My husband was cleaning out our hobby room and found one of his old video games, StarCraft. He remembered how much he loved playing it and offered to show me how I could master the basics in no time. I haven’t been into video games since Ms. Pac-Man and I think I became obsessed with that because it involved eating dots and chasing after bouncing fruit. Nevertheless, he wanted me to try his game because if I can get up to speed, we can play online with others. Heh.
He sat with me, offering helpful tips as I completed the first two missions, which took three hours!
It went something like this:
BJ: Okay, click on your SCV.
Me: What’s that?
BJ: That’s your energy collecting vehicle.
Me: Where?
BJ: Down at the bottom of the screen.
Me: That little thing?
BJ: Yeah, left click on it and then right click on the minerals.
Me: Oh! He responded to me.
BJ: Yeah. Now build another worker.
Me: I wish I could have done that a week ago. How do I do that?
BJ: Go to your menu, then click on build and select a worker.
Me: That’s easy, now what?
BJ: EXPAND, always expand! Don’t be afraid to.
Me: Do I look like I’m afraid of expanding? I pulled at the waist band of my sweat pants.
BJ: Okay, now you want to collect gas for energy.
Me: That isn’t hard after aunt Birdie’s green bean casserole.
BJ: You’re gonna need all your resources to defend yourself while you’re being attacked on your next mission.
Me: I’m gonna be attacked?
BJ: Big time.
Me: You know, before we get into the attacking mission, I need to switch over to FarmVille and harvest my Pattypan Squash.
BJ: Squash!
Me: Yeah, I have to plant rice too. I’m just forty points away from level one of Rice mastery.
BJ: Okay, baby, but look, you’re being attacked by the Zergs.
Me: Oh my God, this is worse than being attacked by the Goldman’s at my office holiday party. Where’s my SUV?
BJ: No, you have to build Marines and bunkers.
Me: I’ll bet my squash is starting to wither.
BJ: Defense, defense! Where are your firebots?
Me: What are those?! I was madly clicking on the enemy, not realizing that it was a useless exercise.
BJ: Those guys throw flames. Build some!
Me: Does it have to be so violent? My marines are being splattered all over the ground.
BJ: What is your SCV doing just sitting there? Mine more minerals. Go, go, go!
Me: They’re demolishing my power depot!
BJ: You need minerals to build more. You should have been doing that all along.
Me: Now you tell me.
I kept clicking on the Zergs knowing it was futile.
BJ: That’s okay baby, you’ll get ‘em next time.
He patted me on the head and went to our hobby room to work on some music.
I just sat there panting, and reliving the stress I had just experienced from my total annihilation. With a shaky hand, I opened my browser and went to Facebook. I clicked on the FarmVille icon and there it was, my peaceful little farm. All the cows, chickens, goats and horses were in their places, right where I left them. All my ducks were in one straight row, and my Pattypan squash was ripe for harvesting. There’s no place like home.
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Sunday, January 15, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
TIME LAPSE
I was invited to a time management seminar. Time management? Really? I began to wonder. Can time really be managed? That question kept repeating in my mind until evening when I went to bed. The debate rolled over and over in my mind like a pair of pants in the dryer, with a quarter in one pocket.
I finally drifted off and found myself dreaming about it. I had been given the assignment of disassembling Big Ben and the sending parts out for cleaning. I took my job very seriously and demanded to see Sir Benjamin Hall, who ordered the original fourteen-ton bell in 1859. Of course, no one could put me in touch with him and I was incensed. I decided Big Ben was behind the times and searched out a new bell maker. Since I knew that the Swiss make incredibly accurate time pieces, I contacted Axel Acklin, whom I was told, comes from a long line of watchmakers and was now employed by Ryser Kentfield, one of the most well-known watchmakers in Switzerland. I hired him to help with Big Ben but soon became aware of some issues that could hinder the project.
