Tag Fun

Launder at your own risk

Michael 15 Comments

“Oh, come here. You have to see this.” This was a care instructions tag on a kitchen towel. The speaker was my daughter.

The tag in questions read, in part, “tumble dry low, remove promptly and fold.”

“They’re getting demanding. I’ve never been threatened by linens.”

She had a point. Most tags stop at “remove promptly.” We know. We went through all the kitchen towels in the kitchen towel garage. I stopped to freshen my lemonade and the daughter disappeared. “Nope, no aggressive towels in here!” I heard from the bathroom. So maybe they aren’t getting demanding. It is a rogue towel getting demanding on its own.

The idea of care instruction tags has always confused me. All those little pictures on them. It’s like one day someone decided “we have more to say and only one line of type left, let’s invent new hieroglyphics.” You can get a guide if you’d like. I saw one guide with 52 symbols. That’s more than all the symbols that flash in my car’s dash when I start it up. There’s even a symbol for Do Not Wash. You would think if they don’t want it washed it wouldn’t even need a tag. Or perhaps just a tag with nothing on it. But then how would you tell it from a tag attached to a towel that’s been repeatedly washed, and then dried at dryer’s the hottest heat setting where it then sat for 4 or 5 hours.

Remove promptly and fold. Hmm. What if I want to use it right then. Do I have to remove it promptly, fold, then unfold for use. Of course, it doesn’t say anything about unfolding before use. Maybe its intent is to be used folded. It wouldn’t have its total surface area to work with, but in its folded state it would provide more towel depth to soak up the water deeper into itself for no drips or spills. Of course, that’s what paper towels are for, and they pick up quicker. Just ask the lumberjack who sells them

(Follow this link for a Readers Digest version of the 32 most common laundry symbols)

IMG_4440

Stress eating is not the correct term. Considering all the good things that to happen to a person while feasting, we call it de-stress eating in our latest Uplift blog by ROAMcare, Eat Your Stress Away.

 

Why I hate Twitter and other things that annoyed me this week

Michael 16 Comments

Greetings fellow blog warriors. Worriers? Whichever. I had not planned a brain dump so close to the last one, but the pool is rising, and I must open the valves.

I am certain that I’ve mentioned this before, but I might have merely thought I had because it is a thought I think often and to be honest about it, as a thought it is pretty petty. And isn’t it something than pretty and petty by themselves conjure up such different emotions yet the only difference between the two is a lower case “r” and even that is one of the least interesting letters we have. English has so many words in it and they all come from different language sources, except for the ones that some social nitwits couldn’t find the right emotion to convey with 170,000 and some words we already have so they invent more like “talmbout” which according to dictionary.com is a shorthand version of “to talk about” and their example is “There’s a bear outside? What you talmbout?” (Personally, my favorite new word is “tifo” as “fevered impassioned support” of something, drawn from the Italian word for typhus. Yes, it started with soccer fans. How’d you guess?) Now where the aich ee double toothpicks was I? Oh right, uninteresting letters. With all those words from all those root languages, where are all the diacritical marks. [Sigh] Anyway, I was about to bring up something pretty petty.

I’m sure many of you know that I’ve had my lifetime of medical and physical challenges. One remaining idiot-synchronicity is a tendency to fall over at inopportune times, not that there are many opportune times to fall over. As a result, I always walk with a cane although I don’t always really need it. If I was able to tell when, then they wouldn’t be inopportune. Anyway, I also have a handicap placard that I sometimes take advantage of when I’ve been out for a particularly long time, or when I may be particularly tired and at a greater risk of imbalance and plopping. (Now there’s a good word I pulled out of the seldom used but perfectly acceptable section of the dictionary. You didn’t see me make up a new word for inopportune falling.)

The other day was one of those days and I had one more stop to make before I headed home. I pulled into the parking lot of approximately 24,000 spaces, about a couple of dozen or so signed pregnant women and new mothers (I never understood why not one for new fathers shopping with children, not that it matters to me because when I was a new father, there were no such spaces for either parent), two for veterans, and all of 6 handicap spots.  Technically I am entitled to a veteran space also, but I always feel I should leave those to the older veteran who now has to fend for himself or herself, and quite often forget that I am that older veteran fending for myself. But still, I stay out of them.

