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Burgled car - found jacket.
Hubby and I were having a great time with seven friends at our monthly movie group - watching ‘The Grocer’s Son,’ by the way. The movie was over and we were doing our critique and boisterously moving into other areas of conversation.
Time to go and we all headed for the door. I sat in the passenger seat of hubby’s car (he lets me ride in it) and wondered how and why Mr. Meticulous had left the arm rest storage and coke holder areas open. It was dark and it took a while to figure out our car had been burgled. The person (yes, person; though hubby had other words, I didn’t budge from my inherent worth and dignity of every person theology) had broken out a back passenger window to gain entry.
What was taken? Digital camera? No. Cell phone? No. Those things are a dime a dozen, I guess. They took my husbands’ absolute fave leather jacket. It was almost as bad, but honestly, not as bad, as when someone stole our ‘Burl Ives’ snowman out of our front yard a few years ago. Hubby was devastated with that theft. His view of human life was forever altered. We still drive around at Christmas time looking for it.
So, hopeful curmudgeon that I am, I expect his view of humanity changed a little back to the positive when our friend found his jacket on her fence the next day, apparently dropped on the run. Now, if we could just find Burl.
Yours in hope and cynicism The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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I bought a sewing machine.
I just thought how cool it would be to sew all those funky old t-shirts from my hippie days, foosball days and flying days together and make a quilt. Or, even something practical like sew up ripped out seams on stuff. My expectations weren’t high. I didn’t dream of using the button-holer or assorted attachments. I didn’t even expect the t-shirt quilt to be fully, well, flat; or even have a back necessarily, though I had hopes of that. And, can you believe it, a friend asked me if I got a something-or-other that helps keep t-shirt material flat when you sew it. Who knew?
But I foolishly thought I could remember how to thread the dang thing, and after a few practice runs, make straight lines. After all, it’s only been 45 years or so since I was in 4-H and hand stitched that hankie, then hid it in my pocket where it wrinkled beyond belief, then didn’t win 1st place and my Mom was so p-o’d I thought she’d never get over it.
But see, Mom had hopes for me beyond what she herself could (or would) do. Lack of patience may, after all, be an inherited trait. Now, my sister is another story - middle child syndrome at work and all. I can still see the picture of her in the local newspaper standing proudly with right heel planted firmly in the arch of her left foot, toes outward, dressed beautifully in her gold wool, yes, wool, for god’s sake, suit dress she’d sewn herself, wearing white gloves, pill box hat and carrying a hand bag. Grand champion! Wow.
I suppose I’ll call some fabric shops and see if I can get a few pointers; and hope they don’t point me to the door. It would be a tragedy for all those old memories to be lost to posterity, flat or not.
Yours in hope and cynicism, The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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Two Questions
My friend left a status report on a popular social networking site the other day asking the following question, “Does anyone remember this song?” quoting the words to an old (as in Viet Nam era) song from Country Joe McDonald.
‘Well, it’s one, two, three, what are we fighting for? Don’t ask me I don’t give a damn, next stop……’ Afghanistan - substituting for the original lyric, ‘is Viet Nam.’
Several people responded with a variation of sure do, how could I forget or one ex-soldier with ‘all we are saying is give peace a chance.’
My cousin, much younger, if it matters, asked another question: “Doesn’t anyone remember the 3000 killed in the World Trade Center, Pentagon and four hijacked airplanes on September 11?”
Guess what? I have an opinion and here goes.
First of all, a disclaimer. I want to make it very clear that I am not one of those democrats who voted enthusiastically for President Obama and am now giving him a hard time because he hasn’t accomplished everything he’d hoped - ALREADY. Give the man a break - ALREADY.
Then I want to remind my cousin and others of the question that was asked by military apologists during the Viet Nam war: “Do you want to live under Communist rule and have poor defenseless countries like S. Viet Nam live in the shadow of Communism?”
