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.
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Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or katyblair@npgco.com.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
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.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Can you hear me now?
I'm often amazed at the blatant defiance in some people.
Here's a for instance - going to the movies.
You know that every person in that theater sees the "turn off your cell phones" preview - everyone. If they say they don't, they are lying.
And you know why? Because most people ignore it and play with their phones anyway, like turning off their cell phone is an act against their civil rights. For some, it would seem that they go to the movies for no other purpose than to ruin the experience for everyone around them, and giggle about the miserable sighs and huffs they hear.
It's as if they can't resist breaking the rule just because there isn't a Hollywood 10 Phone Police Unit that will search and confiscate all cellular phones before the previews end.
So to combat the problem, there are now about five different cell phone previews.
There's the funny one where the culprit gets something dumped on them, the serious one that says "please" too many times during melodramatic music, and a host of others that look like Gap commercials to seem genuinely interesting until the end, when "turn off your cell phone" appears in gigantic, ominous letters.
Of course, I'm all for turning off cell phones. I've only made one phone blunder in my life, and my friends have yet to let me forget that one. (Come on guys, it was A.I. - really?)
And for the most part, people at least silence their phones, which is good enough in my book.
But the problem lies not in talking on a phone anymore - it's the texting, and the gaming, and the whatever else that creates that blue glow in my otherwise enjoyable viewing atmosphere.
Yeah, the blue glow.
It's as if I can feel the rage boiling inside when I see a little blue light in the pitch of the theater.
My stomach turns, and then my hands start to tremble, and I can't do anything but watch that little light. The movie is long forgotten.
Oh yes, it may look small, but you have no idea how detrimental it is to movie enthusiasts.
Remember when you were a kid, and your mom told you not to, but you looked straight at the sun anyway? Do you remember closing your eyes, only to see the same bright circle on the back of your eyelid?
Do you also remember opening your eyes and seeing that annoying bright circle everywhere you looked?
Same idea - that stupid light just sits there, scorching my eyes.
With that nuisance, I can't watch my beloved Keanu Reeves - I can't see his cool demeanor as he busts into a church to rabble-rouse with a fallen angel, or see the tension and regret when he points a gun at his boss/friend, who he recently found out was the money-grubbing murderer cop all along.
And yeah, it might be a little overdone, but I want to hear him - in all his glory - as he says, "I know Kung Fu," but I can't because my ears are ringing with all the hate I'm feeling at the moment.
I just want to explode - I'm missing everything because I'm too frustrated with that light to do anything but look at that light.
It becomes an inner struggle maintaining my composure, since the adrenaline has built up and I feel strong enough to vault the distance and destroy said phone - the nemesis of good movies everywhere.
I can just see it though - flying through the dark like a vampire, foaming at the mouth, hissing at the inconsiderate so-and-so while ripping the phone out of his hands. And of course, I'm beating him over the head with the phone while I rant about why he is there for all the wrong reasons and why he should leave.
"Do you realize what your phone is doing to my movie viewing pleasure?! (thump thump thump) Do you understand the consequences of your actions?! (thump thump) My dog has better manners than you, and he licks his butt! ...(thump)"
Thus, in an effort to avoid this painful situation, here are some guidelines on what conversational items should be exempt from movie theaters (including communication with your friend in the next seat):
n Anything about your boyfriend.
n Anything about your best friend's boyfriend.
n Anything about sports scores or play-by-plays. I don't care if the Chiefs won the Super Bowl, (which is highly unlikely anyway). Don't want to hear it.
Are there exceptions to the rule, you ask?
Sure, sure - here they are:
n There are no exceptions. Follow the rules! (thump).
-------
Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
Here's a for instance - going to the movies.
You know that every person in that theater sees the "turn off your cell phones" preview - everyone. If they say they don't, they are lying.
And you know why? Because most people ignore it and play with their phones anyway, like turning off their cell phone is an act against their civil rights. For some, it would seem that they go to the movies for no other purpose than to ruin the experience for everyone around them, and giggle about the miserable sighs and huffs they hear.
