St. Paddy's Day Pride

On the morning of St. Patrick’s Day before school I’d be rummaging through the closet, drawers, under the bed anywhere in search of something to wear that was green. I never wanted to find something that was too green, didn’t want attention, only wanted enough green to thwart the pinchers. The best was sort of a “green-o-flage”, green that wasn’t initially noticeable but if someone pinched I could show them my green spot. Then, according to Irish law, I could pummel them with several slugs to the upper arm.

It was always best to be a little nonchalant about St. Patrick’s Day. You never wanted to appear to have intentionally donned green garb. That would just not be cool. If you came to school wearing green pants, or shirt you’d be considered Leprechaunish. Sort of like wearing a Santa hat or Easter bunny ears to school. You’d be asking for a pounding. So it was best to find a piece of green thread and place it on your shirt or have it come out of your pocket. The rules of green were that it had to be in a place where it could be seen with the naked eye. So, green underwear didn’t count. Socks were good but only if you had flood water pants on.

If you forgot your green one way for a quick acquire was to go slide around in the field before school to get grass stains. You’d come into class smelling a little gamey and there would be Irish penance to pay when your mother took a look at those new pants but the price was worth it.

An unwritten rule was that if you claimed to actually be Irish you might be able to ward off the painful nips. I had always been suspicious if Loo Wang was really as Irish as he claimed to be.

Living in Ireland on a mission for two years changed my perspective a little. Wearing green wasn’t a big deal. I suppose since we breathed Irish air no one would even consider you didn’t have Ireland inside you.

Since children have come along we always celebrated by hanging up my Ireland flags, listening to twangy Irish pub songs, and eating green pancakes. I think I remember putting green food coloring in a milk jug when Jan and I were first married. However, now that I think about it I’m not sure we could have afforded food coloring so I’m not sure how the milk became green. Did they put expiration dates on things 35 years ago?

So, once a year I put on my Irish plaid tweed tie, turn up the pipe and fiddle music and prance around the living room, jigging and jogging off the furniture and twirling in Irish dervish spins. Then I put my clothes on.

So, if that image is difficult to get out of your head you now know how the Irish men celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Sort of weird, isn’t it?

Crazy Talk

I know when I was growing up there was a guy who wandered around town carrying on a conversation with the air. Not that he addressed the air as such, but there was no one else around when he spoke. Seems like we called him Crazy something or other. Not that we included “something or other” when we referred to him it’s just that I can’t recall what we called him, other than the Crazy part.

Throughout the years I’ve seen and heard a few other crazies; people who talk to themselves, out loud. They don’t whisper or mutter, I mean, it’s like they’re using a conversational tone in their voice. I can’t say I heard them asking questions then answering those inquiries, but again, there’s no one they’re addressing their voices to. Now, I don’t generally really listen to what they’re saying. When I come across someone talking to their imaginary friend I tend to avoid them. You know, like walk to the other side of the street, turn my head, don’t make eye contact, make the sign of the cross with my fingers… I realize the cross is to ward off vampires but I don’t want anyone to suck away my sanity.

These days I’ve noticed a notable increase in the number of those crazy chatterers, especially at places like Costco. For example today, I had parked the cart next to the vitamin shelves while Jan went to look for something. She tells me to stay put so I do, I don’t want to wander off somewhere because then I get into all sorts of trouble. So, I’m leaning against the shopping cart looking around when this woman comes walking down the aisle chatting away. There’s no one around her. She’s talking about not finding calcium tablets and swearing she saw them in this aisle the last time she was here. She didn’t realize I was standing in front of the calcium tablets, blocking them with my cart, but she was a crazy, and I wasn’t going to move or acknowledge I knew where these were. After all, she wasn’t talking to me…

She kept on talking so I went into my self taught avoidance skills. I turned my head and avoided eye contact. She was sounding more irritated so I took my hands out of my pockets and made the sign of the cross. She stopped, turned toward me and said, “Oh, you say the calcium tablets are in aisle “T”? Thank you.” And off she went, turning her conversation back to herself.

