Some of you reading this title will think it a statement, some a question. And you'd be right on both accounts.
Where...have...I...been. The simple answer is of course, right here. My writer's voice though, has not been translated through this medium for several months. It's been dormant, elusive...hiding, depressed, ill and exhausted. Many times I called up this site and sat staring at a blank page, a blinking cursor a tiny island in a sea of white.
I beg your indulgence, this may meander a bit. After so many dry months, my thoughts are bursting through my typing fingers like a deluge during an August Florida thunderstorm where raindrops strike the scorched asphalt so hard and with such fury, steam rises up like a wraith.
I can claim many excuses for my absence. In the last of weeks of August, a very dear aunt lost her battle with cancer and I've been absolutely heartsick and depressed. It came as quite a shock, until the very last, my mind refused to accept the chance of defeat and I truly believed she would recover. The greatest compliment I could pay her is the fact that she had such a sweetness and gentleness of character that she put me in mind several times of my own grandmother. As the pattern often goes, grief turned to depression and depression turned to a stony and unrelenting anger. The childhood anger of, 'it isn't fair'.
I guess, 'it isn't fair' would be the recurring theme of my thought patterns of late...
I have hesitated so many times over what to write in these blogs, how deeply I would share, fearing that my true nature or inclinations would 'turn off' my readership. And then this morning, as is my wont, I had an epiphany...'do I really even have a readership'? So why the hell am I so afraid of offending 'them', if there is even a 'them'. So here goes...
I was very invested in this election. I am a 38 year old single, childless woman and an ardent conservative. I guess those words in of themselves are a contradiction. Despite all this, I've never supported a candidate to the extent I backed Mitt Romney. In my case, it's personal. If you've ever read this blog, you know about my nearly 4 year employment odyssey. Just the other day, I agreed to another 6 month contract extension of a nearly 2 1/2 year (if you count my former assignment there in a different department) assignment at my company. So I can honestly say that the four years Barack Hussein Obama, aka Barry Sotero or whatever the hell his name is, has been the leader of this country have been the four worst of my entire life.
Yes, I know that I am amongst the fortunate who have a job at all. However, I had the audacity to hope that maybe just maybe if we elected different leadership in this country, that I might have the chance of securing a more permanent situation where my salary might be closer to the +25% higher pay rate I earned just 6 years ago! I am frequently told that I 'just have to accept that things are different now' 'companies just aren't going to hire anymore when they can contract out labor and save themselves tax and insurance costs'.
What I have been the most devastated about, is the loss of my hope, my inherent belief in the American Dream. To get even more personal and uncomfortable, because of my salary losses, and lack of insurance, I've been living with my 65 year old father. And my father, because of the fact that he cannot exist on the small amount social security pays him, is still running after business and trying to work the hours that most 20 year olds would balk at! In the years where I should be looking after him, I can barely afford to keep myself.
I really thought Mitt Romney was the solution to this countries' woes. This is not about party, or sour grapes in anyway. It is about my inherent fears about the defecit we have incurred, the raiding of my father and mother's medicare and social security to fund Obamacare. It is the fact that as a country, we don't seem to mind when our leadership sits back and watches the assasination, and subsequent torture and sodomization of our Libyan Ambassador and the brave men of our armed forces who defied orders to try and come to his aid. When we just stay quiet and accept the status quo.
It is having to sit by and watch as these things happen while most of my fellow countrymen put more time and thought into drafting their fantasy football team and worry more about who is getting kicked off what reality show, than to think the fact that our country is drifting into economic penury, that our children are going to inherit an unsustainable crushing debt, that is if there is even an America left once the Islamic groups in this country one by one become radicalized and overcome our increasingly reduced military.
So many times, everything inside of me, is crying out, 'Why...Why don't you Care? People will say, 'I'm busy', or 'I am just one person, what can I do?' or worse, 'Oh, it's not really that bad...we've survived worse things'. Then they marginalize you and make you feel that if you really express all of these 'gloomy' thoughts that you are some kind of a weirdo, an alarmist. Just another opininated wacko....now go away, 'the Steelers are about to meet the Patriots' and I've got $50.00 riding on this game.'
I hope that will still be a comfort when your employer pays you in rice noodles and a few paltry yuan, and you get on your bicycle and peddle to your government apartment to watch state sponsored football which by the way...is what you call soccer...
Where I've been...the buses are afraid to run.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Against the Grain
So, a couple of things. First of all, where have I been?
Well...I can't tell you the number of times I have written a truly great, possibly life-changing blog piece in my head on my drive home from work, only to have it dissolve sometime between eating dinner and zoning out in front of the television watching re-runs of 'The Big Bang Theory!
Secondly, I don't like the new Google Blogger format. I truly detest Google Chrome and I miss my big template area. I am one of 'those' people. You know, the ones that are frantically searching the net for discontinued products because they have separation 'issues'. I still haven't completely recovered from the loss of Clearly Canadian Loganberry flavored water sometime in the mid 1990's. In short, I intensely dislike change. You know how you develop a liking for a certain pen... You become attached to the heft of it, the way it feels against your fingers and the way the ink comes out properly and evenly. You live in fear of someone 'accidentally' picking it up and losing it. That's the way I felt about the previous 'Blogger' template, and frankly this new format makes me uneasy.
Here is one of those blog pieces that I mentally wrote somewhere between Lake Mary, Longwood and Winter Springs Florida:
As the aunt of several nieces and nephews, I've definitely been to a few youth sporting events in my day. Full disclosure is, having no children of my own, makes it less easy to come up with excuses as to why I can't come. I mean, I've gotten better at it, but there have been times where I've been forced to load up on vitamins, pack the car with bottles of water, sunscreen and spend the better part of a Saturday morning or afternoon watching kids play sports of some kind.
There is a kind of pleasure in being only a spectator and not actually a parent anxiously watching my progeny to be sure that they behave correctly and hoping against hope they will actually be a soccer, softball, basketball, or pee-wee football prodigy. Of course being related to this kid makes me hope that they won't disgrace the family name in anyway, but other than that, to use a British expression I love, 'I could give a toss!'
You can always tell the kids that are natural athletes by simply watching the demeanor of their parents, they're the relaxed ones, leisurely seated in low slung net lawn chairs with their bottle of water neatly held by the built in cup holder. Their whole expression seems to say, 'I am the mother or father of the next LeBron, Kobe, Beckham or Ronaldo and I know it!' They barely even seem to break a sweat in humid Florida summer weather.
Then there are the other parents... They're easy to spot. They are the ones who never actually sit down. They walk, they pace, stalking the sideline of the soccer field (or football pitch depending on where you come from) they are the ones hovering around the vestiges of the fence that divides the baseball diamond from the bleachers, eyes rolled back in their head, flecks of foam at the corner of their mouths shouting out encouragement and or abuse in equal quantities because their kid is...not...a natural athlete. They are the ones that fall apart when their kid is benched, the ones you see 'coaching' their kid on the walk from the parking lot to the field and then on the walk of shame back to the car at the end of the game.
Sometimes I wonder what actually goes on in their minds...Do they think that the kid will develop some kind of sporting prowess purely on the strength of their will for them to be athletes? I ponder what it is in our culture all of the sudden that has taken kids' activities from fun family leisure time to a breeding ground for the former NBA, NFL, or MLS stars of tomorrow. And don't even get me started on the scholarship hunters..
Some of these kids simply aren't cut out for it.
I know. I was, am one.
I guess the first stirrings that I didn't actually have any sort of hand eye coordination came when I was in the 5th grade and the kids began calling me 'weedwacker' when I came up to bat. I just never could make any sort of connection with the bat to the ball. When I was fourteen I developed a mania for tennis, how much of it was due to my crush on Andre Agassi is still a matter of conjecture, but I tried, oh Lord how I tried! I would force myself out on the court in 90 degree temperatures and practice serves over and over again until I became dizzy with heatstroke. But the fact remains, no matter how much I practiced, I just wasn't good. By comparison, my younger sister (one of the natural athlete types) would take my racket and hit stroke after stroke without error and she never even practiced!