That day all 6 of the handicap spaces were taken, which is fine because we all need to accept what life hands out, right? But of those 6, two were occupied by vehicles (not cars, but my favorite rant-able vehicle (pronounced vee-hick-ul) that requires a step stool to climb into. That in itself irks me. If you can climb into a lifted Hummeresque veehickul, you aren’t handicapped. Least not physically. But these two were occupied by two youngish sorts, the types who don’t make up new words because they already know the basic top ten (I’ll have a beer. Where’s the freaking john? Yo babe!), idling their monster trucks, with handicap placards vibrating on the dashboards. Why were they there? They drove Grammy to the store and used her card to “park” in the designated spot while the dear old lady goes in and does all her own shopping. I know. I’ve asked. (Yes, I can exhibit a frightening lack of judgement when I get tired and cranky.)

Anyway, I find it irksome when people are parked in a handicap spot that aren’t parked. Drop Meemaw off at the door, and go park in front of the beer distributor. Or better still, park in her spot and go in with her and help her, you useless twit! (Another perfectly good word you just don’t hear any more)

Moving on to number two of this week’s annoyances is one that actually wasn’t annoying at all. In fact, it was funny as all get out. (No? Yes! Oh, get out of here! No, you get out of here!) Just yesterday my daughter and I were brunching together and complaining about our watches, specifically our Apple Watches, and specifically specifically the fitness app thereon. Our conversation centered around the seeming haphazard accounting of calories and active time. “I can go up and down two flights of steps carrying laundry both ways and got nothing. But sit on the floor with my head in the oven, cleaning of course, and it racks up the calories burned like I was running a marathon, which, by the way, when I did this year, I swear it counted only the first 4 miles.” Clearly that was my daughter’s contribution to the rant because I haven’t attempted any distance running for about 30 years. And to be fair, all fitness watches and bracelets and rings have their foibles (another underused word), but Apple turned it into a game with their darned fitness rings. Gotta close those rings every day. As my daughter put it, we’re the human equivalent of a Tamagotchi doll. And darned if she wasn’t right!

And what was the other. Oh yeah, Twitter. Elon sucks.

I’m sure now by next Monday I’ll be able to put together a proper post for you all. Have a good week!

When a child’s first toy is a kid-size tablet, we shouldn’t be surprised some basic life skills will be a struggle. But as we said in the most recent Uplift, if we keep our minds sharp, we can still allow computers to do the heavy mental lifting of the everyday without losing our grip on the basic. Read about it in “If you give a teen a penny.”

Blog Art 2

The Interview

Michael 17 Comments

HR Rep: Good morning. Thank you for coming in. Please have a seat.

Candidate: [grunt]

HR Rep: Tell me a little about yourself.

Candidate: I’m amazing. People say I’m amazing. Everybody is less amazing than me.

HR Rep: Okay, umm. Why do you think you are right for this job.

Candidate: Everyone else who is applying is dangerous. They are responsible for the destruction and downfall of every company they’ve ever worked for. They are so bad. They are Dimwit Doorfillers

HR Rep: Dimwit Doorfillers. That’s a pretty derisive sobriquet.

Candidate: Croquet is a beautiful game. Beautiful game. Nobody plays croquet like I do. It’s where we separate the men from the girls.

HR Rep: No, not croquet, sobriquet. Umm, ah, a nickname or alias.

Candidate: Criminals! Only criminals have aliaseses. I am not a crook!

HR Rep: That’s too many Ses.

Candidate: You can never have too many eseses. It’s a beautiful letter. Great curves in eses. Love a great curve. Hehehe

HR Rep: We seem to be getting off the track. Let’s talk about your qualifications for this job.

Candidate: The people love me.

HR Rep: That may be, but why are you interested in this job?

Candidate: Because everyone else you can pick from is a bad choice, the worst choice, a choice so bad. So bad. They are bent on ruining your company. I am loved. No one else is.

