Where’s your Tat?
I see on Facebook where a buddy of mine is showing off his new tattoo. I’ve wanted another one for some time now. Tattoo, I mean, not a buddy.
I’ve had a tattoo of a spider on my right calf since I was about 23 years old or so. And before you ask, let me say for the one trillionth time- yes, I know I have a spider on my leg. That was only funny once.
No, I take that back. That was never funny.
I must of had a reason for choosing to get a spider, but to tell you the truth I can’t really remember what it was. Like everything else I did when I was in my early 20’s, it’s either a little fuzzy or it doesn’t really make much sense to me now. I’m sure I was going through a tough time and it symbolized something to me. It’s ironic how something that seemed so dramatic to a 23 year old can seem so trivial when you turn 37.
Anyway, if I ever got another tattoo I wouldn’t know where to put it. I hardly ever go without a shirt- even at the beach- so to put one on my chest or my back would be a waste of money and ink. Nobody would ever see it.
I could get one on my forearms, but then it would be seen too much. There are times in a man’s life (What if I meet the President or someone else of importance?) when you don’t want to show off a tattoo. I don’t want to walk around in long sleeves in hot weather just to cover up a tattoo.
My buddy got a picture of barbed wire wrapped around his bicep. I don’t really have the guns for that anymore. Not that I ever looked like Popeye to begin with, but these days I look a whole lot closer to Olive Oyle when it comes to my upper arms.
Now let me stop right here and say something. I don’t want all you young fellas out there to read that last line and take it as an invitation to try and run up on me some day. This old bull might be a little older, but I still have enough horns to get the job done. Damnit.
Anyway, I’m not even sure what tattoo I would get if I found a place for it. I’m too old for barbed wire and things that make you look tough. I can’t pull that kind of stuff off anymore. And I’ve always thought that big murals and pictures of loved ones were a little too gaudy and obnoxious.
I guess I would get the names of my children or their initials or something. Speaking of my kids, I wonder if they will ever get tattoos? Once they move out, I mean. Their mother and I would never allow it until then, anyway.
I’m pretty sure my oldest daughter will at some point. All it would take is for one or two of her friends to get one, and she would follow the herd. I worry about her when it comes to that.
I know for a fact that my youngest daughter will get one because, well, that’s what people do in prison. And don’t “Oh, Shannon ” me. Everyone has that one kid that you just know is going to do some time at some point in their life. I hope I’m wrong but…
My son? I don’t know if my son has it in him or not to ever get a tattoo. He’s not the dramatic type, so I doubt he will ever feel the need to prove his toughness or make a statement with body art. Plus, he’d probably be too scared of the needles.
Well, maybe my youngest daughter will get enough tattoos for the whole family.
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Friday, June 18, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Ahh, lemonade
I love, love, love those times in parenthood when you are teaching a lesson and a circumstance comes up that proves to your child that you know what you’re talking about. It doesn’t happen very often- especially with me- but when it does you have to take full advantage of the situation.
Early last week my wife and I were giving our oldest daughter the “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade” speech. I can’t even remember the basis for the discussion now, but it was obvious she wasn’t buying it.
Well, my youngest daughter turned eight years old over the weekend and we were throwing her a party at our house Friday evening. She invited a few of her little friends to come swimming, and of course we were having a bunch of family over. (Because as you know, I’ve always said that the only thing I love more than a little family coming over is a whole lot of family coming over.) Anyway, my wife informed me that I was supposed to cook hamburgers for everyone like a good dad should do. Despite the 95 degree heat.
It just so happened that I was working out of town Wednesday and Thursday, so I got up at an ungodly hour Friday morning and drove half-way across Texas in order to get my work done and be home in time to cook for the party. Now before I go any further, I want to make sure you people understand the sacrifice that this took on my part. My alarm clock usually doesn’t even start working until 6:30 a.m. , so for me to already be on the road by then is a remarkably unselfish act of kindness and thoughtfulness. Rivaled only by war heroes, kidney doners, and point guards in an All-Star game.
And everything was going as planned, too. I got my work done as expected, and was heading back home with time to spare when the unthinkable happened. My work truck, which is three years older than the damn Flinstone-mobile, just flat out quit on me going down the road.
I mean I lost everything- power steering, brakes, gauges, etc. The engine was over heating, too. So I was two hours away from home on a Friday evening, sitting on the side of the road, with 5 o’clock starring me right in the face. Lemons, right?
I knew I could call someone from my office to come pick me up, but decided with the sun beating down on me, no working air conditioner, and my drinking water running low, that I had better try to nurse the truck to the nearest convenience store or something. Then we could see about getting a tow truck or sending me a ride.
