHOMA..."
I abruptly realized my mistake. We burst out laughing in the absence of a fix for my moronic assumption that we were discussing Oakland. And in the aftermath two things became clear: Oklahoma is not located in California and at least mind is still working (on what project, I have no idea).
I have been blessed with an uncanny hearing ability that has served me more than I could have ever wanted; however, my mind will sometimes fill in words when I'm not paying enough attention or when I can't seem to make out the whole sentence. I assume this mental 'filling in' is a common plague as supported by how many butchered song lyrics we all have in our memories.
Oh, the humorous recollections I have of friends belting out such timeless classics as "there's a bathroom on the right" (Bad Moon on the Rise), "smooth opinion" (Smooth Up in You), and one of my personal favorites - "night aroma!" ("Night, I remember" - Bob Seger sang this at the end of Night Moves).
It's amazing the power the mind has to convince us of truths we do not know. This happens in all aspects of life from memories to sights to sounds. None are more easily corrected or embarrassing as hearing something incorrectly. An occurence that was never more prevalent than in my home a couple days ago:
Dwayne and I were sharing the couch when he notified me that Oklahoma had its largest recorded earthquake.
Too intent on what I was doing to grant him my complete attention, I offhandedly mentioned, "I wonder if my sister felt it."
The awkward silence brought my eyes up to meet his as he asked, "Why?"
"Because she lives in Sac, remember?"
His continued blank stare had me convinced that he had lost a bit of intellect. I employed my hands to help me create a visual. "You know, here's the Bay Area. San Francisco is here, Oklahoma is over here and Sacramento is up north." I smiled sweetly at my challenged boyfriend.
After another bought of silence, Dwayne began slowly. "Let me get this straight..." He put his hands up to emulate mine. "San Francisco is over here," he signaled with a slight wave of his left hand, "and OKLAHOMA..."
I abruptly realized my mistake. We burst out laughing in the absence of a fix for my moronic assumption that we were discussing Oakland. And in the aftermath two things became clear: Oklahoma is not located in California and at least mind is still working (on what project, I have no idea).
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Change Isn't Always A Good Thing
Imagine this:
You're driving down the road, enjoying the lovely scenic beauty of the mountains with your window down just enough to tussle your hair softly by a cool, comforting breeze and the radio playing a groovy little number on your radio. You're relaxed, no one is driving like an ass and you're able to cruise on down the road. Just then your favorite hip-hop song comes on and you crank up the volume (for those of you anti-hip hoppers out there, just humor me here).
Maybe it's Lady Gaga's new tune and you're singing away when the best verse comes on..."there's only three men I'ma serve all my life and that's my daddy, Colorado and Jesus Christ..." Wait... Colorado? What would Lady Gaga be doing dedicating herself to Colorado? Nothing, that's what. And here you thought the original lyrics were "Nebraska" for some dude from that state.
What is up with this new, irritating trend in music on the radio stations? It seems like every song that remotely hints at a person or place gets changed by the local DJ's to fit their station, names or location. And most of the time it doesn't even sound good - it's a flat, dubbed statement that hiccups the flow of your groove.
Ugh. I'm so over it. Just leave the songs alone already so I don't get stuck trying to figure out why they did that to a perfectly good tune and then spend the rest of it desperately grasping for what the original lyrics were.
You're driving down the road, enjoying the lovely scenic beauty of the mountains with your window down just enough to tussle your hair softly by a cool, comforting breeze and the radio playing a groovy little number on your radio. You're relaxed, no one is driving like an ass and you're able to cruise on down the road. Just then your favorite hip-hop song comes on and you crank up the volume (for those of you anti-hip hoppers out there, just humor me here).
Maybe it's Lady Gaga's new tune and you're singing away when the best verse comes on..."there's only three men I'ma serve all my life and that's my daddy, Colorado and Jesus Christ..." Wait... Colorado? What would Lady Gaga be doing dedicating herself to Colorado? Nothing, that's what. And here you thought the original lyrics were "Nebraska" for some dude from that state.
