All Hands On Deck…The Halls

Posted on November 27, 2012 by pegoleg

For many, the long holiday weekend meant engaging in a beloved Christmas tradition.  No, I don’t mean standing in line before dawn and taking blows to the kidneys to get 1/2 off this year’s must-have toy or gadget (insert gratuitous Tickle-Me-Elmo joke here.)  I’m talking about Decking the Halls.

Everywhere I looked, people had dragged boxes and barrels out of storage and were up on their rooftops draping the house with holly, ivy and enough electric icicles to paralyze the power grid across the length and breadth of this nation.

Not me.

It’s not that I don’t like decorations – I do.  I do.   It’s just that I have a domestic problem with this issue.

Those who know me have heard my story.  You new boys and girls, gather round.  Sit at my feet; there’s plenty of room (Colin, stop shoving Sam.)  Sit still and listen carefully (stop picking your nose, Susie) while I tell…

 

Little Red Hen’s Christmas Tale

Little Red Peg taking care of Christmas business.

Once upon a time,  Little Red Hen lived in a cozy little coop with her happy little family.  It was Christmas time and Little Red Hen thought some decorations would add to their holiday joy.

So she bought some eggnog and cookies, put on her favorite Bing Crosby Christmas CD and settled in for some holiday memory-making

“Who will help me set up the tree?” she asked.

“Not I”, said the rooster.

“Not I”, said the first chickee.

“Not I”, said the second chickee.

“Then I will do it myself,” said Little Red Hen.  And so she did.

Amidst a considerable amount of swearing.  Little Red Hen developed tree burns and little cuts on her wings from wrestling the 9-foot tall, artificial tree out the box, putting it all together and fluffing the scratchy branches.

“Who will help me put all the lights on the tree?” she asked.

“Not I”, said the rooster.

“Not I”, said the first chickee.

“Not I”, said the second chickee.

“Then I will do it myself”, said Little Red Hen.  And so she did.

With nobody to hand the strings of lights to, she was up and down the ladder at least 26 times.  All the lights worked when she tested them, but half of the strands went out as soon as they were all plugged together.

“Who will help me put all the ornaments on the tree?” she asked.

“Not I” said the rooster.

“Not I”, said the first chickee.

“Not I”, said the second chickee.

“If you think I’m doing any more decorating without any help from you selfish, lazy slobs” said Little Red Hen, “you’re crazy!”  She burst into tears and took off for the mall with a squeal of tires.

The rooster and the 2 little chickees ate all the cookies, drank all the eggnog, turned off the Bing Crosby CD and watched Here Comes Honey Boo Boo on TV.

And the half-decorated tree and 3 big boxes full of ornaments are still sitting in the middle of the living room floor to this very day.

The End.

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True Confessions

Posted on November 21, 2012 by pegoleg

I am not the woman you think I am.

You see the witty, urbane, sophisticated Peg, quick with a sarcastic take on the foibles of life.  But that’s not me.  Well, that IS me.  Quite a lot of me, actually, accent on the “witty, urbane, sophisticated” part.  That’s a really BIG part of me. And that’s not just my opinion – ask anybody.  I didn’t just make that part up.

But that’s not all there is to me.

It is time to reveal to you, my nearest and dearest (as well as random strangers who have wandered into my blog searching for hard-hitting information about “Twinkie The Kid dead” and “magazine cover goat”)

I have a secret life.

No doubt you think my life is a series of high-powered, lucrative business meetings, interspersed with jaunts to exotic locations. You probably heard I went up to Saratoga and my horse naturally won, then I flew my Lear Jet up to Nova Scotia to see the total eclipse of the sun. That I’m where I should be all the time and when I’m not, gentlemen are sipping champagne out of my shoes.

Would it surprise you to learn there’s not so much of that sort of thing going on?

When my busy workday is over, when I have pumped my iron and treaded my treadmill at the YMCA, I go home and enter…a secret lair.  The Bat Cave, if you will, except in this case it would be the Peg Cave.  And instead of donning a cape and cowl, my costume is my comfiest old sweats, the ones with the tear in the crotch and bleach splatters on the cuff.   And I become, in real life….

