Spending My Millions
I have just about everything I want. And most of the stuff that I don’t have – well, it’s just because it hasn’t worked its way up my priority list yet.
I have a nice house, nice car, a very nice and very big wardrobe (and a nice big closet in my nice house to hold it all). I have every face cream and blush and concealer. I have perfume and fabulous jewelry – thanks to my nice hubby. And books and art supplies.
But.
Sometimes I wonder what else I might want if I had a really really big wad of money.
I don’t want to win this wad in the lottery or anything. No. I want to DESERVE it.
How would that happen?
Well, here’s a totally realistic scenario: In my novel (that I’d love to find an agent for – hint, hint), Oprah Winfrey plays a small role. She performs a small but sweet act of kindness. And here’s the fantasy part: My novel becomes a best seller. But that’s not what gives me my fortune. No. It’s Oprah. She reads my book (she’s an avid reader, as you know), and she is so pleased with her little part in my plot-line, that she gives me a ton of cash. Let’s say One Billion Dollars. (She’s very rich, as you also know.)
Totally possible, right? And of course I’d do all those altruistic things that all the Miss America contestants would do: Feed the Poor, Fund Cancer Research, Protect the Bunny Rabbits, etc. But Oprah wants to make sure that I keep some of the billion just for myself. She stipulates that I must keep 5% to spend on me. That’s fifty million. That’ll do.
So what would I do with fifty million dollars?
One thing that really rich people have that I envy is good art. I used to live in a town whose public library would loan art in addition to books. I would take home a painting (well, a framed print of a painting) and prop it up on my kitchen table. And I’d look at it over breakfast for the three-week loan period, and then trade it for another one. I had Renoir and Modigliani and Winslow Homer. But if I loved breakfast with these copies, imagine how nice it would be to have REAL art with my cheerios.
Here’s the one I would especially like:
This Gauguin – that has enthralled me since I saw it in a book at twelve (just when I was waiting for breasts of my own) – is absolutely perfect for my next expenditure.
Because I want a house in Tahiti. I love tropical islands. Not that I have traveled much. But I did do my student teaching in Puerto Rico. And I just went to St. Lucia for four days. And I saw “Mutiny on the Bounty” when I was that impressionable 12-year-old who discovered the Gauguin painting shortly afterwards.
So I’m buying a house on the beach in Tahiti.
And I would never want to be lonely. I’d pay for all my family and friends to come and visit any time they want.
And my husband can have a boat. He’s always wanted a boat. I’ve never wanted a boat. I had a boyfriend once with a boat. He mostly just worked on it. We seldom went out on it. It was a waste a money. And marinas smell. My husband doesn’t even have good sea legs. I don’t think he’d use his boat much more than my worthless old boyfriend did. But with $50 million, hubby can have one. He can work on it all he wants. He doesn’t have to take it out on the water. He can even just look at it. I’ll be on the beach.
And that takes care of the big stuff.
But you know what else I’d like?
A chauffeur. It’s not that I hate to drive. It’s that I hate to park. I’d like someone to drive me to shopping or yoga or zumba or hair appointments (But not to work. As soon I take delivery on the billion, I’ll retire instantly, thank you very much.) My chauffeur will drop me off and pick me up. And I will never have to parallel park (or even parking-lot park) ever again.
Now you may be wondering why I wouldn’t – with all that loot – just have the yoga instructor come to me. Because I like class. I like to see what everyone else is doing. Mostly to make sure that I am not the worst one in class. Or if I am the worst one, at least I want to make sure that everyone better is at least younger. So that I am the best one (or not the worst one anyway) for my age.
But the hairdresser can come to me. That might be okay. Because the other thing I would absolutely spend big bucks for is great hair. Don’t get me wrong. I love my hairdresser. She is smart and fun and she does a good job considering the pathetic cowlicky wreck that I was born with. But how I would love Fabulous Hair.
Maybe Chris McMillan could do my hair. He does Jennifer Aniston, Diane Lane, Anne Hathaway, Sarah-Jessica Parker, and Jennifer Lopez. But he also does Jim Carrey, which would probably be really good experience to have before you try to do me.
