Pass the Catch-Up

A long weekend, decent weather and lots of outside work meant little posting for me. Even my subconscious didn't get a chance to mutter in a timely manner. It's obvious from my answers that reading the Bible (hey, at least it's the NEW Testament, right?), going to Hollywood or getting some sleep was of primary importance.

I say ... And you think:

1. Crowd:: Push
   
2. Hamburger:: Lunch
   
3. Choker:: Necklace
   
4. Lights:: Out
   
5. Tinsel:: Town
   
6. Testament:: New
   
7. Best part of the day:: Bed Time
   
8. Election:: Scandal
   
9. Clarinet:: Reed
   
10. Dead Sea:: Scrolls
    

And then I discovered a daily Haiku meme, ensuring that I will never get any work done. If you want to 'ku along, drop it in the comments here, or visit the fortune cookie over on the side.

Daily Haiku -- Weekend Wilderness
Take this weekend to write haiku that focus on the natural world.

Wild Weeding Weekend
Success measured by carnage
Green Thumb Godzilla

Daily Haiku -- Tuesday Twofer
Tuesdays are all about twin haikus.
Instead of merely three lines, you get six

Lovely Long Weekend
Some spend their days in the sun
Good books to savor

While strangers honor
those they never knew -- small flags
bring highest respect

Pass the Catch-Up

A long weekend, decent weather and lots of outside work meant little posting for me. Even my subconscious didn't get a chance to mutter in a timely manner. It's obvious from my answers that reading the Bible (hey, at least it's the NEW Testament, right?), going to Hollywood or getting some sleep was of primary importance.

I say ... And you think:

1. Crowd:: Push
   
2. Hamburger:: Lunch
   
3. Choker:: Necklace
   
4. Lights:: Out
   
5. Tinsel:: Town
   
6. Testament:: New
   
7. Best part of the day:: Bed Time
   
8. Election:: Scandal
   
9. Clarinet:: Reed
   
10. Dead Sea:: Scrolls
    

And then I discovered a daily Haiku meme, ensuring that I will never get any work done. If you want to 'ku along, drop it in the comments here, or visit the fortune cookie over on the side.

Daily Haiku -- Weekend Wilderness
Take this weekend to write haiku that focus on the natural world.

Wild Weeding Weekend
Success measured by carnage
Green Thumb Godzilla

Daily Haiku -- Tuesday Twofer
Tuesdays are all about twin haikus.
Instead of merely three lines, you get six

Lovely Long Weekend
Some spend their days in the sun
Good books to savor

While strangers honor
those they never knew -- small flags
bring highest respect

Friday's Feast

It's still Friday, which means there is still time for Friday's Feast!

Appetizer: What job would you definitely NOT want to have?
Lightbulb replacer for the Mackinac Bridge.

Soup: Oprah calls and wants you to be on her show.
What would that day's show be about?
Today on Oprah -- Forget Dr. Phil! There's a new fish in town, and GreenTuna dishes all without a new book, southern accent or cranky granny catch phrases. Don't Get Real. Get Tuna.

Salad: Name Three Vegetables You Eat on a Regular Basis
If I have to name only three vegetables, I'd have a much easier time listing three I never eat (okra, turnips and eggplant). If we are talking vegetables I eat on a regular basis, you'd have to go with vegetable categories:
All things green. (peas, broccoli, asparagus)
All things bean. (lima, green, kidney, black, pinto, garbonzo)
All things everything else. (cucumbers, peppers, lettuce, romaine, carrots, cauliflower, corn, beets, celery...)

Main Course: If you were commissioned rename your hometown, what would you call it?
All the witty Mitten names are already taken: Paradise, Hell, Christmas, Vulcan, Norway, Ishpeming, Ypsilanti... For lack of anything else, now that the students are gone, I guess I'd call it Peaceful.

Dessert: If you had a personal assistant, what kind of tasks would you have them do?
Think of a better name for my hometown, because that answer really stunk.
Keep my calendar.
Fetch me fizzy brown diet drinks.
Fold my socks.

Friday's Feast

It's still Friday, which means there is still time for Friday's Feast!

Appetizer: What job would you definitely NOT want to have?
Lightbulb replacer for the Mackinac Bridge.

Soup: Oprah calls and wants you to be on her show.
What would that day's show be about?
Today on Oprah -- Forget Dr. Phil! There's a new fish in town, and GreenTuna dishes all without a new book, southern accent or cranky granny catch phrases. Don't Get Real. Get Tuna.

Salad: Name Three Vegetables You Eat on a Regular Basis
If I have to name only three vegetables, I'd have a much easier time listing three I never eat (okra, turnips and eggplant). If we are talking vegetables I eat on a regular basis, you'd have to go with vegetable categories:
All things green. (peas, broccoli, asparagus)
All things bean. (lima, green, kidney, black, pinto, garbonzo)
All things everything else. (cucumbers, peppers, lettuce, romaine, carrots, cauliflower, corn, beets, celery...)

