| It's time to set the record straight on bridezilla-ness. |
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
A 'zilla in us all
Friday, October 9, 2009
Moving it along
There is simply no way to move from one home to another without drama.
Through the limber-fingered talents of Fast Eddie and the deceivingly strong Larry the packing guy, my mountain of boxes and tubs were packed neatly into the trailer within an hour. They were likewise unpacked in less than 15 minutes.
But Fast Eddie - the guy who got his hands on my DVD player and Grey's Anatomy Season 5 DVDs while I was practically still watching and packed them so fast it'd give you whiplash - he was the key. With Fast Eddie on my team, I was sure moving day would be a smooth run.
And then DirecTV got involved.
The day before the big move, I set everything up. What I thought was an easy conversation on the phone about cable and Internet service through AT&T was apparently one big joke.
"We have a package for $59.99 that includes all the channels you've said you need."
Great, sign me up.
"Does you fiancé watch sports, because NFL Sunday Ticket is included in that package."
Sure, he's a guy, sign me up.
"You'll get a mail-in rebate for three months of cable for signing up today."
Super, let's get on with it.
"We have four Internet packages, dial-up at $19 a month and Elite at $35 a month, that's our fastest."
Give me the fastest, done and done.
"The installation team will be at your apartment between noon and 5 p.m. Saturday to install your dish."
Whatever, of course you're going to make me wait around all day. I'm moving my entire life into a 4 bedroom-less living space and hoping to do it in two days so I can avoid taking off at work so as to save my PTO for the honeymoon I desperately want, but that's fine. I'll make sure I do nothing but sit at the door and wait for your scrub installation guys to grace my new home with their so-called expertise. Are we done?
Of course, I was all roses on the phone, which I deeply regret now because that broad didn't get a thing right.
Package deal at $59.99 a month? Yeah right, she signed me up for $79.99 a month. NFL Sunday Ticket included? No, an extra $5 a month. Did I order HD DVR? No, but they sure thought that's what they were supposed to install.
I thought I heard something about a rebate? Shyeah, no. Not that I know of.
And the Internet? She didn't even put in an order for it.
So when the fellas arrived to set up my cable, nobody knew what was going on. And of course, it was on me to make the call. Swell, I sure do love those customer service calls.
The first "customer service representative," explained what cable package I was signed up for. After explaining about three different ways that the order was all wrong, she "fixed" it.
Then I was sent to a guy for the Internet installation, where I learned that there was no Internet service order in existence.
During all of this, the anxious group of men waiting to hear the outcome of my conversation kept following me from room to room to outside to inside to anywhere else I went to get away from all their loud guy chatter.
"The installation guys need to know if the cable order is right now so they can finish."
Got it, I'll ask.
"Make sure you ask if there are three receivers. There shouldn't be any HD any more."
Got it. Asking.
"Do you..."
No! I'm on the phone, I'm doing it, go away before I wring your neck!
The third service rep I talked to was supposed to confirm my new cable order, but she obviously didn't have a brain, because she couldn't figure out what I meant by, "what is my current cable order?"
Before I could launch my cell phone across my new lawn, the installation guy took it.
And after about five minutes, he hung up on her. I guess I was right about that one.
While silently considering my newfound admiration for installation techs everywhere, he was getting on the phone with yet another service rep. And she fixed it all. Cable, Internet, my sanity. She even explained all the cable packages and how much they cost. It was like a dream. Good thing, since I was moments away from attempting a Matrix pull through the phone line to strangle each and every person I could.
To-do list - Find out that installation guy's name and have him install anything else I need. Cable, phone, washing machine - I don't care, he'll obviously get farther than anyone else. And whatever phone number he called to reach the heavenly world of real customer service agents who do their job, I want it, too.
-------
Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
www.atchisonglobeonline.com
Through the limber-fingered talents of Fast Eddie and the deceivingly strong Larry the packing guy, my mountain of boxes and tubs were packed neatly into the trailer within an hour. They were likewise unpacked in less than 15 minutes.
But Fast Eddie - the guy who got his hands on my DVD player and Grey's Anatomy Season 5 DVDs while I was practically still watching and packed them so fast it'd give you whiplash - he was the key. With Fast Eddie on my team, I was sure moving day would be a smooth run.
And then DirecTV got involved.
The day before the big move, I set everything up. What I thought was an easy conversation on the phone about cable and Internet service through AT&T was apparently one big joke.
"We have a package for $59.99 that includes all the channels you've said you need."
Great, sign me up.
"Does you fiancé watch sports, because NFL Sunday Ticket is included in that package."
Sure, he's a guy, sign me up.
"You'll get a mail-in rebate for three months of cable for signing up today."
Super, let's get on with it.
"We have four Internet packages, dial-up at $19 a month and Elite at $35 a month, that's our fastest."
Give me the fastest, done and done.
"The installation team will be at your apartment between noon and 5 p.m. Saturday to install your dish."
Whatever, of course you're going to make me wait around all day. I'm moving my entire life into a 4 bedroom-less living space and hoping to do it in two days so I can avoid taking off at work so as to save my PTO for the honeymoon I desperately want, but that's fine. I'll make sure I do nothing but sit at the door and wait for your scrub installation guys to grace my new home with their so-called expertise. Are we done?
Of course, I was all roses on the phone, which I deeply regret now because that broad didn't get a thing right.
Package deal at $59.99 a month? Yeah right, she signed me up for $79.99 a month. NFL Sunday Ticket included? No, an extra $5 a month. Did I order HD DVR? No, but they sure thought that's what they were supposed to install.
I thought I heard something about a rebate? Shyeah, no. Not that I know of.
And the Internet? She didn't even put in an order for it.
So when the fellas arrived to set up my cable, nobody knew what was going on. And of course, it was on me to make the call. Swell, I sure do love those customer service calls.
The first "customer service representative," explained what cable package I was signed up for. After explaining about three different ways that the order was all wrong, she "fixed" it.
Then I was sent to a guy for the Internet installation, where I learned that there was no Internet service order in existence.
During all of this, the anxious group of men waiting to hear the outcome of my conversation kept following me from room to room to outside to inside to anywhere else I went to get away from all their loud guy chatter.
"The installation guys need to know if the cable order is right now so they can finish."
Got it, I'll ask.
"Make sure you ask if there are three receivers. There shouldn't be any HD any more."
Got it. Asking.
"Do you..."
No! I'm on the phone, I'm doing it, go away before I wring your neck!
The third service rep I talked to was supposed to confirm my new cable order, but she obviously didn't have a brain, because she couldn't figure out what I meant by, "what is my current cable order?"
Before I could launch my cell phone across my new lawn, the installation guy took it.
And after about five minutes, he hung up on her. I guess I was right about that one.
While silently considering my newfound admiration for installation techs everywhere, he was getting on the phone with yet another service rep. And she fixed it all. Cable, Internet, my sanity. She even explained all the cable packages and how much they cost. It was like a dream. Good thing, since I was moments away from attempting a Matrix pull through the phone line to strangle each and every person I could.
To-do list - Find out that installation guy's name and have him install anything else I need. Cable, phone, washing machine - I don't care, he'll obviously get farther than anyone else. And whatever phone number he called to reach the heavenly world of real customer service agents who do their job, I want it, too.
-------
Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
www.atchisonglobeonline.com
The ABCs of ABCs
There's nothing more frustrating than word block.
Despite my submersion into the complex and extensive realm of the English language at a very young age, despite watching Shakespeare with my mother on those old-fashioned tapes while other kids were romping around town, despite my meticulous and incessant examination of every conversation of which I am a part or a subject - an unfortunate habit of scrutiny that involves my ears pricking at the slightest reproach or affront, whether cleverly hidden or cleverly obvious - I continuously come across word block.
As I write almost daily, you can imagine the annoyance.
"Who sings this song?"
"It starts with an 'S.' I just know it starts with an 's,' or maybe a 'c.'"
Unfortunately, Billy Idol does not start with an 's,' or a 'c.' It doesn't include either letter - anywhere.
I'd like to attribute my forgetfulness to age, but I'm not ready to begin that battle quite yet. I proved my internal struggle with jumping on Age Avenue just weeks ago, after suffering a mini-stroke following the premature discovery of a gray hair.
In my defense, very blonde looks very gray in the right light.
"What's another word for, 'a citizen who isn't in any form of the military?'"
"Uh..."
The answer I was looking for? Civilian. How long did that take? About two days. How many brain cells did I kill stressing that I couldn't think of that word? Countless.
The real problem lies in that I obsess about mostly everything. I'm a natural born stresser. When I can't get something done quick-like, it will haunt everything I do.
Thus, when a normal person can't think of a synonym to citizen, they move on to another word, satisfied they can finish whatever they are working on.
When I can't think of a synonym to citizen, I can't do anything else right until I remember what I'm looking for, because I know nothing will work as well as that word will.
"Did you remember to get the milk?"
"No, can you think of another word for citizen?"
"Can you get the mail on your way in tomorrow?"
"I know it starts with a 'c.' You know what I'm talking about, what is it?"
Or, "what time did you get to sleep last night?"
"Oh, about 2 a.m. Couldn't sleep, thought of every word known to man. Nothing."
Sometimes when I've thought so hard for so long, if I actually get the synonym I wanted, it doesn't sound right.