I think the parallels are becoming starkly apparent. Both wars have (had) U.S. citizens wondering if we can ever win them. In Viet Nam, it was the jungles, the guerilla warfare and a mind set we couldn’t fathom; and a growing hatred of the U.S. by the rest of the world. In Afghanistan, it’s the mountains, the guerilla warfare and a mind set we can’t fathom; and a growing hatred of the U.S. by the rest of the world.
Yours in hope and cynicism, The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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Civic Duty
No, I don’t have mayoral or even city council aspirations; but I think every one can do their civic duty in any number of ways.
I’ve been to a couple events in the past week that have been fun and interesting; and I felt I was playing a part in Waco’s future by participating.
Last Saturday night, hubby and I went to the Community Race Relations Coalition dance and silent auction. What a blast! Texas Trilogy and Classie Balou’s family band played oldies and we danced and danced. I even did the twist - how low did I go? Plenty. My old knees nearly let me down. Hubby and I also bid on a few items and came home with an ‘Italian print’ that will go well in our tuscany-ish kitchen. Many of our friends were there, too, and that helped make it a special night out. Folks had fun and the CRRC made some money to continue their efforts toward racial harmony in Waco.
Last night I attended the ‘Imagine Waco’ workshop. Tables were filled with small groups of people who wanted to play a part in Waco’s future. My table had a builder, a money man, a representative of the Waco Chamber of Commerce, a lady who moved to Waco in the last five years, myself and our facilitator, Brooke Rasco. The tables were covered in paper maps of downtown Waco and each group put stickers on the map where they thought housing, renovation, parks, offices, music and art complexes, light industry and more should go in the next 20 years or so. It was thrilling working with other people who had a stake in Waco’s future. Cudos to the city for a well planned and executed event. We were even fed.
The best of both events was the diversity of people. Young and old; white, black and brown; male and female; rich and poor. Both events made me feel like such a part of my city and it’s future. Maybe next time I’ll see you there.
Yours in hope and cynicism, The Compassionate Curmudgeon
FYI, if you missed ‘Imagination Waco’ last night you can go again tonight at Bledsoe-Miller, 5:30 to 8:30 p.m.
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Bad Bronicals
It’s a family joke that I have my Mama’s bad bronicals. She wasn’t an uneducated woman, mind you; but some words and phrases apparently escape even the most erudite.
The all-time winner is probably libary, to which my first response is you haven’t been to one lately, have you? And one of the new all-time faves is nukuler. And that’s the last time I’ll touch Dubya; and I have heard other people use that. A guy I used to work with swore his Mom said highway petroleum for the patrolmen.
Some are regional or cultural and I’m not too familiar with those; but I did know a lady from West Virginia who renched the dishes instead of rinsing them; but of course, she first had to warsh them, didn’t she? I found an old recipe for my Meemaw’s chow-chow with instructions to steer the mixture; and a lady I worked with said her Grandmother said ‘tumped it over’ when she knocked something over.
On the local scene, you can tell when someone ain’t from around here when the say Bosc, like the pear, instead of Bosque, clearly two syllables. The Brazos is another local victim; folks just think that Brayzos has a more cowboy romantic ring to it. Hubby and I moved from Oklahoma to Dallas and saw the headline about a Mex-e-a boy being suspected of murder. Luckily, we didn’t share our ignorance with anyone. In the same vein, Bexar County becomes a whole new place when mispronounced.
I had a rare opportunity when hubby and I went to adoption school. Our social worker/instructor used ideal instead of idea (my personal favorite) throughout the weekend. I compassionately kept my mouth shut until the last hour when she said revelant instead of relevant. I couldn’t hold it any longer- I whipped around to hubby and a few other attendees and said ‘so, our ideals aren’t revelant?’ Definitely leans toward (two wards) the curmudgeonly.
My best friend is as compassionate and as curmudgeonly as I am and she has a couple of doozies I’ll never forget. Someone she once knew said plublic instead of public. Please, it’s even harder to say. And though pronunciation isn’t the issue on this one, she and someone were watching a t.v. report on Imelda Marcos and the report was that Marcos would receive amnesty. The friend added his two cents with ‘yeah, and I bet they let her go, too.’ I liked to died.
