Offensive Grammar

As I started out on my walk today I didn’t have any expectations. It’s Friday, my daughter is on the way home, and I accomplished enough this week. I couldn’t help myself. I started thinking, of all things, about swearing. It sure has changed over the years. Some expressions only trend for a short period of time. I remember in high school out west the boys used to say “bitchin” It was an expression that something was cool. You would say to your friend, “Bitchin bike” or answer “bitchin” when asked how your vacation was. Years later, the word morphed from an adjective to a verb: “Quit your bitchin.”

Remember George Carlin’s 7 words you can’t say on television? Did you know that he was actually arrested in 1972 in relation to saying the words? Hard to believe that with all we see on our screens today. Many of us are desensitized. I clean up the vocabulary when I am around old people, but the expletives do tend to fly freely when chatting with friends. I do, however, have rules that I always adhere to. I would NEVER say Carlin’s word #4: the “C. U. N.ext T.uesday” one. It’s just not lady like. #5 and #6 are phrases that would never even accidentally slip out of my mouth. When you consider their literal meanings they paint a really disgusting image in your head.  I’m with Carlin, though. In 1972 and especially today, some of the words just shouldn’t even be on the list.

Every parent remembers the first time their toddler dropped something and blurted out “sit.” We weren’t a spanking family, but I can imagine some parents felt it necessary to treat the behavior with a spank on the butt. Problem with that was, I’m guessing daddy was laughing at the same time. What a mixed message! When kids got older there was the “washing the mouth out with soap.” That was a dumb punishment. How many kids really got the figurative message of cleaning out the potty mouth? I’m guessing most of the kids just thought their dad was a dick. I recall when one of my brothers crossed the approved expletive line his punishment was to write down several healthier alternatives. My son’s consequence for swearing was me saying, “watch your language.” That’s it. I don’t really care that much. Like me, he is respectful when he has to be.

My daughter’s friend worked at a day care center last summer. A cute toddler girl yanked a toy out of another cute toddler girl’s hands. Toddler #2 yelled dramatically, “You Mother F***er.”  I would have had to leave work that day for two reasons:

 A: I probably would have been fired for laughing out loud.

B: I would have peed my pants.

 But let’s dig deeper into the sad situation. How many times does a kid need to hear a word to repeat it? I’m sure it can be Googled. I’m guessing quite a few. Toddlers don’t get their language skills from a free ap on their phone. I’m thinking toddler #2’s parents had to be a real class act.

I did a little research and found that there really isn’t an actual list of no nos for television.   The Federal Communication Commission defines profane speech as “so offensive that it amounts to a nuisance.” The Parent’s Television Council has a suggested list of words that should not be used. Crap, hell, boobs and balls are part of the list. Hey, parents, how about you shut your TV off?! After playing at a classmates house years ago, I picked my son up and he said,” You know, he had a TV in his room and he watches R rated movies. “Then he added, “It’s amazing what some parents let their kids watch.” Pretty insightful for an 8 year old.

My friend has a nephew named Tucker. How convenient that his name rhymes with f***er because growing up he completely deserved the nick name Tucker the F***er. That even sounds cute. As long as he didn’t go to school and tell his teacher that was his whole name like my brother-in-law, Donnie Damnit, did. True story, I did not make that up.  I think it’s all in how we use our expletives that makes them offensive or not. What offends me more is the violence on TV. Sex is censored but violence doesn’t seem to have any boundaries. Like John Lennon said, “People are shooting each other in broad day light but we have to go hide in the dark to have sex.” It’s messed up what we consider offensive.

What offends me even MORE is poor grammar. Most people seem to be able to turn off and on the swearing switch depending on the situation. Poor grammar just puts people in a separate group. Years ago I got a handmade party invitation that said, “Your Invited.” The person had a college degree. Some of you may be thinking that you don’t see the problem. If that is you, stick to texting and type UR. Pronounce it “yer.” It covers both.  I’m sure I make plenty of errors here and there. I try to write in a style similar to conversation. I know I have some run ons and fragments. But just knowing the difference between two, to and too, your and you’re, and there, they’re and their will lift you back up into the category of appearing literate.