I realized after she left she was talking through her cell phone hands free device. I hate these things when people use them in public places. I had one woman stand next to me as I was pulling canned chicken off the shelf.
“What do you want on your pizza?” she asked.

I was a little puzzled, “well, I guess Canadian Bacon and pinapple is my first favorite.”

“OK, I’ll go pick one up.” she replied. “So when are you coming over?”

My self esteem did puff a bit when she said she was taking my pizza topping advice but the when are you coming over part threw me.

“I don’t know you. I’m not really comfortable coming over. Of course I’d bring my wife, but I do love pizza. Couldn’t we just eat outside?”

She started to walk away, “OK, I’m giving Mandy a bath then putting her down for a nap.” she responded. “She’s worn herself out.”

I started to quiver as I realized she wasn’t talking to me. I’d just been lured into one of “their” worlds.

I really feel sorry for those who suffer with schizophrenic conditions. But, with more people talking to themselves out loud more frequently it’s difficult to tell who actually is just talking on the phone or really is a bit on the crazy side. It’s even more difficult for me. I find myself walking across streets to avoid people more often, not looking anyone in the eye, and if one more police officer tries to take me in because I’m making the sign of the cross with my fingers at everyone, I swear, I’ll just go crazy.

Happy Year!

I know it’s been awhile since I did anything on this blog. I’ve been updating and reworking a favorite family Christmas story that I have plans for submitting for publication soon and just hadn’t felt creative in the blog sphere. Also I began coming off some medication I’ve been taking for several years and the withdrawals left me murky minded.

Which brings me all to this:

In November I passed my 30^th year of working at the newspaper. Now, that’s a long time and why anyone would work at the same place for that long is questionable. Our advertising staff is divided into three teams. Each team includes several sales people and an assistant. When it was mentioned I’d been here for 30 years several of my team mates quickly responded they hadn’t been born yet when I started. In fact, only one other sales rep of the five on our team was earthbound when I began my first day of work and he was in diapers. Am I really that old?

Getting older is funny; it’s something that happens to everyone else. Jan and I enjoy a daily comic strip named “Pickles.” The strip is described as: “Pickles tells the story of Earl and Opal Pickles as they enjoy their golden years surrounded by friends and family.” Yeah, that doesn’t sound funny but the comic can sometimes be hilarious. Jan and I used to think the characters acted like our parents. Now, we’ve recently discovered the characters are acting like us.

A few days ago Jan was sharing one of the strips with me. She read, “Opal says: “Earl, are you wearing your hearing aid?” Jan quips, “I don’t remember the man’s name but this character reminds me of your dad.” I quickly responded, “Do you mean you don’t remember Earl’s name? You just read it, Jan!” (It was very early in the morning and I was still half asleep, Jan explains.) It was my nature to rub that memory lapse wound deeply for the rest of the day.

Monday Jan, her sister Jeanne and I went to see War Horse. Standing in line I overheard one ticket buyer mention she was a purchasing tickets for two seniors. I don’t mind being older if it will save a buck so I wondered how old I needed to be to receive the discount. It was 62 so I’m still too young for some things.

The theater was filling quickly but we found seats in the last row. Soon after we sat down two teenage brothers came in and stated they needed 5 seats. So, one brother left the seat next to me open while he settled in next to it. His brother quickly pointed out that he needed to scoot all the way down. In his words, “Sit in the chair next to the old guy.” I turned and looked down the aisle toward the whippersnapper.

“Did you just call me an old guy?” I asked incredulously. Now, I had a smile on my face while I said this but the fact I called him out on his comment really flabbergasted the young ‘un. He almost crawled in humility toward me, begging for my forgiveness. “Did you know I asked if I could get the senior discount ticket and they wouldn’t even give it to me? How can I be an “old guy” when I don’t even qualify for the senior discount?”

He begged for forgiveness again, explaining he didn’t mean what he said and that he didn’t know what he was talking about. I guess my knife had plunged deep enough so I just shook my head and waved him off as I laughed.

