I hadn't planned on going to the grocery store this weekend. Trent can tell you that I am not a big fan of shopping during this part of the week. The throng of people is often too much for me, and brings my anxieties to the forefront. So I say again, for the record, that I had no intention of going to the grocery store this weekend. However, I fell victim to the siren song of one of my favorite cereals on sale for a ridiculously low price. A weekend-only sale. So I decided to go to the store. There were some other items that I wanted or needed, so I made my list and set off to brave the throng.
Now, one of the items that I saw in the store's weekly ad was a box of store-brand lancets (poky things used to get a blood sample for blood sugar monitoring) for a dollar. I could probably have gotten them free through my online pharmacy, but it would have required a visit to the doctor, so I decided to put that item on my list. I grabbed my purse and a couple of shopping bags and walked to the store. When I got to the pharmacy area, it was pretty busy. I saw a box of lancets on a table and put them in my cart rather than asking where they might be displayed.
When I went through the checkout, my total was more than twenty dollars higher than I expected. The box of lancets had rung up at a cost of twenty-two dollars! I told my cashier, one of the head clerks, that the product was on sale for a dollar, so he reversed it and rang it up at that price. As I walked home with my bags, my brain flashed a picture of the box that I had picked up. It wasn't lancets, it was testing strips! I had inadvertently cheated the store out of more than twenty dollars!
Since I was nearly home, I put my few cold items in the fridge, put the box and receipt in my purse, and walked back to the store. I won't deny that it felt good to know that I was going to rectify my mistake. I stopped briefly and apologized to the person who had been my cashier and proceeded to the pharmacy to right my wrongs. And that's when things took an unpleasant turn.
When I returned the unopened box of test strips to the pharmacy with my receipt and asked for the lancets instead, I was met with a blank stare. "Can't you use these?" the pharmacy tech asked. I explained again that I had only paid a dollar for them and had intended to pick up lancets, not test strips. She asked if I had the store-brand testing device, which I do not, and I told her that even if I did, I couldn't use the strips in good conscience because I hadn't paid for them.
The tech then informed me that she couldn't re-dispense the testing strips. I pointed out that the box was unopened and the product unused. Couldn't it go in a charity box or something? She told me there was no such thing. She repeated that since they had been dispensed to a customer, they could not be dispensed to anyone else. A comment was made to the effect that I should have come to the pharmacy counter rather than just picking the item up. Of course, this begs the question of why a one dollar item was behind the counter when a twenty-two dollar item was sitting out on a table.
After pouring some more lemon juice into the deep cut to my psyche, she freed the lancets from Fort Knox and told me they were not on sale. She grudgingly gave them to me anyway. I even asked if we could make believe that I had never left the store with the test strips, but she said no, they couldn't be re-dispensed. I walked over to the entrance and got a store ad to bring back to the pharmacy to show the lancets were indeed on sale. I ended up speaking with someone else who also rubbed some lemon juice on my mental wound. Through the whole interchange I was incredibly polite. I can say without a doubt that my courtesy and conscience were equally strong. I did mention as I left that I tried to be a good person and ended up feeling like a jerk.
I walked home with the lancets in my purse and tears in my eyes. It all seemed so insanely wasteful to me. A perfectly good product was going to waste because I got in a hurry and made a mistake, and then was honest about it. After I got home and thought about it, I knew it wouldn't hurt the pharmaceutical companies. They make obscene amounts of money on diabetes-related products. And I am sure that the store's corporate headquarters won't suffer much from that small loss. I'm just stunned that a fully-sealed product cannot be used simply because I touched it and in their eyes might have tampered with it.
Wow, I thought. It's incredible that an item that is not ingested can't be sold after it's touched. I can return a bag of potato chips unopened and they can go back on the shelf. And produce - heck, that stuff has been touched by so many hands it isn't even funny. And cold medicine, too. I realize that people have been harmed by medications that have been tampered with and that due diligence is necessary. I realize that the people in the pharmacy don't know me. I also realize that someone who is twisted enough to tamper with test strips is quite possibly twisted enough to return them in an attempt to hurt others. It just seems to me that there could be a simple solution that would make it evident whether the product was opened or not. We can do it with over-the-counter medications, why not other things as well? And I certainly wouldn't object to people not having to feel emotionally flogged when they are honest about making a mistake.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As
always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great
joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd
like to support the cause, please visit:
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Thank you for reading!
Sunday, November 13, 2016
Friday, November 11, 2016
Solitaire
We don't always realize, when we are either learning ourselves or teaching others, that sometimes what is learned goes far deeper than we had originally thought. I realized this when I was training telephone customer service bankers. One day I discovered that one of my favorite trainees was no longer taking customer calls, he was now working as the department assistant. His duties were many, and the job was an important part of the functioning of the call center. He was responsible for supplies, mail, ensuring that forms went to the proper area, and all sorts of other things.
When I saw Chris doing the job, my heart sank. I thought that I must have let him down as a trainer if he decided to leave his original position. Every time I saw him or spoke with him in passing, it haunted me. I had failed. One day, I decided that I couldn't let the self-torture continue. I had to know what had happened, so I asked. His face lit up as he told me that I was, indeed, the reason that he had left his original job. He wanted to thank me, and in fact, his mother wanted to thank me.
This left me almost ready to cry. Had I done such an awful job that even his mother wanted him to quit? He then told me that because of my training, he had decided to go back to school and finish getting his bachelor's degree. And then he gave me another wonderful gift. He told me that before taking my new-hire training, he had thought that learning was boring. I had made him realize that learning could be fun. Needless to say, knowing that I had had this beautiful and unexpected impact in his life made me cry anyway. But they were tears of happiness.
