Friday, December 31, 2004

The Arrow of Time

This short story entry is courtesy of TinyTuna, who wrote it in the car on the way back from visiting family. There are many things in this world upon which I cannot improve, and this story, with it's wonderful misspelling and absolutely fabulous ending, would be one of them.



The Arrow of Time!

There once was a girl, and a bow and arrow she had.

She let go of the arrow and it flung as it always had.

It was stuck in a tree as it would be.

She couldn't reach it, one, two three!

Suddenly she was with a young man on the roof.

She looked at the arrow, then looked at the tree,

then stared at him, then stared at she.

She gasped as she went to high school the next day,

and went home not to play.

She studied the arrow long and hard.

It was a time travel machine. The silliest one she'd ever seen!



Her arrow was a time machine!

She ran to tell her boyfriend all that she found out. She ran to his house.

She explained with detail and pride, the info that she held inside.

He gave a scream and then a smile, and gazed at me all the while.

He asked, "Please me love, can you see?

Will you do one thing? Will you marry me?"

She looked at his ring in his hand,

and replied, "Yes! I would be glad!"

On December 30th, on that day, a weeding [sic] was held for they.

They both said, "I do" and kissed his wife.

Her heart beat with all the strife!



She suddenly awoke.

A nightmare!



The Arrow of Time

This short story entry is courtesy of TinyTuna, who wrote it in the car on the way back from visiting family. There are many things in this world upon which I cannot improve, and this story, with it's wonderful misspelling and absolutely fabulous ending, would be one of them.

The Arrow of Time!
There once was a girl, and a bow and arrow she had.
She let go of the arrow and it flung as it always had.
It was stuck in a tree as it would be.
She couldn't reach it, one, two three!
Suddenly she was with a young man on the roof.
She looked at the arrow, then looked at the tree,
then stared at him, then stared at she.
She gasped as she went to high school the next day,
and went home not to play.
She studied the arrow long and hard.
It was a time travel machine. The silliest one she'd ever seen!

Her arrow was a time machine!
She ran to tell her boyfriend all that she found out. She ran to his house.
She explained with detail and pride, the info that she held inside.
He gave a scream and then a smile, and gazed at me all the while.
He asked, "Please me love, can you see?
Will you do one thing? Will you marry me?"
She looked at his ring in his hand,
and replied, "Yes! I would be glad!"
On December 30th, on that day, a weeding [sic] was held for they.
They both said, "I do" and kissed his wife.
Her heart beat with all the strife!

She suddenly awoke.
A nightmare!

Thursday, December 30, 2004

Hens and Roosters

"Mom, am I a hen or a rooster?"



This is the question I got about a year ago as TinyTuna attempted to use a public restroom. It was a legitimate question for a then-nine year old. After all, we live in suburbia, not on Old McDonald's farm. And although she has been forcibly dipped into the scary waters of elementary school sex education health class, her information comes from Slim Goodbody, not the Subservient Chicken.



Perhaps it would have helped if there were a graphic (preferably human) to go along with the cute fowl-inspired bathrooms. Or maybe the hens and roosters could be wearing a tell-tale item of clothing, or some garish red lipstick. But then again, Do chickens have lips?



If you ask me, the VERY LAST place anybody should be creative is on a bathroom door. When one is stampeding to the bathroom, there is simply no time to ponder graphics and word games. I have actually seen a women's restroom labeled as Wopeople. I'm sure someone somewhere thinks it is cute, because heaven forbid someone place the word men on a women's bathroom.



Har Har Har. Spare Me.



This year on vacation we were faced with another bathroom dilemma. This time there was no text at all. Each door had a large wooden crab. One had an eyepatch and a captains hat, and the other had long eyelashes and rosy cheeks. There were no other directions or clues. You simply had to make your best guess and go.



TinyTuna was so amused by these bathroom doors, she gave me a guided tour later in the evening.



Of course, you would correctly guess that the eyepatched captain-hatted crab was for boys. But I take exception to that stereotype, whether it applies to crustaceans, or people with full bladders. There were such things as girl pirates, and certainly they might have worn eyepatches or a captains hat. As for eyelashes and rosy cheeks, I don't think women have a corner on that market. Besides, I've never seen a crab (male or female) emerge from the sea looking like an oceanic streetwalker.



So please, please, please, spare me the buoys and gulls, the bucks and does, the hens and roosters and the Crabbys and Nabbys.



Men and women will do just fine.



Hens and Roosters

"Mom, am I a hen or a rooster?"

This is the question I got about a year ago as TinyTuna attempted to use a public restroom. It was a legitimate question for a then-nine year old. After all, we live in suburbia, not on Old McDonald's farm. And although she has been forcibly dipped into the scary waters of elementary school sex education health class, her information comes from Slim Goodbody, not the Subservient Chicken.

Perhaps it would have helped if there were a graphic (preferably human) to go along with the cute fowl-inspired bathrooms. Or maybe the hens and roosters could be wearing a tell-tale item of clothing, or some garish red lipstick. But then again, Do chickens have lips?

