By Lois M. Collins
Deseret News
Published: December 30, 2008
A Provo mom spent part of her Christmas vacation protesting outside Facebook's Palo Alto headquarters after the social networking site removed a picture of her nursing her infant daughter.
Heather Farley said she used as her profile photo a shot of her daughter Margaret, now 9 months old, nursing because "I thought the picture was sweet, and I liked the relationship that it showed. I want other moms to know that breast-feeding is not something that needs to be hidden."
Facebook instead removed the photo in early November and notified Farley that she had violated the policy prohibiting nudity.
She joined a Facebook group, now 85,000 members strong, called "Hey Facebook, breast-feeding is not obscene." They've launched an online petition asking Facebook to reconsider its policy.
In December, the online protesters, who call themselves "lactivists," planned a virtual "nurse in." As they were hammering out the details, Farley asked if they wanted her to do an actual protect outside the Palo Alto headquarters while she was in California for the holidays. They did, she said, and from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. last Saturday, she and a shifting group of about 25 others — including 10 nursing mothers over the course of the event — protested the policy.
The company, she said, ignored the protest, just as it had ignored her earlier e-mails.
Attempts by the Deseret News to reach a Facebook spokesman Tuesday were unsuccessful, but spokesman Barry Schnitt was quoted by The Associated Press as saying the policy is meant to protect minors. He said most breast-feeding photos are allowed because they follow the site's rules. Photos that show nipples, for example, are removed.
E-mail: Lois@desnews.com
© 2008 Deseret News Publishing Company All rights reserved
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Manipulation, Thy Name is Sydney...
I have tried to teach my children the keys to happiness. I believe that they should be kind, loving and service oriented. I firmly believe that if you can teach a child to master a trait that will make them happier and more successful, you will enhance your children and their future. However, one of my children has taken my teachings to a higher level, a level that will so outperform my skills that it makes me weep for joy. The skill she chooses to emulate is manipulation.
Sydney or the chosen one, as I was will call her from this point on, is a powerful manipulator who gets what she wants, no matter the time or the place. While she is only three years old, she has the uncanny knack of being able to make the world revolve around her and her wishes instantaneously, no matter the circumstance.
She is not afraid to resort to bribery, extortion, emotional distress, physical pain of psychological warfare to accomplish her goals. The force is strong with this one. She is a chip off the ol’ block. A true master’s apprentice.
Take the other night for example, she was trying to get on our bed to go to sleep. Holly is not having any of it, but we all know how to get to Holly, she is simple, she is an easy break. Sydney climbs up on her bed, whispers in her ear, “I’ll play with your hair. I’ll play with your hair for a long time.”
Playing with Holly’s hair will get you everywhere. Take it from me. I know. It works. It works 100 percent of the time. She may be adamant about something, but if you sit next to her and run your hands through her hair, victory is only seconds away.
But if on the odd chance that running your hands through her hair does not work, like this particular night, Sydney knew what to do next. “I’ll tickle your back. I’ll tickle your back for a long time.” That, my friends, is all she wrote. But to see Sydney’s true manipulation skills in action, you simply need to keep reading.
As Holly helps Sydney onto the bed, I get up to get a drink of water. Sensing a golden opportunity, Sydney jumps onto my side of the bed, rolls over and says to Holly, “Tickle my back.” Hearing this, Holly says, “Do not pull the rug out from under me, you promised.” To which, as all good manipulators do when they have someone trapped, Sydney replies, “You would just be alone now anyway, with Daddy gone, so you tickle my back. I know you hate to be alone.”
As Holly tickles her back, I walk back into the room and see Sydney spread out on my side of the bed, asleep. Beaten, I take the couch which is 2 feet away and Sydney sleeps the night away knowing she has been victorious.
Two nights later, not wanting to fall for the same trick, Holly will not let Sydney get up on the bed. Sydney promptly tells Holly that she is never going to play with her hair again and goes out of the room and slams the door.
Five minutes later, Sydney comes back into the room, tells Holly that she is not happy with the last encounter and asked her to tell her, one more time, that she can not sleep on her bed. Holly obliges, and without a moment’s hesitation, Sydney stands up and says, "Holly (not mom), I’m out of here. Talk to the hand.”
I was laughing so hard I asked her to come back in and before we knew it, Sydney was up in the middle of the bed, with both Holly and I tickling her.
It is not often that the master meets a new master, but the baton is ready to be passed. The master has now become the student and the student is now out to get each and everyone of you. You’ve been warned. But don’t worry, believe me, you won’t see it coming.
Sydney or the chosen one, as I was will call her from this point on, is a powerful manipulator who gets what she wants, no matter the time or the place. While she is only three years old, she has the uncanny knack of being able to make the world revolve around her and her wishes instantaneously, no matter the circumstance.
She is not afraid to resort to bribery, extortion, emotional distress, physical pain of psychological warfare to accomplish her goals. The force is strong with this one. She is a chip off the ol’ block. A true master’s apprentice.
Take the other night for example, she was trying to get on our bed to go to sleep. Holly is not having any of it, but we all know how to get to Holly, she is simple, she is an easy break. Sydney climbs up on her bed, whispers in her ear, “I’ll play with your hair. I’ll play with your hair for a long time.”
Playing with Holly’s hair will get you everywhere. Take it from me. I know. It works. It works 100 percent of the time. She may be adamant about something, but if you sit next to her and run your hands through her hair, victory is only seconds away.
