The Freelance Retort

Memorial Day Weekend is Upon Us

2013-05-24T05:05:00.000-04:00

Memorial Day Weekend is upon us.

That sounds a little weird doesn’t it?

Especially since it’s also the title and it seems as if I’m saying it twice.

I suppose I could just let the title speak for itself and assume that you’ve read it, so I don’t need to repeat it.

But how can I be sure that you’re not a bunch of title scoffers out there who routinely ignore the headline and jump right into the body of the story?

I mean, I know my readers and I wouldn’t put that kind of aberrant title reading behavior past any of you.

You’re just that wild.

But I digress…again.

Anyway, Memorial Day Weekend is upon us…and that does sound a little weird doesn’t it?

For a couple of reasons…other than I’ve now said it three times….

One…how does a day become a weekend?

A day is a day…a weekend is a couple of days…sometimes three.

So it’s confusing…at least to me.

But what isn’t?

Second, it just seems early for Memorial Day.

Memorial Day used to be observed on May 30^th, originally as a tribute to all of our fallen soldiers.

That later evolved to include the remembrance of everyone who has gone before us, which many people commemorated by planting flowers and placing American flags and such at grave sites all over the country.

Now, however, since the late 60’s, in order to create a long three day weekend, Memorial Day is observed on the last Monday of the month, which can be as early as the 25^th; and, to a lot of people, the only meaning they assign to it these days is as the “Unofficial Start of Summer” and another 70% off sale at Kohl's.

So aside from calendar confusion, the whole point of the observance has kind of lost its original intent.

But hey, how can the fallen dead expect to compete with hamburgers and hot dogs, not to mention the Star Wars Marathon on Spike TV.

I don’t know…I guess you can’t blame people for losing sight of the larger significance.

Or you can, but, really…we’re all guilty to an extent.

We see Memorial Day creeping up on the calendar, no matter when it falls, and we immediately start thinking about losing those few extra pounds that’ll make the difference between a couple of people not noticing us on the beach to a lot of people not noticing us on the beach.

We rush to get all of our holdover winter clothes put away—despite the recent 40 degree temps— get our screen doors in and dust off the air conditioners.

All the while wondering why someone is playing taps down at the park.

Anyway, I just dug out my shorts and I have to get some sun on my fish belly legs before I frighten the small dog down the street, again.

The beaches officially open today…its Memorial Day weekend, the unofficial start of summer!

It sounds like there’s a parade marching down Main Street to celebrate.

That’s just how much people love Memorial Day...the unofficial start of summer.

Why, you ask?

Haven’t you been paying attention?

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No Damage…to speak of

2013-05-22T05:05:00.000-04:00

The first good news is, Z is back, safe and sound.

Her flight was delayed about an hour and a half, but nothing like a couple of years ago, which I chronicled here, at the time.

Even now, the chills run down my spine and various other body parts, just thinking about it.

The other good news is, I made it through my bachelor weekend without causing too much damage.

At least on my end.

Unfortunately, I can’t say the same thing about the squirrels and the raccoons…especially the raccoons.

The raccoons didn't leave me a drop of gin.

The birds are okay…now.

Once they decided where to set up the nest, things got a little less hectic.

I never knew Robins were so particular.

The Cardinals less so, but believe me, they’re no saints themselves, despite all that red.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I haven’t even mentioned the broken window, which apparently is an open invitation for wildlife to waltz right in and commandeer the remote.

Which, to be honest, I kind of enjoyed the company, but after 72 straight hours of Animal Planet and Nat Geo…enough was enough.

And the broken window wasn't my fault... entirely.

There was no way anyone was going to catch that pass...and I was wide open.

Nuff said.

At least the Golden Retrievers switched to Disney once in a while.

And the Pugs took a liking to Duck Dynasty for some reason.

At least I think they liked it.

But who knows, with pugs.

Luckily I was able to get all the critters out by the time Z walked in the door…except for the pugs, who are small and were able to hide under the couch.

I wouldn’t have even known they were still here if it weren’t for the sound of Duck calls in the middle of the night.

They couldn’t resist.

Apparently they were re-running the episode were Willie has a mid-life crisis and dyes his beard.

So I cut them some slack and let them finish watching before I sent them home.

Luckily Z slept through the whole thing,

She hates Duck Dynasty….

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Toot be Told

2013-05-20T05:05:00.000-04:00

On top of being on my own for the weekend, the weather has been miserable here since about mid-day Saturday; right after I finished mowing the lawn.

If the weather was going to turn miserable, couldn't it have turned miserable before I dragged out the lawn mower?

But at least it was a beautiful Saturday morning as I drove to the dentist's office at 7:30 AM to have my broken molar fixed.

Yeah…I broke my toot.

I know, I've dropped the H, but it just sounds more like it should sound to me, being broken and all.

My back left bottom toot to be exact.

And of course I was home alone so had no one to play out the drama to.

Oh the pain…the pain…I broke my poor little toot!!!!

Even though there was no pain at all…just the pain of embarrassment as I stood there holding a body part in my hand, totally disheartened because, the truth of the matter is…I’m falling apart…piece by piece…toot by frickin toot.

And I can’t even tell you I did it in some kind of off the wall, wacky bachelor weekend kind of way; like I was trying to open a beer bottle with my teeth. Or that I got into a bar fight with a 3 year old who took exception to what he perceived as my unfair characterization as to why Sponge Bob Square Pants might be suffering from gender confusion issues.

Hey, kid…if you don’t want to listen to adult conversation you have no business being at a bar at 10 AM, even if it is just a breakfast-bar.

Nope…I broke it on an almond.

A nut.

A legume.

While waiting for my soup to heat up.

Because almonds are supposed to be good for your health…but apparently not so much for your teeth.

I wasn't even sure I actually broke it at first.

I felt something hard rattling around in there, but I just thought it was a piece of the nut. And at first I thought it was, once I got it out and looked at it.

I mean most people can’t tell the difference between an almond and a tooth…right?

But you would have to be some sort of clueless, self-awareness misfit not to recognize your own oral appendage when you see it.

What?

Plus the gaping crater that I felt with my tongue in the back
of my mouth was another sure giveaway that something was wrong.

So I did the first thing that came to mind, from years of watching ER…I took my little pebble of a toot bit and packed it in a cooler full of ice.

Which I thought was smart since with today’s modern medical miracles, I figured my dentist would just be able to reattach it to the rest of my molar.

Right?

Unfortunately, reattachment, as my wise guy dentist pointed out, once he stopped laughing, wasn't really the treatment of choice with severed teeth, unless a thumb is attached to the toot, as well.

But he did appreciate the six pack of beer that I also packed in the cooler.

Anyway, once he dried the tears from his eyes and finished his second beer, he told me not to worry; he could easily fix the problem, and asked for another beer.

He also asked if I wanted any Novocain, but I told him that wasn't necessary since I had brought my own and pumped it into my jaw the second I pulled into the parking lot.

Bottom line is…or should I say, toot be told…it was all a big tootdoo over nothing.

My mouth is once again whole and the only restriction I had was not to eat on my left side for the next 7 years or something.

Which I found to be a rather odd precautionary measure, but if I have to lie on my right side while I’m eating for a while, so be it.

I wasn't going to tell Z anything about all this because I figured, why should I ruin her weekend with my silly troubles. But then I figured, she’d find out eventually, especially since I forgot to bring back the cooler....so why not?

And I was right…she did get pretty upset, at least at first, but only because the Novocain hadn't quite worn off and she thought I was saying, “I smoked the Vermouth” instead of “I broke my tooth”.

But once I was able to communicate the message clearly she was fine and went right back to her cha-cha lesson.

So all’s well that ends well.

And now I’m gonna go look up how one goes about smoking that Vermouth…..

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Beyond the Horizon

2013-05-17T05:05:00.000-04:00

Z and I just celebrated our 34^th wedding anniversary, last weekend.

Yeah….

Go figure…right?

Time flies.

It seems like only yesterday that the judge lifted that restraining order.

And like any couple that’s been legally entangled for more than 3 decades—illegally for nearly another before that—it’s only natural to want to stretch your legs and look for new adventures beyond the horizon, just to see whatever else is lurking out there.

At least that’s what Z told me.

And who am I to argue.

No one that’s who!

Again…at least that’s what Z told me.

She was kidding of course.

Of course….

But she did ask me to drive her to the airport yesterday.

She’s making her yearly pilgrimage to Chicago to visit relatives.

Hers, I believe.

Which, once again, leaves me on my own for a few days to ponder the big picture.

To be honest, I’m not even sure where this huge picture that suddenly appeared in the living room came from.

Z says she didn’t buy it.

I know I didn’t buy it.

But there it is…this big picture, left behind for me to ponder.

As if I didn’t have enough pondering to keep me busy.

Like what’s the best way to make sure I don’t throw the wet laundry in the oven again this year.

Or forget to close the refrigerator door.

Actually that’s an unfair characterization…I didn't really forget to close the refrigerator door.

I did it on purpose.

I just thought it would save on snack preparation time, between innings of the ball game.

And it did.

Despite the fact that everything had a funny taste to it.

And the neighbor’s dog got in through the side door—which I actually did forget to close—and ate all the cold cuts, plus, what I believe was leftover rigatoni.

But hey, live and learn…right?

