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."
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Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
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.
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.
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