I realized tonight that on a couple of boards I read online that people will say just about anything on the Internet and feel totally confident that it will never get back to the people they are slamming. It is as if they honestly think they can't hurt someone if they get snarky on the boards.
Fact is, some of the things that are said are beyond rude. They are so insensitive that they smack of total hypocrisy. Tonight, I read one where a woman was belittling her son and trying, through her nasty comments, to bring validity to the remarks of another person who aired her 'dirty laundry' regarding her own child.
I only have one question for these women: What on earth are you thinking?
The idea that we are not responsible for the statements we fling out into the cosmic void of the Internet is so blatantly false that it is laughable. We live in a day and time where every literal keystroke can be detected and printed out for the whole world to see. And there is no such thing as total anonymity on the world wide web, no matter what people are inclined to believe.
For every person who launches verbal venom, there is a hacker who can, and often does, find a way to use those remarks to their advantage when the time comes. It is all about personal expediency and power.
What I have to wonder is how that child feels when those remarks come back home to roost?
If the parents feel confident sharing them with total strangers, I am quite sure that the poor children in question have heard those cutting remarks so frequently that they have suffered under the unreasonable expectations of a parent who forgets that they are not perfect themselves and neither is or will be their child.
And I cannot believe that the child, even when they reach the age of adulthood, will EVER forget that their parents' love was totally conditional upon whether they met some invisible standard of worthiness imposed upon them by someone who is not a fit judge of their heart.
We don't all mature or progress at the same rate and the things that are good for me in my own life may simply never be something that suits your God-given talents and interests. We can't all be the same!
We need the professionals as much as we need the ditch diggers. We need the beauty stylists as much as we need the street sweepers. There is no human endeavor that is worthless if someone puts all they have into reaching their full potential.
While all parents have expectations for their offspring, there comes a time where the parent MUST step back and let them figure it all out on their own, even when and especially because they WILL make mistakes. We can't sheild them forever from life. To do so creates a crippling condition that is a greater wound than letting them fall down once in a while in order to learn to get up and keep trying.
I only hope that someday, the snarky women find themselves in a position to realize that they do damage to a relationship where they devalue their children because they are not like and cannot be like themselves. I honestly don't believe God sent us all here to be the same.
If that were the case, there would have been no need for us to all be different. We could have used Cliff Notes and just watched one man and one woman make all of the mistakes and learn all of the lessons just so that we could take the final and everyone could pass with 100%.
God bless those children who don't have their earthly parents' unconditional love in their life. Because it is most certainly God who has that love in abundance and who can see so far beyond our limited understanding as to just who and what these marvelous people truly are. And it is God who can heal them and make them have the strength through him to rise above the petty behavior of those who should love them, but don't.
October 23, 2007
October 12, 2007
Get out of the car!!!!
I am sitting in my favorite chair when the ad that irks me the most came on.
The ad revolves around a tired father who has been toiling to build a tree house for his son to play in for those adventures that we all hope our sons will dream and imagine. Speckled with paint and sweating, this kind Dad, who more than likely would have enjoyed a cold beverage and a ballgame on the couch, comes to the PARKED VAN in the driveway and slides open the side door to reveal the son and a friend hooked up and spaced out to a DVD which is keeping them spellbound with modern wonder.
Told that 'it took a while, but the tree house is finally done', the smartaleck kid asks his Dad if the new tree house comes with leather seats, DVD player, air conditioning and various other items to which the dad replies 'No'.
The smarmy little brat looks at the Dad disdainfully and then announces "We're good!" where upon he shuts the door.
Rewind and re-tape this episode!
First of all, what are children doing PLAYING in a car!?!?! That is stupid under ANY circumstance!
Second, had I been the Dad in question (which I would never be since I'm female, but play along for the sake of accuracy . . .), I would have told him and his friend to "GET OUT OF THE CAR! AND I MEAN NOW, MISTER!"
