This time last year, my company replaced its president. We went from a man with the deposition of sweat-shop owner to a man who cared about the workers. A shocking first for us peons. This new CEO actually fought for our benefits and moral-boosters. And, as of yesterday, even though we still had not had a pay-raise in four years, our future looked hopefully and rewarding.
Things looked so well that one of the board of directors made a surprise visit to the plant yesterday. Without any word of warning, he summoned all of us into the cafeteria for a meeting. Of course, he called this employee-gathering during the lunch break so, conveniently, most people were already off the clock. (Smart thinking, that board-of-director guy.)
With a big, warm smile, he told us how great business was: how they (the investors) had secured cheaper financing, how our sales dollars had been much higher this year than expected, how our sacrifices had cut operating costs. He ended the meeting by thanking us for our hard work, and by telling us that our Chief Financial Office had become the new company president. (Again, smart thinking, that board-of-director guy - paying for two jobs with the price of one salary.)
So, the company was doing well: cheaper loan payments, lower operating costs, higher sales, and a reduced expense with upper management. His final words to the company's 80 hard-working, pay-raise starved members was, "Thank you and good-bye."
Our former president was a great man - easy to talk with, sympathetic to the hardships we endured to make the company profitable. After yesterday's little speech, we're reasonably sure of a mutual parting of the ways resulting from conflicts of characters - generosity and fellowship of our favorite CEO verses greed of our glorious overlords.
I don't think our overlords, I mean, our investors realize that their business has survived, not only in spite of the downturn in the economy, but because of a downturn in the economy that prevented better companies from hiring us all away.
Of course, that downturn has begun to swing upwards. As of today, even McDonald's looks like a financial walk-in-the-park for several of us ...
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Friday, August 24, 2012
How To Feel A Mental Burn
Do you know why we spell 'love' with a silent 'e'? Because English words don't end in 'v'. Someone long ago started adding that non-nonchalant 'e' and the practice took hold. Centuries later, we don't give 'love' verses 'lov' a second thought. Sometimes, even not even love ... but that's another matter for romance novels and country songs.
You can doubt my tale. But remember that only a few years ago we had 'electronic mail'. Then we had 'e-mail'. Now, we banter across the Internet with our superior 'email'. Ah, the magic of the '100th monkey' effect.
Yesterday, my post assignment had the phrase "3d jigsaw puzzles to exercize your brain". After my first read of these keywords, my brain pulled a ham-string when it hit 'exercize' while anticipating 'exercise'. I wasn't expecting my mental working-out to hurt so much. Fortunately, after alerting my clients about the troublesome word, they corrected it to read: 3d jigsaw puzzles to exercise your brain. (The link takes you to a site that sells challenging 3-D puzzles, phonetic words not included.)
Yet, this is how words change. While we get inundated with a 'z' instead of an 's', we skip merrily down the road, and happily accepting "your" for "you're". All because of brains that rapidly adapt to survive the most ridiculous situations. With enough repeated onslaughts and social acceptance, even "there" becomes the norm for "their" and "they're". OMG!
Don't worry. School just started. That block quote will be on your kids' homework. Good luk! (or luc, depending upon the teacher.) I recommend some 3D puzzle while the pieces still fit together in a logical manner.
You can doubt my tale. But remember that only a few years ago we had 'electronic mail'. Then we had 'e-mail'. Now, we banter across the Internet with our superior 'email'. Ah, the magic of the '100th monkey' effect.
Yesterday, my post assignment had the phrase "3d jigsaw puzzles to exercize your brain". After my first read of these keywords, my brain pulled a ham-string when it hit 'exercize' while anticipating 'exercise'. I wasn't expecting my mental working-out to hurt so much. Fortunately, after alerting my clients about the troublesome word, they corrected it to read: 3d jigsaw puzzles to exercise your brain. (The link takes you to a site that sells challenging 3-D puzzles, phonetic words not included.)
Yet, this is how words change. While we get inundated with a 'z' instead of an 's', we skip merrily down the road, and happily accepting "your" for "you're". All because of brains that rapidly adapt to survive the most ridiculous situations. With enough repeated onslaughts and social acceptance, even "there" becomes the norm for "their" and "they're". OMG!
