WISDOM Wednesday: Paying Attention !!

A story by Malati Marlene Shinazy

This was an evening made for paying attention.

I met my new fellow at a favorite restaurant overlooking the Pacific Ocean. We timed it so we could watch the sun set. I wasn’t just paying attention; my eyes were riveted to the horizon … Abundant clouds held onto the orange-to peach-to pale pink sky for quite some time after the sun disappeared.

Dinner followed. If you love love crab cakes like I do, you pay attention to whether or not they have a lot of fillers – or do they taste perhaps, like crab, as crab cakes should. These did, so I savored every bite.

No need to write about the entrée. It was flawlessly delicious, as expected.

Dessert – My favorite part of any meal, was a rich chocolate mouse, drizzled with dark chocolate syrup. My palate was at full attention. And, since my date was attentive to every smiling bite, I ate extra carefully.

                                                                                     

My date – This man was so gorgeous.  Sitting across the table, he was a visual dessert.  It was a challenge to pay attention to my dessert and not drool – over the man, not the chocolate mouse.

He and I chatted and gazed at each other for another 2-1/2 hours. Finally, though, time to depart… workday tomorrow.  No quick hugs tonight; these were romance novel kisses – Now I was paying attention to how perfectly he kissed and how perfectly I felt in his arms...

After scheduling our next date, I got into my new car.

New cars require paying attention too.  I needed to adjust the seat a little forward, a little higher, a little more tilt, a little more recline. Finally, it was ready -- A farewell wave to my dessert-man and I was off.

The road homeward is two-lane country highway. It undulates an ascent from sea level through the vineyards and pastures, eventually emerging at town’s edge.  With no moon and or traffic that night, it was totally dark. I leisurely enjoyed the drive, replaying the perfect evening in my mind –

day-dreaming in the night.

A single second later, however, Lights and Sirens make a swift U-turn behind me… Screaming onto me like I was driving an armed-robbery getaway car.  I pulled over anywhere, rolled down the window, put on my game face.

“Mam, do you know how fast you were going?”

I made up a reasonable sounding speed… paying attention not to sound guilty.

“No mam; I clocked you at 85 miles per hour, 30 miles over the speed limit.”

I so wanted to argue with the officer, but I knew in the pit of my stomach he was probably right.  I drove away with a $350 citation, traffic school and a probable insurance rate hike… 


If I hadn’t been paying attention earlier in my drive, I sure was now.

photo by Lel4nd

Pauline Shinazy, Artist

This story was written by Charles Blim       http://vasefinder.com/

In 2003, I received an email from Pauline Shinazy's granddaughter stating I was the only site on the web referencing her grandmother.  From my research, I showed Pauline exhibiting primarily in the San Francisco Bay Area. 

One of the exhibitions, where I discovered her name was at the prestigious 1956 Association of San Francisco Potters, held at the de Young Museum.  A few months after this initial contact with Pauline's granddaughter, we conducted this interview to explore her grandmother's interesting history, as a member of the American Studio Pottery Movement.

Pauline Shinazy came from a lineage of strong women.  Her grandmother left Paris, with no knowledge of the English language, to stake her claim in America.  It is no wonder that Pauline inherited these ideals of a liberated woman in a non-liberated era.  Pauline was born in 1900 in an area outside of San Francisco.  In 1910, after the family home was lost in a fire, Pauline's mother and aunt with the assistance of a handyman rebuilt their home. The main home had the craftsman or bungalow style, but over the generations, as the family grew, it was expanded, again and again.  It is uncertain when Pauline first decided to create, but her first medium of choice was oil painting.  In the mid-1930's, an unfortunate family accident led to Pauline's studio being destroyed.  From this accident, she moved to the medium of pottery.

Pauline never formally studied pottery-making at an art school, and like many of potters from the Movement, she experimented in the medium to reach very desirable results.  To create pottery, Pauline built a shed, where she kept a couple wheels of differing sizes and the necessary inputs to produce ceramic art.  She also mixed her own glazes.  Her pots were primarily functional in nature, and her granddaughter recalls using them for everyday life.  The family is uncertain of the output created by Pauline, and her work should be considered rare because she was not a production potter. 

Unless Pauline was going to a social event, she always wore trousers.  Although a very sociable person, Pauline typically only shared her process of creating with her family.  With six grandchildren, Pauline stirred the creative spirit in each of them and from speaking with her granddaughter; this spirit is as fiery as the day when it was introduced by Pauline many years ago.