But if on the odd chance that running your hands through her hair does not work, like this particular night, Sydney knew what to do next. “I’ll tickle your back. I’ll tickle your back for a long time.” That, my friends, is all she wrote. But to see Sydney’s true manipulation skills in action, you simply need to keep reading.
As Holly helps Sydney onto the bed, I get up to get a drink of water. Sensing a golden opportunity, Sydney jumps onto my side of the bed, rolls over and says to Holly, “Tickle my back.” Hearing this, Holly says, “Do not pull the rug out from under me, you promised.” To which, as all good manipulators do when they have someone trapped, Sydney replies, “You would just be alone now anyway, with Daddy gone, so you tickle my back. I know you hate to be alone.”
As Holly tickles her back, I walk back into the room and see Sydney spread out on my side of the bed, asleep. Beaten, I take the couch which is 2 feet away and Sydney sleeps the night away knowing she has been victorious.
Two nights later, not wanting to fall for the same trick, Holly will not let Sydney get up on the bed. Sydney promptly tells Holly that she is never going to play with her hair again and goes out of the room and slams the door.
Five minutes later, Sydney comes back into the room, tells Holly that she is not happy with the last encounter and asked her to tell her, one more time, that she can not sleep on her bed. Holly obliges, and without a moment’s hesitation, Sydney stands up and says, "Holly (not mom), I’m out of here. Talk to the hand.”
I was laughing so hard I asked her to come back in and before we knew it, Sydney was up in the middle of the bed, with both Holly and I tickling her.
It is not often that the master meets a new master, but the baton is ready to be passed. The master has now become the student and the student is now out to get each and everyone of you. You’ve been warned. But don’t worry, believe me, you won’t see it coming.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
A gift for the holidays...
In one of Jerry Seinfeld’s comedy bits he describes being tested for hearing in elementary school and about his desire to be the best at everything. He said that after testing him, “He wanted the doctor to pronounce that he had super hearing, capable of eliminating misery for all of mankind.”
Similarly, I have that same desire, but mine does not revolve around hearing, but is based on real and monumental accomplishments that, by being better and finding success, will ultimately assist society as a whole to achieve happiness and fulfillment that has been unattainable.
You see, my goal is simple. I want to be the fastest ever at those new self-service check out stands in all of the grocery stores. You have seen the self-service checkout line, the ones that are filled with people who have no idea how to work them. These machines are so baffling that people simply walk out of the store, after hours of trying to make it through the isle, leaving in a fit of frustration and despair.
To many people, these self-service checkout machines are like jail sentences without the opportunity for parole. They, like OJ, know that when they go in, there is no coming out, no matter what.
They are doing 7-10 years without any chance for a conjugal visit or a good job in the kitchen. I hear that those two things are really the only hope you have of making jail bearable.
As one of the fastest self-service checkout professionals in the world, I see the long lines and people fumbling with their groceries and my heart goes out to them. Not in an “I want to help you sort of way,” more like a “I'm sorry that you are going to lose to me (even though you don't even know that it's a competition)” sort of way.
I breeze through these lines. I scan, place my item into the bag (which is key, because the computer knows how much a product weighs and won’t let you go on until it senses the weight) and hit the payment key. I pass the coupon section, use the pay pad and I am done. 10 seconds flat. A new world record.
In fact, I am so good at this that I know all of the grocery chains are secretly watching me; trying to persuade me to come in and teach their check-out team the secrets of my success. In my mind, I understand that these stores are in the midst of a disorganized chaos so severe that my mere presence would increase the stores' operating income.
Yes, I know I have a gift, but unlike Superman, Batman, Doctors and hairstylists, I rarely use my gift for good and almost always use it for my own selfish rewards. But what are you really going to do; I am a unique specimen with a superhuman talent. I’m bound to be a Diva.
Similarly, I have that same desire, but mine does not revolve around hearing, but is based on real and monumental accomplishments that, by being better and finding success, will ultimately assist society as a whole to achieve happiness and fulfillment that has been unattainable.
You see, my goal is simple. I want to be the fastest ever at those new self-service check out stands in all of the grocery stores. You have seen the self-service checkout line, the ones that are filled with people who have no idea how to work them. These machines are so baffling that people simply walk out of the store, after hours of trying to make it through the isle, leaving in a fit of frustration and despair.
To many people, these self-service checkout machines are like jail sentences without the opportunity for parole. They, like OJ, know that when they go in, there is no coming out, no matter what.
They are doing 7-10 years without any chance for a conjugal visit or a good job in the kitchen. I hear that those two things are really the only hope you have of making jail bearable.
As one of the fastest self-service checkout professionals in the world, I see the long lines and people fumbling with their groceries and my heart goes out to them. Not in an “I want to help you sort of way,” more like a “I'm sorry that you are going to lose to me (even though you don't even know that it's a competition)” sort of way.
I breeze through these lines. I scan, place my item into the bag (which is key, because the computer knows how much a product weighs and won’t let you go on until it senses the weight) and hit the payment key. I pass the coupon section, use the pay pad and I am done. 10 seconds flat. A new world record.
In fact, I am so good at this that I know all of the grocery chains are secretly watching me; trying to persuade me to come in and teach their check-out team the secrets of my success. In my mind, I understand that these stores are in the midst of a disorganized chaos so severe that my mere presence would increase the stores' operating income.
