Category: Uncategorized Page 6 of 10

Horrorscopes

On April 24, 2010

I like to read my horoscope. It’s frustrating, though, because I want something specific. If I’m going on a trip, I want it to say, “You will have a safe trip and your luggage will arrive on time.” Usually all I get is some random words strung together that could mean anything at all.

Lately the horoscope person has taken to posting sage advice. Perhaps she moonlights as a writer of fortune cookies and confuse what she’s supposed to be doing. I’m getting advice like, “No one likes a stick in the mud. You must always allow a little wiggle room.”

What does this mean? That I should be more lenient with my kids? That I should not try to do everything perfectly? That I should go dancing?

Today I had a unique horoscope. It said that Saturn and Uranus are in a fight in the sky so I shouldn’t try to start anything for several days. Honest, that’s what it said.

First of all, you can’t think of the name of that particular little planet without laughing. And to think that it’s up there in the sky picking a fight with Saturn makes it all the more funnier.

Let me clarify this. My horoscope said they were at odds with each other. That’s the same thing as a fight, right? Are they getting in a shoving match? Are they calling each other names?

Uranus: “You’re just a big rock surrounded by a bunch of dirty rings.”

Saturn: “Well you’re such a little pebble they don’t even think you’re a real planet.”

Uranus: “Why are you such a jerk?”

Saturn: “You calling me a jerk? You’re the one who started it.”

Uranus: “Did not.”

Saturn: “Did too.”

Uranus: “Well, you are surrounded with dirty rings, so there.”

Saturn: “At least I’m not an asshole.”

Almost as amusing as these two squabbling is the statement that I’m not supposed to start ANY activity. Does that mean I should not shower, walk the dog, or go grocery shopping? Aren’t these all considered activities?

I’m going to cut this out of the paper and show it to my husband. “Look, I can’t do the laundry for several days. You’re on your own.” And, “don’t even think about waking me up at 2 am wanting some activity. You know what my horoscope said.”

Thinking of horoscopes makes me think about the mirror I broke two days ago. I’m supposed to have 7 years of bad luck. In an heroic effort to counteract that, I’ve avoided black cats and ladders. Plus I’ve picked up several filthy coins off the street.

I was at my daughter’s track meet this evening (she pole vaulted 9 feet!!!!), and a girl dropped some change on the bleachers. The bouncing coins made loud clanging noises that was music to my ears because I figured I’d redeem some of that seven years with a couple of lucky coins (“find a coin and pick it up and all the day you’ll have good luck”). I thought that girl wouldn’t bother picking them up because she was so embarrassed. But she soon recovered and said to her friends, “I’ve got to pick all of it up or I’ll have bad luck.”

So much for good luck for me. That darned mirror is probably why my planets are pulling each other’s hair and shooting spit wads at each other through space. And why I’ve got to avoid activity like shopping and getting a pedicure. It’s going to be a long seven years.

Who’s Paying for Your Tea Party?

By Suzanne Olsen

On April 12, 2010

In Uncategorized

I received a phone call today from someone who was concerned about my money and whether or not the government was going to let me keep a hold on it. This person, who was a recording, invited me to an upcoming Tea Party that is sure to be happening in my area soon. In the meantime, I could go to a website to get caught up on what’s going on with the government.

Curiosity got the better of me and I went to the website. Quite impressive. I do web design, and I recognize something that’s been done professionally, and by professionally I mean something that costs a pretty penny.

I asked Google about these Americans for Prosperity, and found out that these guys are heavily funded by the Koch Family Foundations. The Koch Family has extensive holdings in oil and refineries. Ah, I said to myself, now it’s making sense. Of course they’d want government out of their business. We as a nation need to be heading into the future like the rest of the world and get away from our dependency on oil. But if that happens, these guys will lose a lot of money. I guess if I were the Koch family I’d be bellowing like a cow stepping on its own tit if the government was making it more difficult to keep business as usual.

Rich people know they can’t just stand up and say they want to keep their money. Who is going to sympathize with that? So they hire really smart people to make it look like the government is taking away the rights of the people. They know how what scares people, and they use that to make their case.

I’m not a socialist and I don’t like government waste. I don’t like people taking advantage of welfare any more than I like people taking advantage of tax codes. But I do like that our government steps in and says “enough” when people aren’t doing right by others. Who can argue that the government should regulate the safety of coalmines or toxic waste dumps or oil spills? Does anyone want these companies to have free rein when it comes to doing what’s best for all the people instead of the padding the pocketbooks of the wealthy?

