A Comic, a Holiday Wish and a Joke

Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays to everyone! (we are celebrating our intermediate-family Christmas today because the rest of break will be spent visiting relatives)

On an unrelated subject, the only joke I am able to tell:

What's the difference between a bad golfer and a bad skydiver?

The bad golfer goes, WHACK! "Dang!" The bad skydiver goes, "Dang!" WHACK!

For some bad holiday jokes, go here.

Theme.....?

Unfortunately, I'm supposed to have one.


So, what is my theme that you readers should look foreword to? I suppose it, in the broadest sense, my blog is about me. My thoughts. My likes. My experiences.

Why? I don't feel like I know enough about other subjects to do a full blog about them (politics, news, the newest tractors, etc). I suppose I could try to teach new math concepts with each post, but I have the feeling that would create keep-your-distancers instead of followers.

But I want to keep my thoughts from becoming brain vomit. I try to keep them connected to actual objects- not merely a jumble of diary entries. I've never read someones diary- I don't even have one. But I know I want to roll my eyes when all people do is complain (as, for example, I am doing right now), making long sappy writings about how:

• Someone has done them wrong
• Something has done them wrong
• The world is against them
• Life is hopeless
• They are angry and have to write some poetry to express themselves (dear, God, if you are going to do one of these things, do not write poetry. Unless you are some reincarnation of Emily Dickinson, I don't want to hear it. I like to think I can write poetry, but I'm not stupid enough to post it online for everybody to see because it's a load of crap. Chances are, yours is, too.

While I'm on an illegal-by-my-terms rant, I'll keep going. Don't write about how you have such deep, real emotions. I understand that you feel strongly about things. I do, too. But writing about a person that has, for example, broken your heart, is going to sound stupid on paper. It will sound cliche. It will sound 100% pathetic and make you look like a moron. My free advise? Keep it in a diary. Or in your head. Just off of the internet, please.

But the above paragraph is not enough to say what is bad and good. Like all writing, there are exceptions. I suppose the center of the annoyance I get from said writers is that they only write for themselves, assuming that:

1. No one else has ever had the same feelings/experiences.
   
2. Everyone will care and be sympathetic towards them.

For those that believe this, I hate to break it to you, but neither are true.

How to avoid being annoying when complaining or stating an opinion? First, feel free not to be completely serious- believe it or not, people like a sense of humor (of course, you can't tell a joke when talking about abortion- in this case it is appropriate if you have facts to back your side up and if your argument is clear). And secondly, sometimes it helps to include your audience in your discoveries (like, 'don't you hate it when...?' instead of 'I hate it when.....')- they have probably felt the same way at one point.

It appears, however, in explaining my theme, I have broken all of my rules in this post.

I have ranted.

I have not been funny enough to prevent myself from sounding like a drama queen.

And I didn't include you, my lovely readers (if there are any out there). I'm sure you know what I was talking about above- how rude of me not to mention you! But because I'm not entirely sure if you do feel that way, I suppose I'll simply include you in the charges against this post.

And this post is too long- that's a new rule. Who wants to read a novel, really?

So, to make up for my shameful behavior, I will make you a promise. I promise you that I will never post another rant like this again. My complaints will be connected to a larger, less pathetic topic. I will share my thoughts, experiences, and likes/dislikes. But they will be in a mature, acceptable blog format.

Agreed?

Good. Now that we've had such a serious little chat, let's close on a lighter note. "For the Birds."

My Fish Named Roxanne

Roxanne is my betta fish I received for my birthday. Unfortunately, the name was chosen without reading the owner's guide and before I had a chance to talk to my sister.

"What did you name him?"

"Him?"

It turns out that stores only sells male bettas- the females don't have the flowing fins and bright colors. My Roxanne was a Roxandrew. But the name was already given and I was not about to take it back. Whether he liked it or not, he would be named after girl.


I am surprised that I am able to write about him at the moment. Normally a fish would be dead by now if entrusted to my care. I am proud to say that we are coming up on almost four months of coexistence, and he doesn't look like he's going to go belly-up anytime soon (though how would I know? I don't know what a sick fish looks like).


