Was it something I said?
Showing posts with label holiday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holiday. Show all posts
Friday, June 18, 2010
Father's Day Marketing
Was it something I said?
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Pardoned Turkey Goes On Murderous Rampage
In a potentially embarrassing situation for the Obama White House, a turkey pardoned by President Obama earlier this week went on a three-state killing spree on Thanksgiving Day, killing nine.
Pardoned White House Turkey Slays Nine
Image via banjobelknap's photostream on flickr
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
A Thanksgiving Letter from Helen
This is the best of all worlds - a Thanksgiving letter from Helen, one of my favorite cranky bloggers from Margaret and Helen, listing things we're all thinking but don't have the balls to say.Helen, however, has the stones:
This year I am thankful to have you as my family rather than a normal American family. I say that because Sarah Palin is fond of talking about her family being a normal American family.
Last time I checked everyone in my family knows where Africa is on a globe. Everyone goes to college after high school. We’ve had no teen pregnancies as of yet and no one has appeared in Playgirl. If the Palins are a normal, American family, I guess my bunch of anti-American socialists are fine by me.
A couple of items from her list:
If I see one grandchild doing that texting stuff, there will be no pie for dessert. If I see one parent checking email… scratch that – new rule. Leave your cell phone in your car. They used to be called mobile phones for a reason. Now-a-days the only thing mobile about your phone is your thumbs. Trust me. Skinny thumbs and a fat ass are not a good look.
And:
Honestly, if you insist on bringing anything, bring some butter. I go through about 20 sticks to get this meal on the table and I might as well start stocking up for Christmas now.
Happy Thanksgiving, Helen. May your dreams come true.
Image via Wikimedia Commons
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
National Punctuation Day
September 24 is National Punctuation Day! #@$%&* right it is!
Its or it's? Who the hell knows anymore. Thank goodness we have one day per year to pretend like we're interested.
Image via Wikimedia Commons
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Miss You, Mom
Happy Mothers Day to all the moms out there. I hope your kids don't treat you any differently today than they do every other day, because it would be a shame if you were honored only once a year.
My mom died 12 years ago, too young at 69, a victim of cigarette smoking, poor willpower, and a life of tragedy. Abused by a first husband, she exited that marriage within a month, an obvious failure in the eyes of her hyper-religious parents. A girl who smoked and drank and went to business school in Pittsburgh? What do you expect?
She married another man, my father, and spent a life with physical and mental torment. A baby girl who died at birth in 1964, the umbilical cord having wrapped around her neck, her twin brother born healthy and normal. In 1965, her first child, a daughter born in 1959, kidnapped somewhere in the two blocks from our home to her kindergarten class, never found, lost forever at a time before we knew how many children share the same fate, but a huge story in a small Pennsylvania town.
How do you lift your head off the pillow every morning after enduring two years like that?
But she did, even without a supportive spouse, teaching Slimnastics at the Y, working part-time at the neighborhood convenience store, surrounding herself with dogs and cats that gave unconditional love and asked for nothing in return except food and drink and attention.
Adopting a 2 year old girl in need (altruism, saving a life, or plugging a hole?) around 1970, Mom rounded out her family and endured an alcoholic, philandering, abusive husband as she smoked and dogged and catted. Dad left for a year to dally with a girlfriend in Oxnard. Oxnard?
Mom, back to work full time, rising daily at 20 minutes to five each morning, submitting to the 50 minute drive to the main campus at Penn State, struggling to feed and shelter three kids for less than $9000 a year. Why 20 minutes to five? Why not 4:30, or 4:45?
She wouldn't get home until 6 each night, and would then have to parent, cook, clean, and enforce homework, still awake (barely) when I went to bed around 10, sometimes nodding off on her loveseat as she read, a dog against her, until finally dragging herself to bed at some point, up the next morning at twenty to five to do it all again.
I remember her shame the first time she pulled food stamps from her purse at the local Riverside grocery, an emotion she swallowed to benefit her kids, but never forgot. I only partially understood why I qualified for the summer job my ninth grade year, mowing the grass and fixing things at the numerous playgrounds and ball fields in town. Turns out it was a special jobs program for low-income teens.
Mom raised three kids who stayed out of trouble, got decent grades, and went off to college or the military and ended up in successful family situations. But by the time she retired at 62, her breathing was already labored and her cough exacerbated by more than four decades of smoking. Over the next several years, instead of finally being able to enjoy grandkids and free time to do whatever she wanted, she instead endured failing health, emphysema, a minor heart attack, and sadness.