Main Course: If you were commissioned rename your hometown, what would you call it?
All the witty Mitten names are already taken: Paradise, Hell, Christmas, Vulcan, Norway, Ishpeming, Ypsilanti... For lack of anything else, now that the students are gone, I guess I'd call it Peaceful.

Dessert: If you had a personal assistant, what kind of tasks would you have them do?
Think of a better name for my hometown, because that answer really stunk.
Keep my calendar.
Fetch me fizzy brown diet drinks.
Fold my socks.

Trivial Pursuits

(a camera pans slowly over shelves and shelves of books)....

Voice-Over: These racks and shelves contain a lot of books. Tens of Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Perhaps millions. How do you feel about them?
GreenTuna:Hate.
Voice-Over: Do they mean something to you?
GreenTuna: They mean somebody has some work to do.
Voice-Over: Are they your friends?
GreenTuna: Do I look THAT desperate?
Voice-Over: Have you a real love of books and learning?
GreenTuna: As opposed to a fake love?
Voice-Over: You do? That's good!
GreenTuna: No, wait! I didn't say...

Voice-Over: Now. Do you like people?
GreenTuna: No.
Voice-Over: And do people like you?
GreenTuna: Is it a job requirement?
Voice-Over: Do you like all kinds of people?
GreenTuna: Young kids? Old kids? Kids who climb on rocks?
Voice-Over: The young as well as the old? People in all stations of life?
GreenTuna: Gas stations? Police stations? No, not really.....
Voice-Over: You do? That's wonderful! Because when you have these two important qualifications: love for books and love for people, you may well consider the vocation of a librarian. A vocation that gives full enjoyment to the librarian, and radiates it to the public.
GreenTuna: That's me. A full-enjoyment radiator.

This is an excerpt from a lovely 1947 public domain film series called: Your Life Work. This particular film, called The Librarian, documents, in all of its stereotypical glory, the noble calling of "Librarian."


In this film you see kindly Granny Librarians,

frumpy and annoyed Librarians

and younger -- yet still fashionably challenged -- librarians. Tragically, this sweatshop worker Librarian doesn't understand the difference between slimming vertical stripes, and prison-wear.

One of the best parts of the film was discovering library patrons were just as stupid in 1947 as they are today.

Young, Stupid Male Library Patron: I'm looking for a book on television. But I forgot...
Wise, Understanding Librarian: Do you know the author?
YSMLP: No, I don't. And I don't know the title either. But it's a blue book. And it kind of gives the whole story...you know...
WUL: I think we can help you.

Voice-Over: This boy's problem was not an unusual one.
GreenTuna: Yeah. He's an IDIOT.
Voice-Over: He did not know the author's name, nor did he remember the title of the book. BUT -- he knew the subject: "Television."
GreenTuna: Three cheers and a tiger for him. This was 1947. How many books on television can there be?
Voice-Over: Because the cataloger did a good job, the book was easily located,
GreenTuna: *snort* Right. In the special room where they keep all the blue books.
Voice-Over:...and the boy was further encouraged to use the library facilities

I'm sure he was. He didn't know squat and was still presented with the book as if it were the crown jewels. If he showed up today, he'd have to browse through more than 8,000 books on television. And sorry to say, we don't separate them by color. Maybe next time he'll actually write down some pertinent information. Then again, I'll bet you any money that he doesn't have a pencil, either. Or paper.

Let me tell you how it is. Library work is part detective, part computer hacker, part Name-That-Tune expert (Music side), part Antiques Roadshow appraiser, (Art side), part HazMat employee (the removal of a plastic bag containing beer and underpants hidden in the folio stacks comes to mind) and part social worker, to name just a few.

But more often than not, the job is a blast. Be nice (treats help), and the librarian will go the extra mile for you. Case in point: A few weeks back a doctoral student came in looking for organ music he was requested to play at a wedding reception. Not the regulars. Not Bach, Mendelssohn or Wagner. Not Pachelbel or Purcell.

He needed Circus Music.

Specifically, he needed "you know -- that circus song they always play." And he sang it for me. And of course, I knew exactly what he was talking about, but had no idea what it was called.

I asked Google. I asked Amazon. But it's hard to know what to ask for when all you can do is doot-doot-doot the tune.

But because the question was so awesome (Circus music for weddings. Love IT!) and I didn't know the answer, I was determined not to give up. So, I did what any answer-obsessed, wedding music hating, computer-savvy music library type person would do. I consulted the ultimate reference source.

I emailed a clown.

As I am writing this email, trying to explain a musical tune in words...

Hi --

I have a Circus question from the Music Library. What is the title of the circus piece that is what you would think of as the "stereotypic" circus calliope piece. It's very chromatic, and the tune descends.