What is up with this new, irritating trend in music on the radio stations? It seems like every song that remotely hints at a person or place gets changed by the local DJ's to fit their station, names or location. And most of the time it doesn't even sound good - it's a flat, dubbed statement that hiccups the flow of your groove.
Ugh. I'm so over it. Just leave the songs alone already so I don't get stuck trying to figure out why they did that to a perfectly good tune and then spend the rest of it desperately grasping for what the original lyrics were.
Monday, October 17, 2011
The Perils of Implants
Ah, the pleasures of implants - selected size, perfect shape... You can find yourself brazenly showing off more than you would have before, revealing glimpses of your new side, a little more bubbly, a little more cheerful. No one can deny that you've had something done. For some it's a preference, a choice to enhance the appearance; for others a necessity to correct a blatant absence.
For me, I was one of the latter folks. I had a need to fill a lack and all because of a meatball. Yes - a meatball. A moist, flavorful, healthy buffalo meatball. I made the whole batch that fateful night by myself. Knew every ingredient that went in, anitcipated the succulent taste and aromatic smells...everything was to be perfect. And then it happened. First bite in and I felt it on the inside. I heard it within my mouth. A loud CRACK! My jaw uncontrollably sagged open, amongst my daughter's disgusted exclamation of "Ew!".
The next few days I tried desperately to convince myself that it wasn't serious. But finally a trip to the dentist was required. Only that wouldn't be my easy solution, oh no. Then an appointment to an oral surgeon (not my first by any means). But that wasn't to be the quick fix either. Instead of a thirty minute, two-stitch ordeal to remove a broken tooth and replace it with an implant, I woke up 45 minutes later with a corset stitch running up the back of my lower jaw, donor bone to correct a dangerously thinned jawbone, and an implant to screw a new molar on to in the near future. That slight change in expectation should have been my warning flag - that subtle hint to tell me that my life would be inexplicably challenged for years to come over the decision to go with an implant.
The next week, while traveling for the holidays, the cap fell off. Then the following week the surgeon had to burn my gums away where they had grown over in the absence of the healing cap. One year later and I sheered off the side of my first crown. Three months after that saw the breaking of my second. And amidst almost constant visits to various dentists, I was also setting my bite off by accommodating the large space of no teeth in my head.
Flash forward, now several years later and I'm still battling the crown curse. As it turns out, the implant was done impeccably well; the original crown, not so much. So, now I've got the right people on task. Only once we finally got the crown built out of the correct material, it was made too long and didn't fit. Then, it fit (with a little finagling) but wouldn't seat correctly because my gums had grown over the implant site again. So, I found myself once again in the oral surgeon's chair and humoring stitches in my mouth. Then, when the crown could be seated correctly, the screw was stripped and one bite down the next morning, had the fake tooth sliding up and down in my mouth like a hobby horse on the merry-go-round. Lovely. Another weekend spent not chewing on the left side and not biting down (really? how do you eat without biting down?) and I was back in the dentist's chair (a two-hour drive round trip, by the way).
Now, I find myself awaiting another trip to the dentist's office to hopefully conclude my implant crown trials but with one more little surprise venture to overcome while there. It would seem that although we may have put my implant issues to rest, because of the offset to my bite, I've once again cracked a tooth. On the other side.
Who knows? Maybe I'll go with an implant.
For me, I was one of the latter folks. I had a need to fill a lack and all because of a meatball. Yes - a meatball. A moist, flavorful, healthy buffalo meatball. I made the whole batch that fateful night by myself. Knew every ingredient that went in, anitcipated the succulent taste and aromatic smells...everything was to be perfect. And then it happened. First bite in and I felt it on the inside. I heard it within my mouth. A loud CRACK! My jaw uncontrollably sagged open, amongst my daughter's disgusted exclamation of "Ew!".