A crafter.

There – I said it.   I am a crafter.

I am one of the ranks of those who spend their lunch hours at Jo-Ann Fabric, Michael’s and Hobby Lobby searching for JUST the perfect length of rickrack trim.  Who spend hours hunched over their hot glue guns turning pine cones into whimsical creatures with the judicious placement of googly eyes.  Who count their cross-stitches until plastic mesh becomes a tissue box cover worthy of the Louvre!

I spend hours (many, many hours) craftily crafting handcrafted items of a crafty nature in the sanctum sanctorum of my Craft Room/Bat/Writing/Peg Cave and I am not ashamed.

All crafters have their specialties.  Some work in paper, some in plastic, some in wood, iron or glass.  My chosen medium is old sweaters.

I get wool and cashmere sweaters from the thrift shop, felt them, take them apart and put them back together.  I take other people’s castoffs, repurpose them and give them new life as purses, pins, hats, pillows, etc.  I’m the Dr. Frankenstein of fuzzy!repurposed crafts

My brand name is “peep”.  (get it?  Wool and cashmere? Little Bo Peep?)

Why am I revealing all this?  Why here – why now?

This crafter is going to the fair.

My sister Lib (friend, confidant and tough business manager,) has been telling me for 2 years that I have to DO something with my stockpile of recycled goodness.  I’ve sold a few pieces at a local gift shop, but it’s time to branch out.

I’ve got all the trappings of a real crafty business type – tables, bags, a receipt book and an apron – and I’m going to (try to) sell my wares at a craft fair this weekend.  Check out the Christmas On The Fox, Art and Craft Show at the fairgrounds in St. Charles, Illinois.  Although I’ve never been to this one, it looks like a great show with some truly artisinal offerings.

Stop by and say hi if you live in the Chicago area.  You can get a coupon for $1 off the admission price at the promoters website.

Art of The Heartland

Where will all this end?  Who knows.  I’m working on an Etsy shop.  All I have to do is figure out how to upload a banner, and take pictures of everything I have and calculate shipping…

On second thought, let’s just hope all my stuff is cleaned out at the show this weekend, hmmm?

*****************

Happy Thanksgiving and blessings to all!

 

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C’Mon, WordPress, Papa Needs A New Pair Of Bowling Shoes!

Posted on November 13, 2012 by pegoleg

I wandered into the bowels of my blog the other day and came across a strange chamber called “Site Stats”.  I had heard of such a place from other, more worldly bloggers, but I know not of such things.

Blogging for me is all about personal satisfaction.  It is a chance to explore my thoughts and feelings, to craft my words and then send them into the stratosphere.  To connect with like-minded thinkers in a veritable orgy of thoughtly thinking.  What care I for readers and accolades?

When I happened upon the “Site Stats” page, (did I mention it was purely by accident?) I couldn’t help but notice a category called “All Time Views”.  I scanned the figures contained therein with faint interest and casually noticed this number is currently at 97,742.

“Hmmm” says I to me, “That is not too far off from 100,000, which is a nice, round number.  It has a certain ring to it.  It would be mildly amusing,” thinks I, “to hit 6 figures.”

I further pondered,  “Would not 100,000 visits be a consummation devotedly to be wished?”

And, yet again with the pondering, “When did I start channeling Shakespeare?”

Of course, I don’t know about such things, but a cursory review of my daily stats, which I also stumbled across on the “Site Stats” page, shows that it would take quite a long time to reach this goal at my normal daily readership.  (We are here defining “normal” to be  “wretchedly abysmal” as in the last several months.   Not that I care.)

To get a better approximation of just how long it would take, I plugged some figures into a little equation that I very casually developed and sometimes play around with.