The truth is, I was out of high school, and a young adult before I found my true passion. Looking back, I guess I was always going against the grain. I found the love of my 'recreational' life when I was eighteen. Finally ignoring the critics, realising that I was never going to fulfill the societal norms, I did something that I had always wanted to do. I stepped out onto a polished parquet floor in a pair of high-heeled shoes and for the first time in my life, my body did what I asked it to do when I asked it to do it. I didn't have to struggle like I always had with team sports, my feet just naturally seemed to feel and understand music. While it's a fact that you will always have to learn the rules and shibboleths of any sort of 'game' or skill, it's wonderful when you actually WANT to learn and feel that you can.
Ballroom dancing isn't exactly the easiest or most popular pursuit from a social standpoint. When I got my first 'real' office job and was allowed to decorate and put my own stamp on my work space, while the other ladies in my office decked their walls with racy photos of Brad Pitt and male Chippendale dancer calendars, I had a black and white photo of Fred Astaire in his top hat and tails on mine. I've never dated a male who actually would partner me in a dance. Many people outright laughed at me when I expressed my love for ballroom dance. I once mentioned to an office 'friend' that I was excited about the prospect of Ballroom becoming a Olympic sanctioned event, and she snorted derisively and said, "No way, won't happen!" "Believe me no one wants to sit around and watch ballroom dancing, it's as exciting as watching paint dry!" I have to admit experiencing the slightest bit of schadenfreude while watching 'Dancing with the Stars' dominate the TV ratings over the last few years. Apparently, many people enjoy watching ballroom dance just like I thought they would.
No, it's never easy going against the grain. But it's worth it. Not every kid can be an athlete, but everyone has a talent. I bet many of those kids taking the 'walk of shame' with their incensed parent back to the car after a lost game where they failed to be the athlete their parent demands they should be, are natural scientists, or future editors, fantastic chefs, artists, geniuses who can actually work with the sophisticated equipment on today's new automobiles. Some of them may even be ballroom dancers.
But none of them will know, if they aren't allowed to go against the grain. Which brings me to the third reason you haven't been seeing my blog as frequently.
I've been out ballroom dancing...
Well...I can't tell you the number of times I have written a truly great, possibly life-changing blog piece in my head on my drive home from work, only to have it dissolve sometime between eating dinner and zoning out in front of the television watching re-runs of 'The Big Bang Theory!
Secondly, I don't like the new Google Blogger format. I truly detest Google Chrome and I miss my big template area. I am one of 'those' people. You know, the ones that are frantically searching the net for discontinued products because they have separation 'issues'. I still haven't completely recovered from the loss of Clearly Canadian Loganberry flavored water sometime in the mid 1990's. In short, I intensely dislike change. You know how you develop a liking for a certain pen... You become attached to the heft of it, the way it feels against your fingers and the way the ink comes out properly and evenly. You live in fear of someone 'accidentally' picking it up and losing it. That's the way I felt about the previous 'Blogger' template, and frankly this new format makes me uneasy.
Here is one of those blog pieces that I mentally wrote somewhere between Lake Mary, Longwood and Winter Springs Florida:
As the aunt of several nieces and nephews, I've definitely been to a few youth sporting events in my day. Full disclosure is, having no children of my own, makes it less easy to come up with excuses as to why I can't come. I mean, I've gotten better at it, but there have been times where I've been forced to load up on vitamins, pack the car with bottles of water, sunscreen and spend the better part of a Saturday morning or afternoon watching kids play sports of some kind.
There is a kind of pleasure in being only a spectator and not actually a parent anxiously watching my progeny to be sure that they behave correctly and hoping against hope they will actually be a soccer, softball, basketball, or pee-wee football prodigy. Of course being related to this kid makes me hope that they won't disgrace the family name in anyway, but other than that, to use a British expression I love, 'I could give a toss!'
You can always tell the kids that are natural athletes by simply watching the demeanor of their parents, they're the relaxed ones, leisurely seated in low slung net lawn chairs with their bottle of water neatly held by the built in cup holder. Their whole expression seems to say, 'I am the mother or father of the next LeBron, Kobe, Beckham or Ronaldo and I know it!' They barely even seem to break a sweat in humid Florida summer weather.
Then there are the other parents... They're easy to spot. They are the ones who never actually sit down. They walk, they pace, stalking the sideline of the soccer field (or football pitch depending on where you come from) they are the ones hovering around the vestiges of the fence that divides the baseball diamond from the bleachers, eyes rolled back in their head, flecks of foam at the corner of their mouths shouting out encouragement and or abuse in equal quantities because their kid is...not...a natural athlete. They are the ones that fall apart when their kid is benched, the ones you see 'coaching' their kid on the walk from the parking lot to the field and then on the walk of shame back to the car at the end of the game.
Sometimes I wonder what actually goes on in their minds...Do they think that the kid will develop some kind of sporting prowess purely on the strength of their will for them to be athletes? I ponder what it is in our culture all of the sudden that has taken kids' activities from fun family leisure time to a breeding ground for the former NBA, NFL, or MLS stars of tomorrow. And don't even get me started on the scholarship hunters..
Some of these kids simply aren't cut out for it.
I know. I was, am one.
I guess the first stirrings that I didn't actually have any sort of hand eye coordination came when I was in the 5th grade and the kids began calling me 'weedwacker' when I came up to bat. I just never could make any sort of connection with the bat to the ball. When I was fourteen I developed a mania for tennis, how much of it was due to my crush on Andre Agassi is still a matter of conjecture, but I tried, oh Lord how I tried! I would force myself out on the court in 90 degree temperatures and practice serves over and over again until I became dizzy with heatstroke. But the fact remains, no matter how much I practiced, I just wasn't good. By comparison, my younger sister (one of the natural athlete types) would take my racket and hit stroke after stroke without error and she never even practiced!
The truth is, I was out of high school, and a young adult before I found my true passion. Looking back, I guess I was always going against the grain. I found the love of my 'recreational' life when I was eighteen. Finally ignoring the critics, realising that I was never going to fulfill the societal norms, I did something that I had always wanted to do. I stepped out onto a polished parquet floor in a pair of high-heeled shoes and for the first time in my life, my body did what I asked it to do when I asked it to do it. I didn't have to struggle like I always had with team sports, my feet just naturally seemed to feel and understand music. While it's a fact that you will always have to learn the rules and shibboleths of any sort of 'game' or skill, it's wonderful when you actually WANT to learn and feel that you can.
Ballroom dancing isn't exactly the easiest or most popular pursuit from a social standpoint. When I got my first 'real' office job and was allowed to decorate and put my own stamp on my work space, while the other ladies in my office decked their walls with racy photos of Brad Pitt and male Chippendale dancer calendars, I had a black and white photo of Fred Astaire in his top hat and tails on mine. I've never dated a male who actually would partner me in a dance. Many people outright laughed at me when I expressed my love for ballroom dance. I once mentioned to an office 'friend' that I was excited about the prospect of Ballroom becoming a Olympic sanctioned event, and she snorted derisively and said, "No way, won't happen!" "Believe me no one wants to sit around and watch ballroom dancing, it's as exciting as watching paint dry!" I have to admit experiencing the slightest bit of schadenfreude while watching 'Dancing with the Stars' dominate the TV ratings over the last few years. Apparently, many people enjoy watching ballroom dance just like I thought they would.
No, it's never easy going against the grain. But it's worth it. Not every kid can be an athlete, but everyone has a talent. I bet many of those kids taking the 'walk of shame' with their incensed parent back to the car after a lost game where they failed to be the athlete their parent demands they should be, are natural scientists, or future editors, fantastic chefs, artists, geniuses who can actually work with the sophisticated equipment on today's new automobiles. Some of them may even be ballroom dancers.
But none of them will know, if they aren't allowed to go against the grain. Which brings me to the third reason you haven't been seeing my blog as frequently.
I've been out ballroom dancing...
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Bob Dylan Can't Sing and Other Musings on Life
I have the flu. A really yucky life-sucking, strength-sapping kind of sick. The best analogy I can offer is when Michael J. 'Crocodile' Dundee's character explains to city-slicker Sue Charlton about the croc's attempt to take him down for a 'death roll'. I sort of feel like that, although instead of wrestling with an 8 foot reptile trying to drown me, I am dealing with invisible to the naked eye 'germs' who want to wrestle me down through fatigue, ache, a nose that runs like a sieve and a hacky cough that makes me sound like a lifetime pack-a-day smoker.