It's as if they can't resist breaking the rule just because there isn't a Hollywood 10 Phone Police Unit that will search and confiscate all cellular phones before the previews end.
So to combat the problem, there are now about five different cell phone previews.
There's the funny one where the culprit gets something dumped on them, the serious one that says "please" too many times during melodramatic music, and a host of others that look like Gap commercials to seem genuinely interesting until the end, when "turn off your cell phone" appears in gigantic, ominous letters.
Of course, I'm all for turning off cell phones. I've only made one phone blunder in my life, and my friends have yet to let me forget that one. (Come on guys, it was A.I. - really?)
And for the most part, people at least silence their phones, which is good enough in my book.
But the problem lies not in talking on a phone anymore - it's the texting, and the gaming, and the whatever else that creates that blue glow in my otherwise enjoyable viewing atmosphere.
Yeah, the blue glow.
It's as if I can feel the rage boiling inside when I see a little blue light in the pitch of the theater.
My stomach turns, and then my hands start to tremble, and I can't do anything but watch that little light. The movie is long forgotten.
Oh yes, it may look small, but you have no idea how detrimental it is to movie enthusiasts.
Remember when you were a kid, and your mom told you not to, but you looked straight at the sun anyway? Do you remember closing your eyes, only to see the same bright circle on the back of your eyelid?
Do you also remember opening your eyes and seeing that annoying bright circle everywhere you looked?
Same idea - that stupid light just sits there, scorching my eyes.
With that nuisance, I can't watch my beloved Keanu Reeves - I can't see his cool demeanor as he busts into a church to rabble-rouse with a fallen angel, or see the tension and regret when he points a gun at his boss/friend, who he recently found out was the money-grubbing murderer cop all along.
And yeah, it might be a little overdone, but I want to hear him - in all his glory - as he says, "I know Kung Fu," but I can't because my ears are ringing with all the hate I'm feeling at the moment.
I just want to explode - I'm missing everything because I'm too frustrated with that light to do anything but look at that light.
It becomes an inner struggle maintaining my composure, since the adrenaline has built up and I feel strong enough to vault the distance and destroy said phone - the nemesis of good movies everywhere.
I can just see it though - flying through the dark like a vampire, foaming at the mouth, hissing at the inconsiderate so-and-so while ripping the phone out of his hands. And of course, I'm beating him over the head with the phone while I rant about why he is there for all the wrong reasons and why he should leave.
"Do you realize what your phone is doing to my movie viewing pleasure?! (thump thump thump) Do you understand the consequences of your actions?! (thump thump) My dog has better manners than you, and he licks his butt! ...(thump)"
Thus, in an effort to avoid this painful situation, here are some guidelines on what conversational items should be exempt from movie theaters (including communication with your friend in the next seat):
n Anything about your boyfriend.
n Anything about your best friend's boyfriend.
n Anything about sports scores or play-by-plays. I don't care if the Chiefs won the Super Bowl, (which is highly unlikely anyway). Don't want to hear it.
Are there exceptions to the rule, you ask?
Sure, sure - here they are:
n There are no exceptions. Follow the rules! (thump).
-------
Katy Blair, Globe associate editor and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Romance on the rocks
Some couples just overdo it. Am I right? I mean, come on, you aren't that happy. Quit putting on a show.
I can pick out these couples the minute they walk in the room. The doors open in slow motion, a beam of light illuminating their smiling faces - and strangely enough - a breeze is ruffling their hair. It's the perfect entrance for the perfect couple.
It's not so grand, however, if you're within 50 feet of them.
All night, with the hugging and kissing and picturesque moments. Seriously?
Are you trying to tell me that you don't fight? You don't get aggravated with one another? It's just a picture-perfect relationship?
I don't buy it.
You're telling me that you don't mind him leaving clothes all over the floor? You like it when he ignores you while he's watching football?
