by Richard Timothy | Nov 4, 2010 | I Think There's a Point, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking, When I Was a Kid
I ‘m not sure if everyone else does this, but for some reason I have always itemized money in my life. And no I don’t mean that money comes first. It usually goes first though, due to the lack of active barter systems in my life right now. As far back as I can remember, once I learned about money, I associated it with other things. Here’s what I mean, in grade school when the only thing better than recess was a piece of candy to eat during recess to help increase my recess production levels. I penny wasn’t a penny, it was a Swedish Fish, or a Tootsie Roll, but only when they were out of Swedish Fish. I penny equaled happiness, in the shape of a little red candy fish.
When I got into junior high school and became immensely smitten with music and the ownership there in. I began purchasing cassettes. Then in high school, after the great cassette to CD crossover, I began my collection of CDs, which became the item I used to associate with money. When I would go out to eat or look at spending money on something, it was not a matter of how much cash I could save when it was on sale or how much it would set me back if I did buy it; it was a matter of how many CDs it was equivalent to.
When I got my first parking ticket, I wasn’t upset that it cost me $45, I was upset because it was three CDs that I wouldn’t get to buy as a result. Likewise, when I was saving up for my new stereo system, it wasn’t a matter of how much it would cost, it was a matter of how many CDs did I had to resist in order to save up enough to buy something else. Seventeen… it equated to seventeen CDs that never came into my life in order to get my stereo.
I really didn’t take notice to what I associated my new exchange rate to until my sweetie-baby-cutie-pie-wifey-pooh and I were renting a car in Hawaii. We needed a car for only one day, which apparently is a bit odd when you are spending a week on the island. The rest of the time we were on the island we took the bus, just like the people who lived there. It was like watching a bear in the woods, except, well, the wildlife was not really wild, but they were life forms indigenous to the area… and the bus was kind of like their natural habitat. Riding on the bus is kind of like the lotto, you spend a dollar and sometime you win a show put on by the other people riding the bus, and sometimes you won’t. You might not always win a free show, but when they happen… talk about a show!
The point is we needed a car. So we reserved one online. Trouble was, the island was out of cars to rent, but the Enterprise website failed to make that realization and just kept accepting and setting up reservations. When we went to pick up our car, there were none available, cars that is. There were only two options left on the entire island, a big red Dodge Ram truck and a minivan, which we named She-Ra, after the Princess of Power herself. You can guess which one we took.
The deciding factor however had nothing to do with the windy road we would be traveling that day (the Road to Hana) or the tread on the tires, or… it was a bottle of wine. The amount of money we would save filling up the truck vs. the minivan equated to being at least one full bottle of wine. Yes, my new itemization exchange rate of choice is a bottle of wine (and if I were the type of person to include those little happy face images made by typing a colon and then a parentheses I would type one in right here).
I do believe my itemization exchange rate method is a work in process though, especially when large sums of money are the topic. Take the interest I paid on my mortgage last year. It’s a bigger number than I am typically use to, so I have to invent a new itemization conversion. It was five two week trips it to Italy, or one commercial sized hot air balloon, or the producer credits in a direct to DVD B-movie… the list goes on and on. I’m not sure I’ll ever look at money as money, because really it’s just a piece of paper. I find myself much more interested in it and its well being if it’s associated with something I’m rather fond of. I guess if I had an affinity for stationary then I might be ok with it being just a piece of paper, but I’m not. I need something a little more, and for now wine seems to be doing the trick.
Do you do this as well, and if so what are some of your itemization exchange rates?
Image Sources:
Google Images, keywords: buying candy, CDs, She-Ra, and Italian wine.
by Richard Timothy | Nov 1, 2010 | Adolescent Shenanigans, Holiday Banter, I Think There's a Point, It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time, Lightbulbs and Soapboxes, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking
Well, it’s finally happened. This year I became “that guy” for Halloween. No, not “That Guy” that guy, but the one that looks at all those little people dressed up in what I consider to be essentially a collection of multiple dimension origins of alternative Oliver Twist outfits, and thinks, “You’ve had enough.” Sure, I might be stretching a bit with that, but the fact of the matter is that all these kids dress up for the sole purpose of begging for candy. Not that Oliver ever begged for candy, but he is the one person most people reenact when begging, or attempting to beg by saying, “Please sir, may I…” well, you know the rest.
