tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54837807180905668902024-03-05T00:57:36.952-05:00Mellow Whine and Sassy SpiritsWelcome to "Mellow Whine and Sassy Spirits", where you can sample my whines, rants, raves and sass. My whine list features commentaries on life, today, yesterday and tomorrow. Audrey Knerlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021734394380262308noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483780718090566890.post-77077796663329677402013-12-08T05:43:00.000-05:002015-01-17T09:51:00.664-05:00Sometimes You Feel Like a Nut.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" class="separator" style="margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-8TbZVawLv9DaUWTIuv6L0HojTJ49dqUU5U7HVg1U6Jj0Hq7MtBpg6z0OgqjCkmn4Uov91t46-aeHy9CfM6Ivdz5YVlWFirnMT2-dpbWbmHFx6_GOiuzryGqXOvcc6bgYBNPMaLAT1gVp/s1600/feellikeanut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-8TbZVawLv9DaUWTIuv6L0HojTJ49dqUU5U7HVg1U6Jj0Hq7MtBpg6z0OgqjCkmn4Uov91t46-aeHy9CfM6Ivdz5YVlWFirnMT2-dpbWbmHFx6_GOiuzryGqXOvcc6bgYBNPMaLAT1gVp/s1600/feellikeanut.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Whatever happened to jingles?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Television commercials provided me with some important life lessons and without jingles I would have forgotten every one of them. I'd be hard pressed to </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">locate Cypress on a world map, or find the square root of Pi, but I can recall those jingles word for word.</span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />They taught me that the only real men were Marlboro men and that “Winston
tastes good, like a cigarette should.” In fact, in 1999 Advertising Age named
it the 8th best jingle on US radio and television in spite of (or maybe because
of) the controversy Winston spawned for a grammatically incorrect lyric.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />Those were the days when my bologna had a first name and I learned to
spell the very best chocolate. I only had to pop a Mentos to be fresh and
full of life. I could double my pleasure and double fun by just chewing gum and
I would have traded my little brothers in a New York minute for a chance to be
a Doublemint Twin. I was relieved when Hershey gave me permission to feel like
a nut. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had the same reaction to those jingles as Pavlov’s dogs had to the
bell. And there were times when I asked myself, "What <i>wouldn't I</i> do
for a Klondike Bar?"</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
Only The Colonel did chicken right. If I wanted to have it my way, I knew Burger King would not be upset
my special order, even though I spent most of my time lovin’ it at McDonalds
where I never had it so good.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />TV was my cultural classroom.
America ran on Dunkin Donuts and ate Rice a Roni hanging off trolleys barreling
up and down the steep streets of San Francisco. I was schooled on stereotypes
from Alka-Seltzer’s ‘spicy-meata-ball’ man and the<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fOUilxJWm24">Frito Bandito</a>.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_1akDtm7Nne0uQo32DslmVZut93mUj1xE0JYdnMax88Hnu5C6PF8aub7aDWwyP4uJJJuTj6aE3yN2csRU9-Ap09RzHBBb3dw5Ne5UwIpnop7uxqx8IboPk50_Gm2yHZGfvZK1dwPe8bI8/s1600/ricearoni.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_1akDtm7Nne0uQo32DslmVZut93mUj1xE0JYdnMax88Hnu5C6PF8aub7aDWwyP4uJJJuTj6aE3yN2csRU9-Ap09RzHBBb3dw5Ne5UwIpnop7uxqx8IboPk50_Gm2yHZGfvZK1dwPe8bI8/s1600/ricearoni.jpg" /></span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Even the catch phrases got to me! I posed my first
rhetorical question to my little brothers when I asked them how they
would like a nice<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86IpU3g-S8Q">Hawaiian punch</a>. Everyone knew that Wendy’s "Where's the beef?" was not about hamburgers. Although the special sauce remains a mystery, I can still recite every ingredient in a McDonald's Big Mac! Yet I can't remember the capital of Vermont. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />According to Your Best Marketing Move.com, the catch phrase is the
unsung hero of advertising. In one short memorable sentence, a product is
indelibly imprinted on the target’s mind and the target does not necessarily
have to be a consumer. Catch phrases work in the classroom as well. Everyone
remembers what year Columbus sailed the ocean blue. Just ask OJ how effective a catch phrase can
be in a courtroom. Who can forget Cochran's famous poetic instruction to
the jury? “If it doesn't fit, you must acquit.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD6Emqik1eorRPQRDdJax_3JTLwJD-Cgrpjb_lXWkUyGmQubDxnLag1fd1Iz2O75kIYroeYdOcUuhDy15rtQQSajlAAy6CDAm6EzAiHf3-Ljn9-2rPB4thbgIQt4tYT98IuFJqQfjTcYFt/s1600/geico+gecko.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD6Emqik1eorRPQRDdJax_3JTLwJD-Cgrpjb_lXWkUyGmQubDxnLag1fd1Iz2O75kIYroeYdOcUuhDy15rtQQSajlAAy6CDAm6EzAiHf3-Ljn9-2rPB4thbgIQt4tYT98IuFJqQfjTcYFt/s200/geico+gecko.jpeg" height="133" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We don't have the spokes people of days gone by. I miss </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Madge and Mr. Whipple!</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Even with her hair bump, Progressive flow does not measure up. Our best these days is a lizard. The Geico Gecko although annoying, is one very effective little