Sure enough, about a mile down the road I spotted a little building with a few cars and trucks out front. A restaurant or something, I figured. When I muscled the steering wheel enough to get in the parking lot my eyes fell upon the most beautiful sign in the whole wide world- “Huffman’s Tavern”. Ahh, lemonade.
I took my duffle bag inside and changed into my shorts and flip-flops quicker than Clarke Kent in a phone booth hopped up on speed. Within seconds I was sitting in the cool shade of the awning outside and drinking a frosty cold beer, then another. Then I called my office and asked them to send me a tow truck.
There were a few more lemons along the way.
I had to wait another hour for the tow truck to show up (lemon). After a few beers in that heat, the ride home was a little bumpier than usual (lemon). And I didn’t make it in time to cook the hamburgers for my little girl (lemon).
I did, however, get there just in time to grab a couple of burgers that my wife’s uncle cooked- in 95 degree heat- straight from the grill.
See? Lemonade.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
I love, love, love those times in parenthood when you are teaching a lesson and a circumstance comes up that proves to your child that you know what you’re talking about. It doesn’t happen very often- especially with me- but when it does you have to take full advantage of the situation.
Early last week my wife and I were giving our oldest daughter the “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade” speech. I can’t even remember the basis for the discussion now, but it was obvious she wasn’t buying it.
Well, my youngest daughter turned eight years old over the weekend and we were throwing her a party at our house Friday evening. She invited a few of her little friends to come swimming, and of course we were having a bunch of family over. (Because as you know, I’ve always said that the only thing I love more than a little family coming over is a whole lot of family coming over.) Anyway, my wife informed me that I was supposed to cook hamburgers for everyone like a good dad should do. Despite the 95 degree heat.
It just so happened that I was working out of town Wednesday and Thursday, so I got up at an ungodly hour Friday morning and drove half-way across Texas in order to get my work done and be home in time to cook for the party. Now before I go any further, I want to make sure you people understand the sacrifice that this took on my part. My alarm clock usually doesn’t even start working until 6:30 a.m. , so for me to already be on the road by then is a remarkably unselfish act of kindness and thoughtfulness. Rivaled only by war heroes, kidney doners, and point guards in an All-Star game.
And everything was going as planned, too. I got my work done as expected, and was heading back home with time to spare when the unthinkable happened. My work truck, which is three years older than the damn Flinstone-mobile, just flat out quit on me going down the road.
I mean I lost everything- power steering, brakes, gauges, etc. The engine was over heating, too. So I was two hours away from home on a Friday evening, sitting on the side of the road, with 5 o’clock starring me right in the face. Lemons, right?
I knew I could call someone from my office to come pick me up, but decided with the sun beating down on me, no working air conditioner, and my drinking water running low, that I had better try to nurse the truck to the nearest convenience store or something. Then we could see about getting a tow truck or sending me a ride.
Sure enough, about a mile down the road I spotted a little building with a few cars and trucks out front. A restaurant or something, I figured. When I muscled the steering wheel enough to get in the parking lot my eyes fell upon the most beautiful sign in the whole wide world- “Huffman’s Tavern”. Ahh, lemonade.
I took my duffle bag inside and changed into my shorts and flip-flops quicker than Clarke Kent in a phone booth hopped up on speed. Within seconds I was sitting in the cool shade of the awning outside and drinking a frosty cold beer, then another. Then I called my office and asked them to send me a tow truck.
There were a few more lemons along the way.
I had to wait another hour for the tow truck to show up (lemon). After a few beers in that heat, the ride home was a little bumpier than usual (lemon). And I didn’t make it in time to cook the hamburgers for my little girl (lemon).
I did, however, get there just in time to grab a couple of burgers that my wife’s uncle cooked- in 95 degree heat- straight from the grill.
See? Lemonade.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Move!
Okay folks, enough is enough. I’ve tried staying quiet about this for a few years. Even when I brought it to someone’s attention as they messed up I did it in a nice, polite manner. But no more. It’s too hot outside, and I’m getting a little older- which means I’m getting grumpier and grumpier by the day.
So hopefully, for the last time, let me go over two more rules for you that are very, very important to remember. I’m going to use small words when I write this, so maybe it will be a little easier to make sense of for you.
When you are driving on a four lane highway- and that means that two lanes of traffic are coming toward you and two lanes of traffic are going the same way as you- it is very important to stay in the far right lane. You understand?
The only time you should ever be in the left lane- which we folks with jobs and places to go call the fast lane- is when you are passing someone. Look it up in your little Driver’s Ed. books or on the internet. And as soon as you have passed that car, guess what you are supposed to do? Move! Get back in the right lane. That little maneuver gets you out of my way, which in turn keeps my blood pressure down. Then there is no reason for me to daydream about slamming into the back of your car, or to flip you off when I finally get past you.
