New Year's Eve Past

This past New Year's Eve found our family on the couch in front of our t.v., watching a Canadian house hunting/remodeling show on Netflix-- right up until about ten minutes before the ball was slated to drop. With Dick Clark gone there's not much reason to tune in before that, or at all really. I'm sure there are those of the rising generation who, because of the wickedness of the traditions of their fathers, will think the same thing about Ryan Seacrest when his time finally comes. But no matter.

If New Year's Rockin' Eve isn't even worth watching from the comfort of my living room anymore for lack of Clark, I can't think of a reason for so many people to actually attend the thing in person. What kind of person would willingly be sardined into Time Square like that? And it's not just a few people; no sir. People come in from all over the country to stand, fifty people deep, along both sides of the street, for twelve hours or more in the frigid conditions, holding their bodily fluids and hoping not to get trampled to death by the other lunatics with neon 2015 glasses balanced on the ends of their noses, so they can watch the second that the ball drops LIVE and in person-- all while fending off complete strangers who want a New Year's kiss.

It just seems like a lot to me, with nothing more to show for it than a new profile picture and the very distinct risk of contracting meningococcal meningitis.

Anyone who watched a little after the ball dropped also saw a man in uniform propose to his girlfriend in front of Jenny McCarthy, God, and everyone with access to basic television programming. Which was sweet, I guess. The girl didn't seem to mind, anyways.

But such proposals have always seemed so disingenuous to me. I suppose I have always felt that any proposal that needed dressing up wasn't much of a proposal at all. Any man who would propose to me in such a public setting would get an unhesitating "No" for his trouble.

Time Square on New Year's Eve: "No."

Jumbo-tron at any sporting event: "No."

In the middle of a restaurant: "No."

In any public place, at any given time, by any man: "No."

I feel like proposals are very personal business and should be done in private. Let me be clear: This is just my personal take on the matter. I know tons of people who have started their marriages off that way and their marriages don't seem to suffer by it. That sort of thing is fine if you're okay with it. But I'm not.

My last few posts have seemed particularly judgmental, I think. It's probably just because I'm a really judgmental person. I'm sort of glad you're finding this out about me now, though, before we get serious.

On a side-note, I want Elton John's blazer.

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.

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.