A little lesson for the Midwest

Oh, you loopy, loveable midwesterners. You are a classic paradox.

Hardy and strong, you bravely face the endless muggy summers filled with heat, heat, more heat, and mosquitoes. You cheerfully take your kids to the park on days so hot that one actually sweats in a cold shower. You are out jogging in air that is 95 degrees with 80 percent humidity.

Yes. With smiles on your faces.

And yet, when the mere possibility of a few inches of snow is before you, you abandon all logic. You run to the grocery store and hastily clear the shelves of bread, eggs, milk, and toilet paper. You preemptively salt your driveways. You stockpile the firewood and hunker down with quilts to worship the weatherman on t.v.

And then, in a panic, you declare a snow day and cancel school.

Before the snow has actually, you know, fallen.

Well, my not-so-hardy winter friends, let me give you a little lesson. When it snows like THIS, there should, indeed, be a snow day:

(Our front yard in Boston, circa 2005)

Not when it snows like THIS:

Our front yard, about ten minutes ago

Any questions?

[All this excitement, by the way, led one of my children, who shall remain nameless, (*cough*Chase*cough*) to wake up at 4:30 a.m., and not be able to fall back asleep. That naturally led him to wake his siblings at, say, 4:43 a.m. And, of course, none of them would go back to sleep. I blame you, crazy midwest people. Thanks a lot.]

Thanks, special new friend. I owe you one.

Dear Anonymous Stranger,

Thank you for the extra special treat you left by my car yesterday.

Imagine my delight, if you will, at discovering your thoughtful little present just moments after loading my groceries into the back of the car, as I was sitting down contentedly in the driver's seat.

It is unfortunate that I did not discover it before I actually put my foot on the brake. For had I found your ball of already-chewed delight sooner, it would have enabled me to enjoy it only on the bottom of my shoe. Instead, it was added special fun to scrape the pink sticky mess off the brake pedal AND my shoe.

You know, this piece of sanitary deliciousness THAT CAME FROM YOUR MOUTH. WHERE YOUR SPIT LIVES.

I can appreciate that it was especially tiring for you that day, what with having to use all three of your brain cells to walk and chew at the same time. And I know the extra energy that it would have taken to walk ten feet and toss your treasure in a garbage can was really more than society could have asked of you.

What with you being, you know, a selfish pig and all.

So, please. From the bottom of my heart, accept my honest and sincere thanks.

It's been a long time since I've cleaned up anything quite so sticky, seeing as how my kids are in school all day now. And honestly, it was a thrill to get some more practice at it.

Yours,

Christie
____________________

P.S. In spite of the apparent sarcasm, I am ever mindful of the horrific events that took place seven years ago today. You can read my experience with that day again here. God bless America.

Trying unsuccessfully to make sense of the world in which I live

While perusing a high quality periodical this week (which is a whole other post in and of itself), I came across something startling. It took me by surprise, and I'll be honest, was more than a little disturbing.

What frightened me were two different full-page advertisements. The first one was for this charming product:


Monkey Cuddles, they call it. A miniature baby monkey wearing a diaper, holding a half-peeled banana to his cheek, and sporting a saucy little bow on top of his head. And all of this adorable cuteness can fit right in the palm of your hand.

Oh, the google searches I'm going to get this week for that paragraph alone.

But really. I must know.

WHO BUYS THESE?

I am guessing old ladies in housecoats and slippers, who shuffle happily between their shelves full of Marie Osmond dolls, and the yellow pictures of grandchildren from 1968 still on the walls. These are probably the same suckers victims who willingly send all their life savings to Mr. Liu Yan and his many relatives who have billions of dollars trapped in overseas banks. (Oh, Liu. All the horror, and yet you somehow manage to still send eight emails to me every day. You're such a trooper).

That demographic I kind of get. I will never BE that person, but I can begrudge the old ladies their little treasures. Whatever.

But this one I will never understand. Here we have disturbing advertised product number two:


Yes, a skeleton wearing blue jeans and a leather vest, riding a Harley that is decorated with other skeleton heads, and proudly sporting a pirate flag on the back of the bike.

Please help me understand. WHAT DEMOGRAPHIC IS BUYING THIS?

I could be wrong, but I just don't picture a tough, tattooed, chiseled biker taking the time to order himself a porcelain figurine. What would he do with it? Do you think he would put it in his curio cabinet that's full to the brim with miniature tchotchkies, and then proudly display it at his next Hells-on-Wheels meeting, where he and his crew eat homemade tea cakes that he tenderly serves on lace doilies?

Yeah. Not likely to happen.

And I'm not imagining granny in her housecoat wants the biker skeleton, either.

I really hope somewhere in this world is a factory full of unsold figurines. Because that would mean nobody bought this crap, and my life, as I know it, would still make sense to me.

Unfortunately, I am sure there are many a parcel in the mail today with these very things in them.

I think I must be missing the tchotchkie gene. Because I just don't get it.

[My apologies to any readers who actually own these items. Please unsubscribe from my blog. We clearly have nothing in common. You are definitely in the wrong place if monkey and skeleton figurines are your thing. No hard feelings, okay?]

Road rage

You know the scenario and have probably seen and done it a million times.

