Be Gone, Kardashians!

I watch a lot of TV... a lot. I’m most fond of crime mysteries, and detest reality TV. Much of reality shows involves fighting, swearing, crying, and more fighting. I dislike conflict, so these shows are not my idea of a good time. Just about every show on the E! Network involves some flavor of Kardashian. I just don’t get it. At the dawn of reality TV, I asked my daughter exactly why these people had a TV show. What were they famous for, other than being famous? She could never give me a satisfactory answer. Nobody could. I admit I have watched some episodes of the Kardashian’s shows with Molly. Call it mother-daughter bonding. But now, I’ve reached my Kardashian limit. Bruce Jenner, the emasculated patriarch and former Olympian, is a victim of bad cosmetic surgery. Kris, the mom, is starting to look weird too. The three sisters are extremely whiney, and super spoiled. The brother isn’t so bad but I’m not sure he’s featured much. Kourtney’s baby daddy is a major creep. He makes me want to barf, and needs to buy some socks. Unfortunately, there are a couple of teenage Kardashian girls lurking in the wings, and grandkids bringing up the rear. Even if I never turned on my TV, I would still see them on every magazine cover at the grocery store checkout. Kim Kardashinan’s maternity clothes, weight gain, love life, new mansion... there seems to be no end. I am so done with these people that I can’t even derive some snickers from learning that Kim has gained 2000 pounds. I yearn for the good old days when the only Kardashian in the headlines was Robert, one of OJ Simpson’s defense lawyers (the one whose mouth hung open at the Not Guilty verdict). These people need to go. They have made grundles of money, so probably never have to work again. They should all retire, even the babies. They are addicted to fame rather than money, though, so retirement is probably not an option. Perhaps Outer Mongolia needs reality TV, and I’ve got just the family to star. Go international, Kardashians. Go global. Whatever you do, though, just go... please. You are everywhere, and I want you nowhere. Please.

A Plethora Of Jobs

I have had a plethora of jobs since I entered the work force at age sixteen. Most of them have been entry-level, menial, and pretty awful. Aside from the 22 years I have spent at my current airline job, the longest time I’ve lasted at another job is 3 years. My first job was as a snack bar waitress at the grocery store. It was a major learning experience, but definitely not my calling. I tried waitressing at a Holiday Inn. As part of Utah’s weird liquor laws, patrons could bring their own wine into the restaurant. I put someone’s RED wine in an ice bucket, thinking it was a classy thing to do. I’m sure I had seen that done in a movie, but probably with champagne. Not a good move, and the handwriting was on the wall that I should move on. I have had jobs with uniforms - McDonald’s (blue polyester - don’t get too close to an open flame!), and a movie theatre (Keystone Kops in hot pants). I worked in retail, where I sold home goods and apparel. I was an assistant buyer at a department store, where my main responsibility seemed to be the scheduling of lunch breaks. I was a travel agent, a hotel reservation agent, and also did data entry at several different companies. None of these jobs held my interest for very long. For a short time I even tried my own house cleaning service. This was a really bad idea, as I am allergic to dust and cats. My favorite job was as a window trimmer. It was creative and sort of unusual. I thoroughly enjoyed starting with an outfit and a mannequin, and ending with a completely decorated window, replete with accessories and props. One of my favorite chores was having to climb onto landings between the Up and the Down escalators to change a mannequin’s outfit. I hate to admit it but that bit of acrobatics made me feel important and special. Surely, shoppers moving past me must have been envious and wanted to be me. (Yes, even then I led a rich fantasy life in my head). If I were young and starting over now, I would totally pursue that display job as a career move. A design degree is probably required now, but that’s alright. I have spent my life trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up. I’ll let you know when that happens - the growing up part I mean.

