Blue Night Entertainment

I ducked into WalMart tonight to pick up three items and the following is an account of the increasingly loud conversation I overheard taking place between two teenaged boys at the far end of the household cleaning product isle:

TB#1--"I don't know. She said it was blue."
TB#2--"Did she say what kind?"
TB#1--"No. She just said it was blue.  Look at this. You buy this and it's only $1. But then you buy this to put in it and it's $7.  That's messed up."

By this time I had drawn close and saw they were looking at the refillable air fresheners. I silently laughed and thought to myself--"yep, that's how they real you on to purchase their product and try to force you into product loyalty." But I remained silent. I was not in the mood to engage in any conversation.

They continued to mumble-grumble about the prices of things as I was passing by and, although I did not want to engage in conversation, I'm not adverse  to a little eaves-dropping, so I lingered to see which blue air freshener refill they purchased. My thoughts are in parentheses.

TB#2--"Well your room always smells like food."
TB#1--"That's better than what yours smells like."

(I'm pretty sure the conversation is now being played out for my benefit since I've finished looking at the air fresheners and am now sniffing the candles.)

TB#2--"So she didn't say what kind or anything?!"
TB#1--"No. She just said it's blue."
TB#2--"What about this one?"
TB#1--"That's not blue."
TB#2--"It won't matter. She won't know the difference."
TB#1--"If we get the wrong one it won't fit. We have to get the blue one."
TB#2--"This is so wrong--we don't have enough information to do this."

(Come on guys--this isn't a math word problem--just call and ask for the brand name.)

TB#1--pulling out his cell phone (wahoo--a boy with brains enough to ask for directions).  What if we take pictures?   (So much for asking for directions, but at least he's thinking of possible scenarios.)
TB#2--"Just call."
TB#1--whining--"I'm tired. I just want to go home." Starts to re-pocket his phone.
TB#2--"I thought you were going to take a picture."
TB#1--whining louder--"No bro--I just want to go home. If we take a picture. We'll have to come back."

(You might as well take the picture, because you boys are coming back.)

More whining ensues and I'm growing weary of eavesdropping, so I prepare to leave when a gaggle of teens walk down a perpendicular major isle on their way to the soda section. The Gaggle is extremely obnoxious and loud, as only bored teens can be.

So loud in fact, TB#1 says--"I could never be that loud and obnoxious."

(What?!?!?!?!)

"I mean. They are acting really dumb. I could never do that!"

(Ya think not?!?!?!?)

"I mean, man I can be loud and act dumb."

(Yes. You can.)

TB#2--"I can attest to that."

( I have no idea where he had heard that phrase: however, I promise you  I am not taking creative license--those were his exact words.  This only confirmed my suspicion that they were in fact performing for my benefit.)

TB#1--"Whatever!  But I do not cause drama in public."

(Oh no, ye of the blue refill delemia?  You think whining in WalMart is not drama?)

"I am at least more mature than some people who get loud in public and cause a scene."

(Think again, Blue Boy.)

"We need to pick a blue one and go."

By this time I had grown weary of the Blue-Debate so I placed the last candle I had sniffed in the basket. I would 'set it down somewhere' and just forget to pick it back up. Before you start in on me--that is not my usual behavior.  I normally go out of my way to straighten things up--I don't look for ways to make the stock-kids work harder. But I couldn't just leave empty handed--they would know I had only stopped to eavesdrop.

Anyway, somewhere between the real candle section and the check-out register I forgot to ditch it. As I passed back by I heard the boys still arguing about what to do and whining about being tired and just wanting to go home. And the loud gaggle were still making drama as the roamed the store with nothing better to do on a Spring Break Week Night.

Since I still had the candle when I arrived at the checkout I decided to buy it after all--where else could I find such fine entertainment for $5 except by the light of the Blue Light Speciak--okay, that's K-Mart, not WalMart.  Just work with me. I'm tired and just wanna go to bed.

Besides, the candle was blue.

