Father Knows Best
Hello World,
Happy Father's Day! Sunday will be the day for everyone to honor the paternal figures in their lives, and all they do for their families and friends, plus the community at large, and the far-flung corners of the globe, and a grateful nation thanks them all. Of course, there aren't as many father figures in our culture as there used to be, heaven knows, ever since Walter Cronkite signed off, Mr. Rogers hung up his sweater, Captain Kangaroo hopped off into the sunset, and even Daddy Warbucks folded up and blew away. So to all of them who are left, real or imaginary, let's give them thanks on their special day, and recognize the Captains of Industry, the Pillars of Society, the King of his Castle, and even the Potato of the Couch, and long may they wave.
Speaking of fathers, last Friday our local newspaper ran a big story about a father who returned home after a 3-year voyage at sea, and saw his 23-month-old son for the first time, complete with pictures of the happy family. Now, anyone can tell you that math is not my strong suit, but even I can tell that if he's been off on the high seas sailing solo for 36 months, and comes home to find a 23-month-old baby at the old home-sweet-home, then there's either something that just doesn't add up right, or the little landlubber he left behind has got some 'splaining to do, it seems to me.
In other holiday news, on Monday it will be the First Day of Summer, and believe it or not, all the days will start getting shorter from that point on, as inexplicable as that sounds, with the entire summer still spreading out before us. Also, last week brought us Flag Day, and fresh off their unparalleled success over Memorial Day weekend (both the 30th and 31st) The Flag Brigade did another admirable job hoisting the colors upstairs and downstairs on Monday, and lending a touch of patriotic decor to the neighborhood that it so desperately needed. Unfortunately the weather did not cooperate as much as might be hoped, and it was damp and overcast all day, although it didn't actually rain until after dinner, when the flags were safely back inside once again. So more good work by The Flag Brigade around here, and not to be taken for granted, heaven knows, since we all know their poor brains are not what they used to be, if in fact, they ever were, so coming in out of the rain is nothing to scoff at. Because when it comes to wet flags, I'm with Barbara Frietchie, who famously observed in John Greenleaf Whittier's classic poem: "Rain if you must, on this old gray head, but don't make me put our country's flag in the clothes dryer instead."
And while we're on the topic of inclement conditions, it was on Wednesday that I was walking across the hospital campus from the parking lot to my building, and I was overcome by the most horrible stench that seemed to be everywhere at once. Mind you, as someone who lives with a house full of cats, I feel compelled to point out that I am not at all persnickety about smells, and can tolerate a wide range of aromatic situations without complaint. But this was so overwhelmingly bad, and so pervasive from every direction, that even I found myself looking for an escape from it. This was my usual route to work, and everything seemed exactly the same as always, so at first, I couldn't pinpoint the culprit for the foul aroma. Then I noticed that it was perceptibly worse near the flower beds, and sure enough, the new landscaping contractor must have shown up and poured loads of manure around all of the plantings, one supposes, in a sincere effort to make all of the plants more abundant. However, because they did all the flower beds at the same time, the smell hit you from every side all at once, and there was no relief from it, no matter where on the campus you went. In a normal place, I'm thinking they would probably invite the landscapers to perform this particular service on a Friday afternoon, so the smell would have a chance to dissipate over the weekend, and be hardly noticeable by Monday morning. But in their continuing efforts to decrease employee morale, as well as reduce productivity, the hospital administrators decided that this would be just the thing to make us all think seriously about taking the rest of the week off, and going someplace where the air quality would be a little more agreeable. Like inside an active volcano, for instance. Frankly, I'm surprised that they came up with this idea, because I think all of the employees would agree that our jobs at the hospital already had plenty of manure as it was, without paying people to come and drop off even more of the stuff.
