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by Richard Timothy | Apr 5, 2010 | Holiday Banter, I Just Don't Get It, I Think There's a Point, My List of Things that Don't Suck, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking, Public Service Announcement
With Easter arriving on a Sunday this year, I found myself a wee bit distracted from the documenting Smirkful observations and spent the day with family. Besides laughs and conversation, it also included consuming chocolate, food, chocolate, sugar dipped marshmallow baby chickens, and hard boiled eggs… and chocolate. There are some holidays that carry with them certain smells that when you come across them reek that the holiday has arrived. The smell of evergreens filling the house will always announce to my nose that Christmas is here. Just like the smell of the mingling aroma of baking pumpkin pie and cooked turkey slaps my taste buds into a confusing state of mouth watering appreciation which can only be defined as Happy Thanksgiving. (I say confusing because I hate pumpkin pie, but do enjoy a real turkey out of the oven.)
Then there is Easter, which unfortunately carries with it the ominous odor of chocolate covered egg burps. I’m not saying this is how I want to remember the holiday. It’s just that over the year’s one of the most common reoccurring fragrances that Easter has always offered it the pungent smell of hard boiled eggs with just a hint of chocolate from all those damn Whopper Robin Eggs.
With Easter now over with, and with the bargain shoppers now rushing to all of the grocery stores to buy carts full of 50% off Easter candy and holiday décor that will be used next year, what better time than now to learn a little something about this holiday. Apart from the unfortunate smells associated with it.
If you know anything about this holiday it’s that you can’t have Easter without the Pagans. Granted there are a number of holidays we wouldn’t have without the Pagans. That being said… thanks Pagans. What few people know is that the name Easter comes from mistakes that were made in the east, as in east errs. Ok, I made that up. According to a fair amount of random internet sources that I perused for the sole purpose of shared enlightenment the word Easter comes from the name Eostre, who as the Great Mother Goddess of the Saxon people in Northern Europe. Apparently the name of the goddess originates from the ancient word for spring (or eastre), and a festival was held in her honor every year at the vernal equinox.
Regardless of your beliefs, Easter is a salute to spring. For the Earth, spring is a very literal type of resurrection, renewal, rebirth, regurgitation… of sleeping vegetation, and other “re” words that would require much longer explanations as to how they relate to Easter, but that I really don’t want to get into. For Christians and Pagans alike it represents either the symbolic or literal resurrection of a god. Of course, this is dependent on either what kind of Christian or Pagan you are.
In Gerald L. Berry’s book “Religions of the World,” he wrote:
“About 200 B.C. mystery cults began to appear in Rome just as they had earlier in Greece. Most notable was the Cybele cult centered on Vatican hill …Associated with the Cybele cult was that of her lover, Attis (the older Tammuz, Osiris, Dionysus, or Orpheus under a new name). He was a god of ever-reviving vegetation. Born of a virgin, he died and was reborn annually. The festival began as a day of blood on Black Friday and culminated after three days in a day of rejoicing over the resurrection.”
That’s not all though. I know for me Easter has and will always mean one thing that thing is bunnies! And from here on out, it’s only predominantly going to mean Flemish bunnies. They are both adorable and huge. I have only recently been introduced to these massive creatures of fluffy adorability, and quite honestly, I have been waiting for Easter to arrive so I could share their existence with others… mainly because of the flawless segue I would be able to make from Easter Bunny to Flemish rabbits. Oh damn, I forgot to talk about the Easter Bunny.
Well, according to the myth, the Easter Bunny is a rabbit-spirit. Before being referred to as the Easter Bunny, he was called the “Easter Hare.” The reason being that rabbits and hares are renowned for having frequent multiple births. Because of this they became a symbol of fertility. The practice of the Easter egg hunt began because children believed that hares laid eggs in the grass. In looking more into this I found that the Romans believed that all life comes from an egg, forever answering the age old question of which came first the chicken or the egg. I also read that Christians considered eggs to be the seed of life, thus making the eggs symbolic of the resurrection of Jesus. Also, on a side note, I’d like to point out that once you devil eggs, they do become rather tempting.
Right, so Flemish rabbits, or as they are commonly referred to the “Flemish Giant” breed of rabbit, are the super sized options of the bunny kingdom. Some of these Bugs-like offspring have been reported weighing as much as 28 pounds (13 kilos). That’s like a Thanksgiving sized rabbit, and you probably wouldn’t even need any stuffing. Although you’d still have some because it’s stuffing, and stuffing is the delicious love child of a pride of garden herbs and a gaggle of croutons that have been spending too much time in a sauna. 