My Jane Austen Life

OMGosh. According to the Jane Austen novel link below, not only am I currently IN a Jane Austen novel...I think I could be every character, so most likely I  AM a Jane Austen novel!

I am usually the one trying to persuade others to go on a trip. I don't think I'm disagreeable--although I do like to stir things up by playing devils advocate from time to time.

I usually like playing cards (or board games), but again, I am not disagreeable.

Someone I know has fallen ill--not dramatically so, but interestingly so.

I don't think the  piano player hates me, but I know she's no longer my friend.

All of my dresses ARE nightgowns.

I once took a walk with a cad.

Everyone, girls and boys alike, tell me their secrets. But I don't despise them for it. Unless they tell me they are secretly rich, skinny, and beautiful blonde bombshells. But I still don't despise them. I just plot their next accident....

My Mother is neither dead nor ridiculous; however, I do have numerous females who treat me like a daughter. (Thanks Moms!)

My Father was in Finance in the Air Force--he made sure everyone got paid. He was very good with numbers and was chagrined when I told him I no longer balance my checkbook. I monitor my accounts online.

I once fell off a cliff at a picnic--does it count as something going horribly wrong if I only sustained scratches and missed out on the rest of the afternoons activities?

I don't dance publicly. The resentment would be directed at me.

Would the military commander with no morals be the same as a commander in chief without character?

Thanks to one of the "Moms," I  am the woman with the absurd hat.

My surviving garden and house plants, are astonished they are still alive so I guess my garden IS an astonishment.

Three men in my life?  I've got only two. Alas, neither Bandit nor Moggy are seriously marriage material.

If a charming man attempted to flirt with me it WOULD be terrible. Especially if he were also handsome, sexy, and rich. I'm not sure I could handle the terribleness of it....just try me! ;~)


This post was my rebuttal to the link below:

http://the-toast.net/2014/05/27/tell-jane-austen-novel/#CATg2lJit0Xl4xk4.01

Road Trippin' Dream

At some point last night I woke up giggling. I can't remember the specific details, but my dream had something to do with a road trip involving me, Linda, and Vickie  (been there, done that when they came to retrieve me from Florida after emergency surgery last year). 

The part that had me giggling:  in my dream version road trip we had stopped and Lucille Ball and Don Knotts joined us. I can't remember any of the specifics now (I should have taken time to jot it down when I woke up),  but for some reason Don Knotts was sitting in the tree forked branches of a small tree.  He was striking the pose of seeking something on the horizon--right hand shading his eyes, left hand behind him securing his place, as he straddled the forked branches. The only thing better would have had him covered in branches, peeking out with his bulging eyes wide open. 

I love to discern the common thread my dreams have with my real life, and I think this particular dream stemmed from a conversation about Lucille Ball, and road trips (hers on TV/mine in real life), Vickie, Linda, Guyann  and I discussed during our recent Spades game. 

And the tree was a result of the you tube video of golf pro Sergio Garcia's tree shot during the PGA tour last year.  I'm not a golf devotee--I saw the you tube video on Jason's FB page recently. 

Here's a link to the golf shot. My favorite line, "I think he needs the "Tree Iron."  I love a good (bad) pun....and funny comedians both on the Telly, and in my real life. 

I'm still clueless as to Don Knotts' appearance. 

http://youtu.be/10jORLiU7Ak

Twilight Zone Socks

I might be living in a Twilight Zone sock episode.  

Do you remember the Twilight Zone TV series?  I do. Each week, from 1959-1964 Rod Serling would bring a Kafkaesque story to me via our  black and white TV set.  Like the Prague-born German novelist, Franz Kafka, Serling would tell a complex surreal story in which the participant, and those of us watching,  would experience feelings of helplessness as the character underwent bizarre conditions.

One of my favorite episodes was Wordplay, in which a salesman is frustrated  by his new difficulty understanding people due to the increasing insertion of totally unrelated, wrong word choices in speech (e.g. identifying a dog as a trumpet, or a restaurant as a dinosaur, etc.) .  The incidence of random gibberish increased until finally, he could not understand anyone. The episode ended with him picking up his son’s reading book in an effort to relearn how to communicate with his confusing world. The camera zoomed in on the page of the opened book and we saw a picture of a dog. The picture caption read:  Wednesday.