Is my brain not working? Am I going crazy? Can I just make up a word that sounds right? Colbert did it, after all. Why can't I?
The situation tends to get a bit frightening when my enlisted help gives up their search before I'm satisfied there's either no way either of us are going to think of it, or it just doesn't exist.
"Come on! Haven't you thought of that word yet?"
"No, I can't think of anything you haven't already said."
"Oh, whatever! Just try harder, you're not trying hard enough! Would you just concentrate and quit messing around?! Ughhh!"
My mom will recognize that exchange more than she'd like to admit - she's been an unwilling participant in it several times.
It's her own fault, really - she's the English teacher. I would expect her to carry a dictionary and thesaurus with her at all times for such moments of desperation.
And although nine times out of 10, she comes through, there is the occasional word that completely stumps us both. And then I'm in a bad mood for about a week. Until I come up with it myself. Or drive myself cuckoo trying.
I'm beginning to think my ABCs stand for aggravatingly bipolar crackpot.
-------
Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
www.atchisonglobeonline.com
Despite my submersion into the complex and extensive realm of the English language at a very young age, despite watching Shakespeare with my mother on those old-fashioned tapes while other kids were romping around town, despite my meticulous and incessant examination of every conversation of which I am a part or a subject - an unfortunate habit of scrutiny that involves my ears pricking at the slightest reproach or affront, whether cleverly hidden or cleverly obvious - I continuously come across word block.
As I write almost daily, you can imagine the annoyance.
"Who sings this song?"
"It starts with an 'S.' I just know it starts with an 's,' or maybe a 'c.'"
Unfortunately, Billy Idol does not start with an 's,' or a 'c.' It doesn't include either letter - anywhere.
I'd like to attribute my forgetfulness to age, but I'm not ready to begin that battle quite yet. I proved my internal struggle with jumping on Age Avenue just weeks ago, after suffering a mini-stroke following the premature discovery of a gray hair.
In my defense, very blonde looks very gray in the right light.
"What's another word for, 'a citizen who isn't in any form of the military?'"
"Uh..."
The answer I was looking for? Civilian. How long did that take? About two days. How many brain cells did I kill stressing that I couldn't think of that word? Countless.
The real problem lies in that I obsess about mostly everything. I'm a natural born stresser. When I can't get something done quick-like, it will haunt everything I do.
Thus, when a normal person can't think of a synonym to citizen, they move on to another word, satisfied they can finish whatever they are working on.
When I can't think of a synonym to citizen, I can't do anything else right until I remember what I'm looking for, because I know nothing will work as well as that word will.
"Did you remember to get the milk?"
"No, can you think of another word for citizen?"
"Can you get the mail on your way in tomorrow?"
"I know it starts with a 'c.' You know what I'm talking about, what is it?"
Or, "what time did you get to sleep last night?"
"Oh, about 2 a.m. Couldn't sleep, thought of every word known to man. Nothing."
Sometimes when I've thought so hard for so long, if I actually get the synonym I wanted, it doesn't sound right.
Is my brain not working? Am I going crazy? Can I just make up a word that sounds right? Colbert did it, after all. Why can't I?
The situation tends to get a bit frightening when my enlisted help gives up their search before I'm satisfied there's either no way either of us are going to think of it, or it just doesn't exist.
"Come on! Haven't you thought of that word yet?"
"No, I can't think of anything you haven't already said."
"Oh, whatever! Just try harder, you're not trying hard enough! Would you just concentrate and quit messing around?! Ughhh!"
My mom will recognize that exchange more than she'd like to admit - she's been an unwilling participant in it several times.
It's her own fault, really - she's the English teacher. I would expect her to carry a dictionary and thesaurus with her at all times for such moments of desperation.
And although nine times out of 10, she comes through, there is the occasional word that completely stumps us both. And then I'm in a bad mood for about a week. Until I come up with it myself. Or drive myself cuckoo trying.
I'm beginning to think my ABCs stand for aggravatingly bipolar crackpot.
-------
Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
www.atchisonglobeonline.com
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Money isn't the root of all evil - chocolate is.
And it's everywhere. Every store is filled, every gas station is plagued, every school-aged child is peddling it on a street, or better yet, bringing it right to my door.
You can't escape chocolate.
And yet "they" say we're one of the most obese nations. I say in a rather annoyed, yet dramatic fashion, "duh."
How can I possibly expect to lose weight with the existence of Hershey's Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate with Toffee and Almonds?
I think the man that invented chocolate must have been an evil genius - there's no other explanation for such a temptingly delicious and destructive creation. He obviously wanted to destroy all of mankind, and although his plans might take many, many years, he's winning, one bag of Hershey's Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate with Toffee and Almonds at a time.
As most other women, I'm on a perpetual diet. My diet is great at work - diet bars, diet drinks, diet everything. But there's nothing like loved ones to murder a diet, cut it up into little pieces and wag it in your defeated face.
What is my significant other's food of choice, you ask? Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
Sure, with genes like his, he can eat a bag of peanut butter cups a day and not gain weight for six months. If he gains any weight at all.
If I eat three peanut butter cups (the small ones mind you), I can feel my pants instantaneously tighten.
Not to mention the guilt I feel. Three peanut butter cups, and I am bludgeoned with horrific images of myself as the Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man, griping incomprehensibly as I throw gobs of sticky chocolate at innocent bystanders and knock over New York City skyscrapers.
I shudder while thinking of the chocolate-covered carnage left in my wake.
So I don't even buy the stuff, and yet, it finds it's way into my life. Like the bowl of Hershey nuggets at the desk next to me - the ones with which I avoid eye contact, so as to maintain my sanity.
Or the Reese's wrappers lying casually in the trash that I seriously consider excavating the moment I'm alone. Just to make sure there isn't any chocolate left. Of course, I'd hate for the trash bag to be sticky.
Even the dog treats, carob chocolate as they may be, bring about the devil's sweet playground. I think he's as addicted to fake chocolate as I am the real stuff. I'd hate to see the day he sneaks a piece of real chocolate - he'd probably never be the same dog again. After all, I've seen his crazed antics while receiving post-bath time treats. If he got a Hershey's Nugget, he'd probably follow me around the entire day with wide eyes, all strung out for "just one more fix."
I fear for those around him that day, as he will most likely run about in a frenzy, foaming at the mouth, tipping over trash cans, attacking anyone in his way while searching for the smallest trace of cocoa.
At least that's what I did during my chocolate detox.
But alas, why lie to myself? I go through detox about every three weeks, because I'm weak and, eventually, Hershey's Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate with Toffee and Almonds breaks me. Breaks me like a frozen Hershey bar in a cold, cold Siberian blizzard.
And if it's not Hershey's nuggets, it's Twix, or Milky Way Midnight. And without Twix or Milky Way Midnight, there's always Cadbury, the creamiest chocolate of them all. What would I do without Cadbury Cream Eggs?
I rue the day Milton Hershey first laid his hands on a cocoa bean as I pop a PB cup, yet another chocolate fix to quiet my craze for the day. Week ... I meant week.
-------
Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
http://www.atchisonglobeonline.com/
And it's everywhere. Every store is filled, every gas station is plagued, every school-aged child is peddling it on a street, or better yet, bringing it right to my door.
You can't escape chocolate.
And yet "they" say we're one of the most obese nations. I say in a rather annoyed, yet dramatic fashion, "duh."
How can I possibly expect to lose weight with the existence of Hershey's Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate with Toffee and Almonds?
I think the man that invented chocolate must have been an evil genius - there's no other explanation for such a temptingly delicious and destructive creation. He obviously wanted to destroy all of mankind, and although his plans might take many, many years, he's winning, one bag of Hershey's Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate with Toffee and Almonds at a time.
As most other women, I'm on a perpetual diet. My diet is great at work - diet bars, diet drinks, diet everything. But there's nothing like loved ones to murder a diet, cut it up into little pieces and wag it in your defeated face.
What is my significant other's food of choice, you ask? Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
Sure, with genes like his, he can eat a bag of peanut butter cups a day and not gain weight for six months. If he gains any weight at all.
If I eat three peanut butter cups (the small ones mind you), I can feel my pants instantaneously tighten.
Not to mention the guilt I feel. Three peanut butter cups, and I am bludgeoned with horrific images of myself as the Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man, griping incomprehensibly as I throw gobs of sticky chocolate at innocent bystanders and knock over New York City skyscrapers.
I shudder while thinking of the chocolate-covered carnage left in my wake.
So I don't even buy the stuff, and yet, it finds it's way into my life. Like the bowl of Hershey nuggets at the desk next to me - the ones with which I avoid eye contact, so as to maintain my sanity.
Or the Reese's wrappers lying casually in the trash that I seriously consider excavating the moment I'm alone. Just to make sure there isn't any chocolate left. Of course, I'd hate for the trash bag to be sticky.
Even the dog treats, carob chocolate as they may be, bring about the devil's sweet playground. I think he's as addicted to fake chocolate as I am the real stuff. I'd hate to see the day he sneaks a piece of real chocolate - he'd probably never be the same dog again. After all, I've seen his crazed antics while receiving post-bath time treats. If he got a Hershey's Nugget, he'd probably follow me around the entire day with wide eyes, all strung out for "just one more fix."
I fear for those around him that day, as he will most likely run about in a frenzy, foaming at the mouth, tipping over trash cans, attacking anyone in his way while searching for the smallest trace of cocoa.