Yes, I know I have a gift, but unlike Superman, Batman, Doctors and hairstylists, I rarely use my gift for good and almost always use it for my own selfish rewards. But what are you really going to do; I am a unique specimen with a superhuman talent. I’m bound to be a Diva.
Merry Christmas...
If you are not related to me, you may consider me an individual who lives in Las Vegas and is more concerned about his hair and skin care products than working the land or running a farm. And while that is 99 percent true, you probably don’t know that:
· I can castrate a pig
· I can milk a cow
· I can break a horse
· I’ve raised hundreds of chickens and turkeys over my lifetime
The truth is that even though I grew up a city kid, I come from Grade A stock, and I spent lots of time on the farm behind our house. In fact, I spent so much time that I became a closeted farmer, who had the skills and the moxie needed to run a full-time ranch. Well, maybe. It was a long time ago and I do love how moisturized my hands are at this point in my life.
However, in the summer of 1983, my brothers and I were invited to participate in the annual Midway Rodeo. Midway is a small town where my grandmother lived and is located about 15 minutes above Park City, Utah. This rodeo was created as a showcase for the town’s children and its future rodeo stars. It was a HUGE deal to them and their aspiring ranchers.
Being a rodeo for kids, the events included bull riding, goat milking, catching a greased pig and climbing a greased poll. The first contest was simple: Grab your kid, put him on a bull and see if he can hold on.
My dad, seeing an opportunity for me to shine, grabbed me, placed me on the bull and watched me ride that thing for at least 4 sec. Anyone who knows anything about bull riding understands that 4 seconds is halfway to 8 seconds and 8 seconds on a bull will make you money. Plus, 4 seconds was about 3.5 seconds longer than anyone else had stayed on.
But if you think I was going to get a pat on the back from the locals, you were wrong indeed. To say the local kids were overconfident is an understatement. They had on their Wrangler jeans; cowboy hats and boots. I was wearing Guess jeans, Nikes and a nice button-up Latigra polo. I think it was maroon; I know it looked smashing.
After the bull riding, we were entered into the goat milking contest. This contest was even easier; whoever filled a bottle up first won. Compared to milking a cow, milking a goat was EASY! My brothers and I had no problems filling that cup. We filled that cups in seconds. I had the goat filling so good and loose that I had to leave right after the event to avoid a marriage proposal.
However, as we went to collect our blue ribbon and after a moment of conferring with the judges, my brothers and I were ruled ineligible. The judges said something about being from the city and not being from Midway and that they feared my supple hands and my ability to stimulate a goat. Ahhhh, maybe that could have been worded differently.
But our success in milking goats should not have been a surprise. Back at home, we used to milk a cow everyday or at least help. Anyone who has ever milked a cow understands that if you don’t hold onto the tail, the cow will naturally sway back and forth and before long the tail will end up hitting you in the face. If you have ever inspected a cow’s tail, the last thing you want is for that tail to hit you in the face. Therefore, my dad employed my brother, Andy, to hold the tail and eliminate this nuisance.
As the old saying goes, don’t mess with a bull, if you don’t want the horns. And in Andy’s case, this literally translated into: Don’t hold a cow’s tail, if you don’t want pile of crap on your head. I can still see the surprise and anguish from Andy as the “stuff” landed on him.
At the time, he was just tall enough to hold the tail and just short enough to be standing right under the poop shoot. After the “incident” he was covered. His hair was green, his clothes were green, even his shoes were green. He was afraid to cry. He knew that if he opened him mouth some would eventually work its way in. He just stood there, not really knowing what to do.
My dad, patiently snickering to himself, while my brother and I roared with laughter, stood up and took my stinky brother home to my mother who hosed him off outside. Every time we are about to see Andy, I tell and re-tell this story to my kids who are fascinated by its appeal. Even they tease him about the situation.
I’m not sure which story I like more. On one hand, you have me riding a bull and using my hands to tantalize a goat (ouch, I have GOT to re-phase that) on the other hand, you have my brother covered in, ahhh, well, you get the picture.
I do know one thing; however, I have got to stop talking about goats.
· I can castrate a pig
· I can milk a cow
· I can break a horse
· I’ve raised hundreds of chickens and turkeys over my lifetime
The truth is that even though I grew up a city kid, I come from Grade A stock, and I spent lots of time on the farm behind our house. In fact, I spent so much time that I became a closeted farmer, who had the skills and the moxie needed to run a full-time ranch. Well, maybe. It was a long time ago and I do love how moisturized my hands are at this point in my life.
However, in the summer of 1983, my brothers and I were invited to participate in the annual Midway Rodeo. Midway is a small town where my grandmother lived and is located about 15 minutes above Park City, Utah. This rodeo was created as a showcase for the town’s children and its future rodeo stars. It was a HUGE deal to them and their aspiring ranchers.
Being a rodeo for kids, the events included bull riding, goat milking, catching a greased pig and climbing a greased poll. The first contest was simple: Grab your kid, put him on a bull and see if he can hold on.
My dad, seeing an opportunity for me to shine, grabbed me, placed me on the bull and watched me ride that thing for at least 4 sec. Anyone who knows anything about bull riding understands that 4 seconds is halfway to 8 seconds and 8 seconds on a bull will make you money. Plus, 4 seconds was about 3.5 seconds longer than anyone else had stayed on.
But if you think I was going to get a pat on the back from the locals, you were wrong indeed. To say the local kids were overconfident is an understatement. They had on their Wrangler jeans; cowboy hats and boots. I was wearing Guess jeans, Nikes and a nice button-up Latigra polo. I think it was maroon; I know it looked smashing.
