The arctic blast frisks me rudely. I brace against the icy chill, numbed and shocked even though I knew the cold front was coming in.
It reminds me of a personal cold front that moved in during warm weather and hasn't gone away. As the Christmas season unfolds around me, with the bells, songs, lights and laughter, a part of me cries in the dark, cold wind. My season is clouded with confusion and dismay. There is no warmth for me this Christmas.
I had to leave the house again this afternoon.
My oldest son saw me. "Where are you going, dad?"
I didn't have an answer. "I'm not sure," I said.
It's dark and it's cold and I'm still not sure where I'm going.
I'm out in this misery, thinking of what I'd normally be doing on a Saturday night like this. I'd be sitting in front of a Christmas movie, my wife sitting next to me, her right leg drapped over my left one. One of our boys would be cuddling me on the other side. We'd spike our hot chocolate with homemade eggnog.
TheChristmas tree lights would reflect in my wife's sparking blue eyes. But now those eyes have lost their sparkle for me.
I'm still out in the cold and dark and I still don't know where I'm going.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Public Tantrum
I'm at the Bistro Market, a hip downtown Price Cutter owned everything place on a bustling corner. Free WiFi, a long and attractive buffet, a complete fish market and grocery store, a trendy bar and the most incredible olive assortment on planet Earth. I'm talkin' olives the size of your grandpa's thumb and tangy as a green tangerine.
I'm sitting by the door at nearly nine on a Friday night. The place in hopping. In walks this beautiful blonde suburbanesque housewife and her matching beautiful blonde housewife friend, their two daughters in tow, something around five years old each. They sit at the bistro chairs and eat at the long table running the length of the plate glass forming the front of the building.
Within moments, one girl is pitching a fit. I mean, a hissy style selfish mad-on. Her little boots and leggings match mommy's, and she's cute as heck, but rotten to the core.
She leaves her perch and crosses her arms, showing utter contempt for soccer mom's wishes. The blonde mom pleads, then tries a firm approach. Finally, after an awkward standoff five feet from my table, mommy dearest picks up the youngster, who cranks up the rotten meter. Kicking, twisting, and whimpering as if her mom has just decided to lock her in a smelly closet for no reason.
Now the scene has become too distracting to ignore, so I watch openly. The little one is forced into a lap sitting session, which lasts all of 18.5 seconds. The squirming proves too much for mega mom, so she delivers the ultimatum in the naughty girls' ear, "All right, you'd better shape up in 5, 4, 3... she slows her counting as the squirming continues, hoping for victory, but fearing the worst, which of course, comes. She continues, half heartedly, 2, 1... Nothing happens. The kid stops for a micro second, as if on cue, and is gently placed on the floor, her desired destination. The little puss in boots assumes full rights to her crown now, enjoying the submissive status her tantrum has placed her mom. To secure her royal reign, little miss insists-she-be-right squares off for another standoff, her phony bellows not even close to a real distress signal. It's a well rehearsed show, achieving all the desired results the young girl has grown so accustomed to.
Mom has a piece of food in her hand, holding it up like a prize. Puss in boots backs up with each attempt by mom to coax her into tasting it. The food item is held up like a Scooby snack, but the kiddo won't buy it. She backs up again, nearly knocking into a college age girl.
Mom is clearly embarrassed. The other mom and daughter look on in dismay. I want to strangle the kid. But, more than that, I wanna strangle the mom who has created this manipulation mistress.She's the kind of girl who will grow to torment boys the age of my sons about ten years from now. The drama princess balks as helpless mom's pleas are again ignored. Threats and idle promises of rewards are equally ignored. Mom finally picks her up and the coddled cutie cuddles close, enjoying the power with a contented smile as she peers down at her more obedient friend. The foursome soon go to the frappaccino counter for some more sweet tooth rewards, of which the little lady is also privileged to partake.
Return trip to the table. Perhaps dessert will calm the brat down. Nope. The new treat won't suit miss fancy boots. She refuses all offers of ice cream, and returns to mom's willing arms again. The kid is so big, she looks ridiculous throwing her tantrum, but mom is more than willing to oblige and hoist her not-so-small child into her arms once again.
