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Politics as usual?

02/08/2012 By Amber Dorsey 2 Comments

I’m not very politically inclined I’ll be the first to admit. My upbringing was such that you “don’t talk politics and religion with people as it only leads to hurt feelings and emotional outbursts.” I only really got “into” politics during the last election. The fact that it was full of so many historical events (first woman to run & be taken seriously and a black man as candidates?) really rocked my world and encouraged me to get more involved and pay attention to what was going on in our government. So I did. To an extent. I will never be able to argue minut points on policy and practices but I have learned quite a bit. I still don’t understand a lot of it but I’ve been paying attention to what’s been happening.

And like so many other Americans I’m intrigued by the state of the union which I find myself compelled to watch each time. It’s very interesting to see how my generation is affected by politics in this day and age.

However, I’ve noticed a few things: there are certain people whom every time the President speaks, choose to remain stoic. No matter what he’s said. Valid point or not, they refuse to even acknowledge him as our leader. They yell out and boo ideas they don’t agree with and to me that seems a bit childish. Aren’t these representatives supposed to (at the very least) put on a unified front for the American public?

There is also a great divide within the two parties that makes it difficult to obtain the kind of reform that is so necessary for our country to survive. These types of occasions only make the dissent that much more apparent. But I still tune in every time to see what the responses and reactions will be.

Its always interesting to see on which side your friends tend to side with. The post political Facebook rants leave me particularly intrigued as you can see a direct correlation between the issues in Washington and how they have skewed the public’s view of the American president. And, as much as I hate to say it, racial divisions.

It seems our current POTUS is quite the polarizing figure. And I must say it humors me to no end. The anti-Obama slurs, speeches and rants. The “facts” about his presidency and how he single handedly has destroyed the country. It’s sad but an interesting study in today’s culture.

I’ll admit I voted for him. Not because he’s black and so am I. I voted for him because I truly believed (and still do) that he has the country’s best interest in his heart. I do not believe he is pushing his own agenda as much as past presidents and I do believe that he has done his absolute best to work within the constraints of his office and the party divisions in Washington.

I could sit here and spew facts and figures about what he’s done versus what they say he has/hasn’t but that’s not my style.

No mine is to sit back, observe and watch as it all plays out on a national level.  And to pray. Pray for our country and where we are going. For the people in charge and their daily struggles.

Pray that we, as a people, are able to see how divided we have become simply because of the color of a man’s skin, his funny sounding name, and his desire to ‘meet in the middle’.

No one person is going to encompass all of our ideals. No one man can accomplish that.

But perhaps – we,the people, can reach a middle ground and in that meeting will discover the solution to many of the issues plaguing this great nation.

But if not……then I will just pray for my children. That they will inherit a better life/country/planet and know what to do with the legacy we have left them.

You can read more of Amber’s musings here.

Filed Under: Humor, Opinion, Politics Tagged With: , , ,

I used to have the moves like Jagger

02/06/2012 By Elizabeth Cassidy 3 Comments

I have to say that Maroon 5’s song, “Moves like Jagger “makes me just feel euphoric. I am even mad about the video that showcased all different walks of life doing their best liquid leg dance in honor of Mick Jagger. If I had been in LA last year, I might have cheered the brave ones strutting their stuff, but my heart and restless legs would have been longing to show all my moves like Jagger, the lead singer of the Rolling Stones. I don’t feel I should have to add “of the Rolling Stones” but I have met a few un-cool people in my life so this is for all you cave dwellers. Let’s put it this way – my late father knew who the Rolling Stones were. And he was just starting to get jiggy with Jay Z before he left to listen to Frank Sinatra live 24/7.

Okay, so I came up with the title, just ranted a little and then I had no idea where to go with this piece until someone posted this on Facebook:

“You all laugh because I’m different, I laugh because you’re all the same” – Author Unknown

These 13 words stopped me in my tracks. I know it is not easy to pigeonhole me, myself, and I, but this line captured me and my life…100%.

So before you take out your air violin, please know that I would not have it any other way. The near fatal doubts of my own self worth over the years came because people were uncomfortable being around me. Because of all their efforts, I became the extraordinary person I am today. Thank you. I hardly had to do any of the heavy lifting. I just sat back, collected my scars and observed people discovering that they were so, so ordinary.

Well, you are thinking, listen to her go on about how extraordinary she is.

I am.

I am tired of denying who I am. Something cracked open in me about six months ago. I am an artist who rediscovered her roots. I can create and I am good at it and getting better all the time. I write and sometimes I can be pretty damn funny and sometimes I look for ways to break your heart. It is not because I want to cause you pain. I just want to know that I can.

And sometimes we all need our hearts broken so we can change.

So I think my new mantra just might be, “I still got the moves like Jagger.”

In fact, Mick just called me about giving him some dance lessons. It’s about time.

© 2012 My Views from the Edge ™

Please visit my site: My Views From The Edge

You can become a fan of mine on Facebook at:  elizabeth cassidy Views from the Edge with a Slice of Reality

Filed Under: Humor, Motivate Tagged With: , , , , , ,

I solemnly swear

01/05/2012 By Britton Minor 13 Comments

Like countless others this January, I have resolved not to resolve. For several years I have been choosing themes for the year based on my interests, dreams, goals or areas for improvement. While this method is a drastic improvement over sweeping and desperate resolutions that lead to my near-immediate sense of failure, I have found a “wrinkle in theme” too. Themes, while not easily “broken,” are easily superficial, lacking roots, shunning accountability. Take last year’s PHOTOGRAPHY theme. I took copious photos and learned oodles about the craft. What I did not do was discipline myself to create a process for tagging, organizing, saving, backing up, editing and using my photos. Why? To answer this question I was forced to consult two professionals: 1) a psychologist, and 2) a time management guru. Here is a truncated look at our sessions:

Psychologist: What I hear you saying is that your photography is creating stress and a general sense of failure. Is that correct?

Me: Well, um, er, I’m not sure that I meant it that way…

Psychologist: Right. So not only are you stressed out and failing in your chosen theme, but also you are in denial about it?

Me: Well, um, er, I’m not sure that I meant it that way…

Time Management Guru: (clears throat politely) Perhaps I can intercede, I mean interject here?

Me: Yes. Please!

TM Guru: Your stress involving your photography theme comes from the fact that you do not have time to work on your perfect organizational system, right?

Me: Right!

TM Guru: And you do not have time because?

Me: Well, um, er…

TM Guru: Right. I think I understand.

Psychologist: Miss, would you mind stepping out of the room for a moment?

Me: Well, um, er (walking out of the room)

TM Guru: You may come back in now.

Psychologist: I have permission to speak for my colleague here, and we’re almost out of time, so I’ll make this succinct. (Pause). (Sigh.) (Head Shake).

TM Guru: Frank, I’ve got this one. Britton. Facebook. Log. Off. Now. That’s it.

Me: What the heck? (she says to an empty room)

Thank goodness these guys came cheap. They told me what I already know. Resolutions. Themes. Intentions. Undulations. Simulations. Initiations. Gyrations. Smooth Moves…will all fail if I do not moderate the time I spend online. I love Facebooking – it has brought me closer to friends, family and memories. But I simply must treat social media as a yummy side dish to an already tasty life–one that has spicy goals worth pursuing. The next time you are on Facebook, think of me, only there as a treat after organizing the day’s photos, and ask me how I’m doing with that online moderation thingy.

So here goes. This year, I solemnly swear to spend less time on Facebook and more time…

Filed Under: Humor, Motivate, SoCal Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,

It takes a cabin…

12/15/2011 By Jennifer Maldonado 8 Comments

My “kids” are 12 and 16 so admittedly it’s been some time since I traveled with a one-year-old. But I don’t recall ever having quite the experience I witnessed recently aboard a long flight across country in the same row as an Orange County mom, her Houdini toddler, and her two unsuspecting but incredibly accommodating seatmates from Heaven.

