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Helloooo, 24/7 Tech Support. I have a problem.
Isn’t that wonderful! A problem!
Yes. Now my problem is that I paid for a domain name and a website but I don’t understand how to log on.
Isn’t that wonderful! A problem!
Yes, but why isn’t my log on info working?
Oh. That’s really very simple. We’re going to send you an email containing a little poem. Just translate it and you’ll have your answer! That's all you have to do.
Translate? I’m monolingual.
Isn’t that wonderful! It’s really very simple. Good luck!
Hello, Tech Support. I used babelfish and translated the poem. I still can’t log on.
Isn’t that wonderful! But we need to advice you that you should have translated the poem while dancing the tango.
Oh! The tango. Okay! I’ll give it a shot.
By the way, could we interest you in additional inaccessible accounts while we have you on the line?
Okay, Tech Support. I am dancing the tango right now and using babelfish to translate the poem. I still can’t log on.
It’s really very simple. You can only dance the tango with the director of your nearest zoo! Good-luck!
Got the zoo director in my arms, babelfish at my fingertips and tango in my feet. Still can’t log on.
Isn’t that wonderful! We can’t assist you unless you have 12 toes.
Aren’t you the company who accepted my dollars? Who told me it was very simple?
Isn’t that wonderful! By the way, what else can we sell you today?
Imagine buying a new house. You shop and shop and research until you know exactly what kind of house you want. Then after touring what feels like thousands of houses, you find the one. The house is perfect. Nice neighborhood, cute sunroom, great yard. It just needs a little tlc. The price is comfortable. So you make an offer and finally sign the closing papers. It's yours. The realtor shakes your hand, pats you on the back, offers to sell this house when you are done with it, and you're on your way.
You stop at Home Depot, buy the paint, send out the change of address forms, invite the town over for a house warming reception. The moving van is loaded, friends are there to move the furniture in, and.... and..... and...
the keys don't work.
That's about where I am in revealing this little change concerning this blog. Everytime I unlock the door, I find another lock for which I don't have the key. But I love these tech support people, and we're going to get things worked out.
So stay tuned, we're almost in!
Paper:
Every once in a great while, our old newspapers fall off the shelf where they are stored. When that happens, we know it’s time to pack them up and take them to their new home: the recycle dumpster. I assure you, there's no altruistic motive in this. The papers simply take up too much space in our trash and the paper recycle dumpster is next to my daughter’s school. It works out nicely, and I always hope some neighbor sees me as I head off to recycle things.
Bottles:
We live in a state where we pay deposits on pop bottles. While many people simply drink and throw the bottle out, I am a bit too cheap to lose my money. So once our bottle basket gets full, it’s off to the store we go to return our bottles. I made $4.00 dollars yesterday. I only hope that those watching noticed that most of my bottles were diet pop.
Stewart:
Of all the members of this family, Stewart is the one who loves science class. He also really loves the Lord. Last week, Stewart came home from a school assembly where the topic was recycling.
In his words:
“Please, Mommy, please! We need to start recycling. The Earth needs this. I think God wants us to be responsible.”
Caution responds:
“I do recycle. Haven’t you seen me take the papers to the dumpster? Haven’t you helped me pack pop bottles?”
Stewart:
“That’s a good start. Do you know how long plastics and glass sit in landfills? If we recycle, we would reduce our trash in landfills by 2/3. Do you know it takes thousands of years to break down glass?”
Caution gets defensive:
“I do recycle. Haven’t you seen me take the papers to the dumpster? Haven’t you helped me pack pop bottles?”
Stewart:
“It would take just a little effort to become more responsible for our planet. You can order a recycle bin and it won’t cost any extra. Could we please, please, please do more to recycle?”
And so we witness the transition of Caution from messy, cheap mother to caretaker of the Earth. Thank-you very much, Mrs. Science Teacher. I am ordering the red recycle bin today.
As a loyal fan of the Waltons, I knew every character well. As the series limped through its final season or two, a new character was introduced. He was a wounded and shy suitor for cousin Rose. I silently cheered him on as he struggled to work through past hurts and win Rose’s heart.
So imagine my disappointment when I next saw Rose’s suitor on t.v. It was an ad and this time he was a wise, trustworthy, gentle medical professional telling me to shop at his pharmacy. And try as I might, I could not get beyond the fact that he was simply an actor. It was then that I decided I would never buy a product just because an actor told me to. Celebrity endorsements would mean nothing to me. As a matter of principle, I would avoid a product if a celebrity endorsed it. And I would not endorse a celebrity if they started hawking products. Period.
The next time I checked, I was a middle-aged mother and a passionate lover of Nascar. The engine-throbbing, tire-squealing sport was the only one Checkered and I had in common. And within a short-time, each of our kids had a favorite driver, too.
And that’s where the problem first emerged. Our daughter loves the driver, Dale Earnhardt, Jr. The problem? His major sponsor has been a beer, Budweiser. To be blunt: no one in this family is going to endorse any alcoholic beverage. Trying to find Dale Junior apparel without the Bud reference was an almost insurmountable task.
