Lessons of the Week

This week has been interesting.  It has brought about fits of giggles, tears of annoyance, waves of rage, and dawning realizations.  I’d like to dedicate this post to the things I’ve learned this week.  A simple post with a hefty impact.  So she said modestly.

Commuting in the Rain is Nothing Like Dancing in the Streets

Driving to work in Northern New Jersey is a painful experience.  It is a knuckle-whitening, teeth clenching, foul-mouthed swearing nightmare.  And that’s all before I even leave my parking garage.  Throw rain in to the mix of a normal commute, and you might as well stick a fork in you – because you. are. done.

We’ve had spotty showers off and on all week in my area.  Nothing torrential.  Nothing earth shattering.  Something you would put your intermittent windshield wipers on for, in order to dissolve the splats and tire mist. To NJ, however, rain is an anomaly.  A demon of the sky:

“Why, oh why are these wet discs falling from the sky?  What am I to do except slam on my brakes as each droplet bounces off of my car?!  I must treat this “rain” (as they call it) as an agent of doom.  The only way to save myself is to stand still and lurch my car forward, every now and then.”

NJ drivers act as if they are dodging virus-filled hypodermic needles while navigating hot-air balloons, as they maneuver their way from Point A to Point B.  What exactly is the problem here?!?!  Step on the gas, and go.  Jiminy Crickets these people are going to give me an ulcer. 

Oh, and as a side note:  Stay out of the passing lane if you are A)  Not passing anyone  B)  Feel uncomfortable doing the speed limit or above C) Your car can’t make it up a hill.

Working Nine to Five is No Fun Without Lily Tomlin

If you’ve ever watched the 1980 movie “Nine to Five”, than you understand where I’m coming from.  If you’ve never watched it, then you should still read this, but none of it will make sense to you.  I highly suggest you Netflix it or do what you do in order to watch older movies.

Those of us that are gainfully employed are happy to be so.  I am certainly not asking to be jobless.  I’ve been there, and that’s no fun without Lily Tomlin, either.  Let’s face it though, what is?

I ask you, where is the Skinny & Sweet?  Where is the mistaken identity corpse stealing?  Where is the boss snatching and kidnapping? Why isn’t everyone going down to Charlie’s and getting drunk?

I feel I was sold a bill of goods on this whole “working” thing.  I want my toy back.  I’m going home.

 

 

 

I’ll be watching you.  You better call the Police

This week I’ve interacted with people in all sorts of ways:  Via Web Ex, Skype, Conference Calls, Through Social Media, and Via Finger-Gestures.  And, oh yeah, in person.

I must say, this has certainly been a week to highlight people’s deficits in perceiving verbal and non-verbal cues.  Myself included.

I’ve come to understand that if I’m consistently reaching out to people and they don’t reach back, than maybe my reaching isn’t so welcome.  I think this rule can be applied across universally. 

Heads up boys and girls:  The more you persist in trying to get someone to understand that you’re interesting, witty, charming and insightful, the more you’re not interesting, witty, charming or insightful.   With each unasked step you take, the more you tiptoe to that gray town of Stalker-ville.  You don’t want to live in Stalker-ville.  It’s full of Peeping-Toms and Lazy Susans. 

You can’t make someone comfortable if you are bombarding them with discomfort.  Back off.

Cats.  Now and Forever

This week, a friend posted a link to a fun website that showed how owning a cat can cause permanent mental health damage.  As I read through the 30+ examples, I began to notice that I fit most, if not all, of these criteria.

 

 

I sing to my cat on a daily basis.  The nightly ritual being a song that is composed by myself and is copyrighted, so back off:

The Monkey Butt Song

Giving some water, to my daughter

Monkeybutt, monkeybutt, monkeybutt

Giving some dinner, to my winner

Monkeybutt, monkeybutt, monkeybutt

Giving some treats, to my sweets

Monkeybutt, monkeybutt, monkeybutt

And in the morning, we will repeat

Monkeybutt, monkeybutt, monkeybutt

*I make myself uncomfortable, so she can remain comfortable.

*I no longer need an alarm clock, because she’s staring at me at 5:00am

*I find her 3:00am fits of energy annoying, not scary.

*I overspend on cat toys, when she’s more interested in the box it came in.