This morning, I was playing a game of solitaire on my cell phone. Now, even a non-programmer type like me knows that computers of any ilk are very stringent about the rules. They know that A leads to B, and that's the way things are. They can't be forced to fudge the rules or be flexible with them like humans can. I remembered Gram teaching me how to play Solitaire years and years ago. She taught me how to lay out the cards. About discard piles and going through the deck. Playing the cards on each other and building up your suits at the top of the game, and moving Kings to the emptied spaces on the field, freeing the cards underneath them to be played.
Gram liked to play a hand of Solitaire every morning after her breakfast. She said that playing a game of Solitaire in the morning would tell her how her day would be. There was always a deck of cards on the kitchen table ready for her to shuffle with her gnarled, arthritic hands. I would watch as she played, sometimes telling her about a move that she hadn't noticed. And then I saw her doing something that I thought was breaking the rules. She took a stack of cards that did not have a King at the bottom and put them in an empty spot on the playing field. I told her that she couldn't do that, only Kings could go in an empty spot. She calmly and coolly told me that if all of the Kings were already on the table and there was an empty spot, you could move other cards there. Hey, it sounded good to me. If Gram said that it was okay, I would add that rule to my playing as well.
When I play Solitaire on my phone or computer, I often think of Gram and wish that I could use Gram Rules to play my game. And that's how it was this morning. I chuckled to myself at the memory of Gram bending the rules and knowing that she'd get frustrated with the inflexibility of playing it without a real deck. And then it hit me - Gram had, all those years ago, taught me an invaluable lesson. Sometimes we have to do whatever we can to make things work.
This kind of blew my mind, and in a way that I really needed. Like many people, I was taken by surprise with the election results this week. It didn't go the way that I had hoped or expected. I was stunned not only by the results, but the violence that occurred as a result of the presidential race. I had expected fear and disillusionment, but not anything like this. And then a game of Solitaire let Gram teach me something nineteen years after her death. Sometimes we have to do whatever we can to make things work.
The more I thought about her teaching me to play this simple card game, the more learning I found. The game will never be won without the different colors or cards working together. Every card in the deck is important and necessary to make the game a successful one. On the playing field, the King is on the bottom and the smaller cards are built on and supported by the most powerful one. When the suits are built up, the King cannot survive the game without the smaller cards, the little guys.
Like Gram's game of solitaire, we need to do whatever we can to make this thing work. We have to unite, all colors, all genders, all beliefs, all of us, no matter what category or description we use for ourselves. With our love for the other cards in the deck, we can win this game of life. Sometimes it might seem like the game is difficult or unwinnable, but if we work together, maybe we can make it happen.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
When I saw Chris doing the job, my heart sank. I thought that I must have let him down as a trainer if he decided to leave his original position. Every time I saw him or spoke with him in passing, it haunted me. I had failed. One day, I decided that I couldn't let the self-torture continue. I had to know what had happened, so I asked. His face lit up as he told me that I was, indeed, the reason that he had left his original job. He wanted to thank me, and in fact, his mother wanted to thank me.
This left me almost ready to cry. Had I done such an awful job that even his mother wanted him to quit? He then told me that because of my training, he had decided to go back to school and finish getting his bachelor's degree. And then he gave me another wonderful gift. He told me that before taking my new-hire training, he had thought that learning was boring. I had made him realize that learning could be fun. Needless to say, knowing that I had had this beautiful and unexpected impact in his life made me cry anyway. But they were tears of happiness.
This morning, I was playing a game of solitaire on my cell phone. Now, even a non-programmer type like me knows that computers of any ilk are very stringent about the rules. They know that A leads to B, and that's the way things are. They can't be forced to fudge the rules or be flexible with them like humans can. I remembered Gram teaching me how to play Solitaire years and years ago. She taught me how to lay out the cards. About discard piles and going through the deck. Playing the cards on each other and building up your suits at the top of the game, and moving Kings to the emptied spaces on the field, freeing the cards underneath them to be played.
Gram liked to play a hand of Solitaire every morning after her breakfast. She said that playing a game of Solitaire in the morning would tell her how her day would be. There was always a deck of cards on the kitchen table ready for her to shuffle with her gnarled, arthritic hands. I would watch as she played, sometimes telling her about a move that she hadn't noticed. And then I saw her doing something that I thought was breaking the rules. She took a stack of cards that did not have a King at the bottom and put them in an empty spot on the playing field. I told her that she couldn't do that, only Kings could go in an empty spot. She calmly and coolly told me that if all of the Kings were already on the table and there was an empty spot, you could move other cards there. Hey, it sounded good to me. If Gram said that it was okay, I would add that rule to my playing as well.
When I play Solitaire on my phone or computer, I often think of Gram and wish that I could use Gram Rules to play my game. And that's how it was this morning. I chuckled to myself at the memory of Gram bending the rules and knowing that she'd get frustrated with the inflexibility of playing it without a real deck. And then it hit me - Gram had, all those years ago, taught me an invaluable lesson. Sometimes we have to do whatever we can to make things work.
This kind of blew my mind, and in a way that I really needed. Like many people, I was taken by surprise with the election results this week. It didn't go the way that I had hoped or expected. I was stunned not only by the results, but the violence that occurred as a result of the presidential race. I had expected fear and disillusionment, but not anything like this. And then a game of Solitaire let Gram teach me something nineteen years after her death. Sometimes we have to do whatever we can to make things work.
The more I thought about her teaching me to play this simple card game, the more learning I found. The game will never be won without the different colors or cards working together. Every card in the deck is important and necessary to make the game a successful one. On the playing field, the King is on the bottom and the smaller cards are built on and supported by the most powerful one. When the suits are built up, the King cannot survive the game without the smaller cards, the little guys.