And no, I’m not recommending, suggesting, or in any way inferring that we should consume these large furry bouncing ground clouds of happiness. I was just making a very poorly thought out size juxtaposition, which I am not proud of. A better comparison would be canine. I mean they might not weigh as much as a golden retriever, but they could look it. Besides, everyone knows that visually speaking the fluffiness adds at least ten pounds.
My gripe with the present day celebration of Easter is psychological trauma that children suffer from in regards to how the holiday is usually celebrated. I am, of course, referring to all the children who are graced with a large collection of sugar infused goodies. After consuming as much of the candy as possible they are taken to some type of ceremonial activity and expected to be well behaved and quite while some religious themed message is shared to a group of attendees.
Getting your kids all jacked up on sugar and then punishing them because they were fidgeting, or screaming and running up and down the aisles as fast as they can is poor parenting, period. How is it possible that anyone be surprised that their children are behaving badly after you have just enabled and encouraged them to overload on sugar is like getting a Brazilian hot wax treatment and then acting all surprised that it hurts. It baffles me… on both accounts, the feeding candy to kids then yelling at them for being hyper bit, as well as the hot wax bit.
Regardless of your feelings about Easter and its symbolism and origins I think there is one thing we can all agree on… the urge all of you have, myself included, to pet one of those Flemish Giant rabbits. When I think of Flemish Giant rabbits I can’t help but think of Hugo the Abominable Snowman, who summed things up perfectly when he said, “Just what I always wanted. My own little bunny rabbit! I will name him George, and I will hug him, and pet him, and squeeze him.”
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2JlVqfC8-UI]
Any Easter, or more importantly, Flemish Giant thoughts?
Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: Flemish Giant, Flemish Giant with dog, Easter, Eostre, and kids eating Easter candy.
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by Richard Timothy | Apr 2, 2010 | Confessed Confidentially, I Think There's a Point, It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time, My List of Things that Don't Suck, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking
I think everyone finds themselves in situations throughout life that requires them to evaluate certain things about themselves and then make a decision based on that self evaluation. Usually when I tell people that I am a certified minister there is always that confused pause where I imagine they are either waiting for me to share my story of this self evaluation that lead me to that decision, or that I’m lying to them. It is true though, I can, if I choose, legally put the title Reverend at the beginning of my name. This also enables me to legally perform certain ceremonies like, well the only one that comes to mind is weddings, but I’m sure there’s more. I’ve even thought about making some business cards that sport the title Reverend on them, but I’ve yet to find a functional purpose for doing that… unless it will get me discounts at restaurants. Hmm… looks like it’s time to do a little research.
The fact of the matter is yes I truly am a reverend. How and why you may ask? Easy, it was the result of a life changing event. The event actually took place in Central Park in New York City, just across from the corner were John Lennon was shot. It was where my dear friend Mike proposed to my dear friend Kathy. I never said the life changing event was mine. There was absolutely no inner evaluation on my part to make this choice. Once they got home we had one of our many and always fabulous wine parties and they announced the engagement. This created a frenzy of joy and emotional outbursts.
It was after I stopped screaming and clapping and jumping up and down in place they popped the big question. It was actually really groovy the way they put it… or at least the way I remember them putting it. They said that with all of the planning they had to do with finding a location, getting a guest list made, and all the planning involved in planning a wedding there was one thing they wanted to be perfect and didn’t want to have to worry about, they wanted me to create their ceremony and be the one to marry them, well, perform the ceremony I mean. And that was it. That was event that got me reverendized. Yes, much like Charlie Brown, I am a good man. Although, I’ve yet to have a musical written and performed stating this, but I am still holding out that it’s only a matter of time.
Being one of self set beliefs about life, the universe, and everything the first thing I knew is that becoming an ordained minister needed to coincide with my lack of religious beliefs. Thank you world wide web you fabulous little vixen of endless links from random Google searches in the hopes of finding something that would give me the title required to perform a wedding for these two amazing and incredibly trusting friends.
The first thing I discovered was that by simply googling “becoming an ordained minister” you get over 1 million results. To save you some time, you really don’t need to go past the first page of results to find the information you’re looking for. I found a “church” that claimed an all inclusive philosophy towards belief. Or to coin a phrase that is already a small shiny ore disc that some people flip into the air for the sake of betting, or for assisting indecisive people to make decisions, they are a “nondenominational” organization. They even had three key selling points that sold, sealed…, helped me chose them for getting my ministers status.