And speaking of surprises, here's another story from work, although it starts out like a fairy tale, being as it is, from long ago and far away. It all began in April, when the Pride of Flushing, the hapless New York Mets got off to a woeful start, going 3-7 in their first ten games, in spite of some high-profile transactions in the off-season that were supposed to guarantee their success. They fared no better in May, with a record of 12-17 for the month, to the continuing dismay of their perennially disappointed legion of fans, who had seen their home-town favorites spend way more time floundering around the bottom of the standings than they ever cared to. As the season wore on, they continued playing as an under .500 team, and looking every bit of it, with unreliable pitching, inconsistent offense, and occasional defensive lapses that came at the worst possible times. But to their credit, they never gave up trying to claw their way back up to respectability, and just very recently put together a hot streak, where they had won 12 of their last 14 games, while their skittish fans found themselves being more surprised than anybody. So last week, when I saw a co-worker crossing over the courtyard to the other building, and noticed he was wearing his Mets cap, I couldn't help but blurt out: "Front-runner!" He laughed.
Meanwhile on the retail scene, many of us would be on the lookout for positive indicators of economic recovery in these difficult times, and glad to spot any harbingers of better days ahead. When I was in White Plains recently, I thought I noticed just such a welcome sight in my travels, as I passed a building that featured an enormous lighted sign across the entire storefront, with gigantic screaming letters for all the world to see that announced:
UNPAINTED FURNITURE
Unfortunately, the sign lost a lot of its impact for anyone who actually looked at the store, and realized that the entire store window was full of mannequins wearing brassieres, slips, body shapers, girdles, camisoles and other undergarments of various descriptions, and not a single piece of furniture in sight, unpainted or not. So here I'm thinking, either the language-challenged store owners got rooked by the sign company, and something got very lost in the translation, or the furniture people left so fast that they never took their sign with them. On the other hand, this could certainly be a new wrinkle in the furniture business that I am not aware of, and I would have to say that it would no doubt be very popular among certain segments of the population, especially compared to unpainted furniture. Why don't you go right ahead and take Dear Old Dad there, and let him browse around the silky lingerie to his heart's content. Tell them Captain Kangaroo sent you.
Elle
Happy Father's Day! Sunday will be the day for everyone to honor the paternal figures in their lives, and all they do for their families and friends, plus the community at large, and the far-flung corners of the globe, and a grateful nation thanks them all. Of course, there aren't as many father figures in our culture as there used to be, heaven knows, ever since Walter Cronkite signed off, Mr. Rogers hung up his sweater, Captain Kangaroo hopped off into the sunset, and even Daddy Warbucks folded up and blew away. So to all of them who are left, real or imaginary, let's give them thanks on their special day, and recognize the Captains of Industry, the Pillars of Society, the King of his Castle, and even the Potato of the Couch, and long may they wave.
Speaking of fathers, last Friday our local newspaper ran a big story about a father who returned home after a 3-year voyage at sea, and saw his 23-month-old son for the first time, complete with pictures of the happy family. Now, anyone can tell you that math is not my strong suit, but even I can tell that if he's been off on the high seas sailing solo for 36 months, and comes home to find a 23-month-old baby at the old home-sweet-home, then there's either something that just doesn't add up right, or the little landlubber he left behind has got some 'splaining to do, it seems to me.
In other holiday news, on Monday it will be the First Day of Summer, and believe it or not, all the days will start getting shorter from that point on, as inexplicable as that sounds, with the entire summer still spreading out before us. Also, last week brought us Flag Day, and fresh off their unparalleled success over Memorial Day weekend (both the 30th and 31st) The Flag Brigade did another admirable job hoisting the colors upstairs and downstairs on Monday, and lending a touch of patriotic decor to the neighborhood that it so desperately needed. Unfortunately the weather did not cooperate as much as might be hoped, and it was damp and overcast all day, although it didn't actually rain until after dinner, when the flags were safely back inside once again. So more good work by The Flag Brigade around here, and not to be taken for granted, heaven knows, since we all know their poor brains are not what they used to be, if in fact, they ever were, so coming in out of the rain is nothing to scoff at. Because when it comes to wet flags, I'm with Barbara Frietchie, who famously observed in John Greenleaf Whittier's classic poem: "Rain if you must, on this old gray head, but don't make me put our country's flag in the clothes dryer instead."