With the sugar overload that is Halloween, this year I found myself thinking, “I should get some apples or oranges for those little high fructose corn syrup addicts, instead of candy.” Then I remembered what I did when I was a kid when someone tried that crap with me. First, I would wait for two or three additional sets of trick-or-treaters to go through the “knock of disappointment” as we would call it. Then I would hurl my newly acquired orange at the distributor’s front door and run like hell.
What? When you’re ten and jacked up on sweets it seems like a perfectly good idea at the time. So oranges and apples are officially off the trick-or-treat menu. Also, in the event that you do receive a piece of fruit and take it home, parents never let you eat it because of that stories about razorblades being stuck in fruit on Halloween. So, even though you try to do a good thing and pass out something healthy, it gets tossed into the trash by the parents once they get home.
Instead I opted to go with something else… something in a sealed container. Something so heinous in the minds of most youth that then word got out my house would be dubbed some adolescent term that carries the same meaning and emotional abrasion as the black plague. Hey, if there is one thing I know about little kids it’s their complete and utter lack of being overly dramatic about any and every given situation. I figure if I could get the word out early on then none of the other kids would stop by and our house. We would be skipped out of respect to the commercialized and candy filled holiday Halloween had become in mainstream society.
Raisins, I got those cute little boxes of raisins to pass out. Hey, it might have taken me five months to get to them, but once all of the candy from, Halloween, Christmas, and Valentine’s day had been consumed and all that was left were those three boxes of raisins, they too were eaten as a last resort… which means after I my siblings and I had eaten all the sugared cereal in the house as well. But they were eaten, and I remember thinking that they really weren’t that bad… as a last resort.
So did I pass out raisins for Halloween this year and become the person received an evening of disappointed signs from the Oliver Twist wannabes when they noticed me handing them a box of raisins? No, but only because my sweetie-baby-cutie-pie-wifey-pooh took me to the movies to avoid being home for trick-or-treaters. Yeah, so instead of ‘that guy’ I was that other ‘that guy’, which is still completely different from “That Guy!” who usually hangs out at bars making comments about, well, you know.
Still, I did have little boxes of humiliated grapes ready to go. It’s funny, it only took me about thirty years to figure out what was going though the mind of that ‘crazy’ lady that gave me my first box of raisins when I was trick-or-treating all those years ago. I get it now, and if I’m home for the holiday next year I’ll probably be passing them out. I’m ok being ‘that guy’ and they will be new boxes, because now, for the next few months I have a two bags of baby sized boxes of raisin to take to work with me as part of my lunch. So, at least I’ve got that going for me.
What are your thoughts on a healthy Halloween?
Image Sources:
Google Images, keywords: Oliver Twist, throwing oranges, box of raisins, and sack lunch.
by Richard Timothy | Oct 29, 2010 | Holiday Banter, I Just Don't Get It, I Think There's a Point, Lightbulbs and Soapboxes, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking, When I Was a Kid
To begin let me start with a heartfelt “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” to all the pagans out there. Hey if the Christians can pretend that December 25th is the birthday of that Jesus chap, then I feel perfectly comfortable redistributing the meaning of this whole Halloween holiday as the official birthday of Paganism.
With that being said, let’s all step into the WABAC Machine and go way back to the time when a young lad in Wyoming experienced some actually diversity in a town of 1500 people. It happened on a dark and chilly night on the 31st of October in 1982. I was eight, and probably a vampire. Of course this was back when vampires were still cool in a creepy kind of way, instead of the trendy bastardized shells of misunderstood models brooding and pouting in an attempt to get sympathy and instill crushes from thirteen year old girls and soccer moms. And I don’t care if you point out that you could see the strings when the vampire would change into a bad and flying around on strings, they were better damn it!
