Just for Fun - Random Musings
TRUST ME
Living in New York for more than two decades I have become accustomed to an odd sort of trust with those I know and those I have never encountered. I might think twice about biting into a homemade snickerdoodle baked with love in the kitchen of an upstairs neighbor, but in the same day gladly accept a frozen yogurt sample from a random person on Second Avenue. Just because Amanda is sporting a Pinkberry name badge does not mean she is immune to coughing on frozen treats or putting the mini tasting spoons in danger of a flesh eating virus. But it’s a new flavor and it’s free. I’ll take my chances.
One trust phenomenon I have only encountered in NYC is that of the taxi. When in desperate need of a cab, people often dart out into traffic flailing the right arm to hail a speeding, yellow vehicle recklessly meandering about the street. It’s a wonder pedestrians aren’t being smashed into on a regular basis and propelled all over Madison Avenue. This tony shopping mecca might resemble a pool table immediately following the break with brightly colored objects quickly rolling around and knocking into one another. Unfortunately the visual impact might be a little lackluster as no real New Yorker would wear brightly colored clothing. As clearly stated in the Memo to Manhattanites “All black, all the time.”
I have the vision of God looking down from heaven and concocting his own little game - a righteous version of bowling. The cab is the ball and the customers aligning the sides of the streets are the pins. “You are so impatient you can’t wait a few seconds to insure proper safety?” Strike! One of the worst parts of this scenario is as you are picking yourself up off of the pavement, or worse yet out of an oily pothole, another passenger is likely to steal the cab. If you do get knocked over, please try to get upright as soon as possible. Even worse than having your cab selfishly hijacked from you, is to have it then run over you racing off to get its new fare down to Tribeca. No one wants to be a human speed bump.
I have come extremely close to having my toes crushed simply because I can’t wait another four seconds for the banana colored sedan to safely pass my body and come to a complete stop. Why am I in such a hurry? One evening I will be in the Lenox Hill Emergency Room clutching my severed, bloody left pinkie-toe in a Ziploc bag anxiously waiting for a Doctor to sew me back together like an old rag doll. I will wonder how the few collective minutes I have saved over the years justifies the 13 ½ hours spent with all of the other unfortunate souls seeking urgent medical care. Sadly for me the stabbings and multiple gunshot wounds will be treated before someone struggling with only four toes solidly attached to the left foot.
Not only do I have moderate trust outside of the cab, but once seated behind the driver I totally give in to it all. I wouldn’t let my best friend back out of the driveway without my seatbelt securely fastened, but in a cab I’m fine to flail around the back seat with every Dukes -of-Hazzard type turn. I am mildly confident the driver will obey the majority of traffic laws and somewhat safely get me to my destination with most limbs intact. While only once have I truly feared for my life (the cabbie was really scary and I got the impression he detested American women), there have been numerous other times I have questioned the abilities of the driver. I then stop and force myself to become practical. Someone in the state of New York has deemed this person capable of escorting me across town and there is a license complete with a hostile looking photo displayed to prove it. Besides in his Country he was once Prime Minister. Wouldn’t you trust Margaret Thatcher if she offered to give you a lift?
NO PROBLEM
Has customer service in America been completely flushed down the Universal toilet? I’m starting to think retail ‘bedside manners’ have turned into ‘survival of the fittest’. And I am about to be eaten by the Cannibals.
Due to never properly organizing a weekly shopping list, I find myself frequenting the local drugstore several times a week. For anyone who lives or has visited New York City you will certainly recognize the familiar Duane Reade - there is one on every corner next to the Starbucks. Its logo boasts the all-American red white and blue, but the personal attention one receives would make Uncle Sam blush or possibly cry.
Given I was taught manners from an early age, I always thank the cashier at the conclusion of my transaction. The standard response now seems to be ‘no problem’. No problem? Of course it’s not a problem. You are being paid an hourly wage to scan my items, collect payment and put at least almost all of the items in a shopping bag. It’s not like you paused in the middle of brain surgery or paving a new freeway to perform this task. That, my friend, would warrant a ‘no problem’. In my opinion a more proper response might be “Thank you for shopping at Duane Reade. We look forward to seeing you again soon.” If the clerk assessed you are one to enjoy a good time, he might also add “You know some of our locations feature beer bars!” Now that’s the way to properly conclude a sale. And make me want to come back. For cold beer.