The Peg-o-Leg Daily Readership Statistical Model (version 11.3), indicates that subtracting 97,742 from 100,000, plugging the quotient into the matrix, factoring in the statistical likelihood of current events’ impacting daily readership, then extrapolating out the numerator divided by variable Y (pi times the Pythagorean Theorem to the 3rd power), I estimate at the rate I’m going I will hit 100,000 when I am eligible for Social Security.  Or dead.  Whichever comes first.

The only way to achieve this number before I’m so old I care more about the contents of my Depends than the contents of my blog, is if I were to get a little boost.

What to do, what to do.

I don’t know.  I haven’t the foggiest notion how one could get a sudden burst of more than 2000 readers all in one day that would catapult one’s numbers through the Paper Ceiling of 100,000.

Perhaps the WordPress gods could figure it out.  They, in their infinite wisdom, might hatch a scheme so that a deserving-blogger-who-toils-mightily-to-provide-quality-entertainment-for-their-clients-and-earns-zip-for-her-trouble might somehow accomplish this goal.  (hint: rhymes with Presley Dressed.)

Anyhoo, it was just a thought that flitted across my brain.  I don’t want you imagining I’m desperate or anything, like a guy who just bet the farm at a Las Vegas crap table.  It would be nice to hit that goal but, as I believe I mentioned, it’s no biggie.

p.s. I added these Site Stats to the right-hand column of the blog so we can all watch the numbers soar.  Or not.

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Riding The Curl On The Space/Time Continuum

Posted on November 5, 2012 by pegoleg

Gnarly, dude.

Have you ever thought about going back in time?  Of course you have.

I don’t want to get all Isaac Asimov on you, but folks who know about these things (smart folks like the ones who used to sit behind you in science class and actually understood all that mumbo-jumbo, although they were clueless about important things like flirting and fashion) say that time is like a giant wave.  The tide pushes it into the shore while simultaneously dragging it back out again.  Time folds in on itself in a never-ending cycle.

As long as science has been wrestling with the “how” of time, the rest of mankind has been pondering the all-important “what”.

                          What would you do if you could turn back the hands of time?

I know what I would do.  I know, because I’ve done it.

You read that right.

I had the chance to hang-ten on the cosmic surfboard of time and I’m here to tell you, it’s not easy to decide how to use such an opportunity.  Should you…

Meet a famous person of the past?

Get romantically involved with someone, hopping back and forth across the barrier of time so they might be a geezer or a child the next time you see them, which runs the risk of being seriously creepy?

Use the extra time to accomplish the things you always meant to do, but never got around to?

Change history, like how Napoleon’s Uncle Rico wanted do-overs on that high-school football game that would have changed his life if the coach had put him in?

I pondered carefully and, in the end, I went with my gut instinct.  When Man forced Nature to do his bidding and the hands of time were miraculously swept back an hour on Sunday morning…I slept in.

How did you handle your time travel?

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All In The Political Family: When Mom & Dad Play Favorites

Posted on October 29, 2012 by pegoleg

Mom & Dad in a happier time.

Dear Mom & Dad,

We need to talk.  Parents are supposed to love all their kids equally, but it’s obvious you care more for some of your other states than you do for me.  It’s breaking my heart.

I know for a fact you visit Wisconsin all the time because I see your car in the driveway.  Same for Iowa.  I live right next-door, for goodness sake, but do you stop by?  No!  It’s as if I’m dead to you.

Before you say it’s all in my head, let me tell you us kids have been talking and I’m not the only one who’s noticed.  Poor West Virginia said she’s got tread marks on her scalp from you running over her in your zeal to get to your precious, widdle Ohio-pookums.  How do you think that makes us feel?

I haven’t seen either of you in months.  You don’t write, you don’t call, you haven’t bought one, single mud-slinging campaign ad on my local channels.  You don’t care what I think and that hurts.  It hurts deeply.   If it weren’t for this faded photo from the primaries, I wouldn’t even remember what you look like.

Mom, you take me for granted.  You think I’m the “good” kid who will love you no matter what.   Don’t be too sure.   And Dad, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but we can still salvage this relationship. Don’t give up on me!

