Parking World

Posted on August 18, 2016 by Sheila Moss

garage

I love parking garages!  Nearly all of us who work in the city get to enjoy their attractive surroundings.  Gray is my favorite color and bare concrete caresses my eyes with its raw and natural beauty. The garage where used to park on a regular basis is, of course, the one I loved the very most, the old Municipal Auditorium Garage.

Strangely, while most parking garages are structures that stretch skyward into high rise towers of concrete and steel, the parking structure where I parked started at ground level and went down. The first level had a bit of daylight seeping in from the open doors; after that it was strictly artificial light with large blowers and all sorts of ominous vents and pipes protruding from the ceilings. The lowest level I affectionately dubbed “parking hell.”

The stairs and corners had the unmistakable stench of urine some days. There used to be certain parking places that I learned to avoid so the smell didn’t get in my car.  Ah, survival in the city. Bad as it is, at least I knew where I was in that garage and the location of the stairs and exits. This garage from hell was eventually demolished. It couldn’t happen to a more deserving structure.

Somehow I never feel safe in these places.  I think perhaps I’ve seen too many movies and television shows where a woman is assaulted, run down, raped or mugged in the shadows of a parking garage. I always feel vulnerable, like an adventurer in Jurassic Park who, after leaving the car, should run for my life without looking back.  I’ve never seen any dinosaurs in a garage, only a few homeless people and once a rat scurrying along the wall.  On second thought, those homeless folk might have been garage customers who gave up searching for their cars and collapsed in exhaustion.

Some of the structures in this city seem to be engineered for confusion. Do they give prizes for worst designed and most confusing parking garage?  Should they ever decide to have such an award, there are two I’d like to immediately nominate.

Nomination One: The 23 Street garage at Centennial Medical Center, a marvel of inefficiency. You go in the right hand entrance for the hospital.  That makes sense.  However, the left hand entrance, which looks exactly like an exit, is the entrance for the doctor’s building parking. Additional parking is available, but people seem to via for the closest possible places in this concrete jungle of pillars and posts.

They really need to build rest stops for the lost souls in this purgatory. It became so bad that they had to put up pictures so people could remember where they were parked. “I’m parked where the little campfire pictures are, or by the flowers, or in the bird section.” Of course, if you can’t find the bird section, you are still screwed even if you do remember the birds.

Nomination Two: The Tennessean Garage at St. Thomas Midtown Hospital. This garage is a concrete maze like nothing ever witnessed on the face of the earth.  Part of the parking is on up inclines and part of it is on down inclines. Drivers can flip a coin over whether to continue up or go back down to find a parking spot. It is so confusing that it absolutely defies logical explanation.

The levels in this garage are all named on a Tennessee theme:  the Knoxville level, the Nashville level and so on.  Everything is associated. How clever. Problem is lack of distinct naming makes it easy to forget which Ville you are parked in. People wander around its vastness searching for their cars and gasping from lack of water. Camel caravans go by. Lost and wandering souls are ignored and customers with compasses and canteens keep on walking.

Ah, I do love parking garages!  I could go on and on, but I won’t. When the engineers or architects die who build these things, I hope they do NOT go to hell. I hope they are condemned to an eternity of looking for lost cars in a parking garage.

©2000 Sheila Moss
Edited for length & Updated
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Jimbo’s Famous Baked Potato

Posted on August 17, 2016 by Sheila Moss
bakedpotato

HDR Baked Potato | Omnitographer (CC BC-NC-SA 2.0)

Jimbo’s is a place like no other. They sell baked potatoes. Well, actually, they sell “fixings,” the baked potato is almost incidental. Jimbo’s is really a hot dog joint. It seems as if it should be named “Jumbo’s,” but it isn’t.

Jimbo’s is a tiny, tiny little food shop located along with others in the downtown Nashville, so called, “historic arcade,” an enclosed walkway of little shops that was the predecessor of the modern shopping mall back in the days of the dinosaur… well, almost. It is mostly office workers and tourists who wander in from nearby hotels that frequent the arcade these days. They tell me that Jimbo’s hot dogs are really good. I don’t like hot dogs. However, the second most popular item is Jimbo’s baked potato.

