LEAVES OF THREE
I recently read a very helpful post on Facebook that helps identify Poison Ivy. Thanks to this chart with its pictures and memorable sayings, Poison Ivy will never again fool us city folk. The poems especially aid those of us who like to run around in the woods, willy nilly wiping our butts with every leaf we can get our hands on.
Never again do we need to suffer with a rash on our tushies with the help of these informative, and by informative I mean stupid, poems. I have a theory that these sayings were thought up by bored park rangers who spent too much time in the woods with raccoons and not enough time with real live women.
I feel that a new, modern twist is needed to help those of us who aren’t lonely woodsmen recognize what this evil weed looks like. I will list the original saying which will be followed by my more contemporary adage.
1. Original
Hairy vine, no friend of mine! or Raggy rope, don’t be a dope!
Rewrite
Hairy vine, don’t swing on it like Tarzan because you drank too much wine! Or Raggy rope, don’t smoke it like dope!
2. Original
If butterflies land there, don’t put your hand there! (I don’t think they were even trying on this one. How hard is it to find a word that rhymes with there, for God sakes!)
Rewrite
If a butterfly lands there, don’t rub it on your pair!
3. Original
Longer middle stem, stay away from them!
Rewrite
Longer middle stem, stay away from strange men (Okay, this really doesn’t have anything to do with Poison Ivy, it’s just good advice which I really hope my teenage daughter will listen to)
4. Original
Side leaflets like mittens, will itch like the dickens
Rewrite
Side leaflets like mittens, no place to be bare-assed sittin’!
5. Original
Berries white, run in fright or Berries white, danger on sight!
Rewrite
Berries white, really bite!
6. Original
Leaves of three, let it be!
Rewrite
Leaves of three, don’t squat on it while taking a pee!
7. Original
Red leaflet in spring, it’s a dangerous thing!
Rewrite
Red leaflet in spring, don’t rub it on your ding-a-ling!
Copyright 2014 Christine Waldman
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Friday, October 26, 2012
The Horoscope Project
Day 6: Three Little Wishes
If you were granted three wishes, what would they be? That sounds more like a fantasy than a horoscope, doesn’t it? There’s no advice or foretelling of how your day will be. Or perhaps the advice is to wile away your day, dreaming up wishes. But lack of guidance aside, today’s horoscope was an odd coincidence considering that I just finished the first draft of my book, I DREAM OF EUGENE, a story about a woman who finds a Genie. In my novel, however, more than three wishes are granted. I figure if Stephanie Meyer can make vampires sparkle, I can have Genies giving more than three wishes.
Let’s face it, at some point we have all wondered what we would pick as wishes if we were lucky enough to stumble across a magic lamp. I thought long and hard about this and, of course, the obvious choices of money, fame, and thinner thighs instantly came to mind.
But, if I were to be serious about my fake wishes, my first one would be for success in my life. This would manifest in many ways, and honestly is a way of getting several wishes for the price of one. If I were successful in my writing career, I would not only finally get a book published, but everything I wrote would be #1 on the best seller list. Having several best sellers would cover fame and money, but I think that thinner thighs are always going to be a pipe dream.
Any success I wish for would also affect my family life. My husband’s massage therapy business would return to its former numbers from before the recession. This would mean he wouldn’t have to be a massage slave at Massage Envy anymore. I will miss the slave boy outfit, though. He really has the legs for it.
With a wish for success, my children would continue on their path to becoming responsible, well-rounded people and my son would, much to the relief of his sisters, not grow up to be a Power Ranger. Besides being a little creepy, this would solve the problem of him finding the Red Rangers suit in an adult size. I can’t even find one to fit him for this Halloween.
Of course, none of this imaginary success would matter if my family or I were ill, so I would have to wish for a healthy life for myself and all of those I love. Let’s face it; I can’t be going on a book tour if I am plagued with a ailment that causes chronic flatulence, can I? I sure wouldn’t be invited back a second time, that’s for sure.
So that leaves me with a third wish. I already have success (fame, money, zillions of best sellers), and life long health, what else should I ask for? After a long deliberation, it’s a toss up between getting rid of the Power Rangers theme song that constantly plays in my head, and going a full day without hearing the words ‘One Direction’ coming from my daughter’s mouth. That is a tough decision.
Go Go Power Rangers….
Day 6: Three Little Wishes
If you were granted three wishes, what would they be? That sounds more like a fantasy than a horoscope, doesn’t it? There’s no advice or foretelling of how your day will be. Or perhaps the advice is to wile away your day, dreaming up wishes. But lack of guidance aside, today’s horoscope was an odd coincidence considering that I just finished the first draft of my book, I DREAM OF EUGENE, a story about a woman who finds a Genie. In my novel, however, more than three wishes are granted. I figure if Stephanie Meyer can make vampires sparkle, I can have Genies giving more than three wishes.
Let’s face it, at some point we have all wondered what we would pick as wishes if we were lucky enough to stumble across a magic lamp. I thought long and hard about this and, of course, the obvious choices of money, fame, and thinner thighs instantly came to mind.
But, if I were to be serious about my fake wishes, my first one would be for success in my life. This would manifest in many ways, and honestly is a way of getting several wishes for the price of one. If I were successful in my writing career, I would not only finally get a book published, but everything I wrote would be #1 on the best seller list. Having several best sellers would cover fame and money, but I think that thinner thighs are always going to be a pipe dream.
Any success I wish for would also affect my family life. My husband’s massage therapy business would return to its former numbers from before the recession. This would mean he wouldn’t have to be a massage slave at Massage Envy anymore. I will miss the slave boy outfit, though. He really has the legs for it.
With a wish for success, my children would continue on their path to becoming responsible, well-rounded people and my son would, much to the relief of his sisters, not grow up to be a Power Ranger. Besides being a little creepy, this would solve the problem of him finding the Red Rangers suit in an adult size. I can’t even find one to fit him for this Halloween.
Of course, none of this imaginary success would matter if my family or I were ill, so I would have to wish for a healthy life for myself and all of those I love. Let’s face it; I can’t be going on a book tour if I am plagued with a ailment that causes chronic flatulence, can I? I sure wouldn’t be invited back a second time, that’s for sure.
So that leaves me with a third wish. I already have success (fame, money, zillions of best sellers), and life long health, what else should I ask for? After a long deliberation, it’s a toss up between getting rid of the Power Rangers theme song that constantly plays in my head, and going a full day without hearing the words ‘One Direction’ coming from my daughter’s mouth. That is a tough decision.
Go Go Power Rangers….
Friday, October 19, 2012
The Horoscope Project
Day 5: Directing Debut
You are always the one to be directing. Well, duh!! As the mother of three, I have no choice but to direct. Not that I mind so much because as I mentioned before, I was born bossy. I was destined to be a mom, or a dictator. Considering that I don’t live in a third world country, I think I made the wise career choice.
But my directing doesn’t stop at motherhood; it also seeps into my work life. I am a crossing guard, something that I take profound joy in. As a crossing guard, I am given a uniform, with props; a swanky florescent vest and a stop sign. How many of you can claim to have such great accoutrements at your job? My vest and sign announce to the world, at least the part of the world that drives along Nutt road, that I am in charge. I am directing children when it is safe to cross the road, and ordering cars to wait until the signal is given- the lowering of the stop sign and me hurrying out of the way before someone runs me over.
In my other part-time job, that of a greeting card goddess, I instruct the befuddled masses as to how to find just the right card for their special occasion. I intervene when they are foolishly looking in the anniversary section for a child’s birthday card; I take command as the little old ladies wander into the rude humorous card section and set them on the right path. But most importantly, I always direct the customers to where the .99 cent cards are because I don’t make a commission. I refuse to try to push an expensive musical card that costs more than what I make an hour.
As far as massage is concerned, I direct my clients to get on the table, turn over, and stop sitting at their computers for eight hours a day. This causes their shoulders to be the consistency of concrete which makes my job more difficult.
Yes, I was born to direct and have mastered it better than Scorsese or Spielberg; without any of the money or fame.
copyright 2012 cwaldman
Day 5: Directing Debut
You are always the one to be directing. Well, duh!! As the mother of three, I have no choice but to direct. Not that I mind so much because as I mentioned before, I was born bossy. I was destined to be a mom, or a dictator. Considering that I don’t live in a third world country, I think I made the wise career choice.
But my directing doesn’t stop at motherhood; it also seeps into my work life. I am a crossing guard, something that I take profound joy in. As a crossing guard, I am given a uniform, with props; a swanky florescent vest and a stop sign. How many of you can claim to have such great accoutrements at your job? My vest and sign announce to the world, at least the part of the world that drives along Nutt road, that I am in charge. I am directing children when it is safe to cross the road, and ordering cars to wait until the signal is given- the lowering of the stop sign and me hurrying out of the way before someone runs me over.
In my other part-time job, that of a greeting card goddess, I instruct the befuddled masses as to how to find just the right card for their special occasion. I intervene when they are foolishly looking in the anniversary section for a child’s birthday card; I take command as the little old ladies wander into the rude humorous card section and set them on the right path. But most importantly, I always direct the customers to where the .99 cent cards are because I don’t make a commission. I refuse to try to push an expensive musical card that costs more than what I make an hour.
As far as massage is concerned, I direct my clients to get on the table, turn over, and stop sitting at their computers for eight hours a day. This causes their shoulders to be the consistency of concrete which makes my job more difficult.
Yes, I was born to direct and have mastered it better than Scorsese or Spielberg; without any of the money or fame.
copyright 2012 cwaldman
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Day 4: Can We Talk?
The Horoscope Project
Day 4: Can We Talk?
A discussion is in your future. Allow your mind to drift to better times. That didn’t sound good. What lame-ass conversation was I going to have, that the horoscope Gods suggested that I should take a mental vacation during it?
I guess the better question is, who was I to have this tedious discussion with? I had a feeling it wasn’t my husband. We have been married fourteen years and are about ten years past the big discussion phase of our relationship. We are more at the ‘Who’s cooking dinner?’ and “For the love of God, why can’t you ever remember to refill the filtered water pitcher’ era of our conversations.
So that pretty much leaves one of my kids as the discusser and me as the discussee. At first I thought it was going to be with my twelve year old daughter, but she was too busy stalking One Direction on her I pod to chat about anything with me. Anyways, her idea of dialogue lately involves a lot of eye rolling and telling me about all the things that she thinks were stupid. I made a mental note to check back in with her after high school and went in search of a less hormonally challenged child.
I decided to ask my seven year old son if he would like to have a discussion with me. He can always be counted on for his interesting take on life. He, true to form, had a diatribe at the ready. The subject was one of great importance. Why are all Star Wars Lego kits so big, and more importantly, how was he going to get one.
A very thought provoking question, indeed.
I suggested that I could sell our house so I could afford to buy him one of the exorbitantly priced toys, but that presented the problem of having no where to keep his Lego kits once he was done building them.
During our conversation, my mind didn’t drift off once. Probably because talking with him is much more interesting than speaking with most adults. I’m more likely to let my mind wander during a mature discussion where someone utters the words ‘Romney’ or ‘Obama’. To be honest, I would much rather talk about the dilemma of choosing between a Star Wars or a Harry Potter Lego kit or whether to forgo building blocks altogether for a purchase of a Power Ranger.
There is no way your mind can wander while watching an episode of the Power Rangers, not with an explosion every few minutes and creepy Nyloks crawling around. Maybe if they would have set off explosions behind Obama and Romney during their debate, I would have watched tuned in.
But I digress.
I asked my son later on in the day if he wanted to have another discussion, to which he answered that he wasn’t finished with our previous conversation about Legos. After a few minutes of closure on that subject, we moved onto an even more interesting topic: What would happen if cats took over the world. We both decided that under cat rule, dogs would be forced to dress like cats and everyone would have to use litter pans and eat fish.
Apparently, if dogs ruled, they would be much nicer than cats and would simply make humans their pets.
Now we are getting somewhere. I, for one, wouldn’t mind sleeping most of the day away, going for long walks, and having many belly rubs. The neutering, well, I don’t think most human males would agree to that.
Admit it though; wouldn’t you rather discuss the topic of animals ruling than politics?
Saturday, October 6, 2012
The Horoscope Project
Day 3: Can We Still Be Friends?
A friend means a lot to you, but they could develop into stronger feelings. Be careful!
Okay, so listen. You do mean a lot to me, but you have to stop crushing, as it so clearly states in my horoscope. I know it’s hard, after all, I am a desirable woman who is pushing fifty and happens to have a rockin’ middle-aged, mom bod, but one of us has to come to our senses.
All of you are special to me, and I’m not sure which one of you is developing these stronger feelings. I’m just going to assume that it is all of you, because that makes the most sense. As hard as it is, you’ll have to stop. Realize that it’s not worth giving up your husband or wife; you know the one that actually goes to the gym and doesn’t consider cookies as a main course.
I am a married woman after all, and have high moral standards, so I beg of you, let’s just be friends. (Unless of course you are George Clooney or that hot guy who plays Thor, in which case I have to admit that I have developed strong feelings for you)
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Day 2
The Horoscope Project
Day 2: Above All, Remain Persistent
Apparently, others will be touchy and difficult, but I should remain persistent. I am also not supposed to get into a power play with anyone. After a day of sucking it up, I am to be all smiles tonight. Yeah, right.
First off, It’s a given that one of my three children will prove to be difficult at some point in the day, and usually it is the one who likes Power Rangers. He gave me a hard time about; putting his shoes on, brushing his hair, wanting juice- NOT milk, reading, and a million other things I’m too exhausted to remember.
As far as a power play is concerned, my middle child is under the impression that she really knows best and is only living under her parent’s rule, because her feet can’t reach the pedals in the car yet.
So just another day here.
I tried my very best to remain persistent today, as I do everyday, because if I don’t, I am dead in the water with them. You can never show your fear. It’s a little like living with wolves, if you want to know the truth.
Oh, and as far as anyone being touchy, well any parent of a teenage girl knows that you ask them how their day was, and get a face full of hormonal tears, so, yeah, just another day.
Tonight, I will paste a smile on my face and hope that my family doesn’t think I have gone over the deep end
Saturday, September 29, 2012
The Horoscope Project-Day 1: Flirting With Disaster
THE HOROSCOPE PROJECT
DAY 1: FLIRTING WITH DISASTER
I had an interesting idea the other day after reading my horoscope. Let me first point out that I don’t normally feel a need to seek out my horoscope to guide me through the day; it just happens to be on the same page as the comics, something I do feel a need to consult every morning.
The idea was this: What if I were to follow the advice for my sign, Scorpio, no matter what it was. What would that be like? It may not seem like a difficult task for most, but for me it was monumental. You see, I don’t cotton to being told what to do, and I never have. I’m more about bossing others around, which as a mother of three, comes in quite handy. I am told that even as a toddler, I was a Miss Bossipants. I would instruct my father on the correct way to change my diaper. Someone had to inform him because he obviously didn’t know what the heck he was doing.
So for me to be told by some ambiguous person to lay low today or contact an old friend or party hard tonight, had me automatically digging my heels in. Even if it was something I would normally be doing anyway, such as take it easy tonight, I suddenly don’t want to do it if it is dictated by someone else.
