Thanks for sending this over, MD!
Abbott and Costello have always been favourites of mine. From the time I was a child, Sunday mornings were filled with movies, Abbott & Costello falling in the middle of the line up. This is from an email that has probably been circling the web for a gazillion tech years or something, but it's still quite amusing.
If Bud Abbott and Lou Costello were alive today, their infamous sketch,"Who's on first?" might have turned out something like this:
COSTELLO CALLS TO BUY A COMPUTER FROM ABBOTT
ABBOTT: Super Duper computer store. Can I help you?
COSTELLO: Thanks. I'm setting up an office in my den and I'm thinkingabout buying a computer.
ABBOTT: Mac?
COSTELLO: No, the name's Lou.
ABBOTT: Your computer?
COSTELLO: I don't own a computer. I want to buy one.
ABBOTT: Mac?
COSTELLO: I told you, my name's Lou.
ABBOTT: What about Windows?
COSTELLO: Why? Will it get stuffy in here?
ABBOTT: Do you want a computer with Windows?
COSTELLO: I don't know. What will I see when I look in the windows?
ABBOTT: Wallpaper.
COSTELLO: Never mind the windows. I need a computer and software.
ABBOTT: Software for Windows?
COSTELLO: No. On the computer! I need something I can use to write proposals, track expenses and run my business. What have you got?
ABBOTT: Office.
COSTELLO: Yeah, for my office. Can you recommend anything?
ABBOTT: I just did.
COSTELLO: You just did what?
ABBOTT: Recommend something.
COSTELLO: You recommended something?
ABBOTT: Yes.
COSTELLO: For my office?
ABBOTT: Yes.
COSTELLO: OK, what did you recommend for my office?
ABBOTT: Office.
COSTELLO: Yes, for my office!
ABBOTT: I recommend Windows with Office.
COSTELLO: I already have an office with windows!
OK, lets just say I'msitting at my computer and I want to type a proposal. What do I need?ABBOTT: Word.
COSTELLO: What word?
ABBOTT: Word in Office.
COSTELLO: The only word in office is office.
ABBOTT: The Word in Office for Windows.
COSTELLO: Which word in office for windows?
ABBOTT: The Word you get when you click the blue "W".
COSTELLO: I'm going to click your blue "w" if you don't start with somestraight answers. OK, forget that. Can I watch movies on the Internet?
ABBOTT: Yes, you want Real One.
COSTELLO: Maybe a real one, maybe a cartoon. What I watch is none of your business. Just tell me what I need!
ABBOTT: Real One.
COSTELLO: If it's a long movie, I also want to see reel 2, 3 and 4. CanIwatch them?ABBOTT: Of course.
COSTELLO: Great! With what?
ABBOTT: Real One.
COSTELLO: OK, I'm at my computer and I want to watch a movie. What do I do?ABBOTT: You click the blue "1".
COSTELLO: I click the blue one what?
ABBOTT: The blue "1".
COSTELLO: Is that different from the blue "w"?
ABBOTT: The blue "1" is Real One and the blue "W" is Word.
COSTELLO: What word?
ABBOTT: The Word in Office for Windows.
COSTELLO: But there's three words in "office for windows"!
ABBOTT: No, just one. But it's the most popular Word in the world.
COSTELLO: It is?
ABBOTT: Yes, but to be fair, there aren't many other Words left. It pretty much wiped out all the other Words out there.
COSTELLO: And that word is real one?
ABBOTT: Real One has nothing to do with Word. Real One isn't even a part of Office.
COSTELLO: STOP! Don't start that again. What about financial bookkeeping? You have anything I can track my money with?
ABBOTT: Money.
COSTELLO: That's right. What do you have?
ABBOTT: Money.
COSTELLO: I need money to track my money?
ABBOTT: It comes bundled with your computer.
COSTELLO: What's bundled with my computer?
ABBOTT: Money.
COSTELLO: Money comes with my computer?
ABBOTT: Yes. No extra charge.
COSTELLO: I get a bundle of money with my computer? How much?
ABBOTT: One copy.
COSTELLO: Isn't it illegal to copy money?
ABBOTT: Microsoft gave us a license to copy Money.
COSTELLO: They can give you a license to copy money?
ABBOTT: Why not? They own it.
A FEW DAYS LATER ...
ABBOTT: Super Duper computer store. Can I help you?
COSTELLO: How do I turn my computer off?
ABBOTT: Click on "START".......
Friday, 12 January 2007
Wednesday, 10 January 2007
Why Won’t Time Stop For Me?
I've decided that it seriously bothers me that I can’t stop time. This bothers me beyond the whole Heroes-superpowerthing. I am annoyed that no matter how many potions I use, no matter how many times someone tells me how young I look for my age, whenever I go back to visit California I age a dozen or so years. And it's all because of all the kids I haven't seen in a couple of years.