She was a person who was always working with her hands. Pauline created pottery until the early 1960's, when she progressed into the medium of jewelry making.  She then ceased to create pottery.  She constructed a new addition to her pottery shed to separate her jewelry making from everything else.  It was this progression and dedication from medium to medium, which appears to be a common theme in her design. 

Although there was a period, where her work showed Native American influence, she created from a "sphere of vision," where her design represented a unique meandering of her translation from objects in nature and everyday life.  The jewelry making was particularly memorable for her granddaughter because of the interesting hunts for different stones in California and Nevada.  The trips to Lovelock, Nevada were especially poignant because they searched for a particular stone indigenous to this area of the Silver state.

It’s not only the quality of the art but also the quality of the person I have come to know from this interview.  For me, an artist that moves from medium to medium with a very smooth shift of the gears is what I consider a desirable and rare trait of a great artist. 

As a pottery collector, I feel lucky, that Pauline chose the medium of pottery at one point to express her creative will.  I know when I discover the first Shinazy signed ceramic piece for my collection that it will not only be a quality find, but a tangible sense of the magic she created.

http://vasefinder.com/

Charlie B. Gallery

200 E. Main St., Fernley, NV 

775.575.7333

Editing & photo by Shinazy

FOLLOWER Friday: Teething Biscuit Box

This story was written by Patti Isaacs

My husband, Gauss, and I were children of the sixties.  Like many other hippified college kids, we dabbled in dope.  We lived in sparsely furnished apartments where friends gathered in a circle, seated on the floor, and passed a joint.  Pleasantly buzzed and leaning on the wall for support, someone would say, drawing out the words, “Wow, man!  I’m wrecked.”  A moment later someone else would add, “Yeah…this is great!”

Mickey, one of the household cats, stuck his head into an open bag of Doritos in the middle of the circle. The bag got stuck and Mickey backed slowly around the room, shaking his head to dislodge it, sending us into fits of laughter.  Someone reached over to release Mickey from his crinkly foil prison. The cat bolted from the room and we settled down again.  It was great indeed.

Not that many years later, Gauss and I became parents.  We had given up marijuana before I got pregnant; it was time to be responsible adults.  Parenthood would be the next big adventure.  Now we sat in our living room on a proper sofa, reading The First Twelve Months of Life, month by month, hanging onto each milestone.  Month One: baby will smile!  Month Five: baby may start to roll from tummy to back!

When our son, Luca, was about six months old, his first tooth appeared.  Eager for the next chapter in the story of our young son’s life, we ran to the store to buy teething biscuits.  They came in a flimsy box that refused to open neatly.  After we extracted the first hard, finger-shaped cookie, the box was destroyed.  We would need an attractive container that would close tightly.

Gauss held Luca while I got up on the stepstool and examined the contents of my kitchen cupboard.  There, among the old Mason jars and Tupperware, was a little flower-painted tin, the perfect size and shape to accommodate teething biscuits.  When I brought it down from the high shelf, I realized it was not empty.  We opened it—our old stash box!

We gave each other rueful looks as I removed the contents—a cigarette roller and a pack of Zig Zag papers, a tiny brass pipe with a couple of spare screens, an empty Baggie, a book of matches—and tossed them in the garbage.  We tipped the box over and a couple of seeds rolled out into the wastebasket.  Laughing as I lowered the box into the sink for a thorough cleaning, Gauss and I knew we had officially grown up.

  To discover Patti’s other endeavors please click

 timetravelinchina.wordpress.com
http://parrotgraphics.blogspot.com/

photo by Patti Isaacs

WISDOM Wednesday: Whitney Houston - Inspired Contemplation

A  tribute written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

When I first heard Whitney Houston had died, I fleetingly thought, “Sad, another amazing talent has fallen to drugs.”  I had no evidence to support that thought.  I actually had no information at all.

Over the next 24 hours, however, my sadness deepened as I was deluged with non-stop broadcasts describing how her death impacted the music community, her family and fans … her vocal range and tonal purity and her struggle with drugs.

I decided to examine why I had such strong feelings over the death of a celebrity I didn’t even know.

Yes, “The Body Guard” is a favorite film.  Yes, years ago I downloaded most of her music.

Somehow, though, I my feelings related to Whitney Houston, The Person.  On the surface, our lives shared no semblance.  She was a singularly talented artist, a recovering addict, and a celebrity.