One selling point was their overall inclusion of belief structures, which includes the following: Agnosticism, Atheism, non-Religious, Baha’i Faith, Buddhism, Cao Dai, Christianity, Confucianism, Hinduism, Humanism, Islam, Jainism, Juche, Judaism, Natural Law, Neopaganism, New Age, Primal Faith, Primal Indigenous, Rastafarianism, Scientology, Shinto, Sikhism, Spiritism, Taoism, Tarahumara Beliefs, Tenrikyo, The Occult, Traditional African Religion, Unitarian Universalism, and Zoroastrianism. I have no idea what most of those mean, but they are all accepted and ok ideologies according to the “church”.
Selling point two, at the time (it has since been removed) there was a bulleted list on the ordination application page that stated the three key reasons that people become ordained ministers. The first was because people want to share their beliefs with others in a professional setting and not a street corner, i.e. start a church and preach to others. The second reason was to legally perform certain ceremonies, i.e. legally perform weddings for friends or family. And the final reason was, and I am quoting here, “a lark.” Yes as a joke. These people had not delusions about why some people become ministers. I was impressed. And had I not been doing it for the second reason, I would have definitely done it for the third reason at that point.
Finally, and the most significant reason for becoming an ordained minister with this organization, it was free. Turns out all you need to become a reverend is your full legal name, e-mail address, home address, and a working internet connection. It took about three minutes. I filled out the information and clicked on the submit button. They checked to make sure I was a real person living at the address I gave them and… call me reverend. I even have a certificate that I printed out on my computer, and an e-mail stating I am an official minister for the organization and can officially use the title reverend.
Now, if you want a high resolution certificate printed on a nice paper along with a ministers card and additional forms of identification stating that you are a reverend, well that’s going to cost you. Yes the pretty paperwork costs, but you get ordained for free. Hey, religions need money to survive, even all inclusive ones that offer a service so that you can wed your friends. They also have doctorates of religion courses you can take so you can become a Doctor Reverend. I figured one title that I never use is enough, but the option is always there! You know, in the event that I lose a bet that required me to either shave my goatee or become a doctor.
You many ask what becoming a reverend had meant over the years. Pointless titles aside I have actually performed 3 different wedding ceremonies so far and one funeral. I think it’s called conducted, or commenced over, or oversaw… something like that. Those are a little more difficult than weddings, but just as big of an honor.
My favorite wedding that I’ve performed so far is easily the one for my two dear friends that originally asked me to become a minister so I could marry them. There is something immensely satisfying about creating a ceremony for two wonderful people that you know and love. There are no rules for creating a ceremony like that. You start with what you know about each one and add them together. Throw in a lot of love, a line from Monty Python’s Spamalot, maybe a stick if you happen to find one lying around, some almond champagne, a white sand beach, and two rings and you have a ceremony that is not only beautiful and brilliant, but is from beginning to end… totally and utterly them and no one else.
The few wedding I have done have been pretty groovy though, and who knows maybe someday I’ll do a few more. The weirdest part about the whole thing is that everyone looks at you as the one with all the answers. All I can say is that for my first wedding, it was a good thing that I was married so I knew how things were suppose to go as far as lineup, precession, etc. I imagine a wedding planner usually takes care of that, if there is one, otherwise, as the wedding officiate you sort of become hyphenated, meaning the reverend-wedding planner. Although I highly recommend that you never put that on a business card. One thing I know for sure, every wedding does become its own little adventure.
What do you think about my reverendness?
Source Images:
Google Images, key words: reverend, free, and clapping.
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by Richard Timothy | Mar 31, 2010 | Confessed Confidentially, I Think There's a Point, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking, Public Service Announcement
The battle of the sexes, it’s a battle that has been going on as long as there has been sex, well sexes. It’s not so much a battle type battle, like Helm’s Deep or… um, Highlander I guess. No, I mean that battle of perspective where discussions happen on epic levels about issues that makes no sense to one sex, but perfect sense to another.
Actually, I think to get as accurate as possible, it’s not so much a sex thing as it is a personality type thing, namely the masculine and feminine personality types. This is not the same thing as male and female. I have met some very feminine men and very masculine women. I myself have been known to have some typically feminine perspectives about some commonly male topics, like football for example. Of course there are exceptions to the rules, but for the sake of today’s Smirk the thing to remember is that they are exceptions and not the standard traditional stereotype.
So what am I talking about? What is this topic of endless hours of banter between the masculine and feminine personality types? Nothing less than the always controversial topic of… throw pillows. Here let give you a conversational setting that cover both perspectives on this topic:
Feminine (F): I got some new throw pillows.