The next few days I tried desperately to convince myself that it wasn't serious. But finally a trip to the dentist was required. Only that wouldn't be my easy solution, oh no. Then an appointment to an oral surgeon (not my first by any means). But that wasn't to be the quick fix either. Instead of a thirty minute, two-stitch ordeal to remove a broken tooth and replace it with an implant, I woke up 45 minutes later with a corset stitch running up the back of my lower jaw, donor bone to correct a dangerously thinned jawbone, and an implant to screw a new molar on to in the near future. That slight change in expectation should have been my warning flag - that subtle hint to tell me that my life would be inexplicably challenged for years to come over the decision to go with an implant.
The next week, while traveling for the holidays, the cap fell off. Then the following week the surgeon had to burn my gums away where they had grown over in the absence of the healing cap. One year later and I sheered off the side of my first crown. Three months after that saw the breaking of my second. And amidst almost constant visits to various dentists, I was also setting my bite off by accommodating the large space of no teeth in my head.
Flash forward, now several years later and I'm still battling the crown curse. As it turns out, the implant was done impeccably well; the original crown, not so much. So, now I've got the right people on task. Only once we finally got the crown built out of the correct material, it was made too long and didn't fit. Then, it fit (with a little finagling) but wouldn't seat correctly because my gums had grown over the implant site again. So, I found myself once again in the oral surgeon's chair and humoring stitches in my mouth. Then, when the crown could be seated correctly, the screw was stripped and one bite down the next morning, had the fake tooth sliding up and down in my mouth like a hobby horse on the merry-go-round. Lovely. Another weekend spent not chewing on the left side and not biting down (really? how do you eat without biting down?) and I was back in the dentist's chair (a two-hour drive round trip, by the way).
Now, I find myself awaiting another trip to the dentist's office to hopefully conclude my implant crown trials but with one more little surprise venture to overcome while there. It would seem that although we may have put my implant issues to rest, because of the offset to my bite, I've once again cracked a tooth. On the other side.
Who knows? Maybe I'll go with an implant.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Downtime and Dogs
My other half has gone out camping - just overnight. This is the first time we've been separated for the night in quite a few months. But, in preparation of his upcoming yearly hunting week, he's out testing the new tent, guns and other fun man/boy toys. So, it's just me and the boys tonight.
As you may know, I've started this 30 for 30 challenge (exercise 30 minutes every day for 30 days) and today marked the beginning of this new venture. To kick my part off, I decided I would take my boys for a stroll through the neighborhood. We were enjoying a wonderful walk when of a sudden, the largest blue pit bitch I have ever seen, ripped her anchor out of the wall on the porch to our left and came across the lawn at the boys. The man reclining came out of his chair so quickly that he tipped it over, stumbled and dropped his drink. She was coming at us so fast and was so formiddable that I froze. Then he barked out a command and just like that the dog dropped to the ground, spinning around to face her master.
The not-so-frightening bulldog he also had kept coming amidst shouts from the man dragging the other dog into that house that he was friendly. The dog ran up to us, but a car was also gaining ground and concern that the little fellow might become asphalt had me grab on to his collar to keep him safe.
That's when I noticed my guys. Sam, the pit boxer, had moved in so close to my right leg that he was leaning on me, his hackles up along his entire spine, his stance bearing for a fight. Mac, our black laborador whom we refer to fondly as our "Meth Lab", had lost all signs of goofiness. He had placed himself directly in front of me, the ridge of his spine also standing on end and he bared his teeth and hunched down as though he were going to launch himself in the direction of the beast that had come at us. I have never in my life seen a black lab look fearsome. I was impressed. Then the little dog made the mistake of stepping a tad too close to Mama. Sam lit in to him, Mac backing up so close to me that he crushed my toes. It took me a minute to get Sam calmed down, much to the relief of the bulldog, I'm sure.
I patted them both profusely and nonchalantly mentioned to the neighbor that he might want to take some time to assess just what takes to control a large, dangerous dog before attempting to look as though he knew how. If that thing would have hurt me or the boys, I would have sued him out of the neighborhood.