Like Gram's game of solitaire, we need to do whatever we can to make this thing work. We have to unite, all colors, all genders, all beliefs, all of us, no matter what category or description we use for ourselves. With our love for the other cards in the deck, we can win this game of life. Sometimes it might seem like the game is difficult or unwinnable, but if we work together, maybe we can make it happen.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
Monday, October 31, 2016
Hallohappiness
It was simple. A knock, knock, knock and the magic had begun.
Four years ago tonight, I wasbabysitting dog-sitting one of the friendliest dogs I have ever known. Bowie was a dog that never met a stranger. One of his favorite places to hang out or sleep was on "his sofa" in the living room. With his head resting on the arm of the sofa, he could watch the activity on his street in complete comfort. Without even looking toward the window, I could tell when someone was walking outside. Bowie would change his posture, getting ready in case he needed to greet a guest, whether human or canine. I often joked that while he wasn't a guard dog, he was certainly a watch dog, a dog that would watch a burglar enter the house and greet them eagerly. "Hey, the TV is right over here! And could you give me a scratch or two and some food, please? I'm starving!"
As I said, four years ago, I was with Bowie on what would end up being his last Halloween. Many dogs that I have known have found Halloween irritating because of the constant knocking and doorbell ringing and needing to determine whether their enemy-rousting services were required. For Bowie, it was completely the opposite. You see, for Bowie, anyone who came to the door was coming to visit him.
On this wonderful Halloween evening, Bowie was snoozing away on his sofa when the first trick-or-treaters tapped on the front door. He got down from the sofa, tail slowly wagging, and with an inquisitive look on his face. When I opened the door he was thrilled. Kids! Giggling, happy, adorable kids! He scoped them all out while I distributed the candy, making certain to spare a few of each kind to nosh on the next few days. Hey, I was born in the morning, but not yesterday morning!
Bowie wagged all the way back to his sofa. When the next tap on the door sounded, his face looked both delighted and surprised. The human calendar may have said Halloween, but to Bowie it must have seemed like Christmas. More kids saying, "I like your dog!" And it kept happening! I can tell you without a doubt what was the highlight of the dog's evening. Four girls came to the door together and said that they liked the dog. And then they asked if they could pet him. Bowie was in dog heaven. He gleefully accepted pats on the head which he repaid with licks to every little-girl hand. Pure joy for one dog and four kids. What a wonderful thing to see!
As the evening went on and more and more kids showed up, Bowie started to get a bit tired. There were about seventy-five kids that showed up, which is a lot of exuberant greeting to do. The best host, I mean dog, can get tired from entertaining their numerous guests. After an hour or so, when the knocks sounded, Bowie looked at me to see if I needed him to greet the kids again. I had him come over to the door and he did so with his usual grace and friendliness. I was sitting at the kitchen table in between visitors. After all, it was Bowie's sofa.
I was surprised and amused when Bowie walked into the kitchen and looked at me as if to say that he was exhausted. He went to his kennel and sprawled on his side. The next time someone knocked, he simply looked at me as if to say, "I'm too tired, MyKatrina. You're on your own." He had discovered that there was such a thing as too much company.
When Bowie's journey with the humans who loved him came to an end about six months later, I realized how fortunate I was to share his final Halloween. The kids who came by the house not only had candy, they had a greeter extraordinaire. And I was reminded that for a dog, the chance to kiss someone's hand could be the greatest Halloween treat of all.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
Four years ago tonight, I was
As I said, four years ago, I was with Bowie on what would end up being his last Halloween. Many dogs that I have known have found Halloween irritating because of the constant knocking and doorbell ringing and needing to determine whether their enemy-rousting services were required. For Bowie, it was completely the opposite. You see, for Bowie, anyone who came to the door was coming to visit him.
On this wonderful Halloween evening, Bowie was snoozing away on his sofa when the first trick-or-treaters tapped on the front door. He got down from the sofa, tail slowly wagging, and with an inquisitive look on his face. When I opened the door he was thrilled. Kids! Giggling, happy, adorable kids! He scoped them all out while I distributed the candy, making certain to spare a few of each kind to nosh on the next few days. Hey, I was born in the morning, but not yesterday morning!
Bowie wagged all the way back to his sofa. When the next tap on the door sounded, his face looked both delighted and surprised. The human calendar may have said Halloween, but to Bowie it must have seemed like Christmas. More kids saying, "I like your dog!" And it kept happening! I can tell you without a doubt what was the highlight of the dog's evening. Four girls came to the door together and said that they liked the dog. And then they asked if they could pet him. Bowie was in dog heaven. He gleefully accepted pats on the head which he repaid with licks to every little-girl hand. Pure joy for one dog and four kids. What a wonderful thing to see!
As the evening went on and more and more kids showed up, Bowie started to get a bit tired. There were about seventy-five kids that showed up, which is a lot of exuberant greeting to do. The best host, I mean dog, can get tired from entertaining their numerous guests. After an hour or so, when the knocks sounded, Bowie looked at me to see if I needed him to greet the kids again. I had him come over to the door and he did so with his usual grace and friendliness. I was sitting at the kitchen table in between visitors. After all, it was Bowie's sofa.
I was surprised and amused when Bowie walked into the kitchen and looked at me as if to say that he was exhausted. He went to his kennel and sprawled on his side. The next time someone knocked, he simply looked at me as if to say, "I'm too tired, MyKatrina. You're on your own." He had discovered that there was such a thing as too much company.