I have a hard time with song lyrics. Sometimes it just sounds better, and I understand that. I think musicians just didn’t pay attention in English class. Maybe they were smoking too much dope in an effort to get their creative juices flowing. Whatever the case may have been, I would have been less offended if Mick Jagger’s song lyric was “I can’t get ANY  f***ing satisfaction.

 

 

Tit for Tat

Ideas about Nothing

When I started a blog I planned on it being about my interest in decorating and collecting. It worked for a while, but then I ran out of ideas. In high school I recall that creative writing class was not fun for me. I had no idea what to write about. Maybe I had a crappy teacher. I’ve always had a bad memory. I don’t remember why I struggled, I just remember that I did.  I started to journal when my kids were little. I was afraid I would forget something cute they said or did. Good thing, the journal, cause when I dug back to reminisce I thought to myself, “I would have never remembered that.” The quick entries that I jotted down after they were finally in bed jogged my memories just enough to take me right back to that precious day.

I just read an excerpt from Steven King’s “On Writing: a Memoir of the Craft” He summarized 10 tips for writing. Tip #9 was about finding ideas. Unfortunately, he said there’s no “Idea Dump” or “Story Central.” Damn, if it were only that simple. But he offered good news. He said that Ideas come from nowhere. They fall out of the sky. Here I thought I had to think things up myself, and I wasn’t sure my imagination was wild enough for that.  He said, “It’s a writer’s job to recognize the ideas when they show up.”

I had an amazing art teacher in college. (of course I don’t remember his name).  He said, “You don’t just get better at drawing, you get better at looking. “ The first day we were instructed to draw a self portrait.  I had no formal instruction so at first I was afraid to put a single mark on the paper. Mine was terrible. Every few weeks we had to do another self portrait. He saved them all until the end of the semester. When he brought them out, we were amazed at how much everyone had improved.  Many of our portraits practically  morphed from stick figures to black and white photographs using only charcoal pencils.

Kids’ first drawings of people are usually very primitive. When Anna turned 3 years old Mick was just an infant. She drew a picture of me. It looked like a usual drawing of a person done by a toddler, except she included my glasses and an extra line between my stick legs. I asked her about the extra “leg.” She casually answered, “Oh, that’s your vagina.” She hadn’t moved on to drawing the stick figure with a separate head and body with arms and legs, but my amoeba-shaped portrait was complete with eye glasses and a vagina. We didn’t rush to the therapist over that one, I just chocked it up to having a new baby at the time and discussing at a 3 year old level how babies are made and where they come from. Apparently she was pretty good at looking for a 3 year old artist.

The hard part for me with writing is seeing, recognizing ideas when they fall out of the sky. Good thing I am not trying to make a living at this. I had run out of ideas, so I took a break from writing. I worked on getting in shape and preparing for my son’s graduation party. One day, half way through my workout, my phone went dead. I was half way around my 6 mile loop.  Dead phone. I was stranded. I couldn’t even call my son to pick me up. I had no choice but to continue on without the help of itunes. I expected complete torture, however, it turned out to be quite the opposite. I retracted into my head and started talking to myself. Amazing how we can slow down and think when we are not over stimulated. I probably looked like a mental hospital escapee to passersby, but I didn’t care. Ideas were falling out of the sky, and I was recognizing them, just like Stephen King said.  I was so excited to get home and write that I actually jogged a little bit. (Just kidding, I made that part up about jogging)

Speaking of slowing down and thinking, it’s really hard today with all the stimuli flying around. Everywhere, there are talking screens. There’s a lady advertising cleaning products at the end of the swifter isle in the Walmart. I saw an Entertainment Tonight plug on a screen recently while I was pumping gas. At first I probably looked like Dorothy when Oz started talking, wondering where the voice was coming from, but eventually I just wished that  he would shut the f*** up. At least I hope that remark stayed inside my head. I might have mouthed the words as I do when I’m out walking. The guy pumping gas next to me probably thought that I had tourettes or something. I don’t care. I decided to embrace silence and give up the ear buds. Now I prewrite while exercising. That’s about all the multi-tasking I care to juggle. Constant noise drowns the imagination.