And I’ve done the math. Even if I spend $1,000 per week on my hair – every week – and live to be 100 – the total I would spend on my hair would be $192,400. That’s only 3.8% of the $50 million that Oprah is giving me for spending money. You can’t get much more frugal than that.
And I want flowers. Fresh bouquets of flowers in every room.
A while back when I had a brief (18 months) try-out of early retirement, I had fresh flowers on the kitchen table every day. I didn’t have much money, but I allocated $20 per week for flowers. I could certainly do that now if I wanted. But working again made me too busy to remember. In summer, when I can just go out and cut some flowers from my garden, I still usually forget.
So I want flowers. Every day. And not just on the kitchen table. I want a bouquet in the bedroom. And in the bathroom. How lovely that would be?
And finally – there’s just one more thing that would make make my life perfect.
Comfort.
I want handmade shoes. Made just for me. I’ll fly to Italy and have a chauffeur bring me to a little old shoemaker (since I won’t want to park on those narrow streets). Old Giuseppe will measure me with infinite care, and make my perfect shoes. They’d fit my oddball feet. My bunions. My knuckly, spatulate toes. They’d be even more comfortable than the $5.00 flipflops I bought in the drugstore ten years ago, which to date have been unsurpassed for their flawless fit.
I’ll have them made in every color.
My Man
The day after the wedding I attended in St. Lucia, we were literally knee-deep in mud (at the volcano) when the bride started a sentence with “My husband….” She stopped mid-sentence and said, “That sounds weird.”
If she thought it was weird in her mid-twenties, think about how weird it was for me – marrying as I did at forty. (almost forty-one, but let’s keep it at forty.) I had never thought those words – “My Husband” – would ever be part of my vocabulary.
After the initial weirdness, I liked the way it sounded. “My husband.” Yeah, I thought, I got one of those. I sprinkled it liberally in all my conversations.
It felt a little like I had joined some popular club. It certainly wasn’t a very exclusive club, but one that I thought would never have me for a member. And I had been all right with that notion (staying out of the club) for a very long time. In fact the longer I had been single, the more I appreciated the freedom of it.
But when I joined the Married Ladies Club, and got to say stuff like “My Husband” and “My In-Laws,” I found I enjoyed being in that sorority quite a bit. I especially liked saying “My husband’s job” – by which I meant: taking out the trash, shoveling snow, and killing bugs.
Yes, “My Husband” felt very pleasurable making the trip across my lips.
After several years, I found that the phrase “My husband” was gradually being accompanied by something else. Usually an eye-roll. You know the context: “My husband ate the cake I made for the party.” “My husband bought me pot-holders for my birthday.” “My husband forgot to pick me up.”
This use of “My Husband” is also a part of a club. It is the Married Ladies Exasperated Club. It is also not exclusive. You can join as soon as the honeymoon is over. The membership fee is high. But we all pay it. It has a very strong support group, called “Oh yeah, I’ve been there.”
Before I joined either of the “My Husband’ clubs, I had, on a very occasional basis, used the term “My Boyfriend.” This always sounded presumptuous to me. I was never quite sure he (any he – of which there were multiple but short-term) considered himself “My Boyfriend.” “My Lover” was even worse. I’m not very superstitious, but I was certain if I ever used that term, it was sure to reveal itself immediately as untrue.
But “My Husband” was not as equivocal as Boyfriend or Lover. That is what he was – BY LEGAL DECREE. I wasn’t jinxing myself by calling him such.
And last week, when I watched My Husband haggle with the jet-ski dude, I refrained from the old familiar eye-roll (though I may have been doing it a little in my head). After all, he was My Husband enjoying his vacation in his own way – getting a great deal on something that he knows he will buy anyway. Manicure for me; dickering for him.
He came back smiling, so I knew that he saved us at least ten bucks. Maybe twenty, but he was only smiling, not strutting. He went back to the room to stow our shit so we wouldn’t worry about it as we jet-skiied our butts off. (That’s literal, by the way; there’s plenty of vibration).
