InStarbucksanity

So, in our never-ending first world effort to be treated like royalty - coffee is the new perk (pun intended) of the landed nobility - one of the current battlegrounds...yeah, I said grounds...oh, yeah, there will be lots of this...of power mongering in the marketplace.

Yes, even the lowliest of us caffeine court jesters can order the beleaguered baristas around like so many humble serfs.  Like feudal lords of old, we demand milk in varying percentages of fat content or, not milk at all, but soy substitutes just because our princess-and-the-pea-like constitutions are so delicate we cannot properly digest what Bessie has to offer.

We require specific pumps of sweetness in our beverages - I once waited in line behind a particularly persnickety princess who wanted 2 and ONE HALF pumps of caramel.  Really?  How exactly does the java peasant procure ONE HALF of a pump?  Percolate on that for a while.  (Saw that coming, did you?)

And the sizes...in Italian of course, we would not be so coarse as to order a Biggie or Large or Big Gulp - our sophisticated selves order Vente because we are way too civilized to admit we are sucking down the equivalent of a thermos of joe, a quart of milk and about a cup of sugar.

Don't forget the proper temperature - yes, if this beverage is not exactly 178 degrees, well then, then...off with her head!

I, too, have succumbed and been...(wait for it) drunk (okay that counts) with power.  Once, as I exited from a ubiquitous cappuccino castle, where I had also exited my coffee comfort zone and tried some new mocha-frappe-thingy.  (Oh yeah, I know that's not the technical name for it and as of yet I do not have my coffee ordering certification credentials, but they served me anyway - so there!)

Anyway, I was thinking that I wasn't too crazy about the mocha - just a little too mocha-y or frothy or rich or whatever, when I realized there are many people on this very planet who would not have minded mocha in any form at all, but here I was, slurping on like some caffeinated Marie Antoinette with my 6 foot tall creamy creation.

Whoa...the Highness of Hypocrisy, right?  Well, ye oppressive lords and ladies, get over yourselves, stop being part of this mindless, selfish, aristocratic-wannabe, picayune consumer population.  It's just coffee.   Wake up and smell it.

Shameless Plug

Well, I've always wanted to have a newspaper article written about me, me, me, all about me...wait, did I type that out loud?  Did I post this?  Hopefully, with this cute little introductory narrative, everyone will know that I am  really, deep down, quite humble, thankful, and self-involved...shoot, I did it again!

Oh, well, you know me by now, anyway...

http://newssun.suntimes.com/search/19120846-423/blog-log-constant-yammerin-terry-wiesen.html

Yes, It's My First Rodeo

I recently visited a friend in Texas who treated me to a favorite local pastime - going to a rodeo.  I am going to let you in on a little secret.  Rodeos are apparently the last bastion of a tough-minded, earn-your-own-way, pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps philosophy.  No liberal, mamby pamby, everyone-gets-a-trophy decline of the American way of life here, no ma'am.

The fact that the arena was air conditioned was the only concession to modern cushiness I could find.

Our announcer started off by invoking his freedom of religion rights and praying fervently like no preacher I have every seen for the cowboys and various types of bovines involved.  This was followed by the Star Spangled Banner and a patriotic montage of our military personnel around the globe.  So far, so good, I thought.   These are all activities guaranteed by our constitution and it does the heart good to see everyone here united in a cause.

Then things got a little rougher.

My first clue this was a little more demanding sport than, let's say t-ball, were the 10 to 12-year-old boys who started off the events by trying to ride slightly smaller steer than their adult counterparts.  Some (only some?) had vests and helmets on which attested to the dangers and unforgiving nature of this sport.

But then it got a little more rigorous.

The equivalent of an Easter Egg Hunt on steroids followed with approximately 100 children chasing down two steer with ribbons on their tails.  Much face planting and trampling ensued after which the two lucky winners who scored the ribbons were awarded basically the equivalent of a Happy Meal.  Tough way to earn a cheeseburger.  But this was not the most disturbing aspect, oh no; when the sometimes crying, aimlessly wandering children tried to exit the arena, some were confused as to which way to find their parents.  No Amber alerts, just the announcer saying, "If ya brought one, pick one up ya'll!"  Yikes.