You don't even care that he pretends the dishwasher is a foreign object that he's incapable of ever understanding?
Of course you do.
And don't even try it - I know you're tired of hearing her complain about everything. You're trying to relax, watch a little TV, and she just keeps walking in front of you, back and forth, and when you hear the vacuum start up, you can't help but growl in discontent. Couldn't she clean the house in half an hour, when your beloved Family Guy is over?
It's just impossible to be Cinderella and Prince Charming all the time. You're going to squabble about the dishes, and the trash ... and the kids, bills, money, cars, loans, bills, working late, forgetting anniversaries - did I forget bills?
You aren't fooling anyone with that, "I don't have a care in the world" play you put on. The rest of us that are putting up with someone's bad habits can see right through your charade.
For instance, while you're having a nice dinner together, I know you would like to strangle him when he begins the empty wallet routine.
"I don't know ... filet mignon is, like, 20 bucks an ounce."
And when the waiter smiles at her as he sets down her drink, and she smiles back, I know you're thinking: "You hussy!"
And when you catch him glaring at you and your new friend, I bet you can barely contain it.
"If I had a nickel for every time he got jealous when we went out ... well, I'd be able to afford the stupid steak."
Then when she glares back, I bet you're thinking, "you hussy!"
You may have the gift of painting on a good face, but I know in your mind, you're thinking of abandoning her at the restaurant.
You just want to jump in the car and screech off, leaving her and her "new lover" dumbfounded at the door. You even smile a little at the image of her shocked expression as you race away in her only transportation.
But you don't let it show. You bite your lip as the waiter smiles at her, and you open the door for her, no matter how much you'd like to shut it in her face.
And you - you'll look around the room and chat, rather than meet his glare, and you'll settle for Chicken Parmesan so your friends won't think your husband is a cheap jerk.
Why don't you give up this facade?
Give him a nice kick in the shins for glaring. Or ask her, "if you love the waiter so much, why don't you just marry him?"
Quit forcing a smile and kissing like that, when I know you want to go Hannibal Lecter on his face - just do it already.
"I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti..."
-------
Katy Blair, Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
I can pick out these couples the minute they walk in the room. The doors open in slow motion, a beam of light illuminating their smiling faces - and strangely enough - a breeze is ruffling their hair. It's the perfect entrance for the perfect couple.
It's not so grand, however, if you're within 50 feet of them.
All night, with the hugging and kissing and picturesque moments. Seriously?
Are you trying to tell me that you don't fight? You don't get aggravated with one another? It's just a picture-perfect relationship?
I don't buy it.
You're telling me that you don't mind him leaving clothes all over the floor? You like it when he ignores you while he's watching football?
You don't even care that he pretends the dishwasher is a foreign object that he's incapable of ever understanding?
Of course you do.
And don't even try it - I know you're tired of hearing her complain about everything. You're trying to relax, watch a little TV, and she just keeps walking in front of you, back and forth, and when you hear the vacuum start up, you can't help but growl in discontent. Couldn't she clean the house in half an hour, when your beloved Family Guy is over?
It's just impossible to be Cinderella and Prince Charming all the time. You're going to squabble about the dishes, and the trash ... and the kids, bills, money, cars, loans, bills, working late, forgetting anniversaries - did I forget bills?
You aren't fooling anyone with that, "I don't have a care in the world" play you put on. The rest of us that are putting up with someone's bad habits can see right through your charade.
For instance, while you're having a nice dinner together, I know you would like to strangle him when he begins the empty wallet routine.
"I don't know ... filet mignon is, like, 20 bucks an ounce."
And when the waiter smiles at her as he sets down her drink, and she smiles back, I know you're thinking: "You hussy!"
And when you catch him glaring at you and your new friend, I bet you can barely contain it.
"If I had a nickel for every time he got jealous when we went out ... well, I'd be able to afford the stupid steak."
