Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Did you know that we share a common ancestor? Yes, readers, all of us share a common ancestor, maybe as recently as 50,000 years ago -- certainly not much more than 100,000 years ago. This makes us siblings, practically ... especially if you compare us to horseshoe crabs or trilobites.
You can argue with me if you want to about Great-to-the-nth-power Granny, but I'll bet she was a worrier.
If you've got a dozen kids or so, all of you living on the African plains (or even elsewhere, most places were much wilder then), you're going to be worried about:
1. lions
2. food
3. rivals
4. children's safety
Look at us, just a geological blip later! We have eliminated one, exactly one, object of anxiety from that list! The rest are still rocking on. Oh, you might say you're worried about losing your job, but the underlying and very real anxiety is starving. Rivals? You don't have any in your life? Lucky you, but I still wouldn't turn my back on the wrong acquaintance. Machiavelli isn't even a blip from your doorstep.
If you don't worry about your children's safety, exit "The Gods Are Bored" immediately and go play in traffic.
Me, I'm a worrier. Have always been, will always be. When I was a kid, I used to have dreams about being devoured by lions. No doubt I was channeling Great-to-the-nth, as above.
People will give you a handbasket full of strategies for dealing with worry, including some very nice pharmaceuticals that I highly recommend ... after all, this is the modern era, no use wringing our hands like Great-to-the-nth.
Worry can also be taken to the bored gods. This is where They are so helpful to know, because you can always find one to fit your particular brand of anxiety. If you're suffering from unexpressed anger, a Warrior Goddess can kick butt for you. If you're anxious about that pesky young adult offspring who will walk about Philadelphia at night, there are dozens of Goddesses who will walk by her side. All you have to do is put your faith in Them. Don't pay attention to the unanswered prayers that the followers of the busy god are complaining about all the time! Bored deities deliver. What else do They have to do?
I'm trying to turn my issues over to the long-lost deities who hang about my Shrine of the Mists. My biggest challenge is to keep malice and bitterness out of the equation, and just let the deities sort things out in their pre-recorded-history way.
It's uplifting to take your troubles to a bored deity, not knowing how that deity handled such things back in the day. Like a celestial open-ended question.
"Dear Goddess, please do whatever you did in bygone times, and then report back to me, or not, as You please. And thank You for not judging me because I worry. Appreciate it."
Gosh, this is suspiciously like free advice. So I guess, in the spirit of the economic times, I'll have to pay you for taking it. Text me.
Showing posts with label free advice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label free advice. Show all posts
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I've got some things to do today, so I'll be brief.
See this pretty thing? It's called a "Lampe Berger." I bought one last year as a holiday gift for Mr. J. It's a product from Paris. You fill the base with alcohol infused with fragrance (ergo, not the kind you drink). There's a wick. You light the lamp, and the fragrance gets wicked up and out into the room.
I love the thing. It's the bomb. (Well, I guess if you dropped it while it was alight, it would REALLY be a bomb!) It infuses scent better than a candle, and it purifies the air to boot.
You can Google Lampe Berger and buy one it for that certain someone. I highly recommend the product. Their official site is a bit user-unfriendly, so try some of the American retailers.
I bought my Lampe Berger at a store on Snobville's charming Main Street -- a trendy little boutique that mostly sells the kind of thingamagiggies you throw around your house if you've got money to burn. But the lamp appealed, because I love it when my house smells good.
Anyway, long story short, this fancy store can't seem to keep the fragrances in stock. I've gone there at least ten times, and in eight of those times I've walked out empty-handed. Once I only got the product I asked for after having to make a special trip, when they had it shipped down from their other store in ... geez, I don't know where the other store is. Surely some place just like Snobville.
Today the weather was glorious, so I walked up to Main Street, went into the store, and requested a fragrance. They were out. I requested another frangrance. They were out of that too. They offered me "Polynesian Sunrise" or some other non-wintry scent. I walked out empty-handed.
And came home. Sat down here at the old desktop. Ordered $75 worth of fragrance that will be delivered right to my door.
I try, readers. I really try to buy local. I don't want to see empty stores on my Main Street. But if the store owners aren't stocking the items a customer wants, it's all too easy for that customer to go online and get the item. Sure, it costs a little more for shipping, but I'm a busy woman. I can't be hiking to Center Snobville three times a week, after the store calls me and tells me they got what I wanted.
So here's my free advice to store owners everywhere. If you have a product that you believe in, that you sell with all the ferocity of our old departed friend, Billy Mays, you had best lay in a good supply of any supporting products required to run the original product. In this day and age, it's way too easy to find Lampe Berger oil online. Local store owner, you needed that sale to pay your rent. You can only sell so many $300 embroidered throw pillows in this economy.
I would go up and pay the store to take my free advice (in the true spirit of TGAB), but there's that pesky shipping charge I wouldn't have had to pay if the store stocked the oils I needed. So, forget it, Snobville High-End Emporium of Generally Useless Gewgaws! The "For Rent" sign will soon hang from your door.
See this pretty thing? It's called a "Lampe Berger." I bought one last year as a holiday gift for Mr. J. It's a product from Paris. You fill the base with alcohol infused with fragrance (ergo, not the kind you drink). There's a wick. You light the lamp, and the fragrance gets wicked up and out into the room.
I love the thing. It's the bomb. (Well, I guess if you dropped it while it was alight, it would REALLY be a bomb!) It infuses scent better than a candle, and it purifies the air to boot.
You can Google Lampe Berger and buy one it for that certain someone. I highly recommend the product. Their official site is a bit user-unfriendly, so try some of the American retailers.
I bought my Lampe Berger at a store on Snobville's charming Main Street -- a trendy little boutique that mostly sells the kind of thingamagiggies you throw around your house if you've got money to burn. But the lamp appealed, because I love it when my house smells good.
Anyway, long story short, this fancy store can't seem to keep the fragrances in stock. I've gone there at least ten times, and in eight of those times I've walked out empty-handed. Once I only got the product I asked for after having to make a special trip, when they had it shipped down from their other store in ... geez, I don't know where the other store is. Surely some place just like Snobville.
Today the weather was glorious, so I walked up to Main Street, went into the store, and requested a fragrance. They were out. I requested another frangrance. They were out of that too. They offered me "Polynesian Sunrise" or some other non-wintry scent. I walked out empty-handed.
And came home. Sat down here at the old desktop. Ordered $75 worth of fragrance that will be delivered right to my door.
I try, readers. I really try to buy local. I don't want to see empty stores on my Main Street. But if the store owners aren't stocking the items a customer wants, it's all too easy for that customer to go online and get the item. Sure, it costs a little more for shipping, but I'm a busy woman. I can't be hiking to Center Snobville three times a week, after the store calls me and tells me they got what I wanted.
So here's my free advice to store owners everywhere. If you have a product that you believe in, that you sell with all the ferocity of our old departed friend, Billy Mays, you had best lay in a good supply of any supporting products required to run the original product. In this day and age, it's way too easy to find Lampe Berger oil online. Local store owner, you needed that sale to pay your rent. You can only sell so many $300 embroidered throw pillows in this economy.
I would go up and pay the store to take my free advice (in the true spirit of TGAB), but there's that pesky shipping charge I wouldn't have had to pay if the store stocked the oils I needed. So, forget it, Snobville High-End Emporium of Generally Useless Gewgaws! The "For Rent" sign will soon hang from your door.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Well, so much for the promises to write something every day! Falling down on the job, am I. There are compelling reasons, readers -- most of which I cannot place in this forum at this time.
Last Moday's adventure speaks to my state of mind. I got up in the morning and decided to go to Asbury Park for a day at the beach -- not toting along Mr. J, or Heir (in Norway anyhow) or Spare (that place would bore her). Got to the beach, parked. pulled the beach bag from the trunk. No swimsuit. I remembered pulling it out of the chiffarobe, but it never got into the beach bag.
But here's some free advice for which I'll pay whatever you ask. If you're going to forget something that you need at the beach, a bathing suit should top the list! If you've got $$$, you can buy a fairly affordable one on the spot. I was just about to do that -- brought one up to the cash register -- and then remembered that my credit card was locked in the trunk of my car, ten blocks away.
I swam in my clothes. If New Jersey has clothing-optional beaches, Asbury Park is not one of them.
At least I had my sunscreen and my summer reading book. But I forgot my baseball cap, and the wind kept whipping my hair into my face ... because I didn't have any ponytail holders either.
Going to the beach never used to be so tricky.
All of this speaks to an agitated state of mind, which I have abundantly now. My wand is working overtime to keep me cool.
This morning a good rant will help cleanse my palate, so I take aim at a familiar target: my sister, once again reaping the rewards of rash behavior.
I knew there were such things as quickie divorces, but it appears there are also such things as quickie adoptions. Back in late May, my sister took custody of two little boys, brothers aged 5 and 7. She is 47. Her husband is 49. Apparently the adoption process is under way but not complete ... I am scanty on details because I have kept my distance through sis's rampant acquisition of things, pets, and now people. From the time she began talking about adoption until the time she got two children was a matter of months. The agency never contacted me at all. I would not have said Sis couldn't be a fit mother, but I would have alerted them to a potentially vicious dog in the mix. The dog is still there.
Day before yesterday, my sister leaves a Facebook status, berating the federal government for not granting her temporary passports for the boys so they could all go to Jamaica on vacation.
All you liberals out there, pat yourselves on the back! It is actually difficult for a couple to take two young boys who are not completely adopted and who have been living with the couple less than 12 weeks, to a Third World country on temporary passports! My sister was shocked ... SHOCKED, I tell you, that her vacation plans have been scuttled by government red tape!
In the course of our virtual shouting match on this issue, Sis told me that the two social workers assigned to her case said that there would be no problem jetting off to Jamaica with the kids, and that one of those gated, fenced-in family resorts would be a super-duper place for them to "bond as a family."
I'm no social worker, no training in that profession whatsoever. But it seems illogical to me that family bonding should occur at an exclusive resort, rather than on a day-to-day basis with, say, a picnic basket, a handful of the dogs, and a local bathing beach.
Sis said that she and her husband had booked a hiking trip in Montana last summer, for this summer. (This is the old, typical Sis and her husband.) The travel agency would not reimburse them for the trip. (More free advice? Think ten times about those vacations booked a year in advance.) Jamaica was an alternative that the agency offered. And the social workers a-okayed it and started my sister onto the process of obtaining quickie passports for two minors.
Sis's Facebook statuses continue to reflect her frustration with our vigilant government and its efforts to curb child trafficking, efforts that penalize good, Christian people who only want to go to a fenced-in resort to bond with their instant family.