And what better time to navigate the learning curve other than when you've got a few days to yourself to experiment.

Anyway, like I said, I’m fending for myself the next few days.

And when you've been living with the same person—minus the 90s—for over 30 years, there’s a bit of an adjustment.

But not all of it is bad.

For one, I don’t need to shower everyday…why would I?

Or shave...ZZ top, bottom and sideways will have nothing on me.

I don’t even need to change my clothes…who’s gonna know?

Okay, the pizza delivery guy, but is he really gonna risk losing that extra buck I throw him at Christmas.

I don’t think so….

I’m also thinking of taking my Jell-O sculpting to the next level.

I don’t want to give too much away...but think big, like in Big Top big.

And of course this gives me the opportunity to get back into my alternate treadmill redesigns.

So I have enough to keep me busy….at least through Saturday.

Sunday, I might look into lawn coloring…not sure.

And Z’s closet looks like it could use some straightening…maybe even some thinning.

That would be a nice surprise wouldn't it?

I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she sees all that extra space….

Okay…gotta go.

The goldfish delivery guy is here.

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The Promise of a Spring Morning

2013-05-15T05:05:00.000-04:00

I woke up early today, well before 6 AM.

Daylight, well past the horizon, slipping between the bedroom curtain crack; quite a difference from just a few months before.

At this time of day, in February, when I walk out to grab my papers off the lawn, cold stars dot the morning sky, resolute and weary from their long vigil, preparing to close up shop for another daytime of rest.

A quiet, crisp, restful February morning.

The day, slow to start in darkness…quick to end in same.

Now, an arc of gold bends around a backyard swing set and spreads across the sparkling lawn; green sprouts, fresh and newly alive, enriched by morning’s dew.

The days are eager to begin, right now, and through the coming months ahead; the hours and evenings, easily filled.

The morning air is cool; the sun rises; warmth, not far behind.

All... unwinds before us, inviting us to grab hold.

All…declared before us, in the promise of a spring morning.

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The Gracious Gardner

2013-05-13T05:05:00.000-04:00

I spent the weekend lying in the weeds.

I mean, I was literally lying in the weeds…

It’s that time of year again when lawns and gardens and all sorts of growing things, need to be tended and in some cases removed.

So I was literally lying in the weeds…and the bushes and the dirt and the hydrangeas

Especially the hydrangeas.

It had to be done.

The old one had gotten a little too comfortable in its roots.

Was getting a little too lippy for its own good—and mine—so out it went.

Replaced by a brand new, already blooming, little hydrangea; one that I can shape and mold after my own image.

Nahhhhhh…not really…that would be weird.

Wouldn’t it?

In fact if a hydrangea was a lot like me it would be an awful lot like the one I just got rid of.

Of course none of this is true…I mean, except for the part about switching plants.

The rest of it I made up, as I tend to do.

Have you noticed?

Plants don’t have personalities…at least not in the sane rationale world.

So it would be in-sane to think that they did.

Right?????

So in truth, as opposed to in lies, all I did was swap out my old hydrangea with a new one. I didn't even get rid of the old one. I just moved it across the way, next to the out of control, bushy bamboo.

You know…the one with authority issues.

Ooops…sorry.

I should probably explain, not that a discussion of hydrangeas is all that interesting, nor one that I ever thought in my wildest imagination I would ever spend any significant amount of time on.

Lilacs and Butterfly Bushes…maybe…but not hydrangeas.

But yet, here we are.

So briefly, which, I know, I’ve already exceeded, the reason I had to do all this hydrangea swapping was because the first spring, after moving into our house, some 11 and a half years ago, we received this tiny hydrangea bush as a housewarming gift.

I later planted, said bush, next to the also newly planted lilac bush, which then led to both Z and I deciding another bush was needed to balance out the other side.

Well, Z decided, and since she is the Master Gardener, I usually just go along with whatever she says.

So I, being the Gracious Gardener, to Z’s Master status, went off, on my own—always a mistake—to the big hardware store to purchase another hydrangea.

Not a big deal…I could handle that, which I did—graciously—only to discover, sometime later, after it bloomed, that this hydrangea was nothing at all like the old hydrangea.

Who knew there were different types of hydrangeas?

Probably a lot of people, but certainly not me.

Hey…I’m the Gracious Gardener, not the Smart Gardener.

I mean, without flowers, who can tell…especially if you don’t look at the little picture tag on the side.

So for 11 years we’ve lived with this “other” hydrangea and told ourselves, diversity was good…at least until I could motivate myself to go back to the big hardware store and find the correct hydrangea.

Motivate being the operative word.

But, as with so many things in life, fate intervened and this past Easter we received yet another hydrangea gift, already flowering, so there could be no mistake.

Everything in is time...right?

Surely a sign from the universe, because the universe has nothing better to do than send me signs concerning my hydrangea situation.

But that was that…in with the new and out with the old.

I even got to swing my badly underutilized pick ax and dug a big hole in the ground.

Always a plus for the Gracious Gardener.

And they tell me I’ll regain full use of both arms, in time.

Plus my back should straighten out in a few days…with or without the searing pain.

But who’s gonna do these things if not me?

I guess a professional gardener, but that would conflict with my penchant for cheapness.

And Z….

The bottom line is it worked out for everybody.

The new hydrangea—who I have not named Peaches—is happy in the first real place of her own.

The Lilac—who is not named Lilly—is happy to now have symmetrical roommates on either side.

And Lacey…I mean, the older, odd hydrangea…seems happy, despite the occasional droopy spell, in her new, sunnier spot next to Barry…I mean, the bus
hy bamboo.

All just a part of another day for the Gracious Gardner….

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Without Moms

2013-05-10T05:05:00.000-04:00

Mother’s Day is upon us and it’s time to show our appreciation to the one person in the whole world to whom we literally owe everything.

I mean, aside from my banker.

Without Moms none of us would be here, except possibly my third cousin—twice removed, yet always returns—who we suspect is an extraterrestrial, mostly because of his odd middle toes.

But I digress.

Without Moms none of us would know the joy of a Peanut Butter & Jelly sandwich…even if it didn’t travel well in a brown paper bag that you sat on in 3^rd grade, on an 85 degree day in May. It was still made with love and still delicious despite its odd coloring and peculiar shape.

Without Moms we would still be walking around with runny noses, even as adults, who may or may not sometimes use their sleeve to stem the tide.

Without Moms we would still be wearing mismatched socks…or wearing them a lot more frequently than we do now.

Without Moms we would never change our underwear…or learned that changing with your cousin still doesn’t count.

Without Moms we would be deaf from all the loud music that she turned down, after we turned it up, and she turned it back down, and we turned it back up, and she turned it back down….

Without Moms we would all have ruined eyes from watching too much TV, too close to the screen, in the dark.

Without Moms our faces would be frozen in hideous contorted shapes...forever…not just on holidays spent with our in-laws.

Without Moms we would never know the healing power of the miraculous mercurochrome bunny on our knee...or our elbow…or…well, you don’t need to know about that place, since it was an isolated incident…really.

Without Moms we would never have understood that we would never learn, never change, never grow up, and never know where the hamper was.

Without Moms we would always ruin our dinner.

Without Moms we wouldn’t even know how to eat our dinner; at least like a human, who knows the proper way to hold a fork, at least in public.

Without Moms we would forget out heads
if they weren't attached to our bodies…or at least we would never have thought of that concept.

Without Moms we would have never stopped fidgeting…or at least cut back.

Without Moms we would have never known who Ish Kabibble was, because, apparently, that’s who we looked like when we needed a haircut…sometimes still do.

Without Moms we would never have had the soundtrack from “The Way We Were” permanently etched into our prefrontal cortex.

And without Moms we would have had to walk a lot more, missed a lot more school, never have graduated, never have gone to college, never been fed, never had a roof over our head, never have been warm, never been nursed back to health with ginger ale and crackers, never have felt safe and never have understood unconditional love….even after discovering that mysterious dent that appeared on the fender of her brand new car, coincidentally on the first day you received your driver’s license.

Even then….

Without Moms we would never have had a lot of things and we would never be sure of a lot of things, today.

Except one….

What it means to be home….

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Gotta Love the Zen - Redux

2013-05-08T05:05:00.000-04:00

Another from the Archive of Retort:

Original Post June 24, 2011
_____________________________________

My brains' still acting out.

It's pouting and grumbling, refusing to give me any ideas to write about today. So, I thought this would be a good time to bring up Zen.

I love Zen.

Zen is the Seinfeld of spiritual philosophies and disciplines.

Zen, in its purist form, its only form, is about nothing.

And that’s perfect for me....

I can do nothing...with my eyes closed.

This is my favorite unattributed Zen saying:

"To know that there is nothing to know,

And to grieve that it is so difficult

to communicate this “nothing to know” to others—

this is the life of Zen,

this is the deepest thing in the world...."

How cool is that!

I've been trying to tell people that exact same thing for years, except my method involves a lot shouting, disdainful looks and hair pulling...sometimes theirs.

And the beauty of Zen is that the less you know, the more you know…

You know?

And that’s alright with me. Especially since my brain is on a time out.

This is a Zen sign called the "open circle". There’s another symbol called the "closed circle", but we’re not discussing that today…because I say so.