At least that's what I did during my chocolate detox.
But alas, why lie to myself? I go through detox about every three weeks, because I'm weak and, eventually, Hershey's Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate with Toffee and Almonds breaks me. Breaks me like a frozen Hershey bar in a cold, cold Siberian blizzard.
And if it's not Hershey's nuggets, it's Twix, or Milky Way Midnight. And without Twix or Milky Way Midnight, there's always Cadbury, the creamiest chocolate of them all. What would I do without Cadbury Cream Eggs?
I rue the day Milton Hershey first laid his hands on a cocoa bean as I pop a PB cup, yet another chocolate fix to quiet my craze for the day. Week ... I meant week.
-------
Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
http://www.atchisonglobeonline.com/
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The complexities of firsties
I'm beginning to find that many people either don't understand the concept or firsties, or choose to ignore it.
Maybe it's a generation gap-thing. My parents probably didn't play firsties in their younger days because older meant wiser, and wiser meant, "I do what I want and you deal with it."
But my generation ... we play firsties. Which means that everyone else should follow suit, naturally.
And the first rule to firsties is that you don't talk about firsties.
The second rule is you don't mess with the person that calls firsties. Like when I'm watching something you find laboriously boring - Grey's Anatomy for instance.
I'm a die-hard Grey's fan - I can't help but absorb every dirty detail of Meredith and McDreamy's love affair, Christina's ongoing conquest for the title of "Heart Surgeon Extraordinaire" at Seattle Grace while she treads upon every man she possibly can along the way, and the general smut that is McSteamy's life.
When it's that time, I've readied my snacks, the remote for those quiet moments, the lights are dimmed for effect; I've even laid a blanket on the recliner so my dog can sit comfortably with me for the next hour.
I don't want to be bothered.
But say, I happened to forget to visit the restroom before the show, or I need to make a quick call to ask my friend just why that narcissistic woman, once again, told McDreamy to hit the bricks, and philosophize on what idiotic thought process the producers have undergone for the next episode and why they are ruining my show.
This presents the golden opportunity for which all anti-firsties wait in the wings. Sneaky as they are, they snatch up the remote once I'm out of earshot. Quick as a wink, they turn to a favored channel, hoping to find something even slightly interesting.
And you know what happens next.
"Hey, I'm watching that!"
But no, the anti-firsties don't care. They simply pull the five-minute rule - five minutes away, and I apparently "didn't want to watch anymore," acting all the time like they've been watching their show for at least 20 minutes now, and shouldn't have to change the channel because they're now "invested" in the plot.
"But I was here first!"
That doesn't matter to anti-firsties, though. They just look at you like you've spoken an ancient Egyptian dialect, and continue on with their woodcarving, deer hunting, and/or stockcar snorefests.
Thus begins the epic remote war.
Because, of course, I'm going to lunge at the remote rather than go straight to the television set to resolve my dilemma.
In the midst of the clawing and punching fray, my sixth sense begins to kick in - Grey's will return from those paid announcements from their sponsors soon.
It's panic time, as I begin to understand that grappling for the remote is useless. My only choice is to use any bargaining chip I have in the cable television arsenal.
It's time for some womanly prowess.
"If you let me watch the rest of Grey's, I swear I will never again make you watch a second of 'Charmed.' Ever."
As the thought of what Mr. Anti-firstie likes to refer to as "feeble women trying desperately to perform the physical feats that should be left to a man" crosses his mind, the remote is slowly relinquished unto my possession.
The third rule of firsties - firsties may sometimes fail, but a woman's scorn is always victorious.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
http://www.atchisonglobeonline.com/
Maybe it's a generation gap-thing. My parents probably didn't play firsties in their younger days because older meant wiser, and wiser meant, "I do what I want and you deal with it."
But my generation ... we play firsties. Which means that everyone else should follow suit, naturally.
And the first rule to firsties is that you don't talk about firsties.
The second rule is you don't mess with the person that calls firsties. Like when I'm watching something you find laboriously boring - Grey's Anatomy for instance.
I'm a die-hard Grey's fan - I can't help but absorb every dirty detail of Meredith and McDreamy's love affair, Christina's ongoing conquest for the title of "Heart Surgeon Extraordinaire" at Seattle Grace while she treads upon every man she possibly can along the way, and the general smut that is McSteamy's life.
When it's that time, I've readied my snacks, the remote for those quiet moments, the lights are dimmed for effect; I've even laid a blanket on the recliner so my dog can sit comfortably with me for the next hour.
I don't want to be bothered.
But say, I happened to forget to visit the restroom before the show, or I need to make a quick call to ask my friend just why that narcissistic woman, once again, told McDreamy to hit the bricks, and philosophize on what idiotic thought process the producers have undergone for the next episode and why they are ruining my show.
This presents the golden opportunity for which all anti-firsties wait in the wings. Sneaky as they are, they snatch up the remote once I'm out of earshot. Quick as a wink, they turn to a favored channel, hoping to find something even slightly interesting.
And you know what happens next.
"Hey, I'm watching that!"
But no, the anti-firsties don't care. They simply pull the five-minute rule - five minutes away, and I apparently "didn't want to watch anymore," acting all the time like they've been watching their show for at least 20 minutes now, and shouldn't have to change the channel because they're now "invested" in the plot.
"But I was here first!"
That doesn't matter to anti-firsties, though. They just look at you like you've spoken an ancient Egyptian dialect, and continue on with their woodcarving, deer hunting, and/or stockcar snorefests.
Thus begins the epic remote war.
Because, of course, I'm going to lunge at the remote rather than go straight to the television set to resolve my dilemma.
In the midst of the clawing and punching fray, my sixth sense begins to kick in - Grey's will return from those paid announcements from their sponsors soon.
It's panic time, as I begin to understand that grappling for the remote is useless. My only choice is to use any bargaining chip I have in the cable television arsenal.
It's time for some womanly prowess.
"If you let me watch the rest of Grey's, I swear I will never again make you watch a second of 'Charmed.' Ever."
As the thought of what Mr. Anti-firstie likes to refer to as "feeble women trying desperately to perform the physical feats that should be left to a man" crosses his mind, the remote is slowly relinquished unto my possession.
The third rule of firsties - firsties may sometimes fail, but a woman's scorn is always victorious.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
http://www.atchisonglobeonline.com/
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Garmin me
Lately, road signs for me have become bright highway décor.
They obviously can't be for real people who need adequate warning to make good decisions that won't end in a five-car pileup.
For instance, my significant other and I tripped down to Kansas City this weekend. A new baby, three softball games and a sparkling diamond ring - there was a lot to get in.
I've always been proud of my cardinal direction prowess, but there are only certain parts of KC that I can easily navigate; otherwise, I'm a fish out of the water. With no burning desire to find myself on Troost Avenue again, I always print directions.
Of course, in my excited rush, I forgot to print said directions.
Getting to Grandview - easy. Getting from Grandview to the ring shop - not so easy. But after some verbal instruction from my brother, we were on our way.
And then we hit construction.
Kansas City is like a never-ending construction zone, and thus, I believe, the problem.
"We're supposed to stay on 35 South. Is that an exit coming up?"
"Looks like one."
"Well, which way do I go?"
"Which one is 35 South?"
"I don't know! I'm asking you!"
(I'm getting a bit distressed here, with the lane splitting into two just yards away and jam-packed traffic surrounding me.)
"Which one is it? Which one?!"
"I have no idea, where's the signs?"
"I don't know! You're the cartographer, you tell me!"
"I read maps, not road signs!"
And off we go onto an exit, I-35 South gently slipping away.
Was there a sign for the exit I mistakenly took? Sure - about 20 feet past the exit around an eastern bend in the road.
Was there a sign telling me which lane remained I-35 South? Sure - about 20 feet past the exit around a western bend in the road.
Was there a sign at the exit, clearly marking both highways? No.
Frustrating, but not a big deal. Just turn around, get back on 35 North and take 35 South.
Wrong.
I turned around, but I couldn't get back. Why? Construction cones were blocking my way onto the ramp. And of course, the road crews didn't have the decency to make a detour path for out-of-towners who don't know every single road and where it leads.
Now we're in downtown Kansas City, and I kind of know the area, but not the exact street we're on. So I drive northbound for a mile - housing districts.
Backtrack - same ramp, still blocked off, still no detour. I believe in my frantic state I was hoping a detour would magically spring up and save my sanity, but ... no.
Heading back south, I know I can get onto 35 somewhere, although I'm feeling the desperation set in.
So we drive ... and drive ... and I'm getting antsy, until finally I see a glorious sign for I-435, a road I know well.
"We want 435 North so we can intersect with 35 South."
"OK, you want this exit. On the right ... on the right, watch that car!"
Mere seconds pass as I finally make it into the exit lane and quickly scan the signs overhead.
"This says 435 South! I want North!"
"Well I don't see a North, OK?!"
"Oh #$@#!"
As I see I-435 North rapidly approaching on the other side of the trafficway, I make my hasty move.
Do I need a turn signal to cross five lanes of traffic? Not by that point.
Several moments of gargling sounds from my throat passed in the otherwise silent truck.
Was there a sign warning me that the exits would be on opposite sides of the interstate? Of course not - that would make my life easier, and who wants that?