Axel had a thick-as-molasses Swiss accent that was extremely difficult to understand. I asked him to use his best English and he reached out and slapped me across the face. I expected to hear a smacking sound but instead it sounded like the bell that ends a round in a boxing match.
Suddenly, he was like a drill sergeant shouting out directives in perfect English. The strange thing is, he yodeled after each order.
“Hey you! 60 minutes! You might be famous on CBS, but around here you work for me! I want that big hand to be dismantled inside of an hour! And you! Sixty seconds! You may have waltzed for a minute with Chopin, but I expect you to fox trot around here, and for a whole lot longer! You, time over there, don’t start thinking you’re special because people believe you heal things! Yeah right, I suspect it’s the antibiotics. Think you’re a big shot do you? Just because you have an American magazine named after you? And where the hell did the day go? Probably out brooding about his bad hair. Has anyone ordered him to have a nice one? Come on you bunch of Nannos, is your hourglass half empty or half full?! It’s showtime, where is everyone? I’m going call attendance and when I do, you better say say present!”
I began to wonder if I had made a mistake. I could see that Axel was taking my job into realms that would have caused Sir Benjamin Hall to roll over in his grave. Big Ben had now been replaced with a Swiss Chalet Cuckoo clock complete with hand-carved figures of alp climbers in leiderhosen, beer maidens, farmers, cows and roosters. On the hour, a great green Cuckoo bird emerged from the gigantic doors and emitted a deafening cuckoo sound followed by a music box version of The Happy Wanderer.
I was aghast at the disrespect Axel had shown to one of England’s most cherished landmarks. He laughed like a sinister villain and confessed that he didn’t work for Ryser Kentfield at all, but was really a member of The Black Forest Society and had plans to steal all time from the world. Big Ben would now be known as Big Cuckoo!
In time, I was mobbed by angry Englishmen and tossed onto the street hungry and timeless. I was begging for spare time and living in a cardboard Timex box. I was nearly unconscious when a light appeared in front of me and a figure appeared. He said his name was Sir Benjamin Hall and he put a hand on my shoulder. His touch was electric. He asked me a question. “Can time really be gained, beat, killed, marked, kept, gained, lost, borrowed, multiplied, pressed, small, big, behind, out, in, taken, parted, filled, right, wrong, ahead of us, or managed?”
I tried to answer but all that came out of my mouth was the sound of a cuckoo.
He smiled warmly and asked, “You have a lifetime, but are you having the time of your life?”
That’s when I awoke and smiled. I finally had my answer.
I finally drifted off and found myself dreaming about it. I had been given the assignment of disassembling Big Ben and the sending parts out for cleaning. I took my job very seriously and demanded to see Sir Benjamin Hall, who ordered the original fourteen-ton bell in 1859. Of course, no one could put me in touch with him and I was incensed. I decided Big Ben was behind the times and searched out a new bell maker. Since I knew that the Swiss make incredibly accurate time pieces, I contacted Axel Acklin, whom I was told, comes from a long line of watchmakers and was now employed by Ryser Kentfield, one of the most well-known watchmakers in Switzerland. I hired him to help with Big Ben but soon became aware of some issues that could hinder the project.
Axel had a thick-as-molasses Swiss accent that was extremely difficult to understand. I asked him to use his best English and he reached out and slapped me across the face. I expected to hear a smacking sound but instead it sounded like the bell that ends a round in a boxing match.
Suddenly, he was like a drill sergeant shouting out directives in perfect English. The strange thing is, he yodeled after each order.
“Hey you! 60 minutes! You might be famous on CBS, but around here you work for me! I want that big hand to be dismantled inside of an hour! And you! Sixty seconds! You may have waltzed for a minute with Chopin, but I expect you to fox trot around here, and for a whole lot longer! You, time over there, don’t start thinking you’re special because people believe you heal things! Yeah right, I suspect it’s the antibiotics. Think you’re a big shot do you? Just because you have an American magazine named after you? And where the hell did the day go? Probably out brooding about his bad hair. Has anyone ordered him to have a nice one? Come on you bunch of Nannos, is your hourglass half empty or half full?! It’s showtime, where is everyone? I’m going call attendance and when I do, you better say say present!”
