Grieving Eating

Everyone grieves in his or her own way. Still the shock of death draws others to your comfort and showing there emotional connection and heartfelt sympathy for your loss.

And they bring you a plate of pasta.

While he or she is trying to figure out why there is one less at the dinner table, friends and family and religious leaders and morticians work through the process of preparing the body for disposal and keeping the family fed and hydrated (and medicated if necessary) until the big party.

The wake brings everyone together to view the corpse and say the last ‘good-byes’ before gouging on the buffet assembled for all to partake (except the dear departed).

During this period of adjustment, food is the last thought. Still the body needs to consume enough stuffs’ to survive for the next day and the next day.

Fine considerate people send flowers and cards for there is nothing else they can do. Neighbors and close friends will bring over dishes of prepared pasta or salads or a nice sandwich plate with Dijon mustard.  They never bring you ice cream and pie or a MacDonald’s gift card.

Depending on the age, spirits are provided to numb the pain.

Not a real fan of the formal ceremonies of placing the box in the ground, soon the best wishes and concerns go back to their lives. Still one must eat.

After all the flowers have wilted and the lasagna pans are empty, the search for sustenance continues.

If the passed was the one who made the grocery list, searching the aisles becomes a new adventure.

Even with all the utensils, experience and recipes cooking a meal can become a struggle. Shopping for one means there will be leftovers and be thrown away as they rot in frig.

There is an interesting trend that meals are selected that the long gone beloved liked. If it wasn’t a personal preference, it is a connection with the departed.

Some cultures bring food to the graveyard to place with candles and chants. I understand taking a bottle of wine and toasting to the fore longed soul but don’t know how you relieve yourself on the headstone without be sacrilegious. Leaving a box of pizza in the dirt is only going to attract wild dogs or hungry gravediggers.

Like adjusting to the lack of the presence of a being in your space, the choice of what and when to eat is up to the survivors.

Would like fries with that?

What Are You Scared Of?

Spiders • Snakes • The Dark • Belly Aches • Fever • Believers • ACL • Going to Hell • Fender Benders • Broken blenders • Acne at the prom • Your Dad and Mom • Animals that can Eat You • Going to School • Rules • Fat • Crap • Being alone • Going home • Sharks • Picnics in the park • Being refused • Bad pair of shoes • PTSD • Needing to pee • Being rejected • Over protected • Crying • Dying • Talking on the phone • Being alone • Ticks • Politics • God • Being seen nude • Acting rude • Rippers that break • Robbers that take • Losing your sight • When day turns to night • You’ve seeded her belly • Peanut butter and Jelly • The end of the pills • Airplanes • Migraines • Slow trains • Broken brains • Going to heaven • Seven eleven • Feeling the pain • Thunder and rain •

And so it goes…

The Closet

Seems a lot has been said about this hole in the wall that keeps your laundry until you wear them.

My closet was a coffin for my stinky shoes to be on the floor under a rod of hangers of hanging pantaloons gathering the odor in their cuffs spaced between wrinkled starched dress shirts and proper coats under a shelf of hats or boxes to store away when the door was closed.

The daily wear was strewn about on chairs and hooks for easy deposit.

Out of this box in the wall came out more ghost than any expected.

‘Coming Out’ of the closet became a mantra for everyone from women to blacks to gays to whatever cause became popular. Like opening a sieve, the tree huggers and the nuke busters and the weapon protectors and the alternate sexual referrers came flooding out.

Each battled each other with anger and hostility and little rational.

Even all the organizations and groups who spread the word of ‘GOD’ have not been able to agree on peace.

Maybe it is time to close the door?

The End of Social Media

Seems our big adventure in trying to communicate with each other is ending. Like the telephone to our previous generation, the Internet has brought us together into a complexion of opinions and biases.

It all started as such a grand experiment to connect us all together. Search for family and folks from work or maybe old school mates long forgotten. Might even find an old love interest?

So we find a meeting platform like a comfortable bar and start building profiles of whom we want to think we are for others to see. We use whatever catalog of snapshots or artistic renditions to show the world our image. Welcome.

We gather and start commenting on children’s photos or old memories or what we had to eat for dinner. Not withstanding space or time, we present ourselves in a few characters as if long lost values were interesting.

The fascination of communicating with an old friend or love or other drew us into this game of ‘social media’ it was free and easy. Then the addiction took over.

There was no way not to comment on another’s post. Your opinion mattered.

Unfortunately things got nasty. People posted what would not have been said face-to-face. Things just unraveled.

I’m still addicted.

I’ve disconnected bad behavior and rudeness, but still find this fiber connection worth paying for weather and news and even a marriage or baby or two.

Still this experiment of connection is worthy on continuing to view a YouTube replay of a football game or some interesting article to share with another, like radio and television, the end is in sight.

Escape back into your sheltered bubble and forget how to talk or share a thought or an idea or perhaps enjoy a conversation with one-another.

Why doesn’t IRS figure out your taxes?

And send you a bill?

Really? Think about it.