A couple more wrong exits, a call to the highway patrol about an almost-wreck with a guy obviously suffering from his own ego and a bad case of road rage, and one migraine later, and we headed home.
Top of my Christmas list this year - the most expensive Garmin in existence.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com.
www.atchisonglobeonline.com
They obviously can't be for real people who need adequate warning to make good decisions that won't end in a five-car pileup.
For instance, my significant other and I tripped down to Kansas City this weekend. A new baby, three softball games and a sparkling diamond ring - there was a lot to get in.
I've always been proud of my cardinal direction prowess, but there are only certain parts of KC that I can easily navigate; otherwise, I'm a fish out of the water. With no burning desire to find myself on Troost Avenue again, I always print directions.
Of course, in my excited rush, I forgot to print said directions.
Getting to Grandview - easy. Getting from Grandview to the ring shop - not so easy. But after some verbal instruction from my brother, we were on our way.
And then we hit construction.
Kansas City is like a never-ending construction zone, and thus, I believe, the problem.
"We're supposed to stay on 35 South. Is that an exit coming up?"
"Looks like one."
"Well, which way do I go?"
"Which one is 35 South?"
"I don't know! I'm asking you!"
(I'm getting a bit distressed here, with the lane splitting into two just yards away and jam-packed traffic surrounding me.)
"Which one is it? Which one?!"
"I have no idea, where's the signs?"
"I don't know! You're the cartographer, you tell me!"
"I read maps, not road signs!"
And off we go onto an exit, I-35 South gently slipping away.
Was there a sign for the exit I mistakenly took? Sure - about 20 feet past the exit around an eastern bend in the road.
Was there a sign telling me which lane remained I-35 South? Sure - about 20 feet past the exit around a western bend in the road.
Was there a sign at the exit, clearly marking both highways? No.
Frustrating, but not a big deal. Just turn around, get back on 35 North and take 35 South.
Wrong.
I turned around, but I couldn't get back. Why? Construction cones were blocking my way onto the ramp. And of course, the road crews didn't have the decency to make a detour path for out-of-towners who don't know every single road and where it leads.
Now we're in downtown Kansas City, and I kind of know the area, but not the exact street we're on. So I drive northbound for a mile - housing districts.
Backtrack - same ramp, still blocked off, still no detour. I believe in my frantic state I was hoping a detour would magically spring up and save my sanity, but ... no.
Heading back south, I know I can get onto 35 somewhere, although I'm feeling the desperation set in.
So we drive ... and drive ... and I'm getting antsy, until finally I see a glorious sign for I-435, a road I know well.
"We want 435 North so we can intersect with 35 South."
"OK, you want this exit. On the right ... on the right, watch that car!"
Mere seconds pass as I finally make it into the exit lane and quickly scan the signs overhead.
"This says 435 South! I want North!"
"Well I don't see a North, OK?!"
"Oh #$@#!"
As I see I-435 North rapidly approaching on the other side of the trafficway, I make my hasty move.
Do I need a turn signal to cross five lanes of traffic? Not by that point.
Several moments of gargling sounds from my throat passed in the otherwise silent truck.
Was there a sign warning me that the exits would be on opposite sides of the interstate? Of course not - that would make my life easier, and who wants that?
A couple more wrong exits, a call to the highway patrol about an almost-wreck with a guy obviously suffering from his own ego and a bad case of road rage, and one migraine later, and we headed home.
Top of my Christmas list this year - the most expensive Garmin in existence.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com.
www.atchisonglobeonline.com
Monday, April 20, 2009
The other side of stink
Ferrets are the epitome of society's bum rap.
Sure, they steal just about everything, and they wouldn't poop anywhere but exactly where you don't want them to, and of course, the granddaddy of all complaints - they smell.
My dad maintains the ferret musk is reminiscent of rats on the old farm, and is therefore revolting. I, however, believe he's exaggerating - trying to keep a safe distance so he doesn't feel all mushy inside when he sees those little black, beady eyes.
He's a man's man though, so I'll let the charade play on.
That doesn't mean, however, that I think they deserve his condemnation.
Here's an example - Marcellus the ferret, bless his little heart and rest his soul, was my number 2 during college.
When I first got him, he pooped on everything. The only place he didn't relieve himself was the special corner-fit litter box, made just for the 15 or so daily trips to his little ferret office. I think his spastic little nut brain thought the litter box was mostly for cage décor, so it went largely unused.
Ferrets are corner creatures though, so he hit up most of the corners in my apartment, and definitely all the ones in his cage.
But once he picked his favorite corners, where he could gaze lazily out the window, there was nothing I could do to change it.
Ferrets are very stubborn, didn't you know?
So he pooped wherever he wanted, and I constantly dogged after him with paper towels and fresh newspaper. (Secretly, I did amuse myself while sounding off the oh-so cliché "beep...beep...beep" when he backed up into poop position.)
I'm sure editors at The Kansan wouldn't appreciate knowing that my ferret was making use of their front page - and every other page - as his personal poopy pads. I was smart enough not to bring that up as a conversation item, for the sake of my grades.
And as for the bandit reputation, sure, I had a few things lifted in the apartment.
I think the most upsetting theft involved an old friend that came visiting one night.
I didn't witness this, so I remain skeptical as to a possible framing, but apparently he "stole" a wallet.
Now, the jacket was on the couch, and we were watching TV right beside the jacket. I didn't see Marcellus ever sneak into the pocket that contained the wallet. No rustling noises, no gleeful sounds during the big escape - nothing.
We searched for a good 30 minutes before Nate looked suspiciously at the fuzzy body lying on the floor, fatigued from romping about, I was sure.
I knew he took immense pleasure in hiding things inside the couch, so begrudgingly and without placing blame, I offered to make a quick once-over.
How he so quietly got the wallet out of the jacket and into the couch, and with so few bite marks, I have no idea.
Marcellus was the one wronged, though. Once claimed, that wallet was his, and he certainly didn't appreciate its being excavated. He hopped around the room, mouth agape, teeth half-heartedly bared, making hasty darts at Nate's feet. As the situation looked to become bloody, I had to split them up.
I think Nate still holds a grudge.
Marcellus also enjoyed a good escape in the middle of the night. I used duct tape, cardboard, clothes, the couch legs I removed so he couldn't get under the couch and tear it up anymore ... anything I could find to secure the various weak points in his cage.
I finally had a breakdown one night as I lay in bed listening, dreading the sounds of him furiously tugging at the cage walls, just seconds after I returned him from the previous prison break. I think he escaped a total of six times that night. That's also the night that he won his "while she's in the house" freedom to roam.
But aside from the clever escapes from his cage, sneaking into my bed at dawn to bite my feet until I got up or shut him out, scratching at the door until I let him back in to continue biting my feet, digging all the dirt out of my houseplants and rubbing it into the carpet, destroying the lining inside my couch, destroying the filter inside my heater, destroying the carpet near any door that was shut, destroying my sanity - aside from all that, he was a good little ferret ... when he was sleeping.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com
Sure, they steal just about everything, and they wouldn't poop anywhere but exactly where you don't want them to, and of course, the granddaddy of all complaints - they smell.
My dad maintains the ferret musk is reminiscent of rats on the old farm, and is therefore revolting. I, however, believe he's exaggerating - trying to keep a safe distance so he doesn't feel all mushy inside when he sees those little black, beady eyes.
He's a man's man though, so I'll let the charade play on.
That doesn't mean, however, that I think they deserve his condemnation.
Here's an example - Marcellus the ferret, bless his little heart and rest his soul, was my number 2 during college.
When I first got him, he pooped on everything. The only place he didn't relieve himself was the special corner-fit litter box, made just for the 15 or so daily trips to his little ferret office. I think his spastic little nut brain thought the litter box was mostly for cage décor, so it went largely unused.
Ferrets are corner creatures though, so he hit up most of the corners in my apartment, and definitely all the ones in his cage.
But once he picked his favorite corners, where he could gaze lazily out the window, there was nothing I could do to change it.
Ferrets are very stubborn, didn't you know?
So he pooped wherever he wanted, and I constantly dogged after him with paper towels and fresh newspaper. (Secretly, I did amuse myself while sounding off the oh-so cliché "beep...beep...beep" when he backed up into poop position.)
I'm sure editors at The Kansan wouldn't appreciate knowing that my ferret was making use of their front page - and every other page - as his personal poopy pads. I was smart enough not to bring that up as a conversation item, for the sake of my grades.
And as for the bandit reputation, sure, I had a few things lifted in the apartment.
I think the most upsetting theft involved an old friend that came visiting one night.
I didn't witness this, so I remain skeptical as to a possible framing, but apparently he "stole" a wallet.
Now, the jacket was on the couch, and we were watching TV right beside the jacket. I didn't see Marcellus ever sneak into the pocket that contained the wallet. No rustling noises, no gleeful sounds during the big escape - nothing.
We searched for a good 30 minutes before Nate looked suspiciously at the fuzzy body lying on the floor, fatigued from romping about, I was sure.
I knew he took immense pleasure in hiding things inside the couch, so begrudgingly and without placing blame, I offered to make a quick once-over.
How he so quietly got the wallet out of the jacket and into the couch, and with so few bite marks, I have no idea.