Masculine (M): Ok… um, why?
F: Because they’re pretty.
M: I can see that, but they don’t look very comfortable.
F: You don’t use them.
M: You mean you bought pillows that are not meant to be used?
F: Of course you use them.
M: What? Wait do can I or can’t I use them to sleep on.
F: You don’t use them to sleep on.
M: Then what’s the point?
F: They’re throw pillows. They add color and design to places in the home.
M: But you said we don’t use them.
F: Not like you mean when you say use.
M: So they serve absolutely no functional purpose?
F: Yes they do.
M: Like what?
F: They’re pretty!
And this is where people voices generally tend to increase in volume as the circular conversation continues, sometimes for hours.
For the feminine perspective throw pillows fall under the visually aesthetic realm of things that help make the world more beautiful, especially your home, apartment, flat, bungalow, etc. The main point that the masculine perspective always fails to realize is that for the feminine something that helps an area look prettier constitutes as a very viable and real functionality.
For the masculine perspective somethings can be pretty, but it becomes much prettier if that object is functional, like Italian leather shoes, or a fully restored cherry condition 1969 Mustang. The concept of throw pillows falls into pointless frivolity on a number of levels for a number of reasons. The first and most obvious reason is the feeling of utter pointlessness the masculine type gets when looking at one.
Personally I think the main problem comes from the name throw pillow. You have two separate words that when the masculine perspective combines them together they automatically think that they are specially made pillows for optimal striking in a pillow fight setting. To the masculine a throw pillow should be the ninja star of the pillow industry. A pillow that you can throw at advancing pillow toting minions in a goose down battle for control of the house… or television remote at the very least.
When the masculine type first learns that throw pillows are not to be thrown in any context what so ever, it creates a sort of syntax error is almost the human equivalent of the blue screen of death. Even after they reboot, the idea of gently moving the arsenal of things called throw pillows from the bed to a designated storing area on the floor makes their brains cry a little.
The end result of this debate consists of two separate resolutions that each type chooses to not tell the other. The masculine rejects the functionless attributes of the throw pillow and uses them whenever the feminine is away. This rarely allows for a comfortable and deep sleep opportunity because the masculine has to be on their toes so they can place the used throw pillow in its place when the feminine returns home.
The feminine are well aware of this practice. The ware and oil stain left by a sweaty sleeping head on the throw pillow is a bit obvious even if the masculine can’t really tell. What this does is ignite a “I’ll show them” reaction in the feminine to purchase more throw pillows. The rational is that the old ones are becoming dirty and worn out. Besides it’s cheaper to buy new throw pillows than it is to buy a steam cleaner. This also creates a desire in the feminine to find the holy grail of throw pillows. A completely functionless yet brilliantly beautiful throw pillow.
I am here to tell you that not only have I seen this holy grail throw pillow, but it lives at my house. That’s right, I am telling you we already got one. And you know what. It’s very nice. Seriously, when looking at it even I’ll say, “Oooo what a pretty throw pillow.” It’s about 14 inches by 14 inches and one full side is covered with ½ inch mother of pearl squares. Again, for the record I do concede it is very beautiful… and utterly useless, but very pretty.
It’s a debate that I don’t know will ever go away. The only real compromise I have been able to find is that for every two throw pillows the feminine type purchases the masculine type is allowed to trash one of them as they see fit. Yes this is a compromise, and believe me, to all you masculine types out there a 2 to 1 ration is actually pretty damn good odds in this situation. The thing is, the longer you take to wear out, trash, blow up, sneeze on, use in pillow fights for control of the remote, or use as a sponge to wash your car, the longer it will be before the feminine type purchases new throw pillows. Please note that both parties need to agree on this compromise before you, the feminine perspective, begins purchasing new throw pillows, and before you, the masculine perspective, begin lighting fires to existing throw pillows.
The throw pillow debate is one that has been going on far too long on this planet and it needs to stops. Can’t we all just get along?
Although, and this is a theory I’m making up on the spot here, if an alien race ever does attempt to invade our planet I honestly think we could avert it by simply introducing throw pillows to the feminine type aliens. Then all we’d need to do is get some popcorn, sit back, and enjoy the show.
Any throw pillow thoughts from your end?
Images Sources:
Google Images, key words: bed pillows, pillow fight, mother of pearl throw pillow, throw pillows, and battle of the sexes.