The previous water-daredevils (which is what I was now considering myself) finished up (alive) and returned the jet-ski, and so it was our turn. But My Husband had not yet come back. (“My Husband is late again.” Eye-roll.)
The rental dude came sauntering over – that’s what they do in the Caribbean – they don’t walk or even stroll. They saunter. And he said:
“Where is your man?”
And “My Husband” was re-born. No longer “My Husband” but “My Man.”
I liked it.
My Man.
I got one of those.
I felt like I earned it somehow.
Yeah, I got My Man. Like Fanny Brice, Like Billie Holiday.
He’s a bargainer, a worrier, a nervous traveler (to put it mildly), a reality TV watcher, a too-fast driver, a wine connoisseur, an ass-aficionado, a sleep-kicker.
He’s crazy-making.
But he’s My Man.
And he kills bugs.
It Wasn’t Me
I just came back from a fabulous destination wedding/vacation in St. Lucia.
My husband and I think we are traveling when we drive from Connecticut to Rhode Island and stay in a bed-and-breakfast a WHOLE night.
So this was WAY out of our comfort zone.
And so worth it.
And as long as we were doing something so atypical for us, I decided that I didn’t have to be cautious, self-conscious me. I could be fun-loving, adventurous Not-Me.
I had a beer at 10:00 AM. That’s when the bar opened. So that’s when I had a beer. Drinking for me is one glass of red wine with dinner once a week. A morning beer? Definitely Not-Me. And there was a swim-up bar in the pool where you can sit in the water and have a fancy drink. And I did… what they called a BBC – Banana, Bailey’s, and Cream. Okay, so it was a banana milkshake with a miniscule amount of liquor. It was a drink. In the pool. In my bikini.
I rode a jet-ski. I am a complete vehicle chicken. No motorcycles, snowmobiles – not even a mo-ped. But when hubby saw the jet-skis and said, “I’d like to do that,” Not-Me said, “Sure!” And we raced through the water with me hanging on to him (and to the jet-ski with every muscle in my thighs). And I never (which means fewer than six times) said “Slow Down!”
And speaking of vehicles – I stood up in a moving one! The whole group went for an excursion in open-air land rovers. The guide said, “This isn’t America – you can stand up in a moving vehicle.” And so we did. And I did. Standing up holding the roll-bar while we skidded through hair-pin turns on the sides of cliffs. And Not-Me liked it! I smiled even!
(I will admit, I didn’t get off the vehicle when they stopped to let people play with the boa constrictor.)
This excursion took us to a botanical garden – perfect for regular old me. But we also went to a volcano, where they encourage you to strip down to your swimsuit and smear volcanic mud all over you for a full-body mask. My self-conscious hubby went on the tour instead. But Not-Me. Not-Me slathered myself in mud in front of all our friends. Who I hope are dear friends who didn’t take any photos.
I danced. I love to dance, so it is not so strange. But hubby doesn’t like to dance, so I often oblige by remaining seating and just bouncing in my chair wishing I were dancing. Not on this trip! Every night, I took to the dance floor (or rather, the dance-sand) by myself, with other women, with the bartender… anybody! And I danced my butt off. I danced until I felt my twice-broken metatarsal snap. Luckily, it was not thrice broken, just protesting. And let me tell you, popping your metatarsal is so much more fun when you do it freaking out to “Mony Mony” instead of cleaning the attic.
I cried at the wedding. Oh sure, you say, you always cry. (Yeah I do. So what?) Anyway, I misted up a bit during the incredibly romantic wedding ceremony. And then again when the bride danced with her father. And Hubby saw me leaking a bit and took my hand and whispered, “You’re missing your Dad.” And then the tears really flowed. All normal. Here’s the Not-Me part: I didn’t run off to fix my makeup. No Siree Bob – “Hot, Hot, Hot” started and I joined the conga line with mascara tracks on my cheeks.
One more day there and I’d have worn that boa constrictor.
Public Display of Affection. So Not-Me.
I Look At Clouds From Both Sides Now
Another Oldie-But-Goodie while I take a few days off….