Which is why I thought this would prove to be either a fascinating experiment or a gigantic mistake; we would see. I plan to take a few of the more intriguing horoscopes in a week and try to follow them to the T, or something close to a T, perhaps a U or V.
My first horoscope read: Scorpio, be flirty today! You are naturally sultry when you flirt! Who knew? So I had to try to pull off a sultry flintiness while wearing my normal outfit of khaki Capri pants, sneakers, and a T shirt. That would be a challenge. But if anyone could make ‘momwear’ sexy it would be a Scorpio. We are the passionate and slutty sign, after all, so I was confident I could do it.
The only problem I had was, who would I flirt with? I didn’t have any plans to go anywhere that day. That left my husband and my dog to be the victims, I mean, recipients of my charms. I should point out that if I even look in my husband’s direction, he thinks I have lovin’ on my mind and he’s all over me like a lion on a three legged wildebeest. In fact, I can’t even have gas pains without him thinking it’s Go Time. I had things that I needed to accomplish, so that was out of the question. I was going to have to look elsewhere. For those of you that may think my husband might feel hinky about my flirting with other men, don’t worry, I was only doing this for experimental purposes, he’d understand. But if he doesn’t understand, I was counting on the fact that he’d never find out about it because he doesn’t know how to turn on the computer to read my blog.
So I headed to my home away from home, the local café where I do a lot of my writing. Now all I had to do was to think way, way back to my single days when I would flirt on a regular basis. But that was BC (before children) and since then, all of my memory storage units dropped out of my uterus while giving birth. My past was a blur, but thanks to the many hours of watching Nickelodeon tween shows with my daughters, I was well versed in how to let guys know you are hot. I just had to play with my hair, giggle, say OMG, and moisten my lips and the men folk would be all over me.
Fortunately, there were subjects (men) at the café. I had to rule out the dudes that work there, though, because I was hoping to show my face at the café in the future. Sadly, there weren’t many unaccompanied fellows on the day I visited. The only person who was alone, was ahead of me in line, ordering coffee. This person was wearing a pink shirt, had longish hair, and had an amorphous shape. I had no idea if it was a man or a woman. Even his/her voice was androgynous. When he, as it turned out, turned around, I noticed stubble on his chin, but a belly that looked pregnant. I guess the stomach could be just a beer belly, but I wasn’t completely convinced of his masculine gender until another patron addressed him as John.
I hesitated with proceeding with my experiment because John looked like a card carrying member of the Phoenixville Club for the Weird and Wacky, which has a roster in the hundreds. I didn’t want to come onto this guy and end up with my own personal stalker, so I sat back and observed for a few moments. I soon found out more about him than I ever wanted to know. John was one of those annoying people who’s under the impression that he was alone in an office with the door closed, which meant that he could make multiple loud calls on his cell phone.
Unfortunately, I could overhear every one of his conversations. In the first one, John said, “That really does something for me. You’re making me all hot.”
Take my word for it; NOBODY wants to see John getting all hot and bothered.
A few seconds later he said, “Now you’re just becoming too needy.” This guy really blows hot and cold. Nothing to fear, because on his third call, he talks to his same lady friend and says, “When you talk baby talk to me, it drives me crazy!”
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m so glad that every shoe has it’s mate, but I don’t want to be witness to any pot-bellied, long-haired, pink-shirt wearing dude lacing up said shoe, if you know what I mean.
I immediately aborted any ideas of flirting for the day since what I overheard had the same effect as taking a cold shower naked on the Polar Ice Caps.
I left the café thinking that the idea of flirting with my dog suddenly didn’t seem so creepy, when I spotted the pretzel shop a few stores down. There were men that work there; men who looked like men and not pregnant homely women. Frankly, the thought of yummy carbohydrates has been known to put me in an amorous mood, so I walked in.
I approached the front counter where a good looking young (enough to be my son) man asked, “May I help you?”
I gave my biggest smile, tossed my hair, and said in a very perky voice, “Yes, I would like five mini pretzels.” The poor guy looked startled by my enthusiasm, but got me my order. Another man in the back of the shop started to sweat the moment he spotted me. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that he was standing in front of an enormous oven.
He said, “Would you like some free pretzels?”
My Scorpio seductive skills apparently weren’t as rusty as I thought, because I walked away with about eighteen pretzels I didn’t want.
I guess I still got it, even though I don’t remember ever having it in the first place.
Copyright 2012 cwaldman
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
School Assemblies and Other Forms of Torture
School Assemblies and Other Forms of Torture
by Christine Waldman
None of us go into parenthood with blinders on. Every woman knows of the pain involved in childbirth as well as the difficulties involved in raising a family. What many are not aware of, though, is the pain that awaits us when our children start school. What I’m referring to, of course, are school assemblies.
The most torturous of all assemblies has to be the school band concert. As if it isn’t painful enough to have to pay monthly to rent your child’s instrument and to be made to listen to them practice, we are also expected to sit through their concerts.
I was willing to put up with it because I wanted to encourage my daughter’s natural musical abilities. Don’t get me wrong, I hold no aspirations of her becoming a professional clarinet player. I just figured that she should learn to play an instrument and read music before she reaches her teens and her brain completely shuts down in the pursuit of boys.
Fortunately, I have developed an arsenal of skills for dealing with the challenges of parenthood. My best skill is tuning out the noise associated with having kids. I feel very proud that I haven’t developed a nervous tick from listening to my daughter practice her clarinet. So it was with supreme confidence that I thought I was prepared for her first concert.
What I didn’t take into account was that there would be 40 kids playing at the same time. As they began to play, I initially sat in stunned silence; the sheer volume and cacophony of the song messed with my equilibrium, making me dizzy. After my head cleared, my next reaction was jut plain giddiness and I couldn’t stop laughing. I think I was overwhelmed by the fact that I, not only would have to try and make it through this concert, but that I had dozens more to look forward to in the future.
And that’s just one child. I have 2 more that could someday be dying to play the violin or tuba!
But being the dutiful parent, I fought the impulse to bolt for the door and instead, clapped loudly after each song and was very proud when I actually was able to pick out a melody. By far, my favorite song was the one that sounded as if injured waterfowl were allowed to join in.
As excruciating as some of the concerts have been, and enough time has passed that I have been to several, nothing compares to agony of sitting through a school play.
In fourth grade, my daughter had a speaking role in the play. This was the last year in the long career of the music teacher who directed the performance. Because of this, he decided to have the kids perform his opus which was a particular Disney classic featuring large cats. It is also a complete rip-off of my favorite childhood cartoon – Kimba.
My parents make the mistake of agreeing to come to the performance. To say that the play was lengthy is putting it mildly. The only other play that could have been longer would be a Broadway version of War and Peace. It was so long that they practically had to use the Jaws of Life to get all of those creaky grandparents out of their seats afterwards.
The performance so exhausted the entire school that they haven’t put on a play since and no one seems to mind.
Now my daughter is in the middle school, so I have a whole new school assembly experience to look forward to. The middle school building is over 50 years old and has no air conditioning and has one of the most antiquated auditoriums known to mankind. They have wooden seats which means not only will the assembly be painful, but your back will be, too. As if getting a herniated disc wasn’t bad enough, I made the mistake of looking up. The ceiling is sprayed with an acoustic material that resembled rotten cottage cheese. I sat through the entire assembly, scared that parts of it would fall on my head and give me cooties.
The first assembly was for the middle school open house. The principal was as outdated as the auditorium and kept talking about what a grand time our kids would be having at the school. He also assured us that it was normal if our children got the heebie-jeebies over starting middle school. All I know is that the ceiling was giving me the heebie-jeebies.
I got through the time by passing notes to my friend and giggling. I think that we were channeling some juvenile behavior from the thousands of adolescent butts that have sat in those chairs over the past 50 years.
Thankfully, they are building a new school, so I only have a year to enjoy band concerts, choral performances, as well as the various school functions beneath the cottage cheese ceiling. But being a seasoned parent, I now know to wear a hat to stave off the heebie-jeebies, and maybe even some earplugs.
by Christine Waldman
None of us go into parenthood with blinders on. Every woman knows of the pain involved in childbirth as well as the difficulties involved in raising a family. What many are not aware of, though, is the pain that awaits us when our children start school. What I’m referring to, of course, are school assemblies.
The most torturous of all assemblies has to be the school band concert. As if it isn’t painful enough to have to pay monthly to rent your child’s instrument and to be made to listen to them practice, we are also expected to sit through their concerts.
I was willing to put up with it because I wanted to encourage my daughter’s natural musical abilities. Don’t get me wrong, I hold no aspirations of her becoming a professional clarinet player. I just figured that she should learn to play an instrument and read music before she reaches her teens and her brain completely shuts down in the pursuit of boys.
Fortunately, I have developed an arsenal of skills for dealing with the challenges of parenthood. My best skill is tuning out the noise associated with having kids. I feel very proud that I haven’t developed a nervous tick from listening to my daughter practice her clarinet. So it was with supreme confidence that I thought I was prepared for her first concert.
What I didn’t take into account was that there would be 40 kids playing at the same time. As they began to play, I initially sat in stunned silence; the sheer volume and cacophony of the song messed with my equilibrium, making me dizzy. After my head cleared, my next reaction was jut plain giddiness and I couldn’t stop laughing. I think I was overwhelmed by the fact that I, not only would have to try and make it through this concert, but that I had dozens more to look forward to in the future.
And that’s just one child. I have 2 more that could someday be dying to play the violin or tuba!
But being the dutiful parent, I fought the impulse to bolt for the door and instead, clapped loudly after each song and was very proud when I actually was able to pick out a melody. By far, my favorite song was the one that sounded as if injured waterfowl were allowed to join in.
As excruciating as some of the concerts have been, and enough time has passed that I have been to several, nothing compares to agony of sitting through a school play.
In fourth grade, my daughter had a speaking role in the play. This was the last year in the long career of the music teacher who directed the performance. Because of this, he decided to have the kids perform his opus which was a particular Disney classic featuring large cats. It is also a complete rip-off of my favorite childhood cartoon – Kimba.
My parents make the mistake of agreeing to come to the performance. To say that the play was lengthy is putting it mildly. The only other play that could have been longer would be a Broadway version of War and Peace. It was so long that they practically had to use the Jaws of Life to get all of those creaky grandparents out of their seats afterwards.
The performance so exhausted the entire school that they haven’t put on a play since and no one seems to mind.
Now my daughter is in the middle school, so I have a whole new school assembly experience to look forward to. The middle school building is over 50 years old and has no air conditioning and has one of the most antiquated auditoriums known to mankind. They have wooden seats which means not only will the assembly be painful, but your back will be, too. As if getting a herniated disc wasn’t bad enough, I made the mistake of looking up. The ceiling is sprayed with an acoustic material that resembled rotten cottage cheese. I sat through the entire assembly, scared that parts of it would fall on my head and give me cooties.
The first assembly was for the middle school open house. The principal was as outdated as the auditorium and kept talking about what a grand time our kids would be having at the school. He also assured us that it was normal if our children got the heebie-jeebies over starting middle school. All I know is that the ceiling was giving me the heebie-jeebies.
I got through the time by passing notes to my friend and giggling. I think that we were channeling some juvenile behavior from the thousands of adolescent butts that have sat in those chairs over the past 50 years.
Thankfully, they are building a new school, so I only have a year to enjoy band concerts, choral performances, as well as the various school functions beneath the cottage cheese ceiling. But being a seasoned parent, I now know to wear a hat to stave off the heebie-jeebies, and maybe even some earplugs.
Monday, July 4, 2011
NEVILLE, CALIGULA, AND OTHER FUN PETS
I want you to be honest with me. Would you adopt a hamster named ‘Caligula’? I am an avid animal lover, but the idea of owning a hamster, which are known for their love of nibbling fingers, named Caligula makes me feel faint.
When I took my kids to pick out a small pet the other day, no one was more excited than I was. There were a number of small furry guys to choose from; hamsters (long-haired, teddy bear, black, and Dwarf-like they’re not small enough already), gerbils, Guinea Pigs, rats, mice-you name it. If it’s small, furry, and likes to scurry, you can find it at Pets Inc.
Even though getting a hamster would be cheaper, I steered my daughter towards a Guinea Pig since they are much less bitey. The other reason was that they had a few that were on sale because they were older. So we went with the ‘day old’ version of a pet, which was just up our alley.
Jerry, the very helpful employee at Pet Inc. said he had another Guinea Pig in the back that they didn’t have room for out front. He said that this Guinea Pig was his buddy. I think that Jerry needs to get out more.
I perused the other furry little guys while I waited for Jerry and came upon a sign on a hamster cage.
Caligula-for adoption $2.
You couldn’t pay me $2 to become a foster mother to a hamster with such an ominous name. I peered into the cage, curious as to what this beast looked like, but only saw a furry little rump, at least I think it was his back end, staring back at me.
Jerry appeared with a white and brown spotted Guinea Pig who sat very calmly in his arms. He had a sort of punk look going on with one eye smudged with eyeliner, and a cowlick that reminded me of my brother. The cowlick made him look as if he had white bushy eyebrows, which reminded me of my dad. With such a strong family resemblance, we had to have him.
My daughter of course fell in love with him and asked his name. “I call him Drippy. You can change it, if you want”. I wasn’t so sure that having a pet named Drippy was a good idea for my carpet, but Jerry said he used to have a Drippy eye that has since cleared up, hence the name.
Drippy seemed pretty tame, what with Jerry spending all of his time, usually reserved for dating human women, walking around with Drippy. One of the other employees saw that we were interested in Drippy, and said, “Ahhh, Jerry, you’re not going to cry, are you?” Someone seriously needs to get Jerry a date.
On the way home, we renamed Drippy, Spot because of a spot on his nose. Then we re-re named him Neville because he has a long bottom and because my daughter is obsessed with Harry Potter.
Our 3 cats have only tried to eat Neville 472 times, the dog, thankfully, ignores him, and Bob the Beta fish, well he’s a fish, so who knows what he thinks, or even if he thinks.
Of course, the minute we got Neville home, his eye started dripping again and he does this weird thing where he shakes his head and runs around in his cage. So now we’ll probably have the expense of taking him to the vet, which means I can kiss that pedicure and eyebrow waxing goodbye.
Now my eyebrows will be so furry, they can put me in a cage and sell me at Pet Inc.
I want you to be honest with me. Would you adopt a hamster named ‘Caligula’? I am an avid animal lover, but the idea of owning a hamster, which are known for their love of nibbling fingers, named Caligula makes me feel faint.
When I took my kids to pick out a small pet the other day, no one was more excited than I was. There were a number of small furry guys to choose from; hamsters (long-haired, teddy bear, black, and Dwarf-like they’re not small enough already), gerbils, Guinea Pigs, rats, mice-you name it. If it’s small, furry, and likes to scurry, you can find it at Pets Inc.
Even though getting a hamster would be cheaper, I steered my daughter towards a Guinea Pig since they are much less bitey. The other reason was that they had a few that were on sale because they were older. So we went with the ‘day old’ version of a pet, which was just up our alley.
Jerry, the very helpful employee at Pet Inc. said he had another Guinea Pig in the back that they didn’t have room for out front. He said that this Guinea Pig was his buddy. I think that Jerry needs to get out more.
I perused the other furry little guys while I waited for Jerry and came upon a sign on a hamster cage.