It’s not the money…all I want is an equal share of your love and attention.   Although I’ve got to admit, the way you’ve been showering the swing sibs with gifts and nothing for the rest of us, well, it cuts like a knife.   It seems we have been written out of your will.

Nevada, Florida and North Carolina are bragging about all the pork they’re going to get and Colorado said you promised her Grandma’s ring.

Apparently there is a Santa Claus, at least if you’re Virginia.

Ohio’s the worst- she’s becoming insufferable.  You can’t turn on the TV or open a paper without seeing the two of you sucking up to her.  Show some dignity, for goodness sake.  What’s so great about her?  Why do you love HER more than ME???

Keep playing favorites like this and it’s going to backfire on you.  Your faves will spend all your money and leave you old, sick and poor.  When that happens, don’t come crawling to the rest of us for help.  I’m sure you can count on your darling Pennsylvania to give you a home.  A nursing home, that is.

Your Heartbroken Daughter,

Illinois

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Why You’ll Never See Ornamental Cabbage On The Cover Of “Us Weekly”

Posted on October 17, 2012 by pegoleg

Beauty is only leaf-deep.

I wish I were gorgeous.

If you’re beautiful, that’s all you need to achieve fame and fortune (F&F) in life.

I’ve done a lot of scientific research on this topic.  That research consists of watching TV, reading tabloids in the checkout line at the grocery store, and thinking about the subject when I should have been doing something else.

My research reveals that there are a limited number of paths to F&F.  Here are the qualities you need to get there*:

  • Smarts
  • Talent
  • Creativity
  • Hard Work
  • Beauty

The trouble with most of these qualities is they have to be paired with Hard Work.  You can be a better natural ball player than Michael Jordan (talent) but it means nothing without hours of practice.  If you come up with a better mousetrap (creativity), you still have to produce it and get people to buy it.   The last trait is the only one that stands alone.  If you have beauty, that’s all you need.

When you’re beautiful you don’t have to DO anything else.  Just walk down the street and someone from America’s Next Top Model is sure to happen along with a lucrative contract.  Even more likely, some rich dude will want to add you to their collection and take care of you for life.  Or until your parts start to sag.

Beautiful people are like ornamental pear trees.  My mother in law planted some and they are rather temperamental, at least in the early years.  They have to be watered, just so.  Fertilized, on schedule. Mulched to protect their tender roots.  If you lavish them with infinite care they will eventually bloom.  Their lovely flowers are a treat for the eye.

They don’t produce anything useful, however.  No sweet-smelling flowers and no pears.  That’s right.  The ornamental pear tree doesn’t even make fruit.  It’s purely decorative.

I’m more of an ornamental kale.  This plant is pretty low maintenance. Give it a little water, a little sunshine and it grows.  It’s hardy and it comes back every year.   It can be decorative on occasion.  But when it gets in hot water, when it’s pushed to the boiling point, you can tell by the smell that it’s nothing more than a glorified cabbage.

Being a sturdy cabbage instead of an ornamental pear means the only way I’ll get F&F is if I develop my smarts, creativity and talents with some hard work.  And while fame and fortune will, no doubt, turn out to be worthless when we get to the end of Life’s Highway, I wouldn’t mind having some for the journey.

p.s. *You may have noticed the one, glaring exception to my list of traits necessary for F&F: the phenomenon of people who lack even a faint hint of any of them who, nonetheless, achieve F&F via reality TV.  I’ll let you know if I ever figure that one out.

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Malaising Grace

Posted on October 11, 2012 by pegoleg

mal·aise: noun mə-lāz, ma-, -lez

1: an indefinite feeling of debility or lack of health often indicative of or accompanying the onset of an illness
2: a vague sense of mental or moral ill-being <a malaise of cynicism and despair — Malcolm Boyd>

*definition courtesy of Merriam-Webster Online

Windmilling on the edge, trying for balance.

