Thursday, December 02, 2004
The Three Day Fish Hotel
As we were driving, leisurely I might add, one bright blue-skyed, white-cloud puffed Sunday afternoon, my ever-loving wife ah-hummed and then carefully pointed out that I’ve been suffering curmudgeonitis for the past 2-3 years. Since illness is diagnosed by the eye of the perceiver, I realized that it was she that was suffering from my curmudgeonitis, not I. I was merely wrapped up in the soothing blanket of my opinions.
I was not surprised that she had brought up her analysis of my crustiness while we were enjoying the day. I’m an off-the-boat-from-Europe 100% Slavic kind of guy and therefore tend to display Slavic sensibilities (which are sometimes viewed as lack thereof); my ever-loving wife is American content, which means she’s got a bit of variety. Luckily, I’d married a woman with a touch of Hapsburg and a trace of Magyar in her blood. So, she came to her sardonic world views naturally. Personal critiquing has been raised to a high art by Slavic women, even those with just a slight presence of that heritage. The story goes that, had there been a Slavic woman on Jesus’ walk to Mt. Calvary, she’d been complaining to him that while He was out with his drinking buddies having a good time, she was stuck at home slapping clothes on rocks. As I saw it, what better way to cheer one’s spirits and keep the blood flowing than to have one’s character criticized.
So, I ventured into that curmudgeonitis diagnosis with my mouth already curving toward the grinning stage. While the ever-loving wife is quick with a barb, she is as generous with the wit. The medicine she dispenses is sweet to the ear. It’s when it gets inside the head that the true intent is known.
"Give me an example of this curmudgeon thing.", I asked.
"Well, how about all these "If I owned/ran this…" situations you comment on?", she replied. The "all these" part of her comment clued me in that she’s been storing my commentaries for a while. Her inventory was full and our Sunday drive seemed to be a good enough time to hold a liquidation of her memory assets.
Going on, she threw out, "It’s the queue thing, isn’t it?"
I seem to have a lot of "things". If it’s not the "curmudgeon thing", then it’s the "queue thing". And if it’s not that, it’s the "memory thing", which is a "thing" of black hole proportions. Now, gentle reader, you may think me henpecked or victimized. There, you are wrong. Both my ever-loving wife and I agree that, like all sentient beings, I am an ongoing project. Our disagreement lies at what stage of the project I’m at. If I were a piece of pottery, I’d say I’m past the forming, firing, and glazing stages. I’m almost ready for the “admiring glances on the pedestal stage”. Granted, it’s a low pedestal, perhaps a brick, but an off the ground scenario, nonetheless. My wife, ever-loving that she is, would probably say I’m still on the potter’s wheel, spinning like a cheap set of rims.
Granted, this "queue thing" she’s referring to is one of my many Achille’s Heels. I’ve heard of this Job guy and his patience. Maybe in the days of Yore, patience was a talent like channel-surfing is today; something that most every had to a degree based on the pace and technology available in those days. Measuring time via a sundial versus by an atomic clock sets different standards for societal acceptance (or demand) of behaviour. Patience today is measured in seconds as compared to days (or years) in Job’s time. Perhaps, my ever-loving wife is being too Biblical when she’s discussing my "queue thing". Hmmm.
But back to her "If I owned/ran this…" situations you comment on?" statement. It’s Holiday time. Time when one’s emotional train choo-choo’s from Love Station to Hate Depot, with stops along the way at Exasperation Gulch, Pecuniary Peak, & Backorder Chasm. Throw in visits from relatives and you’ve got a train wreck waiting to happen. Every season starts with Hope and inevitably ends with Heartbreak, of one size or another.
Mulling over this year’s holiday time trip, I came up with The Three Day Fish Hotel. Not a complete solution. That would require the True Miracle. The Hotel would be a small token of a man’s limited magical skills.
(to be continued….shortly)
As we were driving, leisurely I might add, one bright blue-skyed, white-cloud puffed Sunday afternoon, my ever-loving wife ah-hummed and then carefully pointed out that I’ve been suffering curmudgeonitis for the past 2-3 years. Since illness is diagnosed by the eye of the perceiver, I realized that it was she that was suffering from my curmudgeonitis, not I. I was merely wrapped up in the soothing blanket of my opinions.