spokes-lizard. Just ask my mom who wonders how all the</span><span class="apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Geicos</i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> get into her screened-in
patio. Okay, Mom may not be a good example. She refers to exterminators as
terminators and likes a pedophile along with her manicure.</span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Still, it was those jingles that made the biggest impression on me. According to Wikipedia “musical memory is encoded differently from
language and may constitute an independent part of the<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baddeley's_model_of_working_memory">phonological
loop</a>". Located in the right hemisphere of the brain, this loop may play a key role in
a young child learning vocabulary or an adult learning a second language. Makes
sense to me. That is how I learned my ABC’s. Jingles work!</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Madison Avenue can keep their spokes-mascots. Give me my jingles back! I need them to help me make important decisions about breath mints, over the counter meds, deodorant and fast food.</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Those Mad-Men were onto something. Could it have </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQF_z6EJr4C8OtMTHDmpGgXx4KBEcFl5_NsdoqYdXHvSXvIUyw0rqMxth7JbfSxzFWyWvZALIa2gi25Zss574Po_APTH9qB_NSU2IKw964zGTJ_F-F1xjiSKPzsg3oRtCvvTOmALacdgHB/s1600/madmen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQF_z6EJr4C8OtMTHDmpGgXx4KBEcFl5_NsdoqYdXHvSXvIUyw0rqMxth7JbfSxzFWyWvZALIa2gi25Zss574Po_APTH9qB_NSU2IKw964zGTJ_F-F1xjiSKPzsg3oRtCvvTOmALacdgHB/s1600/madmen.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">been those liquid lunches? Whatever the reason, they managed to tap into the part of my brain that learns and remembers effortlessly. Let’s face it. Consumer decisions are stressful these days. I am now expected to Google and comparison shop. Too much work. I long for the good old days when a reliable Jingle-Loop-Hook did the choosing for me. Sometimes I feel like a nut, sometimes I don’t. What could be simpler than that?</span></div>
</div>
</div>
Audrey Knerlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021734394380262308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483780718090566890.post-136765458480157692013-11-28T10:07:00.001-05:002020-03-06T17:22:09.044-05:00Thanksgiving Passes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This Thanksgiving is going to be a tricky one for me. In fact deciding on the menu may be easier than writing this post.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Pass the Tofurky</b></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIw1HYdeBqa4XWXMBIy_6NDzxQjR_5tdxLGgWR94IHRlT-p9UCWs5POcNpZFPv4UUZoAhzPcfiHDivCXidE-JnbYTPBPrQbBqDP-UcEylU8cKVchpQFXI8Kam6Wd0wo55CfkPY7B0e21t_/s1600/turkey-vegans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIw1HYdeBqa4XWXMBIy_6NDzxQjR_5tdxLGgWR94IHRlT-p9UCWs5POcNpZFPv4UUZoAhzPcfiHDivCXidE-JnbYTPBPrQbBqDP-UcEylU8cKVchpQFXI8Kam6Wd0wo55CfkPY7B0e21t_/s200/turkey-vegans.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">You see, earlier this year I became a vegan which makes me anti-turkey. Let me rephrase that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Because I choose not to eat them, I am actually pro-turkey. This year I will be eating Tofurky. I know! It sounds like an expletive. Like something, you might blurt out as a kid and end up with a mouthful of soap. Due to a childhood tendency toward colorful language, I have tasted soap, but I have yet to try Tofurky, so for all I know Dove is more delectable.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My next thought was to write a poem, but I quickly abandoned that idea. For one thing, I couldn't</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> find a word to rhyme with Tofurky. (Beef-jerky?) </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So, with turkeys and poems off the table, I still had a problem. How was I going to write about Thanksgiving with the proverbial turkey in the room?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The True Meaning of Thanksgiving</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfphhh8iwYJcmstiAJfyGorpmf1RkVDS7h0-ZcNLtueBLYvuRy10Ct8_PIIG_JRUht15NUSZvAUvR9kx2aPyErveQK_734zcJrtddndxbO2JMH-VsD-3HR3rpCjhblAKum3QGoUaHjGhRR/s1600/womancooking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfphhh8iwYJcmstiAJfyGorpmf1RkVDS7h0-ZcNLtueBLYvuRy10Ct8_PIIG_JRUht15NUSZvAUvR9kx2aPyErveQK_734zcJrtddndxbO2JMH-VsD-3HR3rpCjhblAKum3QGoUaHjGhRR/s200/womancooking.jpg" width="155" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was stumped until it hit me. I had completely forgotten what Thanksgiving is all about. This holiday is not just about stuffing, cranberry sauce, yams and mountains of mashed potatoes. It’s not just about eating your way into your fat pants. When I look back on dozens of family Thanksgivings, it’s obvious. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is one of our great American holidays when harried women spends days in the kitchen, cooking for and cleaning up after men who will gather in the den, with a hand is shoved down their pants, as they yell at the TV. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Yep. You guessed it. Thanksgiving is about football!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Family Dinners</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When I was a kid football hijacked countless holidays and Sundays. Thanksgiving always began and ended with football. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Once, when I was a teenager, Mom had the audacity to serve dinner during a very important game. We ate in the dining room while the TV blared in the den so Dad and my brothers could be alerted to any crucial plays. Dad spent dinner jumping up from the table and running into the den. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">On one of his sprints, he choked on a piece
of turkey, slowed down only long enough for me to smack him on the back and continue his dinner-game-dash. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When I told Mom what happened, I swear she mumbled something about wishing she had hit him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As you may have guessed, I was not a fan. I was Team-Mom and as </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">her Sous Chef I knew first hand the hours and hard work that went into preparing a dinner that took only minutes for the men in my family to inhale.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Football Tidbits</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> still don't speak sports, b</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ut not all the women in my family feel the way I do about the game. My sisters a</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">nd cousins are huge Steelers fans. When they watch the games they seem to know what’s going on because they cheer and groan in unison with the men. So, i</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">n an attempt to adopt an if you can’t beat ‘em, attitude, I have tried to watch and </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">learn, but most of the time, I am lost. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I have picked up a few tidbits over the years, yet the more I learn, the less I understand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">From what I can gather, there are about fifty guys on each team who are given only one ball to play with. But why they call this thing a "ball" baffles me because it doesn't roll or even bounce all that well. I've seen players run all the way to the end of the field, only to hurl the ball onto the ground. They call this spiking. This results in one awkward bounce in which the ball veers off wildly in an unpredictable direction, making it impossible for them to catch it. In fact, they don’t even try. Yet they seem especially proud of themselves when they do this. Inevitably their teammates run up, hug them and give them congratulatory smacks on their behinds. Football players seem happiest when they are spiking and spanking.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Offensive</b></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcn_rsp1kaoBc3pd_BhoRbY6nuYZ5N83uF8o7KMv4TEK6YaHvZGTw4qMsnpCWVcqp4wcG56ebkkwZZMuFm7dWSC4QcYM_-5O4GbMgw-w3CFO7KjNOvD-ryqCPyZU4JkA3a3vw9yWwYRpzy/s1600/football+pile+up.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcn_rsp1kaoBc3pd_BhoRbY6nuYZ5N83uF8o7KMv4TEK6YaHvZGTw4qMsnpCWVcqp4wcG56ebkkwZZMuFm7dWSC4QcYM_-5O4GbMgw-w3CFO7KjNOvD-ryqCPyZU4JkA3a3vw9yWwYRpzy/s200/football+pile+up.jpeg" width="188" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Now you would think, since they are used to playing with only one ball, they would be good at sharing it. But if you have ever seen a game, you’d know that this is not their strong suit. I can only imagine how embarrassed their poor mothers must feel as they watch their sons play on TV. They just fight over that single ball until someone blows a whistle. It's the job of whistle-blower, to make sure everyone gets a turn at playing with the ball. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">One team is the defense and the other is offense. But I think they have the names backwards, because the defending </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">team is the one doing all the rude stuff like trying to steal the ball when it’s not even their turn. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm not sure how they decide which team defends and which offends. For all I know, the big decisions are made in the locker room during a heated rocks-paper-scissor match between the two team-leaders, also known as the coaches. I relate to these guys. They seem to enjoy the game even less than I do as they stand on the sidelines, waving their arms and yelling. </span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The game begins after a judge throws a quarter in the air, determining who gets to go first. One player kicks the ball while everyone stands around and watches and that's as friendly as it ever gets. After that it's a free-for-all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Beasts and Prey</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When a guy called the quarterback throws </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">the ball, it's called a pass. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Anyone who is unlucky enough to catch the ball gets jumped by the other team's biggest men. The quarterback</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> is usually in a hurry to get rid of the ball and I can't blame him. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But get this; even though it's the kiss of death, he always passes it to one of his </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">teammates. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When the wide-retriever catches the ball, he immediately becomes prey to a pack of 250 lb helmeted, padded, wild-eyed beasts. He runs like hell until someone knocks him down. This is a called a tackle. When</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> the prey is tackled by one beast all of the other beasts pile on top of him until one of the whistler-blowers blows. Sometimes they wave a flag, but that doesn't seem to be very effective.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Steelers</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyk4sdgeBa3YpZzvwaLgxyYwrSSeV2XKq6gOJSGtclwZIimSk4iBXuDvgabtX_xdPhSlICDEfW85aUSpJ2rgCUHQTpcwzKnn6phedJvo-ogzPzt6l2DNvrI0UjxoRHzH4zxMQ_-rdJzj1/s1600/steelersmemorablilia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyk4sdgeBa3YpZzvwaLgxyYwrSSeV2XKq6gOJSGtclwZIimSk4iBXuDvgabtX_xdPhSlICDEfW85aUSpJ2rgCUHQTpcwzKnn6phedJvo-ogzPzt6l2DNvrI0UjxoRHzH4zxMQ_-rdJzj1/s1600/steelersmemorablilia.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Even though I grew up in Pittsburgh, Steelers fans confuse me the most. They seem especially prone to bumper stickers, hats, and other memorabilia. I actually heard that a giant toy duck stopped traffic in Pittsburgh this year. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">One year for Christmas, my brother gave out Steeler's gifts. My present was a little gold hand towel with the black letters on it. Before I got a chance to read it, my brother proudly explained to me that this was a Terrible Towel. Since it didn't match any of the colors in my bathroom, I had to agree. But I thanked him and made sure it was hanging on my towel rack the next time he came over. I was really confused when he came out of the bathroom holding the towel. "It's not for the bathroom," he explained. "It's for your car!. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Okay, I felt a little stupid, until I finally caught on. But when he stopped over a few months later, my brother was horrified to see me waxing my car with it. "No! You wave it out of your window when the Steelers score." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Come on! If I'm in my car, how will I know when the Steelers get a home-run? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Passes</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybx9nheMjt1_mfWGaOlBRgj1WbrrAjyZ2ORpw2rVCGgvJGoa-kxegTz4DOYPhqa2JmVgXzeVQE-OXnOcdJc7oJl3Ir1Wc7b_JrCLehc03MMCfTRS7zxGSM7bpdEZZUgEdxnygUBLTaCYY/s1600/womentv.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybx9nheMjt1_mfWGaOlBRgj1WbrrAjyZ2ORpw2rVCGgvJGoa-kxegTz4DOYPhqa2JmVgXzeVQE-OXnOcdJc7oJl3Ir1Wc7b_JrCLehc03MMCfTRS7zxGSM7bpdEZZUgEdxnygUBLTaCYY/s320/womentv.jpeg" width="222" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This year, I will be going to my sister's annual Thanksgiving party where there will be food, family, friends, and football aplenty. And as you've probably already guessed, no matter how many games are televised, the only passes I'll be interested in will be the ones requested at the dinner table.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the spirit of the holidays, I want to give a shout out to the football fans and especially the Steelers fans. I know many of you will be watching the Thanksgiving game because there is a chance the Steelers could be in the semifinals. And though I can't call myself a fan, Pittsburgh is my hometown and even </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">get how exciting it is when the Steelers play in The Super Game!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So, Happy Thanksgiving and go Steelers!</span></div>
</div>