Caligula-for adoption $2.
You couldn’t pay me $2 to become a foster mother to a hamster with such an ominous name. I peered into the cage, curious as to what this beast looked like, but only saw a furry little rump, at least I think it was his back end, staring back at me.
Jerry appeared with a white and brown spotted Guinea Pig who sat very calmly in his arms. He had a sort of punk look going on with one eye smudged with eyeliner, and a cowlick that reminded me of my brother. The cowlick made him look as if he had white bushy eyebrows, which reminded me of my dad. With such a strong family resemblance, we had to have him.
My daughter of course fell in love with him and asked his name. “I call him Drippy. You can change it, if you want”. I wasn’t so sure that having a pet named Drippy was a good idea for my carpet, but Jerry said he used to have a Drippy eye that has since cleared up, hence the name.
Drippy seemed pretty tame, what with Jerry spending all of his time, usually reserved for dating human women, walking around with Drippy. One of the other employees saw that we were interested in Drippy, and said, “Ahhh, Jerry, you’re not going to cry, are you?” Someone seriously needs to get Jerry a date.
On the way home, we renamed Drippy, Spot because of a spot on his nose. Then we re-re named him Neville because he has a long bottom and because my daughter is obsessed with Harry Potter.
Our 3 cats have only tried to eat Neville 472 times, the dog, thankfully, ignores him, and Bob the Beta fish, well he’s a fish, so who knows what he thinks, or even if he thinks.
Of course, the minute we got Neville home, his eye started dripping again and he does this weird thing where he shakes his head and runs around in his cage. So now we’ll probably have the expense of taking him to the vet, which means I can kiss that pedicure and eyebrow waxing goodbye.
Now my eyebrows will be so furry, they can put me in a cage and sell me at Pet Inc.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
MOTHERS DAY REPRIEVE
MOTHERS DAY REPRIEVE
“What do you want to do for Mothers Day?” that was the question posed to me by my husband. I didn’t know what I wanted to do-well, that’s a lie-what I really wanted to do was to lie on a beach somewhere…all alone- but that was a highly unlikely scenario for my day.
I knew what I didn’t want to do, and that was to make a decision or have to plan an activity for the day. That’s what I do the other 364 days of the year. Yet, I was reluctant to leave the decision of how to celebrate in my husband’s hands. If I did, it would surely involve what he likes to do to celebrate, which almost always involves eating. I did not want to spend the day herding our 3 kids into an overcrowded restaurant, along with all the other miserable moms, only to have to deal with hungry impatient little ones during a long wait.
And that’s just my husband.
If you ask any mother, at least the ones I know, what they truly want for Mothers Day is a break from being a mother.
This is, if you think about it, the antithesis of what the special day is all about. You don’t see that on any other holiday. On Valentines Day, you rarely see people in love desperately avoiding their significant others. Nor do most people take joy in slamming the door in the faces of trick-or-treaters on Halloween. And you’ll never find me turning down a chocolate bunny on Easter, either. It’s just unheard of.
I lucked out on this Mothers Day with a beautiful spring day, so I opted to pack up the kids, the dog, my husband, and even an extra kid-my daughters friend (because 3 kids just wasn’t enough) and off to Valley Forge Park we went.
On the way my oldest daughter said, “It’s like we’re on a highway.” I think she may have been referring to the speed at which I was driving. I was anxious to get to our destination asap, because my dog was so excited about a walk that she was levitating in the back of the car.
Right about then, my 6 year old son started singing, “We’re on a highway to hell!” I didn’t even know he was an AC\DC fan. I didn’t get a chance to ponder too long on how he knew that ditty, when my daughter stuck her head out the window like a dog. My real dog was whimpering and panting and pacing in doggy anticipation of our arrival. My other daughter, who was sitting in the back with the dog, very wisely held a pillow up for protection so she wouldn’t be stomped on by our 70 pound Lab.
We finally made it to the park just in time to avoid my dog’s nervous breakdown as well as my daughter’s eventual trampling.
The walk was lovely and much to my delight, only 2 of my 3 children repeatedly told me how stupid our outing was and I only heard that they wanted to go home 47 times.
What I’ve learned from my day is that it is much easier to please your dog than your kids. I am happy that at least Shelby the dog is happy and I’m very happy to later have escaped for a few hours to a café, where I am writing this…all alone.
When my child complained that there was no Kids Day, I explained to her that every day is Kids Day- even Mothers Day.
copywrite cwaldman 2011
“What do you want to do for Mothers Day?” that was the question posed to me by my husband. I didn’t know what I wanted to do-well, that’s a lie-what I really wanted to do was to lie on a beach somewhere…all alone- but that was a highly unlikely scenario for my day.
I knew what I didn’t want to do, and that was to make a decision or have to plan an activity for the day. That’s what I do the other 364 days of the year. Yet, I was reluctant to leave the decision of how to celebrate in my husband’s hands. If I did, it would surely involve what he likes to do to celebrate, which almost always involves eating. I did not want to spend the day herding our 3 kids into an overcrowded restaurant, along with all the other miserable moms, only to have to deal with hungry impatient little ones during a long wait.
And that’s just my husband.
If you ask any mother, at least the ones I know, what they truly want for Mothers Day is a break from being a mother.
This is, if you think about it, the antithesis of what the special day is all about. You don’t see that on any other holiday. On Valentines Day, you rarely see people in love desperately avoiding their significant others. Nor do most people take joy in slamming the door in the faces of trick-or-treaters on Halloween. And you’ll never find me turning down a chocolate bunny on Easter, either. It’s just unheard of.
I lucked out on this Mothers Day with a beautiful spring day, so I opted to pack up the kids, the dog, my husband, and even an extra kid-my daughters friend (because 3 kids just wasn’t enough) and off to Valley Forge Park we went.
On the way my oldest daughter said, “It’s like we’re on a highway.” I think she may have been referring to the speed at which I was driving. I was anxious to get to our destination asap, because my dog was so excited about a walk that she was levitating in the back of the car.
Right about then, my 6 year old son started singing, “We’re on a highway to hell!” I didn’t even know he was an AC\DC fan. I didn’t get a chance to ponder too long on how he knew that ditty, when my daughter stuck her head out the window like a dog. My real dog was whimpering and panting and pacing in doggy anticipation of our arrival. My other daughter, who was sitting in the back with the dog, very wisely held a pillow up for protection so she wouldn’t be stomped on by our 70 pound Lab.
We finally made it to the park just in time to avoid my dog’s nervous breakdown as well as my daughter’s eventual trampling.
The walk was lovely and much to my delight, only 2 of my 3 children repeatedly told me how stupid our outing was and I only heard that they wanted to go home 47 times.
What I’ve learned from my day is that it is much easier to please your dog than your kids. I am happy that at least Shelby the dog is happy and I’m very happy to later have escaped for a few hours to a café, where I am writing this…all alone.
When my child complained that there was no Kids Day, I explained to her that every day is Kids Day- even Mothers Day.
copywrite cwaldman 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
TOOTHLESS TONY
Tony is toothless and apparently, likes mashed potatoes; a wise menu choice for someone who is sans teeth. For years now, I’ve noticed Tony wandering around town all alone, not a tooth in his head, and painfully thin. He always has his shirt tucked in and a belt synched tight around the waist. He is so skinny that I am sure he had to punch a new hole in his belt so it could properly hold up his pants.
Although “Toothless Tony” is not his real name, it is certainly fitting, and the name that comes to mind whenever I see him. Despite his lack of teeth and questionable mental clarity, he always seems a happy sort, with a smile ever present on his face and a bounce in his step. But these days, Tony has a bigger reason to feel chipper other than just a general love of life.
Tony has a lady friend; a Ying to his Yang, a match to his scuffed shoe. She is around the same age as Tony, maybe in her 50’s or 60’s, with a body that is soft and round. Tony’s lady has monotone coloring, with a fluff of blond hair almost the same color as her skin. This is apropos since it reflects the blandness of her expression. I’m not sure what it would take for Tony’s girlfriend to have an emotion register on her face, but I have never seen any sort of reaction from her.
But her non-reactive personality doesn’t seem to be a deterrent to Tony. He often can be seen guiding her through the streets of our town. Although her shuffle is reminiscent of someone who is heavily medicated, Tony keeps on talking a blue streak, while she placidly follows along with her gaze never really focusing on anything.
Recently, I spotted the lovebirds at a local fair, and all I can say is that Tony is one chivalrous, romantic dude. He was leading her around the fair grounds, pointing here and there while giving a running narrative of the rides and concessions. She walked beside him with a detached air, barely glancing at the raucous amusements. I don’t know how anyone could not be star struck or at least dazed by the over-the-top lights, sounds, and smells found at a fair, but she didn’t respond to any of it.
I saw them again about a half hour later, and there was Tony’s lady with a huge Teddy Bear clutched to her chest. Her face was as vacant as ever, but Tony had a huge toothless grin, obviously proud of winning his woman a prize.
A month after that sighting, I saw the pair walking together in town. Tony was talking a mile a minute and she, as usual, was a blank canvas. Tony suddenly stopped to pick an item up off the sidewalk. I mistakenly thought he had dropped something, until I noticed that he had found a discarded cigarette, which he promptly lit.
I glanced at his companion to see if she would be aghast at this act. To be honest, what I was really hoping for was some sort of life to flicker across her face.
Nothing.
But, ever the gentlemen, Tony handed the cigarette to his lady love so she could have the first puff. There apparently is no limit to his thoughtfulness.
A little while later, I was out in front of my house when my path crossed with the couple again. I caught a snippet of their conversation as they passed by.
“I like mashed potatoes,” Tony shared with his girlfriend, as he helped steer her around a rock on the sidewalk.
“Now see, this a better way for you to go. This is the way you should go next time,” Tony continued. Perhaps he was giving her a preferred route to her previous, less desirable way of going. I could imagine that he may be concerned if she were to walk alone past a busy road. I’m not sure how aware she is of her surroundings. But, with Tony acting as her human guide dog, he can make sure she is kept out of harm’s way.
I find it very interesting that your first thought when seeing Tony could very well be, “I hope this guy has someone helping him out.” But as it turns out, he is the caregiver who looks out for his lady’s wellbeing by steering her in the right direction and caring about her needs and safety.
Obviously, you don’t need to have a tooth in your head or even weigh more than a large child to be a true gentleman. Tony is quite a guy and I hope that his lady knows it. I hope that somewhere, deep inside that blank exterior, she is smiling.
Although “Toothless Tony” is not his real name, it is certainly fitting, and the name that comes to mind whenever I see him. Despite his lack of teeth and questionable mental clarity, he always seems a happy sort, with a smile ever present on his face and a bounce in his step. But these days, Tony has a bigger reason to feel chipper other than just a general love of life.
Tony has a lady friend; a Ying to his Yang, a match to his scuffed shoe. She is around the same age as Tony, maybe in her 50’s or 60’s, with a body that is soft and round. Tony’s lady has monotone coloring, with a fluff of blond hair almost the same color as her skin. This is apropos since it reflects the blandness of her expression. I’m not sure what it would take for Tony’s girlfriend to have an emotion register on her face, but I have never seen any sort of reaction from her.
But her non-reactive personality doesn’t seem to be a deterrent to Tony. He often can be seen guiding her through the streets of our town. Although her shuffle is reminiscent of someone who is heavily medicated, Tony keeps on talking a blue streak, while she placidly follows along with her gaze never really focusing on anything.
Recently, I spotted the lovebirds at a local fair, and all I can say is that Tony is one chivalrous, romantic dude. He was leading her around the fair grounds, pointing here and there while giving a running narrative of the rides and concessions. She walked beside him with a detached air, barely glancing at the raucous amusements. I don’t know how anyone could not be star struck or at least dazed by the over-the-top lights, sounds, and smells found at a fair, but she didn’t respond to any of it.
I saw them again about a half hour later, and there was Tony’s lady with a huge Teddy Bear clutched to her chest. Her face was as vacant as ever, but Tony had a huge toothless grin, obviously proud of winning his woman a prize.
A month after that sighting, I saw the pair walking together in town. Tony was talking a mile a minute and she, as usual, was a blank canvas. Tony suddenly stopped to pick an item up off the sidewalk. I mistakenly thought he had dropped something, until I noticed that he had found a discarded cigarette, which he promptly lit.
I glanced at his companion to see if she would be aghast at this act. To be honest, what I was really hoping for was some sort of life to flicker across her face.
Nothing.
But, ever the gentlemen, Tony handed the cigarette to his lady love so she could have the first puff. There apparently is no limit to his thoughtfulness.
A little while later, I was out in front of my house when my path crossed with the couple again. I caught a snippet of their conversation as they passed by.
“I like mashed potatoes,” Tony shared with his girlfriend, as he helped steer her around a rock on the sidewalk.
“Now see, this a better way for you to go. This is the way you should go next time,” Tony continued. Perhaps he was giving her a preferred route to her previous, less desirable way of going. I could imagine that he may be concerned if she were to walk alone past a busy road. I’m not sure how aware she is of her surroundings. But, with Tony acting as her human guide dog, he can make sure she is kept out of harm’s way.
I find it very interesting that your first thought when seeing Tony could very well be, “I hope this guy has someone helping him out.” But as it turns out, he is the caregiver who looks out for his lady’s wellbeing by steering her in the right direction and caring about her needs and safety.
Obviously, you don’t need to have a tooth in your head or even weigh more than a large child to be a true gentleman. Tony is quite a guy and I hope that his lady knows it. I hope that somewhere, deep inside that blank exterior, she is smiling.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
MONKEY LOVIN’ FUN
Why do monkeys have all the fun? I’m referring to that lovely saying ‘Spank the Monkey’ which is Greek for - I have a built in toy and I plan on playing with it – often. I have noticed that men seen to have a way with words when it comes to nicknames for masturbation. If you don’t believe me, I present to you another example: ‘Choke the Chicken’. Not only are these weird and crude statements, but I am left wondering why all the violent references to animals? Frankly, I’m afraid to find out how these twisted phrases got started. If we delve too deeply into their origins, we might find that bestiality was involved or some other abuse of some poor animal. I shiver at the perverse possibilities.
Another question that comes to mind is why are monkeys and chickens used to describe our self abuse? Why not use other animals in our catch phrases, such as; ‘Roughing up the Rhino’ or ‘Jostle the Baboon’ or even ‘Pummel the Panda’?
I’m also curious as to why there are no euphemisms for woman’s self pleasuring. You never hear the term ‘Bludgeoning the Beaver’, do you?
That’s because women aren’t gross.
I don’t think any woman would use a violent word to describe partying with oneself. If we felt a need to come up with a catch phrase for it, it would be something sensual or passionate, like, ‘Feathering the Swan’ or ‘Stroking the Gazelle’. I know that this is more of the animal terminology, but I’m just going with the theme at hand (so to speak).
If you think about it, it is no wonder that men have come up with vulgar terms for touching themselves, because they have been using offensive terms for going to the bathroom for years. Often a man will state, ‘I’m going to drain the main drain’ or ‘Ive gotta’ go drain the lizard’ or ‘Man, I have to take a leak.’ Why do they think we even want to know their elimination plans? Jeez, just say ‘excuse me’ and get up from the table and take care of business. You don’t have to explain what you are up to; we won’t think you left the table to carryout some James Bond-like bit of espionage.