***
Yesterday, I went to the ophthalmologist (gee, that’s a weird spelling, but that’s what spell-check says and I believe that little spelling-bee guy inside my laptop).
I have had this eye problem for a couple of weeks. “Floaters,” they’re called, and lots of people have them. But my floaters are taking over my left eye. Not-so-little blobs are running around in there… sort of like my neighbor’s runaway sheep.
So I had it checked out.
I have “Posterior Vitreous Detachment.” As the ophthalmologist described it, the thick transparent fluid (vitreous) that fills the bulbus oculi (eyeball) has detached from the retina. In layman’s terms, my jello has shrunk away from the sides of my bowl.
It is not dangerous, but it’s not reversible either. The floaters happen because now my eye can see its own cellular debris. The doctor assured me that it will become less distracting in time, simply because my brain will get used to it.
It’s not so bad; I can live with it. Except for this: The ophthalmologist said, “PVD is an age-related condition. A natural part of the aging process.”
Oh, really?
Listen up, Sonnyboy. Maybe you should get your vision checked.
Don’t you see these leg-lengthening slim stylish whiskered jeans?
And how about these fabulous chocolate pearl drop lever-back earrings?
The collagen-plumped lip gloss?
There is nothing about me that is age-related, kiddo.
Why, I even have an iPhone in my purse.
(Well, okay, I concede that I have a purse.)
Me in Glasses… very “Wayne’s World Garth”
I.D.K.W.T.M.
I‘m taking a few days off, but I wouldn’t want you to miss me… or worse… NOT miss me – So here’s an oldie but goodie:
****
I.D.K.W.T.M.
(I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS)
When I was seventeen, my sister’s boyfriend came home from his first semester at a New York acting school.
He had a new word. “Heavy.” Like in, “Those jeans are so heavy.”
I was a lifetime proponent of “Cool.” But oh, “Heavy” was so cool.
So I went back to high school, dropping “heavies” all over the hallways. I was very heavy (except that I was 96 lbs, and I feel I need to include that fact, since I adore saying it.)
Then about six months later, on “The Mod Squad”, Linc uttered this emotional phrase: “Heavy, man.”
And I knew it was all over. Back in those days, the term “jumping the shark” hadn’t yet been coined. But the concept was there. If it was already on TV, it was already passe.
And that was the last time I was ahead of the curve on colloquial language.
If I said “cool,” the cool kids said “hot”. Then the hot kids said “fine,” and the fine kids said “smokin'” — and the smokin kids said “sick.”
And I gave up.
I can pretty much guarantee that if I even hear an expression, it’s outdated. If it finds its way out of my mouth, it’s ridiculously old.
For example, my little factoid about being 96 lbs is called a humblebrag. But I am sure it only used to be called a humblebrag. Since I know that word, it’s certainly OUT.
A few weeks ago, a nice blogger suggested very politely that I use PFA instead of the words I did use, “pulled right out of my ass.”
But acronyms are even worse for me that outdated words. Mostly I don’t know what they mean, but if I do know, they are either incredibly dated or make me look like I’m trying to be sixteen. I won’t even use OMG, because I will immediately become (in my mind, and probably in the reader’s mind) a teenybopper airhead. (But I better not say “teenybopper.”) (Or “airhead.”)
I know ROTFLMAO. But I can’t say that every time. Sometimes I am not ROTFLMAO. Sometimes I may just be chuckling a bit under my breath. (CABUMB?)
I read the stuff my cool (hot, smokin–I don’t know anymore) niece posts on Facebook, and it’s full of ” *** ” and “wifeys” and “Bwahahas”, and I guess I can figure it out, but sometimes I’m not sure whether it’s a fabulous (blazin, sick) new expression or a typo.
I’m old. I’m sticking with “Cool.” And I will suppress the urge to respond to TRDMC with LSMFT. (For those notquiteold, that’s “Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco.” ( See?–We had acronyms back in the olden days.)
Genius or Idiot? You Decide.
This is the time of year when my fingernails get as brittle as the dead maples leaves. Luckily, they do not fall off like the leaves on our New England trees. But they snap and break like the dried-up twigs I’m stepping on.