It doesn't matter that whenever I think of our great visit home (don't tell Peter I said that) I can bring up any number of cool stories (remember Elli's coffee?). It seems that lately, all I can think of is how much the sting hurt when I got the nasty slap in the face that told me the family tree grows on, as do the branches on the trees of my nearest and dearest, and I have absolutely no say in the matter.
When I met my sixteen-month old nephew Jordan on Christmas Day, it was a special moment (even though he ran away because he didn’t know me). My brother reproduced. Begat. Carried on, threw his dna in the primordial soup. That alone scares years off of me, because I grew up with the man. But knowing there's some good Jennifer DNA in Jordan will make him a little more stable.
So there I was, watching Jeff cuddle his son while smiling in that first-time-besotted-daddy way. Jordan is sucking on his bottle, his little sixteen-month-old fingers holding his bottle, relaxed in the hammock of his daddy's arms. And then it hits me. I'm going to miss so much by living so far away. And time won't stop for me, dang it.
I was gone for only two years and Jordan came to join my brother's family. The adorable Miss Emily joined my sister’s family, and I have missed a full two years of her life. All of my friends’ children have grown, joined sports, and speak in clear sentences now. Gone are most of the sweet, joyful hugs from the boys. Moms aren’t allowed to kiss them either, so I don't feel too bad, but when I once was jumped upon and squealed at and laughed and played with, now it's more of a what's up, Auntie, kind of thing.
I don't know how you mothers deal with it.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, there were a few occasions when I would introduce myself to young adults who then laughed at me and said “don’t you recognize me, Auntie?” Life goes on, I’m getting old, and this really sucks.
Ginnie Marie is now Ginnie. She’s graduated university and now works as a reporter for her local paper. She comes in the door with a rushed presence, clicking off her Bluetooth headset with an “I’ll call you back.” She drops her briefcase and her designer handbag and says “Auntie Joyce! Uncle Peter! I rushed home to see you two before you left!”
And there I was, wondering where the girl that had just graduated from high school was. The one I used to send reassuring emails to as she moved in to the dorms at UC Santa Barbara. I didn’t know the woman in front of me, even though she hugged me with just as much love as I remember when she was tiny. Sigh. Yup, time stops for no one who moves to Canada.
When reviewing all the pictures with my Girl Cult when Peter and I came home to blessedly un-crowded Lanark County, I realized that most of my pictures were of the children I met and re-acquainted myself with. And I aged again. Gone are the pictures of wild parties and hey- look at that one, she's taking her bra off! Most of my pictures are of the kids that will be strangers to me once again when I head back to California.
And I’ll be right back in the shock phase of wondering who these people are that are calling me Auntie.
If you want to see how old you’re getting, look at the pictures of your kids and their friends, then sit down and have a good, long cry. Don’t cry too hard though, we don’t want to add to those laugh lines.
And please, let me know if you’ve figured out how to watch the kids grow up without aging yourself. That’s a trick I’d really like to master.
It doesn't matter that whenever I think of our great visit home (don't tell Peter I said that) I can bring up any number of cool stories (remember Elli's coffee?). It seems that lately, all I can think of is how much the sting hurt when I got the nasty slap in the face that told me the family tree grows on, as do the branches on the trees of my nearest and dearest, and I have absolutely no say in the matter.
When I met my sixteen-month old nephew Jordan on Christmas Day, it was a special moment (even though he ran away because he didn’t know me). My brother reproduced. Begat. Carried on, threw his dna in the primordial soup. That alone scares years off of me, because I grew up with the man. But knowing there's some good Jennifer DNA in Jordan will make him a little more stable.
So there I was, watching Jeff cuddle his son while smiling in that first-time-besotted-daddy way. Jordan is sucking on his bottle, his little sixteen-month-old fingers holding his bottle, relaxed in the hammock of his daddy's arms. And then it hits me. I'm going to miss so much by living so far away. And time won't stop for me, dang it.
I was gone for only two years and Jordan came to join my brother's family. The adorable Miss Emily joined my sister’s family, and I have missed a full two years of her life. All of my friends’ children have grown, joined sports, and speak in clear sentences now. Gone are most of the sweet, joyful hugs from the boys. Moms aren’t allowed to kiss them either, so I don't feel too bad, but when I once was jumped upon and squealed at and laughed and played with, now it's more of a what's up, Auntie, kind of thing.
I don't know how you mothers deal with it.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, there were a few occasions when I would introduce myself to young adults who then laughed at me and said “don’t you recognize me, Auntie?” Life goes on, I’m getting old, and this really sucks.
Ginnie Marie is now Ginnie. She’s graduated university and now works as a reporter for her local paper. She comes in the door with a rushed presence, clicking off her Bluetooth headset with an “I’ll call you back.” She drops her briefcase and her designer handbag and says “Auntie Joyce! Uncle Peter! I rushed home to see you two before you left!”
And there I was, wondering where the girl that had just graduated from high school was. The one I used to send reassuring emails to as she moved in to the dorms at UC Santa Barbara. I didn’t know the woman in front of me, even though she hugged me with just as much love as I remember when she was tiny. Sigh. Yup, time stops for no one who moves to Canada.