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by Richard Timothy | Mar 30, 2010 | Gratefully Grateful, I Think There's a Point, It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time, Lightbulbs and Soapboxes, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking, Something to Wine About
Saturday proved to be a rather delightful day dedicated to catching up with old friends. Some dear friends from my coffee shop past just so happened to be in town this weekend celebrating their birthday. Only one of them was having their birthday, but since they were married, it made sense that they should celebrate it together. They wanted to get together and catch up, and they wanted to eat some really good Mexican food. So we killed two stones with one bird and Angela and I met Jules and Brandon and their ridiculously adorable kids at one of the best, if not the best, Mexican Restaurants in Salt Lake, The Red Iguana.
It had only been about 12 or 13 years since I had last seen Jules and Brandon, but I can always count on a clever and well written Christmas letter from them when the holiday comes along. Now there are a few things that happen when you first learn that you will be having lunch with your old friend’s kids. I mean your friends will be there too, obviously, but it’s the unknown element that kids seem to always be bring into any equation that gets you initially a little unnerved. When it comes to old friend’s kids there are really only two possible outcomes, well behaved fabulous children, or misbehaved complete and total bastards. There is also that inner little person filter that you need to remember to pay attention to. I did a fairly good job keeping my language at least at a PG-13 level through the entire meal.
As for the kids, they were grand. There are a lot of little people (I mean children for those of you that don’t know I call all children little people) in Utah. Making babies is kind of a… a hobby for a fair portion of the inhabitants of this state. In my experience I see a lot more ill behaved kids than well behaved kids. So anytime I run into well behaved kids, I always feel like I’m in a Ripley’s Believe It or Not episode. It’s just commonly so uncommon that I’m usually befuddled for the first 5 to 10 minutes. It was unbelievable. The kids just sat in their chairs, eating their food, and giving the adults a chance to catch up. Well done Jules and Brandon… well done Jules and Brandon’s little people.
After lunch and a huggy farewell, it was back to the house to get things ready for the wine party that was to start at 7PM. Oddly enough, to keep in tune with the reunion motif that was lunch, I had two old friends that I had not seen since 2002, at my ten year high school reunion, show up at the wine party. They live in the area and ever since we agreed to be friends on Facebook I have invited them to a number of wine parties, but it just never worked out.
So yeah, the wine party had its own reunion element with these old high school friends showing up for the first time. It’s always nice to catch up with old friends and realize that you have more in common with them that you thought you might have. Conversation definitely evolves to new levels of sharing when you hit that point. I did hear some stories about other people in high school that I never really cared to know, but alcohol has a way of enabling people to share stories that you normally wouldn’t. Still, all in all, it was a lot of fun reminiscing and being reminded of things I had completely forgotten about… such as the Samantha Fox lip syncing video that I shot at my with all the girls at the 8th grade graduation party while all of the boys sat in the next room watching Aliens or some Arnie movie. I have no idea where it is and for the sake of all of us, let’s hope I never find it.
There were a few other first time wine party friends there as well, plus the always reliable wine party regulars that are truly the friends I refer to as my other family. We did have plans to have a Earth Day moment. For some reason that seemed like a good idea at some point in the party planning, but it sort of got lost in the evenings consumption. I think the forgetfulness could be connected to the 15 empty wine bottles that covered the table be the end of the night. That doesn’t include any of the mixed drinks that were being enjoyed throughout the night as well.
I think for the Earth Day thing we were going to turn off all the lights in the house for a moment a darkened Earth appreciation and meditation for those that were coherent enough to meditate. When we finally remembered that we had forgotten we decided that since so many people were at the house that meant their houses had all the lights turned out, thus conserving a lot more energy than if we had simple turned out our lights for a few minutes. I believe it’s called proxy energy conservation. It’s a new theory. I mean brand new… as of Saturday night at 11:37PM, but I think it’s going to catch on.
I do have two favorite lines of the night that I wrote down so that I would remember to share them with all of you. They consist of:
- One friend arriving late so there are only a few bottles left that have any wine in them. Once he helped finish the last of the bottled reds, he notices a box of Sangria, pours a glass. He takes one sip and replies, “Ew, if I’m willing to drink that, it’s time for me to stop drinking.” That about an expected profoundity, profan… talk about a profound moment.
- The other was mostly an observation said with the desire to get a friends to smile who was going through a spell of drunken melancholy. The line was, “You know, if urine smelled more like lemons, bathrooms would get cleaned a lot less.”
Yes, I know boys and their toilet humor, but hey after 15 bottles of wine there’s a good chance that even you would be giggling at either one of those lines. Well if you hadn’t already passed out that is.