Marcellus was the one wronged, though. Once claimed, that wallet was his, and he certainly didn't appreciate its being excavated. He hopped around the room, mouth agape, teeth half-heartedly bared, making hasty darts at Nate's feet. As the situation looked to become bloody, I had to split them up.
I think Nate still holds a grudge.
Marcellus also enjoyed a good escape in the middle of the night. I used duct tape, cardboard, clothes, the couch legs I removed so he couldn't get under the couch and tear it up anymore ... anything I could find to secure the various weak points in his cage.
I finally had a breakdown one night as I lay in bed listening, dreading the sounds of him furiously tugging at the cage walls, just seconds after I returned him from the previous prison break. I think he escaped a total of six times that night. That's also the night that he won his "while she's in the house" freedom to roam.
But aside from the clever escapes from his cage, sneaking into my bed at dawn to bite my feet until I got up or shut him out, scratching at the door until I let him back in to continue biting my feet, digging all the dirt out of my houseplants and rubbing it into the carpet, destroying the lining inside my couch, destroying the filter inside my heater, destroying the carpet near any door that was shut, destroying my sanity - aside from all that, he was a good little ferret ... when he was sleeping.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com
Monday, March 30, 2009
High heel hell
High heels may be the most irresistibly ridiculous invention ever.
I didn't participate in the high heels fad in high school. And I barely did it in college. Only for special ceremonies would anyone catch me in ankle-twisting stilettos. But as an adult, I find my obsession with spikey shoes growing at an unparalleled pace.
Fire engine red, Katie's kayak blue, snowy white and cosmopolitan berry, - whatever that means - I can't resist a shoe of every color. Or any color.
So I've finally made my graceful ascension into the stereotype of all stereotypes - women have no money...blah blah...something about too many shoes.
Well, it's not like this sickness was something I wanted as a burden.
I have to look at those shoes every morning and decide which ones will torment me for the next 10 hours.
The three-and-a-half reds? No, too much walking today, I don't need a Charley horse during lunch.
How about the 2-inch pinkies? They match perfectly with that shirt (totally a coincidence).
It's that or the most comfortable slip-on shoes I've ever owned, in which my sister recently called "butch." Albeit, I laughed, because they did look pretty man-ish next to my reds with the cute little buckle, but I think I'll be retiring those now.
So I sigh while meticulously applying what my brother-in-law refers to as "war paint" each morning, because I know I can't wear the comfortable ones. It's the heels or bust.
Who invented high heels anyway?
It certainly wasn't a woman - no woman would voluntarily put herself through such torture.
At first, it's great. You're looking good; the heels look perfect with your carefully planned ensemble.
But make sure you've given yourself a pedicure recently, or your toenails will feel like they are being shoved into the bones of your feet. Not pretty.
And you might want to wrap your pinky toes in gauze - in two hours, those little puppies will feel completely skinned.
If you walk more than three minutes at a time, you'd better practice putting your weight anywhere but the balls of your feet. Don't even try standing in one place for more than 10 minutes; it will feel more like you've been in a tribal firewalking ceremony.
Keep in mind that if you're actively protecting the balls of your feet, your lower back will eventually feel like someone whacked you repeatedly with a tree branch.
And your calves ... your poor calves. There's no way around it, they will be mincemeat - memories of three-a-day volleyball practices viciously flood back. The intense soreness, the immediate regret, and the sobbing that ensues when just a toe meets the hard floor.
If you're going out with your significant other that night, you might as well bring the butch shoes. If he loves you, he'll stay regardless of the heel height.
What he won't love is walking at a caterpillar's pace around the mall because you're straggling along like a broken robot.
"I told you not to wear those shoes. How fantastic do they look now?"
Of course, they still look fantastic. It's your body that won't work. Because your pinky toe is numb, so your balance is topsy-turvy, and you are certain the balls of your feet are no longer covered in skin, and putting weight on your heels instantly begins a fainting spell, and you're struggling through the worst calf spasms in high heel history.
But it's worth it. The girl at the checkout counter sees the pain in your eyes. She sympathizes. She's been there. She knows just what you need. With a warm smile and eyes wide with envy, she gives you a reason to fight through the burning, aching, and general agony, and trudge on in your favorite three-and-a-half inch fire engine reds.
"Love your shoes!"
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
I didn't participate in the high heels fad in high school. And I barely did it in college. Only for special ceremonies would anyone catch me in ankle-twisting stilettos. But as an adult, I find my obsession with spikey shoes growing at an unparalleled pace.
Fire engine red, Katie's kayak blue, snowy white and cosmopolitan berry, - whatever that means - I can't resist a shoe of every color. Or any color.
So I've finally made my graceful ascension into the stereotype of all stereotypes - women have no money...blah blah...something about too many shoes.
Well, it's not like this sickness was something I wanted as a burden.
I have to look at those shoes every morning and decide which ones will torment me for the next 10 hours.
The three-and-a-half reds? No, too much walking today, I don't need a Charley horse during lunch.
How about the 2-inch pinkies? They match perfectly with that shirt (totally a coincidence).
It's that or the most comfortable slip-on shoes I've ever owned, in which my sister recently called "butch." Albeit, I laughed, because they did look pretty man-ish next to my reds with the cute little buckle, but I think I'll be retiring those now.
So I sigh while meticulously applying what my brother-in-law refers to as "war paint" each morning, because I know I can't wear the comfortable ones. It's the heels or bust.
Who invented high heels anyway?
It certainly wasn't a woman - no woman would voluntarily put herself through such torture.
At first, it's great. You're looking good; the heels look perfect with your carefully planned ensemble.
But make sure you've given yourself a pedicure recently, or your toenails will feel like they are being shoved into the bones of your feet. Not pretty.
And you might want to wrap your pinky toes in gauze - in two hours, those little puppies will feel completely skinned.
If you walk more than three minutes at a time, you'd better practice putting your weight anywhere but the balls of your feet. Don't even try standing in one place for more than 10 minutes; it will feel more like you've been in a tribal firewalking ceremony.
Keep in mind that if you're actively protecting the balls of your feet, your lower back will eventually feel like someone whacked you repeatedly with a tree branch.
And your calves ... your poor calves. There's no way around it, they will be mincemeat - memories of three-a-day volleyball practices viciously flood back. The intense soreness, the immediate regret, and the sobbing that ensues when just a toe meets the hard floor.
If you're going out with your significant other that night, you might as well bring the butch shoes. If he loves you, he'll stay regardless of the heel height.
What he won't love is walking at a caterpillar's pace around the mall because you're straggling along like a broken robot.
"I told you not to wear those shoes. How fantastic do they look now?"
Of course, they still look fantastic. It's your body that won't work. Because your pinky toe is numb, so your balance is topsy-turvy, and you are certain the balls of your feet are no longer covered in skin, and putting weight on your heels instantly begins a fainting spell, and you're struggling through the worst calf spasms in high heel history.
But it's worth it. The girl at the checkout counter sees the pain in your eyes. She sympathizes. She's been there. She knows just what you need. With a warm smile and eyes wide with envy, she gives you a reason to fight through the burning, aching, and general agony, and trudge on in your favorite three-and-a-half inch fire engine reds.
"Love your shoes!"
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Cuckoo Zone
A few months ago I coined my very own phrase. This came during the mad rush of the presidential election. I was deep in thought, pondering on the state of things, when it suddenly came to me.
"They are so busy celebrating a win, they have yet to realize they lost."
Unfortunately, my little quote not only applies to my political arch nemeses, but to a broad spectrum of people - people we all encounter on a daily basis.
Which brings me to my point - there are way too many people out there that have no idea what they are talking about.
Everybody knows one - a friend, an in-law, maybe even a co-worker. And I know you do the same thing I do when they get started. While simultaneously listening to their bucket of crazy and contemplating your own retaliation, your hands tremble, heartbeat picks up, breathing stops, and you clench your jaws to avoid sighing as loudly as possible, and all you can hear in your mind is this high-pitched screaming.
Oh yes, the inner monologue scream. And you're just hoping your face doesn't reflect your thoughts during this private screaming session.
Of course you don't want to listen, but it's like a train wreck. You won't go to another room, or anything else, simply because you feel this morbid desire to rant to someone - anyone - about what idiotic things they said after they are gone.
Even if by third or fourth person, when I hear about someone saying something that makes absolutely no sense, I can't keep my composure.
"So you're telling me that he said you can get cancer if a dog licks you because canine saliva has fecal toxins in it? Are you kidding me right now?"
The worst part is, you can't correct these people. They won't have it.
You could argue to the death, and they will still be 100-percent certain that this person, who has done no research whatsoever, is a reliable source.
"Well, I just don't think he'd lie about something like that."
No, probably not. He's probably just an idiot.
And that's what gets me. These people are so satisfied with themselves, because they think they look intelligent, or feel they've given you vital information, that they won't yield to the possibility that their information could be misguided, or - shock of all shocks - wrong.
You could resurrect Jesus and ask him to put the final nail in evolution's coffin, and they'd still say, "Well, I just don't know. It made sense to me."
Well, Britney Spears appears to be a good mother at times, but that doesn't mean I just allow her to dupe me so unceremoniously.
So, in honor of my New Year's resolution, I vow not to argue. I promise not to correct. Because, after all, it's useless.
