What would the media do without the corona-virus, Harvey Weinstein and the Democrats jostling for votes to become the candidate to oppose President Trump this fall? They’d have to fold up and crawl under their desks. Is there any news that isn’t bad news, or better put, scary news? The media thrives on crises.
Have you also noticed how shallow the reporting is? Lots of scare language but little substance. There are barely enough facts to understand anything, let alone feel you have the full story.
What’s happened to journalism? What’s being taught in these schools? I think they’re really in the entertainment business. There is no such thing as a well-balance piece about anything anymore except maybe how to dance the tango or make a plum tart.
And have you noticed how many journalists take their cues from Twitter quotes? Or video clips? Pretty soon I’m expecting some company to roll out a platoon of robots holding yellow legal pads and pencils stuck behind their ears to produce the news. They’ll be cheaper and more efficient in the long run. That is, if you don’t care about the facts.
Calvin says, “Take your cue from me. My nose is the daily paper. I learn everything I need to know there. You should do the same.”
I hate it when a warehouse store moves its shelves around and I can’t find the items I typically buy. It’s torture. It adds extra minutes to my shopping. I walk my 10,000 steps just trying to find the peanut butter. They should pay me for confusing me and making me go around in circles.
Being the day before Valentine’s Day, vendors were parked at every aisle handing out chocolates, cheese, and ravioli bites. Perfect ingredients for your loved one. How come there’s never any samples of bagels, lox and cream cheese? Or champagne and lobster tails for that special someone? But there’s always the man with the high-powered blender ready to make you a green smoothie.
I’ve noticed the book aisle is now shoved by the back wall where you can’t find it. I guess books are not money makers even if you are James Patterson and Clive Custler.
The clerk at the check-out told me a story of a family with a six-year old daughter. It was the child’s birthday and nobody showed up to celebrate it. So the family scooped her up and brought her to the store for pizza and cake. I wondered how many miles they had to walk to find those items. They were moved to make way for buckets of roses and heart-shaped cookies.
Calvin says, “The stuff you fret over. What’s wrong with a bone and a snuggle?”
The hoopla is over. The 49ers lost. Kansas City Chiefs won. Let’s move on.
The Iowa caucus is in chaos and nobody emerged as a winner. Yet. They’ll figure it out.
Today is the State of the Union address. Tomorrow is the end of the impeachment proceedings. Let’s move on.
I wonder what the media will do now that all the drama is gone. They live and breathe crises and fear and a heightened anxiety. They’re the reason people are on drugs for depression and high blood pressure. Big pharma is thrilled.
I say we unplug our electronic devises, the television, and anything else that has us tethered to the media. We aren’t getting the news anyway. It’s all entertainment.
Instead, let’s read a book for pleasure. Do we remember how?
Let’s learn how to make chocolate filled croissants.
How about a hike in the woods? Do we even remember what a tree looks like?
It’s time to return to the simple, sane things that give us peace. Now there’s a word that’s out of tune with today.
Calvin says, “When do we go on this hike of yours? My nose is ready. Also for the croissant.”
The chaos of the Trump impeachment trial, the threat of the corona virus, and the frenzy of the upcoming Super Bowl, all conspire to keep our nation popping anti-anxiety pills. This must be a boon for big pharma.
Me? I just want to take a long walk in the woods, look up at a canopy of trees, breathe in the fresh air, and forget I’m on this planet.
The hysteria of the media is at an all-time high. Every headline screams at you. The more the hype the less details emerge from the articles. My questions never seem to be asked. Background research doesn’t get done. There is no serious journalism. Nothing that educates or motivates. Just noise.
One way to handle this is to turn off the television, the online news, the sound-byte texts, and take a hot bath. Turn the lights down low. Light scented candles. Listen to uplifting music. Relax.
Whatever you do, don’t let the dog in. He’ll distract you. He’ll whine. He’ll look at you with those misty, droopy eyes. He’ll try to hoist himself into the bath with you. Don’t do it. Leave him outside the closed door. He’ll get the message. Maybe even go to sleep.
