During last night's Olympics, the first couple to ice skate had to endure people still coming in, and the commentators mentioned how distracting that is to skaters. Why can't officials shut off the arena like they do at big tennis tournaments (until they change), or like they do at many theatres, or as they do at Solo and Ensemble competitions (until the next group or contestant goes in), or even band competitions (until the next band goes into the stadium)?

It doesn't matter why you're late; you're late. If you're late and demand entrance to a venue, you're rude. Get up earlier, or leave with extra, extra time to compensate for any unexpected delays, and think about performers rather than yourself.

The Olympic Committee needs to make changes. Close access until the next group of skaters take the ice to practice.
 

You've all seen the Christmas sweaters and sweatshirts many people proudly wear to show their holiday spirit. Some folks even own several holiday sweaters. Recently, however, I've heard comments from folks, as well as noticed posted photos online, declaring these sweaters as "cheesy," "ugly," and "grandma" sweaters.

What gives anyone the right to declare these sweaters as cheesy or what old folks wear? Are these people the fashion police? Do they have degrees in fashion design? Who says that a sweater must be only green or red and contain no seasonal snowman or reindeer or Christmas tree to represent the season?

Everyone has personal preferences in matters of clothing and style. As a matter of fact, I applaud folks who have the confidence to wear a style that reflects their personalities (as long as it doesn't infringe on common decency, of course). However, don't tell me I'm cheesy, ugly, or old if I choose to proudly wear a Christmas tree emblazoned on my chest. I love my family and the season.

I could turn the tables on these narrow-minded folks by commenting how drab, lackluster, and boring these critics' wardrobes are, and how that's probably indicative of their personalities, but I wouldn't do that. No one should do that or dictate what others should wear, nor should they treat offenders as outcasts with poor taste. I believe, instead, we are all individuals and we should celebrate that in itself.

So, to all you folks with turned up noses at cheesy holiday sweaters -- why not step it up a pace this year? Give it a try and wear a sweater designed to celebrate the season? Perhaps you'll feel more merry, more loving, and more giving, and the holiday spirit will wrap itself around your soul?
 

Yep! It's Hurricane Season in the Atlantic again. The 2009 hurricane names are out, and Cindy is not on the list -- drat! In my warped opinion, of course, I think it would be almost a compliment to be compared to an energetic, exciting, storm, but whether my name is on the list or not, is not of monumental significance in my life or should be, in my opinion, in anyone's.

Hurricanes were originally named by what saint's day they arrived in Puerto Rico. Later, Navy pilots named them after their wives and girlfriends. The National Weather service used female names and developed a system of using Greek alphabet letters, names for different cultures and areas of storms, and a system for retiring names. In 1979, after the height of the Women's Lib movement, protests about men's names being included on the list erupted, and more equality invaded the naming list by incorporating men's names.

Yes, we should treat everyone equally; that's common sense. But Heck! Does it really matter if men's names are included in a list of hurricanes? There's an old saying about picking your battles, and I don't think this seems like one.

In the world of political correctness, some proponents go overboard. Let's face it -- men and women are not equal in all respects. Yes, I know there are exceptions, but speaking in generalities, most men have more muscle as opposed to fat content in their bodies than women do due to their physical differences. Should women be fighting next to men, performing the same jobs during war times? Should professional sports teams all be co-ed? Men and women are physically different. Recently, studies have also shown male and female brains and thinking patterns are generally different. In addition, according to Dr. John Gray, men are from Mars and women are from Venus, theorizing a word of differences between the sexes. Why not celebrate uniqueness and concentrate on strengths and positives instead of harping on everyone must be equal in every arena? After all, we are not clones, nor should we wish to be.

