Should old acquaintances be forgot and never brought to mind?
Everybody I’ve talked to lately wants me to answer this question, which I find nonsensical. Since when has anyone been able to decide whether or not they will forget someone else?
My experience has been that your mind either loses track of someone or it doesn’t, and it has very little to do with how much you like them. The nastiest ones can stick with you the longest. With all the others it’s hit and miss.
Years later you might remember a forgotten person if you have a chance encounter on the street or you see their picture in a book or a magazine or a mug shot.
We really don’t have much say in the matter.
But people keep asking this “Old Acquaintance” question, usually with a drink in their hand at some late-night party, when they are getting sloppy and disgusting and the chances are good they won’t even be able to remember their new acquaintances.
Still, I get the sense that they want me to provide an answer, though I honestly have no idea what to say.
Sincerely,
B. Fuddled
I told B. that the question appears rhetorical, which means it does not require a response. In fact, this particular question and the environment in which it is typically asked is more of an invitation to have another drink – an activity which eventually leads (after a marked increase) to the cessation of talking all together in favor of simply staring into space, blankly. Perhaps his confusion about the intent of the question is really a sign that B. has been leaving the party too early.
But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?
Today’s post comes from Congressman Loomis Beechly, representing Minnesota’s 9th district – all the water surface area in the state.
Greetings Constituents!
I’m in Washington, DC, where I almost never am in the days that separate Christmas from New Years. But I have to be here in case we’re called on to vote on some kind of deal to address the “fiscal cliff“, which is a silly but very effective name for a scary thing that you can’t see.
It is quite entertaining to be here for the hand-wringing and running around, the closed door discussions and the breathless predictions about what will happen if we actually do go flying off our self-made “cliff” into a canyon of despair.
The whole town is charged with a kind of tense excitement – something kind of bad is about to happen. A storm is coming in, and people are stocking up and taking cover.
It’s a blame storm. We’re going to get buried in it, and the only question left is who will be able to dig out and who will be buried?
I feel fortunate because I happen to come from a part of the country that is guilt-rich and I’ve been slogging through stubborn waves of blame since the day I was born and the doctor slapped me. My mother hauled off and punched the doctor, then she kissed me, then I cried, and she slapped me too. I had just put her through quite a lot of trouble, so I understood and forgave her immediately.
But the point is, I know how to dig out when I’m getting deluged by blame. And believe me, there’s lots on the way.
Forecasters say there will be jobs lost, investments ruined, gains rolled back and fortunes diminished. The recent glimmers of economic hope that we’ve seen will be snuffed, and economic despair will make a resurgence. That kind of massive collision of high expectations and low performance always produces a huge blame storm, and the contest now is to find out who is best prepared to weather the onslaught?
Speaking only for myself, I know I didn’t do anything wrong. You can’t blame me because I wasn’t part of the non-negotiations and as a representative of a largely overlooked district with no newspapers or media of any kind, my statements on the issue have gone largely ignored.
Not that I’ve had much to say except “It’s not my fault.”
So I don’t think the Blame Storm is going to be too terribly bad in the 9th district. Famous last words?
At least I’ll be famous!
Your loyal Representative,
Loomis Beechly
Some wishful thinking from the Congressman? I’d like to be able to say I’m never troubled when the blame starts flying, but it only takes a little bit of it to totally bog me down. How about you?
Today’s post comes from Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty.
At ease, Civillians!
But when I say ‘at ease’, I don’t necessarily mean you should relax. We must always stay vigilant about personal safety issues, but especially so at the end of the year when time is running out on the statistic-keeping for 2012.
Don’t get me wrong. It is awful to fall down the stairs, no matter when that happens. But if you fall down the stairs during the last week of the year your calamity won’t have the same effect on the manufacturers of handrails or stair treads that it might have if you took your tumble in, say, January. Stair accessory manufacturers have already closed the books on 2012. They’ve decided if they had a good year or bad in the never-ending battle with gravity. What might be a personal disaster for you would come too late to indicate any kind of a trend in stairway safety, one way or another.
It would be like being the last soldier to get shot in a long war.
So stay safe in these final days of 2012, and I say that with full knowledge that this is a primary time for encountering extreme cold, glare ice and liberal amounts of alcohol – all of them are elements that actively work AGAINST personal safety and security. Cold, Ice and Alcohol. CIA! Spooky.
