Look Away, Just Look Away: Things you see in the Airport

Look Away, Just Look Away:  Musings in the Airport

Kid on a String
Or a leash.  Or I’m sure they’ve marketed it something a little more PC.  It is usually a 2 year old.  Everyone knows the purpose of it, so they don’t run off and you don’t have to chase them.

Mom, Dad, they will not have fond memories of this.  “Remember when we were at Disney Land, and I was on a string?”

If you are going to do this, don’t take pictures of it.  No matter how cute that stuffed monkey is on his back (the real monkey is you – really, it is).  Don’t do it.  The child is going to grow up, and there will be a picture of him on a string. Not a proud moment.

It reminds me of a friend in college (you know who you are) who used to catch bumble bees, freeze them, and then tie a string on them. While you are sitting on your lawn drinking a beer on a bright Sunday morning, there is nothing better than bee on a string that you could fly around the yard.  That is, once it shakes it's frosty nap.  (I went to school in Pullman, WA – what do you expect?)  That is your kid – like a bee on a string.  We didn't take pictures of the college shenanigans, that was known as evidence.  We may be Cougs, but we are not idiots.

Back to the airport. I tried to look away, just look away.  But I couldn't.  I positioned myself to REALLY see.

As I sat and creeped on the kid on a string, I noticed the parent was pretty relaxed. Relaxed say, as much as I would have been with a monster/2 year old after 2 glasses of wine.  They seem very unaware that say, others (just me, really) was being "judge-y" and thinking of bee humiliation.  Maybe they just don’t give a crap (honey badgers - who coincidentally have a connection to bees as well), because they know something.  Something like,  “just be glad I don’t let him off this string.  He would be all up in your face”.

Thank you, parents of the kid on a string.  I salute you and the creator of kid on a string.

Just a Country Doctor

Damn it, Kirk.
I'm a doctor, not a blogger.

I am a great fan of my friend Sue's blog.  And I think I am experiencing the same pain.  Is it because our husbands are doctors or because they don't know funny?
He is curious about this thing they call blogging.  So, I let him read it.  Why do you do it?  How come you are talking about other guys?
Jeez, why not?!  That is what I say.  I agree that he must be from Mars, while, me on the other hand, I am from the lovely Venus.  I don't think he belongs in my brain/blog.  It is confusing and disturbing for him.  It is random and silly and clearly, not logical at times.  Damn it, he is just a country doctor.
It is all very harmless, I tell him.  Don't take it too seriously.  Isn't it time for you to go work?

What If?

My Disclaimer:  This little ditty is in no way meant to offend or alienate the Preppers in my life (nor anyone else for any other reason).  I respect your decision to prep.  And, I hope that in the case of one of the disasters you are preparing for occurs, you will consider opening the door if I knock.  When it all goes to hell in a hand basket, I want to you to know that I have mad basket weaving skills that I learned in 4^th grade.  If we have to start over, we will need at least one basket – to replace the one we used getting to hell. I’m your man. Open the door.

What If?

I watch a lot of trash television.  If someone mentions a trash television show I haven’t TiVo’d yet, I make a mental note of it. Like Rain man, I will list some: Swamp People, Real Housewives of Various Locations, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, and Bunkers. My husband thinks I should be ashamed of myself, but I am not.  I like them; they are a great study of humanity that I would otherwise know nothing about.  They are most likely not realistic representations of people, but, the bottom line is, he is not the boss of me.

There are a couple shows I’ve watched about Preppers.  They are the apocalyptic worriers/warriors.  They believe that a variety of things could be coming down the pike and they are preparing for the worst.  Again, like Rain man:  Meteors crashing into the earth, Earth tilting a different way on its’ axis, Economic Collapse, Zombies, the-last-day-of- the-Mayan-Calendar (12/21/12) in which the world will end in a way completely unmentioned by the Mayans. I think that all of these things would start a whole downward spiral until we are on that path to hell with the hand basket (probably not as nice as the one I would produce later).  I don’t really know how you can prepare for all of these, so maybe as a Prepper, you pick the one that makes the most sense to you and start planning. 

My first real life encounter with a Prepper was many years ago as a college student.  Home for the summer, I decided to visit a childhood friend.  She had gotten married and was showing me around her new home.  It was sparsely decorated home, but clean and fresh and sunny just like her.  And then she showed me her attic.  And what do we have here?  I saw shelves and shelves of canned goods.  What the hell (or should I say, what the heaven?)? She was ready for a religious apocalypse.  I was reeling. I had never heard of such a thing.  Gee, look at the time. I had to run.  Away. Fast. Again, not that I don’t agree nor disagree with such a plan or way of life, I just had never seen the like.

And so, you see this is not a new thing.  I am old, and college (Go Cougs!) was a while ago. 

(I hope she rotated those cans, because some of them may have expired by now. Just sayin’)

Modern Preppers stock up on needed supplies, like food, gas masks, gold bars, guns, ammo, and some have underground bunkers built.  (I have learned that the underground bunkers are not always a good idea in flood prone areas, as you might suspect.  Those that have done that are the dullards of the prepping community.) But, I digress.  Once the disaster has passed, the canned goods spent, bean-o bottle empty, and re-runs of Gilligan’s Island have grown old, the Preppers will swing open their bunker door, and climb out to the new world.  (Unless of course, the gas mask was needed, and then, maybe coming out is not such a wise choice.)  What will they see? Will they be glad they survived?