If you ask me, the VERY LAST place anybody should be creative is on a bathroom door. When one is stampeding to the bathroom, there is simply no time to ponder graphics and word games. I have actually seen a women's restroom labeled as Wopeople. I'm sure someone somewhere thinks it is cute, because heaven forbid someone place the word men on a women's bathroom.

Har Har Har. Spare Me.

This year on vacation we were faced with another bathroom dilemma. This time there was no text at all. Each door had a large wooden crab. One had an eyepatch and a captains hat, and the other had long eyelashes and rosy cheeks. There were no other directions or clues. You simply had to make your best guess and go.

TinyTuna was so amused by these bathroom doors, she gave me a guided tour later in the evening.

Of course, you would correctly guess that the eyepatched captain-hatted crab was for boys. But I take exception to that stereotype, whether it applies to crustaceans, or people with full bladders. There were such things as girl pirates, and certainly they might have worn eyepatches or a captains hat. As for eyelashes and rosy cheeks, I don't think women have a corner on that market. Besides, I've never seen a crab (male or female) emerge from the sea looking like an oceanic streetwalker.

So please, please, please, spare me the buoys and gulls, the bucks and does, the hens and roosters and the Crabbys and Nabbys.

Men and women will do just fine.

Wednesday, December 29, 2004

Lists

I can feel it coming already.



It's the end of the year wrap up when everybody posts lists detailing the best, the worst, the silliest, the somberest, the happiest, the saddest, and the etcetera-est ad infinitum of the past twelve months.



And then they turn around and post lists detailing their hopes and dreams and plans and resolutions for the twelve months to come.



And then, they send it to you.

And they tap their virtual fingertips.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.



Those lists sit like stink bombs in my inbox. Not that I'm not interested in other people's perceptions of the past and aspirations for the future. On the contrary. I find it rather interesting.



But don't look at me and expect any such contribution. I'm no good at lists. Never have been. Never will be.



If you want a Reader's Digest version of the past twelve months of my life, my best suggestion is to sit down, make yourself comfortable, and visit the archives listed to the right. Then you can decide what you think was the best and the worst and the most annoying.



But I can't do it. Partly because -- guess what? -- I don't remember everything that happened during the past year. Partly because I cannot imagine anybody would really care what I thought was the highlight of my year. It may have been monumental for me, and mean absolutely zippo to you. Partly because I have a near-impossible time placing an -est after any one event to the exclusion of all the rest. Heck, I agonize over friendship meme's that require me to choose a favorite color, TV show and book.



However, in the spirit of being a team player I offer the following pitiful excuse for a year-end wrap:



My biggest accomplishment of 2004 was being here at the end of the year.

My resolution for 2005 is to do the same.





Lists

I can feel it coming already.

It's the end of the year wrap up when everybody posts lists detailing the best, the worst, the silliest, the somberest, the happiest, the saddest, and the etcetera-est ad infinitum of the past twelve months.

And then they turn around and post lists detailing their hopes and dreams and plans and resolutions for the twelve months to come.

And then, they send it to you.
And they tap their virtual fingertips.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.

Those lists sit like stink bombs in my inbox. Not that I'm not interested in other people's perceptions of the past and aspirations for the future. On the contrary. I find it rather interesting.

But don't look at me and expect any such contribution. I'm no good at lists. Never have been. Never will be.

If you want a Reader's Digest version of the past twelve months of my life, my best suggestion is to sit down, make yourself comfortable, and visit the archives listed to the right. Then you can decide what you think was the best and the worst and the most annoying.

But I can't do it. Partly because -- guess what? -- I don't remember everything that happened during the past year. Partly because I cannot imagine anybody would really care what I thought was the highlight of my year. It may have been monumental for me, and mean absolutely zippo to you. Partly because I have a near-impossible time placing an -est after any one event to the exclusion of all the rest. Heck, I agonize over friendship meme's that require me to choose a favorite color, TV show and book.

However, in the spirit of being a team player I offer the following pitiful excuse for a year-end wrap:

My biggest accomplishment of 2004 was being here at the end of the year.
My resolution for 2005 is to do the same.


Tuesday, December 28, 2004

Strangers Among Us

Whenever one makes a trip to visit family, it seems inevitable that during the course of your stay you will learn things about people you never knew before. Sometimes these tidbits are wonderful little nuggets of information that give you a more complete picture of who that person really was, or is. I don't know why these things remain a mystery for so long, but it seems like such a gift when another piece of somebody's personal puzzle is discovered and put into place.



Equally amazing is discovering that after months or years and across hundreds of miles, conversations resume as if nothing more had happened than you stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. It confirms the fact that despite time and tide, you are indeed, family.



But there are darker corners, too, where finding answers is difficult. Sometimes impossible. Maybe the secrets will never be known. Maybe some thoughts, things, and people are destined to remain a mystery.



Knowing or not knowing. Would it be a blessing or a Pandora's Box? Surely there are things that are better not to know. Yet, there is always that nagging feeling that there must be things that are important and special and wonderful -- and discovering those treasures would give clearer insight, understanding and compassion.