Audrey Knerlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021734394380262308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483780718090566890.post-33463653803327937052013-10-16T20:05:00.003-04:002016-07-01T12:23:22.058-04:00Who Keeps Moving the Airport? And Other Questions (Whines)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Who keeps moving the airport? </b></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx570DU478Q1C1lkbUOGxEgJaG9EuPoK8WrU3avAHRDCJUcIU5EhaH1TZ_0xc_AQcK4KlqWlUlz07FRCKgRgYOcEuUjdIjUAeEkyiyxm7IGuJaeCgm8_AYW0Z2sIjFtKZhbs07GgKM_6Gv/s1600/airplane+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx570DU478Q1C1lkbUOGxEgJaG9EuPoK8WrU3avAHRDCJUcIU5EhaH1TZ_0xc_AQcK4KlqWlUlz07FRCKgRgYOcEuUjdIjUAeEkyiyxm7IGuJaeCgm8_AYW0Z2sIjFtKZhbs07GgKM_6Gv/s1600/airplane+(1).jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was not born with a sense of direction. If you left me alone in the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pine_Barrens_(New_Jersey)" target="_blank">Pine Barrens</a> and told me to ‘find north', you would never see me again. I might have a fighting chance if you told me, "Left at this tree and right at that one." I'm also pretty good at up, down, forward and backward. Okay, I’m actually great at backward. But tell me to head due east or northwest and you can color me clueless.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">irports are particularly challenging for me. I can't drive toward an airport without breaching the Bermuda Triangle. My sister used to ask me how close I had to get before my gauges started flipping. Doesn't matter which city, which airport or how many times I've been there, I <i>always </i>get lost. I either miss the exit, turn off before the exit, or drive in the opposite direction. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And in case any Floridians are wondering, the answer is yes. I have gotten lost on my way to Daytona International Airport (DAB). I kid you not. For those of you who don't know how embarrassing that is, the airport is on the main road through town and across the street from the mall (which I can find blindfolded during a hurricane). DAB is small. It's</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> a no muss, no fuss airport and therefore my favorite. And by favorite, I mean; I don't dread it as much as big airports. They are impossible for me. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Which leads me to my next question.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; text-indent: -24px;">Where <i>is</i> the terminal? </b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhlW9dsDnjPqjNv493Koq4cZQ-itmpPQ2r5Q1lqXqrz8weue5zKSuFXFRPcIM9lrYcxWT2U-CkvvjiKMqYL3krJ1pOPaGcoOzch1MWcdMQ5eIE8BcFSLTt7IJ1XInQOsz4n7pM8wUhWxLr/s1600/newarkterminals.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhlW9dsDnjPqjNv493Koq4cZQ-itmpPQ2r5Q1lqXqrz8weue5zKSuFXFRPcIM9lrYcxWT2U-CkvvjiKMqYL3krJ1pOPaGcoOzch1MWcdMQ5eIE8BcFSLTt7IJ1XInQOsz4n7pM8wUhWxLr/s200/newarkterminals.gif" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; text-indent: -24px;">For me, finding </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; text-indent: -24px;">the correct terminal is about as easy as finding a needle on a tarmac. When I lived in New Jersey, Newark Liberty International was a recurring nightmare of mine that always began with the same puzzle. Which lane would get me to my terminal? If I was lucky enough to untangle that enigma, I couldn't get <i>into</i> the lane. Ever had one of those dreams where you want to move, but you can't? Then you have an idea of what it's like to drive on a New Jersey highway. Changing lanes is risky. The average flow of traffic is a bumper to bumper 90 mph drag race in which lane-changers are synonymous with interlopers. I guess I was never aggressive enough to keep up. Also, I didn't want to die, so I'd end up doing loops around the airport like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iAgX6qlJEMc" target="_blank">Clark Griswold</a> did around the Lambeth Bridge roundabout in London. And like Clark, I muttered to myself hysterically about how I could not get left.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Once, in a bold move, I took advantage of a narrow opening between two Fed Ex trucks, squeezed into their lane and floored it. I was still pumping my fist in the air and yelling, "Woo Hoo," when I realized that I had driven </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">into the RESTRICTED cargo area. Thankfully, this was pre-911, so I was not surrounded, handcuffed, arrested and interrogated or shot on sight. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdksvpvbzfGihw31TJH8D5gzmJEt6LMuOzdZlxBW9JgGdCXRpi3eNjbmrcFz_CMa4sjqtfX9irlSin9M0kHNYGhk64n4zZ4E1HSsy_K80yVr9TCPtV6JRBdGK5WvJpKnkjHAZ12mqa0qZV/s1600/nailbiting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdksvpvbzfGihw31TJH8D5gzmJEt6LMuOzdZlxBW9JgGdCXRpi3eNjbmrcFz_CMa4sjqtfX9irlSin9M0kHNYGhk64n4zZ4E1HSsy_K80yVr9TCPtV6JRBdGK5WvJpKnkjHAZ12mqa0qZV/s1600/nailbiting.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Newark airport was also the bane of my visiting family's existence. It was always a crap shoot as to whether I was going to get them to the </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">airport on time to make their return flight.</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Once, when I was rushing my anxious mom to the airport, I missed the terminal exit, left the airport and drove us straight into downtown Newark. Poor Mom. She'd picked a bad day to quit smoking, sniffing glue and biting her nails. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Of course, I am joking. Mom has never been a nail-biter.</span><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Which is worse? Loading/Unloading or Parking?</b><br />