It was at this point I realized there was to be no 8th place award or participant ribbons for everyone.  This is Texas, folks, we raise 'em tough here.  No sooner had that thought entered my mind but I was enthralled by a DCFS contact worthy event called Mutton Bustin'.  The participants are aged 4 to 7 - yes, that's right, 4-year-old, barely potty-trained, preschoolers.  Most dropped instantly off their sheep right out of the gate.  But they dusted themselves off and toddled off into the sunset.

The finale, of course, is the well-known, hold-on-for-dear-life or 8-seconds (whichever comes first) bull-riding.  Just to spice it up a little, audience members (volunteers?) were "invited" into the ring to sit on folding chairs covered by a plywood box with bars to watch from a bulls-eye position, so to speak.  Had they thrown some Christians and lions in the ring or sacrificed a virgin at this point I would not have been surprised.

Just good, clean fun.

God Bless America and especially Texas!  

The Anti-Bucket List

Unless you've had no communication with the outside world or seen a movie in 10 years, you've probably heard of the concept of the "bucket list."  You know, like life didn't hold enough pressure as it is, now we have agendas to complete before we "kick the bucket."

Well, in the way I approach most things - I am taking the opposite approach.  I have a harder time really nailing down my holy grail activities as much as I definitely know what things I, no matter how long I live, will never want to do.

I call this my "f*** it list"..er, um, ahem, sorry, let's just say it rhymes with bucket list and leave it at that.

My list to date:

1.  Getting a tattoo. (There is no place on a 54-year-old body that a tattoo will enhance in any way or that I want to draw extra attention to or will not sag or already has.)
2.  Getting any additional piercings.  (See # 1)
3.  "Antiquing." (I'm sorry, it's just old stuff - usually, dead people's old stuff.)
4.  Paintball (Really?  Adults running around with fake guns creating more laundry??)
5.  NASCAR (Cars endlessly circling around a track, people interested in this, gas fumes, did I mention the people?)
6.  Seeing another movie with the word "sisterhood" in it.
7.  Fishing, hunting, camping. (Anything that purposely denies the amazing ready made amenities of modern day life like Filet o' fish, duck à l'orange, and Marriotts.)
8.  Alaskan cruise. (Snow on the Lido deck?  I don't think so.)
9.  Traveling to any country for which I must get shots for yellow fever and malaria, among other diseases.  (Seriously?  I am purposely going someplace which is rife with diseases for which I have no immunity while here in the United States I routinely sneeze into my elbow to avoid passing on my germs, use hand sanitizer religiously when I touch a doorknob- and speaking of religiously, apparently now people use hand sanitizer in church right after the sign of peace - ironic?, and get a flu shot even though it only covers the 5 main strains of flu for that particular flu season?)
10.  Striving to make lists of things that have perfect round numbers like 10, because, yeah, in life everything comes in tens that oh so neatly wrap up what you need to know.  What, you can't have the top 9?  It has to be be 10?  What are we all drinking the Letterman Koolaid - does he dictate to us that 10 is the only number that is acceptable for any and all lists?  Is this another plot to force us to use the metric system that is based on...you guessed it...10!  Wait, what?  Oh yeah, ahem, sorry.

A "Bachelor" Primer

Here is a short instructional for you under-a-rock dwellers who have not watched or seen even one clip of the stupidly successful love franchise:

1.  For an entire generation of 20-somethings who, instead of dating, travel in packs, texting as they go, you will see some of the most unique, inventive, and creative YouTube-worthy couple experiences ever...all dreamed up by the producers.