One layer deeper however, on the level of Person, she resembled many of us.  Her life was one of great capacity and noble challenges.  She was resilient.  She possessed unstoppable passion for her work and family.

We have lost a great talent – a younger member of our boomer generation.  So, how does that relate to me?  What have I gained from my exercise in contemplation?

Like Whitney Houston and many of us boomers, at all stages of the age spectrum, I see my life continuing to expand and deepen …Life is simultaneously more profound and joyous … serious and silly.

• The passion I have about my new business is more exhilarating than businesses I’ve launched in the past.

• My love is more than my heart opening.  It is multi-dimensional and felt at my core of my being.

• My community service is not simply a cluster of activities I “do.”  It is an integral part of me, who I “am.”

• My role as a mom, one I took seriously when my kids were young and actively needed me, has changed too.  I truly feel privileged when my young-adults ask for counsel or share a confidence.

Whitney Houston’s life gave me moments of song and tidbits of celebrity gossip.  In my contemplation of how I felt about her passing, I realized how wonderful it is to be fully engaged in life … 

Laughing, Crying, Loving and Sharing Wisdom with each other

Plus, I have this assignment to write stories for WISDOM WEDNESDAY – a forum for voicing all sorts of perception and insight.  It provides me an opportunity to continue to grow and learn from people everywhere – from folks of any age, culture, or rank in life.  Now how cool is that?  I get to be both sage and student.

Whitney Houston (1963 – 2012)

Singer, Actress, Mom and Person

  photo by Nathan B

Wonder Woman

    by Shinazy

Bummer . . . I thought I was Wonder Woman.

I come from a long line of Wonder Women, so of course I have this picture of myself.

The first Wonder Woman in my family was my great, great, grandmother, Julie Robinet.  As a single-young gal, she sailed to San Francisco from France.  She spoke no English; she knew no one.  She only knew there was opportunity in the post gold-rush-boom town and she was going to seize it.  A few years later, she was able to purchase acreage just outside the city limits.

Her daughters were born on that property.  As young adults, they built – hammered and nailed -- a two-story Craftsman style home.  They were two French lady-farmers living among Portuguese ranchers.  One of the daughters, my great-grandmother Julia Chaine, was a single parent, raising two daughters because she had banished their rowdy Irish father.  She instilled in her girls the same Wonder Woman spirit she gained from her mom.

Pauline (Gigs) Shinazy, the eldest daughter, my grandmother, was a Renaissance Wonder Woman.  She knew she was invincible and could conquer anything she encountered.  She was an accomplished painter until my father accidentally burned down her studio.  So, instead of crying she became a Studio Potter, making all the family’s dishes and vases until her hands worn out.  She made my poodle skirts from drapery material – thank you, Scarlet O’Hara.  Gigs made jewelry, faceted gems, grew prize-winning dahlias, canned fruit, camped in the desert, rode horses.  She explored various religions as they entered the mainstream.  When she converted to Judaism, she went to Israel during the Six-Day War and broke her arm taking pictures of Russian tanks that “…weren’t there!”  

Like her mother told her, she told me, “You can do anything, be any one.”  So, I decided that I, too, would be a Wonder Woman.

But, unlike the comics, sometimes Wonder Woman needs to reassess her conquering strategy. 

Can I really continue to fight evil forces, improve my Amazonian martial arts skills, be a supportive partner, run a business, hold my breath in Space, volunteer, write for BOBB, train for my last marathon, stop bullets with my bracelets, climb Half Dome, learn to scuba…?

Yes, Wonder Women are endowed with extraordinary strength, speed, and stamina but . . .   

Yesterday, this WW had to make a decision -- something had to be postponed.  It was a hard choice and I’m still a bit sad, but it was the right choice to make.  And I know I’ll feel better, soon.

Ok, I’ll be satisfied to be wonder woman . . . for a while.  Hey, I think it’s time for my Lasso of Truth lesson.

photo by rdeetz

Ode to Waxing Leg

This Ode was written by Bobbi Rankin

Bobbi's Legs in Maui

Legs, it's your turn....

your turn to do something you've never done before.

You faithfully have taken me to many places,

you've never let me down.

Yes, we've done much together.

Now it's your time,

your turn,

I'm going to wax you for the very first time!

Yes, can you believe it?

We’re going to Maui

the goal is to be smooth, soft and above all

hairless.

There again not wanting to be a slave to the razor,

familiar theme?