I began to wonder if I had made a mistake. I could see that Axel was taking my job into realms that would have caused Sir Benjamin Hall to roll over in his grave. Big Ben had now been replaced with a Swiss Chalet Cuckoo clock complete with hand-carved figures of alp climbers in leiderhosen, beer maidens, farmers, cows and roosters. On the hour, a great green Cuckoo bird emerged from the gigantic doors and emitted a deafening cuckoo sound followed by a music box version of The Happy Wanderer.
I was aghast at the disrespect Axel had shown to one of England’s most cherished landmarks. He laughed like a sinister villain and confessed that he didn’t work for Ryser Kentfield at all, but was really a member of The Black Forest Society and had plans to steal all time from the world. Big Ben would now be known as Big Cuckoo!
In time, I was mobbed by angry Englishmen and tossed onto the street hungry and timeless. I was begging for spare time and living in a cardboard Timex box. I was nearly unconscious when a light appeared in front of me and a figure appeared. He said his name was Sir Benjamin Hall and he put a hand on my shoulder. His touch was electric. He asked me a question. “Can time really be gained, beat, killed, marked, kept, gained, lost, borrowed, multiplied, pressed, small, big, behind, out, in, taken, parted, filled, right, wrong, ahead of us, or managed?”
I tried to answer but all that came out of my mouth was the sound of a cuckoo.
He smiled warmly and asked, “You have a lifetime, but are you having the time of your life?”
That’s when I awoke and smiled. I finally had my answer.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
One Thousand, Eight Hundred and Twenty Five
I’ve just finished watching Julie and Julia (again). It occurred to me that success seems to be achieved while you’re busy doing something else. At least, that is what I gleaned from the movie, which must be why I liked Forest Gump and Oh Brother, Where Art Thou, so much.
That happens to be my most treasured fantasy you know, when success literally smacks you in the back of the head while you’re frantically trying to make something else work. So, here is a young woman who sets a goal for herself to prepare all of Julia’s French recipes within a year. I’ll be darned if she didn’t do it too, not to mention finishing the book and having it turned into a movie.
Well, I thought, I’m a frustrated writer, musician, artist, chef, ice skater, ballroom dancer, gardener, poker player, horse trainer, and knitter. Maybe that is what the problem is. I’m just not focused enough. Maybe I should just pick something and jump in with both feet. After all, it’s the perfect time of year to set a goal. Right?
I just made a list of my partially developed hobbies. I realized that I have been playing the guitar for the last thirty-five years and have never advanced further than, The Puppy Song. I don’t think I have enough time left to master it.
I rendered portraits a couple of decades ago and turned myself inside out to please people and get their images young enough, having the right style and quantity of hair, and with attractive noses and teeth. I felt like a cosmetic surgeon. Sigh.
My mother wanted me to skate in the chorus line of the Ice Capades. Even with the bar lowered, my Axel jump was a disaster.
I’m an Arthur Murray dropout, my garden was eaten by enormous green bugs, and I don’t have the energy to turn a saddle sore into a callus again. Yes, you do have to grow a callus on your tailbone to ride a horse.
I don’t think my tater-tot, lima bean casserole will make it into a cookbook.
Since it was mentioned in the movie that Julie thought she had A.D.D. (Perhaps I do too, ya’ think?) and that was the reason she never finished her novel.
I thought, as an intensely focused hobby, I might collect five thoughts per day from those suffering from A.D.D. If we start tomorrow, by the end of 2012, I will have collected one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five thoughts. That’s a very impressive thought collection, don't you think? Of course, if you submit a thought, that would mean you are granting me permission to use it. Incomplete thoughts are welcome and the more humorous, the better. Keep it clean and original. If you use someone else’s thought, give ‘em credit.
