Not a pretty picture, that subject line. Yet, that is what I feel I can offer to you today: Some thick, tough matters to chew on in your mind.
In a surprisingly helpful, public-minded move, Google's home page today is featuring a link to a voter registration URL. Are you currently registered? Are you certain? The deadline is coming up in the next week or two. If you've moved recently and have not yet updated your driver's license, then you are not registered in your new location—thus rendering you unable to cast a vote. Now, if you'd moved here illegally from across the border? That probably wouldn't be a problem...
On Saturday, I took my son to get his hair cut. He sat very still and looked so cute afterward that I treated him to a bagel at Panera. We sat at a table, inhaling the wonderful aromas, enjoying our buttery, bread-y delight, and we couldn't help noticing the older gentleman next to us. His posture was amazingly upright. When we we leaving, we stopped to tell him that we'd been admiring his posture. The fellow explained that he'd spent time in the military, and good posture had been ingrained in him then. The kind, obviously blind fellow then informed me that he admired my beauty. (No, I'm not kidding.) I burst out laughing, and reminded the poor guy that there were many more beautiful sights all around him; the restaurant was practically crawling with lovely young things. We walked out the door, and I experienced a revelation: Every charming old, white-haired man you see was potentially a girl-crazy, inappropriate pervert. I'll never know what those elegant elders were like when they were young, unrestrained upstarts.
It gives you pause, doesn't it?
We made yet another purchase from craigslist recently—a loft bed for my son's tiny bedroom. (I keep trying to make space in my life where there truly is none.) But my one-ness with craigslist and all things scrounged and secondhand often makes me think that my epitaph should read, "She knew how to make do." Perhaps it will. I could put that in my will.
Which, by the way, needs to be updated. One of the witnesses to our will died a few years ago, and although my lawyer friend says it will hold water anyway, I feel funny about it. Plus, it needs to be notarized to be really tight; we didn't do that because in Pennsylvania, technically the notarization isn't necessary. But.
Even if we don't touch the will, my husband and I both need to appoint each other as Power of Attorney. Did you know that isn't an automatic thing? This is important stuff, people. Do you have your affairs in order? I won't even go into the whole living will, although that's strongly recommended as well.
Better to address these things, right now, than to risk the fraught-with-disaster alternative—someone else addressing them when you're either gone from this earth or not able to do so for yourself.
See what I mean? Mental gristle. I wasn't kidding.
NOTE: I just noticed this is post #400. Wow! Hurray for me!
Showing posts with label bagel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bagel. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Must you be my neighbor?!
Mr. Rogers would not be proud of me this week.
We've been having some minor neighbor issues lately. Someone a few doors down from us spent last summer constructing a giant, 2-story, multi-car garage. The family already owns a professional garage not even a mile away, on the main business road below our neighborhood. Guess what they specialize in? Hot rods. Antique ones. Yep, the super-loud, throaty-engined, characteristically fussy and high-maintenance cars of the ever-immature. Oops, there goes my opinion sneaking in there again... And the grown son drives these boisterous beauties past our home at all hours; I'm not sure what he does for a living, but it often requires a 5:30am start and/or a near-midnight arrival. Rumble, rumble, growl, putt-putt.
But anyway, the eldest family member is now much more immobile, so I figure the family is doing all they can to bring the garage to him.
Which is nice. For him.
On the first beautiful, warm day of the year, I got to watch a somewhat steady parade of beautifully manicured 50s-era trucks and cars revving their way up our street and around the block. Sometimes they drove farther, but often, the obnoxious music of over-tuned, under-muffled engine never got out of earshot before it came back to me full force.
People. This is when I dream of 40 acres, a mule, and myself planted squarely in the middle. With razor wire surrounding the whole compound.
I know that sounds awful. I guess it is awful. Because, even as I bite my lip to keep from cursing at that fool behind all the sets of wheels, I have this niggling little thought in my head: God loves that person, too.