From Energy Healing Circle.com :

“The open circle represents the imperfection found in all things, and suggests to the student to stop striving for perfection and instead to allow the universe to be as it is.”

See…just like I was trying to tell them in High School!

“The open circle is a concept that reflects closely with Japanese Zen Buddhism. The Japanese concept of wabi sabi is that all things are perfect as they are…”

So there!

An example would be, oh, I don’t know, let’s say, for no reason in particular, someone collects heart shaped stones on the beach, any beach, maybe even a Stamford beach. But instead of scouring the beach, day after day, wreaking havoc on their C2 vertebrae, they could easily go out and buy dozens of heart shaped stones in a store, someplace, and each one would be shiny, bright and perfect.

But they don't...cuz to the Zenster, these manufactured stones could never equal the perfection found in the imperfection of the real heart shaped stones hiding beneath the muddy shore. Plus, in a way, aren't the stones really finding you, instead of you finding them?

Capice?

And that’s so cool. That’s so Zen…

Buying them in a store is just so retail…unless they’re on sale.

And if that doesn’t make any sense to you, then more the better.

It’s Zen!

Anyway gotta go. My brain is starting to quibble with my body again. I’ve gotta separate them.

But I’ll leave you with this, a quote from the Buddha himself:

“People with opinions just go around bothering one another….”

Gotta love the Zen...

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Devil May Car Care

2013-05-06T05:05:00.000-04:00

I had to bring the car in for service over the weekend.

Nothing serious; just normal maintenance plus the yearly inspection.

At least that’s always the hope.

But when you routinely keep and drive your cars across multiple decades, like Z and I tend to do…you never know.

Hey, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it…I mean, literally.

Oh sure, somewhere down the road you’re occasionally going to lose a wheel or something…again, literally…but that’s what tow trucks are for.

However, there’s no getting around the required inspection…and you should change the oil, sometimes as often as once a year…or at least check it.

So I brought it in over the weekend, and crossed my fingers.

One of life’s golden rules to happiness and peace of mind is, once you find a good garage, stick with it.

Don’t worry about price, customer service or even garage décor, such as what calendar girls they have displayed behind the counter…trust is worth its weight in gold.

Of course I have no idea how much trust weighs, but I do know that a license plate light bulb is going to run you 75 buckos, and sooner, but probably later, you’ll get a call that your car is ready…when they need the garage space for poker night…and hey, Miss Rheingold, 65 was a keeper…even if she actually was 65 at the time.

I’ve been going to this one particular service place for close to 25 years, now, and all the guys know me by name.

Of course it’s not actually my name, but I kind of like being Alice, every now and them

I envision Alice as a free thinker, with authority issues. He knows he only needs to fill his tank with regular gas, but insist on using premium.

But no special oil additives for Alice…“Just top ‘er off buddy and I’ll be on my way….”

He’s just that reckless when it comes to cars, is Alice.

Luckily, this time I got off easy; but like I said, you never know.

The duct tape seemed to be holding on the right rear tire so I only needed to replace the other three.

Last time it was all four.

The brakes were good…as long as I drove under 20 mph and had at least the length of a football field to stop.

The headlights are like new again once he replaced the bulb…or I should really say, head-light…the other one had a short in it or something. But, like they told me, it was lucky I had two to begin with.

And the transmission oil was a nice healthy brown, so I’ll take that…I guess.

What do I know?

And that’s just the thing; why I say being able to trust your car service place is worth its weight in gold.

I mean, let’s face it…most of us don’t really know what our mechanic is saying when he’s explaining why he needs to replace the Differmometer after he adjusts the Hacenbadafortran coupling…and while he’s in there he might as well change out the amatfenature module, because if you wait until you really need it replaced, you could end up spending more, not to mention risk driving without a gas tank, which, to be honest, is just like throwing good money after bad.

So you hate to do it, but you have no choice…you say, “Do what you have to do…and is that coffee fresh?”

And then everyone has a good laugh and the boys behind the counter say, “Alice, you’re a scream!”

Before long, or way, way, way too long, the work is done and they’re processing your credit card payment…while, at the same time, looking through the new boat catalogue.

“Now I can finally get that 55 foot cruiser, with the mahogany decking, I’ve had my eye on,” they tell you, while you high five and congratulate them before heading on your way.

Like I said, while it’s not a day I look forward to, having your car serviced does lead to some peace of mind knowing that you can once again tune in that FM station that was giving you so much trouble, for so long.

That is, when that new sound, reminiscent of a cat in heat, stops for a few seconds....

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Lovelorn May

2013-05-03T05:05:00.000-04:00

May arrived, late, this past Tuesday.

Yeah…I was half asleep, half watching Letterman’s monologue, when I heard a tapping on the big sliding door in back; the one off the back porch.

I just thought I was dreaming so I began to doze back off…but there it was again…tap, tap, tap.

"Hmmmm, that's odd", I said to myself, and whoever else was listening in.

Since it’s been my experience that maniac, serial killing, axe murders don’t normally knock, especially during Letterman, I figured whatever it was had to be fairly innocuous, so I thought I should go and check it out.

And it was…it was May…silhouetted in the glow of the outdoor spotlight, tapping on my back door like some prodigal son, returned from wherever it is son’s go to be prodigal.

“May,” I said. “You’re here…early…but not a moment too soon!”

“Yeah…I heard,” May replied. “April pretty much blew it this year, huh?”

“Shhhhhhh…she’s still here, for another 10 or 15 minutes. I don’t want her to go off in a sulk. If she does, who knows what harsh feelings, not to mention weather, she’ll drag back with her next year.”

“You mean if she even bothers to come back next year,” May sneered.

I was surprised by the harshness in May’s remark, but then recalled there’d been some whispers, a couple of seasons back, of more than just a working relationship between April and May...that, as those things tend to do, ended badly...at least for May.

I guess the whispers were justified, which also explained why May had popped in before the official start of his shift.

I said, “Well, she was a bit on the cool side, this year—especially after the warm April we knew from last year.”

“Yeah…tell me about it,” May muttered.

“But, she relented a bit the last week and a half, especially after I kind of baited her with that whole ‘Sprinter’ stuff.”

“I saw that!” May said, with more than a degree of delight in his tone. “That was an excellent piece of writing…really, really clever!”

(What…that’s what he said. You think I’m making this up?)

“Thanks,” I replied. “You know, that just sort of came to me, in the bathroom, where most of my ideas come from, so I—”

May cut me off, which I found rude, because I hate missing any opportunity to talk about my creative technique and masterful application of such…even if I do say so myself.

“She’s good at that, you know. Teasing with, what might have been, just as she’s getting ready to walk. That’s what April does best…tease.”

I didn’t like the look I was detecting in May’s shadowed eyes, so I quickly changed the subject.

“Well, you’re here now, so what do you have up your sleeve for us, this year? Believe me we’re ready for anything…you know, especially after April.”

I thought disparaging April would make May feel a little better, which I think worked, but only to a point since I noticed his eyes were still scanning the distance beyond me, hoping to catch a glimpse of his star crossed, former soul month.

“Oh, you know, the usual,” May said, fixing his distracted gaze back onto mine. “Of course, there’ll be May Day—my personal favorite—and then we’ll slide right into Cinco de Mayo, The Derby, Mom’s Day, Indy 500…yada yada yada…you know, until we top it off with the big daddy of them all….”

“The American Idol Finale!” I blurted out.

“No…Memorial Day weekend, dum dum.”

“Oh right, Memorial Day. Sorry….”

American Idol Finale? You did have a bad April, didn’t you?”

“Well, there were a lot of reruns….”

Just then, there was a rustling from the back corner of the yard, over by the holly bush.

May, not missing a beat, quickly picked up his shoulder bag and said, “There’s something out there, I’d better go check it out. My shifts about to start anyway.”

“Be careful,” I said. “It might be a raccoon or muskrat. We’ve been seeing a lot of them around here, lately.”

May turned back just as he was about to step out of the spotlight’s reach and nodded, but we both knew…it was April, slipping out of town, as quietly as she had arrived—could it be—just a month ago.

“What about the weather?” I shouted after May, now, barely discernible, swallowed in the darkness of night. “Is it going to warm up…anytime soon?”

The rustling from the bushes began again and I could hear the smile in May’s voice.

“Oh, I’d say things are going to get pretty hot around here, pretty quickly.”

“So I should put my air conditioners in, now?” I shouted back…but received no response, other than a slight brush of humid air slipping deliberately across the porch.

With that, I smiled; bid farewell to April, and looked forward to my time with May.

Back inside, I fixed myself a glass of lemonade and returned to Letterman.

He was just beginning the “Top Ten”.

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Dandelion Discourse - Redux

2013-05-01T05:05:00.000-04:00

It’s that time of year again, so I thought it would be a good idea to repeat this "almost" old gem. Plus it gives me another day to goof off….

__________________________________________

Original Post 5/18/12

There’re a lot of Dandelions this year…a lot.

Those little yellow headed critters that dot our lawns all spring and summer.

Well, not mine…at least not for long. Let’s just say, they know better than to make a stop on my lawn.

My grandmother used to eat dandelions, which embarrassed the rest of us. I mean she could have put them on a plate …or at least picked them out of the grass first.