Every one of those pesky hairs will be gone by bedtime.

I've set it all up

I've exfoliated

I've dusted with cornstarch,

heated the wax,

sitting on the floor with newspaper all about

let’s get it done!

Ooouch!

Hot wax!

Ok, clam down and do the job,

can't see the backside of my legs…

apply, pull, pile the hairy wax out of the way.

I'm getting it,

actually pulling those hairy suckers out,

be gone you pesky hairs!

FINALLY

I think I'm done.

I jump up, elated, but oh,

I realize wax is still stuck to my legs

wax is under my fingernails

wax is on the floor.

AND what else do I see?

Hairs sticking up in defiance?

where are my tweezers?

After all the goal is to go to Maui with hairless legs

even if I have to pull ever last renegade out by hand!

Mission accomplished

the goal is completed,

now you smooth legs you can proudly carry me to Maui.

I think next time I'll pay to have this done....            

I'm off to bed.

Ooohhhhh ….the sheets feel so good against these hairless legs!    

photo by bobbi

TECH Thursday: How to Change your Facebook Cover Photo

     by Shinazy

Two weeks ago in the Tech Thursday story titled, Facebook Timeline Is Coming, I mentioned that my favorite word related to the Facebook Timeline was the word HOVER.

To create or change your Timeline Cover Photo - the big picture that splashes across the top of your page - you must HOVER in the area where the Cover Photo would appear.

• In the Cover Photo area you will see above the  Update Info Activity Log  a box that reads  Change Cover
• Click on the upside down triangle 
• You will then see
• 

• If you select  Choose From Photos, these are pictures you previously posted on Facebook  

OR

• You can select  Upload Photo, which should take you to where you saved all your pictures on your computer

Once you selected / uploaded the picture you want for your Cover Photo you can move your photo Up and Down to position how you want it to appear to your friends.

• Put your curser on your Cover Picture and hold down your mouse button, then move your mouse up and down, your Cover Picture should move

• Then click   Save Changes

Voila !    You now have a great big photo displayed on your Facebook Timeline.

Have fun with this feature.  I change my Cover Photo to match the picture used with each BOBB story.  So, if you watch my Facebook Timeline Cover Photo it will let you know a new story has been published on Bitchin’ Ol’ Boomer Babe  http://bobbblogg.blogspot.com/

Let me know if you need help with any of the Facebook Timeline features; I'm here to help.

photo by stoneysteiner

WISDOM Wednesday: Botox® to the Rescue!

  This story was written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

My mother had a few warnings that resonate continually in my mind like humming birds dive-bombing past my head on their way to the feeder:

#1.  If you laugh all day, you’ll cry all night!

#2. Put on sunscreen or you’ll end up looking like an old leather purse!

#3.  Keep frowning like that and your forehead will stick in that position!

Many of these warnings were meant to scare us children into one behavior or another, so we generally ignored her.  Little did I know, however, that genetics lends some credence to caution #3.

Recently, Shinazy, BOBB’s publisher and my sister, wrote a story proudly promoting the secondary use of various tapes for reducing frown lines.

“Ha!” I thought, suddenly envious, “Easy for you to say.”

“While we both inherited extraordinary breathtaking beauty and brilliant minds (place smile here); you inherited most of the best genes in our family“:

·         “You are the marathon-running-every-continent-on-earth sister.”

·         “I am the sister who, like our grandmother, trips over small twigs and pebbles.”

·         “You are the sister who has hardly-worth-mentioning salt-and-pepper hair.”

·         “I am the sister with super-wide silver streaks at my temples -- resembling a skunk ready to ruin everyone’s day.”

·         “And, while you can joke about those itty-bitty lines between your brows that you affectionately refer to as wrinkles,”

·         “My brow creases would need surgical retractors to hold them apart.”

I’m not sure my mother’s warning that my tendency to chronically worry and frown as a child, adolescent, young adult, and older boomer would force the corrugator supercilii and procerus muscles to fix into permanent contractions.

To me it hardly matters.  When my staff kept asking me if I were angry or upset upon arriving at the office first thing in the morning – after I’d had a great night’s sleep, peace-inducing meditation and a satisfying cup of coffee, I started my hunt for Botox® Cosmetic.

