Mistake #12: Riding the bus to Atlanta
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I don’t typically make mistakes. But, boy, when I do. I make them count. You’ll recall my Zumba accident, perhaps. And if you need a new reference, well, then, here you go: I took a trip on a bus this weekend to Atlanta. Not a city bus that takes you twenty minutes or less from Wal-Mart to a museum, or whatever, where I live we don’t really have city buses. No, the bus I took was with a commercial busing company that we’ve come to know as Greyhound. I was heading to Atlanta to visit an old friend, and do some networking, and eating,...
And now for The Walking Dead, and the lessons they’ve taught me.
You were bound to find out. I’m a liar. I mean, I do sleep a lot because I love sleeping so that part from my blog the other day is not a lie. But, the part where I said I don’t watch a lot of TV? That was a lie. A big, fat, bald-faced lie – so called because 18th-19th century businessmen often grew beards to mask facial expressions when making “deals,”(Check it out http://tinyurl.com/5s9k7). By the way, though: Props to bald people. Get a rough end of it, don’t they? But back to me. I’m obsessed with TV right now. It wasn’t always like...
Ten Things I’ve Learned From Downton Abbey Most Of Which I’m Sure Are Historically Accurate
I don't normally watch TV. I prefer sleeping. But, every now and then, I come across a show that grips me for some reason or other, and that's exactly what's happened with Downton Abbey, seen in the United States, via PBS. (On another note, good for PBS. They have a hit show. And that makes me happy). Of course, I find very little to dislike with any show BBC originates, especially in Downton Abbey, not to be confused with Downtown Abbey which is not even a real place; everything about the show works, and I don't know why - even the...
A little note on compassion and the children who aren’t learning about it
Not so very long ago, one of my nephews—none are older than seven, yet—asked me a plain and loaded question. We were eating Sunday dinner at Nana’s and he looked up at me and simply said, “Why do I have to be nice to people?” He wasn’t baiting me; he was honestly asking. Granted, the context had been a Valentine’s Day activity of the sort that seems so obligatory in elementary school where everyone gets a card, even the mean kids, but humiliation is reserved for those who are a little too self-aware. That, sadly, is a family trait we unwillingly share. I countered by...
I’m not really the first at anything when it comes to cats.
I’m not the first person to fall for a cat. I’m not even the first person to say “I was never a cat person,” who then becomes a cat person. I’m not really the first at anything when it comes to cats. Especially not with the cat I have now. Her name is Lazarus, and the first person she bit was not me; it was Amanda, who then required a shot. The first person she scratched? Nope, again, it was Amanda. And lucky for Lazarus, Amanda isn’t one to hold a grudge, as the option the vet gave us that long-ago day...
Once upon a time, I wet the bed.
I wasn’t much of a bedwetter. Not really. Which is hard to believe considering the bladder problems I’ve always had. It wouldn’t have mattered, either way; my family doesn’t talk about such personal things, choosing instead to overlook them with polite parentheticals. Should an uncomfortable topic arise in conversation, we are likely to smile and pass it off with an “Is that so?”, but not in an encouraging way. Inflection is key in asking a question without looking for an answer. It’s an art form, actually. Likely, had it been an issue, they simply would have spent a fortune on new sheets and bed spreads,...
Go Green, young man, and grow up with the country.
I rarely cash in on a fad. Not out of disdain or separatist leanings, I’m usually just too lazy to keep up. But, Main Street, the heart of downtown, which I live so close to as to worry that it’s developed angina, has given over whole contents of wallets to cash in on “Going Green.” And let me tell you something. When you give a lot of money to a cause, it is no longer a fad. It is a fact, i.e. We now have bicycle lanes. The thing is, it’s catching on. I went downtown, before Christmas to buy a book for my brother-in-law, a...
You know what they say about big ears…
Yesterday, while at lunch—Chinese buffet, the temptation never dies, does it?—I overheard a table a few booths away talking. They were replaying, in conversation, a blow-by-blow of what they’d done earlier that morning: sledding. It doesn’t snow here the way it does “up north.” The threat of a half-inch closes down most businesses and schools. We’d gotten several inches, actually. And they had gone sledding. And they were talking about it. One guy said, “Yeah, I hit you pretty hard.” Another guy said, “Yeah, you did.” They laughed at that. Then, said the exact same thing again, using different words, and laughed again. From where I sat,...
A drum set, and other gifts not to give to children.
I found myself in a conversation the other evening in which the topic of Santa arose, and with it came the typical, post-adolescent baggage: How old were you when you found out Santa wasn’t real? It seems that Santa has a very thin line of discussability (today's word du jour). Either you are six, or thereabout, and Santa conjures up images so explosively potent that you have to lock yourself in a bathroom until the feeling passes, and though the whole messy Santa business only lasts for about twelve total hours on the night of his imminent arrival, you still swear...
Or, in layman’s terms, a fist.
I’m guessing you’ve never thought about this before, and until recently, it had been ages since it’d crossed my mind, but I’m going to ask you anyway: What kind of finger-pointer are you? I’m not sure how, but I think it’s probably very important that we ask ourselves this and learn how knowing what type of finger-pointer we are unconsciously dictates our lives. I was first brought to the attention of the power of the finger not, as you might imagine, by a rude driver showing me his emotional state caused by my “granddaddy” style of driving along our nation’s roadways. No,...
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