It irks me when an organization funded by big money presents itself as a champion of “the people.” The people in this case are regular guys who worry about getting their retirement sucked up by government spending – and especially since some have experienced that already. No wait, that was the rich banking people who sucked up their retirement. Wasn’t that when the government stepped back from regulating? And now a group funded by oil companies wants the government to quit regulating businesses. Weren’t the oil companies the ones making record profits while our economy was going to hell?

Sometimes it’s hard to know who to believe, but here’s a clue: if a group hires Sarah Palin to be a speaker, run like a person with a bad case of the gravies to the crapper, because that woman is full of it. Oh yeah, she may be cute and she may be entertaining, but who can forget that she cost John McCain the Presidency when she decided to be a renegade, and she jumped ship on the State of Alaska after touting what a wonderful governor she was. Besides, she shoots animals from a helicopter. When she was under the gun in Alaska for ethics questions, she tucked tail and ran. Her prey isn’t so lucky. Any idiot who’s been to a shooting range a couple of times can point a gun out a window and kill an animal, especially when the animal has nowhere to run for cover. It’s just not sporting, and it’s even embarrassing. What kind of person brags about that? The kind of person that an organization like Americans for Prosperity would pay upwards of $100,000 to speak for them.

Ask yourself who’s paying for this Tea Party and why. Ask yourself why they’re calling it a Tea Party when it’s nothing like its namesake, the Boston Tea Party? These guys are paying big money to make you think it is. Wonder why?

Dumb Studies

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 27, 2010

In Uncategorized

I like studies. I especially like it when they prove something that I’ve already been doing and didn’t want to change. A study that says fixing fish sticks and fries once a week isn’t going to kill your kids is a great service to humanity, in my opinion.

However, there are studies I read about that make me think – “Isn’t this obvious already? Why would you need to prove this? And who gives a flying rip?”

I found some studies on the National Post website under the fitting title “Dumb Studies 2008.” I’m going to share them but I have to make the disclaimer that I’ve not researched to see if they are true studies or where they came from, so if all of this information is incorrect, it’s par for the course on this blog.

FYI, the headlines and some of the text in these belong to National Post. To show this, I’ve used this handy punctuation device (“) to show that I lifted this verbatim from their website because they said it a lot funnier than I could. When you see this (“) that means it’s the end of the quote and I’m talking. Also, if I’ve left something out of the quote, I’ll use dot dot dot to indicate the left out part. If this is too confusing, perhaps someone will do a study on ways to improve quotation marks so that people aren’t misled into thinking that the blogger actually wrote the really funny part and not just the regular part. Perhaps I should apply for a grant…

“Study finds: People who exercise are less fat than people who sit on the couch all day eating chips and watching Oprah. People who added 20 to 40 minutes of walking a day lost a small but steady amount of weight, according to researchers at the University of Michigan. The lead researcher also noted that changing eating habits could help lose even more weight, in what seems a shameless attempt at lining up grant money for a follow-up study on the merits of eating more salad and fewer donuts.”

“Study finds: Young children are a little frightened by clowns.” Researchers found that kids in a children’s hospital didn’t want pictures of clowns on the wall. Did this take a study? Picture of clowns – especially those ones with the huge black, sad looking eyes and the frowns – are not fun to look at. They are downright depressing and have been known to induce nightmares and fear of clowns hiding under the bed.

“Study finds: Women don’t like to be told they look fat. A national survey found 68% of men have lied when asked by a woman: “Do I look fat in this?” The other 32% of respondents were said to have recently been dumped by their girlfriends or wives.” I personally don’t condone lying in men, but this is one area where they absolutely must be diplomatic, and by diplomatic I mean lie.

“Study finds: Smoking not so good for you. University of Waterloo scientists conducted a study that established that smoking, which is hazardous absolutely every place it is pursued, including the house, the office, in elevators, crowded rooms, uncrowded rooms, lobbies, bus shelters, bars, restaurants, small caves in southern France, in the upstairs bathroom when you think your parents won’t notice and in every other conceivable location, is also dangerous in cars. The study said second-hand smoke ‘reaches unhealthy levels in cars, even under realistic ventilation conditions,’ which is scientist-speak for ‘with the window open a crack.’”