After a brief, unfulfilling conversation between the moms, the little miss muffets are bundled up and escorted out. The untouched ice cream beckons me from their vacated table. If little brat won't enjoy it, at least I will.
I'm sitting by the door at nearly nine on a Friday night. The place in hopping. In walks this beautiful blonde suburbanesque housewife and her matching beautiful blonde housewife friend, their two daughters in tow, something around five years old each. They sit at the bistro chairs and eat at the long table running the length of the plate glass forming the front of the building.
Within moments, one girl is pitching a fit. I mean, a hissy style selfish mad-on. Her little boots and leggings match mommy's, and she's cute as heck, but rotten to the core.
She leaves her perch and crosses her arms, showing utter contempt for soccer mom's wishes. The blonde mom pleads, then tries a firm approach. Finally, after an awkward standoff five feet from my table, mommy dearest picks up the youngster, who cranks up the rotten meter. Kicking, twisting, and whimpering as if her mom has just decided to lock her in a smelly closet for no reason.
Now the scene has become too distracting to ignore, so I watch openly. The little one is forced into a lap sitting session, which lasts all of 18.5 seconds. The squirming proves too much for mega mom, so she delivers the ultimatum in the naughty girls' ear, "All right, you'd better shape up in 5, 4, 3... she slows her counting as the squirming continues, hoping for victory, but fearing the worst, which of course, comes. She continues, half heartedly, 2, 1... Nothing happens. The kid stops for a micro second, as if on cue, and is gently placed on the floor, her desired destination. The little puss in boots assumes full rights to her crown now, enjoying the submissive status her tantrum has placed her mom. To secure her royal reign, little miss insists-she-be-right squares off for another standoff, her phony bellows not even close to a real distress signal. It's a well rehearsed show, achieving all the desired results the young girl has grown so accustomed to.
Mom has a piece of food in her hand, holding it up like a prize. Puss in boots backs up with each attempt by mom to coax her into tasting it. The food item is held up like a Scooby snack, but the kiddo won't buy it. She backs up again, nearly knocking into a college age girl.
Mom is clearly embarrassed. The other mom and daughter look on in dismay. I want to strangle the kid. But, more than that, I wanna strangle the mom who has created this manipulation mistress.She's the kind of girl who will grow to torment boys the age of my sons about ten years from now. The drama princess balks as helpless mom's pleas are again ignored. Threats and idle promises of rewards are equally ignored. Mom finally picks her up and the coddled cutie cuddles close, enjoying the power with a contented smile as she peers down at her more obedient friend. The foursome soon go to the frappaccino counter for some more sweet tooth rewards, of which the little lady is also privileged to partake.
Return trip to the table. Perhaps dessert will calm the brat down. Nope. The new treat won't suit miss fancy boots. She refuses all offers of ice cream, and returns to mom's willing arms again. The kid is so big, she looks ridiculous throwing her tantrum, but mom is more than willing to oblige and hoist her not-so-small child into her arms once again.
After a brief, unfulfilling conversation between the moms, the little miss muffets are bundled up and escorted out. The untouched ice cream beckons me from their vacated table. If little brat won't enjoy it, at least I will.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Real Men
I talked to two real men today. From the "greatest generation." The real deal World War II veterans.
The first was wearing a Order of the Purple Heart hat, signifying his being awarded for enduring injuries he didn't choose to talk about. An army veteran, he fought in the infamous "Battle of the Bulge."
"Our unit was dubbed the 'bloody bucket' by the Germans," he told me. His wife of 65 years was beaming at his side as I repeatedly thanked him for his service to our country. I try to personally greet each World War II veteran I see. These "real men" won't be around much longer.
A little later, I noticed another older gentleman with a World War II, Korean War, and Vietnam War cap.
It takes a real man to earn the right to wear a hat like that. In moments, I had introduced myself and was learning about his experience on a Navy ship in the Atlantic during World War II as an 18-year-old from Massachusetts. He then went on to join the Air Force, where he flew B-26 bombers over Korea during that bloody conflict. Then on to action in Vietnam in 1965-66, retiring in 1967 with 25 years of service. During that 25 years, he'd lived multiple lifetimes in vastly different combat zones.