Really. This is the stuff of Breakfast Club-ish movies.

Of seats A, B, and C, she took her seat first, saying ‘hi’ to me across the aisle that separated our assignments and hoping outloud the middle seat would be free so her son could innocently sleep away the five-hour trek from coast to coast in the comfort of his car seat. Realizing we were both seated in the backmost row of the aircraft and the crew was already gate-checking rollaboards, that seemed, to put it kindly, unlikely at best.

Next came her window seatmate, an adorable newish mom leaving her child overnight for the first time ever to go visit a college friend in L.A. Superglue couldn’t bond as quick as these two did – the Getaway Mom relished her instant veteran status and immediately pulled out her iPod to play “Dora” cartoons for the young one, offering parenting tidbits left and right across the empty seat while reaching for photos to share.

Interestingly, the Gucci diaper bag our OC friend carried was conspicuously lacking anything of even marginal entertainment value. Seriously, when I did travel with young ones I brought everything but our backyard basketball hoop on board – this woman had simply a few bottles, a pacifier and diapers. Less is more? (Of a chore for those seated around you, that is?)

Almost until the cabin door closed, it appeared deceivingly like that middle seat was going to stay vacant, until a fashionably scruffy twentysomething fellow sauntered down the entire length of the plane to our little village in the outskirts of the aircraft, where already those of us with arms long enough to reach the lighted pathways to the exits were fetching tossed bottles and pacifiers from the giggly one who’d not only found his throwing arm, but his new sport.

The all-star’s mom looked up at him with guilty, gorgeous Persian eyes like Disney’s Princess Jasmine and offered, “Maybe there’ll be an extra seat you can move to?”

“No worries!” he proclaimed. “I love kids!”

Talk about a charmed life. Never would I have this kind of luck!

The three of them looked like they walked right out of an L.A. casting agency onto the plane. Moreover, each was outdoing the other with their kindness and courtesy. And amazingly, even before takeoff they were identifying shocking parallels in their lives. “You bought your ticket last night? No WAY, I bought mine last night, too.” Hold onto your hat: “Me, too!”

(If I sound bitter, rest assured I’m just jealous.)

Soon, the Flight’s Eve Ticketbuying Fraternity was ordering up cocktails with proportionately less attention being paid to the little tike with every round. Mom was using her designer denim clad legs (in charmingly scuffed riding boots) to try to corral Scooter, but he mastered the duck-and-tuck move before the ocean was out of view from our little oval windows. At one point a uniformed crew member hand-delivered him back to her, in response to which she surprisingly exclaimed her son’s name and pronounced, “That’s THREE time-outs for you when we get home!” while wagging a neatly manicured finger.

As the happy hipsters enjoyed their private party, I continued to play bottle fetch with the fruit of her loins. It was especially fun when it rolled four rows away and we could recruit new players to the team.

As with any village, the one rule of real estate is location, location, location! Ours was located precisely 18 inches from either lavatory door, ensuring much foot traffic and many otherwise-focused visitors passing through. I kid you not, at one point while turned inward to the Melrose Place gang with her back facing the aisle, our multi-tasking mom reached out her hand behind her so that a waiting lavatory-bound passenger could insert the tossed bottle into it, then continued her spirited conversation with her seatmates (castmates?) without missing a beat. Or nary a “thank you.”

You know the best part about sharing your part of the cabin with an aspiring performer/adoring mom of Dora’s #1 fan? The gleeful renditions of every little diddy in the cartoon! During a particularly restless and ear-piercing outburst by Junior, Helpful Mom surprised Helpless Mom by bursting out into song, chanting, “Dora Dora Dora the Explorer!” to the little guy’s awestruck delight. Rugged Man in the middle seat seemed equally impressed. (A feeling I suspect was mutual as every time he left for the restroom, Helpful Mom slipped into her Getaway Mom persona to doctor up her makeup and pop a breath mint.)

But I digress. Rest assured, the entertainment didn’t end there. Did you know in the land of Dora even inanimate objects get their own songs? Heads turned at choruses of “Backpack! Backpack!” and “I’m the map! I’m the map! I’m the map!” while the males big and small of the row clapped their hands. I tried to feign sleep, with “Swiper, no swiping!” and “Lo Hicimos” ringing in my ears, which strangely segued into a jingle dancing in my head from my own children’s past and their beloved Blue’s Clue’s show. “Here’s the mail, it never fails, it makes me want to wag my tail – MAY-YU-ILL!” Ugh, the voices internal and external were ever increasing!

I opened one eye to look around a fourth time for the Candid Camera.

I finally managed to doze off and awoke to the sound of seatbelts unbuckling and the perky trio exchanging cell phone numbers in one hand and using said phones to friend each other on Facebook in the other. I worried for a moment about having fallen down on the job and missing my last shift as binkie/ bottle/ left shoe retriever. But worry not, like the Good Samaritan who anonymously pressed the dropped bottle of milk into mommy’s palm on his way to the facilities, my absence of consciousness went equally unnoticed.

Photo courtesy Dreamstime free stock images

Filed Under: Humor, Parenting, SoCal

Dumpster-diving

12/14/2011 By Britton Minor 19 Comments

I’ve done it a few times–at least twice to retrieve expensive, napkin-wrapped retainers, and more recently to hunt for a friend’s keys. I think I would make a good crime scene investigator. I’m not easily grossed out, and I often wear clompy shoes. Besides, the last time I saw the C.S.I. truck in our neighborhood, I fantasized about pulling over to offer them my help, “I’ve got my boots on. I don’t mind blood and guts. What’ve ya got for me?”

In case my humor annoys you, please know that I am concerned about my cavalier pride in this skill, dumpster-diving. After all, not everyone chooses to crawl inside slurgy, murky, splimy stinking surprise-bins. Some people do it to survive–without a warm shower waiting for them afterwards, or a pocket-sized bottle of hand-sanitizer at the ready. It is difficult to imagine crunching on the apple core previously nestled next to the used disposable diaper. See. You just gagged, didn’t you? I did too, and nearly chose another example, but it was worse. And these things happen–at least I imagine they do. I saw what was inside that bin.

As winter approaches and temperatures drop, I cannot help but think about how easy it is to throw on another blanket or flip on the heater when I am chilly–to grab a hot cuppa–while beyond the great comforts of my home, someone has not chosen to be homeless, freezing…and hungry. Or, as I have learned while researching this piece, some people do (choose to be homeless). I stumbled on a blog, http://guide2homelessness.blogspot.com that illuminated homelessness in such a way that I begrudgingly became enlightened on the subject. I learned, for example, that some efforts to help the homeless are fraught with intrusive rules–help given that strips away any remaining fragments of dignity the homeless person may possess, or heavily laced with piety that requires something from someone who, in his moment of greatest need, has nothing to give. I became aware of my own rules.

For example, I like to feel as if the measly dollars I give will amount to something after I give them. I like to try to discern which needy person asking for money will use it to help themselves versus buying alcohol with it. Michael’s blog and our subsequent e-mail conversation knocked my strongly held judgements off their ornamental pedestals. He taught me that not all “beggars” are homeless, and that those who are probably have few others skills on which to lean for survival. He also taught me, without putting it mildly, that my desire to ensure the wise use of my money is a violation of a person’s “rights of agency.” My “see I told you so” attitude in response to the recent sign I saw stating, “I need money for alcohol,” was rebuffed with the fact that sometimes an alcoholic’s need is so acute that not getting alcohol may mean death. I still struggle with this facet of begging, but I understand what Michael meant about my specialized giving: I am giving with conditions and with judgement.