Sadly, it seems there cannot be the joy of illumination without the burden of knowledge. As we constantly struggle to answer the basic questions of who we are and how we fit into family, community and world, the best we can do is look closely, listen quietly, and be open to those strangers among us. They just may have the answers we seek.



Strangers Among Us

Whenever one makes a trip to visit family, it seems inevitable that during the course of your stay you will learn things about people you never knew before. Sometimes these tidbits are wonderful little nuggets of information that give you a more complete picture of who that person really was, or is. I don't know why these things remain a mystery for so long, but it seems like such a gift when another piece of somebody's personal puzzle is discovered and put into place.

Equally amazing is discovering that after months or years and across hundreds of miles, conversations resume as if nothing more had happened than you stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. It confirms the fact that despite time and tide, you are indeed, family.

But there are darker corners, too, where finding answers is difficult. Sometimes impossible. Maybe the secrets will never be known. Maybe some thoughts, things, and people are destined to remain a mystery.

Knowing or not knowing. Would it be a blessing or a Pandora's Box? Surely there are things that are better not to know. Yet, there is always that nagging feeling that there must be things that are important and special and wonderful -- and discovering those treasures would give clearer insight, understanding and compassion.

Sadly, it seems there cannot be the joy of illumination without the burden of knowledge. As we constantly struggle to answer the basic questions of who we are and how we fit into family, community and world, the best we can do is look closely, listen quietly, and be open to those strangers among us. They just may have the answers we seek.

Sunday, December 26, 2004

All Y'all

The assimilation of all things south of the Mason-Dixon line has begun y'all. Pop is no more. Now it's soda. I've hidden away all my queen cash from Canada, because, as I was once told in a highly contemptuous way, "We don't take that kind of money here." (Y'all)



Despite the fact that there is no snow here in the land of all things southern, there are still plenty of complaints about the cold. These belly-aches are being totally ignored by us northerners, because their current temperature has TWO digits, which is one more than we've seen in quite awhile. (Y'all)



We occupied ourselves in the car playing Disney Trivial pursuit. I thought I'd be smoking at this one, but with questions like, What was the mean kid's sister's cousin's dog's name in Toy Story I quickly discovered just how much of an idiot I really was. (Y'all)



TinyTuna also spent time asking riddles with answers no one on earth could guess, like What is black and white and is found at the North Pole? Yeah. Forget the penguins. Far too obvious. The answer is A lost zebra. Uh-huh. It was a long afternoon. (Y'all)



After several stops for pop which morphed into soda before our wondering eyes, we made our way to Maryland, partaking in the traditional 15 minute slowdown to 5 mph so everybody could rubberneck at the car on the side of the road. I don't know. Maybe the dent in the fender looked like the Virgin Mary. (Y'all)



Not much else to tell. The rest of the week will be filled with family mirth and joy. Also known as blogging fodder.



Stay tuned, Y'all.







All Y'all

The assimilation of all things south of the Mason-Dixon line has begun y'all. Pop is no more. Now it's soda. I've hidden away all my queen cash from Canada, because, as I was once told in a highly contemptuous way, "We don't take that kind of money here." (Y'all)

Despite the fact that there is no snow here in the land of all things southern, there are still plenty of complaints about the cold. These belly-aches are being totally ignored by us northerners, because their current temperature has TWO digits, which is one more than we've seen in quite awhile. (Y'all)

We occupied ourselves in the car playing Disney Trivial pursuit. I thought I'd be smoking at this one, but with questions like, What was the mean kid's sister's cousin's dog's name in Toy Story I quickly discovered just how much of an idiot I really was. (Y'all)

TinyTuna also spent time asking riddles with answers no one on earth could guess, like What is black and white and is found at the North Pole? Yeah. Forget the penguins. Far too obvious. The answer is A lost zebra. Uh-huh. It was a long afternoon. (Y'all)

After several stops for pop which morphed into soda before our wondering eyes, we made our way to Maryland, partaking in the traditional 15 minute slowdown to 5 mph so everybody could rubberneck at the car on the side of the road. I don't know. Maybe the dent in the fender looked like the Virgin Mary. (Y'all)

Not much else to tell. The rest of the week will be filled with family mirth and joy. Also known as blogging fodder.

Stay tuned, Y'all.



Saturday, December 25, 2004

Wrapping Paper Wrap-Up

The day was long, my time is short and my attention span is currently at Hey, An Apple! Nevertheless, I bring, for your enjoyment, some truisms from Christmas 2004.



Whereas you may think that giving your nephew a blueberry pie for Christmas (with Cool Whip in the stocking) is the most awesome idea ever, your sister's gift of a real-live (at least he still was when he left tonight) Herman the Hermit Crab will beat it every time.



Whereas you may think that you are much more organized this year than last year, you will still forget to give presents, forget to wrap presents, and lose presents within the confines of a 12 x 12 room. I'm sad to report The Prisoner of Azkaban is ... well ... still a prisoner in my bedroom. Somewhere.