Come on, don’t suffer with your A.D.D. Maybe if we have fun with it, the spell will be broken and A.D.D. will become nothing more than an unpleasant partial memory. Since it is more fun to participate in a group, I will expect everyone to pull their own A.D.D. weight.
Comments are welcome….uh….now...wait...what was the topic?
That happens to be my most treasured fantasy you know, when success literally smacks you in the back of the head while you’re frantically trying to make something else work. So, here is a young woman who sets a goal for herself to prepare all of Julia’s French recipes within a year. I’ll be darned if she didn’t do it too, not to mention finishing the book and having it turned into a movie.
Well, I thought, I’m a frustrated writer, musician, artist, chef, ice skater, ballroom dancer, gardener, poker player, horse trainer, and knitter. Maybe that is what the problem is. I’m just not focused enough. Maybe I should just pick something and jump in with both feet. After all, it’s the perfect time of year to set a goal. Right?
I just made a list of my partially developed hobbies. I realized that I have been playing the guitar for the last thirty-five years and have never advanced further than, The Puppy Song. I don’t think I have enough time left to master it.
I rendered portraits a couple of decades ago and turned myself inside out to please people and get their images young enough, having the right style and quantity of hair, and with attractive noses and teeth. I felt like a cosmetic surgeon. Sigh.
My mother wanted me to skate in the chorus line of the Ice Capades. Even with the bar lowered, my Axel jump was a disaster.
I’m an Arthur Murray dropout, my garden was eaten by enormous green bugs, and I don’t have the energy to turn a saddle sore into a callus again. Yes, you do have to grow a callus on your tailbone to ride a horse.
I don’t think my tater-tot, lima bean casserole will make it into a cookbook.
Since it was mentioned in the movie that Julie thought she had A.D.D. (Perhaps I do too, ya’ think?) and that was the reason she never finished her novel.
I thought, as an intensely focused hobby, I might collect five thoughts per day from those suffering from A.D.D. If we start tomorrow, by the end of 2012, I will have collected one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five thoughts. That’s a very impressive thought collection, don't you think? Of course, if you submit a thought, that would mean you are granting me permission to use it. Incomplete thoughts are welcome and the more humorous, the better. Keep it clean and original. If you use someone else’s thought, give ‘em credit.
Come on, don’t suffer with your A.D.D. Maybe if we have fun with it, the spell will be broken and A.D.D. will become nothing more than an unpleasant partial memory. Since it is more fun to participate in a group, I will expect everyone to pull their own A.D.D. weight.
Comments are welcome….uh….now...wait...what was the topic?
Monday, December 26, 2011
What, Me Worry?
Growing up, I learned many valuable things from my mother. Things like, the television gets really clear just before it blows up and if you swallow a fingernail it will puncture your intestines and never eat a banana before going to bed. The most beneficial piece of advice though, has carried me through most of my life; always expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed.
I like to look up the meaning of words, it's kind of a hobby of mine, not to mention that knowing the meaning of words comes in quite handy if you're a writer. I looked up the word, 'worry', and this is what I found:
wor·ry
[wur-ee, wuhr-ee]
1.to torment oneself with or suffer from disturbing thoughts; fret.
2.to move with effort: an old car worrying uphill.
3.to torment with cares, anxieties, etc.; trouble; plague.
4.to seize, especially by the throat, with the teeth and shake or mangle, as one animal does another.
5.to harass by repeated biting, snapping, etc.
I just realized that this adds a whole new experience update to my mother's Linked-in profile, if she had one, and if she were alive.
Of course, there are things that have to be taught by example, words just aren’t enough. There is an art to worrying that has been developed primarily for aesthetics rather than utility. Hands must be wrung dramatically. My mother had brick-red knuckles. I have tried, but have never been able to achieve the same shade although I’m happy with my current skin tone which borders on unripe watermelon.
