Yesterday I received an email that confirmed to me the moral decline of Western Civilization. Graeter's Ice Cream is becoming available in Kroger's grocery stores throughout the mid-west and parts of the south.
How can that be? How can those little copper french pots possibly hold enough butterfat and mammoth chocolate chunks to supply the matrix of Kroger stores? Are round the clock shifts mandatory for the Cincinnati men and women stirring those special ingredients adding untold delight to taste buds and inches to the hips? Alas, I think not.
I believe that Graeter's has gone Hollywood. Homemade goodness has fallen victim to the almighty dollar. Why is Obama zeroing in on Wall Street when the bigger story is the world's best ice-cream has become another indication of Gordon Gekko's mantra - Greed is Good? Forget the SEC and Goldman, get the Commerce Department to lower the boom on the manufacturing complex of cream, butter, chips and nuts. Are the french copper pots and ladies with hairnets stirring the heavenly goodness still in the picture or have they succumbed to industrial steel buckets with mountain size metal beaters? Is the finished product being hand scooped into the cartons or is a robotic arm slamming it into the carton?
Graeter's was one of the five basic food groups of the Connelly household. Trips to the Fatherland always involved multiple visits to the shrine of all that is good in the world. We would often stop for a tasty treat before arriving at Michael's parents. Our priorities were in the right order, chocolate chocolate chip complete with bittersweet sauce before all else. In later years, we would have it shipped to our door. When storms cut power, Michael wasn't concerned about burst pipes - emergency action centered around saving the Graeters. I think Graeter's is why we now have a generator.
Katie bar the door, our society is in a downward spiral. Mass production of the Holy Grail is now a reality. Next announcement will be there is no Santa Claus. Where is government intervention when you need it?
Monday, April 19, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Angels in Our Midst
Every morning when I awaken, my morning prayers include a request to be kind to others. Having resided in the New York environs since 1986, by noon all bets are off. But it remains one of my daily aspirations. That, and to tell a joke a day. Unfortunately, much of my humor falls flat, so I am zero in the batting cage. As Good Ol' Winnie said - Never, Never, Never Give Up - so I give it a daily heave-ho and hope one evening I will have climbed the mountaintop.
But spending the winter in The Virgin Islands I witnessed it everyday. My cousins, Tish and Jerry, were always kind - to everyone. To their children, to their friends, to the interloper in their home (that would be me), to their employees, to the hardbodies at the Soggy Dollar, simply Always. Now, it is possible to put on a facade for a day or two but fairly soon the exterior breaks and one's inner self comes shining through. So, after a period of months, I am positive this is who they are.
This isn't so simple in the Islands. From the grocery store, to the post office, to the people repairing your home, there are constant opportunities to become a bit testy and what some people politely call, direct. Add dealing with employees on an Island of 300 and one has a boatload of possibilities to spring a leak. But I never saw it, not once.
I am not saying they are pushovers. They stand their ground and accomplish their goals with respect for others and an understanding of the complexities and differences in life. Rather than being "with me or against me", they understand the cultural differences, interact with all within their own framework and work towards accomplishing the task at hand without a harsh word or raised voice. While I am certain there are many times frustration must bubble beneath the surface, it never sees the light of day.
During Michael's illness, someone said to me to be aware of Angels in our midst. We experienced many acts of goodness during our battle, but I have never experienced true goodness as I have over the past few months. I am wondering where they stuff their wings.
We should send Tish and Jerry to the Mid-East. No doubt a solution would be close at hand.
But spending the winter in The Virgin Islands I witnessed it everyday. My cousins, Tish and Jerry, were always kind - to everyone. To their children, to their friends, to the interloper in their home (that would be me), to their employees, to the hardbodies at the Soggy Dollar, simply Always. Now, it is possible to put on a facade for a day or two but fairly soon the exterior breaks and one's inner self comes shining through. So, after a period of months, I am positive this is who they are.
This isn't so simple in the Islands. From the grocery store, to the post office, to the people repairing your home, there are constant opportunities to become a bit testy and what some people politely call, direct. Add dealing with employees on an Island of 300 and one has a boatload of possibilities to spring a leak. But I never saw it, not once.
I am not saying they are pushovers. They stand their ground and accomplish their goals with respect for others and an understanding of the complexities and differences in life. Rather than being "with me or against me", they understand the cultural differences, interact with all within their own framework and work towards accomplishing the task at hand without a harsh word or raised voice. While I am certain there are many times frustration must bubble beneath the surface, it never sees the light of day.