So there I was standing next to my brother on the doorstep of a rather plain looking home that was 100% devoid of any holiday decorations. I placed the plastic glow in the dark vampire teeth that would that would only glow for about 30 seconds after holding them up to a light for about a minute, in my mouth, you know, so I could get into character before giving the people behind the door my, “Sshick or ssseeeat” plea for more candy (those teeth always made it hard to talk clearly.) Once the teeth were in, I nodded at Mike and we knocked on the door.
As the door opened, Mike and I yelled in unison, “Trick or trea…”
“We don’t believe in Halloween,” interrupts the lady who opened the door.
This had never happened to us before. I figured she was kidding. So I said treat or treat again.
“We don’t celebrate holidays,” she said.
“Why?”
“The bible tells us not to,” adding, “goodbye.”
Nothing harshes and eight year olds unbridled sugar buzz quite like a stranger refusing to give you candy on Hallowing because the bible told them not to. It made no sense, and to be honest, it pissed me off a little. I even hung around for the next set of kids to come to her door, just to make sure what just happened really happened… it did. Poor things were just as baffled as I was. Still, hanging with the new batch of kids allowed us to compare notes on who passed out the best candy in the neighborhoods we had not yet hit. Soon we parted ways and Mike and I were in route to the big payoff houses a few blocks down, forgetting completely about the anti-Halloween house… until the following year.
The same damn thing happened. Then the following year, it happened all over again. It’s amazing how easily you forget which are the ‘no candy’ homes once the trick-or-treating actually begins. I made a mental note to skip the house a day or two before Halloween, but on the night of there I was on their step with an open sack holding all my candy, and an open mouth full of disbelief that the people in front of me didn’t believe in Halloween. I do remember that with each passing year the patience of the person answering the door grew shorter and shorter.
Over the years I learned that the family were Jehovah’s Witnesses, and that they were actually telling me the truth when they said they didn’t believe in celebrating holidays. For years my friends and I thought they were just cheap, and lied about not believing so they didn’t have to buy candy for other peoples kids. I don’t know why their deity is so hell bent against on having people celebrate holidays, but that’s deities for you… getting upset for no reason whatsoever and always, and I mean ALWAYS, trying to take the blast out of blasphemy.
There always was one rather depressing experience that happened from knocking on their door. It was seeing the children stuck in that house, sitting in the front room looking in amazement at kids their own age all dressed up, pretending to be something other than what they were, laughing, and asking strangers for candy every time the door would open.
Halloween was always my favorite holiday as a kid. I think it usually is for most kids because it is full of the one thing they have ample amounts of, imagination. The only thing I can figure is that the kids had been very naughty and the parents were trying to teach them a lesson. I wonder if the parents ever, after they closed the door, told their kids, “I know it might look like those kids were having fun being with their friends, unsupervised, running around asking for free candy and getting it, but the joke is on them! They aren’t having any fun at all.”
Maybe it was some cruel and unusual anti-imagination activity, like taking them kids to the Disney Land parking lot to collect bugs for a science project and telling them, “Just imagine there is no Disney Land beyond that fence. Instead imagine an empty field with beige flowers and nothing else, not even the bugs you are trying to collect. So there is no reason to even look in that direction. Oh and just ignore all that joy and laughter you ear coming from behind that fence.” Perhaps breaking down and hindering a child’s imagination is part of their religious agenda. Honestly, I have no idea. Although, I imagine if you get rid of the imagination early on, you don’t get questions like, “What does this all mean?” or “Do I really believe what you are telling me?” or “What does happy mean?” You know, things like that.
The other thing I never understood is why the parents would leave all their lights on. It was the equivalent of a child in wolves clothing… oh wait… I mean in reverse. When you leave your lights on, on Halloween, it gives every kid, and adults with kids, an inviting green light. It tells them that you are home and waiting around with no other purpose than to open your door to pass out handfuls of sugary goodness to anyone that knocks. Leaving all of your lights on and then answering your door just to tell the person knocking that you do not believe in the holiday and sending them away treatless, well, that’s just mean. I mean at the very least you could put up a sign! And that’s exactly what happened. Granted it only took seven years to figure it out (perhaps it was due to a lack of imagination?), but it did the trick. I mean sure, we still walked up to the door, but left in peace once we finished reading their anti-holiday proclamation.