Now, periodically, I invest in a Botox® treatment -- the savior of genetically compromised sisters.  I advise the younger members of our family to entrust their foreheads only to professionals like a Registered Nurse at a Board Certified Dermatologist or Cosmetic Surgeon’s office --- I have found that these specialists unfailingly inject the Botox® in such a precise manner, it removes involuntary scowl lines, yet still enables me to animate my face -- unlike many celebrities we know who sport a fixed-expression countenance after their Botox® treatment.

And, I give thanks to all those scientists who discovered at least 20 medically critical uses for Botox® before they found its benefit for people like me, a boomer who wants to look happy and cheerful whenever I am happy and cheerful.

My sister may have a few genetic advantages.  I have Botox® Cosmetic.

_  _  _  _  _

Please Note: This story is the personal opinion of the writer. She was not compensated by any product or service provider. 

MUSIC Monday: Evolving Taste in Songs

This story was written by Toni Duldulao

I grew up during the 50s when Elvis was the King of Rock & Roll.  I knew all of the words to all of his songs and still do.  Good memory?  No, in those days it wasn’t hard because the lyrics were extremely repetitive.  After all, what is so difficult in remembering: “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, cryin’ all the time.” repeated at least four times in a twelve line song?  Thankfully, as I grew older my taste in music evolved too.

Post Elvis, Broadway musicals were being made into feature films.  I became a devoted fan of songs from West Side Story, The Sound of Music, My Fair Lady, and The Fiddler on the Roof.  Funny but I don’t remember the lyrics to my favorite songs.  It seems that that the older I become the less reliable is my memory.

There was a saying among my age group:  “If you remember the ‘60s you weren’t there.”  My problem is I do remember the ‘60s because I wasn’t there.  I was in the convent.  My songs in those days were religious ones in Latin.  I don’t remember those either.  Maybe it was divine providence that my taste in music gravitated toward the classics because it is usually just instrumental and without lyrics.

When I looked through the list of singers and groups from the ‘70s, and ‘80s I recognized names but couldn’t tell you what they sang.  Actually the only singers I really remember from that time are Barbara Streisand and Neil Diamond, but don’t ask me what were my favorite songs because I don’t remember.  Although I do remember Streisand singing some song with Neil Diamond complaining that he didn’t bring her flowers anymore.

What I can’t forget (and would like to) is later on there was a “new sound” called Punk Rock or Hard Rock and Rap.  “New sound?”  My heavens no, to me it was just awful screaming, instruments playing off key, and speakers turned up so high that the vibration moved them 5 feet with each beat of the “song.”

Now some sixty years later I have fun listening to an occasional Elvis, Streisand, Diamond, and classical music, but for the last few years my HEART HAS GONE COUNTRY.  Not long ago a friend asked me why I would listen to that “stuff.”  I don’t know but maybe it’s very similar to the old rock and roll AND I can understand the words being sung because they sing slower and use words and terms I understand.  However, other than the latest hit “Red Solo Cup” which is a repetitive song I don’t remember the lyrics except for the chorus…if I’m lucky.  

- - - - - - - - - - 

Toni,

 When I was 10 you introduced me to music  - you were crazy about Elvis. We sat in your room for hours watching the little black plastic circle go round and round on your new phonograph.  Now it ‘s my turn, let me introduce you to Everlast, a rapper whose music is influenced by the blues. Then there’s the Punk band, The Clash (they too have easy to remember repeating lyrics.) And, a favorite of mine, Metallica; their song ‘Bleeding Me’ is as soulful as any country tune.  Check out these bands on itunes and let me know what you think of the New Sound.

~  Shinazy, founder of BOBB

photo by shankar, shiv

FOLLOWER Friday: An Invitation to Write

   This story was written by Sheri Robinson

Ever since I can remember, a journal has been a major necessity in my life.  A collection of raggedy, spiral bound notebooks had to be on tap at all times.  Like toothpaste, toilet paper, and deodorant, it was something I could NEVER do without.  Over the years, the notebooks were upgraded to beautiful hard-bound journals of blank canvas – lined or not – that promised to receive - without judging or interrupting  - my every thought, prayer, emotion, dream, anxiety, fear, and yes, my actual tears.  They were filled to the brim . . . brimming over with “Me.”  They were frayed to the point of duct-tape and rubber band repairs.  They were cherished friends that I could always reach out to, any time of day or night.  And as the years rolled by, my journal “friends “ transcended from therapists to counselors to mentors to surveyors of dreams and platforms for voice and thought.