“Study finds: People who think the government wastes their money might fib a little on their tax returns….But even the honest tax payers were not about to tell their wives they look fat in those jeans.”

“Study finds: People tend to underestimate how much they weigh. McMaster University researchers found that people self-report themselves at a lower weight than they actually are. The most likely to under-report their weight were people who qualify as ‘obese,’ according to their body mass index. They were also most likely to finish those fries if you were done with them.”

“Study finds: Getting fired is disappointing: University of Toronto research found that a pink slip can be disappointing even to people who consider themselves optimistic… Optimists also tended to find it disappointing when they were romantically dumped, a pet died, or they whacked their thumb with a hammer.”

I hope you’ve enjoyed these, courtesy of National Post. There’s a link here if you want to “study” these studies more (yes, I should definitely do standup): http://network.nationalpost.com/np/blogs/fullcomment/archive/2008/12/30/dumb-studies-2008-a-year-of-confirming-the-incredibly-obvious.aspx

Two-fers

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 24, 2010

In Uncategorized

Two-fers. Love the sound of that. Getting two for the price of one.

When my husband and his best friend had a landmark birthday, we sent out an invitation that said, “It’ a Double Whammy!” We love the value we can get by acquiring two things and paying only one price.

I wanted twins. Doesn’t that seem like a great deal – get the pregnancy done all at one time, go through the terrible two’s once. Not that I begrudge having my two separate children, but I always envy twins.

Sales can sucker you in when they say, “Buy one, get one free.” It sounds too good to pass up, so you fill your cart. It’s a great marketing ploy. Why not just give us one at half price? Because they want you to take two lemons off their hands.

You see this all the time in those infomercials. If you order the Ronco Veg-o-Matic, they’ll throw in the potato peeler/screwdriver/toothpick/shoehorn in for free. Who can pass up a deal like that? Or if you buy one 1950’s music CD, you’ll also get a ginsu knife. Remember those things? They’ll cut a tomato into a slender slice or whack off a dog’s tail like it was butter.

Congressman will bury a little stinker of a clause in a mountain of legalese that benefits the people from their state. This is kindof a reverse two-fer. You’d be better off without the extra little rider. Congress approves the whole bill because no one reads them, and the public is worse off for the two-fer.

I thought two-fers would be a great blog topic, but I’m stretching and not really reaching any high comedic heights here. The only other two-fer I can think of is Reese’s Cups. They give you two little cups that don’t add up to another candy bar, and yet I love those things. You finish one so fast in your lust for chocolate you barely taste it, but then you have another one to look forward to and savor.

I will end with a joke I read today. One beautiful Sunday a priest decides it’s too pretty to say Mass – he wants to go golfing instead. So he gets someone to cover for him and sneaks off with his clubs. He decides to go to a course 50 miles away because he knows he won’t run into any parishioners there.

Meantime St. Peter is talking to God and says, “Are you going to let him get away with that?” and God says, “I guess not, I’ll have to do something.”

The priest arrives at the course, tees up at the first hole and hits a long, soaring shot all the way down the 400 yard fairway, and the ball lands just shy of the cup. It takes a bounce or two and rolls right into the hole.

“Lord, I thought you were going to punish him,” St. Peter says, a little dismayed.

“I did,” God answers. “Who’s he going to tell?”

Income Tax Blues

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 23, 2010

In Uncategorized

Oh my gosh – I’ve got a public! Someone emailed me missing my blog post last night!!!! How truly exciting.

I have no excuses except for taxes. I’ve put them off as long as I can, and my husband tied me to my desk last night and said I couldn’t move until they were done. At 2:00 a.m. I remembered I had a switchblade hidden in my shoe (never go anywhere without it), so I was able to get my shoe up to my mouth, untie the laces with my teeth, scrape the shoe off on the desk leg, contort my hand down to the switchblade, saw through the ropes and free myself. After all that struggle, I was in no mood to blog.

Oh, and before I forget, I have some nice swampland in Florida I’ll sell to you at a very good price – a steal really. Please respond directly to this post for more information.