HR Rep: Maybe I’m asking questions that are too general. Let’s talk specifics. If you are selected for this job, you will be responsible for managing the department budget. What is your experience in finances?

Candidate: I am the greatest money handler in all of time. Going back to the time before there was money I was handling it. Nobody else knows how to. Only me. I am so good.

HR Rep: Would you like to expand on that?

Candidate: That guy you have in there now, he’s a joke. He’s running this company into the ground. Motley Manager and his crew are ruining this beautiful company. He is weaponizing the adding machine.

HR Rep: Alrighty then. How about personnel? Have you any experience handling staff.

Candidate: That’s a lie! I never handled a staff and they are only saying that to distract form the fact that Motley Manager and his crew have spent this company bankrupt.

HR Rep: Umm, but we aren’t bankrupt, and…

Candidate: You will be if you let things continue the way they’re going, spending billions like they are.

HR Rep: Can we get back to personnel. I think you misunderstood me when I said handle. What is your experience managing groups of workers?

Candidate: Workers, yes workers. Beautiful people. Love working with workers. They love me. All of them. Beautiful, beautiful.

HR Rep: I see we’re running short on time. Just a few more questions. How would you protect the safety of your department’s software and technical components?

Candidate: Build a wall around them! A moat if we have to. Anyone in there that doesn’t belong we will put them out.

HR Rep: No, again, maybe I didn’t make myself clear. I meant how would you defend against cybercrime like phishing schemes.

Candidate: Fishing, fishing is a beautiful sport. Nobody fishes like I do. Beautiful just beautiful. You know that’s where we separate the men from the girls.

HR Rep: Again, thank you for coming in. We’ll get back to you.

Candidate: You will regret if you don’t hire me! I could be the last person you ever hire!! If you do not hire me I know all those beautiful people, beautiful people, they are with me and they will not be hired and they will not be pleased. I am the only logical choice!! Me!! Pick me I said, Me!!!

HR Rep into phone: Security, please report to Personnel. Now!

Blog Art 2 - 1

We dare you to be disliked. Why? Because you can’t please all the people all of the time. We say if you dare to be unliked often enough and you will be liked more often. Maybe often enough to please most of the people most of the time. Read why we feel like that in the latest Uplift, the blog on ROAMcare.org.

A Shocking Tale

Michael 10 Comments

Did you ever have an extended period of time where all things of the same ilk were happening. Little fiddlies that by themselves would be handled, maybe with aplomb or maybe with a little impatience, but they were handled. Put together, a handful of fiddlies go from, “oh, look at that,” to hmm, again?” then to, “oh come on now already!” For me, this has not been a good electronics week for me.

It started with the little car. How can a car, that was olde, much older than a really good Scotch, start a week of electronic discombobulation? How could a sweet little roadster kick off a week of a shockwave slinger’s version of hell. Three little words. Electronic fuel pump. These little babies can do their impression of the Energizer bunny for 100,000. The little car (Rosemary by name because she’s red but has more zip than any ordinary rose) has not covered even a third of that distance, but it is about to turn 26 years old and that’s old enough to have gone through two pumps by now and we’re still working with the original. Or we were. Replacement is pretty simple if you have the tools and the knowhow. I have tools and I have knowhow. Unfortunately, neither of them is the right type, and that’s why we have mechanics. Cost measured in hours and dollars. Just a couple hours. Lots of dollars.

A few days later, a classic summer thunderstorm rolled through. Very loud, very windy, very wet! One of those storms when a really lot of rain doesn’t fall but it all comes at once. According to the National Weather service, a little over a half inch fell in 12-15 minutes. Then it settled into a nice steady rain. All those rain drops made for an interesting weather report, but the wind was the real story. Wind not quite enough to cause widespread downed trees and power fallers, but enough to cross wires and cause intermittent outages. Living a lifetime with severe storms had trained me to regularly turn off power strips and unplug sensitive computer equipment. But, like the house servants in the Jazz Age (and every other age before and since), we all have workers we count on every day we never pay notice, like garage door openers.