Rewinding even further, the smarmy kid (and possibly his friend) would have had his little butt out helping build the tree house!! Nothing makes you excited like ownership of something that has gone from dream to reality while you helped construct it.
Tree houses aren't about DVD players or air conditioning. They are about becoming a pirate or a fireman or the captain of a space ship. They are for launching paper airplanes and for tossing water balloons onto your sisters and brother (until you get caught!) and for sleeping in on nights where the little window opens up onto a star filled universe that your dime store telescope can't quite bring in close enough to touch.
Tree houses are for eating watermelon and spitting the seeds for distance. They are the base of operations for war games and the picketed fort of the U.S. Cavalry when the Comanches have gone on the warpath.
Tree houses are the opposite of technology. They have no constraints or limits. Everything is possible to him who believes. "Seeing isn't believing - believing is seeing" (to borrow the phrase from the movie 'The Santa Clause'). There are no limitations with the notable exception of bath time or bedtime.
Climbing the rungs of the homemade ladder is akin to ascending to the peak of the Himalayas with a trusty Sherpa guide. You can climb into the capsule and strap in for the launch clock to begin. The ladder leads up into the heavens or down into the gaping jaws of the earth itself.
Some tree houses have firepoles attached and some have slides. Others are merely the prepared house in a tree that becomes the starting point for adventures that never end.
I recently read where even adults are looking into tree houses as family homes now. For those adventurous souls, there is still the spark of what is yet to be that the automakers who mock the simplicity of youth with the blatant heresy of technology will never understand.
When the car battery dies and the DVD player will no longer spin tales of wonder, only the child who has learned to see what isn't there can find a place to explore and to grow. The others will only cry because the bright lights of earthly wonder have gone dim.
To a true adventurer, a tree house is a portal to all possible worlds and all possible realities. To embrace the wonder that is available, life is totally full. To those who are enmeshed with technology, life can be totally barren. Their adventure depends upon power and pixels. Tree houses run on imagination.
Get out of the car and go climb a tree.
The ad revolves around a tired father who has been toiling to build a tree house for his son to play in for those adventures that we all hope our sons will dream and imagine. Speckled with paint and sweating, this kind Dad, who more than likely would have enjoyed a cold beverage and a ballgame on the couch, comes to the PARKED VAN in the driveway and slides open the side door to reveal the son and a friend hooked up and spaced out to a DVD which is keeping them spellbound with modern wonder.
Told that 'it took a while, but the tree house is finally done', the smartaleck kid asks his Dad if the new tree house comes with leather seats, DVD player, air conditioning and various other items to which the dad replies 'No'.
The smarmy little brat looks at the Dad disdainfully and then announces "We're good!" where upon he shuts the door.
Rewind and re-tape this episode!
First of all, what are children doing PLAYING in a car!?!?! That is stupid under ANY circumstance!
Second, had I been the Dad in question (which I would never be since I'm female, but play along for the sake of accuracy . . .), I would have told him and his friend to "GET OUT OF THE CAR! AND I MEAN NOW, MISTER!"
Rewinding even further, the smarmy kid (and possibly his friend) would have had his little butt out helping build the tree house!! Nothing makes you excited like ownership of something that has gone from dream to reality while you helped construct it.
Tree houses aren't about DVD players or air conditioning. They are about becoming a pirate or a fireman or the captain of a space ship. They are for launching paper airplanes and for tossing water balloons onto your sisters and brother (until you get caught!) and for sleeping in on nights where the little window opens up onto a star filled universe that your dime store telescope can't quite bring in close enough to touch.
Tree houses are for eating watermelon and spitting the seeds for distance. They are the base of operations for war games and the picketed fort of the U.S. Cavalry when the Comanches have gone on the warpath.
Tree houses are the opposite of technology. They have no constraints or limits. Everything is possible to him who believes. "Seeing isn't believing - believing is seeing" (to borrow the phrase from the movie 'The Santa Clause'). There are no limitations with the notable exception of bath time or bedtime.