Well, I guess I could care less - I could, really, how people pronounce words, so I’ll sign off now irregardless of how they’re pronounced; and if I’ve hurt anyone’s feelings, I’ll cross that medium when I get to it.
Yours in hope and cynicism The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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My newest pet peeve
I’m behind. I’ll admit I’m behind. I have lived with a squashing feeling of inadequacy nearly my whole life. Guess what? It made me give an inadequate showing. So, I’m catching up, as far as I can. I’m putting myself out there more. I’m trying things I’ve never tried; moving outside my comfort zone on a few levels. This blog being one new thing.
The questions that paragraph presents in regards to my new pet peeve is this: Why are there so many people out there my age or any age who are resting on their…..ok, I’ll call them laurels? Or feel they have nothing else to learn? or be interested in? or to offer?
There is no question in my mind that when you quit searching, you quit living. Are you certain you’ve explored every aspect of spirituality or politics or personal growth? Or are you just beyond all that? Are you so sure you have it right? Is there no room for growth or change? What if you learned something new or that something conflicts with what you think you are so certain is correct? Would that kill you? Embarrass you? Is it just too much trouble to continue questioning long-held positions?
If these questions interest you, try talking about something other than the weather (rain), personal health (did I really ask?), the latest celebrity scandal (I’m sorry; I don’t know who Kate and Jon are.), is that the Tom DeLay on ‘Dancing with the Stars?’ (Come on, be honest, do you remember why Tom DeLay is infamous?).
Try asking yourself these questions: are you in the best possible position to help elect a public official or comment on a bill before your elected officials, have you looked closely at both sides of an issue before you join a hate club, are you the best neighbor you can be, have you volunteered in your community this week and do you wake up every day hoping for the best even when expecting the worst?
Ask your friends these questions, too. You’ll be surprised, I think.
Yours in hope and cynicism The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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Playing Hooky
Remember the school principal who disappeared a few months ago? When they found him at a Barnes n Noble, he said he’d just needed a break. He was playing hooky.
I guess the clouds have bothered me more than I realized. I confess to being a little depressed; but I didn’t know I was until I saw a bright and sunshiny sky this morning. It was all I could do to go to work. I just wanted to sit in my yard and see what had grown besides mushrooms, and tilt my face to the sun. I wanted to play hooky.
I announced when I got to work that this was a BarnesnNoble day and that everyone could go home. Everybody was for it; but I didn’t have the authority. So there we sat.
I was a pretty good kid and didn’t really play hooky from school much. Until I got to the freedom-not-to-learn environment of college. I got really good at hearts and spades, as did several other hooky-players.
I guess the most traumatic, dramatic playing hooky event of my life was in high school when a bunch of us girls told our parents we were spending the night at other friends’ houses. We were to meet up at this really cool tree house in the back yard of a vacant house in our neighborhood. Beer might have been involved.
I didn’t know the devastating effects of that night until late the next day. I called my BFF to see if she wanted to hang out. Her Mom said she went to live with her Dad in a town far away. What? Why? She hung up on me. She was gone forever from my life. Then my Mom went to the beauty shop and the hoity toity ladies in town were talking about how I’d led their daughters astray. On Sunday my youth minister called me into his office for a chat about how I’d led the prominent people’s children into sin - that these were good kids, with good futures and that I shouldn’t lead them into the ways of the devil.
Wow, I asked, what did they do? Because you know what? It was chilly and the tree house wasn’t all that much fun and I went home at 9 o’clock. If I’d led anyone anywhere, it would have been to my house to the bed. I guess the muckety-mucks, then, like now are perfectly capable of getting their own selves into trouble playing hooky.
Yours in hope and cynicism The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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There was a sliver of a moon……..
The night you were born. It had been raining off and on for weeks in Waco; cloudy when it wasn’t raining. Despite the drought, some were already bemoaning the lack of sunlight.
As for the Friday night dinner club, we just wondered if there was ever going to be a baby. Hubby kidded that it was just a basketball up your shirt. When is the due date? Grandma K. went up early to stay with your Mom and Dad and give them reassurance and help Mom, well and Dad, too, I guess, with the huge and emotional issue.
