Shout Out to Moms

Mothers are very amazing people. They have the capacity to do many incredible things and are experts at making memories. It has recently occured to me that a mother's love is a treasure that can never be replaced. The holiday season has begun, heralding a time for families to get together to celebrate. Although I feel quite festive, I miss her. She died 9 years ago, two days before Mother's Day. Her death was swift and unexpected, she was only 51. My Mom was a remarkable woman who went above and beyond to make every holday special. My earliest recollection of her holiday magic was when I was 7 years old. I was enchanted with thoughts of a large white bunny wearing a vest who bore baskets laden with gobs of candy and colored eggs. What kid wouldn't be excited? The Easter Bunny was a huge celebrity in our household and we were terribly upset when it began to pour as we went to bed. How could EB hide the eggs in all that rain? Our baskets would be soaked, the candy would be reduced to waterlogged waste and we would be forced to stay indoors. We went to bed very glum indeed. The following morning we awoke before our parents and imagine our surprise. There were BUNNY PRINTS all over our house??!! Gleefully we followed EB's footprints, eagery finding our booty-indoors! I can remember laughing, giddy with delight as I found eggs hidden in my slippers, resting on the toothbrush holder, between the sofa cushions and in potted plants. Man EB really knew his shit, he ROCKED! Bad weather couldn't stop him, he was a clever bunny and knew the joys that kindled in a child's heart. There was no doubt that EB existed, there were 5" colored paper footprints all over the place-we had THE proof. Years later I am still struck by her creativity, skill and love. She took the time out of her schedule to cut out all of those "foot prints", arranged them throughout the house and instilled in me a love for egg hunting. I remember the last time we had our egg hunt. I was 25, my sisters and I had come home for the Easter gathering. My Mom got up and the crack of dawn, followed by her canine companion Iggy, and hustled out into the backyard. Her last escapade as EB was preserved on video tape by my Grandfather. As she went around the yard hiding the eggs, Iggy followed and being the dutiful friend that he was, gently picked up all the eggs that she had skillfully hidden and neatly stacked them by the front porch. The camera shook as my Grandfather laughed at Iggy's helpful attitude, not an egg was broken. My Mom realized what Iggy was doing, laughed her ass off, put the dog inside the house and re-hid the eggs. Now I realize that normal people don't hunt eggs into their 20's, usually it stops in the early teens but she had made it such a wonderful experience that we all wanted to continue to do it.

Another fond memory of my mother was when I was in college. It was my sophomore year and I'd gone home for Christmas break. I arrived before my sisters so it was just Mom and me. We decided to celebrate a bit early by opening a nice bottle of scotch. We chatted, and promptly forgot about dinner. At the time she was addicted to a TV program so we staggered into the livingroom to watch it. Half way through the program we were both blotto. My Mom turned to me and slurred that the haircut of one of the TV characters would look great on me. I agreed so we decided to cut my hair. The program ended and I put on some Christmas music while she went to get her haircutting gadgets. We sang along with the music while I sat in the chair, listening to the clicking of the scissors, drinking scotch, and giggling with my Mom. I don't remember what we talked about but I do remember it was fun! When she'd finished, a mirror was produced so I could see the marvelous new haircut. I remember gazing blearily into the reflection, I thought it looked fabulous! I praised her technique while we cleaned up and stumbled up the stairs to bed. The following morning I had one hell of a pumpkin head and while brushing the fur off my teeth, I looked at myself through Clint Eastwood eyes. WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?? blared through my alcohol pickled brain. It dawned on me then that my mother was not a hair styist nor was she trained to cut hair. She'd used the dog clippers on me for goodness sake! My new doo was a bastardized version of Moe from the Three Stooges except my hair was shorter than his!! My bowl haircut stopped at the top of my ears, I looked like a mutated Fraggle. I came out of the bathroom and met a very hung over Mom, her eyes widened, the look in her eyes told me how sorry she was. She said, "I think we had a bit too much to drink last night." I agreed, gave her a hug and told her it would grow back. For the next two months I wore a knit cap wherever I went. I howl with laughter now, thinking back on that occasion. She was just trying to help, and in her special way she did. She gave me a wonderful memory, filled with laughter and a reminder that one should not drink while getting one's haircut.

I will miss my Mom for the rest of my life but I will always have fond memories of her love and support. Big love to Moms everywhere, thank you for all that you do.

Three Reasons Why I Love My Job

3. One of the guys bought me lunch today-chinese food-always a good choice. I ate at my desk which made the lobby area rather aromatic. An hour later he walks through and proclaims (rather loudly), "Smells like SEX in here!" continues nonchalantly into the conference room and shuts the door. I collapse into howls of laughter that would do a donkey proud.