When Bowie's journey with the humans who loved him came to an end about six months later, I realized how fortunate I was to share his final Halloween. The kids who came by the house not only had candy, they had a greeter extraordinaire. And I was reminded that for a dog, the chance to kiss someone's hand could be the greatest Halloween treat of all.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
Sunday, October 23, 2016
Sixty Years
After less than three weeks, it was all over. Well, mostly over. The punishment was still to come.
The Hungarian Revolution began on October 23, 1956 with demonstrations and the toppling of a statue of Stalin. In response, Soviet tanks rolled into Budapest. At a peaceful demonstration on October 25, soldiers shot and killed some 800 people. The fighting had begun. After retreating and regrouping, the Soviets returned with a huge force on November 4. They shot at civilians and revolutionaries alike. The Hungarians had few weapons but fought bravely until the 10th of November. When it was over, the 31,500 Soviet soldiers with their 1,130 tanks had losses of 722 killed or missing, and 1,540 wounded. The Hungarian losses were far greater, with estimates of 2,500 to 3,000 civilians dead and 13,000 wounded. When the revolution was crushed, some 200,000 Hungarians fled the country. For those who remained, various punishments including imprisonment, deportation to the Soviet Union, and death were to follow.
In the village of Pornóapáti in Western Hungary, very near the border of Austria, a family prepared to walk to their freedom in the middle of the night. My parents and their three children, ranging in age from six to three, had to leave or die. I have been told that my father was a revolutionary and the Soviets were going to kill him and his whole family. During the night they walked across the bridge on the Pinka River and sneaked across the border past a guard post manned by armed soldiers. Eventually, with the sponsorship of relatives already living in the USA, they left Europe and began a new life in Chicago, where I was born.
Their home was razed by the soldiers they had eluded. The family that they left behind continued to live with the constant presence of soldiers. They dealt with years of hunger and abuses. The city of Budapest still bears the scars of the revolution. Many of the beautiful old buildings in the city are still riddled with bullet holes from the Soviet guns and tanks. When the Soviets were gone and the borders were free and open, those who had lived through the occupation carried their own internal scars. Many years later, my Aunt Lizi walked with us to the Austrian border, but she was unable to step across. The ingrained fear of being on the other side of the border without her papers was too much to fight. To honor her, Liz and I both remained on the Hungarian side.
We are approaching the sixtieth anniversary of my family's arrival in the United States. I'm not sure of the exact date, but I think it was in December of 1956. I am forever grateful to my family for their bravery. They risked their lives to make the move to freedom and a new home. I also love the family that remains in Hungary. I am proud to be related to people who managed to survive through such challenging times and under such difficult conditions. May they long live happy and free.
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The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
The Hungarian Revolution began on October 23, 1956 with demonstrations and the toppling of a statue of Stalin. In response, Soviet tanks rolled into Budapest. At a peaceful demonstration on October 25, soldiers shot and killed some 800 people. The fighting had begun. After retreating and regrouping, the Soviets returned with a huge force on November 4. They shot at civilians and revolutionaries alike. The Hungarians had few weapons but fought bravely until the 10th of November. When it was over, the 31,500 Soviet soldiers with their 1,130 tanks had losses of 722 killed or missing, and 1,540 wounded. The Hungarian losses were far greater, with estimates of 2,500 to 3,000 civilians dead and 13,000 wounded. When the revolution was crushed, some 200,000 Hungarians fled the country. For those who remained, various punishments including imprisonment, deportation to the Soviet Union, and death were to follow.
In the village of Pornóapáti in Western Hungary, very near the border of Austria, a family prepared to walk to their freedom in the middle of the night. My parents and their three children, ranging in age from six to three, had to leave or die. I have been told that my father was a revolutionary and the Soviets were going to kill him and his whole family. During the night they walked across the bridge on the Pinka River and sneaked across the border past a guard post manned by armed soldiers. Eventually, with the sponsorship of relatives already living in the USA, they left Europe and began a new life in Chicago, where I was born.
Their home was razed by the soldiers they had eluded. The family that they left behind continued to live with the constant presence of soldiers. They dealt with years of hunger and abuses. The city of Budapest still bears the scars of the revolution. Many of the beautiful old buildings in the city are still riddled with bullet holes from the Soviet guns and tanks. When the Soviets were gone and the borders were free and open, those who had lived through the occupation carried their own internal scars. Many years later, my Aunt Lizi walked with us to the Austrian border, but she was unable to step across. The ingrained fear of being on the other side of the border without her papers was too much to fight. To honor her, Liz and I both remained on the Hungarian side.
We are approaching the sixtieth anniversary of my family's arrival in the United States. I'm not sure of the exact date, but I think it was in December of 1956. I am forever grateful to my family for their bravery. They risked their lives to make the move to freedom and a new home. I also love the family that remains in Hungary. I am proud to be related to people who managed to survive through such challenging times and under such difficult conditions. May they long live happy and free.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
Friday, October 21, 2016
Friends and Foes
I have written in the past about how election seasons drive me batty. The months of political ads. The candidates and proponents or opponents of various issues, who bludgeon voters with accusations about the opposing side rather than simply telling us what they stand for, what they hope to accomplish, what their dreams are for our state or our nation. It makes me cranky. Of course it's probably difficult for anyone to realize when this happens, since I am the self-proclaimed Meanest Woman in the World. Just trust me, it happens.
Like many others, I have lived through numerous elections. Heck, I can remember, back when I was a kid, watching President Lyndon B. Johnson on television announcing that he would not seek another term in office. I've seen issues come and go that hit people right in their hearts, minds, and sensibilities. I've cast my vote on issues ranging from a tax increase to fund a local water park to legalizing recreational marijuana, and all sorts of things in between. This year in Colorado we have ballot issues that include tobacco taxes, an increase to the minimum wage, state-run health care, and whether terminal patients should have the right to end their lives.