When reviewing all the pictures with my Girl Cult when Peter and I came home to blessedly un-crowded Lanark County, I realized that most of my pictures were of the children I met and re-acquainted myself with. And I aged again. Gone are the pictures of wild parties and hey- look at that one, she's taking her bra off! Most of my pictures are of the kids that will be strangers to me once again when I head back to California.
And I’ll be right back in the shock phase of wondering who these people are that are calling me Auntie.
If you want to see how old you’re getting, look at the pictures of your kids and their friends, then sit down and have a good, long cry. Don’t cry too hard though, we don’t want to add to those laugh lines.
And please, let me know if you’ve figured out how to watch the kids grow up without aging yourself. That’s a trick I’d really like to master.
Thursday, 4 January 2007
Italian Espresso Roasting, California Style
Peter and I just returned from a visit to California. I could write about how fantastic it was to see everyone, how much fun it was to get together, see the friends and family, but this week, I’d like to introduce you to Elli.
Elli is 51. She has an amazing antique furniture collection and a couple of pretty cool dogs. Oh, and Elli roasts her own E-Bay bought coffee beans in her back yard. Seriously. And you won't believe how 'simple 'it is.
Okay, that may not sound like too much excitement, but we were privy to her secrets, and the tools of her trade. Let me remind you of Elli's words - as she took us to her back yard picnic table. “This is a simple process.” Remember this.
First, Ellie shows us a 1950’s caramel corn maker, with an agitator at the bottom to keep things moving. She plugs in a digital thermometer and tells us she’s just going to warm things up a bit. She puts a springform pan around the hot plate (don't forget to remove the bottom of the springform pan first), and covers it all with a pressure-cooking-lid-looking thing and lets it all warm up for a few moments.
Next, Elli drops raw coffee beans (no taste, no smell that I can discern) into the contraption until the agitator starts moving back wards. She pulls out about a dozen beans, because the agitator shows you how many beans to put in by its movement. Huh?
Elli then puts the lid on her home-made roaster and tells us that the beans will go through a series of smells, none of them pleasant. She also tells us that we are waiting to hear the first crack of the beans as they are roasting. Simple? What?
We are all hushed as Elli tells us we are now listening for a crack. As the beans heat, they crack (it sounds like popcorn), but this is only the first crack. And Ellie is right; the beans smell like they are burning. Not a nice aroma at all. In fact, based on the smell, I could give up coffee completely.
Now that the first crack and three or four acrid smells have assaulted our nostrils, Elli says we are waiting for the second crack of the beans, which is, by the way, a very distinctive sound that is quite different from the first crack. Okay, truthfully, I couldn't hear anything different at all, but if Elli says it happened, then I beleive her.
I ask why these husk like things are flying all over. Ellie shows us the (simple) holes she’s drilled into the sides of her springform pan (minus bottom). These are so the bean chaff can fly out. The holes are bigger than the chaff, so it can easily separate itself from the beans as they agitate, smell bad and molt.
I don’t know about you, but I think chaff flying out of any size hole sounds like a bad thing, and about this time, I think I have landed in the Ozarks at a distillery of one of my Hatfield ancestors.
The second crack has come and gone, and now our nostrils are being assailed with an amazing aroma that makes my brain scream ‘give me coffee NOW!’
After the beans have been cooled with a shop-vac colander contraption, the beans are ready. They find their way to the grinder, to the percolator, to my cup. I take a sip and sigh, wondering if I can recreate this contraption at my house in Canada. But let's face it, I'm no MacGyver Elli.
Elli, here’s to you, for one of the best cups of coffee I have ever tasted. But girl, that process is anything but simple.
Elli is 51. She has an amazing antique furniture collection and a couple of pretty cool dogs. Oh, and Elli roasts her own E-Bay bought coffee beans in her back yard. Seriously. And you won't believe how 'simple 'it is.
Okay, that may not sound like too much excitement, but we were privy to her secrets, and the tools of her trade. Let me remind you of Elli's words - as she took us to her back yard picnic table. “This is a simple process.” Remember this.
First, Ellie shows us a 1950’s caramel corn maker, with an agitator at the bottom to keep things moving. She plugs in a digital thermometer and tells us she’s just going to warm things up a bit. She puts a springform pan around the hot plate (don't forget to remove the bottom of the springform pan first), and covers it all with a pressure-cooking-lid-looking thing and lets it all warm up for a few moments.
Next, Elli drops raw coffee beans (no taste, no smell that I can discern) into the contraption until the agitator starts moving back wards. She pulls out about a dozen beans, because the agitator shows you how many beans to put in by its movement. Huh?
Elli then puts the lid on her home-made roaster and tells us that the beans will go through a series of smells, none of them pleasant. She also tells us that we are waiting to hear the first crack of the beans as they are roasting. Simple? What?