Doot-doot-doo-dee-doo-dee-doot-doot-doo-dee

I hate trying to explain this....but maybe you know what I mean.

I am also having to explain clowns and blogs and people on the Internet and why a library person and semi-professional Soprano soloist would know anything about clowns and blogs and...well, lets just say this goes WAY above and beyond the "blue book" reference work. My friend, the organ-playing, circus-music requesting doctoral student spent the next 20 minutes telling this story to everybody that walked through the door, and from my office I keep hearing, "...and she emailed a CLOWN! A BLOGGING CLOWN!"

Eventually, the question was answered -- alas, not by the blogging clown (who hadn't yet received my email -- but by a passing bassoonist (insert joke here). The answer, for all interested parties and future Jeopardy contestants is:

March of the Gladiators, op. 68 by Fucik.

Of course, the organ playing circus music requesting doctoral student was happy to have the answer to his question, and I was happy to have helped him track down the answer. But my biggest reward came from none other than expert herself -- the blogging clown -- who wrote me back and told me not only had I described the song perfectly, I also had all the words right.

Forget about liking people and public radiating. The fun of working in a library is knowing the answer, and if you don't know the answer, you know where to look or whom to ask.

Even if it's a passing bassonist or a blogging clown.

Trivial Pursuits

(a camera pans slowly over shelves and shelves of books)....

Voice-Over: These racks and shelves contain a lot of books. Tens of Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Perhaps millions. How do you feel about them?
GreenTuna:Hate.
Voice-Over: Do they mean something to you?
GreenTuna: They mean somebody has some work to do.
Voice-Over: Are they your friends?
GreenTuna: Do I look THAT desperate?
Voice-Over: Have you a real love of books and learning?
GreenTuna: As opposed to a fake love?
Voice-Over: You do? That's good!
GreenTuna: No, wait! I didn't say...

Voice-Over: Now. Do you like people?
GreenTuna: No.
Voice-Over: And do people like you?
GreenTuna: Is it a job requirement?
Voice-Over: Do you like all kinds of people?
GreenTuna: Young kids? Old kids? Kids who climb on rocks?
Voice-Over: The young as well as the old? People in all stations of life?
GreenTuna: Gas stations? Police stations? No, not really.....
Voice-Over: You do? That's wonderful! Because when you have these two important qualifications: love for books and love for people, you may well consider the vocation of a librarian. A vocation that gives full enjoyment to the librarian, and radiates it to the public.
GreenTuna: That's me. A full-enjoyment radiator.

This is an excerpt from a lovely 1947 public domain film series called: Your Life Work. This particular film, called The Librarian, documents, in all of its stereotypical glory, the noble calling of "Librarian."


In this film you see kindly Granny Librarians,

frumpy and annoyed Librarians

and younger -- yet still fashionably challenged -- librarians. Tragically, this sweatshop worker Librarian doesn't understand the difference between slimming vertical stripes, and prison-wear.

One of the best parts of the film was discovering library patrons were just as stupid in 1947 as they are today.

Young, Stupid Male Library Patron: I'm looking for a book on television. But I forgot...
Wise, Understanding Librarian: Do you know the author?
YSMLP: No, I don't. And I don't know the title either. But it's a blue book. And it kind of gives the whole story...you know...
WUL: I think we can help you.

Voice-Over: This boy's problem was not an unusual one.
GreenTuna: Yeah. He's an IDIOT.
Voice-Over: He did not know the author's name, nor did he remember the title of the book. BUT -- he knew the subject: "Television."
GreenTuna: Three cheers and a tiger for him. This was 1947. How many books on television can there be?
Voice-Over: Because the cataloger did a good job, the book was easily located,
GreenTuna: *snort* Right. In the special room where they keep all the blue books.
Voice-Over:...and the boy was further encouraged to use the library facilities

I'm sure he was. He didn't know squat and was still presented with the book as if it were the crown jewels. If he showed up today, he'd have to browse through more than 8,000 books on television. And sorry to say, we don't separate them by color. Maybe next time he'll actually write down some pertinent information. Then again, I'll bet you any money that he doesn't have a pencil, either. Or paper.

Let me tell you how it is. Library work is part detective, part computer hacker, part Name-That-Tune expert (Music side), part Antiques Roadshow appraiser, (Art side), part HazMat employee (the removal of a plastic bag containing beer and underpants hidden in the folio stacks comes to mind) and part social worker, to name just a few.

But more often than not, the job is a blast. Be nice (treats help), and the librarian will go the extra mile for you. Case in point: A few weeks back a doctoral student came in looking for organ music he was requested to play at a wedding reception. Not the regulars. Not Bach, Mendelssohn or Wagner. Not Pachelbel or Purcell.

He needed Circus Music.