No…I’m kidding. It’s not like she was some kind of granny goat. She would trudge around the yard, in the dress she always wore instead of pants, and cut them down with a knife. Then she’d clean them up and make a salad out of them. I was the only other person in the family that actually liked them. A little bitter, if I recall, but hey, so am I, so it suited me.

I actually saw my first dandelion pop up as early as February, this year. They’re resilient little guys and you have to admire that. They just don’t get their due, at least as far as flowers go. In fact, I bet most of you just call them weeds.

Yeah…me too, until I found out the hard way; there’s a lot more to them than that.

I was out the other day; let’s say “dealing” with said dandelions, when one of them starts to chat me up.

I hate that.

Especially when…you know…I have plans for them.

I mean do I really need to assign a face to my dandelions?

Anyway, this dandelion tells me that being a dandelion in this century blows.

That once they were held in very high regard; even given the name of “Lion’s Tooth” to distinguish them from all the other pedestrian vegetation out there.

Now, everyone just sees them as weeds, which they find so insulting. No one sees them for what they are, which, as I said, is really just a flower…a flower like any other kind of flower.

“Well,” I said to the dandelion, “these days folks like to keep their lawns nice and green. In fact they spend a lot of money on it. You guys sort of muck that all up with all that yellow.”

“So what’s wrong with yellow? There’re yellow tulips, carnations, daisies…and what about that obnoxious yellow rose of Texas, who thinks so highly of himself just because someone wrote a song about him? No one complains about any of them!”

Things were starting to get a little heated now, at least from the dandelions perspective, so I thought I’d better try to smooth things over a bit. You don’t want to get a dandelion all worked up. It can take hours to calm them down, once you do.

“Listen, ah…Dan…can I call you Dan?”

“Why would you call me Dan? My name’s Greg…”

“Oh…sorry…I just assumed—”

“Of course you just assumed….EVERYBODY just assumes, when it comes to the dopey dandelions!”

“Okay calm down….”

“Calm down? Why should I calm down? Don’t you think I know what you’re up to with that little spray bottle you’re hiding behind your back?”

“Well, no. I—”

“I bet you don’t know about our medicinal properties? Or all the nutrients we put back into the soil to make your precious little graminoids flourish.

“My what?”

‘You’re lawn, idiot!”

“Oh….”

“We’re good for all kinds of things…we even make a tasty salad…just ask your grandmother.”

“You knew my grandmother? But how…?”

“What…you think this measly little week is all I get? Hey buddy, wise up. You know all those little puffy seeds you used to blow on when you were a kid?

“Yeah….”

“Well, just more of me, cloning myself over and over again, year after year, decade after decade. But one little squirt from your bottle of poison there and that’s the end of that”

“But that’s the problem”, I said, now armed with a salient point. “You just scatter to the wind and spread your seed everywhere…there’s no end to where you’ll pop up.”

“Hey, what do you expect…I’m French,” he replied with a wink.

“Alright,” I said. “You make some good points. I was really just coming out here to deal with the clover.”

“Good idea…they never were lucky, anyway. And take care of that Chickweed and Creeping Charlie, while you’re at it. They’re nothing but a bunch of hooligans that give us all a bad name.”

And so I did.

When I returned a few days later, Greg had already transformed into a little, white puff ball of seed.

Gently, I picked him up from his little patch of earth and recalled our conversation.

Then, I proceeded to blow, gently…all over my neighbor’s lawn.

I don’t need any more obnoxious little know it all dandelions on mine….

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Penguin Popularity

2013-04-29T05:05:00.000-04:00

Have you noticed all the Penguins, lately?

They’re everywhere….

Commercials, movies, TV, the NHL…even popular music.

There was that movie a while back, “March of the Penguins” about that down on its luck Marching Band from the Galapagos that couldn’t get booked for any of the BIG parades, mostly because they kept bumping into one another with their instruments; not to mention the drummers couldn’t reach over the top of their drums. Plus, their Penguin Marching Band hats basically swallowed them up from head to toe…or what passes for a Penguin’s toe.

I didn’t actually see it but I think that’s what it was about, and I think it was a big hit…for some reason.

I guess because of its appeal to the aquatic flightless bird set, which is a lot bigger than you would imagine.

Then there are all those commercials for hotels and beer, which are apparently a big part of a Penguin’s lifestyle.

And I think Bieber’s doing a new pop version of that old Glenn Miller favorite, “Penguine the Beguine”.

Or something like that.

They’re becoming almost as ubiquitous as the Zombies.

In fact, a young Penguin family just bought the house around the corner.

Nice couple too.

Z and I ran into them the other day as we were heading out for our evening stroll.

I mean we literally ran into them because, to be honest, they’re a little on the short side, and we didn’t really notice them at first…at least until we heard the quacking.

And if you’ve ever heard a Penguin quack before…well, you know.

Actually it was just the dad Penguin that was doing all the quaking, and you can’t blame him.

I’d probably do the same if someone was stepping on my flippers, too.

The mom Penguin was actually very sweet…apologetic, actually, for waddling without looking.

At least I think she was apologetic…I mean, it’s just an assumption on my part. But she kept patting my calf with her little wing, so I took that in the only way I could.

Wouldn’t you?

And of course, there were those cute, twin little furball chicks, who I think were named…well, let’s face it; I have no idea what they were named. And I wasn’t about to repeat what I thought I heard, because who knows how my interpretation would be perceived by a Penguin.

I mean, why start off on even more of a wrong, foot, webbed or not, with new neighbors, aquatic or not?

That never ends well.

It took me months to smooth things over with the Zombies when they first shuffled over to say hello.

Really, who can tell when a Zombie is smiling…am I right?

But you can tell from the way dad Penguin took care of his lawn that these were going to be very conscientious Penguin neighbors.

Which, to be honest, we could use a little more of around here, if you know what I mean.

Not mentioning any names or particular species, but if I were you, I’d walk with my eyes forward and my nose held when I pass by the Werewolves’ place.

Just saying….

So it’s good to see the Penguins moving up in the world and buying in the neighborhood.

It should be great for the swim team.

And I’m sure they’ll put a pool of their own in pretty soon.

Can you say POOL PARTY!

Or however the Penguins actually say it…again, not really sure.

But I expect to pick up on their Penguin customs and ways, let alone unique dialect, sooner rather than later.

Z invited them over for a BBQ, as soon as it warms up a little.

Which, to be honest, I’m not sure was exactly the thing they were looking for since they literally shuddered and ruffled their feathers a bit at the mention of warm weather.

And of course, later it hit me....What were we thinking?

Penguins have never been fans of warm weather or BBQ’s.

Everyone expects them to bring the beer….

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The Season Formerly Known as Spring

2013-04-26T05:05:00.000-04:00

Welcome to Sprinter.

Not bad, huh?

I just made it up.

Cuz it certainly looks like spring, but it certainly does not feel like spring.

It still feels like winter, at least around here.

So Sprinter….

Get it?

Our friends, “They”, say all this cold air is sliding down from Canada, which is what’s keeping the temperature down.

Thanks, Canada!

But could you save your generosity for August, when we can really appreciate it.

Canada….

Still, all in all, despite the wintry chill, the tree buds are right on the edge of bloom.

Almost as if they’re just hanging there, waiting for a wave of warmth from the south to arrive.

I don’t blame them. I mean if I were a leaf I wouldn’t come out in this either.

And the grass seed? Forget it…they just look up at you and say…“Yeah, right okay…see you in May”.

That’s just how it’s been.

But it’s still pretty to look at, this sprinter season.

And it still promises of a warm summer season to come….

Soon?

Of course the daffodils, and now tulips, haven’t been deterred by the cold.

They know they only have a small window to take the spotlight on center stage and aren't about to let that pass them by.

It’s bad enough they have to deal with some impertinent crocuses that don’t know when to say goodbye.

It’s even worse that they have to deal with some of the more reprobate Iris breeds that seem to show up earlier and earlier every year.

Irises….

So pretentious.

I've also been able to pick up some chit chat from the more forthcoming maple buds, up on the big tree in front, and I’m happy to say it sounds like a lot of the old timers are coming back, along with a lot of new growth on the outer limbs.

Of course the hurricane or non-hurricane, super storm—whatever you call it for insurance purposes—took its toll, last fall, so the canopy crew might be a little sparser than in years past.

But from what I could pick up from the conversation—and it’s not easy eavesdropping on deciduous gossip, buds or not— it sounds like this younger group of foliage, is eager to get started and actually bolstering the resolve of the older folks up top to get blooming.

So I’m looking forward to a good year from the Maple.

Even the little Japanese Maple that took such a bit hit from—ahem—one of the big maple’s weaker appendages, is on its way back.

Whew…we were optimistic, but weren’t really sure what to expect from that little fellow.

Or at least I wasn’t sure…Z had no doubts…at least that’s what I’ve discerned after hearing about how she was right and I was wrong…32 times…33…34…35.

Sure, the little guy’s not the same, and probably never will be again, but what he’s lost in stature, he’s gained in character.

And what can I say about our old faithful dogwood, as always leading the charge.

“Canada…what do I care about Canada”…she says.

At least I think she’s a she.

Who can tell from trees?

Not that I would judge her…or him…or whatever.

As long as it’s out there flowering for us in sprinter, leafing in summer and blazing with color in fall, it can be whatever it feels comfortable being.

Nuff said.

Okay…my eyes are getting itchy from all the pollen in the air.