As for the party’s wine winner, I give you the 2005 Castello di Gabbiano Chianti Classico Riserva. It was a bit of a fixed win though. I hold a very special place in my heart for this wine. It was the wine Angela and I had at our wedding. Regardless of that little fact, the wine is still an amazing wine. I was first introduced to it when we first started the wine tasting group all those years ago. They were 2003 bottles at the time though. Still, the 2005 release has kept the flavor and depth that caused me to fall in love with the 2003 release in the first place.
It is one of those wines that after I take my first sip, my eyelids automatically shut as my eyes roll to back. Then, ss the wine hits the back of my throat I unconsciously begin smiling. And as I let it roll down my throat a small, “Mmm.” involuntarily escapes signifying to everyone in the room that yes, the wine is that good.
The key thing to remember is that it is the Gabbiano Chianti Classico Riserva, which is the bottle with the black label. The regular Gabbiano Chianti is ok, but pales in comparison to the Riserva. It’s a $20 bottle of wine, but is definitely worth it, unless you are a fruity wine person. The thing I like about a $20 bottle of wine is that if you are a posh wine consumer, sure it might be a little low end for you, but it’s still in the high low end range instead of low or medium low end range. And even if you are a two buck chuck drinker $20 is something you could do and be ok with once a year, like on your birthday when someone is buying a bottle for you and you want to try something that is an experience to remember.
It was a good Saturday all the way around, and on a groovy note, the next wine party is in two weeks. I have one of my best friends visiting and if there is one thing I know for sure its when a friend is visiting from out of town, you definitely have a party.
Any good wines that you’ve tried lately? I’d love to hear about them and add them to my list of friend recommended wines.
Images Sources:
Google Images, key words: red iguana, 2005 Castello di Gabbiano Chianti Riserva, good kids, friends laughing, and lemons.
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by Richard Timothy | Mar 29, 2010 | Confessed Confidentially, I Think There's a Point, It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking
Well bugger… again… Soooo you know when lose something. There is a standard process that you experience. I think it’s the 7 or 8 steps for handling loss. Yes, 7 or 8, the eighth step may or may not happen. It’s always a toss up really. It just turns out that in my case, this time, I did get to experience all 8 steps.
The process breaks down as such:
- Vague unsettling: This feeling is initial feeling that something isn’t quite right, but you can’t exactly put your finger on what it is.
- Subtle realization: This step is when you begin realizing that what something you had seen a few days ago might not be where you thought it was.
- Specific local searching: This step is when you perform a very thorough search in the area you last thought you saw the missing item.
- Panicked searching: This step involves rampant random searching where you stop looking where you know the missing item was a day or so ago and begin searching in irrational and random locations. Locations like under the car seat, then in the bathroom, then under your bed, and then in your freezer. And between each new odd search spot you go back to the original location you remember the item being and search that entire room again, you know, just in case. My “just in case” rationale was that my notebook entered a time warp and if I kept going back at random intervals it might suddenly reappear.
- Grumpy pouting: This is when you realize what losing the item means to you, both emotionally and, in my case, literaturally. Long fits of profanity, both loud and whispered are commonly associated with this step.
- Slow paced random searching: This is after the panic passes and then for the next day or so you still randomly look around and keep your eyes open for the missing item, but it’s not going to disrupt your day or cause you to miss sitting down and enjoying an episode of The Big Bang Theory or The IT Crowd. Note: The time warp ideology still applies so you do still continue to look where you last saw in it, you know… just in case.
- Acceptance: This is the step where you blog to everyone that you lost your notebook, but it’s ok because such is life and on a groovy note, you get to go shopping for a new notebook.
And then in my case (yes, you nailed it Cathy) there is the one more step:
- I call it the “What the… SonofaBi… YEAH! Hehe, opps… Just kidding everyone.” step.
It was in my backpack the whole time! And I looked there at least five… teen times. You know that Pac-man book hiding fluke that happens to humans all over the world on a regular basis so it’s really not that much of a fluke, but we all call it a fluke anyway? Yeah, that’s what happened. I have a green notebook in backpack that is slightly larger than the Pillsbury Doughboy notebook. Well, the Pillsbury notebook got flipped around and ended up sliding up into the green notebook. So every time I looked in the backpack I could only see the green notebook. I never pulled the green notebook out of my backpack, but this was because there was not second notebook to be seen on either side of it.
Yeah, so opps. I guess I could feel a little silly for dedicating Friday’s post to the loss of my little notebook, but I really see no point. It just makes me laugh more than anything. Besides I take comfort knowing that it’s something that everyone has done. It’s one of those random common experiences that bring us together as a species that no one really thinks about as an experience that brings us all together. Or to put it a little more plainly it’s one of those, “Hey look! I’m just like you.” experiences.