If this was the only annoyance in this establishment I would think myself overly sensitive and move about my day. One of my most memorable encounters at the First Ave/76th Street location was several months ago after an invigorating morning workout. I gathered all of my toiletries (and a few snacks) in the wheely basket and approached the register. Much to my surprise and dismay the cashier was literally lying on the counter. Her feet were still planted semi-firmly on the ground, but her upper torso and head were horizontally rolling about on the counter. I suggested perhaps she might take the day off as she didn’t seem to be up to the job. She grunted like an angry dragon and informed me she was really tired. On this occasion she didn’t say ‘no problem’ as it obviously was.
I understand ‘no problem’ is very much a vernacular hiccup between generations. I now almost feel it necessary to give thanks to an employee just so they can tell me it isn’t a terrible nuisance to perform the job at hand. After a thorough teeth cleaning I say to the Hygienist “Thank you for putting an extra bib on me so the massive amount of blood gushing from my gums didn’t totally ruin my white blouse”. “No problem”. And after a cheery lunch with the gang at Applebee’s I say to the Server “Thank you SO much for only making us wait 25 minutes for our salads and not spitting in my iced tea”. On this particular occurrence I only got a smile. Dammit – I had a feeling that iced tea tasted funny.
The other evening I caught a gripping piece on the local news dealing with this same subject. While I have been bashing the lack of consumer attention, this report was praising it in several national chains. In one instance a bride-to be was graciously greeted with a welcoming smile and then handed an Ipad. The real-life clerk returned to reading “US Weekly” while “Virtual Victoria” aided this young woman in outfitting her entire bridal party. The reporter was borderline giddy with excitement while never coming to the conclusion this young woman could have performed the exact same task in the comfort of her own home. I bet the future “Mrs. Whatever” was pissed she even bothered to take a shower and put on shoes.
In conclusion I want to apologize for the generalization that all of the retail associates at Duane Reade are lazy or rude. Just this morning I was in need of toothpaste, travel size shampoo and tissues. Not only did a courteous and helpful employee escort me to the location of the Puffs on sale, he winked and said in this one instance he would waive the ‘only 3 per customer’ limit. As I left with enough tissues to service a small city in the height of allergy season, I overheard the Manager say “Remember, Travis, you can clock out just as soon as all of those tissues are sold.” No problem indeed.
THE NAME GAME
When I was born in the early 1960’s, parents reserved odd, quirky names for their pets, not their offspring. One might call a canary “Goldie” or “Wing Ding”. A dog would answer to “Chompers” or “Squiggles”. And I’m sure any cat would purr to the tune of “Princess” or “Boo Boo”. These same people would then name their children in a more standard, appropriate way. “It’s a girl!” Name – Jennifer Elizabeth. “It’s a boy!” Name – Charles Edward. The real crazies might tackle a traditional name with a new and improved spelling. Sally becomes Sallie. Alan is transformed to Allen.
Fast forward fifty years when parents are being much more inventive when selecting lifelong monikers for their little darlings. One new method seems to be scouring the grocery aisles for innovative ideas. I love Arugula as a base for a salad, but I don’t want to have to write it on a convention nametag. T-Bone is a tasty entree for a Fourth of July barbecue, but not how I would like to address the CEO of the company. Meatloaf makes for a cozy meal, but……nevermind – he seems to have made a decent life out of that one.
I get it. People want to be different and creative, but is it really fair to exercise your need for whimsy when naming the next generation? There is a plethora of other ways you can mess up their lives – many of which will occur before they are capable of running. If you consider yourself a visionary and find it essential to be avant-garde with your newborn, the least you can do is make the name a cute one. “Have you met my daughter, Strawberry Pop-Tart and my newborn son, Cheese Doodle?”
I believe at the legal age of adulthood, 18, a person should have the option to make many individual choices. Vote. Serve in the Military. And change your birth name. Cinnabon might want to become Jeremy. Grapenut transforms to Lucy. Puddin’ Pop opts for the quintessential, Anne.
As previously mentioned I find it extremely acceptable to be a bit unconventional in concocting the way one refers to an animal. When I was thirteen I had the attention span of a three year old boy who has just polished off his brimming bag of trick-or-treat candy. One rainy Sunday afternoon I came to the inevitable conclusion that our eight year old cat, Tuffy, should assume a new identity. (In my young teenage mind I had him joining the federal relocation program and desperately fleeing to a remote part of South Dakota to stock shelves at K-Mart. The name revision was simply the icing on the cake) I began to call him “Mish Mash” and “Waffles”. Much to my delight, he happily answered to both. Looking back I think Tuffy was just incredibly grateful for a little attention from any two-legged family member-not to mention he no longer had to be so closely identified with his predecessor. As you see he wasn’t the original Tuffy. In fact his full accurate name was “Tuffy 2”.