Housework this weekend broke eight out of ten fingernails. You’d think I’d been clawing the carpets clean.
So Sunday night I sat down and tried to fix them up a little. I filed and buffed away and tried my best to have them all come in at a consistent length, although I ended up with two shorties. One of these days I’m going to get the acrylic version. You are probably surprised that I haven’t done so already, being the devoted fashionista that I am. I am as perplexed as you are. I don’t know why the nail salon isn’t on my speed-dial. Can you type with those things?
Anyway, after I was done, I figured it would be a good idea to add a bit of moisturizer to my raggedy cinderella cuticles. And I remembered that I had some cuticle cream in what I call the medicine cabinet, but what is clearly the makeup cabinet. This cream came as part of a set I received as a gift, (“Gift with Purchase” but still a gift. I had to keep it.)
So I opened the ancient little tube, and the product had separated. I think cuticle cream should have a life-span longer than nine years, don’t you?) And two big globs of oil spurted out and fell onto the knee of my jeans. Yikes.
Now these are not my very best skinny jeans that cost a month’s pay. But they are still very good jeans. And from a company that caters to its customers by sizing their clothing extremely generously. So these jeans are a size four. And so I love them very much.
And now I have oil on them. I immediately got out the Spray and Wash. the Shout-It-Out, and the grease-cutting dish detergent – the special detergent I use on the carpet when the cat throws up. That should work.
Only it didn’t. I scrubbed and rinsed and scrubbed and rinsed. And when the jeans dried, I still had two grease spots on the knee.
Some people say baby powder. Some recommend vinegar. Some baking soda. In the past, I’ve tried them all. Grease is eternal.
I was full of remorse for ever opening that damned cuticle cream. My cuticles really aren’t that bad. No one would ever think I’ve been tortured. Although they may think I wash my clothes on a rock by the river.
But as I was getting ready for bed, and taking off my eye-makeup with baby oil, I had an epiphany.
Baby Oil is cheap. Especially the kind I buy.
Instead of trying to get the oil spots out of my jeans, why don’t I just soak the jean in some baby oil, and get them completely oil-soaked? Then they’d go into the washer and dryer and come out one consistent color.
And they’ll be nice and soft. And I bet my thighs and tushie will be nice and soft too.
Brilliant, right?
Only – do you think I might leave oily marks wherever I sit? And if so, for how many years?
Out Damn Spot!
Lessons From The Straight And Narrow
I stopped today on a busy street to let some poor schmuck get out of his driveway. A whole bunch of memories drove off with him.
When I was a little kid, I lived in a three-family house. My Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Bo and their three kids lived on the first floor. We – Mom and Dad and four kids – were on the second floor. And Grandma (my father and Aunt Evelyn’s mother) lived in the small attic apartment.
Our house was painted yellow and green – first floor yellow and top floors green. Two-color multifamily homes were very common in central Connecticut. And I loved the paint scheme. I remember feeling sorry for my friend who lived in a brown house.
I can’t seem to find any pictures of that old house. It still stands today, but I would not take a photo today – it is so transformed – and not in a good way.
But here is a photo of a house amazingly similar to the one we lived in. In the original photo, the house is brown and yellow. I’ve photoshopped (amateurly, I will admit) in my beloved green.
As an aside – the house that had the telephone ghost was originally beige. When we repainted a few years after moving in, we chose yellow. The color turned out a bit brighter than it looked on the little card. Our neighbors said they needed sunglasses to drive by.
And our house now – is BROWN! Cedar shingles, actually, but how is that for the evolution of taste?
But back to our yellow-and-green house.
I loved everything about that house. The heavy varnish on the floors. The big flowered wallpaper. The pantry off the kitchen. The clotheslines from the back porch to corner of the yard. But there was something about that house that drove the adults crazy.
The driveway.
On the right side of the house there was a very narrow driveway. The photo I posted of my first communion gives you a glimpse.
Because this picture was taken on a Sunday, there’s something missing.