When they are lost in smugness over their "obvious" win, just smile, and always remember to keep your wits about you when they start their crazy. As my good friend, Ron Burgundy said once, while arguing over the origin of a certain city name: "Agree to disagree."
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
"They are so busy celebrating a win, they have yet to realize they lost."
Unfortunately, my little quote not only applies to my political arch nemeses, but to a broad spectrum of people - people we all encounter on a daily basis.
Which brings me to my point - there are way too many people out there that have no idea what they are talking about.
Everybody knows one - a friend, an in-law, maybe even a co-worker. And I know you do the same thing I do when they get started. While simultaneously listening to their bucket of crazy and contemplating your own retaliation, your hands tremble, heartbeat picks up, breathing stops, and you clench your jaws to avoid sighing as loudly as possible, and all you can hear in your mind is this high-pitched screaming.
Oh yes, the inner monologue scream. And you're just hoping your face doesn't reflect your thoughts during this private screaming session.
Of course you don't want to listen, but it's like a train wreck. You won't go to another room, or anything else, simply because you feel this morbid desire to rant to someone - anyone - about what idiotic things they said after they are gone.
Even if by third or fourth person, when I hear about someone saying something that makes absolutely no sense, I can't keep my composure.
"So you're telling me that he said you can get cancer if a dog licks you because canine saliva has fecal toxins in it? Are you kidding me right now?"
The worst part is, you can't correct these people. They won't have it.
You could argue to the death, and they will still be 100-percent certain that this person, who has done no research whatsoever, is a reliable source.
"Well, I just don't think he'd lie about something like that."
No, probably not. He's probably just an idiot.
And that's what gets me. These people are so satisfied with themselves, because they think they look intelligent, or feel they've given you vital information, that they won't yield to the possibility that their information could be misguided, or - shock of all shocks - wrong.
You could resurrect Jesus and ask him to put the final nail in evolution's coffin, and they'd still say, "Well, I just don't know. It made sense to me."
Well, Britney Spears appears to be a good mother at times, but that doesn't mean I just allow her to dupe me so unceremoniously.
So, in honor of my New Year's resolution, I vow not to argue. I promise not to correct. Because, after all, it's useless.
When they are lost in smugness over their "obvious" win, just smile, and always remember to keep your wits about you when they start their crazy. As my good friend, Ron Burgundy said once, while arguing over the origin of a certain city name: "Agree to disagree."
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Fears of the feline kind
On my computer's desktop is a picture of a cat. A beautiful snow leopard, poised gracefully on a mountain of rock, undoubtedly stalking a cute bunny - which makes me think of my own cats at home.
While admiring this feline that could eat me whole, I wonder, what exactly are my cats capable of?
Don't get me wrong - I love my cats. They are fat, happy and lazy - nothing of which I could get out of a feral cat.
But I also watch my back.
It all started when my mom and I caught them as kittens, holed up in an old chicken coop on our property.
It took what seemed a lifetime to catch Zena - that little ball of fur scurried to every corner of the building to avoid capture. And I'm pretty sure I lost about a quart of blood after catching Hercules.
Why I didn't think to wear full body armor throughout this endeavor, I have no idea. I shudder to remember the hissing, spatting and furious attempts to end my life.
Needless to say, they earned their names.
Even after several years of domesticated life, this brother-sister pair will leave the occasional half-eaten bunny in the garage, and there's always a mouse strewn about.
Mom even discovered Zena torturing a mouse one day, bouncing it between her delicate paws. I think she was a bit miffed that Mom distracted her, allowing the mouse to save its life in those precious few seconds.
And the birds know, despite the fact that those furry lions are lying flat on their backs in the yard, that they are being watched.
Most of their aggression seems to stem from food, as a matter of fact.
If the automatic kitty feeder ever becomes empty, Zena - in her obviously disgusted state - drags it across the floor, neatly (and conveniently) placing it at the bottom of the stairs.
I've witnessed her carry out this task just once - she seemed almost livid as she scooted it inch by inch across the room.
If you've ever owned an animal that steals and stashes, you've seen this reverse maneuver before. So of course, I had to stifle my laughter as I watched her paw her food bowl around.
I don't laugh anymore though. She almost ended my life last time she strategically placed it there.
We keep the food bowl full to the brim at all times now.
And recently, they've begun staring at me when I give the dog treats for the two tricks he knows - ignore me completely, and don't do anything I say.
I feel a cold sweat coming on when those orange and gray eyes beam at me, and the tongues lick ever so cunningly. All of a sudden, they seem a bit more like their wild cousins.
But honestly, I can't leave the house now without three animals traipsing after me for treats. It's like a ridiculous cookie parade, and I'm the grand marshal.
And if I don't give them treats? I get punished.
Zena won't let me have my computer time. Instead, she sits on the computer, lies on my keyboard, flips around on the desk.
The last time she tried that, I poked her nonchalantly with my pen. It was innocent enough at first, she gave the pen a little pat, and I poked her again.
Wrong.
All of a sudden, she turned into a viper, striking the pen repeatedly with fangs and claws, and then moved on to my hand.
She knew she got me good, too, because she bolted after three or four nips.
Her son, JR, who resides with my oldest sister, seems to have gotten a bit of her vengeful personality. He uses his paws of mass destruction to torment the family, tagging them as they walk down the hallway, or sticking a few claws in a toe late at night under the covers.
He got me once as I was walking to the bathroom, and I thought a ghost bludgeoned me, he fled the scene so fast.
My Hercules isn't a fighter though, just a lover. A lover that - when no other entertainment presents itself - smacks my hand if I stop petting him, chews on my fingers, and kneads dagger-like claws into any flesh he sees.
The only time I really feel safe to go about the house without armor is when I see them napping on their backs. That's the "I'm napping and you don't exist" stance.
And I always shut my door at night. If I don't, I'll wake up with Zena calmly perched on top of me, eyes gleaming in the dark.
What grinds my gears? I'm completely cowed by a combined 30 pounds of fur and fangs.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
While admiring this feline that could eat me whole, I wonder, what exactly are my cats capable of?
Don't get me wrong - I love my cats. They are fat, happy and lazy - nothing of which I could get out of a feral cat.
But I also watch my back.
It all started when my mom and I caught them as kittens, holed up in an old chicken coop on our property.
It took what seemed a lifetime to catch Zena - that little ball of fur scurried to every corner of the building to avoid capture. And I'm pretty sure I lost about a quart of blood after catching Hercules.
Why I didn't think to wear full body armor throughout this endeavor, I have no idea. I shudder to remember the hissing, spatting and furious attempts to end my life.
Needless to say, they earned their names.
Even after several years of domesticated life, this brother-sister pair will leave the occasional half-eaten bunny in the garage, and there's always a mouse strewn about.
Mom even discovered Zena torturing a mouse one day, bouncing it between her delicate paws. I think she was a bit miffed that Mom distracted her, allowing the mouse to save its life in those precious few seconds.
And the birds know, despite the fact that those furry lions are lying flat on their backs in the yard, that they are being watched.
Most of their aggression seems to stem from food, as a matter of fact.
If the automatic kitty feeder ever becomes empty, Zena - in her obviously disgusted state - drags it across the floor, neatly (and conveniently) placing it at the bottom of the stairs.
I've witnessed her carry out this task just once - she seemed almost livid as she scooted it inch by inch across the room.
If you've ever owned an animal that steals and stashes, you've seen this reverse maneuver before. So of course, I had to stifle my laughter as I watched her paw her food bowl around.
I don't laugh anymore though. She almost ended my life last time she strategically placed it there.
We keep the food bowl full to the brim at all times now.
And recently, they've begun staring at me when I give the dog treats for the two tricks he knows - ignore me completely, and don't do anything I say.
I feel a cold sweat coming on when those orange and gray eyes beam at me, and the tongues lick ever so cunningly. All of a sudden, they seem a bit more like their wild cousins.
But honestly, I can't leave the house now without three animals traipsing after me for treats. It's like a ridiculous cookie parade, and I'm the grand marshal.
And if I don't give them treats? I get punished.
Zena won't let me have my computer time. Instead, she sits on the computer, lies on my keyboard, flips around on the desk.
The last time she tried that, I poked her nonchalantly with my pen. It was innocent enough at first, she gave the pen a little pat, and I poked her again.
Wrong.
All of a sudden, she turned into a viper, striking the pen repeatedly with fangs and claws, and then moved on to my hand.
She knew she got me good, too, because she bolted after three or four nips.
Her son, JR, who resides with my oldest sister, seems to have gotten a bit of her vengeful personality. He uses his paws of mass destruction to torment the family, tagging them as they walk down the hallway, or sticking a few claws in a toe late at night under the covers.
He got me once as I was walking to the bathroom, and I thought a ghost bludgeoned me, he fled the scene so fast.
My Hercules isn't a fighter though, just a lover. A lover that - when no other entertainment presents itself - smacks my hand if I stop petting him, chews on my fingers, and kneads dagger-like claws into any flesh he sees.
The only time I really feel safe to go about the house without armor is when I see them napping on their backs. That's the "I'm napping and you don't exist" stance.
And I always shut my door at night. If I don't, I'll wake up with Zena calmly perched on top of me, eyes gleaming in the dark.
What grinds my gears? I'm completely cowed by a combined 30 pounds of fur and fangs.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Vegetari-ain't
I'll never understand the world of vegetarians.