2.  Each date will have some sort of metaphorical symbolism:
      a.  jumping off something - taking a "leap of faith" into love
      b.  climbing something - reaching that peak or goal with your loved one
      c.  doing something scary - feeling safe or protected by your partner

3.  The Love Richter Scale:
      3.5 - I think I could see myself maybe falling in love with you.
      5.0 - I feel as if I am probably falling in love with you.
      6.5 - I am definitely close to falling in love with you.
      8.0 - I have absolutely, completely, irrevocably fallen in love with you. (Cue the aftershocks.)

4.  Transportation vehicles are varied:  limos, helicopters, seaplanes, horse-drawn carriages, numerous boats (many large enough to jump off of), and an occasional ambulance (don't ask).

5.  There will be one schizophrenic contestant who "is different in the house" than with the much-coveted bachelor/ette.  Anyone with a pulse or sentience above a lichen can observe this, however, it will take at least 6 cocktail parties, 4 rose ceremonies, 2 hot tub get togethers, and many puzzled expressions until our beloved bachelor/ette realizes it and promptly kicks the rose-less imposter to the curb.

6.  The families of the potential mates will be much involved in the selection process and their approval and opinions are mightily considered in the decision.  If this were to happen to the rest of the population no one would ever get engaged, married, or even date.

7.  When the final choice is made between the last two contestants, they will be engaged for exactly three commercial breaks, split up, get back together, and appear on various "tell all" TV specials discussing their break up-getting back together.  Various hot rejects from the show will appear again in the skankier, retread show "Bachelor Pad."  One of the remaining finalists will then be the next bacherlor/ette, thus continuing the circle of life according to ABC.

Season Finale Dramatization:

Art by Jake Wiesen

Facebook Failure

I am a Facebook failure.

I was recently bullied into signing up for this maniacal social media tool by friends I see about once a year.  We would have a pleasant get together, catch up with all the activities of each other and our respective families, and that seemed to work just fine.  One gets the highlights of the year - the social Cliff notes.  They, however, unbeknownst to me, (Where did that word come from?  Leave it to the Elizabethans to combine 18 different words - unbelievamazincrediblest!) anyway, they had been keeping up throughout the year through Facebook, so they thought I should do this too.  "Just think of all you're missing!"

Well, I have found out all that I have been missing.

I have found that everyone has way more "friends" than me.  Oh, when I first signed up and stated where I went to high school, I was bombarded with friend requests from old high schoolmates with whom I had not talked to in close to 40 years.  So now I get to follow their lives on a daily basis.  Awesome.

Also, I have found that Facebook is like one on-going, continuous, Christmas newsletter delighting me with all the travels, activities, achievements, and accomplishments of my friends.  So now I know on a daily basis that everyone has more of a life than me.  Sweet.

Apparently, all my friends have this incredibly close relationship with their children as well.  They comment on each other's pictures, postings, and "likes."  I am afraid to request that my own children be my friend.  As it is, I get an occasional text and a phone call from time to time.  If I were to try to take the relationship to the next level, such as "friending" (which is apparently a verb now, much like "tasking" or "disrespecting") I am unsure of what response I want - do I want to be "friended" and know all the intimate details of my children's lives?  Or if they don't "friend" me, are they protecting me from too much information or do they really not like me?  And even more important, is "facebooked" now a verb, too?  Wonderful.

In addition, because I cannot figure out how to post a profile picture, each time I go to my "wall" I am confronted with a stark grey outline of a phantom person which makes me feel like I am in witness protection.  Swell.

So, I am reduced to "facestalking" (will someone please help me with this language?) - logging in every time I get an email alert that someone has "tagged" me (OK, now this is just getting ridiculous!) or posted something new, only to find out it's because I am only just on their friend list and every time they post something I am included.  It's like being at a wedding and you only know the bride, (who, of course, is very busy with all her guests and has no time to talk to you) so you are at the cousin's table and everyone is talking about stuff you know nothing about.  And they are letting you sit there because of course your reception place card authorizes your presence there but they have absolutely nothing to say to you because you don't know them and were too late in signing up for Facebook to have developed a relationship with them, because they already have enough "friends."  Peachy.