I was not surprised that she had brought up her analysis of my crustiness while we were enjoying the day. I’m an off-the-boat-from-Europe 100% Slavic kind of guy and therefore tend to display Slavic sensibilities (which are sometimes viewed as lack thereof); my ever-loving wife is American content, which means she’s got a bit of variety. Luckily, I’d married a woman with a touch of Hapsburg and a trace of Magyar in her blood. So, she came to her sardonic world views naturally. Personal critiquing has been raised to a high art by Slavic women, even those with just a slight presence of that heritage. The story goes that, had there been a Slavic woman on Jesus’ walk to Mt. Calvary, she’d been complaining to him that while He was out with his drinking buddies having a good time, she was stuck at home slapping clothes on rocks. As I saw it, what better way to cheer one’s spirits and keep the blood flowing than to have one’s character criticized.
So, I ventured into that curmudgeonitis diagnosis with my mouth already curving toward the grinning stage. While the ever-loving wife is quick with a barb, she is as generous with the wit. The medicine she dispenses is sweet to the ear. It’s when it gets inside the head that the true intent is known.
"Give me an example of this curmudgeon thing.", I asked.
"Well, how about all these "If I owned/ran this…" situations you comment on?", she replied. The "all these" part of her comment clued me in that she’s been storing my commentaries for a while. Her inventory was full and our Sunday drive seemed to be a good enough time to hold a liquidation of her memory assets.
Going on, she threw out, "It’s the queue thing, isn’t it?"
I seem to have a lot of "things". If it’s not the "curmudgeon thing", then it’s the "queue thing". And if it’s not that, it’s the "memory thing", which is a "thing" of black hole proportions. Now, gentle reader, you may think me henpecked or victimized. There, you are wrong. Both my ever-loving wife and I agree that, like all sentient beings, I am an ongoing project. Our disagreement lies at what stage of the project I’m at. If I were a piece of pottery, I’d say I’m past the forming, firing, and glazing stages. I’m almost ready for the “admiring glances on the pedestal stage”. Granted, it’s a low pedestal, perhaps a brick, but an off the ground scenario, nonetheless. My wife, ever-loving that she is, would probably say I’m still on the potter’s wheel, spinning like a cheap set of rims.
Granted, this "queue thing" she’s referring to is one of my many Achille’s Heels. I’ve heard of this Job guy and his patience. Maybe in the days of Yore, patience was a talent like channel-surfing is today; something that most every had to a degree based on the pace and technology available in those days. Measuring time via a sundial versus by an atomic clock sets different standards for societal acceptance (or demand) of behaviour. Patience today is measured in seconds as compared to days (or years) in Job’s time. Perhaps, my ever-loving wife is being too Biblical when she’s discussing my "queue thing". Hmmm.
But back to her "If I owned/ran this…" situations you comment on?" statement. It’s Holiday time. Time when one’s emotional train choo-choo’s from Love Station to Hate Depot, with stops along the way at Exasperation Gulch, Pecuniary Peak, & Backorder Chasm. Throw in visits from relatives and you’ve got a train wreck waiting to happen. Every season starts with Hope and inevitably ends with Heartbreak, of one size or another.
Mulling over this year’s holiday time trip, I came up with The Three Day Fish Hotel. Not a complete solution. That would require the True Miracle. The Hotel would be a small token of a man’s limited magical skills.
(to be continued….shortly)
Comments:
<< Home Verging on Pertinence Just some more disposable thoughts clogging up the hinterlands
Chapter blogging? No fair. Who are you, Dickens with a serial novel? I wanna know what happens, and I don't wanna have to wait for the next weekly edition. It's my impatience of Job thing! Teta
# opined by 
: 12:43 PM, December 02, 2004
: 12:43 PM, December 02, 2004
Dear Anonymous Teta,
Apologies for the serial posting. My son, Mr. www.delawhers.blogspot.com, had previously commented that some of my blog entries were too long and, therefore, sleep-inducing. Since his safety is of my utmost concern (i wouldn't want him to drift off and collapse on his keyboard, thus defacing da face), I've opted to have shorter entries. Thanks for your enthusastic visit! A continuation is in the works for "The Three Day Fish Hotel".
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Apologies for the serial posting. My son, Mr. www.delawhers.blogspot.com, had previously commented that some of my blog entries were too long and, therefore, sleep-inducing. Since his safety is of my utmost concern (i wouldn't want him to drift off and collapse on his keyboard, thus defacing da face), I've opted to have shorter entries. Thanks for your enthusastic visit! A continuation is in the works for "The Three Day Fish Hotel".
<< Home Verging on Pertinence Just some more disposable thoughts clogging up the hinterlands