TZ  was such phenomenal hit that other shows spoofed it.  My favorite TZ spoof was found on a 1967 episode of  The Lucy Show, entitled Lucy’s Substitute Secretary. Lucy planed a trip to Hawaii, but Mr. Mooney really liked Lucy’s pretty blonde replacement, so fearing she might lose her job to the new girl, Lucy skipped her trip and “twilighted” the sub. One of the things she did to her was willy-nilly changing out the same type plant in several different sizes. It was great.

So what does this have to do with me living in a real life TZ-inspired sock episode?

I think my middle-aged, double-wide, clod-hoppers have grown—either that, or The Sock Industry is “twilighting” me.

Okay, so maybe they are not targeting me personally, but something’s going on. Maybe it’s an instance of attempting to raise flailing profit margins. Perhaps The Sock Industry has started making socks smaller,  but still calling them the same size in a misguided effort to manage their resource utilization.  Kind of like cereal, or laundry soap being sold for the same price but the box is an ounce or so lighter.  

Or, perhaps The Sock Industry has started supplementing the costly cotton fibers with cheaper lycra®.  You know lycra®—it’s that stretchy fabric that molds to every bump and bulge on your body. It’s not a great look for anyone. The overweight  stretch it and every fat pocket is revealed.  Anorexics wear it, and their bones poke out. It is not a kind fabric. Some have said it was developed by the devil.

While I am not convinced The Sock Industry has resorted to these devious  business practices, I do believe they have enchanted their socks, and entice them to go off on adventures never to return. With the rise in Sock Run-a-ways, I would not think that The Sock Industry would have a problem making money—let’s face it, unless you have no fashion sense whatsoever, once a sock goes missing, it has to be replaced.  I  myself have several singles.  Some are really cute because since my last sock-rant, a sweet friend bought me really cute matching socks.  Unfortunately, one by one, they too have split up and disappeared.  

I blame it on the Sock Enchantment Spell.

Rather than rely on the kindness of my friends toreplenish my sock stash, I went to the store to purchase more socks. That's where I learned brand new socks are smaller than they used to be. The first set:  three pair of brightly colored and patterned socks—they shrunk to infant size after the initial washing.  The second set: diabetic socks (one white pair, one fuchsia pair) got separated somewhere between the washer, the dryer, and the sock-drawer.  This is a prime example of why I usually only buy the same style of one brand of black socks—contrary to what you  might be thinking of my fuddy-duddy-factor, when a partner goes missing, a Plain-Jane black sock can be replaced. Easily.  

 

Alas, the store only had one set, so I couldn’t buy two sets—my rationale for wanting two identical sets of the socks:  back-ups. That was not the case and subsequent trips to the store to purchase their twins, have been unsuccessful. I apparently bought the last non-black diabetic socks in the retail world. The singleton fuchsia and white socks left behind have been given to Bandit and Moggy.  I’m pretty sure when they have been shredded, their partners will return—which is why I keep all the other fudd-duddy black partner-less socks in the sock drawer—I keep hoping against hope the partners will one day The Prodigal Socks will return to the fold. Or ball, as the case may be since I fold the socks  into a ball. I’m pretty sure if I gave the rest of the singletons to  the FurKids, the returning partners would arrive as soon as the FurKids stopped their shredding.  

Why all this talk of socks?

I’m wearing one of my oldest pair of matching socks. They are almost thread-bare. And they are currently molded so tightly to my feet that my toes feel crushed. You would think since they are so old they would be stretched out, beyond the point of  RTTOSAS (return to the original size and shape).  These particularly hideous black socks are oversized men’s socks.  They are not a cute look. But they are usually comfortable. As the day has progressed, the comfort factor has been reduced, and the un-cute factor has increased.  To make matters worse, they are jeopardizing my job.