I have a garage door opener that operates one huge double wide and double heavy door.  It is operated with the usual wired wall controller and 2 wireless controllers, one for each car, and an outside wireless keypad. They all work superbly, unless the electricity goes out. Then for no good reason I ever came up with, every time there’s a blackout, the head unit forgets it has wireless connections. Remember that storm from a paragraph earlier? Yep, it went out and the controllers turned into knickknacks. Not a problem. It’s happened before. I just teach it a new thing or two, hop in the car, and drive on out. Except this time, I was out when it happened and got home during those 12-15 minutes when the rain clouds were doing their imitation of Niagara Falls. Cost, no dollars, just a few minutes, a lot of fresh towels.

I took advantage of Prime Days and bought a sound bar for the bedroom TV. It isn’t used much but on those few occasions I watch television in that room I find myself struggling to hear with my aging ears. A sound bar on the living room television made all the difference and when I found a smaller model of the same brand for a significant savings, I thought it would make a nice upgrade. I anxiously awaited the delivery man. Okay okay, that was a little dramatic. I put the order in and a couple days later it showed up in the doorstep. As I emptied the contents of the packaging, I set aside the HDMI ARC cable knowing I couldn’t use that as my set has the old-fashion HDMI just like the living room television where I used the alternate optical connector. I knew I’d be able to do that because the two televisions are the same brand only one a little smaller and a year or two older. After wrestling the piece around so I could access all the little connection sockets, I discovered that a year or two made a difference. No optical connection back there! Ugh. Just a couple old fashioned HDMI doodads. Reading the instructions, the online forums, Reddit (which is vastly underrated for its comic relief) I confirmed, “gotta have” the HDMI ARC. And then I thought, but wait, how about Bluetooth? Confirmed…television. Bluetooth enabled. Yay! Sound bar? No Bluetooth. Sigh. Cost in time- longer than it took to change an electronic fuel pump. In dollars- net $0.

I was so disappointed I thought I’d spend a little time at the electric keyboard I have in the Swiss Army Room. (Yes, I finally gave it a name.) Actually, I wasn’t that disappointed, but just had some time and nothing pressing, and it’s always been a pleasant pastime. The Casio has been with me for years. More than a basic hobby electric, it’s a 61 key (fully weighted) MIDI keyboard with a piano tone so clear it sounds as close to a piano as you can imagine. I couldn’t believe my eyes way back when I spotted it on a shelf in a thrift store, this amazing instrument that when new cost as much as an electronic fuel pump. I’ve enjoyed playing the Casio for almost as long as I’ve been playing with Rosemary (you remember her, the little car). I toggled the switch and waited for the display window to come to life. And waited. And waited. Hmmm. I tentatively fingered a key hoping only the display went the way of many 20 year old electronic gadgets and life stilled hummed through its keys. Nothing. And I thought. No, I didn’t unplug it the last time I played it, two days ago, the day before the power failure, and maybe power surge. Costs in dollars- untold. In time- immeasurable.

This has not been a good week with electronics for me.

Blog Art 2

Children aren’t just adults in training. We look at how they can be models for adults who would do well to look at the world through a child’s eye rather than looking at the world as their playground in Growing Up, Older, in the latest Uplift.

Happy Summer

Michael 10 Comments

Happy July everybody! We’re heading into our first full month of summer, and it’s hot hot hot, and on fire with summer fun celebrations! I’d like to take the time revisit and few topics I previously revisit on a variety of Fourths of July. I hope you’ll take the time to read or reread them and if you do, that you enjoy reading or rereading them as much as I did when I wrote or rewrote them.  

Up north it’s Canada Day today. South of most of the Great Lakes in will be Independence Day on Thursday. Neither day is exactly when new countries were constituted and truly became independent. Nor did that happen in France on July 14. But they are all momentous dates in the formation of countries we still recognize and celebrate today. Throughout the world, 21 other countries took their first steps to freedom and self-control in various Julys. I wrote more on those eventful events in 2017. You can check it out here.