The reason the tax stuff is so daunting (and sucks) is because I own a very small yet very unlucrative business doing anything anyone will pay me to do, which apparently isn’t much, and I do my own bookkeeping. I hate accounting with a passion. More than a passion, even, with a vengeance, and even more than that if I could come up with a more loathsome word. I hate it because I lose receipts, forget to make entries in my checkbook, and make business purchases with the wrong credit cards. I have a business credit card, American Express, that isn’t taken everywhere, so I use one of my own. How do I account for this? Plus if it’s only a buck or two, I pay cash. Am I supposed to keep that receipt somewhere and if so, why and where? Because I can’t even keep the AmEx ones that I know belong with the business.

I have folders, and I’m very well organized with everything but accounting. I can retrieve a picture I took six years ago of a random squirrel on my computer in 3.7 seconds. But there is no way I can find yesterday’s receipt for photocopying.

It’s a combination of dislikes that causes it. Keeping up with accounting means typing in numbers – and there’s the origin of my mental block. My fingers protest at having to reach that far. They never liked it in high school typing class, and they don’t like it now. To show their disapproval, they go to y instead of 6 and o (oh) instead of 0 (zero). Here’s what one of my number’s looks like: y3r.o5. If I’m typing a whole column in Excel and hit Sum without looking at the typing, it just doesn’t add up.

The second reason I hate accounting is because it has to do with the IRS. I despise tax code as much as I fear tax men (and women). I know I’m going to get something wrong, even with the best intentions. Besides, tax code is designed by the wealthy for the wealthy. You know the system is screwed up when Warren Buffet pays less in taxes than his secretary. I advocate an across the board 10% flat rate for everyone above poverty level, but would that ever fly? Not no but hell no. H & R Block, millions of tax attorneys and accountants, and nearly all the IRS men and women would lose their jobs. It’s a self-perpetuating infestation eating away at the core of the American dream.

If I had my druthers, here’s what my tax return would look like:

Annual income: $ r,43y.uq

Tax Rate %: x .1o

Total tax due: $ r43.yu

Now that’s the kind of taxes I can live with.

Oh, must sign off now. My husband’s coming, and he’s got a rubber hose…*

*(My public – and I love you all – will get this inside joke, or see the Score Some Gore blog).

Wicker or Liquor?

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 21, 2010

In Uncategorized

Carol, my friend’s mom, is 79 years old. She claims to have been an this close to being an Olympic ice skater. It’s hard to believe because now she walks slow and hunched over like Yoda. She told some interesting stories.

A couple of weeks ago, on her way home from her furniture store, she had filled her with wicker. Every time the road curved, the wicker in the passenger seat rolled over and bumped the gearshift. She shoved it back in place each time.

When she was almost home, police lights appeared in her rear view mirror. She pulled over.

“Lady, are you drinking?”

“No, officer, I don’t drink.”

“I’ve been following you for about ten minutes and you’ve been weaving all over the road.”

“It’s the wicker,” she explained.

“Are you sure it’s not the liquor?” he asked.

Finally he let her go with a warning, but she was befuddled. When she got home, she somehow got herself into the dog pen. I’ve heard the story twice and can’t figure out how this happened, and didn’t want to belabor the point (or extend the story) so I took it at face value. She went into the pen for some reason and locked the padlock before she remembered to go back out.

It was a cold, dark Montana night and she lives in the middle of nowhere. No one else was home, and she didn’t have a cell phone. She yelled and screamed for awhile but knew no one could hear. Finally she stacked a few items that happened to be in the pen – “the dog’s stool,” a bucket she uses for fireplace ashes and a grocery cart – up on each other. I didn’t dare ask why the dog needed a stool, much else why the ash bucket was in the dog pen. By the time she mentioned the grocery cart I was over being surprised. She managed to climb up these items and get to the top of the chain link fence, straddling it and thinking, “How the hell am I going to get back down the other side?”

Within seconds she found the answer when she lost her balance and fell – plop – on the ground. Despite the six-foot fall, she got up, brushed herself off and lived to tell the story.

That’s the end of the story, and as exciting as it is, I have to wonder how much of it is true. She told another story about a policeman pulling her over and saying, “Lady, I clocked you at 67 mph.”

“That’s not right,” she said, “I was going 75.” He threw back his head and laughed for a long time, then said, “Lady, because you’re so honest I’m going to let you off this time.”