As a result of said flu, I've been forced to curtail my regular life and confined to my bed for several days. I don't do well an invalid. It's not like I don't enjoy being idle if reading a book, but for some reason sickness and book reading seem to be mutually exclusive, for one thing my eyes (okay my whole face) burn and water excessively, for another it's rather hard to hold a book while simultaneously clutching a box of Kleenex and lastly the explosive sneezing rather upsets my reading materials, not to mention my cats who tend to glare at me expressively while muttering some strange feline epithets as they scurry away from the 'blast zone'.
This and the fact that daytime TV is an abyss of spectacularly bad reality TV, prime-time missteps, and endless classic TV re-runs left me with a lot of time to do nothing other than be miserable and think. The following is sort of an extemporaneous collection of these thoughts. I offer this caveat, these are the musings of a diseased, distraught and extremely bored individual. Read at your own peril. I apologize for nothing:
1. Bob Dylan CANNOT Sing. I mean, think about it. Does anyone actually enjoy that nasally whining incoherent mumbling of lyrics? It's sort of like Stephen Hawking with a hair lip. I'll never deny that he isn't a fantastic songwriter, I just wish he would get someone else to sing.
2. Why is that when reminiscing about music, someone always has to get the upper hand in terms of age or lack thereof, for example I say, "Oh, I love Tears for Fears!' I remember Songs from the Big Chair came out I was in the 6th grade!" Whereupon my companion will invariably say, "Oh that's nothing, I was a junior in High School!" What's the one-upmanship angle here? Am I supposed to reply by saying, 'Man, you really ARE old!' How does that benefit either of us? The secondary aspect is when I say, "Oh wow, Bryan Adam's 'Everything I do" (atrocious Kevin Costner Robin Hood movie theme song) I remember I was working at First Federal, my first 'real' job when that came out!" To which my companion says, "Really, that was my kindergarten graduation song!" The implication here being that I AM old. Either way you look at it, someone is old or too young. People do yourself a favor and just say no to music reminisces, any way you slice it, it doesn't turn out well.
3. I've been in a decline ever since NBC finally cancelled Chuck. In what kind of sick twisted world do we live in, where a show like Chuck is sacrificed to television oblivion when 'Keeping Up With the Kardashians' goes into it's 800th season? I weep for the future of this country.
4. When I am creating a spreadsheet in Excel, why does the software constantly prompt me to ask, 'do I really want to do x, have I thought about y? I already know Microsoft is probably smarter than me, but does it have to be so blatant about it? And lastly, if I want to do x, I'm doing it! Even if it does mean that all my formulas will be corrupted with circular references that end up with the dreaded ? or No Value! To hell with x, I'm doing Y! Take that Microsoft! Yeah, I know...I'm sad.
5. American Pickers...(yeah, told you I had time on my hands) why is it that when the 'Pickers' go into some Deliverance-esque town, pull into the home of a red-neck Miss Havisham with the requisite El-Camino up on blocks and paw through the garage that time forgot of someone whose family tree definitely does not fork, upon finding the treasured item(s), 'Uncle Jed' who probably forgot that he even had his brother/uncle's 1948 'Sunoco' Service Station sign begins to act like one of the Keno brothers from Antiques Roadshow when they begin to haggle over price? For that matter, have the inhabitants of these residences no shame that they are dragging television crews through homes that could be on next week's all new episode of 'Hoarders'? Hmm...here's a thought, why don't they just combine the shows? Check out next week's all new episode where Mike Wolfe and Frank Fritz stumble over Miss Jessa's prized collection of 20,000 circa 1985 Domino's plastic tumblers featuring the 'Noid, or her 800-piece collection of 1977 era Tupperware. Mike and Frank could bargain with her intervention counselor over what kind of fee per hour of therapy they could negotiate in exchange for her 10,000 never-read paperback Harlequin romance novels.
6. Duck Dynasty, are we really that hard up for entertainment in this country we find it necessary to follow the exploits of a family that looks like they were plucked out of the extras cast of Coal Miner's Daughter as they find bone-headed ways to spend the million-dollar fortune made from the sale of duck calls? Also is there some kind of oath they've taken that expressly forbids the cutting or trimming of one's hair and or scrofulous beard?
7. Dallas is coming back to TV. Really? Wasn't there enough suspension of reality in 1985 when it was suggested that apparently Pam 'just dreamt' Bobby's death? To say nothing of resurrecting the cast of a show that went off the air in 1989 and highlights the exploits of Big Oil which thanks to the recession, the drilling moratorium courtesy of the Obama administration and the BP Gulf Oil disaster really isn't so 'Big' anymore. I don't see this becoming 'Must See' TV!
8. What has happened in our culture that suddenly we find eating from a 'Food Truck' so chic where just about 3-4 years ago, people who ate from 'roach coaches' or 'hot dog' stands were mostly blue collar workers and held in mild contempt for being too lazy to 'pack a lunch', are now being patronized by upwardly mobile Manhattanites clutching $4,000 titanium briefcases clad in Manolo Blahniks? How did this happen? Just wondering.
9. Having recently begun a program of 'healthy eating' and exercise myself, I've a theory people that have success in 'dieting' haven't been successful due to any great amount of willpower or self-denial, it's that they have become so bored by the 3-4 things you are actually encouraged to eat, they simply quit eating period. So true dieters aren't really skinny by choice, they've just given up on finding anything good to eat. For a true life example of this, see Victoria 'Posh Spice' Beckham.
10. Why does the cleaning crew at work insist on moving my wastepaper basket to a new location very day? Is it that they feel I'm too structured and need to break out of my rut? Or is it that they have learnt that the spot I replace it in every day is situated in just such a way that I know the exact trajectory my 80 cal granola bar wrapper has to travel in order for me to dunk it into the wastepaper basket without swiveling my chair and they are just messing with me? It's the things that make you go hmm...
Well kids, that's what I've mostly been thinking, sad but true. No lofty ideals on how to save the world or the planet or even the outcome of the next presidential election, but a sad mash-up of TV and culture musings. You can have contempt for me, you can argue with me, you can delete me, but I won't apologize or change my mind...
And now back to making sure that Kleenex and the pharmaceutical industries have a solid third quarter. Doing my part to aid the economic recovery (snicker)....
As a result of said flu, I've been forced to curtail my regular life and confined to my bed for several days. I don't do well an invalid. It's not like I don't enjoy being idle if reading a book, but for some reason sickness and book reading seem to be mutually exclusive, for one thing my eyes (okay my whole face) burn and water excessively, for another it's rather hard to hold a book while simultaneously clutching a box of Kleenex and lastly the explosive sneezing rather upsets my reading materials, not to mention my cats who tend to glare at me expressively while muttering some strange feline epithets as they scurry away from the 'blast zone'.
This and the fact that daytime TV is an abyss of spectacularly bad reality TV, prime-time missteps, and endless classic TV re-runs left me with a lot of time to do nothing other than be miserable and think. The following is sort of an extemporaneous collection of these thoughts. I offer this caveat, these are the musings of a diseased, distraught and extremely bored individual. Read at your own peril. I apologize for nothing:
1. Bob Dylan CANNOT Sing. I mean, think about it. Does anyone actually enjoy that nasally whining incoherent mumbling of lyrics? It's sort of like Stephen Hawking with a hair lip. I'll never deny that he isn't a fantastic songwriter, I just wish he would get someone else to sing.
2. Why is that when reminiscing about music, someone always has to get the upper hand in terms of age or lack thereof, for example I say, "Oh, I love Tears for Fears!' I remember Songs from the Big Chair came out I was in the 6th grade!" Whereupon my companion will invariably say, "Oh that's nothing, I was a junior in High School!" What's the one-upmanship angle here? Am I supposed to reply by saying, 'Man, you really ARE old!' How does that benefit either of us? The secondary aspect is when I say, "Oh wow, Bryan Adam's 'Everything I do" (atrocious Kevin Costner Robin Hood movie theme song) I remember I was working at First Federal, my first 'real' job when that came out!" To which my companion says, "Really, that was my kindergarten graduation song!" The implication here being that I AM old. Either way you look at it, someone is old or too young. People do yourself a favor and just say no to music reminisces, any way you slice it, it doesn't turn out well.
3. I've been in a decline ever since NBC finally cancelled Chuck. In what kind of sick twisted world do we live in, where a show like Chuck is sacrificed to television oblivion when 'Keeping Up With the Kardashians' goes into it's 800th season? I weep for the future of this country.