Of course true to form, just a mere 5 minutes farther and Mac returned to his usual self - not wanting to stop to pee, he began to pee as he walked, flooding the sidewalk and getting so shook up when I called him on it that in his haste to make it right, that he pissed right across the top of my foot. I was in flip-flops. Lovely. My hero.
As you may know, I've started this 30 for 30 challenge (exercise 30 minutes every day for 30 days) and today marked the beginning of this new venture. To kick my part off, I decided I would take my boys for a stroll through the neighborhood. We were enjoying a wonderful walk when of a sudden, the largest blue pit bitch I have ever seen, ripped her anchor out of the wall on the porch to our left and came across the lawn at the boys. The man reclining came out of his chair so quickly that he tipped it over, stumbled and dropped his drink. She was coming at us so fast and was so formiddable that I froze. Then he barked out a command and just like that the dog dropped to the ground, spinning around to face her master.
The not-so-frightening bulldog he also had kept coming amidst shouts from the man dragging the other dog into that house that he was friendly. The dog ran up to us, but a car was also gaining ground and concern that the little fellow might become asphalt had me grab on to his collar to keep him safe.
That's when I noticed my guys. Sam, the pit boxer, had moved in so close to my right leg that he was leaning on me, his hackles up along his entire spine, his stance bearing for a fight. Mac, our black laborador whom we refer to fondly as our "Meth Lab", had lost all signs of goofiness. He had placed himself directly in front of me, the ridge of his spine also standing on end and he bared his teeth and hunched down as though he were going to launch himself in the direction of the beast that had come at us. I have never in my life seen a black lab look fearsome. I was impressed. Then the little dog made the mistake of stepping a tad too close to Mama. Sam lit in to him, Mac backing up so close to me that he crushed my toes. It took me a minute to get Sam calmed down, much to the relief of the bulldog, I'm sure.
I patted them both profusely and nonchalantly mentioned to the neighbor that he might want to take some time to assess just what takes to control a large, dangerous dog before attempting to look as though he knew how. If that thing would have hurt me or the boys, I would have sued him out of the neighborhood.
Of course true to form, just a mere 5 minutes farther and Mac returned to his usual self - not wanting to stop to pee, he began to pee as he walked, flooding the sidewalk and getting so shook up when I called him on it that in his haste to make it right, that he pissed right across the top of my foot. I was in flip-flops. Lovely. My hero.
Monday, September 26, 2011
...and She Will Have Music Wherever She Goes
I love music. It moves me. I do everything to music - everything I can. And no real music is off limits...well, except ganster rap and death metal. Not music. End of story.
I even wake up with a song in my head every morning. And depending on my mood, or the mood I was in the night before, the song changes. It doesn't even need to be a song I've heard any time in the recent past. Take this morning for example, I woke up at 5 am (not okay with that, just in case you're wondering) with "Sail Away" by the Oak Ridge Boys. Oh, yeah...that's right. No Lady Gaga, Foster the People, Aerosmith, or Trace Adkins for me. Nope...got stuck with some backwoods group that was hot in the 70's and 80's. Lovely.
And no changing the channels either. For whatever reason, I'm stuck with what I tune in to first thing. But, I have noticed that it seems to set my day. If I am listening to a sad song on my mental stereo, I will be a bit melancholy; if however, I have been rockin' a snappy number I'm more likely to have a groovy kind of day. So...this morning's happy tune got me going (and soon the day just sailed away! Maybe tomorrow my music selection will move in to the hip tunes of Sir Mix Alot, Al B Sure, or Garth Brooks from those fascinating 90's.
I even wake up with a song in my head every morning. And depending on my mood, or the mood I was in the night before, the song changes. It doesn't even need to be a song I've heard any time in the recent past. Take this morning for example, I woke up at 5 am (not okay with that, just in case you're wondering) with "Sail Away" by the Oak Ridge Boys. Oh, yeah...that's right. No Lady Gaga, Foster the People, Aerosmith, or Trace Adkins for me. Nope...got stuck with some backwoods group that was hot in the 70's and 80's. Lovely.