There were other stories along these lines – notably the Olympic ice skating and being asked out by Frank Gifford. I don’t doubt that she is totally honest. On the other hand, I have stories that I tell that I’m no longer positive even happened. I’m pretty sure most of the details are correct, but some are fuzzy and I think I might have put in some embellishments without even knowing it. That’s what happens when you tell the same stories so many times over so many years.

In the end, I don’t know if it matters how much truth there is. If someone can tell a good story and hold my interest, I’m not so sure I care about the particulars. Carol has that gift, and we enjoyed our dinner with her tonight. I hope my stories can hold the attention and get a laugh out of the young folks when I’m 79 like Carol’s do. Thanks for the memories – no matter what they are.

The Naked Truth

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 19, 2010

In Uncategorized

I surfaced today after a week of ball busting, number crunching, endless work of helping to get a bid together for my company, so I wanted to see what’s going on in the world.

I went to BBC’s website and saw a fascinating story about human fish. These are people in Lagos, Nigeria who swim to the bottom of the sea and bring up buckets of sand. It was hard to tell how many people where doing this because heads were popping out of the water everywhere like that kids’ amusement hall game with gophers coming up that you bonk back into their hole with a mallort. I don’t know how long they were on the bottom filling the baskets with sand with their hands and hauling the heavy things up to the surface, but it seemed like hard work. They dumped the basket in a boat and went back down, hour after hour.

It reminded me of chasing pennies in the deep end at the swimming pool, except a penny weighs nothing and we were only under the water exactly long enough to swim like tadpoles to the 10 foot bottom, snatch the coin, surface gasping for air, swim to the side, and rest for awhile before throwing the penny again. While we were down there for those few seconds, it felt like someone was ramming their thumbs in our ears – I guess from the water pressure. These Lagos guys must truly be part fish.

As interesting as that was, my curiosity was piqued by another title. “Can people unlearn their naked shame?” It’s loading right now – excuse me while I watch.

Well, that was certainly educational – and I’m saying this sarcastically – thought I’d tell you since you can’t actually hear my voice. They brought in 15 men and asked them to take their shirts off. Then a doctor photographed them. Then they shaved the guys’ backs and chests and took another photograph. They probably went through a lot of razors because a couple of those guys looked like orangutans. Then the good doctor assembled some studious looking men and women and had them rate the photos on the slide show according to attractiveness. The finding? That some hair was okay on a certain physique, but overall both men and women prefer a guy who has little to no hair.

Like a whole lot of “scientific” research, I could have told them the outcome of this one before those guys got shaved and have to itch for months while the hair grows back. Nobody desires a wooly mammoth, though all kinds of people fall in love with the person inside all that hair. The certain physique I mentioned above was one in which the guy’s breasts were not the biggest part of his chest. Turn out people like a lean, mean, hairless machine.

One final video was Dame Joan Bakewell giving tips on growing old. Or so they claimed, but this is not what she did at all. She simply answered five minutes worth of questions and said that, at age 76, she misses her memory but she’s doing pretty good. She looked darned good, too. Many people my age don’t look that good, including me first thing this morning. So she has inspired me to continue living a full life even when I reach her age, which will be awhile, I hope.

Meantime, I’m not going to trust two-thirds of the headlines I read on the BBC’s website. Though I do love the BBC. They have such a sense of humor about their news. Oh my gosh, I just scrolled down and saw there was also an article about the naked shame that shows naked men (from the back) and must talk about their naked bodies. What am I doing writing this blog? I’ve got some scientific research to do. See ya tomorrow.

Things Aren’t Always What They Seem

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 6, 2010

In Uncategorized

Tonight at my daughter’s gymnastics competition they handed out coupons to get $15 off of T-shirts or sweatshirts. What a great deal! I stood in the line that snaked through the gym for the better part of my life to take advantage of this great opportunity. When I finally arrived at the order area, I leaned that I would still pay $24 for the long-sleeve t-shirt with the logo and a star by my daughter’s name on the back.

Funny thing was, that’s the same price I paid at the last competition at a different gym, WITHOUT the $15 discount. Could it be that this vendor simply handed out coupons to make us think we were getting a good deal?

Of course that’s what the little weasel did. And we all fell for it because we can’t resist trying to get a good deal. It’s the same reason we hold out when buying a new sofa until the guy sweetens the pot with a couple of cheap throw pillows. Then we’re scrambling to say, “We’ll take it!”