At least we of the fairer sex very politely say, ‘Excuse me, I’m going to the ladies room’ or ‘Pardon me while I go powder my nose’. Although, in reality, the powdering of noses is a little antiquated, and is really a woman’s thinly disguised invitation for her friends to join her in the ladies room. While in the privacy of the bathroom she can then tell her friends that her date’s ‘lizard’ is really more like a salamander.
If a man feels that he must share with us his pee pee plans, why not say something more conducive for polite society, like ‘I must go straighten my cuff links’ or ‘Oh my! My cumber bun has become askew; please excuse me while I fix it’. Again, we know that you may just be wearing jeans and a t-shirt and do not in fact have on a cumber bun, but the point is, we could really care less if your bladder is full.
So in conclusion, while it is perfectly natural to pleasure oneself, and to have to urinate, why must anyone feel a need to announce it to the world in a crude fashion and more importantly, why involve innocent animals in our verbiage? So, I implore you, please stop spanking those monkeys and for God sake, isn’t it bad enough that we eat chickens, do we have to choke them, too?
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Why do monkeys have all the fun? I’m referring to that lovely saying ‘Spank the Monkey’ which is Greek for - I have a built in toy and I plan on playing with it – often. I have noticed that men seen to have a way with words when it comes to nicknames for masturbation. If you don’t believe me, I present to you another example: ‘Choke the Chicken’. Not only are these weird and crude statements, but I am left wondering why all the violent references to animals? Frankly, I’m afraid to find out how these twisted phrases got started. If we delve too deeply into their origins, we might find that bestiality was involved or some other abuse of some poor animal. I shiver at the perverse possibilities.
Another question that comes to mind is why are monkeys and chickens used to describe our self abuse? Why not use other animals in our catch phrases, such as; ‘Roughing up the Rhino’ or ‘Jostle the Baboon’ or even ‘Pummel the Panda’?
I’m also curious as to why there are no euphemisms for woman’s self pleasuring. You never hear the term ‘Bludgeoning the Beaver’, do you?
That’s because women aren’t gross.
I don’t think any woman would use a violent word to describe partying with oneself. If we felt a need to come up with a catch phrase for it, it would be something sensual or passionate, like, ‘Feathering the Swan’ or ‘Stroking the Gazelle’. I know that this is more of the animal terminology, but I’m just going with the theme at hand (so to speak).
If you think about it, it is no wonder that men have come up with vulgar terms for touching themselves, because they have been using offensive terms for going to the bathroom for years. Often a man will state, ‘I’m going to drain the main drain’ or ‘Ive gotta’ go drain the lizard’ or ‘Man, I have to take a leak.’ Why do they think we even want to know their elimination plans? Jeez, just say ‘excuse me’ and get up from the table and take care of business. You don’t have to explain what you are up to; we won’t think you left the table to carryout some James Bond-like bit of espionage.
At least we of the fairer sex very politely say, ‘Excuse me, I’m going to the ladies room’ or ‘Pardon me while I go powder my nose’. Although, in reality, the powdering of noses is a little antiquated, and is really a woman’s thinly disguised invitation for her friends to join her in the ladies room. While in the privacy of the bathroom she can then tell her friends that her date’s ‘lizard’ is really more like a salamander.
If a man feels that he must share with us his pee pee plans, why not say something more conducive for polite society, like ‘I must go straighten my cuff links’ or ‘Oh my! My cumber bun has become askew; please excuse me while I fix it’. Again, we know that you may just be wearing jeans and a t-shirt and do not in fact have on a cumber bun, but the point is, we could really care less if your bladder is full.
So in conclusion, while it is perfectly natural to pleasure oneself, and to have to urinate, why must anyone feel a need to announce it to the world in a crude fashion and more importantly, why involve innocent animals in our verbiage? So, I implore you, please stop spanking those monkeys and for God sake, isn’t it bad enough that we eat chickens, do we have to choke them, too?
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Friday, October 22, 2010
I LOVE YOUR WIENER SCHNITZEL
I LOVE YOUR WIENER SCHNITZEL
My family moved to Phoenixville 9 years ago, right before the town’s revitalization took place. It used to be that whenever we said, “we live in Phoenixville” eyebrows were raised, lips sneered, and only a polite, “Oh, that’s nice,” would be issued.
Now, there are genuine smiles given, no gasping, and often, “How cool!” can be heard. I am convinced that my awesome coolness is what is responsible for the town’s general revival.
Since the town’s upsurge, we now have hip stores and trendy restaurants lining Bridge Street and many of the beautiful Victorian homes have been renovated. But even in its less trendy days, Phoenixville was always a family town, a town where people knew each other and a place where generation after generation lived. In other words, a great place to raise children. I think that Phoenixville is full of hard working people who have families and if there is any excuse to party, we are there!
Because of this fact, this town has a plethora of festivals; from the Celtic festival, F.A.M.E festival, Dogwood festival, the Firebird festival, and my favorite-the Blob festival.
All of these events are normally well advertised, often with banners strewn atop the streets, where no one could miss them. There was one event I came across, though, that I never was warned about. I’m still not sure what it was called. Perhaps the Old Dudes on Motorcycle festival would be fitting.
I was sitting at Artisans Café one day when I heard a thundering sound. When I looked out the window, it wasn’t an approaching storm I saw, but a large number of motorcycles parking on the street. White-haired, leather wearing dudes were dismounting the bikes and helping their ‘old ladies’ off the backs, then wandered around, checking out the other motorcycles.
These motorcycle enthusiasts, with their balding heads, protruding bellies, and blurry tattoos, were obviously having a good time. There was a lot of back slapping and admiring of each others ‘hogs’. I almost wanted to join in their festivities, but feared that with my lack of cool wheels and one measly, un-blurry tattoo, I wouldn’t be accepted.
Most of the festivals in Phoenixville, however, are for everyone and are very family friendly. Most recently, two new events joined the ranks of the long list; the Blues festival, and Oktoberfest.
The Blues festival had an amazing turn out for a first time event, possibly because the music was so amazing, but most likely because it was free. It took place in Reeves Park with the musicians playing on stage in the amphitheater. Most of the patrons of the Blues festival sat in the benches, but many others set up lawn chairs or blankets, adding to the party-like atmosphere. Many, including my 5 year old son, were up dancing to the music and having a fantastic time.
Although there were many families attending the Oktoberfest this month, I have a feeling that the ambiance changed as the night wore on. The reason for this can be found in the translation of the word Oktoberfest, which is German for ‘drink too much beer, eat too much bratwurst, and then barf on your lederhosen’.
A few blocks of Bridge Street were closed off for everyone’s safe beer drinking enjoyment. I guess they figured with all that bratwurst and beer consumption, there was bound to be some stumbling into the street anyways, so why not keep everyone safe.
There were also an excess of men wearing lederhosen who were there to play German music. Even though polkas and traditional German music aren’t on my I Pod play list, I do recognize the musical ability it takes to play a really good tuba solo.
Seeing all those men in lederhosen invariably makes me compare it to the Celtic festival which is resplendent with kilt wearing dudes. The 1st reason I go to the Celtic festival is for the Irish music and the 2nd reason is for the kilts.
Okay, so the 1st reason is for the kilts.
But lieder hosen, well, let’s just say that even the Rock would look like a sissy sporting that getup- and believe me, most of the gents at Phoenixville’s Oktoberfest who wore girly shoes, knee socks, shorts with suspenders, and goofy hats- did not look like the Rock.
I don’t mean to cast aspersions on German culture at all- I LOVE wiener schnitzel- I’m commenting solely about the fashion faux pas of grown men wearing brightly colored shorts with suspenders.
I know what you’re thinking; kilts are basically men wearing skirts; kind of girly, right? Not when they are sporting a dagger stuck in their sock.
Maybe they should add a manlier element to the lederhosen ensemble. How about a weapon tucked into the suspenders, or maybe a Chinese fighting star hidden behind the feather in their hats?
All I know is that when we saw a lederhosen clad senior gentleman walk towards us at the festival, my daughter was so frightened that she hid behind me. I’m hoping that sight is burned into her retinas and will stave off puberty for a few more years.
My family moved to Phoenixville 9 years ago, right before the town’s revitalization took place. It used to be that whenever we said, “we live in Phoenixville” eyebrows were raised, lips sneered, and only a polite, “Oh, that’s nice,” would be issued.
Now, there are genuine smiles given, no gasping, and often, “How cool!” can be heard. I am convinced that my awesome coolness is what is responsible for the town’s general revival.
Since the town’s upsurge, we now have hip stores and trendy restaurants lining Bridge Street and many of the beautiful Victorian homes have been renovated. But even in its less trendy days, Phoenixville was always a family town, a town where people knew each other and a place where generation after generation lived. In other words, a great place to raise children. I think that Phoenixville is full of hard working people who have families and if there is any excuse to party, we are there!
Because of this fact, this town has a plethora of festivals; from the Celtic festival, F.A.M.E festival, Dogwood festival, the Firebird festival, and my favorite-the Blob festival.
All of these events are normally well advertised, often with banners strewn atop the streets, where no one could miss them. There was one event I came across, though, that I never was warned about. I’m still not sure what it was called. Perhaps the Old Dudes on Motorcycle festival would be fitting.
I was sitting at Artisans Café one day when I heard a thundering sound. When I looked out the window, it wasn’t an approaching storm I saw, but a large number of motorcycles parking on the street. White-haired, leather wearing dudes were dismounting the bikes and helping their ‘old ladies’ off the backs, then wandered around, checking out the other motorcycles.
These motorcycle enthusiasts, with their balding heads, protruding bellies, and blurry tattoos, were obviously having a good time. There was a lot of back slapping and admiring of each others ‘hogs’. I almost wanted to join in their festivities, but feared that with my lack of cool wheels and one measly, un-blurry tattoo, I wouldn’t be accepted.
Most of the festivals in Phoenixville, however, are for everyone and are very family friendly. Most recently, two new events joined the ranks of the long list; the Blues festival, and Oktoberfest.
The Blues festival had an amazing turn out for a first time event, possibly because the music was so amazing, but most likely because it was free. It took place in Reeves Park with the musicians playing on stage in the amphitheater. Most of the patrons of the Blues festival sat in the benches, but many others set up lawn chairs or blankets, adding to the party-like atmosphere. Many, including my 5 year old son, were up dancing to the music and having a fantastic time.
Although there were many families attending the Oktoberfest this month, I have a feeling that the ambiance changed as the night wore on. The reason for this can be found in the translation of the word Oktoberfest, which is German for ‘drink too much beer, eat too much bratwurst, and then barf on your lederhosen’.
A few blocks of Bridge Street were closed off for everyone’s safe beer drinking enjoyment. I guess they figured with all that bratwurst and beer consumption, there was bound to be some stumbling into the street anyways, so why not keep everyone safe.
There were also an excess of men wearing lederhosen who were there to play German music. Even though polkas and traditional German music aren’t on my I Pod play list, I do recognize the musical ability it takes to play a really good tuba solo.
Seeing all those men in lederhosen invariably makes me compare it to the Celtic festival which is resplendent with kilt wearing dudes. The 1st reason I go to the Celtic festival is for the Irish music and the 2nd reason is for the kilts.
Okay, so the 1st reason is for the kilts.
But lieder hosen, well, let’s just say that even the Rock would look like a sissy sporting that getup- and believe me, most of the gents at Phoenixville’s Oktoberfest who wore girly shoes, knee socks, shorts with suspenders, and goofy hats- did not look like the Rock.
I don’t mean to cast aspersions on German culture at all- I LOVE wiener schnitzel- I’m commenting solely about the fashion faux pas of grown men wearing brightly colored shorts with suspenders.
I know what you’re thinking; kilts are basically men wearing skirts; kind of girly, right? Not when they are sporting a dagger stuck in their sock.
Maybe they should add a manlier element to the lederhosen ensemble. How about a weapon tucked into the suspenders, or maybe a Chinese fighting star hidden behind the feather in their hats?
All I know is that when we saw a lederhosen clad senior gentleman walk towards us at the festival, my daughter was so frightened that she hid behind me. I’m hoping that sight is burned into her retinas and will stave off puberty for a few more years.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
ELEPHANTS NEVER FORGET
ELEPHANTS NEVER FORGET
My local YMCA often plays host to many special health related events. They are committed to promoting the wellbeing of all of those in the community and accomplish this in a way that is fun for the whole family.
When a holiday is approaching, the Y often will decorate to create a festive mood. At Christmas time, they’ll put an inflatable snowman or Santa on the roof. In the spring, it will be replaced by the Easter Bunny who greets all those who enter the Y. I think they even put an enormous ghost on the roof for Halloween.
Recently, they held an event just for senior citizens, complete with vendors who provided many ways for the elderly to remain healthy. They advertised this occasion in the most obvious of ways- by putting a giant inflatable elephant on their roof with a sign that read ‘Senior Health Day’ emblazoned across it’s side.
When I first saw this 15 foot tall elephant, I stood for a moment and reread the sign, sure that I had mistaken it for something else. Was the Y hosting a circus? Were they raising money to bring the elephants back to the Philadelphia zoo?
No. I read it right the first time. I also noticed as I scrutinized the giant beast, that he had seen better days. This was not a cute cartoon-like character with floppy ears that helped him fly. This behemoth was missing an eye, looked like he could use a bath, and one of his tusk had gone a bit wonky. He looked a bit malevolent as well, squinting down at me with his one eye.
Is this a form of ageism, I wondered? If I were a person of advanced years, I would be a tad insulted, miffed, and down right cranky if someone thought a moldy elephant was a fair representation of my age class.
I looked around, expecting to see a mob of angry seniors picketing out front, waving their canes and signs that would read, GREY IS GREAT! and SAY THAT TO MY CANE, YOU WIPPERSNAPPER!!
What message were they trying to send? - Hey seniors, have you really let yourself go? Have you gained a few pounds since retiring and now look like an elephant? Come work out at the Y!
I certainly hope that they are not implying this: Here’s an elephant! He’s grey just like your hair-come exercise!
Or the most offensive of all implications: If your skin is as wrinkled and baggy as a pachyderm’s, try out our steam room, maybe it will shrink back to normal!
To be honest though, I’m not sure what they could have put up on the roof to represent Senior Health Day. A giant inflatable Jack Lalanne seems apropos, yet a little frightening. It could also be somewhat dangerous since the Y is so close to a busy road. I can imagine cars swerving here and there, plowing into trees, while the drivers screamed, “AHHHH, Jack Lalanne is HUGE!” To be honest, even at a normal size, the beefed up 90 year old scares me.
Any way you look at it, it is down right rude and makes no sense to advertise Senior Health Day on the side of an elephant.
But, maybe I’m being too negative. Perhaps the message they wanted to convey is complimentary in nature, something like this: Hey, elephants have great memories amd just like you old folks, they never forget. Sure, you told me the same story 5 times today, but you can still recall what dress you wore when Norman Schwartz took you to the prom in 1939!
Don’t get me wrong, I think the YMCA is on the right track with encouraging the elder community to stay fit, but they need to find a less discourteous and confusing way to promote senior health.