During Michael's illness, someone said to me to be aware of Angels in our midst. We experienced many acts of goodness during our battle, but I have never experienced true goodness as I have over the past few months. I am wondering where they stuff their wings.
We should send Tish and Jerry to the Mid-East. No doubt a solution would be close at hand.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
SnowBunnies
We grew up skiing. It was the family winter weekend activity of choice. My father would pack us in the wagon with a thermos full of oxtail soup and sandwiches wrapped in foil. Saturday and Sunday mornings the family cart would exit the driveway at 5:47am. No flexibility there - always trying to instill in us a life lesson, Dad would depart at the appointed time. Chasing down an icy driveway in unlaced ski boots - a perfect morning exercise drill.
One of my favorite parts of this experience was Sunday morning mass. We would clomp up the aisle in our gear, including ski boots and escape after communion. Hopeful for a quick sermon, we would count the minutes. The longer winded epistles meant the lifts would open without us. Tragedy in my father's book since he wasn't getting his money's worth.
Off we would drive to The Berkshires. To those unfamiliar with these eastern Alps, a good visual would be dousing your neighborhood hill with ice and placing a T-Bar to the top. Okay, the T-bar was for the advanced skiers, the beginners had a rope tow. Made no sense to me. The tow was designed to pull your shoulders from their sockets while you skidded on along the ground trying to untangle your skis from the rope. Anyone silly enough to return to the slopes a second day after experiencing this lurch forward was a bonafide aficionado.
The T-Bar and Chair Lifts provided my father the opportunity to determine happenings. Captive until the top of the hill, he utilized his best litigation techniques to determine the state of your union. A master of communication, he gained a wealth of information from our adolescent lips. Frostbite is a wonderful incentive to spill your guts.
Eastern skiing is not like the movies. No lovely tracks through the powder while the sun lovingly warms your face. Sharp edges were essential to slice through the ice while wearing masks to protect the extremities from the 20mph winds whipping ice pellets through the air. We skied all day, through the lunch hour (more runs while people ate. Never mind that you were ready to eat your glove). Finally, at 2pm we stopped, wolfed down the packed lunches and trundled to the car.
I wouldn't trade those memories for anything. They are among my best. I loved skiing with my father. Today one of my favorite places on earth is Vail, Colorado. I love the blue sky and white snow. I love moving down the mountain with a gaggle of friends. I love the sense of being with nature and the freedom it gives me.
All this due to the 5:47am sprint down the driveway.
One of my favorite parts of this experience was Sunday morning mass. We would clomp up the aisle in our gear, including ski boots and escape after communion. Hopeful for a quick sermon, we would count the minutes. The longer winded epistles meant the lifts would open without us. Tragedy in my father's book since he wasn't getting his money's worth.
Off we would drive to The Berkshires. To those unfamiliar with these eastern Alps, a good visual would be dousing your neighborhood hill with ice and placing a T-Bar to the top. Okay, the T-bar was for the advanced skiers, the beginners had a rope tow. Made no sense to me. The tow was designed to pull your shoulders from their sockets while you skidded on along the ground trying to untangle your skis from the rope. Anyone silly enough to return to the slopes a second day after experiencing this lurch forward was a bonafide aficionado.
The T-Bar and Chair Lifts provided my father the opportunity to determine happenings. Captive until the top of the hill, he utilized his best litigation techniques to determine the state of your union. A master of communication, he gained a wealth of information from our adolescent lips. Frostbite is a wonderful incentive to spill your guts.
Eastern skiing is not like the movies. No lovely tracks through the powder while the sun lovingly warms your face. Sharp edges were essential to slice through the ice while wearing masks to protect the extremities from the 20mph winds whipping ice pellets through the air. We skied all day, through the lunch hour (more runs while people ate. Never mind that you were ready to eat your glove). Finally, at 2pm we stopped, wolfed down the packed lunches and trundled to the car.
I wouldn't trade those memories for anything. They are among my best. I loved skiing with my father. Today one of my favorite places on earth is Vail, Colorado. I love the blue sky and white snow. I love moving down the mountain with a gaggle of friends. I love the sense of being with nature and the freedom it gives me.
All this due to the 5:47am sprint down the driveway.
Your Best Foot Forward
Since Michael's days at The Wharton School, I have been a strong proponent of the capitalist system. Due to my exposure at this citadel of economic theorists I am strong believer in the basic principles of supply and demand, competition among companies and the need for constant innovation in the product world. Although I have not been clever enough to bring forth a marketplace bestseller, I dream of my place in the chia pet hall of fame.
