Monthly Archives: September 2011
It’s Not an Afternoon, or a Morning or Any Other Delight
I’ve never considered myself a snob. Not an “I want to feel more important than someone else” snob, or a food snob or a music snob.
Especially not a music snob. How could I be when you can find me listening to just about anything on my Ipod? And when I say anything, I really do mean anything. The music on my beloved Ipod ranges from musical theater to punk and just about everything in between.
But even I, the person who knows all the lyrics to every song in the musical “Oklahoma,” have my limits.
And they were reached this week at the local Sheetz station.
I admit that I generally enjoy the music playing over the speakers while I pump gas. It tends to be fairly retro, so I can happily sing along to the Eagles or Lynard Skynard or Bob Segar while ignoring the dollar amounts flying by on the gas pump.
I used to think it was a great marketing strategy dreamed up by someone half my age: “Play old-time music, and those middle-aged people with their gas-guzzling SUV’s will be so distracted they won’t care about the cost of gas. They might even buy a made-to-order food item because they aren’t paying attention to the cost.”
I was wrong. Either that, or someone who developed the playlist for Sheetz had absolutely no clue what they were doing.
Because this time, as I swiped my debit card, I heard the strains of a song that took me back – but not in a good way. Instead, it was more like a fingernails scraping on a blackboard way. (For those of you who don’t know what a blackboard is – it’s the prehistoric version of a smart board.)
At first, I couldn’t believe I was actually hearing it. “Gonna f ind my baby gonna hold her tight. Gonna grab some afternoon delight. My motto has always been when it’s right it right. Why wait until the middle of the cold dark night.”
Really? It was only 7:30 in the morning and I was taking my 13-year old son to school.
Instead of putting me in a good mood, the song was irritating me. Really irritating me. Because, even though I don’t like the song, I know the words. So when I went inside to buy a coffee, I actually found myself singing along.
Singing along to one of the most obnoxious songs in history.
I tried voicing my complaint about the music selection to the clerk, but she gave me a completely blank stare, ignored my complaint and asked if I needed anything else. When I told her that what I really needed was for her to change the music, I got another blank stare.
So I reverted to my only other option.
I posted my complaint about the music on Facebook.
By the time I got to the office, there were several comments about my Facebook post, including one trying to convince me the song was actually about the menu at a restaurant and not about an afternoon tryst. But others were eager to set that person straight. And while I appreciated the support, none of the comments were helping get the song out of my head. It was just there.. repeating over and over again.
And since I was suffering, I felt the need to make others suffer. So, I brought the song up on an office computer and made my co-worker listen to it.
Not only was she not happy, but my boss, who had been in an executive committee meeting, took that exact moment to leave the meeting and come into our office. He sauntered over to the computer and asked what I was doing.
What could I say? There, in all its glory was the Starland Vocal Band, singing about rubbing sticks and stones together and making sparks ignite. If the lyrics weren’t bad enough, the band members’ horrible hair and the bell-bottoms were.
My boss glanced at my computer and said, “Hey, I remember that kind of music,” then walked away.
I decided Facebook was safer. I clicked off the video and back onto Facebook. I decided to “like” the comment from the person who said she thought she saw a blog coming on.
And, to her credit, there was.
Not Just Another Walk in the Park
My dog Rodney on a daily walk in the park
I’ve got a habit.
It’s a habit that’s opened my eyes to a side of my town that many people aren’t even aware of. It’s a side of our town that some people look right through – maybe because they don’t want to see it or maybe because they simply don’t know what they are looking at. It’s a side of our town that shows disparity, inequality and absurdity.
But it’s there right out in the open – in the park down the street from my neighborhood. It’s a park where I’ve spent hours and hours of my time.
My husband calls my behavior obsessive. I call it maintaining a routine. But, whatever you call it, I am compelled to take our dog Rodney for a walk in the park at least once, and sometimes twice, a day depending on the weather and how busy my schedule is.
No matter what, we always go in the morning. Always.
On weekdays this means my alarm goes off at 5:00 and we’re in the park by 5:30. On weekends, we’re generally there a bit later.
But no matter the time, those visits to the park provide a glimpse into what’s going on in my town.
This time of year, it’s still dark when I get to the park. But that doesn’t bother me. I’m walking a big German Shepherd, and anyone would be crazy to mess with him. He’s a nice dog, but he isn’t exactly a fan anything, human or otherwise, that he sees moving in the dark.
Besides, just like I have a routine, so do others.
There’s the group of joggers that come running through every other day. There’s the two middle-aged women whose exercise routine is a little less strenuous and who simply walk through the park gossiping. There are always the other dog walkers, although I don’t think they are quite as committed to the whole dog walking thing as I am because they are only there sporadically.