Another sure sign of sprinter…the season formerly known as spring.

And if you think I have an ulterior motive in writing about sprinter, you would be right.

Because the way things go, if I write to complain about something, it’s sure to change, and become the opposite of whatever it is.

So I’m expecting by the time you read this, the Canadian air will find out we don’t take their funny quarters here and head back across the border, where it belongs.

Then, the likelihood is it will actually warm back up to normal spring temperatures.

Just to screw up my story.

So let the blooming begin!

No need to thank me…again….

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Sheltering in Place

2013-04-23T05:05:00.000-04:00

I learned a new term last week.

“Shelter in Place”.

Which pretty much describes the life of a freelance writer, every day.

We don’t get out much.

Not that we don’t have the time to get out…we do…more than most, really.

It’s just that we live in our heads so much that going out in the real world is a little disconcerting.

I don’t mean because of all the stuff that goes on out there, on any given day that we glimpse from afar on the news.

Or even just the mundane risks inherent in the pursuit of a life well lived.

No…there’s actually way more risk in my house…especially if I haven’t made the bed by the time Z get home from work.

So we shelter in place….every day…unless it’s a beach day.

But that might just be me.

And there we sit, writing our silly stories, spinning our corporate propaganda and keeping our eye on Twitter.

You know, just in case there’s something important we need to be aware of, like the news anchor that unknowingly dropped the F bomb and the S word, moments before being introduced…on the first day of his first gig.

Don’t want to miss that, shelter or not.

But here’s the real funny thing.

We all assume we’re gonna live forever….

Which is why we stay in and watch “Storage Wars”.

I mean, if you thought your days were numbered would you really use one of your last allotted hours to watch Reality TV of any kind.

I wouldn’t…I’d only watch “The Price is Right”.

You know…because it’s important to keep up with consumer pricing…and those “Showcase Ladies” are nice to look at.

But we don’t think our days are limited because our brain just won’t wrap itself around the idea that our “expected” tomorrows are not guaranteed.

Just like that flat screen you bought from the guy behind the dollar store.

I mean, why would your brain want to do that: give credence to the idea that it will ever miss a 70% off sale at Kohl’s?

So we open our eyes, every morning, and immediately the bitching begins.

Another boring day in another boring life.

The bananas are over ripe.

The coffee is too weak.

Someone or something knocked over the garbage can, last night.

Your neighbor’s smile is annoying

The dog wants to go out…and you don’t even own a dog.

And lots of other people want to get to where you’re going, at the same time, on the same road.

Life…so annoying in its predictability…so annoying in its unpredictability.

That’s just how a lot of us think…every day.

You know who you are.

And I do too, because I saw all your names in the “Crabby Pants” newsletter, of which I am the Editor-in-Chief.

We can’t help it, though, we “Crabby Pantsers”; it’s just how we came out of the box.

Sure, we know that whole “every day’s a gift” mantra.

We all do, deep inside…we do.

In fact, some of us even try to tell ourselves just that, every morning, before our feet hit the floor…unless it’s raining…or that annoying guy with the weird head is on TV…or your 60^th birthday is fast approaching.

Then all bets are off.

It’s just another day like yesterday, and probably tomorrow.

Until it’s not….

Something changes….

And then we stop and think…and appreciate the gift we’ve been given, that others too had been expecting…but for them it never came.

So maybe we should stop all the bitchin…lose all the regretting…all the fretting and the worrying.

Sheltering in place or not sheltering in place.

Every day is a good day.

Every day is another day to live.

Every day is another day to give…to others…and especially to ourselves.

We can’t change the world.

We can only change ourselves.

So go enjoy your day…even with the traffic.

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Stirred, not shaken

2013-04-19T05:05:00.000-04:00

When your goal is to highlight the humorous, 3 times a week; to hopefully bring at least a smile to the folks who somehow stumble on whatever it is you’ve left behind that day, it can get a little dicey when the ugly side of reality takes precedence.

I don’t need to elaborate on what I’m talking about. By now you’ve seen and heard wall to wall coverage. It’s impossible to miss as the networks scramble to claim “Go To” status for breaking news.

There are just some things—unexpected things—that catch you so off guard, your body parts numb...including your funny bone…especially your funny bone.

It’s kind of subtle and for the most part no one really notices.

We shake our heads, sigh the sigh of the resigned…and keep moving…numbness and all.

We’re well practiced; we’ve seen a lot and lived through a lot of Before and After’s.

To my generation, our first was...before 11/22/63 and after 11/22/63.

Our world changed that day; our innocence lost…but we moved on.

Before the spring and summer of 68—MLK & RFK and after the spring and summer of 68—MLK & RFK.

Before the 72 Munich Olympics and after the 72 Munich Olympics.

Before Jonestown and after Jonestown.

Before that December night at the Dakota and after that December night at the Dakota.

Before Challenger and after Challenger.

Before Lockerbie and after Lockerbie

Before Oklahoma City and after Oklahoma City

Before Columbine and after Columbine

Before 9/11 and after 9/11

Before Virginia Tech and after Virginia Tech

Before Aurora and after Aurora

Before Newtown and after Newtown

Before Boston and after Boston

We’ve been through a lot. And with every event, we lose a little, harden a little and transform a little...as individuals, as a group.

I’ve probably missed something and haven’t even mentioned the evil that’s happened and still happens, every day, all around the world that most of us barely acknowledge…until it hits in our backyards.

I guess it’s how we’ve evolved through all of it…because of all of it.

We know that evil comes in droplets and good comes in waves.

Evil announces with a boom...good with a whisper.

Evil shakes us….good stirs us.

It stirs us to move forward…it stirs us to strengthen our bonds…it stirs us together…to see the hope that rises, always swallowing the bad.

And eventually we laugh again…and slowly begin to heal.

It’s what we do…it’s how we are…it’s how we have to be.

Stirred, not shaken.

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Brain Maps

2013-04-15T05:05:00.000-04:00

The President is making a big push to map the brain.

I’m not sure which brain, but I’m sure he'll choose a good one.

There are plenty to pick from in Washington. In fact, not too many people there would even notice if theirs went missing.

I’m not sure how I feel about it, though.

I mean, I’ve had enough trouble with my own brain over the years, as I’ve documented here.

I’ve also written about other brain related topics, in the past, such as how, apparently, all of us have these specialized neurons in our brain that “light up” at just the mention or sight of certain celebrities, such as Lindsay Lohan or Jenifer Aniston.

Nuff said….

I also chronicled various myths about the brain.

But I’m not sure about mapping it.

Mapping it would just draw a lot of attention to some of the seedier neighborhoods in there.

Like the section that can’t help thinking that James Carville just looks and sounds weird.

I don’t want a bunch of scientist finding out about that part of my brain.

How embarrassing is that?

Or the part of my brain that sometimes roots for the Russians on “The Americans”.

What if my neighbors got wind of that?

Or worse, that I might even think that my neighbors actually are sleeper KGB agents?

So there’s that….

But I guess there is an upside to Brain Mapping.

Just like they say there was a definite upside to Gene mapping; although why we need to know where everyone named Gene lives, is beyond me.

The hope is that Brain Mapping will lead to understanding and eventually finding a cure for many of the most debilitating diseases of the brain, such as autism, Alzheimer’s, epilepsy and schizophrenia, not to mention blogging and any other sort of internet related social media activity.

Who can argue against any of that…I mean, except some congressmen who would argue against apple pie if the President said it was his favorite desert.

Maybe we could even get Google involved and create an App for it.

They could call it “Google Brain Maps”.

This way, if you’re dating, when you meet someone for the first time you’ll just type in their name, point your phone towards their head and voila…

Thinks James Carville just looks and sounds weird.

And you immediately know you have something in common.

It could also provide other valuable information about this individual such as:

Doesn’t believe socks need to be changed every day.

Partial to Ferrets.

Makes a perfect Martini.

All good things to know.

Bottom line is, if we have the resources and technology, why not go for it. We’ve spent a lot of money on studies with a lot less of an upside….such as flatulent cows.

Besides, I think it would be pretty neat if they could find the spot in my brain that knows where I left the keys to my 1970 Maverick.

The Maverick is long gone but I loved that Telly Savalas key-bob that was attached….

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Questionable Compliments

2013-04-12T05:05:00.000-04:00

I read an article, recently, that talked about women who pay men compliments that are really not compliments at all.

Needless to say, I found this disturbing…because a talking article is just weird….

And if it's really needless to say, then why am I saying it?

But I digress.

Seriously, though, because we all need to be serious from time to time--at least according to that judge— I thought it was something worth discussing.

You know, like when a woman tells her husband how cute he looks trying to fix the lawn mower.

Granted, it’s a given that any activity that requires a ratchet wrench and motor oil is intrinsically adorable, but when a fella is trying to figure out what end of the mower the blade goes, adorableness is the last thing on his mind…although I suppose some things can’t be helped.

Besides, when one is engaged in serious “man business”, being equated to a puppy playing with a shoe is kind of rude.

Other so called compliments that tend to make men cringe are any sort of comments that reference “today”. You know things like:

You look nice, today.

What, I don’t usually look nice?

You smell good, today?

Same as above.

You didn’t screw anything up, today…at least not too badly…that can’t be fixed…someday.

Kind of backhanded compliments, don’t you think?