Crossing oneself is helpful if of the Catholic religion. I have crossed myself just to see what it is like but I’m not Catholic so it doesn’t count, but when the back of the hand is pressed to the forehead coupled with a facial grimace immediately following the cross, the effect can be fantastic. This stance is usually to induce guilt in others but can also foster compassion. If however someone tries to reassure the worrier, they may receive a look that suggests something bad is going to happen to them. Pacing can be effective but only if done while muttering.
“You’re always the one who gets hurt,” has stuck with me since childhood. Funny, it sure seemed that way as I was growing up. I realize now that probably all children get hair brushes tangled in their hair and have to have them cut out, and have been knocked down by a stray dog leaping through a screen door or written about in the medical journal of 1968 because of complications following a tonsillectomy, and I’m sure there are plenty of kids who have been run over by the family car.
If you don’t tell someone to drive safely, or be careful, they will be in a horrible accident. I don’t know what the statistics are on this, in fact, I don’t know what the statics are on a lot of things but, “they say,” by not cautioning someone before they set out may cause them to become unstable and make poor choices. I don’t take any chances, I tell loved ones to be careful. It always makes my mailman smile.
If you don’t tell someone you worry about them, you will be in a horrible accident. I think my mother confused love with worry. If she didn’t worry about you, she didn’t love you. If she didn’t love you, she didn’t worry about you. It made sense to her.
I’m still not sure if anything bad will happen if I eat a banana before going to bed but I don’t intend to find out.
I like to look up the meaning of words, it's kind of a hobby of mine, not to mention that knowing the meaning of words comes in quite handy if you're a writer. I looked up the word, 'worry', and this is what I found:
wor·ry
[wur-ee, wuhr-ee]
1.to torment oneself with or suffer from disturbing thoughts; fret.
2.to move with effort: an old car worrying uphill.
3.to torment with cares, anxieties, etc.; trouble; plague.
4.to seize, especially by the throat, with the teeth and shake or mangle, as one animal does another.
5.to harass by repeated biting, snapping, etc.
I just realized that this adds a whole new experience update to my mother's Linked-in profile, if she had one, and if she were alive.
Of course, there are things that have to be taught by example, words just aren’t enough. There is an art to worrying that has been developed primarily for aesthetics rather than utility. Hands must be wrung dramatically. My mother had brick-red knuckles. I have tried, but have never been able to achieve the same shade although I’m happy with my current skin tone which borders on unripe watermelon.
Crossing oneself is helpful if of the Catholic religion. I have crossed myself just to see what it is like but I’m not Catholic so it doesn’t count, but when the back of the hand is pressed to the forehead coupled with a facial grimace immediately following the cross, the effect can be fantastic. This stance is usually to induce guilt in others but can also foster compassion. If however someone tries to reassure the worrier, they may receive a look that suggests something bad is going to happen to them. Pacing can be effective but only if done while muttering.
“You’re always the one who gets hurt,” has stuck with me since childhood. Funny, it sure seemed that way as I was growing up. I realize now that probably all children get hair brushes tangled in their hair and have to have them cut out, and have been knocked down by a stray dog leaping through a screen door or written about in the medical journal of 1968 because of complications following a tonsillectomy, and I’m sure there are plenty of kids who have been run over by the family car.
If you don’t tell someone to drive safely, or be careful, they will be in a horrible accident. I don’t know what the statistics are on this, in fact, I don’t know what the statics are on a lot of things but, “they say,” by not cautioning someone before they set out may cause them to become unstable and make poor choices. I don’t take any chances, I tell loved ones to be careful. It always makes my mailman smile.
If you don’t tell someone you worry about them, you will be in a horrible accident. I think my mother confused love with worry. If she didn’t worry about you, she didn’t love you. If she didn’t love you, she didn’t worry about you. It made sense to her.