So thanks for the support you gave when I had lost my notebook forever. And thanks for laughing at… I mean with me now that it has been returned. (I’m still not ruling out that some random time warp had something to do with it though.)
Any of you care to share your “It’s lost forever… opps… found it!” story?
Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: lost and found.
![Easter… Origins, the Bunnies, and Everything]()
by Richard Timothy | Mar 24, 2010 | Confessed Confidentially, I Think There's a Point, It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking, When I Was a Kid
There are a few things that I have been quite good at most of my life. Not necessarily due to practice, but due to the exact opposite of that. Being pasty and on the verge of bio-luminescence when the lights go down due to my lack of exposure with the sun on a regular basis is one of those things I have excelled at most my life. It’s true I usually had to put on sunglasses just to take a shower. Ok not really, but I did think about it once or twice.
While growing up in rural Wyoming, which for the record is the only type of Wyoming there is, there were a number of peers of the farming persuasion who, much like the people of San Francisco, would be outside without their shirts on catching some rays at the first sign of any actually sunshine. It’s true. I spend a summer in San Francisco and the second the sun comes out, people start appearing all over outside. They are in swimming suits laying down on any open spot of grass they can find, catching some sunshine and working on their laptops. This usually lasts about 10 to 30 minutes tops and then as the sun ducks behind the local clouds everyone puts their cloths back on and go back inside to their desks. You do get use to this, but the first time you experience this phenomenon, it does give the first time viewer a “what the f…unny randomness just happened” moment of contemplation.
All that being said I’ve never been big of my inclusion of the “run around shirtless” genre of social activities. When the sun is involved my shirtless activity has almost always resulted in me becoming the same hue of a thirteen year old boy on his first date who has just accidentally farted loudly sitting next to his date while sneezing softly into a napkin. That is a very special kind of red that take years to recover from, and I believe requires you to never see that date ever again. The sun has a way of ensuring my skin remains that color for a pain filled week or two.
With that, let’s jump back a few years. In 7th grade, I did what your average 7th grade boy does when the opportunity arises. I tried out for sports. My father had been a basketball hero when he was a lad and at 13 there is a desired emulation that often happens where you think that if you should try doing what your father did then he was your age. The desired outcome consisted of him being proud of you and you being proud that he was proud. So I tried out for the team. It was open to anyone that wanted to give it a go, and a go I gave.
Tryouts consisted of played a few rounds of basketball while the coach watched you play. After watching you play for a total of maybe 10 minutes, the coach would tell you to get off the court so someone else could give trying out a go. At the end of the day, before you would rush to catch the bus home, you would check the roster to see if you had made the team. Yeah, I never made the team, but there were a few reasons for this.
Reason 1
Difficulty concentrating on the game. I think I would have been a little more clearheaded had I not been on the team required to be “skins.” Instead of giving us different colored tops we could put on over your shirts we would play shirts vs. skins, or shirtless, or half nude… awkwardly breezy comes to mind as well. Being on the skin team meant that I was you run up and down a basketball court half naked. The uncomfortable awkwardness came from knowing that the cute girls I fancied were in the bleachers watching all of the boys trying out for the team.
This translated to the cute girls looking at my goofy assed clumsy 13 year old body. I felt like a piece of meat on parade. But I wasn’t a piece of prime rib, or t-bone, or Alaskan Salmon, or even a marinated chicken breast. No, I felt like a slice of that prepackaged bologna with those weird different colored specks of gum drops, or whatever the hell those things were. Ok so it was sliced pickle and pimento loaf, but as a kid, it was gummy bear bologna and it was creepy. I mean sure, it was always fascinating to look at for about 10 seconds. Then it’s eeriness becomes too much and you leave it there in the cooler, scaring small children that wanted regular bologna and ended up grabbing the gummy bologna instead by accident.
This meant that I spent most of the 10 minutes trying to hide my half nakedness behind the other kids. This failed for a few reasons, but mainly because I was the tallest kid on the court and I was about the same color as the florescent lights in the ceiling.
Reason 2
I suppose the main and most obvious reason was that I just wasn’t any good at the game. I mean I wanted to be. But when it take four tries for you to make a basked while standing right next to it and you keep getting your own rebounds because you are taller than the others around you, it’s a little obvious where your skill level lies. I did enjoyed playing the game outside with my friends for the three months out of the year that it was warm enough to play basketball outside. Although this consisted mostly of playing HORSE or PIG, or other games that required us to be polite and take turns and not get in each other’s face. When it came to skill in the game, I was about as useful as mop at a sneezing competition… actually that would be quite useful. No, how about a mop IN a sneezing competition. Yeah, that analogy works much better.