I have some scientist acquaintances (people with science fluidity and crazy hair) that I rely on for such inquiries.  First I ascertain if they are any way connected to Obama or the government in a cover-up or conspiracy (Preppers can be a very suspicious animal).  Once they clear security, I slyly slide into our conversation various scientific scenarios just to see if these things could happen and what would be the outcome.  What if a Meteor crashes into the earth? What if the world’s economy collapsed?  What if the earth tilts the other way or starts spinning backward? They usually look at me like I’m the one who is crazy, but I just pretend it is their inability to read social cues and push on.  They commence with the mumbo jumbo science stuff, which I tune out.  (Cue the Muzac) Until the end, when I hear things like: unlikely, improbable, and not in our lifetime.  In a word, INCONCEIVABLE (ode to Princess Bride).  And if it did happen, you probably wouldn’t want to be the last man standing.  It would be hard for you.  No Starbucks or clean wine glasses.  And, we could be left with just Hoodsport Wine! Kill me now.

The planning and collecting of supplies is costly.  It is big business.  I have not budgeted that into our 2012 plan.  I looked in my pantry, and thought “meh, I guess I could eat this stuff”.  But, what if I am not at home?  See, there are so many problems and variations on this whole prepping thing that my semi-educated brain (that was for all you Husky and Duck fans) cannot grasp it.

So, in a salute to all my Prepper friends and acquaintances, I have chosen the Mayan calendar disaster to prepare for.  It is vague enough that I don’t think I can go wrong.

My family plans on having a party on Dec 21^st, 2012.  A New Years celebration of sorts, because I believe that is what the Mayans would have wanted.  We will eat all the foods we like.  I will bring biscuits and jam, and Ritz and cheese whiz.  I will drink white wine.  Yes, gasp away, you red wine drinkers.  It will be a BYOB so you won’t have to engage in my primal palate slurping.  You are all invited. Being the last day as we know it, we should stay up all night  -- or at least until midnight when it hits the fan.  Just in case there is a dawn that next morning in which all will begin anew, I am going to pack my toothbrush, Tylenol and a pair of clean undies.  And, of course, some pliable reeds perfect for basket weaving. 

The Joke Center

Welome.

This is weird for me, but I decided rather than embarrass my children any further with long Facebook posts about obscure (but very important) matters, I would start a blog.

Not very much of it will be serious.  Mostly crap that passes through my head.  Some of it I think about a lot.  And some of it, not-so-much. 

I hope you find it entertaining.  I hope it makes you smile, cuz chances are, I smiled and that is why I want to share it. 

The Joke Center

As an introduction to my brain world, I want you to see where my crazy notions come from — The Joke Center.  It is located in a high rise building in New York.  I have a doorman, named Marcus.  Great guy, works hard sometimes, but can be seen slacking and talking to the hookers that pass by.

I get a handful of visitors every day.  Marcus lets them in, although he never calls up to tell me who has arrived.

They knock on the door of my small apartment.  I never know who it will be, but most are welcome.

There’s the sophisticated poodle carrying lady.  Welcome, m’lady, won’t you come in and have a seat?  These jokes are usually pretty sedate.  The kind people Titter at.  The poodle lady smooths her skirt, drinks tea and makes small talk jokes.  They work in some situations.  Some days she is all that comes over. Welcome stuffy lady.

The bootie short wearlng, gum smacking, wine drinking hooker.  One knock, that’s what I get, and in she comes.  These are trashy jokes.  Usually made when a little tipsy or sleep deprived.  Can be funny, but a little risque.  Once she is in, there is no telling what I might say.  Usually my girl friends say, “ohh nooo, you shouldn’t say that” and guys laugh and then take the joke torch themselves.

Have a seat, hoochie momma.

The wild card, the clever geek. Comes in through the window cuz Marcus has been warned to send him on his way if he moseys by.  He is a smooth operator, though, and has found other ways to get in.  Wears glasses (cuz he is clever not cuz he needs them) and I let him in every time.  Why not? He’s a geek, he’s harmless. He sits, grins, drinks all my coffee, and pushes up his black glasses on his nose just waiting for the right moment.  He is the best of all visitors, but also the worst.  His timing is impeccable.

He watches all the others with amusement, they are all so plebeian. 

Bam! His delivery can be virtually flawless.  Some of my best clever jokes come from him.  And some of them are bombs, 5 steps ahead of the conversation, and no one gets them.  I still like him though, glasses and all.

Get in here, sit down and be quiet.  (He won’t be quiet, but I like to be bossy.)

The secret visitor.  Always clever, but not so appropriate.  I let him in (who wouldn’t, he is hot) and I do not always share him.  I have been caught enjoying a joke with him on the sly– the telltale sign is that I am smiling to myself.  My friend Jervis is always on the lookout for him. He will ask me why I am smiling. He knows.  Come in my secret friend, sit yo sexy bum on the couch.

De bomb.  He stinks.  And he waits until Marcus is slacking, and sneaks on up.  He comes on days when I am clearly out of sorts.  He knocks  politely, looks good on the outside, but once he is in, he lets it rip.  Bad jokes, all day, all the time, in the back of my head.  I frequently “sssttt” him, like the dog whisperer.  Stinky man, why do you come to my apartment? Oh God help me, have a seat, but not on the furniture.

There are other visitors (the Cowboy, the Punster), but I think this is enough for now.

So, that is it.  I really am not Sybil. These people do not rattle around in my head/apartment.  Just the essence of them.  Those that know me have met some of these visitors. 

But,  I do like to think of my jokes as a knock on the door.  I always open it.  Why hello, why don’t you come on in?  Most of the time, it is a great visit.

Moses Dat (I will explain this at a later date).