“You must give with your eyes averted,” my homeless mentor told me. I still wasn’t convinced I could change my thinking, but I wanted to. Last night we drove past a blanket-bundled man on a stool. His sign said, simply, “Help Me.” As the kids and I passed him, I pondered Michael’s words again, and marveled at the simplicity of the man’s plea. My heart pulsed again, and I realized that giving can be simple. I checked with the kids.

“What about the alcohol thing?” my daughter asked.

“Well,” I thought aloud, “perhaps it doesn’t matter. Perhaps giving has its own special energy, and we don’t need to worry about how the money will be used.”

“Yah Mom, he looks really cold. I wonder if someone gave him that blanket.”

Approaching the bundled man, I rolled down the window, handed him the cash (he was surprised–gentle in his thankfulness), and drove off feeling less noble, more privileged, less burdened by judgement, abundantly thankful, and significantly enlightened. Our response to “Help Me,” can be a simple, “Sure, here you go.”

Filed Under: Humor, Motivate, Opinion Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

When Computers go bad. A dip into the madness pool

12/05/2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 1 Comment

Now that Gadhafi, Bin Laden and Saddam are dead, I would like to add people who put viruses into your computer on the shoot to kill list. I would gladly give them their last cigarette. I have two computers with all writings and artwork in for virus cleansing and deluxe exorcism. I am writing on my laptop and because I have long fingers, I keep hitting the caps lock key. It really makes it fun to type knowing that my spell check will be mocking me and it takes me five minutes to get through ONE SENTENCE. I just don’t have the strength to fix thAt.

I posted a version of the opening paragraph on Facebook the other day and I got this comment from someone who does not SHare my political views: But…but…but — you’re a peacenik, peace-loving, give-everyone-a-hug Liberal! Well, you know the old saying, “A Conservative is a Liberal who’s been mugged.” Oh, PleasE!!!

And since I am in a ranting, pissy, I am going to set my hair on fire kind of mood I got to say that what I said had nada to do with politics.  It has to do with bad people who live in the parents’ basement after the age of 40, who never dated and who rarely shower. They sit in their lair and dream about dating some starlet while corrupting other people’s computer. I bet some of them might even vote… for the best recipes using road kill.

I think, no, I know I can keep all MY liberal and compassionate leanings and still want to gather the townspeople to run these virus vampires out of town…or at least out of my hard drive.

So while I Wanted to write abouT important issues: the Occupy Wall Street movement, my session with a terrific medIUM and what gets on my last nerve, I have to sit around and wAit for my computer guru to take everything out and reinstall all my pROGRAms again. Twice. It makes a God fearing woman want to drink and when I meet one, I will tell her that wine in a box is the way to go. It doesn’t hurt as much when you  drop it on your drunken foot. Or so I have heaRD.

This is why I was been a NO SHow on line. It’s because someone else needs to find a new hobby and until he/she does some of us have got to figure out what life is like without a computer.

I think I might rEAd a book today, do SOMe drawings, maybe meditate, give myself a facial, go for a bike ride or let my annoyances just fade away and know that in a day or two, I will be asking the guy who sold me a smart phone how the hell to use it.

Not  that Steve Jobs has nothing better to do, but did my crack about nOT Owning a Mac have anything to do with my computers going BAD?

End of rant. I just uncovered my dark chocolate stash. It will help with the bad, bad mood.

© 2011 My Views from the Edge ™

Please visit my site: My Views From The Edge

You can become a fan of mine on Facebook at:  elizabeth cassidy Views from the Edge with a Slice of Reality

Follow me on Twitter at: EdgyCoach

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, New York, Politics Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

I am standing up for Kim Kardashian..

11/17/2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 6 Comments

..Just leave the smelling salts right here. I don’t really know too much about Kim Kardashian and her exploits. Okay, I am lying. I know what is going on in her life more than I know what is going on in any of my sisters’ lives right now. How pathetic. I would like to not know anything, but you can’t get away from the news on Kim and Kris’ overly hyped wedding and now the marriage gone bad drama is upon us. (There are children starving in this country…maybe in your neighborhood).

I do know what is happening because the respectable news program I still cling to are slipping in the Kardashian Krap between Greece becoming our 51st state and the names of people turning 237 years old who are looking for love again. Hey Matt, Ann and Brian – you are killing our brain cells faster than our cell phones are.

I do know she had her butt x-rayed (there are more young men coming down with HIV/ AIDS because they think only older gay men get the disease) to prove she did not have an implant. What the hell. All who wanted to know if her butt was real or not, raise your hand. I will never donate a kidney to any of you. No women in my family would ever go to that extreme to prove that something was not real on us. Okay, I do lie about my weight and age but it is not news. In my world it is, but you’re not invited in. Unless your first name is Javier.

Kim and Kris’ 72 day old wedding should not be news. But don’t tell Kim’s mother who is out there pushing her tell all book along with chatting about whether her daughter should give back a two million dollar engagement ring. If Kris gave Kim a two million house, would she have to return that? I would say “yes” on both counts. (There are young girls who cut themselves because that is their only way of dealing with pain) I think there is something wrong with what Mama Chris Jenner is doing. I think I would tell my publisher that the book tour could wait because my child is in crisis. And this is coming from someone who never had children.

But since the Kardashians and every news outlet (I bet the Vatican TV Centre is all a buzz) has made it our business, I am going to come out and say that I am on Kim’s side about leaving her marriage. I am sure Kim will sleep soundly tonight knowing that I am finally on her side.

Why? Oh, please. Like you don’t know anyone who wants to leave their marriages because they are not happy. Maybe people are all up in the arms about this break up because while they are sitting in quiet desperation over a loveless marriage, Kim Kardashian decided to get out of one that does not appear to be working.

Is she supposed to wait for a respectable number of days, weeks and years to go by? Would that make the public go back into their lairs? Should she leave her marriage right before the golden anniversary blow out that I am sure the E! Channel will cover?

I did read in the New York Times that she listened to her intuition and prayed about what to do and if the answers were the same then the hell with what anyone else says. I am going to double-check, but I think I am lying about the New York Times. Please God.

I was in a couple of relationships that were supposed to end in marriage. How ironic – they were supposed to end marriage instead of begin in marriage. I know – too deep even for me. Each time I woke up in a cold sweat and I knew that it was never going to happen. I could hear people say under their breath, “there she goes again.” Sorry. I got one life and I am going to try to live it in a way that is mostly painless. Still waiting!

So I get it, Kim. I really do.

Now I got to go call a sister or two and see what’s up with them. If they mention the Kardashian marriage I will be putting myself up for adoption.

© 2011 My Views from the Edge ™

Please visit my site: My Views From The Edge

You can become a fan of mine on Facebook at:  elizabeth cassidy Views from the Edge with a Slice of Reality

Follow me on Twitter at: EdgyCoach

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Men are from Walmart. Women are from Nordstorm.

11/01/2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 5 Comments

I am a snob. I inherited this trait from my father. Never got those blue eyes that could have helped me in the charm and disarming department.  No, I got the eye color that looks like mud on a spring morning and the snob gene.  I don’t really feel all that guilty about it. The snobby part that is.  I remember my dear old father proclaiming that if he died while in Walmart (where my mother used to drag him crying and screaming) that he would want his lifeless body driven over to Lord & Taylor’s where it would be placed ever so gently on their front steps. No New York Times obituary was ever going to state that he expired by the Bermuda shorts and novelty tee shirt department at Walmart.