Whereas you may think that providing your French Angora Rabbit Fabio the Fabulous with several toys that he can toss to alleviate boredom (because there is no greater crime than having a bored rabbit), they are pretty much like kids. They don't want to play with toys. They want to eat and destroy them. I should have just given him a toilet paper roll.



Whereas many people will have dined on sumptuous meals with enormous spreads, a Christmas dinner of ham, smashed potatoes and fresh vegetables is not only no-fuss, no-muss, it's also probably one of the yummiest things ever.



Whereas there are still far more many things to do than there are minutes in a day, whoever invented Gift Bags, Tissue Paper and self-sticking To/From labels should be made a saint. Immediately. Ditto for crisco and smooth peanut butter in pre-measured sticks. Bless you. Bless you all.



Whereas Frosty, Rudolph, Yukon Cornelius and the Peanuts Gang are the meat and potatoes of the holiday viewing schedule, there was something slightly fun and off-kilter about watching Gone With the Wind while I wrapped presents this morning. Fiddle-Dee-Dee!



Whereas holiday gifts are often profound statements about ourselves and our relationships with others, nobody will ever convince me that Slim Jims and a box of Chicken-in-a-Biscuit don't make the most wonderfully heartfelt present ever. So there. Nyah.



Whereas tomorrow means packing the car at the crack of whenever we wake up and heading out to see our east coast relatives, today was full of fun and laughter, family and good food. Here's to hoping for warmer weather, dry roads, light traffic, and a decided lack of law enforcement officers.



To each and every one of you, Merry ChristmaHannuKwanzica. I'll see you tomorrow on the flip side.



Wrapping Paper Wrap-Up

The day was long, my time is short and my attention span is currently at Hey, An Apple! Nevertheless, I bring, for your enjoyment, some truisms from Christmas 2004.

Whereas you may think that giving your nephew a blueberry pie for Christmas (with Cool Whip in the stocking) is the most awesome idea ever, your sister's gift of a real-live (at least he still was when he left tonight) Herman the Hermit Crab will beat it every time.

Whereas you may think that you are much more organized this year than last year, you will still forget to give presents, forget to wrap presents, and lose presents within the confines of a 12 x 12 room. I'm sad to report The Prisoner of Azkaban is ... well ... still a prisoner in my bedroom. Somewhere.

Whereas you may think that providing your French Angora Rabbit Fabio the Fabulous with several toys that he can toss to alleviate boredom (because there is no greater crime than having a bored rabbit), they are pretty much like kids. They don't want to play with toys. They want to eat and destroy them. I should have just given him a toilet paper roll.

Whereas many people will have dined on sumptuous meals with enormous spreads, a Christmas dinner of ham, smashed potatoes and fresh vegetables is not only no-fuss, no-muss, it's also probably one of the yummiest things ever.

Whereas there are still far more many things to do than there are minutes in a day, whoever invented Gift Bags, Tissue Paper and self-sticking To/From labels should be made a saint. Immediately. Ditto for crisco and smooth peanut butter in pre-measured sticks. Bless you. Bless you all.

Whereas Frosty, Rudolph, Yukon Cornelius and the Peanuts Gang are the meat and potatoes of the holiday viewing schedule, there was something slightly fun and off-kilter about watching Gone With the Wind while I wrapped presents this morning. Fiddle-Dee-Dee!

Whereas holiday gifts are often profound statements about ourselves and our relationships with others, nobody will ever convince me that Slim Jims and a box of Chicken-in-a-Biscuit don't make the most wonderfully heartfelt present ever. So there. Nyah.

Whereas tomorrow means packing the car at the crack of whenever we wake up and heading out to see our east coast relatives, today was full of fun and laughter, family and good food. Here's to hoping for warmer weather, dry roads, light traffic, and a decided lack of law enforcement officers.

To each and every one of you, Merry ChristmaHannuKwanzica. I'll see you tomorrow on the flip side.

Friday, December 24, 2004

Come to the Manger

I have just survived another "family" afternoon Christmas Eve church service. At least, I think there was a service. Luckily, I'm already familiar with the story, so when all I could hear were fierce whispers of STOP IT NOW OR SO HELP ME.. I knew it wasn't the Angel Gabriel's other message.



Part of the family afternoon Christmas Eve church service involves bringing a gift to lay in the manger. Past years have found me running frantically through a grocery store yelling BABY JESUS NEEDS DIAPERS NOW! This, of course, happens because I tend to forget to put Baby Jesus on my shopping list -- which pretty much makes me the headliner for the naughty column. Once I tried in vain to find something appropriate at home, but sadly, TinyTuna was long past the diaper stage, and if I grabbed one of her memories, she would have had an unholy fit in front of Mary and Joseph and the rest of the crew. One year though, I struck gold (biblically speaking). I found in my basement a perfectly new -- still wrapped in cellophane -- inflatable beach ball.



Oh yes, I thought about it. I really did.



But I figured that maybe Baby Jesus didn't want a beach ball, which meant I had to go to the still-open grocery store of desperation yelling DIAPERS. Which I did indeed buy, and I gave them to the Baby Jesus. And he liked them.



