So...pointless

So.

Have you noticed how many people are using the word "So..." lately? Seems like any "expert" I've seen on TV lately begins their portion of the conversation with this lead in....It kind of cancels out anything said just prior to it. Let me try to expound. I'm noticing it more in the medical and scientific communities, my guess though, is that it's sneaked into most every conversation...

Interviewer: We here today with this guy who thinks he knows stuff that we should know. Guy, what can you tell us about how this stuff really works?

Expert Guy: "So" here is where I belittle you in my attempt to share my excitement about how much I think I know.So...I shall erase the slate of anything you just said and explain how this works... blah blah blah

Now, I don't mean to trample on the the "so" person. In my experience they really do have something of interest to say. And to be honest, I do find myself joining them on their journey of intrigue at what they believe to be true. And usually I can find some place to ride on their magic carpet and incorporate some of that truth into my own quest. When I hear, SO, I'm immediately put off and intrigued. Maybe that's why it works.

There are words in our vocabulary's that seem to act like tics in our attempts to communicate. Sometimes we can ignore them. Sometimes, like when we're about to nod off from the content of the speech, we tally them.

There are other tics that are equally disarming and distracting. And I'm guilty of them all. (: (My Beloved uses, "ANYway" often and to his detriment.)

This is really a pretty pointless trip to a place that isn't so very interesting...but thank you for your indulgence.

So.

Next time you see/hear an expert speak. Tally on. But listen to what they have to say...it just might matter.

Oh and heavy on the cowbell! 

                                       So, ANYway....

TGIF just doesn't have the same ring to it when you're unemployed

I remember when I was a 40 hour-er. TGIF meant something. It was like an old joke between friends. An acknowledgment of a grand accomplishment, that hope was in sight. Another weekend, at hand.

Now that I haven't worked for awhile, it doesn't have the same meaning. In fact, I frequently have to look at a calendar now to figure out if I need to take out the trash because it's "Trash Day". I know "they" say that it's important to keep up a routine when one is unemployed. Get up at a scheduled time, dress, get out of the house each day. All good advice. But, well, after awhile, all the days seem to look the same. Entire days pass now where at the end of the day, I couldn't really tell you what the ambient temperature was between my front door and the mailbox at the end of my driveway.

So today's Friday. And I don't have anything really cool to say. I feel like a foreigner practicing a language I learned in middle school but never learned to speak fluently. The cool kids (old folks like me too) post Face Book status' proclaiming (with relief and pride) TGIF! I guess I need to come up with some acronyms of my own. A shout out to my fellow unemployed. TGIM- TGIT....well, I'll work on it.

Just sayin. There are blessings in every phase of our lives. Soon enough I'm sure I'll begin using the cliche acronyms again as I walk out of an office somewhere, sigh loudly and call to a coworker across the parking lot...TGIF! and we'll smile a shared, knowing grin as we get into our cars...And I'll be quite pleased with myself that I got to say that. Or more likely, I'll heave a sigh of exhaustion, drive home, plop down in my chair and miss the "good ol days" when I didn't have to pay attention to what day it was.

A few discovered acronyms: (Because I have time for that sort of thing...being unemployed and all)


Today God Is First
Toes Go In First
Thank Goodness It's Funny
This Grandpa Is Fantastic
This Group Is Freaky
This Game Is Futile
That Gopher Is Freaky

And a short anecdote...


There was a young lady who was totally exhausted from a week's worth of work. Finally, it was time for her to end her work day and go home.
As she entered the elevator, she sighed a triumphant, "T-G-I-F...," and began to relish the thought of going home and relaxing the weekend away.

It so happened that there was a man on the elevator with her and heard her jubilant exclamation.

His reply to her was, "S-H-I-T."

Now the woman was not sure if she heard the man correctly and she was determined not to let this man ruin her beautiful weekend she had ahead of her, so again she stated more strongly, "T-G-I-F!" and glared at the man, daring him to repeat his obscenity.

The man made eye contact and stated matter-of-factly, "S-H-I-T."