But things got better: this year he is driving for a new team and his new sponsors include Pepsi (Amp) and the National Guard. Now when we look for Dale Jr. clothing, if it is covered with references to his sponsors, we have no ethical trouble with. So much for my promise of seperating a celebrity from his/her endorsements.
Problem over? Of course not.
Checkered and I share a driver, Kasey Kahne. We like his blue eyes and curly hair his driving skills. It didn’t hurt either that he drove for a corporate sponsor near and dear to our pocketbook.
So we have Kasey Kahne hats, clothing, stickers, et cetera, all with reference to our favorite corporate sponsor. The new problem? Kahne’s sponsor changed this year.
You guessed it. He is now sponsored by Budweiser.
Oh, Kasey! Forgive us, but your sponsorship change may force us to find a new driver or at least stop buying your stuff. *sniff* *sob*
Hint #2
Hint #1:
I am a sucker for advertising. Put an ad on at 9 p.m. for carry-out, and guess what my family gets for dinner the next night?
Ads work in this house.
The problem I do have is with celebrity endorsements. Why would a musician or actor be a better judge of our country’s economic/social or international needs than anyone else? For that matter, why would a senator be a better president than a successful CEO?
Sorry, back to the point: I am a natural researcher. Give me a topic, and I will gladly lose multiple hours learning about it and evaluating it. Maybe that’s the reason I get frustrated when someone buys a product because a paid celebrity says he/she should.
But if I’m honest, my troubles with celebrity endorsements stem from my adolescent years. The Waltons never knew how much I loved them. I mean, I really, really loved them. I knew each character with his/her foibles. I knew their strengths, their temptations, their struggles.
I never did like John Boy with his self-professed moral and cognitive superiority.
The Walton I pined away for was Jason, who struggled in John Boy’s shadow. Jason, who had the real talent. Jason, who was forced to live with jug ears. After Michael (NOT Micky) from the Monkees, Jason was my second biggest “celebrity” crush.
The Walton girl I admired the most was Mary Ellen. She had nerve which outpaced her self-discipline and got her into lots of trouble. But the Walton girl I wanted in a friend was Erin. With her sweet, acquiescent spirit, she would have been the greatest friend I could ever have hoped for.
And where is this rhapsody over the Waltons taking us? Why straight to Nascar, of course. So fasten your seat-belt, strap on the helmet and join me for a quick lap tomorrow as we see how the Waltons could ever be tied to Caution’s perspective of Nascar.
Amanda over at www.shamelesslysassy.com has challenged us to share elements of our quirkiness. Taking the risk that you will never stop at this blog again, here goes:
1. I can't stand to eat or watch someone else eat cold ketchup. When I see my husband get the ice cold red bottle out of the fridge, I lose all respect for him.
2. I tend to focus on one eye of any person to whom I am talking. Then I feel bad and switch to the other eye.
3. I cannot read the newspaper unless all the sections are present and in order.
Though there might be a couple of more....I think it best to stop this post at this point :)
I think I need a counselor. You see, I can’t keep a hair stylist. They all eventually leave me. Sometimes they move. Sometimes they change careers. Sometimes they make me wait 8 weeks for a cut. Sometimes they die.
I find myself, on insomnia nights, wondering if they all are text messaging among themselves just conjuring up ways to lose me.
I like my hair short and I mean short. I don’t mean long-short. My ears like to be seen. I guess hair stylists like long-short and don’t feel the same way about my ears. I also used to be partial to my subtle gray, and that was obviously painful to the long list of women who have been entrusted with caring for it.
A couple of years ago, I had an epiphany. Well, something like that anyway. My mom announced that I looked like a man from behind. I presumed she meant the hair cut. About the same time, my then-stylist mysteriously quit.
Our conversation:
Caution: Why are you quitting?
Stylist: I’m …. sick.
Caution: How are you going to work full-time at your new job and go to
school if you’re so sick?
Stylist: Well, it’s not like you ever gave me complete control of your hair! It
was always short, gray, short, gray.
And that relationship ended.
I went to my friend, Exceptionally Cute Neighborhood Mom [ECNM], for advice. She sent me to Hillary, a very cute stylist young enough to be born after I graduated from college.
Hillary took charge and for two years we wrangled over hair length.
Our conversation:
Hillary: What are we doing today?
Caution: Cutting my hair short.
Hillary: No we’re not.
An adamant Caution: Okay.
But we were happy together! And yes, she took my virgin tresses and colored them. Nothing prepared me for the reaction to my new look. Clerks at the store admired my hair. My students interrupted grammar class to admire my hair. My, get this, pastor admired my hair. Never before has that happened. (Okay, that’s a lie. I once worked for a man who wanted one of his mistresses to cut her hair like mine. That didn’t go over so well.)
I was good looking!
And now Hillary has moved on to a more upscale salon with more upscale prices. It’s a bit of a longer drive than I want, too. I’m left with over-grown hair and dark roots. When I work through the grief, I’ll be back knocking on ECNM’s door looking for advice. Maybe she’ll know the name of a good counselor.
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Pam said:
Would never have pegged you as messy! You learn something new everyday! read more
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I loved the Walton's. I found a "Walton's Christmas" CD for my Grandma for Christmas this year.I have always wanted... read more
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