Saturday, January 25, 2014

Romper Room

In the late 1950’s, TV choices for preschoolers were very limited. Sesame Street hadn’t been born. Cartoons were only shown after school and on Saturday mornings. Captain Kangaroo wasn’t much of an option for me, as I didn’t like his weird girly hairdo. That left a local kid’s show called Romper Room, hosted by Miss Barbara (and later Miss Julie). I watched it every day. It was chock full of meaningful lessons told with bees. The good bees, who did what they were told, were the Do Bees. The bad, misbehaving bees who broke the rules were the Don’t Bees. I gotta say, I was drawn to the Don’t Bees. The Do Bees were pretty dorky and boring. Miss Barbara had a see-through hand mirror that she would hold in front of her face at the end of the show. She’d say “Romper bomper stomper boo. Tell me, tell me, tell me do. Magic mirror please tell me today. Did all my friends have fun at play?”. One day she said “And I see Kim, who is sick today. We hope you feel better soon!”. I just knew she was looking at me through that magic mirror (and of course I was the only Kim in the entire world). I got my face an inch from the TV and yelled “I’m not sick! See? I’m just fine!!!”. For my fifth birthday, my mom took me to be on Romper Room. Apparently you had to have a reservation to be on the show. You couldn’t just waltz right in (even if it was your fifth birthday). There were kids who had been on the show all week. I was allowed to pick a toy off the set to play with out in the audience. I think they were trying to appease me, since they were breaking my heart on my big day. A kid who had been on the show all week looked for his favorite toy, which I had in my ticked-off little hands. Tee hee. He was really mad, and I didn’t care. This was my first brush with Schadenfreude (pleasure derived from the misfortune of others). Hey, don’t mess with the Birthday Princess. Ask any Do Bee... it’s bad form.

Friday, January 17, 2014

My Big Old Birthday

Back in 1975, the mandatory retirement age for airline pilots was 60. The day before my dad’s 60th birthday, he piloted his last flight. We all flew with him from Salt Lake City to Jackson Hole and back. As he landed and brought the plane to a stop, he said “Sayonara” softly over the microphone. It was very touching. As he deplaned, he was met by a row of pilots on either side of the stairs. There wasn’t a dry eye on the tarmac. At the time, I was 21. I thought Dad was an amazingly young 60, but still... 60 was kind of old. Fast forward 39 years, and guess who’s turning 60 on Sunday? Me that’s who. I can’t believe it... I just feel like a really, really rickety 38. Today was my last work day as a 59 year-old spring chicken. There were no lines of coworkers to usher me to my car. No family to hang out on my last day, so proud to see me walk to the copier, or use my calculator. No touching last words. I guess most of that would be because I will be back at work on Monday. I also don’t have a really important job where I hold the lives of hundreds of people in my care thousands of feet in the air. I can’t imagine being told that as of tomorrow I will be too old to do my job. I know Dad didn’t want to stop flying. He was in good health, sharp as a tack, and definitely not ready to retire from something he loved doing. Unfortunately, he had no choice. Somehow, seeing myself the same age as my dad hasn’t helped me be OK with this milestone. A friend told me “You’re upright, and can still talk in complete sentences. It’s all good”. That’s a much better mantra than the one currently running in my head “WTF??? How the f*&k did THIS happen???”. Being a glass-half-empty kind of girl, this birthday is a challenge. I know, it’s only a number, yada yada yada (still doesn’t thrill me). I might get more awesome than usual presents (I’m warming up to the idea). 60 is better than 70 (things are looking up). Hey, I’m not dead! last a simple way to put a positive spin on my 60th birthday! Short and to the point. Not as classy as “Sayonara”, but I’m working on it.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

The Pooper Vortex

One of my resolutions for 2014 was to step in less dog poop, specifically in my living room. So far, it’s not going so well. One day last week, I got home from work and greeted my three dogs. I gazed into the living room, and noticed a huge mountain of pooh. It was way too big for the usual culprit - Stella. It was also too big to have come from Lucy. It might have been deposited by Cosmo, but I doubted it. A theory evolved that a small but wily elephant had tunneled into my house using a sharpened spoon clutched in its trunk. Only that could explain the size of the pile on my living room carpet. I got some paper towels, a wash rag, and the big bottle of Pee Whiz (used to clean all types of disgusting bodily substances). After the cleanup, I went back to the living room only to find more turds strewn about the carpet. How had I missed them? I cleaned them up, and corralled the dogs for our afternoon walk. It was then that I noticed some poopy shoe prints on the hardwood floor under the living room window. I checked my shoes, but the bottoms were clean. I texted my husband and told him to check his shoes, then went for the Pee Whiz. As I walked back from cleaning the shoe prints by the window, I found more poopy prints by the front door. Now it was getting weird. I had come in through that door, but hadn’t noticed anything. Just what was going on??? I checked my shoes again, just in case I had missed a giant cow patty embedded in the soles. Still clean. Could it be time to call a priest for a pooh exorcism? I know poltergeists are playful spirits. Perhaps I had a Poopergeist. Then there’s the weather... Some places have just experienced cold temperatures due to the Polar Vortex. Maybe a distant cousin, the Pooper Vortex, took a giant dump on my carpet. My money is still on the tunneling, marauding elephant with the sharpened spoon, though. So many theories, so little time. As long as I don’t run out of Pee Whiz, I’ll be fine.

Friday, January 3, 2014

Hackers Should Rot

This morning I got to work sort of jazzed, due to the fact that it was Friday (as jazzed as one can be at 6am). As I was sipping my beloved vanilla latte, I perused my email. Lo and behold, there was an email from myself. It was sent at 3:33am, which, to my knowledge was when I was still asleep. Wow! I must be some kind of freaking computer genius to be able to telepathically email during REM sleep. Plus, I apparently thought it was Talk Like Sylvester Stallone Day, since my subject line started with “Yo, Kim...”. I do believe my home email got hacked, for the second time in six months. Bastards! Seriously douche-baggery was afoot. Why do people hack? Is someone so unhappy they have to try to outsmart total strangers and mess with their privacy? At the bottom of the bad emails that were sent in my name, were quotes from movies. These were various versions of “neener, neener, neener”. The one I received was a quote by Obi Wan Kenobi which referenced being fooled. What did I do to warrant this, and how is someone getting my passwords? I would suspect an inside job, but am pretty sure my dogs can’t type. Stella is too busy pooping in the living room to mess with my laptop. Cosmo cares more about eating and sniffing butts. And Lucy just wants to be left alone. My husband is not a suspect either. So, the culprit must be a total stranger - one who needs to be rousted from where he is living, possibly in his parent’s basement, and forced to pay for his dirty tricks. I suppose jail time is a little over the top, but I would like the Hacker to spend the day with me. First off - Living room poop patrol (no bags, just fingers). Then, I’d send him two doors down to the Psycho Neighbor’s house with a plate of cookies. That would keep her chatting with him for a good couple of hours about spaceships, gang violence, and why nobody should park in front of her house. Tee hee. After that, I would march the Hacker around the nearest mall wearing a sign saying “Will twerk for food”. Endless possibilities. I am smarter and more clever than the Hacker, at least in my brain. He can’t touch that.