One of the most frustrating things about this is finding out that someone you know also got the same throw pillows. Then it seems like you didn’t really get a good deal after all. You merely got the standard deal. Worse than that is finding out you got the standard deal, and the other guy paid less for the couch than you did.

It’s actually a competition – you try to win with the salesperson, then you try to one-up everyone else. After all, you can’t get a good deal without having something to compare it to.

Another way people try to get you is packaging. Often there will be a really nicely boxed item with cellophane enclosing it like a chastity belt so the would-be purchaser can’t see what’s in there. The label makes the contents seem irresistible. The customer buys it because it’s on the clearance table by the check stand, marked down from $49 to 9.95. I’ve bought this item many a time. When I get home and tear into it, it’s always a tiny, flimsy object that breaks in seconds.

When I was a small child, I got a giant chocolate bunny in my Easter basket. You know where this is going, don’t you? I bit into that bunny’s foot and discovered that it was simply a thin layer of chocolate wrapped around nothing but air. In fact, the whole thing broke up into bits and fell to the floor. There wasn’t much more chocolate in that thing than in a Hershey’s kiss. I was heartbroken. Who would do such a thing to a small child? How could the Easter Bunny be so cruel?

Once I bought a beautifully packaged box that touted itself as the best spice cookie mix the civilized world has ever known. When I opened it, there was a ziplock bag full of flour mix that looked like some kid had put together. I followed the directions and made the worst cookies I’ve ever attempted to eat. They scrimped on the sugar and spices and spent the flavor budget on the fancy box.

This has happened to me more times than I care to divulge. For this reason, I’ve been leery of everything in a nice box for a long time. Last Christmas I refused to open a beautifully wrapped present with a pale green ribbon because I knew I’d be disappointed. When I get up my nerve, I’ll let you know what it was. I’m sure my husband got a great deal on it!

Insane Rock-O-Plane

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 5, 2010

In Uncategorized

There’s something on TV right now about Ferris Wheels. Have you ever ridden one of those things? I’m terrified of them. I don’t like being so high in the air, and I sure don’t like the way they make you go backwards. But the thing I hate most is those seats rocking back and forth, especially when it’s stopped and you’re at the very top, which seems to be the entire time you’re on the ride.

I’ve never liked carnival rides, and I’ve got good reason. When I was a kid, my mom took me to the carnival that came to town for two weeks every summer. I can see her watching me as I went slowly in a circle on a little motorcycle with a horn that I pressed constantly in different patterns, like beeeeep beep beep beep beep beeeeeeep. Then there were little airplanes that went up in the air about four feet with little guns so we could pretend to shoot at the kid directly in front of you. Each time I went by my mom, I waved frantically at her with one hand, keeping my other hand securely on the trigger of the gun, which fired non-stop.

These were fun rides, and I loved the carnival. Then my brother asked me to go with him and I was thrilled. I must have been about 8 and he was 12. I jumped at the chance.

When we passed the kiddy rides, he turned his nose up at them and wouldn’t even wait for me to ride. “Come on, there’s some really cool big kids’ rides over here you’ll love.”

Ooooo! Big kids rides! I skipped along after him, bubbling with anticipation. First we came to the Tilt A Whirl, which I thought was the funnest ride I’d ever been on. Then the Twister, which I also loved because it made me slam into my brother while he pretended he was being squished to death.

Then he took me on the Ferris Wheel, and that thing swooped me up into space like a rocket launch. I was terrified. When we got to the top and stopped, he swung the seat and I knew it was going to tip over and we’d drop forty stories to our deaths. I hit him on the arms and begged him to stop, which he finally did after I started crying like a baby.

He gave me some pink and blue cotton candy to settle my nerves, then took me to where the Rock-O-Plane was. It was very tall just like the Ferris Wheel. “I AIN’T getting on that thing,” I said.

“It’s really fun,” he said. “Look, you’re in a cage so you can’t fall out and you just go round and round a circle. It’s not scary at all.”

“Is too!”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

“IS NOT”

“IS TOO!”

After much arguing, coaxing, shaming, and bribing, I agreed to get on the ride as long as he PROMISED that it would not spin like some of the ones we’d seen. “There’s a bar in there, and you can control the spinning by pressing down, so you don’t have to worry.” Next thing I knew, I was in a cage. When the ride started, he pressed down on the bar and the cage started to slowly rock as we soared into the sky like we were on the way back up from a bungee jump.