Though the pressures of motherhood  and career became more complicated, my eyesight not as sharp as years before, and my handwriting more time consuming and less legible,  my ever-present, ever changing thoughts, experiences, hopes, and dreams still continued to expand and fill my mind, dive-bombing in and out like birds attacking mosquito larvae in still pools of water. 

It became absolutely necessary to empty my head… before I changed another diaper, cooked dinner, finished that report, started another diet…before real life crowded into those sacred storehouses of “me,” and pushed them aside.  Eventually,  my journals transformed into “lists” scattered and hastily written on  random scraps of paper – old envelopes, the back of receipts, the inside of empty Double Mint gum wrappers – anything I could find within the contents of my purse. 

(As fellow multi-taskers can attest, there is nothing worse than the feeling that you were supposed to do…are supposed to do… something…really important…but you can’t remember exactly what it is because… you forgot to write it down; you simply stored it somewhere in your already-crammed memory files of to-do’s, tomorrows, and yesterdays.  It haunts you for minutes/hours/days until an unsolicited trigger – a smell, a sound, a random thought – jolts you into full remembrance of what that something is…or was.  The impact of that realization is like falling asleep on a bus, and the feeling of gratitude that comes when you wake up just before the driver arrives at your stop…or the sinking frustration of waking up after the driver has passed your stop…three miles ago.  I’ve had both the fortunate – and unfortunate - experience of both.) 

Soon, I found a neater solution: my journals became the virtual (but printable) pages of Microsoft Word, onto which I would pour both my thoughts and lists.  Keyboards replaced pens and pencils, and a thought that took 20 minutes to write down now only took a few tap-tap-taps...and viola!

Then Life changed…Again.  Fast forward to today.  At the present, the mental demands of a career do not compete for my full attention, and my multi-tasking has gone from cerebral.  (reports/meetings/filings) to physical (sewing/cleaning/unofficially designated carpool mom.)  As far as motherhood goes, one baby bird out the nest, one left to fly.  And all my lists…what lists?! 

I’m writing, again…armed with a host of new experiences and wisdom to fill at least a dozen journals. 

And, Babes, have I got some things to share with you!  Stay tuned!

photo by Rennett Stowe

WISDOM Wednesday: Recycling In The Days of Old

   This story was written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

When my oldest kids were in preschool and primary grades, many weekends were spent at the  playground, going up and down slides -- for hours. Then never missed a weekend.

They also never wanted to miss a periodic family ritual.  We lived in a part of the US that had just begun recycling.  Our recycling center consisted of four giant igloo-type structures placed dead center in a huge empty parking lot.  Two igloos said, “Glass.”  Two igloos said, “Newspapers.”

Going to the recycling center was an enormous undertaking.  We collected newspapers and glass bottles for weeks.  When we finally had sufficient quantity, we loaded all this stuff, two young kids and an infant into the station wagon.  We drove forever because our so-called recycling center was in the light industrial part of the closest Big City (not very close).

What was totally, 100% entertaining, however—and well worth all the effort it took to get there — was to watch my kids conduct the Recycling Ritual.  Those huge igloos were so tall, steps and a platform were built around them so that stalwart recyclers like our family could reach the 7” recycling hole at the top.

So, up my kids went, a glass bottle in each hand.  Then, poised oh so carefully over the 7” hole, they would take turns throwing a bottle, with all their might, into the igloo.  With the loudest, violent detonating blast of glass crashing onto glass, the bottles landed…  The kids would burst into peals of sustained laughter that were almost as loud as the recycling blasts!  It was contagious; even the baby would break into screaming laughter.

·         Bottle In!

·         Crash!

·         Explosion!

·         Three Children Scream With Delight! 

·         Second Bottle In!

·         Crash!

·         Explosion!

·         Three Children Scream Even Louder With Delight! 

And so it went, for clearly thirty minutes, while their dad and I struggled to stuff weeks’ worth of thick newspapers into itty-bitty igloo holes.

I have to admit, this was indeed an odd pastime for a young family that tried to eschew violence (with obvious varied degrees of success).

Recycling = Violent Explosions + Fun and Laughter

Today, even in the smallest hamlets, recycling has become quite civilized.  It is now pedestrian – and - thought-free.  Children interface with recycling by spending their weekends going up and down slides in playgrounds made of recycled flip-flops.  We fill up city-issued recycling containers, roll them to the curb and voila, away go the “office paper, newspapers, cardboard, phone books, magazines, aluminum & tin cans, glass & plastic containers (except polystyrene).”