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO8dD6HRG1tidFmdUeci2APAOXx7yvB6DKGCg30mt1qozF2V9Kdh8fC6eU6qn8djYk6f-sA5dE-le5j43UgM6xB0yccHr4Vdrxwr1RdsHrR-c5kmfDmZOUTGSdFBkWsA-TZX4zMBdCA6K0/s1600/newark-airport-taxis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="73" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO8dD6HRG1tidFmdUeci2APAOXx7yvB6DKGCg30mt1qozF2V9Kdh8fC6eU6qn8djYk6f-sA5dE-le5j43UgM6xB0yccHr4Vdrxwr1RdsHrR-c5kmfDmZOUTGSdFBkWsA-TZX4zMBdCA6K0/s320/newark-airport-taxis.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Every airport seems to have a menacing police presence at the Arrival and Departure drop-offs and in Newark, it's the job of the Port Authority Police to keep things moving. You risk a face to face with Officer-Move-It every time you park long enough to safely load and unload your passengers. And by long enough, I mean; come to a full stop.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A few years ago, I attempted to pick up </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">my visiting sister at the </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">arrival area at Newark Liberty. I knew from our cell phone conversation that she had just retrieved her bags and would be out momentarily, but Officer-Move-It was not having it. He strode up to my car and ordered me to leave. When I tried to explain that I would only be another minute, he threatened to give me a ticket. Sheesh! My poor sister walked out of the airport in time to see me drive away. Unfortunately, I made a wrong turn (Bermuda Triangle) and exited the airport. It took me thirty minutes to find my way back to the Arrival area. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF7k7kBUHxkgmKpvE4IVrrAEmnU0jHXWG1pgMxE99UlxXtE_GI9ClVZZ42UFhc4_u1z0TNrVGbUjoRO6ATPkyiWz3rNnkVnZyLcogFejzAgXjtQLp7KWc7sqEfE6qx83mLoFlxojm_YHCl/s1600/newarkpolice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF7k7kBUHxkgmKpvE4IVrrAEmnU0jHXWG1pgMxE99UlxXtE_GI9ClVZZ42UFhc4_u1z0TNrVGbUjoRO6ATPkyiWz3rNnkVnZyLcogFejzAgXjtQLp7KWc7sqEfE6qx83mLoFlxojm_YHCl/s200/newarkpolice.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Each time I took my mother to the airport, I knew a meeting with Newark's finest was inevitable. Mom dances to only one tempo. Doesn't matter if she's late or on fire; her internal metronome is stuck on slow. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I often wondered if Officer-Move-It would rather I just decelerate, toss her luggage out the window and shove her out of the car while instructing her to tuck and roll. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is why parking at the airport is sometimes unavoidable.</span><span class="apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The larger airports have open air garages with endless levels, sections and rows. I always consider it a good omen when I can find a parking space less than a mile from the terminal entrance. The hard part is remembering that I parked in Terminal B, Level 17, in the Green Section in Row 125. And it ain't cheap<b style="font-style: italic;">.</b> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEAC6yx9DgfR7JujhDfYvesQ6kV1yUxqBZ5uZD4H-IMMtHW8nf2R2lvTDLUwQCb8pKsoRX460DOSorZCtNDEzQnEjLMxje8rQx55COE1X0v0gemQ6fr5Yg4qpd6Vfu7ryx-avihBawDON2/s1600/tsaglove.jpg"></a><b>What happened to the Hare Krishna? </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfChl3X9hLK14FFHnV_bIfHYX947Wznn_lZx2x5b5_NDxOWU7PHckVqKXHWg329qzVBX_S5y6klK9fibcIQcYelNjxANLaDtqUZ3zPi6G1SFCq6QK2ET75CYAWlRD1zYQWa3XDYOLYpAoE/s1600/harikrishna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfChl3X9hLK14FFHnV_bIfHYX947Wznn_lZx2x5b5_NDxOWU7PHckVqKXHWg329qzVBX_S5y6klK9fibcIQcYelNjxANLaDtqUZ3zPi6G1SFCq6QK2ET75CYAWlRD1zYQWa3XDYOLYpAoE/s200/harikrishna.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I miss the good old days when the most annoying people at the airport were the Hare Krishna. I read that the Supreme Court banned them from soliciting at several international airports, which I find both ridiculous and surprising. Ridiculous, because they were harmless, and surprising because I would have bet money that the TSA rounded them up and tossed them. Which begs the question.</span><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Why is the TSA so mean and scary?</b></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Any encounter with the TSA is enough to remind me that these are no longer friendly skies. I don't like going through security. The agents scare me. I'm always afraid that I'm one misstep away from the wrong end of a proctology exam.