Saturday, December 29, 2007

Good Times.

Good Times... having nothing too serious going on in your life, so you have time to be irritated about insignificant things. This seems to be a gift that I was given wrapped in a little something called "genetics and conditioning." Alas, this innocent diversion provides hours of entertainment and laughter when in fact there ARE more important things to focus on.

My current obsession is with the UNACCEPTABLE inability for cash register clerks to count back change. This lost art undoubtedly puts the entire accounting community at risk. Closing managers everywhere find it impossible to balance their cash registers at the end of the day; unsuspecting moms find cash missing- or mysterious deposits into their wallets.

This SEEMINGLY insignificant complaint is serious, indeed. Twice, I have paid with a $100 at a local eating establishment. During both visits, my bill was around $15. EACH time, much to my chagrin, I was given five twenties in addition to my four dollars and change. Don't worry, I didn't keep the spare twenty either time.

Why did this happen? Because we didn't play the "Count the Change Game." It's easy. Ma'am, your bill is $15.74. Here's your change for $100. A penny is seventy-five cents, and a quarter is sixteen dollars. Four ones make twenty, and (a twenty) forty, (a twenty) sixty (a twenty) eighty, and (a twenty) ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS. Notice. This is achieved by returning FOUR twenties.

"Listen here, Missy. I don't care if that big city 'computer box' over there says to give me $80.26, or not. When you give me that money, let's see some of those sweet math skills. Could you do that for me.... COULD YOU?...C.O.U.L.D. Y.O.U??" (elevated heart rate, bulging veins, and cracking voice).

Thursday, December 27, 2007

Happiness Is...

An impromptu poetry night. It's midnight, and sprawled about the living room, we enjoy a family slumber party. LionFish reads his favorite poems from his new poetry book, the classic "Where the Sidewalk Ends." Shel Silverstein, perhaps we are distant cousins- for your irreverent and insane poems bring peals of laughter to little Fisherstine's. Movies-Schmovies.

We like this one...

My beard grows to my toes,
I never wears no clothes,
I wraps my hair
Around my bare,
And down the road I goes.
and this one is Hee-Larious...

Let us make a pair of pants
For the poor old Hippopotomus
To cover his hide--once we decide
Exactly how big his bottomus.

Gap, Why Have You Forsaken Me?

I wish that Gap sold those fancy "BMI/ Hydration" scales. With their fetish for vanity sizing, I'm sure their scales would equally stroke our ego's. Instead, they are made by manufacturers who desire we know the "truth." I discovered this morning, with my percentage of body fat, I apparently accomplished an awe-inspiring feat when I ran a marathon last fall. Just imagine what I could do if I had MUSCLES. As it is, I'm surprised I'm capable of walking upright. If all of the fitness centers would put these scales in the bathrooms, the $$ they would make on personal training would put a household full of kids through college.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Ahhh... The Power of Poetry.

I love Shakespeare's honesty here. This poem was a big hit with my students:
Shakespeare's Sonnet CXXX
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.
So basically... "You aint that great, Honey. Frankly, I have no dellusions regarding your perfection. However, I couldn't love you more." Ahh...TRUE love.
On a serious note, several of my friends have lost family members this year (and in recent years). I've been thinking about them a lot this Christmas. How can you feel festive when your heart is breaking? I think this beautiful poem encapsulates the Christian perspective of death very well. How could you survive without proper perspective?
Death Be Not Proud
by John Donne(1572-1631)
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.


Once upon a time, in Fabulous 1990, there was a dashing young man. In 1990 boys like Clyde were identified as "Hunks." My social education as a high school teacher has taught me that this breed of boys are now referred to as "Hotties." An eighteen year old Clyde in 2007 would most definitely join the ranks of fellow "Hotties."

Fast forward-Christmas 2007. Increasingly chubby wife of Clyde settles into the comfy sofa to watch the proverbial "opening of the gifts." Shopping with generous and thoughtful Clyde for gifts for the four offspring, a.k.a. "Little Fishies" has been fun. The girls will be pampered, the boys will be indulged. It's Christmas, and Clyde's feeling generous. After all, he's earned the right to be that way. However, we made an agreement as a couple to forgo Christmas gifts to one another (ahem...insomuch as a "fancy" BMI/ Hydration scale is NOT a Christmas gift).

OK. So why does Senorita Cranky Pants get a LAPTOP for Christmas? That's just what I want to know. CLYDE, your Hunkiness still makes my heart pitter-patter.