Grandma will end up staying for over a month; she’d promised your Mom she would stay until you were two weeks old. But your Mom went to the hospital once, was it labor? then twice, then bed rest to bring the blood pressure down. So how could Grandma leave then? Finally, on the third visit to the hospital, you were born.
Such a sigh echoed through our hearts. All is well. She looks like Daddy. But the hair, an inch long at birth and coal black - Mom and Dad both helped there. I asked Grandma how big the head was - pretty normal, after all. And you won’t believe, there was a 19 lb., 2 oz. baby born somewhere in the world the same day as you. Wow! Lucky for Mom that wasn’t you, huh?
I had to write this little story in case, yeah, just in case your Mom and Dad don’t remember all those little things. And so you can hear the story again and again. My Mom and Dad never failed to tell me about the blizzard the night in February when I was to be born. They had to drive to town to spend the night for fear of not being able to get out the next day. I miss the hearing of it now they are gone.
So, soak it all up, little Evie. Listen patiently to every story - and know that you are loved.
Yours, in hope and cynicism,
The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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Love the ones who labor and add joy to our lives.
Following is the prayer that the Fox family children of China Spring say at every meal.
“Thank you farmers, thank you earth Thanks to all for what it’s worth Thank you Mom and thank you Dad For this food I’m glad to have”
My religious community is big on being intentional and mindful. That means that we encourage folks to think about and truly see what is in front of us; and try to express gratitude for all that went into bringing it to us.
This long weekend, in the declining dog days of summer, as we gather with friends and family, roll out the grill for perhaps the last time and feast on the many things that bring joy to our lives, look with mindfulness and intention upon the labor and love that made it all possible.
Have a safe and joyous Labor Day weekend.
Yours in hope and cynicism The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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I suppose they keep a schedule somehow.
Hubby and I went downtown a few Monday nights ago. Monday night, you figure it’s pretty boring downtown, right? Except that we went to a very well attended MCC graduation at the Convention Center. We certainly weren’t the first ones there and I know we weren’t the last ones there, but we got the last parking space in the lot.
What I’m saying is, there must be a master schedule for downtown events, right? MCC graduation on Monday night. What if Chet Edwards, Kay Bailey H or for crying out loud, Willie Nelson decided at the last minute he wanted to play the Convention Center the same night as MCC graduation? I guess we just say, “No, Willie, we don’t have room for two events in downtown Waco.” Come again another time. Thanks.
I suppose it’s great for the few people who are enjoying loft living in Waco (where do they park?); but I don’t plan on moving downtown soon (I live in that urban sprawl area by MCC), so I guess I’m outta luck.
I didn’t live here in the ‘70’s but I heard city planners got rid of all the parking then, too. It was, according to some, the final death knell started by the new fangled malls and the deadly suburban sprawl.
Well, it looks good, I guess, like high heels on a leggy woman; I hope we’re not gonna break something.
Yours in hope and cynicism The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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I just want a hair cut.
And I want a good hair cut. Those are hard to come by; at least for the price I want to pay. And I’m not a total cheap skate. There’s just so many variables.
I have thick, fine, straight hair. Sounds easy to us lay people, doesn’t it; but you’d be surprised how many mediocre haircuts I’ve gotten. I’m pretty sure I’d spend less time looking for a surgeon. I know I’ve spent less time looking for a medical doctor: you take my insurance? Ok, you’re my doctor.
I’ve gone to a couple of shops in my neighborhood (because that’s where I would like to do business). I walked in the door of a nice looking place - Mama cutting hair, Dad sweeping up. Habla Ingles? (lack of accent mark not exactly my fault). And they stared at me. I guess not. The other place I went was filthy.
I’ve had a couple of people who cut my hair in Waco who did a really good job at a reasonable price; but the conversations drove me up a wall.