Climbing the rungs of the homemade ladder is akin to ascending to the peak of the Himalayas with a trusty Sherpa guide. You can climb into the capsule and strap in for the launch clock to begin. The ladder leads up into the heavens or down into the gaping jaws of the earth itself.
Some tree houses have firepoles attached and some have slides. Others are merely the prepared house in a tree that becomes the starting point for adventures that never end.
I recently read where even adults are looking into tree houses as family homes now. For those adventurous souls, there is still the spark of what is yet to be that the automakers who mock the simplicity of youth with the blatant heresy of technology will never understand.
When the car battery dies and the DVD player will no longer spin tales of wonder, only the child who has learned to see what isn't there can find a place to explore and to grow. The others will only cry because the bright lights of earthly wonder have gone dim.
To a true adventurer, a tree house is a portal to all possible worlds and all possible realities. To embrace the wonder that is available, life is totally full. To those who are enmeshed with technology, life can be totally barren. Their adventure depends upon power and pixels. Tree houses run on imagination.
Get out of the car and go climb a tree.
October 11, 2007
Cooler
When I got up, I thought it was a bit chilly and laid it at the feet (or fan blades) of having left the kitchen ceiling fan on all night.
What I didn't realize was that fall had stealthily crept in and shoved the mercury down into its' bulb and chilled the house to a mid 60 degree range. Which meant the outside temps were about 15 degrees cooler.
Naturally, the assassin dog wanted to go out walking and romping through the neighborhood and wasn't taking no for an answer.
Mornings like this, I have to wonder where are the dumb dogs I have heard so much about? The ones who don't know what day it is and have to be reminded every single day what the leash is. I haven't ever owned a dumb dog!
With ease and alacrity, Gypsy streaks past my rubbery and tired legs and begins whining for her morning jog.
The fact that I am holding my head in my hands and moaning means NOTHING to her. Giddy as a schoolgirl on field trip to the museum day, Gypsy is not content to wait out the warmer afternoon temperatures that hover closer to the warm 60's.
Nope, an assassin has a schedule of priorities and she definitely has hers in order and the checklist in hand...uh,...PAW.
The first part of the walk is fine. The i-pod cranks out the tunes to my earphones that are acting as earmuffs today. She is behaving - for now.
Then the fun begins. I take a slightly different route today. This is not fresh information, it just isn't the route we have used for the last couple of weeks. "Princess Pooch" isn't having any of it.
And the wheels in her fertile imagination begin to turn. Already, school traffic has started and my sweet little furbag is looking at the cars in rapt attention.
No, boys and girls, she isn't waiting on the traffic. She is deciding which one to drag me in front of while she scampers away to safety on the other side.
I knew the good behavior wasn't going to last. She was smiling too much.
Finally dragging her to the spot on the shoulder of the road away from the temptations of fully loaded cement trucks, I indicate to her yet again that she is not only most assuredly NOT named as the beneficiary of my will, but that she isn't featured anywhere in my will.
Then, I break the bomb.
I have no will.
Somehow, the expense of filing one that says, "I leave all of my earthly payment books to ___" isn't as thrilling to anyone as finding out that they have inherited something that will make the folks on the Antiques Roadshow look like pikers. But I don't own anything remotely like that.
Even the dog food Gypsy has carefully tucked beneath the couch cushions will not fetch any decent price. But hope springs eternal.
What am I bid for 3 year old kibble?
Oh well. The weights in the gym didn't treat me any kinder today. I believe there should be some sort of karmic trade off where if the dog gives you trouble, the weights should function to make you skinnier, healthier and more well rested in direct proportion to the garbage you have to take off off the hairy hit man...or...dog.
I think I'll watch some TV and plan my next move. With careful preparation, I might be able to sell everything I own for the grandiose sum of twenty-five cents.