In fact, I love that our Y branch has so many seniors working out. They all seem to be enjoying themselves and look like they know what they are doing; with the exception of that elderly man I noticed who mistook the bicep machine for a free blood pressure screener. In truth, seeing all those seniors inspires me to want to exercise when I am old and grey. That is, if my children haven’t sucked out all of my life force energy by then.
In the meantime, I’m afraid that the colossal elephant may have scared away some of the more mature patrons at the Y. But I guess it could be worse; do you remember that giant Mickey Rooney head they used to advertise the Tabas hotel? It sat on Lancaster Avenue, scaring the passing motorists. What if that was on the YMCA roof?
Now that, my friends would be offensive.
Copy write 2010 CWaldman
My local YMCA often plays host to many special health related events. They are committed to promoting the wellbeing of all of those in the community and accomplish this in a way that is fun for the whole family.
When a holiday is approaching, the Y often will decorate to create a festive mood. At Christmas time, they’ll put an inflatable snowman or Santa on the roof. In the spring, it will be replaced by the Easter Bunny who greets all those who enter the Y. I think they even put an enormous ghost on the roof for Halloween.
Recently, they held an event just for senior citizens, complete with vendors who provided many ways for the elderly to remain healthy. They advertised this occasion in the most obvious of ways- by putting a giant inflatable elephant on their roof with a sign that read ‘Senior Health Day’ emblazoned across it’s side.
When I first saw this 15 foot tall elephant, I stood for a moment and reread the sign, sure that I had mistaken it for something else. Was the Y hosting a circus? Were they raising money to bring the elephants back to the Philadelphia zoo?
No. I read it right the first time. I also noticed as I scrutinized the giant beast, that he had seen better days. This was not a cute cartoon-like character with floppy ears that helped him fly. This behemoth was missing an eye, looked like he could use a bath, and one of his tusk had gone a bit wonky. He looked a bit malevolent as well, squinting down at me with his one eye.
Is this a form of ageism, I wondered? If I were a person of advanced years, I would be a tad insulted, miffed, and down right cranky if someone thought a moldy elephant was a fair representation of my age class.
I looked around, expecting to see a mob of angry seniors picketing out front, waving their canes and signs that would read, GREY IS GREAT! and SAY THAT TO MY CANE, YOU WIPPERSNAPPER!!
What message were they trying to send? - Hey seniors, have you really let yourself go? Have you gained a few pounds since retiring and now look like an elephant? Come work out at the Y!
I certainly hope that they are not implying this: Here’s an elephant! He’s grey just like your hair-come exercise!
Or the most offensive of all implications: If your skin is as wrinkled and baggy as a pachyderm’s, try out our steam room, maybe it will shrink back to normal!
To be honest though, I’m not sure what they could have put up on the roof to represent Senior Health Day. A giant inflatable Jack Lalanne seems apropos, yet a little frightening. It could also be somewhat dangerous since the Y is so close to a busy road. I can imagine cars swerving here and there, plowing into trees, while the drivers screamed, “AHHHH, Jack Lalanne is HUGE!” To be honest, even at a normal size, the beefed up 90 year old scares me.
Any way you look at it, it is down right rude and makes no sense to advertise Senior Health Day on the side of an elephant.
But, maybe I’m being too negative. Perhaps the message they wanted to convey is complimentary in nature, something like this: Hey, elephants have great memories amd just like you old folks, they never forget. Sure, you told me the same story 5 times today, but you can still recall what dress you wore when Norman Schwartz took you to the prom in 1939!
Don’t get me wrong, I think the YMCA is on the right track with encouraging the elder community to stay fit, but they need to find a less discourteous and confusing way to promote senior health.
In fact, I love that our Y branch has so many seniors working out. They all seem to be enjoying themselves and look like they know what they are doing; with the exception of that elderly man I noticed who mistook the bicep machine for a free blood pressure screener. In truth, seeing all those seniors inspires me to want to exercise when I am old and grey. That is, if my children haven’t sucked out all of my life force energy by then.
In the meantime, I’m afraid that the colossal elephant may have scared away some of the more mature patrons at the Y. But I guess it could be worse; do you remember that giant Mickey Rooney head they used to advertise the Tabas hotel? It sat on Lancaster Avenue, scaring the passing motorists. What if that was on the YMCA roof?
Now that, my friends would be offensive.
Copy write 2010 CWaldman
Monday, August 16, 2010
Anthropomorphism
Anthropomorphism: the impulse to give human traits to animals, or in other words, why we think it’s funny to see a chimp in a 3 piece suit, smoking a cigar while roller skating.
As a sophisticated techno-savvy society, we all hate to admit that we are dumb enough to believe that animals think like we do. I guess it’s our limited intelligence or just plain human nature to want to humanize animals. This same impulse is responsible for why some parents want to turn their innocent little girls into miniature Tammy Fay Bakers and parade them around a children’s beauty pageant.
It doesn’t help matters that some animals seem to model a few of our bad behaviors, making it even more tempting to point our finger and say, “Look! We aren’t the only jerks on the planet!” This and our subsequent anthropomorphizing is all an attempt to not look as greedy, selfish, and self-destructive as we really are. “Hey that dog drools in his sleep and he licks his butt…we’re not so bad after all!”
Some animals are better examples of crappy human behavior than others. The first one that comes to mind is the opossum. I have to say that I feel kind of sorry for the opossum because they are so...well, so…damn ugly! I came across one recently, early in the morning, as he was running across the road. It was more like stumbling than running with an odd stiff gait and hair sticking up all over the place, all while dragging his naked tail behind him. He reminded me of someone who had been on a drinking binge, fell asleep in the gutter, only to then jump up and rush home before the Mrs. found out.
The poor opossum has that ghastly white face, looking like the walking dead even when he’s not playing dead. This brings me to the opossum’s pathetic excuse for a defense mechanism – playing dead. I mean, he’s not even putting any effort into, is he? Why doesn’t he run away fast like a rabbit or at least climb a tree or something? I am starting to wonder if maybe the opossum suffers from clinical depression. Wouldn’t you be sad if you were the only marsupial in North America? Add to it that no one knows how to pronounce your name, and of course the fore mentioned drinking problem. And let’s face it; it’s hard to get busy with the Mrs. when she’s always lugging around the little ones in her pouch. It’s enough to make any one want to take a few dozen Prozac.
It could be that the opossum suffers from and inferiority complex because he is constantly being compared to the raccoon. When a raccoon knocks over a garbage can, he gets shooed away and called a rascal. If you’re an opossum, people say, “EWWW!” and throw bricks at your head and make gagging noises when they see your tail.
The raccoon, on the other hand, is the Dennis the Menace of the animal world with its mischievous personality, dexterous black hands that can open anything, and that endearing oh-so-bushy striped tail. Even when we know he’s being bad, we still think he’s just so darn cute. A raccoon also reminds me of a certain kind of man. You know the type; he’s an adorable man\child who is excused of so many of his misdeeds because of his boyish good looks and charm.
But don’t be fooled. You should always be suspicious of any animal that wears a mask. Whether God felt a need to hide the raccoon’s identity or it was from natural selection, either scenario does not speak highly of the raccoon’s character.
Like the raccoon, the chipmunk is one precocious little varmint. He is nature’s child with ADHD, always flitting here and there and then loosing focus and scurrying off into another direction- all at maximum speed. But in all fairness, we should not expect sedate behavior from an animal that has racing stripes.
Speaking of sedate behavior, the bear takes being laid back a little too far; in fact he shows a remarkable resemblance to some of my husband’s bachelor friends. First there’s all that scratching and a general slovenly appearance with burs sticking to his fur, unkempt toenails, and berry stains down his front. A bear is a champion over sleeper, and a bit overweight, maybe not from beer, but honey does contain a lot of calories. There is also all that grumbling and groaning, and grunting that bears do, eerily similar to the noises that come from a human male whenever a football player makes a fumble.
One of my favorite creatures is the mocking bird, but I have to say that it reminds me of someone’s annoying little brother who repeats everything you say.
Everything you say.
Stop copying me!
Stop copying me!
Mooom, Kevin won’t stop copying meee!
Mooom, Kevin won’t stop copying meee!
Well, you get the idea, except that the mocking bird does his replication in beautiful song form-so unlike an irritating little brother.
I have come to the conclusion that the real reason behind our anthropomorphizing is that it’s easier for our brains to assign human traits to our animal friends than to actually learn what their chirps and growls mean. I do think it is juvenile and maybe even disrespectful to the entire animal kingdom to assume that they behave like us or even to think about dressing up any creature in clothing. But, I have to admit (I swear it was my kids and that I had nothing to so with it) that our kitten is the exact size of an American Girl doll and looks stunning in Kit Kiterage’s dress and hat (although she won’t hold the tiny handbag and she always kicks off the shoes!!!)
Copy write 2010 cwaldman
As a sophisticated techno-savvy society, we all hate to admit that we are dumb enough to believe that animals think like we do. I guess it’s our limited intelligence or just plain human nature to want to humanize animals. This same impulse is responsible for why some parents want to turn their innocent little girls into miniature Tammy Fay Bakers and parade them around a children’s beauty pageant.
It doesn’t help matters that some animals seem to model a few of our bad behaviors, making it even more tempting to point our finger and say, “Look! We aren’t the only jerks on the planet!” This and our subsequent anthropomorphizing is all an attempt to not look as greedy, selfish, and self-destructive as we really are. “Hey that dog drools in his sleep and he licks his butt…we’re not so bad after all!”
Some animals are better examples of crappy human behavior than others. The first one that comes to mind is the opossum. I have to say that I feel kind of sorry for the opossum because they are so...well, so…damn ugly! I came across one recently, early in the morning, as he was running across the road. It was more like stumbling than running with an odd stiff gait and hair sticking up all over the place, all while dragging his naked tail behind him. He reminded me of someone who had been on a drinking binge, fell asleep in the gutter, only to then jump up and rush home before the Mrs. found out.
The poor opossum has that ghastly white face, looking like the walking dead even when he’s not playing dead. This brings me to the opossum’s pathetic excuse for a defense mechanism – playing dead. I mean, he’s not even putting any effort into, is he? Why doesn’t he run away fast like a rabbit or at least climb a tree or something? I am starting to wonder if maybe the opossum suffers from clinical depression. Wouldn’t you be sad if you were the only marsupial in North America? Add to it that no one knows how to pronounce your name, and of course the fore mentioned drinking problem. And let’s face it; it’s hard to get busy with the Mrs. when she’s always lugging around the little ones in her pouch. It’s enough to make any one want to take a few dozen Prozac.
It could be that the opossum suffers from and inferiority complex because he is constantly being compared to the raccoon. When a raccoon knocks over a garbage can, he gets shooed away and called a rascal. If you’re an opossum, people say, “EWWW!” and throw bricks at your head and make gagging noises when they see your tail.
The raccoon, on the other hand, is the Dennis the Menace of the animal world with its mischievous personality, dexterous black hands that can open anything, and that endearing oh-so-bushy striped tail. Even when we know he’s being bad, we still think he’s just so darn cute. A raccoon also reminds me of a certain kind of man. You know the type; he’s an adorable man\child who is excused of so many of his misdeeds because of his boyish good looks and charm.
But don’t be fooled. You should always be suspicious of any animal that wears a mask. Whether God felt a need to hide the raccoon’s identity or it was from natural selection, either scenario does not speak highly of the raccoon’s character.
Like the raccoon, the chipmunk is one precocious little varmint. He is nature’s child with ADHD, always flitting here and there and then loosing focus and scurrying off into another direction- all at maximum speed. But in all fairness, we should not expect sedate behavior from an animal that has racing stripes.
Speaking of sedate behavior, the bear takes being laid back a little too far; in fact he shows a remarkable resemblance to some of my husband’s bachelor friends. First there’s all that scratching and a general slovenly appearance with burs sticking to his fur, unkempt toenails, and berry stains down his front. A bear is a champion over sleeper, and a bit overweight, maybe not from beer, but honey does contain a lot of calories. There is also all that grumbling and groaning, and grunting that bears do, eerily similar to the noises that come from a human male whenever a football player makes a fumble.
One of my favorite creatures is the mocking bird, but I have to say that it reminds me of someone’s annoying little brother who repeats everything you say.
Everything you say.
Stop copying me!
Stop copying me!
Mooom, Kevin won’t stop copying meee!
Mooom, Kevin won’t stop copying meee!
Well, you get the idea, except that the mocking bird does his replication in beautiful song form-so unlike an irritating little brother.
I have come to the conclusion that the real reason behind our anthropomorphizing is that it’s easier for our brains to assign human traits to our animal friends than to actually learn what their chirps and growls mean. I do think it is juvenile and maybe even disrespectful to the entire animal kingdom to assume that they behave like us or even to think about dressing up any creature in clothing. But, I have to admit (I swear it was my kids and that I had nothing to so with it) that our kitten is the exact size of an American Girl doll and looks stunning in Kit Kiterage’s dress and hat (although she won’t hold the tiny handbag and she always kicks off the shoes!!!)
Copy write 2010 cwaldman
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Facebook Freak Out
FACEBOOK FREAK OUT
Am I the only one who gets a little creeped out by some of the ads of Facebook? It’s not really the ads themselves that are the problem, it’s the fact that they are tailored so specifically to what we chat about on FB that’s icky.
It seems that one day you can be blathering on about a subject, say, what a boring weekend you had because your husband was watching college basketball for 72 consecutive hours, and the next thing you know, an ad for on-line college courses mysteriously appears on your home page. These ads use a perverse form of profiling, created by using keywords from our private conversations. Okay, so maybe not so private, but only a few dozen of our closest friends should be privy to our ramblings.
I can hear some of my more argumentative acquaintances now saying, “Well, what do you expect? How do you think that they are able to offer FB for free?” and “You shouldn’t put any thing out there that you don’t want heard.” And “Dear God, what are you going on about now?”
Honestly, I don’t mind seeing ads on the internet, because I can ignore them if I want to. I am aware that their existence is a small price to pay to get something for free, especially if that free item appeals to my nosy nature like FB does.
The thing that I don’t like is the Peeping Tom aspect of how they gather our private information for their advertisements. I feel so targeted and scrutinized, stared at and…naked!! My ravings are meant only for my friends to bear with, not for some creepy ad executive to get their greasy hands all over.
I try not to get too suspicious about the way in which my personal factoids are harvested. I suppose that keywords are picked up electronically and then fed off of, akin to how vultures devour the innards of some rank road kill. But sometimes I wonder if it’s really some geeky dude with pimples who wears pants that are too short and a shirt buttoned all the way up to his chin. I can picture him now, in his parent’s basement, drooling over my private postings, just waiting to find a nugget of useful gossip. His eyes light up when he sees I have written about having coffee with my friends. He rubs his tiny hands together and sends that juicy morsel of info to the Facebook Fuhrer.
ALERT! ALERT! Christine Waldman drinks coffee!! Instantly, the right hand column of my home page is filled with an ad for General Foods International Coffees.
Alright, so I maybe I am being a smidge paranoid, but I’m still worried. Right now, it may just be certain words that prompt what advertisements you will be subjected to, but that could change. How long will it be until some little dweeb and his dweeby pals will be making their own judgments about us, and basing their ads on them?
