It’s been said that people will ‘lose their heads’ in a crisis. I can freely confess that this does happen. For whatever reason, panic sometimes overcomes me and things that should be painfully obvious just aren’t. I have to remind myself almost daily not to ‘lose my head’ worrying about the things I have no control over (easier said than done). I often fail, but ironically enough the mistakes I make become one of the greatest teachers of all; preparing me for the next crisis that comes along.
The only thing more menacing than a bully is… a cyberbully! The worst part of it is kids can be victimized without ever seeing who’s tormenting them. The relative anonymity of the tormentor has made this a very serious issue. I had no idea how extensive and potentially fatal cyberbullying is, but I can tell you that teaching your kids to make responsible decisions when they are online is a step in the right direction. Some of the cases I’ve read about are downright scary! I thought dealing with bullies when I was a kid was bad enough.
By now everyone’s heard about Mark Ladwig, the Olympic figure skater from Moorhead. Unfortunately for Minnesota residents, he’s better known by his nickname “Fargo” in the Olympic village — so by proxy us North Dakotans get any press (positive or negative) surrounding his performance in Vancouver. It’s not really a stretch to think that someone from the frigid north would excel at a sport that takes place on the ice (certainly not ironic like the Jamaican bobsled team). If the Olympic Committee ever decided to take a look at adopting Shoveling as an event, there would be far more athletes coming from North Dakota. We have the perfect training conditions for it.
Today lovers everywhere celebrate the holiday of flowers, chocolates, Necco hearts and all things red and pink. Weird. I never thought red and pink were considered good matches, but leave it to Valentine’s Day to trump all that. Aren’t we lucky that Love is blind?
I had the opportunity to watch the 2010 Winter Olympics opening ceremonies last night and I have to say it was pretty spectacular. Vancouver invested millions of dollars to host this year’s Olympic Games and it showed. It’s amazing to see the creative vision of so many talented individuals be realized. Equally impressive is the tradition of signifying each Winter Olympic Games with its own logo (hopefully, the NFL’s Super Bowl logo rationale doesn’t influence the Olympic Committee to change). It underscores the power of an effective logo, all while being simple and original. In addition to the Olympic rings, these individual symbols become a way to distinguish each locale and year from another. Sure the games would go on without them, but you can’t deny that they add a level of sophistication and brand class to the event.
The microwave is an awkward appliance. It falls into that murky area between necessity and convenience. Sure, I could boil water in seven minutes on the stove, but wouldn’t it be convenient if I could boil it in three?
I remember when this ubiquitous culinary hardware made it into our household when I was a kid. It rivaled the size of most console television sets and had mechanical dials much like the conventional oven. It also boorishly owned it’s space on the counter-top. When the ‘Nuke-ro-wave’ was in operation, us kids were advised not to go near it. My parents were hoping to protect us from the mystical microwave energy that was sure to penetrate our fragile little bodies, forever altering the genetic makeup that would some day be their grandchildren.
Appliance salesmen the world over boasted the miraculous wonders of this ‘little’ device. The cookbooks that doubled as an operator’s manual for the ‘must have modern convenience’ convinced mothers everywhere that an entire Thanksgiving meal could be prepared in the microwave (attachments required, of course). If you’ve nuked anything grander than a Swanson TV dinner in the mic you know this is not true. Inside every dish’s scalding hot exterior hides a frozen surprise.
Our mic gets used a lot by our boys when they get the itch to make experimental snacks – usually consisting of crackers and anything that melts. It’s harmless cooking as far as I’m concerned – as long as they don’t stand right in front of it. Hey, for all I know the genetic altering effects of microwaving may skip a generation. I don’t want my grand-kids to be affected.
Every once in a while my oldest comes home with a story. “‘So-and-so’ kept pushing me down today for no reason.” As a parent, playground injustice really lights my torch. Memories of my own childhood bullies come to life and I can empathize easily with what he’s going through.
Whenever I got picked on I would internalize the anger and later fantasize about getting wantonly violent on their faces. I fear my kid suffers the same condition. There is a part of me that would love to come to his rescue like a paid bodyguard, but then I think about all the collateral damage that would cause. Not only would he be incessantly teased for having his dad fight for him, he would never learn how to deal with ‘difficult people’ later in life.
Once I stop seeing red, I simply tell him to take the high road by “Turning the other cheek” – though part of me still wants to teach him how to squash the other kid.
The last thaw we had brought about some major water stalactites – also known as icicles. Our boys have become obsessed with hunting and harvesting the largest one. Any icicle-laden structure we drive past, no matter how far from home, instantly transforms our little hunters into beggars.
“Whoa, look at the size of that one! Please, can we stop?! Please, please, please?!”
“Um, that icicle happens to be hanging three stories off the ground, so at the risk of being impaled from above and possibly reported for trespassing, I’m going to have to say… ‘no’.”
The result of our denying their far-reaching conquests for exotic, frozen water has pretty well gleaned the neighborhood of any hanging ice. Though not quite as sizable, the fruits of their local exploits get proudly fanned out on our porch like a set of fine cutlery. We’ve had to confiscate a few larger pieces from being brought into the house and stored in our freezer but overall, it’s good harmless fun. Thankfully, icicle hunting season – and winter – will soon come to an end.
My mailbox has been filled with those special envelopes marked “Important Tax Information” which can only mean one thing: tax season is upon us. Living in the greatest nation on the planet has its advantages, but also a very hefty price tag. Seems Uncle Sam gets a little hungrier every year. Thanks to the lovely 1040 ES forms I get to pay estimated taxes every quarter! I must be a little sadistic, otherwise I wouldn’t insist on doing taxes myself. My wife always said if I wasn’t an artist I’d probably be an accountant — I’m starting to agree with her!
I couldn’t help but notice the Schwan’s catalog this morning on the kitchen table. My wife flatly stated that he was coming tomorrow and began leafing through it. She wasn’t frantic, but I still detected a slight tone of purchase obligation; like we owed the Schwan’s man some business because we asked to be on his route. I realize that Schwan’s sells more than frozen treats, but part of me doesn’t exactly think “let’s get Schwan’s” when it’s -35˚ outside (the goods are probably warmer in the truck).
Getting something from Schwan’s was a premium purchase that happened occasionally when we were kids. In fact, rather than deal with the guilt of turning down the Schwan’s man, we chose to hide behind the couch when he drove by. It’s like the Schwan’s man was some kind of professional beggar. A beggar who forewarned of his panhandling with a slick full-color brochure and handy bright yellow calendar sticker announcing his visits.
Not much has changed, though this routine is a little too fresh to effectively teach the kids how to make it look like no one’s home. Hey, the stuff’s expensive and we live only blocks from a grocery store, so if we did buy something it would only be to help the poor guy having to drive around in this cold, going door-to-door peddling the Schwan’s processed food line. I’d just as soon see him when it warms up a little, but if I come home tomorrow to ice cream drum sticks or orange push-ups I won’t complain.