Jimbo’s service is reminiscent of the service at the notorious “Soup Nazi” of Seinfeld fame. That is, people must stand in a very long line, usually flowing out the door and into the mall area. Once the customer gets inside the door, the tiny place is very small, hot and smothery and the putrid smell of chili and onion stings the nostrils. Proper Jimbo etiquette is to stand against the wall on one side of the narrow alcove and form a slow-moving line all the way to the back . Once at the back of the shop, customers are allowed to step forward to the counter one at a time, place an order, and then scoot sideways along the counter with their food back to where they started at the front door.

Potatoes are loaded, half-loaded, or one can specify ones’ own ingredients from a list scribbled on the greasy wall menu with a magic marker. “Loaded” comes with chili, sour cream, bacon, cheese, butter, broccoli, onions, and jalapenos. I don’t like jalapenos, which means I must “special order.” Orders are filled by a young man of foreign appearance and paid for at a front door cash register where a young woman, also foreign looking, works.

They are very polite, but I am never quite certain that they will understand what I want. I am very careful to be very exact. And, of course, the entire line is watching and waiting impatiently. Don’t dare screw up the order or you will hold up the whole hungry line.

I get mine with butter, broccoli, bacon and cheese. That way I can find the baked potato under the fixings. When I get chili, the potato is hopelessly lost under the extras and eaten without even being noticed. What a waste.

“Yes, mam?” says the young man.

“Baked potato,” I reply without wasting words.

He grabs a foil-baked potato with one hand and a styrofoam carryout plate with the other. He begins to cut the potato open before I even tell him what I want on it.

“What you want on it?” he says.

“Butter, broccoli, bacon, and cheese.” As fast as I can, I rattle off the list of fixings. I try to make it easy. God forbid I should make a mistake and hold up the whole line.

“Butter, broccoli, bacon, cheese?” Yes, I nod stupidly, praying I have not made a dumb error and ordered something not on the list.

The man works with the factory-like precision of an assembly line worker. His hands fairly fly as he loads down the potato: butter, broccoli, bacon and cheese. Once the potato is assembled, the styrofoam dish goes on the counter and I humbly scoot it along to the register where it is wrapped in cellophane along with a plastic fork and napkin. They used to add a peppermint, but have quit giving them out now. I’m afraid to complain. Money is exchanged and I escape out the door until next time – heady with relief and fresh air.

Finding a place to eat the potato is the next problem.

Copyright 2000 Sheila Moss
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An Art Exhibit

Posted on August 16, 2016 by Sheila Moss
russia

Rural Russia Women – Photo: Alex Markovich

Can you believe that Nashville, the same city that produced Country Music and the Tennessee Titans, could actually produce culture?  I treated myself to a bit of this culture, an art exhibit. Now this was not the ordinary garden variety of art; this was real museum quality stuff. In fact, it was at the museum where I saw it. Nashville was hosting an exhibit of Russian art at the State Museum. I thought there might be an admission charge, but it turned out there was no charge at all. It was FREE!  Yes, seems in order for us rednecks to have culture, the Good State of Tennessee is picking up the tab.

So, how can I describe art?  The paintings were all magnificent, large and beautifully framed oils on canvas, each more fascinating than the one before. The colors were vivid with interesting brush strokes and textures. I almost stepped over the line a time or two to get closer and look. But as the guard approached, I smiled and stepped back quickly.  Whew, close call.

Most of the paintings were portraits, from an era of Russian Art History called “Realism.”   It seems that at that point in time the Russian government decided that art should appeal to the common people. The government actually took over the arts in Russia and required artists to produce art that would inspire admiration for the dignity of working people. With studios, supplies and commissions furnished, all the artist had to do was paint. The paintings depicted ballerinas, old people, and peasants with scarves on their heads.  Apparently, they did not think that nudes would appeal much as there was only one in the entire exhibit and either she was a very modest lady, or it was a very cold day in Russia.

