Handicapped? In What Way?



Wow! How eventful can a week be?
This morning I went to Costco to pick up a few things and while I was loading my car, another car pulled up behind me and appeared to be waiting for my parking space. Seeing that the parking lot was full, I hurried to load my car and when I had finished I proceeded to take the cart back when the man in the car honked. I assumed that he wanted my cart.
Well, actually, he didn't want my cart or my space.
He wanted the handicapped spot next to mine.
He didn't roll down his window to let me know or honk prior to this point.
He didn't even try to get my attention by gesticulating in any way or form.
When I realized that he wanted the spot next to mine, I felt like an ass.
I waited for him to get out of his car and then, I immediately started to apologize profusely.
He cut me off by yelling obscenities.
He called me an F'ing bitch, F'ing blind, F'ing selfish and and so on.
Well, this really shocked me and for a moment I stood in stunned silence and just watched him.
However when he got to F'ing C***t, I blew a gasket.
I started yelling at him in the parking lot, not swearing at him..but asking him why he didn't make his need known to me (he replied to this by telling me that I was a blind F'ing bitch if I couldn't see the sticker on his car).
I can't remember everything that I said, except for:
"Do you think that because you have a handicapped sticker on your car, you can just treat people like shit?"
I asked him if he thought that the entire planet revolved around him because he had a minor handicap.
I really did lose it.
When I calmed down, I realized that I just had a fight with a handicapped person!
Ok, no...not really.
The only thing that was handicapped about him was his ability to treat people with courtesy.
It made me think of this entry over at Cicada.

Turkish Coffee

Girlyshit posted a recipe for Turkish Coffee.
It made me think about it.

I love Turkish Coffee.
Turkish Coffee when I was a kid had a ritual.
When ladies came to visit, it was immediate that my mother would get out the mlin and start grinding coffee. The mlin (or mill) was tubular and usually made of brass. The cups were small and the Jezva was ready.
All the items looked like this:



My mother's mlin, (one of two) I now have in my kitchen, had little scantily clad harem girls holding trays of steaming coffee carved into it, with men in turbans waiting cross legged on mats to be served.
It's actually quite beautiful. Maybe I'll photograph it and post it later.

The ladies would chat and gossip and I would be sent out of the room as soon as the ladies finished fawning over how big I was getting, how pretty I was becoming, how much I looked like so and so.
They were always loving and warm and called me sweet endearments.

Little did they know that I often hid under the dining room table with the long tablecloth hiding me, and listened to the gossip and girl talk.
I heard all kinds of things while the ladies enjoyed their coffee.
I heard curse words (my mother? Can you imagine?) and about pregnancy and sex.
Betrayal and husbands who were suspected of cheating. Women who were having affairs.
Listen, it was better than TV!

While the ladies chatted, there would usually be one lady who knew how to "read".
The women would finish their coffee and swish the grounds around in their cups and then turn them over like this:



My Tetka Ljuba used to do some reading, but you had to convince her.
She would deny that she knew anything...
"no...I don no natink...", she would say with both her hands in the air...then....just when you were about to give up....
"ok...let me just look" ,and then she would tell your fortune by looking at this:



There were always letters coming, gifts coming, someone whose name starts with a certain letter that will come in to your life, good news or bad news coming, and so on.

I loved these times.
I learned so much listening to those ladies.
Girlyshit reminded me of wonderful memories.
How appropriate, because those ladies were all about girly shit.

P.S. Don't tell my mom about the tablecloth thing, ok?