Mr. Leonard

One day in the summer of 1959, my mom told me to get in the car. She had a surprise for me. I was 5 years old and was fascinated at the thought of taking part in something special that didn’t involve my sisters. It was eons until my January birthday, so I was intrigued. I asked Mom if I was getting a doll house. I was told no, I would just have to wait and see. When we arrived at the magical place of the Grand Surprise, I was disappointed. Turns out I was getting my long hair cut. Big whoop. The beauty parlor was located in the lady’s side of a barber shop. There were photos of hairstyles torn out of magazines lining the mirrors, yellowing and kind of dog-eared. And there stood Mr. Leonard. Anybody over twelve seemed old to me, but Mr. Leonard seemed ancient. I’m not sure if it was an age thing or a disease, but his hands had tremors. This did not bode well for being on the receiving end of sharp scissors. I believe I got the first shag haircut in Salt Lake City, years before it’s time. The best thing about my subsequent visits to Mr. Leonard was checking out the pet store a couple doors down from his salon. Watching the puppies in the window after my haircut made the frightening shaking scissor experience well worth it. I’m not sure how Mom stumbled upon Mr. Leonard, but she eventually took over for him and cut our hair. We sported some pretty heinous, super short Mamie Eisenhower bangs back then. Mom believed that bangs should have a curve to them, rather than going straight across one’s forehead. Unfortunately, she wasn’t always sure where to stop. Sometimes our bangs went halfway to the back of our heads. Talk about your bowl cut! My ears aren’t symmetrical, so getting my sides even was sometimes a challenge. I believe Dad took away my mom’s scissors on the Day of The Five Haircuts. She couldn’t seem to get my sides even and just kept at it - five times by my count. I went to a birthday party directly after this extreme haircut and the birthday girl said I looked like a boy. Oh the humanity! My hairstyle then looked pretty much they way it does now, minus hair gel. I’ve come full circle. I wonder if Mr. Leonard would approve.

WHODS

I saw a story in the news about a woman who attacked her husband with hot oatmeal. The attack occurred while he slept, yet she claimed it was self defense. Hmmm... Defense against what, snoring? I have been eating oatmeal every day to lower my cholesterol. Never in my wildest dreams did I know it could also be used as a weapon. I assume any hot substance poured on an unsuspecting person could be used. Oatmeal, though, seems like it has extra stickiness that would enhance the damage. My daughter goes to night school. I worry about her safety as she goes to her car in the dark after class. I’m not a fan of guns. Knives aren’t a good option either. Maybe some sort of Weaponized Hot Oatmeal Delivery System, or WHODS, needs to be invented. Raisins definitely should be a component. I know oatmeal has some skin-tightening properties, and is also used to take away itchiness. In the future if you got caught misusing a WHODS, you could just say you were helping someone exfoliate. See? I’m way better than that lady at coming up with excuses for bad oatmeal behavior. Self defense? ...Sheesh, what an amateur! I’ve always thought tube socks would be a great component of a home-made weapon. Actually, they’re hideous so that’s all they should be used for. Years ago, I got an award at work. My trophy was a very heavy disk-like paper weight. The first thought upon receiving it was how it would make a great weapon if hidden in a tube sock. Visions of David & Goliath? Seriously, I’m not a violent person, just always thinking. A multitude of things stuffed into a tube sock could be quite harmful - rolls of quarters, rocks, marbles. I could go on, but I’m sounding less creative and more nutball. In summation, oatmeal is good for lowering cholesterol but bad for sound sleep when your spouse holds a grudge. Any questions? I’ll be tinkering in my basement on my WHODS.