This year, I'm proud to announce that I REMEMBERED to buy Baby Jesus a present. I got diapers at the grocery store of slightly less desperation because it was before noon on Christmas Eve. After the diaper victory I had to get beer, cologne and pepper spray because, well...I can't tell you why because it's super secret Santa stuff and no secrets can be revealed. Yet.



And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I got so busy and scattered and frantic that I grabbed the wrong bag. You're thinking I forgot the diapers and had to give Baby Jesus a Bud Light and some Pepper Spray. Admit it. That's what you're thinking, right?



Nah, Baby Jesus got the diapers right on cue. But considering how stinky that stable must have been, maybe a little Brut Aftershave would have been nice.



Come to the Manger

I have just survived another "family" afternoon Christmas Eve church service. At least, I think there was a service. Luckily, I'm already familiar with the story, so when all I could hear were fierce whispers of STOP IT NOW OR SO HELP ME.. I knew it wasn't the Angel Gabriel's other message.

Part of the family afternoon Christmas Eve church service involves bringing a gift to lay in the manger. Past years have found me running frantically through a grocery store yelling BABY JESUS NEEDS DIAPERS NOW! This, of course, happens because I tend to forget to put Baby Jesus on my shopping list -- which pretty much makes me the headliner for the naughty column. Once I tried in vain to find something appropriate at home, but sadly, TinyTuna was long past the diaper stage, and if I grabbed one of her memories, she would have had an unholy fit in front of Mary and Joseph and the rest of the crew. One year though, I struck gold (biblically speaking). I found in my basement a perfectly new -- still wrapped in cellophane -- inflatable beach ball.

Oh yes, I thought about it. I really did.

But I figured that maybe Baby Jesus didn't want a beach ball, which meant I had to go to the still-open grocery store of desperation yelling DIAPERS. Which I did indeed buy, and I gave them to the Baby Jesus. And he liked them.

This year, I'm proud to announce that I REMEMBERED to buy Baby Jesus a present. I got diapers at the grocery store of slightly less desperation because it was before noon on Christmas Eve. After the diaper victory I had to get beer, cologne and pepper spray because, well...I can't tell you why because it's super secret Santa stuff and no secrets can be revealed. Yet.

And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I got so busy and scattered and frantic that I grabbed the wrong bag. You're thinking I forgot the diapers and had to give Baby Jesus a Bud Light and some Pepper Spray. Admit it. That's what you're thinking, right?

Nah, Baby Jesus got the diapers right on cue. But considering how stinky that stable must have been, maybe a little Brut Aftershave would have been nice.

Thursday, December 23, 2004

Done Done Done

And so, I've finally finished swimming in the sea of humanity. I am truly shopped-out. Now, comes the small matter of the hovel, which has only gotten hovellishier over the past several days and weeks. There are cookies to be baked, dishes to be washed, a bunny cage that needs some serious attention, and laundry which currently is having a members-only tete-a-tete in the basement.



TinyTuna is curled up on the couch with all her pink blanket and friends. GramTuna is puttering at her house, and despite all there is to do, and the snow outside, and those picky details we so fondly call life, I must say that at this moment, the hovel is the bestest place in the whole world.



Done Done Done

And so, I've finally finished swimming in the sea of humanity. I am truly shopped-out. Now, comes the small matter of the hovel, which has only gotten hovellishier over the past several days and weeks. There are cookies to be baked, dishes to be washed, a bunny cage that needs some serious attention, and laundry which currently is having a members-only tete-a-tete in the basement.

TinyTuna is curled up on the couch with all her pink blanket and friends. GramTuna is puttering at her house, and despite all there is to do, and the snow outside, and those picky details we so fondly call life, I must say that at this moment, the hovel is the bestest place in the whole world.

Wednesday, December 22, 2004

Are You Being Served?

An Open Letter to the Idiot who was in front of

me this morning at the Drive Through Window




Hey You! That's right, you.



This morning you were awarded an F in etiquette by the 57 people behind you at the drive through window. I'm here to help you better yourself by pointing out -- in front everybody here who wasn't raised by wolves and already knows better -- your many mistakes and how to fix them.



Rule Number 1 -- OPEN THE WINDOW

Yes, yes, it was cold. But you know what? You live in Michigan and it's winter, so tough beans, bucko. You're at a drive through WINDOW. This implies you must somehow USE your window. It's not rocket science, but maybe you still don't understand that your window must be ROLLED DOWN so you can communicate with the Oracle. So please, open the blasted thing so everybody knows you are at attention and ready to proceed. If your windows are frozen shut you may perform the alternate maneuver: open the car door and yell.



Rule Number 2 -- SHAVE AT HOME

I have no words, here. At first I thought you were an obsessive-compulsive who stroked his beard 30 bazillion times a day while you murmured, "Precious. My precious..." But then I realized no. NO. You were shaving! Perhaps this explains the closed car window. Maybe you actually felt a little embarrassed. But evidently not embarrassed enough to STOP. Honestly, I don't care what your story is -- just stop it. And yes, I can hear you already pulling out the 8-year old's last defense: but everybody else does it. Maybe so, but too bad. I don't care if you do it, just don't do it at the drive through window when you're in front of me. It's gross and vile. And gross.