2. I love my job because I get to watch men do practice swings with baseball bats and golf clubs in between office cubicles...it's one of the silliest things I've ever seen. It's a complete riot when someone almost gets clocked by a co-worker concentrating more on their swing rather than their choice of location.

1. I love my job because there's a guy who has a Bozo the Clown punching bag and every time he gets upset or stressed he whacks the shit out of it. Have you ever seen anadult thwapping away on blow up clown? It just doesn't get any better than this for entertainment value.

Anti-Babs

I like my job. I have exceptional co-workers who are generous and kind. My job title is receptionist/office manager and I direct calls for roughly 183 people. I am horrible with names and so, being the large child that I am, decided to invent nicknames to help me remember. A few months ago a guy came up to my desk and asked, "Have you seen so-and-so?"

Deep in the trenches of a project I replied, "Oh yeah Roosevelt's over in the copy room."

"Who is Roosevelt? Is he a new guy?"

Breaks me out of my task induced hypnosis and I look up. Blushing madly, I damn myself for such a slip. No one was supposed to know about the nicknames, I didn't want to offend.
Would you really want to know that your receptionist refers to you (unbeknownst to you of course) as Roosevelt? Not because you're into politics or your past involvement in the Spanish American War but because your hairstyle resembles the young Teddy's Turn of the Century American-doo. It's short on the sides, razor sharp center part, bangs curled and glued to the front of the forehead with like 5 pounds of Bryl Cream to hold it all in place. Now Roosevelt is a sweetheart of a guy and my nickname for him is not malicious, just playful. But there's no way to explain the harmless meaning to the confused co-worker.

I murmur "Sorry, lost in my filing here. So-and-so is in the copy room." and forgot all about it until three days later. The phone rings and I answer it as I usually do, for I AM the receptionist! A male voice says,

"Hey Babsey (not my real name), this is Roosevelt (not his real name either) can you transfer me to XXXXXXX?"

Someone relayed the nickname. I cringe and want to drop into the deepest darkest pit on the planet.

What did he just call me?

Mental hiccups cause me to fumble as I dial the extension. In the blink of an eye I see Babs. She is married to Biff and they're both conservative, undoubtedly Republicans. She drinks white whine spritzers, wears pleated tennis whites, doesn't sweat when she does aerobics in her high heels, has a fake bake and drives a Hummer because she feels the need to display her disposable wealth and lack of concern regarding rising gas prices. Babs has Scary Big Texas Hair and lunches with her girls at the country club where they chatter like magpies and discuss the perfection of their uber riche lifestyle. Babs gets upset when she chips a fingernail.

I've got nubs, will never be wealthy, dispise Hummers, couldn't fit into tennis whites if it killed me, run from men named Biff, am so un-tan that I reflect sunlight and prefer my wine without the spritz please.

The joke is, I am the Anti-Babs and that's all right with me.

Joke of the Day

I don't know who wrote this but I thought it was a hoot. I wanted to share it with you:

Rumsfeld is giving the President his daily briefing. He concludes by saying, "Yesterday three Brazilian soldiers were killed."

"Oh NO!" the President exclaims. "That's terrible."

His staff sits, stunned at this display of emotions, nervously watching as the President sits, head in hands. Finally the he looks up and asks, "How many is a brazillion?"

(the sad thing is...I wouldn't be surprised if this was true)

Music

I am a music fiend. I find it irresistable. How can one not admire another person who can put their emotions into words, burst forth in song, record that moment in time and then share it with people? The most tortured experience when sung can touch the lives of millions. It's universal, something that everybody on the planet can identify with and hell, sing along. Some artists have made it on a global scale while others have a small devoted folowing...there is no bad part. Another wonderful thing about music is that it's always evolving and not disposable. The oldest of songs hold their value as do the one hit wonders. Every culture on the planet has music. I think it's like a mirror, reflecting the human experience and our quest for individuaity, self expression and compassion. At the core of every being, we are intrinsically the same. There may be variations per individual, but boil it down. We all laugh, cry, have felt pain be it physical or emotional, experience loss, sadness, love, and joy. It doesn't matter what country you're from or what language is spoken, through it, the artist(s) can still touch the soul(s) of the listener. I may not appreciate all styles of music but I do respect the person/people creating it. Perhaps if there was a willingness to listen and a desire to honor those differences there wouldn't be so many problems on the planet? Maybe that's what music is really all about? Is that what makes it so popular, sharing our lives with others with the hope that they too will understand the experience? Or maybe I'm just over simplifying the problem?

Failure

OK, lets have some fun. I got this from someone, I cannot take credit for it but it made my day:

Go to Google search engine-enter Failure-then hit I'm Feeling Lucky (if you use Firefox this won't come up but if you're on IE it will)


Ain't it the truth!!!!