Last Monday was more Monday than usual.  I was coming down with a cold; just the beginning drips and tickles that haven’t developed into a full-fledged case of the cruds.  It was at the point where you still hold out hope you can fight it off, but deep-down you know you won’t be able to.  That didn’t help me cope any better with my constant companion of late – the little black cloud I’ve been walking around under.

I’ve been toting around a sack of malaise that sometimes has me teetering on the brink of despair.

Why?  Various reasons.  The health concerns of beloved, aging parents, setbacks at work, worries for my children, angst over the direction our country is taking, etc, etc, etc.

All that stuff is worrying me, it’s true, but it’s not the bottom line.  If I’m being honest, I don’t want to be.  Honest, I mean.  It may be the best policy, but in my case it’s not very flattering, to wit:

The main thing bothering me is the shuffling off of this mortal coil.  The wrinkling, sagging, bagging, decay of the body.  Gaining back some of the weight I recently lost.  The depressing slide from Woman with a capital va-va-voom to Matron.  The where-do-I-go-from-here that comes with being how-the-hell-did-I-get-to-be-53-years old.

In short; it’s a mid-life crisis.

How distressingly cliché.  I know.

I left my office after work that Monday in my sweats, as usual, but no way I was going to the YMCA.  To hell with that workout stuff – why bother?  I didn’t want to go home, either.   I took my crabby self to a local park hoping a walk would clear the mental cobwebs that were clouding my vision of the world.   At the very least it would distract me from the constant temptation to score just a little hit from my favorite pusher – Little Debbie.

I plugged the ear buds into my iPod and started out around the small lake in the park.  It took a ¼ turn before it penetrated my gloom that it was a perfect, early fall day; not cold, not hot.  The trees had turned color suddenly, overnight it seemed.  We woke up one morning and fall color was here with its intense, fleeting display.  I started walking faster.

My favorite song, “Roundabout” , came through my ear buds, filling my head and lifting my spirits.

The sky was still bright at early evening, clear and blue, but the sun had started its descent.  It painted the undersides of the clouds pink and made my shadow a stilt-walker, almost touching the lake.

I built up steam, both legs moving faster.  They did the bidding of my agile brain without conscious thought;  smoothly, easily, chubby thighs, cellulite and all.  My 2 hands clenched, fingers wrinkled, limber and whole.  My arms pumped free and easy despite once-freckles now turned to age-spots.  My breathing sounded loud in my ears, the way it echoes when you’re wearing headphones.  Not harsh or strained, but forceful, evidence that I was walking strong.  My lungs filled and pushed out clear and clean, with no impediment.  My heart pumped: ba-da-dum, ba-da-dum, rhythmic, faster.  I demanded more and it delivered – no problem.

I have:
All of my own teeth – for the most part.  Thank you, modern dentistry.
All my own parts – except for tonsils traded for ice cream in 3rd grade and gall bladder traded for pain relief at 40.  It’s all Factory Original Equipment, too, regardless of what the tabloids may imply.

All those parts were operating together, if not in perfect harmony, then at least in some semblance of cooperation.  This magical, human machine was all systems go and I was in control of it.

53!  It wasn’t too long ago I would have been at the feeble end of life, the oldest crone in the tribe.  People would marvel at my great age as they settled me on an ice floe with a one-way ticket to Valhalla.  And yet, in this day and age, I am just in the middle (ish) with a long way to go, God willing.

I walked around the lake a second time as fast as I could without running.  I strained to use all of my senses to experience my self and the spaces around me and I was filled with contentment.  At the same time, I was ashamed.

I did nothing to earn any of this.  It isn’t deserved.  Don’t get me wrong – I’m not an especially crappy human being, but neither am I an especially saintly one.  There is no rhyme or reason for all the gifts I have.   I can’t understand, and I can’t explain.  All I can do, the very least I can do, is appreciate.

Which brings me to this last part.  It’s kind of a prayer.

Dear God,

Thank you for another ordinary, extraordinary day on your Earth.  Please help me to appreciate every one of them.