Rule Number 3 -- EMPLOY VISUAL CLUES

Now, I understand there are times when we have all been at the head of the line, waiting waiting waiting for the Oracle to welcome us to fast food hell. When you are at the head of the class and the Oracle will not speak, you need to employ several visual clues to let the rest of us know that the delay is not your fault. Examples include:



1. OPEN THE DAMN WINDOW



2. Lay your head out of the car as if you're about to faint. The shipwrecked sailor pose with head hanging out and arms akimbo works well, too. If the rest of the line sees that you are suffering, we'll most likely leave you alone.



3. Occasionally look at the cars behind you as if to say, "You can see that I'm here, right? And see? I'm frustrated too. I'm ready and willing to order just as soon as the Oracle awakens from its slumber."



Rule Number 4 -- TAKE CHARGE

Look, the disembodied oracle is not exactly a burning bush. If you have waited an appropriate amount of time, just start talking to it. LOUDLY. Say anything to get its attention. If nothing happens, take matters into your own hands. Drive to the next window and start yelling at somebody. The people behind you will thank you. And they might, just might, forgive the shaving incident.



Shyeah, right.



Are You Being Served?

An Open Letter to the Idiot who was in front of
me this morning at the Drive Through Window


Hey You! That's right, you.

This morning you were awarded an F in etiquette by the 57 people behind you at the drive through window. I'm here to help you better yourself by pointing out -- in front everybody here who wasn't raised by wolves and already knows better -- your many mistakes and how to fix them.

Rule Number 1 -- OPEN THE WINDOW
Yes, yes, it was cold. But you know what? You live in Michigan and it's winter, so tough beans, bucko. You're at a drive through WINDOW. This implies you must somehow USE your window. It's not rocket science, but maybe you still don't understand that your window must be ROLLED DOWN so you can communicate with the Oracle. So please, open the blasted thing so everybody knows you are at attention and ready to proceed. If your windows are frozen shut you may perform the alternate maneuver: open the car door and yell.

Rule Number 2 -- SHAVE AT HOME
I have no words, here. At first I thought you were an obsessive-compulsive who stroked his beard 30 bazillion times a day while you murmured, "Precious. My precious..." But then I realized no. NO. You were shaving! Perhaps this explains the closed car window. Maybe you actually felt a little embarrassed. But evidently not embarrassed enough to STOP. Honestly, I don't care what your story is -- just stop it. And yes, I can hear you already pulling out the 8-year old's last defense: but everybody else does it. Maybe so, but too bad. I don't care if you do it, just don't do it at the drive through window when you're in front of me. It's gross and vile. And gross.

Rule Number 3 -- EMPLOY VISUAL CLUES
Now, I understand there are times when we have all been at the head of the line, waiting waiting waiting for the Oracle to welcome us to fast food hell. When you are at the head of the class and the Oracle will not speak, you need to employ several visual clues to let the rest of us know that the delay is not your fault. Examples include:

1. OPEN THE DAMN WINDOW

2. Lay your head out of the car as if you're about to faint. The shipwrecked sailor pose with head hanging out and arms akimbo works well, too. If the rest of the line sees that you are suffering, we'll most likely leave you alone.

3. Occasionally look at the cars behind you as if to say, "You can see that I'm here, right? And see? I'm frustrated too. I'm ready and willing to order just as soon as the Oracle awakens from its slumber."

Rule Number 4 -- TAKE CHARGE
Look, the disembodied oracle is not exactly a burning bush. If you have waited an appropriate amount of time, just start talking to it. LOUDLY. Say anything to get its attention. If nothing happens, take matters into your own hands. Drive to the next window and start yelling at somebody. The people behind you will thank you. And they might, just might, forgive the shaving incident.

Shyeah, right.

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

I Got A Rock

It would be a great tragedy (to someone, maybe) if I let ye olde Winter Solstice slip by without sharing a Stonehenge story. No, really. I have a Stonehenge Story. And it doesn't necessarily consist of ripping off Eddie Izzard.



I had the opportunity to visit Stonehenge -- located down the road from Stick-Henge and Straw-Henge (DOH! Sorry Eddie) -- when I was about sixteen years old. I was a member of the fugly red-sweatered and navy-blue-pantsed church group that spent a couple weeks touring and one week singing at The Royal School of Church Music.



Cue the smells and bells.



During a portion of our sightseeing adventures, we had our own tourmobile, complete with our perpetually hung-over driver, Martin, and our tour guide, The Evil Crone Pat (TECPat). TECPat could best be described as a cross between The Wicked Witch of The West and a demonic Mary Poppin whose long-handled pointy umbrella you did NOT want to find yourself at the other end of.



For the most part, my gang of four commandeered a couple of seats in the back of the Her Majesty's ScoobyVan that had a table between them, and we played hearts and euchre nonstop. Martin consumed his daily breakfast of extra strength aspirin, and the TECPat droned on and on and on about the destination of the day while we shamelessly ignored her.