I’m OK with being that crazy cat lady.  I love my girl with all of my heart, and I think this list is hysterical.  I’m not sure it will be so hysterical when I’m 98 and am drowning in cat hair and nasty cat looks, but for now…I  think it’s hysterical.

Here’s the link to see the full list, because it’s hilarious:

http://distractify.com/people/personal/agonizing-struggles-that-prove-cat-owners-are-the-best-people-ever/

So my readers, that sums up this week’s lessons.  As Brad Hamilton so sagely uttered in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”:   Learn it.  Know it. Live it.

 

With Love,

Lady Butterfly

xoxo

Killer Bees and Nuclear War

Killer Bees and Nuclear War

What Childhood Dreams Are Made Of

When I was a kid, all I wanted out of life was to grow up. 

Old enough to drive.  Old enough to stay out late.  Old enough to not have to listen to my parents.  Old enough to have all of that fun that is clearly waiting for you on the other side of teenage-hood.  Boy.  Was I an idiot, or what?!

In my mind's eye, adulthood was a switch.  "One day you were a child, and *poof* - one day you were an adult".  There was no transitional period baked in to my thoughts.  "When I Grow Up" wasn't looked at as a sliding scale of ages or changes.  It was a definitive moment in time. Rock solid and palpable. Yes.  I was an idiot.

God.  I wish I was that idiot again sometimes.  Not that I'm not currently an idiot, but now I'm just an adult idiot.  Which is far, far worse.

I was chatting with a co-worker this week discussing some of the random things in life that make you squeamish and just icky as adults.  My thing is eyeballs.  It really should read EYEBALLS!!! Eyeballs make me wiggle in my seat and cause my stomach to turn.  If there's a close-up of eyes in a magazine or on TV, I turn the page or the channel.  The mere idea of contact lenses makes me want to toss my cookies.  The thought of corrective eye surgery is enough to make me jump from my 3rd floor apartment.  To put it plainly, if SpongeBob Square Pants bugs out his eyes, I must step away from Nickelodeon.  It's that bad.  Chicken on the bone is my second ick-inducing thing.

This conversation led to what made us scared as kids. 

Growing up in the 1980's I had two fears that stood out like street lights on a dark and desolate highway.  Two fears that kept me up at nights and sent me seeking reassurance from my questioning parents:  Killer Bees migrating from South America, and Nuclear War.  In no particular order, but if forced to choose - I'd say the Killer Bees outranked Nuclear War.

Killer Bees

In the early 1980's, at least in New Jersey, it seemed like' Africanized-Killer-Bees-migrating-from-South America" stories were everywhere.  It ran on the news.   There were '60 Minutes' specials on it.  It appeared an invasion was just a matter of time.

"Investigative Reports" showed how these bees would attack.  Men dressed in beekeeper gear would hang a swatch of red cloth from a tree limb, and then gingerly remove the KILLER BEES from their semi-frozen hive.  Upon waking and gathering their bee-wits about them, the bees would quickly swarm the red cloth.  The only thing visible would be hundreds of bees hanging on top of one another in a state of frenzy and mayhem.  In steps the beekeeper, dousing the bees with a quick-acting cooling agent.  The final shot would be of the tree limb. With nothing but a corner of the red cloth left.  The bees hated red THAT much.

The "Investigative Reporter" would then turn his perfectly tanned face to the camera and tell us (me) that these bees are beyond aggressive. They are LOOKING for a fight.  You have been warned, viewer.  They are migrating at an alarming rate from the depths of South America right up to Northern New Jersey.  Do not step outside.  Most importantly, do NOT wear red.

 

The incredible threat of Killer Bees was certainly heightened in my kiddie brain by watching a late 1970's era made-for-TV movie that re-aired during this trying time, entitled "The Savage Bees".  These bees weren't bees.  These bees were attacking machines.  They wanted you DEAD.  They needed to STING you.  Their sole purpose in life was to bring an end to yours.

My parents didn't (and still don't) have any sort of air conditioning in their home.  During summer nights I would sleep in my upstairs room, head under the comforter and sweating,  hoping that the bees couldn't get in through the window screen and attack me before I was a grown up.