I had to give up my first one when she went on and on about bashing and thrashing a poor garden snake on her front porch. Uh, she went to great lengths to build a house in the country (Believe me, I heard every detail). Well, if she managed to kill all the snakes, I imagine she now has rats, Karmic rats, if you will, so………
The last time I went to my most recent hair stylist, they were all in the middle of a conversation about nuclear waste and “what harm could it possibly do to dump it on the ground?” Who could it hurt? Oh, and did you hear about the funeral home guy who was dumping his bodies on the ground? Ew, that’s way grosser than nuclear waste.
I beg your pardon? Bodies are grosser than nuclear waste? In retrospect, I’m sure they said nuculer, too. Yikes! Where do you get your information?
So, I’m looking again for a new hair stylist. And when I grab a magazine and head to the chair, it’s a pretty good sign I don’t want to chat, ok?
Yours in hope and cynicism The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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Are they nuts?
There’s something about Waco that drives me crazy.
I’m certain that fully nine out of ten people in this city walk with their backs to traffic. Are they nuts?!? One of the most consistent bitches I hear in Waco is about the lousy drivers. Yet walkers are willing to put their lives in the hands of some of the alleged worst drivers in Texas? I’m confused.
I would be scared NOT to face traffic. At least I could jump out of the way, flip drivers off or use some defensive move that would get me out of the line of fire.
Has there been a lapse of education in Waco about how to walk on roadways? Has the dream of sidewalks been alive that long - that people were just told to walk on sidewalks and never taught how to walk on streets?
I’m not just talking about the invincible teens; I see Mothers with children, adults, dog walkers, all sorts of people who should know better. And many of them are wearing ear buds or talking on the phone to boot.
Yikes! folks, let’s not have yet another high profile pedestrian auto accident to make people aware of this. Besides, people in Waco are really friendly; and drivers will wave at you and smile if you walk facing them.
Yours in hope and cynicism The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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I don’t make friends easily……
I’m not beautiful, no one flocks to me like people naturally do to pretty folks. I’m a bit of a curmudgeon, so I don’t suffer fools lightly. And I often want to talk about more than my (or your) hair or shoes when I first meet you. So, as I said I don’t make friends easily.
But I do tend to keep friends once I make them. Maybe I’m loyal, smartish, smart aleckish, a bit funny, willing to be a good friend. I have stalked people I want to be friends with til I wear ‘em down. Really. I don’t think they think that though.
But I’m here to tell you, it ain’t easy keeping friends for 30, 40 years. It takes work and it takes travel, if you’ve moved as much and as far afield as I and my friends have. I wrote a while back that age had its blessings and one of them was learning better how to nurture my friends. I lied, or misunderstood the implications.
I have found, recently, in fact, and not for the first time, that there is sometimes no rhyme or reason why friends get crosswise with each other. It’s just life. I can’t always give them what they need or want at a specific moment any more than they can do that for me.
But you can’t back away, not for long. It’s not like family who will be there forever whether you want them to be or not. As soon as possible you’ve got to give them something. You’ve got to throw a line that they can get hold of to get back to you. It doesn’t have to be much: a reference to something good that you shared in the past; the second or even third call to the answering machine that tells them you’re there when they are ready; and the courage to call them back when you are ready.
Yours in hope and cynicism The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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Ooh, ooh that smell………….
Ooh, ooh that smell / Can’t you smell that smell? / Ooh, ooh that smell / The smell of death surrounds you.*
Restaurateurs, pay attention. Now is the time to buy water filters for your establishments. Lemon and lime alone will not work during August and September.
I know that people grouse year round about Waco water, hubby included. Personally, I think it’s in their heads; but there’s no convincing them and convincing them is not high on my list of priorities.
HOWEVER, this time of year, every year without fail, Waco water tastes and smells like death. It happens in many places, not just Waco. The same thing happens to my hometown water in Oklahoma this same time of year. We used to call it “the lake turning over.” Whatever the cause, it’s like clockwork. And it’s nasty.
I buy a large iced tea, half sweet, half un-sweetened every day on my way to work. It’s gotta be like the needle in the vein. My god, that first drink tastes good. But yikes-a-mighty, it has been awful lately.