I do have to say one thing though, saying you don’t believe in a holiday and then partially participating in that holiday by answering your door just to tell the costume clad person who knocked, and who is celebrating the holiday that you do not believe that holiday… well that’s kind of like going camping and then smearing honey all over your face and then telling the bear that has just showed up for an afternoon smorgasbord that you don’t believe in them. Whether you believe in it or not, it’s still there and still very real.
Although, I get people choosing not to participate in celebrating a holiday. Holidays are created all the time that I choose not to participate in… That’s right! I’m talking to you Hallmark! Quit it! Besides, I’m not sure a holiday goes away just because you choose not to believe in it. If that were the case Halloween would have disappeared a long, long time ago when the Catholic Church was avidly working on expunging all the Pagans, their beliefs, and their holidays.
In the end, I suppose that as long as these people are well and their anti-holiday belief isn’t hurting anyone then by all means, continue not to believe. To help with this whole thing I’ve devised a plan… so to any Witnesses reading this let me be the first to wish you a “Happy No Holiday At All Day!” I hope it treats you well.
Any anti-Halloween stories of your own you’d like to share? Please do.
Image Sources:
Google Images, keywords: Happy Halloween, glow in the dark fangs, trick or treat, Jehovah’s Witnesses, imagination, house lights, and happy non party.
by Richard Timothy | Oct 27, 2010 | 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
Tattoos, we all have them… or have thought about getting one… or know someone who has one… or know someone who has thought about getting one… or at the very least we have all seen one. I mean, I remember seeing one every week on Fantasy Island. They’re hard to miss really. I see them everywhere, in magazines, on the internet, in movies and on television, at Harley conventions, on people in the military, and even on vampire hunters that are themselves vampires, oh wait; I guess that falls in the movie category.
I know there are some people out there that just don’t get it, and I am almost one of those people. Of course I only feel this way when I come across those few individuals that have tattoos over 90+ percent… it’s the face. I just don’t get covering your face with tattoos. Even if it’s a religious or cultural thing, I just don’t get it. Otherwise, ink up all you want, and sometimes I dig it immensely. Other times, it’s like running into some accident on the freeway and instead of looking away, I slow down and stare at the mess to see if I can decipher what I am actually looking at, curious if it means anything. As I drive away, the only thing I can think is how unfortunate the accident was, and how I hope no one was hurt that bad.
The way I see it, tattoos are just another form of art. When I was taking Art in school, debates would always spring up about ‘What is art?’ I took part in a few of these discussions before I learned the true definition of Art, which is ‘an individual’s personal definition.’ If you think something is art, then to you it is. Is cubism, or surrealism, or pop art, or even impressionism art? For some, yes. For others, no. That’s art for you.
For me, some tattoos truly are works of art, and others, well, just refer back to that previously mentioned car wreck metaphor. Besides, it’s my definition of art that I’m using here, so if you disagree, you’re wrong. When I see a tattoo, or collection of tattoos to make one big tattoo like a sleeve, I treat it, or at least I want to treat it, like a painting in a museum or gallery. I want to first look at the art at a distance and take in the full intricacy of the piece, the colors and details. Then I want to get as close as I can to it without making the alarms go off, or making a curator yell at me for getting too close, and take in one small section at a time.
Also, my appreciation for art is enhanced by seeing the original work, as opposed to copies. I can stare at an original work of Michelangelo, or even Bob Ross (I love Bob) for 15 to 20 minutes, but show me the same picture in an art appreciation book, and it’s a turn of a page. If it’s truly an amazing piece or work I might give it a full minute or two. Oddly, I feel the same way about a really impressive tattoo. When I see a picture of a tattoo online or in a magazine, I might go, “Ohh pretty!” but that’s about it. Put me in the same room with someone that actually has that tattoo and it can react in the same way as looking at that original work of Bob.
