You're Not Listening!

Today's Christmas card take -- three.

Yep -- postcard style photo cards.

No personal message.

No signature.

No ink.

No glitter.

No ho ho ho.

Sigh.

The condoms of Christmas cards.

I'm starting to wonder if latex gloves are worn on the senders' Christmas card assembly lines.

I feel dirty and nonfestive.

The Damn Phone

That's what it is called it this household.  The Damn Phone.

When it rings, I ask, "Who's on The Damn Phone?'  Or, "Who's calling on The Damn Phone this time of night?"

For the love of Pete, I detest The Damn Phone.

People call you up on it to talk you into doing things you don't want to do.  Sometimes it's an out-of-towner wanting to drop off their child so they can get themselves a little afternoon delight.  Or a solicitor wanting some money.  Or gangs of solicitors wanting all of my money and then some.  How about a little (or a lot) of volunteering.  Or calls that begin with, "I hope you don't mind, but . . ."

And, of course, the worst.  Someone has died.

This morning, I have a lot to do.  A LOT TO DO.  I've got to clean my house out for the renters, and what the hell, I just better get it done before my mother-in-law arrives on the 21st.  That's a long way away you say? But I also have to pack and plan for the movers on the 18th.  But I can't turn on the vacuum until people return calls that I made earlier this morning.  I have important questions for the head of the school that my daughter will be attending in Charleston.  I have to know if the plumber is going to replace my kitchen faucet so the renters don't get flooded out the first moment they need a glass of water.

I hate it when I get my info. together and dial out on The Damn Phone, only to discover I've got to sit by The Damn Phone and wait to actually talk to a real person.  I usually make my husband dial out, but since he's on the road, I have to do it.

So that's it.  Just a little bit of bitching.  But inside I'm seething.  I have important shit to do.  And I better not find out that these folks I'm waiting on are just standing next to the coffee maker waiting to get themselves a cup.  Maybe they are just avoiding The Damn Phone.

Just One More Try

Each year, I do the Christmas Card post.  Sometimes I copy from the year before and leave it at that.  Other times I copy and edit and embellish.  This time, I'm just going to plead.

If I am on your Christmas Card list, I'm delighted.  Whether you are a friend, an acquaintance, or merely someone who has repaired my furnace or cleaned my teeth, it doesn't matter.  I love a card.  I like those cards to be cute, glittery, gorgeous, filled with confetti, festooned with ribbon, city stylized, kissing kousin kountry, red and green, blue and white, black and yellow, and decorated with Jesus, snowmen, zebras, angels, trees, RVs, balls, bells, and whistles.

I also will read your newsletter.  If you care to send me the long form, I will happily read it because, chances are, I care.  And I really like it when you tuck in a photo of your kids, your dogs or your vacation home.   Especially the kid.   If I like you, then I probably like your kid.  I even want to know if they've made the honor roll or graduated from braces and headgear.

Just please, please, please don't send that one-sided, unsigned, undecorated photo of your dog, kid, or vacation home that poses as a complete holiday card.  And when you print out the envelope on your computer and your housekeeper then stuffs all of the envelopes, I'm going to want to tell you to stuff it. Hell, I even get a little calendar from the dude at the local used car lot and my local realtor (I haven't purchased a house here in 15 years).  Put a bit of ink on the damn thing or don't send it.  I'd rather you send me a picture on facebook of your middle finger.  At least that's personal.

Happy Holidays
Merry Christmas
Happy Kwanzaa
Happy Chanukah
and so on

For the Love of Christ, Show Us Your Bling

A couple of months ago, I went with my family to New York City.  My husband was participating in a conference and my daughter and I were there to visit the zoo, shop, and see as much artwork as possible.  One outing involved what my daughter considered to be a long subway ride.  As I had already inflicted several trips by subway upon her (some involving incorrect stops resulting in more subway rides), my daughter was a bit tired by our third day of sightseeing and subway cruising.   After several people had exited at a busy stop, my daughter spotted two open seats near the door.  She was on her way to the closet seat when a twenty-something, able-bodied couple pushed in front of her to take the seats.  We have been to the city several times and are quite used to pushy people, but this time my daughter got just a bit of a quivery upper lip.

I shrugged and tried to tell her with my eyes that this was just what happens in the big city.  I also wanted to tell those seat-stealing folks how I felt about them with my eyes.   Instead of looking deep into the eyes of the worst offender (young, well-cut dude), my eyes were enchanted by the movement of something shiny.  Very shiny.  And very gold.  And large.  Yes, this dude was able-bodied enough to be able to bear the weight of a 6” crucifix.   Six inches might not seem like a great deal, but when it is a chunk of heavy swinging metal -- that’s a heck of a lot of cross to wear.  Especially for a man who did not ask himself, in front of a tired child, what would Jesus do?

I’m thinking that Jesus would stand while a child sat.  Jesus would be aware of his surroundings and would give a damn about the suffering of others, no matter how minor.  Jesus wouldn’t sprawl over two subway seats.  And I’m assuming this dude is wearing the cross because he is representing Jesus.  Could be he’s just making a fashion statement.  Whatever.  He’s an ass adorned with a cross.  A cross that is likely to take out the front teeth of anyone that is in swinging radius. 

We stand.  We ride.  We get off several stops later.

I begin to notice others wearing crosses.   While I see many, I’ve yet to see one quite as large.