My 100 things



1. Born in Novi Sad, Vojvodina, The Former Yugoslavia
2. Lived with my grandparents until my parents sent for me to come to Canada.
I was brought to Germany to meet them by Uja Lazar.
3. I didn’t recognize them when I was brought to them.
4. I called my Grandmother “Majka” (mother) all my life and didn’t find out for years that others didn’t do the same.
5. A teacher gave me an English name that stuck with me until I tried to get a Social
Insurance Number with it.
I then went back to my birth name.
6. I was named after my father because my mother got mad at the registry office because
they wouldn’t let her name me Tanja. They told her (in a typically Socialist way)that she
could call me that at home, but that the legal name had to be the formal “Tatijana”.
She told them, “Screw you, name her after her father then.” And they did, and they wouldn’t let her change it afterwards.
7. I have two birth certificates with two different dates on them (another incompetent Socialist glitch)
8. I was a Bartender for 5 years.
9. I worked at I.B.M. for 2 years.
10. I would not have met my husband if I didn’t take that job.
11. I almost didn’t take that job because it was too far from my home and I didn’t drive at the time.
12. I narrowly missed marrying an idiot a mere year before I met my husband.
13. The idiot went back to New York.
14. I learned to drive when I was 29.
15. I lived in New York City for 2 years.
16. I was robbed twice in New York.
17. I saw my first and only real gun in New York.
18. I am a smoker (get over it)
19. I am a quirky smoker. I don’t smoke at work, in my car (and you can’t either)or anywhere in
my house except the dining room.
20. I have a half brother. He lives in California.
21. I have a half sister that I have never met. She lives in the same city as me.
22. I am estranged from my father (for a good reason)
23. I am a very forgiving person and will eat a lot of shit from someone I love. But, when I cut
you off, I cut you off forever. Sometimes, the person won’t see it coming because they have
gotten away with bigger things in the past and something small has triggered me finally
say “enough”.
24. I hate ice cream and strawberries (together or individually).
25. I hate milk.
26. I have nice fingernails anyway.
27. I love the Blues.
28. I love languages and the traditions of other cultures.
29. I should have been an Anthropologist.
30. I was not supposed to amount to anything.
31. I surprised a lot of people by doing better than people I was compared to as a kid.
32. I am known to family and friends, as “The Carpet Nazi”.
33. I am a stepmother to two boys (now men)
34. My astrological sign is Cancer.
35. My sister in law and I share the same birthday.
36. I am an experimental cook and will try to cook anything from any culture.
37. I make excellent Sushi
38. I love the colour red.
39. I look good in the colour red.
40. I wanted to be an Artist (See: #13)
41. I got married in a small Chapel on a private estate in Niagara on the Lake (the snotty part of
Niagara Falls)
42. The Chapel only had 4 pews and seated only 4 people.
43. Our wedding party was photographed by 30 Japanese tourists (I have the video to prove it)
44. I witnessed Tropical Storm Dean in St. Maartin.
45. I am fascinated by storms.
46. I was almost sucked out of a moving vehicle when the door flew open when I was 8 years old.
47. I love children.
48. I am outspoken and it is often perceived as abrupt or insensitive.
49. I am an uncomplicated person and am happy with simple things.
50. I don’t like knick knacks or girly, girly type things.
51. I hate clutter.
52. I love paper and pens. It’s the only thing that excited my about the first day of school when
I was a kid.
53. My first job was in the Midway at The Canadian National Exhibition.
54. I was 14 years old.
55. I love to read.
56. I don’t have time to read that much anymore.
57. I spend more time reading on the computer now.
58. I listen to books on tape in my car.
59. I love Mounties.
60. My favourite movie is “To Sir With Love”
61. I really loved my Grandfather and think about him often.
62. The last time I saw him, I knew I’d never see him again.
63. I hate winter.
64. I once accidentally killed a chicken by throwing a snowball.
65. My family ate it for dinner. I couldn’t.
66. I once cornered a Turkey and found out that Turkeys are mean animals.
67. I once stared at a gypsy woman breastfeeding her child in front of a colourful caravan in the
Pijaca (open market) in Petrovo Selo and got slapped in the head by my grandmother for
doing it.
68. I had a tobacco case that my grandfather had with him while he was in a concentration
camp and couldn’t keep it when I saw how my uncle held it when I showed it to him.
69. I always try to do the right thing. Even if it makes me look bad or it’s easier not to.
70. I am a Big Sister.
71. I have learned more from my Little Sister than she has from me.
72. I once gave blood for a Leukemia victim and really hoped that I would be a match.
73. I was on television donating that blood sample.
74. I was sick with an ongoing illness for over 8 years.
75. I hid that illness from almost everyone.
76. I hate sucks and whiners.
77. I won’t get into a public pool.
78. I have no feeling in my right hand ring finger.
79. I prefer salty things to sweets.
80. I love fried food.
81. I love East Indian food because they even fry their desserts.
82. I am in an interracial marriage (He’s not East Indian in case my love for Indian food and Sari
fabric has you misled).
83. I didn’t tell my uncle about my husband until 2 weeks before the wedding.
84. My uncle didn’t know about my stepchildren until the reception.
85. My husband has many of my uncle’s qualities.
86. I can sew.
87. I would rather sew an entire outfit than alter a pair of pants.
88. Tetka Ljuba taught me how to sew, but she doesn’t know it. When I tell her that she did,
she denies it.
89. I love food.
90. I love food from other cultures.
91. I am freaked out about getting fat.
92. I fluctuate between a size 7 and 10.
93. My shoe size is 7 ½
94. I wear a toe ring in the summer.
95. I dye my hair…but not blond.
96. I am losing my first language.
97. I speak Serbian with a Canadian accent.
98. I have the 4C’s hanging from my rearview.
99. I prefer gold to silver.
100. I feel naked without my crucifix.