Trouble is, well, troubles, since there is more than one, is… are… the first problem I run into is that tattoos are always on the move. Yeah, so maybe on more than one occasion I’ve done my best to discretely follow someone around a grocery store trying to get a better look at their tattoos. The second problem is that I was raised with the teaching that it’s impolite to stare, which is exactly what I want to do when I see an exceptional tattoo… but I don’t want to be rude, but I still want to stare… and then stare… and then stare just a little bit more… you see my predicament. So I do a series of quick intense staring bursts as I nonchalantly follow them down the cereal aisle, while pretending to look at a box of Fruity Pebbles. Eventually they go their way and I go mine, but I always feel a touch bummed that I didn’t get a better look at the art they live in. Am I proud of this? Well, let’s just say it seemed like a good idea at the time.
I mean, is there a different code of manners when approaching/admiring a person’s tattoos? Enter my friend Jen. Thanks Jen! Jen is the single most tattooed person I know, and thanks to that, and that our friendship is right around half a decade old, she is my resource for getting the scoop on proper tattoo appreciation protocol. Oh, and for the record, she has some of the best sleeves that I’ve seen. (For those that don’t know, a sleeve is when you have a tattoo, or collection of tattoos that cover your entire arm from your wrist to your shoulder.)
Here are a few things I’ve learned from Jen: Turns out when you stare at a tattoo with appreciation and awe, the owner of the tattoo actually digs it. However, if you are caught staring at a tattoo with a judging eye, which is pretty easy to spot, there is a distinct possibility that you may become the recipient of a barrage of colorful metaphors designed to encourage you to stop your obvious judgmental facial expression.
One important factor to remember when you find yourself in a tattoo appreciating mood, “Don’t touch the art!” If there is one fairly universal rule about art appreciation it’s that you keep your hands off. Believe me, I understand the urge. The first time a saw a Van Gough, I had to fight the urge to run my fingers across it to experience the feeling of all the different textures the piece had to offer. But I didn’t, you know why? Well, apart from getting slapped, fined, and thrown into jail, it’s just plain rude. It’s the same thing when it comes to tattoos. Sure, when I see an amazing tattoo, I want to walk up and poke the tattooed arm with my finger, but I don’t, because it’s an art appreciation no no, and you should really avoid walking up and poking strangers in the arm. You can look, but don’t touch.
Jen told me, “You’d be amazed at how many people think ‘looking at your tattoo’ means pawing you with their hands while they look. I hate that. All of my friends with tats hate that.” She did go on to explain that if you do see a tattoo your really admire and enjoy the look of let them know. Tattoo owners always appreciate hearing that people enjoy their art. It’s kind of like telling a priest you enjoyed his sermon, or telling a Harry Potter fan that ‘Real men don’t sparkle. Real men defeat dark wizards’, or telling a young republican that you miss Reagan too, or telling Hong Kong Phooey he’s a number one super guy. It’s just a nice thing to do and should be well received.
What are your thoughts on tattoo art appreciation?
Image Sources:
Google Images, keywords: tattoos, tattooed face, Bob Ross, shin tattoo, do not touch, and be nice.
by Richard Timothy | Oct 25, 2010 | I Just Don't Get It, I Think There's a Point, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking
After spending a week in Maui, I learned something… ok technically I learned a number of things while I was there. This little nugget of Hawaiian wisdom comes from the realization that if your goal for Hawaii is to have a resort type of island holiday, then they will do their best to charge you for everything they possibly can… including the wind.
I’m sure you’re asking yourself, “But Rich, how can they charge you for the wind?” Well, I’m glad you asked. I was a touch dumbfounded when I heard them say it myself. Ok, so here’s what happened… For the first half of your trip we stayed in the ritzy part of Wailea (pronounced why-lay-a). This area is home to some the bigger high end resorts on the island, like Four Seasons or Grand Wailea, were rooms with a view of the parking lot start at around $400 a night, and if you want a view facing the ocean, well that’s going to cost you.