Specifically, he needed "you know -- that circus song they always play." And he sang it for me. And of course, I knew exactly what he was talking about, but had no idea what it was called.

I asked Google. I asked Amazon. But it's hard to know what to ask for when all you can do is doot-doot-doot the tune.

But because the question was so awesome (Circus music for weddings. Love IT!) and I didn't know the answer, I was determined not to give up. So, I did what any answer-obsessed, wedding music hating, computer-savvy music library type person would do. I consulted the ultimate reference source.

I emailed a clown.

As I am writing this email, trying to explain a musical tune in words...

Hi --

I have a Circus question from the Music Library. What is the title of the circus piece that is what you would think of as the "stereotypic" circus calliope piece. It's very chromatic, and the tune descends.

Doot-doot-doo-dee-doo-dee-doot-doot-doo-dee

I hate trying to explain this....but maybe you know what I mean.

I am also having to explain clowns and blogs and people on the Internet and why a library person and semi-professional Soprano soloist would know anything about clowns and blogs and...well, lets just say this goes WAY above and beyond the "blue book" reference work. My friend, the organ-playing, circus-music requesting doctoral student spent the next 20 minutes telling this story to everybody that walked through the door, and from my office I keep hearing, "...and she emailed a CLOWN! A BLOGGING CLOWN!"

Eventually, the question was answered -- alas, not by the blogging clown (who hadn't yet received my email -- but by a passing bassoonist (insert joke here). The answer, for all interested parties and future Jeopardy contestants is:

March of the Gladiators, op. 68 by Fucik.

Of course, the organ playing circus music requesting doctoral student was happy to have the answer to his question, and I was happy to have helped him track down the answer. But my biggest reward came from none other than expert herself -- the blogging clown -- who wrote me back and told me not only had I described the song perfectly, I also had all the words right.

Forget about liking people and public radiating. The fun of working in a library is knowing the answer, and if you don't know the answer, you know where to look or whom to ask.

Even if it's a passing bassonist or a blogging clown.

Team Player

MASCOT: (noun) a person, animal, or object adopted by a group as a symbolic figure especially to bring them good luck.
(Merriam-Webster Online)

Mascots are fun. MSU has Sparty, The Lugnuts (Minor League Baseball) has Big Lug and Ratchet, and that lame school down the road has a giant weasel. Fitting. One of my favorite mascots was The Moose, who represented the minor league hockey team, The Rochester Americans. I never did understand the link between a moose and ice skates, but the Moose took a lot of grief from the fans, and we loved him for it.

Long, long ago, in an ad campaign far-far away, mascots were everywhere, representing everything from lard to plywood to roacher killers. Nowadays, mascots mean serious business. Just ask my boyfriend, and he'll tell you it's Mascot Mania -- from camps, to classes, to roadside cemeteries, it's obvious that not just any old shmoe can shill for the corporate bigwigs.

More training?

"More training."

But nowadays, being a mascot doesn't necessarily mean being the embodiment of good. Take Polyp-Man, for example. He embodies, well...POLYPS. This isn't exactly resume building material.



But my new favorite is a local. It has been declared that in the mitten, this week is known as Emerald Ash Borer Awareness Week -- complete with a sunglass wearing, smirking mascot and her evil green dump truck of doom.
(Poor thing. It's not exactly the Batmobile, now is it?)



Emerald Ash Borers.
Don't let this happen to you.

Team Player

MASCOT: (noun) a person, animal, or object adopted by a group as a symbolic figure especially to bring them good luck.
(Merriam-Webster Online)

Mascots are fun. MSU has Sparty, The Lugnuts (Minor League Baseball) has Big Lug and Ratchet, and that lame school down the road has a giant weasel. Fitting. One of my favorite mascots was The Moose, who represented the minor league hockey team, The Rochester Americans. I never did understand the link between a moose and ice skates, but the Moose took a lot of grief from the fans, and we loved him for it.

Long, long ago, in an ad campaign far-far away, mascots were everywhere, representing everything from lard to plywood to roacher killers. Nowadays, mascots mean serious business. Just ask my boyfriend, and he'll tell you it's Mascot Mania -- from camps, to classes, to roadside cemeteries, it's obvious that not just any old shmoe can shill for the corporate bigwigs.

More training?

"More training."

But nowadays, being a mascot doesn't necessarily mean being the embodiment of good. Take Polyp-Man, for example. He embodies, well...POLYPS. This isn't exactly resume building material.



But my new favorite is a local. It has been declared that in the mitten, this week is known as Emerald Ash Borer Awareness Week -- complete with a sunglass wearing, smirking mascot and her evil green dump truck of doom.
(Poor thing. It's not exactly the Batmobile, now is it?)



Emerald Ash Borers.
Don't let this happen to you.