For a while, literature and language faced the political correctness in absurd forms. Instead of using the simple word "he" to refer to the masses, some PC (political correctness) people changed all language to "he/she" and "him/her," miring language in awkward, wordy correctness. Some people even changed historical quotes to reflect this PC -- you can't change a quote; the words are someone else's words. The political correctness then spread and spilled over into many facets of our lives. As zeal over PC peaked, for instance, one British school, changed the nursery rhyme "Baa Baa Black Sheep" to "Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep" (the term "black sheep" has nothing to do with the color of one's skin anyway), farm animal pigs wearing police uniforms in a children's book were censored, and school boards plus communities banned numerous books based on their point of view with disregard to historical accuracy in a desire to create pseudo equality, all examples of a type of political correctness going overboard and determined many times by special interest groups or a society's cultural values. Women libbers even protested women's rights in the societal and political arena by burning their bras. Their protest was noted, and many women began going braless in all phases of their lives, but did these later women continue a protest to bring equality, or succumb to a fad? Did they remember the original reason or support it? (Droopy boobs and nipple flaunting are fine, of course, if that's what someone chooses.)

Yes, everyone should be treated equally, in areas that matter, with equal opportunities to receive the same pay for the same work, or example. However, I think political correctness, in many areas, has gone overboard. We can't change history, and we also need to realize we are not all equal. We are each unique and we should celebrate that individuality. Does it matter if hurricane naming is treating everyone equally? Not in my opinion. It's unimportant fluff.
 

Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Age Factor

While driving to rehearsal tonight, I had a brief moment of clarity when I noticed a motorcycle rider coming from the opposite direction, plus a car and driver, turning in front of me much farther down the road, and I realized both those guys were young. Not only were they so young I wasn't interested, but they were so young they would never give someone my age a second glance. My age? Then it hit me that biologically I'm 57. I don't really feel 57. The most I could possibly be is 43, or maybe 47, but 57? How did that happen? That's almost 60!

I'm sure I don't look 57, or do I? What does 57 look like anyway? I can't believe I'm almost 60. Sure, my body is starting to fall apart, but I'm not ready to be some tottering, little old white-haired lady that needs a Boy Scout to help her safely cross the street. What happened? It must be a mistake? 57??? Egads!

I figure I'm supposed to age gracefully, but I'm going to continue living life as fully as I can. When I do reach dinosaur status, do you think I could have a pretty pink cane, or at least one decorated with OSU decals?
 

Time sometimes dims memories, but a few lines that parents always say to their children will be so memorable they stick in a kid's mind forever. Years later, however, whether it's their own children or a comment from a friend, something will remind them of that very saying.

In my case, if I or my siblings had gotten into what was deemed too much trouble during the day, my mom would warn us, "Wait until your father comes home." That warning would hang over our heads while we had ample time to contemplate our misdeeds. Then, at the dinner table, my dad would somehow instinctively know which kid had acted criminally that day and inquire, "And what did you do today, Cindy?" Of course, I learned at an early age if I didn't confess my sins right then and there, my mother would patiently add in the seemingly minor, missing details. It was always impressed upon me by my parents that it is much better to admit any wrongdoing and to tell the truth, as punishment to one who did not spill his guts to the parental unit was far more severe when caught.

Other common admonishments from my dad included, "Don't slam the screen door," "Turn off the basement light," and "If it doesn't start after three times, don't sit there grinding it." My favorite line while growing up, however, came from my dad who used to tell us, "I don't care who started it, I'm going to end it." This certainly served as an effective way of ending squabbles as everyone knew more severe consequences would result for all parties involved if the situation was not corrected immediately. That comment has to be, by far, the best parental line directed to their offspring ever.

What do you remember your parents saying?
 

Facebook Annoyance -- Entry for June 21, 2009
Facebook Annoyance -- Entry for June 21, 2009 magnify
Although I am a longtime computer user, I've discovered the world of Facebook, which I like as I can keep in touch with people easily, as well as on a more personal note, view my family's pictures. Since I only recently added friends (I only had my daughter and son on my list until three months ago), I find the social interaction interesting.

Some folks, it seems, request to add people on Facebook who are only mere acquaintances for whatever reason best known to them -- I have to think some people simply like to brag about the number of friends they have. Others appear to simply be nosy, and perhaps some want to become closer friends. Whether it's simply people jumping on the bandwagon of something new, or for another reason that eludes me, I have come to find two categories of Facebook users more than mere annoyances -- they are thorns in the flesh of all Facebook.