Mumble, mumble. No, I didn't say anything.
And with that, I introduce to you my first Zazzle store attempt: a little bag to help illustrate why I can still look forward to Easter with true joy.
I do know the Good Shepherd, which is handy for me, because as you can see I need Him very, very much. Do you know the Good Shepherd? If there were ever anyone to know, it is He. This sheep knows him, too—which is why she is pleading with her eyes for you to think hard about this.
Everyone keeps telling me how easy it is to create Zazzle products. That has not yet been my experience, but I did finally get this one set up, and you can buy it for just under $10 if you go here. Zazzle also has a huge number of other products, like mugs, keychains and T-shirts, to name a few. If anyone has a sincere interest in getting this image and wording (or some other wording) on a product like that, just email me and I can try to set it up. You purchase right from the Zazzle site, I get a cut of the cost (I think it's 10%), and I put the cut toward Todd's upcoming missions trip to Kentucky in July. Mostly, the cost will be to cover his lost wages while he's out of town.
In the meantime, I'll try to eat my humble pie while the hot rods roll past. I'm finding that it tastes a lot like crow.
We've been having some minor neighbor issues lately. Someone a few doors down from us spent last summer constructing a giant, 2-story, multi-car garage. The family already owns a professional garage not even a mile away, on the main business road below our neighborhood. Guess what they specialize in? Hot rods. Antique ones. Yep, the super-loud, throaty-engined, characteristically fussy and high-maintenance cars of the ever-immature. Oops, there goes my opinion sneaking in there again... And the grown son drives these boisterous beauties past our home at all hours; I'm not sure what he does for a living, but it often requires a 5:30am start and/or a near-midnight arrival. Rumble, rumble, growl, putt-putt.
But anyway, the eldest family member is now much more immobile, so I figure the family is doing all they can to bring the garage to him.
Which is nice. For him.
On the first beautiful, warm day of the year, I got to watch a somewhat steady parade of beautifully manicured 50s-era trucks and cars revving their way up our street and around the block. Sometimes they drove farther, but often, the obnoxious music of over-tuned, under-muffled engine never got out of earshot before it came back to me full force.
People. This is when I dream of 40 acres, a mule, and myself planted squarely in the middle. With razor wire surrounding the whole compound.
I know that sounds awful. I guess it is awful. Because, even as I bite my lip to keep from cursing at that fool behind all the sets of wheels, I have this niggling little thought in my head: God loves that person, too.
Mumble, mumble. No, I didn't say anything.
And with that, I introduce to you my first Zazzle store attempt: a little bag to help illustrate why I can still look forward to Easter with true joy.
I do know the Good Shepherd, which is handy for me, because as you can see I need Him very, very much. Do you know the Good Shepherd? If there were ever anyone to know, it is He. This sheep knows him, too—which is why she is pleading with her eyes for you to think hard about this.
Everyone keeps telling me how easy it is to create Zazzle products. That has not yet been my experience, but I did finally get this one set up, and you can buy it for just under $10 if you go here. Zazzle also has a huge number of other products, like mugs, keychains and T-shirts, to name a few. If anyone has a sincere interest in getting this image and wording (or some other wording) on a product like that, just email me and I can try to set it up. You purchase right from the Zazzle site, I get a cut of the cost (I think it's 10%), and I put the cut toward Todd's upcoming missions trip to Kentucky in July. Mostly, the cost will be to cover his lost wages while he's out of town.
In the meantime, I'll try to eat my humble pie while the hot rods roll past. I'm finding that it tastes a lot like crow.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Straight outta Seinfeld
There are many aspects to Pittsburgh area living. There are disadvantages and disadvantages, opportunities to grow and learn as well as opportunities to have your purse stolen or be harangued by a crazy person. You can drive past the theatre (that’s “re” at the end, not “er”—as IF) and be surrounded by the cultured and privileged few in furs and heels, but you can also drive past a pyrohi festival or a bunch of people tailgating somewhere and see the very common masses.