Among all of these issues and candidates of both parties, there's been a common thread. We are all individuals, and we all have our own thoughts, feelings, and preferences. If we are willing to break with the excellent age-old advice to never discuss politics with friends, we do so knowing that our friends may be on the other side of an issue. We may state what we feel and maybe even why, but we won't try to change our friends' minds because we know that it just won't happen. We agree to disagree, because that is deep in the fabric of living in the USA. The freedom to choose and believe and think differently than others without fear of harm or reprisal. To paraphrase a quote attributed to Voltaire, we may disagree with what another says, but will defend to the death their right to say it.
After an election, some people feel happy and victorious and some feel disappointed and let down. But we move forward and the country keeps running and we work together and live side by side and dream of harmony. This is a Republic, and when we have elections, the majority rules. The people's opinions change, politicians change, and we ride on the ebb and flow of these tides.
In recent years, I've seen many people losing sight of the fact that no matter what side of the fence we're on, we're all Americans. I have heard people refer to Presidents with comments like, "X isn't my President, I didn't vote for him." This comment really upsets me. Whether or not I am a big fan of whomever is elected, they are my President. They are who the majority has chosen. In this particular Presidential election cycle, these divisive feelings seem to have escalated to a level that I have never witnessed before. Although I am a student of history, I have not focused on the history of elections and the public's moods related to them. All I can say is that this race seems to have brought rancor to a new and disturbing level.
Modern communication may be making the problem worse; if you look at the comments on just about any story on the internet or social media, you will find it invariably results in someone turning things toward politics and name-calling. I have seen comments when a recipe is posted online saying that the only people who would like it are idiots that would vote for Candidate X. Of course, one or two cooler, more controlled commenters will observe that it's a recipe for a dip or a cake, not an article about a Presidential candidate. But time and time again, the bait is eagerly taken by someone on the other side of the fence. Name calling is the mildest of what follows.
We have seen videos of people who say that if a certain candidate is elected, they will do what they need to in order to save our nation. They hint at their willingness to assassinate the majority's choice for President if that person is not their choice. When did these people forget that the way we save our nation could be as simple as not trying to tear it apart?
Just yesterday we disagreed with a friend, whom we love dearly, about the candidates for President. We came in on opposite sides of the fence, as it were. We stated our various opinions but also realized that our differences were not something to fight over. We can have opposing political views and still be friends. We agreed to disagree, and we still love each other as friends do. No, we don't see ourselves as paragons of virtue. We're simply imperfect beings trying to respect one another in an imperfect world. I wish it would catch on.
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The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
Like many others, I have lived through numerous elections. Heck, I can remember, back when I was a kid, watching President Lyndon B. Johnson on television announcing that he would not seek another term in office. I've seen issues come and go that hit people right in their hearts, minds, and sensibilities. I've cast my vote on issues ranging from a tax increase to fund a local water park to legalizing recreational marijuana, and all sorts of things in between. This year in Colorado we have ballot issues that include tobacco taxes, an increase to the minimum wage, state-run health care, and whether terminal patients should have the right to end their lives.
Among all of these issues and candidates of both parties, there's been a common thread. We are all individuals, and we all have our own thoughts, feelings, and preferences. If we are willing to break with the excellent age-old advice to never discuss politics with friends, we do so knowing that our friends may be on the other side of an issue. We may state what we feel and maybe even why, but we won't try to change our friends' minds because we know that it just won't happen. We agree to disagree, because that is deep in the fabric of living in the USA. The freedom to choose and believe and think differently than others without fear of harm or reprisal. To paraphrase a quote attributed to Voltaire, we may disagree with what another says, but will defend to the death their right to say it.
After an election, some people feel happy and victorious and some feel disappointed and let down. But we move forward and the country keeps running and we work together and live side by side and dream of harmony. This is a Republic, and when we have elections, the majority rules. The people's opinions change, politicians change, and we ride on the ebb and flow of these tides.
In recent years, I've seen many people losing sight of the fact that no matter what side of the fence we're on, we're all Americans. I have heard people refer to Presidents with comments like, "X isn't my President, I didn't vote for him." This comment really upsets me. Whether or not I am a big fan of whomever is elected, they are my President. They are who the majority has chosen. In this particular Presidential election cycle, these divisive feelings seem to have escalated to a level that I have never witnessed before. Although I am a student of history, I have not focused on the history of elections and the public's moods related to them. All I can say is that this race seems to have brought rancor to a new and disturbing level.
Modern communication may be making the problem worse; if you look at the comments on just about any story on the internet or social media, you will find it invariably results in someone turning things toward politics and name-calling. I have seen comments when a recipe is posted online saying that the only people who would like it are idiots that would vote for Candidate X. Of course, one or two cooler, more controlled commenters will observe that it's a recipe for a dip or a cake, not an article about a Presidential candidate. But time and time again, the bait is eagerly taken by someone on the other side of the fence. Name calling is the mildest of what follows.
We have seen videos of people who say that if a certain candidate is elected, they will do what they need to in order to save our nation. They hint at their willingness to assassinate the majority's choice for President if that person is not their choice. When did these people forget that the way we save our nation could be as simple as not trying to tear it apart?
Just yesterday we disagreed with a friend, whom we love dearly, about the candidates for President. We came in on opposite sides of the fence, as it were. We stated our various opinions but also realized that our differences were not something to fight over. We can have opposing political views and still be friends. We agreed to disagree, and we still love each other as friends do. No, we don't see ourselves as paragons of virtue. We're simply imperfect beings trying to respect one another in an imperfect world. I wish it would catch on.