This infuriated the young woman, so with hands on her hips she stated, "How dare you use profane language like that in front of a lady! I was saying, T-G-I-F...'Thank Goodness it's Friday'. What is wrong with you!?"

The man was amused at her outrage and with a smirk on his face replied,

"S-H-I-T. 'Sorry, Honey... it's THURSDAY!"

And with that walked off the elevator with a spunky step.

Here's to a great weekend...

Bloom where you're planted. 

My Grandma and Me

My Grandma had black hair. And olive skin. And fuzz above her lip.
I do too.

My Grandma seemed Sad most of the time. Not a crying Sad. Or a “leave me alone” Sad.
It was a Sad that could not find its own words. It just went with her wherever she went.
Which was about a total of 100 feet. From her couch to her kitchen. She sat with her Sadness in both places.

She didn’t seem to want to rid herself of Sad. She wore it like an old comfortable sweater.
Sometimes she would smile. She was kind and loving. She didn’t have a mean Sad. And when she would smile I almost thought she might laugh. But I don’t remember her ever doing that. She must have…but I don’t have an image for that stored up in my brain anywhere.

My Grandma never quit, I don’t think. She just settled. Settled in. Settled for. There are times now, looking back, putting pieces together, I realize she must have been angry too. She had plenty of reasons. The story goes that her father was from Lebanon or Syria, one of those far off deserty places.

My grandma was first generation American. That’s why her skin was so olive…it glowed. And her hair was so black. Even when she was older…only a few streaks of gray dared to mingle in.

I don’t know how old she was when her mother died. But her father didn’t know what to do with her and her twin sister then. When I asked her about where she grew up or who raised her,
I saw her fluster and the confusion of trying to remember something she’d spent her whole life trying to forget hurt her.
I quickly told her it didn’t matter. But “did you have a dog when you were a kid?”, I asked frantic to find a way to take back the moment…she smiled then. Softened back into a comfortable memory.

I breathed again. My curiosity had hurt her. I felt bad for that.

She married young. He drank a lot. They had four children. Two boys, two girls. The girls were twins. Her husband…he drank a lot. He hurt those children. Those children have spent their whole lives trying to forget something they can’t help but remember. She must have been angry. Or fearful. Or confused. But I wonder if that is when Sad started coming around more often.

When I was about 5, there was a bad storm. I stood just outside Grandma’s house. My uncle pointed to the sky.
Sky looks bruised, he said.
When it gets all green and purple, that’s when the tornados come, he said.
We went inside.

My Grandma was upstairs in the bedroom she had shared with my Grandfather. She was a widow now. She knew the sky was bruised. She had to have heard the wind outside the window. Her ears were probably popping like mine were.

Everyone was talking in hushed, panicked voices.
She won’t come down, my aunt said.
I’ll carry her down, my uncle said.
I knelt on the couch looking out the big picture window as a tree was ripped by its roots and tossed to the ground.

I heard the sound of the back door opening. It was the preacher from my church. I felt hope. The frantic whispers turned as I asked the preacher to please go get My Grandma. We had to get in the basement. The sky was bruised.

The preacher was out driving, saw the bruised sky and stopped at my Grandmas Sad place to take shelter. Sometimes things work out just the opposite of the way you think they are supposed to.
Shouldn’t sad find solace in church?

I don’t recall now, much of the rest of the story. My Grandma did come down, with her Sad tagging along. There was an old radio in the basement. Wood-- with big glass tubes that lit up when the radio was plugged in.

To this day, I remember those large black knobs against the rich wood grain. It felt good to be in that basement with my uncle, my aunt, the preacher, and My Grandma. There were other faces there too, but I don’t recall them now.

Something about those knobs on the radio though.

If I could use those knobs to control other things. Like when my Scared came, if I could turn the buttons to the left. Turn down the sound. Turn down the strength. Or when my Angry came, or my Sad…I still think of those knobs and turn them sometimes.

My Grandma had black hair. And olive skin. And fuzz above her lip.

I do too.

My Grandma seemed Sad most of the time. Last week a storm came. I wanted the sky to look bruised. I wanted to stay in bed.