Reason 3
There was something else that happened during those 10 minutes of play. It was the realization that I didn’t want to play basketball. There is something so incredibly dreary about the sportsmanship you experience on the court, field, ice, or whatever. There are some people that are amazing sportsmanshipy kinds of sportsmen. Win or lose they are about the game first and foremost. If they win, grand. If they don’t, at least it was a good game. My experience is that this is a rare breed of sportsmen, women… people. In my tiny experience in playing sports and watching sports, what I noticed about sportsmanship is that is that 9 times out of 10 there isn’t much, if any.
People turn into mean angry frumpy little bitches… and I was no different. I didn’t like getting angry at people for stealing the ball away from me, or for blocking my shot. Nor did I enjoy having people get angry at me when I did the same thing to them. I didn’t agree with the coach congratulating me with a “good foul” cheer when I’d do something to negatively affect another player. At 13 I saw sports responsible for causing more damage than good. So, I banned me from them. I think I tried again in 8th grade just to make sure. Turns out I was sure, and I haven’t looked back since.
I’ve have dabbled a bit here and there over the years. I played soccer for two summers and I played late night volley ball on tennis courts. I also became mildly competent at pool my first year in college and could endure a volley or two of ping pong with someone who actually played ping pong. I even got an A in my bowling class. If you do love sports, well done! I say go with it, enjoy it as much as you can as long and you can. I’ll even politely listen while you talk about it. Just know that I couldn’t care less. As for me, all in all I’m Zen sporting reject. I reject them and they reject me, and ever since we came to that understanding, we’ve gotten along just great.
What are your sporting stories?
Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: pasty white guy, youth basketball, pickle and pimento loaf, and poor sportsmanship.
With Easter arriving on a Sunday this year, I found myself a wee bit distracted from the documenting Smirkful observations and spent the day with family. Besides laughs and conversation, it also included consuming chocolate, food, chocolate, sugar dipped marshmallow baby chickens, and hard boiled eggs… and chocolate. There are some holidays that carry with them certain smells that when you come across them reek that the holiday has arrived. The smell of evergreens filling the house will always announce to my nose that Christmas is here. Just like the smell of the mingling aroma of baking pumpkin pie and cooked turkey slaps my taste buds into a confusing state of mouth watering appreciation which can only be defined as Happy Thanksgiving. (I say confusing because I hate pumpkin pie, but do enjoy a real turkey out of the oven.)
If you know anything about this holiday it’s that you can’t have Easter without the Pagans. Granted there are a number of holidays we wouldn’t have without the Pagans. That being said… thanks Pagans. What few people know is that the name Easter comes from mistakes that were made in the east, as in east errs. Ok, I made that up. According to a fair amount of random internet sources that I perused for the sole purpose of shared enlightenment the word Easter comes from the name Eostre, who as the Great Mother Goddess of the Saxon people in Northern Europe. Apparently the name of the goddess originates from the ancient word for spring (or eastre), and a festival was held in her honor every year at the vernal equinox.
That’s not all though. I know for me Easter has and will always mean one thing that thing is bunnies! And from here on out, it’s only predominantly going to mean Flemish bunnies. They are both adorable and huge. I have only recently been introduced to these massive creatures of fluffy adorability, and quite honestly, I have been waiting for Easter to arrive so I could share their existence with others… mainly because of the flawless segue I would be able to make from Easter Bunny to Flemish rabbits. Oh damn, I forgot to talk about the Easter Bunny.
And no, I’m not recommending, suggesting, or in any way inferring that we should consume these large furry bouncing ground clouds of happiness. I was just making a very poorly thought out size juxtaposition, which I am not proud of. A better comparison would be canine. I mean they might not weigh as much as a golden retriever, but they could look it. Besides, everyone knows that visually speaking the fluffiness adds at least ten pounds.
Getting your kids all jacked up on sugar and then punishing them because they were fidgeting, or screaming and running up and down the aisles as fast as they can is poor parenting, period. How is it possible that anyone be surprised that their children are behaving badly after you have just enabled and encouraged them to overload on sugar is like getting a Brazilian hot wax treatment and then acting all surprised that it hurts. It baffles me… on both accounts, the feeding candy to kids then yelling at them for being hyper bit, as well as the hot wax bit.