I can see it all now. “Hey Norman, get a load of this chicks profile picture! Man, what a cow! Let’s put a Jenny Craig ad on her page.” Or “Dude, is that girl talking about exercising again?!! It looks like she’d fall for a Bowflex ad.” Or “Frank, that guy has used Star Trek references 10 times this week. Let’s load up a Match.com ad, because he seriously needs a date.”
I’m suspicious that this could be happening already. I have had ads for Weight Watchers (clearly I didn’t suck my gut in enough on my profile picture), botox injections (I guess that photo didn’t hide my wrinkles after all), vacation packages (I must look so harried, that they think I need to get away), and ads asking if I use makeup (because I really need to?!), as well as hair removal spots, (do I resemble the pre-makeover Susan Boyle?).
I swear, that if I see an ad for a retirement community or Depends, I’m just going to curl up in a ball and never come out of my house again. My only link to the outside world will be FB….Hey wait a minute! It could all be a devious plan to do nothing but stay at home and cruise FB, and blindly purchase every item and service I see. Yes, I think that I do need to get a large number of botox injections, so many in fact, that I will no longer able to blink. And even though every minute of my day is used up raising 3 kids, I feel a sudden need to cram in a few college courses. Also, I now have a desire to be waxed until I look like a naked mole rat.
Because I have concerns over the nature of these advertisements, I thought that I might conduct a little experiment to see if I’m being unreasonable. I decided to post comments about my problems with Erectile Dysfunction. I want to see how many times I need to write the phrase, “My penis is faulty” before an ad for Viagra pops up (so to speak).
Now as most of you know, being a woman, I do not possess that particular piece of equipment (although I do have a piece of equipment for sale on Craigslist; a 20” Hedge trimmer, if you are interested). I am not a man with wee wee problems, and have no use for a wee wee enhancer. I am hoping that this will show how closely the FB people pay attention to who is saying what. Is it truly just keywords that prompt the ads? Or are there a gaggle of geeks who are outsourced by the FB Fuhrer to spy on us and criticize our chubby thighs? Or perhaps I have nothing better to do than make up crazy theories about things.
I guess if you read any of my other blogs that last option is the most likely scenario, but just in case I’m wrong, I must inform you that my penis is faulty.
Copy write 2010 c.waldman
Am I the only one who gets a little creeped out by some of the ads of Facebook? It’s not really the ads themselves that are the problem, it’s the fact that they are tailored so specifically to what we chat about on FB that’s icky.
It seems that one day you can be blathering on about a subject, say, what a boring weekend you had because your husband was watching college basketball for 72 consecutive hours, and the next thing you know, an ad for on-line college courses mysteriously appears on your home page. These ads use a perverse form of profiling, created by using keywords from our private conversations. Okay, so maybe not so private, but only a few dozen of our closest friends should be privy to our ramblings.
I can hear some of my more argumentative acquaintances now saying, “Well, what do you expect? How do you think that they are able to offer FB for free?” and “You shouldn’t put any thing out there that you don’t want heard.” And “Dear God, what are you going on about now?”
Honestly, I don’t mind seeing ads on the internet, because I can ignore them if I want to. I am aware that their existence is a small price to pay to get something for free, especially if that free item appeals to my nosy nature like FB does.
The thing that I don’t like is the Peeping Tom aspect of how they gather our private information for their advertisements. I feel so targeted and scrutinized, stared at and…naked!! My ravings are meant only for my friends to bear with, not for some creepy ad executive to get their greasy hands all over.
I try not to get too suspicious about the way in which my personal factoids are harvested. I suppose that keywords are picked up electronically and then fed off of, akin to how vultures devour the innards of some rank road kill. But sometimes I wonder if it’s really some geeky dude with pimples who wears pants that are too short and a shirt buttoned all the way up to his chin. I can picture him now, in his parent’s basement, drooling over my private postings, just waiting to find a nugget of useful gossip. His eyes light up when he sees I have written about having coffee with my friends. He rubs his tiny hands together and sends that juicy morsel of info to the Facebook Fuhrer.
ALERT! ALERT! Christine Waldman drinks coffee!! Instantly, the right hand column of my home page is filled with an ad for General Foods International Coffees.
Alright, so I maybe I am being a smidge paranoid, but I’m still worried. Right now, it may just be certain words that prompt what advertisements you will be subjected to, but that could change. How long will it be until some little dweeb and his dweeby pals will be making their own judgments about us, and basing their ads on them?
I can see it all now. “Hey Norman, get a load of this chicks profile picture! Man, what a cow! Let’s put a Jenny Craig ad on her page.” Or “Dude, is that girl talking about exercising again?!! It looks like she’d fall for a Bowflex ad.” Or “Frank, that guy has used Star Trek references 10 times this week. Let’s load up a Match.com ad, because he seriously needs a date.”
I’m suspicious that this could be happening already. I have had ads for Weight Watchers (clearly I didn’t suck my gut in enough on my profile picture), botox injections (I guess that photo didn’t hide my wrinkles after all), vacation packages (I must look so harried, that they think I need to get away), and ads asking if I use makeup (because I really need to?!), as well as hair removal spots, (do I resemble the pre-makeover Susan Boyle?).
I swear, that if I see an ad for a retirement community or Depends, I’m just going to curl up in a ball and never come out of my house again. My only link to the outside world will be FB….Hey wait a minute! It could all be a devious plan to do nothing but stay at home and cruise FB, and blindly purchase every item and service I see. Yes, I think that I do need to get a large number of botox injections, so many in fact, that I will no longer able to blink. And even though every minute of my day is used up raising 3 kids, I feel a sudden need to cram in a few college courses. Also, I now have a desire to be waxed until I look like a naked mole rat.
Because I have concerns over the nature of these advertisements, I thought that I might conduct a little experiment to see if I’m being unreasonable. I decided to post comments about my problems with Erectile Dysfunction. I want to see how many times I need to write the phrase, “My penis is faulty” before an ad for Viagra pops up (so to speak).
Now as most of you know, being a woman, I do not possess that particular piece of equipment (although I do have a piece of equipment for sale on Craigslist; a 20” Hedge trimmer, if you are interested). I am not a man with wee wee problems, and have no use for a wee wee enhancer. I am hoping that this will show how closely the FB people pay attention to who is saying what. Is it truly just keywords that prompt the ads? Or are there a gaggle of geeks who are outsourced by the FB Fuhrer to spy on us and criticize our chubby thighs? Or perhaps I have nothing better to do than make up crazy theories about things.
I guess if you read any of my other blogs that last option is the most likely scenario, but just in case I’m wrong, I must inform you that my penis is faulty.
Copy write 2010 c.waldman
Thursday, June 3, 2010
FAMILY MYTHS AND OTHER LIES
FAMILY MYTHS AND OTHER LIES
Every family has a number of stories, or mythologies of past events. These are the idiosyncrasies of our childhood or even recent events that our parents or siblings will greatly exaggerate and never let us forget. These stories are joyously dragged out as a verbal photo album and told over and over again. Of course, the optimal time for the most embarrassment is when a new boyfriend or girlfriend is being introduced to your family.
As humiliating as some of these stories can be, they are the building blocks of our childhood and a parent’s right to tell repeatedly. Even though we may tire of hearing these myths, we must stoically listen to them as penance for our childish misdeeds.
Some of these myths are more of an unfair branding because of a fleeting transgression or a one-time mistake. Sometimes even from the recent past, such as missing a family event or holiday. When the date comes around again, we are asked by a family member, “Will you be coming this year?” Of course the previous ten years that you suffered through...um, I mean happily attended the events are insignificant.
But current offenses aside, most of our mythology comes from our younger days and I’d like to share some of the funniest and most embarrassing from my family’s past.
All parents have a list of their children’s cute sayings, mispronunciations, or just plain confusion over the meaning of a word. For example, when we were little, my mom and dad would tell us to keep the basement door closed to prevent a draft. Forget about the fact that we could have fallen down the steps and that should have been the main reason for the door to stay closed. (Safety was not a major concern in the 60’s and it’s amazing that any of us survived intact with no bike helmets or car seats, and the fact that we all ate baby aspirin like Chiclets back then, which apparently was worse than feeding children strychnine.) Never-the-less, my oldest brother misunderstood and became terrified that a giraffe, not a draft, lived in the basement and we had to keep the door closed to keep it down there thus preventing it from eating our eyeballs. My parents think this is a charming story and have told it many times, while my brother still has a twitch whenever he sees anything with spots and has not stepped foot in a basement in 47 years.
My sister’s story or myth is a misunderstanding on a grander level, you may say. She came home from Catholic school one day and recited the story of the Immaculate Conception that she had learned from the nuns. According to her, an angel came to Mary and said, “You are going to be the mother of God.” And Mary said, “I wonder who the father is?” I can understand her befuddlement, to this day I’m still a little confused by it all.
My other brother was, according to my parents, an artistic soul, and therefore much harder to parent, because they “didn’t want to break his spirit”. This is parent speak for, “GOD this child is exhausting! Is it time for a glass of wine yet?” Like many little boys, my brother wanted our mother all to himself and did not like it when my dad would hug her. Being Italian, my dad was (and still is) very fond of hugging my mother and while he was doing just that, my brother stabbed him in the ass with a fork. He was reprimanded for his naughtiness and made to promise never, ever to stab dad in the butt with a fork again. His reply was, “How about a spoon?” Being an artistic soul, he probably drew a picture of stabbing dad in the rear, which they put up on the fridge and I’m sure still have in their archives somewhere.
Now, before you think me a bratty little sister, my myths are much, much worse and mortifying than those of my brothers and sister. Also the majority of the legends told in my family are about me, since being the youngest I was the most put upon and made fun of, but the most adorable. That’s how we youngest children survive, by being cute. Let’s face it, after 4 kids in 5 1\2 years, my parents were so damn tired, I’m lucky they remembered to feed me. (If you see any pictures of me as a chubby kid, you may recognize that this could be a slight exaggeration). Being the youngest, I had to find some way to get attention, but most of the stories told by my family are blown way out of proportion or complete fabrications.
The first myth I will tell you about has been embellished by my older and much less cute siblings. We were having dinner and someone asked me to pass the salt and I used it first before I passed it on, which apparently is right up there with mass murder. I know I did this only one time, but TO THIS DAY when dining with my parents and siblings, they ask me to pass the salt and just watch me to see what I’ll do. I mean how juvenile is that? I think that next time we eat together; you can bet that I’ll use that salt first, and then pass it right at their heads!
Well, they started it!
Now I will reveal my most embarrassing story. I have to tell you before hand that I was 2 years old when it happened, so please keep that in mind.
Apparently, when I was 2, my 4 year old brother and I were in our pjs and I was chasing him around and around the house and grabbing at his…well, his boy parts. I had recently noticed, being 2 years old and all that his parts were very different than mine and was kind of curious. It was either that or I thought he stole my silly putty, I can’t remember which.
My parents claim that this went on for a while until we disappeared into another room. I emerged a moment later screaming, with my brother now chasing me… with a toy dinosaur sticking out of the fly of his pjs.
I must state for the record that since that day, I have not been in the habit of grabbing at men’s ‘boy parts’, unless of course, they are married to me or have stolen my silly putty. However, I do still scream and run out of the room when ever I spot a plastic dinosaur.
Now that we have family of our own, my husband and I have already started collecting the funny stories about our 3 kids. We are now in the process of exaggerating and telling these myths over and over again.
I’ll start with a my oldest daughter’s version of a popular nursery rhyme, recited to us when she was 2 (Thank God it does not involve boy parts)
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water
Jack fell down and broke his crown
And it was very expensive
When my youngest daughter was 4, she couldn’t pronounce the letter blend sp. Instead she would say the letter f, so sparkly became farkly.
“I’m not eating the finach because I’m wearing my fecial farkly shirt and it will get ruined if I fill finach on it!
She is 7 now and has long out grown her cute speech impediment. To her great annoyance though, we still take great joy in reminding her of it every few minutes.
Our son’s stories are too great to count and could fill volumes, but my favorite mispronunciation (which he still says) is piss a deer instead of disappear. I don’t even know where to start with that one, so why not make up your own joke and chuckle quietly to yourself.
It is a part of each family’s tradition to never let their children or siblings forget that they were once kids who said and did cute and embarrassing things. As opposed to our adult behavior which is just plain obnoxious and embarrassing.
So remember kiddies, we’re watching you, and every time you mess up or annoy your parents or siblings, someday we’ll be telling your new girlfriend how you stuck your head in the toilet when you were four.
Copy write 2010 C Waldman
Every family has a number of stories, or mythologies of past events. These are the idiosyncrasies of our childhood or even recent events that our parents or siblings will greatly exaggerate and never let us forget. These stories are joyously dragged out as a verbal photo album and told over and over again. Of course, the optimal time for the most embarrassment is when a new boyfriend or girlfriend is being introduced to your family.
As humiliating as some of these stories can be, they are the building blocks of our childhood and a parent’s right to tell repeatedly. Even though we may tire of hearing these myths, we must stoically listen to them as penance for our childish misdeeds.
Some of these myths are more of an unfair branding because of a fleeting transgression or a one-time mistake. Sometimes even from the recent past, such as missing a family event or holiday. When the date comes around again, we are asked by a family member, “Will you be coming this year?” Of course the previous ten years that you suffered through...um, I mean happily attended the events are insignificant.
But current offenses aside, most of our mythology comes from our younger days and I’d like to share some of the funniest and most embarrassing from my family’s past.
All parents have a list of their children’s cute sayings, mispronunciations, or just plain confusion over the meaning of a word. For example, when we were little, my mom and dad would tell us to keep the basement door closed to prevent a draft. Forget about the fact that we could have fallen down the steps and that should have been the main reason for the door to stay closed. (Safety was not a major concern in the 60’s and it’s amazing that any of us survived intact with no bike helmets or car seats, and the fact that we all ate baby aspirin like Chiclets back then, which apparently was worse than feeding children strychnine.) Never-the-less, my oldest brother misunderstood and became terrified that a giraffe, not a draft, lived in the basement and we had to keep the door closed to keep it down there thus preventing it from eating our eyeballs. My parents think this is a charming story and have told it many times, while my brother still has a twitch whenever he sees anything with spots and has not stepped foot in a basement in 47 years.
My sister’s story or myth is a misunderstanding on a grander level, you may say. She came home from Catholic school one day and recited the story of the Immaculate Conception that she had learned from the nuns. According to her, an angel came to Mary and said, “You are going to be the mother of God.” And Mary said, “I wonder who the father is?” I can understand her befuddlement, to this day I’m still a little confused by it all.
My other brother was, according to my parents, an artistic soul, and therefore much harder to parent, because they “didn’t want to break his spirit”. This is parent speak for, “GOD this child is exhausting! Is it time for a glass of wine yet?” Like many little boys, my brother wanted our mother all to himself and did not like it when my dad would hug her. Being Italian, my dad was (and still is) very fond of hugging my mother and while he was doing just that, my brother stabbed him in the ass with a fork. He was reprimanded for his naughtiness and made to promise never, ever to stab dad in the butt with a fork again. His reply was, “How about a spoon?” Being an artistic soul, he probably drew a picture of stabbing dad in the rear, which they put up on the fridge and I’m sure still have in their archives somewhere.