Then when she glares back, I bet you're thinking, "you hussy!"
You may have the gift of painting on a good face, but I know in your mind, you're thinking of abandoning her at the restaurant.
You just want to jump in the car and screech off, leaving her and her "new lover" dumbfounded at the door. You even smile a little at the image of her shocked expression as you race away in her only transportation.
But you don't let it show. You bite your lip as the waiter smiles at her, and you open the door for her, no matter how much you'd like to shut it in her face.
And you - you'll look around the room and chat, rather than meet his glare, and you'll settle for Chicken Parmesan so your friends won't think your husband is a cheap jerk.
Why don't you give up this facade?
Give him a nice kick in the shins for glaring. Or ask her, "if you love the waiter so much, why don't you just marry him?"
Quit forcing a smile and kissing like that, when I know you want to go Hannibal Lecter on his face - just do it already.
"I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti..."
-------
Katy Blair, Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Empty milk carton blues
I would call it the bottom blues.
Those times where a dear family member or friend is too lazy to throw away the empty milk carton. Or replace the toilet paper roll.
When they can't find it within themselves to cross the kitchen and throw away the Hostess Twinkie box after shoving the last one in their big mouth.
I don't think they are aware at the time how these actions bring them ever closer to being strangled - especially when they happen at the same time.
I'll set the scene - middle of the night, bladder on the verge of spontaneous combustion, so you scurry to the bathroom.
Plopping yourself on the toilet, you feel around for the toilet paper in the dark.
After several moments, you succeed, thus beginning the quest for the end of the roll. Turning it over and over again, the end finally falls, waving like a glorious bathroom banner.
Taking the piece in your hand, you begin to unravel but wait - is that tearing you hear?
Yes, the toilet paper roll is but one sheet. Someone has used it all and left but one little sheet.
You can't use one sheet; it's just not humanly possible. But you have to, at least to get up to search for more.
Pants down, slightly disoriented from the dark, you lean down to get into the vanity. There's usually a backup roll there.
But after you crack your head on the sink, it's just not worth it. Aggravated and annoyed, you ponder just who executed this atrocity. Oh well. Rub your head, pull up the pants and replace the toilet paper tomorrow.
Except now you're wide awake, and your stomach is the one complaining.
Ah! The twinkies, in the pantry, to the left, second shelf up. You remember because you were watching them go in, salivating like Pavlov's dogs at the sight of those lovely golden cakes with their delicious filling.
You need one badly, no matter the cost of calories. To the twinkies!
Slowly you pat the cabinet down, trying to find the handle in the dark. Anticipation rising, heart beating faster, hips and thighs screaming, "no," but your mind says "yes, just do it!"
You fumble around, smashing the bread down, knocking over boxes of mac and cheese, and - miracle of all miracles - you find the twinkie box.
Not sure which side is open, so you gingerly pull it out. You don't want to chance them sliding out and hitting the floor - if you smash that twinkie, you might as well have thrown it in a Dumpster. It's a disgrace to the snack cake world.
You find the open side, tip the box a little and eagerly stick out your hand to await your sweet, sweet prize - and nothing.
Is it stuck in there? Shake the box a little. Do you hear plastic? No. Shake the box some more. Anything? Shake it harder, you know there was one left. There has to be one left.
Finally, the stress starts to get to you. As you begin to realize there will be no twinkie tonight, the rage boils inside. First, the toilet paper, and now this. It's too much.
You feel hot all over and throw the box viciously, paying no mind to where it landed.
The search continues, and although you know there will be no satisfaction after a twinkie craving, you find the peanut butter.
Slightly sweet, it will do. So you rip out the silverware drawer with a wicked hope that it will clatter and wake someone up, and savagely tear out a spoon.
A few spoonfuls and you're done - it's so sticky, you can barely swallow - it just doesn't compare to a twinkie in all its glory.
But ignoring your rage over said twinkie incident, you decide a glass of milk will end the night well enough.
