Only in America

     Did you hear the story of Gac Filipaj, the Columbia University janitor who graduated with a degree in classics?

http://news.yahoo.com/video/newyorkcbs2-15751042/columbia-janitor-is-now-columbia-graduate-29232319.html#crsl=%252Fvideo%252Fnewyorkcbs2-15751042%252Fcolumbia-janitor-is-now-columbia-graduate-29232319.html

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2144043/Columbia-University-janitor-Gac-Filipaj-swaps-jumpsuit-cap-gown-graduate-honors.html

     What a fantastic and inspirational story this is.  What a fantastic country the Unites States is that people can come and achieve so much.  I don't have a whole lot to say today except this: Thank God for the new blood that flows into this country, both legal and illegal.  During my twenty-five years at the Burlington County Board of Social Services, I saw my share of immigrants and refugees.  Contrary to popular belief, there was not much in the way of benefits that they could get.  These people took little, worked hard, and learned English the best that they could.  Few of them will ever do what Mr. Filipaj did, but their children might.

     And there's always the light side:

     http://comedians.jokes.com/loni-love/videos/loni-love---leave-the-immigrants-here    

Momisms

         They are called “momisms”, those ridiculous sayings that our mothers repeated over and over during our childhoods.  In my house, Mom harped on the subjects of discipline, cleanliness, frugality, and following the crowd.  If all else failed, she might throw in a little guilt for good measure.

     Unlike today, 1950’s discipline relied heavily on corporal punishment.  Sometimes the threat of a good wallop was enough.  If Mom couldn’t wait until Dad got home, she warned, “I’ll give you to the count of three,” or maybe, “Don’t make me get up.”  We giggled and told Mom that she should count to one hundred, better yet, one thousand.  As she came after us, she declared we would laugh on the other side of our faces and, as she meted out the spanking, she pronounced that she would give us something to cry about.  We found it hard to believe, but she swore we would thank her someday.

     As very young children, our mother promoted good personal hygiene.  Often she lamented that we looked like something the cat dragged in.  From time to time we resembled the wreck of the Hesperus.  At our grimiest, we were dirty enough to grow potatoes.  At other times we were just a little ski-wiffed. 
          By adolescence, we accepted that a little soap and water wouldn’t kill us, and we showered regularly.  Now Mom took offense to our surroundings.  “Your room looks like a mad man’s pocket,” she complained.  “Do you think socks pick themselves up?  I’m not your maid.”  Mom was not a lot of things – she was not made of money, she was not buying snacks for the entire neighborhood, and furthermore, she was not heating and air conditioning the outdoors. 

     Mom was also sparing when it came to allowing us freedom.  If we said everybody else was doing something, she dared us to name five.  “So what if they are,” she said.  “If your classmates jumped off the Empire State Building, would you do it too?”  Of course, being the oldest, I should have known better than to ask for certain things.  If I didn’t understand now, I would get it later, “when I was sixty four”, she said.

     I don’t know if my siblings absorbed as much of Mom’s wit and wisdom as I did, but I suspect that none of us leave the house unless we are wearing clean underwear.  I consider myself an independent thinker, a skill I most likely developed during those times I was banished to my room to ponder my misdeeds.  I’ll be the first to tell you that life isn't easy or fair, and you don't always get what you want.  However, if you stand up straight, do your best, and always wear fresh drawers, you're just as good as the rich and popular kids.  Mom was right.  I understand it all now, now that I am approaching sixty four.
     Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

        
   

Eighth Grade Dance

     How about those high school kids who ended up in the water when the pier they stood on to take prom pictures collapsed?  Since no on was hurt, it's all good, and it's all funny.  http://gma.yahoo.com/blogs/abc-blogs/promo-photo-disaster-pier-collapses-during-prom-pictures.html
     I didn't go to my high school prom (boo hoo), but I did go to my eighth grade dance.  Check out theses pics.

Front from left: Claudia Smith, Debby Mushinski, Pat Symczyk
Back: Joyce Luethy

Our Band - Scott and the Generations
Left - Larry McIntyre
Right - Scott Dunlop

Larry Schemelia

     Thanks, Paul Taylor, for asking the tallest girl in the class to dance.