He'd gone from the victories of World War II to the drastically different political culture of the U.N. dominated Korean and Vietnam conflicts, where the U.S. troops' hands were tied by rules that made no sense then, and make no sense now.
"We're too busy kissing everyone's ass," he commented on the politics of today. "We have no sense of nationalism."
I had to wholeheartedly agree. Our sense of loyalty to the grand old U.S. of A has whithered to a wimpy apology to our enemies. We are so busy not offending those who want to harm us that we bolster their resolve against us.
Bring back Truman. Bring back Reagan. Let's quit kissing ass and start kicking some.
The first was wearing a Order of the Purple Heart hat, signifying his being awarded for enduring injuries he didn't choose to talk about. An army veteran, he fought in the infamous "Battle of the Bulge."
"Our unit was dubbed the 'bloody bucket' by the Germans," he told me. His wife of 65 years was beaming at his side as I repeatedly thanked him for his service to our country. I try to personally greet each World War II veteran I see. These "real men" won't be around much longer.
It takes a real man to earn the right to wear a hat like that. In moments, I had introduced myself and was learning about his experience on a Navy ship in the Atlantic during World War II as an 18-year-old from Massachusetts. He then went on to join the Air Force, where he flew B-26 bombers over Korea during that bloody conflict. Then on to action in Vietnam in 1965-66, retiring in 1967 with 25 years of service. During that 25 years, he'd lived multiple lifetimes in vastly different combat zones.
He'd gone from the victories of World War II to the drastically different political culture of the U.N. dominated Korean and Vietnam conflicts, where the U.S. troops' hands were tied by rules that made no sense then, and make no sense now.
"We're too busy kissing everyone's ass," he commented on the politics of today. "We have no sense of nationalism."
I had to wholeheartedly agree. Our sense of loyalty to the grand old U.S. of A has whithered to a wimpy apology to our enemies. We are so busy not offending those who want to harm us that we bolster their resolve against us.
Bring back Truman. Bring back Reagan. Let's quit kissing ass and start kicking some.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Battling the Google gods
But, doggone it, Google has vomited political propaganda once too many times, in my opinion. The search engine king is an abject liberal cesspool.
Let me explain.
The Google guys are always throwing it special graphics on the Google logo for special occasions, like King Tut's birthday or Ghandi's first haircut... you know, the really "important" dates in history. (Can you see my eyes rolling back in disgust?)
Then comes today, December 7, a "date that shall live in infamy," according to President Franklin Delano Roosevelt in 1941.
But, oh, heavens, no! There is no Google reference to the carnage inflicted on American troops by Japanese forces in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii 69 years ago. No, the standard Google flag flies today. Nothing about Pearl Harbor. They're too busy at Google getting ready for the annual "Celebrate pink wig wearing day" or some such rot.
The folks at Bing, another up and coming search engine, actually know what day it is. They have a reverent photo of the Pearl Harbor memorial, repleat with the oil oozing up from the sunken USS Arizona.
I visited that site in Hawaii. It is a sobering experience. It brought tears. An overwhelming sense of dismay at the dastardly deviant deeds of the Evil Empire of Japan are evoked there. You can almost hear the cries of the trapped men as they perished in their death locker under the water.
By the way, there were a LOT of Japanese tourists there at Pearl Harbor, clicking away with their Nikons and chattering in Japanese. Eerie.
So, Google gods and goddesses, look out. Consider this the first shot fired in the quest for freedom and patriotism aimed at you, the "ignore-er" of importance and relevance.
I won't use you for another search... (at least until the next time I have to "google" something, but only because it sounds more kosher than "binging" something or "yahooing" something...) Oh, I'm so weak! Aaagh!
Seconds before the attack...
Unsuspecting Google executive getting a dose of my handgun weilding fury...
Monday, December 6, 2010
I'm Dreaming of a Dark Christmas
So my friend was telling me about her neighbor's blinding bright Christmas lights. (Some people have a lil' too much Chevy Chase in 'em)...
And she doesn't get along with this particular neighbor. Those ridiculously gawdy lights burn ever brightly from across the street. She has to close her curtains to ignore their brilliance.