“Let me out of here,” I screamed. He kept pressing until the cage turned completely upside down. Assorted change in our pockets sprayed out and pelted us like a hailstorm. The faster the giant wheel went, the more our gage turned.

I started screaming every obscenity I’d ever heard in my life, which surprisingly was an entire dictionary of cuss words. “Let me out of this effing thing! You son of a __! Let me out of this mother ____!” I was like a wild animal with Tourettes – foaming at the mouth, crying, screaming, cussing, flailing limbs against the cage as coins smacked my arms and legs and face. “I HATE YOU!” I screamed. My brother, dredging up some mercy from his black heart, took his hands off the bar, but the cage didn’t stop spinning. It had too much momentum.

The carnies must have thought my screeching was amusing, because the ride should have been over but it didn’t stop. Round and round we went. I tumbled out of the seat and was rolling around like a towel in a dryer. My brother was even starting to panic. “I can’t get it to stop!” he shouted. “Just hold on!” What was I supposed to hold on to? The bar? So it would spin faster?

Finally, a line must have formed so the carnie had to stop the ride. I flung that cage door open and huffed out of there, bruised from head to toe and fit to be tied. I folded my arms across my chest and took giant strides across the carnival grounds, refusing to look back at my pleading brother who was fervently begging me not to tell our mom.

I’ve haven’t been a rides person since. I still look up to my brother, but I will never forgive him for the Rock-O-Plane. Not in a million years.

Creating the Aha Moment

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 5, 2010

In Uncategorized

Creativity is an odd thing. A lot of people think you have to wait around until that Aha moment strikes and then you paint your masterpiece or write your opus. I have news for you. I’m not even sure what the word opus means, and it’s too late to look it up. Oh, all right if you insist. Be right back.

According to my dear friend Google who knows these things, an opus is a miniature octopus – so small, in fact that the cto had to be left out. A million of these creatures together can fit in a teaspoon and be fed to unsuspecting children with a smile and assurance that, “It’s good for you and will build strong bones and teeth.”

Okay, Google didn’t say this after all. Like I said, I don’t have time to go on a wild goose chase hunting down opuses at this time of night, but I’m pretty sure that an opus is some huge literary endeavor like the Bible that has many, many chapters full of adventures.

You think we’ve got a world full of sin and vice now, and you’re right, but it wasn’t much better back in Biblical times. People were “laying with” (wink wink) their daughters, lusting after a married women and killing the husband to get to her, killing their brothers, almost killing their only sons, worshipping golden calves when they weren’t busy entertaining themselves with drunkenness and women of loosely defined morals. The Bible is pretty good reading, especially the Old Testament, and especially if you get one of those versions without the thees and thous.

My favorite story is about these two women fighting over a baby (I told you this stuff was good). They went before Solomon who was the wisest man in all of history. Each woman called the other one a bee-och. Not really, I just think that word’s funny. But there was a verbal cat fight going on that even Solomon could no longer stand to listen to, so he said, “For crying out loud, just cut the baby in half and each take an equal share and be done with it, then everybody’s happy, especially me.” Well, one woman said, “Okay, sounds good to me.” The other one said, “No way. I’d rather let that bee-och have the baby rather than have it cut in half.” So Solomon says, “Aha! The one who wants the baby to live is the true mother, and you – bee-och – you are a conniving imposter.”

And now I’m happy to say I have just proved my point about creativity. Oh, wait, I forgot to make the point. Here it is, and it is certainly worth the wait. Creativity doesn’t come from an Aha moment. You create the Aha moment by parking yourself in front of whatever medium you use to create something and then just start doing it. If it’s paint or a computer or a kitchen counter where you want to whip up a culinary delight but don’t know what to make – a cake, cookies, or a pie, and what kind of pie – fruit or chiffon. I like chocolate pie myself – chocolate pecan is even better. If I waited for inspiration I’d never write this blog. I sit here and start typing because I’ve thought all day long about a topic and none has popped in my head (as usual) and it’s late (like I said before), and if I want to go to bed I’ve got to write something. With any luck, my fingers will start pecking out some senseless foolishness that I can drag out to about 600 words and call it good. Aha! I think I’ve done it yet again. Goodnight. And apologies for my loose Bible translations – I was just trying to be creative.