I noticed three women at the hotel wearing crucifixes.  Smaller.  More discreet.  Yet somehow, just as disturbing as the dude’s.  Each one was inset with diamonds.  Did these women go into their local jeweler’s and say, “I’d like a diamond necklace.  No.  Wait.  I’d like a symbol of my Savior.   No.  Wait.  Can I combine the two?”  Or maybe these necklaces were gifts from their adoring husbands.  Did their husbands walk into the jewelry store and request a special something for their pious brides?  They certainly wore these pendants with pride.  The glint in their eyes seemed to say, “Look upon my chest.  There you will see my love for Christ.  I know I love him.  But I want YOU to know that I love the Lord.  I am a lamb of my Savior.  I also don’t give a shit about children mining for gold and diamonds in African countries.  They are not lambs of the Savior. I am blessed and those children can dig those freakin’ diamonds up for me.”

If you must show innocent bystanders that you are a Christian, forget the bling.  Get yourself two rough sticks of wood, lash them together with ragged twine or a bit of shoelace too small for a homeless person to use, and string that around your neck.  Make sure it’s pretty darn big.  And heavy.  You might also want to think about adding some nails and thorns for a bit of discomfort.  It would be a bit easier, and far less expensive, to go about doing unto others as you would have them do unto you.  And nearby children would not have to fear having their teeth knocked out.

Everything's Temporary

Almost two months since I've posted!

I guess one could say I'm temporarily away.

I've been artmaking and housewifeing.

I've been preparing for (and hiding from) some life-changing events.

My dad has been ill for quite a while and is now in and out of nursing homes and hospitals.  Hopefully he can recover enough to move on to an assisted living facility.  I'm thinking his attitude is not positive lately.  I'm not sure how I would feel if I were 85 and had lost my spouse of 60 years and my home of 50 years.

As for homes, when my husband and I moved to State College, PA, 15 years ago, he planted a (mental) flag and declared we would retire and die here.  As I said in my title, "everything's temporary." Announcements to come later.

Hopefully, I will soon post regularly again.  I just have to get back in touch with my old, sarcastic, inner self.  That part of me has been worn down to a nub.  I must nurture it back to life.

Three Men and an Attitude

Master Chef "Hosts"

I like food.  I like good food.  I am especially fond of very good food.  When I leave my little burg for an urban excursion, I research the restaurants well in advance of reaching my destination.  And, if the food is not up to snuff, oh well.  Better luck next time.  I won’t be lugging along a trunk full of attitude just so I can unleash it on restaurant employees that cannot meet my bloated expectations.

I’m not fond of reality television shows.  I like good shows. I prefer someone to write a good story, create a layered environment, and round up a herd of good actors to perform.  There is a great wall between the “reality” of today and my choice of programming.   But there are times one just wants to turn on the television and get a quick entertainment fix.  After a three-day walking and eating visit to New York City, the hubby, his mother and I were relaxing in front of the tube.  What to watch?  A show about food?  Sure!   And then we stumbled across Master Chef.  A roomful of amateur contestants ready to cook, and three big, flaming assholes reading to judge their attempts at culinary greatness.

Master Chef was a huge disappointment to me.  There were three judges.  I have only two hands.  Therefore, I was short one middle finger.  Am I the only person left in this country that does not think insulting others is funny?  Sure, those contestants expected critiques of their cooking.  And they expected that those that could not perform well would be eliminated.  Don’t all of these reality and talent shows follow the same formula?  A roomful of pretties waiting to be knocked off one by one?  What I did not expect was for three grown, supposedly respectable men, to act like complete dicks.  At least Freddy Krueger had a deeply-set issue prompting him to turn on others.  Individually, hosts Gordon Ramsay, Joe Bastianich, and Graham Elliot have built food empires based on restaurants, books, television shows, and wineries.  Together on Master Chef, they are three unpalatable turds on a plate.

As I see it, a chef cooks, trains and educates.  They take raw ingredients and form them into beautiful, tasty piles of sustenance.  It is an art form.  The best should be and are looked up to by us lesser life forms.  We want them to feed us.  To share their joy of cooking.  To educate us about their ingredients.  Etcetera.  I don’t feel that a chef needs to spread the knowledge that they would do better in life by running a string of S & M clubs.

No, I don’t think that any of these three men would notice or care that I don’t support their empires after seeing this show.  I don’t want to eat in their restaurants.  I don’t want to buy their books or wines.  I don’t want to watch their ugly, catty Master Chef show.  I prefer a larger entrée to a larger ego.  In my world of eating food and watching food television, these three have just been eliminated.  If this is the direction gourmet food is heading, I’d rather stick to Stouffer’s. 

More Tasty Treats for Americans

I'm really not sure what those with a sweet tooth eat in other countries, but in the United States, we eat this:

The Gummy Bacon is actually strawberry flavored.  The Roast Beef gum is roast beef flavored.  I'm not sure about those gumballs.

The hubby spotted this display while in California.  He sent a photo of the gummy bacon and my daughter strongly encouraged him to buy her some.

Check it out through the "Bacon Viewing Window."  Bacon sells.  We LOVE pork fat products here.  And if we're not eating pork fat, we are eating things that look like it.

Strangely, this candy is made in China.  Now we know what the Chinese think of us.  They just want our cholesterol levels to go through the ceiling and for us to fall dead on our faces and they will take over.  Bwah ha ha ha ha ha!!