Old Fart Denial

I perused the bulletin board while I waited in line at my neighborhood coffee shop this morning. On it, I found an interesting flyer advertising an evening of dancing to Motown tunes. An old photo of the Supremes caught my eye. For a second or two, I actually thought this might be something I’d be interested in. Then I read who was holding the event - the local community senior center. OMG! I couldn’t get the picture of a bunch of old people jitterbugging to Marvin Gay out of my brain. Thoughts of walkers and canes stomping to “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” almost made my head explode. I would have been totally devastated if the music had been disco. That music is my guilty pleasure, and is alive and well and living in my iPod. When I was in my 40’s, a woman asked if I considered myself middle-aged. When I said “No”, she asked just how old I expected to live to if I wasn’t halfway there. Made me stop and re-think where I stood in the whole scheme of things. Lately I have noticed the music being played at the grocery store is from the 1970’s. I was thoroughly enjoying what I was hearing until I realized My Music is now Muzak. Is it also being played in elevators and as hold music on phones? Except for a few wrinkles and hair that’s more salt than pepper, I don’t really feel that ancient. I’m more like a really rickety 25. I never discussed the aging process with my parents, so don’t know what their thoughts were. I was too busy being young to worry about ever getting old. I’m sure they weren’t thrilled, but don’t remember them mentioning it. Maybe they thought there was no point. Everybody does it, whether they like it or not. That’s not the way I roll, however. I lead my life in total denial, and it seems to work for me. Until something like that flyer stops me in my tracks. I hope I’m still around in 30 years when the grocery store is playing today’s rap and hip hop on the sound system. Ha, that’s worth sticking around for.

G.P.S.

For those who don't know, G.P.S. stands for God-Please-Save-me-I'm-hopelessly-lost-and-really-really-hate-when-that-happens. Four years ago, my son and I flew to Boston and rented a car for the 2.5 hour drive to White River Junction, VT. We were there to scope out Ben's future school, the Center for Cartoon Studies. I rented a G.P.S. unit for the drive, which proved to be crucial. Greta (name I gave to the G.P.S. lady voice) did an excellent job getting us to Vermont and back to Boston. We ticked her off once when we made a diversion in search of a latte, but she got over it in true mechanical fashion ("Recalculate!"). Ben was a great co-pilot and calming force. Without him and Greta, we would still be lost in a tunnel somewhere in the bowels of Boston. A few months later, we moved Ben to school. Rick, Ben, Molly and I retraced the previous trip with a borrowed G.P.S. unit. This time, the unit had a dude's voice, which I christened Gaston (I decided he was French Canadian, even though he had no discernible accent). We made it safely to Vermont without getting lost. Getting back to the Boston car rental location, however, was my driving nightmare come to life. Apparently, we took the wrong exit from a Boston bridge. Gaston seemed confused, but insisted that we were the dumbasses. We drove in circles for an hour, and passed through both sides of a toll road. I was hyperventilating and on the verge of tears, with my fingers imbedded in the door armrest, when Gaston finally got his act together. I wanted to kiss the ground when the car finally stopped, but was too embarrassed. Plus I didn’t want gravel stuck to my lips. I sent a mental thank you to the G.P.S. gods, and will hire Greta next time. And to Gaston - You have been banned from Boston, Vermont, and all points in between. Au revoir.

Going Around In Circles

I’ve never understood the fascination with watching stuff going around in circles. Take NASCAR for instance. As far as I know, a bunch of cars drive really fast in a circle. I have never delved into these races, so if there is more to them, I apologize. They just seem silly, and kind of boring. Maybe the draw is hoping for a horrendous crash. I went to a hockey game once with a friend. The crowd seemed to only perk up when there was a fight. It was amazing to watch. Also, we were sitting behind a deaf couple who yelled at the refs and players via sigh language. I found them way more fun to watch than the game. But I digress... The Olympic short track speed skating event is another going-around-in-a-circle sport. Unlike a car race, I find it too suspenseful to watch. Definitely not boring, but I still don’t enjoy it. One Christmas, my sister and I got a little train set. It had an engine and a few cars, and simply chugged around in a circle. After the first few times it went around the track, I lost interest. We piled our troll dolls on the train cars, which was amusing for a few rotations. Then, I was bored again. Finally, I went all Snidely Whiplash and put one of my trolls on the tracks. I didn’t need to tie her to the tracks. I just laid her across and waited for the carnage. The little train didn’t drive over her. It hit her and stopped, and then tipped over. Not what I expected, but interesting all the same. I think at that point I was done with train sets. I’m sure there are many more spectator events involving some sort of track that would have the same snooze factor for me. Maybe I expect too much, or am high maintenance. Or maybe I’ve missed a concept that the rest of the known world seems to appreciate. Guess my membership card got lost in the mail.