In her last two years, Mom was in and out of the hospital, and as time went on, she went from more time out to more time in, soon alternating months, then weeks, until finally, a week after being placed in a nursing home, she passed away.
I was lucky enough to spend time with her the night before she died, and I'm so glad. She knew I was there - she smiled weakly, too tired to open her eyes - as she listened to me talk about things that were important to me. What a wonderful gift for both of us. The trip in was unplanned, a last minute decision, because we thought she had a little more time.
I miss you, Mom. I think you'd be proud of me.
My mom died 12 years ago, too young at 69, a victim of cigarette smoking, poor willpower, and a life of tragedy. Abused by a first husband, she exited that marriage within a month, an obvious failure in the eyes of her hyper-religious parents. A girl who smoked and drank and went to business school in Pittsburgh? What do you expect?
She married another man, my father, and spent a life with physical and mental torment. A baby girl who died at birth in 1964, the umbilical cord having wrapped around her neck, her twin brother born healthy and normal. In 1965, her first child, a daughter born in 1959, kidnapped somewhere in the two blocks from our home to her kindergarten class, never found, lost forever at a time before we knew how many children share the same fate, but a huge story in a small Pennsylvania town.
How do you lift your head off the pillow every morning after enduring two years like that?
But she did, even without a supportive spouse, teaching Slimnastics at the Y, working part-time at the neighborhood convenience store, surrounding herself with dogs and cats that gave unconditional love and asked for nothing in return except food and drink and attention.
Adopting a 2 year old girl in need (altruism, saving a life, or plugging a hole?) around 1970, Mom rounded out her family and endured an alcoholic, philandering, abusive husband as she smoked and dogged and catted. Dad left for a year to dally with a girlfriend in Oxnard. Oxnard?
Mom, back to work full time, rising daily at 20 minutes to five each morning, submitting to the 50 minute drive to the main campus at Penn State, struggling to feed and shelter three kids for less than $9000 a year. Why 20 minutes to five? Why not 4:30, or 4:45?
She wouldn't get home until 6 each night, and would then have to parent, cook, clean, and enforce homework, still awake (barely) when I went to bed around 10, sometimes nodding off on her loveseat as she read, a dog against her, until finally dragging herself to bed at some point, up the next morning at twenty to five to do it all again.
I remember her shame the first time she pulled food stamps from her purse at the local Riverside grocery, an emotion she swallowed to benefit her kids, but never forgot. I only partially understood why I qualified for the summer job my ninth grade year, mowing the grass and fixing things at the numerous playgrounds and ball fields in town. Turns out it was a special jobs program for low-income teens.
Mom raised three kids who stayed out of trouble, got decent grades, and went off to college or the military and ended up in successful family situations. But by the time she retired at 62, her breathing was already labored and her cough exacerbated by more than four decades of smoking. Over the next several years, instead of finally being able to enjoy grandkids and free time to do whatever she wanted, she instead endured failing health, emphysema, a minor heart attack, and sadness.
In her last two years, Mom was in and out of the hospital, and as time went on, she went from more time out to more time in, soon alternating months, then weeks, until finally, a week after being placed in a nursing home, she passed away.
I was lucky enough to spend time with her the night before she died, and I'm so glad. She knew I was there - she smiled weakly, too tired to open her eyes - as she listened to me talk about things that were important to me. What a wonderful gift for both of us. The trip in was unplanned, a last minute decision, because we thought she had a little more time.
I miss you, Mom. I think you'd be proud of me.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
World Pillow Fight Day!
Today is World Pillow Fight Day! Grab your fluffy head holder and go smack those you love. It's official!
World Pillow Fight Day
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Pull Up Your Pants Day
As I grow older, I find myself becoming that cranky old guy whenever I see one of the younger crowd walking down the street with their pants drooping low, providing me with an unfettered view of their Fruit of the Looms. "Pull up your pants, get a job!" I mutter, not always under my breath.
I'm in luck. Today is "Pull Up Your Pants" Day!
The brainchild of two teachers at Plantation High School who grew annoyed at seeing low-slung students in the hallway, the faux-holiday is symbolic. The cranky old guy in me wonders why every day isn't Pull Up Your Pants Day in high school, but the kids music is probably too loud to hear my complaining.
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