Heart and soul, I'm a Kansas girl. Although I'm not necessarily in tune with Gollum's palate for "wet and wriggling," I like me some crappie. Bass too - just not catfish.
And I like my steak medium rare.
Yes, precious - grill that steak for five minutes and it's ready to go, bloody and all.
So naturally, when I hear the word "vegetarian," I cringe inside, for two very sensible reasons - I don't get it, and I don't like it.
The court recognizes exhibit A - the dining out experience.
First and foremost, if you're a vegetarian and thus so repulsed by the omnivorous kind, why would you put yourself in the grievous situation of eating near them?
Like any other woman, I enjoy a nice meal at a restaurant. What I don't enjoy is being judged about my dietary decisions from the next table.
You know the look - nose crinkled, judgmental eyes upon your plate, and the disapproving slight shake of the head.
Even if it's not a noticeable reaction, you know what's playing in their head.
"How can she eat that?! Doesn't she know how that cow suffered? Doesn't she care?"
Truth of the matter is, I do know.
I know chickens are cooped together in deplorable conditions. I know cattle endure a less than euphoric end.
And those poor fish - death by brain bludgeoning. At least, that's how we did it when I was a kid.
So yes, I do know, and possibly the worst part, I'm not going to do a thing about it.
The court recognizes exhibit B - canines, otherwise known as "eye teeth."
I don't have those teeth for nothing; I was born to eat meat. And so were you. Match point.
And the granddaddy of all plot holes - vegetarianism reeks of hypocrisy.
Exhibit C - the "sort-of-vegetarian vegetarian."
Did you know that some of them eat fish, even chicken? How can they do that? Aren't vegetarians supposed to be staunchly against harming animals? A fish brain might not be much, but it's a living, breathing organism. And a chicken? Get outta here.
So if they are supposed to be deeply concerned about the welfare of animals, how can vegetarians drink milk? That poor cow suffered endlessly, standing in a stall for hours enduring a milking machine's icy touch, to provide gallons upon gallons of milk. That milk in your glass might as well have been tears.
And don't forget cheese, yogurt, ice cream - cows contributed tireless hours of slave labor to provide the base for all dairy products.
There can be no gray areas, as my father would say, so it's time to make a decision - either you like meat, or you don't. None of this wishy-washy, "No, I don't eat meat, yuck. But don't you just love my new Ralph Lauren thigh-high stiletto leather boots?"
In fact, there's a multitude of products that vegetarians shouldn't purchase at all - packaged cookies and crackers contain animal shortening, butter, lard or suet; candy, chewing gum, ice cream and liquor contain capric acid, another animal fat; marshmallows, yogurt and gelatin desserts contain gelatin, made from animal bones, cartilage, tendons and skin; processed foods, cosmetics, perfumes, lotions, inks and glues contain glycerides, made from animal fats; chocolate contains lecithin, an animal product used to preserve food; wax paper, margarine, crayons, candles and rubber contain tallow, solid fat of sheep and cattle, and the list goes on ... and on ... and on.
What's left? Well, you can have some lettuce, as long as you're not concerned about stealing Bugs Bunny's dinner. But you put down that Hershey bar. And the Twinkie? I think not.
As for me, I'm not buying it, so I'm going to ignore that you're breaking the rules and enjoy the fruits of God's green earth - not to mention this juicy steak on my plate.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com.
Heart and soul, I'm a Kansas girl. Although I'm not necessarily in tune with Gollum's palate for "wet and wriggling," I like me some crappie. Bass too - just not catfish.
And I like my steak medium rare.
Yes, precious - grill that steak for five minutes and it's ready to go, bloody and all.
So naturally, when I hear the word "vegetarian," I cringe inside, for two very sensible reasons - I don't get it, and I don't like it.
The court recognizes exhibit A - the dining out experience.
First and foremost, if you're a vegetarian and thus so repulsed by the omnivorous kind, why would you put yourself in the grievous situation of eating near them?
Like any other woman, I enjoy a nice meal at a restaurant. What I don't enjoy is being judged about my dietary decisions from the next table.
You know the look - nose crinkled, judgmental eyes upon your plate, and the disapproving slight shake of the head.
Even if it's not a noticeable reaction, you know what's playing in their head.
"How can she eat that?! Doesn't she know how that cow suffered? Doesn't she care?"
Truth of the matter is, I do know.
I know chickens are cooped together in deplorable conditions. I know cattle endure a less than euphoric end.
And those poor fish - death by brain bludgeoning. At least, that's how we did it when I was a kid.
So yes, I do know, and possibly the worst part, I'm not going to do a thing about it.
The court recognizes exhibit B - canines, otherwise known as "eye teeth."
I don't have those teeth for nothing; I was born to eat meat. And so were you. Match point.
And the granddaddy of all plot holes - vegetarianism reeks of hypocrisy.
Exhibit C - the "sort-of-vegetarian vegetarian."
Did you know that some of them eat fish, even chicken? How can they do that? Aren't vegetarians supposed to be staunchly against harming animals? A fish brain might not be much, but it's a living, breathing organism. And a chicken? Get outta here.
So if they are supposed to be deeply concerned about the welfare of animals, how can vegetarians drink milk? That poor cow suffered endlessly, standing in a stall for hours enduring a milking machine's icy touch, to provide gallons upon gallons of milk. That milk in your glass might as well have been tears.
And don't forget cheese, yogurt, ice cream - cows contributed tireless hours of slave labor to provide the base for all dairy products.
There can be no gray areas, as my father would say, so it's time to make a decision - either you like meat, or you don't. None of this wishy-washy, "No, I don't eat meat, yuck. But don't you just love my new Ralph Lauren thigh-high stiletto leather boots?"
In fact, there's a multitude of products that vegetarians shouldn't purchase at all - packaged cookies and crackers contain animal shortening, butter, lard or suet; candy, chewing gum, ice cream and liquor contain capric acid, another animal fat; marshmallows, yogurt and gelatin desserts contain gelatin, made from animal bones, cartilage, tendons and skin; processed foods, cosmetics, perfumes, lotions, inks and glues contain glycerides, made from animal fats; chocolate contains lecithin, an animal product used to preserve food; wax paper, margarine, crayons, candles and rubber contain tallow, solid fat of sheep and cattle, and the list goes on ... and on ... and on.
What's left? Well, you can have some lettuce, as long as you're not concerned about stealing Bugs Bunny's dinner. But you put down that Hershey bar. And the Twinkie? I think not.
As for me, I'm not buying it, so I'm going to ignore that you're breaking the rules and enjoy the fruits of God's green earth - not to mention this juicy steak on my plate.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
A stress-less New Year
In this new year, I will make a substantial vow to myself - I will be less irritated.
It will be hard, yes, it will be trying. Of course, I can't ignore everything. Where would I find subject matter for my column?
However, I've passed yet another birthday, and thus, I have to further accept my obligations to be a somewhat sane, level-minded adult.
My New Year's resolution? Well, it isn't exactly a resolution in the singular sense.
I promise to stop, count to 10 and breathe when someone at a red light won't turn right. So what if they could have turned five minutes ago? Just because they can turn doesn't mean they have to. Let's all just sit at this light and think happy thoughts until it turns green. No matter that I left permanent indentations of my hands in the steering wheel.
I vow not to mutter cuss words when I find that my toothpaste has been accosted by someone who decided to cap it mid-squeeze. I don't have to get upset about this - it's so easy just to wash off all the excess toothpaste that has coated the top and sides, as well as the cap, although I know that cap won't wash out at all. It will be a constant mess every time I use that stupid tube. But it's OK.
I will deny the impulse to mention to the people staring at me in a rude manner that they might want to take a photograph, or inquire as to what exactly is their problem. Maybe they are just having vision problems, or can't think of my name. Surely that contemptuous face has nothing to do with anything that passed during our high school days, oh so long ago.
I won't be disgusted when there happens to be a sequel to one of my favorite movies that undoes the majesty of the series. No, Mummy III - Tomb of the Dragon Emperor, I'm not talking about you. Of course, replacing Rachel Weisz was fine with me. I don't know the other chick, but her frigidness and obvious lack of theatrical training was ... new.
When the operator asks me if I am willing to be put on hold, and then puts me on hold before I have a chance to answer, I will not mutter indecencies about her personality, social standing, or professionalism. After all, it's inevitable that I will be put on hold, so it's not really a question as much as it is a warning - an evil, mind game kind of warning.
Even though the restaurant is terribly crowded, I will not glare at the large, boisterous party that obviously finished their meals 20 minutes ago but refuse to leave. I don't mind standing by the door, with a wintry draft every 10 seconds. The sub-zero temperatures feel refreshing as they waft up my coat.
I will completely ignore it every time a Hollywood profile, who has obviously broken most, if not all, 10 Commandments, thanks God for their success. Of course Snoop has every right to thank God - he's alive, isn't he?
I will not take my revenge on some inconsiderate jerk who cuts me off on the highway. Speeding up to return the favor, and adding a little brake-check in the mix, is definitely not the solution. Enjoyable, yes, but wrong.
I will not "accidentally" bump people with my shopping cart when they plug up the aisle because they are holding a conversation that could be heard on "The View." No, you can't squeeze by either, Katy. Just back up and go to the next aisle, it's not worth getting security involved.