Brand Loyalty

Look and see what Williams Sonoma wants me to buy TODAY!!!
A Monogrammed Steak Brand!



If the backyard grill is Dad's territory, give him a gift he'll use year after year. Our Monogrammed Steak Brand, which can be personalized with his initials, lets him customize steaks and other grill specialties. A customer favorite, the wrought-iron brand has become a Father's Day tradition at Williams-Sonoma.

I don't understand why I seem to have such gaping holes in my education. I know I grew up in suburbia and all, but tell me, since when is monogramming ones meal a tradition? Is there an extra verse in Fiddler on the Roof that I don't know? If my steak isn't mooing or playing with the deer and the antelope, I'm not really clear on why I have to put my initials on it like it was underwear being sent to summer camp.

(Not that I ever did that either, but you understand my point)

Maybe I don't get it because it's a manly man thing and only manly men understand the importance of personalizing dinner. Maybe it's the opportunity to play poor-man's cowboy, because let's face it ... branding an inert 16-oz sirloin is a lot easier than branding an angry angus.

I'll have to file this email right next to the Sandcastle Bundt Cake Pan.
Thanks, but no.

Brand Loyalty

Look and see what Williams Sonoma wants me to buy TODAY!!!
A Monogrammed Steak Brand!



If the backyard grill is Dad's territory, give him a gift he'll use year after year. Our Monogrammed Steak Brand, which can be personalized with his initials, lets him customize steaks and other grill specialties. A customer favorite, the wrought-iron brand has become a Father's Day tradition at Williams-Sonoma.

I don't understand why I seem to have such gaping holes in my education. I know I grew up in suburbia and all, but tell me, since when is monogramming ones meal a tradition? Is there an extra verse in Fiddler on the Roof that I don't know? If my steak isn't mooing or playing with the deer and the antelope, I'm not really clear on why I have to put my initials on it like it was underwear being sent to summer camp.

(Not that I ever did that either, but you understand my point)

Maybe I don't get it because it's a manly man thing and only manly men understand the importance of personalizing dinner. Maybe it's the opportunity to play poor-man's cowboy, because let's face it ... branding an inert 16-oz sirloin is a lot easier than branding an angry angus.

I'll have to file this email right next to the Sandcastle Bundt Cake Pan.
Thanks, but no.

A REAL American Idol

You probably don't recognize the name Thurl Ravenscroft. But you'd know him if you heard him. Ravenscroft provided many of the voices we all grew up with, including the voice of Tony The Tiger ("They're GrrrrrrEAT!") and the wonderful -- yet amazingly uncredited -- deep dark chocolate voice that sang the bluesy, "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch."

Thurl Ravenscroft passed away at the age of 91

If you ask me, the three words that best describes this are, and I quote:

"Stink"
"Stank"
"Stunk"

A REAL American Idol

You probably don't recognize the name Thurl Ravenscroft. But you'd know him if you heard him. Ravenscroft provided many of the voices we all grew up with, including the voice of Tony The Tiger ("They're GrrrrrrEAT!") and the wonderful -- yet amazingly uncredited -- deep dark chocolate voice that sang the bluesy, "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch."

Thurl Ravenscroft passed away at the age of 91

If you ask me, the three words that best describes this are, and I quote:

"Stink"
"Stank"
"Stunk"

Rules of the Game

As a parent, I get challenged about rules all the time. Bedtimes, dinner menus, crossing the street, riding in the front seat of the car, eating candy, chewing gum, wearing shorts in winter -- it doesn't matter -- if there is a rule, there will be an attempt to change it, break it, or go around it. But that's OK, it comes with the territory. I'm more than happy to sit down and explain in mom-logic the reason behind each and every perceived infringement upon the inalienable rights of TinyTuna.

The problem with rules is the instant they are established, they are examined for flaws and loopholes. So, when I say "Bedtime is 9pm" and I find TinyTuna reading in her room at 10pm, has she broken the rule? She was in her bed, but not asleep -- which was the intention of the rule to begin with.

Maybe rules would be easier to follow if the logic preceded the law. In other words, instead of the rule "Bedtime is 9pm" which is immediately followed by rapid-fire negotiation (Please, 9:30? No. 9:15? No. Can I just stay up until the first commercial? No. Pleeeeeze? NO), the rule should be "Bedtime is determined by how many hours of sleep you need to be healthy, and have a rested body and brain. This means you need to be in bed with your light out (aha!) at 9pm."

We are a society of rule makers and rule breakers. Now that the bulk of Reality TV (excuse me, unscripted television) is over, fans and foes alike are banging the drums loudly as they compare and complain about how the participants chose to participate. Was Ian (Survivor Pulau) overflowing with stupidity or integrity as he traded a million-dollar chance for the respect and friendship of his competitors? Did Team Romber (Amazing Race 7) have an unfair advantage as people around the world recognized them and assisted them in the race? And when it comes to choosing a winner, do you go with the person who performed consistently well from week to week (Tana - The Apprentice and Kahlen - America's Next to Model), or do you go with the person who blew away the competition during the "final exam" (Kendra and Naima)?