"i cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it dseno't mtaetr in waht oerdr the ltteres in a wrod are, the olny iproamtnt tihng is taht the frsit and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it whotuit a pboerlm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Azanmig huh? yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt."
Don't worry. School just started. That block quote will be on your kids' homework. Good luk! (or luc, depending upon the teacher.) I recommend some 3D puzzle while the pieces still fit together in a logical manner.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Planning for the future.
I have several posts waiting in the wing - some humorous, a few poignant, most embarrassing attempts at writing. But I can't publish them. Not yet.
I'm about to take a writing class at the local community college. So, I'm going to need material for my homework assignments. Sorry.
And then I have to consider how some future posts will fulfill obligations to the content mill that still helps with my bills. Hopefully, we won't have to put up with that low paying silliness much longer.
I'm about to take a writing class at the local community college. So, I'm going to need material for my homework assignments. Sorry.
And then I have to consider how some future posts will fulfill obligations to the content mill that still helps with my bills. Hopefully, we won't have to put up with that low paying silliness much longer.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
My 1st Step into Publishing.
I finally did it. I swallowed my pride, ignored my fear of looking like an idiot, overcame a debilitating desire to remain unknown. Then, I submitted my first article to Yahoo!'s contributor network. Today, they published it:
http://voices.yahoo.com/finding-comfort-food-spring-lake-nc-11645526.html?cat=8
The piece isn't much, embarrassingly so. Just a fond review of a good restaurant that these hard times may soon put out of business. But this article means a small victory over my fears and my procrastination. It is also an important step to one of my 2012 New Year's resolution - you know those grandiose goals we make on January 1st, only to give up on by January 2nd. I had resolved to learn the craft of writing and to make the results profitable.
While I am nowhere close to claiming that seductive title of success, at least I've finally taken that first step in that direction. Hopefully, I won't slide away and end up in the ditch of life's well-intentioned failures ...
http://voices.yahoo.com/finding-comfort-food-spring-lake-nc-11645526.html?cat=8
The piece isn't much, embarrassingly so. Just a fond review of a good restaurant that these hard times may soon put out of business. But this article means a small victory over my fears and my procrastination. It is also an important step to one of my 2012 New Year's resolution - you know those grandiose goals we make on January 1st, only to give up on by January 2nd. I had resolved to learn the craft of writing and to make the results profitable.
While I am nowhere close to claiming that seductive title of success, at least I've finally taken that first step in that direction. Hopefully, I won't slide away and end up in the ditch of life's well-intentioned failures ...
Sunday, August 12, 2012
haters and 8'ers.
At first, upper management of Microsoft demanded that their employees stop referring to their latest operating system as "Metro". Instead, those that want to keep their jobs were to use the name "Windows 8".
Now, the big bosses want the phrase "Modern UI Style" to grace the lips of computer users everywhere.
But already the lines have been drawn; the battle has begun. The "Windows 8" loyalists have resorted to name-calling and talking down to anyone who uses anything but the name "Windows 8".
What do you expect? 8'ers are always goin' to be 8'ing.
Now, the big bosses want the phrase "Modern UI Style" to grace the lips of computer users everywhere.
But already the lines have been drawn; the battle has begun. The "Windows 8" loyalists have resorted to name-calling and talking down to anyone who uses anything but the name "Windows 8".
What do you expect? 8'ers are always goin' to be 8'ing.
Thursday, August 09, 2012
The morals issues I have to deal with.
Ok, I'm in a bit of a moral dilemma. So I ask you, my friends, what is worse: Doing donuts in the parking lot of a Krispy Kreme, or doing bagels in the parking lot of a synagogue?
Why does such a humble man have to wrestle with such philosophical battles?
Why does such a humble man have to wrestle with such philosophical battles?
Monday, August 06, 2012
Going for Gold.
As of this moment, China has 61 medals and the United States has ... 61 medals! Not bad.
Of course, China's best athletes came from a crop of 1400 million people. United States pickings were out of a measly 300 million citizens. I think we can safely say that the US can brag based on statistics alone.