They already have your social security number, your pay and the amount of taxes they retracted. They know where you live and what kind of car you drive. They know how many are in your family and your age and probably your shoe size.

Don’t be confused about having secured and personal identity protection. You gave that up when you joined the social media.

You have no idea how the tax table is calculated any more than how your hamburger is prepared, but you pay the price and leave a tip.

At the end of the year, the IRS computers could start whirring and whizzing and numbers will start flying and then DING! You have your taxes done faster than you can sharpen a pencil.

You get a bill that says “You Owe Uncle Sam…” or “The Magnanimous Government Will Refund You Overpayment Balance…” for you to sign your name and you are done.

There were times to sit at the dining room table spreading out all the receipts and adding and subtracting all the interest and sales tax like rolling the dice. Then these deductions were weathered away until You Make $, You Paid $ Tax, End of story.

Just like getting your credit card bill you just pay it without noticing the additional fees and dues for being a citizen and go back to feeding the cat and watching TV.

If you don’t pay your tax by April 15^th, you will get an additional interest fee until the cops come after you. Remember those overdue library books?

Without 40+% of the public paying their tax, the military gets plenty of guns and planes, the poor are cared for and the lights are kept on in the gilded halls of Congress.

Think how much cheaper it would be without all those additional forms and administrative staffing to yearly confuse and befuddle until you turn to and outside agency to charge for the best guess.

You can still get an extension for the inevitable but the preparation stress would lessen. End of the month pay your credit card, cable, mortgage, TAX, dry cleaning and insurance bills and you are done.

Or you may like the adventure of rushing down to the Post Office before midnight to drop in the envelope before midnight?

Remember Your Childhood?

Do you remember being a kid?

You want to remember the good times of running and playing with your friends, hop scotch, tag, hide and seek and stuff like that. Oh the good memories.

You don’t remember the times when you were sick or bruised or broken or waiting at the doctors staring at a dirty fish tank and reading old magazines waiting for a shot.

Being a ‘kid’ means you are not old enough to make your own decisions. Some big person tells you when to wake up, what to wear, how to comb your hair, how to tie your shoes, what to eat then tries to find something for you to do all day.

School was a good baby sitter for most of the day. Like being in the army (or prison) they had rules and regulations and every kid had to follow them. Line up in alphabetical or (or by height or size – whatever they told you) and walk to the lunchroom in an orderly manner. Boys and girls had separate bathrooms. Boys and girls played separate games. Boys and girls were kept apart.

Schools also judged kids, giving them permission to move on to the next grade or be shunned and left behind from all your friends. Schools also introduced math, history, geography and science, playing an instrument, art and an array of subjects never taught at home. Each was tested and a valuation of interest or skills would be calculated to guide the kid into a future career without their input. Some call it ‘herding’?

While all the evaluations are being evaluated, the kid is finding out about poison ivy, sunburn, swimming with snakes, fish hooks, bees, sledding, fireflies and trying to fit in. Being accepted into teams, clubs, gangs, is an all-important training for social interaction.

Just when a kid is having freedom, they are called back to reality by homework, bedtime and brushing teeth.

Somewhere along the line of tighter and shorter clothing, bad haircuts, awkwardness and being goofy, kids grow up. All that training, discipline, instruction is shed like a snakeskin and the kid is now declared an adult.

Some of us don’t leave.

The Root

As much as we layer then dig down to try to figure out who or what we are, certain root elements always appear. We may cover them up with analytical calculations or scientific theories or mystical explanations, but something’s are just true to our species.

We are curious

What is that over there, wonder what is over that ridge or behind that door, wonder if these two things are put together what will happen? We explore and innovate and discover new things everyday because we are curious. Sometimes our curiosity will find miraculous wonders or deep dark secrets. Wonder what is up on the moon beside our trash?

We run in packs

We are somewhat insecure so we gather for comfort or validation. It starts with families then schools and occupations and associations. Whether deep-seated beliefs and values or just wearing the same color jacket, we find our way with our teams, clubs and faith.

We are not very smart

Not demeaning the fine attempt to educate the masses to understand more than ‘see and do’ but our species are not very smart. Check the YouTube compilations of jumping off roofs or setting fires or speeding to understand with all our grey brain matter, we don’t use much of it. Maybe that is what makes us special?

We need to numb ourselves

Life, from the moment you wake up to the moment you go to sleep, is tough. ‘Survival of the fittest’ they say, but we don’t like it, so we numb ourselves. Constant searching for a plant or a powder or a liquid that can dull our pain has been and seems to be a way of life. What would you like to drink?

We need sex

We just don’t like sex…we need it. Second to sucking in oxygen and blowing out carbon dioxide, our body wants sex. It procreates our species but most of all, it feels good. We will go without food for sex. We will go without sleep for sex. We read about sex. We listen to sex. We watch sex. We talk about sex. Our parents had sex. Our children will have sex. Even our pets have sex. Our art and music are full of sex. Our writings are filled with sex. Even our laws and religious teachings are full of sex. Your place or mine?