Now, before you think me a bratty little sister, my myths are much, much worse and mortifying than those of my brothers and sister. Also the majority of the legends told in my family are about me, since being the youngest I was the most put upon and made fun of, but the most adorable. That’s how we youngest children survive, by being cute. Let’s face it, after 4 kids in 5 1\2 years, my parents were so damn tired, I’m lucky they remembered to feed me. (If you see any pictures of me as a chubby kid, you may recognize that this could be a slight exaggeration). Being the youngest, I had to find some way to get attention, but most of the stories told by my family are blown way out of proportion or complete fabrications.
The first myth I will tell you about has been embellished by my older and much less cute siblings. We were having dinner and someone asked me to pass the salt and I used it first before I passed it on, which apparently is right up there with mass murder. I know I did this only one time, but TO THIS DAY when dining with my parents and siblings, they ask me to pass the salt and just watch me to see what I’ll do. I mean how juvenile is that? I think that next time we eat together; you can bet that I’ll use that salt first, and then pass it right at their heads!
Well, they started it!
Now I will reveal my most embarrassing story. I have to tell you before hand that I was 2 years old when it happened, so please keep that in mind.
Apparently, when I was 2, my 4 year old brother and I were in our pjs and I was chasing him around and around the house and grabbing at his…well, his boy parts. I had recently noticed, being 2 years old and all that his parts were very different than mine and was kind of curious. It was either that or I thought he stole my silly putty, I can’t remember which.
My parents claim that this went on for a while until we disappeared into another room. I emerged a moment later screaming, with my brother now chasing me… with a toy dinosaur sticking out of the fly of his pjs.
I must state for the record that since that day, I have not been in the habit of grabbing at men’s ‘boy parts’, unless of course, they are married to me or have stolen my silly putty. However, I do still scream and run out of the room when ever I spot a plastic dinosaur.
Now that we have family of our own, my husband and I have already started collecting the funny stories about our 3 kids. We are now in the process of exaggerating and telling these myths over and over again.
I’ll start with a my oldest daughter’s version of a popular nursery rhyme, recited to us when she was 2 (Thank God it does not involve boy parts)
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water
Jack fell down and broke his crown
And it was very expensive
When my youngest daughter was 4, she couldn’t pronounce the letter blend sp. Instead she would say the letter f, so sparkly became farkly.
“I’m not eating the finach because I’m wearing my fecial farkly shirt and it will get ruined if I fill finach on it!
She is 7 now and has long out grown her cute speech impediment. To her great annoyance though, we still take great joy in reminding her of it every few minutes.
Our son’s stories are too great to count and could fill volumes, but my favorite mispronunciation (which he still says) is piss a deer instead of disappear. I don’t even know where to start with that one, so why not make up your own joke and chuckle quietly to yourself.
It is a part of each family’s tradition to never let their children or siblings forget that they were once kids who said and did cute and embarrassing things. As opposed to our adult behavior which is just plain obnoxious and embarrassing.
So remember kiddies, we’re watching you, and every time you mess up or annoy your parents or siblings, someday we’ll be telling your new girlfriend how you stuck your head in the toilet when you were four.
Copy write 2010 C Waldman
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Chris Cross
Chris Cross
Some of you may not know this about me, but I am well versed in the Crossing Guard arts. In fact, I have my own Crossing Guard name - Chris Cross.
“There’s an art to being a Crossing Guard?” you may be asking yourself. Oh yes my friends, there is.
First of all, not every one can make a fashion statement wearing a neon-green vest. Apparently, I know how to work it, because I have a few admirers. The first of my fans made himself known to me during my first week on the job. I was standing on the corner working (so to speak), when a scruffy looking guy in a rusty car slowed down. With a voice that sounded like he had gargled with rocks that morning, he said, “It’s about time they got a good lookin’ crossing guard in this town!”
“Um...thanks, but not a very nice thing to say about my fellow workers.” I replied. Clearly this man needed to get his eyes checked if he thinks I am the cream of the crop
This same gentleman has driven past other times, usually slowing down to give me the thumbs up, which is something that never fails to impress us ladies. I had to stop him once so I could cross some kids, and when I was done, he yelled out enthusiastically, “Good Job!” like I had just performed brain surgery or completed a really good dismount from a balance beam.
I have also noticed a few appreciative looks from borough workers driving by in their work trucks, who, like me, were sporting neon-green work clothes. There is the possibility that my ego is getting the better of me, though. They could just be snickering at the fool on the corner who is also forced to wear a fluorescent uniform.
Of course, like all of the other admirers in my life, none of these men were driving a Lexus and not one would ever be mistaken for George Clooney
You probably are wondering about now how one enters into the field of Crossing Guard technologies. It’s not easy, you know. There is a rigorous training program which consisted of the supervisor showing you the ropes.
“Oh, so you stand in the middle of the street and hold up the sign? Huh.”
“Yes,” says the CG Supervisor, “Make sure you hold the sign up so the cars can see it, oh…and so they don’t run you over.”
GULP
“And then you wait for the kids to cross before you put you sign down,” she ads. “Ohhhh,” I mean, what else is there to say, it’s pretty obvious that’s the whole purpose of the job.
I don’t mean to negate the importance of getting children safely across the street, but it really isn’t that complicated. You do need to keep a sharp eye out for the darters, though. I stopped a toddler once who was about to run out into the traffic. I saw him running towards the street and instinctively stuck my stop sign out which he promptly bounced off of. I probably saved him from being flattened, and it made a really cool sound when he hit my stop sign, too.
My favorite part of my job, besides the ultra-hip vest, is getting paid to yell at kids. As a mother of three, I have a lot of experience in this field and am quite proficient at it. When kids aren’t crossing the street properly, I get to yell at them to stay in the cross walk. They always listen to me, not only because of the awesome vest, but because I have the Mommy voice.
One day a kid started running out into the street at an angle and ten feet from the cross walk. A police car just happened to be the vehicle that he ran in front of. I made the child come back to where he started and walk in the cross walk. The Officer rolled down his window and said, “Nicely done.” It’s great to be acknowledged for a job well done by a fellow officer. Well… I technically do work for the police department, so that makes me an honorary policewoman, right? Well, maybe not, but I think I should at least get a badge…or a gun. Yeah, a gun would be awesome because I could shoot out the tires of all those idiots that go over 15 mph in the school zone.
Another wonderful thing about being a CG is that everyone waves at me. People I have never seen before in my life wave and I still have no idea why. Maybe I look lonely standing there by myself on the corner, I don’t know, but I kind of like it because it makes me feel very popular, and all that waving makes me feel like a beauty queen.
There is also some unwritten rule that CGs and school bus drivers must wave at each other. I think that it is a sort of solidarity between two professions who deal with crazed children. Or perhaps a secret signal meaning, these kids are driving me nuts, so meet me at the bar after work!
One other perk to my job is that I get a lot of Holiday and end-of-the-year gifts, even from kids I have never helped cross. I have received many pretty packages filled with chocolate and coffee, as well as some gift certificates for Dunkin Donuts. Obviously, those parents see the merit in me being very alert while crossing their darlings across the busy streets.
There are a few drawbacks to being a CG, though. The worst is having to stand out in the rain and the cold. After a while, you do get used to frostbite. What you don’t get used to is the fact that people feel a need to tell you that you are standing out in the rain, as if the water filling your boots isn’t enough of a reminder.
All in all, I do like being a crossing guard. I enjoy the cute kids and helping to make sure that they get home safe, and I love that I get to wear neon on a daily basis. And I dream that some day they might give me a badge and a gun.
Well, they probably won’t give me a gun, but the badge would be nice.
Some of you may not know this about me, but I am well versed in the Crossing Guard arts. In fact, I have my own Crossing Guard name - Chris Cross.
“There’s an art to being a Crossing Guard?” you may be asking yourself. Oh yes my friends, there is.
First of all, not every one can make a fashion statement wearing a neon-green vest. Apparently, I know how to work it, because I have a few admirers. The first of my fans made himself known to me during my first week on the job. I was standing on the corner working (so to speak), when a scruffy looking guy in a rusty car slowed down. With a voice that sounded like he had gargled with rocks that morning, he said, “It’s about time they got a good lookin’ crossing guard in this town!”
“Um...thanks, but not a very nice thing to say about my fellow workers.” I replied. Clearly this man needed to get his eyes checked if he thinks I am the cream of the crop
This same gentleman has driven past other times, usually slowing down to give me the thumbs up, which is something that never fails to impress us ladies. I had to stop him once so I could cross some kids, and when I was done, he yelled out enthusiastically, “Good Job!” like I had just performed brain surgery or completed a really good dismount from a balance beam.
I have also noticed a few appreciative looks from borough workers driving by in their work trucks, who, like me, were sporting neon-green work clothes. There is the possibility that my ego is getting the better of me, though. They could just be snickering at the fool on the corner who is also forced to wear a fluorescent uniform.
Of course, like all of the other admirers in my life, none of these men were driving a Lexus and not one would ever be mistaken for George Clooney
You probably are wondering about now how one enters into the field of Crossing Guard technologies. It’s not easy, you know. There is a rigorous training program which consisted of the supervisor showing you the ropes.
“Oh, so you stand in the middle of the street and hold up the sign? Huh.”
“Yes,” says the CG Supervisor, “Make sure you hold the sign up so the cars can see it, oh…and so they don’t run you over.”
GULP
“And then you wait for the kids to cross before you put you sign down,” she ads. “Ohhhh,” I mean, what else is there to say, it’s pretty obvious that’s the whole purpose of the job.
I don’t mean to negate the importance of getting children safely across the street, but it really isn’t that complicated. You do need to keep a sharp eye out for the darters, though. I stopped a toddler once who was about to run out into the traffic. I saw him running towards the street and instinctively stuck my stop sign out which he promptly bounced off of. I probably saved him from being flattened, and it made a really cool sound when he hit my stop sign, too.
My favorite part of my job, besides the ultra-hip vest, is getting paid to yell at kids. As a mother of three, I have a lot of experience in this field and am quite proficient at it. When kids aren’t crossing the street properly, I get to yell at them to stay in the cross walk. They always listen to me, not only because of the awesome vest, but because I have the Mommy voice.
One day a kid started running out into the street at an angle and ten feet from the cross walk. A police car just happened to be the vehicle that he ran in front of. I made the child come back to where he started and walk in the cross walk. The Officer rolled down his window and said, “Nicely done.” It’s great to be acknowledged for a job well done by a fellow officer. Well… I technically do work for the police department, so that makes me an honorary policewoman, right? Well, maybe not, but I think I should at least get a badge…or a gun. Yeah, a gun would be awesome because I could shoot out the tires of all those idiots that go over 15 mph in the school zone.
Another wonderful thing about being a CG is that everyone waves at me. People I have never seen before in my life wave and I still have no idea why. Maybe I look lonely standing there by myself on the corner, I don’t know, but I kind of like it because it makes me feel very popular, and all that waving makes me feel like a beauty queen.
There is also some unwritten rule that CGs and school bus drivers must wave at each other. I think that it is a sort of solidarity between two professions who deal with crazed children. Or perhaps a secret signal meaning, these kids are driving me nuts, so meet me at the bar after work!
One other perk to my job is that I get a lot of Holiday and end-of-the-year gifts, even from kids I have never helped cross. I have received many pretty packages filled with chocolate and coffee, as well as some gift certificates for Dunkin Donuts. Obviously, those parents see the merit in me being very alert while crossing their darlings across the busy streets.
There are a few drawbacks to being a CG, though. The worst is having to stand out in the rain and the cold. After a while, you do get used to frostbite. What you don’t get used to is the fact that people feel a need to tell you that you are standing out in the rain, as if the water filling your boots isn’t enough of a reminder.
All in all, I do like being a crossing guard. I enjoy the cute kids and helping to make sure that they get home safe, and I love that I get to wear neon on a daily basis. And I dream that some day they might give me a badge and a gun.
Well, they probably won’t give me a gun, but the badge would be nice.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
SUPER MOM
Super Mom
It’s been 10 years since I’ve become a mommy and I have noticed a distinct decrease in my mental clarity. I do draw some comfort in knowing that I am not the only mom afflicted with this problem. My memory is shot, I can’t concentrate, and I have trouble helping my daughter with her 4th grade math. Well, to be fair, even back when I was in 4th grade, math and I were not on speaking terms.
When the Obstetrician delivered my first baby, I swear she reached in and plucked out part of my brain. Being a mother herself, she knew that I wouldn’t be using it.
Maybe it is really a blessing in disguise, otherwise I might be cognizant of how mundane my life has become. With out all that pesky brain power, I can now happily go about my day, changing diapers, picking up toys, and heating up chicken nuggets.
But do not fret mommies, all is not lost. We have been compensated for the lack of brain cells by being granted superpowers.
The most powerful of all our gifts is a super multi-tasking ability. Who else on this planet is able to juggle helping the kids with homework while making dinner, answering the phone, and changing diapers? I remember one evening in particular when I was helping my 9 year old with fractions(AHHHH!!), making dinner, feeding the dog, all while answering a potential client’s questions about the health benefits of massage therapy. From upstairs, my 4 year old yelled, “Mommy, I POOOOPED! Can you come wipe my bum?”
Needless to say, that person did not book a massage appointment.
Moms are also given super sonic hearing. We can hear a toddler opening the cookie jar from 4 rooms away. We can tell the difference between the cry of a child who is looking for attention and an outraged yell from another child because his sister threw his Power Ranger into the toilet. Like the Bionic Woman, I have that cool’ boopity boopity’ sound effect when using my extra sensory hearing (think Jamie Summers tucking her hair behind her ear, as she listens intently for the sound of Steve Austin unzipping his pants).
Fortunately, we have the ability to turn off our hearing powers at will and can tune out chaotic noise. For example, the dog can be barking and the TV is blaring, one child is singing loudly, while the other two are screaming at each other. I can ignore all this racket and continue to read my book. However, when I look over at my husband, he has his hands clamped over his ears and his eyes are rolled back into his head.
Sorry Dads, the only super power, and I use that term loosely, that a father possesses, is learning how to change a diaper. Of course, it takes a dad about 10 minutes to a mom’s 10 seconds, and he usually wanders off in search of the diaper cream he has forgotten. In that time, your baby boy has peed all over your curtains, which is not his fault because that’s what happens to boys when cold air hits their wee wees. It’s okay, because by the time they are adults, 8 out of 10 men outgrow that particular problem.
The most impressive of all our super powers though, is our built-in tracking device. We can locate any lost object in our homes.
“Mom, have you seen my sneakers?”
“Look in the shoe hamper.”
“Mommy, where is my Power Ranger?”
“It’s still in the toilet where your sister put it.”
“Honey, where did you put my keys?”
“On the dining room table where you left them.” And will be hurled at your head if you lose them again!
Often we are asked to locate these lost objects 2 seconds before we are walking out the door, which can make my eyeballs roll back in my head. One thing I do know is that the moment their belongings are dropped on the floor, they become invisible to my family. I, with my ex-ray vision, apparently am the only one capable of seeing these ‘lost’ items, therefore the only one to be able to clean them up.
Whenever we made a mess growing up, my mother said we had dropsy. In reality, dropsy is a dreadful disease which causes your arms and legs to swell up to elephantine proportions. I guess when your limbs are swollen like sausages, it’s impossible to pick up your toys.