Yes, a silly argument. Sillier still is that, somewhere in the world, a lazy spectator sits on a couch, face full of food, watching the action. When a highly trained athlete only gets 4th place, our lard-butt has the audacity to call the Olympian "a loser".
Of course, China's best athletes came from a crop of 1400 million people. United States pickings were out of a measly 300 million citizens. I think we can safely say that the US can brag based on statistics alone.
Yes, a silly argument. Sillier still is that, somewhere in the world, a lazy spectator sits on a couch, face full of food, watching the action. When a highly trained athlete only gets 4th place, our lard-butt has the audacity to call the Olympian "a loser".
Sunday, August 05, 2012
Word To Your Bad Self
It was a muggy, sunny Sunday. Across the street, my neighbor loaded up the surf board rack on their car and headed out for the beach. The neighbor to my right stuffed their car's luggage rack full of suitcases and drove away for a vacation.
My neighbor to my left, well, he's a little different. He was providing the music at a wedding that day. So he stacked all of his sound equipment in his little Toyota. To transport his brother who is the DJ, he used the DJ Racks mounted on his car's roof.
In an odd way, this is smart thinking. You certainly don't want to lash your DJ directly to the car - that would scra-scra-scratch the paint. Definitely, a wic-a-wic-ked good idea.
My neighbor to my left, well, he's a little different. He was providing the music at a wedding that day. So he stacked all of his sound equipment in his little Toyota. To transport his brother who is the DJ, he used the DJ Racks mounted on his car's roof.
In an odd way, this is smart thinking. You certainly don't want to lash your DJ directly to the car - that would scra-scra-scratch the paint. Definitely, a wic-a-wic-ked good idea.
Saturday, August 04, 2012
It's all in the words.
According to OMG facts, a group of ravens is called an unkindness. A group of ferrets is called a business.
That would explain why a session of Congress is called a meeting of ravenous ferrets.
That would explain why a session of Congress is called a meeting of ravenous ferrets.
Thursday, August 02, 2012
Seems Like Only Yesterday.
I'm not that old. Yes, instead of twitter and blogging, we had to sit around and talk face-to-face, searching for those elusive answers to life. Yet, even then, it was hard to ignore the Google ads on our foreheads.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
A WTF Saturday.
Stepping outside, I began yesterday morning with: Why couldn't my car passengers take just a few minutes last night and close the car's door? Wait a minute! Why did they leave my car's truck slightly open?
Bewildering observations. Then a sudden realization. All followed by a sicken feeling in my stomach. I rushed around to the other side of my car and found, proudly saluting me, a raised gas tank cover. Someone had tampered with every car door, including the engine hood.
Inside the car, strewn across the passenger seat, sat the contents of the glove box. Yet, from that pile of lamps, fuses, gum, and state-required paperwork, nothing was missing. That's when my anguish turned into incredulous curiosity.
I frantically searched through my car, taking inventory. Yet, only a small, $15 FM transmitter, used to play my music on the car's radio, had been taken. Everything else was intact: audio cords, USB adapter, a traffic camera that I was testing for work. The gas tank guage still showed full. My tools and a power inverter remained safe in the truck. The battery from the engine compartment appeared untouched. The thief even left my spare change, mostly quarters, in the ashtray. Aside from my FM transmitter, my car wasn't attacked by a thief; it was ransacked by a practical joker.
I won't mind if someone broke into my house and stole all my dirt and trash. If only all thieves could be so pleasant. I would leave my doors unlock. I would wait as a child waits in hushed excitement for Santa Claus, full of hope that a thief would visit and steal my home clean. That would be a Christmas miracle! And we should all be so lucky.
So, why did some stranger break into my car? Instead of detailing the interior and washing the outside, they only left a mess.
So as my sphincter-tightening adventure ended for the day, I closed all the car doors and went for a spin. Then I stopped twirling around and drove my car. It ran fine. I felt better. Still a little violated, but better.
Bewildering observations. Then a sudden realization. All followed by a sicken feeling in my stomach. I rushed around to the other side of my car and found, proudly saluting me, a raised gas tank cover. Someone had tampered with every car door, including the engine hood.