Well, I have hit pay dirt. My day of glory is just around the corner. Morning TV shows, the Money Honey and even Wolf Biltzer will be begging for a piece of my day. The creative juices began flowing while sitting on White Bay Beach in Jost Van Dyke. I am certain it had nothing to do with the ingestion of multiple Painkiller Cocktails but rather my creative business molecules seizing an opportunity.
As you know, hardbodies from around the globe frequent white sands. Swimming from their yachts to shore, they emerge from the sea as Bo Derek did in 10. Watching the parade can be relatively depressing for a 50 something fighting a Shock and Awe Battle with cellulite. Years of research to develop treatments or lotions to rid those afflicted of the pesky pockets of fat have come to naught. No amount of rubbing or shaping seems to eliminate the built-in Floatie system.
Then it came to me. We need to develop a Farm system for cellulite free parts. Similar to farm-raised salmon, we need to develop centers for skin growth. Once harvested, one would apply the new taunt muscle-bound pieces to the afflicted areas. Choose among various shades and shapes, apply directly to the appropriate areas and spring forth to walk the beach in the your newest suit.
The production of bathing suits will explode. After years of hiding behind the strategically placed sarongs, bathers will be free to dive and swim without shame. This may be the impetus needed to kick the economy out of the recession. Not only suits, but boat and water skiing equipment sales will hit 24 hour manufacturing cycles.
Forget The Money Honey, maybe the Nobel Prize for Economics is in my future.
Well, I have hit pay dirt. My day of glory is just around the corner. Morning TV shows, the Money Honey and even Wolf Biltzer will be begging for a piece of my day. The creative juices began flowing while sitting on White Bay Beach in Jost Van Dyke. I am certain it had nothing to do with the ingestion of multiple Painkiller Cocktails but rather my creative business molecules seizing an opportunity.
As you know, hardbodies from around the globe frequent white sands. Swimming from their yachts to shore, they emerge from the sea as Bo Derek did in 10. Watching the parade can be relatively depressing for a 50 something fighting a Shock and Awe Battle with cellulite. Years of research to develop treatments or lotions to rid those afflicted of the pesky pockets of fat have come to naught. No amount of rubbing or shaping seems to eliminate the built-in Floatie system.
Then it came to me. We need to develop a Farm system for cellulite free parts. Similar to farm-raised salmon, we need to develop centers for skin growth. Once harvested, one would apply the new taunt muscle-bound pieces to the afflicted areas. Choose among various shades and shapes, apply directly to the appropriate areas and spring forth to walk the beach in the your newest suit.
The production of bathing suits will explode. After years of hiding behind the strategically placed sarongs, bathers will be free to dive and swim without shame. This may be the impetus needed to kick the economy out of the recession. Not only suits, but boat and water skiing equipment sales will hit 24 hour manufacturing cycles.
Forget The Money Honey, maybe the Nobel Prize for Economics is in my future.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
FanHouse
My father loves the UCONN Huskies Women's Basketball Team. If he lived in the Middle Ages, he would have been burned at the stake for idol worship. He knows the past and present athletes' stats, where they were born, their astrological signs and their life goals. He follows them through each game, their illnesses and their family's travails. I think he would love to grab their Christmas Lists but that has yet to be discussed.
Unfortunately, the hierarchy at ESPN does not hold UCONN at the same adoration level. Those callous beings driven by the bottom line and viewership demographics, sometimes schedule the game on ESPN2 rather than the main channel. (For those "Murder She Wrote" viewers out there, ESPN2 is the minor league of the sports viewing alternatives.)
My parents' abode is well suited for basketball viewing pleasure. The living room is outfitted with loungers situated in perfect viewing range for the wall mounted, mammoth, plasma screen, HDTV. Not quite sure what happened to the ruling no television in the living room, never mind chairs that eject one automatically, but that is the decor. So, Mom and Dad are ready to get rowdy in their Mystic abode but the cads at cable scheduling have foiled their social agenda.
Resourceful Yankees at their core, my parents were not to be denied. A fellow morning Starbucks customer (my father's wake-up brew) told of a Sports Bar in New London. The establishment has many screens and the Huskies game for the patrons viewing pleasure. So, Mom and Dad set off for an afternoon among the faithful.