Here in my neck of the woods we do fireworks in a big way. But we seem to be slacking off on parades. Fireworks are nice but parades, especially the marching bands, get my heart pumping. I think it’s because to me, bands are microcosms of America. I felt that way strongly enough that naturally I wrote about it. In fact, I’ve felt so strongly that I have repeated the same post a few times. The most recent was just last year and you can find that here.

On the Fourth of July 2022 we were pretty comfortably making that return to “normal” that we knew we’d get to eventually. That day I re-visited a post I wrote in July 2020 when we were just starting to find our way out of lockdowns and venturing back out on summer vacations, but not by air or by sea, but by land. That reminded me of my childhood vacations, always by car, and someone always stuck in the middle of the back seat, suffering from Middle Seat Hump Syndrome.

I hope sometime this month, wherever you are you can celebrate, travel, ooh and aah at the pyrotechnics, or march on to your personal independence. And between all that, I hope you have some time to read, or reread these older summer offerings from me.

Happy July everybody!

Who we are depends on many external factors, but what we are is all us. We look at how we tell ourselves what we want to be as we live life in the latest Uplift!

Happy Birthday America!

 

Real life advice for real life

Michael 12 Comments

I would like to wish the fathers out there a belated Happy Father’s Day, those celebrating a Happy Juneteenth, and to everyone, the words of life advice from a father who has served many years of life.

I got this idea from last week’s post when I suggested one who serves food would be better received (and probably better tipped) if that one did not have a tattoo of a spider on the back of their hand. I realized then that I had a wealth of advice just waiting to spill forth from my brain and what better place for it to spill than on here? Just some morsels of common sense sprinkled over some of the nonsensical things I’ve lately noticed.

For example. If you own a bar, restaurant, bar and restaurant, diner, pizza parlor, sandwich shop, or similar, and you find yourself a little short staffed, don’t mount on the largest sign you can find “Servers, cooks, bartenders, dishwashers wanted” in the largest letters you can find and post said sign outside your main entrance door. You would be better served to post a sign that says “Please don’t come here to eat unless you enjoy waiting hours before being served.”

Likewise to the local auto repair shop owner with the sign “Mechanics needed” and is wondering why business has taken a sudden downturn.

I’m not sure anyone ever put “Spam Spreader” on their resume, but someone must write and distribute those aberrations to polite electronic mail correspondence. My advice to whomever it may be, don’t use flags, up arrow notations of urgency, or more than 4 emojis in the subject line. I can’t think of one legitimate email I’ve ever received that came with 🔈😮🔥🚨 as part of the subject that had me thinking “Oh my gosh, I better open this email before I do anything else or the world may end!”

While I’m thinking about resumes, if you should happen to think about applying for one of those open waitresses, cooks, or mechanics positions, leave “content creator” off yours. I’ve actually seen that on resumes and it didn’t impress me, and to honest, I’m usually quite impressionable.

Also apropos resumes, if you are employed as one who gets to send emails, text messages, or even real mail to potential job candidates and you start your spiel with “I found your resume on line and know you would be perfect for a position we are trying to fill,” please read the resume, or the next time someone wants to hire me as medical director at some hospital in a “world famous tourist location,” I may take you up on that, especially if you’re covering travel and expenses (including a plus one, naturally).

Finally, to those seeking a position in government like, I don’t know, maybe President, it’s in bad taste to put out TV, radio, internet, and mail ads suggesting your opponent is “dishonest” if you’ve just been found guilty of a few dozen felonies. Just my opinion.

Have a happy week everyone – and a happy federal holiday to those in states where it’s not illegal to celebrate it.

One way to survive in this crazy world is making the most of every hour. Not with a strict schedule and sticking to a to-do list. It’s implementing a to-don’t list. Yes, the secret to doing efficiently and effectively is knowing what not to do. We know  we said so in the latest Uplift!

Blog Art 2

 

A rose by another name

Michael 8 Comments

Last week I poked fun at “man fashion.” It’s only fair the women now get their turn. Specifically, inked up women. Full disclosure, I am not a tattoo person. Quite like golf, I know I am a minor minority in that regard, but I just don’t get the point. Specifically in women. Especially beautiful, well put together women. Which is like 99.7% of them. All women are beautiful, except the tattooed ladies. So the percentage of beautiful, well put together women is dropping but that’s life.