I know - it's a lot to take on all at once. I can't really promise that I will uphold all my New Year's resolutions to the fullest, but I sure can say that I will think about trying.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com.
It will be hard, yes, it will be trying. Of course, I can't ignore everything. Where would I find subject matter for my column?
However, I've passed yet another birthday, and thus, I have to further accept my obligations to be a somewhat sane, level-minded adult.
My New Year's resolution? Well, it isn't exactly a resolution in the singular sense.
I promise to stop, count to 10 and breathe when someone at a red light won't turn right. So what if they could have turned five minutes ago? Just because they can turn doesn't mean they have to. Let's all just sit at this light and think happy thoughts until it turns green. No matter that I left permanent indentations of my hands in the steering wheel.
I vow not to mutter cuss words when I find that my toothpaste has been accosted by someone who decided to cap it mid-squeeze. I don't have to get upset about this - it's so easy just to wash off all the excess toothpaste that has coated the top and sides, as well as the cap, although I know that cap won't wash out at all. It will be a constant mess every time I use that stupid tube. But it's OK.
I will deny the impulse to mention to the people staring at me in a rude manner that they might want to take a photograph, or inquire as to what exactly is their problem. Maybe they are just having vision problems, or can't think of my name. Surely that contemptuous face has nothing to do with anything that passed during our high school days, oh so long ago.
I won't be disgusted when there happens to be a sequel to one of my favorite movies that undoes the majesty of the series. No, Mummy III - Tomb of the Dragon Emperor, I'm not talking about you. Of course, replacing Rachel Weisz was fine with me. I don't know the other chick, but her frigidness and obvious lack of theatrical training was ... new.
When the operator asks me if I am willing to be put on hold, and then puts me on hold before I have a chance to answer, I will not mutter indecencies about her personality, social standing, or professionalism. After all, it's inevitable that I will be put on hold, so it's not really a question as much as it is a warning - an evil, mind game kind of warning.
Even though the restaurant is terribly crowded, I will not glare at the large, boisterous party that obviously finished their meals 20 minutes ago but refuse to leave. I don't mind standing by the door, with a wintry draft every 10 seconds. The sub-zero temperatures feel refreshing as they waft up my coat.
I will completely ignore it every time a Hollywood profile, who has obviously broken most, if not all, 10 Commandments, thanks God for their success. Of course Snoop has every right to thank God - he's alive, isn't he?
I will not take my revenge on some inconsiderate jerk who cuts me off on the highway. Speeding up to return the favor, and adding a little brake-check in the mix, is definitely not the solution. Enjoyable, yes, but wrong.
I will not "accidentally" bump people with my shopping cart when they plug up the aisle because they are holding a conversation that could be heard on "The View." No, you can't squeeze by either, Katy. Just back up and go to the next aisle, it's not worth getting security involved.
I know - it's a lot to take on all at once. I can't really promise that I will uphold all my New Year's resolutions to the fullest, but I sure can say that I will think about trying.
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Plight of the pestered passenger
The holidays are upon us. What this means for many is travel - flying here, driving there, all to spend time with your siblings, who - after all these years - you still get the urge to drown with a good old-fashioned swirly, and their brat kids, who run in constant circles, screaming, as if they require no oxygen.
Ah, family time.
But no matter how you choose to arrive at your destination - plane, train or automobile - remember that there will be crazed children everywhere. Grabbing, climbing, wailing, kicking, absolutely hopped up on candy bars and Dr. Pepper ... and you won't be related to them.
Thus, remember this advice upon entering your ride of choice - beware the seat-kicking delinquents.
Oh yes, those adorable little heathens. They draw you in, looking so innocent, so angelic - "Aw, honey, isn't that boy just so cute?"
And you feel a sense of calm, safe that your seat on the plane is directly in front of such a "little angel." It will be so nice to be seated near such a pleasant family, right?
But the minute you take your seat, the game is afoot.
A couple of harmless bumps to your seat - no big deal. The plane is about to take off, so everyone is getting adjusted, putting bags underneath seats, getting up to deal with carry-ons, going to the restroom, all those pre-flight details.
Now you're in the air, and settling down to watch the spectacular in-flight movie, with only a slight hum of chatter, and the engines roaring outside.
Bump.
It's not a thing, right? He's just a kid, probably trying to calm down after all the excitement of his first ride in a real airplane.
Bump.
That one was a little bit harder. Now, your thought process has been provoked. Is he doing it on purpose? It didn't feel like a stray elbow or knee while shifting, it felt more like a kick to the (bump) ... bottom of your seat.
Do you dare look back? Not much of an option at this point, so here comes the first, "you're annoying me, and by doing this, I hope you understand that you're annoying me and quit whatever it is that you're doing" turn of the head.
Ninety degrees to the left, eyes slightly looking to your peripherals, but no eye contact. That should make your point.
Bump bump.
You smile despite yourself - that boy's got some gall. Now you've heated things up, the little demon child knows he got under your skin. Your move.
How about just trying to ignore him? He'll figure out that you're not playing, and give up for better game. Just recline the ol' chair, and stretch out. That will give him less room to work with.
Wrong - a bump to the headrest alters that route.
Now it's time to get the parents involved. It's become obvious that 7-year-old Satan has pinpointed you for his sick, personal brand of torture.
Since the sideways glance didn't work, you decide some eye contact is necessary. Work up the anger, get a good annoyed face, and turn to peer through the gap in the seats.
Of course - the parents aren't even paying attention. They are flipping through magazines, playing games on their cell phones, or whatever else that keeps them from paying attention to their evil seed's goings-on.
And he, what with his iPod, hefty bag of Starbursts, handheld game, and book bag of who knows what other things he doesn't need, how could he really be so bored as to desire kicking a person's seat for entertainment?
Look at him, just sitting there, all smug, foot frozen in mid-air, ready to launch another attack. He's the one who needs a swirly.
So you turn around, helpless in your fight. The parents don't care, and he is on a mission now.
But there is a solution. Rather than stooping to his level by reeling in your seat and wringing his neck, or buying off the man sitting behind him so you can give him a taste of his own medicine, there's a good standby, especially popular during my childhood.
It's fail-proof, works every time - just ask my sisters.
"Hey there, did anyone ever tell you that you were adopted?"
-------
Katy Blair is Globe associate editor. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com.
Ah, family time.
But no matter how you choose to arrive at your destination - plane, train or automobile - remember that there will be crazed children everywhere. Grabbing, climbing, wailing, kicking, absolutely hopped up on candy bars and Dr. Pepper ... and you won't be related to them.
Thus, remember this advice upon entering your ride of choice - beware the seat-kicking delinquents.
Oh yes, those adorable little heathens. They draw you in, looking so innocent, so angelic - "Aw, honey, isn't that boy just so cute?"
And you feel a sense of calm, safe that your seat on the plane is directly in front of such a "little angel." It will be so nice to be seated near such a pleasant family, right?
But the minute you take your seat, the game is afoot.
A couple of harmless bumps to your seat - no big deal. The plane is about to take off, so everyone is getting adjusted, putting bags underneath seats, getting up to deal with carry-ons, going to the restroom, all those pre-flight details.
Now you're in the air, and settling down to watch the spectacular in-flight movie, with only a slight hum of chatter, and the engines roaring outside.
Bump.
It's not a thing, right? He's just a kid, probably trying to calm down after all the excitement of his first ride in a real airplane.
Bump.
That one was a little bit harder. Now, your thought process has been provoked. Is he doing it on purpose? It didn't feel like a stray elbow or knee while shifting, it felt more like a kick to the (bump) ... bottom of your seat.
Do you dare look back? Not much of an option at this point, so here comes the first, "you're annoying me, and by doing this, I hope you understand that you're annoying me and quit whatever it is that you're doing" turn of the head.
Ninety degrees to the left, eyes slightly looking to your peripherals, but no eye contact. That should make your point.
Bump bump.
You smile despite yourself - that boy's got some gall. Now you've heated things up, the little demon child knows he got under your skin. Your move.
How about just trying to ignore him? He'll figure out that you're not playing, and give up for better game. Just recline the ol' chair, and stretch out. That will give him less room to work with.
Wrong - a bump to the headrest alters that route.
Now it's time to get the parents involved. It's become obvious that 7-year-old Satan has pinpointed you for his sick, personal brand of torture.
Since the sideways glance didn't work, you decide some eye contact is necessary. Work up the anger, get a good annoyed face, and turn to peer through the gap in the seats.
Of course - the parents aren't even paying attention. They are flipping through magazines, playing games on their cell phones, or whatever else that keeps them from paying attention to their evil seed's goings-on.
And he, what with his iPod, hefty bag of Starbursts, handheld game, and book bag of who knows what other things he doesn't need, how could he really be so bored as to desire kicking a person's seat for entertainment?
Look at him, just sitting there, all smug, foot frozen in mid-air, ready to launch another attack. He's the one who needs a swirly.
So you turn around, helpless in your fight. The parents don't care, and he is on a mission now.
But there is a solution. Rather than stooping to his level by reeling in your seat and wringing his neck, or buying off the man sitting behind him so you can give him a taste of his own medicine, there's a good standby, especially popular during my childhood.
It's fail-proof, works every time - just ask my sisters.
"Hey there, did anyone ever tell you that you were adopted?"
-------
Katy Blair is Globe associate editor. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com.
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