Across the street from our yellow-and-green house was this:
That’s our front yard, with my Mom on the left and Aunt Evelyn on the right. And behind them is New Departure, the biggest factory in Bristol, Connecticut. Across the street. And I know that this photo was also taken on a Sunday because the same thing is missing as is missing from the driveway photo.
Traffic.
When you live across the street from a big, busy factory, there is a LOT of traffic.
Hence the adult aggravation.
Because for most of the time we lived there, there were three cars: My Uncle Bo’s – which was usually a huge station wagon. (See it behind us – looming hearse-like behind the communion picture?) And my Dad’s – something long with fins. And my Mom’s – anything inexpensive to get her back and forth to work.
So with a narrow driveway on a busy street, parking took mucho coordination.
Because at the end of the day, when everyone got home, the driveway looked like this:
Uncle Bo worked an early shift and got home first. Then my Mom came home. Then Dad.
But in the morning, Uncle Bo needed to go to work first. My cousin Susan says that he couldn’t bear the thought of ever being late, so he liked to be at work a little early – like ninety minutes or so. Then my dad left for work. Then my Mom followed shortly after.
So the cars needed to be like this for the morning:
So every single weeknight the cars had to be rearranged. And you couldn’t even attempt it during the shift change at the factory. No one in our house EVER left the driveway during shift change. But after dinner, you could manage to pull out if you were quick and had nerves of steel.
And it took some planning.
Dad would pull out. If he was lucky enough to get a big break in the traffic, he would pull out into the opposite lane. But usually he pulled out into the near right hand lane and drove around the block. Then Mom backed out her car – also into the right hand lane. If traffic was light and she could wait at the curb, she would. But that hardly ever happened, so she also drove around the block. Then Uncle Bo backed out his big wagon and drove around several blocks – to ensure he got back last. Dad would wait on the side street for Mom to get back so she could pull in first. Then he’d park behind her. And then Uncle Bo would get back from his excursion and be the last one in.
Ta- DA!
Every night. Rain. Snow. Whatever. They would perform the ‘Musical Chairs With Cars’ routine.
And I learned a couple of useful Life Lessons from witnessing this never-ending production.
1. Get ready for work the night before. It makes the morning so much easier.
2. Cooperation is important to get stuff done. And it doesn’t hurt to have an agreed-upon plan.
3. Every day of your adult life, there’s annoying shit you have to do. So what? Just do it.
My Ghost Makes Crank Calls
An old post for Halloween:
Many years ago, my husband and I bought an old house. Built around 1840, we didn’t know too much about its history.
We did know about one lady who lived there. Her grandson, now our age, was our neighbor. She must have been a pretty nice Grandma, because Jim didn’t really want us to change a thing about the house. Or the porch. Or the driveway. Or the sidewalk.
“My Grandma always had her refrigerator on THIS wall,” he told me once.
As mildly interfering as he was, when we had trouble with the well, Jim walked over to a spot in the yard and said, “Dig here.” And sure enough, there was the well.
When we first moved in, we noticed something odd about the phone. Once in a while, instead of all the phones in the house ringing, only the extension in the kitchen would ring.
Most of the time, there would be no one there when we answered. But once in a while, there was a garbled voice, as if we were listening in on someone else’s call from a distance.
After a while we learned that if only the kitchen phone was ringing, we shouldn’t bother to pick it up.
But that’s when the phone started to speak.
It would ring and ring, and we’d ignore it.
And then it would start saying, “Hello? Hello?”
But we hadn’t picked it up.
I began to think that Jim’s Grandma was trying to speak to us. The house had a lot of owners in all those years, but most of them wouldn’t have been familiar with telephones. Maybe Grandma wanted us to put the refrigerator back on the south wall.
I’m not into creepy movies, so I don’t know that much about ghosts. But I figured it would be wise to be polite.
When the phone would start to say “Hello? Hello?” I’d just say aloud, in the general direction of the ceiling:
“I’m sorry. But I’m really busy, so I just can’t talk right now.”
After about a year, she stopped calling.
We moved away several years ago – into a house we built ourselves. No feng shui ghosts.
But our old neighbors don’t particularly like the family that moved in. They wish those new folks would move out.