Before I get into the meat and potatoes of this post, a work of advice to the tatted up broads, career advice. If you are in a field where you handle food or drugs, please don’t tattoo the back of your hand. In the last week I had a server set a plate in front of me with a hand on which she had a spider inked onto the back. And the cashier at the pharmacy handed me my prescription with her hand adorned with skull and crossbones. Can I just say, “Blech!”

Also in the last week I was at the service center customer waiting lounge at the car dealer. Yes, I was just there a few weeks ago.  Different car. I took a seat by the coffee pot because my knee was bothering me, and I didn’t want to walk very far several times an hour. A young lady walked up to the machine and admittedly, I stared. She was a very good-looking lady. Mind you, I have never been one of the crowd that says, ladies, if you don’t want to be looked at, don’t make yourself so look-able. But she was definitely look-able. And she sported ink.

So many people getting tattooed pick designs that mean something to them. Recently there had been a trend, especially among women, to cut through all the representation art and just put out there what they want to say with words, so now catchy phrases and famous quotes are appearing on human canvases. This lady at the coffee machine had taken that route and had words tattoos on the side of her foot, which was wearing a sandal, those exposing nearly all of the letters that made up all of the words. I had to stare so I could figure out what it said! She was not only look-able, she also had a sense of witty humor for on her foot she had emblazoned, “Put your best foot forward.” I kind of liked that. I wasn’t liking that she huffed and puffed at me about being some sort of foot pervert and to stop staring at her.

I remembered that advice later that same day when I was in the checkout line in the nearby Walmart, a place not known for instilling conservative dress and appearance in its customers. A lady in front of me was as look-able as the coffee machine lady, but for completely different reason. She also appeared well endowed with natural beauty, had well cared for hair and manicure. She seemed every bit a lady except that she was wearing basically swimwear and had a tattoo. Not a single phrase on the side of her foot, but a 2 or 3 inch wide thorny stem wrapping around her leg until it disappeared in her short, short bottoms and then reappeared wrapped around her exposed midriff and then ducking out of sight again under the bottom of her rather brief top. It did not continue up from the top of the top, but rather did a rose appear within her cleavage. Just a single rose although the corporeal vase easily could have held a dozen. Long stems and all.

But I didn’t stare. I’m not sure if I had if it would have bothered her much. I noticed she paid cash for the television and sound bar she was purchasing. I started staring as she carefully counted out her payment in one dollar bills.

Last week we celebrated “Start Over Day,” a day set aside to try again to master that which disappointed you the first time around. Learn from that disappointing experience and start over to make it better. We write how it can be the beginning of a new adventure in the most recent Uplift, Try, Try Again.

A hair-raising tale

Michael 7 Comments

I’m worried about humanity. Every day I see something more and more stupid than the day before. I don’t think we have a chance. You know what? I misspoke. Or mistyped. Not humanity. Humanity might be getting more stupid every day too, but I really mean men. If men had to promulgate the species by themselves, we’d still be in the Dark Ages. And probably in the dark as well. Especially if those men are, as almost all men will be sometime, starting to thin a little up at the hairline.

Oh my Heavens, you would think the world is coming to an end. As soon as it seems there is just a little creep backwards in the hairline, all aich, ee, double hockey sticks breaks out. “Frick! My hair is falling out! I’m not a man anymore!!” So genius that he is, he shaves his head. “Now it will look like a fashion statement, not that I’m bald.” Yeah, right.

But then, genius that he is, he knows how to use a computer and discovers testosterone is necessary for hair growth. Naturally he makes the connection, no hair means he has no testosterone. No testosterone means he only has his oversized red pick-up truck to prove he’s a man and he can’t take that to bed with him. What will he do?