Today, 3:00pm

The phone rings at work.
It's Teta Ljuba.

Me: "Hi Tetka Ljuba"

Tetka Ljuba: "Hi...lissen...mama call me to sei dat (husband's name) iss vorkink an Sanday. I tink maybe mama is confus. He vork an Saturday...nat Sanday."

Me: "No, he's working just in the morning on Sunday. We'll be there. Maybe a little late, but we'll be there.

Tetka Ljuba: "So, mama is no confus."

Me: "No".

Tetka Ljuba: "Lissen....no buy da chokolat or da flowers for da Easter. Don brink"

Me: "Ok, Tetka Ljuba"

Tetka Ljuba: "NO...LISSEN TO ME....no brink...I'm an da dieta"

Me: "Ok, Tetka Ljuba"

Silence

Tetka Ljuba: "Don mekka me med..."

Me: "Ok, Tetka Ljuba"

I'ma gonna brink da flowers and da chokolat....anyvay...heh heh.

Lunch With Mom

My mother came to meet me for lunch yesterday.
We met at the usual place and talked about the usual things.

Prologue:
This is a few days before Orthodox Easter.
We go to my Uncle and Aunt's house every Easter.

This conversation happened:

Me: "Ma, when do you want us to pick you up on Sunday for Easter Lunch at Uja's?"

Mom: "Uja's?" with this surprised look on her face.

Me: "Yeah, ma...for Easter Lunch.

Mom: With an indignant look on her face, "I don no...nobady invite me..."

Me: "Ma, we go there every year for Easter. You know that!

Mom: "I don ker....no body invite me. I no invite. I no go"

Me: "Oh for God's sake!"

I stopped by my Uncle's store on the way home to drop off some stuff and tell him to please call his sister and invite her to Easter lunch on Sunday.

Uja: "Oh for God's sake!".

He called her right away....and get this....he had to convince her!

Geeeeeez.

On an Engrish note:
I was talking to Uja a couple of weeks ago and he was telling me about some billionaire he read about in the newspaper.
He referred to this Billionaire as a Big Typhoon

You have got to love him!

2:25pm

The phone rings and I see on the call display that it's my mother.
I was expecting this call because there is 5 to 15cm of snow headed our way after the ice storm of a couple of days ago.

Me: Hi, Ma.

Mom: Sine (child), vy don yu leave early today. Da sno is gonna be too mach...I'm vorried for your drivink. Yu ar da bass...yu ken leave early.

Me (sarcastically): Oh sure Ma, I'll just drop everything right now. I'll cancel all my appointments and leave in a few minutes.

Mom: Finally! yu lissen to yor mader! Call mi ven yu get home.

Click.

I've found the answer.
Don't argue, just say you're going to do it.
Who knew the answer was so simple?

And here I was all concerned about telling her the truth and trying to explain how things in the working world work.

Don Ekt Stoopit

It's been a really hectic week for me and I haven't even thought about blogging.
Ok, I've thought about it, it's just that I haven't had the time or the mind.

First things first.
On Plastic Surgeon's visit and the chemical injections (6 to be exact) in my left leg.
It didn't really hurt, but I have an irrational fear of needles.
Now, to say that you would you think that I might howl and wail like a woman in labour?
No.
However, my reaction is physical.
The stress level is really high for me, but to look at me, you would never know.
I asked the Doctor to please turn his back to me while he was filling the needle and he obliged.
I told him about my fear, he didn't make me wait and he did it as quickly as he could.
I was thankful.
It was over quickly.

Years ago, when I was having one of many surgeries for an ongoing illness that we (God and I) finally beat,
I was waiting to go in for surgery for 1:00pm.
I was irrationally scared of this surgery and had been prepped and ready to go.
However, at 12:55pm another patient started wailing and crying about some minor procedure she was having done.

They put her in my spot and that was when I lost my ever-fuckin'-lovin' mind.
Squeaky wheels really do get the grease.
That is, if you squeak first.

See, I'm of the belief that you shut the fuck up and get it over with as soon as possible.
I'm not a big whiney, sissy, crybaby type.
I hate those types.
Especially when I have to listen to them while I'm stressing out about something bigger than what they are having done.
I fucking hate sucks.