Inside the car, strewn across the passenger seat, sat the contents of the glove box. Yet, from that pile of lamps, fuses, gum, and state-required paperwork, nothing was missing. That's when my anguish turned into incredulous curiosity.
I frantically searched through my car, taking inventory. Yet, only a small, $15 FM transmitter, used to play my music on the car's radio, had been taken. Everything else was intact: audio cords, USB adapter, a traffic camera that I was testing for work. The gas tank guage still showed full. My tools and a power inverter remained safe in the truck. The battery from the engine compartment appeared untouched. The thief even left my spare change, mostly quarters, in the ashtray. Aside from my FM transmitter, my car wasn't attacked by a thief; it was ransacked by a practical joker.
I won't mind if someone broke into my house and stole all my dirt and trash. If only all thieves could be so pleasant. I would leave my doors unlock. I would wait as a child waits in hushed excitement for Santa Claus, full of hope that a thief would visit and steal my home clean. That would be a Christmas miracle! And we should all be so lucky.
So, why did some stranger break into my car? Instead of detailing the interior and washing the outside, they only left a mess.
So as my sphincter-tightening adventure ended for the day, I closed all the car doors and went for a spin. Then I stopped twirling around and drove my car. It ran fine. I felt better. Still a little violated, but better.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Coming to terms
You have probably realized that much of Life is a gamble. Eating without choking. Driving without crashing. Listening to music without being Beiber-ized.
And then you have insurance companies trying to bet you that you are not going to die. Of course, we all know that you will win that bet. The downside - among many - is that you can't enjoy your winnings.
Yesterday, my insurance company up the ante as they raise the rates of my term insurance. I was expecting this. They fully disclosed the timing of rate hikes in the original term insurance quote. Like a poker game, the policy said, "When we see that you survived another decade, and, given that you'll be over 50, we'll rise the pot by another $50 a month".
So the game continues. I just can't believe that ten years has already slipped by. While I'm still ahead of a gamble, I really don't want to cash my chips in just yet. I have a few "rolls of bones" left in me.
And then you have insurance companies trying to bet you that you are not going to die. Of course, we all know that you will win that bet. The downside - among many - is that you can't enjoy your winnings.
Yesterday, my insurance company up the ante as they raise the rates of my term insurance. I was expecting this. They fully disclosed the timing of rate hikes in the original term insurance quote. Like a poker game, the policy said, "When we see that you survived another decade, and, given that you'll be over 50, we'll rise the pot by another $50 a month".
So the game continues. I just can't believe that ten years has already slipped by. While I'm still ahead of a gamble, I really don't want to cash my chips in just yet. I have a few "rolls of bones" left in me.
The downside of speed reading.
The Internet article read "Queen tours Olympic Park after debut as Bond Girl". But I read the headline too quickly. When I saw "Queen", I thought of her age, and read "... debut as Bond-o Girl". Oh! No wonder she looks to be in great shape! The healing power of bond-o! It fixes dents on cars and royalty.
But I wrong. Her majesty got to play the part of a Bond girl while appearing with the latest incarnation of James Bond: Daniel Craig. I'm not sure if I want to see the seductive murmuring of a bikini-clad, 86-year old woman. But she is the queen of England, and sometimes "it's good to be the queen".
But I wrong. Her majesty got to play the part of a Bond girl while appearing with the latest incarnation of James Bond: Daniel Craig. I'm not sure if I want to see the seductive murmuring of a bikini-clad, 86-year old woman. But she is the queen of England, and sometimes "it's good to be the queen".
Frantic Friday Fun
On Friday, my work day drew to a close as it usually does: my boss bursting into my office at 3 PM with a frantic "I have something important that will only take a few moments for you to handle".
One of my wishes is to get assignments that actually take "only a few moments to handle". But Fridays consistently prove that my fairy godboss still isn't granting any wishes.
Actually, my gracious overload - sorry, my boss - had two "little somethings". The first concerned a device known as "accent lighting". Basically, a piece of fancy electronics that you attach to the bottom of your car door. When you open your door, these lights illuminate the ground so you don't trip getting into your car. These handy gadgets work even better at night. This cool accessory is extremely popular with the cool guys and their cool cars so they don't become clumsy oafs when with their cool dates.