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhH2R4UmBKFA_0MaNSiILzZpGwhocuAGU08XSIp-AmXnj1Osaeco9LxafjSiE119Pk8t8aw6_UheqGvWTmK90MNkx4fiDjiJGUmHtj-jJZ5kE9vGt3BOaNK_dETKdfvvaZHhs6VZAJ6qJa/s1600/millimeter+wave+body+scanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This summer, I put my sixteen-year-old-daughter, on an early morning flight out of Orlando International. This was her first solo flight that included a layover. She was nervous about the prospect of getting off one plane and finding the gate for another, so I thought if accompanied her to the gate, I could alleviate some of her stress. And once the airline determined that I was not a member of Al Qaeda, they issued me a special pass.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhH2R4UmBKFA_0MaNSiILzZpGwhocuAGU08XSIp-AmXnj1Osaeco9LxafjSiE119Pk8t8aw6_UheqGvWTmK90MNkx4fiDjiJGUmHtj-jJZ5kE9vGt3BOaNK_dETKdfvvaZHhs6VZAJ6qJa/s1600/millimeter+wave+body+scanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhH2R4UmBKFA_0MaNSiILzZpGwhocuAGU08XSIp-AmXnj1Osaeco9LxafjSiE119Pk8t8aw6_UheqGvWTmK90MNkx4fiDjiJGUmHtj-jJZ5kE9vGt3BOaNK_dETKdfvvaZHhs6VZAJ6qJa/s200/millimeter+wave+body+scanner.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When the TSA personnel told us to take our shoes off, we both understood that this this was not a Beverly-Hillbillies-esque-invitation. After all, we were Jersey girls.</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> Also, we could see that our next stop was a body-scan which is pretty much the opposite of setting a spell.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Like dozens of other airports, Orlando has done away with the handheld wand and has upgraded to the monstrosity that is the full body scanner. The directive is to step inside the machine, stand on the footprints and reach for the sky. My daughter was ahead of me in the line and nearly came undone when the TSA started barking instructions at her and I couldn't blame her. The </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">machine and the procedure are intimidating for e</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ven the toughest Jersey gals.</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> she neglected to put her hands over her head, the agent looked at her thoughtfully for a second, took a step toward her and asked “Do you speak English?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2Ss9S3tRtzfHykUF4pzIKVfZNs1M3VImVRQbLWc0OnNbLUGFxQOysCDd5P5INkN79boJWUovAVH2tHVaUk4ZNxgyvp01s3Trn_l_YV8LbQjsaLmNHFAhY2q2wOA6_PZCcRzwmePrZqFj/s1600/no+lol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2Ss9S3tRtzfHykUF4pzIKVfZNs1M3VImVRQbLWc0OnNbLUGFxQOysCDd5P5INkN79boJWUovAVH2tHVaUk4ZNxgyvp01s3Trn_l_YV8LbQjsaLmNHFAhY2q2wOA6_PZCcRzwmePrZqFj/s200/no+lol.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I am not proud of what happened next. And I can't explain <i>why</i> it happened. While my red-faced daughter nodded yes, I laughed out loud. And I couldn't stop. The TSA agent and my daughter glared at me as I stumbled into the scanner doubled over with tears streaming down my face. I can't swear to it, but I may have snorted. I laughed while I was inside the scanner, feet spread and arms raised. I laughed while I put my shoes back on. I laughed while my daughter,who </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">found no solace in the fact that I didn't pee my pants, </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">scolded me. "It's not funny Mama!" </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was still laughing when my mortified daughter and I arrived at her gate. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The good news was that I had </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">unwittingly accomplished my goal and cured</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> her lay-over fear. My daughter couldn't wait to get on the plane and get as far away from me as possible. Still, sh</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">e was sweet enough to hug her embarrassing mother before she boarded her flight. When I knew that her flight was in the air, I went to find my car on Level 12 in the Red Section in Row 21. Or was it Level 21, Row 12? Crap. My gauges had already begun to flip.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>The end of the whine</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Okay, I'm done. Sure, there are other things that annoy me about airports, but whining is an exhausting business. Anyone need a ride to the airport?</span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Audrey Knerlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021734394380262308noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483780718090566890.post-44609565718717131512013-09-14T17:09:00.000-04:002014-05-01T06:12:10.391-04:00"Welcome To Crackbook"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLhBBH99T4ZYfY77lTPTrGjlwd5M5XLKqfGC0chY9NFrCYqgMNlDT4jnibrTIxPHw5TGX8oCR8YHVX1PPkua4ZocqGe0KNUrB-ztFngv2c7nVm-IVUuv2fAxwB9m51_FN3XF0jgrfgTko/s1600/fbprofiledefault.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Indifference, Love and Obsession</b></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLhBBH99T4ZYfY77lTPTrGjlwd5M5XLKqfGC0chY9NFrCYqgMNlDT4jnibrTIxPHw5TGX8oCR8YHVX1PPkua4ZocqGe0KNUrB-ztFngv2c7nVm-IVUuv2fAxwB9m51_FN3XF0jgrfgTko/s1600/fbprofiledefault.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLhBBH99T4ZYfY77lTPTrGjlwd5M5XLKqfGC0chY9NFrCYqgMNlDT4jnibrTIxPHw5TGX8oCR8YHVX1PPkua4ZocqGe0KNUrB-ztFngv2c7nVm-IVUuv2fAxwB9m51_FN3XF0jgrfgTko/s200/fbprofiledefault.jpg" height="125" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have a complicated relationship with Facebook. Since our first encounter, I have run the gamut between