Yes, gone are the days of schlepping station wagons full of a pack-rat’s bounty of newspapers and bottles to remote places to hear young children take primal pleasure in aggressive, and LOUD, planet-saving….  What’s totally perfect, however, is: 

This recycling story is now on Bitchin’ Ol’ Boomer Babe and gets to be recycled - forever.

photo by Malati Marlene Shinazy

       

Botox ‘n Duct Tape

  by Shinazy

Granddaddy was a practical and handy guy.  He believed there’s a simple solution to every problem and he applied his philosophy to repairing everything.  Even his gifts represented his viewpoint. 

When I graduated from high school he gave me a toolbox that contained his favorite tools: hammer, flathead and Phillips screwdrivers, and a roll of duct tape.  

He told me that the tape would become indispensible.  At age 17, I thanked him with a smile and when I turned my back, the first of many frowns appeared on my then uncreased, pre-botox forehead.

As the years passed, I carried duct tape everywhere – there is a roll in my car, a roll in my office desk, and another roll in my first aid kit.  It is at the top of my “Things To Pack” when I traveled.  I was thrilled when 3M released duct tape in colors so that some of my repairs could appear ‘fashionable’.  Duct tape is always within reach, so that I can mend the many worn and broken parts of my life.  Yes, duct tape will only patch my worn and broken stuff; the things that make me mad / sad are beyond duct tape’s effective adhesive ability.

And it‘s these mad-sad experiences, these unrepairable events that cause me to clinch my teeth, or droop the corners of my mouth – with the accompanying squeezing of my eyebrows.  When one is a Boomer, one has had decades of eyebrow squeezing resulting in an ever deepening cavern, otherwise known as a Frown Line.  (Here at BOBB we seem to be fixated on eyebrows, so it is no surprise that frown lines would eventually be addressed.)

Now, Granddaddy would not approve of the current remedy for frown lines – Botox – a neurotoxin botulism bacterium protein.  And, I would never tell him that I went for a Botox injection only to discover I’m Botox resistant, not just BXT-A, but also BXT-B.  Oh, joy!  I had no way to iron my frown lines.  When faced with a challenge I’m intrepid.  So, I tried Frownies that “Reverse the signs of aging – naturally!” skin smoother.  I was unable to get that little triangle to stay put, especially the pointy corners.  But they were sticky.  Ah, ha, sticky, what else is sticky?  Tape!  So, I tried Scotch Tape.  But it stuck to my pillowcase and hair better than my frown line. 

There is one final countermeasure – Duct Tape.  I have yet to try it, but I know Granddaddy would be proud that I’m thinking of applying his repair principal and he was right, Duct Tape is indispensable.

photo by Jim J

One only needs two tools in life: WD-40 to make things go, and duct tape to make them stop." ~ G. Weilacher

www.frownies.com

FOLLOWER Friday: The Cousins

  This story was written by Toni Duldulao

I give up!  The BOBB is my cousin and she has managed to get her sister, son, and friends to write something.  She didn’t ask me but I felt that someone has to represent this side of the family.  After all, I AM FAMILY!  She and Malati are my cousins.  Of course being the first born of our generation I always considered myself the older and wiser leg of “The Cousins”  but in reality I am just older…in fact three years older than the BOBB.

Family relationships can be a funny thing.  As children, we grew up during a time when families got together at Nana’s house for Sunday dinner.  While our parents…the brother, sisters, and spouses talked about whatever they talked about…my cousins and I would spend the day playing, running around the yard, and chasing each other up and down the stairs.  Unbeknown to us we were setting in stone a relationship that has been a lifelong one. 

On those Sundays, we could be who we were.  There were no pretensions.  There wasn’t a teacher or an adult telling us how to behave in a certain way.  Of course, our parents did raise us to be respectful to adults and of one another.  They didn’t have to tell us it was just expected and if we forgot, they would remind us.

Now when we do see each other there are the friendly family type greetings.  After a few minutes of “catching up” maybe followed by some quiet awkwardness, inevitably someone will say, “Do you remember when…?”  We would laugh bringing up other memorable incidents of our childhood Sundays and laugh our way back to those days.

Back then little did I know how precious those Sundays would become to me.  As adults, we rarely see each other because we live in various parts of the state.  In reality about the only time we do get together now is when some family member passes away.  Yet when we do see one another all it takes is tapping into that little Sunday memory of decades ago, then time and distance melt away and we become just “The Cousins” once again.

 photo by geezaweezer