Me: "Why do people invest in all those lights anyway? They pay for them, put them up, and sit in the house, where the view of them is greatly diminished. They seem to go to alot of effort to impress outsiders."
She: "I don't like the guy in that house."
Me: "Hmm. So, where is this coming from?"
She: "I'd like to unplug them."
Me: "His lights?"
She: "Yes. He's mean."
Me: "What did he do?"
She: "He made my daughter cry on Halloween. I told him to stay on his side of the street. (Pause) I'd like to go over and unplug his Christmas lights before they blind a pilot flying overhead."
She went on to tell me the Mean Neighbor Guy's 8-old-daughter, on that fateful Halloween night, saw her walking toward their house, smoke coming out of her ears.
"Look out, dad!" the little girl said, darting behind her confused father. The poor guy got an earful, as witnessed by my friends' daughter across the street. At least, it was a presumed earful. Her daughter reported only being able to see her mom's hand waiving and head weaving.
Waiving, weaving, back and forth, up and down, until the poor ol' mean guy shrank into the safety of his house and hid behind his 8-year-old.
"And stay on your side of the street!" my friend bellowed over her shoulder as she walked back to her house. Better not cross her again, Mr. Bright Lights.
I can just see it now; a lineup of little blonde housewives down at the county jail. The mean neighbor guy rubs his eyes, staring closely, carefully eyeing each face on the other side of the two way mirror. His eyes light up as he points wildly. "That's her, officer. Second from the end on the left!"
Cop: "You're absolutely certain?"
Mean Neighbor Guy: "I'd know her face anywhere. It was illuminated by tens of thousands of Christmas lights just before the blackout."
Cop: "What do you mean, the blackout?"
MNG: "She deliberately walked across the street, entered my yard, and unplugged my lights."
The cops shakes his head, sorry he has to fill out such trivial paperwork.
Perhaps the mean neighbor guy should thank my friend for saving him a ton on his electric bill.
And she doesn't get along with this particular neighbor. Those ridiculously gawdy lights burn ever brightly from across the street. She has to close her curtains to ignore their brilliance.
Me: "Why do people invest in all those lights anyway? They pay for them, put them up, and sit in the house, where the view of them is greatly diminished. They seem to go to alot of effort to impress outsiders."
She: "I don't like the guy in that house."
Me: "Hmm. So, where is this coming from?"
She: "I'd like to unplug them."
Me: "His lights?"
She: "Yes. He's mean."
Me: "What did he do?"
She: "He made my daughter cry on Halloween. I told him to stay on his side of the street. (Pause) I'd like to go over and unplug his Christmas lights before they blind a pilot flying overhead."
She went on to tell me the Mean Neighbor Guy's 8-old-daughter, on that fateful Halloween night, saw her walking toward their house, smoke coming out of her ears.
"Look out, dad!" the little girl said, darting behind her confused father. The poor guy got an earful, as witnessed by my friends' daughter across the street. At least, it was a presumed earful. Her daughter reported only being able to see her mom's hand waiving and head weaving.
Waiving, weaving, back and forth, up and down, until the poor ol' mean guy shrank into the safety of his house and hid behind his 8-year-old.
"And stay on your side of the street!" my friend bellowed over her shoulder as she walked back to her house. Better not cross her again, Mr. Bright Lights.
I can just see it now; a lineup of little blonde housewives down at the county jail. The mean neighbor guy rubs his eyes, staring closely, carefully eyeing each face on the other side of the two way mirror. His eyes light up as he points wildly. "That's her, officer. Second from the end on the left!"
Cop: "You're absolutely certain?"
Mean Neighbor Guy: "I'd know her face anywhere. It was illuminated by tens of thousands of Christmas lights just before the blackout."
Cop: "What do you mean, the blackout?"
MNG: "She deliberately walked across the street, entered my yard, and unplugged my lights."
The cops shakes his head, sorry he has to fill out such trivial paperwork.
Perhaps the mean neighbor guy should thank my friend for saving him a ton on his electric bill.
Friday, December 3, 2010
New Job
I got a new job finally today. Handing out samples glazed nuts at the mall. I stood from 11 a.m. to 6 p.m. handing out samples until my feet were sore.