     What are junior high dances like these days?  I haven't got a clue, but that didn't stop me from writing what follows.  If anyone knows an eighth grader, maybe I could get some feedback on this:

      “Tiffany!  Tiffany!  It’s Brittany.  I’m over here.”

     “Hi, Brit.  Sorry I’m late.  My mother had to take my stupid brother to the mall.  You look hot.  I love the shirt.”

     “Thank you.  Do you think anyone will notice?”

     “Do you mean anyone in general or someone in particular, as in Mason McKinley?”

     “I might be thinking about Mason.  He’s such a babe.  Is he here?”

     “Haven’t seen him.  But if he does come, he’ll be with Mary Alice, you know.” 

     “I know.  I know.  The biggest stud muffin in the whole school will be with the foxiest girl.”

     “I don’t know why you waste your time drooling over him.  The boys say Mary Alice is a ten.  You’re like a seven and a half.  He’s not going to dump her for you.”

     “You never know.  And, besides, I’m an eight tonight in this shirt.”

     “Whatever.”

     “Oh, look.  There’s Allen Jameson.  He’s a total Greek god.”

     “Till he opens his mouth.  He’s as dumb as dirt.  You know Brit, ‘beauty is only skin deep’.”

         “Listen to you, quoting your grandmother.  You forgot the rest of it: ‘Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly is to the bone’!”

     (Giggles)

     “Speaking of ugly, Jennifer is over there waving at us.”

     “Not just ugly… double ugly…double dog ugly.”

     “Bow-wow.”

     (Giggles)

     “Coyote ugly.”

     (More giggles)

     “We shouldn’t be so mean.  Let’s just call her comfy.”

     “Yeah, like my fat aunt’s run-down, old shoes.”

     (Fits of giggles)

     “She’s still waving.”

     “Smile, then turn your head.  That way she’ll know that she shouldn’t come over.  No one cute will come near us if she’s around.”

     “Oh, my God!  Justin Emmons is headed our way.  He has got to be the most babelicious guy in the whole school.  Do I need more lip gloss?”

     “It’s too late for that now.  You can’t start smearing it on when he’s walking toward you.”

     “Oh, my God.”

     “Get a grip, Tiff.”

          “Oh, my… Justin!  Hi!”

     “Hi, Tiff.  Hi, Brit.  Have you seen Max and the guys?”

     “They were at the snack table a minute ago.”

     “Thanks.  See you around.”

     “At least we spoke.”

     “It was like two hearts beating as one.  I could feel the electricity between the two of you.”

     “Shut up, Brittany.  My mom says boys aren’t good at expressing themselves at this age.”

     “Listen to you, quoting your mom.”

     “I said shut… Oh, no.  Here comes Gary Peirson.  He’s such a troll.”

     “Yup, his kind are rare.  He’s going to ask you to dance.”

     “There’s no way I can do that.  I’d have to put a bag over his head.”

     “Paper or plastic?”

     “Hi, Tiffany.”

     “Hi, Gary.”

     “Would you like to dance, Tiffany?”

     “Well, I was kind of waiting for someone.  He’s not here, yet.  It wouldn’t look good if he came in and saw me dancing with someone else.”

     “Oh, go on, Tiff.  He’ll understand.  Enjoy yourself.  Dance with Gary.”

      “Let’s go, Tiffany.  I’ll dance with you next, Brittany.  I hope it’ll be a slow one.”

       

Kids

     I'm not the only one who giggles over dirty words.  Adam Mansbach wrote an adult book, in the style of a children's rhyming book, about the trials and tribulations of getting his daughter to go to sleep.  He called it Go the F--k to Sleep.  Parents made the book a best seller and Mansbach has even sold the movie rights to this skinny, nicely illustrated work.
He has also published a G-rated version titled Seriously, Just Go to Sleep.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Go_the_Fuck_to_Sleep

     Why stop with just the bedtime battle?  Kids have so many other infuriating habits.  For example, endless questions -

I really don't know why the sky's blue
Or why lizards and chickens don't whiz.
Your questions are driving me crazy.
The answer is, "It just is."

There's also the emotional abuse -

So you say you want a new mommy
Because I won't buy you a toy?
What do you think of this girl child?
Mommy really wanted a boy.