“Tuffy 1” (it was just “Tuffy” at the time as we had no idea she would leave us so quickly and we would immediately get a 2nd) passed away within six weeks of becoming the fifth addition to our tight family of four. Grief stricken for three and a half hours, my Mother suggested we climb into the baby-blue wood paneled Country Squire station wagon in search of a new pet to heal our heavy hearts. Not surprisingly there were several local farms happily giving away kittens from the numerous litters in their barns. (This was before three personal reference letters, a high SAT score and a valid passport were required to adopt a tiny feline and provide it with a safe, warm place to call home.)
Given our diminutive Mother was navigating the cumbersome vehicle on a blustery, snowy day in rural Ohio, she insisted we choose our new ‘baby’ at the closest venue. I’m not sure if we were in denial about the death of our kitten or just really liked gray cats, but we picked the one who could have been the identical reincarnation of our first beloved pet. My older sister, Nancy, insisted we continue to use the name “Tuffy”. I conceded as she could pinch really hard and my right forearm was already tingly and slightly bruised. I also didn’t want to take away any precious hopscotch time to try and memorize some newfangled name for the newest member of our family. Re-evaluating the situation after 40-something years, I have now concurred my sister had probably designed and sewn several monogrammed outfits for our first-born and was determined they be put to proper use. So Tuffy it would be.
I can only imagine what will trend in the coming years. Perhaps in the near future I will take a basket of freshly microwaved Entenmann's mini-muffins to meet my new neighbor. She graciously greets me at the door with a refreshing grin. “Hi, I’m Madeleine. This is my daughter, Gluten-Free Ginger Snap and our cat, Ken.”
STOP POKING ME!
Nothing has made me feel more ancient recently than the onset of the social media phenomenon. I simply can’t comprehend the urgency in which we apparently now need to divulge personal information to the masses.
Upon encouragement from a friend (a real, not virtual friend), I reluctantly joined Facebook. I initially thought it would be a fun hobby to re-connect with all of my long lost acquaintances from years past. What I realized is if I haven’t stayed in touch with many of them there is probably a reason. After the initial “What have you been doing all of these years?” response, I tend to reply with “Great! Hope you have a nice life.” It isn’t that I don’t care about their well-being, I’m just kind-of, well……busy.
Within the first two weeks of completing my profile, my arm was bruised from being poked so many times. What is the exact purpose of the “poke”? Is it a quick way of saying “Hi”? What is quicker than “Hi”? Its two letters, one syllable. Just say it! I would definitely find it more interesting if after you hit “poke” you could then click on a body part to which this action would take place. I am much more likely to use this function if for instance I can specifically poke someone in the eyeball. The ear or belly button could also be highly annoying. And therefore fun for me.
And what is with all of the shorthand? LMAO. BTW. TTFN. Is your life so incredibly busy you can’t write “that’s funny” or “talk to you later”? If it is, you should not be wasting your time typing on Facebook. I often ponder creating my own abbreviations to make my “friends” work a little harder. JIGTS of course means “Julie Is Going to Sleep”. To the unlearned it could mean “Jellybeans Ignite Gas Tanks Suddenly”. Another example is ILDA meaning “I Love Downton Abbey”, not “Ironically Laughing During Appendicitis”. Come on, that would be just plain silly – who has a tendency to giggle when in crippling pain? OMG.
I’m also baffled by the younger people of my generation who feel the need to update every three minutes. I understand you like coffee in the morning, so why must you say it every single day at 7:12 AM? I like my wine in the evening, but anyone who knows me doesn’t need to see my post “Just poured a big ole tumbler of Pinot Grigio. Yummy!” They know I like it, no exclamation point needed. They also know I am most likely sporting mismatched pajama type clothing so there is no need to post fourteen pictures of myself in this often stained leisure wear.
One aspect of Facebook which no one warned me of was looking up the ex-boyfriends. Not the best remedy for boosting my self confidence. I am quite pleased with my decision to stay single all these many years, but I don’t want to see those who might be the “one I let get away” looking so darn happy with their loving families! (This statement does warrant an exclamation point) Do I really need to see pictures of the Cupie Doll-like twins devouring their first birthday cakes with the beautiful Junior League30-something wife standing next to them? Caption reading “Cameron and Lily love Mommy’s homemade organic carrot cake with fourteen carat gold icing!” Blissful and now has money? Dammit. Sorry, a tear just rolled down my cheek into my chardonnay. I like to think behind the lens, life is manic and all they do is quarrel. Suddenly I am tempted to post on his wall. “Sorry to see you have lost even more hair – who would think that was even possible? LOL!!! I hope your wife is super duper nice because she’s not very pretty. Have a nice life!”