After the bull riding, we were entered into the goat milking contest. This contest was even easier; whoever filled a bottle up first won. Compared to milking a cow, milking a goat was EASY! My brothers and I had no problems filling that cup. We filled that cups in seconds. I had the goat filling so good and loose that I had to leave right after the event to avoid a marriage proposal.
However, as we went to collect our blue ribbon and after a moment of conferring with the judges, my brothers and I were ruled ineligible. The judges said something about being from the city and not being from Midway and that they feared my supple hands and my ability to stimulate a goat. Ahhhh, maybe that could have been worded differently.
But our success in milking goats should not have been a surprise. Back at home, we used to milk a cow everyday or at least help. Anyone who has ever milked a cow understands that if you don’t hold onto the tail, the cow will naturally sway back and forth and before long the tail will end up hitting you in the face. If you have ever inspected a cow’s tail, the last thing you want is for that tail to hit you in the face. Therefore, my dad employed my brother, Andy, to hold the tail and eliminate this nuisance.
As the old saying goes, don’t mess with a bull, if you don’t want the horns. And in Andy’s case, this literally translated into: Don’t hold a cow’s tail, if you don’t want pile of crap on your head. I can still see the surprise and anguish from Andy as the “stuff” landed on him.
At the time, he was just tall enough to hold the tail and just short enough to be standing right under the poop shoot. After the “incident” he was covered. His hair was green, his clothes were green, even his shoes were green. He was afraid to cry. He knew that if he opened him mouth some would eventually work its way in. He just stood there, not really knowing what to do.
My dad, patiently snickering to himself, while my brother and I roared with laughter, stood up and took my stinky brother home to my mother who hosed him off outside. Every time we are about to see Andy, I tell and re-tell this story to my kids who are fascinated by its appeal. Even they tease him about the situation.
I’m not sure which story I like more. On one hand, you have me riding a bull and using my hands to tantalize a goat (ouch, I have GOT to re-phase that) on the other hand, you have my brother covered in, ahhh, well, you get the picture.
I do know one thing; however, I have got to stop talking about goats.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Who knew...?
PS – Tom Cruise can’t read. Sad, I know. He has all of those super-human-spy powers; can dance in his underwear, but he can’t read. As he was promoting his new film, which is suppose to suck, on the Late Night with David Letterman Show Monday, someone got the bright idea to have Tom Cruise read the Top 10 list.
I love the Top 10 list more than I love anything on TV. It has provided me with thousands of enjoyable moments throughout my life. If I miss the lists on TV, I read them on the Internet. Secretly, I have always had a deep desire to write them and read them on the show. So, you may say, I have always wanted to do what Tom was doing, which may account for my enjoyment in his failure.
Tom is trying desperately to restore his image after spending a year or so destroying it by picking on all kinds of people, including Matt Lauer. This new Tom has been happy, friendly and really up for almost everything, including reading.
However, reading was not up for him. I am sure his people looked on in shock as they realized that Tom can't read. Now don't get me wrong, he can read enough to get him through the day. He did a fairly good job on most of the list, but as he got to the word Heimlich, he paused, looked at Dave and pointed to the word, as if this was some new invention that was brand new to him and all those within the sound of his voice.
Dave, being the humanitarian that he is, made Tom wait for about 9 seconds, which seemed like an eternity on TV, before throwing him a lifeline and saying to him, “The word is Heimlich, Tom. Heimlich."
Tom, being blissfully unaware that this word existed before tonight's show, went on his merry way and continued to stumble over the remainder of the list.
So, although you may never have the opportunity to jump on Oprah’s couch and proclaim your love for your spouse, you can take great pride in knowing that as you read your child a bedtime story, somewhere Tom Cruise is wishing he were more like you.
You can watch the clip below:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJOzDd0bglo
I love the Top 10 list more than I love anything on TV. It has provided me with thousands of enjoyable moments throughout my life. If I miss the lists on TV, I read them on the Internet. Secretly, I have always had a deep desire to write them and read them on the show. So, you may say, I have always wanted to do what Tom was doing, which may account for my enjoyment in his failure.
Tom is trying desperately to restore his image after spending a year or so destroying it by picking on all kinds of people, including Matt Lauer. This new Tom has been happy, friendly and really up for almost everything, including reading.
However, reading was not up for him. I am sure his people looked on in shock as they realized that Tom can't read. Now don't get me wrong, he can read enough to get him through the day. He did a fairly good job on most of the list, but as he got to the word Heimlich, he paused, looked at Dave and pointed to the word, as if this was some new invention that was brand new to him and all those within the sound of his voice.
Dave, being the humanitarian that he is, made Tom wait for about 9 seconds, which seemed like an eternity on TV, before throwing him a lifeline and saying to him, “The word is Heimlich, Tom. Heimlich."
Tom, being blissfully unaware that this word existed before tonight's show, went on his merry way and continued to stumble over the remainder of the list.
So, although you may never have the opportunity to jump on Oprah’s couch and proclaim your love for your spouse, you can take great pride in knowing that as you read your child a bedtime story, somewhere Tom Cruise is wishing he were more like you.
You can watch the clip below:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJOzDd0bglo
You never know...So check!
Does life emulate art or does art emulate life? This is an age old question, which never seems to be given the time and attention it needs to be answered.