The husband was getting ready for work the other day. He gets up at the ungodly hour of 5 AM which means that I might as well get up also. Lights, action and some low muttering about what one of my well behaved cats did during the night. Just charming. It’s like having all the really cool religious leaders sitting at the foot of my bed and going, “elizabeth, have a wonderful day. And you know all those things you wished for last night? Well, the UPS man will be delivering them to you today. And the Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus families want you to spend the holidays in Vail with them.” Notice they made no mention of Walmart. Even God knows that you can’t wash clothes from Walmart twice because they will melt together in the dryer. I have seen that happen.

Where was I? Oh, right the husband is getting dressed. And then he comes in to say “get up, you lazy witch” and I see him wearing a red baseball cap with a ghastly flame on the side, shorts with 17 pockets (and men say we carry big bags), tube socks and black sneakers. Oh and a tee shirt with De Kooning-like paint stains splattered all over it and a denim shirt finishes the ensemble. And he is leaving the house this way? Does he not realize that he is living with a snob? Oh, yes, he does.  I think he puts these outfits together as a way to punish me for marrying him. Running me over with his pick up truck 6 to 800 times would hurt less. And yes, he does have a pick up truck.  My membership to the Project Runway Fan club is in jeopardy. Tim Gunn – I can explain.

I know our mailman has got to be confused. I look at our mail and I am sometimes aghast and horrified. There are cute little kittens and puppies in need who are featured on envelopes that are stuck in between Outdoorsmen Love Quiche and I Have a Riffle and I Don’t Care How Cute You Are Quarterly. I just hate how my Instyle and Spirituality and Health magazines have to rub shoulders with Cabela’s fifteen pound catalogue that features camouflage thongs for men. With beer bellies.  I was asked if I would like anything from Cabela’s for Christmas. Who knew they have a divorce lawyer section right after the gun and pepper spray section – way in the back. Real small type.

Just for the record, the husband can look quite dashing when he applies himself.  And when he does, I don’t feel like the need to apply to the Snob Protection Plan. But I might try it out for six months.

Now please let me know if I am wrong about this, but who wears black shoes with a brown belt?

Give me a pair of shoes and belt that coordinate or give me death. Just plant my cold body by the entrance to Neiman Marcus’ jewelry department – by the sales items. I said I was a snob. Not stupid.

© 2011 My Views from the Edge ™

Please visit my site: My Views From The Edge

Filed Under: Humor, New York, Opinion Tagged With: , , , , ,

I’m Not an Addict

10/25/2011 By Dashing Gray 4 Comments

…Maybe that’s a lie.

My fiancée has been calling me as an addict for quite a while now. Every time I seek out a simple hit, he expresses his disgust by curling up his lip and sneering, “I’d rather you smoked!” While his complaints may be extreme, his distaste is clear: this was something only cranky people did as an excuse for being rude in the morning (i.e. “I can’t do that right now. I haven’t had my coffee”).

I blame my habit (which didn’t start as one) on the endless demands of grad school, stress, and late-night study sessions. The local coffee shop was where everyone gathered to work on homework and discuss life, so if you weren’t there, you weren’t “in with the in crowd.” Thankfully, the grad school thing has been over for a while now, but the habit lingers. I guess habits are tricky like that.

Late-night study sessions lent themselves to many things—among them, a steady stream of espresso. There’s a good reason why I refer to “frou frou coffee drinks” like caramel lattes (and her many cousins: the frappacino, the mocha, etc.) as the gateway coffees. The whip cream, delicious syrups, and soup-bowl-sized mugs they come in all distract the unsuspecting from the addictive properties that lurk within.

On these many grad-school nights, I settled myself for hours in the community coffee shop and fumbled my way through those inaugural orders, selecting something that sounded sweet off the menu while refusing to ask for clarifications. Some of those initial orders were epic failures: bitter espresso bases left my tongue clicking with distaste as my unsuspecting blood buzzed with unexpected energy that kept me up way past my bedtime. But the orders that went well? Ohh, what bliss.

Those first hits gave me the joy of a wonderful treat that combined the greatest of things—the cozy feeling of a fireplace on a frigid winter day, the sugar-laden euphoria of a homemade dessert, the uplifting pick-me-up of the perfect jolt. As time went on, those always-helpful baristas brought me into the fold and taught me the language of their craft. I learned the differences between a cappuccino and a latte and understood that I wasn’t interested in “bold” blends or single shots. I discovered the ins and outs of the perfect beverage, which began with a single shot in a [literally] sugar-coated milk blend.

I delighted at the reassuring whirring of the steamer as the flavors combined, and I marveled at the delicate froth petals that swirled together the impressive espresso gradients. Each drink, both visibly and for my palette, was its own unique work of art. At first, it was all caramel (CARE-uh-mel, the uppity cousin of the less-enticing CAR-muhl) drizzle and espresso art, but it was not long before those aesthetic pleasures faded, and my better-articulated orders instead focused on the beverage’s caffeinated core. It became that “extra boost” during a late-night study session or an early-morning meeting. Soon, the need for sweeteners faded into the background as the bitter aftertaste became more palatable. My new coffee chain store became my own personal morning episode of Cheers as the baristas greeted me and guessed at my order. On rushed days, I make do with the cafeteria’s “we proudly brew” or, in true desperation, that unidentifiable brown liquid given away at meetings.

I pay in cash. Harder to trace that way.

They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. But c’mon. Is needing a little pick-me-up here and there really a problem? I mean, I can stop at any time. In fact, I will stop. Soon.

Like… next week. :)

Dashing Gray is a 20-something lifelong learner who works in higher education and embraces her semi-yuppie, child-free life. Recently engaged, she spends way too much time in local coffee shops drinking high-calorie espresso drinks and blogging out the many questions of life and weddings. Because life is never just black and white, learn about her adventures navigating — and embracing — The Beauty of Gray.

Filed Under: Chicago, Humor Tagged With: , , , ,

How Can I Get Old If I Refuse to Grow Up?

10/24/2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 4 Comments

I have been saying for years that growing up, getting old and slipping into sensible shoes is someone else’s future. Not mine.  No levelheaded hair styles for me, and while I am at it, lose the “can I help you ma’am?” attitude. If I needed help, I would call upon any one of my admirers once those silly restraining orders against me have been lifted.

So the other day, I am going about my fantasy life and this little ditty shows up in my email box. I asked if the sender wanted to be identified and she foolishly said, “I don’t care.” So, this is Esme, my oldest friend. We have known each other since we were three when I came flying out of my parent’s house to inform Esme and her mother to stay off my property. The police report noted that I spat at Esme, but I think that was a gross exaggeration. At that age, I was still drooling on myself.

“You know what else I hate? Getting ready for bed. Between the going to the bathroom, brushing my teeth, using the water pic, going to the bathroom, removing the makeup- without which I can’t leave the house anymore- cleansing my face, going to the bathroom, applying numerous anti aging moisturizers, layer by layer because I figure if one doesn’t work, there are 10 more on top to cover for it, going to the bathroom, taking all my various medications and constipation remedies, checking the door and going to the bathroom, it takes me an hour and I’m already tired when I started. There is nothing good that I can think of about getting old.

I forgot to mention, I have to wear glasses if I want to see anyone more than 15 feet away from me and even in the last row of the movies, where I have to sit. They’re very stylish- Do you know how freaking old I feel? This is besides the other glasses that I have to wear if I’m interested in reading anything- like the labels on the increasing medications that I take – do you know how freaking old I feel?

Just a thought…….”

My, she does go on, doesn’t she? I have to admit I laughed my butt off and then I had to go the bathroom. The power of suggestion is very strong.