Don’t get me started on Twitter. At least with Facebook you only share information with your “friends”, not the entire Universe. Do I really care that Kim Kardashian beat her personal best in applying make-up in less than 92 minutes this morning? I know Alec Baldwin is battling several mishaps, but I don’t need to hear about each embarrassing episode seconds after it has happened. I can catch the compilation of events tonight on my hard-news program, Entertainment Tonight.
Some days I long for the simpler times when we dialed rotary phones, only had 3 television stations and thought FedEx might stand for “Fireflies Earnestly Demand Extra Xylophones.” Everything must now be done within minutes if not seconds. A youngster no longer eagerly awaits a birthday card from her Grandmother in the mail, but instead quickly responds to Nana’s “Happy 9th Birthday to the sweetest girl in the world!” text with “K”. I mean, WTF?
THE SCENTS OF CHILDHOOD
What is it about certain smells that take you back to childhood? For me these memories generally aren’t fond ones. Sure there is the sensual scent of a freshly baked toll house cookie or that of a tantalizing grilled cheese sandwich. (Please note, growing up in Ohio in the 60’s we made this delectable lunch item with real butter and therefore the sensation is far different from the ‘buttery like spread’ I use today. But to be fair, I now use real cheese and not Velveeta. Ooh…..Velveeta.)
One of my least favorite smells is Play-Doh. All kids love to create with it which is why it has been around since the Tyrannosaurus started pre-school. During a recent visit to my friend’s home I agreed to make a faux dinner out of the colored clay-like product with her three year old daughter. With the initial opening of the bright pink canister I was launched back to 1968. Once I actually made physical contact with the substance the memory grew clearer.
I reluctantly did my part in the creation of a 'brick oven arugula and prosciutto pizza'. This was a far cry from my childhood concoctions of a hot dog and a bigger hot dog. As we finished I realized why my Mother always got angry when we mixed the colors. The grown-up is the one responsible for dismantling and re-distributing the play-doh all back into the appropriate color containers. I think it’s easier to become President of the United States.
The main problem with the scent of play-doh is it doesn’t leave you. Despite everything short of a Silkwood shower, I now smell like that fake clay. I would prefer to smell like the 'roasted garlic' (a last minute ingredient) molded perfectly by her tiny little fingers.
Another haunting smell is that of silly putty. Do they still make this? Why did we always insist on getting it? There wasn’t much you could do with it – afterall we had the play-doh for proper sculpting. I think it was the allure of taking the colored Sunday Comics and pressing down the putty to make a beautiful, original objet d'art. We were anticipating something similar to the future’s Pixar animation, but instead got a distorted faded facsimile of Andy Capp. Of course the newspaper ink, probably toxic, never properly came out of the putty making the next one even worse. Poor Mary Worth - she wasn’t terribly attractive to begin with.
There is one smell from my single digit years I still love. Magic Markers. These weren’t the kind of markers they have today which are strawberry or lilac scented. Oh no. These were the heavy duty, ‘be careful they will never come out of your clothes’ pens that smelled like something your Dad spent an entire Saturday afternoon trying to scrape off the garage floor. This was like cocaine to me and my fellow third graders. All Mrs. Midwell had to do was pull one out of her decorated Campbell’s soup can pen holder to get the kids running.
Honestly I’m surprised we didn’t all look like mini German dictators from practically shoving it up our nostrils. The behavior certainly wasn’t commended, but Mrs. Midwell was very petite and probably afraid of half of the class. She knew better than to mess with an addict. In the long run it didn't seem to hurt us too much as at my recent high school reunion most of my classmates seemed to have at least a few brain cells intact.
I wonder what scents today’s youth will associate with growing up. Perhaps that of bagel bites hot and bubbly out of the microwave? Maybe the burning smell of the Nintendo DS after too many hours of mindless play? Or that of a brand-new American Girl doll with a fur coat and ice skates just waiting for a cold, snowy morn.