I studied a group of girls in pink ballerina costumes who seemed vaguely familiar.  They appeared to be warming up to dance; each was delicate and graceful with perfectly turned legs.  Have I seen this picture in a reproduction?  An accordion player in a blue striped boat shirt also left me feeling as if I had seen him before. I stood around for a while waiting to polka when he squeezed the music box. Finally, I decided he wasn’t in the mood as he just stood there looking back, captured forever in suspended animation.

Some of the paintings of Bolshevik people were not colorful like the other pictures, but impressive for their stark drabness. I watched a man climbing a light pole in a painting for quite a while. I was really worried that he was going to get electrocuted and destroy the painting, but finally I had to move on. I hope he made it.

My favorite picture was an ancient old lady with sparkling eyes called, “Portrait of my Granny.” She almost seemed pleased to be the subject of a painting. The wrinkles in her face were perfectly captured. She held her glasses in her hands. If you want to know the skill of an artist, study the hands. Many artists do exquisite faces, but forget to capture the hands. Are the proportions correct? Do the fingers look natural? This lady looked so real I suspect that she picks up the book on her table and reads to pass the time when the tourists are not around.

I moved on to a picture of milkmaids collapsed in mirth. What were they laughing about? I waited and waited and studied the picture for clues, but could not figure out the joke. They were not telling onlookers. The secret remains hidden somewhere in the canvas behind the oils, forever a mystery to wonder about. I had a few ideas, but guess I won’t speculate here

One concept of Russian Art is to have several artists work on one painting to support the Russian ideal of submersion of the individual for the common good. Russian art also frequently depicted doorways or windows representing the Soviet belief that they were moving into a utopian society – an idea that I’m afraid hasn’t quite worked out as well as they hoped.

The art is on loan, of course.  I plan to go back again, maybe several times, and look some more. Today was just the sampler. Funny thing, those people in the pictures were almost like us, real people, common people, guess you could say “Russian rednecks.”  Wonder if that is why the museum brought the exhibition here?  Yes, if they were not reds, they could almost qualify as rednecks.

©2000 Sheila Moss
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Never Buy a Tiffany Lamp

Posted on August 15, 2016 by Sheila Moss

lamp

I confess. I have a weakness for online auctions. I used to become caught up in auction fever and stay up all night in order to bid at the final moment. I am happy to report that I no longer lose sleep or bid on items I don’t actually need to buy. However, did you know that not everything on an auction is an auction item? Some things have a set price, especially better things that have to bring a fixed price in order for the seller to make a profit.

What this all is leading up to is my latest addiction. Last week I decided I really needed a Tiffany Lamp. Now in case you don’t know what I’m talking about, these are lamps made of hundreds of small bits of stained glass, soldered together with lead. The glass of the lamp shade is hand-crafted into gorgeous patterns of flowers, dragon flies, or other patterns, similar to a stained glass window.

They are called Tiffany lamps because they were created by a fellow named Louis Tiffany in 1895. These lamps usually have a heavy metal base to prevent tipping and the glass shades are bowl shaped. When the light is turned on, the transparent glass creates a glowing work of art. Tiffany lamps were popular in the art-nouveau age and go well with period style furniture. In other words, they are not suited to the taste of people who prefer a more modern style. I am not one of those people. When I see a Tiffany lamp, my heart does a flip and I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

Now, there are authentic Tiffany lamps and there are imitation lamps called Tiffany-type lamps. The real McCoy is very expensive, so naturally I go for the knock-offs which are much cheaper. They are still quite lovely and unless you are an expert, you probably would not notice the difference.

This is where the problem begins. I have long wanted to replace the somewhat shabby lamps in my living room. One was broken when my kids were small, so I glued it back together and painted it. A similar lamp was purchased on sale – on sale because it was bright orange and no one else wanted it. I painted it too.

I’m not certain my living room is Tiffany-worthy, but I wanted… I mean needed… a pretty lamp. It was an easy matter to find and select one as I liked all of them. When it arrived, I carefully put it together and turned it on. It was gorgeous – so gorgeous that it made my other lamp look worse than ever. So, I bought another one. Naturally, it was even prettier than the first. So, I did it again. First thing you know, I had purchased four new lamps.