Maybe Grandma could make a phone call.
Know-It-All, Part II
It’s time for another installment of Know-It-All, where I offer you the best of my unsolicited and usually obvious advice –
First – because I am an unapologetic smarty-pants,
and
Second – because they say that you should stick with what you do best – and I am much better at giving advice than taking it.
So here goes:
– If someone tells you that you look great – go right to a mirror and check it out. Sometimes it’s very difficult to see yourself clearly, so it’s a very helpful to rely on your friends, family and co-workers. After all, they don’t want you to look bad. So when they say you look nice, they are trying to steer you in the right direction. So take a look. Is it the color you are wearing, the cut or fit, does your hair look particularly nice? Believe them.
– And speaking of compliments, pay some yourself. And I am not talking about being a suck-up. But I have found that every single day there is at least one opportunity (and usually more) to pay someone a sincere compliment. Recognize those occasions – and say so. And not just “great sweater” – although that’s very nice to hear (see above). But think about how nice it is to hear “great question” “I like your enthusiasm” or my favorite: “You make me laugh.”
– If you don’t like the book you are reading, stop reading it. There are so many fabulous books out there, don’t feel guilty about abandoning one that doesn’t move you. School is the exception to this rule. If it’s required reading – then slog through it. And try to figure out what someone else may see in it. It’s good discipline. But by all means – outside of classroom assignments – read what you love. And don’t be embarrassed either if others don’t feel your reading material is classy enough. You are reading. That already puts you ahead of 100% of the folks in front of the TV.
– And if you like TV: Don’t be embarrassed about that either. TV is relaxing. TV is great social currency. And once in a while, TV is even good.
– Back to education. (and back to people trying to steer you in the right direction): Your teachers are not trying to fool you. If you are sitting in class, just looking out the window or doodling (and I spent most of college doing one or the other), and you hear the teacher say, “This is important” – Write it down! Draw a star in the textbook! If you are under 30, and you only know one way to remember a quote, by all means, get that tattoo! Because if the teacher thinks it is important, I guarantee you it will be on the test.
– And with regards to tests: Don’t EVER answer the question, “If I died, would you re-marry?” There is no right answer. Do not attempt that treacherous minefield.
– Which leads us to death. Go to wakes and funerals. Don’t tell yourself that it doesn’t matter if you don’t go. Your presence is so noticed. And appreciated. You need to care that someone you know has lost someone they love. Pay your respects. And please show your respect too. Dress up. Don’t look like you are on your way to the gym.
– And let’s circle back to reading. Don’t worry so much about bilingual signage. If you speak English, and the sign is in English, does it really matter to you what other language it might be in? Why would you want other people to be confused? Having as many people as possible understand directions is to your advantage too. I mean, you’re already suffering at the Motor Vehicle Department. Do you really want 20% of everybody else to be in the wrong line?
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When Did That Happen?
One of my Dad’s favorite expressions was “You must have been hiding behind the barn when the brains got handed out.”
I never really understood why someone would hide in order to avoid brains. But I got the point. I always seemed to miss something important.
I knew by the age of fifteen that I must have been hiding behind the barn when the boobies got handed out.
And there have been lots of cultural changes that seemed to have happened while I was behind the barn.
As I mentioned recently – I missed that moment in time when spaghetti became pasta.
And:
– When did potatoes become starch? When did meat become protein?
– And when did pocketbooks become handbags?
– When did quilts become duvets? (And how do you keep the inside part of the duvet from bunching up at the end of the outer duvet?)
– When exactly did station wagons become SUVs? Or minivans? What makes a minivan mini anyway? They look pretty big to me.
– When did rouge become blush? When did moisturizer become BB cream? When did BB cream become CC cream? When is DD coming out?
– When did water become something you buy?
– When did beer transition from Schlitz to Boutique?
– And when did self-centered demanding bitches become divas? And why is it okay for little girls to want to become one?
And – at the risk of getting too serious (which I almost never am):
– When did warfare become conventional?
– When did compromise become a dirty word?
– When did we forget about poor people?
Still behind the barn.
notquiteold 