It is my hope they will also remember how one smells after a long summer afternoon of tag or making mud pies until you are unrecognizable. Now if I could only get that play-doh out from under my nails……
Living in New York for more than two decades I have become accustomed to an odd sort of trust with those I know and those I have never encountered. I might think twice about biting into a homemade snickerdoodle baked with love in the kitchen of an upstairs neighbor, but in the same day gladly accept a frozen yogurt sample from a random person on Second Avenue. Just because Amanda is sporting a Pinkberry name badge does not mean she is immune to coughing on frozen treats or putting the mini tasting spoons in danger of a flesh eating virus. But it’s a new flavor and it’s free. I’ll take my chances.
One trust phenomenon I have only encountered in NYC is that of the taxi. When in desperate need of a cab, people often dart out into traffic flailing the right arm to hail a speeding, yellow vehicle recklessly meandering about the street. It’s a wonder pedestrians aren’t being smashed into on a regular basis and propelled all over Madison Avenue. This tony shopping mecca might resemble a pool table immediately following the break with brightly colored objects quickly rolling around and knocking into one another. Unfortunately the visual impact might be a little lackluster as no real New Yorker would wear brightly colored clothing. As clearly stated in the Memo to Manhattanites “All black, all the time.”
I have the vision of God looking down from heaven and concocting his own little game - a righteous version of bowling. The cab is the ball and the customers aligning the sides of the streets are the pins. “You are so impatient you can’t wait a few seconds to insure proper safety?” Strike! One of the worst parts of this scenario is as you are picking yourself up off of the pavement, or worse yet out of an oily pothole, another passenger is likely to steal the cab. If you do get knocked over, please try to get upright as soon as possible. Even worse than having your cab selfishly hijacked from you, is to have it then run over you racing off to get its new fare down to Tribeca. No one wants to be a human speed bump.
I have come extremely close to having my toes crushed simply because I can’t wait another four seconds for the banana colored sedan to safely pass my body and come to a complete stop. Why am I in such a hurry? One evening I will be in the Lenox Hill Emergency Room clutching my severed, bloody left pinkie-toe in a Ziploc bag anxiously waiting for a Doctor to sew me back together like an old rag doll. I will wonder how the few collective minutes I have saved over the years justifies the 13 ½ hours spent with all of the other unfortunate souls seeking urgent medical care. Sadly for me the stabbings and multiple gunshot wounds will be treated before someone struggling with only four toes solidly attached to the left foot.
Not only do I have moderate trust outside of the cab, but once seated behind the driver I totally give in to it all. I wouldn’t let my best friend back out of the driveway without my seatbelt securely fastened, but in a cab I’m fine to flail around the back seat with every Dukes -of-Hazzard type turn. I am mildly confident the driver will obey the majority of traffic laws and somewhat safely get me to my destination with most limbs intact. While only once have I truly feared for my life (the cabbie was really scary and I got the impression he detested American women), there have been numerous other times I have questioned the abilities of the driver. I then stop and force myself to become practical. Someone in the state of New York has deemed this person capable of escorting me across town and there is a license complete with a hostile looking photo displayed to prove it. Besides in his Country he was once Prime Minister. Wouldn’t you trust Margaret Thatcher if she offered to give you a lift?
NO PROBLEM
Has customer service in America been completely flushed down the Universal toilet? I’m starting to think retail ‘bedside manners’ have turned into ‘survival of the fittest’. And I am about to be eaten by the Cannibals.
Due to never properly organizing a weekly shopping list, I find myself frequenting the local drugstore several times a week. For anyone who lives or has visited New York City you will certainly recognize the familiar Duane Reade - there is one on every corner next to the Starbucks. Its logo boasts the all-American red white and blue, but the personal attention one receives would make Uncle Sam blush or possibly cry.
Given I was taught manners from an early age, I always thank the cashier at the conclusion of my transaction. The standard response now seems to be ‘no problem’. No problem? Of course it’s not a problem. You are being paid an hourly wage to scan my items, collect payment and put at least almost all of the items in a shopping bag. It’s not like you paused in the middle of brain surgery or paving a new freeway to perform this task. That, my friend, would warrant a ‘no problem’. In my opinion a more proper response might be “Thank you for shopping at Duane Reade. We look forward to seeing you again soon.” If the clerk assessed you are one to enjoy a good time, he might also add “You know some of our locations feature beer bars!” Now that’s the way to properly conclude a sale. And make me want to come back. For cold beer.