Saturday was a day for the masses, I’m afraid.
I planned to meet my gal pal and take a nice, long walk after lunchtime. We consulted our schedules, consulted various other schedules (OK, no baseball game, we’re safe), and decided the North Shore would be an optimum place; it’s in the middle, there’s a fairly new bike and walking path, the views are lovely but we’d avoid the nonsense of parking too close to the big arts festival.
We confirmed the time and I began the short drive. Why so much traffic? Boy, was the arts fest really this popular? We always go on weekdays… I continued on my trek, and then the cell phone rang. My friend was sitting in the Fort Pitt tunnel, not sure why… We decided to keep the plan but see what developed. Five minutes later, it all became clear to me. People were partying in the stadium parking lots, grills going full tilt, country music blaring, there were hundreds of Y108 signs (a local country station—no, I’m not a listener)… It suddenly hit me that there was a B I G concert today. I had a vague recollection of seeing Kenny Chesney’s name in the paper that week. Bet it’s him, I thought.
I called my pal, who still sat hopelessly in the bowels of the tunnel. I told her the sad news while she watched the other, non-concert-bound lane move past her, and we made the revised decision to hit the South Side instead. North, South, who cares? They both have trails now, and on Saturday, only one neighborhood featured a bunch of sweaty, scantily clad people drinking heavily and singing along to a country crooner.
(On a side note, I’m biting my tongue here because I could easily write an entire column on the hideous nature of many concert-attendee outfits. I saw far too much flesh that should not be revealed in the light of day. I saw cute ensembles that had to be 2 sizes too small for the unfortunate people wearing them. I saw sizeable portions of female rears peeking out, and enough cleavage to swallow a small town, and orange-peel skin gone wild. I won’t go on—there’s no need—but much of what was exposed in those hot, sunny lots was darned unpretty. Sadly, no one there was peddling any shame.)
So, on I drove, south this time, crossing two more bridges and finding my slow but steady way to the new meeting place. A-ha! A parallel parking place, with time left on the meter—I snagged it, slapped sunscreen on my pasty arms and legs, and scurried to meet the friend. We hit a restroom (always a must after 45 minutes of car time) and then found trail access and got moving. It’s a decent trail, albeit a tad hard to follow at times and poorly marked; we talked and visited and stepped out of the way of the hundreds of mad bikers speeding past us like the slow-moving scum we were. After what seemed like a mile, we surmised we were close to the busy part of Carson Street. Hey, let’s leave the trail for a bit, hit Carson, and get a water. What a great idea!
We came up right by Bruegger’s, and popped in to accomplish our simple task. Not so simple, apparently. Three people were in front of us in line to pay; they were together, had their order on the counter, and the front one, the only fellow among them (I use the term loosely), was throwing a hissy fit right there. Yes, I mean hissy fit. I was more masculine than this guy. He and his two older female companions were dark-skinned, probably Hispanic; as his voice rose, his accent became more pronounced.
“I am going to make a scene and be rude as s*** because he threw a pickle at me!” This spoken in the petulant manner of a wronged man-child. “I’m not paying for this sandwich because I didn’t want the pickle and he put it on there anyway!”
Now the manager (a.k.a. alleged pickle-thrower) stepped up to the cash register and stood next to the girl who was cashing folks out. “I'm the manager, and you cannot use foul language here! That is unacceptable and you need to leave the store! Please leave here right now.” What made the whole exchange so comical was the fact that as effeminate as the tantrum boy was, the poor store manager was every bit as much so. One was dark and street-wise; the other was slight and fair and, at this point, absolutely indignant at the behavior exhibited by the Mexican thug.
“You need to apologize to me for throwing the pickle!”
“I did not throw a pickle at you! You’re crazy!”