Ironically, when my fourth and final purchase arrived, the base of the lamp was cracked. I wanted to return it, but apparently I did not read the description carefully enough and the hostile seller refused to give me a refund. Now I am stuck with another broken lamp. I will glue it together and paint over the repair — some things never change. I would like to buy a replacement, but I’ve spent so much already that my Pay-Pal account is on life support.

One lamp is good, two is twice as good, three is better, but four is one too many. Maybe I can check second-hand stores and look for a lamp without a shade. But if it doesn’t work out, I’ve always got my glue and paint to fall back on.

2016 Sheila Moss

Do you shop on eBay?  What is your experience, good or bad? If you happen to see a nice vintage Tiffany light base for dirt cheap, please let me know. The lamp is extra large, so it has to be tall and have two lights with a pull chain… not that I’m particular.

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Recovering Momacholic

Posted on August 13, 2016 by Sheila Moss

books

The kids have grown up now. They are gone – but not forgotten. Some people lament the fact that children become adults and leave the nest. Not me! I still remember how it was when my three urchins were small. If I ever forget, all I have to do is look at my mother’s ring with a different color of birthstone for every child. Other women have diamond jewelry, mine is a rainbow hue.

While other people have children that make them proud, the bumper sticker on my car always read: “My child is a wannabe honor student.” After they were finally all gone, it took years for me to wear out the old television and get a new one with a remote control that was not stuck at the Saturday morning cartoon channel.

I guess it wasn’t so bad, if your idea of eating out is spending an hour pondering the earth shaking decision of whether to get chicken nuggets or a burger in the Happy Meals. For a while, I could go to PTA meetings for an evening away from the brats, but soon they got wise to that and they wanted to go too. For vacations, we always ended up at theme parks.  I’ve covered endless miles pushing a rented baby stroller.

Sometimes I wonder how I made it without a nervous breakdown, but I suppose it is because it just never did fit in my schedule. Now that the kids are gone, the cockroaches that boycotted their rooms are petitioning me to come back. They probably think the peanut butter sandwiches under the bed are still there.

If I feel lonesome, I just sit on the sofa and imagine that candy wrappers are crackling under the cushions or drink my coffee from a training cup instead of a coffee mug. When the kids were home, we called our furniture the upholstered trampolines. The cracks of the furniture can still produce lost lunch money or a sticky Popsicle stick.

I have paid off the second mortgage that we took out to get the kids dental braces. Now I can actually go to the bathroom without locking the door and take a bath in something besides Mr. Bubbles. Now I have name other than “The Moss Kids’ Mother.” I used to threaten to change my title from mother to one the kids didn’t know so they couldn’t yell at me to find things for them.

“Mom!!! Where’s my shoes?”

“I don’t know – I didn’t wear them last!”

The medicine cabinet no longer has glow-in-the-dark band aids, or M & M’s for imaginary illnesses. When I go out, I do not have an entourage of backseat drivers in car seats. Best of all, I can go shopping at stores other than Walmart, real stores that do not even have shopping carts. I can now stay up past 8 p.m. without worrying about falling asleep before the kids do.

I still have a hard time remembering life before children – it seems as if the kids were always there, born before I was. My goal in life was just to get ’em raised and get rid of ’em. Now that they are gone, you really think I miss ’em and want ’em back? Hardly!

I have finally reached my biggest goal as a mother. I can send the brats home and it’s someplace else. I gleefully pass the gauntlet from Toy R Us to the next generation. But I can’t deny knowing every word of the Dr. Suess ABC book by heart. There are some things a even a recovering mom just can’t forget.