And I’ll bet a bunch of you are thinking that I’m picking on old people right now, but you would be wrong. I love old drivers. They usually drive ten miles under the speed limit, and stay in the far right lane out of everyone’s way. They aren’t trying to get anywhere anytime soon.
No, I’ve paid attention to the idiots who make me pass them on the right side (which would be the wrong side) and most of them are young drivers. Most of them have a buddy in the car and they are going over Justin Beiber’s latest video, or they are on their cell phones, talking or texting.
And hey, I’m not Oprah Winfrey. You can talk or text all you want while you drive, I don’t care. But the least you can do is write your phone number on the back window with shoe polish, so I can text you to move the Hell out of the way.
There is nothing more frustrating than trying to get somewhere when you are stuck behind a slow driver in the wrong lane. Well, almost nothing more frustrating. That leads me to this…
I live in a small town with a lot of little small streets. This time of year, when school is out and Little League baseball games are going on, children will be walking and riding their bikes all over town. And hey, that’s great. Most kids nowadays are bigger around than they are tall, so you want them to put the Cheetos and the video games down and get a little more exercise now and then.
But for God’s sake, would you talk to these little idiots and tell them to stay out of the damn street? Would you let them know that when they cross the street right in front of a car- so slow that you can actually hear their flip flops dragging the ground- that they are actually in the wrong. Because I swear, when you yell at them to “Move!” they look at you like you were the dumb one, every time.
Just the other day we were driving to one of my kids’ baseball games or something and three little thugs were walking side by side, taking up my half of the road.
When I refused to move over and forced two of them to jump out of the way just in time to avoid being hit, guess who had to listen to his wife fuss at him for three more blocks? That’s right, me. And I’ll explain it to you right now like a I explained it to her.
First of all, the fact that they were wearing their shorts down to their calves and the brim of their hats were all flat and tilted to the side got on my nerves anyway. God, I can’t wait for that to go out of style.
Secondly, I’m always in one of two vehicles- one of them is a very heavy work truck that makes a lot of noise and has a big huge ladder on top, and the other is very tall bright yellow jeep with big huge tires. Both of them are very, very easy to see coming. I don’t sneak up on anybody.
Call me crazy, but if a kid is old enough to walk or ride his bike on the streets by himself, then he should be old enough to understand to walk or ride on the side where he isn’t in the way. And if he finds himself in the way, then he should move- not me. I’m the one in the 2,000 pound vehicle.
All you have to do, parents, is tell them to move.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Okay folks, enough is enough. I’ve tried staying quiet about this for a few years. Even when I brought it to someone’s attention as they messed up I did it in a nice, polite manner. But no more. It’s too hot outside, and I’m getting a little older- which means I’m getting grumpier and grumpier by the day.
So hopefully, for the last time, let me go over two more rules for you that are very, very important to remember. I’m going to use small words when I write this, so maybe it will be a little easier to make sense of for you.
When you are driving on a four lane highway- and that means that two lanes of traffic are coming toward you and two lanes of traffic are going the same way as you- it is very important to stay in the far right lane. You understand?
The only time you should ever be in the left lane- which we folks with jobs and places to go call the fast lane- is when you are passing someone. Look it up in your little Driver’s Ed. books or on the internet. And as soon as you have passed that car, guess what you are supposed to do? Move! Get back in the right lane. That little maneuver gets you out of my way, which in turn keeps my blood pressure down. Then there is no reason for me to daydream about slamming into the back of your car, or to flip you off when I finally get past you.
And I’ll bet a bunch of you are thinking that I’m picking on old people right now, but you would be wrong. I love old drivers. They usually drive ten miles under the speed limit, and stay in the far right lane out of everyone’s way. They aren’t trying to get anywhere anytime soon.
No, I’ve paid attention to the idiots who make me pass them on the right side (which would be the wrong side) and most of them are young drivers. Most of them have a buddy in the car and they are going over Justin Beiber’s latest video, or they are on their cell phones, talking or texting.
And hey, I’m not Oprah Winfrey. You can talk or text all you want while you drive, I don’t care. But the least you can do is write your phone number on the back window with shoe polish, so I can text you to move the Hell out of the way.
There is nothing more frustrating than trying to get somewhere when you are stuck behind a slow driver in the wrong lane. Well, almost nothing more frustrating. That leads me to this…
I live in a small town with a lot of little small streets. This time of year, when school is out and Little League baseball games are going on, children will be walking and riding their bikes all over town. And hey, that’s great. Most kids nowadays are bigger around than they are tall, so you want them to put the Cheetos and the video games down and get a little more exercise now and then.