I’m still not sure if anything bad will happen if I eat a banana before going to bed but I don’t intend to find out.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Experiencing The A.S.S.
Germany has developed a unique device, actually a suit, which is an, Age Simulator System, or ASS for those who enjoy acronyms. It is thought that this suit will help young designers of electrical appliances, cars and medical equipment improve designs by being made aware of the specific difficulties of those in their autumn years. God forbid we say the ‘O’ word. Old, old, old, old…there, I said it, thrice.
The suit has weights sewn in at various points to simulate heaviness, built-in ear muffs to decrease hearing and the helmet has a visor that restricts the line of vision and wraps it in a dull yellowish tinge. A quote from one of the first to try the suit was, “Just crossing the street was an adventure, sitting down on a bench was a pain and getting up was exhausting.” A twenty-three-year-old explained that the joints in the suit deliberately stiffened, preventing her from getting her leg over a bike. Yet another said he fumbled around in pain as he reached for his wallet, with the gloves pricking his hands at every moment. I’ll bet they were happy to have their ASS fall off. The price of this suit wasn’t mentioned, but I’m sure with all the features mentioned, it’s not cheap.
Why is it so important for us to know what it feels like to be old? How would experiencing ten minutes in any kind of simulation help us to be kinder people? Shouldn’t we be kind and make things easier just because we should?
I think the ASS was developed so we won’t be afraid to grow old…to die. We will you know, grow old before we die, if we are lucky. There are ways to know what it feels like to be old without spending vast amounts of money. Here are a few exercises that I guarantee will simulate the natural aging process.
Go to the nearest sleep gallery, jump up on the bed closest to you and try to prance around the room by jumping from bed to bed. Be sure to keep your knees bent when crossing over the water beds. Two times around the room should give you a good idea of what arthritis in the knee joints feels like.
Next time you’re at a Grand Opening, stare into the spotlight they have roving the sky. I would suggest a good thirty minutes as the perfect amount of time to experience the reduced vision associated with cataracts.
Drink several 32 oz. beverages, but don’t go to the bathroom. Go to a comedy show. This will simulate incontinence, believe me.
Ask a friend to stand behind you, place an air horn against the back of your head, and blow it for one full minute. If performed correctly, this will replicate the major hearing loss that most elderly people experience. It may take some time to recover from this test, be patient.
Fill a large wading pool with water. Run as fast as you can through the water several times around the circumference. Be sure to wear rubber sole deck shoes. This test is for experiencing the feeling one gets from standing up too quickly. If you fall, you may hit your head on a sprinkler head and that would be the self-induced coma simulator for those who are curious as to what that feels like.
Let’s not be afraid of the natural wearing out process. Thumb your nose at death, go ahead, it is fun. I have laughed in the face of death (even after eating garlic), had brushes with him, flirted with him and even gone so far as to give him a lap dance. See? I’m okay.
The only thing that really bothers me about aging is that I seem to be shrinking and I have more weight to lose than I originally thought.
The suit has weights sewn in at various points to simulate heaviness, built-in ear muffs to decrease hearing and the helmet has a visor that restricts the line of vision and wraps it in a dull yellowish tinge. A quote from one of the first to try the suit was, “Just crossing the street was an adventure, sitting down on a bench was a pain and getting up was exhausting.” A twenty-three-year-old explained that the joints in the suit deliberately stiffened, preventing her from getting her leg over a bike. Yet another said he fumbled around in pain as he reached for his wallet, with the gloves pricking his hands at every moment. I’ll bet they were happy to have their ASS fall off. The price of this suit wasn’t mentioned, but I’m sure with all the features mentioned, it’s not cheap.
Why is it so important for us to know what it feels like to be old? How would experiencing ten minutes in any kind of simulation help us to be kinder people? Shouldn’t we be kind and make things easier just because we should?