Everybody has an opinion. Oh boy, does everybody have an opinion.

Of course, there is no one right answer. As long as rules are not broken, how these rules are interpreted is a matter of personal choice and gameplay. Instead of complaining about how somebody "played the game" (or worse, "didn't play the game") I find it to be infinitely more interesting to observe how different people interpret rules in different ways, and watch how it plays out in the end. Are they perceived as a good or bad person? Did it help or hurt their position? What is the shakeout when all is said and done?

Last night as I was saying goodnight to TinyTuna, I mentioned to Gram that I had just read that the Senate had taken the so-called "nuclear option" off the table. TinyTuna wanted to know what I was talking about. I sat for a minute, trying to distill months and months of political wrangling and interpretation of the rules into a piece of information that would make sense. Finally I said, "You know what the word compromise means, right?" She nodded and said, "when people who don't agree each give up something so they can agree." "Well, that's what they decided to do tonight. They decided to compromise. They decided it was more important to agree than to fight." TinyTuna rolled over to go to sleep and said, "That's a good thing." "It sure is," I said.

Whether it's TV, Politics or Bedtime, everybody plays the game. But the rules are so narrow, and the exceptions, so wide. If we took the time to stop banging the drums of discontent and examine the logic behind the law, maybe we'd have a clearer vision of what's really important. And then maybe -- hopefully -- understanding and compromise wouldn't be so difficult afterall.

Rules of the Game

As a parent, I get challenged about rules all the time. Bedtimes, dinner menus, crossing the street, riding in the front seat of the car, eating candy, chewing gum, wearing shorts in winter -- it doesn't matter -- if there is a rule, there will be an attempt to change it, break it, or go around it. But that's OK, it comes with the territory. I'm more than happy to sit down and explain in mom-logic the reason behind each and every perceived infringement upon the inalienable rights of TinyTuna.

The problem with rules is the instant they are established, they are examined for flaws and loopholes. So, when I say "Bedtime is 9pm" and I find TinyTuna reading in her room at 10pm, has she broken the rule? She was in her bed, but not asleep -- which was the intention of the rule to begin with.

Maybe rules would be easier to follow if the logic preceded the law. In other words, instead of the rule "Bedtime is 9pm" which is immediately followed by rapid-fire negotiation (Please, 9:30? No. 9:15? No. Can I just stay up until the first commercial? No. Pleeeeeze? NO), the rule should be "Bedtime is determined by how many hours of sleep you need to be healthy, and have a rested body and brain. This means you need to be in bed with your light out (aha!) at 9pm."

We are a society of rule makers and rule breakers. Now that the bulk of Reality TV (excuse me, unscripted television) is over, fans and foes alike are banging the drums loudly as they compare and complain about how the participants chose to participate. Was Ian (Survivor Pulau) overflowing with stupidity or integrity as he traded a million-dollar chance for the respect and friendship of his competitors? Did Team Romber (Amazing Race 7) have an unfair advantage as people around the world recognized them and assisted them in the race? And when it comes to choosing a winner, do you go with the person who performed consistently well from week to week (Tana - The Apprentice and Kahlen - America's Next to Model), or do you go with the person who blew away the competition during the "final exam" (Kendra and Naima)?

Everybody has an opinion. Oh boy, does everybody have an opinion.

Of course, there is no one right answer. As long as rules are not broken, how these rules are interpreted is a matter of personal choice and gameplay. Instead of complaining about how somebody "played the game" (or worse, "didn't play the game") I find it to be infinitely more interesting to observe how different people interpret rules in different ways, and watch how it plays out in the end. Are they perceived as a good or bad person? Did it help or hurt their position? What is the shakeout when all is said and done?

Last night as I was saying goodnight to TinyTuna, I mentioned to Gram that I had just read that the Senate had taken the so-called "nuclear option" off the table. TinyTuna wanted to know what I was talking about. I sat for a minute, trying to distill months and months of political wrangling and interpretation of the rules into a piece of information that would make sense. Finally I said, "You know what the word compromise means, right?" She nodded and said, "when people who don't agree each give up something so they can agree." "Well, that's what they decided to do tonight. They decided to compromise. They decided it was more important to agree than to fight." TinyTuna rolled over to go to sleep and said, "That's a good thing." "It sure is," I said.

Whether it's TV, Politics or Bedtime, everybody plays the game. But the rules are so narrow, and the exceptions, so wide. If we took the time to stop banging the drums of discontent and examine the logic behind the law, maybe we'd have a clearer vision of what's really important. And then maybe -- hopefully -- understanding and compromise wouldn't be so difficult afterall.