I am not immune when it comes to reaching my next birthday. Several years ago, I had to start to take Synthroid because I have a thyroid that refused to get down and give me 50 sit ups. I asked for how long I would have to take this medication and the doctor said “forever.” I started to cry.  So I am not Superwoman. I have to call my doctor out on this one. She told me I would start to lose those stubborn (fill in blank) pounds that were hanging around. Oh, really.  Does it say big, fat liar on your diploma?

And I do find it a little insulting when I go to a new doctor and they ask how many meds I am on and say “two.” They look at me as if this poor dear is losing it. How about good genes?

For as long as I have known Esme, and when we are not in a wine induced haze, we are sarcastic, intelligent, humorous, catty and self deprecating. The latter is to keep those aging police from coming to round us up. We kill them all with our charm.  Charm doesn’t age. Nor does it get brown spots. And in my world those damn spots are freckles. End of story. Oh, but before I really end it, the two of us can hold our own in a room filled with 30 and 40 year olds. Well, as long as they are men.

I can’t help Esme when it comes to wearing eyeglasses. I just look at them as accessories that keep me from falling down the stairs. Sort of like earrings with radar

Same goes with constipation remedies. To know my family, is to know that we do not have bodily functions. It was never discussed amongst my people. I see the ads for the whole assortment of things our bodies do or don’t do and wonder who are these people who take such things and why do they not live in my village?

So in closing, I want to say to all…what was I talking about?

Not!

Nature gives you the face you have at twenty; it is up to you to merit the face you have at fifty.
- – - – Coco Chanel

Filed Under: Humor, New York Tagged With: , , , , ,

Permission

10/21/2011 By Stacy Robinson 4 Comments

“You have my permission,” he said, “to write about the thing that scares you most. Seven hundred fifty words.  Go.”

Yeah, right.  As if I need permission.  Ha.  I can write about anything.  Don’t need anyone to tell me what or when to write.  Anything I want.  Yup.  Even scary stuff.  Even the stuff that knots my stomach and makes my fingertips tingle.  The stuff that I would prefer to avoid— or at least lock up tight in a tiny box buried waaaay deep back in some cobwebbed and little used corner of my head.  I could write about that.  If I wanted.

Permission?  Ha!

And please– pay no attention to that sibilant whisper you might hear, skittering and wild between my ears, the one asking why I’m not writing about that scary stuff, why I’m wasting precious time and space typing all this introductory nonsense, instead of the important, vulnerable stuff that I am so cleverly avoiding.

And I would continue to avoid it, because, really— who wants to dredge up that mess, who wants to go slogging through that swamp, lifting up all those slimy rocks to find the things that go bump in my personal night?  Well, at least they go bump in my head, and maybe squeeze my heart in a slightly alarming way.  But the cost of avoidance, I’ve learned (the hard way, of course) is a helluva lot more painful, more breathtaking (and I don’t mean that in a good way), more constricting than the fear itself.

Trust me on this one.

I know all this— know it, and yet my first instinct, every time I come face to face with my personal demons, every time that fear begins to slither around my head and my heart — I want to run and hide and ignore it long enough until it just goes away, disappearing into the neverwhen where all my fears have migrated.   Trust me on this; I know the drill.  Except.

Except they don’t.  They don’t migrate.  They do not dissipate or fade or diminish, no matter how much I wish it to be so.  Far from scattering into the mist, my fears morph and shift and grow and grow and grow.  The more I run, the more they drive me.  In whatever boxes I’ve buried them, however deeply I’ve hidden them, they begin to fester and ooze and leak— never forthrightly, but sideways and slanted, and suddenly, my world becomes a funhouse mirror, distorted, disjointed, twisted.

For all that I know that the easier, softer way to exorcize my personal demons is to talk, to write, to claim them as my own, I cannot shake the conviction that were I to name them, were I to bring them into the light of day, far from banishing them to the neverwhen, I would, instead, be giving them power and making them real.  There is always the possibility (slight, I’m sure, but more than real nonetheless) that they are not, that the scary stuff is just a figment of my imagination.  Why give those fears form and substance?  Because if they’re real, if that scary stuff is as powerful as I imagine it, it will devour me, swallow me whole and I will disappear forever into that black hole of neverwhen.

So sometimes, I need permission.   I need to be reminded that I am tilting at windmills, solitary and resolute and fighting the good fight (even if I have imagined my foe so much more powerful than it really is).  I need to know that I am not lying, broken and bested, at the feet of the Knight of Mirrors, that the scary stuff is just that: scary stuff that only has the power over me that I give it.

And so, remembering, I will write the scary stuff.  I will delve into those hidden places.  And my fears, once magnified and threatening and insatiably hungry, will shrink and shrivel and be powerless before me.  For today, I have been given permission, have given myself permission, to brave the scary stuff and come out the other side, unscathed (mostly) and free.

To read more about my scary stuff and how I’ve learned to be fearless in the face of it (after many reminding and a score of permissions), take a look at my blog: http://staceyzrobinson.blogspot.com

Filed Under: Chicago, Humor

I will take off the socks

10/18/2011 By Rima Tessman 9 Comments

Now that I have to dye my hair every six weeks to keep the gray out, I’ve been thinking about my own mortality. Specifically, what it might be like to have grandchildren.

Of course, I’m still up to my eyeballs in children of my own, but earlier today I had a sudden vision of my daughter, grown and happily married, coming over to drop her firstborn off for me to babysit. (I’m not saying that I don’t expect my son to get married and have kids, only that I’m placing all the pressure squarely on the V-meister.)

In my imagination, my firstborn comes over with an adorable baby who looks just like me. She’s toting an enormous bag containing a year’s supply of diapers, three changes of clothing, diaper creme, cloth wipes, toys (3), bibs (2), pacifiers (2), a laminated index card with emergency phone numbers and instructions, and one measly little baby bottle with like three (3) ounces of breastmilk in it.

Like I used to.

I immediately grab my grandchild and take off her socks.

And my daughter is like, “Mom, I just put those socks on her!”

And I’m like, “Nonsense! Babies don’t need socks. And when is the last time you fed her? She looks like she’s about to gnaw off her own hand.”

“I just fed her ten minutes ago, so she probably won’t even need to eat until I get back. There’s a bottle of breast milk in the bag, but don’t give it to her unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“You don’t have to worry, I know when a baby’s hungry.”

“You can just give it to her at room temperature, you don’t even need to heat it up.”

(Me, examining the bottle.) “Where’s the rest of it? This isn’t even enough to feed a hamster.”

“Mom!”

“Okay.”

“Remember not to microwave it.”

“Of course not.”

“And when you change her diaper, make sure the fringy little elastic thingies are flipped outwards because last time her clothes got wet.”

“Really? I don’t remember that. But don’t worry, sweetie, I got it. Hey, P-Dawg! (yelling in direction of home office where my retired husband is in his underwear, playing poker online) HOW MANY KIDS DID WE RAISE?”

(Husband, from office) “Two.”

“Your father and I raised two children. We know what we’re doing.”

“Okay, Mom. Thanks so much for watching her for me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t rush sweetie. It’s my pleasure.”

“Okay. Don’t put her carrier on the kitchen table.”

“She will be safe in my arms the whole time.”

“Well. I guess that’s it. Did I forget anything?”

“I doubt it. Just go! (pushing daughter out the door) Enjoy yourself!”

“Ok, Mama. Bye. And don’t forget – only use the breast milk in case of emergency!”

“No worries, sweetie! Bye-bye!”

As soon as my daughter takes off in her solar powered SUV, I’ll go ahead and warm up that breast milk in the microwave. I’ll probably add a little goat’s milk into the mix, too.  The poor baby’s starving, for cryin’ out loud.