Can you imagine the scene? 80 Somethings arrive in the 10 year old Lincoln Continental to a parking lot filled with 4 Wheel Drives, Bikes, Trucks and a smattering of BMWs. A bit misty, Mom adds the plastic rain bonnet to the bar entrance. Perfect addition to crowd's composition. The patrons were probably looking for the "You been Punked" video crew.
Well, they watched the game, had a burger or two and cheered the team to victory. Couldn't have done it without them. Mom and Dad said they had a great day although it was a bit loud. Since they are almost deaf, I can only imagine.
I did notice the next time I called Mystic, my Dad was waiting for the Cable Guy. Seemingly they are expanding the home coverage to include all future Husky games.
Guess that beats buying a Harley and zipping down I95 to catch the next tournament on the wide screen.
Unfortunately, the hierarchy at ESPN does not hold UCONN at the same adoration level. Those callous beings driven by the bottom line and viewership demographics, sometimes schedule the game on ESPN2 rather than the main channel. (For those "Murder She Wrote" viewers out there, ESPN2 is the minor league of the sports viewing alternatives.)
My parents' abode is well suited for basketball viewing pleasure. The living room is outfitted with loungers situated in perfect viewing range for the wall mounted, mammoth, plasma screen, HDTV. Not quite sure what happened to the ruling no television in the living room, never mind chairs that eject one automatically, but that is the decor. So, Mom and Dad are ready to get rowdy in their Mystic abode but the cads at cable scheduling have foiled their social agenda.
Resourceful Yankees at their core, my parents were not to be denied. A fellow morning Starbucks customer (my father's wake-up brew) told of a Sports Bar in New London. The establishment has many screens and the Huskies game for the patrons viewing pleasure. So, Mom and Dad set off for an afternoon among the faithful.
Can you imagine the scene? 80 Somethings arrive in the 10 year old Lincoln Continental to a parking lot filled with 4 Wheel Drives, Bikes, Trucks and a smattering of BMWs. A bit misty, Mom adds the plastic rain bonnet to the bar entrance. Perfect addition to crowd's composition. The patrons were probably looking for the "You been Punked" video crew.
Well, they watched the game, had a burger or two and cheered the team to victory. Couldn't have done it without them. Mom and Dad said they had a great day although it was a bit loud. Since they are almost deaf, I can only imagine.
I did notice the next time I called Mystic, my Dad was waiting for the Cable Guy. Seemingly they are expanding the home coverage to include all future Husky games.
Guess that beats buying a Harley and zipping down I95 to catch the next tournament on the wide screen.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Sticks and Stones
Words swirl in my brain. They dance in rhythm while I determine my message. Whether oral or written, they twist and turn providing me with the ability to communicate a bit of my being to others. Sometimes it is a glimpse of my soul or a point of irritation - I love it when it is a fracture of my funny bone.
No matter what, words have always been a treasure. Whisking me to China in "The Story of Ping" or enabling me to solve a mystery in the land of Nancy Drew. Like most other children, words also provided me my first taunts, my first heartaches and realization that mean people suck. Perhaps because these linear shapings were always repositioning within my cerebral cortex, the stings seemed to dwell in my heart longer than others. My friends and brothers would shake off the ill-designed comments more easily than me - at least they seemed to handle the stupidity of others with their shields abreast and their swords drawn.
Eventually my grandmother's pithy one-liner's - "Snap out of it, Bub" (really, she said Bub) and "So, what did you do to make it better?" taught me to ride the wave and return to the water. But, there continued to be moments when I believed Jaws was treading in the shallows waiting to take me under. I think we have all experienced the majesty of words - both the evil and the light.
That is why I am stunned with the happenings of South Hadley High School. Perhaps Mean Girls begot Mean Girls and that is why the cycle continues through the generations. Perhaps there is a portion of one's soul that actually harbors evil and the spreading of this aura becomes unleashed by some inner uncontrollable torment. I am amazed that parents believe taunting, ridiculing, belittling and excluding of others is an acceptable mode of behavior for their children.
The response that "It was only words" and "She didn't physically harm her" makes me wonder if these parents sprang into the world as full grown adults. Surely they must never have experienced classroom horrors to believe this is an acceptable rite of passage. It hurts, does a number on one's confidence, and in extreme instances, causes immeasurable, everlasting harm. Why any parent would brush these experiences aside is saddening and maddening.
Perhaps they should have had more skilled English composition teachers - to teach them the power and influence of the word. Perhaps they should listen to Hitler's stadium speeches or Churchill's radio communiques, perhaps then they would understand the magnitude of every syllable.