If this was the only annoyance in this establishment I would think myself overly sensitive and move about my day. One of my most memorable encounters at the First Ave/76th Street location was several months ago after an invigorating morning workout. I gathered all of my toiletries (and a few snacks) in the wheely basket and approached the register. Much to my surprise and dismay the cashier was literally lying on the counter. Her feet were still planted semi-firmly on the ground, but her upper torso and head were horizontally rolling about on the counter. I suggested perhaps she might take the day off as she didn’t seem to be up to the job. She grunted like an angry dragon and informed me she was really tired. On this occasion she didn’t say ‘no problem’ as it obviously was.
I understand ‘no problem’ is very much a vernacular hiccup between generations. I now almost feel it necessary to give thanks to an employee just so they can tell me it isn’t a terrible nuisance to perform the job at hand. After a thorough teeth cleaning I say to the Hygienist “Thank you for putting an extra bib on me so the massive amount of blood gushing from my gums didn’t totally ruin my white blouse”. “No problem”. And after a cheery lunch with the gang at Applebee’s I say to the Server “Thank you SO much for only making us wait 25 minutes for our salads and not spitting in my iced tea”. On this particular occurrence I only got a smile. Dammit – I had a feeling that iced tea tasted funny.
The other evening I caught a gripping piece on the local news dealing with this same subject. While I have been bashing the lack of consumer attention, this report was praising it in several national chains. In one instance a bride-to be was graciously greeted with a welcoming smile and then handed an Ipad. The real-life clerk returned to reading “US Weekly” while “Virtual Victoria” aided this young woman in outfitting her entire bridal party. The reporter was borderline giddy with excitement while never coming to the conclusion this young woman could have performed the exact same task in the comfort of her own home. I bet the future “Mrs. Whatever” was pissed she even bothered to take a shower and put on shoes.
In conclusion I want to apologize for the generalization that all of the retail associates at Duane Reade are lazy or rude. Just this morning I was in need of toothpaste, travel size shampoo and tissues. Not only did a courteous and helpful employee escort me to the location of the Puffs on sale, he winked and said in this one instance he would waive the ‘only 3 per customer’ limit. As I left with enough tissues to service a small city in the height of allergy season, I overheard the Manager say “Remember, Travis, you can clock out just as soon as all of those tissues are sold.” No problem indeed.
THE NAME GAME
When I was born in the early 1960’s, parents reserved odd, quirky names for their pets, not their offspring. One might call a canary “Goldie” or “Wing Ding”. A dog would answer to “Chompers” or “Squiggles”. And I’m sure any cat would purr to the tune of “Princess” or “Boo Boo”. These same people would then name their children in a more standard, appropriate way. “It’s a girl!” Name – Jennifer Elizabeth. “It’s a boy!” Name – Charles Edward. The real crazies might tackle a traditional name with a new and improved spelling. Sally becomes Sallie. Alan is transformed to Allen.
Fast forward fifty years when parents are being much more inventive when selecting lifelong monikers for their little darlings. One new method seems to be scouring the grocery aisles for innovative ideas. I love Arugula as a base for a salad, but I don’t want to have to write it on a convention nametag. T-Bone is a tasty entree for a Fourth of July barbecue, but not how I would like to address the CEO of the company. Meatloaf makes for a cozy meal, but……nevermind – he seems to have made a decent life out of that one.
I get it. People want to be different and creative, but is it really fair to exercise your need for whimsy when naming the next generation? There is a plethora of other ways you can mess up their lives – many of which will occur before they are capable of running. If you consider yourself a visionary and find it essential to be avant-garde with your newborn, the least you can do is make the name a cute one. “Have you met my daughter, Strawberry Pop-Tart and my newborn son, Cheese Doodle?”
I believe at the legal age of adulthood, 18, a person should have the option to make many individual choices. Vote. Serve in the Military. And change your birth name. Cinnabon might want to become Jeremy. Grapenut transforms to Lucy. Puddin’ Pop opts for the quintessential, Anne.
As previously mentioned I find it extremely acceptable to be a bit unconventional in concocting the way one refers to an animal. When I was thirteen I had the attention span of a three year old boy who has just polished off his brimming bag of trick-or-treat candy. One rainy Sunday afternoon I came to the inevitable conclusion that our eight year old cat, Tuffy, should assume a new identity. (In my young teenage mind I had him joining the federal relocation program and desperately fleeing to a remote part of South Dakota to stock shelves at K-Mart. The name revision was simply the icing on the cake) I began to call him “Mish Mash” and “Waffles”. Much to my delight, he happily answered to both. Looking back I think Tuffy was just incredibly grateful for a little attention from any two-legged family member-not to mention he no longer had to be so closely identified with his predecessor. As you see he wasn’t the original Tuffy. In fact his full accurate name was “Tuffy 2”.