Then there are the compliments that begin with “I didn’t know”:

I didn’t know you could make toast.

I didn’t know you knew what a hamper was.

I didn’t know you could bathe.

And when a guy tries to do something really helpful, like doing the laundry—for some reason...some insane, unexplainable, yet well intentioned, reason—it’s not necessarily heartwarming to hear:

I appreciate your doing the laundry…even though I usually add water first.

It must have taken you quite a while to get these wrinkles spread out so evenly…over the underwear.

This looks good in grey.

Everyone has trouble with the on/off switch.

Compliments for being helpful in the kitchen are always appreciated, but try to avoid saying things like:

How could you have known you had to crack the shell open first?

Most people wouldn't even think to boil bacon.

Sticking Fritos in the hamburger meat is so creative.

It took me a while to figure out that milk is the white one, too.

And probably the worst kind of questionable compliments have to do with real manly activities, such as home repairs.

What I love about you is that you’re not afraid to think outside the box. Most people would never think to use that end of the hammer.

Great idea…fixing the faucet and washing the kitchen floor at the same time.

Most people would never use a ladder that way.

You know, I always thought that staircase was a luxury, anyway.

So try to keep all this in mind the next time you pay your significant other a compliment. Everything is open to perception, and since we’re so busy criticizing ourselves most of the time, we think everyone else is too.

Even though, sure, I know…I can’t help looking adorable when I type.

It’s a curse….

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Warming Up

2013-04-10T06:47:00.000-04:00

It’s finally warming up around here…I’m down to only two sweaters.

In another month I hope to lose the scarf.

But I’m holding on to my mittens.

It can get a bit nippy at the beach…in July.

If you follow me on Twitter @FreelanceRetort you read that last Sunday.

I cannot tell a lie.

Well, yeah…I can, with the best of them, but not here…not with my Peeps & Tweeps.

Did I just say Peeps & Tweeps?

Sighhhhhhhhh….

I thought I should Tweet something clever, Sunday morning, so I came up with that gem between my OJ and scrambled egg sandwich.

I figure if I have the Twitter thing, I should at least try to live up to it once in a while.

So you got a pre-view Tweet.

Actually, the Tweet gave birth to the post, and not the other way around.

So I inspired myself.

Plus, it did warm up…so why not use it.

Yeah…I know.

What can I say…ideas are hard to come by, sometimes.

Can you tell this is one of them?

I’ve been doing this for nearly two years now…some 300 plus ideas, brought to fruition.

And since fruition didn’t want them, I posted them here instead.

Yeah…I know.

My point is, in the beginning you’re full of ideas. Every can of soup, walk in the park or new pair of sneakers has a story in it…at least to you.

After a couple of years in, you think you've come up with something clever—at least by your lenient standards—and then feel like…hey, didn’t I do something like that already?

So you end up doing something like this, instead, where you just sit down and see where it takes you.

Yeah…I know.

Doesn’t always work.

Sorry….

Anyway, it has warmed up some, here, in the Northeast, US of A.

It was in the mid 70’s yesterday and it’s supposed to sneak up on 80 today.

I’m not out on the back porch in my summer position, but I do have the window open, next to my winter morning position, and the soft, warm air is kind of nice as it slides on by.

I even put my shorts on for the first time since, probably, October.

Well, if you don’t count the Cabo week in January.

See…can’t lie to my Peeps & Tweeps.

Sighhhhhhhhh….

Folks can’t wait to break out the summer clothes at the first sign of warm weather.

Shorts, tank tops, sandals.

Unfortunately some of these folks shouldn’t break out the summer clothes at the first sign of warm weather...or even the second, third or fiftieth.

Too many winter bellies, hanging over tight fitting shorts…not to mention, lots of hairy legs and toes, everywhere you look.

And the men have their own problems, as well.

But I guess you have to take the good with the bad.

That’s what “they” say.

So it looks like maybe spring is going to finally nudge winter out of the way, at least for a few days.

Then it’s right back into the wishy washy 50’s for another week.

Or so “they” say….again

In the meantime, I’m gonna enjoy it while I can.

Despite the heavy labor that nice spring weather brings along with it.

Raking and….well, raking.

That’s all we’ve managed so far.

Got to wake the lawn up, you know.

Otherwise it will just lay there until June, watching the daffodils and tulips do all the work, if you let it.

I've also got some power washing to do…the deck, deck furniture, the garage.

And if you recall, the power washer is not necessarily my friend.

Then there will be dirt to buy and flowers to plant.

Hmmmmmm…maybe we can skip spring and go right to summer.

Yeah…I know.

Win some, lose some.

Sorry…..

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The DMV & Me—Part 2

2013-04-08T05:05:00.000-04:00

Picking up where we left off, last time...everyone has a memory of their first encounter with the DMV.

I guess the experience varies from state to state, but I’m pretty sure it was the same angst producing scenario for all of us.

If you’re of my generation, give or take a decade or two, you probably recall the anxiety of taking your written test.

Not you’re driving test…you’re written test.

You know, the one where they give you this little driver’s manual to study from cover to cover, just to make certain that before you even look at a road with intent, you understand what a yellow light signifies.

Sure, you tell yourself, everyone knows these silly little rules; at least everyone who has ever ridden in a car.

Green light, go.

Red light, stop.

Yellow light, speed up so you can beat the red light that’s about to come on.

And doesn’t everyone know that the proper distance to follow a vehicle, while driving down a 55 mph highway, at 75 mph, is as close as you need to be in order for the loser to hear your horn as you try to pass them.

So you figure it’s a pretty intuitive test.

Needless to say, many a learner’s permit seeker was foiled by this tactic, simply by not knowing the inventor of the Stop Sign and the inspiration for its octagonal design.

Hint: It has nothing to do with the Amish…but you have to admit, that was a pretty good guess.

The other constant at the DMV, back then, were long lines…long lines everywhere.

There was even a line just to find out what line you were supposed to be on.

Once you've made it to the proper line and subsequent window, for your specific requirements, you were greeted by a standard, government issued woman who could have been anywhere from 25 to 75 years old, if you had to judge by appearance only.

Fortunately, when you factored in the amount of time it took for them to sharpen their pencil, and how often they stopped to lick their finger while pursuing the three pages of forms you handed in, you could make a pretty good guess.

Throw in the quality of condescension emoted as they peered over their half glasses, which I believe were also mandatory Government Issue, and you could narrow it down even more.

Not that the age of this person had anything at all to do with the proceedings at hand, but after waiting on line, for what seemed like several weeks, hoping against hope that you were actually on the right line, your mind needed some sort of distraction, other than wondering how long a person could survive without urinating.

But, as I said last time…that was then…and things are better now.

Now, when you walk into the new 21^st Century DMV, there is no sign at all of multiple long lines.

Now, when you walk through the door, the first thing you encounter is just ONE long line, snaking back and forth through a maze of what appear to be cattle restraints.

Of course, your first thought—mostly because you think of yourself as special and above such common treatment—is…this can’t be the line for me….

But alas, it is, judging by the sign posted right in front of you that states, ALL patrons must report to the Information Center upon arrival.

And even though your well-defended sense of denial side tells your brain…there must be another Center for MY Information…without such a line…your pragmatic side knows this to be false, and glumly shuffles it’s feet into the corral of the near undead.

Immediately, you’re hit with the smell of anxiety and the odor of way too many wool coats.

Someone, a few dozen places ahead of you, yet only a few feet away, due to the line’s snaking effect, says…“Well, at least it’s moving…” which is true, but still, you can’t shake the sound of Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” meandering through your head as you creep forward in microscopic increments.

By the second turn, you amuse yourself by studying the faces of other new arrivals as they enter the room, battling their own defense mechanisms, trying desperately to convince themselves there is something they’re missing, as well.

By the third turn, you find yourself thinking about how easy it would be to just duck under the restraints and run maniacally to your car screaming “I am not a number…I’m a free man!!!!”

But are you really willing to just rashly toss away those first two turns?

And what about those behind you; is this really the example you want to send?

By the fourth turn, you can actually spy the faces of the “Next Ones” to be called.

It’s a look of hunger about to be sated; a look that infuses you with something you had thought lost…lost, what seems like turns ago….

Hope….

By the fifth turn, you allow yourself a small smile. Perhaps it’s merely delirium setting in, but you hear yourself saying, aloud, to anyone who can still listen…“Well, at least it’s moving…”

Until finally, standing, toes behind the line, you hear those magic word…“Next!”

And as you step forward, past the line of magic dreams, toward the information window, you can’t help but turn back, not to gloat, but to offer a sign of faith to those who are still without.

It can happen to you…and it will…in its time it will.

“NEXT!”

You step proudly to the window, greeted not by some humorless old woman of ambiguous origin, but by a smiling, non-bifocaled, young woman who deftly sorts through your pre-filled forms, stamps them and politely asks you to step in front of the camera in order to have your updated photo ID taken.

There you stand, eyes wide open, smile, frozen on your face, awaiting the tell-tale flash, whereupon you are then handed back your now “approved” paperwork, given a number…and told to take a seat while you wait for your number to be called.

“Wait” again, being the operative word.

Undeterred, you accept your documents with profuse thanks and appreciation, as if you had just passed the most stringent challenge possible and were just rewarded one of humanity’s highest honors.