Blame it on the Pants

Today I wore pants to church,
and it was all downhill from there.

I can't tell you why I am not a church pants-wearer. I'm just not. There is something stuck in my personal fashion sense of right and wrong that says, "Thou shalt not wear pants to church." In my brain, I'm fairly certain this logic is a close neighbor to, "Remember, tennis shoes do not belong in the Lord's Sanctuary," and, "Wiggly-toe sandals do not appropriate footwear make when performing with the symphony."

These are my personal rules.

But today, I broke my rules and I wore Capris to church. My first rationalization was knowing that under a church robe, nobody could tell if I was wearing a skirt or not. My second rationalization was whereas my Capris were clean and ready to wear, finding a skirt or a dress in a similar state would be a problem, considering the current condition of my bedroom. But the rationalization that broke the camel's back was that it was going to be a long day, and now that I'm 43 (more on that later), I can start breaking the rules.

So break the rules I did. My choir robe never betrayed my secret, and it was wonderful to be free of panty hose and heels. Such freedom. Such happiness.

Today I wore pants to church,
and after church I was faced with a dilemma.

In the right corner, wearing red God-fearing, rule obeying trunks was the annual church choir banquet. It is the pot-luckiest event imaginable, complete with quivering Jell-O salads, meatballs adrift in a ketchupy sea, and generic noodle casseroles -- the fanciest served with crunchies on top.

In the left corner, wearing God-flaunting, rule breaking PANTS was brunch with the crew, including a very special visit from a very special guest. It is the usual Sunday Grill-Dog affair, complete with dogs, burgers, French fries and breakfast served all day long.

Now, I was resigned to attending the choir banquet. TinyTuna would be receiving her certificate of thanks and this year marks the transition (one year early) from the younger children's choir to the high school choir. It was a big deal and it was her day, so I was resigned to give up the next couple hours in her honor.

But then, out of the blue, TinyTuna said, "I don't want to go to the banquet. I want to go to brunch instead."

I looked at her once. Twice.

If I was wearing a dress, there would have been no discussion. If I was wearing panty hose and high heels, I would have lectured her and then marched her into the room. But I was wearing pants, and suddenly there were no rules.

I said, "OK." And off we went.

The mom in me knows we should have gone to the banquet, because it was the appropriate thing to do. But when you wear pants to church, and when very special guests come to town, and when there isn't as much time to visit and catch up as you would like, you bend the rules to spend time with those you miss.

Today I wore pants to church,
and I think -- just this once -- it was OK.

Blame it on the Pants

Today I wore pants to church,
and it was all downhill from there.

I can't tell you why I am not a church pants-wearer. I'm just not. There is something stuck in my personal fashion sense of right and wrong that says, "Thou shalt not wear pants to church." In my brain, I'm fairly certain this logic is a close neighbor to, "Remember, tennis shoes do not belong in the Lord's Sanctuary," and, "Wiggly-toe sandals do not appropriate footwear make when performing with the symphony."

These are my personal rules.

But today, I broke my rules and I wore Capris to church. My first rationalization was knowing that under a church robe, nobody could tell if I was wearing a skirt or not. My second rationalization was whereas my Capris were clean and ready to wear, finding a skirt or a dress in a similar state would be a problem, considering the current condition of my bedroom. But the rationalization that broke the camel's back was that it was going to be a long day, and now that I'm 43 (more on that later), I can start breaking the rules.

So break the rules I did. My choir robe never betrayed my secret, and it was wonderful to be free of panty hose and heels. Such freedom. Such happiness.

Today I wore pants to church,
and after church I was faced with a dilemma.

In the right corner, wearing red God-fearing, rule obeying trunks was the annual church choir banquet. It is the pot-luckiest event imaginable, complete with quivering Jell-O salads, meatballs adrift in a ketchupy sea, and generic noodle casseroles -- the fanciest served with crunchies on top.

In the left corner, wearing God-flaunting, rule breaking PANTS was brunch with the crew, including a very special visit from a very special guest. It is the usual Sunday Grill-Dog affair, complete with dogs, burgers, French fries and breakfast served all day long.

Now, I was resigned to attending the choir banquet. TinyTuna would be receiving her certificate of thanks and this year marks the transition (one year early) from the younger children's choir to the high school choir. It was a big deal and it was her day, so I was resigned to give up the next couple hours in her honor.

But then, out of the blue, TinyTuna said, "I don't want to go to the banquet. I want to go to brunch instead."

I looked at her once. Twice.

If I was wearing a dress, there would have been no discussion. If I was wearing panty hose and high heels, I would have lectured her and then marched her into the room. But I was wearing pants, and suddenly there were no rules.

I said, "OK." And off we went.