Over to the refrigerator you go, but your hopes are quickly dashed.
Someone has emptied the milk, leaving a pitiful tablespoon's amount at the bottom.
You know this isn't enough to take care of that peanut butter.
Your eye starts to twitch as you stare off down the hall, your mind whispering, "you know who it was."
Your hands, shaking with rage, crumble the milk carton handle as you conjure up ideas of torture.
Mindlessly dropping the carton, you walk down the hall horror movie-style, and all you can think about or hear is the stabbing music from "Pyscho" in your head.
"Ree! Ree! Ree! Ree!"
The bottom blues have struck again.
-------
Katy Blair, Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
Those times where a dear family member or friend is too lazy to throw away the empty milk carton. Or replace the toilet paper roll.
When they can't find it within themselves to cross the kitchen and throw away the Hostess Twinkie box after shoving the last one in their big mouth.
I don't think they are aware at the time how these actions bring them ever closer to being strangled - especially when they happen at the same time.
I'll set the scene - middle of the night, bladder on the verge of spontaneous combustion, so you scurry to the bathroom.
Plopping yourself on the toilet, you feel around for the toilet paper in the dark.
After several moments, you succeed, thus beginning the quest for the end of the roll. Turning it over and over again, the end finally falls, waving like a glorious bathroom banner.
Taking the piece in your hand, you begin to unravel but wait - is that tearing you hear?
Yes, the toilet paper roll is but one sheet. Someone has used it all and left but one little sheet.
You can't use one sheet; it's just not humanly possible. But you have to, at least to get up to search for more.
Pants down, slightly disoriented from the dark, you lean down to get into the vanity. There's usually a backup roll there.
But after you crack your head on the sink, it's just not worth it. Aggravated and annoyed, you ponder just who executed this atrocity. Oh well. Rub your head, pull up the pants and replace the toilet paper tomorrow.
Except now you're wide awake, and your stomach is the one complaining.
Ah! The twinkies, in the pantry, to the left, second shelf up. You remember because you were watching them go in, salivating like Pavlov's dogs at the sight of those lovely golden cakes with their delicious filling.
You need one badly, no matter the cost of calories. To the twinkies!
Slowly you pat the cabinet down, trying to find the handle in the dark. Anticipation rising, heart beating faster, hips and thighs screaming, "no," but your mind says "yes, just do it!"
You fumble around, smashing the bread down, knocking over boxes of mac and cheese, and - miracle of all miracles - you find the twinkie box.
Not sure which side is open, so you gingerly pull it out. You don't want to chance them sliding out and hitting the floor - if you smash that twinkie, you might as well have thrown it in a Dumpster. It's a disgrace to the snack cake world.
You find the open side, tip the box a little and eagerly stick out your hand to await your sweet, sweet prize - and nothing.
Is it stuck in there? Shake the box a little. Do you hear plastic? No. Shake the box some more. Anything? Shake it harder, you know there was one left. There has to be one left.
Finally, the stress starts to get to you. As you begin to realize there will be no twinkie tonight, the rage boils inside. First, the toilet paper, and now this. It's too much.
You feel hot all over and throw the box viciously, paying no mind to where it landed.
The search continues, and although you know there will be no satisfaction after a twinkie craving, you find the peanut butter.
Slightly sweet, it will do. So you rip out the silverware drawer with a wicked hope that it will clatter and wake someone up, and savagely tear out a spoon.
A few spoonfuls and you're done - it's so sticky, you can barely swallow - it just doesn't compare to a twinkie in all its glory.
But ignoring your rage over said twinkie incident, you decide a glass of milk will end the night well enough.
Over to the refrigerator you go, but your hopes are quickly dashed.
Someone has emptied the milk, leaving a pitiful tablespoon's amount at the bottom.
You know this isn't enough to take care of that peanut butter.
Your eye starts to twitch as you stare off down the hall, your mind whispering, "you know who it was."