But for God’s sake, would you talk to these little idiots and tell them to stay out of the damn street? Would you let them know that when they cross the street right in front of a car- so slow that you can actually hear their flip flops dragging the ground- that they are actually in the wrong. Because I swear, when you yell at them to “Move!” they look at you like you were the dumb one, every time.
Just the other day we were driving to one of my kids’ baseball games or something and three little thugs were walking side by side, taking up my half of the road.
When I refused to move over and forced two of them to jump out of the way just in time to avoid being hit, guess who had to listen to his wife fuss at him for three more blocks? That’s right, me. And I’ll explain it to you right now like a I explained it to her.
First of all, the fact that they were wearing their shorts down to their calves and the brim of their hats were all flat and tilted to the side got on my nerves anyway. God, I can’t wait for that to go out of style.
Secondly, I’m always in one of two vehicles- one of them is a very heavy work truck that makes a lot of noise and has a big huge ladder on top, and the other is very tall bright yellow jeep with big huge tires. Both of them are very, very easy to see coming. I don’t sneak up on anybody.
Call me crazy, but if a kid is old enough to walk or ride his bike on the streets by himself, then he should be old enough to understand to walk or ride on the side where he isn’t in the way. And if he finds himself in the way, then he should move- not me. I’m the one in the 2,000 pound vehicle.
All you have to do, parents, is tell them to move.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
We fix weedeaters and screen doors
I’ve got this neighbor, let’s call him Jack. His name really isn’t Jack, but I forgot to ask if I could use his real name and I’m writing this column at 4:30 in the morning, so we’ll have to go with Jack for now.
Anyway, Jack is one of these guys that can make, build and fix anything he puts his hands on. Seriously, he’s like “Bob the Builder” on steroids. And it’s ticking me off. First he did a whole bunch of cool stuff to the yard, then he re-roofed the house, now he’s adding on another room- all by himself. And it looks like a professional carpenter did it.
The bad thing is that my wife and my mother-in-law make hurtful little comments all the time, like “Look at Jack, he sure knows what he is doing over there,” and “Boy, Jack is coming right along with that new room, all by himself.”
What they are really saying is “Dang Shannon, Jack can do all this stuff around the house, and meanwhile your daughters can’t shut the door to their bedroom because it might not open again without a butter knife. And you can’t do anything about it.”
Oh I’ve tried to be the guy who fixes things around the house, it’s just not me. I re-roofed the little house where we used to live, and we ended up with a foot-sized whole in our bedroom ceiling. I’ve replaced the doorknob to our daughters’ room twice, and both times I somehow locked myself on the wrong side of the door. I even started painting our dining room, until my wife told me to just get out of the way and let her finish it.
Tell you what, though. I might have finally turned the corner and gained a little ground on Jack. A few weeks ago we had about 300 kids over here playing in our yard. Actually, it was closer to seven or eight kids, but it seemed like 300. Anyway, one of them somehow pulled the screen door off it’s hinges. Don’t ask me how, but one of the hinges was literally torn right in half.
By the grace of God, I somehow replaced the hinges and got the screen door back to where it actually opens and shuts like it is supposed to. Well, almost like it’s supposed to- it kind of sticks just a little bit when you close it. But it still ended up way closer to being right than I figured it would when I started.
My wife actually clapped her hands and gave me a high five.
Then one day I was using my weedeater when it stopped working. I mean it just quit. It was working fine ten minutes earlier, then it just decided to stop altogether. So I smashed it against a tree and threw it on the ground a couple of times until it broke into pieces. And it you’ve ever used a weedeater in 90 degree heat when it stopped working you don’t blame me a bit.
Well, rather than buy a new one I took three broken weedeaters into my shed and came out a couple of hours later with one semi-working weedeater. I even used it for a few minutes in my yard. This time, the whole family lined up and gave me a standing ovation.
There’s no stopping me now. I’m thinking about putting a sign out here on my shed. “Scasta & Son Household Repair- we fix weedeaters…and screen doors”.
Who knows? I might even give ol’ Jack a job if he can hang with me.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
I’ve got this neighbor, let’s call him Jack. His name really isn’t Jack, but I forgot to ask if I could use his real name and I’m writing this column at 4:30 in the morning, so we’ll have to go with Jack for now.
Anyway, Jack is one of these guys that can make, build and fix anything he puts his hands on. Seriously, he’s like “Bob the Builder” on steroids. And it’s ticking me off. First he did a whole bunch of cool stuff to the yard, then he re-roofed the house, now he’s adding on another room- all by himself. And it looks like a professional carpenter did it.
The bad thing is that my wife and my mother-in-law make hurtful little comments all the time, like “Look at Jack, he sure knows what he is doing over there,” and “Boy, Jack is coming right along with that new room, all by himself.”