Throughout our short time together, Roxanne has taught me a few things:

1. Not all fish follow your finger around. In fact, it's the opposite way around. Whenever I put my index finger up to the vase (Roxanne doesn't need a tank- he's all alone and we don't want him getting spoiled by such a large living space), he backs away. It's very gradual- he probably hopes I don't notice. But I do, so I do the considerate thing and continue following him. After a while, he gets angry and puffs out his gills (as in photo-scary, I know). You'd think I'd learn, but I still try it once in a while. I know I'm not amusing him, but I can't give up the hope that maybe someday he will become curious.
2. If you can't see them they can't see you. There is a fat purple ribbon around the narrow neck of the vase. When Roxanne is tired/annoyed (of/with me, my family, etc.), he goes and hides behind the ribbon. Not much else to say about that- avoidance is the best way to solve a problem (though, I guess, what else would he do? nibble our fingers to death?).
3. Stop freaking out- things aren't as fragile as they seem. A good philosophy to apply to life. After being out of town for three days, I was sure that I would have to flush my fish down the toilet. To my suprise, I found him, while slightly POed, in as good of condition as ever. My conclusion? Roxanne is a tough cookie- we don't give him, or other things, enough credit for their own abilities. Parents treat their first child like a china doll. By the second or third, they realize that the emergency room isn't needed every time the baby falls down. While I'm not advocating for you to leave an infant alone for days, you don't have to constantly worry.

I'm sure there are many other secrets my she-named betta has yet to teach me. But for now, I'll try to maintain the will-power not to chase Roxanne around with my finger.

PS: Any real betta fish problems? This person seems like one who could answer your non-philosophical questions.

Old

Today I was supposed to work from 9-3, bagging groceries and getting carts (as I complained about in "Sick", I was worried being outdoors would make me sicker). I had my alarm set for 7, but for some reason I woke up earlier. Then, the phone rang at 6:45 in the morning. Who calls at 6:45 in the morning? When we get a call this early, my family assumes there was an emergency or someone died (which I guess classifies as an emergency, doesn't it?).

Nobody died, thank goodness, but there was a semi-emergency at work. The girl who was supposed to work pay station (the place you can pay for food next to the dining area) was really sick (I won't go into details- you don't want to know). My manager wanted to know if I could come in ASAP. I asked if I would have to stay until 3, to which he replied no. So I accepted- I'd get off earlier and I would get to stay inside.

Overall, the day wasn't too bad. I had never worked breakfast or lunch shifts before, but they were tame compared to my usual dinner-time shift. And I got the chance to see a different crowd. I never realized how many old people, excuse me, seniors ate breakfast out. They had to be 90% of the customers that came through. Is this an old person thing, or simply a tradition from their generation?

I'm not sure, but they got me thinking about what I want to do when I'm old. Here's a few things I have so far: when I'm old I want to....

• Play bingo. A lot (hopefully I won't end up like Mrs. Franklin down below, though).
• Be one of the voter-registration volunteers.
• Be able to bake the best chocolate-chip cookies.
• Drive really slow, just for fun.
• Do everything slow, just for fun.
• Talk about the 'good old days'
• Travel the world London, Italy, Egypt, Australia, everywhere (safety isn't really an issue- who would want to kidnap an old lady?)
• Call people 'sonny'
• Demand a senior citizen discount everywhere I go

Most importantly, I never want to be told I can't do something. By that age, I will have been through much of my life, and I won't want any 'whippersnappers' telling me my limits. I'll decide those for myself.

Maybe I'll even eat in a grocery store every Sunday.

Peppermint Stick Ice Cream

Well, I somehow got way behind on my posting this week, so I get to talk even more about the random things that happen in my life. I was thinking about writing two entries tomorrow because our computer was working about as fast as an old lady doing....well pretty much anything. I would type an entire sentence, look up, and see that it wasn't even on the screen yet. So I had to wait until it eventually showed up. Very annoying, if you ask me. Luckily, though, it woke back up after following the complicated procedure called a "restart." So now you get to listen to me talk more about myself. You lucky ducks.

I'll talk about how my sick day went. Because of the title, we are going to go from most exciting to least (not that the least isn't important, it's just not action-packed).

Peppermint stick is one of my favorite flavors of ice cream. If you have never tried it and love mint, I highly recommend it. It's especially good this time of year to help get you in the holiday spirit. With this idea in mind, my dad picked up a half gallon of Blue Bunny ice cream that was on sale. We had some yesterday and it was amazing, and decided to have another round tonight. Unfortunately, this plan fell through due to a small detail.

Ice cream does not go in the refrigerator.