Your hands, shaking with rage, crumble the milk carton handle as you conjure up ideas of torture.
Mindlessly dropping the carton, you walk down the hall horror movie-style, and all you can think about or hear is the stabbing music from "Pyscho" in your head.
"Ree! Ree! Ree! Ree!"
The bottom blues have struck again.
-------
Katy Blair, Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Which side are you on?
*Writer's note - This column is atypical from my usual satire. My editor requested a column with my thoughts on the local MGPI strike regarding satisfaction of life issues. I decided to publish it, in the hopes that it would provoke thought about unions and their worth.
It’s the eighth day of the MGP Ingredients union strike — have you chosen a side?
Regardless of the community’s size, a union strike will cause bandwagon jumpers. Such controversy almost always results in sides being chosen, whether resolute or on the fence.
In a community such as Atchison, it is likely difficult to find a person without some sort of connection to MGPI — be it a family member, friend or your cousin’s friend's brother's ex-girlfriend who works there.
With such overlapping ties, I’m curious to know, where do the residents of Atchison stand on UFCW No. 74D vs MGPI?
As in any policy-related issue, there are many factors to consider when deciding which entity to support.
First of all, do you support unionization?
The benefits and drawbacks of unions are many, and each side would argue those points to the bone.
Unions were organized for the sole purpose of protecting workers from insufficient pay, hours and working conditions.
That’s precisely what unions do through strikes — take a stand against policies and such that violate the workers’ expectations of employment.
Through unions, American workers have elevated the standard for workplace conditions — no longer must they work 18 hour days at $2 an hour in hazardous conditions.
However, some critics of unions think they’re monopolies in progress.
Nobel Peace Prize winner Milton Friedman argues that unionization results in higher wages and fewer jobs, point-blank.
He explains that as the price of labor rises, so does unemployment because businesses no longer seek to employ those whose work is worth less than the union’s set minimum wage.
Having my own contacts in the MGPI sector, I have heard time and time again that shifts are too long and overtime hours are typically unexpected but obligatory.
I find myself now asking, does MGPI need more employees? Can they not employ more because of this vicious linear parallel between union wages and their own budget?
Logically, one would deduce that more employees would spread out the burden, easing the long shifts and quelling overtime.
Union representative Chris Pruessner stated recently that MGPI has reduced its jobs, creating more overtime for its employees.
Is that a direct effect from the company’s being stonewalled by unions, causing higher wages for fewer workers?
Whether the situation has become a monopoly that MGPI can’t overcome, union workers have a right to resist their current conditions.
They are being asked to work additional hours. They can’t call in sick without being docked, they can’t go home early to tend to a sick child.
For a two-parent household where both work, that’s not an easy situation. For a one income
home, it’s nearly impossible.
Instead of multiple call-ins counting as one point on their record, every call counts as one point — it’s eye for an eye.
So the standoff continues, and the groups on each side of the strike seem unwilling to compromise.
Has the union backed itself into a corner? Or is MGPI being stingy, hiring fewer employees and working them like dogs, all while flying a glamorous money and benefits banner?
Before you decide which side you’re on, take the time to look at both sides. You might find that you’re not the only one picking out a good spot on the fence for the longhaul.
———————
Katy Blair, a Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
It’s the eighth day of the MGP Ingredients union strike — have you chosen a side?
Regardless of the community’s size, a union strike will cause bandwagon jumpers. Such controversy almost always results in sides being chosen, whether resolute or on the fence.
In a community such as Atchison, it is likely difficult to find a person without some sort of connection to MGPI — be it a family member, friend or your cousin’s friend's brother's ex-girlfriend who works there.
With such overlapping ties, I’m curious to know, where do the residents of Atchison stand on UFCW No. 74D vs MGPI?
As in any policy-related issue, there are many factors to consider when deciding which entity to support.
First of all, do you support unionization?
The benefits and drawbacks of unions are many, and each side would argue those points to the bone.