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The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
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Thank you for reading!
Friday, September 30, 2016
Great
My sister Liz came over for a brief visit the other day. She was taking a little breather before she had to go in to work and seemed glad to sit down and put her feet up. At some point while she was checking texts and voicemails and making a couple of phone calls, she told me that I needed to contact her daughter. I was a little surprised. I love Becky, but we don't spend a lot of time phoning or texting one another.
I asked Liz what was going on. "I don't know," Liz said. "She called me last night and told me that she had to talk to you about something important. She wanted me to tell you that when she calls, you need to answer. She says that when she calls, you never answer." I thought, but did not say, that no, I usually don't answer, because every time she calls it seems that she's telling me someone died. That's the type of call that you want to be prepared for. It's the kind that you let go to voicemail and you don't even listen to the voicemail until you've had at least a few minutes to mentally gird your loins, as it were.
I was getting a bit miffed, though. Why on earth did she call Liz to say that she needed to talk to me? Did she change her phone number? I hadn't had any phone calls from her recently. Did she ask Liz for my phone number? That was silly, too, because I haven't changed it in years. What the heck was going on? I asked Liz all of these questions, getting a little more peeved as the conversation went on.
Liz got a little testy with me and my questions, telling me that she didn't know what was going on, all that she knew was that Becky had called her the previous evening and told her that she really needed to talk to me. Don't get testy with me, I thought, but did not say. I'm not the one who started this. Why in the heck didn't Becky contact me directly by phoning or texting? Why call Liz? Liz isn't my mother, and even if she was, I'm a grown woman, as is Becky.
I texted Becky, sort of a what's-up-your-Mom-said-you-needed-to-talk-to-me-about-something kind of message. I was getting really irked because Liz kept saying that she didn't know what was going on, I should just call Becky. Argh. So I talked to Liz about other things. I knew that Becky, who lives in another state, would be up and about, and when she called me a few minutes later, I answered a bit warily. I wanted to respond like Olympia Dukakis did when her character was awakened during the night in Moonstruck - who's dead?
Becky said, "Hi, I just wanted to let you know that you're going to be a great aunt!" I turned to look over at Liz, who was laughing. I called her a name. Nothing foul, mind you, I simply referred to her as a young female bovine who has never given birth to a calf. She and Becky both burst out laughing. I laughed too.
So my niece is making me a great aunt and Liz a grandmother at Easter time. Becky is doing well now that she has gotten over the morning sickness phase. Because he was away at college when all of his friends were having babies, her boyfriend has never changed a diaper or fed a baby a bottle. He needs to do a heap of learning before April. I'm sure he'll do just fine.
After I got off the phone, I told Liz that she needed to decide what she was going to be called as a grandmother. (This was interspersed with her having fits of giggles as I was still calling her a young female bovine who has never given birth to a calf.) Gram, of course, is out of the question because of Gram who raised us. It's been used thoroughly. I suggested going for a British term like Nan or Gran. We'll see. There's plenty of time for her to decide. That poopy little young female bovine...
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
I asked Liz what was going on. "I don't know," Liz said. "She called me last night and told me that she had to talk to you about something important. She wanted me to tell you that when she calls, you need to answer. She says that when she calls, you never answer." I thought, but did not say, that no, I usually don't answer, because every time she calls it seems that she's telling me someone died. That's the type of call that you want to be prepared for. It's the kind that you let go to voicemail and you don't even listen to the voicemail until you've had at least a few minutes to mentally gird your loins, as it were.
I was getting a bit miffed, though. Why on earth did she call Liz to say that she needed to talk to me? Did she change her phone number? I hadn't had any phone calls from her recently. Did she ask Liz for my phone number? That was silly, too, because I haven't changed it in years. What the heck was going on? I asked Liz all of these questions, getting a little more peeved as the conversation went on.
Liz got a little testy with me and my questions, telling me that she didn't know what was going on, all that she knew was that Becky had called her the previous evening and told her that she really needed to talk to me. Don't get testy with me, I thought, but did not say. I'm not the one who started this. Why in the heck didn't Becky contact me directly by phoning or texting? Why call Liz? Liz isn't my mother, and even if she was, I'm a grown woman, as is Becky.
I texted Becky, sort of a what's-up-your-Mom-said-you-needed-to-talk-to-me-about-something kind of message. I was getting really irked because Liz kept saying that she didn't know what was going on, I should just call Becky. Argh. So I talked to Liz about other things. I knew that Becky, who lives in another state, would be up and about, and when she called me a few minutes later, I answered a bit warily. I wanted to respond like Olympia Dukakis did when her character was awakened during the night in Moonstruck - who's dead?
Becky said, "Hi, I just wanted to let you know that you're going to be a great aunt!" I turned to look over at Liz, who was laughing. I called her a name. Nothing foul, mind you, I simply referred to her as a young female bovine who has never given birth to a calf. She and Becky both burst out laughing. I laughed too.
So my niece is making me a great aunt and Liz a grandmother at Easter time. Becky is doing well now that she has gotten over the morning sickness phase. Because he was away at college when all of his friends were having babies, her boyfriend has never changed a diaper or fed a baby a bottle. He needs to do a heap of learning before April. I'm sure he'll do just fine.
After I got off the phone, I told Liz that she needed to decide what she was going to be called as a grandmother. (This was interspersed with her having fits of giggles as I was still calling her a young female bovine who has never given birth to a calf.) Gram, of course, is out of the question because of Gram who raised us. It's been used thoroughly. I suggested going for a British term like Nan or Gran. We'll see. There's plenty of time for her to decide. That poopy little young female bovine...