And no changing the channels either. For whatever reason, I'm stuck with what I tune in to first thing. But, I have noticed that it seems to set my day. If I am listening to a sad song on my mental stereo, I will be a bit melancholy; if however, I have been rockin' a snappy number I'm more likely to have a groovy kind of day. So...this morning's happy tune got me going (and soon the day just sailed away! Maybe tomorrow my music selection will move in to the hip tunes of Sir Mix Alot, Al B Sure, or Garth Brooks from those fascinating 90's.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Being the Joneses
I am old enough now that I no longer hop gingerly from the bed, crank up the music, and dance around my morning routine. I now must rock back and forth to leverage myself up from the mattress, not unlike a turtle trying to right itself, praying to god that cracking sound is a normal response. Once accomplished, I make the bed (it really does help the room look tidy no matter what may lay on the floor) and amble to the shower, then my whole physical 'fix up' begins. And it doesn't matter the time I choose to grace the day with my presence, either. I still do not have the capacity to burst from the sheets first thing any longer.
Reflection of my youth reveals a time when I could take 45 minutes from wake to walk-out, impressively put together for the day ahead of me. At this stage in my life, I can take 45 minutes to remember what the hell I walked in the bathroom for in the first place.
Now, it's hair appointments to hide the gray, make-up techniques to open the eyes, botox considerations to remove the wrinkles and hours at the gym to "regain what's been lost" instead of "maintain what's been given". It's slippers at the end of the day to relieve the aching feet from the heels I've stuffed them in and a reconsideration before choosing the shorter skirt or lower neckline. Class is now defined by leather and smooth instead of louder and fast. Elegance is embraced where rebellion once reigned and subtle-sexy is the new 'in' thing.
So, why do I do all this? Why bother when it just gets more difficult to achieve, things take longer and require a little something 'extra'? Because I am the Joneses. And so are you. Those of us who have weathered the storm of our teens, beaten the odds (and oddities) of our twenties and even seen clear of our thirties. We now see something we want, we get it and we earn it. We wear what we want and we wear it well. Even those styles that make our audience raise an eyebrow or share a surprise glance.
C'mon, you must admit - the Walmartian donning the too-tight spandex and brazenly blue eyelids may scare you a bit, but it somehow fits her overall image...
So, roll out of bed and pray you don't miss the landing. Grunt or expel some strange sound with every move you make. Forget where you put the keys in your right hand. Refuse to speak to anyone, even by phone or email, until you have had a pot of caffiene. Open the garage door four times before you realize the trash can is already back in it's spot. Neighbors be damned. Because you are the Joneses and you're setting the bar (just make sure that it's set high enough that the rest of us can safely limbo underneath it if we no longer can clear it with a high-jump).
Reflection of my youth reveals a time when I could take 45 minutes from wake to walk-out, impressively put together for the day ahead of me. At this stage in my life, I can take 45 minutes to remember what the hell I walked in the bathroom for in the first place.
Now, it's hair appointments to hide the gray, make-up techniques to open the eyes, botox considerations to remove the wrinkles and hours at the gym to "regain what's been lost" instead of "maintain what's been given". It's slippers at the end of the day to relieve the aching feet from the heels I've stuffed them in and a reconsideration before choosing the shorter skirt or lower neckline. Class is now defined by leather and smooth instead of louder and fast. Elegance is embraced where rebellion once reigned and subtle-sexy is the new 'in' thing.
So, why do I do all this? Why bother when it just gets more difficult to achieve, things take longer and require a little something 'extra'? Because I am the Joneses. And so are you. Those of us who have weathered the storm of our teens, beaten the odds (and oddities) of our twenties and even seen clear of our thirties. We now see something we want, we get it and we earn it. We wear what we want and we wear it well. Even those styles that make our audience raise an eyebrow or share a surprise glance.
C'mon, you must admit - the Walmartian donning the too-tight spandex and brazenly blue eyelids may scare you a bit, but it somehow fits her overall image...