What they are really saying is “Dang Shannon, Jack can do all this stuff around the house, and meanwhile your daughters can’t shut the door to their bedroom because it might not open again without a butter knife. And you can’t do anything about it.”
Oh I’ve tried to be the guy who fixes things around the house, it’s just not me. I re-roofed the little house where we used to live, and we ended up with a foot-sized whole in our bedroom ceiling. I’ve replaced the doorknob to our daughters’ room twice, and both times I somehow locked myself on the wrong side of the door. I even started painting our dining room, until my wife told me to just get out of the way and let her finish it.
Tell you what, though. I might have finally turned the corner and gained a little ground on Jack. A few weeks ago we had about 300 kids over here playing in our yard. Actually, it was closer to seven or eight kids, but it seemed like 300. Anyway, one of them somehow pulled the screen door off it’s hinges. Don’t ask me how, but one of the hinges was literally torn right in half.
By the grace of God, I somehow replaced the hinges and got the screen door back to where it actually opens and shuts like it is supposed to. Well, almost like it’s supposed to- it kind of sticks just a little bit when you close it. But it still ended up way closer to being right than I figured it would when I started.
My wife actually clapped her hands and gave me a high five.
Then one day I was using my weedeater when it stopped working. I mean it just quit. It was working fine ten minutes earlier, then it just decided to stop altogether. So I smashed it against a tree and threw it on the ground a couple of times until it broke into pieces. And it you’ve ever used a weedeater in 90 degree heat when it stopped working you don’t blame me a bit.
Well, rather than buy a new one I took three broken weedeaters into my shed and came out a couple of hours later with one semi-working weedeater. I even used it for a few minutes in my yard. This time, the whole family lined up and gave me a standing ovation.
There’s no stopping me now. I’m thinking about putting a sign out here on my shed. “Scasta & Son Household Repair- we fix weedeaters…and screen doors”.
Who knows? I might even give ol’ Jack a job if he can hang with me.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
"Friend”ly reminder
My wife and I went out to eat the other night, and as we walked past a table of guys eating dinner one of them looked up and said hello to me. He used my name, so I knew that we had met before- I just didn’t know where. Without even waiting for me to ask who it was, my wife filled me in on how I knew the guy.
That’s funny to me, that she has to do that all the time. A lot of people are terrible with names, but I’m way beyond that. I forget names and faces. I forget friends. I forget family members. Hell, my kids have to wear name tags half the time.
And I have no idea why I’m like that. I mean, I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’m getting older, but I don’t think that is the whole reason either. I say that because I can still remember old addresses where I used to live, old telephone numbers, old t.v. shows and commercials, etc.
I can tell you that Michael Jordan came into the NBA in 1984, led the league in scoring ten times, had a scoring average of 31.5 points per game, and was named to the All-Defensive team nine times. But I can’t give you five names from my daughter’s softball team.
I can tell you that when I was seven years old my grandfather kept a bag of bite-sized Snickers under the seat of his red and black GMC pickup, but if you ask me the names of my wife’s co-workers I wouldn’t get past “Um…”.
I can remember every word from the book “A Separate Peace”, and recall deer hunting stories from Edwin Cooper’s column that he wrote five years ago. Yet my wife has to remind me what we have planned for the coming weekend five times.
I told you all that to tell you this. Sometimes when I’m at work I’ll have a few minutes to spare so I’ll play a game or look at Facebook on my phone. And every now and then, not often, someone will ask to be my friend on Facebook.
Now, let me tell you that I have right at 300 “friends” on Facebook. I know who about 20 of them are. What happens is that when someone sends a request, I go ahead and confirm it. Then every so often my wife will go through the list with me and re-remind me who everyone is.
Well, the other day I checked my phone and saw that two or three people requested that I “friend” them. I read the names, and as usual they sounded familiar but nothing special jumped out at me. So without thinking twice about it I went ahead and confirmed everyone on the list.
Ten minutes later my wife called me laughing so hard she could barely talk. I had confirmed the friendship of some porn sight, and everyone reading Facebook at the time saw that “ Shannon is now friends with so and so”. My wife didn’t recognize the name, so she looked at this lady’s profile and came across some pretty racy photos and comments. She said she knew it was a mistake, because I’m too old and out of shape to even think about doing some of the stuff this lady was suggesting we do together.
Well, all I can say is that’s one name and story I won’t be forgetting for a while. My wife will make sure of that, I’m afraid.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
My wife and I went out to eat the other night, and as we walked past a table of guys eating dinner one of them looked up and said hello to me. He used my name, so I knew that we had met before- I just didn’t know where. Without even waiting for me to ask who it was, my wife filled me in on how I knew the guy.
That’s funny to me, that she has to do that all the time. A lot of people are terrible with names, but I’m way beyond that. I forget names and faces. I forget friends. I forget family members. Hell, my kids have to wear name tags half the time.