Fueled by the adrenaline of fulfillment, you walk, almost nimbly, over to a row of church like pews and find a seat, encouraged by the fact that the cobwebs hanging from the others are merely of the light and wispy variety.

Great…it can’t be too much longer, you think.

All around you, the room fills with the pleasant, reassuring voice of a faceless woman, calling faceless numbers to the next open service window.

Lighted message boards display a stacked row of numbers designed to instill you with optimism that indeed, progress is being made.

And, yes, that’s just how it appears.

F 86

F87

F88

F89

All stacked neatly in front of your own, F93.

It shouldn’t be too much more of a wait….

Until the comforting woman announces customer F90 please report to Window 11,

Ahhhhhh…only three more to go….

Which is followed by a call for…Customer B67.

B67!

What happened to F91…F92…and me F93!!!!!!

B67!

And now you understand why the church pews actually have kneelers.

However, in time—time now the operative word—F93 is called in the dulcet tone of the faceless woman and you lumber off—knees badly stiffened from all the kneeling—to your designated window.

You, again, hand in your neatly pre-prepared forms; step on the foot prints stenciled on the floor and read the lowest line on the eye chart, which you imagine spells out…theresnothingucandosucker.

Afterwards, you shuffle off towards the exit, past a group of even more arriving hopefuls, and again, try to muster a sign of encouragement, just to let them know…it will be okay.

Unfortunately, most of your facial muscles have now numbed, and your attempt to smile only produces a painful grimace, which provides no comfort at all.

You reach the parking lot, surprised that the sun is still shining, stop and find yourself dwelling in one final desperate thought….

I hope my picture came out okay…..

The DMV & Me—Part 1

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The DMV & Me

2013-04-03T05:05:00.000-04:00

My driver’s license was up for renewal…an event that occurs every 8 years,

I usually take care of it by mail to avoid the bureaucratic hassle inherent in these types of governmental transactions, but I thought I’d better upgrade my photo because quite a bit of time had passed since it had last been taken.

I really have no idea how much time, but I’m thinking 20-25 years.

Wow…20-25 years, gone in a flash. I guess that’s what happens when you stop paying attention.

You mosey about, shuffling through life, minding your own business, trying to keep your nose clean...and soon you find yourself looking at a photo of some glassy eyed dude, encapsulated in the 80s.

The dude in the photo stares back at you with defiance and the unfettered judgment of youth, challenging you to reclaim your wild side; to walk out on the wire and stare into the abyss….

So I decided to take a trip over to the local DMV.

I was tired of looking at that former long haired slacker, not to mention listening to the snickers produced by security guards at the various establishments that one passes through from time to time that requires a picture ID.

“Were you really Sonny Bono?”

Like I said, it’d been awhile, but I was not totally unfamiliar with the set up at the local DMV. I’ve come across some people who now live in caves, that have actually survived their encounter, and with some therapy, have gone on to live mostly productive lives….except, like I said, underground.

Located in a downtown strip mall, the new DMV facility is now fairly modernized in comparison to the older building that had once housed it before the great flood. The system in place back then was entirely different from today’s computerized world of online transactions. In the 70s and 80s, long lines were the rule and the expectation. And while they were not readily used, as much, the old, rusted arm and leg shackles were still attached to the surrounding walls.

Forgetting to fill out the proper bureaucratic form was a no-no.

The DMV workers, at that time, were all pretty much holdovers from the Truman administration, when friendly, governmental, customer service was not so much a point of emphasis, as “giving hell”, whenever and wherever possible, seemed to be.

But, as I said, that was then, and this is now. Thing are different; modernized, computerized, and…while I would like to say “pleasant”…let’s not get carried away.

One thing I’ve learned is that preparation and strategy is still a key to a successful DMV outcome.

Day of the week, time of the day, weather conditions….all significant factors in planning your trip.

My initial step was….

”Procure all proper renewal forms on-line”

Check….

“Fill forms out in advance”

Check….

And if I’d only remembered to include “Print Forms” on the list, I’d have been golden.

Well, you didn’t think I could get an entire DMV story done in one sitting did you?

Well, maybe if my mind didn’t wander I could…but here we are.

Next time I’ll let you know what I found upon my arrival and why I’ve learned that the FBI is my friend.

Just kidding…there’s no FBI involvement in this story whatsoever.

I just didn’t think you’d really care what I found upon my arrival….

The DMV & Me - Part 2

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Spring, it’s the perfect time

2013-04-01T05:05:00.000-04:00

Note: The following post was written for a column I periodically do for my local newspaper, "The Westmore News". Hence, all the local references, which most of you won't relate to, nor should you want to. However, I thought the message was universal...plus, as I always say, I'm not about to waste a perfectly good post...so, here you go....
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It’s that time of year again…finally.

Springtime!

Whether you observe Easter, Passover or merely the season, it’s the time of year when we celebrate life, rebirth and renewal.

Breathe in the warm spring air, smell the earth awakening and shovel snow off the crocuses and daffodil sprouts…again.

A little different from last year’s celebration…but at least it’s not winter, despite the plows rolling down the street.

And there are alot of new things to welcome, around here and everywhere, this year. There’s a new Pope in the Vatican, a new Mayor along with a couple of new Trustees in PC and RB…even a couple of new mentors on “The Voice”, which, by the way, really concerns me. I’m gonna miss that blonde woman, what’s her name, and that other guy.

Oh...and Port Chester had its second official street brining, last week, as well, thanks to the Rye Brook DPW, which apparently couldn’t resist the plea, “Brother can you spare some brine…”

Sorry, I couldn’t resist either.

This year, the election in Rye Brook lacked the excitement of the election in Port Chester, mostly because all the RB candidates ran “unopposed”. Not that anyone seemed to notice or care, since, according to the Westchester County Board of Elections, only 150 voters actually turned out. But then again, if you’re running “unopposed”, you technically only need one person to show up.

Unlike Rye Brook, the race in Port Chester was very “opposed” and hotly contested, “hotly” being the operative word.

We’re a “hot headed” people in PC—always have been and always will be—so we like our politics a little on the spicy side, as well.

There are always a lot of accusations and a lot of blame to go around. Who did or didn’t do this. Who is or isn’t gonna do that.

And that’s just putting the lunch order in at Vinny’s.

In the end, the turnout was relatively small in PC, also. Only 3,141 voters out of a possible 12,002 had enough interest to make their voices heard—even the 200 or so that forgot or were too confused to vote for mayor while they were pulling all those Trustee levers, hoping not to hit the light switch by mistake. But hey, nobody ever said we were perfect when it comes to voting. In fact a federal judge made a point of saying we’re not…probably without ever stepping foot in town.

Some of the more important issues that were up for debate and now, hopefully, will be addressed, were things like how to stop the Costco parking lot from falling into the river, maybe even by getting the folks who promised that it wouldn’t, when they built it, to pay for it, and how to keep the unfortunate few who have the occasion to be detained in our local jail from walking out the hole in the back wall whenever they have an urge for an ice cream cone up the street.

Not surprisingly, the hottest issue of all and the one that everyone in town seemed to have an opinion on was: what is to be the fate of the former United Hospital property and what do we hope to see up there on that hill, preferably, one day soon?

Which got me thinking—which some say is dangerous—just what is it exactly that makes this particular issue so important to all of us? I mean pertinent questions relating to its value as a prime location for either retail or residential, not to mention the ongoing debate as to whether or not people in studio or one bedroom apartments procreate more or less than people in two bedrooms, aside…I believe a large part of it is that there’s an emotional component involved, as well.

If you count yourself as a lifelong PC resident, as I do, chances are this piece of property was the portal through which you took your first breath. And, more likely than not, the portal through which a lot of family and friends took their last.

In between breaths, you went there to tend to sprains incurred playing softball in the park, soothe burns, mend gashes and even just to make someone you cared about laugh and smile while they healed or waited on the outcome of some test.

A year or two before they shuttered the doors I was making a pharmaceutical, marketing video, using the already closed maternity ward as a location. During a break between set ups, a friend who happened to be assisting me wandered off into an empty room where I found her staring out the window, taking in a perfect view of the Sound, sparkling in the distance. I saw a small smile cross her face and when I asked what was up, she told me this was the exact

room in which she had given birth to her first daughter, some 20 years before. She said that was the happiest day of her life and she never forgot the view as she held her baby for the first time.

And I’m sure there are a lot of you who have stories and experiences of your own, stored away, waiting to be recalled by a place that soon will disappear.

However, time moves on and harsh economic realities follow right along with it. Hospitals close every day. The sad truth is there’s nothing special, let alone hallowed, to this ground.

In the end, we all know it’s just a piece of real estate purchased for a pretty good chunk of change by an outside developer. But, what we also know is…that place up on the hill is a significant part of our history; of who we are and of how we came to be.

So maybe that’s why it’s important, and maybe that’s part of why everyone cares about what happens to it.

Hopefully, going forward, our newly elected officials and those that have returned will feel that way as well.

There couldn’t be a more perfect time.

Spring…the season to celebrate life, rebirth and renewal.