And on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, there’s the group of bankers, accountants, lawyers and others being barked at by an ex-Marine putting them through “boot camp.” I’m always amused by the fact that these professionals pay to have someone tell them to run the bleachers and jump rope at the crack of dawn. But, then, I guess they probably wouldn’t get out of bed for the torture if they weren’t paying for it.
And as the sun begins to rise, I also see what other people have left behind. Clean-up crews haven’t arrived yet, so there’s always quite a bit left from the previous days’ activities and events. There are sweatshirts and shoes; I don’t understand how anyone can leave the park without shoes, but it happens all the time. There are balls and toys; I imagine some of those the parents were happy to leave some of those toys behind. And worst of all, there is litter – lots and lots of litter. Bottles, cans, cups, fast food wrappers, tin foil and popped balloons often lie on picnic tables and on the ground, usually near one of the dozens of trash cans that dot the park.
And, also as the sun rises, I see a man walking through the park. I never know where he’s spent the night, but I do know it’s not in the comfort of a warm home and bed. He’s always carrying his life on his back and something to read in his hand.
Just like many of us, he has his own morning routine. He settles at his favorite table at the shelter by the creek. He takes a water bottle from his backpack and lays his reading materials out before him. He then heads to the restroom, where I assume he grooms as best he can. And then he goes back to his table and reads. He is usually there for a few hours but is always gone by mid-morning. I don’t know where he goes, although at times I have seen him walking the streets of my town during the day.
I’ve come to think of this man as an acquaintance, even though I don’t know his name or his story. But, like any other acquaintance, we always greet each other. I’ve also come to respect this man – not because he is obviously surviving any way he can, but because he’s earned my respect.
Unlike many other patrons of the park, he alway leaves his space cleaner than when he got there. If that means throwing away his trash as well as the trash of others, he does. I’ve seen him do it many, many times.
It might seem like a simple thing, but it’s not simple at all to me. In fact, it seems very complicated.
Because people who can afford to leave behind shoes and sweatshirts have more than this man… a lot more. At the same time, many people who have sufficient material possessions are quick to judge and label those who don’t as lazy. Yet, to me, someone who throws away trash is NOT lazy, and someone who leaves it behind is.
That’s a puzzle I’ll have to ponder on yet another walk through the park.
Tattered Flags
Like many Americans, I’ve been reflecting about the events that shook our nation ten years ago today.
And, even though my memories of the following days aren’t nearly as vivid, I remember one thing very clearly.
There were American flags everywhere.
They were flying on private homes. They adorned t-shirts and other articles of clothing. And they were fluttering on moving vehicles.
I found this fascinating. Not just because I’d never before seen American flags flying on automobiles as though they were paraphernalia for a sports team, but because the flags were so easily damaged, which seemed to defeat the purpose of flying them.
As a child in Girl Scouts, I remember being taught all the rules about how to handle and treat a flag. As a young adult, I remembered the national debate over the issue of defacing and even burning flags as a sign of protest.
And yet, in the days after 911, people were damaging their flags in the name of patriotism.
At the time, I wasn’t particularly upset by this phenomena; I simply found it interesting. But now, ten years later, the tattered flags represent something much greater to me: while America initially came together after 9 11, we’ve since been tearing apart – kind of like those flags waving on the cars.
I think that’s because some people equate patriotism with pride, pride with winning and winning with defeating an enemy.
There have been and always will be plenty of enemies to our country, we don’t need to be creating them.
But some people seem intent on doing so by pointing fingers at immigrants, people with different religious beliefs, people with different political ideas, people who are poor, etc. The list goes on and on.
Each time fingers point, I hear the American flag rip a bit more. That’s because our flag represents a country that was founded by immigrants. A country that welcomed people who didn’t have the same religious beliefs as the establishment. A country that encouraged diverse ways of thinking. A country that has a rich tradition of helping those who are down on their luck.
Rip.
Rip.
Rip.
Rip.
As the tenth anniversary of September 11 draws to a close, I hope that people focus not only on all the lives that were lost on that horrible day but also on the possibilities that we initially found that day.
The possibility that we could come together as a country to help each other.
The possibility that we were better united than we are divided.
The possibility that we use our diverse strengths to support each other rather than to tear each other down.
The possibility that we live can live up to ideals represented by our flag: a flag that may be a bit torn and ripped but still stands for a compassionate, caring and idealistic country.
A flag we can all fly with pride.
Say Anything… Except…
I’ve never been good at hiding my thoughts and feelings.
NEVER.