I think the ASS was developed so we won’t be afraid to grow old…to die. We will you know, grow old before we die, if we are lucky. There are ways to know what it feels like to be old without spending vast amounts of money. Here are a few exercises that I guarantee will simulate the natural aging process.
Go to the nearest sleep gallery, jump up on the bed closest to you and try to prance around the room by jumping from bed to bed. Be sure to keep your knees bent when crossing over the water beds. Two times around the room should give you a good idea of what arthritis in the knee joints feels like.
Next time you’re at a Grand Opening, stare into the spotlight they have roving the sky. I would suggest a good thirty minutes as the perfect amount of time to experience the reduced vision associated with cataracts.
Drink several 32 oz. beverages, but don’t go to the bathroom. Go to a comedy show. This will simulate incontinence, believe me.
Ask a friend to stand behind you, place an air horn against the back of your head, and blow it for one full minute. If performed correctly, this will replicate the major hearing loss that most elderly people experience. It may take some time to recover from this test, be patient.
Fill a large wading pool with water. Run as fast as you can through the water several times around the circumference. Be sure to wear rubber sole deck shoes. This test is for experiencing the feeling one gets from standing up too quickly. If you fall, you may hit your head on a sprinkler head and that would be the self-induced coma simulator for those who are curious as to what that feels like.
Let’s not be afraid of the natural wearing out process. Thumb your nose at death, go ahead, it is fun. I have laughed in the face of death (even after eating garlic), had brushes with him, flirted with him and even gone so far as to give him a lap dance. See? I’m okay.
The only thing that really bothers me about aging is that I seem to be shrinking and I have more weight to lose than I originally thought.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Third Eye Lasik
I have been made painfully aware of my much-too-concerned attitude about my physical body and social conformity. Just the other day, I was having lunch in a local café when I looked up and noticed a man was staring at me. The strange thing was that he was not looking at me through the two holes in his face that we know as eyes. He was actually gawking at me through his third eye! As if that wasn’t enough, I clearly heard his thoughts inside my own head. He was telling me that I was mentally unsteady, lacked focus and had a dread fear of amnesia. He screamed for me to just forget about what I can’t remember. I was so offended that I flicked a forkful of cole slaw at him, targeting his brow area. It worked. His spiritual vision was blocked. The café manager quickly escorted me out, but I managed to yell at the smarmy, third-eye peeping Tom, that he should have more respect for the chakra handicapped. I’m just glad I stopped him before his inner eye revealed my fear of being evaluated negatively in social situations.
It is common knowledge that we have physical and non-physical senses. Of course, I have a very strong fifth sense about these things, but activating my third-eye or what some call, the brow chakra, has been a very arduous task. I have tried gazing into the flame of a candle for an hour or two, calming my thoughts, watching my cat’s eyes to establish a meditative state and even staring at my face in the bathroom mirror for prolonged periods. It was hard to keep a straight face during this exercise, and giggling interfered with my inner peace. I felt superior when I noticed that my reflection blinked first and reveled in the victory until I realized that my ego was becoming much too involved and turned the session into an undesirable competition.
It was this state that brought me to Swami Kapesh Kumar. I found his ad in the personals while searching for my soul mate. Swami Kumar has perfected a surgical procedure as an alternative to activating the third eye by means of meditation. It involves the use of a ball-peen hammer. With one swift, forceful and nearly painless tap, he is able to dislodge the third eye from its lazy status and instantly create a glittering star-studded aura.
The giddiness usually wears off within an hour after awakening, and is followed by an overwhelming sense of well-being. The only drawback is the red dot located just above the bridge of the nose. He says it should fade in time. I’ve seen this dot on middle-eastern women before, but I had no idea it was the result of third-eye lasik surgery.