I'm still here, so they obviously didn't.  I'll always be on the lookout though.  I know those Killer Bees are still migrating north and just waiting to attack me in my vibrant red T-shirt.

Nuclear War

To put it simply, I was terrified that we were going to be bombed with nuclear missiles launched from Russia during the 1980’s. 

As a kid, the news seemed to always show this impending doom of a threat.  Russia was the “enemy”.  Nuclear warfare was a “possibility”. It was Us versus Them.  Even as a kid I knew that no matter who “won”, everyone lost.

Once again with the made-for-TV-movies, “The Day After” was a critical life changing moment for me.  I was a kid and this movie was no Hollywood fakeness.  This was REAL.  The family bunkered down in their basement and left the dog upstairs as the nuclear attack started.  They left the dog upstairs.  How could they do that?  I was much less concerned with the kid who got blinded by the nuclear flash than the fact that THEY LEFT THE DOG UPSTAIRS.  This was devastating to me as a child. You don't just leave your pets to DIE!

 

 

The movie portrayed a mix of people in different situations reacting to the nuclear blast.  The horror of its impact.  The helplessness of the masses.  The realization that life would never, ever be the same.  I watched with eyes wide and considered this an almost certainty in my life. Based on everything shown on "legitimate" TV news, everything seen in newspapers – nuclear war was a very clear danger. 

Later in life I saw a British movie entitled “Threads”.  This movie made “The Day After” look like a Disney World vacation.

In the End

I remember going to bed each night and asking God to watch over my family.  Please prevent nuclear war.   Please don’t let the bees come to New Jersey. As a born negotiator, I also threw this in to the mix:  “If nuclear war does happen, God – please give me time to save my stuffed animals and the glass doorknobs from each room.” 

Since it was very obvious the glass door knobs were made of diamonds and would provide us money should we become homeless, nuclear bombing victims on the run from Killer Bees.

Come to think of it, maybe I don't want to be a kid again, after all....

With Love

Lady Butterfly

xoxo 

 

$#!* My Dad Says

My dear ol' Dad's Birthday recently passed with little fanfare and even less hoopla.  To celebrate his special day, I dedicate this blog to all things "Dad".  Specifically... (To borrow the title of a well-known book and cancelled TV show) ...

$#!* My Dad Says 

Dear Pops is a poet in his own right.  He has a certain way with words.  Note, I didn't say the right way with words, just a certain way with them.  They are usually well intentioned, but are always convoluted and head-scratching.  A modern day Confucius, I'd like to share with you some of my Father's pearls of wisdom throughout the years:

***

"It'll Lubricate Your Joints" - As a child growing up in the 1980's, my family was by no means wealthy.  We always had clothes to wear, we never worried about where we were going to sleep, and we always had something to digest.  Herein lies the rub.   

The "food" my father purchased was classified as food only in the vaguest of terms.  It was food-like.  It was no longer moving.  It resembled something similar to meat, without having to follow all of those pesky USDA grades.  In essence, it was cheap. 

The "steak" that my Dad would make (for he was the primary "chef" in the household) was made primarily of bone, fat, gristle and a thin-strip of pinkish meat.  Try as you might, no amount of steak sauce was going to cover up the taste of this travesty.  Cows all over the land hung their head in shame to be labeled in the same category as this substance.   

As the plates were placed before my brother and me, my face would immediately turn in to a grimace and my hands would silently pat my lap to summon the family dog.  I'd cut along the narrow path between the bone, fat, and gristle to slice off the bit of meat that remained. This exercise took precision and readied me for a lucrative career in micro-surgery, should I have chosen to pursue it.   

Pushing the pile of gook to the side, I'd chew my millimeter of "meat" and declare my meal completed.  My father, spendthrift and gourmand that he is, would declare, "Finish what's on your plate or no Muppet Show for you."  To which I would reply, "I have!  The rest is fat." 

To which the famous line was uttered, "Eat the fat.  It'll lubricate your joints!" 

'Cause every 8 year old girl is interested in keeping her joints lubricated. 

 



"Just Try One Bite..." - In staying with the dining theme, my Father was also always big on trying new "delicacies".  I'm not speaking of unique dishes from around the world, or exciting spices that aren't used in typical American fare.  I'm speaking more along the lines of Gross-Out Food.  Such as, cow tongue, pigs knuckles, some sort of brain, pickled whatever's, etc. 