When I was a child my mother used to call me Poker Face. Not because I had one but because I didn’t.
If I didn’t like someone or something, everyone knew it.
Not much has changed in the past few decades.
I’ve tried pretending. I’ve tried changing the subject. I’ve even tried wearing sunglasses during meetings so people couldn’t see my eyes roll.
But regardless, in the end I feel compelled to be genuine. In other words, eventually I always end up letting people know what I REALLY think.
Not that I’m trying to be mean. I generally trying to be helpful by being truthful.
The problem is, a lot of people don’t appreciate it.
I used to worry about that, but, like with so many other things that come with age, I’m over it.
Maybe that’s because I’ve had friends tell that they always know where they stand with me. And if they don’t want to know? Than they probably aren’t really my friend anyway.
Maybe it’s because when I give a compliment, it comes from the heart. It isn’t intended just to ingratiate myself to others.
Or maybe it’s because I’m afraid if I hold my true thoughts in, I’ll eventually implode. At least it feels that way.
But just because I’m o.k. with how I am, that doesn’t mean it’s easy to be who I am.
I’m constantly battling to survive in a world where appearances are often appreciated more than reality. Where people ask for feedback when all they really want is a compliment. And where people prefer to complain behind someone’s back while pretending everything is fine to their face.
But I understand you can’t change people or systems overnight. So all I can do is encourage people to at least be honest with me. Since I’m so blunt, I expect others to be the same.
If I ask for feedback, I want genuine feedback.. not just approval. If I say or do something ridiculous? Let me know. And if I ask if my outfit makes me look fat? Consult with my husband.
He’ll tell you the truth about how well I do when people are brutally honest with me.
Please Don’t Feed the Drama Queen
My house was invaded by bees this month. Well, according to my husband, they are yellow jackets. But to me? Anything that has stripes, wings and a stinger is a bee.
But regardless of their taxonomy, they invaded my basement and my life.
We eventually got rid of them thanks to our hero, Gary the Exterminator Guy. But, in the meantime, they created a bit of drama in the house.
I should have expected that. I live with a drama queen. The invasion of the stinging beasts simply emphasized that fact.
I warned my kids that the bees, make that yellow jackets, dying in the basement could still sting. My son, per normal, didn’t listen. Instead, he went barefoot into the Kid Cave, stepped on a yellow jacket and got stung. He then calmly came upstairs to tell me he’d been stung and his foot hurt. That was it. The incident was over, and he never mentioned it again.
My daughter, on the other hand, over reacted as usual.
She was already perturbed that I didn’t share her belief that the start of school also marks the beginning of Halloween season. She was insistent that the time to decorate had come. When I didn’t respond to her demands to bring up the tub of Halloween decorations up from the basement, she took matters into her own hands.
But, a dying yellow jacket had found the tub first. Keep in mind, it had died. It could have been easily flicked away. But, that would have been under normal circumstances when a drama queen wasn’t involved.
A drama queen changes everything.
My daughter ALMOST touched the yellow jacket, and the subsequent scream traveled farther than the recent earthquake that shook the East Coast.
I absolutely love my daughter, but about eight years ago I came to the inevitable conclusion that Shakespeare knew a girl just like her when he said “all the world’s a stage.”
On the positive side, there are benefits to being the mother of a drama queen. It not only helps you to be less reactive, it also helps you to completely ignore it.
Which is a good thing considering what’s going on in our country right now. We’ve got a lot of drama queens and people who encourage them. I’m not sure which is worse.
Anyone who has lived or worked with a drama queen, knows this is someone who blows things way out of proportion. A drama queen often views the world in absolutes. In short, drama queens are all about creating crisis out of any situation. And the more people pay attention, the more drama ensues.
If you pay any attention to the news, you probably think the world is being taken over by drama queens. If the invasion of the yellow jackets had made the news? I’m pretty sure there would be a world-wide scare and a call to exterminate every flying insect.
Sadly, I’m pretty sure that a lot of people pay more attention to drama queens than they are to the facts.
I’m not saying our country is perfect or that changes don’t need to be made.
But I am saying that using fear or emotional blackmail to drive the political process is completely ridiculous. Very few matters or situations are black and white, but drama queens love black and white.
They thrive on it.
But, as the mom of a drama queen , I’ve learned that one of the best way to deal with faux drama is to simply complicate matters. Add facts, variables and diverse opinions. Instead of creating drama, create genuine discussion.
And if the drama continues anyway? Simply do what I do with my daughter – ignore it.
I’m pretty sure it works with most drama queens.
I’d like to create some more buzz about the issue. But, the moment, I’ve had enough of both buzz and drama.
Just So You Know 