The mom in me knows we should have gone to the banquet, because it was the appropriate thing to do. But when you wear pants to church, and when very special guests come to town, and when there isn't as much time to visit and catch up as you would like, you bend the rules to spend time with those you miss.

Today I wore pants to church,
and I think -- just this once -- it was OK.

Unconscious Mutterings

I say ... And you think

1. Heimlich:: Maneuver



2. Gesture:: Sign



3. Party:: Birthday



4. Cuddle:: Priscilla



5. Room with a view:: Long British movie



6. Sebastian:: Cabbot



7. Ooooh:: Ahhhh



8. Sigh:: Sad



9. Two fish, three fish:: You fish, me fish



10. Cake or death:: Eddie Izzard

Many of these are not surprising, however, after doing a bit of checking, I discovered A Room with a View clocks in at a brief 117 minutes, making it a short(ish) British movie by today's standards. Ahh, the stereotypes of the mind. Sebastian Cabbot brings on all sorts of nostalgia, as he was the REAL Mr. French from Family Affair, as opposed to the fake Mr. French that took his place later in the series. Two fish, three fish really surprised me, because it's not One fish, two fish. So, I did what I could, and made it rhyme anyway. I love channeling Dr. Seuss. As for cake or death, all I can say (aside from I love Eddie Izzard!!) is, "Cake Please" -- even though I'd much rather have pie. Blueberry, please.

Oh, and Priscilla (for those not in the know) is TinyTuna's ginormous stuffed bear that she got for Christmas a couple years back. It's a big name for a big bear. Priscilla rocks.

What's in your subconscious? Mutter along HERE.


Edited to add: I'm always careful never to read anybody else's mutterings until I've done mine, because if I do, I'll not be able to think of anything more original. However, after skimming through the first 15 or so, I'm a wee bit embarassed that she who eats, drinks and breathes music all day every day, couldn't manage to come up with BACH to go with SEBASTIAN -- like nearly everybody else did.

doh.

Unconscious Mutterings

I say ... And you think

1. Heimlich:: Maneuver



2. Gesture:: Sign



3. Party:: Birthday



4. Cuddle:: Priscilla



5. Room with a view:: Long British movie



6. Sebastian:: Cabbot



7. Ooooh:: Ahhhh



8. Sigh:: Sad



9. Two fish, three fish:: You fish, me fish



10. Cake or death:: Eddie Izzard

Many of these are not surprising, however, after doing a bit of checking, I discovered A Room with a View clocks in at a brief 117 minutes, making it a short(ish) British movie by today's standards. Ahh, the stereotypes of the mind. Sebastian Cabbot brings on all sorts of nostalgia, as he was the REAL Mr. French from Family Affair, as opposed to the fake Mr. French that took his place later in the series. Two fish, three fish really surprised me, because it's not One fish, two fish. So, I did what I could, and made it rhyme anyway. I love channeling Dr. Seuss. As for cake or death, all I can say (aside from I love Eddie Izzard!!) is, "Cake Please" -- even though I'd much rather have pie. Blueberry, please.

Oh, and Priscilla (for those not in the know) is TinyTuna's ginormous stuffed bear that she got for Christmas a couple years back. It's a big name for a big bear. Priscilla rocks.

What's in your subconscious? Mutter along HERE.


Edited to add: I'm always careful never to read anybody else's mutterings until I've done mine, because if I do, I'll not be able to think of anything more original. However, after skimming through the first 15 or so, I'm a wee bit embarassed that she who eats, drinks and breathes music all day every day, couldn't manage to come up with BACH to go with SEBASTIAN -- like nearly everybody else did.

doh.

Speaking of Cake

Today Williams-Sonoma wants me to buy:



A Sandcastle Bundt Cake.

Create instant fun at summer parties when you present a cake shaped like a sandcastle. With our Sandcastle Bundt® Cake Pan, you can bake your own detailed beach castle, and even have it sit in its own "sand" of raw sugar.

No offense or anything, but who has time for this? Was society as a whole somehow lacking because they didn't have the tools necessary to bake a Sandcastle Cake? And in the interest of fairness, I want a Volcano Blueberry Pie pan, because in a head-to-head battle, a Volcano Blueberry Pie victory would be...you know...a piece of cake.

Speaking of Cake

Today Williams-Sonoma wants me to buy:



A Sandcastle Bundt Cake.

Create instant fun at summer parties when you present a cake shaped like a sandcastle. With our Sandcastle Bundt® Cake Pan, you can bake your own detailed beach castle, and even have it sit in its own "sand" of raw sugar.

No offense or anything, but who has time for this? Was society as a whole somehow lacking because they didn't have the tools necessary to bake a Sandcastle Cake? And in the interest of fairness, I want a Volcano Blueberry Pie pan, because in a head-to-head battle, a Volcano Blueberry Pie victory would be...you know...a piece of cake.