So be vigilant. Be hesitant to take any unwise risk. If someone suggests that you take the Christmas lights down from the peak of the house before New Year’s Day even though the ground and the roof are covered with ice, just say ‘no’. If the thought occurs to you that you’d like to rinse the thick layer of dust off your kitchen radio while it’s still plugged in, ask yourself if that’s smart. If a smart-aleck suggest that you lick raw cookie dough off the moving parts of your new kitchen stand mixer while it is still running, send that person away. In fact, if you think any specific activity is bound to be risky, it’s never wrong to say “wait ’til next year.”
After all, it’s just a couple of days’ delay! And then you can resolve to be totally injury free in 2013!
Yours in safety,
B.S.O. Rafferty
I think this is a safety statistic fanatic’s take on an important issue. Really, it’s as important to be careful now as it will be in January or June. But whatever reason he uses to give us a stern warning is fine with me, because I know B.S.O.R. has a need to waggle his finger at us and it keeps him healthy to be constantly alarmed at what we might do.
What potentially risky behavior will you foreswear in 2013?
Today’s post comes from Bart the Bear, a hairy beast who found a smart phone in the forest.
Hey!
I’m feeling a little bit logy today, but still there’s work to do. Not a lot of food available, unless somebody tossed a fruitcake out of a passing car. That happens some around this time of year. But the competition never rests. Raccoons, especially, are always looking for stuff to eat. So I’m going to get busy after I send you this text.
Because there are no holidays in the woods.
Just felt like I needed to say that. I’ve been hearing a lot about “the holidays” and a bunch of ads have been showing up on this phone I found, which is kind of funny because I don’t really need anything from Victoria’s Secret. I haven’t seen anything in their catalog that would be right for a bear. Not that I’m into wearing clothes – I’m not. And the Victoria’s Secret people don’t seem to be too enthusiastic about wearing clothes either. They don’t seem too enthusiastic about anything. The models all have these pained looks on their faces. I can only guess that their little clothes are too tight, or they are freezing.
What can I say? It’s great to be able to grow some all-over hair!
So anyway, the ads suddenly stopped and I’m wondering if “the holidays” are over now. That would be great if it was true, because this thing keeps vibrating and chirping with incoming messages and Facebook posts and, of course, the ads. Whoever owned the phone before me never said “no” when they were asked if they want to receive special offers. Some of these phones need more attention than a newborn bear cub. Really annoying!
And yes, I said “these phones,” because I’ve got a bunch of them. I found out that a wild animal like me can get a smart phone whenever he wants one.
Here’s what you do – find some hikers or campers and you do a little crashing around in the brush about 50 yards away. First thing that happens when they notice you is get out their phones. While they’re holding the phones up in front of their faces, that’s when you charge. I run straight at them, growling and snarling and huffing. By the time I get within 25 feet they’ve turned to run. And 9 times out of 10 I find the phone sitting there in the leaves where they were standing – all charged up and ready to go, with a picture of a ferocious bear on the desktop. Nice!
Sometimes the tourists stop running and turn around when they see I’ve picked up their phone and am no longer interested in killing them. But so far, nobody has asked for their property back.
I guess having electronic toys is fun, but there’s still no gadget that’s as cool as being alive! Anyway, have a great after-holiday-time. Don’t rule out hibernation as a New Year’s Resolution!
Here’s a classic piece of Christmas nostalgia. A Charlie Brown Christmas debuted in 1965 and was apparently unappreciated by network executives, who despaired of the child actors’ unprofessional sounding voices, the jazz soundtrack by Vince Guaraldi, and the reading of a Bible passage by Linus. The Christmas special was expected to be a ratings disaster and there were no plans to repeat it.
Half of all the TV households in America were tuned in to watch this show. Getting the attention of such a large portion of the country all at one time was possible in 1965. Although we are even more wired together today, it would be difficult to persuade half of America to look at the same thing simultaneously unless it was a live historic event, a terrible tragedy or the Super Bowl.
“A Charlie Brown Christmas” may have single-handedly killed the aluminum Christmas tree, which was an innovation that I, as a 10 year old, admired. Especially when it came with a revolving color wheel!
The opening scene of children skating on a frozen pond brings back winter memories for me. I did the very same thing with a group of friends on a little pond in the woods near our house in Montrose, New York. This was not a community pond in a public park with a warming house, lights and piped in music. It was really off in the woods, away from any roads and not visited by anyone except us. The forest came right down to the edge of the water. We’d sit on fallen trees to lace up our skates. The frozen surface was rough – occasionally interrupted by a stump or a stick, which added an element of unpredictable excitement to our skating parties. I’m guessing there are no figure skaters who got a start there, but it was a great location for unsupervised, frictionless roughhousing.
Today’s guest blog comes from Bill in Minneapolis.