I recently heard an interview with David Gray. I didn’t know he had a few failed records before he was recognized. He spoke about how artists start out writing about what moves them, hoping that the audience will appreciate it, love it. If you are lucky enough, a scary thing happens. You get asked to create for hire. What a curse for an artist! Your wildest dream becomes a nightmare. I don’t follow rules when I write, but if I were ever hired I would have deadlines and guidelines. I’m starting to be thankful that no one reads my blog (Not really). I happily scribble away about cheese its, broken hockey sticks or covering up a hole in my dry walled garage, much like the premise of the Seinfeld series.  I write blog posts about nothing. Somehow they end up turning out to be about something.  I’m mostly just humoring myself, and I’m A-OK with that.  No one is beating down my door to hand me a check in exchange for a deadline.  I also don’t have to look up in the sky and hope an idea falls into my journal by 5 pm next Friday. When I’m short on inspiration I set down my pencil and go for a long walk.

I'd Walk a Mile in Her Outdated Shoes

I was out on an extra long walk this morning when, just as Stephen King promised, an idea came from the sky. The maize and blue helicopter that whizzed by was a quick, stinging reminder that the few pounds I gained on vacation was small potatoes compared to a helicopter ride to U of M Hospital. I was selfishly thankful that I was not in that family’s shoes.

I just spent a long weekend in Saugatuck with three friends. We go every August and stay at the Ship-N-Shore motel/boatel. It’s a motel with boat slips. We rent a tiny room, sit dockside and watch the yachts come and go- mostly from Chicago. We like to make up stories about the people who get off the yachts. One older man with a British accent disembarked with 4 preadolescent kids and a young tiny blonde in a tiny bikini. In unison we whispered, “must be the nanny.”  Then one of the kids yelled, “mom!”…..   “Damn it! not one stretch mark.” I’d love to be in her shoes, minus the 4 preadolescent kids.

Another yacht parked for the weekend. After chatting with the couple we learned that they were the co-captains of the boat. The owner didn’t want to waste time cruising across Lake Michigan so he sent the captains ahead.  He was flying in later on his jet.  I was thinking that if Mr. Big Shot wanted a yacht but didn’t want to ride in the yacht, he was missing the boat, in more ways than one.  

The four of us sit by the pool, drink rum punch, laugh, swim, read, nap & repeat all four days in a row.  It’s delightful.  We get as far as we possibly can from our daily stresses and worries.  On  going-home day, we stopped in a small south western college town. School was starting soon so the sidewalks were filled with moms and kids, stocking up on Keen boots and Columbia jackets. What happened to the poor college student? In my day kids got by on Ramen noodles and peanut butter. But then again, I got out of college without six figures in student loan debt.

Two of us were shopped out before the others so we sat at a patio table outside Kilwin’s Ice Cream Parlor and had lemonade. Walking amongst the lily white moms and daughters was an old, thin black woman. It reminded me of Ruby Bridges, without the escort of the United States Marshals, because it was clear that no one wanted her there, nor was she a cute six year old in a crisp white dress. She was wearing a lavender wool cap that was dirty and pilled up. Her acid washed jeans must have been at least 25 years old and hung on her bony frame. She wore a thread barren green and white checked flannel shirt. As she got nearer my anxiety rose. I figured she would ask for money. What would I do?! She leaned closely into my friend and said in a raspy voice, “Just to let you know, those shoes have been out of date for some time now.”

