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Technically, my bad day started yesterday. That was when I drove 45 minutes to my doctor's office to 'discuss' some test results and wound up having a biopsy (no antisthetic, btw) to go with it. Not totally pleasurable, as I'm sure you can imagine. No, I'm also not going into my medical issues so don't ask me what was biopsied...just suffice to say that only the good die young. I'm pretty much safe, just so you know....
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Texting in the Twilight Zone
The last few weeks have felt a bit like a walk through the Twilight Zone. I don’t know if its a lack of sleep, too much stress or the natural process of aging. I’m not old, by the way. If forty is the new thirty (as I’ve heard) then I’m still using training wheels in the world of adulthood. Yet, there is a whole generation bearing down on me with life experiences I can’t even fathom. Gen X, we aren’t even on the radar anymore. Generation Y is nipping at our heels with their text messages and smart phones and all the other technological advances we missed. (I mean, we thought pagers were cool. We passed handwritten notes in class....and NO...nobody walked to school barefoot in the snow, that’s another story).
I used to see myself as kind of worldly, with just the right dash of sophistication thrown in. I rocked half-shirts and teeny-tiny skirts and knew the difference between a Kamikaze and a Buttery Nipple. Now? Not so much, actually. I’m finding myself acting as weird as my folks used to. You know, the kind of weird where your sixteen year old self would shake her head in embarrassment and demand to be dropped off a block from school to avoid the sheer humiliation of being associated with her dorky parents?
Last Friday, I got a text message on my phone from a number I didn’t recognize. I wasn’t in a huge hurry to check it because for the most part, I don’t text. I don’t like trying to have an ongoing conversation with anyone where I’m stuck reading whole sentences filled with abbreviations. (LOL). If you need to say something to me, call me or send me an email. Better yet, find me on Facebook, as I’ll probably be there at some point tending one of my farms, cafes or amusement parks, and I’ll see your message.
In any case, when I finally got down to actually reading this text, I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. I had an idea but, truthfully, I’ve been out of the loop so long, that slang is equivalent to Greek. Add in a bunch of abbreviations and it’s like reading a Calculus problem in a foreign language (while standing on your head). The text went something like this:
“Yo Dawg. I got me some killa Cali Gold and be lookin’ 2 hook u up wid some phat green. Waitin 4 u to call.”
See what I mean? My first thought was that I was reading rap lyrics. My second thought was that ‘Cali Gold’ must be a bit like ‘Texas Tea’. (you know, like the theme song to The Beverly Hillbillies?) My third thought was probably the most accurate. I determined that either A. Somebody was yanking my chain, or, B. Some drug dealer had mistakenly texted me with his daily special.
I could have texted back and let the little thug know I was a married mother of two and didn’t find his line of work particularly ethical and that I was turning his number over to the local authorities. Unfortunately, I’m just not that great a citizen. I opted to take a photo of the text for amusement purposes. It is, without a doubt, the most interesting message I’ve ever received on my cell phone. Although, I’m still troubled by the term ‘phat’. In my world, calling anything or anyone ‘phat’ (however you choose to spell it) is an insult.
Oh well, as soon as I find my camera I’ll upload a photo of the text message to share its amusement value (as well as to provide the world wide web the phone number of a drug dealer. I hope his mother recognizes the number and let’s him have it!) Wouldn’t that be ‘phat’?????
Peace Out!!!!!
I used to see myself as kind of worldly, with just the right dash of sophistication thrown in. I rocked half-shirts and teeny-tiny skirts and knew the difference between a Kamikaze and a Buttery Nipple. Now? Not so much, actually. I’m finding myself acting as weird as my folks used to. You know, the kind of weird where your sixteen year old self would shake her head in embarrassment and demand to be dropped off a block from school to avoid the sheer humiliation of being associated with her dorky parents?
