Use Your Wisdom

Jack Whittacker, winner of a $315M Powerball prize ($113M after taxes) in December of 2002, claims his money is gone. In just over 4 years he is supposedly broke. According to him, thieves stole his money after gaining access to his bank accounts and cashing a series of checks. First of all, who keeps that kind of money in a checking account? Second of all, what bank is going to let checks large enough to bleed this man of his fortune simply go through without a question? There are definitely some holes in this man’s story. Do I doubt the money is gone? Not entirely. Is it possible thieves played a hand in his circumstance? Sure. This man has been in the news quite a bit as a result of some of the circles he travels in. Relatives have died of drug overdoses. He himself has made headlines for his gambling and alcohol usage. Making good choices does not appear to be a habit for him.

Still, $113M is a lot of money. To imagine how a man wearing Wrangler jeans and a plaid shirt could have gone through that many Ben Franklins is impossible. Where did it all go? He must have some assets as a result of his fortune he could translate into cash. Perhaps he bought some real estate, a few cars, fancy paintings or statues that could be sold for money. Please tell me it wasn’t all lost to drugs, alcohol, thieves and gambling. If it’s true, the man is not only broke, he’s broken.

I’d like to believe if I ever found myself dripping in dollars that I’d make better choices and preserve some sort of financial security for myself. As for Jack Whittaker, what’s done is done. The best he can do is check under the couch cushions in the hopes money fell from his pockets when they were still thick with bills and coins.

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All of my means of communication have been hijacked! As a rough guess, 70 percent of my postal mail, email, phone calls and such are unsolicited junk. Pop up ads are all over my favorite internet hang outs. Robots are attempting to post on my blog page to tell me about amazing ways to make money. Where does it all come from and when will it all end? Don’t the people generating this garbage have better uses of their time and money? Aren’t they also irritated by the amount of spam they are forced to deal with on a daily basis? Thank God we aren’t all telepathic and having to ward off junk thoughts.

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We’ve seen it countless times. A person with a cigarette is approaching a building and needs to get rid of their tobacco tube. On the ground it goes. This drives me insane. It is doubly irritating if there is indeed a trash can with an ashtray top near by. I at least have some tolerance for those wise enough to stomp it out. Those who allow the burning wand to simply roll in the wind really get my dander up. I have chased many a cigarette in an attempt to give it the squashing it rightfully deserves.

The cigarettes I can’t chase and terminate are those tossed from car windows. Boy, what a blood boiler. I have yet to see a car that does not come with an ashtray. When sparks fly out of the car in front of me and dance over my windshield, I just want to speed ahead and give that person a finger shaking. (Don’t worry. I’m strictly a ‘pointer finger’ kind of girl.) How thoughtless can a person be to throw a burning object out the window to who knows where? Do they have some psychic ability that allows them the confidence their cigarette won’t be the beginnings of a raging fire?

I’m not trying to pick on smokers in general. There are those who are very responsible with how they dispose of their butts. They realize the habit is their own and cleaning up after that habit rests on their shoulders. There is simply no way for others to accommodate the needs of smokers at all times. Businesses can’t line their parking lots with ashtrays. Transportation agencies can’t build drive thru cigarette disposal booths every 5 miles. Having a plan for keeping one’s butt off of the ground is the only solution.

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Have you noticed the trend for commercials to be as annoying as possible so you are more likely to remember them? One is the Head On commercial. Have you heard it yet? “Head On…apply directly to your forehead. Head On…apply directly to your forehead. Head On…apply directly to your forehead. Head On is now available at Walgreens.” Now Head On is running a commercial that plays on how annoying the original ad is. “Head On…apply directly to your forehead. Head On…apply directly…Head On, I can’t stand your commercial, but I love your product.” No doubt the company is well aware their first commercial irritated the masses. I’m guessing they were counting on it as a way of branding their product in our brains.