If any of you out there have adopted children and can send along to me some valuable advice on how best to bond, please fling it my way. Remember that in these days of shared sacrifice, you will need to pay me to take your free advice, but I'll be pretty liberal. I'm a proud liberal. I like to see my tax dollars at work.
Last Moday's adventure speaks to my state of mind. I got up in the morning and decided to go to Asbury Park for a day at the beach -- not toting along Mr. J, or Heir (in Norway anyhow) or Spare (that place would bore her). Got to the beach, parked. pulled the beach bag from the trunk. No swimsuit. I remembered pulling it out of the chiffarobe, but it never got into the beach bag.
But here's some free advice for which I'll pay whatever you ask. If you're going to forget something that you need at the beach, a bathing suit should top the list! If you've got $$$, you can buy a fairly affordable one on the spot. I was just about to do that -- brought one up to the cash register -- and then remembered that my credit card was locked in the trunk of my car, ten blocks away.
I swam in my clothes. If New Jersey has clothing-optional beaches, Asbury Park is not one of them.
At least I had my sunscreen and my summer reading book. But I forgot my baseball cap, and the wind kept whipping my hair into my face ... because I didn't have any ponytail holders either.
Going to the beach never used to be so tricky.
All of this speaks to an agitated state of mind, which I have abundantly now. My wand is working overtime to keep me cool.
This morning a good rant will help cleanse my palate, so I take aim at a familiar target: my sister, once again reaping the rewards of rash behavior.
I knew there were such things as quickie divorces, but it appears there are also such things as quickie adoptions. Back in late May, my sister took custody of two little boys, brothers aged 5 and 7. She is 47. Her husband is 49. Apparently the adoption process is under way but not complete ... I am scanty on details because I have kept my distance through sis's rampant acquisition of things, pets, and now people. From the time she began talking about adoption until the time she got two children was a matter of months. The agency never contacted me at all. I would not have said Sis couldn't be a fit mother, but I would have alerted them to a potentially vicious dog in the mix. The dog is still there.
Day before yesterday, my sister leaves a Facebook status, berating the federal government for not granting her temporary passports for the boys so they could all go to Jamaica on vacation.
All you liberals out there, pat yourselves on the back! It is actually difficult for a couple to take two young boys who are not completely adopted and who have been living with the couple less than 12 weeks, to a Third World country on temporary passports! My sister was shocked ... SHOCKED, I tell you, that her vacation plans have been scuttled by government red tape!
In the course of our virtual shouting match on this issue, Sis told me that the two social workers assigned to her case said that there would be no problem jetting off to Jamaica with the kids, and that one of those gated, fenced-in family resorts would be a super-duper place for them to "bond as a family."
I'm no social worker, no training in that profession whatsoever. But it seems illogical to me that family bonding should occur at an exclusive resort, rather than on a day-to-day basis with, say, a picnic basket, a handful of the dogs, and a local bathing beach.
Sis said that she and her husband had booked a hiking trip in Montana last summer, for this summer. (This is the old, typical Sis and her husband.) The travel agency would not reimburse them for the trip. (More free advice? Think ten times about those vacations booked a year in advance.) Jamaica was an alternative that the agency offered. And the social workers a-okayed it and started my sister onto the process of obtaining quickie passports for two minors.
Sis's Facebook statuses continue to reflect her frustration with our vigilant government and its efforts to curb child trafficking, efforts that penalize good, Christian people who only want to go to a fenced-in resort to bond with their instant family.
If any of you out there have adopted children and can send along to me some valuable advice on how best to bond, please fling it my way. Remember that in these days of shared sacrifice, you will need to pay me to take your free advice, but I'll be pretty liberal. I'm a proud liberal. I like to see my tax dollars at work.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" My three readers must be wondering where I've been this week. I can hardly believe it myself, but I spent three enjoyable days in New York City!
REASONS WHY I HAVE ALWAYS HATED NEW YORK:
1. The Yankees
2. Fans of the Yankees
3. First time I went there was so stressful I vomited.
4. Tall buildings give me vertigo, both looking down out of them and looking up at them.
5. It's too crowded and noisy.
6. Everything is so friggin expensive!
7. People drive recklessly.
8. Everything is so expensive!
Wouldn't you know it? My daughter The Spare has her heart set on going to college in New York City: The New School, to be exact. This college is located on Fifth Avenue in Greenwich Village. We went to check it out.
Did you know that I'm stubborn and cheap? Well, I am -- and New York City is no place for someone who is stubborn and cheap. But I was determined. DETERMINED. To make that city affordable at all costs. Especially since Spare wants to live there.
First, transportation. Through my daughter The Heir, I discovered that there's a bus service out of Philadelphia that goes express to Manhattan. Picks up in Chinatown, Philly and drops off in Chinatown, NYC. Round trip ticket: $20. Major mileage solved. Minor mileage in the city is trickier -- the subway system is not for newbs. Spare and I took it some, but mostly we walked. And walked. And walked. We saw Chelsea, Times Square, Greenwich Village, East Village, Soho, and Little Italy all by foot. Add to that, we walked the new High Line park system (it's free). My feet are bloody stumps, but it was worth it. If you want to see things, walking is the best way.
Second, lodging. Through a friend from school, I got a long list of cheap flophouses, found one that cost $50 per person per night. Dorm rooms with bunk beds. Who cares? A bed is a bed. Now, you may have heard that New York City has had an epidemic of bed bugs. This is true. But you know where they are? In the high-end hotels! Our little hostel turned out to be clean and no-nonsense ... and it was filled to the plimsol line with cute foreigners speaking all kinds of languages.
Free things to do in New York: Walk around and look at all the people. New York abounds in young, beautiful people -- most of them struggling actors and actresses, I suppose. True story: Spare and I actually saw a guy walking along by himself, memorizing lines from a script! Also, there are lots of nice pocket parks, and if you sit in the parent-and-kid sections you don't have to worry about the junkies. Spare and I shopped at a thrift store, and we went to a comedy show that charged $5 per ticket. If you add to that a willingness to eat at chains like Subway, you've got a cheap vacation!
Spare really loved the New School, and if she wants to be in the media business, I can't see any better place for her. She sure will need a job, though, because the New School isn't one of the priciest, but it is still $$$$$! (Remember, I'm cheap.)
I came home from New York pretty tired and definitely in need of some peace and quiet. But I also felt like I had tamed an evil dragon from my past -- my distant past -- and learned to like something I despised with an unreasonable hatred.
I still hate the Yankees.
(As usual, due to economic conditions, the free advice in this post is not free any more. Please email me the amount of money you want me to send you for the advice, and I'll write you a check. It's called "shared sacrifice," and I'm doing my part.)
REASONS WHY I HAVE ALWAYS HATED NEW YORK:
1. The Yankees
2. Fans of the Yankees
3. First time I went there was so stressful I vomited.
4. Tall buildings give me vertigo, both looking down out of them and looking up at them.
5. It's too crowded and noisy.
6. Everything is so friggin expensive!
7. People drive recklessly.
8. Everything is so expensive!
Wouldn't you know it? My daughter The Spare has her heart set on going to college in New York City: The New School, to be exact. This college is located on Fifth Avenue in Greenwich Village. We went to check it out.
Did you know that I'm stubborn and cheap? Well, I am -- and New York City is no place for someone who is stubborn and cheap. But I was determined. DETERMINED. To make that city affordable at all costs. Especially since Spare wants to live there.
First, transportation. Through my daughter The Heir, I discovered that there's a bus service out of Philadelphia that goes express to Manhattan. Picks up in Chinatown, Philly and drops off in Chinatown, NYC. Round trip ticket: $20. Major mileage solved. Minor mileage in the city is trickier -- the subway system is not for newbs. Spare and I took it some, but mostly we walked. And walked. And walked. We saw Chelsea, Times Square, Greenwich Village, East Village, Soho, and Little Italy all by foot. Add to that, we walked the new High Line park system (it's free). My feet are bloody stumps, but it was worth it. If you want to see things, walking is the best way.
Second, lodging. Through a friend from school, I got a long list of cheap flophouses, found one that cost $50 per person per night. Dorm rooms with bunk beds. Who cares? A bed is a bed. Now, you may have heard that New York City has had an epidemic of bed bugs. This is true. But you know where they are? In the high-end hotels! Our little hostel turned out to be clean and no-nonsense ... and it was filled to the plimsol line with cute foreigners speaking all kinds of languages.
Free things to do in New York: Walk around and look at all the people. New York abounds in young, beautiful people -- most of them struggling actors and actresses, I suppose. True story: Spare and I actually saw a guy walking along by himself, memorizing lines from a script! Also, there are lots of nice pocket parks, and if you sit in the parent-and-kid sections you don't have to worry about the junkies. Spare and I shopped at a thrift store, and we went to a comedy show that charged $5 per ticket. If you add to that a willingness to eat at chains like Subway, you've got a cheap vacation!
Spare really loved the New School, and if she wants to be in the media business, I can't see any better place for her. She sure will need a job, though, because the New School isn't one of the priciest, but it is still $$$$$! (Remember, I'm cheap.)
I came home from New York pretty tired and definitely in need of some peace and quiet. But I also felt like I had tamed an evil dragon from my past -- my distant past -- and learned to like something I despised with an unreasonable hatred.
I still hate the Yankees.
(As usual, due to economic conditions, the free advice in this post is not free any more. Please email me the amount of money you want me to send you for the advice, and I'll write you a check. It's called "shared sacrifice," and I'm doing my part.)
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Yes, that's leftover birthday cake you see there on the countertop. I wish I could say, "Help yourself," but Spare is pretty parsimonious when it comes to doling out cake.
Spare turned 17 recently. Last night she had a few friends over to dine with her. I served them spaghetti and meatballs and salad, and cake.
I decorated with a Star Wars tablecloth and Yoda napkins. One of her friends gave her a light saber, and another gave her a sonic screwdriver. No other kinds of screwdrivers were requested, craved, or consumed.
Spare has taken an interest in science fiction, which is always a bed of fertile ground for lively imaginations. She is particularly interested in Doctor Who, but she and I had a wonderful time watching the 1976 Star Wars together.
Have you caught any of this Doctor Who? Some of the episodes are pretty creative. I don't get to watch it much, but I approve of Spare immersing herself in it.
Spare wanted me to list ten things about her that I like, here at "The Gods Are Bored." Alas, I can't do it. I can't narrow it down to a mere ten things. I could say 50 nice things about her sweet, sober, smart friends before I even got to her.
Spare's birthday always makes me think about her tree.