And I have no idea why I’m like that. I mean, I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’m getting older, but I don’t think that is the whole reason either. I say that because I can still remember old addresses where I used to live, old telephone numbers, old t.v. shows and commercials, etc.
I can tell you that Michael Jordan came into the NBA in 1984, led the league in scoring ten times, had a scoring average of 31.5 points per game, and was named to the All-Defensive team nine times. But I can’t give you five names from my daughter’s softball team.
I can tell you that when I was seven years old my grandfather kept a bag of bite-sized Snickers under the seat of his red and black GMC pickup, but if you ask me the names of my wife’s co-workers I wouldn’t get past “Um…”.
I can remember every word from the book “A Separate Peace”, and recall deer hunting stories from Edwin Cooper’s column that he wrote five years ago. Yet my wife has to remind me what we have planned for the coming weekend five times.
I told you all that to tell you this. Sometimes when I’m at work I’ll have a few minutes to spare so I’ll play a game or look at Facebook on my phone. And every now and then, not often, someone will ask to be my friend on Facebook.
Now, let me tell you that I have right at 300 “friends” on Facebook. I know who about 20 of them are. What happens is that when someone sends a request, I go ahead and confirm it. Then every so often my wife will go through the list with me and re-remind me who everyone is.
Well, the other day I checked my phone and saw that two or three people requested that I “friend” them. I read the names, and as usual they sounded familiar but nothing special jumped out at me. So without thinking twice about it I went ahead and confirmed everyone on the list.
Ten minutes later my wife called me laughing so hard she could barely talk. I had confirmed the friendship of some porn sight, and everyone reading Facebook at the time saw that “ Shannon is now friends with so and so”. My wife didn’t recognize the name, so she looked at this lady’s profile and came across some pretty racy photos and comments. She said she knew it was a mistake, because I’m too old and out of shape to even think about doing some of the stuff this lady was suggesting we do together.
Well, all I can say is that’s one name and story I won’t be forgetting for a while. My wife will make sure of that, I’m afraid.
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Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Let them work
A few things drove me crazy this week. The older and grumpier I get, the more that happens to me.
This whole immigration thing in Arizona is one of them. Arizona passed a law that says authorities can stop and question a person who they suspect of being an illegal alien. It doesn’t say they are going to stop a thousand people a day, or that they are going to racially profile anyone. It just says that they have the right to stop and question someone.
And now, of course, everyone in America is mad at the officials in Arizona , claiming they are insensitive and racist. People are marching and gathering together, actors and famous people are chiming in, even Major League Baseball is putting their two cents in.
You know who isn’t complaining, though? Most of the people of Arizona . And Arizona Border Patrol agents. And Arizona law enforcement officials who, by the way, I’m guessing are made up of Mexican Americans for the most part. I say that because I spend a pretty good bit of time in deep, deep South Texas by the border. And at least eighty percent of the law officers and Border Patrol agents that I see are Hispanic.
So I doubt they will abuse their privileges much at all. This law is probably more about curbing the drug flow, and keeping some of the violence that is happening on the other side of the border from coming over.
I really don’t see what’s so hard about it. If you get pulled over, pull out your card and show them that you are here legally. What’s so hard about that?
Sunday, the show “60 Minutes” had another story about immigration. Some company had a big canal built a few years back that carries water to all of the farming communities in southern California . The farming communities employ a lot of illegal immigrants to do the work in the fields, but on the way there a whole lot of immigrants are drowning in the canal. Something like six hundred in the last few years.
Listen, there is no way to say this without sounding insensitive- but so what? The reporter for “60 Minutes” made the company that built the canal sound like the criminal because they wouldn’t put safety features in the canal. It’s like they are telling someone to tie up their vicious dog so it wouldn’t bite anyone who breaks into their house.
Stories like this one, and the Arizona law that I talked about earlier, always forget to mention one thing. The people who are coming here illegally are breaking the law. Plain and simple, they are doing something illegal and that makes them criminals.
I’m all for people coming to this country to better themselves. This country was built from the work of immigrants, and we owe them a great deal. I can think of nothing harder than leaving my family for long periods at a time in order to make a better life for them. But nobody is telling them to come here illegally. We have laws and ways to help people come here the right way.
Listen, in the 50’s and 60’s, it wasn’t that big of a deal. But drugs and 9/11 changed all of that. Because law enforcement got so tough around Miami , most of the cocaine from Columbia now goes through Mexico . And the cartels there make their money from shipping it north to the U.S.
And I’m pretty positive that I read somewhere that almost every one of the terrorists of 9/11 came through Mexico to get here also, which is another reason that the Border Patrol needs all the help they can get.