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Wear and Tear
My younger readers may not be able to identify with this, but those with more, um, life experience may be able to identify.
From time to time lately, I find myself wondering what in the world happened to my legs. When I was younger they were beautifully shaped and wondrously strong. I could walk all over the place, even in crummy but cute shoes with no support, and leap out of bed the next day eager for more. I could squat down for ages to converse with small children, and kneel and crawl around with the best of them. Heck, I could climb up numerous flights of stairs - nay, run up numerous flights of stairs if I wished - without my legs giving it a second thought. It was wonderful.
Nowadays my legs aren't the lovely stems that my Gram said were so nicely shaped. The knees bulge in places that they never used to years ago. That's not the worst of it - just a moment of kneeling is agonizing. And squatting? Please! And the grinding these knees make going up and down stairs can often be heard by someone who is walking next to me. I find myself doing the one-step-at-a-time slow shuffle, something that I used to think was reserved for people who could be commonly referred to as elderly or perhaps toddlers still learning how to walk, when I go down a set of stairs. If not, the grinding will make it extremely difficult for me to walk tomorrow.
"What have I done to make my legs so bad?" I wondered. It's not like I played any sports in school (talk about someone being non-athletic!) and was dealing with repeated football or soccer or cross-country injuries. So I let my mind wander and it remembered, and it told me what I needed to know.
I remembered being a skinny girl of seven or eight years of age and Alice taking her daughters and Liz and I out to what was called The Farm, but was more like a ranch. There were a few horses, a pony, some fields of hay and alfalfa, and numerous Charolais cattle. On these occasions, five or six years before Alice and Bill had a home built on their 100-plus acres, we girls were a free work crew. Actually, we were allowed to work for sandwiches and a spot to pee behind the haystack.
Did I mention that I was scrawny? Years later, Alice's sister Jackie told me that when she first saw me I reminded her of the photos she would see of starving children, accompanied by requests for humanitarian aid. But I was expected to work, and work hard. It gave me some time to not be under Alice's thumb, unless I shirked my duties. We would do all sorts of work around the corrals and barns, hopping over the wooden fences or getting torn up trying to crawl through the barbed wire around all of the other areas and fields. I seldom came back from these excursions without getting my skin torn by barbs or picking up splinters from the wooden fences. Of course, I never mentioned these to Alice - if I had, the bandaging would be accompanied by her berating me for a fool for getting cut up. Once I got a splinter in the palm of my hand that was as large around as a wooden kitchen matchstick. I left it alone until it festered and my hand opened up, releasing the offending stowaway.
One of the hardest things was carrying around bales of hay. We would climb up the stacked bales to get one down from the top, or near the top, and carry them to another location. Bales of that size can weigh around 40 pounds, and I might have weighed 50 dripping wet and wrapped in heavy winter clothing and boots. I struggled along, balancing the bales on my thighs. Any discomfort I experienced was nothing compared to a potential beating for being a useless, lazy girl.
After I moved to Gram's, the trips to the country (sounds so very nice, doesn't it?) dwindled in frequency. Bill and Alice had a young family that lived on the place and took care of the work we had previously done. Before long, Alice dumped a dog at Gram's, one of the most aggravating dogs I have ever known. Naturally he lived to be nearly 20 years old. Alice's son Dave and his roomies had found the dog roaming on the streets of Boulder near the CU campus. They brought him home to the house they shared and, probably through benign neglect, taught him the worst of manners.
Clyde (as in Bonnie and) would drink out of the toilets, steal food off the counters and table, and pee and poop in the house rather than outside. As I have read can be the case with black labs (he was a mix) he was afraid of the dark. He was also terrified of loud noises like thunder and fireworks, as well as getting wet. He could jump over a 6-foot fence with ease, and liked to fly over fences at any opportunity. He believed himself to be a fighter, and would try to tangle with the male dog next door. Hoss could kick his tail and slash him up without even trying.
In order to protect the dog, we had to chain him when we put him outside for, well, you know. I want to stress that he was not left chained in the yard all day, it was usually a maximum of about 5 minutes. It was one of my tasks to take him down to the chain that was looped around one of the sturdy poles that held up the clothesline. Clyde could run around without the heavy chain tangling up, and would bark when he was, as Gram would say, finished doing his business.
That crazy dog was strong. He knew where we were headed and would try to get away from me. And when fireworks happened or rain sprinkled, I had to virtually drag him with my slight frame. If he saw a dog or cat when he was going out or coming in, he'd take off, sometimes dragging me along. I remember once when he started off and I ended up on the wet grass in my favorite brown and tan suede saddle shoes. They had a smooth molded bottom, so when we hit the grass, I slid and fell, narrowly missing hitting my head on the metal basement window well. Gram was so scared and angry that when she tried to kick the dog in anger, he fled down the stairs to the basement. Every so often, he was not stupid.
Doing this for years made my hands and arms strong, but I think it also took a toll on my still-young but already abused knees. As the years passed and lupus became a part of my life, gout and inflammation also took their toll. A fractured tibia, with which I climbed to my third-floor apartment and back down again the next day (and which wasn't x-rayed until about three weeks later because nobody even thought of a break because after all, I was walking) added to the damage. Throw in some phlebitis and the family tendency I inherited to hypercoagulabilty (a fancy term for a tendency to get blood clots) and I guess it's not such a surprise I have challenges after all.
I have come to realize that although my small problems with my legs may be inconvenient, I am pretty lucky after all. I still have two legs, and they are at least moderately strong. I can still walk a lot, but not without the carefree, pain-free ease of my youth. And, like Clyde, I may talk a good game, but I am not going to be kicking anyone's backside. I'm non-violent, after all. And I'm really not sure that I could lift either leg that high!