And while we're on the topic of inclement conditions, it was on Wednesday that I was walking across the hospital campus from the parking lot to my building, and I was overcome by the most horrible stench that seemed to be everywhere at once. Mind you, as someone who lives with a house full of cats, I feel compelled to point out that I am not at all persnickety about smells, and can tolerate a wide range of aromatic situations without complaint. But this was so overwhelmingly bad, and so pervasive from every direction, that even I found myself looking for an escape from it. This was my usual route to work, and everything seemed exactly the same as always, so at first, I couldn't pinpoint the culprit for the foul aroma. Then I noticed that it was perceptibly worse near the flower beds, and sure enough, the new landscaping contractor must have shown up and poured loads of manure around all of the plantings, one supposes, in a sincere effort to make all of the plants more abundant. However, because they did all the flower beds at the same time, the smell hit you from every side all at once, and there was no relief from it, no matter where on the campus you went. In a normal place, I'm thinking they would probably invite the landscapers to perform this particular service on a Friday afternoon, so the smell would have a chance to dissipate over the weekend, and be hardly noticeable by Monday morning. But in their continuing efforts to decrease employee morale, as well as reduce productivity, the hospital administrators decided that this would be just the thing to make us all think seriously about taking the rest of the week off, and going someplace where the air quality would be a little more agreeable. Like inside an active volcano, for instance. Frankly, I'm surprised that they came up with this idea, because I think all of the employees would agree that our jobs at the hospital already had plenty of manure as it was, without paying people to come and drop off even more of the stuff.
And speaking of surprises, here's another story from work, although it starts out like a fairy tale, being as it is, from long ago and far away. It all began in April, when the Pride of Flushing, the hapless New York Mets got off to a woeful start, going 3-7 in their first ten games, in spite of some high-profile transactions in the off-season that were supposed to guarantee their success. They fared no better in May, with a record of 12-17 for the month, to the continuing dismay of their perennially disappointed legion of fans, who had seen their home-town favorites spend way more time floundering around the bottom of the standings than they ever cared to. As the season wore on, they continued playing as an under .500 team, and looking every bit of it, with unreliable pitching, inconsistent offense, and occasional defensive lapses that came at the worst possible times. But to their credit, they never gave up trying to claw their way back up to respectability, and just very recently put together a hot streak, where they had won 12 of their last 14 games, while their skittish fans found themselves being more surprised than anybody. So last week, when I saw a co-worker crossing over the courtyard to the other building, and noticed he was wearing his Mets cap, I couldn't help but blurt out: "Front-runner!" He laughed.
Meanwhile on the retail scene, many of us would be on the lookout for positive indicators of economic recovery in these difficult times, and glad to spot any harbingers of better days ahead. When I was in White Plains recently, I thought I noticed just such a welcome sight in my travels, as I passed a building that featured an enormous lighted sign across the entire storefront, with gigantic screaming letters for all the world to see that announced:
UNPAINTED FURNITURE
Unfortunately, the sign lost a lot of its impact for anyone who actually looked at the store, and realized that the entire store window was full of mannequins wearing brassieres, slips, body shapers, girdles, camisoles and other undergarments of various descriptions, and not a single piece of furniture in sight, unpainted or not. So here I'm thinking, either the language-challenged store owners got rooked by the sign company, and something got very lost in the translation, or the furniture people left so fast that they never took their sign with them. On the other hand, this could certainly be a new wrinkle in the furniture business that I am not aware of, and I would have to say that it would no doubt be very popular among certain segments of the population, especially compared to unpainted furniture. Why don't you go right ahead and take Dear Old Dad there, and let him browse around the silky lingerie to his heart's content. Tell them Captain Kangaroo sent you.
Elle
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 7:47 PM
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