As they continued to shout at each other with increasing emotion, the other folks in the store looked around in disbelief, and my friend and I looked at each other, stifling laughter at the absurdity and wondering silently if we should take our water search elsewhere. The cashier had stood without comment next to the manager, but now she motioned for us to step forward while the argument went on. There we stood, paying for a bottle of water while the crazy border family stood right next to us. It was an awkward moment; I could sense the acute embarrassment of the two women. Finally, as the girl made change for us, the ladies turned and left the store, minus their sandwiches and their spoiled girly man. We followed them shortly, and as we exited, the crazy Mexican guy tried to coerce us into involvement in the bedlam. “He just admitted he threw the pickle. Did anyone hear him admit that?”
I could feel him looking at us as we passed, and I said, “No.”
He began to rant again, and the thought crossed my mind that perhaps he was unhinged or armed or something, but by then I was reaching for the door handle and we were stepping into the bright, logical sun. As we made our way back toward the trail, we started to talk about the ridiculous scene we’d witnessed, but my observant friend hushed me when she saw we were walking right past the two women who’d fled the place in shame. There they stood, waiting at the car, avoiding our gazes just as we avoided theirs.
Yet the beautiful day took away our need to rehash the silliness. We talked briefly about how thankful we were that we don’t have that kind of anger, what a shame it is that young, green people end up in management positions and have to deal with such moments, and—most of all—how amazing it is that God loves everyone. And then, we were back on the trail and moving on to better, more productive topics of conversation.
You see how multifaceted this city is? Where else could you get stuck in a huge city traffic jam but be surrounded by people wearing ten-gallon hats, micro-minis and boots? Where else could you park in front of BCBG Maxazaria, then practically get knocked to the ground by people zipping along on bikes in outdoor gear? Where else could you walk past picnics and filch blackberries from wild bushes while gazing across the river at giant coal barges, expensive sport boats, and jet skis? And where else could you step in to buy a bottle of water and instead experience the drama of witnessing two flamboyant young men shout at and threaten each other over what may or may not have been a thrown pickle?
Quite a day, all in all. And the weather was wonderful—thankfully, it was only stormy in that bagel shop.
Saturday was a day for the masses, I’m afraid.
I planned to meet my gal pal and take a nice, long walk after lunchtime. We consulted our schedules, consulted various other schedules (OK, no baseball game, we’re safe), and decided the North Shore would be an optimum place; it’s in the middle, there’s a fairly new bike and walking path, the views are lovely but we’d avoid the nonsense of parking too close to the big arts festival.
We confirmed the time and I began the short drive. Why so much traffic? Boy, was the arts fest really this popular? We always go on weekdays… I continued on my trek, and then the cell phone rang. My friend was sitting in the Fort Pitt tunnel, not sure why… We decided to keep the plan but see what developed. Five minutes later, it all became clear to me. People were partying in the stadium parking lots, grills going full tilt, country music blaring, there were hundreds of Y108 signs (a local country station—no, I’m not a listener)… It suddenly hit me that there was a B I G concert today. I had a vague recollection of seeing Kenny Chesney’s name in the paper that week. Bet it’s him, I thought.
I called my pal, who still sat hopelessly in the bowels of the tunnel. I told her the sad news while she watched the other, non-concert-bound lane move past her, and we made the revised decision to hit the South Side instead. North, South, who cares? They both have trails now, and on Saturday, only one neighborhood featured a bunch of sweaty, scantily clad people drinking heavily and singing along to a country crooner.
(On a side note, I’m biting my tongue here because I could easily write an entire column on the hideous nature of many concert-attendee outfits. I saw far too much flesh that should not be revealed in the light of day. I saw cute ensembles that had to be 2 sizes too small for the unfortunate people wearing them. I saw sizeable portions of female rears peeking out, and enough cleavage to swallow a small town, and orange-peel skin gone wild. I won’t go on—there’s no need—but much of what was exposed in those hot, sunny lots was darned unpretty. Sadly, no one there was peddling any shame.)
