Clueless

I have a cold. Not a serious cold; but I can't really taste anything unless I'm on Day-quil. It started as a scratchy throat two days before Christmas and by the time I woke up at zero hour, my nose was stuffy and runny. Which sucked because we were making really delicious Christmas feast-type food. I took some cold medicine as soon as I woke up but still wasn't able to fully enjoy our traditional orange roll breakfast.

 After I had half-enjoyed my Christmas linner (the lunch/dinner equivalent of brunch), my Dad (who is also sick) and I commiserated about missing the full flavor of such a tasty meal. He mentioned having read something about some indigenous tribe of people, maybe in Australia, who are all born without their sense of taste, which sounded vaguely familiar to me. I haven't been able to find anything about the Aborigines, but apparently being born without a sense of smell is a thing. 

It's called congenital anosmia, and, as anyone who has ever had a cold or allergies can tell you, when your olfactory senses are messed up, not only can you not smell but you can't taste much of anything either.

I thought about this on my way to work this morning as I was following someone who wanted to do 40 in a 55. Every speed limit sign we passed, I kept hoping they would notice that the speed that they were allowed to go and the speed that they were going was vastly different. It, of course, never happened. I felt a wave of relief and joy wash over me when Dale Earnhardt finally turned off the otherwise deserted road onto a small side street.

As some people are born without the ability to smell or taste, some people are just born clueless. 

 

 

 

It's like those people who want the minimum wage to be increased to $15 an hour. Okay, that would give you more buying power for about a week. But in order to pay you, the employee, more money, McDonald's would have to charge, like, $20 for a Big Mac. They have to get that money from somewhere; the cost gets passed directly to you, the consumer. And that, my child, is called inflation. Even someone with a rudimentary understanding of economics, like myself, can tell you that. 

I don't want to step on anyone's toes, but here goes:

If you want to be paid more money, develop a proficiency for something other than the highly specialized skill of flipping burgers. Go. Act. Do! Do something that will make you worth more money. Get more training in your field; get more experience; develop more skills; get more education-- all of these options give you more marketability in the job realm. 

Look, I know things are rough right now in the economy. Most of us are extremely lucky to have any job at all. But things won't be this bad forever (fingers crossed; come 2016 DON'T vote Clinton), and you have to look at where you want to be career-wise in five or even ten years; unless you still want to be making minimum wage a decade from now. If that's the case, carry on with your fry-cooking.

But, if you want to make more money, put forth the time and effort necessary to merit more pay. In a world that will largely pay you what it thinks you're worth, you can't afford not to.

Yeah, me neither.

Do you know what it's like to have a live body stuffed into a duffle bag lying on the floor of the back seat of your truck? 

Every so often, you can hear scuffling as it comes to--still disoriented from a night sleeping in the bag in one of the tubs in your house-- and tries to escape the stuffy confines of the canvas. You wonder, for a split second, if it will be able to gnaw a hole in the bag, then remember that its mouth is duct-taped shut. You wonder what would happen if you were to be pulled over by a law enforcement officer.

You muse over how easy it is to become involved in these kinds of things. All it takes is one connection. You reason that this will be the one and only time you will do this type of favor.

When you arrive at your destination, you look around, confused; this is the first time you've done something like this and aren't sure where exactly to drop the body. There are people expecting you of course, but you're not sure where they are. At length, you come upon them; two people who deal in this sort of business. They look at you amiably, yet there's also a hint of wariness in their gaze as they take note of you, a stranger-- until you explain that you have a delivery. 

No money changes hands; not today. One of them takes the bag and it's occupant with a "Have a good day!" and you go just across the way to your desk job, innocent passersby none the wiser to what just transpired, and no one able to trace the hand-off back to you.

Yeah, me neither. Until this morning. 

But don't worry; I had all the proper licensing. 

Also important to note: I work at a wildlife park (at the reservations desk) where my sister who also works (but more with the animals) sometimes takes baby gators for off-site demonstrations and keeps them overnight. 

Ode to Christmas

I have learned two things from my sojourn here on this planet called earth: (1) Nothing can put me in a Christmas-y mood as quickly as Nat King Cole singing "The Christmas Song"; and, (2) With pizza on a bagel, you can eat pizza any time.

Today, I'd like to focus on the first and admit that I'm a Christmas junkie. I get excited for it six months out; so much so that I am convinced that I am the reason for Christmas in July. I love hot chocolate, and egg nog, and the smell of campfire, and roasting turkey and-- the ultimate, hands-down best smell of all-time (next to zested lemon)-- pine tree. 

I walked into the Christmas tree stall in the parking lot of Home Depot this year and was immediately intoxicated by the heady scent of them all, just waiting to be taken home so they could, with their combined powers, make my whole house smell like the North Pole.

What really gets me jonesing for the holidays, though, is the music. Happy is the day (Thanksgiving Day) that Christmas music starts playing non-stop on the radio. I feel pretty confident in saying I have known all the words to probably every Christmas song ever made since I was in elementary school. 

I say pretty confident because up until a few years ago, I sincerely thought that the line in "Have A Holly, Jolly Christmas" (as performed in the Christmas claymation classic Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer), "Ho, ho, the mistletoe, hung where you can see..." was "hum where you can't sing." I will not, Burl Ives. I will sing FULL VOICE, 'cause I know the words.

Even though the sole purpose for which I have radio is this non-stop Christmas music season, I do occasionally have to turn that biz down; like when Trans-Siberian Orchestra comes on.

I like instrumental music--particularly strings. I am a sucker for strings. I also like the electric guitar. When I'm not listening to Christmas music, I listen to classic rock. But for the collective love of Pete and Mike, DON'T COMBINE THE TWO. 

I'm a purist, see. It's like Crystal Lite. If I want water, I'll drink water; if I want juice, I'll have some juice-- you know, whole-hog style. Don't come at me with this watered-down or flavored-up garbage because I'm sure to be disappointed one way or the other.

And so, TSO gets turned almost all the way down, and Karen Carpenter gets turned off completely, immediately, every time, no questions asked. I just hate her, inexplicably. Not Karen Carpenter the person, mind you-- I'm sure she was a lovely human being and it's unfortunate that she died as a result of anorexia; I'm talking  Karen Carpenter the singer. I just don't like her voice.

But with all the turkey, pine tree, egg nog, holiday music excitement, it's important to remember the REAL Reason for the season. As the Bean says,"Oh, and it's Jesus's birthday!" I hope in the hustle and bustle of last-minute preparations, that the Saviour isn't an after-thought for us. I hope that we take the time to slow down and really put forth the effort to make Christ an active part of our festivities, the center of our Christmas holiday.