Sincerely,

Peg

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Life is Better with a Pint of Vermont’s Finest

Posted on October 8, 2012 by pegoleg

“Life is better with a pint of Vermont’s finest.” I read the words at the top of the legal pad and laughed.  There was no joy in the sound.  It was a mirthless acknowledgement of the exquisite irony of life.

I had written those words barely 2 hours ago, and yet it was a lifetime away.

I had been sitting in the same chair I now occupied, winding down after a long weekend.  One last check of my emails revealed a cheery reminder from Lenore, “Hope you’re all ready to go with your posts for 7:30 tomorrow morning!”

Damn!

When Lenore first asked if me to be part of her Ben & Jerry’s blogging party, it sounded like fun.  I intended to get the assignment done early.  But my personal road to hell is paved with lots of good intentions, and this was just one more.  I had forgotten all about it.

Grabbing a pad of paper, I swiftly wrote the title and waited for the muse to strike.  I had nothing.  The blank page mocked me.  Hell, I hadn’t even had any Ben & Jerry’s ice cream for years.  I checked my watch: 9:30.  If I rushed I could get to the grocery store before they closed at 10.  At least I could pick up a carton of inspiration.

I swung into the lot minutes before the store closed and headed for a parking spot closest to the door.  A little, red sports car zipped in right in front of me, neatly cutting me off.  A petite brunette hopped out of the car and walked by as I sat fuming in my car.  She threw me a smirk with a toss of her long hair and I recognized her.  She was one of a group of obnoxious workout Barbies at the gym who walked around like they owned the place, and made fun of those of us who are, shall we say, “less fit”.

I parked beside her car and hurried into the store.  The temperature dropped 10 degrees when I turned into the frozen foods aisle.  My temperature rose by that amount when I saw that Barbie was standing in front of the ice cream case.  My steps slowed as I approached, checking out the goods.  Edy’s…Dean’s…Breyers…Blue Bunny… bingo!  There was the Ben & Jerry’s, but there was only 1 pint left -Karamel Sutra.  Sounded yummy.

Barbie stood blocking the door, perusing the selection as if she had all day.

I said, “Excuse me.  I just need to get in there to get that pint of Ben & Jerry’s”

She didn’t budge.  Her mocking smile revealed teeth too white to be natural as she said “Oops! Sorry, but I’m taking that.”

“Oh, but…” I sputtered  “Please…I really need it.”

She looked me up and down slowly, then laughed. “Yeah, you really look like you NEED it!”

I could feel my face heating.  “I mean for an assignment.  I have to write something about…”

My babbling trailed off as she reached into the freezer and plucked the pint of Ben & Jerry’s from the now-empty shelf.  She held it in front of her tantalizingly and said, “Look, chubs, let me give you some advice. Better lay off the ice cream before you turn into one of those people who have to be taken out of your living room with a crane.  Looks like you’re already just a few cartons away. ”

I saw red.  Baring my teeth in a smile as false as hers I said, “Look, Barbie, let me give YOU some advice.  It doesn’t matter what brand you get, since you’re going to stick you finger down your throat as soon as you finish it.  You can barf up the Haagen-Dazs tonight.”

With that, I grabbed the pint of Karamel Sutra right out of her hands.

The carton was a solidly frozen block I noted absently, as I took a moment to admire the almost comical look of surprise on her face.  I turned and headed down the aisle.

I hadn’t gone more that a couple of feet before I was jerked back by a piercing pain in my scalp – the bi*ch had grabbed a hold of my hair!  I spun around to see Barbie, not so beautiful now with her face twisted into an angry grimace. I grabbed at her hand, trying to lesson the pressure on my scalp and only at the last minute did I see a flash of blood red out of the corner of my eye.  Then her nails raked viciously down the side of my face.

I howled at the searing pain and something seemed to snap inside me.  A lifetime of mockery by the Barbies of the world had built up to this point and I watched as if I were a disinterested bystander as my hands, still cradling the rock-hard pint of ice cream, swung it at her head with all my strength.  It made a dull thud as it connected with her temple.   The blue skies and fluffy clouds on the package flashed up and down and up and down and up and down….