As much as I want to criticize companies who use this tactic, who can fault them for embracing an idea that works? I have to admit, I’ve remembered the name of the product from the first time I heard the commercial. Some of the pleasant ads their competitors air with happy, headache-free people running down the beach with yellow labs on their heels have honestly been lost on me. I can’t remember the product name after seeing the commercial a dozen times let alone once.

What is it about ‘irritating’ that gets our attention? Just like the tot in the grocery store lost in a cadence of “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy”, my brain seems to register the loud and annoying more effectively than the quiet and tranquil. Perhaps we’ve just polluted our environment with so much sound, pleasant noises are hard to notice. Maybe that means my husband is actually paying me a compliment when he can’t seem to hear me while he is watching television.

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Good Lord. It is impossible to walk 20 feet in the mall without someone wanting to ask me a question. Do you feel stress in your shoulders? Is adult acne a problem for you? May I see your wedding ring? How happy are you with the shine of your nails? Want to see something amazing? Not only am I not interested in answering the questions of these mall kiosk personalities, I’m slightly irritated they feel the need to broach these subjects with me. Granted, I’m not a ‘make-up on my face every day’ kind of girl. I don’t think I look like I need THAT much work though.

I suppose these mall versions of street peddlers are a good thing. They are annoying enough I only go to the mall when absolutely necessary. Saves me a bundle, I’m sure. The downside is I am forced to gape at the half naked mannequins of Victoria Secret in order to avoid the dreaded eye contact that marks you as the next target. Yet another dig to my self esteem.  I do wonder how many injuries are incurred each year as a result of wearing unmentionables with so much wire, fur and flesh penetrating string?

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Imagine my heartbreak to wake and find Santa dead on my neighbor’s lawn. Just the night before, he had been so full of life. He smiled and glowed yellow as he swayed in the gentle wind. In the harsh daylight, he was a flat and crumpled version of his former self. Amazingly, no one seemed concerned the jolly old man was no longer with us. I expected flashing lights, police tape and a chalk outline. His passing hardly attracted any attention. Pedestrians and motorists hurried by without so much as a second glance. A dog did give him a little sniff. He walked on, deciding his owner was better company than the shriveled departed with all of life’s air sucked out of him.

Part of me wonders what Santa was doing standing in my neighbor’s yard to begin with. This is Maryland, after all. It’s been in the 60’s. We’ve yet to see a snowflake. I can’t imagine that red velvet suit was a good outerwear choice. He probably succumbed to heat stroke. So sad. So sad. Santa must have fallen on hard times. I think my neighbor actually paid money to get him to stand in his lawn. Of course, with the price of toys these days, it’s no surprise Santa’s budget might have been a bit strained. If only we had known. If only we could have reached out and said “Santa, we love you for you…don’t put yourself out trying to please us with toys and goodies.” Now it’s too late. He’s gone. The spirit we enjoyed is now deflated.

My neighbor is trying to carry on as if everything is okay. No one wants to believe Santa is gone. He has managed to pump him full of air and prop him up at night to keep people’s mood festive. It’s not enough for me. I want the real guy. Listening to the motors of the machines used to keep Santa looking alive and well is too much to take.

If another jolly soul decides to fill Santa’s shoes, I hope we can find a way to make him feel loved and cared for without committing him to a life of front yard side shows.

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I’m writing this blog early because Sundays often slip away without an opportunity to post here.

Tonight’s launch of the Space Shuttle Discovery was absolutely beautiful. Watching the clock tick down gives me the same churn in my belly I had as a child. Imagining what the astronauts might be thinking or feeling works my nerves to their limits. It’s a sure bet you won’t see me setting foot on a shuttle clad in an orange suit. Boy do I admire people who can set fear of the unknown aside and step out of the safety constraints the need for self preservation often constructs. What a way to taste life. Not that I’m advocating being reckless. Speeding down the highway at 90 mph is not a positive way to take a bite out of life. That’s just being an idiot. Instead, chasing dreams and going out of your way to experience something special and new is to be commended.