To fully understand and ponder this question, let me take you back to the front room of my mother’s house. I am 14 or 16 or 18, it really does not matter for this story, but being someone who always tells the truth and meticulously ensures that every detail is correct, I want to be as factual as possible.
As I was saying, I was sitting in the front room of my mother’s house when I heard her scream out in agony or possibly disgust; I am still not sure which. Being a good son, unlike my two brothers, I rushed into the dining room to find my mother washing out her mouth in a vigorous fashion.
She explained to me that she was cleaning the table and thought someone had spilled lemonade, but was not sure, so she decided to taste it. "It," which is never a good way to end a sentence, turned out not to be lemonade, but was, in fact, a squirt of cat pee.
Yes, she of her own free will and choice had tasted cat pee. I can’t really remember what happened next, although it did include a fit of hysterical laughter on my part and some rolling around on the floor, which only made her more mad or upset.
You would think that simply smelling the pee would have been enough to deduce that this was not lemonade, but who am I to judge. In fact, I would be a horrible judge, as two of my lifelong goals are (1) never to ingest pee of any kind, especially that of a cat and (2) never to ingest fecal matter of any kind, but more on that to come.
Fast forward to my house. As a family, we are sitting down to watch Baby Mama, the Tina Fey flick about having kids. As the movie rolled on, we watched as Tina Fey’s movie sister walked up to her kid, grabbed his hand and said, “Is that chocolate or poopy, chocolate or poopy?” Then to see which it really was, she licked his arm and said, “ohhh, its chocolate.”
Tina Fey stood in shock and asked her sister, “What would you have done if that were poop?” No answer, was given, but I am sure each one of us could deduce the horror we would have felt if that had really been poop.
Some are more brave. My mom, for example, she had an answer. She tasted cat pee and spent two hours trying to get the taste out of her mouth. She was not afraid, she tasted that pee and lived to tell about it (I know, again with the "it").
Fast forward (or rewind at this point) to my house last night and I am sweeping up what looks to be chocolate. But with a vast array of knowledge on this subject, I asked Holly to come and inspect it closer. She bends down, touches it and, you guessed it, it’s #2. This #2 had just fallen out of Cali’s diaper. It was small and round and hard and looked just like a Hershey’s Kiss, but instead it was a Hershey Squirt.
“Were you going to taste that?” I screamed. “Were you?”
She never answered. I think somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she was thinking about tasting it and was so horrified about that fact that she can’t admit it at this point.
There was a lot riding on her decision to taste or not to taste. On one hand, you may get a wonderful taste of chocolate, which is always pleasant; on the other hand, you may be labeled for life as the woman who voluntarily tasted poo.
That decision is really not worth the risk. She could have lost everything. That could have possibly been the last time we ever would have kissed….oh, who am I kidding, we don’t have five kids because we hate kissing.
At the end of it all, I am still unsure if it is art or life that is inspiring the other, but regardless, be careful out there, you never know where something has been before you eat it….(I know, "it" is a terrible way to end a story, but give me a break, it’s the Holidays.)
To fully understand and ponder this question, let me take you back to the front room of my mother’s house. I am 14 or 16 or 18, it really does not matter for this story, but being someone who always tells the truth and meticulously ensures that every detail is correct, I want to be as factual as possible.
As I was saying, I was sitting in the front room of my mother’s house when I heard her scream out in agony or possibly disgust; I am still not sure which. Being a good son, unlike my two brothers, I rushed into the dining room to find my mother washing out her mouth in a vigorous fashion.
She explained to me that she was cleaning the table and thought someone had spilled lemonade, but was not sure, so she decided to taste it. "It," which is never a good way to end a sentence, turned out not to be lemonade, but was, in fact, a squirt of cat pee.
Yes, she of her own free will and choice had tasted cat pee. I can’t really remember what happened next, although it did include a fit of hysterical laughter on my part and some rolling around on the floor, which only made her more mad or upset.
You would think that simply smelling the pee would have been enough to deduce that this was not lemonade, but who am I to judge. In fact, I would be a horrible judge, as two of my lifelong goals are (1) never to ingest pee of any kind, especially that of a cat and (2) never to ingest fecal matter of any kind, but more on that to come.
Fast forward to my house. As a family, we are sitting down to watch Baby Mama, the Tina Fey flick about having kids. As the movie rolled on, we watched as Tina Fey’s movie sister walked up to her kid, grabbed his hand and said, “Is that chocolate or poopy, chocolate or poopy?” Then to see which it really was, she licked his arm and said, “ohhh, its chocolate.”
Tina Fey stood in shock and asked her sister, “What would you have done if that were poop?” No answer, was given, but I am sure each one of us could deduce the horror we would have felt if that had really been poop.
Some are more brave. My mom, for example, she had an answer. She tasted cat pee and spent two hours trying to get the taste out of her mouth. She was not afraid, she tasted that pee and lived to tell about it (I know, again with the "it").
Fast forward (or rewind at this point) to my house last night and I am sweeping up what looks to be chocolate. But with a vast array of knowledge on this subject, I asked Holly to come and inspect it closer. She bends down, touches it and, you guessed it, it’s #2. This #2 had just fallen out of Cali’s diaper. It was small and round and hard and looked just like a Hershey’s Kiss, but instead it was a Hershey Squirt.
“Were you going to taste that?” I screamed. “Were you?”
She never answered. I think somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she was thinking about tasting it and was so horrified about that fact that she can’t admit it at this point.