When Spare was a year old, I found a tiny little ornamental maple sapling growing under the huge pine tree in my neighbor's front yard. This little thing was only one stick, literally the size of Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. Could not have been more than 16 inches tall.
I asked my neighbor if I could dig it up and replant it. He asked me why I would want to.
I said, "I'm patient."
For a short time, Spare and her tree were the same height. I have pictures. But no more. The maple is a stunning, mature tree now, as broad as it is tall, and beautiful every month of the year. In the spring (right around now, through mid-May) its leaves are a combination of magenta and chartreuse. They go green for the summer, and then turn a brilliant red in the fall. I suspect that only global climate change allows this plant to live at all around here, because it holds its leaves the longest of any other tree around here -- and it blooms fairly early.
So, here's some of that advice that used to be free, but now I'm paying you to take. If you know you're going to stay somewhere for awhile, plant some little twig that would otherwise be overlooked. Why go to the garden store and shell out $400 for a maple that has just sat in some nursery for six years? Grow your own! Once you get through that gangly childhood phase, your twig will be fabulous. With the money you save you can pay your federal income taxes!
I think I'll get Spare to pose with her tree for another portrait. Both are growing and thriving in the fertile soil of the Garden State.
Spare turned 17 recently. Last night she had a few friends over to dine with her. I served them spaghetti and meatballs and salad, and cake.
I decorated with a Star Wars tablecloth and Yoda napkins. One of her friends gave her a light saber, and another gave her a sonic screwdriver. No other kinds of screwdrivers were requested, craved, or consumed.
Spare has taken an interest in science fiction, which is always a bed of fertile ground for lively imaginations. She is particularly interested in Doctor Who, but she and I had a wonderful time watching the 1976 Star Wars together.
Have you caught any of this Doctor Who? Some of the episodes are pretty creative. I don't get to watch it much, but I approve of Spare immersing herself in it.
Spare wanted me to list ten things about her that I like, here at "The Gods Are Bored." Alas, I can't do it. I can't narrow it down to a mere ten things. I could say 50 nice things about her sweet, sober, smart friends before I even got to her.
Spare's birthday always makes me think about her tree.
When Spare was a year old, I found a tiny little ornamental maple sapling growing under the huge pine tree in my neighbor's front yard. This little thing was only one stick, literally the size of Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. Could not have been more than 16 inches tall.
I asked my neighbor if I could dig it up and replant it. He asked me why I would want to.
I said, "I'm patient."
For a short time, Spare and her tree were the same height. I have pictures. But no more. The maple is a stunning, mature tree now, as broad as it is tall, and beautiful every month of the year. In the spring (right around now, through mid-May) its leaves are a combination of magenta and chartreuse. They go green for the summer, and then turn a brilliant red in the fall. I suspect that only global climate change allows this plant to live at all around here, because it holds its leaves the longest of any other tree around here -- and it blooms fairly early.
So, here's some of that advice that used to be free, but now I'm paying you to take. If you know you're going to stay somewhere for awhile, plant some little twig that would otherwise be overlooked. Why go to the garden store and shell out $400 for a maple that has just sat in some nursery for six years? Grow your own! Once you get through that gangly childhood phase, your twig will be fabulous. With the money you save you can pay your federal income taxes!
I think I'll get Spare to pose with her tree for another portrait. Both are growing and thriving in the fertile soil of the Garden State.
Beta has malignant cancer. We caught it before it hit her lymph nodes, but it's only a matter of time before the tumors return. Lady readers, please get your preventative appointments! Unlike Beta Cat, you would understand when the doctor came forward with your lab results. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
EXHIBIT A: GET YOUR YEARLY EXAM
But don't fret, readers (all three of you)! Beta's had a lovely life, with a few tough runs at the beginning, and occasional beat-ups by Alpha. There will be no more surgery for her. She'll live out her days in my little back yard, micing and moling and baby-bunnying. And sleeping all curled up with Spare.
Next week there will be a whole new and very difficult challenge for "The Gods Are Bored," and I hope you'll help me with it. I don't know what pantheon I get this from, but I feel deeply that the gods do not help us. We have to help ourselves. We have to sink or swim on our own, no matter how bad it gets. But this new challenge isn't something dangerous or desperate ... it's fun, fun, fun! So be prepared ... we are about to prove the power of a blog in a whole new arena. Who's with me?
EXHIBIT A: GET YOUR YEARLY EXAM
But don't fret, readers (all three of you)! Beta's had a lovely life, with a few tough runs at the beginning, and occasional beat-ups by Alpha. There will be no more surgery for her. She'll live out her days in my little back yard, micing and moling and baby-bunnying. And sleeping all curled up with Spare.
Next week there will be a whole new and very difficult challenge for "The Gods Are Bored," and I hope you'll help me with it. I don't know what pantheon I get this from, but I feel deeply that the gods do not help us. We have to help ourselves. We have to sink or swim on our own, no matter how bad it gets. But this new challenge isn't something dangerous or desperate ... it's fun, fun, fun! So be prepared ... we are about to prove the power of a blog in a whole new arena. Who's with me?
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" What are you going to do when you retire? Have you ever thought about it? Well, think no more, because you probably won't retire. No one will be able to afford to retire in the new Red America.
What with the under-funded and looted pension accounts, the under-funded and looted Social Security, and the under-funded Medicare, you and I will be flipping burgers or shoving Chinese merchandise into mail-order envelopes until we keel over from our untreated diseases.
Ah, this sounds so depressing, doesn't it? Well, what we need is a change in plans.
If you're never going to retire, go into semi-retirement now!
By semi-retirement I mean, work as little as you need to in order to get your job done. And then party like it's 1999 every chance you get! Don't squander your years of health and vigor working diligently for a company that has no allegiance to you ... or a government that wants you to pick up its slack.
Gone are the days when a person could spend 40 years in a job and then retire with a gold watch and a pension. None of us will get that. No matter how things turn out in Wisconsin, the Red Scare is upon us. Act accordingly.
One of the criticisms leveled at communism is that it stifles incentive. Sadly, the same is true of capitalism, if only a few at the top profit while everyone else struggles.
So pledge allegiance to yourself and to your deities, take what little salary you have left after all the give-backs, and live in the moment. Reconfigure your whole concept of time! There's no future worth living for. Live now. Right now. And blessed be.
In keeping with the new era of shared sacrifice, I am now paying you for my free advice. Send an invoice.
What with the under-funded and looted pension accounts, the under-funded and looted Social Security, and the under-funded Medicare, you and I will be flipping burgers or shoving Chinese merchandise into mail-order envelopes until we keel over from our untreated diseases.
Ah, this sounds so depressing, doesn't it? Well, what we need is a change in plans.
If you're never going to retire, go into semi-retirement now!
By semi-retirement I mean, work as little as you need to in order to get your job done. And then party like it's 1999 every chance you get! Don't squander your years of health and vigor working diligently for a company that has no allegiance to you ... or a government that wants you to pick up its slack.
Gone are the days when a person could spend 40 years in a job and then retire with a gold watch and a pension. None of us will get that. No matter how things turn out in Wisconsin, the Red Scare is upon us. Act accordingly.
One of the criticisms leveled at communism is that it stifles incentive. Sadly, the same is true of capitalism, if only a few at the top profit while everyone else struggles.
So pledge allegiance to yourself and to your deities, take what little salary you have left after all the give-backs, and live in the moment. Reconfigure your whole concept of time! There's no future worth living for. Live now. Right now. And blessed be.
In keeping with the new era of shared sacrifice, I am now paying you for my free advice. Send an invoice.
There's no "written-in-stone" scripture to tell us how to praise and worship on Imbolc, the holy day of Queen Brighid the Bright. I see this as an opportunity. We at "The Gods Are Bored" are not dedicated to any sort of liturgy that can't evolve with changing circumstances.
That being said, here are my tips for those of you who want to celebrate this sacred day.
1. It's against our green intentions, but just for this one night, turn on every light in your house. Have your whole home blazing in electric glory. This will emphasize to you the blessings Queen Brighid has visited upon you, to provide you with a warm home that beats back the cold and gloom.
2. Be mindful of the popular traditions. Groundhog Day? You're kidding me, right? Isn't that disrespectful of Queen Brighid? Pish tosh! Imbolc symbolizes the crushing of winter by the first vestiges of spring. In our modern times, this is played out by a fat rodent held up for cameras. So what? Either way we have only six more weeks of cold weather, and then spring arrives! Embrace your inner groundhog.
3. Do you go to work? Ah, yes. Anne's personal dilemma. After all, the only authentic holy days on the Celtic calendar are August 1, October 31, May 1, and February 2. Can you imagine our nation's Christians going about their daily toil on Good Friday? Well, the truth of the matter is that many of them do, and they aren't struck by lightning. And their god is big on lightning strikes, so I hear. So if our nation's workers can shuffle in and punch the time clock on Good Friday, then we who hold Queen Brighid dear can take joy in our toil and work on Imbolc ... just not very hard, and leave early if you can.
4. Do you want to honor Queen Brighid in a way that will touch her heart? Build a fire, write a poem, bake a cake for your kids, light a candle against this dreadful winter chill. Make some resolutions and have Her bind you to them. Reach down and touch the earth. Find the softness of Her mantle through the week-old snowdrifts. Know in your heart that when the Sun warms the Earth, you will either be here to feel the change ... or with Her in the Summerlands.
5. Laugh. Always laugh. If you can't chuckle, chortle, guffaw, snort, or snicker, get a coach and work on it until you can roar! Delete all mental files having to do with self-pity and guilt. Back up the files that empower you to see the humor in everything that harms no one. If you are worried about politics at this time, just remember that Queen Brighid has seen it all and survived every last bit of it. Tra la la! Laugh!
6. Pour exactly 8 ounces of wine outside for the faeries. Neither pour thou 6 ounces nor 9. Eight thou must pour. And then slap down a nice piece of high-end dark chocolate. Voila! You've pleased the faeries and also satisfied your inner Monty Python. Win win.
More free advice from "The Gods Are Bored!" How can we give this away? I don't know, it's dumb luck so far. Or the work of Queen Brighid the Bright. We prefer to consider the latter. Helps us sleep at night.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," live from Snobville, New Jersey! I'm Anne, a fine lady of a certain age. And with age comes wisdom ... if not money. I'm poor, but I'm smart.
The thing about wisdom is that every experience adds to it. It accrues, if you aren't a forgetful moron.
Tonight I accrued some new wisdom and recalled some old wisdom, and it all boils down to this: Don't go looking for those brightly-colored Christmas houses two weeks after the Christmas season ends.