Safe travels Discovery crew. The world is watching you realize a dream and celebrating your courageous spirit. In the meantime, I’m going to do some thinking to decide if I have any dreams tucked away I’ve been too scared to chase. One has been writing words for the world to see. I’m testing the waters here to see if I can pull of sharing thoughts without being crowned Queen Moron. Other dreams are surely tucked away in hidden places I’ve yet to discover.

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I’ve been hiding a secret only a few select friends and family members know about. For years, I have been buying Matchbox cars for myself. I just love them. The real finds are the cars with the doors and hoods that open. I like the ones that aren’t covered in any stickers or detailed with flames and such. A regular looking car suits me just fine. I’m not a collector. All of my cars are immediately removed from the package and wheeled around. There is no plan to preserve them and eventually sell them for a profit on eBay.

Isn’t it strange a 35 year old woman would have an affinity for such things? Even more strange is my need to cover up the joy I get from playing with them. When I’m making a purchase, I find myself striking up a conversation with the clerk about how the cars are a gift or stocking stuffer for a niece or nephew. I doubt the clerk even cares what I intend to do with them. Where does my need to justify why I’m buying toy cars come from?

Considering my secret pleasure isn’t harmful, offensive or self destructive, there really is no cause to be embarrassed, right? Is it so bad to still maintain the heart of a child in some ways? I’m not a lunatic…unless, of course, I’m in serious denial. Life gets boring and complicated when one has to be an adult and do adult things all of the time. I’m not on the path to having a theme park in my front yard. Michael Jackson is not my role model.

I suspect it feels awkward to be an adult enjoying an activity normally meant for kids because we see so many kids enjoying activities normally meant for adults. Kids are drinking Starbuck’s coffees, wearing grown-up clothes and such. If kids are too mature to be young at heart and play, it makes it feel even more odd for me to be that way. That does make me wonder though. Since kids are determined to copy adults and grow up as fast as possible, perhaps they would benefit from knowing there are days when they can still find us on our knees pushing around miniature Fords and Audis.

So, who is up for confessing they are still a kid at heart?  Anyone?  Anyone?

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We are all in luck everyone. It seems to be the rage to pay a lot of money for ugly these days. Have you been to the mall lately? There is a ton of ugly going on in all the stores. Ugly purses, ugly shoes, ugly clothes…you name it, it’s ugly. Amazingly, prices are strong as ever. Go figure. And here I thought things would have to look good to command a high price.

Now is the time to act people! Don’t sit on the sidelines and let this opportunity pass you by. It’s not every day you can unload ugly and convince others to pay you good money in return. If it’s ugly people want, I can deliver. My house has a stash of ugly clothes, pictures, trinkets, etc that I haven’t had the heart to pass off on Goodwill. It just didn’t seem right to donate ugly stuff. Who would have thought holding on to these atrocities would end up being a financial blessing. Ebay, here I come. The time is ripe to start my own online ugly store. I can already smell the money that will be coming in. I will warn you though, don’t expect a return policy if you buy from my store of ugly things. There is no way in heck I’m taking any of it back. If you think you might change your mind and want to get rid of the ugly, you’d better stick to the mall stores when making your purchases.

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Oh how I hope the next time I hear that little jingle Britney Spears is dancing around in the Hanes commercial wearing bloomers and a tank top. Hanes, you could be America’s hero. Please save us from the tragedy that is Britney’s bare biscuit. Clearly she is hell bent on exposure. I vote for exposure in a television ad over literally exposing herself. It could be a win-win for Hanes and Britney.

The public relations spin is that Britney has a panty allergy. Hello Britney!!! Take a Benedril. Try a dab of Cortizone. Airing yourself out in public should be the last option. In all likelihood the allergy is to the tight acrylic/leather pants you’ve sported in the past and not a delicate swatch of fine southern cotton. What ever it is, work it out. In the meantime, I invite you to introduce your right knee to your left knee. Hopefully they’ll get along and decide to stick together.

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