Next, I’ll remove about three extra layers of clothing (from the baby), and then my husband and I will go outside and sit with her on a blanket under a tree. We will let her go diaperless and eat some dirt.  And I’m going to be really honest with you: we’ll probably give her a penny and let her stay outside for 20 minutes with no sunblock on.

It’s going to be great.

Read more from Rima on her personal website, Rimarama.com.

Filed Under: Humor, Parenting Tagged With: , , , ,

Horrible Bosses – The Prequel

10/02/2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 2 Comments

I have not seen the new movie, “Horrible Bosses.” I don’t need to see Jennifer Aniston in her underwear eating every variety of vegetable that screams of looking a tad phallic. When I go to the produce department at my local supermarket, I shy away from the HUGE cucumbers and zucchinis – not because they are all seeds, but because I don’t know how to pick them up without some guy looking over at me and winking.

So this is not about produce dos and don’ts, but about horrible bosses. And I have had a few. Haven’t we all?

The thing that upsets me about horrible bosses is not that these people shouldn’t be bosses because they are dreadful human beings (but a damn good reason), but because all the horrible bosses I have had were women. So much for sisterhood being powerful. I have been asking intelligent women I know about their horror stories about the miserable low life, the scum you scrap off the bottom of your shoe bosses and they said they were women.

Why are we doing this to each other?

My horrible witches –  am not using the word  boss anymore – they didn’t deserve the title and I am sure there are a few wonderful bosses who are women out there. Where?

I had one who made sacrificial lambs out of all the women in the department – one by one. There were no men in our department – it would have been nice if they had shared their findings with us. Could have prevented a lot of heartache. I thought she would have spared me since we knew some of the same people in the industry (and they told me their horror stories), but ,NO, my turn came. So when the other women in the department meekly asked me what my plan was, I did the only thing I could do. I hustled and found another job. But not before I reported her to the HR department and brought her up on religious discrimination charges.  And she got her butt whipped. You can’t be a horrible witch and break the law. Not around me you can’t. I have to say that all of those women went on working with her until she finally got fired. Just love ya, Karma.

And then I had the twin witches at the next company. How lucky can one girl get?  I went from one witch on wheels to the torturing duo – my own little two headed monster. Karma must have been on vacation or in jail.

They both started off saying lovely things about me. That was Mistake #1. Silly me, I never learn. I experienced a living hell with these women (who had procreated and did not eat all their young – how odd is that) and watched them trample the souls of the people who worked hard for them. Doing a good job and not putting something in the engine of their car was not enough. Making you feel like nada and making the occasional tear nosedive down your cheek was mother’s milk to them. My God, they loved to see us in pain almost as much as they loved causing it.

And how did they get away with it? Friends in high places who I can only assume loved to get their bottoms smacked by them. Just my theory, folks. I have no scientific evidence to prove my theory, just a strong gut feeling. But these higher ups turned a blind eye to the abuse and it was abuse. Karma would like to have a few words with you jackals. Karma didn’t make bail and is really quite annoyed with the world.

So I would like to put women bosses (well, the majority of them. I know there are some extraordinary ones out there. Where?) on notice. You do not beat on someone’s ego because you fear that people will find out that you are a fake. Breaking News: you are a fake and we knew it. The only difference between you and decent people is that you held our jobs in your hands. You should never have been able to dangle our essence on a pole while running down the hall with your hair on fire.

In the end, we may have needed antacids to get over you, but we will still have our dignity and people who like us. No matter how many times you made us cry.

And Jennifer Aniston, put some clothes on. I don’t feel like writing another “I hate my body” blog.

© 2011 My Views from the Edge ™

Please visit my site: My Views From The Edge

You can become a fan of mine on Facebook at:  elizabeth cassidy Views from the Edge with a Slice of Reality

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Filed Under: Humor, New York, Opinion Tagged With: , , , , ,

Top Ten. More or Less

09/29/2011 By Stacy Robinson 5 Comments

I think my body is on fire.  In fact, I am absolutely sure of this.

Who the hell turned the temperature up to, what?  Eighty?  Ninety?  It has to be at least 100 degrees in here.  I stomp over to the thermostat, self-righteous indignation ignited (along with my skin), pajamas clinging to my body in a damp and tangled mess.  If I’d wanted to live in the tropics, I grumble to myself, I’d bloody well move there.

Someone is going to die.  Someone is going t…

Sixty-eight.

Wait.  What?   Something has to be wrong.  Something has to be broken.

Then it hits me.   That is, this particular phenomenon is new enough that it takes a minute or three to hit me.  Hot Flashes.

Oh joy.  As if the cramps weren’t bad enough.  As if bloating and pretty red blemishes every month for the past few decades weren’t gift enough.  And let’s not forget the mood swings.  Intermittent crying jags and snarling rage, there and back again (and again and again and again); these have always been good for a few laughs.  Now I get to add hot flashes to the mix. Yay.

At the ripe old age of fifty— (Fifty?  Seriously?  How the hell did this happen?  Fifty is for old people and Republicans.  This can’t be happening.  Not to me at least.)— I find that I am falling apart.  I am squishy and lumpy, and not in a good way.  Things sag.  ) I have wrinkles.  I have indentations where once there were wrinkles.   I squint more.  Ok; I squint constantly, and now need special glasses to see down. Who knew down was such an important direction?  Music is too loud sometimes and those darned kids are ruining everything.  (And since when did these kids, professionals and experts and supposed adults become such babies?  I have socks older than some of them, some to whom I am supposed to trust my wealth (if I had any), my stuff (of which I have too much, being fifty and all), my very life!)

And now there are hot flashes.  Again: yay.

So, I curse my age, fume at my body’s betrayal, and think of Ann Margaret and Bye, Bye Birdie.  This is  yet another testament to my advancing age: a wandering mind.  Where once I could focus with laser-like precision for hours at a time, my thoughts now float aimlessly on a sea of constant distraction, coming to rest on the brightest and shiniest in no particular order.

There is a connection, however tenuous it might seem.

It started several decades ago, as a game.  I was in my strident I-am-woman-hear-me-roar phase, when the punchline to the knock-knock joke “How many feminists does it take to screw in a light bulb?” was “That’s not funny!” said without a smile or laugh.  And one day, lying on a heating pad and praying the Pamprin would kick in already, I was flipping through network channels, just in time to hear Ann Margaret whisper-sing that anthem to femininity, How Lovely to Be a Woman.

How lovely to be a woman, the wait was well worthwhile…

…Whenever you hear boys whistling, you’re what they’re whistling at!

It went on.  And on and on, ad nauseum.  It detailed all the dubious joys of womanhood— the marvels of make-up and high heels and being attractive to boys.  It said nothing of being smart or kind or strong or independent.  And while I was at it, while I was shuddering at the driveling sexism of this song, I began to think of other songs that could be included in that infamous category.

And what a category it is! When I began the game, my knowledge was mostly limited to songs from Broadway.  I devised a Top Ten list of the most sexist songs of all time.  This Bye, Bye Birdie number was always at the top.   Also on the list were “What’s the Use of Wonderin”’ (Carousel); “I’ll Be So Happy to Keep His Dinner Warm,” (How to Succeed); “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend” (Gentlemen Prefer Blonds).

There were others.  Many others.  If I were younger, I could probably remember them.  At fifty, with a mind easily distracted, a body falling into disrepair, and menopause just around the corner, I continue to amass my list, hoping not that one day my Prince will come, but that, one day, I can stop adding to it.

Do you have a Top Ten?  I’d love to see your list.  And if you’d like to see more of my journey, check out my blog at http://staceyzrobinson.blogspot.com

Filed Under: Chicago, Humor, MISC

Bad Chemistry

09/28/2011 By Laurie LaGrone 8 Comments

I will tell you this story, but I want you to promise you won’t call the police or anything, because this all happened in 1981-82, and can’t we all just laugh about how stupid High School Laurie was and move on? I thought so.