4. When I am creating a spreadsheet in Excel, why does the software constantly prompt me to ask, 'do I really want to do x, have I thought about y? I already know Microsoft is probably smarter than me, but does it have to be so blatant about it? And lastly, if I want to do x, I'm doing it! Even if it does mean that all my formulas will be corrupted with circular references that end up with the dreaded ? or No Value! To hell with x, I'm doing Y! Take that Microsoft! Yeah, I know...I'm sad.
5. American Pickers...(yeah, told you I had time on my hands) why is it that when the 'Pickers' go into some Deliverance-esque town, pull into the home of a red-neck Miss Havisham with the requisite El-Camino up on blocks and paw through the garage that time forgot of someone whose family tree definitely does not fork, upon finding the treasured item(s), 'Uncle Jed' who probably forgot that he even had his brother/uncle's 1948 'Sunoco' Service Station sign begins to act like one of the Keno brothers from Antiques Roadshow when they begin to haggle over price? For that matter, have the inhabitants of these residences no shame that they are dragging television crews through homes that could be on next week's all new episode of 'Hoarders'? Hmm...here's a thought, why don't they just combine the shows? Check out next week's all new episode where Mike Wolfe and Frank Fritz stumble over Miss Jessa's prized collection of 20,000 circa 1985 Domino's plastic tumblers featuring the 'Noid, or her 800-piece collection of 1977 era Tupperware. Mike and Frank could bargain with her intervention counselor over what kind of fee per hour of therapy they could negotiate in exchange for her 10,000 never-read paperback Harlequin romance novels.
6. Duck Dynasty, are we really that hard up for entertainment in this country we find it necessary to follow the exploits of a family that looks like they were plucked out of the extras cast of Coal Miner's Daughter as they find bone-headed ways to spend the million-dollar fortune made from the sale of duck calls? Also is there some kind of oath they've taken that expressly forbids the cutting or trimming of one's hair and or scrofulous beard?
7. Dallas is coming back to TV. Really? Wasn't there enough suspension of reality in 1985 when it was suggested that apparently Pam 'just dreamt' Bobby's death? To say nothing of resurrecting the cast of a show that went off the air in 1989 and highlights the exploits of Big Oil which thanks to the recession, the drilling moratorium courtesy of the Obama administration and the BP Gulf Oil disaster really isn't so 'Big' anymore. I don't see this becoming 'Must See' TV!
8. What has happened in our culture that suddenly we find eating from a 'Food Truck' so chic where just about 3-4 years ago, people who ate from 'roach coaches' or 'hot dog' stands were mostly blue collar workers and held in mild contempt for being too lazy to 'pack a lunch', are now being patronized by upwardly mobile Manhattanites clutching $4,000 titanium briefcases clad in Manolo Blahniks? How did this happen? Just wondering.
9. Having recently begun a program of 'healthy eating' and exercise myself, I've a theory people that have success in 'dieting' haven't been successful due to any great amount of willpower or self-denial, it's that they have become so bored by the 3-4 things you are actually encouraged to eat, they simply quit eating period. So true dieters aren't really skinny by choice, they've just given up on finding anything good to eat. For a true life example of this, see Victoria 'Posh Spice' Beckham.
10. Why does the cleaning crew at work insist on moving my wastepaper basket to a new location very day? Is it that they feel I'm too structured and need to break out of my rut? Or is it that they have learnt that the spot I replace it in every day is situated in just such a way that I know the exact trajectory my 80 cal granola bar wrapper has to travel in order for me to dunk it into the wastepaper basket without swiveling my chair and they are just messing with me? It's the things that make you go hmm...
Well kids, that's what I've mostly been thinking, sad but true. No lofty ideals on how to save the world or the planet or even the outcome of the next presidential election, but a sad mash-up of TV and culture musings. You can have contempt for me, you can argue with me, you can delete me, but I won't apologize or change my mind...
And now back to making sure that Kleenex and the pharmaceutical industries have a solid third quarter. Doing my part to aid the economic recovery (snicker)....
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Welcome to the Jungle
Yes, it's really me. I'm back. What can I say except a full-time job, my very own box set of 'Thin Man' movies and Downton Abbey have kept me quite busy.
And well....sometimes I'm just lazy...there is that.
For any of you who actually have familiarity with my blog, you know that a lot of the impetus for my writing comes as a result of being a Gen X'er in this present world, this economy, the realities of life in post-prosperity America. On that front, I do have some good and some not so good news. The good news is that my contract has been renewed for another 6 months, and the bad news is that my company still isn't really hiring. I have a job of sorts, as long as I don't mind having no vacation, no medical coverage and that when the office closes for holidays, while a day off for them means a holiday with pay, a holiday for me means a forced day off with no compensation. The new reality is just being glad you have a job at all. And the truth is, sometimes the justice-seeking part of me burns with resentment when I am frequently reminded by others of that very fact when I dare to wish that I could actually have a real vacation, or dental work or the just the right to have a real email address, not just jane.doe@noncompanyIworkfor.us.companyIworkfor.com, which shows up on emails as JaneDoe/noncompanyIworkforbutamnotreallyoneofthem.com. I am oh-so-glibly chastened, 'just be glad you have a job at all'.
Corporate life or as I think of it, 'navigating the cubicle jungle' is still somewhat of a new experience to me. Until this assignment, I nearly always worked in a one-man office reporting directly to my 'boss' who frequently was the owner, supervisor, manager, CEO and Jedi-Master all in one. There are myriad things that surprise, perplex or just plain exasperate me.
Take meetings. In my former life meetings were terse 20-30 minute affairs where I sat at a tiny table with the boss and compared notes. Meetings at 'NoncompanyIworkforbutamnotreallyoneofthem' are lengthy 2-3 hour affairs held in chilly conference rooms with long wide tables and tall-backed chairs. It's very much like a meeting of the 'Justice League' but instead of Superman, WonderWoman, Batman, Robin, Aquaman, and the Green Hornet, you have Managerman, MiddleManagementSupervisorMan, UptightEngineerman, LaidBackEngineeringSupervisorGuy, BrilliantButComplexEngineerman, ResignedLookingCustomerServiceRep, HyperActiveMarketingMan, QualityControlManagerman and Secretarygirl (that would be yours truly). There are Powerpoint presentations instead of holographs of evil henchmen, but it's mostly the same principle, we are all supposedly fighting against evil, in our case the crime of improperly constructed electrical equipment. One of these 'conference rooms' it's shiny nameplate next to the door tells us, is 'The War Room', no really, I'm not kidding. Some of them have kitschy titles with management-lingo principles, 'Synergy', 'Apex'. When I breeze by them on my way to the break room or in pursuit of some type of errand, I tend to think of the parking lots at Disney World and the trams with unholy cheerful Disney staffers exhorting us to "Watch our step as we depart if we are parked in Goofy, or Sleepy or Doc".
"As you depart, please mind the door 'NoncompanyIworkforbutamnotreallyoneofthem' staffers as you exit 'Fusion' bound for 'Break Room', 'Factory Floor' or 'Cubicle Lane 30', okay, we're clear!"
It's a weird world, of people wedged into cubicle offices tensely staring at spreadsheets on screens, there's a whole cosmology of office workers I never dreamed existed until now. The aftermarket parts unit are such a tighly woven group, they all go to get coffee at one time, reminding me of 'lining up to go to P.E. class circa 1983'. It's stunningly like school in that there are cliques even though these are adult workers, some middle aged. You have project engineers which I tend to classify as PPO's, or 'perpetually pissed off'. Phrases frequently uttered by these creatures are generally something along the lines of, and I quote, "I don't give a @#$% how it gets there as long as it gets there BY THE END OF THE WEEK!" They are always fond of using the phrase 'bottom line' and get some sort of sadistic pleasure in berating underlings by asking them over and over and over again, "NOW do you understand". This guy tends to walk with incredibly tight hunched over shoulders, a frown and a furrowed brow. This is not the guy you want to try and make small talk with while waiting your turn at the coffee machine. This next group I want to preface by saying it is not in the least intended as racial, 'The Incredibly Pretty Hispanic Woman's Group', you can't hang with them if you don't own a pair of 8" stillettos, gold hoop earrings and speak fluent Spanglish. They tend to eat lots of salad, I haven't quite worked out why, but I think the principle is something along the lines of if you have to balance all of your body weight on a 8 inch spike, you don't want to be top-heavy.