Calvin says, “How rude. What about all the hoo-hah you dish out every day? Do you think it’s easy living with you? Don’t I deserve a time-out too with a massage and a tummy rub?”
I did it. I crossed the boundary from modern to ancient. I went to an acupuncturist. I never thought I’d do it. Western medicine is losing its hold on me. It’s becoming more about scare tactics and meds than medical practitioners that can think outside the box. My arthritic toes needed help and my choices were orthopedic shoes that looked like army tanks or surgery. So I opted for the Chinese way.
On the recommendation of a friend, I went to see Dr. Chen. He’s a mild-mannered man with an accent. He showed me the needles he was planning to use and how he was going to treat my feet. I swallowed hard. He stuck the needles in every toe. It didn’t hurt. My feet looked like pin cushions. He left me lying on the table with my feet under heat lamps while he checked on other patients.
On subsequent visits the sticking of needles routine hurt. “That’s because circulation is returning,” Dr. Chen said with a smile. I didn’t know my circulation had departed. Now that it’s back, I’m wondering if it’s going to stay. Alf calls this foot therapy. That I’m working through my regret at not having pursued a dance career.
I need another three sessions according to Dr. Chen. Then I can retrieve my ballet shoes from the closet and soar.
Calvin says, “What happened to soaking your feet in warm sudsy water in front of a crackling fire? That’s what the ancients used to do.”
Have you noticed the crazy stuff that happens to people around the holidays? Why don’t these things happen other times of the year?
A friend called to tell me she ended up in the ER on Thanksgiving day, doubled over in pain and unable to breathe from an allergic reaction to eating a nut. She knew she was allergic, but she ate it anyway. Does insanity come over us this time of year?
A gregarious, fun-loving, life-of-the-party friend spent Thanksgiving alone. “That’s okay, I’ve had millions of Thanksgivings,” she said non-nonchalantly.
My neighbor’s youngest daughter chose to stay away from the family so she could finish her research paper for school. My neighbor was hurt and lamented the fact her entire family was not present around the table. These are adult children, with lives of their own.
The people I know with kids demand that their children show up for the holidays, no matter how old they are. I find that strange. They say they want their children to grow up, make a life for themselves and build careers, have children of their own, live happy lives. But then holiday time rolls around and the demand to appear over turkey or Christmas caroling becomes law. And the drama that ensues if the law isn’t obeyed is brutal. It takes a year to recover from it.
I think we make holiday time into more than what it should be – a reason to be with friends and family and be cozy with one another. It doesn’t have to be with every relative you have, or every one of your friends since kindergarten. Sometimes it’s with a friend who knows and understands you better than your sister or brother, or your distant relative thirteen times removed who is grateful you remembered her and she brings that joy to the party.
Calvin says, “Do what I do. Everyday is a holiday, a reason to suck on a bone, get your tummy rubbed, and snore under a fleece blanket.”
It’s coming to that time of the year where I peer into lobbies and storefronts for Christmas decorations on my walk to the office. These are the companies with money and they spare no expense with the decor. What makes it so striking is inside you’re in fairyland, or more precisely, Santa’s attic with his elves, gawking at 10-foot trees dripping in gold and sparkles, with beautifully wrapped red and gold presents amidst the poinsettias, and soft holiday music in the background. I know because I go in and take pictures. But outside on the dirty sidewalk you’re stepping over sleeping bodies of the homeless. The contrast takes my breath away. I wonder how many see it as they rush to their buildings clutching their peppermint mochas and early morning podcasts stuck to their ears.
I’ve noticed a woman who scoops up one of these homeless men. He sits on the street with a teddy bear. He has long grey, bushy hair and is usually reading a book. She takes him to the corner store and lets him pull down whatever he wants from the shelves. It’s usually chips, candies, coffee. I don’t know how often she does it, but she’s my hero. I know this because I’m in the same store. May her tribe increase.
I’m thinking of ways to help these people too, especially when the temperatures drop and the streets thin out because people are on vacation for the holidays.
Calvin says, “I have an idea. Send out a brigade of volunteers with their therapy dogs to give hugs and kisses. That would be a gift.”