There was a lot riding on her decision to taste or not to taste. On one hand, you may get a wonderful taste of chocolate, which is always pleasant; on the other hand, you may be labeled for life as the woman who voluntarily tasted poo.
That decision is really not worth the risk. She could have lost everything. That could have possibly been the last time we ever would have kissed….oh, who am I kidding, we don’t have five kids because we hate kissing.
At the end of it all, I am still unsure if it is art or life that is inspiring the other, but regardless, be careful out there, you never know where something has been before you eat it….(I know, "it" is a terrible way to end a story, but give me a break, it’s the Holidays.)
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Cockadoodledo...
My run in with that crazy lady in the robe yesterday got me thinking. No, I did not start thinking about my own mortality. In fact, that did not even cross my mind. You know what else did not cross my mind, why I don’t own a robe. I’ve always thought robe people were only one step away from snapping and walking down the street in their robes. Now I know that’s a fact.
It’s clear to me that if you own a robe, there is a 95 percent chance that the cops are going to pick you up and bring you back to your house as you mumble to yourself incoherently. The only real question that remains is if you will or won’t have clothes on underneath. And that really is the only thing separating you from a misdemeanor or a felony.
What did cross my mind, however, was a memory I had about this one-eyed rooster. For those of you who are confused at this point, shame on you, read the story below and then come back to this one. Anyway, we were so proud of this one-eyed rooster and how tough it was that we challenged our friend down the street to a cock-fight.
This rooster had been terrorizing us, our friends and anyone who visited our house for months. We had built this rooster up in our minds and we were solely and firmly convinced that this was the badest, meanest, most despicable rooster in town. This brazen belief in our rooster led us to taunt our neighbor, who also lived on a farm, three houses down from us, about his cowardly roosters. The challenging started at school, during the last ten minutes and met a full boil as the bell sounded.
My brothers and I could not believe our luck as we bounded home. We ran in, found our dad and somehow convinced him to grab the rooster and high tail it down to our neighbor’s house for the cock-fight of the century.
Secretly, each and every one of us believed that we had been training this rooster to be even tougher than if it was left on its own. We had been getting it cardio by running from it as fast as we could; teaching it to dodge objects by throwing our basketball at it as hard as we could and helping it focus as we cried as loud as we could when it started after us. I mean, this thing would chase us every single day. Every day I spent some time and energy thinking about how I was going to avoid this rooster. It was terrifying.
As we walked to our neighbor’s house, my two brothers and I confidently followed on our father’s heels, our chests puffed out; our muscles flexed, our egos full. We were going to show the neighborhood that our rooster was the toughest, the strongest and the most aggressive rooster in the town. We all took pride in knowing that as our rooster displayed its aggressions, we would somehow be validated from running from it for such a long time.
As we reached our destination, the crowd swelled to like 10 or 11 people. Really, no one was around, but we felt like the entire world was watching. My dad reached down, put our rooster in a makeshift ring and started the fight. The anticipation was palpable.
But as my dad backed away, and the neighbor’s rooster approached, our mighty rooster, who carried our hearts and beliefs on its back, fled the scene and ran like a, well, chicken.
He did not make one peck, poke or motion toward our neighbor’s rooster. He simply tucked his head and ran as fast as he could, away from the fight and away from our dreams of neighborhood superiority.
My dad bent over, picked up our defeated champion and we headed back to our house, heads hung low; hopes dashed, faith crushed. What we thought was a tough bird had turned into a cowering failure.
As we reached our destination, my dad put the rooster on the ground and we turned to walk into our house. The walk, however, turned into a dead run as he started chasing and pecking us again. He scratched my brother, clawed my dad and pecked my foot. He was flying around like the terminator we all knew him to be.
The moral of the story? That rooster was one crazy bird. I mean, really, I never understood that thing.
It’s clear to me that if you own a robe, there is a 95 percent chance that the cops are going to pick you up and bring you back to your house as you mumble to yourself incoherently. The only real question that remains is if you will or won’t have clothes on underneath. And that really is the only thing separating you from a misdemeanor or a felony.
What did cross my mind, however, was a memory I had about this one-eyed rooster. For those of you who are confused at this point, shame on you, read the story below and then come back to this one. Anyway, we were so proud of this one-eyed rooster and how tough it was that we challenged our friend down the street to a cock-fight.
This rooster had been terrorizing us, our friends and anyone who visited our house for months. We had built this rooster up in our minds and we were solely and firmly convinced that this was the badest, meanest, most despicable rooster in town. This brazen belief in our rooster led us to taunt our neighbor, who also lived on a farm, three houses down from us, about his cowardly roosters. The challenging started at school, during the last ten minutes and met a full boil as the bell sounded.
My brothers and I could not believe our luck as we bounded home. We ran in, found our dad and somehow convinced him to grab the rooster and high tail it down to our neighbor’s house for the cock-fight of the century.
Secretly, each and every one of us believed that we had been training this rooster to be even tougher than if it was left on its own. We had been getting it cardio by running from it as fast as we could; teaching it to dodge objects by throwing our basketball at it as hard as we could and helping it focus as we cried as loud as we could when it started after us. I mean, this thing would chase us every single day. Every day I spent some time and energy thinking about how I was going to avoid this rooster. It was terrifying.
As we walked to our neighbor’s house, my two brothers and I confidently followed on our father’s heels, our chests puffed out; our muscles flexed, our egos full. We were going to show the neighborhood that our rooster was the toughest, the strongest and the most aggressive rooster in the town. We all took pride in knowing that as our rooster displayed its aggressions, we would somehow be validated from running from it for such a long time.