The woman continued walking down 9^th Avenue, spat on the sidewalk and started yelling indecipherably. I worked with mentally ill clients years ago. I should have kept a journal, because they come up with some funny shit.  Once she was long gone, we laughed out loud.  Who knew the fashion police would show up that day, disguised as a homeless woman. Many times last weekend all four of us laughed ‘til we cried. It was just what the doctor ordered.  You see, my friend is currently being treated for ovarian cancer. We are trying like hell to have as many normal days as possible. Laughing is a necessary, temporary distraction. If there were any way to magically give her a break from her worries and pain, any one of us would gladly walk a mile in her shoes.

An Ashtray Gets a Breath of Fresh Air

No one smokes anymore. It used to be so seductive. Actors in the old black and white movies blew billowy smoke rings. Old cigarette advertisements declared that most doctors preferred to smoke Winstons. Camels were as cool as my Uncle Jim’s Lucky Strikes.  Real men didn’t need a filter. The “Marlboro Man” was the sexiest man alive. Yes, smoking was cool!

As a kid, I remember “candy cigarettes”. The box looked like a cigarette pack. The white, minty sticks resembled the real thing. We wanted to be just like our dads. Why didn’t anyone invent little juices that resembled booze bottles? That would have been fun. We could have pretended to stumble around like our drunk Uncle Charlie. Now that I am a parent, I understand all too well that the kids just want to act like the grownups.

About 1969 I remember my mom declaring that she was giving up the cigarettes. My brothers and I cheered and jumped up and down. Why? Because our house stunk! Those glamorous movies couldn’t show how smelly the house was.  The ads never showed the “doc who preferred Winstons” dragging his oxygen tank down the sandy shoreline in his golden years.

When I was student teaching in the 80’s, we had to lobby to make one of the two teachers’ lounges non smoking. When I worked at a residential treatment facility in the 90’s there was already one designated smoking lounge and one non-smoking lounge. Today, in order to take a smoke break, you have to drive 500 yards away from your place of work and promise to not exhale in your own car. My point here: it is getting more and more difficult to smoke.

As smoking became less and less desirable, one very important decorative accessory started disappearing from our homes: the ash tray. Remember the big, fancy art pottery ash trays? They looked beautiful & matched the household décor, however, they held about 10,000 cigarette butts. Those classic movies never showed a hostess with a hangover cleaning up the day after an elegant party. The only thing nastier than cigarette smoke is an ash tray full of stale butts, hence, the decline of smoking, especially inside our homes.

The last time I went home to California I came across my mom’s enormous aqua glass ash tray. It has to be about 45 years old. It had been repurposed under one of the bathroom vanities to hold cleaning products. I got permission to take the tray and the matching vase back to my own home in Michigan. This particular tray must have been able to hold at least 12,000 butts.

I (once again) repurposed the ash tray. It now holds shells and sea glass from both Atlantic and Pacific beachy family vacations. So, very ironically, now when I look at my mom’s old ash tray, it reminds me of relaxing and breathing the fresh ocean air.

 

Peri is a Dude

I am turning 50 this year and looking forward to the changes that are coming my way. I  start sentences with, ”Now that I am approaching peri-menopause…”  and they usually end with something like, ”and I really don’t care what other people think .”  Don’t get me wrong. I am still a nice person, but it is refreshing to no longer worry about what other people think of me.

So  women can complain about our “change” that is on the way, or look forward to the positives. When life gives you lemons you can either be a sour puss or pour some sugar on it and make lemonade. Someone tried to put a positive spin on our period and called it “our little friend”.  We all know it was no friend of ours. It was our crazy relative, Aunt Flo. How many times did she show up, unannounced as we were leaving for vacation, insisting on coming along? We were young. We didn’t know how to say “no”. Auntie was there for cheer camp in high school, pool parties, anniversaries, honeymoons, you name it- if there was a special occasion, she would screw it up.

Some would say the “curse” is a biblical thing. To that I say,” That is a crazy notion”. I am trying really hard to not curse in black & white. So when you read phrases like “that is a crazy notion”, know that my original notes said, “total horse s***”.  But I do remember reading that women had pain in childbirth as a punishment because it was Eve who told Adam to eat the apple.  Wasn’t there a nut tree in that Garden of Eden? Adam could have picked a couple for free and stood up for himself.  Last time I checked, persuasion wasn’t a sin, but giving in to temptation was really frowned upon.  Anyway, we women got the blame somehow.