What I didn't realize was that fall had stealthily crept in and shoved the mercury down into its' bulb and chilled the house to a mid 60 degree range. Which meant the outside temps were about 15 degrees cooler.
Naturally, the assassin dog wanted to go out walking and romping through the neighborhood and wasn't taking no for an answer.
Mornings like this, I have to wonder where are the dumb dogs I have heard so much about? The ones who don't know what day it is and have to be reminded every single day what the leash is. I haven't ever owned a dumb dog!
With ease and alacrity, Gypsy streaks past my rubbery and tired legs and begins whining for her morning jog.
The fact that I am holding my head in my hands and moaning means NOTHING to her. Giddy as a schoolgirl on field trip to the museum day, Gypsy is not content to wait out the warmer afternoon temperatures that hover closer to the warm 60's.
Nope, an assassin has a schedule of priorities and she definitely has hers in order and the checklist in hand...uh,...PAW.
The first part of the walk is fine. The i-pod cranks out the tunes to my earphones that are acting as earmuffs today. She is behaving - for now.
Then the fun begins. I take a slightly different route today. This is not fresh information, it just isn't the route we have used for the last couple of weeks. "Princess Pooch" isn't having any of it.
And the wheels in her fertile imagination begin to turn. Already, school traffic has started and my sweet little furbag is looking at the cars in rapt attention.
No, boys and girls, she isn't waiting on the traffic. She is deciding which one to drag me in front of while she scampers away to safety on the other side.
I knew the good behavior wasn't going to last. She was smiling too much.
Finally dragging her to the spot on the shoulder of the road away from the temptations of fully loaded cement trucks, I indicate to her yet again that she is not only most assuredly NOT named as the beneficiary of my will, but that she isn't featured anywhere in my will.
Then, I break the bomb.
I have no will.
Somehow, the expense of filing one that says, "I leave all of my earthly payment books to ___" isn't as thrilling to anyone as finding out that they have inherited something that will make the folks on the Antiques Roadshow look like pikers. But I don't own anything remotely like that.
Even the dog food Gypsy has carefully tucked beneath the couch cushions will not fetch any decent price. But hope springs eternal.
What am I bid for 3 year old kibble?
Oh well. The weights in the gym didn't treat me any kinder today. I believe there should be some sort of karmic trade off where if the dog gives you trouble, the weights should function to make you skinnier, healthier and more well rested in direct proportion to the garbage you have to take off off the hairy hit man...or...dog.
I think I'll watch some TV and plan my next move. With careful preparation, I might be able to sell everything I own for the grandiose sum of twenty-five cents.
October 8, 2007
Drool and Diet
Why do I do this to myself?
I am absolutely addicted to looking a recipe websites. Totally addicted. I should enter a 12-step program to wean off the demon web, but frankly, what everyone else is whipping up and photographing for the eye candy of the world looks so much better than anything I have considered making for dinner tonight that it isn't even funny. I must look at one more page...just one more...
Like a junkie waiting on a fix, the page doesn't load quickly enough even though high speed is part of the name for the connection. Oddly enough, whatever the speed, it is never fast enough for junkies anyway.
I have to wonder why in this day and age of technological superiority we can't manage to have a 'CLICK HERE' button that would deliver the ingredients for the recipes you seek right to your door within 48 hours or less.
Meanwhile, you can tell yourself that the rice cake you are nibbling on to save room for the real food later on actually tastes like the yummy cheddar they promise so blatantly on the label right next to that smiling man in the old fashioned clothing.
The drool level rises as I look at page after page of food I will never get to sample. It isn't like I wouldn't LIKE to try it. But facts are facts. The kind people at the exotic grocers demand more than a smile in payment for the unusual ingredients that will be part of the meal.
So, my friend from Betty Crocker comes out of the shelf and with a few deft additions, the packaged mix resembles something a bit better than just a boxed dinner.