Even in my job,
I am apt to give more attention to a child that shows some sort of attempt at control than to a child that is wailing away for no good reason.
I can't help it.
I was raised not to be a suck.

Anyway.
I just about jumped off the gurney and pulled that woman's ovaries out in my unreasoning anger.
The Nurse seemed shocked by my reaction.
She said that I seemed to be "handling everything so well".
"Well, I'm NOT" I barked.
Know what?
I still had to wait over two hours.

So much for my Mother's teachings of "stegni se" in other words, "be stronk", "don mekka big deal..don ekt stooopit".

The moral of the story?
Ekt stoopid first!

Just Call Me Ivana...Daaaaalink

Ha Ha, I'll bet you all thought I was looking into getting Botox or Lip "enhancement".

No.
I actually am going in to finally have some sort of chemical injected into my leg to rid myself of one emerging vericose vein.

I was the first one in the waiting room this morning and I filled out all the forms asking about my health and allergies and so on.
Running down the list of "do you have one of the following" questions, I found this one particularly interesting:

"Are you mentally ill".
If I was, would I answer "yes"?
Would I even think that I was "mentally ill" if I was mentally ill?

Either way,
as I was sitting in the waiting room I watched people coming in.
I have never seen so many high maintenance women congregated in one place in my entire life.

They were broken up into two groups:
High Maintenance Cell Phone Hugging Business Woman (Group One)
Stripper Past Her Prime but Struggling to Stay Successfully Young if it's Dark Enough (Group Two)

The men I saw this morning were broken up into two groups:
What the Hell is he Here for?/Can't See Anything Wrong (Group One)
Transexuals (Group Two)

As I have said before, I am a people watcher, so I was in my glory this morning.
I was almost disappointed when my name was called to see the Doctor.

You know what else I noticed?
That when you are paying for your treatment, the Doctor actually takes time to explain everything to you in detail.
I like that very much.
Now, let's see if I can get my Insurance Company to reinburse me...yeah sure.

Charity? or Begging?

I have a pet peeve to pick today.

Ok so, I am not a selfish person and I donate both my time and money to worthy causes.
However, am I the only one who would like to make this decision on my own without being harangued by a Cashier or by some person standing at the exit of a store like a Union Picketer?

This really irritates me.
What ever happened to the donation box by the cash register?
Why is the Cashier obligated to ask me, "Would you like to donate to (large company's pet charity) today?".
"No, would (Large Company) like to donate on my behalf?"

It's not enough that there are sometimes two or three people stationed at the exits of large stores soliciting donations, but I have to dodge those kids stalking me in any mall parking lot to buy their chocolates!

This is the truth.
One Saturday afternoon, I counted 12 different people that approached me for a donation as I ran my errands.
I saw one kid twice!
I said to him..."Didn't I see you in front of Scotiabank two hours ago?"
He got this constipated look on his face and said, "no".
I know it was the same kid.

It's enough already.

Fully one third of my income goes to Federal taxes straight off of my paycheque.
A lot of this money is filtered into special interest groups and programs that I wouldn't support, but hey, who's asking me?
Then, everything I buy has PST and GST which equals 15% tax.
Don't forget that I live in Canada...
that means, social programs galore, dontcha know.

If I want to donate, I'll put my money in that little box by the cash register or send it to MY favourite charity and get a tax receipt.

Stop nickel and diming me every time I run some errands!

Maybe I should start my own charity like this or this.

Friday 2:50pm

The phone rings at work and I answer it, seeing the call display number, but still ignoring the phychological shield.

It's my mother

I have people in my office, but I answer anyway.
Speaking in Serbian...but I'll do the accent, like they do in the movies when someone is really speaking another language:

Mom: "Sine (child), vat ar yu doink?"

Me: "I'm working, Ma"

Mom: "Lissen, I call to tell yu dat Dragica nos about a Doctor dat cud help yu to hev a baby".

Silence.

Me: "Thank you, Ma, but I'm done. My stepchildren are just now old enough that we don't have to deal with all the "little child" stuff. I can't start all over now.

Mom: "I vant to be a grandma".

Me: "I'm sorry, Ma. I just can't imagine starting from the beginning now. I'm tired".

Mom: "Bat, tis Doctor maybe kud help yu...he's Chinese Doctor. He fixing tings mit da hurbs. Dragica say he's very goot"

Me: "Ma, I'm at work."

Mom: "I no. I just tellink yu"

Me: "Thanks Ma, I'll call you later"

Mom: "I vant to be a Grandma"

Me: "I know, Ma".