Unions were organized for the sole purpose of protecting workers from insufficient pay, hours and working conditions.
That’s precisely what unions do through strikes — take a stand against policies and such that violate the workers’ expectations of employment.
Through unions, American workers have elevated the standard for workplace conditions — no longer must they work 18 hour days at $2 an hour in hazardous conditions.
However, some critics of unions think they’re monopolies in progress.
Nobel Peace Prize winner Milton Friedman argues that unionization results in higher wages and fewer jobs, point-blank.
He explains that as the price of labor rises, so does unemployment because businesses no longer seek to employ those whose work is worth less than the union’s set minimum wage.
Having my own contacts in the MGPI sector, I have heard time and time again that shifts are too long and overtime hours are typically unexpected but obligatory.
I find myself now asking, does MGPI need more employees? Can they not employ more because of this vicious linear parallel between union wages and their own budget?
Logically, one would deduce that more employees would spread out the burden, easing the long shifts and quelling overtime.
Union representative Chris Pruessner stated recently that MGPI has reduced its jobs, creating more overtime for its employees.
Is that a direct effect from the company’s being stonewalled by unions, causing higher wages for fewer workers?
Whether the situation has become a monopoly that MGPI can’t overcome, union workers have a right to resist their current conditions.
They are being asked to work additional hours. They can’t call in sick without being docked, they can’t go home early to tend to a sick child.
For a two-parent household where both work, that’s not an easy situation. For a one income
home, it’s nearly impossible.
Instead of multiple call-ins counting as one point on their record, every call counts as one point — it’s eye for an eye.
So the standoff continues, and the groups on each side of the strike seem unwilling to compromise.
Has the union backed itself into a corner? Or is MGPI being stingy, hiring fewer employees and working them like dogs, all while flying a glamorous money and benefits banner?
Before you decide which side you’re on, take the time to look at both sides. You might find that you’re not the only one picking out a good spot on the fence for the longhaul.
———————
Katy Blair, a Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
'O' stands for Obvious
“Oh, you have to watch this part! This is good!”
Really? Here I am, sitting comfortably in my chair, eyes glued to the television, and you still have to tell me to watch the movie?
I don't understand the existence of these people, these over-anxious sharers, but make no mistake — they are a massive breed, taking over the general population.
In high school, my posse and I loving nicknamed these people “Chuck's,” after a certain excitable friend of ours who couldn't help but blurt out movie spoilers. Of course, many of his faux pas happened mid-movie.
I guarantee everyone has at least one Chuck in their life, relaying their “astute observations” at the most pointless moments.
Is it some sick excitement in taking away the surprise? Sure, the crazy guy with the machete is going to kill that bimbo — she's running away from town to escape him and what is now obviously her inevitable death. That's how those silly girls always die in horror flicks.
But now that you've told me something good will happen, I can just forget that little hope in the back of my mind that Barbie will somehow evade her ugly, misshapen murderer and prevail.
Nope, Barbie's going down as she would in any other pop culture film — mostly nude and falling constantly, as if her weak ankles have never experienced a thing called “running.”
I recall our dear friend pulling just this stunt once, proudly declaring the heroine's destiny was to die. Everyone in the room erupted into a chorus of, “Aww, Chuck! Why?!”
The true aftermath of the sin he had committed was to come, unfortunately — I believe it was Josh that began growling, an unearthly sound filled with torture and angst, as he sprang from the couch and wrapped his hands around poor Chuck's neck.
Chuck kept a watchful eye during movie night ever after.
But Chucks come in many shapes and sizes. Some simply enjoy inquiring about the obvious.
Here's my question for this Chuck: Honestly, if you can see what I'm doing, do you really need to ask me about it?
“Whatcha eatin there?”
“A unicorn.”
Is that what you want to hear? Because I can't glamorize a sandwich — it is what it is and everybody knows what it looks like.
I can't figure out just how to deal with these Chucks. Strangling a Movie Spoiler Chuck is one thing, but an Obvious Situation Chuck isn't the type to get derailed on a quest for knowledge.