Guy on the other side of my cubicle could have his own lonely hearts column, his cube is a haven for people who are having relational or childcare problems. Until now, I never knew what gossips' men are or that they nearly equal women in the drama-queen race. Many times while being forced to endure (that's the thing about cubes, the acoustics are incredible which is why there are no real secrets in offices unless someone's jaw is wired shut) 30 record-breaking minutes of whinging and whining about 'his girlfriend who doesn't understand _________fill in the blank'; I feel like vaulting over the cube wall, slapping his face (a'la Cher in 'Moonstruck') and shouting, "Man up, Nancy!"
I guess that's the thing about office life, it's the quirky stuff that helps us endure a life where cubicles are so plentiful, you nearly need street signs. I personally live on the 'Island of Lost Toys Boulevard' a block away from 'Tech Avenue' and two blocks up from "PPO Lane'. A place where you need a compass to navigate your way to the printer at which your prints invariably are jammed or are not waiting at all as the machine impatiently beeps at you as if to say, 'Hey man, I am sooo out of paper!'. Maybe it explains why two ladies a block over on Tech Avenue feel the need to rehash 'The Bachelor', 'Jersey Shore' and 'Dancing with the Stars' in such loud excruiating detail. Or why some days when guy in the cube directly across from mine types so softly, it seems as if he is just 'tickling' the keys that I become so annoyed I 'retaliate' by banging the keys on mine as as loudly as I can possibly manage.
At any rate, it's never boring. On one of my very first Justice League meetings, guy in the chair across from me, actually dropped off and began snoring, softly yes, but definitely snoring. I was speechless with worry and kept wishing I could nudge him or something. I was stupified at the fact that everyone in the meeting was engrossed in his or her Crackberry/I-Phone/Droid device or tapping away on a laptop. Even more perplexing was the intricate game of musical chairs that seemed to be constantly running as 1 or 2 persons would just simply walk out of the meeting to 'take a call'. It reminded me very much of the Mad Teaparty in Alice in Wonderland. I kept waiting for someone to shout out, "Off with his/her head". Fast forward six months and if the Plant Manager himself walked in dressed as the White Queen, I probably wouldn't even look up from my laptop.
Yep, life in the cubicle jungle...what a strange, strange trip it has been.
Welcome to the Jungle Indeed.
And well....sometimes I'm just lazy...there is that.
For any of you who actually have familiarity with my blog, you know that a lot of the impetus for my writing comes as a result of being a Gen X'er in this present world, this economy, the realities of life in post-prosperity America. On that front, I do have some good and some not so good news. The good news is that my contract has been renewed for another 6 months, and the bad news is that my company still isn't really hiring. I have a job of sorts, as long as I don't mind having no vacation, no medical coverage and that when the office closes for holidays, while a day off for them means a holiday with pay, a holiday for me means a forced day off with no compensation. The new reality is just being glad you have a job at all. And the truth is, sometimes the justice-seeking part of me burns with resentment when I am frequently reminded by others of that very fact when I dare to wish that I could actually have a real vacation, or dental work or the just the right to have a real email address, not just jane.doe@noncompanyIworkfor.us.companyIworkfor.com, which shows up on emails as JaneDoe/noncompanyIworkforbutamnotreallyoneofthem.com. I am oh-so-glibly chastened, 'just be glad you have a job at all'.
Corporate life or as I think of it, 'navigating the cubicle jungle' is still somewhat of a new experience to me. Until this assignment, I nearly always worked in a one-man office reporting directly to my 'boss' who frequently was the owner, supervisor, manager, CEO and Jedi-Master all in one. There are myriad things that surprise, perplex or just plain exasperate me.
Take meetings. In my former life meetings were terse 20-30 minute affairs where I sat at a tiny table with the boss and compared notes. Meetings at 'NoncompanyIworkforbutamnotreallyoneofthem' are lengthy 2-3 hour affairs held in chilly conference rooms with long wide tables and tall-backed chairs. It's very much like a meeting of the 'Justice League' but instead of Superman, WonderWoman, Batman, Robin, Aquaman, and the Green Hornet, you have Managerman, MiddleManagementSupervisorMan, UptightEngineerman, LaidBackEngineeringSupervisorGuy, BrilliantButComplexEngineerman, ResignedLookingCustomerServiceRep, HyperActiveMarketingMan, QualityControlManagerman and Secretarygirl (that would be yours truly). There are Powerpoint presentations instead of holographs of evil henchmen, but it's mostly the same principle, we are all supposedly fighting against evil, in our case the crime of improperly constructed electrical equipment. One of these 'conference rooms' it's shiny nameplate next to the door tells us, is 'The War Room', no really, I'm not kidding. Some of them have kitschy titles with management-lingo principles, 'Synergy', 'Apex'. When I breeze by them on my way to the break room or in pursuit of some type of errand, I tend to think of the parking lots at Disney World and the trams with unholy cheerful Disney staffers exhorting us to "Watch our step as we depart if we are parked in Goofy, or Sleepy or Doc".
"As you depart, please mind the door 'NoncompanyIworkforbutamnotreallyoneofthem' staffers as you exit 'Fusion' bound for 'Break Room', 'Factory Floor' or 'Cubicle Lane 30', okay, we're clear!"
It's a weird world, of people wedged into cubicle offices tensely staring at spreadsheets on screens, there's a whole cosmology of office workers I never dreamed existed until now. The aftermarket parts unit are such a tighly woven group, they all go to get coffee at one time, reminding me of 'lining up to go to P.E. class circa 1983'. It's stunningly like school in that there are cliques even though these are adult workers, some middle aged. You have project engineers which I tend to classify as PPO's, or 'perpetually pissed off'. Phrases frequently uttered by these creatures are generally something along the lines of, and I quote, "I don't give a @#$% how it gets there as long as it gets there BY THE END OF THE WEEK!" They are always fond of using the phrase 'bottom line' and get some sort of sadistic pleasure in berating underlings by asking them over and over and over again, "NOW do you understand". This guy tends to walk with incredibly tight hunched over shoulders, a frown and a furrowed brow. This is not the guy you want to try and make small talk with while waiting your turn at the coffee machine. This next group I want to preface by saying it is not in the least intended as racial, 'The Incredibly Pretty Hispanic Woman's Group', you can't hang with them if you don't own a pair of 8" stillettos, gold hoop earrings and speak fluent Spanglish. They tend to eat lots of salad, I haven't quite worked out why, but I think the principle is something along the lines of if you have to balance all of your body weight on a 8 inch spike, you don't want to be top-heavy.
Guy on the other side of my cubicle could have his own lonely hearts column, his cube is a haven for people who are having relational or childcare problems. Until now, I never knew what gossips' men are or that they nearly equal women in the drama-queen race. Many times while being forced to endure (that's the thing about cubes, the acoustics are incredible which is why there are no real secrets in offices unless someone's jaw is wired shut) 30 record-breaking minutes of whinging and whining about 'his girlfriend who doesn't understand _________fill in the blank'; I feel like vaulting over the cube wall, slapping his face (a'la Cher in 'Moonstruck') and shouting, "Man up, Nancy!"
I guess that's the thing about office life, it's the quirky stuff that helps us endure a life where cubicles are so plentiful, you nearly need street signs. I personally live on the 'Island of Lost Toys Boulevard' a block away from 'Tech Avenue' and two blocks up from "PPO Lane'. A place where you need a compass to navigate your way to the printer at which your prints invariably are jammed or are not waiting at all as the machine impatiently beeps at you as if to say, 'Hey man, I am sooo out of paper!'. Maybe it explains why two ladies a block over on Tech Avenue feel the need to rehash 'The Bachelor', 'Jersey Shore' and 'Dancing with the Stars' in such loud excruiating detail. Or why some days when guy in the cube directly across from mine types so softly, it seems as if he is just 'tickling' the keys that I become so annoyed I 'retaliate' by banging the keys on mine as as loudly as I can possibly manage.