I’ve decided to drop all age/time adjectives from my vocabulary. So, my holiday greeting for this weekend is “Happy Year!”

“How tweet it is…”(quote from Jackie Gleason, sort of)

I just read the results of the Teen Choice Awards that aired last night (Sunday, August 7^th ). Apparently teens vote for their favorite singers, movies, actors, songs etc. I hope the winners don’t reflect actual teenage intellect. A couple of movies that won were “Bad Teacher’ and Hangover II”, both rated R and very nasty. Favorite TV show and several TV actor awards went to “Jersey Shore”; a reality show where those in it aren’t really even acting.

I don’t know much about Twitter but with all this technology it seems someone should have caught and corrected this category. Justin Beiber won for the Favorite Twit category. Maybe that was supposed to be “Tweet”. According to dictionary.com (one of my favorite places on the web; no, really!) a twit is defined as: an insignificant or bothersome person. I’ve used the word slanderously at times.

I think that’s the only teen choice they got right.

We just got home from our third trip to Utah this year. You know this is a 12 hour trip so there’s a lot of time to ponder significant subjects. Unfortunately, nothing comes to mind.

Why do I always, and I mean always, have to honk the horn when going through a tunnel? I don’t remember Dad doing this. It’s not in the driver’s manual. I never hear the bleat of another horn in the tunnel. There’s no sign saying “When traveling deeply inside the depths of this tunnel make sure to honk your horn.” I haven’t figured that out yet.

We drive through several small towns on the trip; Denio, Beatty, Bly, Dairy, Adel. I don’t recall seeing a single person in any of these towns. None rocking on the front porch, no kids playing, no one backing out of a driveway. Absolutely no one. Maybe the rundown houses and stores are just movie props or the residents were sucked up by alien spacecraft. Or, there’s always the government conspiracy theory. Actually, they’re all probably tuned in watching Jersey Shore and listening to the music of that Twit Justin Beiber.

When Jan and I make these treks we pack supplies. We were taking Brittany and Maeli back to Utah so we brought significant provisions to get us through. We had carrots (two bags), grapes, a roll of Ritz Crackers, Mentos (both the fruity and mint kind), fruit snacks, boxed apple/pair juice, animal crackers (I still bite the heads off first), almonds, honey roasted peanuts, dried apricots (Jan’s), dried mangos, and several bottles of water-some frozen.

The grand marshal of the supply wagon is a 5 pound bag of peanut M&M’s. You can tell we’re prepared if we get stuck in snow drifts during August.

On the way home Jan was driving. I had an M&M crave so I reached for the bag on the back seat. The M&M’s came in a zip lock bag and Jan, having foreknowledge of her husband, also placed the bag of candy into another zip locked bag. Double bagged, double zip locked. I swear I grabbed the top of the bag but, like a piñata taking its last crushing blow, the bag exploded, sending blue, green, yellow, orange,red and brown egg shaped “melt in your mouth not in your hand” candy all over the interior of the car. Jan, startled by the detonation yelled “What are you doing?!!”

That was an appropriate question.

“I just wanted some M&M’s.” I explained sheepishly, “and something to do…” as I began to pick up a few of the spilled candies.

Jan gave further instructions, “You’d better pick ALL those up, and the ones you find are the ones you eat.”

I started shoving as many into my mouth as I could.

She added, “Why didn’t you pick them up by the top of the bag?"

“I thought I did... however, my last thought was, I hope I have these by the top of the bag because dumping them out would be….AHHHH!!”

I was able to save most of them due to quick reflexes.

I tried to put a positive spin on the accident: “sort of like confetti, wasn’t it? An exploding rainbow of color right here, right in the car. Magnificent, wasn’t it?”

She wasn’t buying it.

When we arrived home Jan brought in a bag that carried the spilled candy she’d picked up.

Holding the bag up she pointed at the candied shrapnel, “I picked up 120 of these. That’s not counting the ones you picked off the floor and stuffed in your mouth.”

I’m a little tired of eating 120 M&Ms; especially the ones with hair, carpet fuzz and dirt from who knows where. Hey, it’s not like you can wash them.