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
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
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.
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