Maybe our redemption is peri-menopause. Since our first  cycle was personified as our “little friend” , let's  personify the second as our dude, “Peri”.  He’s my wing man  on my shoulder saying,” You don’t have to buy that crazy notion…speak up for yourself"  Peri has my back. He encourages me to stand up for myself and  say what I think. I’m looking forward to a long, intimate relationship with him.  I’m just waiting for Aunt Flo to kick the bucket.

 

Hockey is a Cult

As I was trying to think of a catchy title for this post I thought of how we are often referred to as “those hockey people”. I looked up a few definitions of a cult and if you take out the religious aspect the definition I found was: A small group that is not part of a larger and more accepted group that has beliefs regarded by many people as extreme or dangerous. I found this amusing. Some of my non-hockey friends have called me crazy for taking my kids out of school for a hockey tournament.  In addition, hockey people won’t ever admit it to anyone outside of the group, but they have all at one time or another down-played their kids’ injury to their family doctor to get clearance to play. (not me, though) Extreme? Dangerous? Nah, in our “small group”  what happens in the compound, I mean at the rink, stays at the rink.

Since I started my blog to share ideas about how to use and display collections and vintage treasures, this post is about a work in progress at my house. It is our broken hockey stick collection. Yes, I am now stooping to the level of decorating with trash.

If you are not part of this cult let me explain. I married a man who has played hockey his whole life. He was so happy when we had kids because he knew some day he would fulfill an item on his bucket list. He was finally able to coach a hockey team.

My son’s first hockey skates are the same size as his first white leather Stride Rite walkers.  Here in Michigan the ice rinks have little skating frames that resemble a miniature version of granny’s walker. Reason being, the kids are put on skates so young  they aren’t even that good at walking yet.  Luckily my son loves the game as much as my husband.  He is 17 and now plays for his high school.

My husband is in his 50s and still plays hockey on what’s known as “the beer league” A bunch of middle aged men get together a few times a week and play hockey. It’s a tight group. The wives are friends. Many of the kids have played on a team together at one time or another.  We have vacationed together (stayed in hotels for hockey tournaments). We have spent holidays together (gone out to eat during Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas for holiday tournaments). It has been our second family.

We live and breathe hockey in this house. Unfortunately, it happens to be a pretty expensive sport. Some hockey parents even choose their ice bill in lieu of a college fund.  They can’t afford both. What is an ice bill, you ask? It is a monthly bill hockey parents make so their kid can be on a hockey team.  It is about the equivalent of our gas bill, no; our electric bill, no; about the equivalent of our cell phone bill for four ipones with unlimited everything.

In addition to the ice bill comes the equipment: a really big bag full of pads for shoulders & elbows, guards for necks & shins,  helmets & jocks for the beans, skates and a stick or three.  With the money we paid for our son’s last pair of skates we could have purchased a decent used car. Again, if you are not in the cult called hockey you might think I am making this up or crazy.

The last piece of equipment I want to mention is the stick.  Hockey players are very particular about their stick, how they tape it, how often they tape it, what curve they use, what strength they use. I think there is a university in Canada somewhere specifically to study and teach hockey stick engineering & taping. They can cost as much as an ice bill. The player needs spare sticks, game sticks, practice sticks. A stick can be snapped in two in a hot second.

So our wall of broken hockey sticks is a treasure to me.  I could not accept that all those expensive sticks so quickly became trash, I just couldn’t. Some were broken in the beer league. Some were broken in a practice & some in a game. Some were donated by I’m pretty sure future NHL players. It is my shrine to the cult called hockey.  It is the most expensive paneling you will ever find. Like my wine cork dart board back drop, I am not going to add it up. Some spots are still empty. As I said, it is a work in progress. I am not in any hurry to fill up those empty spaces. That would mean my husband and son are out shopping to replace a broken stick.