If there is an upside of taking a chemistry class it is, of course, the experiments. Some are fairly uninspiring, and some are mildly entertaining. Still others have potential to be truly fascinating.

But I’m not here to talk about any of those. You came for the possible explosions, didn’t you? Of course you did.

The accompanying photo depicts a bunsen burner. All you really need to know about a bunsen burner is that it provides a constant heat source for chemistry experiments, it gets HOT, and it burns natural gas, which comes from below the special chemistry cabinets that serve as the lab tabletops. A rubber hose connects the burner to a gas valve on the side of the cabinet, and the gas is turned on.

In theory.

In reality, if you are a juvenile delinquent I’ll call Guy, you hook the rubber hose to the gas source, then put the other end of the hose not onto the bunsen burner, but rather stuffed into a hole in the gas cabinet. If you are Guy you then turn on the gas and walk away, alerting several of your brain-dead classmates to your folly as the cabinet slowly fills with loose methane gas. If you are a brain-dead classmate such as Yours Truly, you allow this to go on for, oh, say 45 minutes.

At which time a match is lit.

I had heard about flames shooting out of enclosed spaces, but I had never until that day actually seen it happen. I don’t remember any accompanying sound. I just remember the flames shooting out of the keyholes and air vents of the safety cabinet for several seconds.

And then it was over. No explosion, no early grave. No firefighters or police officers or ATF agents. Just a miffed — yes, I do believe miffed is a good way to describe her that day — chemistry teacher, no more competent than a day earlier. She was one step closer to the end of her chemistry teaching career at our school, a career which did not end for her that day, regardless of incompetence or shooting flames.

I think Guy may have been suspended for his prank, but I’m not sure. It was around this time that we stopped seeing a whole lot of Guy in school, as he had bigger ideas for his life. I saw him a few years ago at a class reunion, though I didn’t talk to him, because I didn’t recognize him. He looked really good. He’s been out of prison for a few years now, and trying to stay that way, I hear, so I don’t imagine he’ll be taking any chemistry classes any time soon.

No one was injured during this appalling experiment, unless you count the irreparable harm done to my faith in my own teenage judgement.

More stories about trying to get the chemistry teacher fired await you at Laurie’s blog Fooleryland

Filed Under: Humor, MISC Tagged With: , , , ,

Loaded

09/23/2011 By Steve Bush 6 Comments

My son has asked me “Where is my sister?”  Given that he doesn’t have one, it’s quite the existential interrogative for a person whose life revolves around Hot Wheels and superheros. Indeed, where is she? Such a loaded question from a boy who is apt to ask a thousand mindless ones.

What do I tell him? I usually will answer his questions as honestly and thoroughly as possible, knowing that with each answer, more questions are likely to fire like sparkplugs on a well-tuned sports car.

This answer is quite layered. How deep do I go?

Do I tell him we had your sister growing in Mommy’s belly and she died… twice? Should I avouch that God capriciously took away his chance at community? Certainly, that can o’ worms should remain closed.

Should I tell him that Mommy takes medicine, and we can’t make a sister now because she could come out sick? Surely, that is just a softball of a question begging the retort “What kind of medicine.  What kind of sick?”

Or should I tell him the real reason. Mommy and Daddy are selfish and lazy. They don’t want to go through that whole ordeal again, the diapers, the late nights, and all the crap (quite literally) that comes with it.

Should I add that it is probably for the better he doesn’t have the sister in question, because a new child could likely mean a new pecking order that would tread heavily on his gilded, roistering youth.

Should I tell him that it’s his fault… That we already have one, perfect little creation, and we don’t want to tempt fate with another child.  Should I tell that we don’t really deserve the love and joy that he’s provided, and that deep down, another child would likely be the leveling impulsion that would bring karma back into equilibrium? Nah… then I’d have to explain “equilibrium” to him, and I’m not sure that’s something I can do.

Should I just I tell him what I really want to tell him… that I wish we could give him that sibling that he’s requisitioned… that we’ve failed him as parents by robbing him of the bond of blood, the kinship of spirit he deserves. Should I tell him that twenty years from now, that he won’t have have mutual stories to share, and that he may be emotionally guarded because of the solemnity that he’s had to endure? Should I tell him that his ménage of one will lead to expanses of emptiness in his lifetime, voids that those with brothers and sisters will never know?

Should I tell him that, despite our best intentions, we will be spiraling downward in a vortex of mental, physical and financial anemia, and that, along with progeny, the burden of our ailing selves will be laid squarely and heavily on his shoulders alone?… That’s a lot to handle for a five year old.

In truth, it is these answers that are loaded more than the question. Though, I think I’ve got a pretty good idea how I’ll answer him the next time he begs “Where is my sister?” It’s after careful consideration that I will tell him frankly, and in earnest, in a reflective and lugubrious tone, “I don’t know buddy… I just don’t know.”

Filed Under: Humor, Parenting, SoCal Tagged With: , , , ,

Tanzen

09/22/2011 By Britton Minor 13 Comments

Lately I’ve been wondering if I have any good stories to tell. After all, I am a writer.

“A memoir?” I think. “Nah, too boring.”

Aside from the fact that my life’s story is peppered with the usual suspects, along with a healthy dose of spicy indiscretions, what isn’t dull is depressing. Besides, the necessary seedy characters have sworn me to secrecy under pain of death.

So what other possibilities are there? Poetry? Ok, here’s the latest:

Evening snail

Black tiger of Spring

Walking his ball in thunder

See what I mean? It’s not even a Haiku.. In my defense, it was an experiment for an upcoming homeschool class using only the magnetic words at hand, but still…

What’s left? Humor? Nope. I’m only witty by accident, and infrequently at that. My oldest rolls her eyes at my punishing pun proliferations. And since I don’t drink, I can’t even amuse myself. So how can it be that the desire to write is so strong that its beckoning star blots out the sun yet darkens my soul?  Is this how a man feels when his desire for an unattainable woman obliterates rational thought and he decides to drink poison rather than deal with the pain?

But there is no poison within my reach, though like Juliet I could plunge a despairing knife into my gut and let this unrealized creativity bleed out in a respectable literary death. Alas, I am a coward. I am also a fool who believes that one must not look a gift horse (even an injured one) in the mouth. I simply must keep doing this herky-jerky waltz because it is the only dance I know. Truth be told, it’s the dance I love.

Eventually, however, I am praying that I will find some rhythm, some surety, some style to call my own (and a brilliant Haiku?). Meanwhile, I’ll keep practicing. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three…

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Motivate Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

That Don’t Make It Junk

09/19/2011 By Deborah Batterman 11 Comments

My husband takes a peculiar pleasure in characterizing certain pieces of mail (mostly mine) as junk: solicitations from organizations I support (and those making claims on my support with letters of thanks for donations I never in fact gave);  promotional postcards for anything from Broadway show discounts to spa giveaways; flyers from Target and Kohl’s and his favorite supermarket, ShopRite.

A few weeks ago I read about a close call in outer space, 8:08 a.m. Eastern time, June 28th, a supersize piece of “space junk” coming within 1,100 feet of the International Space Station. An astrophysicist quoted in the New York Times article had this to say:  “It’s getting kind of dangerous.” According to recent estimates, more than half a million pieces of “human-made detritus” now clutter what we think of as outer space. Picturing those astronauts scurrying to take refuge in their “lifeboats” (i.e., space capsules) until the danger passed takes me right to that closet crammed with, yes, junk that comes hurtling down when the door is opened.