No special meals were cooked in my Parent's house.  It also wasn't a democracy.  For instance, if you didn't like what was cooked, there was no option to say I'm not eating that.  Oh no.  You'll eat what is placed in front of you.  The motto was "Take what I give you and eat what I serve you."  This included cow tongue.

The slab of blech was staring at you from your plate.  The mere thought of what it was, bringing up thoughts that shouldn't be thought of during a dining experience.  Thank God for my Mom.  After awhile she would invariably say, "James.  The kids do not have to eat this."  To which he would ultimately respond, "Just try one bite..."

'Cause every 8 year old really wants to take "just one bite" of another beings tongue. 

 

***



"Pipe Down Over There" - My family vacations were usually spent in a car, hauling our trailer to whichever destination my Mom chose.  We had a blast and looking back it was the most fun I ever had.  The stories of my vacations have been well documented in this blog, but there are oh so many more stories to tell.

For the earlier parts of our camping trips, we had a Pop-Up Tent Trailer.  One that flattened down like a pancake, but would rise up with a crank and branch out on opposite ends, to create sleeping spaces. 

Now my mind is a little hazy with this one, regarding the timing of events, however my brother and I must have been laughing at one end of the trailer, with my mom sitting in the middle dining area.  I know my father was stationed at the other end of the trailer, trying to sleep.  I suppose we were having way too much fun and giggling over something inevitably childish and silly. Being as we were children and silly.  Well, the noise just got too much to handle for the old man, and he bellows from the depths of his rounded belly, "Pipe Down Over There!"  My brother and I just about peed in our pants.

'Cause every 8 and 11 year old are told to "pipe down" in 1983.

 

"Goddamn Son of BLEEP Rocks!" - My parents have lived in their house for over 40 years.  It's a beautiful property with a pond, a pool and a large front and backyard.  Every year for as long as I can remember, they have grown a vegetable garden.  And for at least the last 10 years, my Dad and I have decorated their house for various Holidays with blow-up figures or lawn ornaments that stick in to the ground.

Every year, for as long as I can remember, my father has been swearing at the Earth that stands beneath his feet; swearing up a storm of profanities my innocent ears should not bear witness to.  He is confounded.  Truly and utterly befuddled how there are any rocks left on his property.  After years of turning over gardens and placing decorations in generally the same spot, he is still stymied by the rock, stone or boulder.

As I stand outside in the bitter cold, untangling nylon ropes that are to attach into hooks twisted into the ground, my father begins his rant.  As Winnie the Pooh or the 6 foot Polar Bear begin to inflate, so does my Dad's annoyance at his godforsaken land.

"Godamn Son of $#!* Rocks", he explodes.  "[Expletive Deleted]", he swears. "[Expletive Deleted]", he finishes.

'Cause every adult woman loves to see her Pop struggling to put up kiddie Christmas decorations, or a giant inflatable turkey while cursing like a sailor.  Ahh, the Holidays.

***

 

"You're Not THAT Fat" - To emphasize the point that my Father is unique in the words that he chooses, or when he chooses them, I offer you this tidbit of goodness. 

A few years ago, I was chitchatting with my Dad about nothing in particular.  I had put on some weight, to be honest, and wasn't feeling especially pretty.  Now, I should have known better than to go to my Dad for a pep talk about my appearance insecurities.  This, the man who thinks wearing white tube socks pulled up mid-calf with black sneakers and cargo shorts in the epitome of fashion.  This, the man who thinks wearing a button down shirt with a pirate face logo is being "fancy schmancy".  Yet, I confided in my Father about feeling low and uncomfortable in my skin.

His reply was a heartwarming response of, "You're not THAT fat."

'Cause every woman feels just AMAZING after hearing those words. 

 

***

Now, there are so many more Dad-isms that could be shared:  his constant mispronunciation of words (I dare you to ask him to pronounce "Guru" or "Stigmata"), his complete inability to retell a story or relay a message accurately, his love of making us squirm as children by saying he was eating "smoked butt". 

I can say without any hesitation that I know no other man in the world like my father.  He is a one of kind guy.  A guy I am honored to call My Dad.

With Love

Lady Butterfly

xoxo