We are all hushed as Elli tells us we are now listening for a crack. As the beans heat, they crack (it sounds like popcorn), but this is only the first crack. And Ellie is right; the beans smell like they are burning. Not a nice aroma at all. In fact, based on the smell, I could give up coffee completely.
Now that the first crack and three or four acrid smells have assaulted our nostrils, Elli says we are waiting for the second crack of the beans, which is, by the way, a very distinctive sound that is quite different from the first crack. Okay, truthfully, I couldn't hear anything different at all, but if Elli says it happened, then I beleive her.
I ask why these husk like things are flying all over. Ellie shows us the (simple) holes she’s drilled into the sides of her springform pan (minus bottom). These are so the bean chaff can fly out. The holes are bigger than the chaff, so it can easily separate itself from the beans as they agitate, smell bad and molt.
I don’t know about you, but I think chaff flying out of any size hole sounds like a bad thing, and about this time, I think I have landed in the Ozarks at a distillery of one of my Hatfield ancestors.
The second crack has come and gone, and now our nostrils are being assailed with an amazing aroma that makes my brain scream ‘give me coffee NOW!’
After the beans have been cooled with a shop-vac colander contraption, the beans are ready. They find their way to the grinder, to the percolator, to my cup. I take a sip and sigh, wondering if I can recreate this contraption at my house in Canada. But let's face it, I'm no MacGyver Elli.
Elli, here’s to you, for one of the best cups of coffee I have ever tasted. But girl, that process is anything but simple.
Thursday, 21 December 2006
My Twelve Days of Sickness (Sung loosely to the tune of 12 Days of Christmas)
May be sung very loosely to the tune of Twelve Days of Christmas
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: A lovely kiss that came packaged with a sneaky head cold.
On the second day of Christmas my calendar gave to me: A meeting where I wasn’t needed, but I didn’t find out until I got there, stuffing tissue up my nose, while I quietly spread my plague, through the accoutrements of this common head cold.
On the third day of Christmas my meeting gave to me: More work than I needed, putting me way behind in my holiday shopping, while I still cough, sneeze and feel terrible, I wish I felt like doing something , anything…if only I didn’t have this head cold.
On the fourth day of Christmas my shopping gave to me: Only enough energy to shop online for all, after I try in vain to finish all my work, I’m feeling a bit feverish, the monitor is blurring before me, if I only could stop sneezing, I really hate all this coughing, I’m going to swear off
kissing, because that’s how I got this lousy head cold.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my online adventures gave to me: a mass of confirmation emails that send my inbox over quota, an alarmed call from the credit card company, a headache from all this coughing, oh boy I finished one project out of twenty, and I just can’t seem to kick this head cold.
On the sixth day of Christmas my fever haze gave to me: A load of Christmas gifts on my doorstep (didn’t I ship those elsewhere?), the stack of work that just keeps growing, if only I could have a little nap, I feel like I’m slowly dying, all from this irritating head cold.
On the seventh day of Christmas my creditors gave to me: The option for more credit, in case there was more holiday shopping, spam from online stores I’ve never heard of, a phone call from our holiday pet-sitter, saying they can’t pet-sit, the cold vacating my head for my lungs, another headache from coughing, sigh…I’d feel so much better if I could just kick this cough from the lousy head cold.
On the eighth day of Christmas my cough has given me: Sleepless nights that send me to the ER where I snagged some dopey cough syrup, oh great I have bronchitis, the pharmacy charges forty dollars for a tiny bottle of medical miracle, but I went home and drank it anyway, only to find it didn't work, now how am I supposed to sleep, I'm tired of the couch, and all this from that annoying head cold?
The ninth through the twelfth days of Christmas are a fuzzy haze: the details are a little sketchy, it’s all because of the cough syrup that started with a kiss and that led to a lousy head cold, and yet I'm still coughing, nothing seems to work, I'm still spending time on the couch, now I've got an inhaler, I wish it would all go away, I'm feeling really sorry for myself, uh oh Peter's coming for a kiss, and I'm afraid he'll give me another head cold.
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: A lovely kiss that came packaged with a sneaky head cold.
On the second day of Christmas my calendar gave to me: A meeting where I wasn’t needed, but I didn’t find out until I got there, stuffing tissue up my nose, while I quietly spread my plague, through the accoutrements of this common head cold.
On the third day of Christmas my meeting gave to me: More work than I needed, putting me way behind in my holiday shopping, while I still cough, sneeze and feel terrible, I wish I felt like doing something , anything…if only I didn’t have this head cold.
On the fourth day of Christmas my shopping gave to me: Only enough energy to shop online for all, after I try in vain to finish all my work, I’m feeling a bit feverish, the monitor is blurring before me, if I only could stop sneezing, I really hate all this coughing, I’m going to swear off
kissing, because that’s how I got this lousy head cold.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my online adventures gave to me: a mass of confirmation emails that send my inbox over quota, an alarmed call from the credit card company, a headache from all this coughing, oh boy I finished one project out of twenty, and I just can’t seem to kick this head cold.