Click.

Gimme a fucking break.

Why Serbians Can't Be Terrorists

Branka over at Lachesis put me in mind of this joke someone sent to me a couple of months ago.

Branka's Serbian version of "T'was The Night Before Christmas", was lifted from one of my own regular haunts The Serbian Cafe.

For those of you even remotely interested, there is an English discussion board called: Speaker's Corner

Anyhow, she put me in mind of the following joke:
"Why Serbians Could Never Be Terrorists"

10. 8:45am is too early for us to be up.

9. We could never co-ordinate all the flights, there would be an argument
about who goes first, who thought of the idea and the reasoning behind it.
In the end no one would do anything because none of the "terrorists" would
be on speaking terms with the others.

8. Good-looking women on the plane distract us.

7. We would talk loudly and bring attention to ourselves.

6. If there were free food and drinks were on the plane, we'd postpone the plan.

5. We talk with our hands, we would have put our weapons down.

4. We would all want to fly the plane.

3. We would argue and start a fight in the plane.

2. We would have put the Serbian flag on the windshield.

1. We would have bragged to everyone a week before doing it.

More Proof That Most Baby Boomers are Shitty Parents

Apparently, some parents actually encouraged their children to skip school to see the new Harry Potter movie!
What's wrong?
Is the movie closing on the same day?
Your kid can't wait until the weekend?

Great values you're teaching your kid, Boomer.
Your child's entertainment is more important than their schooling.

That's the problem with what I've started calling "New Age Parenting".
Don't let your children experience any failures.
Fix everything for them.
If they do something terrible at school, run down there and yell your head off at his/her teachers and blame them or some other child in your child's class.
Make sure you do it in front of your child so that your child also feels that he/she doesn't need to take responsibility for his/her own actions, or listen to his teachers, or treat others with respect.

If they want to stay up until midnight, let them.
If they want to be on the Internet until all hours, let them and don't bother checking to see what they're up to (it's an invasion of their personal privacy).
Let them visit chat rooms with no monitoring by you and then blame the Internet Provider for not having better ways of "protecting" children.

Don't require them to earn anything.
Buy them every thing they want.
If they hurt themselves in a public place because you're not monitoring them, sue the venue.

Let them speak to people rudely and don't reprimand them for anything.
Let them do what ever they want in public and at others homes and never say anything to them that might affect their fragile self-esteem.

In my opinion, this all boils down to bad parenting

If you ask me, I think that the rise in childhood depression and the medicating of our children comes down to permissive parenting.
Children function better with stable and consistent limits.
Parents are allowing children to make too many adult decisions.
One of the things I remember about my childhood was that I didn't have to make day to day grownup decisions.
This was my mother's job to do.
She didn't ask my opinion on anything and I trusted her to make the right decision for me.
Ok, she didn't always make the right one but I was relieved of the burden of having to worry about adult problems before I was mature enough to understand the situation.
Boomers are confusing their children by allowing them to make adult decisions before they are developmentally able to understand what they are deciding.

That's part of the beauty of being a kid.
You can just live for a while without worrying about being an adult...you can actually look forward to it, instead of being one before you're ready.

Way to go, Boomers....

Uja's Proverbs: Episode 3

"You whip the ox that pulls the wagon".

This particular proverb hits home for me.
Wherever I have worked in my life, it has always been the case.
Bosses and Teachers have always pushed me to my "potential".
The fact that they didn't push the lazy asses that I thought needed pushing pisses me off.

That's why now that I'm a Boss, I push the lazy asses because the motivated propel themselves.

That's why the Chihuahua hates me.
I like it like that

Uja's Proverbs: Episode 2

"Life is a barrel full of shit and honey.
Sometimes you have to eat a lot of shit before you hit any honey."

This the phrase I hear from my Uncle whenever I even begin to complain about anything.

Uja's Proverbs: Episode 1

"Go ahead and cry.
You'll pee less."

This is the phrase I have written on my keychain.
This phrase was said to me at least a thousand times when I was a kid.
Don't look for sympathy from any of my older family members.
Most of them where children right after the Second World War in Eastern Europe and are hard pressed to feel sorry for our overindulged asses.

Red Lobster or Bust

Today is my Mother's birthday.
It's become somewhat of a tradition for my Uncle (Ma's brother) to take us to Red Lobster to celebrate.

It recently occurred to me that it's always just me, him and my mother.
The rest of the family is never there.
Then, again it occurred to me that it just seems right this way.
My mother, uncle and me are kind of a separate family on our own.