As we reached our destination, the crowd swelled to like 10 or 11 people. Really, no one was around, but we felt like the entire world was watching. My dad reached down, put our rooster in a makeshift ring and started the fight. The anticipation was palpable.
But as my dad backed away, and the neighbor’s rooster approached, our mighty rooster, who carried our hearts and beliefs on its back, fled the scene and ran like a, well, chicken.
He did not make one peck, poke or motion toward our neighbor’s rooster. He simply tucked his head and ran as fast as he could, away from the fight and away from our dreams of neighborhood superiority.
My dad bent over, picked up our defeated champion and we headed back to our house, heads hung low; hopes dashed, faith crushed. What we thought was a tough bird had turned into a cowering failure.
As we reached our destination, my dad put the rooster on the ground and we turned to walk into our house. The walk, however, turned into a dead run as he started chasing and pecking us again. He scratched my brother, clawed my dad and pecked my foot. He was flying around like the terminator we all knew him to be.
The moral of the story? That rooster was one crazy bird. I mean, really, I never understood that thing.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Mother Nature...
Holly and I like to jog. Sometimes, like this morning, we are even lucky enough to jog together. We love to watch the sunrise, the fog dissipate over the mountains and commune with nature before we start another hectic day apart. Sometimes, however infrequent, we are even more blessed and we're allowed to see Mother Nature in Her true element. Deer, horses, even the occasional cow all seem majestic in the morning light and mark the path we traverse.
But, as unexpected as it was, Mother Nature really blessed us this morning as we silently watched a woman in her mid-40s walk down the street in a robe, wearing bunny slippers, yelling at the top of her lungs for her cat.
As she shuffled past us, she stopped us in mid-stride and yelled directly into my face, “Have you seen my cat?” She was literally five feet from us and yelling as if we were 50 yards apart.
“Your cat?” I responded, in a somewhat hushed tone. “YES, my cat! I’m looking for my cat. She is white and about 4 feet tall.”
“Four feet tall?” I asked. “Your cat is four feet tall, like this tall?” Placing my arm four feet off the ground for effect.
“YES,” her octave climbing with each response. “It’s a big cat. A really big cat. She is a mountain cat, and I have to find her. I thought she was running next to the two of you, and then I realized she wasn’t.”
“Oooookkkkkk,” I said. “We’ll be on the look out for your cat,” as Holly and I ran faster and faster away from her and her absent “pet.”
Now don’t get me wrong, I do not want to begrudge anyone from their morning drugs or even their midnight drugs or whatever this woman was on or not on. She looked nice, but somewhere in the recesses of her mind, something was not right.
At least I hope she was high, crazy or drunk. If not, that is a big cat and that cat could do some damage.
Cats hate me. Trust me. I know a thing or two about them. When I was little, my sister Missy wanted a cat. The cat then routinely jumped up on our counter and licked our butter. It always hissed at me and I am sure wanted to secretly scratch out my eyes in the middle of the night. To this day, I still keep my butter in the fridge.
But cats are nothing compared to one-eyed roosters. We had one of those as well. It would chase you around until it clawed you or you hid in its blind spot. I mean, it only had one eye, so it was not too hard to avoid, but it took every chance it could to stab you with its claws.
My dad killed the rooster one day. It tried to peck him one too many times and as he went to kick it, his shoe flew off his foot and went into an irrigation ditch filled with water. He was so mad that he took his other foot, the one that still rested inside a shoe, stepped on that rooster’s head, grabbed the talons and that was that. I had never been so proud of my dad in my life.
So take my word for it, if you see a four feet tall, white mountain cat be careful. It will most likely try to claw your eyes out. But on a positive note, I know the owner. She is the whacked out lady walking down the street at 6:00 a.m. in a robe, looking for a make believe cat.
She won’t be hard to find. I always thought people who did drugs were chasing the Dragon, now I know that it is really the cat they are after.
But, as unexpected as it was, Mother Nature really blessed us this morning as we silently watched a woman in her mid-40s walk down the street in a robe, wearing bunny slippers, yelling at the top of her lungs for her cat.
As she shuffled past us, she stopped us in mid-stride and yelled directly into my face, “Have you seen my cat?” She was literally five feet from us and yelling as if we were 50 yards apart.
“Your cat?” I responded, in a somewhat hushed tone. “YES, my cat! I’m looking for my cat. She is white and about 4 feet tall.”
“Four feet tall?” I asked. “Your cat is four feet tall, like this tall?” Placing my arm four feet off the ground for effect.
“YES,” her octave climbing with each response. “It’s a big cat. A really big cat. She is a mountain cat, and I have to find her. I thought she was running next to the two of you, and then I realized she wasn’t.”
“Oooookkkkkk,” I said. “We’ll be on the look out for your cat,” as Holly and I ran faster and faster away from her and her absent “pet.”
Now don’t get me wrong, I do not want to begrudge anyone from their morning drugs or even their midnight drugs or whatever this woman was on or not on. She looked nice, but somewhere in the recesses of her mind, something was not right.
At least I hope she was high, crazy or drunk. If not, that is a big cat and that cat could do some damage.
Cats hate me. Trust me. I know a thing or two about them. When I was little, my sister Missy wanted a cat. The cat then routinely jumped up on our counter and licked our butter. It always hissed at me and I am sure wanted to secretly scratch out my eyes in the middle of the night. To this day, I still keep my butter in the fridge.