On the sixth day of Christmas my fever haze gave to me: A load of Christmas gifts on my doorstep (didn’t I ship those elsewhere?), the stack of work that just keeps growing, if only I could have a little nap, I feel like I’m slowly dying, all from this irritating head cold.
On the seventh day of Christmas my creditors gave to me: The option for more credit, in case there was more holiday shopping, spam from online stores I’ve never heard of, a phone call from our holiday pet-sitter, saying they can’t pet-sit, the cold vacating my head for my lungs, another headache from coughing, sigh…I’d feel so much better if I could just kick this cough from the lousy head cold.
On the eighth day of Christmas my cough has given me: Sleepless nights that send me to the ER where I snagged some dopey cough syrup, oh great I have bronchitis, the pharmacy charges forty dollars for a tiny bottle of medical miracle, but I went home and drank it anyway, only to find it didn't work, now how am I supposed to sleep, I'm tired of the couch, and all this from that annoying head cold?
The ninth through the twelfth days of Christmas are a fuzzy haze: the details are a little sketchy, it’s all because of the cough syrup that started with a kiss and that led to a lousy head cold, and yet I'm still coughing, nothing seems to work, I'm still spending time on the couch, now I've got an inhaler, I wish it would all go away, I'm feeling really sorry for myself, uh oh Peter's coming for a kiss, and I'm afraid he'll give me another head cold.
Monday, 18 December 2006
Spam – Congratulations, you are a winner!
By the time you read this, I will have responded to the 187 daily e-mails that I’ve received for as long as I’ve had an e-mail account. And all of these e-mails proclaim I am a winner. I’ve given up the fight and am claiming all of my prizes. I have tried to live a humble life, but can do so no longer. They said I am a guaranteed winner, so I’ll no doubt write to you next from the shores of a fabulous tropical island, dripping in diamonds while I sip frothy cocktails.
Here’s the plan: first, I’ll respond to all the guaranteed cash winning e-mails. That will net me an assured $756,434, and that’s just today’s mail.
Next, I’ll begin an itinerary that includes every trip that I have been guaranteed, every airline ticket, celebrity filled cruise and African safari. From a week’s worth of e-mails, I figure Peter and I can circumnavigate the globe about three times before we run out of gas, so to speak. And even then, the thousands of dollars in promised gas cards should help out a bit.
I will outfit myself in all of the free clothing, shoe and jewelry gift cards that have been promised me by the likes of Nieman Marcus, Tiffany & Co., Juicy Couture, Abercrombie & Fitch and Nine West. Every card promises a $500 shopping spree. I don’t know about you, but I love a designer that cares enough to just give their stuff away.
When Peter and I return home from our extensive travels, the latest in electronics will be waiting for us. Because of all the free cell phone offers I’ve received, Peter and I will be able to give cell phones to every deer and squirrel that lives in the woods surrounding us. We may have to give away any number of plasma televisions, as there are only so many rooms in our house, and these companies just won’t stop guaranteeing me a new television.
In fact, the Internet people care so much about me winning all of these treasures that they’ve made sure to contact me no less than an emphatic sixty-two times each, just to make sure that I’ve been given enough warning. It’s only when I receive that ominous ‘final notice’ that I give in and claim my prize. It’s like I’ve given them every opportunity to give the prize to someone else, but they really want me to have it.
I’m thinking of hiring a personal assistant just to write thank you notes for the flattering kindness I receive, every single day, via my sweet e-mail in-box.
I guess if I was a smart girl, I’d quit daydreaming and maybe adjust the spam settings on my e-mail account before I climb out of my designated spot in the Matrix into the cocoon of wealth.
And really, maybe I shouldn’t be so greedy. Give me your e-mail address, and I’ll share the wealth by forwarding them to you. After all, there’s always tomorrow’s batch of false hope. I’m happy to share.
Here’s the plan: first, I’ll respond to all the guaranteed cash winning e-mails. That will net me an assured $756,434, and that’s just today’s mail.
Next, I’ll begin an itinerary that includes every trip that I have been guaranteed, every airline ticket, celebrity filled cruise and African safari. From a week’s worth of e-mails, I figure Peter and I can circumnavigate the globe about three times before we run out of gas, so to speak. And even then, the thousands of dollars in promised gas cards should help out a bit.
I will outfit myself in all of the free clothing, shoe and jewelry gift cards that have been promised me by the likes of Nieman Marcus, Tiffany & Co., Juicy Couture, Abercrombie & Fitch and Nine West. Every card promises a $500 shopping spree. I don’t know about you, but I love a designer that cares enough to just give their stuff away.
When Peter and I return home from our extensive travels, the latest in electronics will be waiting for us. Because of all the free cell phone offers I’ve received, Peter and I will be able to give cell phones to every deer and squirrel that lives in the woods surrounding us. We may have to give away any number of plasma televisions, as there are only so many rooms in our house, and these companies just won’t stop guaranteeing me a new television.