And the tantrums -

The tears and the snot go a-flying
As you wail and writhe on the floor.
My calm attitude is belying
My wish that I had a trap door.

Or perhaps the poor hygiene -

You're covered in mud and grass stains
I told you, "Don't touch the hose."
Don't you dare eat that mud pie.
And get your finger out of your nose.

I could go on, but you get the idea.
   

 

Imaginary Zoo

     One day I was feeling in-Seuss-ant.  This was the result:

We’ll take a trip this afternoon to Imaginary Zoo.

It’s a place where all the animals are created by you!

Some critters look familiar and some look really scary.

Some have very wrinkly skin and some are very hairy.

The first we saw took tickets, a mean old Crocagator.

“Sir,” we said, “if you’ve had lunch, would you save us for later?”

“Well, I suppose,” his big jaws snapped, his round eyes looking shifty,

“If I eat young ones after lunch, I don’t feel so nifty.

Stay on the path, never stray, don’t get the urge to roam,

And no matter how much they beg, don’t take Chim-pansies home.

The Flutterby will be your guide, follow her electric wings.

She’ll blink red and green to guide your way and pink when you ask her things.”

The lights blinked green.  We began our walk, and then the lights blinked red.

There it was, part skunk, part camel, blocking the path ahead.

Stand back and let the Skamel pass, Flutterby seemed to say,

He never drinks and really stinks and has a tendency to spray.

He’s lumpity, bumpity, down right humpity and self conscious about his looks.

But the terrible smell that he gives off puts him in the record books.

We realized now that Flutterby could communicate without speaking.

The thoughts transferred from her to us while Skamel did his reeking.

The path was clear, but not the air, as we picked up the pace.

We had to hurry around the bend to see the Chick-aroo race.

We watched them as they hopped along, each big, feathered Chick-aroo.

If you eat the eggs that those hens lay, I hear that you’ll bounce, too.

The race was close, so they asked the judge, the Aunt-and-Uncle Eater.

Few disagree with what she says since she’s a family deplete-r.

We’ll go to the lake, Flutterby said, to visit the Eel-ophant.

You don’t have to worry about this one’s diet.  He eats only plants.

He was long and round and fat and gray, floating in repose.

Then we heard a giggling sound as he sprayed us with his nose!

Look, up in the trees, jumping about, pocket-sized chim-pansies,

With flowers on their heads, long curly tails and fur that made us sneeze.

“Take us home,” they begged as they pulled our clothes, “Forget about the rules.”

As we sneezed and sniffed we told them, “No, do you take us for fools?”

You’re at the gate, Flutterby said.  I hope I’ll see you soon. 

You can visit the zoo during nap time on any  afternoon.

Flutterby was off, floating on the breeze so calm.

What a day!  What a place!  What an adventure!  We can’t wait to tell our Moms.

What's Your "Orexis?"

We're hearing about the Tanning Booth Mom lately.  Did she or didn't she put her youngster into the tanning bed?  The only two people who know the answer to that question are mother and daughter.  Six year olds play fast and loose with the truth, and mom has been called a "roasted nut," so we'll never be sure of what really happened.
     Since the story broke, we've been hearing the term "tanorexia," a clever spin on anorexia.  I consulted my dictionary for the origin of anorexia.  It comes from Greek - an meaning "without" and orexis meaning "appetite/desire."  So an anorexic has no appetite and a tanorexic has an appetite for tanning.
     Back in the old days people went to the circus if they wanted to see a freak show.  These days, they put the freak show on television, and call it "Strange Addictions."  http://tlc.discovery.com/videos/my-strange-addiction-videos/  While there is no end to the weirdness, it seems to fall into three categories - stuff people eat or drink, what people do to their bodies, and obsessive behaviors/habits.
     There are people who eat plastic, drink urine or gasoline, or eat dirt.  Eating dirt is not new.  It's actually quite acceptable in primitive cultures or economically depressed parts of the world.  The theory is that earth provides nutrients that are lacking in the diet.  Street vendors sell mud pies in Haiti.  The recipe is mix some dirt with water, strain out debris and pebbles with cheese cloth, form into pancakes and fry in a pan.  I worked in a day care center in the late 1970's.  One of our kids ate paper.  Lot's of kids taste test junk mail, you say?  Well, our tot preferred toilet paper, dunked in the bowl and wrung out before savoring.
     It's a crying shame the way some people mutilate there bodies.  Joan Rivers looks like an amateur along side Jocelyn Wildenstein.  Ms. Wildenstein might to suffer from Body Dysmorphic Disorder (BDD), an excessive concern with her body image.  Her many plastic surgeries have left her looking pretty scary.