So, just a heads up to you, restaurateurs; you can still keep customers happy with just a lemon and a lime. Filter your water, please.
*“That Smell” by Lynyrd Skynyrd
Yours in hope and cynicism The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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IMO - you know I have one
The latest Waco Trib IMO point to ponder is “What retail biz would you like to see in Waco?”
I can tell you what I don’t want to see is another empty building in Waco because a huge retailer opened up one day and was gone the next - or, just as evil, decided to try a new location in town. Target? K-Mart? Best Buy? Wal-mart? Circuit City? Linens and Things? Tony Roma’s? Krispy Kreme? Yes, some of those buildings have (finally) found other uses, but it was a long and ugly wait for most of them.
Why can’t retailers build on a smaller scale? Why can’t we have a 10,000 square foot store instead of a 100,000 square foot box? Why can’t Blo-mart put just a small variety store in one floor of a downtown building? A few groceries, a few health and beauty products, some basics of urban living instead of 500,000 square feet of crap? (where does all that stuff go when it isn’t bought?) Maybe they could get a tax write off for actually doing some public good.
Why can’t The Bottle and Box Store have just a few items of containment in a town the size of Waco instead of enough empties to fill a coliseum? The Fried Right, Creamy Delight donut shop might have made it if they’d taken a lesson from Waco’s two quite sufficient (and small) and tasty donut shops.
Yes, we could really use a small grocery store or two in two or three parts of town that have a variety of goods. I like to shop in my neighborhood, not drive across town to a giant box to get what I want. And do we really need dueling drug stores on every corner in Waco?
So, ok, Trib, you asked my opinion - are there any retailers out there to listen?
Yours in hope and cynicism The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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My unknowable response in an emergency
Many people think that if we are self-aware we will know how we will react in an emergency or life-threatening situation. I am one of the least self-aware people I know. I just never learned to pay attention; I forgot to write it down, so my awareness of myself is fleeting, changing and unknowable.
Last summer, hubby and I went on a vacation to the Northwest. I have been uncomfortable flying since I first saw armed guards in our airports after 9/11; so, I was a little uneasy as the airplane rotated out of DFW, headed for Portland.
We had just reached altitude when we in the back rows by the engines heard a POP, then a POP, POP. Hubby, an experienced pilot, didn’t bother telling me, this time, that “oh, it’s just one of the noises an airplane makes.” He and I and the flight attendant knew better. She was on the phone to the cockpit pronto.
Below row 30, no one heard anything, so they weren’t aware of what was going on; but the rest of us started that nervous, joking banter that we humans sometimes use to alleviate stress and the uncertainty of a situation. But then, the flight attendant told those of us around her what we already knew - we’d lost the right engine. She co-opted hubby and another man to help with the rear slide should we deploy it. We got a little more serious then. Some of us got on our cell phones to home, friends who would be waiting at the airport, our businesses or hotels. Our banter became quieter, revealing a concern that we weren’t quite yet willing to address.
Then the cockpit announced “some anomalies” and that we would be making an emergency landing in Oklahoma City. Having heard the voice of authority, we each began revealing ourselves - some began stowing things, trying to be helpful, hubby and the other man got more details about the slide, I continued the banter for a while but then began to try to comfort the people who were alone and frightened, people helped the single Mom take care of her child and of course, some prayed.
None of the other things surprised me, but somehow the praying didn’t seem helpful or productive. But busying myself and watching the prayerful, a calm came over me that I hadn’t felt in a long time while flying. There was nothing I could do; I had no control at all over whether that plane crashed or landed safely - how emptying, how freeing that was. I was free to continue my life as I had before, helping or bantering or encouraging, without fear.
Talking about it later, the couple across from us who had prayed fervently, felt the same loss of fear. How odd. Is prayer just who we are and what we do, whether to a higher power or to the task at hand; is it learning to live our lives without fear?
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They might appear to be taking a nap…..
But they ain’t asleep. I’m talking racism, sexism and ageism. I see them all every day although I’ll admit I’m not so good at spotting ageism yet - I haven’t been old long enough maybe.