The truth is, yes, I guess at some point some American citizen might feel like they are harassed just a little. But I’ve said a thousand times, you don’t hire Clint Eastwood to come clean up your town, then get mad when he shoots someone. We are asking the Border Patrol and law officials in border towns to do an impossible job, so let’s shut up and get out of their way so they can do it.
It’s just funny to me that the people who are holding rallies and doing all the fussing are from Washington , Austin , San Francisco , etc. Those people don’t have to live in Arizona , or protect their border.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
A few things drove me crazy this week. The older and grumpier I get, the more that happens to me.
This whole immigration thing in Arizona is one of them. Arizona passed a law that says authorities can stop and question a person who they suspect of being an illegal alien. It doesn’t say they are going to stop a thousand people a day, or that they are going to racially profile anyone. It just says that they have the right to stop and question someone.
And now, of course, everyone in America is mad at the officials in Arizona , claiming they are insensitive and racist. People are marching and gathering together, actors and famous people are chiming in, even Major League Baseball is putting their two cents in.
You know who isn’t complaining, though? Most of the people of Arizona . And Arizona Border Patrol agents. And Arizona law enforcement officials who, by the way, I’m guessing are made up of Mexican Americans for the most part. I say that because I spend a pretty good bit of time in deep, deep South Texas by the border. And at least eighty percent of the law officers and Border Patrol agents that I see are Hispanic.
So I doubt they will abuse their privileges much at all. This law is probably more about curbing the drug flow, and keeping some of the violence that is happening on the other side of the border from coming over.
I really don’t see what’s so hard about it. If you get pulled over, pull out your card and show them that you are here legally. What’s so hard about that?
Sunday, the show “60 Minutes” had another story about immigration. Some company had a big canal built a few years back that carries water to all of the farming communities in southern California . The farming communities employ a lot of illegal immigrants to do the work in the fields, but on the way there a whole lot of immigrants are drowning in the canal. Something like six hundred in the last few years.
Listen, there is no way to say this without sounding insensitive- but so what? The reporter for “60 Minutes” made the company that built the canal sound like the criminal because they wouldn’t put safety features in the canal. It’s like they are telling someone to tie up their vicious dog so it wouldn’t bite anyone who breaks into their house.
Stories like this one, and the Arizona law that I talked about earlier, always forget to mention one thing. The people who are coming here illegally are breaking the law. Plain and simple, they are doing something illegal and that makes them criminals.
I’m all for people coming to this country to better themselves. This country was built from the work of immigrants, and we owe them a great deal. I can think of nothing harder than leaving my family for long periods at a time in order to make a better life for them. But nobody is telling them to come here illegally. We have laws and ways to help people come here the right way.
Listen, in the 50’s and 60’s, it wasn’t that big of a deal. But drugs and 9/11 changed all of that. Because law enforcement got so tough around Miami , most of the cocaine from Columbia now goes through Mexico . And the cartels there make their money from shipping it north to the U.S.
And I’m pretty positive that I read somewhere that almost every one of the terrorists of 9/11 came through Mexico to get here also, which is another reason that the Border Patrol needs all the help they can get.
The truth is, yes, I guess at some point some American citizen might feel like they are harassed just a little. But I’ve said a thousand times, you don’t hire Clint Eastwood to come clean up your town, then get mad when he shoots someone. We are asking the Border Patrol and law officials in border towns to do an impossible job, so let’s shut up and get out of their way so they can do it.
It’s just funny to me that the people who are holding rallies and doing all the fussing are from Washington , Austin , San Francisco , etc. Those people don’t have to live in Arizona , or protect their border.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Smart phone, dumb owner
The thing about these smart phones is that they are, well, smarter than I am. Anytime that I need to do something with mine- download a song, get a newer version of the software, etc- my wife has to do it for me. I’m just too dumb, period.
And getting my wife to do things like that for me isn’t always easy, because she is a busy woman. She works a full time job, takes three kids to baseball and softball practice just about every day, helps with homework, cooks, cleans, and all of that.
Oh I help her with taking the kids to practice and stuff whenever I can, but mostly she just tells me to stay out of the way. She doesn’t even let me anywhere near the kids’ homework.
So anyway, my phone was giving me a little bit of trouble last week. The music player part wasn’t working, and that was driving me crazy. I depend on that thing a pretty good bit when I’m working, because it somehow helps keep me focused on what I’m doing. Without it I start daydreaming, or thinking too much, or something.
I finally got my wife to take a few minutes out of her busy schedule to help me out with the phone. I had already called the phone place, and they told me to plug it up to my computer and sync it with something, or download something, or something. I don’t know.