But it's a job. Two high school girls also were hired to do the same, starting today. So I'm only going back 29 years in my job status. It was the first job for both of the girls, who are 16. They pay isn't much, but it's pay. Funny thing --- I got a gig doing a short video clip that took a half hour before my mall job started, and got paid more for that half hour than I did all day at the mall.
Going back tomorrow for the same...
But it's a job. Two high school girls also were hired to do the same, starting today. So I'm only going back 29 years in my job status. It was the first job for both of the girls, who are 16. They pay isn't much, but it's pay. Funny thing --- I got a gig doing a short video clip that took a half hour before my mall job started, and got paid more for that half hour than I did all day at the mall.
Going back tomorrow for the same...
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
"Don't ask, don't tell"
My car has faithfully served me since February, 2003. Back then, it had 35,000 miles and smelled OK.
Now, it has 246,000 plus miles and a crack that snakes across my line of sight on the windshield. It has had a mysterious hum for a few years. Other than keep me alert while driving, the hum is likely a wheel bearing gone bad. It also has a leak in the valve cover gasket. Because of the oil leak, I have to add oil from time to time. I haven't had the oil changed in about 25,000 miles because when it gets low, I fill it up with good, clean oil. I figure why spend money to change it if its running out and getting replenished on a regular basis anyway?
The dashboard lights are out. It's hard to see how fast I'm going at night, even with the orange "Check Engine" light continually illuminated.
If I checked the engine every time that "check engine" like came on, I wouldn't be driving much. I'd be checking the engine. Frankly, I'm on a "don't ask, don't tell" relationship with my car engine. I don't ask what's wrong, and it doesn't tell me.
Both of us are content in our blissful ignorance. It's a topic I choose to avoid. Granted, I need to get around to fixing the brakes. They started squeaking the other day, and my friend tells me if I wait 'til they rub metal on metal, I'll pay a lot more.
I like my car. I wouldn't survive well without it. But I just don't take time to maintain it as I should.
I've noticed alot of people do that with their health. They like not being in the hospital, but they don't want to stop reaching for the fries, or the Coke, or whatever.
If I sound preachy towards over eaters, I probably am. But I should be preaching about car maintenance because that's my area of weakness.
I don't have a steady job right now (refer to earlier blogs) so therefore I don't justify spending money on fixing up my car when it runs as is.
However, I know that delaying the issues isn't the best way to handle things. Like my bills. I delay them and hope they don't cut the phone or electric off.
Don't ask me, Mr. Bill Collector, if I can pay you this month, and I won't tell...
Now, it has 246,000 plus miles and a crack that snakes across my line of sight on the windshield. It has had a mysterious hum for a few years. Other than keep me alert while driving, the hum is likely a wheel bearing gone bad. It also has a leak in the valve cover gasket. Because of the oil leak, I have to add oil from time to time. I haven't had the oil changed in about 25,000 miles because when it gets low, I fill it up with good, clean oil. I figure why spend money to change it if its running out and getting replenished on a regular basis anyway?
The dashboard lights are out. It's hard to see how fast I'm going at night, even with the orange "Check Engine" light continually illuminated.
If I checked the engine every time that "check engine" like came on, I wouldn't be driving much. I'd be checking the engine. Frankly, I'm on a "don't ask, don't tell" relationship with my car engine. I don't ask what's wrong, and it doesn't tell me.
Both of us are content in our blissful ignorance. It's a topic I choose to avoid. Granted, I need to get around to fixing the brakes. They started squeaking the other day, and my friend tells me if I wait 'til they rub metal on metal, I'll pay a lot more.
I like my car. I wouldn't survive well without it. But I just don't take time to maintain it as I should.
I've noticed alot of people do that with their health. They like not being in the hospital, but they don't want to stop reaching for the fries, or the Coke, or whatever.
If I sound preachy towards over eaters, I probably am. But I should be preaching about car maintenance because that's my area of weakness.
I don't have a steady job right now (refer to earlier blogs) so therefore I don't justify spending money on fixing up my car when it runs as is.
However, I know that delaying the issues isn't the best way to handle things. Like my bills. I delay them and hope they don't cut the phone or electric off.
Don't ask me, Mr. Bill Collector, if I can pay you this month, and I won't tell...
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