Now this idiot remembers elementary school math and knows that 2 plus 2 equals something, so he adds them up and comes up with a solution. If he has to have hair to pick up women, then by gosh, he’ll grow some hair. But his head is off limits because he just spent a bazillion dollars on a fancy 17 head rotary razor designed especially for thinning and balding men to recapture their outer beauty by mowing away whatever hair might be left growing out of the top of his head. Next best thing to head hair? That’s right — facial hair! So he grows a beard. And not a sophisticated, well-groomed, trim offering like the debonair George Clooney. Oh no. He does the full on, don’t come near me with a pair of manicure scissors, scraggly, end of the world, manly man’s beard like ZZ and his friend, Top.  

Oddly, he still can’t pick up women, so since he is a genius, his first thought is that his truck isn’t big enough. A reasonable assumption. Everyone knows the larger the truck the more manly the man. Ask any used car dealer. So he goes all out, gets an even bigger, even redder, this time diesel pickup with bigger and shinier wheels and tires too. And takes the mufflers off to make certain his is noticed and not overlooked for some weeny in a Tesla. And he still goes home alone after spending all night at the bar. Now what’s the problem?

When he gets home he looks at himself in the mirror and decides he’d sleep with him if he had a chance. But even genius lunatic that he is, he sees something just doesn’t look right with a ZZ Top beard below a cue ball head. How can we fix that? Right! Get a hat! So the hext day he heads out to the fashion capital of the world, Walmart, and gets a hat. He’d like one with a pick-up on the front so he can double up on his manly man ride, but all he can find is one with a tractor on the front and a bull saying “Who farted?” and buys 3 of them so he’ll never run out. Remember, we are dealing with genius.

So now he has his manly man hat covering up his manly man bald shaved head above his manly man beard and he hops into his manly man truck and scoots on down to the local dive bar looking for a woman who can’t wait to be in the arms of a true manly manly man.

Just one problem. If he should find a female looney enough to match on him, he will have found her thus attired which means he can never ever never remove his hat except to shave his head, so he now goes through life with a hat on his head (a hat that says, “who farted?”) everywhere he goes, including out to fancy dinners, church and school functions, shopping, doctor appointments, job interviews, even when he goes to have his manly man truck cleaned up and made shinier where he can sit in the waiting room and share his manly man wisdom.

So if you ever run across a guy who looks like ZZ Top with a hat on climbing down out of big red manly man pickup truck, don’t try to pick him up. He’s taken. Mostly with himself.   

It makes sense that governments can’t take time to regulate everything in life, thus the unwritten law. But which is more powerful – the unwritten rule, or the desire to pursue life, full steam ahead?

Jelly Beans for Olives

Michael 12 Comments

For the last month in two, the weather here has been inconsistent, more warm and dry than cool and rainy (odd), but during that time, the weekends have been beautiful (very odd), except for this past weekend when being outdoors was a requirement of the day (par for the course).

Saturday, I had a meeting out of town, far out of town, requiring driving on interstate highways in the dark, in the rain. Highway drive is tolerable in the dark, tolerable in the rain, knuckle whitening scary in both. Sigh.

Sunday, the daughter and boyfriend ran the Pittsburgh Marathon (half marathon version) in morning rain and chill after weeks and weeks of training on dry pavement under sunny skies. Sigh

Something about this weekend reminded me of another spring weekend I wrote about. It took me a while to find it, but I did and I re-present it here from 7 years ago. If you read it then, humor me and give it another go.

From April 17, 2017, ‘Tis the Season, Spring Edition:

I’m pretty sure I should have been born the son of an Italian wine maker. Or perhaps an olive grower. I could see myself spending Sunday afternoons on a rough stone terrazza nibbling on marinated olives and peppers and artichoke hearts sipping a glass of wine, listening to Old World folk songs and letting the sun warm me where the wine doesn’t. Ahhhhhhhh.

Instead I have jelly beans and a leftover beer I found waaaaay back in the fridge, trying to find a spot somewhere on the 4×8 patio that is out of the wind driven rain storm, hoping the next lightning bolt stays waaaaay on the other side of that hill over there.