Copyright 2000-2016 Sheila Moss
Edited for length
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Big Hair

Posted on August 12, 2016 by Sheila Moss
big hair
Beautiful Curls by Martin de Witt (CC BY 2.0) 8/16/11
I don’t have BAD hair days– I have BIG hair days!
My hair is so BIG that it gets tangled with my eyelashes.
My hair is so BIG that I had to buy a car with a sunroof.
My hair is so BIG that it stays up all night while I’m sleeping.
My hair is so BIG that I need a wide-angle lens for my photos.
My hair is so BIG that I need a time management plan when I comb it.
My hair is so BIG that Country Music stars are jealous.
My hair is so BIG that my friends think I’m both of the Judd sisters.
My hair is so BIG that I have to sit on the back row in the movies.
My hair is so BIG that my cat hisses at it.
My hair is so BIG that I had to open a charge account to buy shampoo.
My hair is so BIG that I brush it with a fuzz buster.
My hair is so BIG that I blow-dry it with the ceiling fan.
My hair is so BIG that I skateboard without needing a helmet.
My hair is so BIG that my beautician took out disaster insurance.
My hair is so BIG that a windstorm can turn it inside out.
My hair is so BIG that I need KY jelly to wear a hat.
My hair is so BIG that my wallet-sized pictures are 8×10.
My hair is so BIG that it has more body than Dolly Parton.
My hair is so BIG that it doesn’t wave, it surfs!

My hair is so BIG that I have to bully it instead of teasing it!

Copyright 2000 Sheila Moss
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You Can’t Get There From Here

Posted on August 11, 2016 by Sheila Moss

I-24

People are lamenting the traffic congestion on the local Interstate and wishing it could be widened. If they think it is bad now, they should have been out there the last time the road was widened. Traffic flow? Ha, what’s that?  There was no such thing as traffic flow getting in and out of the city. The construction reduced traffic flow to near zero.  Traffic “trickle” is a more descriptive term — traffic hell, if you really want the truth.

Creative drivers were sneaking off the highway and using frontage roads. They were driving on the shoulders, going out of their way to take back roads, and all sorts of inventive driving to get through. Alternate routes were jammed by those who gave up on the Interstate. I always thought, “This is what it would be like if there were a disaster of some sort and the city had to be evacuated.”

The traffic experts said it is our fault, we commuters, for not carpooling. Increased traffic causes the need for construction, and construction makes the traffic congestion worse than ever. Well, experts, couldn’t you plan ahead a bit instead of waiting for gridlock and then deciding to build a road?

Anyhow, they are now attempting to force us to carpool. There are signs marking the new center lane as an HOV lane.  No, an HOV lane is not a special lane for people with AIDS. It means “High Occupancy Vehicle”– a lane for cars with more than one occupant. That’s a method they have invented for punishing those who insist on driving their own car to work instead of carpooling.

These high occupancy special use lanes congest the traffic even more by effectively closing the center lane except to the few who happen to have a spouse or friend who also works in the city — or those who choose to ignore the difficult-to-enforce law and drive in the center lane anyhow.

In the meantime, fellow commuters, be happy there are no construction workers there; get your butt in gear and drive!  The problem is that during construction people wanted to slow down and look at the construction workers who look exactly like all the other construction workers we’ve been seeing for years. They were still as dirty as ever. People need to drive and quit rubbernecking. A giant sigh of relief went up when the construction workers finally got those orange barrels out of the road and let us have all the lanes to drive in.

As far as those who drove on the shoulder of the road, it is illegal — even for those getting off at the next exit. It seemed inevitable that one day the cops would be brave enough to venture out in rush hour traffic and stop it. We hoped the cheaters’ days were numbered, but there were too many to stop them all. And, when the highway patrol tried to enforce lane usage and ticket those using the HOV lane illegally, there were a traffic jams and backups for miles.

In spite of a wider road, traffic still crawls, road rage is becoming epidemic; chain collisions are becoming frequent, and HOV lane signs are ignored. Better roads means more cars using them. Maybe we should just park it and forget it. Maybe it’s true – you really can’t get there from here.

 ©2009-2016 Sheila Moss
revised & updated

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Olympic Prodigy

Posted on August 10, 2016 by Sheila Moss

gymnastics

I have been to the mountain – Mt. Olympia, that is. I have seen the Olympics. And now I have a dream. My granddaughter can do that! She could be an Olympian. She is already almost potty trained, exactly the right age to start gymnastics training.

I talked to her mother just the other day. She is looking for a place to start her in ballet lessons. However, no one seems to want to take children under the age of four years old. What is the matter with these dancing schools? She needs to start developing her poise and grace early to help with her gymnastic routines.