So, roll out of bed and pray you don't miss the landing. Grunt or expel some strange sound with every move you make. Forget where you put the keys in your right hand. Refuse to speak to anyone, even by phone or email, until you have had a pot of caffiene. Open the garage door four times before you realize the trash can is already back in it's spot. Neighbors be damned. Because you are the Joneses and you're setting the bar (just make sure that it's set high enough that the rest of us can safely limbo underneath it if we no longer can clear it with a high-jump).
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Tricks for Treats
With just one word, uttered almost imperceptibly, I can tame the wild antics of my boys - a blonde pit-boxer and a tightly wound lab - in to such pristine poses one would suppose that they always behaved their best. They impress me when there is something to be gained.
Much like all other creatures, even humans. We all seem to want to show our best when we have a target, a want, a desire. Job interviews to social situations, we boast our best manners, style, and charm. Tucking all of our dirty little secrets neatly away from inquisitive eyes.
It is only later, once the connection has been secured that we slip; cracking our facade just enough to let the qusetionable conduct, the taboo behaviors, the realness of our presence seep out in to our surroundings. We become lazier, no longer tidying up our things before we leave the office and letting dishes stack up in the sink at home. We slack off on the 'extras' we originally offered without provocation. But hint at a jeopardy or instability and like magic our best washes over us anew. Not unlike my dogs - one mention of a goody and suddenly butts are planted on the floor, ears are perked up and all hint of slobbering tapers off.
Are we really so malleable that we stop slacking off only when we need to earn the "treat"?
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Oh, Those San Francisco Mornings
Fall is my absolute favorite time of the year. The cooler temps, the robust colors, the smell...in my mind, it's a little piece of paradise. For me the mornings are the best. The clean, crisp air and clearer blue skies - it's all like the world is cleansed anew and I wake during this time every morning with a deep breath and a stretch. It always takes me back to when I first experienced this phenomenon.
I was raised in the South and throughout my early grade school years heat and humidity was all I knew. This was only broken up by a two and half year stint in hotter and more humid South America. I loved my time there, it feels more like a child fantasy now when I look back on it, but it was definitely the land of bigger, larger, more. More heat, more humidity, bigger bugs (um...BIG-GER), larger animals, grander thunderstorms. As a kid it was total exotic splendor. As an adult? No, not so much.
In my teenage years, I moved in with my father and stepmother in San Francisco. It was the first time I had experienced a lack of humidity, good hair and cool mornings. In Houston, it can be 87% humidity at eleven at night and still at that percentage at 6:45am the next day. But in Northern California the mornings dawned bright and clear and comfortably chill. The kids wore shorts, flip flops and hoodies to school. It was then that I realized I could never be comfortable in high-degree temps again.
I'm a well-insulated girl, so even operating at optimum weight and fitness levels, I perform better in cooler weather than warmer. And as the days get cooler, I find my motivation increases. I want to do more, wake earlier (I didn't say early folks, I said earlier), be happier and more active.
So, I say bring on the Autumn, the cool fronts, the color displays. I will embrace them all with my best face on...and maybe a pair of heels someday real soon.
I was raised in the South and throughout my early grade school years heat and humidity was all I knew. This was only broken up by a two and half year stint in hotter and more humid South America. I loved my time there, it feels more like a child fantasy now when I look back on it, but it was definitely the land of bigger, larger, more. More heat, more humidity, bigger bugs (um...BIG-GER), larger animals, grander thunderstorms. As a kid it was total exotic splendor. As an adult? No, not so much.
In my teenage years, I moved in with my father and stepmother in San Francisco. It was the first time I had experienced a lack of humidity, good hair and cool mornings. In Houston, it can be 87% humidity at eleven at night and still at that percentage at 6:45am the next day. But in Northern California the mornings dawned bright and clear and comfortably chill. The kids wore shorts, flip flops and hoodies to school. It was then that I realized I could never be comfortable in high-degree temps again.