At any rate, it's never boring. On one of my very first Justice League meetings, guy in the chair across from me, actually dropped off and began snoring, softly yes, but definitely snoring. I was speechless with worry and kept wishing I could nudge him or something. I was stupified at the fact that everyone in the meeting was engrossed in his or her Crackberry/I-Phone/Droid device or tapping away on a laptop. Even more perplexing was the intricate game of musical chairs that seemed to be constantly running as 1 or 2 persons would just simply walk out of the meeting to 'take a call'. It reminded me very much of the Mad Teaparty in Alice in Wonderland. I kept waiting for someone to shout out, "Off with his/her head". Fast forward six months and if the Plant Manager himself walked in dressed as the White Queen, I probably wouldn't even look up from my laptop.
Yep, life in the cubicle jungle...what a strange, strange trip it has been.
Welcome to the Jungle Indeed.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Scenes from Boston Market
I live a great deal in my own head. Writers (and I use this term loosely when applying it to myself) in general tend to have a voluble inner monologue. Sometimes it can drive you a bit loopy. Unlike some, I tend to spend a lot of time in my own company. I'm not really sure if it's by choice or if it is purely happenstance. Rather than jib at it as I've done in the past, I've lately come to embrace it. My pocketbook is littered with scraps of paper where sometimes I've been so struck by an idea or thought that nothing would satisfy but to seize a pen and commit my thoughts to paper.
The following is kind of a stream of conscious monologue that occurred when I was recently dining at a Boston Market. To set the scene, it was a Friday around noon...on an overcast and terribly humid day in a town in Central Florida, but it could have been any Boston Market in any state with their generic decor and utilitarian tiled floor.
I enter and right away I'm struck by the noise level, it's doubly loud because of the tile. Every scrape of a fork against a plate, every kid whining, every abrasive clash of a chair being pulled back or banged against a table is amplified by an intensity of about 4-5 decibels. The smell of chicken is immediate, rich and seductive, and I can see the crispy golden skin of the chickens glistening reddish-gold in the light of the slowly turning rotisserie and feel myself salivate. Mind immediately goes to Newman (Helllooo Newman!!) and his unholy love of Kenny Roger's Roasters offerings and all of the sudden I am picturing Kramer with his chicken body and Cosmo face with the crazy hair and I stifle a giggle as I approach the 'Chef'. Probably not a chef at all but some kid who did not object to wearing a hairnet in public and seemed to be able to handle a knife without cutting himself as often as the last kid they hired who left for a better paying gig at Chili's. He takes my smiling face as a good sign of a customer who for once is going to be easy to please. He has no idea that on the inside of that face is a loony who's trying to keep a straight face while re-running past episodes of Seinfeld in her head. The moment comes when he asks me, 'What'll you have?' Here's the thing, ever since, well ..about birth I have been afflicted with chronic indecision and have while in line changed my mind about eight times, which is ironic because I ALWAYS end up getting the same thing, 1/4 dark, mashed potatoes, and corn. I have the calorie count committed to memory, it's in my budget, add in the complimentary cornbread and it's more than enough food. Which makes it doubly perplexing as to why, when, with the moment upon me under pressure and feeling myself begin to perspire, I blurt out, "the special!". Here's the other thing, growing up in a household such as mine, with money a constant concern and raised to always seek out a bargain, if there is some kind of special, even if it's something I don't particularly want, I take the special just to prove how very economical and frugal I can be. Unfortunately this time, the special is actually half a rotissierie chicken, HALF!, with two sides. Terrific. I can actually feel my hips increasing in circumference as I watch my mashed potatoes and corn being ladled on the plate. Just watching the process I begin to lose my appetite. I start to wish I was Adam Richman who is very well-compensated by the Travel Channel to ingest more food than is good for him. Or anyone for that matter.
My plate is passed down the line and as I am about to approach the cash register, I see that the guy ahead of me, has ordered the meat loaf and is in serious consideration over whether or not to order dessert. Meat Loaf. One ironclad rule that I stick to and which has served me well in life is that, unless I or possibly my Mother has concocted said loaf, I ain't eatin it! For a few reasons, with the chicken, I can actually see it roasting, being prepared, watch them hanging the chickens on the spits. No such luck with the meat loaf. You can't smell the ground beef, check the grade, the fat to meat ratio or see how much filler and what is in the filler. Lastly, I always have inward wariness over anything that has the term loaf or perhaps log attached to it. Finally guy ahead of me decides against dessert. Somewhere for no apparent reason, Michele Obama finds herself smiling. Chalk one up for the healthy eating lobby!
Lady behind me, who has been in a tizzy for the last five minutes over the fact that she doesn't see the vegetable plate on the menu boards is anxiously quizzing her longsuffering friend. "Oh gosh Margo, do you think they don't have it anymore, did they discontinue it!" Friend tries to reassure her in an attempt to keep her from diving out the nearby drive thru window and impaling herself on a Hyundai. Finally they reach "Chef" who when asking them 'What'll they have', says "Oh sure ma'am, the vegetable plate is number 13 now", and then asks her friend after ordering the 1/4 white, 'wouldn't she rather have the special which is a half rotisserie with two vegetables for the same price?' "Oh no, she says, "that's way too much food" Skinny Bitch!
I reach the cash register, quickly decline the dessert to show indecisive guy how easy the decision actually is, and then reach the next moment of panic that Boston Market now bestows on their patrons. In an attempt to change their image somewhat as less of a 'fast food' place and more of a 'restaurant', they now ask you 'where you want to sit' and than walk your plastic-ette plate to the table for you. You then get to watch your plate of food cooling on the table while you queue to fill up your own drink at the soda fountain/lemonade/ice-tea urn/cold water station. It's a head-scratching moment. I'm always wondering why A. they don't trust me to carry my own plate (of course if they knew me in some of my more accident-prone moments, it would make perfect sense) and B. if they take some kind of perverse pleasure in watching us try to decide where to sit while under pressure. After finally deciding on my own table arrangements which saw me just narrowly miss out on a booth, because by the time the family who looked in the process of leaving finally gathered up their cretinous whining children and the harried-looking dining room worker was able to scrape the 4 layers of greasy chicken and congealed macaroni and cheese off the seats, I'd already panicked and directed my plate-carrier to a rickety table with one chair leg that was missing a 'foot' and consequently rocked the whole time giving me a slightly vertigo-type feeling. I wasn't the only one to feel this way, as I navigated my Rock of Gibraltar sized portion of chicken trying to avoid the skin, I amused myself watching other patrons and the look of panic that seized their facial features when being asked where they wanted to sit.
About halfway through the meal or about halfway before I decided to finally give up on the glacier-sized amount of food on my plate (damn special!) an older man came in through the front door and I guess being a semi-regular and knowing the procedure he was about to undergo decided to cut through the bureaucracy and before getting in line came into the dining area and laid his umbrella down on the table next to mine to 'keep his place'. It put me in mind of a tom cat staking out his territory by spraying urine. He further reinforced the randy tom cat image by looking me over several times lecherously. Let's just say his eyes never met my face. I begin to wonder what it is about some old men who just when I've begun to rethink the whole stereotype and decide that it's just an old wives tale and doesn't happen anymore, have to come by and blow everything to smithereens. Not being afflicted with indecision, he straightaway orders the meatloaf and furthermore he elects the chocolate cake for dessert. Somewhere from the vicinity of the White House living quarters, the sounds of sobbing are heard. He comes over, slams the cake in it's plastic container down next to the umbrella and then a few moments later comes back bearing a large plastic cup of Coke. His plate carrier follows meekly and sets down his meat loaf. I give my entire attention to my plate of chicken, not wanting to show him the slightest glimmer of interest lest he speak to me. I absorb myself in the contemplation of my lunch as if it was the most scintillating companion I've ever known. Then lecherous old man begins to cough and choke after one mouthful of food, then after the second bite and the third bite and on and on.
As a compassionate fellow human being, I dare a quick glance in his direction, praying with all of my might that he isn't choking to death and in need of the Heimlich Maneuver because the thought of having to give this dirty old man mouth to mouth is absolutely appalling to me. Phew! No he's fine but still coughs and hacks through and after nearly every mouthful. All of the sudden, the humor of the situation gets to me, the screwy chair, Skinny Bitch and Margo daintily eating chicken and vegetables, lecherous old man literally choking down his lunch, "Chef" cawing 'what'll you have' to every blasted customer and trying to hawk the special, the guy in the corner table who talks enthusiastically with a drumstick in each hand using them as batons to drive home his point, panic-ridden customers being put on the spot as to what table they want to sit at, the mountain of food on my plate and I start laughing out loud.