But cats are nothing compared to one-eyed roosters. We had one of those as well. It would chase you around until it clawed you or you hid in its blind spot. I mean, it only had one eye, so it was not too hard to avoid, but it took every chance it could to stab you with its claws.
My dad killed the rooster one day. It tried to peck him one too many times and as he went to kick it, his shoe flew off his foot and went into an irrigation ditch filled with water. He was so mad that he took his other foot, the one that still rested inside a shoe, stepped on that rooster’s head, grabbed the talons and that was that. I had never been so proud of my dad in my life.
So take my word for it, if you see a four feet tall, white mountain cat be careful. It will most likely try to claw your eyes out. But on a positive note, I know the owner. She is the whacked out lady walking down the street at 6:00 a.m. in a robe, looking for a make believe cat.
She won’t be hard to find. I always thought people who did drugs were chasing the Dragon, now I know that it is really the cat they are after.
Friday, December 5, 2008
It is a romantic world...
I love romance. I love romantic things. In actuality, romance is simply the act of making someone feel appreciated. But if you think about it, romance should lose its license to continue as a word. People often say, “I’m not romantic. It’s just not my thing.” What they are truly saying is, “You know, I just really don’t care about anyone enough to think about them more than I think about myself.”
However, being that upfront and shallow is often hard for people to take, so we as a people created a word for those of us who care about others more than ourselves. For those, like me, who really care, we bare the title of hopeless romantics, which basically means, we care about everyone more than we care about ourselves, so, quick, take advantage of us while you can.
Even with our best intentions in tow, sometimes romance goes sideways, as was displayed by the following occurrence in Neskowin, Ore. I read this article in the USA Today this morning and found it hard to…ah, how do I put this, oh yes, believe.
But maybe that’s just me. I'm cynical. But come on, does this not all seem a little fishy (pun intended), a little too unbelievable. I’ll let you be the judge. You'll see excerpts from the story in bold and my pondering questions (read: cynicism) in italics.
From the story, it seems that a 45 year old man had set out to propose to his “girlfriend” on the beach. Many would say that this is the height of romance, a true romantic gesture. I agree. In fact I proposed to Holly at the beach, but somehow we were able to make it out alive. In Neskowin, they are not so lucky.
NESKOWIN, Ore. (AP) — A romantic marriage proposal on the Oregon coast turned deadly for the bride-to-be when a wave swept her out to sea.
Scott Napper planned to pop the question. That question was simple, do you know how to swim, because if you do, this whole "thing" is going to be a lot more difficult.
He was going to propose to Leafil Alforque, 22, at a spot near Neskowin Beach that got its name from couples ready to marry. When you read propose, insert he was going to drowned her. And also read that it is never odd or strange that a 45 year old man would finally find love over the Internet, with a 22 year old girl from the Philippines. Those types of relationships almost always end well and are never consummated with a credit card and a secure website.
He planned to propose and give her the ring he carried in his pocket. However, she was only 4-foot-11 and 93 pounds, she had been caught by the receding waters and was pulled out to sea and never heard from again. When they say pulled out to sea, read pushed out to sea. It is almost the exact same thing, but one is a felony.
The 45-year-old Silverton man tore off his jacket to get rid of any extra weight, and when he looked up again she was gone. Oh sure. Yeah, I am sure that half-pound jacket was going to cause you all kinds of trouble. Make sure you get your car keys out of your pocket as well. And for Heaven’s sake, DON’T try to swim with your wallet in you back pocket. You could drown. Oh, wait…
"That's the last I saw of her," he said Wednesday, breaking into tears. Good, good. Cry. Yeah, that makes it all the more believable.
Emergency personnel called by someone on the beach arrived within minutes. Yes, somehow these people were able to stay out of the water and simultaneously operate their phones.
His own phone no longer worked after being exposed to the water. Gasp….What a shocker. I’m sure he dropped his phone in the toilet one or two times before heading to the beach to ensure that it would not have reception after the “event.” I mean, how embarrassing would it be to actually have the power to make a call….that could have messed up the entire “project.”
"I yelled for her," he said. He couldn't do more than yell? Note to anyone reading this, if I am dying, please don’t just yell at me. I mean, I’m dying here, don’t stress me out. I have a lot on my plate at the moment. If you can’t fish me out of the ocean, at least let me watch my life flash before my eyes in peace. I mean, can’t a guy get a moment of silence around here.
Napper and Alforque had been dating since they met on the Internet in 2005. This whole I am going to kill you after I meet you on the Internet thing is so played out. Can’t people find new ways to kill their victims? This is so predictable.
Alforque arrived in Oregon on a visa from the Philippines just three days before the fateful trip to the coast. Three days? You couldn't hack more than three days. I mean, at least take her out and show her the sites before you push her into the ocean. What, she does not deserve to go to Disneyland? She shouldn't enjoy the extreme glee that comes from shopping at an outlet mall while drinking an Orange Julius? At least take her around before you push her under.
Police don't suspect foul play. Police don’t suspect foul play? On the contrary, they are 100 percent sure he pushed her into the ocean and will arrest him soon.
Other things I really don’t believe:
Someday Santa will show up and write me a big, fat check to cover my Christmas expenses for the last 11 years.
Sarah Palin pleaded with the GOP to conserve funds and not foolishly spend the money on her; her family and her hair.
The economy is terrific.
One thing I do believe:
It is losers like this that give us romantics a bad name...
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