Joan Wildenstein

        
There's a guy who has transformed himself into a cat through plastic surgery.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LJ7zyNnEeyM  There's another guy who turned himself into a Smurf.

There are also women out there who can't stop enlarging their breasts.  I refuse to put up one of those pictures.
     I used to say my father was addicted to television.  He turned the set on at noon and planted himself in front of it until bedtime.  My mother had to threaten him to get him to take a supper break.  They're calling addiction to one's mobile phone "crackberry."  I've criticized Mike for spending too much time playing games on his computer, while he simultaneously watches TV and doodles with his cell phone.  I also have to beg him to come to the dinner table.  I think a crackberry-like condition is common to all males, and is of no concern.  Sex addiction is another story.  Bill Clinton, David Duchovny, and Tiger Woods were afflicted.  They would have been written off as philanderers and drummed out of business a hundred years ago.  Now they get to go to fancy rehabs and resume their normal lives once they've completed the program.
     There are lots of theories on what causes addiction.  Psychoanalysts believe addiction develops as a defense against anxiety.  And who is the source of most anxieties?  Mom, of course!  If you don't want to blame your mother, blame your genes.  As they say, "Drunks beget drunks."  Or maybe your brain is wired in such a way that once a pleasure center is turned on, it won't turn off.  Some think that environment is the root of addictive behavior.  Perhaps your neighborhood, school, or workplace is where an addiction got started.  Mental illness is also blamed for addiction.
     Deviance has always fascinated me.  When I see a kid with thirty piercings and stretched out earlobes, I want to know why?  I have read just about all the gory stories (true crime books) that the library owns.  My habit continues as I watch murder and mayhem on Discovery ID.  I think we all have our quirks.  Sadly, sometimes our quirks have us.
           

Things That I Swear At

     We've reviewed the things I swear by.  Now it's time for the things that make me swear.  First on my list of grievances is screaming brats.  I hate hearing kids wailing two tables over in a restaurant.  It seems today's parents have the ability to tune it out and enjoy their meals.  Well, your enfant terrible is ruining my night out.  One of you is going to have to get your meal wrapped up, and you're going to have to take your youngster to the car.  The same goes for holy terrors in stores.  Too bad unruly children in airplanes can't travel with the baggage.  On the same subject of parents and kids, I hate Octomom.  There is something screwed up in that woman's head.  Finally, there are the Duggars.  Nineteen kids is probably fifteen too many.
     I even found things swear worthy when I was a kid.  Though my idea of swearing back then was saying fart and crap.  I hated vacation.  It always involved sitting on the edge of the back seat for three days in a hot car while my car sick sister slept off her Dramamine.  No matter how many license plate games or guessing games of "I see something green" my mother employed to amuse me, I smelled vomit and I wanted to go home.  Like all Baby Boomers, I watched a lot of television.  I couldn't understand why women in westerns were so helpless.  They either fainted or stood in the corner saucer eyed, biting their clenched fists.  Come on, they weren't out there in the Colorado Territory as ambassadors of gentility.  They were either gun toting, covered wagon driving pioneers or they were the town whores.  Sweetheart, grab a weapon of opportunity and bash the bad guy over the head.
     Coming back up to date, those dummies on Jay Leno's "Jaywalking" segment leave me muttering and shaking my head. http://www.ebaumsworld.com/video/watch/80691723/  I've heard plenty of stupid answers in my life, but these folks take the cake.  Finally, there's the Dog Whisperer, Cesar Millan.  He can't be performing all those miraculous transformations with those misfit animals.  I have a suspicion that the "pssssst" sound he uses to keep dogs in line is pure hokum.  He's probably laughing his butt off thinking about all the suckers who out there hissing at their dogs.  Alright, I admit it.  I "psssst-ed" Mardi once.  It got her attention the first time, but never again.  If I can get Mike's cooperation, I'll post a video of how I whisper to the mutt these days.