The following is kind of a stream of conscious monologue that occurred when I was recently dining at a Boston Market. To set the scene, it was a Friday around noon...on an overcast and terribly humid day in a town in Central Florida, but it could have been any Boston Market in any state with their generic decor and utilitarian tiled floor.
I enter and right away I'm struck by the noise level, it's doubly loud because of the tile. Every scrape of a fork against a plate, every kid whining, every abrasive clash of a chair being pulled back or banged against a table is amplified by an intensity of about 4-5 decibels. The smell of chicken is immediate, rich and seductive, and I can see the crispy golden skin of the chickens glistening reddish-gold in the light of the slowly turning rotisserie and feel myself salivate. Mind immediately goes to Newman (Helllooo Newman!!) and his unholy love of Kenny Roger's Roasters offerings and all of the sudden I am picturing Kramer with his chicken body and Cosmo face with the crazy hair and I stifle a giggle as I approach the 'Chef'. Probably not a chef at all but some kid who did not object to wearing a hairnet in public and seemed to be able to handle a knife without cutting himself as often as the last kid they hired who left for a better paying gig at Chili's. He takes my smiling face as a good sign of a customer who for once is going to be easy to please. He has no idea that on the inside of that face is a loony who's trying to keep a straight face while re-running past episodes of Seinfeld in her head. The moment comes when he asks me, 'What'll you have?' Here's the thing, ever since, well ..about birth I have been afflicted with chronic indecision and have while in line changed my mind about eight times, which is ironic because I ALWAYS end up getting the same thing, 1/4 dark, mashed potatoes, and corn. I have the calorie count committed to memory, it's in my budget, add in the complimentary cornbread and it's more than enough food. Which makes it doubly perplexing as to why, when, with the moment upon me under pressure and feeling myself begin to perspire, I blurt out, "the special!". Here's the other thing, growing up in a household such as mine, with money a constant concern and raised to always seek out a bargain, if there is some kind of special, even if it's something I don't particularly want, I take the special just to prove how very economical and frugal I can be. Unfortunately this time, the special is actually half a rotissierie chicken, HALF!, with two sides. Terrific. I can actually feel my hips increasing in circumference as I watch my mashed potatoes and corn being ladled on the plate. Just watching the process I begin to lose my appetite. I start to wish I was Adam Richman who is very well-compensated by the Travel Channel to ingest more food than is good for him. Or anyone for that matter.
My plate is passed down the line and as I am about to approach the cash register, I see that the guy ahead of me, has ordered the meat loaf and is in serious consideration over whether or not to order dessert. Meat Loaf. One ironclad rule that I stick to and which has served me well in life is that, unless I or possibly my Mother has concocted said loaf, I ain't eatin it! For a few reasons, with the chicken, I can actually see it roasting, being prepared, watch them hanging the chickens on the spits. No such luck with the meat loaf. You can't smell the ground beef, check the grade, the fat to meat ratio or see how much filler and what is in the filler. Lastly, I always have inward wariness over anything that has the term loaf or perhaps log attached to it. Finally guy ahead of me decides against dessert. Somewhere for no apparent reason, Michele Obama finds herself smiling. Chalk one up for the healthy eating lobby!
Lady behind me, who has been in a tizzy for the last five minutes over the fact that she doesn't see the vegetable plate on the menu boards is anxiously quizzing her longsuffering friend. "Oh gosh Margo, do you think they don't have it anymore, did they discontinue it!" Friend tries to reassure her in an attempt to keep her from diving out the nearby drive thru window and impaling herself on a Hyundai. Finally they reach "Chef" who when asking them 'What'll they have', says "Oh sure ma'am, the vegetable plate is number 13 now", and then asks her friend after ordering the 1/4 white, 'wouldn't she rather have the special which is a half rotisserie with two vegetables for the same price?' "Oh no, she says, "that's way too much food" Skinny Bitch!
I reach the cash register, quickly decline the dessert to show indecisive guy how easy the decision actually is, and then reach the next moment of panic that Boston Market now bestows on their patrons. In an attempt to change their image somewhat as less of a 'fast food' place and more of a 'restaurant', they now ask you 'where you want to sit' and than walk your plastic-ette plate to the table for you. You then get to watch your plate of food cooling on the table while you queue to fill up your own drink at the soda fountain/lemonade/ice-tea urn/cold water station. It's a head-scratching moment. I'm always wondering why A. they don't trust me to carry my own plate (of course if they knew me in some of my more accident-prone moments, it would make perfect sense) and B. if they take some kind of perverse pleasure in watching us try to decide where to sit while under pressure. After finally deciding on my own table arrangements which saw me just narrowly miss out on a booth, because by the time the family who looked in the process of leaving finally gathered up their cretinous whining children and the harried-looking dining room worker was able to scrape the 4 layers of greasy chicken and congealed macaroni and cheese off the seats, I'd already panicked and directed my plate-carrier to a rickety table with one chair leg that was missing a 'foot' and consequently rocked the whole time giving me a slightly vertigo-type feeling. I wasn't the only one to feel this way, as I navigated my Rock of Gibraltar sized portion of chicken trying to avoid the skin, I amused myself watching other patrons and the look of panic that seized their facial features when being asked where they wanted to sit.
About halfway through the meal or about halfway before I decided to finally give up on the glacier-sized amount of food on my plate (damn special!) an older man came in through the front door and I guess being a semi-regular and knowing the procedure he was about to undergo decided to cut through the bureaucracy and before getting in line came into the dining area and laid his umbrella down on the table next to mine to 'keep his place'. It put me in mind of a tom cat staking out his territory by spraying urine. He further reinforced the randy tom cat image by looking me over several times lecherously. Let's just say his eyes never met my face. I begin to wonder what it is about some old men who just when I've begun to rethink the whole stereotype and decide that it's just an old wives tale and doesn't happen anymore, have to come by and blow everything to smithereens. Not being afflicted with indecision, he straightaway orders the meatloaf and furthermore he elects the chocolate cake for dessert. Somewhere from the vicinity of the White House living quarters, the sounds of sobbing are heard. He comes over, slams the cake in it's plastic container down next to the umbrella and then a few moments later comes back bearing a large plastic cup of Coke. His plate carrier follows meekly and sets down his meat loaf. I give my entire attention to my plate of chicken, not wanting to show him the slightest glimmer of interest lest he speak to me. I absorb myself in the contemplation of my lunch as if it was the most scintillating companion I've ever known. Then lecherous old man begins to cough and choke after one mouthful of food, then after the second bite and the third bite and on and on.
As a compassionate fellow human being, I dare a quick glance in his direction, praying with all of my might that he isn't choking to death and in need of the Heimlich Maneuver because the thought of having to give this dirty old man mouth to mouth is absolutely appalling to me. Phew! No he's fine but still coughs and hacks through and after nearly every mouthful. All of the sudden, the humor of the situation gets to me, the screwy chair, Skinny Bitch and Margo daintily eating chicken and vegetables, lecherous old man literally choking down his lunch, "Chef" cawing 'what'll you have' to every blasted customer and trying to hawk the special, the guy in the corner table who talks enthusiastically with a drumstick in each hand using them as batons to drive home his point, panic-ridden customers being put on the spot as to what table they want to sit at, the mountain of food on my plate and I start laughing out loud.
Sometimes when I get the giggles I just can't pull myself together. Every attempt to divert my thoughts in another direction just seems to make me laugh harder. People are beginning to stare and so I take out my pen and a scrap of receipt from my pocketbook and once more begin the process of committing this day to memory. Doing so, it reassures me that even in the rough times, the crazy moments of life are still worth savoring.
Some day when I'm sitting in my cubicle office, untangling and analyzing lines and lines of meaningless data, I think back to this day, to this moment in time and again I laugh remembering that it's not the big things in life, it's the moments captured in time and savored that matter.