I was standing in line yesterday at Ingebretsen’s, the 90-year-old Scandinavian market on Lake Street, as I have for at least 40 Christmas seasons. There were about 35 people in front of me in line and at least as many behind. Now, I hate standing in line. There is almost nothing I want badly enough to warrant standing in a long line. But, as I waited, I suddenly realized I was enjoying myself– enjoying the understated camaraderie and the people watching. I was having such a good time that, when my number was almost up, I considered trading with someone else further down the line.
I’ve thought about why I might have reacted so uncharacteristically, for me, and I think it’s because Ingebretsen’s at Christmas is one of the last outposts of a kind of Christmas I remember from my very early childhood and a kind of Christmas that has mostly vanished. I may be projecting here, but I suspect a lot of the others standing in line were feeling the same way. None of the other customers were under 50. We all came, presumably, from families where lutefisk, Swedish meatballs, Swedish sausage, pickled herring, sylte, and the like were de rigueur at the holidays and we find ourselves struggling to hold on to customs that have mostly fallen away. I noticed that, as I waited my turn, almost no one was buying lutefisk. Even 30 years ago, everyone there would have been buying at least a little.
Lutefisk is hardcore. When I was young, Christmas Eve dinner always included lutefisk and Swedish meatballs as well. There always seemed to be anxiety surrounding the preparation of the lutefisk– whether it would be overcooked or “just right”. The distinction always seemed moot to me.
My dad was born in Robbinsdale and spent his whole life there. My father’s parents lived about 2 blocks away from where I grew up. His only brother was unmarried at the time and lived with them. My grandfather was born in Sweden and my grandmother was half Swedish and half Norwegian. All their friends were either Swedish or Norwegian. When I was very young, the universe was Scandinavian.
I remember that any social gathering with my grandparents also included a number of close friends and assorted unattached bachelors and maiden aunts, all of whom had last names that ended with -son or –sen. I think of those early social gatherings whenever I hear this:
I was the only child in our immediate family group. That meant that Christmas in our family was essentially adult centered. That, in turn, meant that it was primarily focused on the dinner, or on the run-up to the dinner. No presents were ever opened until the dinner was done and the plates cleared. It was excruciating to be the only kid. I had lots of time and opportunity to observe.
Waiting for The Lutefisk
Bill in Mpls in Overalls
Most of the Christmas traditions I remember have fallen away. The lutefisk is gone for certain. My kids, who are adults themselves, know next to nothing about Christmas as I remember it. It has been assimilated into the general commercial culture. The tang and comfort of reenacting the rituals of a distinct tribe are largely vanished. I came along at the end of that chain of tradition and when I’m gone, it will be gone from our family completely.
Once again, I may be projecting my own sentiments, but that’s the undercurrent I felt as I stood waiting my turn at Ingebretsen’s. Beneath the festivity, beneath the joy at finding common ground, a kind of wistfulness that the Portuguese call saudade.
What tribal rituals will you be among the last to observe?
A snowstorm has now moved out of the midwest but what it dumped on the Great Plains is nothing compared to the amount of scorn being heaped on those who insisted an ancient calendar foretold the end of the world – yesterday.
I have yet to hear someone elegantly walk it back after declaring the end is nigh and being proven wrong. Though I do feel some sympathy because we all make mistakes. And in a cynical world there is something to admire in a person who has sufficient faith to accept a fantastic story without much proof.
Storytellers, at least, should not be so critical of the gullible. That’s your audience, my friends.
‘Twas the night of the solstice they gave him the word
that the Mayan Apocalypse hadn’t occurred.
Poor Santa. A workhorse, not really a thinker
had bought the whole fantasy. Hook, line and sinker.
He’d fired the elves. The reindeer, he ate.
He divorced Mrs. Claus. He went out on a date.
And did many bad things. With no need to pretend,
he had ceased to be decent. He welcomed the end.
For the world was too big. It was too far around.
There were too many people, and way too much ground
for one man and a sleigh to fly past in one night.
So catastrophe sounded, to Santa, just right.
But of course all that changed when it didn’t pan out.
And with three days remaining, he harbored some doubt
He could put things back right and deliver the goods.
And re-hire those elves and get out of the woods
with the people around him he’d hurt to the core.
He would probably purchase some toys at the store
to replace all the ones that the elves couldn’t make
in a weekend of work. And yes, some might be fake
But that still was less awkward than what he’d just done.
He had dined on his reindeer, gone out chasing fun
just to find that it wasn’t as great as they said.
He was old, fat and bald. A disgrace dressed in red.