The second crisis involved a trailer hitch module that I had worked on over five years ago. It would detect any obstacles behind your truck and warn you. My little baby would also shut itself off if you had your trailer attached - after all, who wants an annoying electronic device that constantly reminding you of your attached trailer. (Although, if you're going down the road and your trailer falls off, the sudden silence would be an excellent indication that you should pull over and watch the little adventure you just caused.)
With all modesty, I must humbly say that my trailer hitch design was great. It was going to revolutionize the trailer hitch accessories industry. Five years ago, it cost less than $40 to make. Yet, as great as my cheap work-of-art was, management killed the project. In their brilliant minds, the manufacturing cost for everything should be no more than $1. So, even though they planned to sell my baby for $90, the powers-that-be deemed that they wouldn't make enough profit.
My boss's crisis were, in fact, about the profit of his two "little somethings". His boss wanted a detailed report about how we would (not "if it was possible to") make the accent lighting device and the trailer module for a dream-world dollar. And he wanted the report by 5 PM.
I gently reminded my boss that even a small electronic project takes at least 2 weeks of proper research, design, and development work. He came back with, "How hard can it be to look up a few parts, and throw something on a piece of paper? We don't even have to worry about testing." Oh, that's right. I keep forgetting that we shouldn't worry about safety issues. After all, that's why we have customers.
He left after I told him I could give him a very, very rough estimation of the projects' details by Monday (free time during the weekend is highly over-rated anyway). An hour later he called my phone. "Don't worry about those projects," he said. "My boss decided we can get something from China in a couple of weeks." Great! For the past three years, we've had to re-engineer several boatloads of botched products from China. Those added costs never seem to make it into management's manufacturing reports.
Oh well. Just another Friday to make me feel secure in my employment. I feel so much safer too.
One of my wishes is to get assignments that actually take "only a few moments to handle". But Fridays consistently prove that my fairy godboss still isn't granting any wishes.
Actually, my gracious overload - sorry, my boss - had two "little somethings". The first concerned a device known as "accent lighting". Basically, a piece of fancy electronics that you attach to the bottom of your car door. When you open your door, these lights illuminate the ground so you don't trip getting into your car. These handy gadgets work even better at night. This cool accessory is extremely popular with the cool guys and their cool cars so they don't become clumsy oafs when with their cool dates.
The second crisis involved a trailer hitch module that I had worked on over five years ago. It would detect any obstacles behind your truck and warn you. My little baby would also shut itself off if you had your trailer attached - after all, who wants an annoying electronic device that constantly reminding you of your attached trailer. (Although, if you're going down the road and your trailer falls off, the sudden silence would be an excellent indication that you should pull over and watch the little adventure you just caused.)
With all modesty, I must humbly say that my trailer hitch design was great. It was going to revolutionize the trailer hitch accessories industry. Five years ago, it cost less than $40 to make. Yet, as great as my cheap work-of-art was, management killed the project. In their brilliant minds, the manufacturing cost for everything should be no more than $1. So, even though they planned to sell my baby for $90, the powers-that-be deemed that they wouldn't make enough profit.
My boss's crisis were, in fact, about the profit of his two "little somethings". His boss wanted a detailed report about how we would (not "if it was possible to") make the accent lighting device and the trailer module for a dream-world dollar. And he wanted the report by 5 PM.
I gently reminded my boss that even a small electronic project takes at least 2 weeks of proper research, design, and development work. He came back with, "How hard can it be to look up a few parts, and throw something on a piece of paper? We don't even have to worry about testing." Oh, that's right. I keep forgetting that we shouldn't worry about safety issues. After all, that's why we have customers.
He left after I told him I could give him a very, very rough estimation of the projects' details by Monday (free time during the weekend is highly over-rated anyway). An hour later he called my phone. "Don't worry about those projects," he said. "My boss decided we can get something from China in a couple of weeks." Great! For the past three years, we've had to re-engineer several boatloads of botched products from China. Those added costs never seem to make it into management's manufacturing reports.
Oh well. Just another Friday to make me feel secure in my employment. I feel so much safer too.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Writing For Peanuts?