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Springtime Renewal - Redux

2013-03-29T05:05:00.000-04:00

Note: I got a little off track this week and found myself a day behind and a post short for another. While I attempt to catch up, I thought I would pull a fast one and try to slip in this holiday re-run from last year. Some of the newbie Retorters may have missed it and some of the oldie Retorters may have forgoten it, especially if their memories have gotten as bad as mine. Just don't tell anyone. Hope you enjoy it....
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Originally Posted: Friday, April 6, 2012

It’s springtime in our little corner of the world and to a lot of different people that means a lot of different things.

For those who observe Easter and Passover it’s a time of solemn religious significance, and for others it’s a time for bonnets, bunnies and colorful eggs.

No matter what your belief system or non-belief system, the common thread that runs through all of it is renewal. And I don’t mean renewing your beach permit (yep…almost time to strap on those silly wrist bands again), car registration, health club membership or your subscription to Sports Illustrated and or Martha Stewart’s Living.

I’m referring to the renewal of life in whatever form or symbolism you subscribe to.

If you’re a person who doesn’t subscribe to any organized religion, or even any of the disorganized ones, you’ll find renewal all around you through the scent of awakening earth, the promise of budding trees and fulfillment of blooming daffodils.

I include myself in this latter category of spring revelers. I’m in no way religious, but in the chi chi modern, new age vernacular I guess you would say I am somewhat spiritual in my beliefs.

Yeah…I know.

I recently heard someone say on a TV show I was watching that religion is for those who seek salvation and spirituality is for those who seek answers. It might have been on “Lizard Lick Towing” or “Hoarding: Buried Alive”…not sure which…but it was on TV so it must be true.

Truth is, I’m not really looking for answers—at least any more—and Z says I’m beyond saving in any way, shape or form.

It’s not that I’m without any sense of universal truth inside; I do believe that there is some sort of order to things and that those things do make sense on some mysterious level.

I also believe there is something greater than me that’s responsible for that order and sense.

For a while I thought it was Donald Trump…then he came out with the “Celebrity Apprentice” and that was the end of that.

Then I thought it must be Orpah, but her new cable network isn’t doing all that well, so now I’m kind of at a cross roads.

I don’t know…and I guess that’s the key: I don’t know…and never will…at least in this life.

But at the risk of sounding much too Zenny, I do know that I don’t need to know either.

It’s enough for me to feel that there is “something” and some form of “existence”, be it unknown, that makes sense and lives on through all of us long after this life concludes.

Hopefully, with much better 3D-TV technology.

Bottom line is…breathe in the spring that surrounds us this time of year and enjoy your holiday, whichever that may be.

No matter what you believe or don’t believe, this time of year is a time of celebration… of life and life renewed for all of us.

Enjoy all the food and all the togetherness your tradition brings to your table.

Enjoy your family and your friends and all the love and laughter that they bring to your life.

Most of all, take pride in and enjoy that which you believe and feel in your heart to be true, with respect and acceptance of all that you don’t.

Even the Easter Bunny…because I’ve been trying to figure that one out since I was five….

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The Joy is in the Journey

2013-03-28T05:05:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid I couldn’t wait for my birthday to arrive.

Next to Christmas it was the best day of the year, mostly because it involved the two P’s…parties and presents.

Just saying the words…“It’s my birthday”, carried a cache of magic and provided a passport to anywhere I wanted to go…at least in my over imaginative, narcissistic, little mind.

Each new year also meant I could stay up a little later, watch more TV…even stand on the street corner well into night singing with my acapella group.

Okay, I made that last part up…there was no group, just me…and no street corner either; just the corner of my Mom’s walk in closet that smelled of mothballs, which made it all the better.

Now, as I take another step up the ladder (one hopes and presumes, optimistically) towards…yet another gift subscription to AARP… I find myself again wallowing retrospectively in the cold soup of lost days.

Maybe it’s the so called “Monster” Full Moon hovering up above?

Throw in the recent Mercury retrograde—again—and this odd alignment of Venus, Mars and Uranus, all hovering near the sun at a right angle to Pluto…well…I don’t think I need to say anything more.

Now, far removed from Kiddomcy, the idea of my b-day soon approaching is a troublesome one, and has been for a number of decades now.

Oh, sure…I still enjoy the ego driven, self-serving specialness of the day. You know, the usual… opening cards and presents, going out for dinner, celebrating the Druid Mud Bath Ritual with friends.

I've even been known to sneak off into the closet now and again to belt out a few tunes, but only when I’m alone…except for—well, that’s neither here nor there….

Over time, the further along the road I traveled, I noticed the destinations I set my sights on—the ones I thought would define me—so often ended up bypassed and undiscovered. Perhaps, even worse, the outposts I did happen upon sparkled more from a distance; their luster lost, along with the pursuit.

Eventually, the road took so many turns and detours, I found myself twisted, upside down in a maze of recalculations; it was all I could do just to try and get back on track.

When I finally stopped and took stock of the direction I’d been traveling, the roadmap seemed outdated, faded and full of holes.

And then it dawned on me: following a roadmap to a destination was probably the biggest mistake of all…at least for someone like me.

George Harrison, in his final goodbye of an album (another old age reference) said it best, paraphrasing Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire Cat’s remark to Alice, “If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there….”

Now, I’m able to look back and see the road I’ve been traveling from the sage distance of time.

I’ve come to understand that all the twists and turns were never detours or obstructions; just a part of the road I’d chosen; the road I missed so much of with my mind focused on the map.

The message has been shouted for so long, by so many others, but I was too lost in myself to hear it.

But I can hear it now…loud and clear, I hear it now.

The joy is in the journey…the destination, just the end.

Oh, sure, it’s easier to say than do…we all know that.

But I’m making sure I feel the sunshine on my face, every day, especially through the clouds….

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Spring Has Sprung

2013-03-25T05:05:00.000-04:00

Spring has sprung; last week, not that you would notice.

It still feels pretty much like winter…mid-winter at that.

Pretty harsh.

But I guess it could be worse.

Not sure how, but that’s what you’re supposed to say in these situations.

Not sure why.

Why can’t we just be annoyed with what we have?

Especially since last year we had about 2 and a half weeks of temperatures in the 70 plus range.

Yeah…hard to recall right now, huh?

I bet no one was saying, “It could be worse” then.

Even though, back then, it definitely could have been…worse.

65 degrees would have been worse.

Partly cloudy would have been worse.

Being transported into the future, into today would have been worse.

Because it is definitely NOT 70 plus today.

Gotta go chip the block of ice off my car.

Defrost the daffodils.

Shovel out the Easter Bunny.

But it could be worse.

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Boss Being

2013-03-22T05:05:00.000-04:00

No one likes their boss.

Not even people like me, who are their own bosses.

Mine is kind of annoying and pushy.

Plus he expects me to do all his work for him.

Putz….

Most times people think they’re smarter than their boss so they resent the fact that they have to do what this person tells them to do, especially if it involves peanut butter.

Other times, people know their boss is smarter than them but still resent the fact that they’re onto their ingenious scheme of calling in sick every Monday and Friday with migraines…even after they’ve started mixing in Wednesdays, as well, just to break the pattern.

They’re clever, these bosses.

I guess that’s how they got to be bosses in the first place.

They probably went to boss school.

You know, where they learned how to boss people around.

Which is kind of confusing, because most of my life people have been telling me not to be so bossy.

So which it is?

Bossy, good?

Bossy, bad?

I suppose it has to do with your boss-like behavior.

Some bosses want to be your boss and your friend…even if you don’t need a new friend.

They want you to like them…even if they don’t particularly like you.

Mostly because they've had bosses too and they don’t want to be “that guy”.

Well, actually they do, but they don’t want you to think they’re “that guy”.

So they drop by just to chat; to see how you’re doing and ask if you need anything.

They’re letting you know that they consider you their peer and that they’re there to support you in any way they can.

All good things, if it were true, but what they’re really doing is checking to see if you’re working on your NCAA brackets online.

Which you are, but is that really any of their business?

Then there's the overly aggressive, dictatorial type boss.

They make it clear in no uncertain terms that there will be absolutely no monkey business tolerated in the office, which you find odd, not to mention insensitive, considering Burt in accounting’s battle with Hypertrichosis.

Of course these types of narcissistic, overachieving, condescending bosses usually wear out their corporate welcome pretty quickly, especially if you’re proficient in Photo Shop.

Of course, on the other hand, some bosses are fair and mild tempered even though they put up with a lot of nonsense from their charges.

Maybe they really didn't deserve to have their calls forwarded to the Tiki Lounge and Massage Emporium that time.

Or to have the wallpaper on all their electronic devices switched to naughty pictures of Adele.

Let alone have their ringtone reset to the “Brady Bunch” theme song.

A good boss treats subordinates with respect, giving them a chance to shine by seeking out and utilizing the best of their abilities.

A bad boss treats subordinates with disrespect by “asking” them to shine his or her car during lunch…and never tips.

A good boss does his or her fair share of the job at hand and doesn’t asks anyone to do anything they haven’t done themselves, always returns calls and emails and encourages an open exchange of ideas to facilitate the smooth completion of tasks.

A bad boss does his or her fair share of “delegating” all the things he or she doesn't want to do, never returns calls or e-mails, and only encourages an open exchange of anything having to do with the new intern.

Of course the best way to avoid any and all of these capricious corporate conundrums is to work hard and become the boss yourself.

And then everyone will hate you too.

In the meantime, stop reading nonsense like this and get back to work.

Unless you’re the boss….

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