On a lovely summer day when everything was crumpets and tea, we found ourselves zipping down country lanes and English Gardens on the way to Stonehenge. Despite the age demographic placing us squarely in the column entitled TEENAGERS WHO HATE EVERYTHING, we were all fairly excited to go. It was outside. It was a nice day. And best of all, IT WASN'T A CATHEDRAL.



TECPat got on the horn and began her spiel about Stonehenge. But it was not the usual glowing attributes to Merrie Olde England. Oh No. It was a certifiable, 100% RANT on what a disappointment Stonehenge was going to be. We wouldn't like it at all. It was just a bunch of rocks blah, blah, blah.



Poor Pat. Poor misguided Pat. Maybe she thought she was sucking up to the unappeasable American Youth. Maybe she hated rock formations. Maybe she had relatives who found themselves sucked into the Druidic culture and wore nothing but brown (sorry again, Eddie). Whatever it was, she was on a roll of unholy bitchitude.



We loved it. We ate it up. And then...we made her suffer. Because we could. The closer we got to Stonehenge, the more obnoxious we became. We stared out the window and with every rock on the side of the road, we shouted with faux excitement "There it IS! There it IS!" When we finally pulled into full view of Stonehenge, we let out a collective disappointed "awwwww" as if we were Charlie Brown on Halloween.



I cannot tell you what brought us more satisfaction -- TECPat turning 29 shades of pissed-off purple, or our virtuous HolyHolyHoly chaperones cracking up because on that day, even the Saints had a smartass funny bone.



I Got A Rock

It would be a great tragedy (to someone, maybe) if I let ye olde Winter Solstice slip by without sharing a Stonehenge story. No, really. I have a Stonehenge Story. And it doesn't necessarily consist of ripping off Eddie Izzard.

I had the opportunity to visit Stonehenge -- located down the road from Stick-Henge and Straw-Henge (DOH! Sorry Eddie) -- when I was about sixteen years old. I was a member of the fugly red-sweatered and navy-blue-pantsed church group that spent a couple weeks touring and one week singing at The Royal School of Church Music.

Cue the smells and bells.

During a portion of our sightseeing adventures, we had our own tourmobile, complete with our perpetually hung-over driver, Martin, and our tour guide, The Evil Crone Pat (TECPat). TECPat could best be described as a cross between The Wicked Witch of The West and a demonic Mary Poppin whose long-handled pointy umbrella you did NOT want to find yourself at the other end of.

For the most part, my gang of four commandeered a couple of seats in the back of the Her Majesty's ScoobyVan that had a table between them, and we played hearts and euchre nonstop. Martin consumed his daily breakfast of extra strength aspirin, and the TECPat droned on and on and on about the destination of the day while we shamelessly ignored her.

On a lovely summer day when everything was crumpets and tea, we found ourselves zipping down country lanes and English Gardens on the way to Stonehenge. Despite the age demographic placing us squarely in the column entitled TEENAGERS WHO HATE EVERYTHING, we were all fairly excited to go. It was outside. It was a nice day. And best of all, IT WASN'T A CATHEDRAL.

TECPat got on the horn and began her spiel about Stonehenge. But it was not the usual glowing attributes to Merrie Olde England. Oh No. It was a certifiable, 100% RANT on what a disappointment Stonehenge was going to be. We wouldn't like it at all. It was just a bunch of rocks blah, blah, blah.

Poor Pat. Poor misguided Pat. Maybe she thought she was sucking up to the unappeasable American Youth. Maybe she hated rock formations. Maybe she had relatives who found themselves sucked into the Druidic culture and wore nothing but brown (sorry again, Eddie). Whatever it was, she was on a roll of unholy bitchitude.

We loved it. We ate it up. And then...we made her suffer. Because we could. The closer we got to Stonehenge, the more obnoxious we became. We stared out the window and with every rock on the side of the road, we shouted with faux excitement "There it IS! There it IS!" When we finally pulled into full view of Stonehenge, we let out a collective disappointed "awwwww" as if we were Charlie Brown on Halloween.

I cannot tell you what brought us more satisfaction -- TECPat turning 29 shades of pissed-off purple, or our virtuous HolyHolyHoly chaperones cracking up because on that day, even the Saints had a smartass funny bone.

Sixty Minutes

Last night I had approximately sixty minutes to do some Christmas Commando Consumering at the local shopping emporiumart. This is my story (BOM-BOM)



Stop One: World Market

It started with my Republican shopping cart that always wanted to go to the right, meaning I tended to go in pointless circles. First my shopping cart led me to Vietnamese Silk Hats. That's Christmas! Except no. Must keep going. Off to the food and wine section. For better or worse, I tend to employ the same lame shopping technique for barbecue sauces and wines. The goofier the name or cooler the label, the more apt I am to buy it. Because if it tastes nasty, you still have a cool bottle, right? And nothing says Christmas like a dinnertime conversation consisting of "Pass the Acid Rain," or, "Honey, I just can't get enough of that Hog's Ass."