“Tuffy 1” (it was just “Tuffy” at the time as we had no idea she would leave us so quickly and we would immediately get a 2nd) passed away within six weeks of becoming the fifth addition to our tight family of four. Grief stricken for three and a half hours, my Mother suggested we climb into the baby-blue wood paneled Country Squire station wagon in search of a new pet to heal our heavy hearts. Not surprisingly there were several local farms happily giving away kittens from the numerous litters in their barns. (This was before three personal reference letters, a high SAT score and a valid passport were required to adopt a tiny feline and provide it with a safe, warm place to call home.)
Given our diminutive Mother was navigating the cumbersome vehicle on a blustery, snowy day in rural Ohio, she insisted we choose our new ‘baby’ at the closest venue. I’m not sure if we were in denial about the death of our kitten or just really liked gray cats, but we picked the one who could have been the identical reincarnation of our first beloved pet. My older sister, Nancy, insisted we continue to use the name “Tuffy”. I conceded as she could pinch really hard and my right forearm was already tingly and slightly bruised. I also didn’t want to take away any precious hopscotch time to try and memorize some newfangled name for the newest member of our family. Re-evaluating the situation after 40-something years, I have now concurred my sister had probably designed and sewn several monogrammed outfits for our first-born and was determined they be put to proper use. So Tuffy it would be.
I can only imagine what will trend in the coming years. Perhaps in the near future I will take a basket of freshly microwaved Entenmann's mini-muffins to meet my new neighbor. She graciously greets me at the door with a refreshing grin. “Hi, I’m Madeleine. This is my daughter, Gluten-Free Ginger Snap and our cat, Ken.”
STOP POKING ME!
Nothing has made me feel more ancient recently than the onset of the social media phenomenon. I simply can’t comprehend the urgency in which we apparently now need to divulge personal information to the masses.
Upon encouragement from a friend (a real, not virtual friend), I reluctantly joined Facebook. I initially thought it would be a fun hobby to re-connect with all of my long lost acquaintances from years past. What I realized is if I haven’t stayed in touch with many of them there is probably a reason. After the initial “What have you been doing all of these years?” response, I tend to reply with “Great! Hope you have a nice life.” It isn’t that I don’t care about their well-being, I’m just kind-of, well……busy.
Within the first two weeks of completing my profile, my arm was bruised from being poked so many times. What is the exact purpose of the “poke”? Is it a quick way of saying “Hi”? What is quicker than “Hi”? Its two letters, one syllable. Just say it! I would definitely find it more interesting if after you hit “poke” you could then click on a body part to which this action would take place. I am much more likely to use this function if for instance I can specifically poke someone in the eyeball. The ear or belly button could also be highly annoying. And therefore fun for me.
And what is with all of the shorthand? LMAO. BTW. TTFN. Is your life so incredibly busy you can’t write “that’s funny” or “talk to you later”? If it is, you should not be wasting your time typing on Facebook. I often ponder creating my own abbreviations to make my “friends” work a little harder. JIGTS of course means “Julie Is Going to Sleep”. To the unlearned it could mean “Jellybeans Ignite Gas Tanks Suddenly”. Another example is ILDA meaning “I Love Downton Abbey”, not “Ironically Laughing During Appendicitis”. Come on, that would be just plain silly – who has a tendency to giggle when in crippling pain? OMG.
I’m also baffled by the younger people of my generation who feel the need to update every three minutes. I understand you like coffee in the morning, so why must you say it every single day at 7:12 AM? I like my wine in the evening, but anyone who knows me doesn’t need to see my post “Just poured a big ole tumbler of Pinot Grigio. Yummy!” They know I like it, no exclamation point needed. They also know I am most likely sporting mismatched pajama type clothing so there is no need to post fourteen pictures of myself in this often stained leisure wear.
One aspect of Facebook which no one warned me of was looking up the ex-boyfriends. Not the best remedy for boosting my self confidence. I am quite pleased with my decision to stay single all these many years, but I don’t want to see those who might be the “one I let get away” looking so darn happy with their loving families! (This statement does warrant an exclamation point) Do I really need to see pictures of the Cupie Doll-like twins devouring their first birthday cakes with the beautiful Junior League30-something wife standing next to them? Caption reading “Cameron and Lily love Mommy’s homemade organic carrot cake with fourteen carat gold icing!” Blissful and now has money? Dammit. Sorry, a tear just rolled down my cheek into my chardonnay. I like to think behind the lens, life is manic and all they do is quarrel. Suddenly I am tempted to post on his wall. “Sorry to see you have lost even more hair – who would think that was even possible? LOL!!! I hope your wife is super duper nice because she’s not very pretty. Have a nice life!”