Remember this. You heard it here, so don't do it.
Earlier this evening, the Vo Tech had its annual talent show. My daughter The Heir is about to go back to college this weekend, and I didn't want to spend another long evening at school without her. So I asked her to come over and be with me in the after-school hours (I'm co-leader of a club) and then go with me to the talent show.
Heir's dad dropped her off at 4:00, and we attended the talent show at 6:00. It ended at 7:30, and we started driving back toward Snobville. When we got to Snobville, the whole place was lit up like Christmas never ended (We've had a few snowstorms here, and the wealthy residents don't care about their electric bills).
Heir and I, not wishing to call it a day, decided to go into the neighboring borough and scope out one of our all-time favorite Crazy Christmas houses, just in the off chance that it was still lit up. We drove to the neighborhood, and slowly drove around looking for the house. Found it -- cruised by -- it not only wasn't lit, but it also looked forlorn, because not all of the decorations had been put away yet. So I slowly eased toward the main thoroughfare again ... and suddenly there was a cop car behind me, lights flashing.
I pulled over, wondering what the Sam Hill could possibly be wrong. I sure wasn't exceeding the speed limit, and I'd recently had my car in the Vo-Tech shop, so I knew no bulbs were burnt out or anything. But here came the cop with his flashlight, asking me for my license and registration.
He said, "You were driving slowly and making frequent stops."
I said, "Yes, we were looking for that crazy Christmas house. You know, the one all lit up."
He said, "That's four miles from here." (Were do they get these men? Heir and I were one block from a house that has been featured in the Philadelphia Inquirer.)
I said, "Well, I know this is silly, because it's way after Christmas, but I was hoping the lights were still on."
He said, "There's been a lot of drug activity in this neighborhood, so we are pulling over anyone who's acting suspicious."
(New Jersey and you ... perfect together.)
The cop bid me farewell, and Heir and I tooled off toward Snobville.
I was reminded of a time when my mother was getting elderly and she was out driving at night. A policeman stopped her and made her walk the white line because she was driving too slowly. He thought she was lit. She chewed him out because it was cold, and she was old -- and he made her late for her bridge game.
Annie's free advice for the night: Drive fast. And don't look for Christmas lights on January 13. If you can't get the Christmas house thing done by the time Santa plops down his last sack of coal, bag it.
Can you think of anything more embarrassing than being pulled over by a cop for driving too slow, and then your registration has expired?
Yeah, I'm Annie the Cailleach. Learn from me.
The thing about wisdom is that every experience adds to it. It accrues, if you aren't a forgetful moron.
Tonight I accrued some new wisdom and recalled some old wisdom, and it all boils down to this: Don't go looking for those brightly-colored Christmas houses two weeks after the Christmas season ends.
Remember this. You heard it here, so don't do it.
Earlier this evening, the Vo Tech had its annual talent show. My daughter The Heir is about to go back to college this weekend, and I didn't want to spend another long evening at school without her. So I asked her to come over and be with me in the after-school hours (I'm co-leader of a club) and then go with me to the talent show.
Heir's dad dropped her off at 4:00, and we attended the talent show at 6:00. It ended at 7:30, and we started driving back toward Snobville. When we got to Snobville, the whole place was lit up like Christmas never ended (We've had a few snowstorms here, and the wealthy residents don't care about their electric bills).
Heir and I, not wishing to call it a day, decided to go into the neighboring borough and scope out one of our all-time favorite Crazy Christmas houses, just in the off chance that it was still lit up. We drove to the neighborhood, and slowly drove around looking for the house. Found it -- cruised by -- it not only wasn't lit, but it also looked forlorn, because not all of the decorations had been put away yet. So I slowly eased toward the main thoroughfare again ... and suddenly there was a cop car behind me, lights flashing.
I pulled over, wondering what the Sam Hill could possibly be wrong. I sure wasn't exceeding the speed limit, and I'd recently had my car in the Vo-Tech shop, so I knew no bulbs were burnt out or anything. But here came the cop with his flashlight, asking me for my license and registration.
He said, "You were driving slowly and making frequent stops."
I said, "Yes, we were looking for that crazy Christmas house. You know, the one all lit up."
He said, "That's four miles from here." (Were do they get these men? Heir and I were one block from a house that has been featured in the Philadelphia Inquirer.)
I said, "Well, I know this is silly, because it's way after Christmas, but I was hoping the lights were still on."
He said, "There's been a lot of drug activity in this neighborhood, so we are pulling over anyone who's acting suspicious."
(New Jersey and you ... perfect together.)
The cop bid me farewell, and Heir and I tooled off toward Snobville.
I was reminded of a time when my mother was getting elderly and she was out driving at night. A policeman stopped her and made her walk the white line because she was driving too slowly. He thought she was lit. She chewed him out because it was cold, and she was old -- and he made her late for her bridge game.
Annie's free advice for the night: Drive fast. And don't look for Christmas lights on January 13. If you can't get the Christmas house thing done by the time Santa plops down his last sack of coal, bag it.
Can you think of anything more embarrassing than being pulled over by a cop for driving too slow, and then your registration has expired?
Yeah, I'm Annie the Cailleach. Learn from me.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Do you understand this new millennium? No? Well then, you're in luck! I'm Anne Johnson, the Cailleach, and I will explain all.
The day before Christmas, my cell phone broke. It was two years old, almost to the day, so of course it fell apart in my hands. Now, in the previous millennium, one could use a telephone for two decades without need of repair. But this is a new era. Things wear out much quicker. They are made to wear out quicker, so you need to buy a new one.
I had to go to the phone store to purchase a new cell phone. This is what I discovered there:
1. The price listed on the phones is not the price you pay. The price listed is a price after a mail-in rebate, which you need to fill out the paperwork for yourself, and which comes to you in the form of a Visa gift card.
Okay, I don't curse here much, but this is bulls@$@#. If I wanted to be royally scammed, I would go to a car dealership or a televangelist.
2. Buy one, get one free. Again after the same mail-in rebate, the same false prices, and the same Visa gift card, which -- trust the Cailleach who loves you -- is not the same thing as cash or a check or a money order, or a traveler's check, or even green stamps.
3. Get a phone with a keyboard for easy texting. My thumbs already ache, sales boy, and that keyboard doesn't look user-friendly. And just so you know I'm not withering on the vine, let me just say that I can see into the future, and within just a few years we'll have voice-activated texting. I'll wait for that.
4. The phone you're choosing doesn't take pictures. Cameras take pictures, not phones. If someone takes my phone, do I want them also to be able to see pictures of my beautiful young daughters?
5. Here's a nice feature: a button that calls 911 for you with one click. That feature sucks. Suppose you hit it by mistake? It's right there where it would be easy to hit by mistake. However, since this is the only @#$@# phone in the store with a real price on it, I'll just have to be careful how I use it, won't I?
6. Are you sure you don't want to take advantage of the special offers available through your account? Yes.
My daughter The Heir tells me that I just bought a "senior citizen phone." Screw that! I bought the only phone in the store with an honest, affordable price, with no features that I'll never use (except the bloody 911 button ... Gods willing), and which serves the purpose for which it was designed: urgent communication with others while abroad from home.
Free advice from the Cailleach: At the rate technology is changing, wait it out. Get all the life you can out of your current phone, then buy another affordable one, and in less than a decade you'll be able to shell out seriously for that voice-activated technological wonder. And remember, nothing lasts more than two years, so do not waste your money on a protection plan. By the time you need it, a better gizmo will be out there to tempt you.
Don't get me wrong, youngsters. Phone booths were gross. Cell phones are good. But, buyer beware. Even if you get the paperwork filled out right, and the Visa arrives in the mail, you may leave a few pennies on the card when purchasing something. That money adds up ... for them, not for you.
As always, this advice is given freely and with joy.
Cailleach image one of many by the incomparable Thalia Took, see Sidebar.
The day before Christmas, my cell phone broke. It was two years old, almost to the day, so of course it fell apart in my hands. Now, in the previous millennium, one could use a telephone for two decades without need of repair. But this is a new era. Things wear out much quicker. They are made to wear out quicker, so you need to buy a new one.
I had to go to the phone store to purchase a new cell phone. This is what I discovered there:
1. The price listed on the phones is not the price you pay. The price listed is a price after a mail-in rebate, which you need to fill out the paperwork for yourself, and which comes to you in the form of a Visa gift card.
Okay, I don't curse here much, but this is bulls@$@#. If I wanted to be royally scammed, I would go to a car dealership or a televangelist.
2. Buy one, get one free. Again after the same mail-in rebate, the same false prices, and the same Visa gift card, which -- trust the Cailleach who loves you -- is not the same thing as cash or a check or a money order, or a traveler's check, or even green stamps.
3. Get a phone with a keyboard for easy texting. My thumbs already ache, sales boy, and that keyboard doesn't look user-friendly. And just so you know I'm not withering on the vine, let me just say that I can see into the future, and within just a few years we'll have voice-activated texting. I'll wait for that.
4. The phone you're choosing doesn't take pictures. Cameras take pictures, not phones. If someone takes my phone, do I want them also to be able to see pictures of my beautiful young daughters?
5. Here's a nice feature: a button that calls 911 for you with one click. That feature sucks. Suppose you hit it by mistake? It's right there where it would be easy to hit by mistake. However, since this is the only @#$@# phone in the store with a real price on it, I'll just have to be careful how I use it, won't I?
6. Are you sure you don't want to take advantage of the special offers available through your account? Yes.
My daughter The Heir tells me that I just bought a "senior citizen phone." Screw that! I bought the only phone in the store with an honest, affordable price, with no features that I'll never use (except the bloody 911 button ... Gods willing), and which serves the purpose for which it was designed: urgent communication with others while abroad from home.
Free advice from the Cailleach: At the rate technology is changing, wait it out. Get all the life you can out of your current phone, then buy another affordable one, and in less than a decade you'll be able to shell out seriously for that voice-activated technological wonder. And remember, nothing lasts more than two years, so do not waste your money on a protection plan. By the time you need it, a better gizmo will be out there to tempt you.
Don't get me wrong, youngsters. Phone booths were gross. Cell phones are good. But, buyer beware. Even if you get the paperwork filled out right, and the Visa arrives in the mail, you may leave a few pennies on the card when purchasing something. That money adds up ... for them, not for you.
As always, this advice is given freely and with joy.
Cailleach image one of many by the incomparable Thalia Took, see Sidebar.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Laughing through Cyber Monday -- got Spare's gift at a deep discount by being up at 5:00 a.m. for a cyber deal. Sure beats standing in line in the cold and dark for an hour, only to find that the bait-and-switch item you wanted is all "sold out."
