Archive for February 2007
If you are a Grief Counselor I don’t mean to get personal. But, what you do is hard to understand. Attorneys get grief for chasing ambulances, but Grievees chase disasters. “I dropped my toast, butter side down.” Call a Grief Counselor! “My mother yelled at me for a messy room.” Call a Grief Counselor! “They took Court TV out of our cable lineup.” Call a Grief Counselor! “There’s a fly in my soup.” Call a Grief Counselor!
Now, I am as sympathetic as anyone. My wife was extremely embarrassed when we saw “Terms of Endearment” in the theater. I sobbed and blubbered during the scene where Debra Winger’s children stood by her bed while she was dying. Any movie sure to make me cry has to be watched in solitude. When we put our dog down three years ago, everyone in the Vet’s office was wailing when I lost it. So, don’t think I don’t grieve. Do I really need a trained specialist to tell me I am sad and keep reminding me?
When there is a news report on TV involving a mass shooting, an explosion, or some other tragic event, they announce that Grief Counselors are on the scene. Whew! Thank God! Everything will be OK, now! It seems like they arrive before the rescuers or the police. Do they have CB radios in their cars so they can get there right away? Are people actually waving flashlights to direct the Grievees to those needing grief maintenance? The bodies are still warm, while the Grief Counselors are busy gathering up anyone they can find to hold their hands, wipe their brows and shove business cards in their pockets.
When a High School kid loses control of a vehicle causing a deadly accident, which is usually the result of excessive speed, inadequate driving experience and/or alcohol/substance abuse, the school administrators dial the red Grief Phone to bring in a dozen or so counselors for the other students. Do you think the school officials would ever call a Priest, Minister, Rabbi, Mullah, or Monk to help the grievers? Not likely with the separation of Church and State and all. I would prefer my tax dollars go to feeding jobless pimps, buying dinners and plane rides for Politicos, providing condoms to those who won’t use them, cutting the grass on the White House lawn, saving the Clanwilliam Redfin, overpaying Defense Contractors, setting killers free to kill again, determining coffee is bad then good then bad then good then bad then good perpetually, or any other worthwhile cause.
Let’s put the grief ball back in the court of family and friends.
Bake My Fish
What exactly is a Boomer? The official designation goes to those individuals born between 1946 and 1964. OK, that’s fine. Although my preference is to think of a Boomer as someone born between 1945 and 1960, I am positive being born in 1950 qualifies.
Many of us were Hippies. Many, many smoked pot (many still do). We watched black and white televisions as children. Leave It To Beaver and Andy Griffith were hilarious (then). Zorro, Johnny Yuma, Superman, Batman, The Cartwrights, and Wyatt Earp were some of our heroes. At our Elementary schools we ate grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup on Fridays. The year 2000 seemed like a fantasy, and we thought 50-years-old was a foot in the grave, with the other foot on a greased ice block. Now 60 is just around the corner. 70 is likely. 80 is not an Impossible Dream. So, where are we now?
Most of us are overweight, with High Cholesterol, HBP, Diabetes, ED, Prostate Cancer, Hormone Therapy, Cataracts, and we walk funny. Our AARP card is drawn like a gun at the movie theaters, hotels, restaurants, or any place we can save a dollar or two. We have angst over our retirement. We feel guilty bitching about our neighbor’s kid’s loud music, yet we still attend Stones concerts. Mowing the lawn is now a chore, rather than a joy as it was when we were new homeowners. Fiber is no longer an afterthought. Having a toilet seat break under the weight of our asses is now an accomplishment (at least we’re going). We were shocked when they started saying “ass” on regular TV. Shopping at Walmart no longer feels like an assault on the local small business (we’ll be vying for the Greeters’ jobs soon).
Now we are “Seniors, Hear Us Roar in Numbers Too Big to Ignore.” The 2008 election is coming, and the Presidential candidates are lining up. They’ll start kissing our behinds and making ridiculous promises they’ll not keep. They will hope we die before they have to deliver. But we are viable numbers, with viable needs. Portability this, Entitlement that. They talk a good game when their jobs are on the line. How’s the new Prescription Drug Plan working for you? Have you been to Canada recently? Have you obtained an online medical evaluation from Almost-A-Doctor so you can buy drugs? Don’t worry, they’ll vow to fix all that. At least up until the Inauguration of January 2009. Then we’re stuck with whichever Loser wins. But aren’t most of the candidates Boomers, too? Shouldn’t they be sympathetic?
I want to be able to off myself if there is no hope of recovery from whatever devastating disease I have in the future. I don’t want a politician standing by my bedside preventing my wife from pulling the plug. What the hell does the politician know about me or any of us? We are a vote or a no vote. That’s it. Sure, they preach they care. But, we know they don’t. When we’re at our Senior Center Dance, maybe they’ll come by to shake our hands, eat a cookie and wiggle their booties to the music . . . . . . . . because there is an election on.
So, let’s all gather ’round for the candidates to give us a big kiss. Some of them will pinch our cheeks. Some of them will slap us on the butts. But, they will all look at us through rose-tinted glasses and wish us well. And beg for our vote. Think carefully about who will get yours.
Bake My Fish