Don’t get me started on Twitter. At least with Facebook you only share information with your “friends”, not the entire Universe. Do I really care that Kim Kardashian beat her personal best in applying make-up in less than 92 minutes this morning? I know Alec Baldwin is battling several mishaps, but I don’t need to hear about each embarrassing episode seconds after it has happened. I can catch the compilation of events tonight on my hard-news program, Entertainment Tonight.
Some days I long for the simpler times when we dialed rotary phones, only had 3 television stations and thought FedEx might stand for “Fireflies Earnestly Demand Extra Xylophones.” Everything must now be done within minutes if not seconds. A youngster no longer eagerly awaits a birthday card from her Grandmother in the mail, but instead quickly responds to Nana’s “Happy 9th Birthday to the sweetest girl in the world!” text with “K”. I mean, WTF?
THE SCENTS OF CHILDHOOD
What is it about certain smells that take you back to childhood? For me these memories generally aren’t fond ones. Sure there is the sensual scent of a freshly baked toll house cookie or that of a tantalizing grilled cheese sandwich. (Please note, growing up in Ohio in the 60’s we made this delectable lunch item with real butter and therefore the sensation is far different from the ‘buttery like spread’ I use today. But to be fair, I now use real cheese and not Velveeta. Ooh…..Velveeta.)
One of my least favorite smells is Play-Doh. All kids love to create with it which is why it has been around since the Tyrannosaurus started pre-school. During a recent visit to my friend’s home I agreed to make a faux dinner out of the colored clay-like product with her three year old daughter. With the initial opening of the bright pink canister I was launched back to 1968. Once I actually made physical contact with the substance the memory grew clearer.
I reluctantly did my part in the creation of a 'brick oven arugula and prosciutto pizza'. This was a far cry from my childhood concoctions of a hot dog and a bigger hot dog. As we finished I realized why my Mother always got angry when we mixed the colors. The grown-up is the one responsible for dismantling and re-distributing the play-doh all back into the appropriate color containers. I think it’s easier to become President of the United States.
The main problem with the scent of play-doh is it doesn’t leave you. Despite everything short of a Silkwood shower, I now smell like that fake clay. I would prefer to smell like the 'roasted garlic' (a last minute ingredient) molded perfectly by her tiny little fingers.
Another haunting smell is that of silly putty. Do they still make this? Why did we always insist on getting it? There wasn’t much you could do with it – afterall we had the play-doh for proper sculpting. I think it was the allure of taking the colored Sunday Comics and pressing down the putty to make a beautiful, original objet d'art. We were anticipating something similar to the future’s Pixar animation, but instead got a distorted faded facsimile of Andy Capp. Of course the newspaper ink, probably toxic, never properly came out of the putty making the next one even worse. Poor Mary Worth - she wasn’t terribly attractive to begin with.
There is one smell from my single digit years I still love. Magic Markers. These weren’t the kind of markers they have today which are strawberry or lilac scented. Oh no. These were the heavy duty, ‘be careful they will never come out of your clothes’ pens that smelled like something your Dad spent an entire Saturday afternoon trying to scrape off the garage floor. This was like cocaine to me and my fellow third graders. All Mrs. Midwell had to do was pull one out of her decorated Campbell’s soup can pen holder to get the kids running.
Honestly I’m surprised we didn’t all look like mini German dictators from practically shoving it up our nostrils. The behavior certainly wasn’t commended, but Mrs. Midwell was very petite and probably afraid of half of the class. She knew better than to mess with an addict. In the long run it didn't seem to hurt us too much as at my recent high school reunion most of my classmates seemed to have at least a few brain cells intact.
I wonder what scents today’s youth will associate with growing up. Perhaps that of bagel bites hot and bubbly out of the microwave? Maybe the burning smell of the Nintendo DS after too many hours of mindless play? Or that of a brand-new American Girl doll with a fur coat and ice skates just waiting for a cold, snowy morn.
It is my hope they will also remember how one smells after a long summer afternoon of tag or making mud pies until you are unrecognizable. Now if I could only get that play-doh out from under my nails……