Time to pass along a little free advice!
I thought of this while I was watching "Harry Potter and the Incessantly Endless and Pointless Plotline." If you're candid with yourself, you'll have to agree. Holes in the logic here, people.
One of the biggest holes in Harry Potter is the whole wand thing. Proof beyond shadow of a doubt that the author is not now, nor ever was, a Pagan.
How does one procure a wand in Harry Potter's world? Oh, gosh! One goes to a store. Buys it. Sure, the wand "speaks" to you. But you still have to buy it. I presume that the more doubloons you have, the better the wand that speaks to you. And in this saga, the most powerful wand is buried with a wizard whose grave is so easy to plunder it just boggles the mind. Wands. Bought and sold. Stolen. Borrowed. Grabbed and used by others.
Baaaaammmmmp! Foul! Pish tosh!
The whole point of a wand is this: You invest your time, energy, and love into it. Not your cash. Don't ever let anyone sell you a wand, no matter how beautiful it is.
Let me amend that. You can buy a beautiful wand for its appeal, but don't expect it to work for you. A working wand starts with a stick you pick up in the forest. Feathers you find here and there. A charm someone gives you. String. That little bead on the floor just at the edge of the fridge.
What does a real wand look like? It looks like you. It's a reflection of your personality, because you made it. If you're showy, it will be snazzy. If you're quiet, it may just be humble. The point is, to have an effective wand, you must make it yourself, from things that really speak to you.
On we go to the whole point of a magick wand. Have you ever tried pointing one at someone and saying, "Drop over dead, you wastrel?" Not that I've done it, but my guess is that this would not work.
My wand is an object to hold when I am meditating or reflecting. Good energy was stored in it when I made it, and I take it with me to places where I know it will absorb more good energy. I don't use it for protection, or for show, or for spell-making. I just hold it in my lap.
This morning I thought about my wand. It was the Monday after Thanksgiving, 40 minutes before lunch, and my English Honors class bounded into the room like a pack of Tiggers. Hot on their heels came my Language Arts supervisor, newly hired by our district. He had come in for an informal "walk through." So, clipboard in hand, he watched as I spent about 15 minutes trying to calm a dozen 14-year-olds who must have had Sprite for breakfast.
The charming evaluation forms have a place for a numerical ranking. One (1) is "needs improvement." Two (2) is "barely ok." Three (3) is "decent." I got one-half. Not a 1-slash-2, a .5. Fifty percent. Half. Which isn't even on the sheet.
It's at times like this that one wishes for a Harry Potter wand. Just wave a fancy stick, shower everyone with "quiet dust," and zap the supervisor with the sinking feeling that he's forgotten his wedding anniversary and ought to biff off to the card shop.
Real wands aren't like that. A real wand welcomes you home at the end of a tough Monday and has you laughing into the wind and looking for faeries in the ivy. A real wand sits at your elbow as you make dinner, chat with your daughter, trash-talk the River Tribe on Facebook. Soon enough you might as well have had that quiet dust, because it doesn't really matter anymore. Tomorrow's another day, and maybe the Tiggers will be turtles, and maybe Gatsby will turn away from that green light on the dock and say to himself, "Can't repeat the past. Off to Tibet."
It's Cyber Monday. Get your magick wand today! It's not in a store or even online. Be like Dorothy. Look in your own back yard.
Time to pass along a little free advice!
I thought of this while I was watching "Harry Potter and the Incessantly Endless and Pointless Plotline." If you're candid with yourself, you'll have to agree. Holes in the logic here, people.
One of the biggest holes in Harry Potter is the whole wand thing. Proof beyond shadow of a doubt that the author is not now, nor ever was, a Pagan.
How does one procure a wand in Harry Potter's world? Oh, gosh! One goes to a store. Buys it. Sure, the wand "speaks" to you. But you still have to buy it. I presume that the more doubloons you have, the better the wand that speaks to you. And in this saga, the most powerful wand is buried with a wizard whose grave is so easy to plunder it just boggles the mind. Wands. Bought and sold. Stolen. Borrowed. Grabbed and used by others.
Baaaaammmmmp! Foul! Pish tosh!
The whole point of a wand is this: You invest your time, energy, and love into it. Not your cash. Don't ever let anyone sell you a wand, no matter how beautiful it is.
Let me amend that. You can buy a beautiful wand for its appeal, but don't expect it to work for you. A working wand starts with a stick you pick up in the forest. Feathers you find here and there. A charm someone gives you. String. That little bead on the floor just at the edge of the fridge.
What does a real wand look like? It looks like you. It's a reflection of your personality, because you made it. If you're showy, it will be snazzy. If you're quiet, it may just be humble. The point is, to have an effective wand, you must make it yourself, from things that really speak to you.
On we go to the whole point of a magick wand. Have you ever tried pointing one at someone and saying, "Drop over dead, you wastrel?" Not that I've done it, but my guess is that this would not work.
My wand is an object to hold when I am meditating or reflecting. Good energy was stored in it when I made it, and I take it with me to places where I know it will absorb more good energy. I don't use it for protection, or for show, or for spell-making. I just hold it in my lap.
This morning I thought about my wand. It was the Monday after Thanksgiving, 40 minutes before lunch, and my English Honors class bounded into the room like a pack of Tiggers. Hot on their heels came my Language Arts supervisor, newly hired by our district. He had come in for an informal "walk through." So, clipboard in hand, he watched as I spent about 15 minutes trying to calm a dozen 14-year-olds who must have had Sprite for breakfast.
The charming evaluation forms have a place for a numerical ranking. One (1) is "needs improvement." Two (2) is "barely ok." Three (3) is "decent." I got one-half. Not a 1-slash-2, a .5. Fifty percent. Half. Which isn't even on the sheet.
It's at times like this that one wishes for a Harry Potter wand. Just wave a fancy stick, shower everyone with "quiet dust," and zap the supervisor with the sinking feeling that he's forgotten his wedding anniversary and ought to biff off to the card shop.
Real wands aren't like that. A real wand welcomes you home at the end of a tough Monday and has you laughing into the wind and looking for faeries in the ivy. A real wand sits at your elbow as you make dinner, chat with your daughter, trash-talk the River Tribe on Facebook. Soon enough you might as well have had that quiet dust, because it doesn't really matter anymore. Tomorrow's another day, and maybe the Tiggers will be turtles, and maybe Gatsby will turn away from that green light on the dock and say to himself, "Can't repeat the past. Off to Tibet."
It's Cyber Monday. Get your magick wand today! It's not in a store or even online. Be like Dorothy. Look in your own back yard.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and our popular ongoing series of free advice! Visit often -- maybe someday you'll actually find something useful. Or not. No guarantees.
Today we're talking turkey, both the gobbler kind and the vulture kind. Sit back as our story unfolds.
Every year, our local Acme Market gives away frozen turkeys to any customer who spends $300 in a certain number of weeks. I'm not sure if it's six weeks or eight, but I shop there all the time, so I never fail to qualify for a frozen turkey. What I love about this giveaway is that I can get a turkey, keep it frozen, and heave it out when the weatherman predicts a blizzard. Call it my Appalachian DNA, but there's something soothing about knowing you've got a big-ass frozen turkey on hand as a contingency plan.
If you buy frozen turkeys, you know that the advice on how to thaw them is printed on the plastic wrap that coats their poor icy carcasses. "Do not thaw frozen turkey at room temperature. Thaw overnight in the refrigerator, or run cold water over turkey for two hours."
Ever tried either one of those tactics, reader? Ever wake up on Thanksgiving morning to a rock-solid frozen turkey that was supposed to be thawed after an overnight stay in the fridge? Have you ever wasted a reservoir of water trying to soften the thing up, only to wind up facing a hungry family with nothing more than cranberry sauce and sweet potato casserole?
Don't try this at home, but my mama (may she rest in peace among the Confederate dead) just sat the frozen turkey on the counter top to thaw. Then she cooked it, and we ate it, and none of us died from it or even got sick. As I say, though, don't take chances! Here's where the free advice comes in.
Thaw that bird at least five days in the fridge, and then don't be surprised if it's still rock-solid inside. Free advice, freely given, all hail free!
Now you're asking, "Anne, dear, why are you talking turkey in July? Wouldn't this be best left for early November?"
Yes, of course this would be best left until early November, but that would be logical. I hope you didn't come here for logic! If you did, you took a wrong turn somewhere.
I'm talking turkey now because last week along the mighty Chesapeake Bay I made my annual donation to the local vulture population. I shoved a big frozen turkey (sans plastic wrap) into a soybean field near our Bed and Breakfast inn.
(Last year's donation was a fresh roadkill possum, adult, that hadn't even drawn flies. But one cannot always be this lucky.)
Picture a 15-pound frozen turkey, lying in a soybean field under the bright sunshine, with the temperature hovering at 97 or higher. How long will it take to thaw?
By my unscientific calculations, any frozen carcass would thaw rapidly under such conditions. I figured two, maybe three hours. But judging by the behavior of the local vulture population, that frozen turkey took 24 hours to gain any notice at all, and another 8 hours before it got consumed. By contrast, I heaved last year's dead possum into the same field at about 8:00 in the morning and found nothing but a spine and a tail (and much vulture down) at 2:30 the same day.
Of course you could argue -- and I wouldn't dispute you -- that roadkill possum is a familiar dish to the Golden Purifiers, and Acme frozen turkey is exotic fare. Still, vultures aren't very picky about what they eat. Think about it: It took one whole day of 97 degrees sunshine, followed by a night where the temperature did not drop under 80, and then half of another 97-degree day, before the turkey vultures found their treat.
Keep this in mind the next time your local grocery store lets you walk out with a free frozen turkey. The thawing directions are bogus. Don't expect a quick turnaround time. Let the vultures of St. Michaels, MD be your guide, and plan accordingly.
Our ushers will now pass the plate. Dig deep.
(*snort* I hope this starts popping up in Google searches on this topic, but I doubt it will.)
Today we're talking turkey, both the gobbler kind and the vulture kind. Sit back as our story unfolds.
Every year, our local Acme Market gives away frozen turkeys to any customer who spends $300 in a certain number of weeks. I'm not sure if it's six weeks or eight, but I shop there all the time, so I never fail to qualify for a frozen turkey. What I love about this giveaway is that I can get a turkey, keep it frozen, and heave it out when the weatherman predicts a blizzard. Call it my Appalachian DNA, but there's something soothing about knowing you've got a big-ass frozen turkey on hand as a contingency plan.