In fact, the Internet people care so much about me winning all of these treasures that they’ve made sure to contact me no less than an emphatic sixty-two times each, just to make sure that I’ve been given enough warning. It’s only when I receive that ominous ‘final notice’ that I give in and claim my prize. It’s like I’ve given them every opportunity to give the prize to someone else, but they really want me to have it.
I’m thinking of hiring a personal assistant just to write thank you notes for the flattering kindness I receive, every single day, via my sweet e-mail in-box.
I guess if I was a smart girl, I’d quit daydreaming and maybe adjust the spam settings on my e-mail account before I climb out of my designated spot in the Matrix into the cocoon of wealth.
And really, maybe I shouldn’t be so greedy. Give me your e-mail address, and I’ll share the wealth by forwarding them to you. After all, there’s always tomorrow’s batch of false hope. I’m happy to share.
Thursday, 14 December 2006
What is Christmas About For You?
Are you ready for the holidays? Are your lights up, is your shopping done, your travel plans, meal plans and gift lists finished? If you are ready, you’re a freak of nature that I envy.
It won’t be long before stress piles up over the who-what-when-and-where of buying Christmas gifts for those we love.
Millions of dollars will be spent on stuff: gifts, food, alcohol, decorations, travel. Our credit cards will be full of finance charges for the new high balances, and the true “joy” of the season will show itself.
Isn’t that a lovely thought?
Let’s go back about two thousand years for a moment. Originally, this holiday was about peace, wonder and hope. About being unconditional and celebrating the season for what it really is, man made or not. Take an example from the Wise Men.
Gold, frankincense and myrrh; they may have been considered rare, high end gifts of the time, but what are frankincense and myrrh? They are both resins -- dried tree sap. Can you imagine? Dried tree sap for the King of Kings? Those Wise Men had some nerve. Today, Jesus would get an I-Pod, a 50-inch plasma screen television and an Escalade, all pimped out and ready to roll.
But, Jesus doesn’t need all the big stuff, and really, neither do we. Tree sap was good enough for the Big Guy, and it should be good enough for us.
So, at the risk of crashing the Canadian economy, I want to pose a challenge to all of us crazy people running around trying to make those we care about happy with ‘stuff,’ temporary happiness that it is.
Make this season about family, friends, unconditional love and acceptance of everyone in every circumstance. There’s really no good reason that we need to approach bankruptcy to make Christmas ‘worthwhile’ for everyone we love.
Since just about all of us do not rank as prophets or kings or saviours, what right do we have to demand more than what is freely given to us by people that love us? Why are we so selfish, so disappointed when we don’t get what we ‘want’?
It’s time we teach ourselves, teach our children (and let it make an impression this time) that Christmas is not about the presents, nor should it ever be.
Celebrate that your family surrounds you, that your belly is full, and that you have any gifts at all under your gorgeously decorated tree. Celebrate your health, your sense of humour, and the job that you have to pay for all this Christmas stuff. There are entirely too many people who have nothing to celebrate at all.
Although there are many charities to choose from, why not choose a holiday random act of kindness for a change? Think of those less fortunate than you, and give anything of your time, talents or treasures.
You’d be surprised how warm last season’s coat will keep someone who has nothing to warm them at all.
It won’t be long before stress piles up over the who-what-when-and-where of buying Christmas gifts for those we love.
Millions of dollars will be spent on stuff: gifts, food, alcohol, decorations, travel. Our credit cards will be full of finance charges for the new high balances, and the true “joy” of the season will show itself.
Isn’t that a lovely thought?
Let’s go back about two thousand years for a moment. Originally, this holiday was about peace, wonder and hope. About being unconditional and celebrating the season for what it really is, man made or not. Take an example from the Wise Men.
Gold, frankincense and myrrh; they may have been considered rare, high end gifts of the time, but what are frankincense and myrrh? They are both resins -- dried tree sap. Can you imagine? Dried tree sap for the King of Kings? Those Wise Men had some nerve. Today, Jesus would get an I-Pod, a 50-inch plasma screen television and an Escalade, all pimped out and ready to roll.
But, Jesus doesn’t need all the big stuff, and really, neither do we. Tree sap was good enough for the Big Guy, and it should be good enough for us.
So, at the risk of crashing the Canadian economy, I want to pose a challenge to all of us crazy people running around trying to make those we care about happy with ‘stuff,’ temporary happiness that it is.
Make this season about family, friends, unconditional love and acceptance of everyone in every circumstance. There’s really no good reason that we need to approach bankruptcy to make Christmas ‘worthwhile’ for everyone we love.
Since just about all of us do not rank as prophets or kings or saviours, what right do we have to demand more than what is freely given to us by people that love us? Why are we so selfish, so disappointed when we don’t get what we ‘want’?
It’s time we teach ourselves, teach our children (and let it make an impression this time) that Christmas is not about the presents, nor should it ever be.