One of the first evenings there my sweetie-baby-cutie-pie-wifey-pooh and I wandered around looking at the place. As we rounded the corner we came across these adorable little cabanas, i.e. patios with padded wooded lawn chairs under a big umbrella out in the middle of one of their pools. We even went out onto one and enjoyed a few moments laying on them looking out into the blackness beyond the resorts lights were the sound of the ocean kept spitting its S’s like a giant with a lisp trying to say “lisp,” reminding us that it was there, even if we couldn’t see it.
On our third day, decided to spend a fair portion of our afternoon lounging in and around the pools. The first place we headed to was the pool with those cute little cabana areas in the middle of the pool. Out of three possible options, there was one that was not yet taken. I started making my way there, appreciating the fact that we could snag one before any more people arrived. Angela, being a little more aware than I of resort protocol, asked one of the resort employees next to the pool how we would go about reserving one. The employee kindly informed us that we could get one for the entire day for only one hundred dollars.
“What all does that include?” Angela asked.
“It comes with a chilled fruit tray, a pitcher of ice water, and a nice cool natural island breeze that comes up from the ocean.”
Yes really, she included the islands natural breeze into the price. As Angela and I tried to have one of those “Did she just say that?” conversations using only our eyes, the employee leaned in and in a voice that I imagined locals only use to convey some mystical secret about the island, said, “If you rent it after 2PM it’s only fifty dollars.”
Not wanting to be rude, I engaged in the conversation by saying, “Ohhh.”
“I know,” replied employee smiling fanatically.
Angela thanked her and we watched the employee set off toward one of the ‘natural island breeze’ cabanas to deliver a pitcher of ice water to a waiting couple.
“Did she really say that they charge you $100 dollars to enjoy the island breeze?” I asked.
Angela smile, nodded, and decided, “Let’s go to the pool by the bar,” which is where we spent a good portion of our afternoon.
The rest of the time in Maui we would laugh when that $100/day wind would start blowing. Apparently the wind didn’t get the memo that it was only suppose to blow on those people visiting the island that had paid the $100 wind blowing fee for the day.
Ok, one more thing that cracked me up about Hawaii as well, Hershey’s Kisses with macadamia nuts. Yes Hershey’s has teamed up with Mauna Loa to create a Hershey’s Kiss that is stuffed with macadamia nuts. The kicker, you can only buy them in Hawaii. It’s true; these chocolate nutty treats of sugary goodness are made specifically by Hershey’s for the five island state of Hawaii. Mauna Loa ships their macadamia nuts from Hawaii to the states were the Kisses are made. Once the nutty Kiss cools, and is wrapped and packaged, it is shipped back to and only to, Hawaii…
Anyone else find that a little silly, or is it just me?
Image Sources:
Google Images, keywords: Learned, Wailea Marriott, Hawaiian wind, ice water, and Hershey’s kisses with macadamia nuts.
by Richard Timothy | Oct 20, 2010 | I Think There's a Point, Lightbulbs and Soapboxes, My Cutie Baby Sweetie Pie, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking, Public Service Announcement
Now for the record I need to start off by saying that this research is not based in any type of scientific research I’ve come across, or made up for that matter. In fact not a single dolphin was questioned in the gathering of this research, and by research I mean the short conversation I heard while I was standing in line outside a sushi restaurant in Maui.
The sushi restaurant was in our things to do in Maui book. The place had half price appetizers, sushi rolls, and sake after 10 PM, and karaoke! I have many fond memories of karaoke, not so much me singing, but me enjoying the singing and usually attempted singing of others. This was no different; the best performance of the night was, hands down, an old gray-haired Hawaiian with a cane. He was a largish sized man who chose to sing a song by Smokey Robinson and nailed it. It was amazing that a man that size for hit notes that high. And no, the Smokey-like Hawaiian was not part of the research, but definitely deserves some recognition.
The research happened about 9:50 PM, while standing in line waiting for the doors to open. We were the fifth group in line and shortly after getting there a red convertible pulled up and three youngish kids, i.e. barely old enough to legally drink, got out and got in line behind us (two boys and one girl). I don’t think they were bad people, I just think they had a different set of priorities than my sweetie-baby-cutie-pie-wifey-pooh and I have. As we attempted to talk about our favorite parts of the day and share our excitement about going snorkeling that following morning, this threesome talked in the vibrato of children who are trying to whisper, but haven’t figured out it involves lowering the volume of your speaking voice. Also, their favorite way to begin almost every sentence was with the phrase, “Oh my god.”