Sioux Me

When things go wrong today, we Sioux each other. Lawyers like it. Courts maintain a busy schedule. Lots of paperwork, footnotes, blah-blah-blah and wasted time to get a decision for the truth that we do not play well together.

If you got money to spend and time to prove your injustice, then have at it. Any ambulance chaser will take your case in hopes of cash reward.

If you don’t get your settlement (emotional or financial) there is always the appeal.

Bills are written and laws are passed for those who have been wronged, yet everyday there are more and more reasons to Sioux each other.

“Your dog crapped on my lawn!” Sioux me. “You wife ran away with another man and took all the joint account cash!” Sioux me. “Your son got my sweet little daughter pregnant!” Sioux me. “My children went to your school and got shot!” Sioux me. “Your website posted my naked post!” You know the call.

If someone cuts you off in traffic or takes your parking space or there are not enough wire carts or your haircut doesn’t turn out as expected or your son drops out of college or the water heater blows up or the cable guy doesn’t show up on time that you are taking off from work or when the paint dries it doesn’t match what you wanted or…

NOTE: No indigenous people were harmed in this post.

The Ref

Some years ago a friend introduced me to the ‘Third Team’. After some calculation, investigation, medication and dissertation it made sense to me.

The Ref team is always on the field of play (unless sitting in a high chair overlooking the other teams). The Ref team is like the police of the game.

Sometimes called ‘the Zebras’ for their black and white striped shirts, they run up and down the field with the other teams but when they blow a whistle everyone stops. The ball is handed to the Ref team to decide what to do next. The Ref team waves an arm or hand signal and puts the ball back on the ground. No one can start until the whistle is blown again.

The Ref team must also keep order on the field. When the big burley guys start pushing and shoving, all the Ref team has is a whistle. They are not allowed to carry Billy clubs because all the other teams are wearing helmets. Don’t be fouled or fooled, these guys are tough. One misstatement and you are ejected.

After the celebration of a score the ball is handed back to the Ref team before another play can take place. They are also statisticians who keep time and location of all movements and at the end of the game; the Ref team gets the ball.

Who would want to join the Ref team? There are only a few running around without padding or substitutions from the bench. During a time-out the Ref team is still working while the other teams are getting hydration and resting.

Sometimes the Ref team is called, “Bums!” by the spectators for split-second decisions before instant replay and multiple camera angles question the Ref’s eyesight. The network commentators can analyze and criticize the call on the field, but the Third Team always wins.

The Ref is in control. Raising a colored card can send a team into a spiraling lost or a dusty cloud “Safe” can turn the score and the outcome of a national championship battle.

Still it is only a game and though the fans spend their hard earned cash to watch and the players demand millions to play, the Third Team do not get the appreciation that even the cheerleaders get.

At the end of the game as the confetti flies and the close-up interviews happen, the Ref team crawls off into the shadows only to appear at the new venue without a claim to fame.

Root for the Ref Team for they always get the ball.

Ten Years Ago Today I Went To Work For The Last Time

Seems like only a decade ago that I woke at my usual time that Thursday morning. Packed my bag and rode my bike downtown just as I’d done for months before.

It was a nice spring day as I recall and only needed a light jacket. Locked up to the rack in the parking lot, walked through the lobby flashing my badge to the security guard and preceded to the basement for a shower, shave and a change into work clothing. Seemingly, another normal day.

Since I’d been demoted from a management position I had no plans or agendas or reports or meetings but just to do what I was told. There had been some buzz in the air but until a salesman came by and told me that another one had been walked out the door did it seem This Was The Day. I told another to keep his head down, then got the call.

After making the joke to the HR folks that they should have done this the day before, I was escorted out the door and it was done. My job had been eliminated.

The ride home was uncomfortable in work clothing carrying a big book of explanations and policy descriptions of what had just happened. The best part was a sheet of paper I was to sign to release any legal complications of being fired (er, laid-off) to become able to receive my pension. Otherwise I would be like the union strikers I’d walked through pickets line when I was hired.

It was over.

A call to set up an appointment to pick up my stuff from the locker in the basement and a bunch of pens and pencils and papers then handing my signed agreement to “Say Goodbye” to 38 years and walked out into the rain, never to return.

It wasn’t a bad gig. I walked in and was hired within minutes even before graduating university. Started part-time and worked my way up. Never got rich but they paid me enough. Got titles and awards for just making other people money. Worked for several bosses and in three different building. Started on drawing boards and finished on computers. Met a lot of interesting people and a bunch that I quickly forgot. I got married and divorced then met my second wife at work. Had some good times and some bad times, but it was all over. The best surprise was the reduction of stress. Not so much of the employment requirements but the political poisonous atmosphere that accompanied a sinking corporation.

Not quite retirement age, juggling finances and searching for medical insurance being unemployed were a different world. I had to decide to start all over again or just throw in the towel.

In the years that have followed many changes took place.

The newspaper is still there. While the old family legacy is gone, a guy who likes to play with newspapers bought it. I stopped subscription because there was just nothing written than was worth reading.

Today I even check the website to get the highlights but more and more the stories are censored to those who don’t subscribe.