When my feet are not comfortable, I’m grouchy. When I’m grouchy, I could say or do something that might jeopardize my job; therefore, for the sake of my job, I once again need to purchase new socks. Socks that are larger. And cute.

 I long for cute, comfortable socks.

Actually, I have found cute and comfortable socks—I just didn’t wear them today. You’ve probably seen then in the store before. They are the fuzzy aloe-infused socks in the foot care section.  They are thick and comfy…and meant to be lounging socks.

Which is why I didn’t wear them to work today. I made that mistake yesterday.  

The aloe they are infused with makes your feet really soft; however, they also make for poor traction. In fact they are downright slippery inside your shoes. Slippery lounging socks and icy parking lot/sidewalks at work aren’t a very good combination

Rest assured I did not fall.

But the people that saw me slip-sliding across the lot were highly entertained by my Twilight Zone inspired strut yesterday. Their laughter is the reason I have returned to wearing my ugly socks.

Socks, that seem to have shrunk.

Hacker Rats Beware!

I did something stupid. I accepted a Friend Request on FaceBook without checking to see if the request was legitimate. I know better than  that. But I have grown lazy. 

A short while later (maybe a day or so),  I received a message from "her".  That in and of itself was somewhat odd, since we are not super close—we sang in a couple of Choirs together, she’s invited me to join another singing group she’s involved in now.  Or she could have looked at some of my recent posts about Moggy, my fairly new rescue kitten. She also has been involved in cat rescue—but in a really big and formal way.  So theoretically she could have contacted me. However, since I would see her at Choir Rehearsal in just a couple of hours, it was highly unlikely and Clue Number One that not all was right in FB-Land.

Clue Number Two that this was not my real friend:  The syntax of her message was off.

The Final Clue came when she asked if I had heard her "good news." To a Southern Baptist, that has a whole other conotation and many times we reserve this particular phrase for the telling of The Good News (that Jesus Christ died for our sins and offers the free gift of Salvation to all who believe and receive it).  

Smelling a soon to be confirmed hacker-rat, I noncommittally asked "her" what her good news was.  “She” began to tell me about the $100,000 she had been awarded by FB and Zuckerboy (I call him that, the hacker–rat does not.). I confronted hacker-rat immediately.  Then I messaged Real Friend to let her know she’d been hacked, and I deleted the hacked account from my Friend List. I also contacted 4 of the 5 friends we have in common (I’m sorry #5, I couldn’t remember who you were). I also posted a warning on my own FB Page on global settings, changed my password, and reported the hacking to FB. Included in my FB page warning,  a reminder  that  of all my friends, I have only made a Friend Request twice (I can’t stand the thought of someone rejecting my request).  I also globally announced I have not received any money, or other good news—and neither am I in need of money while being stuck in another country with my passport and wallet missing.  In short, I did all the things I could think of to stop this hacker-rat in their tracks.

However, I think I performed the steps in the wrong order.

I think the order I should have taken should have been:   

1)      Change my password.

2)      Report it to my Real Friend.

3)      Notify all our common friends.

4)      Report it to FB.

5)      Delete the hacker-rat account without giving the hacker-rat a heads-up that I was not fooled.

6)      Change my password a second time.  Just in case I was too slow the first time. 

7)      Post my warning and reminder announcement on my FB page, on global settings.  

No matter, it’s done now. Hopefully this particular hacker-rat will be thwarted. In reality, they probably won’t be. I’m not as computer savvy as they are.  But, I did enjoy telling hacker-rat I was on to them, and they were being reported.

Now, I just have to remember to be more diligent about accepting Friend Requests....and my new password....

50 Shades of The Dress

Today, in the absence of my Senior Pastor, who is on a Mission Trip, Jason, my Executive Pastor for Equipping, made a statement prior to launching into his message.  His statement converged on internet images I’ve seen this past week:  a pink and white trailer in an overgrown weedy yard, and a gold and white dress. On the surface the three are unrelated. But in reality, they deal with the same issue: Our plumb-line, or point of reference.  