Final Tally: Wine, BBQ Sass and various rubs.







Stop Two: CompUSA

Thinking I might find a fun PC-game for TinyTuna, I dashed into CompUSA. Wow. Doom 3 or Hitman Contracts or Vietcong Purple Haze. Nothing like death and destruction and general mayhem to pass along that seasonal message of Peace on Earth.

Final Tally: Zip. Parting comment: "I hate this store. I'm having a seizure."







Stop Three: Hallmark Store


Here is where it really begins to suck to be me. Within two minutes of shopping the Hallmark card aisle, it became painfully clear that I should have been shopping for Christmas cards on November 1st. Gems that were left?



Ghost of Sentiment Misguided
: May Christmas grow like a sprig in your heart.

Real Message: You remind me of parsley.



Ghost of Holiday Insults: If Santa needs a body double, you fit the bill -- not to mention the suit -- Ba-DUMP-bump!

Real Message: Put down the cookies, Tubby.



Ghost of Religious Indoctrination: In this sacred time of our Savior's birth we are reminded how bless we are by The Lord when He.....

Real Message: Go to church, you Godless heathen.



Other Hallmark Goldcrown Ponderings:

1. Why are they selling purses?

2. Ed-Ray Ats-Hay. Everywhere. Bleah.

3. Outrageously Expensive Specialty ornaments. Oh yeah. Nothing in this world says Christmas like a $20 Barbie's Shoe Tree ornament.

Final Tally: Zip. Parting comment: "Wow. They can't GIVE away those Polar Express Santas. I'm having a seizure."







Stop Three: Linens-n-Things


It just occurred to me that if you are a retailer and you add -n-Things to the title of your store, you can sell damn near anything you want. Like stinky candles -n-Things (score). And kitchen cookware -n-Things (score). But why (and I'm just wondering here) do they feel compelled to display 64 garlic presses on individual hooks displayed at heights from 10 feet above the ground to 25 feet above the ground? Are they worried we'll think they don't have enough -n-Things? Because if the army of garlic presses weren't enough, there were the 128 individually displayed metal spatulas sitting next to them.

Final Tally: Six Stinky Candles and a small ceramic votive holder.







Sixty Minutes

Last night I had approximately sixty minutes to do some Christmas Commando Consumering at the local shopping emporiumart. This is my story (BOM-BOM)

Stop One: World Market
It started with my Republican shopping cart that always wanted to go to the right, meaning I tended to go in pointless circles. First my shopping cart led me to Vietnamese Silk Hats. That's Christmas! Except no. Must keep going. Off to the food and wine section. For better or worse, I tend to employ the same lame shopping technique for barbecue sauces and wines. The goofier the name or cooler the label, the more apt I am to buy it. Because if it tastes nasty, you still have a cool bottle, right? And nothing says Christmas like a dinnertime conversation consisting of "Pass the Acid Rain," or, "Honey, I just can't get enough of that Hog's Ass."
Final Tally: Wine, BBQ Sass and various rubs.



Stop Two: CompUSA
Thinking I might find a fun PC-game for TinyTuna, I dashed into CompUSA. Wow. Doom 3 or Hitman Contracts or Vietcong Purple Haze. Nothing like death and destruction and general mayhem to pass along that seasonal message of Peace on Earth.
Final Tally: Zip. Parting comment: "I hate this store. I'm having a seizure."



Stop Three: Hallmark Store

Here is where it really begins to suck to be me. Within two minutes of shopping the Hallmark card aisle, it became painfully clear that I should have been shopping for Christmas cards on November 1st. Gems that were left?

Ghost of Sentiment Misguided
: May Christmas grow like a sprig in your heart.
Real Message: You remind me of parsley.

Ghost of Holiday Insults: If Santa needs a body double, you fit the bill -- not to mention the suit -- Ba-DUMP-bump!
Real Message: Put down the cookies, Tubby.

Ghost of Religious Indoctrination: In this sacred time of our Savior's birth we are reminded how bless we are by The Lord when He.....
Real Message: Go to church, you Godless heathen.

Other Hallmark Goldcrown Ponderings:
1. Why are they selling purses?
2. Ed-Ray Ats-Hay. Everywhere. Bleah.
3. Outrageously Expensive Specialty ornaments. Oh yeah. Nothing in this world says Christmas like a $20 Barbie's Shoe Tree ornament.
Final Tally: Zip. Parting comment: "Wow. They can't GIVE away those Polar Express Santas. I'm having a seizure."



Stop Three: Linens-n-Things

It just occurred to me that if you are a retailer and you add -n-Things to the title of your store, you can sell damn near anything you want. Like stinky candles -n-Things (score). And kitchen cookware -n-Things (score). But why (and I'm just wondering here) do they feel compelled to display 64 garlic presses on individual hooks displayed at heights from 10 feet above the ground to 25 feet above the ground? Are they worried we'll think they don't have enough -n-Things? Because if the army of garlic presses weren't enough, there were the 128 individually displayed metal spatulas sitting next to them.
Final Tally: Six Stinky Candles and a small ceramic votive holder.