Admittedly, I am not the best cook in the world. While no one can ever honestly say they have starved at my table, I have a couple of friends who are SO much better at cooking than I am that it makes my mouth water just thinking about it. That, and I absolutely LOVE to see what the kitchen muse has inspired them to whip up for the Epicurean delights of others.
Years ago, I was told to never trust a chef who didn't eat their own food.
I believe that is a truth indeed. If those who prepare it are uncertain of the outcome, why on earth would I fling my delicate taste buds on the altar of culinary imperfection and just simply hope for the best????
No, my fine young feathered friends, I am a purist.
I believe that food should taste good and that the one who did the cooking KNOWS the food tastes good from on the ground experience with a supply of 'tasting spoons' at hand to make sure that no step is left out for that taste that leaves 'em drooling in the aisles.
Now, I am faced with the sad chore of deciding what to prepare for dinner.
I am beginning to wonder why we can't adopt the Pillsbury dough boy and a few of his shelf-mates as permanent family members. Maybe it's because my waist measurement is FINALLY going down. The evil influence of the various chefs in the world would certainly reverse that trend until I was roughly the size of the Queen Mary, which, if we are to face the truth, would be the closest I would ever come to being confused with royalty.
Maybe I should fire up the grill. It seems to be an easier choice on a nice fall night than standing by a stove and hoping for the best.
I am absolutely addicted to looking a recipe websites. Totally addicted. I should enter a 12-step program to wean off the demon web, but frankly, what everyone else is whipping up and photographing for the eye candy of the world looks so much better than anything I have considered making for dinner tonight that it isn't even funny. I must look at one more page...just one more...
Like a junkie waiting on a fix, the page doesn't load quickly enough even though high speed is part of the name for the connection. Oddly enough, whatever the speed, it is never fast enough for junkies anyway.
I have to wonder why in this day and age of technological superiority we can't manage to have a 'CLICK HERE' button that would deliver the ingredients for the recipes you seek right to your door within 48 hours or less.
Meanwhile, you can tell yourself that the rice cake you are nibbling on to save room for the real food later on actually tastes like the yummy cheddar they promise so blatantly on the label right next to that smiling man in the old fashioned clothing.
The drool level rises as I look at page after page of food I will never get to sample. It isn't like I wouldn't LIKE to try it. But facts are facts. The kind people at the exotic grocers demand more than a smile in payment for the unusual ingredients that will be part of the meal.
So, my friend from Betty Crocker comes out of the shelf and with a few deft additions, the packaged mix resembles something a bit better than just a boxed dinner.
Admittedly, I am not the best cook in the world. While no one can ever honestly say they have starved at my table, I have a couple of friends who are SO much better at cooking than I am that it makes my mouth water just thinking about it. That, and I absolutely LOVE to see what the kitchen muse has inspired them to whip up for the Epicurean delights of others.
Years ago, I was told to never trust a chef who didn't eat their own food.
I believe that is a truth indeed. If those who prepare it are uncertain of the outcome, why on earth would I fling my delicate taste buds on the altar of culinary imperfection and just simply hope for the best????
No, my fine young feathered friends, I am a purist.
I believe that food should taste good and that the one who did the cooking KNOWS the food tastes good from on the ground experience with a supply of 'tasting spoons' at hand to make sure that no step is left out for that taste that leaves 'em drooling in the aisles.
Now, I am faced with the sad chore of deciding what to prepare for dinner.
I am beginning to wonder why we can't adopt the Pillsbury dough boy and a few of his shelf-mates as permanent family members. Maybe it's because my waist measurement is FINALLY going down. The evil influence of the various chefs in the world would certainly reverse that trend until I was roughly the size of the Queen Mary, which, if we are to face the truth, would be the closest I would ever come to being confused with royalty.
Maybe I should fire up the grill. It seems to be an easier choice on a nice fall night than standing by a stove and hoping for the best.
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