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
From time to time lately, I find myself wondering what in the world happened to my legs. When I was younger they were beautifully shaped and wondrously strong. I could walk all over the place, even in crummy but cute shoes with no support, and leap out of bed the next day eager for more. I could squat down for ages to converse with small children, and kneel and crawl around with the best of them. Heck, I could climb up numerous flights of stairs - nay, run up numerous flights of stairs if I wished - without my legs giving it a second thought. It was wonderful.
Nowadays my legs aren't the lovely stems that my Gram said were so nicely shaped. The knees bulge in places that they never used to years ago. That's not the worst of it - just a moment of kneeling is agonizing. And squatting? Please! And the grinding these knees make going up and down stairs can often be heard by someone who is walking next to me. I find myself doing the one-step-at-a-time slow shuffle, something that I used to think was reserved for people who could be commonly referred to as elderly or perhaps toddlers still learning how to walk, when I go down a set of stairs. If not, the grinding will make it extremely difficult for me to walk tomorrow.
"What have I done to make my legs so bad?" I wondered. It's not like I played any sports in school (talk about someone being non-athletic!) and was dealing with repeated football or soccer or cross-country injuries. So I let my mind wander and it remembered, and it told me what I needed to know.
I remembered being a skinny girl of seven or eight years of age and Alice taking her daughters and Liz and I out to what was called The Farm, but was more like a ranch. There were a few horses, a pony, some fields of hay and alfalfa, and numerous Charolais cattle. On these occasions, five or six years before Alice and Bill had a home built on their 100-plus acres, we girls were a free work crew. Actually, we were allowed to work for sandwiches and a spot to pee behind the haystack.
Did I mention that I was scrawny? Years later, Alice's sister Jackie told me that when she first saw me I reminded her of the photos she would see of starving children, accompanied by requests for humanitarian aid. But I was expected to work, and work hard. It gave me some time to not be under Alice's thumb, unless I shirked my duties. We would do all sorts of work around the corrals and barns, hopping over the wooden fences or getting torn up trying to crawl through the barbed wire around all of the other areas and fields. I seldom came back from these excursions without getting my skin torn by barbs or picking up splinters from the wooden fences. Of course, I never mentioned these to Alice - if I had, the bandaging would be accompanied by her berating me for a fool for getting cut up. Once I got a splinter in the palm of my hand that was as large around as a wooden kitchen matchstick. I left it alone until it festered and my hand opened up, releasing the offending stowaway.
One of the hardest things was carrying around bales of hay. We would climb up the stacked bales to get one down from the top, or near the top, and carry them to another location. Bales of that size can weigh around 40 pounds, and I might have weighed 50 dripping wet and wrapped in heavy winter clothing and boots. I struggled along, balancing the bales on my thighs. Any discomfort I experienced was nothing compared to a potential beating for being a useless, lazy girl.
After I moved to Gram's, the trips to the country (sounds so very nice, doesn't it?) dwindled in frequency. Bill and Alice had a young family that lived on the place and took care of the work we had previously done. Before long, Alice dumped a dog at Gram's, one of the most aggravating dogs I have ever known. Naturally he lived to be nearly 20 years old. Alice's son Dave and his roomies had found the dog roaming on the streets of Boulder near the CU campus. They brought him home to the house they shared and, probably through benign neglect, taught him the worst of manners.
Clyde (as in Bonnie and) would drink out of the toilets, steal food off the counters and table, and pee and poop in the house rather than outside. As I have read can be the case with black labs (he was a mix) he was afraid of the dark. He was also terrified of loud noises like thunder and fireworks, as well as getting wet. He could jump over a 6-foot fence with ease, and liked to fly over fences at any opportunity. He believed himself to be a fighter, and would try to tangle with the male dog next door. Hoss could kick his tail and slash him up without even trying.
In order to protect the dog, we had to chain him when we put him outside for, well, you know. I want to stress that he was not left chained in the yard all day, it was usually a maximum of about 5 minutes. It was one of my tasks to take him down to the chain that was looped around one of the sturdy poles that held up the clothesline. Clyde could run around without the heavy chain tangling up, and would bark when he was, as Gram would say, finished doing his business.
That crazy dog was strong. He knew where we were headed and would try to get away from me. And when fireworks happened or rain sprinkled, I had to virtually drag him with my slight frame. If he saw a dog or cat when he was going out or coming in, he'd take off, sometimes dragging me along. I remember once when he started off and I ended up on the wet grass in my favorite brown and tan suede saddle shoes. They had a smooth molded bottom, so when we hit the grass, I slid and fell, narrowly missing hitting my head on the metal basement window well. Gram was so scared and angry that when she tried to kick the dog in anger, he fled down the stairs to the basement. Every so often, he was not stupid.
Doing this for years made my hands and arms strong, but I think it also took a toll on my still-young but already abused knees. As the years passed and lupus became a part of my life, gout and inflammation also took their toll. A fractured tibia, with which I climbed to my third-floor apartment and back down again the next day (and which wasn't x-rayed until about three weeks later because nobody even thought of a break because after all, I was walking) added to the damage. Throw in some phlebitis and the family tendency I inherited to hypercoagulabilty (a fancy term for a tendency to get blood clots) and I guess it's not such a surprise I have challenges after all.
I have come to realize that although my small problems with my legs may be inconvenient, I am pretty lucky after all. I still have two legs, and they are at least moderately strong. I can still walk a lot, but not without the carefree, pain-free ease of my youth. And, like Clyde, I may talk a good game, but I am not going to be kicking anyone's backside. I'm non-violent, after all. And I'm really not sure that I could lift either leg that high!
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
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