The most unsavory of all our special abilities is the ultra cleaning power of mom saliva. You know the old spit on a tissue and clean off the kids face bit? I swore that I wouldn’t do that to my kids, but if I have to choose between a dirty face and the disapproving looks from Grandma, saliva wins. And besides, Mom spit is proven to have better cleaning capabilities than the most stringent household cleaner. Also, it’s only gross to our kids, which hopefully proves to be an incentive for them to stay clean.
As moms, our greatest super power of all is to somehow still love our family when they make our living room look as if a tornado has hit. Or the super human strength it takes to refrain from throttling your child when they yell out a curse word the moment a client calls. The fact that we are not quite as sharp as we used to be, is a small price to pay for the joy of having children in our life. The special powers are cool, too.
Jamie Summers has nothing on us moms!
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
It’s been 10 years since I’ve become a mommy and I have noticed a distinct decrease in my mental clarity. I do draw some comfort in knowing that I am not the only mom afflicted with this problem. My memory is shot, I can’t concentrate, and I have trouble helping my daughter with her 4th grade math. Well, to be fair, even back when I was in 4th grade, math and I were not on speaking terms.
When the Obstetrician delivered my first baby, I swear she reached in and plucked out part of my brain. Being a mother herself, she knew that I wouldn’t be using it.
Maybe it is really a blessing in disguise, otherwise I might be cognizant of how mundane my life has become. With out all that pesky brain power, I can now happily go about my day, changing diapers, picking up toys, and heating up chicken nuggets.
But do not fret mommies, all is not lost. We have been compensated for the lack of brain cells by being granted superpowers.
The most powerful of all our gifts is a super multi-tasking ability. Who else on this planet is able to juggle helping the kids with homework while making dinner, answering the phone, and changing diapers? I remember one evening in particular when I was helping my 9 year old with fractions(AHHHH!!), making dinner, feeding the dog, all while answering a potential client’s questions about the health benefits of massage therapy. From upstairs, my 4 year old yelled, “Mommy, I POOOOPED! Can you come wipe my bum?”
Needless to say, that person did not book a massage appointment.
Moms are also given super sonic hearing. We can hear a toddler opening the cookie jar from 4 rooms away. We can tell the difference between the cry of a child who is looking for attention and an outraged yell from another child because his sister threw his Power Ranger into the toilet. Like the Bionic Woman, I have that cool’ boopity boopity’ sound effect when using my extra sensory hearing (think Jamie Summers tucking her hair behind her ear, as she listens intently for the sound of Steve Austin unzipping his pants).
Fortunately, we have the ability to turn off our hearing powers at will and can tune out chaotic noise. For example, the dog can be barking and the TV is blaring, one child is singing loudly, while the other two are screaming at each other. I can ignore all this racket and continue to read my book. However, when I look over at my husband, he has his hands clamped over his ears and his eyes are rolled back into his head.
Sorry Dads, the only super power, and I use that term loosely, that a father possesses, is learning how to change a diaper. Of course, it takes a dad about 10 minutes to a mom’s 10 seconds, and he usually wanders off in search of the diaper cream he has forgotten. In that time, your baby boy has peed all over your curtains, which is not his fault because that’s what happens to boys when cold air hits their wee wees. It’s okay, because by the time they are adults, 8 out of 10 men outgrow that particular problem.
The most impressive of all our super powers though, is our built-in tracking device. We can locate any lost object in our homes.
“Mom, have you seen my sneakers?”
“Look in the shoe hamper.”
“Mommy, where is my Power Ranger?”
“It’s still in the toilet where your sister put it.”
“Honey, where did you put my keys?”
“On the dining room table where you left them.” And will be hurled at your head if you lose them again!
Often we are asked to locate these lost objects 2 seconds before we are walking out the door, which can make my eyeballs roll back in my head. One thing I do know is that the moment their belongings are dropped on the floor, they become invisible to my family. I, with my ex-ray vision, apparently am the only one capable of seeing these ‘lost’ items, therefore the only one to be able to clean them up.
Whenever we made a mess growing up, my mother said we had dropsy. In reality, dropsy is a dreadful disease which causes your arms and legs to swell up to elephantine proportions. I guess when your limbs are swollen like sausages, it’s impossible to pick up your toys.
The most unsavory of all our special abilities is the ultra cleaning power of mom saliva. You know the old spit on a tissue and clean off the kids face bit? I swore that I wouldn’t do that to my kids, but if I have to choose between a dirty face and the disapproving looks from Grandma, saliva wins. And besides, Mom spit is proven to have better cleaning capabilities than the most stringent household cleaner. Also, it’s only gross to our kids, which hopefully proves to be an incentive for them to stay clean.
As moms, our greatest super power of all is to somehow still love our family when they make our living room look as if a tornado has hit. Or the super human strength it takes to refrain from throttling your child when they yell out a curse word the moment a client calls. The fact that we are not quite as sharp as we used to be, is a small price to pay for the joy of having children in our life. The special powers are cool, too.
Jamie Summers has nothing on us moms!
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Friday, April 2, 2010
THAT PART!!!
THAT PART!!!!
Why do we scold children when they say or do something inappropriate? Young kids don’t know yet that shaking their butts could be seen as something improper because they are too innocent to understand the dynamics of adult naughtiness. The reason that they repeat the unsuitable behavior is because someone laughed the first time they did it.
To avoid some of this silliness, professionals state that it’s important to teach children the proper names for their…pee pees. As a mother of 3, I completely disagree. I’ll give you an example of why using the clinical terms for private parts may not be in your best interest.
When my daughter was around 2 years old, she followed me into the bathroom (once you have kids, you will never pee alone again). She pointed to my nether regions in horror and yelled, “THAT PART!!” I didn’t correct her with the clinical term and a few days later I was very happy about that decision. We were in the public library’s bathroom, and she took one look at my hoochie and screamed at the top of her lungs,”THAT PART, THAT PART!!!” Yes it was embarrassing and I could hear the librarian’s shhhs through the bathroom door, but could you imagine if she had yelled “VAGINA!!” at the top of her lungs? The librarians there are like book Nazis as it is. Just imagine the flogging I would receive if my child loudly screamed out the names of unseemly body parts into the hallowed silence. Also, I for one would hate to disturb all the special folks of Phoenixville that use the library computers to cruise porn sites.
I’ve noticed that every family seems to have their own euphemisms for private parts. In our family, we just call them pee pee’s, with no gender distinction. A ‘unit’ is what they call the family jewels in my friend’s household. This caused some confusion for her kids when “The Unit” aired for the first time on TV, and apparently when they work on a new math unit in school, a lot of snickering goes on behind the teacher’s back.
It has never concerned me too much whenever kids make fart jokes or are talking about body parts. I do stop them when they get too rude, but I know it’s normal for them to think it’s funny. What’s even more normal is when small children start to be aware of their bodies, and in the case of my 4 year old son, very aware of the female body.
When Donny was about 18 months old, my sister was visiting from out of town and slept in our spare bed, which is in Donny’s room. He was still in his crib and woke up one morning and spied his aunt wearing a tank top and shorts for pajamas. Let’s just say that what nature gave me a small portion of, my sister got in abundance. Donny took one look at her and said. “OHHHH, boobies!”
His dad was very proud.
From then on, he has loved the busty ladies. When I told Donny that our friend, who is divinely boobiliscous, was going to be coming over, he said, “I’m gonna hug her allllll over!” And recently at a holiday party, my cousins were standing in a circle talking, when the Donster decided he would spread some love around. With a big smile on his face, he went around the circle, giving my voluptuous cousins many, many hugs. His face came up to where every man wished that his did. The cousins thought it was hysterical, while all the men in the room looked on, mumbling something that sounded like, “lucky little bastard”. Then Donny announced, “I’m done,” cutting the ladies off from his lovin’. I thought, my God, he has already learned the trick to being irresistible; leave them wanting more.
Once again, he made his dad proud.
At some point, kids understand enough to know why bad words and showing of naughty bits is inappropriate, at which time the bad behavior is increased a gazillion percent. The other day, my son’s 5 1\2 year old friend was over for a play date, when in typical gross boy fashion he said, “Let’s pretends we’re penises!” Donny carefully considered this for a moment and replied, “I don’t got a penis suit.” Which is a good thing, since owning a penis suit would be really disturbing and most likely cause Child Protective Services to come knocking at my door.
My daughters have a different type of disconcerting conduct. It usually revolves around the fact that girls seem to be aware of their bodies from a much earlier age. If you’ve seen girls dance, you know what I’m talking about. They shake their bottoms from the moment they can stand up with out falling over. I think it has something to do with having a lower center of gravity. My husband is scared that they are practicing for a future career in pole dancing.
This propensity to shaking their tushies, of course has Grandmom apoplectic. It is a sin, close to that of a grandchild being jailed for grand theft auto. I guess it is a grandmother thing, because I remember my Memom giving my sister and I lessons on walking properly, as only a good Irish Catholic could. She would have us practice walking by holding in our stomachs and tucking in our butts in a hyena-like fashion. I found that it was impossible to shake my butt while sucking in my 7 year old gut.
I, however, take full responsibility for any inappropriate behavior and all butt jokes that my kids take part in, mostly because I am the one who taught them those jokes. The reason for this is that I have a serious addiction to the sound of my children’s laugher. It is simply the best sound on the planet, and I realized that a surefire way to get a kid to crack up is to say something funny about a bum.
Even though I am a responsible adult, I still think butt jokes are hilarious. I blame it all on my parents, since I got my warped sense of humor from them.
While growing up, we were introduced to a myriad of their interesting, funny friends. I distinctly remember one of their friends singing a very off color song about our neighbor’s dog. The title of the song was, ‘Tanus sat on her anus’. This is how I learned the word anus, and my mother is really lucky that I never shouted it out in public. It was all quite respectable since the song was written by their Lebanese friend who was an Anesthesiologist with NASA. He was also married to a famous Spanish opera singer.
I am not kidding. Even as a child I understood how much funnier the song was because an esteemed Doctor was singing it.
So you can see why a little butt shaking and enthusiasm over big ta tas doesn’t unsettle me too much.
And if I’m completely wrong not to be concerned, it’s okay because it does have its practical side. Many a young lady has pole danced her way through college.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Why do we scold children when they say or do something inappropriate? Young kids don’t know yet that shaking their butts could be seen as something improper because they are too innocent to understand the dynamics of adult naughtiness. The reason that they repeat the unsuitable behavior is because someone laughed the first time they did it.
To avoid some of this silliness, professionals state that it’s important to teach children the proper names for their…pee pees. As a mother of 3, I completely disagree. I’ll give you an example of why using the clinical terms for private parts may not be in your best interest.
When my daughter was around 2 years old, she followed me into the bathroom (once you have kids, you will never pee alone again). She pointed to my nether regions in horror and yelled, “THAT PART!!” I didn’t correct her with the clinical term and a few days later I was very happy about that decision. We were in the public library’s bathroom, and she took one look at my hoochie and screamed at the top of her lungs,”THAT PART, THAT PART!!!” Yes it was embarrassing and I could hear the librarian’s shhhs through the bathroom door, but could you imagine if she had yelled “VAGINA!!” at the top of her lungs? The librarians there are like book Nazis as it is. Just imagine the flogging I would receive if my child loudly screamed out the names of unseemly body parts into the hallowed silence. Also, I for one would hate to disturb all the special folks of Phoenixville that use the library computers to cruise porn sites.
I’ve noticed that every family seems to have their own euphemisms for private parts. In our family, we just call them pee pee’s, with no gender distinction. A ‘unit’ is what they call the family jewels in my friend’s household. This caused some confusion for her kids when “The Unit” aired for the first time on TV, and apparently when they work on a new math unit in school, a lot of snickering goes on behind the teacher’s back.
It has never concerned me too much whenever kids make fart jokes or are talking about body parts. I do stop them when they get too rude, but I know it’s normal for them to think it’s funny. What’s even more normal is when small children start to be aware of their bodies, and in the case of my 4 year old son, very aware of the female body.
When Donny was about 18 months old, my sister was visiting from out of town and slept in our spare bed, which is in Donny’s room. He was still in his crib and woke up one morning and spied his aunt wearing a tank top and shorts for pajamas. Let’s just say that what nature gave me a small portion of, my sister got in abundance. Donny took one look at her and said. “OHHHH, boobies!”
His dad was very proud.
From then on, he has loved the busty ladies. When I told Donny that our friend, who is divinely boobiliscous, was going to be coming over, he said, “I’m gonna hug her allllll over!” And recently at a holiday party, my cousins were standing in a circle talking, when the Donster decided he would spread some love around. With a big smile on his face, he went around the circle, giving my voluptuous cousins many, many hugs. His face came up to where every man wished that his did. The cousins thought it was hysterical, while all the men in the room looked on, mumbling something that sounded like, “lucky little bastard”. Then Donny announced, “I’m done,” cutting the ladies off from his lovin’. I thought, my God, he has already learned the trick to being irresistible; leave them wanting more.
Once again, he made his dad proud.
At some point, kids understand enough to know why bad words and showing of naughty bits is inappropriate, at which time the bad behavior is increased a gazillion percent. The other day, my son’s 5 1\2 year old friend was over for a play date, when in typical gross boy fashion he said, “Let’s pretends we’re penises!” Donny carefully considered this for a moment and replied, “I don’t got a penis suit.” Which is a good thing, since owning a penis suit would be really disturbing and most likely cause Child Protective Services to come knocking at my door.
My daughters have a different type of disconcerting conduct. It usually revolves around the fact that girls seem to be aware of their bodies from a much earlier age. If you’ve seen girls dance, you know what I’m talking about. They shake their bottoms from the moment they can stand up with out falling over. I think it has something to do with having a lower center of gravity. My husband is scared that they are practicing for a future career in pole dancing.
This propensity to shaking their tushies, of course has Grandmom apoplectic. It is a sin, close to that of a grandchild being jailed for grand theft auto. I guess it is a grandmother thing, because I remember my Memom giving my sister and I lessons on walking properly, as only a good Irish Catholic could. She would have us practice walking by holding in our stomachs and tucking in our butts in a hyena-like fashion. I found that it was impossible to shake my butt while sucking in my 7 year old gut.
I, however, take full responsibility for any inappropriate behavior and all butt jokes that my kids take part in, mostly because I am the one who taught them those jokes. The reason for this is that I have a serious addiction to the sound of my children’s laugher. It is simply the best sound on the planet, and I realized that a surefire way to get a kid to crack up is to say something funny about a bum.
Even though I am a responsible adult, I still think butt jokes are hilarious. I blame it all on my parents, since I got my warped sense of humor from them.
While growing up, we were introduced to a myriad of their interesting, funny friends. I distinctly remember one of their friends singing a very off color song about our neighbor’s dog. The title of the song was, ‘Tanus sat on her anus’. This is how I learned the word anus, and my mother is really lucky that I never shouted it out in public. It was all quite respectable since the song was written by their Lebanese friend who was an Anesthesiologist with NASA. He was also married to a famous Spanish opera singer.
I am not kidding. Even as a child I understood how much funnier the song was because an esteemed Doctor was singing it.
So you can see why a little butt shaking and enthusiasm over big ta tas doesn’t unsettle me too much.
And if I’m completely wrong not to be concerned, it’s okay because it does have its practical side. Many a young lady has pole danced her way through college.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
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