The first category of Annoying Facebook Users would be the ones who write and post "Bored...text it," five bejillion times a day. OMG! as they say in computer language. Those folks should just shoot themselves if they are that bored rather than torture other Facebook users. If I were so inept I couldn't find something to do, I would certainly take the gun to myself and put myself out of misery before driving other folks nuts.

The other group of annoying Pains in the Butt include the Countdowners. I do not want someone counting down the days until they are married (362 days until I am married, 361 days....) or counting down any other increment of time (38 hours until I leave on vacation....). Those people have no life and need to stop driving others crazy with their continual postings. Maybe that's the only thing their peabrains can focus on, but please keep those thoughts to yourself. Tell me once what's on your mind, and then that's all I need to know. I can count myself -- I learned to do that in school -- if I want or need to do so.

I have to admit, then, that I have obviously been too nice about adding people who have requested an add. For sanity's sake, therefore, I've had to take matters into my own hands and yes, actually hide certain people's postings from my news feed before they annoy me beyond belief and I choke them with my own hands.

So, yes, we are all individuals and we all have pet peeves, and I'm sure I drive others just as beserk, if not more so, than others do. But, please, if you've not noticed you are someone with the potential to annoy the crap out of others, just think and recognize what you are doing and stop it. Otherwise, I'm telling you straight up, I'm putting you on my "Hide" list.


 

When my oldest brother pulled into the driveway several weeks ago, he asked, "What is that?" He pointed to a monstrous bush growing alongside the driveway. It was a forsythia.

Looming and monstrous, this forsythia is the mother of all forsythias. It has lived here for over 30 years. I used to give him haircuts, but lately, I've felt like he's happier growing and reaching out wherever he needs to go. He's also a great natural fence, so I asked for a couple of baby forsythias for my birthday two years ago, which I planted along the back property line.

At over 7 feet in height and pushing perhaps 16 feet in diameter, the forsythia contains a secret world inside. Chase, the cat, used to hide inside the forsythia the summer when the mockingbird rolled and attacked him for getting too close to the nest. At 6 A.M. on summer mornings, I would hear "Chirp, chirp," and I would spot the cat trying to run from the shelter of the tomatoes or the forsythia to the deck and the back door to escape the relentless bird.

Throughout the years, my kids and neighbor kids often had to look for balls gone astray inside the shadowy forest of the forsythia. Bunnies still playfully hop in and out of the cover of the forsythia. A year and a half ago when my father came out to remove the 23 dead mouse bodies from the traps, I didn't realize at first what he actually did with the dead soldiers -- later I discovered he pitched them into the arms of the forsythia for their military burial. Little sparrows love the forsythia and often perch on its branches, twittering happily.

The forsythia encompasses so much space it's almost like the forsythia has a secret world inside that's not visible to anyone on the outside. I vividly remember playing at my grandparents' house among two giant pine trees originally planted on each side of a stone walkway that had, over the years, grown into one tree with a hollowed out middle where the path travelled through. I could step off the path and be inside a huge treehouse. It seemed like a magical world and could become a teepee while playing Indians or anything else you could imagine it to be. Just like the closet door into Narnia or the gateway into The Secret Garden, I wonder what excitement and imaginary world the forsythia protects amidst it's cool, green foliage.


 

Today during conversation I was reminded of an incident that took place a number of years ago, and in the retelling, made three people laugh heartily.

My father always went fishing in Canada with the guys during the summer. One year while he was gone, his faithful, old Dalmatian, Pepper, fell ill, was taken to the vet by my now ex-husband #2 on his way to work since my mom doesn't drive, and, sadly, the family was later called by the vet, saying the dog needed to be put to sleep.

Although I was married and not living at home, since my dad wasn't in town, and because my mom is not an animal lover, I felt it necessary to stand in for my father and be there for his beloved companion of many years. Because this was also an unexpected turn of events and because I had a prior commitment to perform as Mary Todd Lincoln at a historic canal festival at one of the Muskingum River locks, I was already dressed in my black, mourning Civil War brocade, 5 hooped dress, gloves, hat and veil, so I could go straight from the vet's to Rokeby Lock. Thus, I stopped in at the Animal Hospital on my way to my scheduled performance to be with Pepper. It was a tearful time. She had loved my dad unconditionally.