No matter what, words have always been a treasure. Whisking me to China in "The Story of Ping" or enabling me to solve a mystery in the land of Nancy Drew. Like most other children, words also provided me my first taunts, my first heartaches and realization that mean people suck. Perhaps because these linear shapings were always repositioning within my cerebral cortex, the stings seemed to dwell in my heart longer than others. My friends and brothers would shake off the ill-designed comments more easily than me - at least they seemed to handle the stupidity of others with their shields abreast and their swords drawn.
Eventually my grandmother's pithy one-liner's - "Snap out of it, Bub" (really, she said Bub) and "So, what did you do to make it better?" taught me to ride the wave and return to the water. But, there continued to be moments when I believed Jaws was treading in the shallows waiting to take me under. I think we have all experienced the majesty of words - both the evil and the light.
That is why I am stunned with the happenings of South Hadley High School. Perhaps Mean Girls begot Mean Girls and that is why the cycle continues through the generations. Perhaps there is a portion of one's soul that actually harbors evil and the spreading of this aura becomes unleashed by some inner uncontrollable torment. I am amazed that parents believe taunting, ridiculing, belittling and excluding of others is an acceptable mode of behavior for their children.
The response that "It was only words" and "She didn't physically harm her" makes me wonder if these parents sprang into the world as full grown adults. Surely they must never have experienced classroom horrors to believe this is an acceptable rite of passage. It hurts, does a number on one's confidence, and in extreme instances, causes immeasurable, everlasting harm. Why any parent would brush these experiences aside is saddening and maddening.
Perhaps they should have had more skilled English composition teachers - to teach them the power and influence of the word. Perhaps they should listen to Hitler's stadium speeches or Churchill's radio communiques, perhaps then they would understand the magnitude of every syllable.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
YadaYadaYada!
I feel like Goldie Hawn in "Death Becomes Her" - my head is snapping a 360. Not only that, but I am developing a tick and have begun a dialogue with the television. Soon eyeballs will avert as I ramble down the street searching for the mother ship while requesting "Beam Me Up, Scotty - there is no intelligent life down here".
Did you ingest any of the Health Care Summit? Stunning wasn't it? Another example of sharks skimming the shoreline, eyeing the bathers, considering what delicious little morsel to chomp. It was ridiculous, rather than creating real discussion, it was more a case of "I told you so" and "Because I said so". It didn't sit well with our children, and it certainly won't move the ball forward to gain a solution. While Nancy Pelosi stared straight ahead and John McCain delivered yet another campaign soundbit, those without insurance, those with pre-existing conditions, doctors with mountains of school loans and 100 patients a day, sit by the sidelines wondering how the issue is to be resolved.
Meanwhile, back at the funny farm, otherwise known as The House, the Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee pleads ignorance as his defense of misuse of funds and non-payment of taxes. Is criminally stupid who you want leading the most powerful committee in Congress? Do you really think that he could have simply forgotten about half a million dollars in income or had no idea who was hosting a trip? The Majority Speaker simply says, we will wait for the investigate committee's findings - Now there is a heavy decision maker.
I think this is a perfect example of why the Head Start Program should be mandatory. These people never learned how to play in the Sandbox. Meanwhile, the castles that our forefathers erected are being washed to sea.
Did you ingest any of the Health Care Summit? Stunning wasn't it? Another example of sharks skimming the shoreline, eyeing the bathers, considering what delicious little morsel to chomp. It was ridiculous, rather than creating real discussion, it was more a case of "I told you so" and "Because I said so". It didn't sit well with our children, and it certainly won't move the ball forward to gain a solution. While Nancy Pelosi stared straight ahead and John McCain delivered yet another campaign soundbit, those without insurance, those with pre-existing conditions, doctors with mountains of school loans and 100 patients a day, sit by the sidelines wondering how the issue is to be resolved.
Meanwhile, back at the funny farm, otherwise known as The House, the Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee pleads ignorance as his defense of misuse of funds and non-payment of taxes. Is criminally stupid who you want leading the most powerful committee in Congress? Do you really think that he could have simply forgotten about half a million dollars in income or had no idea who was hosting a trip? The Majority Speaker simply says, we will wait for the investigate committee's findings - Now there is a heavy decision maker.
I think this is a perfect example of why the Head Start Program should be mandatory. These people never learned how to play in the Sandbox. Meanwhile, the castles that our forefathers erected are being washed to sea.
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