Ok, let’s start with sexism while it’s fresh on my mind. Hubby and I went to a local, umm, do it yourself store, I guess they’re called. Impatient person that I am, I wasn’t happy just standing around waiting for help, so I went looking. I found someone and brought him back to faucets. Hubby, meantime had ambled over to sinks. I told the salesman the trouble with the faucet I’d bought and he said “we-he-hell (little lady) [parenthesis contain implied words], I’ve sold a bunch of those (to men, who know about these things); have one myself, and I have never heard of anyone (who has the right plumbing, heh, heh, heh) having that problem before.” Trust me I say, it doesn’t fit. “Well, what kind a (damn, fancy, woman-y) sink do you have anyway?” Hubby strolls up about this time and says “it’s just a regular old standard sink.” “Well, hell, I figured it was, these danged new faucets, ya can’t trust anything anymore; and ma’am, heh, heh, I never meant to say that I didn’t believe what you were telling me.”
Racism, not so funny, by the way, but I am in awe of it. Fascinating, if disgusting, what people can think. I work with a woman. We talk to customers on the phone a lot. They get us confused sometimes about who gave them the wrong information. They get mad at ME over the phone (cause I’ve been there 6 months to my friend’s 25 or so years and I usually did tell them wrong); but when they see us in person, they start with the “well, she said” pointing to my black co-worker. I know my jaw drops to my chin - I almost want to watch how it plays out - to see just how much the idiots embarrass themselves.
I guess this story covers both sexism and racism. I had a boss one time who hated women and blacks. So he made me and the black guy work together cause he figured we’d hate each other. I turn my back now if I see my old boss coming; but I called my old co-worker the other day cause I saw him and his wife’s picture on line at a charity event for an organization at which we volunteer. We used to kinda laugh at that old boss when he’d say stuff like “those people (blacks) deserve just as good service as anyone else.” And, we really had a hoot when his daughter married a black man.
Well, I know those stories are a little tacky, but what the heck. I guess people really don’t have a clue, do they?
I talked a little bit in an earlier blog about not being as hip as I once was. There’s a lot of terminology out there I don’t know; lord, and the music; well, ya know if you say “the music” like that it’s a given you’re getting old. But anyway, I asked a professional writer once (who fits squarely, er, in the under 30 crowd) if she ever wrote anything a little naughty in her professional writing and she said “I doubt if what you think is naughty I even consider to be.” Oh, well, yes, of course. I bow to your youthful knowledge of the naughty. So old of me to ask.
Yours in hope and cynicism
The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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Have a safe and happy July 4………
and join the crowds downtown for the annual fireworks display on Saturday night.
The fun starts at 6 p.m. with music at the amphitheatre. Fireworks start at dark:15 or a little earlier, maybe.
Bring your blankets, chairs, ice chest (and don’t overload it with illegal beverages) and kids over 4; and, well, leave the dogs at home. They don’t like it. Promise. It’s loud and too many strangers and too much sudden light. Same goes for those kids under four.
The Waco fireworks are pretty darn good. I used to live in Vancouver (Washington, not Canada; state, not D.C.) and they have the best I have ever seen. Folks sit on a gently sloping hillside facing the mighty Columbia or on their boats in the river if they are so lucky and the fireworks, like in Waco, explode over the river. And they have spared no expense in the past. This year I hear they are not having them; I still haven’t found out why - could it be the economy?
I tend to want to stay home on the heavy drinking weekends like the fourth and Memorial and Labor Days and New Year’s Eve. Not that I don’t tip a few myself, mind you. It’s all those other crazy drunks out there that keep me close to home. But I’ll be at the river July 4.
So, do take your common sense; bring it and your friends and family to Downtown Waco Saturday night.
See you there,
Yours in hope and cynicism
The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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A brief reflection………..
Facebook has many opportunities to see what movie star you are most like, what fruit, what ever. They also have an option to pick the five best albums of all time.