Last Friday, I got a text message on my phone from a number I didn’t recognize. I wasn’t in a huge hurry to check it because for the most part, I don’t text. I don’t like trying to have an ongoing conversation with anyone where I’m stuck reading whole sentences filled with abbreviations. (LOL). If you need to say something to me, call me or send me an email. Better yet, find me on Facebook, as I’ll probably be there at some point tending one of my farms, cafes or amusement parks, and I’ll see your message.
In any case, when I finally got down to actually reading this text, I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. I had an idea but, truthfully, I’ve been out of the loop so long, that slang is equivalent to Greek. Add in a bunch of abbreviations and it’s like reading a Calculus problem in a foreign language (while standing on your head). The text went something like this:
“Yo Dawg. I got me some killa Cali Gold and be lookin’ 2 hook u up wid some phat green. Waitin 4 u to call.”
See what I mean? My first thought was that I was reading rap lyrics. My second thought was that ‘Cali Gold’ must be a bit like ‘Texas Tea’. (you know, like the theme song to The Beverly Hillbillies?) My third thought was probably the most accurate. I determined that either A. Somebody was yanking my chain, or, B. Some drug dealer had mistakenly texted me with his daily special.
I could have texted back and let the little thug know I was a married mother of two and didn’t find his line of work particularly ethical and that I was turning his number over to the local authorities. Unfortunately, I’m just not that great a citizen. I opted to take a photo of the text for amusement purposes. It is, without a doubt, the most interesting message I’ve ever received on my cell phone. Although, I’m still troubled by the term ‘phat’. In my world, calling anything or anyone ‘phat’ (however you choose to spell it) is an insult.
Oh well, as soon as I find my camera I’ll upload a photo of the text message to share its amusement value (as well as to provide the world wide web the phone number of a drug dealer. I hope his mother recognizes the number and let’s him have it!) Wouldn’t that be ‘phat’?????
Peace Out!!!!!
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Hot Off the Press: Barbie's Cankles
Newsflash: Barbie has CANKLES. Cankles? Young people are dying in Afghanistan and Iraq, the economy is about as fragile as the bones of an 80 year old woman with osteoperosis (oh, yeah...and she won't be seeing a 'cost of living' increase in her social security checks this year) but HLN is hashing out the circumference of Barbie's ankles.
You want cankles? I had elephantitis of the ankles at nine months pregnant...we're talking ankles so big I could wear turtleneck sweaters as leg warmers, people. Barbie's ankles were something to be envied- not criticized. Wait a minute....my youngest child is now four years old and I still don't have Barbie-like ankles...neither does my four year old and her ankles are teeny!
What is it with this preoccupation with the size of a woman's body? Jessica Simpson gets hassled for her weight on a regular basis and the chick is lucky to see a size 7 on her worst day. Granted, her fashion sense is questionable (her 'mom' jeans made mothers everywhere cringe in horror. Not because they were so darn bad-they were-but because most of us wouldn't have looked half as good in those jeans after a tummy tuck and some Spanx.)
I banned Bratz dolls at our house. Mostly, because they look like streetwalkers but have you ever really looked at a Bratz doll? Is it a coincidence that their heads are five times too large for their bodies? Kind of like your average runway model? They look like bobble heads and my daughters think they are beautiful. Um, they wear black lipliner with pale pink lipstick, which is just so many kinds of wrong that it gives me a headache to think about.
Back to my original point. Headline News actually addressed the size of Barbie's ankles. What a pathetic waste of broadcast time. What is this country coming to if Headline News thought the American public would appreciate this tidbit of information? Now what? Do I wear mom jeans to disguise my ankles? Maybe I'll call Jessica, I hear she's over the search for her lost dog and she finally figured out what Chicken of the Sea is, so maybe she'll have time to chat....
You want cankles? I had elephantitis of the ankles at nine months pregnant...we're talking ankles so big I could wear turtleneck sweaters as leg warmers, people. Barbie's ankles were something to be envied- not criticized. Wait a minute....my youngest child is now four years old and I still don't have Barbie-like ankles...neither does my four year old and her ankles are teeny!