It is common knowledge that we have physical and non-physical senses. Of course, I have a very strong fifth sense about these things, but activating my third-eye or what some call, the brow chakra, has been a very arduous task. I have tried gazing into the flame of a candle for an hour or two, calming my thoughts, watching my cat’s eyes to establish a meditative state and even staring at my face in the bathroom mirror for prolonged periods. It was hard to keep a straight face during this exercise, and giggling interfered with my inner peace. I felt superior when I noticed that my reflection blinked first and reveled in the victory until I realized that my ego was becoming much too involved and turned the session into an undesirable competition.
It was this state that brought me to Swami Kapesh Kumar. I found his ad in the personals while searching for my soul mate. Swami Kumar has perfected a surgical procedure as an alternative to activating the third eye by means of meditation. It involves the use of a ball-peen hammer. With one swift, forceful and nearly painless tap, he is able to dislodge the third eye from its lazy status and instantly create a glittering star-studded aura.
The giddiness usually wears off within an hour after awakening, and is followed by an overwhelming sense of well-being. The only drawback is the red dot located just above the bridge of the nose. He says it should fade in time. I’ve seen this dot on middle-eastern women before, but I had no idea it was the result of third-eye lasik surgery.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
You'll Tide
Time to get out the nutcrackers…the cards, the bubble lights, flicker flame lights, LED Christmas lights, angels, nativity scenes, ornaments, cinnamon-scented pine cones, kneeling Santa collections, the holiday-decorated spin shades for the lamps, garlands, fairies and stockings.
By the way, I found out how this silly, hang a stocking on the fireplace mantle idea came about. It turns out that St. Nicholas passing by the homes of maidens too poor to afford a dowry, money that a bride gives to her groom for her wedding. (I always wondered what that big, huge, humongous, honkin’ wad of money I gave my ex was called). Anyway, he would throw gold coins down the chimneys where they would fall into stockings which were hung over the fire to dry. Heh. Yeah, right.
Actually, I don’t have to decorate at all. A couple of my neighbors have been involved in a decorating competition for some time now. By December 15th, it’ll look like Christmas threw up right here in my little cul-de-sac.
Stocking stuffers used to be candy, fruit, small toys, those Chinese finger traps, and if you were a complete bad ass, a lump of coal. The other day I read an article that had a list of suggestions for stocking stuffers. They included, a digital picture frame ($199.), comfort slippers ($50.), portable GPS system ($399.), wireless stock market tracker ($85.), motorized grill cleaning brush ($30.), electronic recipe guide ($25.). GEESH! DOESN’T ANYONE LIKE FRUIT ANYMORE???
I even found a website that is selling an adopt a vine for one year. A perfect gift for any wine lover. You get a welcome letter, a booklet about wine, a personalized pen and a vine adoption certificate. The vine is located at a famous British vineyard. Upon registration, you get a map and directions to the vineyard and a certificate that entitles you to a free tour and wine tasting.
I have a better idea. What about an adopt a flat-screen tv for a year? The perfect gift for any television lover. You would receive a copy of the owner's manuel, a personalized remote, a bunch of information about the history of television, and one full day of movies and two special events...booked in advance, of course. Just send a check for $300. payable to me, and I'll see that you receive your gift package before Christmas.
Sadly, it’s gone beyond commercial at this point and I wouldn’t be surprised if people will start registering for their Christmas gifts and try to get you to believe it will relieve you of the stress of making a decision. If that’s the case, I’ll tell you where I’m registered right now, Longo Lexus, Tiffany & Company, Countrywide Mortgage, Princess Cruises and Ramsgate Yacht Sales.
Yeah, and lets don't forget to cram our faces with candy, pie, turkey, stuffing and those green beans soaked in mushroom soup. I considered taking a class from a well-known chocolate and patisserie school to make Petit Fours, but then I realized I hadn’t taken the prerequisites…Petit Ones, Twos and Threes. Incidentally, if you’re wondering what to do with that fruitcake that no one wants, they make a great floatation device.
This year, I think I will just enjoy a life size snowman, positioned in the middle of my front lawn and fashioned like a caganer.
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