Celebrate that your family surrounds you, that your belly is full, and that you have any gifts at all under your gorgeously decorated tree. Celebrate your health, your sense of humour, and the job that you have to pay for all this Christmas stuff. There are entirely too many people who have nothing to celebrate at all.
Although there are many charities to choose from, why not choose a holiday random act of kindness for a change? Think of those less fortunate than you, and give anything of your time, talents or treasures.
You’d be surprised how warm last season’s coat will keep someone who has nothing to warm them at all.
Wednesday, 6 December 2006
"Save the Cheerleader, Save the World"
If anyone watches NBC’s Heroes on Monday nights, you’re very familiar with the above phrase. I’m also guessing that even if you’ve never seen Heroes, you’ve heard the phrase somewhere, even if it’s only in a passing ad for an upcoming episode. NBC says that their gem is a show about “Ordinary people discovering extraordinary abilities.” Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?
The cheerleader is pretty much indestructible, but remember she’s the one they have to save. The Japanese man bends time and space, the Congressman flies, the artist can paint the future (and it looks bleak, folks, let me tell you.). The cop can hear others’ thoughts, the Internet stripper has a nasty evil twin and an ex-husband with some weird liquid-rubber-melting-through-walls thing. The male nurse? Well he can pick up anyone else’s powers when he’s near them. It certainly doesn’t sound like there’s much boredom with this crew. This is why we watch it.
So, save the cheerleader. Okay, I get it. In the show, the self-healing, blonde ball of bounce is the common message, and somehow, if she’s dead the world is coming to an end. Apocalyptic end. Kaboom. All because of a dead cheerleader?
If I wanted to let everyone think how deep and philosophical I was, I’d go on about how we all need to save the cheerleader in us, the little “Yay team!’ crew that’s in our soul and pops up to tell us when we’ve done well, even when nobody else notices. That would probably be a good thing to write about.
But instead, whenever I watch this show, I ignore the deeper meanings, sinister undertones and the Big-Brother-isms, along with the growing body count. Instead, I am caught up in the wonder of If I had a superpower…
Seriously. Would I use it for good or for evil? What superpower would I want to suddenly discover I had? The mind spins with possibilities.
There’s mind-reading, that could work. But who wants to hear the negative stuff, and what if it’s (gasp!) about me? No, thank you. Besides, I’d never want to know what my friends really think of my collection of Uggs.
Flying? What a rush that would be, but I’m way too clumsy. Add wings to that and it’s a natural disaster. Still, it might be fun to try, just to say I did it.
What if I could bend time and space? That has serious potential. It brings a whole new light to if-I-knew-then-what-I-know-now…yes, my plan is formulating now. Oh, I’d better be careful with that one. The brief taste of the dark side was a little heady.
Maybe that’s why I don’t have a superpower. Whether I remember everything I read or am suddenly super-flying-monkey-woman, with great power comes great responsibility, and I probably just couldn’t handle it.
I guess I’ll keep practicing at being a ‘regular’ human. It’s been forty-one years and I’m still tripping over things. Maybe when I get this walking thing down I’ll get a promotion.
The cheerleader is pretty much indestructible, but remember she’s the one they have to save. The Japanese man bends time and space, the Congressman flies, the artist can paint the future (and it looks bleak, folks, let me tell you.). The cop can hear others’ thoughts, the Internet stripper has a nasty evil twin and an ex-husband with some weird liquid-rubber-melting-through-walls thing. The male nurse? Well he can pick up anyone else’s powers when he’s near them. It certainly doesn’t sound like there’s much boredom with this crew. This is why we watch it.
So, save the cheerleader. Okay, I get it. In the show, the self-healing, blonde ball of bounce is the common message, and somehow, if she’s dead the world is coming to an end. Apocalyptic end. Kaboom. All because of a dead cheerleader?
If I wanted to let everyone think how deep and philosophical I was, I’d go on about how we all need to save the cheerleader in us, the little “Yay team!’ crew that’s in our soul and pops up to tell us when we’ve done well, even when nobody else notices. That would probably be a good thing to write about.
But instead, whenever I watch this show, I ignore the deeper meanings, sinister undertones and the Big-Brother-isms, along with the growing body count. Instead, I am caught up in the wonder of If I had a superpower…
Seriously. Would I use it for good or for evil? What superpower would I want to suddenly discover I had? The mind spins with possibilities.
There’s mind-reading, that could work. But who wants to hear the negative stuff, and what if it’s (gasp!) about me? No, thank you. Besides, I’d never want to know what my friends really think of my collection of Uggs.
Flying? What a rush that would be, but I’m way too clumsy. Add wings to that and it’s a natural disaster. Still, it might be fun to try, just to say I did it.
What if I could bend time and space? That has serious potential. It brings a whole new light to if-I-knew-then-what-I-know-now…yes, my plan is formulating now. Oh, I’d better be careful with that one. The brief taste of the dark side was a little heady.