.

.

I was getting brain freeze from eating the ice cream so quickly, but I kept gulping it down as fast as possible.  Normally I would savor the caramel swirls and chocolate pieces but I didn’t even taste it now.  No way I was going to let everybody down by not having a post ready.  Inspiration was going to strike at any minute, I was sure.

My hands were cold and sticky from holding the carton.  I wiped them on the legs of my jeans, leaving red streaks interspersed with long, dark hairs.

The wail of police sirens sounded like a train, still far from the station, but drawing ever closer, closer.

Clean up in aisle 6

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

A group of us are tackling the same sweet topic today.  Thanks to Lenore at Lenore Diane for putting this together.  Be sure to check out all the other bloggers.  Some are old friends and others are new friends for us to get to know – how great is that!

Lenore Diane
Blogdramedy
The Blurt Blog
She’s A Maineiac 
Georgette Sullin’s Blog
PublikWorks
Jacqueline Cangro
The G is Silent 
K8edid 
Julie Kingsley

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My Parental Hearing Aid Has Saved My Bacon On More Than One Occasion

Posted on October 2, 2012 by pegoleg

Like all parents, I got my Parental Hearing Aid* the day my first child was born.  This amazing device saved me tons of grief as my kids were growing up.  It let me hear…

… a change in the quality of the silence that sent me sprinting to perform the Heimlich maneuver on my toddler, who was sampling the dog’s kibble.

… a tiny “erp” that woke me from a sound sleep in time to get to my 7-year-old’s room, get her vertical and get a waste basket in front of her before she hurled a stomach-load of Chuck E Cheese birthday party fare all over her new Lisa Frank bedspread.

… the subtle undercurrent in my 16-year-old’s voice when she said “I’m sleeping over at Ashley’s,” which clued me that she meant “we’re going to a drunken orgy at some stranger’s house where no parents will be around.”

The translator feature of the Parental Hearing Aid really comes in handy.  This is invaluable for figuring out what your kid is REALLY saying since parents and children don’t speak the same language.

Here are a few examples of how the translator works when an adult child spouts off about education, relationships, marriage and life in general.  I have yet to hear many of these phrases myself, mind you, but other parents tell me these are common translations.

What they say: I’m changing my major to Women’s Studies.
What parents hear: I plan to live in your basement forever.

What they say: My new tattoo/piercing expresses my individuality.
What parents hear: My highest career ambition is to be assistant manager at Hot Topic.

What they say: We’re moving in together.
What parents hear: He’s getting the milk without buying the cow.

What they say: This is my fiancée (no ring or date).
What parents hear: Deep down I retained enough of that puritanical stuff you drilled into me to be embarrassed about shacking up, resent being made to feel that way, and don’t want to deal with any crap from judgmental old people.

What they say: I’m taking a few classes.
What parents hear: I want to get you off my back and avoid working full-time as long as possible.

What they say: We’re getting married on the beach in (fill in exotic destination here.)
What parents hear: We’re not planning on having any guests who are poor, old or have young children.

What they say: My wedding day is my once-in-a-lifetime, special day.
What parents hear: You’ll have to push back retirement 5 years to pay for this extravaganza.

What they say: I want to take a year off to see the world.
What parents hear: See translation for “I’m taking a few classes.”

What they say: You can’t tell me what to do – I’m an adult!
What parents hear: I’ll be paying for my own car insurance and cell phone, starting immediately.

What they say: Your religion isn’t relevant to my life. No offense.
What parents hear: After I ripped your heart out of your chest and stomped on it, I had it gift-wrapped in this pretty paper.

–

Of course children get their special hearing aid the same day as their parents.  The Kiddo Hearing Aid* has its uses, but the translator feature rarely works right.

Time after time a parent will give her child sound advice motivated solely by love and a desire to help.   Nine times out of ten, however, the child does not properly hear these pearls of wisdom based on vastly superior life experience.  No, the child hears the endless, critical nagging of someone so out-of-touch they must have lost their last clue when dinosaurs roamed the earth.