For the following reasons:
My mother brought my uncle to Canada.
My Uncle helped raise me when my father left us.
Whenever my mother needed help, if I got out of hand, he was there.
He cut his parenting teeth on me (and take it from me, he was tough).
I was surprised at how soft he became with his own daughters.
It was his car I had to look for in the neighbourhood if I was doing something that my mother had told me not to do
(Believe me, he drove around the neighbourhood a lot I couldn't get away with shit).

Yes, in a certain way, we are a separate little family.
A sidebar family, if you will.

I enjoy these dinners because they talk about things that I have never heard about before.
It's like a little trip back in time.
They talk about their childhoods.
The people they remember and have no one but each other here in this country to share those memories with.
It's kind of like what I had previously said about my friend Karla.
She's my witness.
They are a witness to each other's lives.

Sometimes, I think that your life changes so drastically over the years, that it's hard to imagine that you once had a completely different life. Maybe a simpler one, a happier one or just the fact that back then, you would never have imagined yourself where you are today.

Life sure is funny that way.

Well, I'm off shortly for my yearly trip down memory lane with them...
I'm sure there will be another episode of "My Mother Says" when I get back.

Hmmm, I should start "My Uncle's Proverbs" because he's a plethora of them.

Another Episode of:
My Mother Says...

My mother and I are talking and she is telling me that her friends' daughter is "loose".
We are talking about this and somehow we fall into the comparison between "sluts" and "whores"
My mother announces:
Mom: "Slats are vors den hoors"
Me: "Why?"
Mom: "Dey are bot bed an no good, bat at leazt da hoors, dey get da money. Ma anyvay, dey
all gonna hell, so hoo cares?
Vy yu alvays vanna takka about dis tings?
Me?

Example
Many years ago, I was working my way through college, bartending on weekends (much to my mother's chagrin).
One Saturday night after closing, I tripped over the brown bar that locks the beer fridges behind the bar. I was holding about 12 tulip glasses between my fingers in order to "rack" them over the bar.
When I fell forward, I put my hands forward in a natural reaction to break my fall.
It took over 3 hours in Emergency to stitch up my palms and I still have no feeling in the tip of my ring finger on my right hand.
Nevertheless....
I got home at approximately 4:30am, to find that the elevators in our apartment building weren't working. This may not sound like a big deal, but we lived on the twentieth floor.
I was nervous about walking up 20 flights of stairs by myself at 4:30am so,
I buzzed my mother on the intercom and told her that the elevators were not working and asked her to start walking down the west stairwell as I walked up and we'd meet somewhere in the middle.
Now, picture this:
I am wearing:

the obligatory black pants and white shirt and black tie of bartenders. Only my white shirt looks like a butcher's apron from the blood I splattered all over myself when I almost severed my hands.

Both of my hands are wrapped in gauze, so they resembled boxing gloves.

When I meet my mother (somewhere around the 15th floor), she takes one look at me, and says:

"Tanks Got it vazen't your face. You're not maarried yet."

Ya Know?

I have just spent the past 1/2 hour reading random blogs from the scrolling choices on the left hand side of the Blogger main page.
I must say....
There's a hell of a lot of uninteresting stuff out there.
Well, uninteresting to me, anyway.
Here are some of the kinds of things I've read about.
Some woman (young girl's) countdown to her wedding day.
Now, I know that this is endless enjoyment for her, but as far as I'm concerned, she should be stationed next a patient in an operating room somewhere in place of the anaesthetist.
I'm just a party pooper I guess.
I have never had those "princess" wedding fantasies and I don't really understand the women that do.
Just me.
I know it's just me because most other women don't believe me when I tell them.
Our parents weren't even at our ceremony.

A woman who is documenting every breathing moment of her pregnancy.
I guess it's because I'm not pregnant.

The hundreds of teenagers who like totally are giving props and shout outs to their peeps and are documenting school interactions.
I'm old.
It's another language, and I wouldn't go back to high school if you gave me money to do it.
Blah.
I totally agree with my homeySour Bob in his Open Letter to Blogdom.
So right.
Thanks again, Mark for finding this for us a while ago.
It's really worth "a read" (pretentious, yuppie urban phrase)

Let's Go Back in Time....Shall We?

circa 1970
Coming over the American border at Thousand Islands after a fishing trip with family members.
The following exchange transpired between my Uncle Velemir and a Customs Officer:

Customs Officer: "Did you purchase anything?"
Uncle Velemir: "No Perch, no Bass....No NOTHING!"