Maybe that’s why I don’t have a superpower. Whether I remember everything I read or am suddenly super-flying-monkey-woman, with great power comes great responsibility, and I probably just couldn’t handle it.
I guess I’ll keep practicing at being a ‘regular’ human. It’s been forty-one years and I’m still tripping over things. Maybe when I get this walking thing down I’ll get a promotion.
Sunday, 3 December 2006
A Day In The Life of Wick
I owe my kitten. She made me forget all about a really crummy week just by being her eight-month-old-grey-tabbied self. Watching Wick look at the outside world as if everything in it is her personal play toy made me realize that life is too short to stress over things I can do nothing about (computers, etc.).
There is something about the effervescent joy of a kitten. There is nothing that doesn’t fascinate or entertain Wick. Everything is fun for her, and if she could laugh, I think we’d hear it often. She sure hears ours often enough, and much of it is because of her.
On this day, our friend Rueben comes to help with a ladder and a leaf blower when we’re ready to clean the eaves. I am sure that Wick will take her long, white-tipped tail to quieter territory where she can bat at a blade of grass when Rueben’s machine roars to life, but when that blower fires up, Wick doesn’t run away. It’s almost as if she knows what’s coming, and she can’t wait to be a part of it. I can see the gleam in those expressive green eyes from here.
A season’s worth of leaves and muck has me covering the barbecue and backing up slowly, eying the roofline with trepidation. The wet, black leaves begin to fly and I scamper. Wick is braver than I am, as she runs towards the storm of decay.
My bad week fades when Wick starts chasing those falling leaves. She jumps high (an impressive four feet or so) into the air to catch an unsuspecting victim before it hits the ground. She misses, but makes up for her kitten-clumsiness by executing a perfect back flip with a half-gainer and twist, landing a 10.0 dismount that impressed even the squirrels in the trees.
Before the first gush of belly laughter is out of me, she’s jumping again and catches her prey. The black leaf lays limp in her teeth. She stands as proud as any jaguar on its kill. She trots towards me, head held high. She drops the leaf in front of me and waits. I reward her as if she’s brought me the head of Osama Bin Laden on a plate (rewarding Wick is important, because we’re hoping, eventually, she’ll bring us the heads of dozens of field mice on a plate.).
When she feels properly praised, she’s back at it, and I forget all about whatever bothered me so much about last week. I am half tempted to join Wick in her leaf romp, but I don’t think I’d relish the taste of mouldy leaves much.
I can pretty much guarantee that tomorrow will hold some kind of stress. But before I let myself get all caught up in the worries of pleasing everyone with a job well done, I’m going to grab the laser pointer and watch Wick chase it as she always does, never giving up hope of one day catching that elusive pinpoint of red light, no matter how many walls she smacks into in the process. After all, laughter is the best medicine for a bad day.
There is something about the effervescent joy of a kitten. There is nothing that doesn’t fascinate or entertain Wick. Everything is fun for her, and if she could laugh, I think we’d hear it often. She sure hears ours often enough, and much of it is because of her.
On this day, our friend Rueben comes to help with a ladder and a leaf blower when we’re ready to clean the eaves. I am sure that Wick will take her long, white-tipped tail to quieter territory where she can bat at a blade of grass when Rueben’s machine roars to life, but when that blower fires up, Wick doesn’t run away. It’s almost as if she knows what’s coming, and she can’t wait to be a part of it. I can see the gleam in those expressive green eyes from here.
A season’s worth of leaves and muck has me covering the barbecue and backing up slowly, eying the roofline with trepidation. The wet, black leaves begin to fly and I scamper. Wick is braver than I am, as she runs towards the storm of decay.
My bad week fades when Wick starts chasing those falling leaves. She jumps high (an impressive four feet or so) into the air to catch an unsuspecting victim before it hits the ground. She misses, but makes up for her kitten-clumsiness by executing a perfect back flip with a half-gainer and twist, landing a 10.0 dismount that impressed even the squirrels in the trees.
Before the first gush of belly laughter is out of me, she’s jumping again and catches her prey. The black leaf lays limp in her teeth. She stands as proud as any jaguar on its kill. She trots towards me, head held high. She drops the leaf in front of me and waits. I reward her as if she’s brought me the head of Osama Bin Laden on a plate (rewarding Wick is important, because we’re hoping, eventually, she’ll bring us the heads of dozens of field mice on a plate.).
When she feels properly praised, she’s back at it, and I forget all about whatever bothered me so much about last week. I am half tempted to join Wick in her leaf romp, but I don’t think I’d relish the taste of mouldy leaves much.
I can pretty much guarantee that tomorrow will hold some kind of stress. But before I let myself get all caught up in the worries of pleasing everyone with a job well done, I’m going to grab the laser pointer and watch Wick chase it as she always does, never giving up hope of one day catching that elusive pinpoint of red light, no matter how many walls she smacks into in the process. After all, laughter is the best medicine for a bad day.
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