You're driving along - maybe in a hurry because you're running late - and somebody cuts you off. The frustration turns to sheer rage, and you futilely yell through your closed window at the person who just cut you off. Or maybe the highly unskilled driver drove in such a way that almost caused an accident, which was saved only by your excellent defensive driving skills, and you laid on your horn to let them know of your disgust. I'd even go out on a limb and wager that almost all of you have even raised that ubiquitous middle finger a time or two.

I'm ashamed to say I have.

Generally speaking, I am a rational driver. My "mild" OCD tendencies almost always have me heading out the door with time to spare, ensuring that my drives are smooth and even. The purchase of a car that came equipped with wireless headphones and a DVD player has left me with an immense amount of peace and quiet time from the children.

In short, my car rides are usually not rage-filled ones.

After leaving the race track of the California freeways behind me, I find myself quite at home here in the sleepy Midwest, where no one even goes the actual speed limit - they go below it. I try to not get annoyed when I'm stuck behind one of the locals, especially when I see that it's an elderly silver-haired poodle, nervously peeking up over the steering wheel.

The other day, I happened to witness the typical road-rage driver. A vehicle pulled out in front of a woman, and she laid on the horn, immediately accelerating to within inches of the bumper of the offending car. She raised her middle finger and furiously shouted expletives. She followed so closely behind this other car that I was bracing myself for the accident that was sure to happen.

And a few miles later, when she turned off onto another route, she made sure to let the other driver know she still had not forgiven them for causing her to hit that light exactly 1.2 seconds later than she otherwise would have.

Closer examination of the offending car revealed a sweet little elderly man in a black houndstooth fedora, driving with his wife by his side. [I don't know what it is about the fedora on an old man. LOVE. IT. Can't even stand how much I love it. Ahhh. I digress.]

But here was the cutest little couple - probably somebody's grandparents, for crying out loud - driving to the doctor's office, or the grocery store. Sheesh, they're just old. Let's cut them some slack.

I have been unable to shake the incident from my mind. I'm disturbed on several levels. What is it about feeling safe behind a pane of glass that allows our ugly selves to come out?

Just imagine being at the grocery store and someone cuts you off with their cart. You immediately start yelling, you flip them off, and you push your cart to within inches of their heels, all while yelling at them for being so stupid.

Can you imagine the horror?

Why then do we see that as a viable option when we're behind the wheel?

Have you ever honked and yelled at someone in your car, only to realize afterwards that you actually know them?

What possesses us to get so angry? What bravery we don when no one can talk back or even apologize.

I would just love to have everyone take a deep breath, realize we all have places to get to, and stop being so damn mad all the time. It's just pathetic. We're all human beings. In a society. What have we to be so upset about?

Discuss.

And now we'll never invite him to another party

Let's just say you have a son. He seems like a good boy. You enjoy him most of the time. He grows up and turns eight. You let him have a party and invite all his friends. One horrid child will bring your son "Frog World." Frog World is a frog habitat, which you think looks like a really cute toy for him to house his plastic frogs.

Your son will fill out the enclosed card requesting the live tadpole that comes with the gift.

He will mail off the card in September.

Then one cold day in December, you will open your mailbox and see this:

Nothing in the mail pile should ever say "Live Tadpoles, Open Immediately!" That does not a good mail day make.

Unless you are them. Then it's the best mail day ever:

So we have a new pet. Against my will.

Chase named him Sir-Croaks-A-Lot. [I'm hoping he's more like a Sir-Croaks-Not.]

Sir-Croaks-A-Lot comes with his own food, which will only serve him for the next four weeks when he is in his tadpole state. Once he becomes a grown-up frog, he will require live crickets. Yes, that's right. I said live.

Sir-Croaks-A-Lot only enjoyed his post on my kitchen counter for about ten whole seconds. Then he was banished to the black hole that is Chase's bedroom.

[Is it wrong to hope we accidentally kill him before the four weeks are up?]

Nineteen millions to call my own

Check out the nugget that came to my inbox yesterday:

FROM: Mr.Liu Yan
Bank of China Ltd.
13/F. Bank of China Tower
1 Garden Road,
Hong Kong.

To whom it may concern:

I have a transaction of mutual benefits, which I like to share with you. It involves an amount of Nineteen millions Five Hundred Thousand United State Dollars only,in our Bank, which I like to acquire with your help and you will be compensated adequately as your commission.

If you are interested please reply instantly with your contact information and forward your telephone number so we may discuss and I shall provide you with the details of this transaction.

If interested send your response to my personal email address: mr.liu_bankofficer23@yahoo.com.hk

Thank you.

Yours sincerely,
Mr.Liu Yan.

I cannot wait to get my hands on my nineteen millions United State dollars. This SO has to be real. I mean, he's a bank officer. Look at his email. You can't have those words in your email address unless it's true. People don't lie. Ever. I've already forwarded all my personal information, credit cards, and bank account numbers, plus those of my friends and family. I cannot wait to get my nineteen millions United State dollars.

When I get it, the first thing I'm going to buy is a giant Santa blow up globe to put on my front lawn. You can come visit and see it. I'll use my nineteen millions United States dollars to fly you here.

This is going to be the best Christmas ever.