The problem is obvious; the Kiddo Hearing Aid must be garbling the message.

Most people find the translator feature on the Kiddo Hearing Aid doesn’t really work properly until the child gets to be 40 years old.  At that point their parents’ true genius finally comes through, loud and clear.

At least, that’s what I heard.

*Parental Hearing Aid and Kiddo Hearing Aid are two more fine offerings of Peg-Co, a division of Peg-O-Leg Industries.  Be sure to check out our catalog for more life-enhancing products. (Peg-Co makes no claims about the suitability, safety or efficacy of any of their products.  As we at Peg-Co always say: “A fool and his money are soon parted”….or…”Buyer Beware”.)

Posted in General Ramblings, Peg-Co Catalog | Tagged , , , , , | 58 Comments

How to Fake Cultural Literacy in a Snoop Dogg World

Posted on September 27, 2012 by pegoleg

To be, or f**kin’ not to be, ho.

If you’re like me, you want everyone to think you’re smart.  You don’t want to take the time and trouble to really learn things, though; that’s way too much work.

Smart people are always tossing around profound quotes from other smart people who are dead.  Recognizing these quotes shows you are “culturally literate” and that means smart.

“Wait a minute,” you say “that sounds like work.”

Easy there, hombre.  I got this.

The fact is, the vast majority of quotable quotes come from just two sources: Shakespeare or the Bible.   Key words to look for are “thou”, “forsooth” and adding “eth” to normal words.

Let’s see how this would work in a real life situation:

You’re at a party ranting about how you almost had to bite your tongue in half at the last family gathering, to keep from exploding when your witch of a mother-in-law criticized how you’re raising the kids…again.

Your conversational partner replies, “A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger.”

Thinking quickly, you pick up on the clue – he said “turneth” instead of “turn”.

You establish your smart-person bona fides by squinting your eyes and pursing your lips to look thoughtful.  Then, nod your head slowly and say “Ah, Shakespeare”.

It doesn’t matter which you choose, Shakespeare or the Bible, because even people who memorize this stuff can’t keep them straight.  The only time this won’t work is in the unlikely event you are confronted by a Biblical scholar or an English professor.  Then it’s time to roll out your backup plan:

“That’s not from Shakespeare!”  your listener states with a gleeful, “gotcha” expression.

You shake your head ruefully, smile wryly and say, “I meant the Bible, of course.  I was up way too late last night reading Euripides in the original Greek, and you KNOW how THAT messes with your brain!”

Not wanting to admit he doesn’t read ancient Greek, Mr. Know-It-All will laugh sympathetically and readily agree.  He has been neatly out-pretensioned.

Besides the two major sources of quotes, you need to be on the lookout for those who consider song lyrics to be high-art.  If the quote doesn’t have any of the key words, if it rhymes, or if it is bad poetry that does NOT rhyme, you may be dealing with a song-quoter.  In the past you would be safe with an “Ah, Dylan” response.  Now that only works with quoters aged 60-75 who have long, gray hair and Birkenstocks (male or female).

Nowadays many people (who should know better) try to appear culturally literate and relevant by quoting rappers.  Key words to look for are “f**k”, “n**ga” and “b**ch ho”.

All you need to know is that most rappers have some variation of 3 nicknames:

Big: Big-O, The Notorious B.I.G., Big Sexy

Lil: Lil’ Kim, Lil Wayne, Lil’ Scrappy

Ice: Ice-T, Ice Cube, Vanilla Ice, Iced Tazo Chai Soy Frappuccino Grande

If the quote includes profanity, assume it’s rap.  Show how hip you are by nodding thoughtfully and say, “Yeah, Lil’ Biggie Ice Pac laid down some heavy, f**king shiz in the hizzle.”  Then cross your arms over your chest defiantly and finish up with “…Word.”

Follow these simple tricks and soon everyone will think you’re much smarter than you really are.  In other words, they’ll make much ado about nothing.

Posted in General Ramblings | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 68 Comments