Actual example:
Girl to Boy 1: “Oh my god, you look so good in that new shirt.”
Boy 1 to Girl: “Oh my god, really?”
Girl to Boy 1: “Really.”
Boy 1 to Girl: “Oh my god, thanks.”
Boy 1 then announced to everyone in line, while only making eye contact with his friends, that he needed a smoke. So he walked over to his little red convertible (no, sadly it was not a Corvette), opened the trunk, dug through a backpack and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. As he stood next to the trunk of his car and smoked the girl yelled to him, “Oh my god you look so skinny standing next to your car.”
To which he replied, “Oh my god, really?”
Which caused Angela whisper to me, “Why do they have to talk like that?”
“Oh my god, what do you mean?” I whispered back to her.
She hit me.
“Oh my god, ouch!” I said, smiling at her. (It was officially on at that point.)
Now I did not see Boy 1 drop his cigarette on the ground and get back. This was probably due to my threats and taunts of tickles directed toward Angela as she attempted to hit me again. What disrupted this playful exchange was the lady standing in front of. Seconds after Boy 1 got back in line, she walked past us and up to Boy 1, saying, “I just love your car, could I talk to you for a minute?” And she pulled him over to the back of his car for a quick chat.
I’m not sure if it was the acoustics of the parking lot being just so that the conversation carried perfectly to where we were standing, or if it was the fact that she too did not understand the volume differences between a whisper and a normal talking voice, but this is what she said, “Hi, I’m a marine biologist on this island and I know that 95% of all littered cigarettes butts end up in the ocean and are responsible for making dolphins and other life very sick. You need to pick up your cigarette butt and put it in the trash. Thank you so much.” And then back to her place in line without even a “please” or “thank you”.
Boy 1 stood there for a second, looking like he was processing what just happened to him. Then without a word, bent over picked up his cigarette butt, walked it over to the trash can and disposed of it properly. As he walked up to his friends he said, in the quietest his voice had used since we they got there, “I totally understand where she’s coming from.” Then promptly changed the subject.
Angela turned to me with her large eyes full of joy and amazement. “That is the best thing I have seen all day,” adding, “I love that lady!”
A few minutes later we were inside ordering an excessive amount of sushi and giggling at the cigarette incident and then at the tone deaf couple trying to sing some Johnny Cash song and failing at every note.
So what’s the lesson? I guess it’s… well, I mean people are going to smoke if they want to, even if everyone agrees (even smokers) it’s an unhealthy and disgusting addiction. No, I think the point is, throw your cigarette butts in the trash. Because every time you drop a cigarette butt on the ground, a baby dolphin bursts into flames… too much? Ok fine, every time you drop a cigarette butt on the ground, a dolphin has a chance of becoming addicted too. And you can get into a lot of trouble trying to feed Nicorette to dolphins… ahem, I mean, so I’ve heard (whistles innocently). Seriously, if you smoke don’t litter. Actually, just don’t litter period. The dolphins say thanks (yes, for not littering AND for all the fish).
Any no-littering stories you’d care to share?
Image Sources:
Google Images, keywords: dolphins, standing in line, oh my god, cigarette litter, sick dolphin and litter free planet.
I do believe my itemization exchange rate method is a work in process though, especially when large sums of money are the topic. Take the interest I paid on my mortgage last year. It’s a bigger number than I am typically use to, so I have to invent a new itemization conversion. It was five two week trips it to Italy, or one commercial sized hot air balloon, or the producer credits in a direct to DVD B-movie… the list goes on and on. I’m not sure I’ll ever look at money as money, because really it’s just a piece of paper. I find myself much more interested in it and its well being if it’s associated with something I’m rather fond of. I guess if I had an affinity for stationary then I might be ok with it being just a piece of paper, but I’m not. I need something a little more, and for now wine seems to be doing the trick. 