How much can freelance writers make? According to a couple of writers' blogs, competent freelancers should have no problem earning at least $1 a word. To me, this sounds promising for a career change.
For planning purposes, a work-year consists of 2080 hours. (Of course, as a salary-paid peon, I work closer to 3000 hours a year without any overtime.) So ... if I can create 100 sell-able words an hour during a "normal" year, that's a hefty pay raise to $208,000!
Ah, I can dream.
I say this because I visited a couple of popular work-for-hire sites. Their jobs offers expect you to be happy with a tenth of a penny per word. Yes, some jobs are much more generous with a penny per word, but even with those high payers, I still couldn't support my family of four on $2080 a year. Who can?
Well, someone must be. Those low-wage gigs have tons of people submitting proposals.
How is that possible? For one reason - the bulk of responses to these slave-wage jobs are from people in countries where you can live comfortably on pennies a day.
So how is $1 per word earning possible? Do you have to spend $0.99 a word looking for work? Or, do you just have to have lots of blackmail material on your prospective clients?
For planning purposes, a work-year consists of 2080 hours. (Of course, as a salary-paid peon, I work closer to 3000 hours a year without any overtime.) So ... if I can create 100 sell-able words an hour during a "normal" year, that's a hefty pay raise to $208,000!
Ah, I can dream.
I say this because I visited a couple of popular work-for-hire sites. Their jobs offers expect you to be happy with a tenth of a penny per word. Yes, some jobs are much more generous with a penny per word, but even with those high payers, I still couldn't support my family of four on $2080 a year. Who can?
Well, someone must be. Those low-wage gigs have tons of people submitting proposals.
How is that possible? For one reason - the bulk of responses to these slave-wage jobs are from people in countries where you can live comfortably on pennies a day.
So how is $1 per word earning possible? Do you have to spend $0.99 a word looking for work? Or, do you just have to have lots of blackmail material on your prospective clients?
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Careful What You Type.
While Facebook monitors our chats for criminal activity, I won't let that stop my minions and me from our plans of world domination. No police force can stop us now. No military will prevent our crushing rule. No force will ... hang on a minute. There's someone knocking at my doo........
Thursday, July 12, 2012
A well-hinged post
Today, my assigned challenge is to use the phrase "piano hinges". Originally, this long bearing attached pianos to their lids. However, piano manufacturers soon realized they had the blueprints upside down. After correcting that little oversight, builders began placing lids on finished pianos. Soon, the instrument went on to become quite popular - especially since everyone could now easily access the keyboard.
Today, piano hinges are used in many industries. For example, by high-strung carpenters to keep themselves in tune to their surroundings. Also, by stagehands during those intense dueling piano competitions where the competitors tended to become unhinged.
Surprisingly, this sturdy piece of hardware is also used by government contractors working hard to pad their overpriced projects. In fact, several of the military advanced jet fighter have piano hinges for that concert-hall, surround-sound experience that our pilots crave (when background music isn't available).
And, here's a little known fact that I just made up: did you know that Air Force One uses piano hinges, and not only in the plane's piano lounge? I didn't know that either until I read it … just now. Right here. Thanks for stopping by.
Today, piano hinges are used in many industries. For example, by high-strung carpenters to keep themselves in tune to their surroundings. Also, by stagehands during those intense dueling piano competitions where the competitors tended to become unhinged.
Surprisingly, this sturdy piece of hardware is also used by government contractors working hard to pad their overpriced projects. In fact, several of the military advanced jet fighter have piano hinges for that concert-hall, surround-sound experience that our pilots crave (when background music isn't available).
And, here's a little known fact that I just made up: did you know that Air Force One uses piano hinges, and not only in the plane's piano lounge? I didn't know that either until I read it … just now. Right here. Thanks for stopping by.
I need a fake ID and tattoos.
Standing in line at the store today, I'm at that awkward age where I need a fake ID. Either I need to show that I'm younger than I am, or that I'm old enough for a senior citizen discount.
My girlfriend thinks I'm just being silly about our age. In fact, she is thinking about joining the crowd and getting a little ink added to her body - just a little something to make her hip and trendy and sophisticated. I suggested having the word "Gucci" tattooed under each of her eyes so she can walk around with a pair of designer bags.