Who’d embraced armageddon. He’d acted acted the dope
He’d imbibed all of Blitzen. He only could hope.
That redemption is something a man can achieve.
And such things may come true if you truly believe.
When have you been obviously, spectacularly wrong?
I’m just home from work and I notice that yesterday’s blog post is still front and center. And a lovely rant it is from Joanne – well worth two days’ exposure.
I fully intended to put up a different guest post today, but mis-timed the automation and left baboons stranded on this most unsettling day. My sincere apologies to Sherrilee, whose blog was supposed to be published today. I’ll hold it so it can have the greatest possible exposure another day soon.
If nothing else, this is proof positive for my employer that I’m not wasting resources by checking my personal blog on company time.
Tell us about a time you completely missed a deadline.
Ah, the smell of Christmas cookies baking in the oven. Who doesn’t love Christmas cookies and all the other baked goodies the holidays have to offer? “Where’s the cookies, Mom?,” ask my boys when the sweet scent hits their noses. Oh, hmm … uh – sorry, that’s just my favorite candle burning.
For better or worse, you will never find homemade Christmas cookies or massive quantities of baked goods at my house. I realize most women feel obligated to fulfill their motherly duty of making dozens of delicate rosettes, rice krispie bars, Russian sandies, chocolate covered pretzels, frosted sugar cookies, etc. Slaving away in the kitchen for hours and hours on the weekend or week nights, spending precious grocery money on pounds of butter, humongous sacks of flour and sugar, mounds of chocolate chips and tons of nuts. It’s a badge of honor, and with a definite sense of smugness to say you did your Christmas baking already.
I listen as women moan that they have to stay up all night or spend the whole weekend baking because they HAVE to make their Christmas cookies and treats that their families expect. And for what? Once all the baking is done, they give away most cookies to everyone else! Or participate in a cookie exchange, or serve them at a family gathering or bring them to the office. It’s a never ending cycle of baking treats for someone else, so you end up with someone else’s cookies that you don’t even like, or even worse – inferior quality cookies.
Where’s the sense in this?
God forbid we actually eat all those darn cookies because we’ll gain 50 lbs, raise our cholesterol to the roof and bust a gut because we can’t help ourselves. Eating those wondrous sweets reminds us of the sweet moments of childhood when mom or grandma baked their specialties just for us out of pure motherly love.
Well, bah humbug, I say. I chose a long time ago to forgo the baking of fattening, unhealthy, high calorie, fat-laden Christmas treats. Because, well …. baking is stressful for me. Measuring, timing, greasing, stirring, sifting, dirtying 10 bowls, 20 utensils, burning the cookies and then ending up with a kitchen from hell because I’m famous for creating a mess with foodstuffs. And I hate cleaning even more than cooking!
In all honesty, I envy women (and men!) who enjoy the baking, do it patiently with their children, pass on a tradition and share their baking skills.
I confess that it is now less than a week before Christmas and I haven’t done any shopping. At all.
There is some small comfort in the news that millions of people wait until the last minute, but the stress of not having any gifts selected at this point in the swirling holiday maelstrom is eating me alive!
Things are moving too fast and there’s a real chance Christmas Day will arrive and when it comes time to exchange the presents, I will have nothing to give and will appear to be a selfish, thoughtless procrastinator.
But that’s not true! I think a lot!
I’m constantly flipping through the catalogs in my head, trying to match up appropriate items with important individuals. But it’s too late to order gifts online and there’s no guarantee that I’m going to find what I want when I finally get to a store. What if the colors and sizes I need are out of stock? What if the items themselves only exist in my imagination? They say it’s the thought that counts, but I can’t give people any of the frantic, desperate thoughts I’ve been having about Christmas giving – that would be cruel.
I can’t sleep, the colorful decorations seem bland and cheerless, and food has no taste. I worry that people will judge me harshly if my gift seems hastily chosen. And yet at this point, that’s the only kind of gift I can possibly buy.
I’m afraid I am bound to lose at the Game of Christmas.
Should I make a last ditch attempt to pull this one out, or just go to the bank now and ask for a wad of cash?
Ty M. Sup
I told Ty that he had already lost the moment he started to think of Christmas giving as a game. It’s not a game, it’s an obligation – like taking out the trash or paying your taxes. It is best to take this very, very seriously. At this point, the best strategy is to buy generic items from big stores where the items can be returned for something the recipient really wants. It’s almost the same as giving cash, but the fact that you chose something, lame as it is, provides a sufficient facade. The time to start planning for next year is NOW.
But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?
Trail Baboon 