My dad accidentally overlooked this last night, and when he opened the freezer he found a surprise: no ice cream. When he opened the refrigerator, he found a bigger, messier surprise:

1. The entire shelf on which the ice cream sat was covered in ice cream soup. So he,


2. Took out the tray and,


3. Carried it upstairs to the kitchen to wash off, accidentally dripping the pink liquid all over the carpet.

I had just taught my dad the phrase, "epic fail." After carefully assessing the situation, we decided that the actual placement of the ice cream in the refrigerator did not fit the qualifications because it was one simple mistake in a controlled environment. However, the situation escalated to the epic fail level once the peppermint stick ice cream touched the carpet (I wish I had taken a a picture of the steps before my mom and I cleaned it up- it was literally drizzled in a line for the first six steps, then occasional drops peppering the remaining path to the kitchen. All in all, it made for an interesting night, though I am sad that our peppermint stick ice cream is no longer in existence.

Less eventfully, I laid low and listened to music for a lot of the day. Sifting through my iPod, I came across a band I had not listened to in a while, "Explosions in the Sky." They are entirely instrumental, and their songs could be considered inspirational in that feel-good type of way. If you have ever seen the TV show "Friday Night Lights," many of their songs have been played as background music. I listened to them for much of my down time. I will leave you with one of my favorites, called "Your Hand in Mine."

Sick

I don't feel good. You should be thankful that you can't catch my germs over the internet. It's not life-threatening for any of you that were afraid that my blog would have to be shut down, taking away one of your favorite pass times. It's just annoying.

It all started last night, feeling just a little bit like a cold. This morning, though, I had to take the ACT's and it all started going down in the testing room. You know when everything goes to the back of your throat and it's really uncomfortable to swallow? I have that feeling right now, along with an itch in my throat that coughing won't get rid of. Both of which make me feel really tired and unmotivated to do much.

The thing that makes me hate my small illness is that I have to work tomorrow. Although I have been trained as a checker, I have been working as a bagger for the past few weeks. Overall, I like it (it's nice to go back to a simpler job), but it has one unfortunate task this time of year: carts. The freezing temperatures made me feel like I'm going to come down with something even when I am healthy. Now that I'm actually sick, I'm worried it will make me feel worse.

When I think about it, I haven't been extremely sick in a long time. My most vivid memory of a serious illness would be when I got pneumonia three years in a row: 3rd, 4th, and 5th grade (though the second two years were not as bad as the first). I remember being extremely tired, 105 degree fevers, and having an allergic reaction to my medicine (which involved hallucinations and overall loopiness- I asked my sister whether she was a boy or a girl). The first year I came down with it, I was out of school for a week (though I insisted on coming to school for picture day because I refused to go to the make-up day: picture day was for normal kids. Make-up day was for creepy kids, and I worried that if I had to go to that one, I would be addicted to cigarettes before I had said cheese.).

Since then, though, the most I have been out of school is three days at a time (at least for being sick). I suppose without the germs of an elementary school, it has been easier to stay healthy. Who knows? The one thing I am sure about is that I don't want to break my sick-day record. With high school, as those who read this should know, if you miss a day, you miss a lot.

"What are you going to do after high school?"

This is, as I'm sure many high-schoolers will agree, one of the most dreaded questions asked by an adult. It is a follow-up question they deem mandatory when you have reached your junior year. We understand that it is asked merely for a topic of conversation, yet our response says a lot. An "I don't know" makes us sound unmotivated, which is unacceptable at our young and opportunity-filled age. I could think of worse answers.

"You know that guy on the street corner with the cardboard sign? I'm his apprentice."
"I'm going to collect stamps. The green kind, that is."
"I'm actually going to take a shot at modeling. I hear that tall and thin has gone out of style."
"Well, it has been a small dream of mine to work at this little place called McDonald's...."
"I think I'll live at home for say, another thirty years or so."

When we say we don't know what we want to be when we grow up, it can mean different things.

1. I know what I want to do, but don't want to say it because you might not approve. So I'm going to keep quiet until I have started. That way, it will be harder for you to try to talk me out of it.
2. I sort of have an idea of what I want to do, but I don't want to say it out loud until I'm sure. Otherwise, if I change my mind, I will have to explain why and you might think that I can't stick with one thing.
3. I have no idea what I want to do, but I have made list of things that I don't want to do.

For me personally, I am more a number two. I want to do something with math or science, but it is not set in stone. I know I am good at those things, but do they make me happy? What makes me happy? To tell you the truth, I have no idea.

I am happy when I succeed, more so when it was a difficult task. I enjoy receiving praise for a job well done. But these two can go along with any job. And do I want a job that will be a challenge for me personally (say, going into a job more along the lines of history) than something I am naturally good at (like a mathematician or engineer)? I wish I knew which choice will make me happy thirty years from now. I am not a psychic, however, and cannot see that far ahead.