You'll be happy to know that I regained consciousness shortly after that loving suggestion. If I keep make suggestions like that, I may need a fake ID from the "Witness Protection Program". Make that the "Witless Protection Program".
My girlfriend thinks I'm just being silly about our age. In fact, she is thinking about joining the crowd and getting a little ink added to her body - just a little something to make her hip and trendy and sophisticated. I suggested having the word "Gucci" tattooed under each of her eyes so she can walk around with a pair of designer bags.
You'll be happy to know that I regained consciousness shortly after that loving suggestion. If I keep make suggestions like that, I may need a fake ID from the "Witness Protection Program". Make that the "Witless Protection Program".
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Honest, this really happened
The following actually happened a couple of days ago. It's taken me a little time for my bruised ego to heal so I could write about it ...
So there I sat, patiently waiting my turn. My attention focused on a woman's home-and-garden magazine as I read about the "6 ways to please your plant." (You never know when you might be married to a frustrated vegetable. And I've already gone through one marriage to a fruit cake. So I was preparing myself. As I climb that relationship ladder, I just might be able to move from the dessert section up to the plant kingdom in my quest to that top rung where a real woman awaits.)
So there I sat in the hair salon, waiting, reading, comfortable, when a flash of lightening stuck outside. Then, the usual boom of thunder and the flicker of electrical power. "Oh no!" shouted one of the hair stylists, "The air conditioner has stopped." A few minutes later, she announced further disastrous news, "The temperature has gone from 77 to 79! Call someone! Quick!" Knowing what could happen next, I buried my face deeper into the magazine.
All I wanted my hair cut. And by the same woman who has dealt with my mane for these past 15 years. Because she does such a good job, I've tried to keep my business with her at all costs. Even when the bad economy of a few years ago forced her to close her barber shop and move. Even when she set up a new business in this den of old, blue-haired ladies, highlighted gossip, and permanent drama that would curl your hair. And your lips.
So there I sat, reading, not as comfortable now, ignoring the commotion, and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Then my area became noticeably dimmer. One of the stylists - an immense gal with a butch haircut - stood in front of me, eclipsing the light. One of her chubby hands on her ample hip, her other hand - surrounded by charm bracelet charms of the Venus symbol, NOW letters, and an intimidating feminist logo squeezing the life out of a limp Mars symbol - pointed at me. The charms jangled in rhythm with the jiggle of her forearm's loose flesh. In a loud, accusatory voice, she said, "You're a man! What are YOU going to do about this?!"
I never felt so violated in all of my life (aside from that IRS audit). I just want to be loved for my brains, not for my brawn. (Ok, for my brawn, too.)
I stood up. Slowly. Around large, angry mammals, I know the importance of the "no sudden movement" rule. "I'll reset the circuit breaker," I said, avoiding eye contact. "This might reset the air conditioner. The lights will go off for a few seconds, but they should come back on." The other women silently nodded their approval as I strolled to the back room.
I flicked the breaker. Even with my warning, a woman screamed. "Maybe someone took advantage of the momentary darkness and use a pair of scissors in a merciful manner," I thought. But no. Upon returning, the only murderous act I found was some old lady's hair dyeing.
With mounting hysteria in her voice, another woman reported on our impending doom. "It's at 81 degrees now!" she said with the drama of a soap opera.
I opened the front of the shop just as the store owner from next door opened his entrance. "Is your A/C out?" I asked. With the brevity that only comes from the Y chromosome, he motioned with his chin, grunted "Yep", and surveyed the darkening sky.
A brilliant bolt of lightening interrupted our manly chat and killed all the power to the building. From the darkness behind me, I heard the wailing and cursing as the ensuing apocalypse stampeded towards the door, towards the fresh air, towards the beckoning daylight. I did what any gentleman would have done (and any one with a sense of self preservation), I quickly stepped aside.
So, finally, there I stood, uncomfortable, and rescheduled my appointment by the glow of a flickering cell phone. Of course, maybe a smarter man would consider a different time and place for a haircut that involves less drama - say, a trim using a high-powered fan and an electric weed-whacker. Maybe I could suggest this to my stylist and ask her to come to my house. I wonder if she likes vegetables.