Some day when I'm sitting in my cubicle office, untangling and analyzing lines and lines of meaningless data, I think back to this day, to this moment in time and again I laugh remembering that it's not the big things in life, it's the moments captured in time and savored that matter.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Musical Identity Crisis
I admit it, I'm a bit stuck in the past. It's been mentioned to me. And sometimes in less than kind phrases, a few come to mind, 'prematurely middle-aged', 'you, you were born old and you're gonna die old', (this salvo was lobbed at me by my younger sister in the midst of a fight over, if I'm not mistaken, possession of the CD player) and the ever-popular, if predictable, 'you live too much in the past'.
In answer to my critics, I was perusing an article today that listed current Grammy nominees and predictions for the winners in each category and as opposed to the Oscar Nominees which with the sounds of tumbleweeds and crickets in my head I blanked on every movie and several of the actors. Conversely, I knew many, if not nearly all of the nominees for this years Grammy's.
There is the utterly divine chanteuse, Adele, which, well...words fail me to describe her stellar vocals that have an undercurrent of pathos and pain that hasn't been seen since possibly Janis Joplin. Who, distressingly, I've never liked. Joplins' singing always made me feel sort of itchy and uncomfortable, it was nails on a chalkboard, sandpaper, cat's tongues. It made me think of rashy sore throats. In country there is the refreshingly natural vocal band 'The Band Perry' two brothers Neil, Reid and their hit-song writing lead singer sister Kimberly. Their music is easy on the ears, romantic, imaginative and intelligent. There's the funky, 'Foster the People' with their 'Pumped Up Kicks' which I liked until I really listened to the lyrics...What can I say except, songs about kids with homicidical tendencies...well they just tend to leave me depressed! Foo Fighters, Cee Lo, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Bruno Mars, Bon Iver, yes know em' all. Ah...Coldplay. New Album, Mylo Xyolo. I've been listening to it on repeat. The funky electronica 'Princess of China' and 'Paradise'. Here's the thing about Coldplay, I always love their new album until, after about 50 or so compulsive listens when I realise that it's just a lot of driving piano, ambient yelling or possibly ambient moaning, 'Whoa oh oh, Whoa oh oh's' with backing tracks of blissed-out studio-engineered electronica. It's sort of the equivalent of Lucasfilm when they CGI'd the living daylights out of the three Star Wars Prequels. Then I begin to curse the day when album producer Brian Eno synthesized his first track and went to Tibet to sample monks chanting. I begin to wish for the days when he donned feather boas, played keyboards for Roxy and kept his mouth shut. When he left the art schoolesque creative overdosing to Bryan Ferry.
For me, modern 21st century music is a lot like the heady feelings you get when you start dating someone. At first, you are spellbound, you hang on their every word, you get butterflies in your stomach when you first see them, a sort of bilious nausea if you will. It's very much like having the flu, the lovesick feeling. Then fast forward a few months and you begin to see the cracks, the fact that he chews with his mouth open, how he no longer rushes to get doors for you, how she dominates the conversation with constant mentions of the word 'I', how tiresome her friends' opinions have become. Has he/she changed really? No, it's just that the newness has worn off, the proverbial gilt off the gingerbread. Same with music, did the arrangements really change? Maybe it's just that the cracks are beginning to show.
I went to my favorite $5.00 sub-touting restaurant this evening to pick up a footlong and as I waited at a traffic light, Hall and Oates', 1982 smash, 'I Can't Go For That' came on the car stereo and immediately I was struck at the lushness of the arrangement, at Darryl Halls's soaring vocals, how utterly and unapologetically soulful. Just how damn good it still is 30 years later. For all of the advances in music technology, digitial remastering, etc., you can't beat the sheer musicianship of my perennial favorites, Rush. And I have to agree wholeheartedly with my blogging Yoda, Mr. 'Bone' that Gordon Lightfoot is a revelation in terms of storytelling, like a balladeer of old.
As for me, yeah I'll keep some of the new on my MP3, Adele, The Band Perry, maybe some Gaga for when I need pumping up for exercise. I'll sigh and keep the Coldplay for the moments of self-loathing. But if some kind of worldwide data crunch occurs and I'm suddenly forced to choose, I'm keeping the Prince, keeping the Michael Jackson (Sh'amone, hee, hee), keeping the Rush, the Billy Joel. I'm keeping the Lightfoot, the Genesis and I'm definitely keeping the Hall and Oates. Keeping the soundtrack to my youth.
So yeah, it's possible I live too much in the past. But there again, it's possible that as with any identity crisis, the answer is usually found in the past.
I'd go on about this, but Coldplay's on again and I've only reached about 28 listens...
In answer to my critics, I was perusing an article today that listed current Grammy nominees and predictions for the winners in each category and as opposed to the Oscar Nominees which with the sounds of tumbleweeds and crickets in my head I blanked on every movie and several of the actors. Conversely, I knew many, if not nearly all of the nominees for this years Grammy's.
There is the utterly divine chanteuse, Adele, which, well...words fail me to describe her stellar vocals that have an undercurrent of pathos and pain that hasn't been seen since possibly Janis Joplin. Who, distressingly, I've never liked. Joplins' singing always made me feel sort of itchy and uncomfortable, it was nails on a chalkboard, sandpaper, cat's tongues. It made me think of rashy sore throats. In country there is the refreshingly natural vocal band 'The Band Perry' two brothers Neil, Reid and their hit-song writing lead singer sister Kimberly. Their music is easy on the ears, romantic, imaginative and intelligent. There's the funky, 'Foster the People' with their 'Pumped Up Kicks' which I liked until I really listened to the lyrics...What can I say except, songs about kids with homicidical tendencies...well they just tend to leave me depressed! Foo Fighters, Cee Lo, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Bruno Mars, Bon Iver, yes know em' all. Ah...Coldplay. New Album, Mylo Xyolo. I've been listening to it on repeat. The funky electronica 'Princess of China' and 'Paradise'. Here's the thing about Coldplay, I always love their new album until, after about 50 or so compulsive listens when I realise that it's just a lot of driving piano, ambient yelling or possibly ambient moaning, 'Whoa oh oh, Whoa oh oh's' with backing tracks of blissed-out studio-engineered electronica. It's sort of the equivalent of Lucasfilm when they CGI'd the living daylights out of the three Star Wars Prequels. Then I begin to curse the day when album producer Brian Eno synthesized his first track and went to Tibet to sample monks chanting. I begin to wish for the days when he donned feather boas, played keyboards for Roxy and kept his mouth shut. When he left the art schoolesque creative overdosing to Bryan Ferry.
For me, modern 21st century music is a lot like the heady feelings you get when you start dating someone. At first, you are spellbound, you hang on their every word, you get butterflies in your stomach when you first see them, a sort of bilious nausea if you will. It's very much like having the flu, the lovesick feeling. Then fast forward a few months and you begin to see the cracks, the fact that he chews with his mouth open, how he no longer rushes to get doors for you, how she dominates the conversation with constant mentions of the word 'I', how tiresome her friends' opinions have become. Has he/she changed really? No, it's just that the newness has worn off, the proverbial gilt off the gingerbread. Same with music, did the arrangements really change? Maybe it's just that the cracks are beginning to show.
I went to my favorite $5.00 sub-touting restaurant this evening to pick up a footlong and as I waited at a traffic light, Hall and Oates', 1982 smash, 'I Can't Go For That' came on the car stereo and immediately I was struck at the lushness of the arrangement, at Darryl Halls's soaring vocals, how utterly and unapologetically soulful. Just how damn good it still is 30 years later. For all of the advances in music technology, digitial remastering, etc., you can't beat the sheer musicianship of my perennial favorites, Rush. And I have to agree wholeheartedly with my blogging Yoda, Mr. 'Bone' that Gordon Lightfoot is a revelation in terms of storytelling, like a balladeer of old.
As for me, yeah I'll keep some of the new on my MP3, Adele, The Band Perry, maybe some Gaga for when I need pumping up for exercise. I'll sigh and keep the Coldplay for the moments of self-loathing. But if some kind of worldwide data crunch occurs and I'm suddenly forced to choose, I'm keeping the Prince, keeping the Michael Jackson (Sh'amone, hee, hee), keeping the Rush, the Billy Joel. I'm keeping the Lightfoot, the Genesis and I'm definitely keeping the Hall and Oates. Keeping the soundtrack to my youth.
So yeah, it's possible I live too much in the past. But there again, it's possible that as with any identity crisis, the answer is usually found in the past.
I'd go on about this, but Coldplay's on again and I've only reached about 28 listens...
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