What is it with this preoccupation with the size of a woman's body? Jessica Simpson gets hassled for her weight on a regular basis and the chick is lucky to see a size 7 on her worst day. Granted, her fashion sense is questionable (her 'mom' jeans made mothers everywhere cringe in horror. Not because they were so darn bad-they were-but because most of us wouldn't have looked half as good in those jeans after a tummy tuck and some Spanx.)
I banned Bratz dolls at our house. Mostly, because they look like streetwalkers but have you ever really looked at a Bratz doll? Is it a coincidence that their heads are five times too large for their bodies? Kind of like your average runway model? They look like bobble heads and my daughters think they are beautiful. Um, they wear black lipliner with pale pink lipstick, which is just so many kinds of wrong that it gives me a headache to think about.
Back to my original point. Headline News actually addressed the size of Barbie's ankles. What a pathetic waste of broadcast time. What is this country coming to if Headline News thought the American public would appreciate this tidbit of information? Now what? Do I wear mom jeans to disguise my ankles? Maybe I'll call Jessica, I hear she's over the search for her lost dog and she finally figured out what Chicken of the Sea is, so maybe she'll have time to chat....
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Can We Muzzle The Kid At Table Five?
Kevin and I recently drove to Visalia to do a couple of errands. My folks were watching the kids, it was a Saturday afternoon, so we stopped for a bite to eat at a nearby Olive Garden before heading home. We try to get a little 'together' time when we can, and it was the perfect opportunity to eat a meal I didn't have to cook or clean up after, without being rushed by 'bored' kids, or making multiple trips to the restaurant's restroom because my child 'didn't have to go when we left home, mom'.
If I really wanted peace and quiet and a little romantic table for two, it would have been wise to pick a restaurant who's motto isn't "When you're here, you're family" and provides childrens' menus and color crayons for the younger set. However, with a limited time-frame and a budget to adhere to, Olive Garden was our best bet.
(BTW: I'm not opposed to children in restaurants. Quite the opposite, in fact. If you don't dine out with your child, the child doesn't learn to dine out. In other words, if you do take-out until Junior is six, expect him to behave like a hooligan the first time you plant him in a chair at the Macaroni Grill. It's your own fault. You earned it. And for cryin' out loud, do NOT put a caffeinated sugar-laden soda in front of the kid. Its sabotage. You want him to sit still and behave in public? Avoid letting him suck down the equivalent of juvenile crack-cocaine. Stick to milk.)
Just before our meal arrived, Chuckie (like the horror movie?) decided to detonate two tables down. At first, we ignored it, because, really? Who lets their child go from zero to sixty in a public space without attempting to stop it? Apparently, Chuckie's parents. If, at first, the wails were annoying, after five minutes of being ignored, Chuckie pulled out the big guns and began to shriek like he was being attacked by a swarm of killer bees. I was sure his mother would now jump out of her chair and whisk the little demon out of the restaurant...but, noo-ooo. You'd have thought we were standing in the middle of WalMart on payday, instead of a restaurant.
The couple at the table next to us looked distressed. The woman bowed her head and pressed her fingertips to her temples as though her brain might explode. The waitress arrived at our table to deliver our meals. We'd been listening to psycho boy flip out for ten minutes and his mother still hadn't gotten the memo that it was time to remove the little darling from the restaurant. (I can understand wanting to get the point across that bad behavior won't be a child's ticket out of a boring situation, but how 'bout teaching that lesson somewhere other than the middle of a crowded restaurant? At the very least, would it have killed the mother to pick him up and take him to the restroom until he calmed down? When I was a kid, the understanding was pretty clear: You acted like a jackass and you got a trip to the restroom. Period. The End.)
"Oh my goodness. That is just sooo loud." I said. (Yeah, right. It went more like, "Would somebody shut that little $%@ up.")
"You know," my husband said to the waitress (in his loudest voice) "I think we're going to have to just get this to go. That noise is just unacceptable."
"Oh. I'm sorry. Let me get you some take-out containers." She suggested.