If you buy frozen turkeys, you know that the advice on how to thaw them is printed on the plastic wrap that coats their poor icy carcasses. "Do not thaw frozen turkey at room temperature. Thaw overnight in the refrigerator, or run cold water over turkey for two hours."
Ever tried either one of those tactics, reader? Ever wake up on Thanksgiving morning to a rock-solid frozen turkey that was supposed to be thawed after an overnight stay in the fridge? Have you ever wasted a reservoir of water trying to soften the thing up, only to wind up facing a hungry family with nothing more than cranberry sauce and sweet potato casserole?
Don't try this at home, but my mama (may she rest in peace among the Confederate dead) just sat the frozen turkey on the counter top to thaw. Then she cooked it, and we ate it, and none of us died from it or even got sick. As I say, though, don't take chances! Here's where the free advice comes in.
Thaw that bird at least five days in the fridge, and then don't be surprised if it's still rock-solid inside. Free advice, freely given, all hail free!
Now you're asking, "Anne, dear, why are you talking turkey in July? Wouldn't this be best left for early November?"
Yes, of course this would be best left until early November, but that would be logical. I hope you didn't come here for logic! If you did, you took a wrong turn somewhere.
I'm talking turkey now because last week along the mighty Chesapeake Bay I made my annual donation to the local vulture population. I shoved a big frozen turkey (sans plastic wrap) into a soybean field near our Bed and Breakfast inn.
(Last year's donation was a fresh roadkill possum, adult, that hadn't even drawn flies. But one cannot always be this lucky.)
Picture a 15-pound frozen turkey, lying in a soybean field under the bright sunshine, with the temperature hovering at 97 or higher. How long will it take to thaw?
By my unscientific calculations, any frozen carcass would thaw rapidly under such conditions. I figured two, maybe three hours. But judging by the behavior of the local vulture population, that frozen turkey took 24 hours to gain any notice at all, and another 8 hours before it got consumed. By contrast, I heaved last year's dead possum into the same field at about 8:00 in the morning and found nothing but a spine and a tail (and much vulture down) at 2:30 the same day.
Of course you could argue -- and I wouldn't dispute you -- that roadkill possum is a familiar dish to the Golden Purifiers, and Acme frozen turkey is exotic fare. Still, vultures aren't very picky about what they eat. Think about it: It took one whole day of 97 degrees sunshine, followed by a night where the temperature did not drop under 80, and then half of another 97-degree day, before the turkey vultures found their treat.
Keep this in mind the next time your local grocery store lets you walk out with a free frozen turkey. The thawing directions are bogus. Don't expect a quick turnaround time. Let the vultures of St. Michaels, MD be your guide, and plan accordingly.
Our ushers will now pass the plate. Dig deep.
(*snort* I hope this starts popping up in Google searches on this topic, but I doubt it will.)
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Have book, will travel! Today's topic is beach reads.
Most of us, when we go on vacation, like our surf-side literature to be as fluffy as the cotton candy on the boardwalk. This explains the perennial popularity of Nora Roberts. If her novels aren't the literary equivalent of cotton candy, I don't know what is.
Are you a huge fan of Nora Roberts, and thereby offended by what I just wrote? My friend, your difference of opinion doesn't change my respect for you one bit! Of all the pleasurable experiences out there, reading is the most self-directed. And thank goodness for that. Variety is the spice of life. We would have much less of it if reading was like golf, something you have to learn to do just like other people do it.
Last summer my sister gave me two "beach reads." I read and hated them both. One was the award-winning The Blind Assassin, by Margaret Atwood. The book kept me turning pages, but in the end I just didn't like it. In return, I gave her one of my favorite beach reads, Elsewhere in the Land of Parrots, by Jim Paul. She's never mentioned it, so I'm guessing she tried it and didn't like it. Oh well. I just hope she gives it back.
This past week when we were at the beach (sort of, see below), my daughter The Heir said she didn't have anything to read. She and her dad went into Easton, and she returned with her brand-new beach read: Junky, by William S. Burroughs. She sat there engrossed in it for the duration of our vacation.
See what I mean? Who picks Junky for summer reading? The Heir! You go, Heir. Read all about it, just don't try it. That's the whole point of a beach read ... to let us live vicariously.
There are two universally adored summer reads that I have not been able to penetrate past page 100 ... and not for lack of trying. One is The Mists of Avalon. The other is Twilight. Length is not an issue. The Thorn Birds, weighing in at a whopping 689 pages, is a personal favorite. I just couldn't become engaged in Mists or Edward Cullen. But go figure -- I've read every page of every Harry Potter volume. Sometimes I like the popular stuff, sometimes I hate it.
Here's my free advice on beach reading, just in time for your getaway.
1. Know what you've liked in the past. Nowadays, with Amazon at your fingertips, it's easy as pie to find similar authors to those you already love.
2. Ask people who have your personality type. I discovered one of my favorite authors, Carl Hiaasen, by borrowing a book from a totally unscrupulous local doctor with a sick sense of humor. Judging by the recommender, I knew what I was getting when I opened my first Hiaasen. I've since read every one of Carl Hiaasen's novels. Beach reads par excellence, according to Anne.
3. Vacation is not the time to strengthen your intellectual muscles. There's nothing quite so dismal as being stranded in a hotel room on a rainy day with nothing but Gravity's Rainbow for company.
4. Don't be embarrassed if you hate to read! It's your vacation. You can spend it in the library playing Farmville. Be proud of your strawberries!
5. Beach reads don't have to be books. Gosh, Heir's August issue of Rolling Stone just arrived, and I could for sure go to the beach with that puppy. There's an article in it about the BP oil spill. And a profile of Leonardo DiCaprio. I can't believe Rolling Stone is still so trippy after all these years. Leo on one page, dead pelicans on the next. It's like Hunter Thompson never died.
6. This may be a personal prejudice, but beach reads ought to be easily replaced without a trip to the poorhouse. No Kindles, no signed first editions (fine, in fine dw), no ebooks on your latest Droid. The person who steals your beach read in this case might not actually be taking it for content.
7. Don't travel light! If you're a picky reader, take along three or four (or more) books. Sample each one and stick with the one you like the best. I wish I had taken this advice myself when I was at the beach last week. I had a perfectly delightful history of Benjamin Franklin's diplomatic mission to the court of Louis XVI, but I passed it over for a more conventional beach read that turned out to be disappointing.
8. While on vacation, do something! Hike, swim, tour, ride a roller coaster. Do stuff you can't do at home. If you're at the beach, reading is fine -- but you should also take your chances with the sharks and play in the arcades. Because if your idea of vacation is to curl up with a good book, you should just stay home. With all the money you save, you can buy more books!
As always, this advice is offered for free. Of course, if you would like to make a donation, the ushers will be circulating with the collection plate.
What's your favorite beach read? Mine, along with the aforementioned Elsewhere in the Land of Parrots, is Stormy Weather, by Carl Hiaasen.
Most of us, when we go on vacation, like our surf-side literature to be as fluffy as the cotton candy on the boardwalk. This explains the perennial popularity of Nora Roberts. If her novels aren't the literary equivalent of cotton candy, I don't know what is.
Are you a huge fan of Nora Roberts, and thereby offended by what I just wrote? My friend, your difference of opinion doesn't change my respect for you one bit! Of all the pleasurable experiences out there, reading is the most self-directed. And thank goodness for that. Variety is the spice of life. We would have much less of it if reading was like golf, something you have to learn to do just like other people do it.
Last summer my sister gave me two "beach reads." I read and hated them both. One was the award-winning The Blind Assassin, by Margaret Atwood. The book kept me turning pages, but in the end I just didn't like it. In return, I gave her one of my favorite beach reads, Elsewhere in the Land of Parrots, by Jim Paul. She's never mentioned it, so I'm guessing she tried it and didn't like it. Oh well. I just hope she gives it back.
This past week when we were at the beach (sort of, see below), my daughter The Heir said she didn't have anything to read. She and her dad went into Easton, and she returned with her brand-new beach read: Junky, by William S. Burroughs. She sat there engrossed in it for the duration of our vacation.
See what I mean? Who picks Junky for summer reading? The Heir! You go, Heir. Read all about it, just don't try it. That's the whole point of a beach read ... to let us live vicariously.
There are two universally adored summer reads that I have not been able to penetrate past page 100 ... and not for lack of trying. One is The Mists of Avalon. The other is Twilight. Length is not an issue. The Thorn Birds, weighing in at a whopping 689 pages, is a personal favorite. I just couldn't become engaged in Mists or Edward Cullen. But go figure -- I've read every page of every Harry Potter volume. Sometimes I like the popular stuff, sometimes I hate it.
Here's my free advice on beach reading, just in time for your getaway.
1. Know what you've liked in the past. Nowadays, with Amazon at your fingertips, it's easy as pie to find similar authors to those you already love.
2. Ask people who have your personality type. I discovered one of my favorite authors, Carl Hiaasen, by borrowing a book from a totally unscrupulous local doctor with a sick sense of humor. Judging by the recommender, I knew what I was getting when I opened my first Hiaasen. I've since read every one of Carl Hiaasen's novels. Beach reads par excellence, according to Anne.
3. Vacation is not the time to strengthen your intellectual muscles. There's nothing quite so dismal as being stranded in a hotel room on a rainy day with nothing but Gravity's Rainbow for company.
4. Don't be embarrassed if you hate to read! It's your vacation. You can spend it in the library playing Farmville. Be proud of your strawberries!
5. Beach reads don't have to be books. Gosh, Heir's August issue of Rolling Stone just arrived, and I could for sure go to the beach with that puppy. There's an article in it about the BP oil spill. And a profile of Leonardo DiCaprio. I can't believe Rolling Stone is still so trippy after all these years. Leo on one page, dead pelicans on the next. It's like Hunter Thompson never died.
6. This may be a personal prejudice, but beach reads ought to be easily replaced without a trip to the poorhouse. No Kindles, no signed first editions (fine, in fine dw), no ebooks on your latest Droid. The person who steals your beach read in this case might not actually be taking it for content.
7. Don't travel light! If you're a picky reader, take along three or four (or more) books. Sample each one and stick with the one you like the best. I wish I had taken this advice myself when I was at the beach last week. I had a perfectly delightful history of Benjamin Franklin's diplomatic mission to the court of Louis XVI, but I passed it over for a more conventional beach read that turned out to be disappointing.
8. While on vacation, do something! Hike, swim, tour, ride a roller coaster. Do stuff you can't do at home. If you're at the beach, reading is fine -- but you should also take your chances with the sharks and play in the arcades. Because if your idea of vacation is to curl up with a good book, you should just stay home. With all the money you save, you can buy more books!