When I placed ‘Thriller’ in that mix, I got a little bit of flak from old rock hounds (of which I am one). I stand by it, not so much as a huge Michael Jackson fan, but as an observer in the life I’ve lived. And as such, I assure you that Michael Jackson brought joy to millions. It was impossible to turn away during his energetic, and yes, sexy performances. He loved what he was doing and he was gigantic at bringing that elation to the stage. Remember that about the man, if you will.
And, Farrah Fawcett. The hair, for sure, and the dazzling smile; but mostly the empowered woman, both in ‘Charlies’ Angels’ and in ‘The Burning Bed’ and, in the end, the brave fighter of an enemy against which few win.
Both, truly, pop icons of our age.
Yours in Hope and Cynicism, The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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I suffer from attachment disorder…..
You know what I mean. I write an e-mail saying the (no doubt) very important document is attached. Then I hit send and off the e-mail goes sans attachment. Sometimes I’m aware, often not. When not, the e-mails come flooding in: nothing attached; was there supposed to be an attachment?; did you mean to attach something, Kay?; did I miss something?
It’s embarrassing and I’m sure there is no drug and no cure because of the randomness of occurrence.
Another common internet malady is the FaceBook un-comment. It is too new to even have a name so I doubt it’s yet been diagnosed properly. That’s the one where I write a positively brilliant comment on someone’s FB page, then move on to other things without clicking the comment button, thereby destroying all the glowing prose. Well, I wanted to say something, but by now I’m bored with it, so I just quickly type “well, that’s cool, George”. I never forget to send those mundane second-try ones.
Does anyone else suffer from an internet malady? Let me know. We could start a support group.
Yours in hope and cynicism
The Compassionate Curmudgeon
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Besides the fact that she’s impressive……….
I’ve got two things to say about Sotomayor. Or not really about Sotomayor, but about the people who are getting all twisted about the piñata cartoon (http://politicalhumor.about.com/od/politicalcartoons/ig/Political-Cartoons/Sotomayor-Pinata.htm) and her desire to have her name pronounced correctly.
There have been political cartoons for over a hundred years. Bashing is what they do and show us in myriad clever ways who is bashing whom, and why; as well as help us to sort out all the pros and cons in a given situation or argument. And in a lot less words than any pol-pun could say it. I thought the cartoon hilarious: the opposing party hitting each other over the head when trying to bash the newest Obama nominee, or are they just worn out trying to find things wrong with her? Or maybe it’s showing us how deftly she can leap out of the way of criticism. Hmmm. And someone was offended because they used a piñata to represent a Latina? It would take a lot more than a one-panel cartoon to explain why that’s offensive.
Thing two: somebody is griping because she wants her name pronounced correctly? Well, for crying out loud. Don’t you prefer to have your name pronounced and spelled the way it was meant to be? I do. My middle (and maiden) name is Heidebrecht and it has been misspelled (ahem, not by me) and mispronounced all my life. For that matter, so has Kay - is that with an ‘e’? Huh? So I try to make a special effort to ask people how to correctly, or how they prefer their names to be spoken or spelled. It’s common courtesy and I’m not a Nazi because I prefer Heide“brechsht” to Heide”bright” - it’s how my grandparents learned it, so it works for me, too.
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Latest comments
Where do you come up with these ideas? They are so real-life and always with a funny-edge somewhere in it. I think you’re more compassionate than curmudgeon.
... read the full comment by Big Kahuna | Comment on I bought a sewing machine. Read I bought a sewing machine.
What a great blog. So many little ironic twists and whimsical lines. And an interesting lesson: people burgling for a coat at wintertime? Poignant. CC — you write good.
... read the full comment by Big Kahuna | Comment on Burgled car - found jacket. Read Burgled car - found jacket.
I wish I still had the a&m foosball T-shirt you got me. I loved that thing!
... read the full comment by Tippi Rasp | Comment on I bought a sewing machine. Read I bought a sewing machine.
Kay, that’s a happier ending! Thanks for the blog.
... read the full comment by Steve | Comment on Burgled car - found jacket. Read Burgled car - found jacket.