Well when she finally got to messing with the phone, it was about 11 p.m. Now, let me say something about my wife here. She might do a lot of things and stay pretty busy during the day, but once the sun goes down she’s done. I don’t believe she’s seen the clock turn midnight since we were dating.
So I knew I was taking a chance on her doing anything to my phone that late at night, but I was in a Catch-22. If I let her mess with it, I was risking the life of my phone. But if I pointed out to her that she doesn’t do well that late at night, I was risking my own life. And, she would never help me with my phone again. And, my music player still wouldn’t work. So I bit my tongue and let her work.
Sure enough, a few minutes later she came and told me that not only did the music player work, but she had also lost all of my applications and my contacts.
“Let me get this straight,” I told her. “You are saying that a few minutes ago I had a whole bunch of phone numbers in my phone, and now I have zero. Is that about right?”
“Yes, I’m sorry” she said- while she yawned. “I’ll mess with it again when I can. If nothing else, you can copy them from my phone.”
The problem with that logic (I thought to myself but didn’t have the guts to tell her) is that I couldn’t care less if I lost Aunt Whatever or Cousin What’s His Name’s number. She has probably 50 family and friends on her phone. I’ve got like three family members and friends, total. I can fit their numbers on the palm of my hand if I have to. What I have in my phone- or, what I had in there before Sleeping Beauty got hold of it, was about 200 contacts.
Real people’s numbers. People that I need to talk to about work, or sports, or something important. Not what kind of casserole we are bringing to a dadgum birthday party. So no, sweetie, I don’t think I can copy the numbers from your phone.
Like I said, though, I didn’t really tell her that. My phone can’t wash my clothes or cook me dinner.
The next day I took my phone to the phone store and got a new one. I explained to the guy what happened, what my wife did, and so on. He wrote down what all I should do and sure enough, when I got home I plugged in my phone and got all my contacts back.
Even Aunt Whatever and Cousin What’s His Name.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
The thing about these smart phones is that they are, well, smarter than I am. Anytime that I need to do something with mine- download a song, get a newer version of the software, etc- my wife has to do it for me. I’m just too dumb, period.
And getting my wife to do things like that for me isn’t always easy, because she is a busy woman. She works a full time job, takes three kids to baseball and softball practice just about every day, helps with homework, cooks, cleans, and all of that.
Oh I help her with taking the kids to practice and stuff whenever I can, but mostly she just tells me to stay out of the way. She doesn’t even let me anywhere near the kids’ homework.
So anyway, my phone was giving me a little bit of trouble last week. The music player part wasn’t working, and that was driving me crazy. I depend on that thing a pretty good bit when I’m working, because it somehow helps keep me focused on what I’m doing. Without it I start daydreaming, or thinking too much, or something.
I finally got my wife to take a few minutes out of her busy schedule to help me out with the phone. I had already called the phone place, and they told me to plug it up to my computer and sync it with something, or download something, or something. I don’t know.
Well when she finally got to messing with the phone, it was about 11 p.m. Now, let me say something about my wife here. She might do a lot of things and stay pretty busy during the day, but once the sun goes down she’s done. I don’t believe she’s seen the clock turn midnight since we were dating.
So I knew I was taking a chance on her doing anything to my phone that late at night, but I was in a Catch-22. If I let her mess with it, I was risking the life of my phone. But if I pointed out to her that she doesn’t do well that late at night, I was risking my own life. And, she would never help me with my phone again. And, my music player still wouldn’t work. So I bit my tongue and let her work.
Sure enough, a few minutes later she came and told me that not only did the music player work, but she had also lost all of my applications and my contacts.
“Let me get this straight,” I told her. “You are saying that a few minutes ago I had a whole bunch of phone numbers in my phone, and now I have zero. Is that about right?”
“Yes, I’m sorry” she said- while she yawned. “I’ll mess with it again when I can. If nothing else, you can copy them from my phone.”
The problem with that logic (I thought to myself but didn’t have the guts to tell her) is that I couldn’t care less if I lost Aunt Whatever or Cousin What’s His Name’s number. She has probably 50 family and friends on her phone. I’ve got like three family members and friends, total. I can fit their numbers on the palm of my hand if I have to. What I have in my phone- or, what I had in there before Sleeping Beauty got hold of it, was about 200 contacts.
Real people’s numbers. People that I need to talk to about work, or sports, or something important. Not what kind of casserole we are bringing to a dadgum birthday party. So no, sweetie, I don’t think I can copy the numbers from your phone.
Like I said, though, I didn’t really tell her that. My phone can’t wash my clothes or cook me dinner.
The next day I took my phone to the phone store and got a new one. I explained to the guy what happened, what my wife did, and so on. He wrote down what all I should do and sure enough, when I got home I plugged in my phone and got all my contacts back.
Even Aunt Whatever and Cousin What’s His Name.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
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