In the end, a large portion of my responses to Obvious Situation Chuck are inevitably snarky — I just can't help myself.
“Are you on the phone?”
“No, I was just holding the phone on my ear here because I like the way it makes me look thin.”
A small part of me hopes that this answer will discourage any further questioning, but little do I know that this Chuck is filled with all the useless inquiries in the world.
Here's the big one, and I'll never understand why this question exists, unless purely to torture that poor soul on the receiving end: “Are you OK?”
Am I OK? Sure sure, of course I'm OK. I was just yanking the hair out of my head because I wanted that retro-mohawk look that my niece's Cabbage Patch doll got after she experimented with the scissors. And I launched my cell phone across the room because I hate hearing that I won the lottery, darn my good luck.
I'm not hyperventilating because your questions make me feel like banging my head against the wall until I black out.
No, Mr. Obvious, I'll be alright — bald — but alright.
——————
Katy Blair, a Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
Really? Here I am, sitting comfortably in my chair, eyes glued to the television, and you still have to tell me to watch the movie?
I don't understand the existence of these people, these over-anxious sharers, but make no mistake — they are a massive breed, taking over the general population.
In high school, my posse and I loving nicknamed these people “Chuck's,” after a certain excitable friend of ours who couldn't help but blurt out movie spoilers. Of course, many of his faux pas happened mid-movie.
I guarantee everyone has at least one Chuck in their life, relaying their “astute observations” at the most pointless moments.
Is it some sick excitement in taking away the surprise? Sure, the crazy guy with the machete is going to kill that bimbo — she's running away from town to escape him and what is now obviously her inevitable death. That's how those silly girls always die in horror flicks.
But now that you've told me something good will happen, I can just forget that little hope in the back of my mind that Barbie will somehow evade her ugly, misshapen murderer and prevail.
Nope, Barbie's going down as she would in any other pop culture film — mostly nude and falling constantly, as if her weak ankles have never experienced a thing called “running.”
I recall our dear friend pulling just this stunt once, proudly declaring the heroine's destiny was to die. Everyone in the room erupted into a chorus of, “Aww, Chuck! Why?!”
The true aftermath of the sin he had committed was to come, unfortunately — I believe it was Josh that began growling, an unearthly sound filled with torture and angst, as he sprang from the couch and wrapped his hands around poor Chuck's neck.
Chuck kept a watchful eye during movie night ever after.
But Chucks come in many shapes and sizes. Some simply enjoy inquiring about the obvious.
Here's my question for this Chuck: Honestly, if you can see what I'm doing, do you really need to ask me about it?
“Whatcha eatin there?”
“A unicorn.”
Is that what you want to hear? Because I can't glamorize a sandwich — it is what it is and everybody knows what it looks like.
I can't figure out just how to deal with these Chucks. Strangling a Movie Spoiler Chuck is one thing, but an Obvious Situation Chuck isn't the type to get derailed on a quest for knowledge.
In the end, a large portion of my responses to Obvious Situation Chuck are inevitably snarky — I just can't help myself.
“Are you on the phone?”
“No, I was just holding the phone on my ear here because I like the way it makes me look thin.”
A small part of me hopes that this answer will discourage any further questioning, but little do I know that this Chuck is filled with all the useless inquiries in the world.
Here's the big one, and I'll never understand why this question exists, unless purely to torture that poor soul on the receiving end: “Are you OK?”
Am I OK? Sure sure, of course I'm OK. I was just yanking the hair out of my head because I wanted that retro-mohawk look that my niece's Cabbage Patch doll got after she experimented with the scissors. And I launched my cell phone across the room because I hate hearing that I won the lottery, darn my good luck.
I'm not hyperventilating because your questions make me feel like banging my head against the wall until I black out.
No, Mr. Obvious, I'll be alright — bald — but alright.
——————
Katy Blair, a Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
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