WHAT????!!!!!??? You mean in Olive Garden Employee Training they didn't teach these servers to handle rude families? They'd rather lose all the courteous diners so as not to offend psycho-boy's parents? Honestly?
Apparently, Kevin's ultra-loud suggestion reached Chuckie's table. At that point, his father stood up and carried the little nightmare out of the dining room. The exploding headed diner closest to us, looked up, her fingers still pressed to her head and mouthed gratefully in our direction, "Thank YOU." The waitress just stood there with her mouth hanging open.
Can I just say, I'm terribly glad that I've never worked as a waitress because if I'd been in our server's position, I wouldn't be writing this...I'd be punching out license plates in prison issue rubber shoes because I'd have taken my cute little tray and whacked Chuckie's parents across the head with it. Of course, I'd have raked in the tips that day from all the other diners, but whatever.
If I really wanted peace and quiet and a little romantic table for two, it would have been wise to pick a restaurant who's motto isn't "When you're here, you're family" and provides childrens' menus and color crayons for the younger set. However, with a limited time-frame and a budget to adhere to, Olive Garden was our best bet.
(BTW: I'm not opposed to children in restaurants. Quite the opposite, in fact. If you don't dine out with your child, the child doesn't learn to dine out. In other words, if you do take-out until Junior is six, expect him to behave like a hooligan the first time you plant him in a chair at the Macaroni Grill. It's your own fault. You earned it. And for cryin' out loud, do NOT put a caffeinated sugar-laden soda in front of the kid. Its sabotage. You want him to sit still and behave in public? Avoid letting him suck down the equivalent of juvenile crack-cocaine. Stick to milk.)
Just before our meal arrived, Chuckie (like the horror movie?) decided to detonate two tables down. At first, we ignored it, because, really? Who lets their child go from zero to sixty in a public space without attempting to stop it? Apparently, Chuckie's parents. If, at first, the wails were annoying, after five minutes of being ignored, Chuckie pulled out the big guns and began to shriek like he was being attacked by a swarm of killer bees. I was sure his mother would now jump out of her chair and whisk the little demon out of the restaurant...but, noo-ooo. You'd have thought we were standing in the middle of WalMart on payday, instead of a restaurant.
The couple at the table next to us looked distressed. The woman bowed her head and pressed her fingertips to her temples as though her brain might explode. The waitress arrived at our table to deliver our meals. We'd been listening to psycho boy flip out for ten minutes and his mother still hadn't gotten the memo that it was time to remove the little darling from the restaurant. (I can understand wanting to get the point across that bad behavior won't be a child's ticket out of a boring situation, but how 'bout teaching that lesson somewhere other than the middle of a crowded restaurant? At the very least, would it have killed the mother to pick him up and take him to the restroom until he calmed down? When I was a kid, the understanding was pretty clear: You acted like a jackass and you got a trip to the restroom. Period. The End.)
"Oh my goodness. That is just sooo loud." I said. (Yeah, right. It went more like, "Would somebody shut that little $%@ up.")
"You know," my husband said to the waitress (in his loudest voice) "I think we're going to have to just get this to go. That noise is just unacceptable."
"Oh. I'm sorry. Let me get you some take-out containers." She suggested.
WHAT????!!!!!??? You mean in Olive Garden Employee Training they didn't teach these servers to handle rude families? They'd rather lose all the courteous diners so as not to offend psycho-boy's parents? Honestly?
Apparently, Kevin's ultra-loud suggestion reached Chuckie's table. At that point, his father stood up and carried the little nightmare out of the dining room. The exploding headed diner closest to us, looked up, her fingers still pressed to her head and mouthed gratefully in our direction, "Thank YOU." The waitress just stood there with her mouth hanging open.
Can I just say, I'm terribly glad that I've never worked as a waitress because if I'd been in our server's position, I wouldn't be writing this...I'd be punching out license plates in prison issue rubber shoes because I'd have taken my cute little tray and whacked Chuckie's parents across the head with it. Of course, I'd have raked in the tips that day from all the other diners, but whatever.
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