As always, this advice is offered for free. Of course, if you would like to make a donation, the ushers will be circulating with the collection plate.
What's your favorite beach read? Mine, along with the aforementioned Elsewhere in the Land of Parrots, is Stormy Weather, by Carl Hiaasen.
The Spare has had the very devil of a time with French. There's been ongoing antagonism with the teacher practically since Day One of Spare's freshman year.
As with anything else in this world, you can learn valuable lessons from having to deal with an unmotivated student and a stubborn teacher. I've taken the scenic route to this lesson, so I'm going to give you the short cut.
The short cut is this: If a teacher sends home a failure notice, don't freak! Teachers expect parents to freak and wig out on the kids. Especially in Snobville, where every single brat goes Ivy League or is branded a Failure for Life.
Try this approach instead. Tell the teacher to go ahead and flunk your kid.
What? No grounding? No extra chores, no withheld allowance? No speech about High School Setting the Scene for the Rest of Your Life?
Who needs such aggravation in the household at the end of a long day?
And so, last year when Spare got a letter home that said she might flunk French, I wrote back to the teacher thus:
Dear Madame,
If Spare flunks French, that means that Spare has not mastered the material. She needs to take the year over and really master the material. So if you feel she has not learned French, then flunk her till she learns it.
Spare passed.
See, many of these dire teacher letters are -- how shall we say this -- penned with an ulterior motive. "Your daughter may fail French" translates from teacher-ese to parent-ese thus: "Your daughter isn't paying attention and doing her work, and I want you to punish the crap out of her."
Worst punishment I could think of would be to flunk French and have to take it over. And rare though it is for a teenager to agree with a parent, Spare felt the same way. Spare picked up her game a bit and never missed a single trip to the thrift store.
So here's my free advice. If your child is about to enter high school, have them take Latin, or some other useful language. And have your kid start at Level 1, unless you've got some future Mensa genius under your roof. Those years playing with foreign languages in Middle School? Useless! Spare had two years of French in Middle School, and all she learned was that she likes quiche but not escargot.
I will reiterate for clarity:
FREE ADVICE ON LEARNING A LANGUAGE IN HIGH SCHOOL by ANNE
1. Pick a useful language.
2. Start at Level 1.
3. If the teacher sends home a failure notice,
A. take a new language at Level 1, or
B. call the teacher's bluff and let the kid fail.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to pick up the unfinished dragon drawings on my office floor. Don't get me wrong. I'm all for foreign language classes. I hope some day to journey to New Zealand to learn English.
Actually, "Forever 21" is the name of a popular young women's clothing shop in this area. Personally, I go there and look at the stuff, then wait for it to hit the thrift store in a year or two.
My daughter The Heir turned 21 this week. She was kind of depressed about it. She has the silly idea that turning 21 means you have to be an adult. This is only true in the necessity of having to provide for your bodily needs yourself. Otherwise, it's playtime!
Do you like to play? It's okay with us here at TGAB if you consider running five miles or playing a couple rounds of golf playing. But there are so many other ways to play! Let us count the ways to play!
FREE ADVICE ON HOW TO PLAY, FOR MY DAUGHTER THE HEIR AND ANYONE ELSE WHO NEEDS FREE ADVICE, by ANNE
1. Dress up in a costume. Wear a wig. Go to an event, any event that invites people in costumes and wigs. I guarantee you did this as a tiny tot -- and loved it -- and you're going to love it while being Forever 21!
2. Make fun stuff. Cakes, pies, clay sculptures, rock gardens, a magick wand. Construction is work. Tinkering is play. A wand made in a spirit of joy is going to rock on with positive energy.
3. Have a child or two. You'll play with them, and that will be fun.
4. Adopt a pet. You'll play with it, and that will be fun.
5. Do something naughty. Not "against the law" naughty, but just on the edge of that. Remember that great feeling of getting away with something when no one was looking? Definitely will make you feel Forever 21.
6. Ask stupid questions. When people laugh, laugh with them. If you ask intelligent questions, that's too much like school. Keep it stupid or silly. In that way you will retain your childlike innocence. Can I have some Oreos, please?
7. Root for a losing team. That'll take you back into the day, won't it?
8. Buy crayons and Play-dough. Just the smell of those things keeps you young.
9. Don't worry about your weight or your health. You didn't worry about these things when you really were young, so why start now? If you feel good in the skin you're in, you're young!
10. Invite multiple faeries to every occasion, activity, everyday occurrence, and event. Enough said on that!
THINGS NOT TO DO IF YOU WANT TO STAY FOREVER 21
1. Buy trendy clothes.
2. Put your job ahead of your family and friends.
3. Expect your house to be neat all the time.
4. Cultivate a sense of decorum.
5. Fail to giggle when you burp or experience flatulence.
There now! More fabulous free advice, a veritable Fountain of Youth, poured out for The Heir and the many, in forgiveness of adulthood!
May The Force Be with You.
Artwork: Eyeball Vulture, by The Heir
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where today's sermon mulls the tricky topic of employment.
In the 20th century, many people had careers. They worked their whole lives in the same factory, office, school, firehouse, you name it. I don't see that happening anywhere anymore, except perhaps in the health care industry.
All of us are now in danger of being part of the next Reduction in Force, the next Revised Head Count. First they closed the factories, then they closed the computer-based service industries, then the computer rendered obsolete all sorts of newspapers and reference books (that was my career). Soon, I'm told, voice-activated software and robot-driven factories will put all the foreign workers out on the street.
I think about this because my husband, once again, stands at the precipice of RIF. As a first-year teacher, I hold only a tenuous grip on my job. Two springs from now, our daughter The Heir will enter the workforce.
In this century, we will have to re-think the whole notion of career. What faith, love, and energy we might have put into our workplaces will be -- and should be -- re-directed. Where should we direct it? Toward our dreams, our visions, and what we now call "hobbies." Why should we re-direct it? Because in this brave new world, we are "heads" and not "hearts."
EXHIBIT A: ANNE FOLLOWS HER HEART
Deep inside a jewelry box, preserved as sacred relics, sit five little pins that belonged to my grandfather. They are "perfect safety" awards from his workplace, the American Celanese Corporation. He earned one for his department every five years, like clockwork. When he retired after 45 years of service, the company put his name up on its entrance in big letters and gave him a gold watch. I never heard him utter a single complaint about Amcel, either when he worked there or after he retired.
My daughter The Heir shows many traits that remind me of Granddad. Alas, there exists no Amcel in which she could begin at the bottom, learn skills, and perfect machinery. My advice to her will be, "Get a roof over your head and then follow your dreams." Maybe I'll even tell her to forget about the roof. They leak after awhile.
"Job satisfaction" and "job security" are becoming oxymorons. If you're sure your dream is safe in your cubicle, you go. If not, blaze onward until the wee hours making music, making art, making other kinds of dreams come true. They can take your job away, but they can't take the you out of you.
In the 20th century, many people had careers. They worked their whole lives in the same factory, office, school, firehouse, you name it. I don't see that happening anywhere anymore, except perhaps in the health care industry.
All of us are now in danger of being part of the next Reduction in Force, the next Revised Head Count. First they closed the factories, then they closed the computer-based service industries, then the computer rendered obsolete all sorts of newspapers and reference books (that was my career). Soon, I'm told, voice-activated software and robot-driven factories will put all the foreign workers out on the street.
I think about this because my husband, once again, stands at the precipice of RIF. As a first-year teacher, I hold only a tenuous grip on my job. Two springs from now, our daughter The Heir will enter the workforce.
In this century, we will have to re-think the whole notion of career. What faith, love, and energy we might have put into our workplaces will be -- and should be -- re-directed. Where should we direct it? Toward our dreams, our visions, and what we now call "hobbies." Why should we re-direct it? Because in this brave new world, we are "heads" and not "hearts."
EXHIBIT A: ANNE FOLLOWS HER HEART
Deep inside a jewelry box, preserved as sacred relics, sit five little pins that belonged to my grandfather. They are "perfect safety" awards from his workplace, the American Celanese Corporation. He earned one for his department every five years, like clockwork. When he retired after 45 years of service, the company put his name up on its entrance in big letters and gave him a gold watch. I never heard him utter a single complaint about Amcel, either when he worked there or after he retired.
My daughter The Heir shows many traits that remind me of Granddad. Alas, there exists no Amcel in which she could begin at the bottom, learn skills, and perfect machinery. My advice to her will be, "Get a roof over your head and then follow your dreams." Maybe I'll even tell her to forget about the roof. They leak after awhile.
"Job satisfaction" and "job security" are becoming oxymorons. If you're sure your dream is safe in your cubicle, you go. If not, blaze onward until the wee hours making music, making art, making other kinds of dreams come true. They can take your job away, but they can't take the you out of you.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today's sermon: holidays.
I just finished Spring Break. This is a holiday that schools didn't have where I grew up. It's kind of weird just to be off school for a whole week, if you don't spend some of that week gussied up in some Methodist sanctuary.
Nothing has changed more in my nascent Cailleach years than my holiday schedule. It's like I cleaned out the holiday closet, got rid of some old ones, and made room for some new, interesting ones that I'd never celebrated before. Keep Christmas. I have the East Coast Vulture Festival. And you can especially keep Easter. At least as it's celebrated in our culture. Give me a rousing Fairie Festival with a Maypole and music, and I'll be all smiles!
We all have a personal holiday every year -- our birthdays. But you can build your own holiday any time. Some people go to great lengths for the perfect vacation. That's too wearisome for me. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, and it's a gorgeous day outside, and I don't have to go to work, I just declare the day "International Anne Johnson Day." It's that simple! Who's going to argue with me? Is Lisa Jones going to say, "No, wait, Anne. Today is International Lisa Jones Day?"
The next time you need a holiday, don't count the days on your calendar until the next public event. Go to the bakery, buy yourself a cake, sit on the porch and eat it, and tell everyone that it's International (Your Name Here) Day!
You're going to tell me that many calendars, including Wiccan ones, have holy days, etc. already published on them. Ah, forget the fine print! Have a holiday any time!
Here's another fabulous piece of free advice from your first source on the Web for free advice: Have an anti-holiday.
Anti-holidays work like this. You wait until a day or two after a big holiday. Let's say Easter, because it just passed. Then you go to the store, buy a whole bunch of Easter stuff at pennies on the dollar, and go home and have Easter. That delicious-looking Easter cake that cost $13.00 on Sunday morning suddenly will set you back a mere $3.00 on Monday. The candy is a good deal too.