I'm a well-insulated girl, so even operating at optimum weight and fitness levels, I perform better in cooler weather than warmer. And as the days get cooler, I find my motivation increases. I want to do more, wake earlier (I didn't say early folks, I said earlier), be happier and more active.
So, I say bring on the Autumn, the cool fronts, the color displays. I will embrace them all with my best face on...and maybe a pair of heels someday real soon.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
The Downhill Race
It seems as though life goes in cycles - smooth sailing and constant chaos. While the easy-going pace of the 'up cycle' can be calm and pleasant, chaotic uncertainties can encourage us and push us to new levels. We never seem to be prepared for these abrupt changes in our lifecycle but it also never seems as though the abrupt good changes affect us like the gut punches do.
One minute we are cruising through, the next a shocking phone call stops our breath. Or an accident or illness. Mother Nature erases your plans for the day. An abrupt change of work status - whether good or bad - is announced.
No matter what, these times not only define our current path but help to define ourselves. They give us those moments to reflect and decide whether or not we like the person we are currently and if there are changes that should and could be made towards betterment.
So, as my life goes bumping along as though I'm cruising down a dirt hill in a cardboard box, I try to remember that these moments help to shape me further, making me stronger and wiser.
One minute we are cruising through, the next a shocking phone call stops our breath. Or an accident or illness. Mother Nature erases your plans for the day. An abrupt change of work status - whether good or bad - is announced.
No matter what, these times not only define our current path but help to define ourselves. They give us those moments to reflect and decide whether or not we like the person we are currently and if there are changes that should and could be made towards betterment.
So, as my life goes bumping along as though I'm cruising down a dirt hill in a cardboard box, I try to remember that these moments help to shape me further, making me stronger and wiser.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Mum's the Word
Its dance time in the South and all the school-age girls are beginning to plan their wardrobe, hair, makeup, shoes, accessories, etc. It's a crazy time all over the nation but somehow made bigger in the South. And what dance would be complete without a corsage? However, in Texas, it’s not a small rosebud with a sprig of baby’s breath. It’s called a mum and it’s huge. Literally. It’s like a cluster of corsages having group sex.
I can remember my first high school dance. My mother was so excited. It was all about ‘the mum’. They were displayed in storefronts like some kind of livestock award: a large blooming middle with streaming ribbons hanging down. Only the mums for school dances are usually white or school colors. My mother went on for the whole week, and I admit – I was excited about my first mum too.
My first mum was large and with red and white streamers. How I stood up with it pinned on, I will never know. However, not to be outdone by any other Texas mother, mine also sported small cow bells and little blinking white lights. Nope, not kidding. I looked and sounded like an electric Bessie. I swear.
And now my daughter is of age for the mum-madness to begin. Only she’s even luckier than I was then. She’s got two women vying for the privilege of adorning a mum to her bosom for prom. She’s a bit overwhelmed by the whole thing but I’m having a great time with it. Imagine – two mums pinned to her chest. She’s going to look like a mobile flower shop. But as awesome as it is, I have warned her not to go outside during the day or she may just become consumed by bees. Through it all, at least I can take some solace in that her boyfriend won’t be able to get too close to her on the dance floor as long as she’s got the floral armor pinned to her front.
Friday, September 2, 2011
To heel or not to heel...
After gimping about for more than a week, I finally made the trek to my doctor's office. I show up on time (miracle) and in just a few short moments, in she comes. She looks at me, then back at the chart in her hands and once again up at me, this time her expression revealing a bit of confusion. "Tee, what brings you in today?" She asks.
"Oh, my left foot is bothering me." I pick up my leg and point to the area in question. "So, I thought I better rule out a hairline fracture or something."
"Uh-huh." She responds. "So, you show up in 3-inch heels?"
I looked down at my shiny white patent wedges. "Well, yeah. I have a client after this." Everyone knows you show your best face to clients, especially when you're masking an injury or illness. At least that's how we do it in the South.
"Of course you do." I distinctly detected an eye roll.