So there I sat, patiently waiting my turn. My attention focused on a woman's home-and-garden magazine as I read about the "6 ways to please your plant." (You never know when you might be married to a frustrated vegetable. And I've already gone through one marriage to a fruit cake. So I was preparing myself. As I climb that relationship ladder, I just might be able to move from the dessert section up to the plant kingdom in my quest to that top rung where a real woman awaits.)
So there I sat in the hair salon, waiting, reading, comfortable, when a flash of lightening stuck outside. Then, the usual boom of thunder and the flicker of electrical power. "Oh no!" shouted one of the hair stylists, "The air conditioner has stopped." A few minutes later, she announced further disastrous news, "The temperature has gone from 77 to 79! Call someone! Quick!" Knowing what could happen next, I buried my face deeper into the magazine.
All I wanted my hair cut. And by the same woman who has dealt with my mane for these past 15 years. Because she does such a good job, I've tried to keep my business with her at all costs. Even when the bad economy of a few years ago forced her to close her barber shop and move. Even when she set up a new business in this den of old, blue-haired ladies, highlighted gossip, and permanent drama that would curl your hair. And your lips.
So there I sat, reading, not as comfortable now, ignoring the commotion, and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Then my area became noticeably dimmer. One of the stylists - an immense gal with a butch haircut - stood in front of me, eclipsing the light. One of her chubby hands on her ample hip, her other hand - surrounded by charm bracelet charms of the Venus symbol, NOW letters, and an intimidating feminist logo squeezing the life out of a limp Mars symbol - pointed at me. The charms jangled in rhythm with the jiggle of her forearm's loose flesh. In a loud, accusatory voice, she said, "You're a man! What are YOU going to do about this?!"
I never felt so violated in all of my life (aside from that IRS audit). I just want to be loved for my brains, not for my brawn. (Ok, for my brawn, too.)
I stood up. Slowly. Around large, angry mammals, I know the importance of the "no sudden movement" rule. "I'll reset the circuit breaker," I said, avoiding eye contact. "This might reset the air conditioner. The lights will go off for a few seconds, but they should come back on." The other women silently nodded their approval as I strolled to the back room.
I flicked the breaker. Even with my warning, a woman screamed. "Maybe someone took advantage of the momentary darkness and use a pair of scissors in a merciful manner," I thought. But no. Upon returning, the only murderous act I found was some old lady's hair dyeing.
With mounting hysteria in her voice, another woman reported on our impending doom. "It's at 81 degrees now!" she said with the drama of a soap opera.
I opened the front of the shop just as the store owner from next door opened his entrance. "Is your A/C out?" I asked. With the brevity that only comes from the Y chromosome, he motioned with his chin, grunted "Yep", and surveyed the darkening sky.
A brilliant bolt of lightening interrupted our manly chat and killed all the power to the building. From the darkness behind me, I heard the wailing and cursing as the ensuing apocalypse stampeded towards the door, towards the fresh air, towards the beckoning daylight. I did what any gentleman would have done (and any one with a sense of self preservation), I quickly stepped aside.
So, finally, there I stood, uncomfortable, and rescheduled my appointment by the glow of a flickering cell phone. Of course, maybe a smarter man would consider a different time and place for a haircut that involves less drama - say, a trim using a high-powered fan and an electric weed-whacker. Maybe I could suggest this to my stylist and ask her to come to my house. I wonder if she likes vegetables.
Sunday, July 08, 2012
stupid birthday card selections ...
Dear Friend,
Happy 55th birthday! I'm sorry I didn't give you a celebratory card. When I went shopping, the birthday card aisle had "happy 48", then "happy 49", followed by "get well", and "sympathy". Since I've crossed that half century mark myself, I left store rather discouraged.
Given the card selection, I hope to see you next year ...
Happy 55th birthday! I'm sorry I didn't give you a celebratory card. When I went shopping, the birthday card aisle had "happy 48", then "happy 49", followed by "get well", and "sympathy". Since I've crossed that half century mark myself, I left store rather discouraged.
Given the card selection, I hope to see you next year ...
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