Just as a level is a horizontal reference, a plumb-line (aka a plummet or plumb-bob) is a vertical reference. They both are reference tools. But they perform different jobs. Jason started off by saying something to the effect that, “The problem with a perceived lack of Spiritual Growth is that we don’t use the correct measurement tool.” Tools are only as good as they are correctly used. A level doesn’t measure depth any more than a plumb-line, levels a photo. That resonated with me, but not only for the spiritual application, but for everyday applications.

The images joined with this statement via Facebook. One image is the infamous dress of changing colors. I see it as Gold and White. Neuro Science and the Science of Color Perception both tell me I’m wrong, that the dress is actually Black and Blue. It has something to do with the way each of us perceives the lighting around an object.  The questions many scientists are now asking are, “Why are so many people seeing it differently? What has triggered so many of us to see the surrounding light differently?” (Incidentally, my first inclination was to wonder if this is all a social experiment to see how many people will have a change in perception once they read about the science proof—how many people who originally saw it as gold and white, can be swayed to believing it is actually black and blue.  I still, even after reading the scientific proof, see it as gold and white—even when I see the original, alongside the other two.)

Here’s an article about the neuroscience behind our perception of color (and a side-by-side comparison of the original dress, and the two ways we perceive it): 

http://www.wired.com/2015/02/science-one-agrees-color-dress/

I’ll get back to this in a while. 

The other image I’ve seen recently is the one of the pink and white trailer in the overgrown, weedy yard proclaiming, “50 shades is only romantic because he is a billionaire. If he was living in a trailer, it would be a ‘Criminal Minds’ episode.” Another perception issue you might think. At first I thought so as well. But then I realized the insidiousness of what it was actually saying.

I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE the pink trailer—I want a retro travel trailer to paint like that for my retirement trips. However, I HATE, HATE, HATE the sentiment expressed. On the surface it appears to denounce disrespect.  But reread it...especially this one phrase...

"...is only romantic..." 

Only romantic?  Really?! That phrase lends credibility to the notion that the exploitation of another person can be "romantic." 

It's not.  Ever. 

Love and romance stem from mutual respect. Mutually placing the others needs before your own. Protecting each other. There is no protection in an abusive relationship. No romance. No mutual give and take.   There is no mutual anything. There is a giver (the abused by choice or by circumstance) and there is a taker (the abuser).  And don’t even get me started about consenting adults. 

"Consent" is nothing.  People consent all the time to horrendous situations in order to gain acceptance or "love.”  But a “consenting” under aged person is still considered statutorily raped. 

And so it is with abuse.  Abuse is not an optical illusion or a color perception issue like The Color Changing Dress. When it comes to abuse, there is no grey—fifty shades or otherwise.  Abuse is a black or white issue.

 Abuse is wrong.  Always.

Coming back to what Jason said this morning, I realized the reason some of my friends see “Fifty Shades” as romantic is the same as the color perception of The Dress. We are using a different measurement tool—we are looking at it with a different light source. And therein lies the problem. We are measuring love and romance by the wrong plumb-line.  If I try to measure my weight with a ruler it will come out wrong. If I try to measure my height with a scale. It will come out wrong.

And so it is with love and romance, if we try to measure love or romance by eroticism, it will never be right. 

So what can we measure love by? I’m glad you asked. 

https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1+John+3:16&version=NIV

1 John 3:16 tells us how we can know what love is—Jesus Christ is our example. He laid down His life for us. Our soldiers know this. They are ready to lay down their life and fight wars to ensure the people they love (and the rest of us) will live in freedom. 

But that’s just war and God, you might say. What about romantic love? What is that? Again, I’m glad you asked. 

https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1+Corinthians+13&version=NIV

1 Corinthians 13, the “Love Chapter” paints a beautiful picture of what love is and what love isn’t. Especially verses 4-8a. 

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”   (Italics and bolding are mine to visually represent the differences between what love is not and what love is.)

I encourage you to question your perceptions and find the Correct Tool with which to measure everything.