So to adults: when we say we don't know what we want to do, it isn't that we don't care. We do (at least, most of us). It is terrifying, though, to make a decision that will change our entire life, either for the better or worse. Some of us do know, and that's great. But for those of us that don't, allow us time to decide and save your questions until later.

High schoolers: want to get an idea about a carreer? Take this really long test and find out!

Holidays

They're here! For me, they never get old. I love the snow, the decorated department stores, the Chex mix and sugar cookies; all bring back memories of past Christmases. A few things that put one in the Christmas mood (i would be politically correct, but most of the items deal with this holiday) are as follows:

• Put up a Christmas tree (and making sure it is in the stand properly, preventing it from crashing to the floor and leaving broken ornament glass in the carpet until replaced)
• Drink hot cocoa
• Make a batch of Chex mix
• Eat candy canes, though not the odd, fruity flavors. Peppermint is my only endorsement.
• Go shopping, remembering to pick up a few gifts while you're out
• Buy one crazy holiday item of clothing (a gaudy sweater, pants, etc), and wear it in public
• Listen to Christmas music (if the radio hasn't overdone it for you)
• Watch "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town," "Frosty the Snowman," "A Christmas Story," and any other Christmas classics
• Make a snowman/angel/ball/fort
• Go caroling (if you have the guts to and don't mind forcing your neighbors to watch you belt out a tune)
• See Santa at the mall (it is recommended you are accompanied by a small child)
• Visit family (even if they drive you nuts- i'm sure you will look back on those why-don't-you-have-a-boyfriend days with fondness)

See? Aren't you in the holiday spirit already? If not, well, bah humbug, i suppose. Perhaps they are not meant for everyone.

A Life Lived

One week ago at 10:30 pm my great grandfather died. We were visiting my grandparents, finishing up a night of Thanksgiving festivities, when we received the call informing us he had taken a fatal fall out of bed. Even at age 94, his death was a shock (my grandma hates the phrase "passing on" because it's a weak attempt to avoid saying that they died. "When I die, don't tell everyone I 'passed'. Just cut to the point and tell them I died.").

Frankly, he had too many incredible years to waste time talking about a funeral. He did not exist; he lived. Even when he was put in assisted living (eventually a nursing home, though it didn't smell or look like the stereotypical places of horror), he remained full of spirit, rebellion, and stories.

By spirit, he would grumble about the overbearing majority of women in the home, not to mention his disgust for the "old codgers" he had to put up with on a daily basis.

By rebellion, he would try the nurses' patience by ignoring their suggestion to keep his scooter on the 'tortoise' setting, much preferring the 'hare' speed (eventually his deteriorating ability to drive the contraption would force them to ban it from the dining area- too many close calls of almost running down the codgers trying to enjoy their lunch).

But by far, his stories were my favorite. He would tell of his unsatisfactory 'U's' in high school, his days playing on the defensive line in football, and how he lucked out in the draft. We learned more than thought possible about meat from his 30 years of experience working for Swift Processed Meat Company, not to mention a history of the days in his two-bedroom house.

The list goes on and on, and there are too many to count. One story in particular, though, sticks out. It was the second to last time I ever saw him that I asked: how had he and my great-grandmother met? I had never thought to ask and found I was curious. It is one of my favorites: not only because of the story itself, but it reminds me of a man who was there until the end.

I cannot tell it like he could, but I'll do my best to tell it like I see it in my mind:

Once upon a time there was a country boy, a city girl, and a bus.

The boy drove the neighborhood bus, the same route every day. On this route, this girl in particular caught his eye. He liked her, but there were obstacles. She was out of his league, the lady and the tramp, and, even more problematic, she was Catholic and he was a Baptist. Still, he would not be easily discouraged, and, one Friday afternoon gathered up his courage to ask her out on a date.

She turned him down flat.

It's hard to say whether he was surprised by this; he must have been expecting it somewhere in the back of his mind. Still, he wanted to know the reasons for her quick rejection. Was it because he too poor? His religion? Not her type? He wanted answers.

Conveniently, he knew the girl's sister, to whom he took his questions. He found her one day and asked, "What's up with your sister? I asked Agnes on a date and she turned me down."

To which Agnes's sister replied, "What day did you ask her?"

"Just this Friday."

The girl's sister laughed. "You fool!" she ranted. "You can't ask Agnes out at the end of the week. She already has a date by then! You have to ask her out at the start of the week!"

And so, with a renewed sense of hope, the boy waited until Monday. When he saw her on the bus and asked her again.

She accepted.

The rest is history.


James Hatfield (1914-2008)