I pointed to the troublesome spot again. "Last Thursday, I was vacuuming and kicked the bed frame, I don't know if you can see it or not," I began.
"You mean the red protrusion there on the outside?" I might be mistaken, but I could swear there was a sarcastic tone applied to her question. "Come on." She exited, placing my chart on the counter. "Let's get that x-rayed."
Three frames later, I'm back in the small prison-like cell that all patients invariably kill valuable time in.
She re-enters. "It's broken, as you know. Will you wear a boot if I put you in one?"
"Yes." I say with complete conviction. Then nothing; she's just staring at me blankly. I shift my eyes left and right, re-focus on her face. Nope. Still nothing. Just that stare. I think for a minute. "Yes. I will wear it until I feel better. Then, I'll probably start forgetting to put it on."
"That's what I thought. So, we'll order you a post-op orthopedic foot boot. I want you to be off that foot more than on it. You'll need to cancel that client. You can see them again once you're wearing that shoe."
"Wait. Are you talking about the ugly, velcro, blue thing people wear after foot surgery?" She nodded. I burst out laughing. "That's not a good look." Again, that blank stare. She wasn't budging on this one.
"Just when you're planning to go out."
"That's not gonna happen. I'm not going out with that on."
She studied my face. "Okay, it's either this for the next three weeks or you could possibly suffer long-term, permanent damage and may not be able to wear your heels again."
What?! Was she serious? Without heels on, people don't even know I'm in the room. I'm not exactly an average-height girl and I prefer dress-up to dress-down on most days. She had me. And she knew it. "Okay. You win." I begrugdingly conceded.
Moral of the story? Housekeeping should only be done by licensed professionals and is WAY too dangerous for a layman like me. And if it compromises the ability for girls to wear great shoes? Fix it. No matter what.
"Oh, my left foot is bothering me." I pick up my leg and point to the area in question. "So, I thought I better rule out a hairline fracture or something."
"Uh-huh." She responds. "So, you show up in 3-inch heels?"
I looked down at my shiny white patent wedges. "Well, yeah. I have a client after this." Everyone knows you show your best face to clients, especially when you're masking an injury or illness. At least that's how we do it in the South.
"Of course you do." I distinctly detected an eye roll.
I pointed to the troublesome spot again. "Last Thursday, I was vacuuming and kicked the bed frame, I don't know if you can see it or not," I began.
"You mean the red protrusion there on the outside?" I might be mistaken, but I could swear there was a sarcastic tone applied to her question. "Come on." She exited, placing my chart on the counter. "Let's get that x-rayed."
Three frames later, I'm back in the small prison-like cell that all patients invariably kill valuable time in.
She re-enters. "It's broken, as you know. Will you wear a boot if I put you in one?"
"Yes." I say with complete conviction. Then nothing; she's just staring at me blankly. I shift my eyes left and right, re-focus on her face. Nope. Still nothing. Just that stare. I think for a minute. "Yes. I will wear it until I feel better. Then, I'll probably start forgetting to put it on."
"That's what I thought. So, we'll order you a post-op orthopedic foot boot. I want you to be off that foot more than on it. You'll need to cancel that client. You can see them again once you're wearing that shoe."
"Wait. Are you talking about the ugly, velcro, blue thing people wear after foot surgery?" She nodded. I burst out laughing. "That's not a good look." Again, that blank stare. She wasn't budging on this one.
"Just when you're planning to go out."
"That's not gonna happen. I'm not going out with that on."
She studied my face. "Okay, it's either this for the next three weeks or you could possibly suffer long-term, permanent damage and may not be able to wear your heels again."
What?! Was she serious? Without heels on, people don't even know I'm in the room. I'm not exactly an average-height girl and I prefer dress-up to dress-down on most days. She had me. And she knew it. "Okay. You win." I begrugdingly conceded.
Moral of the story? Housekeeping should only be done by licensed professionals and is WAY too dangerous for a layman like me. And if it compromises the ability for girls to wear great shoes? Fix it. No matter what.
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