We need to be searching for a gym and a good gymnastics trainer for her. Hopefully, we can find one nearby so my granddaughter and her family do not have to move too far away. Most Olympic athletes live at their training center so they can get in more practice time. Do you suppose she can take her pacifier and stuffed animals?

Until we can get her in a good gymnastics program, we will have to settle for a backyard swing set for her to start learning on. Her daddy has already promised to buy her one for her third birthday, a big one so she can get started in the right direction. After all, champion athletes must have the right equipment.

Athletes are getting younger and younger, you know. The younger they are, the better, according to what I’ve read. They are much more flexible at a young age, have a lower center of gravity, and can fly through the air more easily if they are small. Also, they are fearless, not having developed the common sense of a 16 year old.

The minimum age to be in the Olympics is 16, so in four more years, she will exactly the right age to complete. Of course, she will be actually be six – not sixteen.  But we will not worry about that small detail. We will just put a 1 in front of the 6 on her passport and the judges will look the other way. If anyone asks questions, we will say she is very small for her age.

What about the danger of stress injuries and the extreme intensity of training regimens for young children?  Don’t you know that no sacrifice is too great to bring glory to our country in the Olympic Games? We only need to be sure to use a child’s car seat for safety when traveling to the competitions.

We will need to be very careful what we put on the internet, of course, in case someone notices that she looks more like a kindergartner than a teenager. Other countries are jealous, you know, and always looking for ways to bring down a winner. Some hacker might start digging things up about how old she really is. (I plan to delete this column right after you read it.)

We need to work on the potty training a bit more and start teaching her to wear her hair in a very tight pony tail. We can always add lipstick and glitter to make her look more like a pre-adolescent and less like a toddler doing tricks on the playground. Yes, Olympic glory is just around the corner. Her face will be on a box of Wheaties before we know it.

There is just one tiny thing that concerns me. She doesn’t seem to understand why the Olympic medal looks just like one of those chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. We may have to make her give up eating candy. It could really be embarrassing if she tried to eat her gold medal during the National Anthem.

©2008 Sheila Moss

What is your favorite Olympic sport?

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Let the Games Begin

Posted on August 9, 2016 by Sheila Moss

Have you been watching the world’s biggest beach party? They are calling it the Olympic Games, and the event is being held in Brazil in spite of complaints about the dangerously polluted water and spats about doping.

As NBC covers one event after another in a marathon of television coverage, I’ve become bleary eyed from watching it all. My remote control skills are being subjected to a test of endurance greater than the skills of the athletes.

After days and days of it, one swimmer looks pretty much like another and those black and white blobs splashing back and forth just don’t have the thrill of, say, NASCAR. I’m waterlogged and worn out and have discovered swimming strokes that I didn’t even know existed outside of an aquarium.

Athletes spend most of their waking time practicing, and getting ready for the Olympics, we are told. Some spend an entire lifetime training and becoming physically fit. And they still have the guts to call it “games”?

All this physical exertion leaves a dedicated couch potato sweaty and out of breath. I know it’s important to have national pride and for young people to be physically fit, but it sort of makes me wonder if we are training the physical body at the exclusion of everything else. For the few that win, I suppose it pays off in big monetary ways with product endorsements and paid performances.

“The important thing is just to be here and to be able to compete,” say the athletes to the camera. Right – and that’s why we tally up each country’s medals to see who got the most. Somehow it always seems to be the losers who are saying it doesn’t matter. Everyone else is too busy counting.

Many of the sports were never really intended to be spectator sports. Watching someone throw a discus is entertaining? I don’t think so. My shoulder has been out of joint ever since I saw the first throw. Bet the original Greek’s ashes would turn over in their Grecian urns if they could see what their simple competitions have become.

The most watched event as a spectator sport seems to be women’s beach volleyball. Even the players admit that the spectators are not there to look at a volleyball game. It’s supposed to be sexy. So, I suck in my tubby tummy and hope no one notices the varicose veins. The way some of those Amazons look, however, we must be pretty desperate to see babes in bathing suits.
.
The cutest participants are the gymnasts, of course, bouncing around with glitter in their hair and on their eyelids. Why is it that looking cute in sequins enhances their performance, but the female swimmers don’t wear a stitch of mascara or lipstick? For the sake of womanhood, I hope someone invents waterproof eye glitter before the next Olympic Games.