This practice works for most holidays in the spring, but it's getting harder to do at Halloween. Last fall the clock had barely chimed on November 1 before all things skeletal were swept from the stores in favor of the Almighty Ho Ho Ho. Yes, I'm afraid anti-holidays are easier to celebrate this time of year.
Speaking of holidays, there's a big, official one coming up here at "The Gods Are Bored" this week.
My daughter The Spare will be turning sixteen. *weeps*
Her real birthday is during the week. We're celebrating on the weekend. With bargain Peeps I got in the after-Easter candy sales. The smart holiday planner always knows how to work these things.
I just finished Spring Break. This is a holiday that schools didn't have where I grew up. It's kind of weird just to be off school for a whole week, if you don't spend some of that week gussied up in some Methodist sanctuary.
Nothing has changed more in my nascent Cailleach years than my holiday schedule. It's like I cleaned out the holiday closet, got rid of some old ones, and made room for some new, interesting ones that I'd never celebrated before. Keep Christmas. I have the East Coast Vulture Festival. And you can especially keep Easter. At least as it's celebrated in our culture. Give me a rousing Fairie Festival with a Maypole and music, and I'll be all smiles!
We all have a personal holiday every year -- our birthdays. But you can build your own holiday any time. Some people go to great lengths for the perfect vacation. That's too wearisome for me. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, and it's a gorgeous day outside, and I don't have to go to work, I just declare the day "International Anne Johnson Day." It's that simple! Who's going to argue with me? Is Lisa Jones going to say, "No, wait, Anne. Today is International Lisa Jones Day?"
The next time you need a holiday, don't count the days on your calendar until the next public event. Go to the bakery, buy yourself a cake, sit on the porch and eat it, and tell everyone that it's International (Your Name Here) Day!
You're going to tell me that many calendars, including Wiccan ones, have holy days, etc. already published on them. Ah, forget the fine print! Have a holiday any time!
Here's another fabulous piece of free advice from your first source on the Web for free advice: Have an anti-holiday.
Anti-holidays work like this. You wait until a day or two after a big holiday. Let's say Easter, because it just passed. Then you go to the store, buy a whole bunch of Easter stuff at pennies on the dollar, and go home and have Easter. That delicious-looking Easter cake that cost $13.00 on Sunday morning suddenly will set you back a mere $3.00 on Monday. The candy is a good deal too.
This practice works for most holidays in the spring, but it's getting harder to do at Halloween. Last fall the clock had barely chimed on November 1 before all things skeletal were swept from the stores in favor of the Almighty Ho Ho Ho. Yes, I'm afraid anti-holidays are easier to celebrate this time of year.
Speaking of holidays, there's a big, official one coming up here at "The Gods Are Bored" this week.
My daughter The Spare will be turning sixteen. *weeps*
Her real birthday is during the week. We're celebrating on the weekend. With bargain Peeps I got in the after-Easter candy sales. The smart holiday planner always knows how to work these things.
My Awesome Solution for Better Living and Working Conditions in West Virginia and Kentucky
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Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Should be grading papers. Blogging instead. I'll just give all my students A's, and everyone will be happy!
See how easy it is to be a teacher?
Today's sermon: Improving the economy of West Virginia and Kentucky
Why do men (and a few women) go deep into mountains and labor under dangerous working conditions that could get them killed at any time? Emm, I dunno ... maybe for the money? If coal mining was the only decent job where you lived, and you were hired to do it, would you say, "Oh, no, I think I'll work at Wal-Mart instead," and then go toil at pennies on the dollar? Not me. I'd strap on the helmet and spend my days in the dark.
You might say, "Anne, coal miners could move somewhere else and work in another occupation." To which I would reply, "Yes, many West Virginians emigrated to Detroit and Akron and such places to be auto manufacturers. But gosh. Hard as it is to imagine, people who live in the mountains love the mountains and want to stay there."
Cutting to the quick, here's my handy solution to the unemployment problems in two of our nation's most beautiful and scenic states.
First, you pass a law legalizing marijuana growth and use in West Virginia and Kentucky. All marijuana must be grown, processed, and used within those two states. Voila! An instant and ongoing economic stimulus! You'd have farming, processing, and that perennial moneymaker, tourism. You'd need border guards and extra law enforcement. Jobs, jobs, and more jobs. And none of them underground!
I suggest this sensible solution because it has worked in The Netherlands. The tourist industry there has boomed with the legalization of weed. Turns out that very few natives smoke the stuff. It's sold primarily to tourists.
So we fire up the farms and the processing plants (jobs), we designate some fine resort areas for pot cafes (The Greenbriar springs to mind -- you reading this, Al Gore?), and we step up border vigilance (jobs). All of this would lead to an influx of tourists spending money on food (jobs), pot (jobs, as above), lodging (jobs), and souvenirs (jobs, but probably in China).
The only downside I can see to this is that some people in the western states might say it's not fair that they would have to fly to Charleston or Louisville to visit a pot cafe. Oh well. You have Yellowstone. Deal with it.
To those who would object to pot use on moral grounds, here is my response:
1. Which makes a person meaner, a doobie or a fifth of Jack?
2. Marijuana use was legal until the 1930s, was supported by the pharmaceutical industry, and was only vilified by William Randolph Hearst because hemp was used to make paper, and Hearst had bought scads of forest to cull for paperwood.
Hemp! Oh, for the love of fruit flies, I forgot all about hemp! Fabric! Paper! And the manufacture thereof. More jobs!
Yes, I know this will never happen. But a lot of sensible things never happen. Doesn't mean they aren't sensible.
This advice is offered to the citizens and lawmakers of West Virginia and Kentucky free of charge as a courtesy of "The Gods Are Bored." But, folks in those parts ... if you decide to do it, can I get some comps?
See how easy it is to be a teacher?
Today's sermon: Improving the economy of West Virginia and Kentucky
Why do men (and a few women) go deep into mountains and labor under dangerous working conditions that could get them killed at any time? Emm, I dunno ... maybe for the money? If coal mining was the only decent job where you lived, and you were hired to do it, would you say, "Oh, no, I think I'll work at Wal-Mart instead," and then go toil at pennies on the dollar? Not me. I'd strap on the helmet and spend my days in the dark.
You might say, "Anne, coal miners could move somewhere else and work in another occupation." To which I would reply, "Yes, many West Virginians emigrated to Detroit and Akron and such places to be auto manufacturers. But gosh. Hard as it is to imagine, people who live in the mountains love the mountains and want to stay there."
Cutting to the quick, here's my handy solution to the unemployment problems in two of our nation's most beautiful and scenic states.
First, you pass a law legalizing marijuana growth and use in West Virginia and Kentucky. All marijuana must be grown, processed, and used within those two states. Voila! An instant and ongoing economic stimulus! You'd have farming, processing, and that perennial moneymaker, tourism. You'd need border guards and extra law enforcement. Jobs, jobs, and more jobs. And none of them underground!
I suggest this sensible solution because it has worked in The Netherlands. The tourist industry there has boomed with the legalization of weed. Turns out that very few natives smoke the stuff. It's sold primarily to tourists.
So we fire up the farms and the processing plants (jobs), we designate some fine resort areas for pot cafes (The Greenbriar springs to mind -- you reading this, Al Gore?), and we step up border vigilance (jobs). All of this would lead to an influx of tourists spending money on food (jobs), pot (jobs, as above), lodging (jobs), and souvenirs (jobs, but probably in China).
The only downside I can see to this is that some people in the western states might say it's not fair that they would have to fly to Charleston or Louisville to visit a pot cafe. Oh well. You have Yellowstone. Deal with it.
To those who would object to pot use on moral grounds, here is my response:
1. Which makes a person meaner, a doobie or a fifth of Jack?
2. Marijuana use was legal until the 1930s, was supported by the pharmaceutical industry, and was only vilified by William Randolph Hearst because hemp was used to make paper, and Hearst had bought scads of forest to cull for paperwood.
Hemp! Oh, for the love of fruit flies, I forgot all about hemp! Fabric! Paper! And the manufacture thereof. More jobs!
Yes, I know this will never happen. But a lot of sensible things never happen. Doesn't mean they aren't sensible.
This advice is offered to the citizens and lawmakers of West Virginia and Kentucky free of charge as a courtesy of "The Gods Are Bored." But, folks in those parts ... if you decide to do it, can I get some comps?
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where today the tables turned on us!
Not literally. I'm not lying under 75 pounds of varnished walnut.
What happened was this: Spare and I took a friend to the pet shelter where we volunteer. The friend wants to adopt a dog. A small, older dog who will enjoy city life and the company of two cats.
My daughters and I have fostered more than 60 kittens for this shelter. Usually when we enter the door, we're either picking up tiny waifs for a temporary stay at our home, or dropping off slightly larger, well-fed and healthy waifs for someone else to adopt.
As far as the pet shelter adoption process goes, I was totally in the dark, until today. My pets are all serendipitous acquisitions (except for Decibel the parrot -- my biggest mistake thus far in a long life). It was a whole new experience, walking into the familiar shelter in search of an animal to take home for good. And the shelter had a nice group of little dogs from which to choose. My friend liked two of them. I liked them both too. It's nice to know I'll get to see whichever one she winds up with.
As we played with the little dogs and sized them up, something occurred to me. Cats and dogs live with us for years, sometimes for a decade and a half. But when it comes to choosing them, we do so quickly. "I'll take that one, thanks. He's adorable!"
Funny part is, the ending is almost always happy. You walk into a pet shelter on any given day with your pet carrier, point to a kitty, bring it home, and for the next 14 years it sleeps peacefully at your feet every night and rubs your leg when you come home from work. It works just as well with a dog, if you know what size and mix you want. The first pooch you point to will adore you after the first bowl of Alpo.
Can you imagine it working this way with people?
Just imagine. You go to the people shelter, looking for a companion. The attendant brings out a man (or woman) meeting your age and size preferences. A quick perusal, an application fee, and out you walk with your new person!
Well, that's ridiculous, of course. We're the thinking species. We search and search for the perfect human companion. Some of us never find that person. Some of us go through a dozen rotten relationships before finding a decent partner.
To me this proves one thing beyond all doubt. Cats and dogs are superior to humans. On any given day, you can walk into any given pet shelter and cart home a fine companion who will bring you bounteous joy. Try doing that with Homo sapiens. Go ahead. I dare ya.
Love at first sight only works with shelter pets. Remember where you heard this, because some day I'm going to start charging a fee for such sound advice.
Image: Casey Jones, one of my favorite fosters.