So, on I drove, south this time, crossing two more bridges and finding my slow but steady way to the new meeting place. A-ha! A parallel parking place, with time left on the meter—I snagged it, slapped sunscreen on my pasty arms and legs, and scurried to meet the friend. We hit a restroom (always a must after 45 minutes of car time) and then found trail access and got moving. It’s a decent trail, albeit a tad hard to follow at times and poorly marked; we talked and visited and stepped out of the way of the hundreds of mad bikers speeding past us like the slow-moving scum we were. After what seemed like a mile, we surmised we were close to the busy part of Carson Street. Hey, let’s leave the trail for a bit, hit Carson, and get a water. What a great idea!
We came up right by Bruegger’s, and popped in to accomplish our simple task. Not so simple, apparently. Three people were in front of us in line to pay; they were together, had their order on the counter, and the front one, the only fellow among them (I use the term loosely), was throwing a hissy fit right there. Yes, I mean hissy fit. I was more masculine than this guy. He and his two older female companions were dark-skinned, probably Hispanic; as his voice rose, his accent became more pronounced.
“I am going to make a scene and be rude as s*** because he threw a pickle at me!” This spoken in the petulant manner of a wronged man-child. “I’m not paying for this sandwich because I didn’t want the pickle and he put it on there anyway!”
Now the manager (a.k.a. alleged pickle-thrower) stepped up to the cash register and stood next to the girl who was cashing folks out. “I'm the manager, and you cannot use foul language here! That is unacceptable and you need to leave the store! Please leave here right now.” What made the whole exchange so comical was the fact that as effeminate as the tantrum boy was, the poor store manager was every bit as much so. One was dark and street-wise; the other was slight and fair and, at this point, absolutely indignant at the behavior exhibited by the Mexican thug.
“You need to apologize to me for throwing the pickle!”
“I did not throw a pickle at you! You’re crazy!”
As they continued to shout at each other with increasing emotion, the other folks in the store looked around in disbelief, and my friend and I looked at each other, stifling laughter at the absurdity and wondering silently if we should take our water search elsewhere. The cashier had stood without comment next to the manager, but now she motioned for us to step forward while the argument went on. There we stood, paying for a bottle of water while the crazy border family stood right next to us. It was an awkward moment; I could sense the acute embarrassment of the two women. Finally, as the girl made change for us, the ladies turned and left the store, minus their sandwiches and their spoiled girly man. We followed them shortly, and as we exited, the crazy Mexican guy tried to coerce us into involvement in the bedlam. “He just admitted he threw the pickle. Did anyone hear him admit that?”
I could feel him looking at us as we passed, and I said, “No.”
He began to rant again, and the thought crossed my mind that perhaps he was unhinged or armed or something, but by then I was reaching for the door handle and we were stepping into the bright, logical sun. As we made our way back toward the trail, we started to talk about the ridiculous scene we’d witnessed, but my observant friend hushed me when she saw we were walking right past the two women who’d fled the place in shame. There they stood, waiting at the car, avoiding our gazes just as we avoided theirs.
Yet the beautiful day took away our need to rehash the silliness. We talked briefly about how thankful we were that we don’t have that kind of anger, what a shame it is that young, green people end up in management positions and have to deal with such moments, and—most of all—how amazing it is that God loves everyone. And then, we were back on the trail and moving on to better, more productive topics of conversation.
You see how multifaceted this city is? Where else could you get stuck in a huge city traffic jam but be surrounded by people wearing ten-gallon hats, micro-minis and boots? Where else could you park in front of BCBG Maxazaria, then practically get knocked to the ground by people zipping along on bikes in outdoor gear? Where else could you walk past picnics and filch blackberries from wild bushes while gazing across the river at giant coal barges, expensive sport boats, and jet skis? And where else could you step in to buy a bottle of water and instead experience the drama of witnessing two flamboyant young men shout at and threaten each other over what may or may not have been a thrown pickle?
Quite a day, all in all. And the weather was wonderful—thankfully, it was only stormy in that bagel shop.
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