Actually, the gymnasts make me nervous. Holding my breath and doing a mental balancing act right beside them, I always think we will fall off and hurt something important. The announcers always see things that I don’t. “Oh, look at that! Her toenail is hanging off the beam. You can’t do that in Olympic level competition. And she bounced when she landed! She’s out of it!”

Picky! Picky! Picky! May the gymnast with the cutest outfit win, I say!

Does all this sports coverage really do much to inspire us to athletic fitness? It certainly does inspire us to baggy, bloodshot eyes from too much television watching and helps us to understand the intricacies of offbeat sports like canoe slalom that we never have, and never will, give a whit about.

The new endurance record will be that of the dazed television viewers who have suffered through more hours of coverage than we ever imagined possible and without any purple circles to help our sore buttocks. When they start giving out gold medals and olive wreaths for couch potato participation, I’ll be there!

©2004-2016 Sheila Moss
Updated

Are you watching the Olympics on TV? What is your favorite event?

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The Complaint Department is Open

Posted on August 8, 2016 by Sheila Moss

popart

Everyone seems to have something to complain about.  They don’t like politics or politicians and think we would all be better off without having to hear so much about them, or from them.  They don’t like Hillary they don’t like Trump or they want to complain about Obama.

They don’t like the latest movies, which are not fit to watch, and they don’t like what’s on TV.  And what’s the deal with satellite TV and cable being so expensive anyhow?

They don’t like movie stars, rock stars, or celebrities in general, and they don’t like hearing about their lives: who is in rehab this week, who is sleeping with whom, or who got arrested — as if it mattered or anyone cared about their worthless existence.

They don’t like old people who do nothing but complain about their aches and pains and operations. They don’t like young kids, and the way they dress with their pants down to their knees and their tattoos and piercings.

They don’t like traffic, there is way too much of it, and they don’t like the high price of gasoline. They don’t like SUV gas hogs and they don’t like crowded small cars.  They don’t like depending on foreign oil and they don’t like anything spoiling the environment.

They don’t like the weather. It’s either too dry, or it rains too much. There is always a hurricane, a blizzard, a flood or an earthquake somewhere to complain about.  They definitely don’t like the weather.

They don’t like football, or baseball, and they don’t like the Olympics. They don’t like wasting time watching people play games. Professional athletes are paid too much, and they don’t like anyone who thinks otherwise.

They don’t like being overweight, but they don’t like dieting. They don’t like smokers.  They don’t like health nuts who talk about nothing but physical fitness, as if it is some kind of national obsession.

They don’t like workaholics who do nothing but work and don’t have a life. They don’t like those lazy butts who won’t get a job, wouldn’t keep it if they had one, and are just looking for a handout.

They don’t like the slowdown in the economy, and they don’t like the high interest on everything but savings. They don’t like paying taxes — sales tax, property tax, and income tax — which are always way too much.

They don’t like traveling; it’s too expensive and there’s no place worth going. But they don’t like doing nothing either.

They don’t like the food in restaurants. You can’t get a decent meal for a reasonable price. They don’t like to cook, so eating at home is out of the question, especially with the price of groceries these days.

They don’t like shopping.  You can’t find a place to park without having to walk a mile and when you finally get inside the store you can’t find anything worth spending your money on anyhow except stuff that is overpriced.

They don’t like summer as it is too hot and the air conditioning is too cold.  They don’t like winter as it is too cold and the weather is bad.  They don’t like spring as the grass has to be mowed.  Fall is depressing because winter is coming and there is all that pollen in the air.

They don’t like smart alecks, and they don’t like stupid people.  They don’t like people that are different and not exactly like them. They could go on all day about that one, but they don’t like people who talk too much and are too opinionated.

Now, my ears are burning from all these complainers, and I don’t like complaining about complainers. On the other hand, if there were no complainers I wouldn’t have anything to complain about. So, the complaint department is open. Go ahead and complain.

©2008 Sheila Moss
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