Junk – “old or discarded articles considered useless or of little value”; “worthless writing, talk, or ideas” – somehow it accumulates.  And in so doing, it takes on meaning (literal and metaphoric) sometimes a far cry from the original.  The Middle English jonk from which the word is derived was a nautical rope or cable that actually served a good purpose.

One person’s junk is another person’s treasure. The Supreme Court recently put the imprimatur of (some) redeeming value on video games by conferring them worthy of the same First Amendment protection given to books, plays, movies (which, themselves, took some time catching on an ‘art’). In his analysis of the Supreme Court’s decision, Seth Schiesel, who knows his video games well, acknowledges that most games are “insipid junk.” And yet, he writes, those who actually play games knew, a long time ago, “that the most important video games were not merely matters of technology or neuromuscular coordination, but of finding new ways to explore and think about both human relationships and the wider world around us.”

My daughter took it upon herself to put “Angry Birds” on my iPad.  I was skeptical, if not a little charmed. It takes a certain finesse of the finger to get that slingshot trajectory just right, the question being, how much do I want to invest in this particular skill set?  Add to that question the discovery that a growing number of physics teachers (one at the very high school my daughter attended) are using the game as a study tool, and, I admit it, my curiosity is raised a notch (‘Angry Birds’; happy physicists).  Maybe not high art; but not exactly junk, either.

WikiHow, a site that makes me smile for the titles alone that pop up  (“How to Give a Cat a Medicine” among my favorite) is a treasure trove of advice for the junk-laden, from the obvious  — “How to Organize Your Junk Drawer,” “How to Cut Down on Junk Food” (if not quit it or enjoy it) – to the resourceful – “How to Recycle Junk Mail into a Paper Sculpture,”  “How to Swing a Bat at Junk Balls.”   Of course, there’s always the music cure, as in Patti LaBelle and the Bluebells turning a torch song into an upbeat hit (“I Sold My Heart to the Junkman”) or Leonard Cohen’s mix of melancholy and wit (“took my diamonds to the pawnshop/but that don’t make it junk”).  And if nothing else works, all you have to do is picture our astronauts in outer space smack in the trajectory of some very angry birds.

Visit Deborah’s website here . . .

Filed Under: Humor, New York

Saint Peter, a Priest, And a College Student Are in a Boat . . .

09/15/2011 By Rima Tessman 4 Comments

One summer during college, I went on a retreat with my Catholic youth group. And not just any retreat, but a canoeing retreat. It took place at Canada’s stunningly beautiful Algonquin Provincial Park and I regretted it from the moment I realized I’d have to row a canoe and occasionally even carry that canoe, plus my worldly belongings, over my own head.

It was hot, there were swarms of bees, and you couldn’t even catch a break when we stopped to rest because that was scripture reading time. The campground, when we reached it, wasn’t so much a campground as a small secluded island with no plumbing or electrical outlets to plug your curling iron in. We cooked by fire, put iodine tablets in the river water to cleanse it, and slept on the forest floor in tents.

Despite all that, Algonquin was pretty impressive. I was with my closest friends, had my eye on a handsome Quebecois, and was appreciating the beauty of creation despite myself. You can’t help but feel closer to God when you paddle by a single moose standing in shallow waters with mountains and the setting sun as backdrop. Or when you’re kicking back by the fire with a brewski and some chips.

On the last day of the retreat, after we’d packed up the campsite and put out the fires, we had the opportunity to receive the sacrament of confession. The prospect of dragging out your sins without the benefit of a confessional window to hide behind was daunting to say the least, but our chaplain – Father Sunshine – was a stand-up priest who had good rapport with young people and was always quick with a kind word or joke. Besides, after three days in the woods, we felt humble and changed. One by one, we took the plunge.

I was the last to go and when my turn came, I went to town. There was no end to my transgressions, no sin left behind. Big ones, small ones, I lifted each one individually and cast it off like refuse into the abyss. In the past I’d questioned the necessity of confession as a sacrament, believing that no mediator was needed between me and God. But there is something about laying your faults bare, about lifting them up and giving them away, that is spectacularly liberating. At least, it was very good for me.

Afterward I felt like a new person. My backpack was suddenly lighter, there was a bounce in my step. But even more importantly, I knew that in just six short hours, I’d be showering and sleeping in a real bed. What I didn’t know was that while I was going through my litany, everyone else in the group had paired up. One by one, the canoes and their occupants set off towards home base as the wind picked up and a steady rain began to pour.

Father Sunshine and I were the only two left.

He looked at me, I looked at him.

“I guess we’re buddies” he said.

Next thing you know, I’m in a boat with my confessor. It’s driving rain and I’m doing my best to keep the canoe moving forward in a straight line. Father Sunshine is patient and gives gentle advice, but in his heart of hearts I know he’s marveling at my sins. It’s a predicament to say the least, only made worse by the fact that we’re drifting farther away from the other canoes in the middle of a storm.

The only redeeming thing about the situation is that I’m about to die a saint.

After awhile, even father Sunshine starts looking worried and suggests we ask Saint Peter to keep an eye on us and give us faith. Saint Peter, of course, is the apostle who with God’s help rowed his boat safely ashore in the raging sea of Galilee while Jesus slept.

Even in my terror, I couldn’t help but notice the poetry of the situation. Especially when, after dispensing his advice, Father Sunshine put down his oars and lit up a Marlboro Light.

“Keep rowing,” he told me, “I have faith in you.”

I don’t know how we made it out alive, but it was the best penance I ever did.

Filed Under: Humor, Spirituality

You know life is not fair when….

09/14/2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 11 Comments

A man’s jeans are washed in hot water, dried on very high heat and then zip right up. With a woman’s pair of jeans, they must be washed in ice cold water, line dried and then the jeans must be pulled up by using the jaws of life while an exorcism is being performed. When it doesn’t work (and it never does), you jeopardize getting 10 points off your driver’s license for driving without benefit of jeans. Telling the officer that your dog ate your jeans does not work. I tried.

Your husband buys a new vacuum (because you won’t be caught buying appliances that don’t resemble a flat iron) and after he does a test run (forgetting that there is space under the bed where dastardly things congregate) he mutters something about it being a gift for you! You end up losing sleep, debating whether to smother him with his own pillow as he dreams about being held captive by an army of dust bunnies whose leader is Jennifer Lopez. Go with 2 pillows. It’s quicker.

Some people from the west coast feel the need to make fun of us eastcoasters because we only experienced a 5.9 earthquake. You guys are just so tough, aren’t you? Come to NY. I will show you what survivor mode is all about and then we can get some wine and make fun of everyone. And the east and west coast really need to get along because when the middle states secede from the union, with Rick Perry and Michelle Bachman as their leaders, and relocate somewhere south of Australia, we will only be about 22 minutes from each other.

New Jersey will become the penal colony for any of the people who appeared in the Housewives of NJ, Jersey Shore and Jerseylicious. Snooki – your striped Juicy New Jersey sweat shorts are ready. So, sometimes life is fair.

You take your dog outside so she can take care of business and one of your cats pees on living room rug because the dog tried to take one of their cat beds outside with her. She is a yellow lab and there is a law that you cannot get mad at a yellow lab- they are so sweet and sensitive – it’s a good law. And the most fulfilling part of this is telling the husband (because we share everything – not) and then I get to sit down and watch his head detach from his neck and spin all over the room like a dancing dervish. Yeah, I love that part.

Razors made for women (someone out there did the research- these blades are for babes) cut so deep into the back of your ankle (you know the spot where there really is no skin) that you start to pass out from the blood lost. I am experiencing that right now and have to stop so I can write up a will while I still have the strength. I am leaving all the rugs to the cats.

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