Afterwards, when my sister, always a traditionalist, discovered I had gone into the hospital dressed in mourning as Mary Todd Lincoln, she asked incredulously if I explained to the staff why I was dressed that way?

I patiently explained I was crying and hadn't thought about it as I waltzed in wearing all- black Civil War attire appropriate for a funeral since my thoughts were only of Pepper and the fact she was suffering while waiting for me to arrive before the vet put her to sleep.

Mortified, and fearing the answer, while hoping no one working there would know we were related, my sister then asked, "You didn't tell them who you were, did you?" and, of course, I answered truthfully, "Yes, Lynda, I did -- I asked for the dog by her first and last name and referred to the dog as my sister." :)
 

Conan O'Brien is a boob! Why NBC chose him to replace Leno remains a mystery to many -- what in the world were the NBC Big Wigs thinking?

Conan is an egotistical, conceited, show-off wimp of a jackass who continually seeks undeserved adoration by trying to act like one of the Three Stooges -- he's not successful with it. He's not a standup comedian but rather a pathetic wannabe who attempts to garner laughter by outrageousness to cover his lack of real talent, which is why, in all probability, he comes out of a big silvered curtained area on the new show to try to pump up his glitz.

His monologue in no way measures up to Leno's. His skits are not even clever. In his second show, he goes on a shopping spree in LA on Rodeo Road as opposed to Drive; he shops in trashy shops, trying on the stupidest things imaginable like a tee shirt with a painted on chain, dark socks with tennis shoes, and women's wigs, as well as a vest with no shirt -- he's not sexy, or even cute and nerdy, just plain lame. Anybody can do what he did. Even Conan says about one of his segments, "That Tweet of the Week is lame." His tweet, his show, and Conan are all lame.

Interviewing skills? What interviewing skills? Conan has none. He's more intent on focusing the attention on himself and his antics rather than interviewing the guest.

I really don't care for Conan -- he's full of himself and goes out of his way to act silly in order to get laughs. He has no talent and no class. He's more irritating than poison ivy, and people who follow him are Coneheads (term from SNL) -- brainless boobs just like him.
 

Picture a gorgeous day with sunshine, blue skies, water, family, fun, nature, and delicious food. Add in old chicken pieces, nets, string, buckets, and a dock, and you have one of the most exciting things I've ever done, the ultimate adventure -- Crab Fishing!

Summer's arrival this week makes me think of beaches and the trip I took to the Outer Banks to visit my oldest brother and sister-in-law when he was stationed at Cape Hatteras with the Navy. While there, we went crabbing on the bay side of the island, and that, by far, is a thousand times more exhilarating than riding roller coasters at an amusement park.

Crabbing involves skill, technique, determination, and luck. It's easy to get started -- tie an old piece of rotten chicken (the smellier, the better!) on a long string, throw it off the dock into the bay water, and wait only moments for a sneaky, vicious crab to appear and attempt to steal the chicken.

The beautifully clear water allows the crab fisher to witness the sinister approach of the claw-toting crab as well as the play-by-play drama that unfolds, pitting man against beast. Tricking a crab to hold on as you try to reel him in cannot be considered an easy task, by any means. Crabs are sly, manipulative, water devils. Their cunning battle strategies and evasive techniques make it a fight to the finish. By the time you've tempted the irascible crab to move in to the chicken, exerted the barest of movements in the water with the stringed bait to lure him closer to the dock, coaxed him back after he's pulled away, trying to throw you off-guard, and finally captured him with the net, an exhausted but satisfied glee sets in as you dump the worthy opponent into the bucket.

Suffice it to say, by the end of the day, you will know the tricky bastards deserve to be plummeted into that pot on the stove or over the fire, and sprinkled with bay seasoning. Crabbing competition is worth it. Believe me, no day could be more intoxicating and perfect than a crabbing day, and the finale, of course, is the perfect meal -- crabs!