BOCThat’s all on me though. I couldn’t pick where I was born but I could have moved if I really wanted to. I chose to stay in the only city in America with less sunshine than Seattle. (That’s what I’ve been told. I didn’t believe it so I looked it up and they were WRONG! That particular proverbially always rain-logged Washington hamlet actually has less sun than my burgh but just barely, coming in at Number Nine of the Top Ten Cloudy Hit Parade with a 57% chance of clouds compared to our 56%. What is the number one least sunny city in the US? Juneau, Alaska. Sorry Land of the Midnight Sun dwellers. Apparently that’s not enough for the midday darkness the rest of the year.) Where was I? Oh, yeah. I stayed.

I chose to stay here where the chance of pressing my own olive oil is somewhere around the chance of me removing my own appendix. Wine making might have a little advantage, but still it’s not likely I’ll be trading in the Miata for an Alpha Romeo and riding it along a strada panoramica overlooking the Baia di Napoli. I’ll just have to keep an eye on the morning forecasts and pick those choice hours when the sun will come out and the top will go down and the drive will be just as scenic. Even if it is of the access road leading to the 27th worst commuter road in the country. And we do better than Seattle there, too. (They have the 8th worst commute. Sorry.

Thank God I don’t have to go to work in either city. More time for olives and wine. Or jelly beans and beer. Happy Spring!

There is always room on the calendar for special days. We found a few extra ways to celebrate everyone among the special days. Check them out on Uplift!

That special day

Michael 15 Comments

Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Wait. What? Birthday? Again. Already? Coulda sworn I just had one of them. Just had lots of them.

Some time between the last post and this one, I turned a year older. Seemingly overnight. That always struck me funny at work. Does not matter if your birthday is tomorrow, if you go to the doctor, hospital, or ER today, you’re however many years you last celebrated old.  There is no rounding up in medicine. From an old person’s point of view, that works out pretty well. I often forget how old I am, so not having to remember how old I’ll be, simplifies things.

I mention birthday because since my last birthday I’ve learned a new birthday routine I found pretty nifty. I had forgotten about it until my birthday. I’m wondering if I’m the only one who doesn’t know this.

First, I should mention, I’m not the biggest fan of birthdays. Of my birthdays that is. I love celebrating everyone else’s birthday but mine is not necessarily a date I’ve learned to look forward to. With only a couple exceptions, most of the bad or unpleasant things in my adult life happened on or within a week of my birthday.

Maybe that’s something leftover from a childhood during a time when you were king or queen (or whatever member of the royal court you preferred) of the world, or your world, on your birthday. You grow older and your world takes a backseat to the rest of the world and disappointment soon follows. Maybe because I heaped unrealistic expectations upon it. For whatever reasons, in terms of days to appreciate, even though I am one of the first to expound “every day is special,” my special day not only rarely is, often is anything but.

But, this new little routine could change that. I was talking with a friend and her watch alarm went off. It was an odd time, 11:18. She excused herself and was back in less than a minute ready to continue. “If there is something you need to deal with, I can wait or come back,” I offered.

“No,” she replied. “It’s just my birthday reminder.” I knew her birthday was months away, or months gone by, depending on whether you want to look ahead or look back, and my questioning look must have expressed that thought. She went on to explain.

Her birthday happens to be November 18, 11/18 in American abbreviation. Her watch is set to go off every day at 11:18, and when it does, she takes a minute to thank God for another day.

What a remarkable way to truly celebrate every day. There is something to be said for those who say every day is special and believe it. There is something stronger to be said for those who say every day is special and celebrate it. There is something unique to be said for one who can say everyday is special and then adds the bells and whistles to prove it! I say “the one” because so far, she is the only one I’ve discovered who goes to lengths to remind herself that each day is absolutely, amazingly, beautifully special.

Unless you know of someone who does something so remarkable and would like to remark on that, I think I’ve found the new queen of the world. And all it took was setting an alarm. And yes, I’ve already set mine!

We may not be destined for fame, but it does not mean with are not destined to do great things. We are everyday people doing extraordinary things every day. Our latest UpLift blog post talks about becoming those special everyday people. Please read along with us!

Blog Art