indifference, love and obsession. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
When my sister introduced me to FB in 2008, it took me a few months to succumb. When I finally did open an account,
she was the first to post on my wall.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Welcome to Crack-book!” </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was an auspicious beginning. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At first, I was on but not really <i>in</i>. A fact
that was glaringly obvious by my profile picture or more accurately, my lack of
one. For several months, I had Facebook's default image of the silhouette-girl with a page-boy-helmet-haircut. I was good with that because I hated all
of my recent pictures. I'd spent the last year eating my way through the
emotional debris of a divorce and even a head shot would have shown the extra 30
lbs of baggage I carried (okay, ate). Also, I thought there was a good chance
someone would mistake me for Delta Burke.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A few months later, Sis called me out on my
anonymity by way of another wall post. “Are you in the witness protection
program?” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZABNmk0jDsReDsEyKypetZ12M41_rxwFyzFTbGIXOjVCuktFRXkAKied1QsMYoEd5mNpGo2aPb5ypIdXnAYoEVPAMVxz50B8DskaviBYeYXIm6tny1qh_ftH5iB9JCWB2mY2LdnwmtMl/s1600/hspic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZABNmk0jDsReDsEyKypetZ12M41_rxwFyzFTbGIXOjVCuktFRXkAKied1QsMYoEd5mNpGo2aPb5ypIdXnAYoEVPAMVxz50B8DskaviBYeYXIm6tny1qh_ftH5iB9JCWB2mY2LdnwmtMl/s200/hspic.jpg" height="200" width="148" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was content to stay in the program until my brother offered a simple
yet ingenious solution. “Use an old picture!” He didn't specify how old, so I went back to the dark ages and chose my black and white high school senior
picture. Aha! I too was a genius! Or so I thought, until yearbook photos started appearing all over Facebook, because of a popular application called ‘Yearbook Yourself.’ You plug your photo into this app and voila!
You have a retro black and white yearbook pic of yourself. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Crap. I was old enough to be vintage. Is</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> vintage better than fat? I couldn't decide, so I kept</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> the high school pic and held out hope that my Facebook friends would think that I had Year-Booked myself. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> But,</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">it didn't take long </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">for Sis</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">to comment on my picture. "My sister did not Yearbook herself. That's her high school picture!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Does anyone else notice a pattern here?</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Eventually, as my sister predicted, I took to FB as a junkie
does to crack. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Reading and commenting on the eclectic array of posts every day enthralled me. It still does. You never know what you're going to see. Some friends use FB to promote their business or their political and religious agendas.
Some push their passions, tell jokes or re-post inspirational messages. Others
post pics of their kids, their friends, themselves, their pets and their food,
while letting you know where they are at any given moment via the 'check-in'. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’m guilty of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>all of the above</i>. I also tell
stories, post my blogs and ask for advice. I used to feel the need to post
everyday, but I eventually realized that If I have nothing to say, perhaps less
is more. Actually nothing is more. A friend pointed out that it was
probably not necessary to alert FB when I was about to take a nap. Okay, so I
may have been guilty of over-sharing a little.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjicsGtvM3cMBK3eokZ4otruDiOx0jGUPFVwO35oNBOnOqXgihQ4OZyODG7YsDEpSS3vuUDkm3JNu2R2dAsNJGCsygBZuEH4boXmfYK8bovnuv6FsIVkFBZytvhERtUeAWEmLe6n_8GVS8K/s1600/likebutton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span></a><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Validation and Rejection</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Facebook is a place where you can get instant validation or rejection through a ‘like’ or a ‘comment’ or the absence thereof. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A couple years ago I posted a true-story about a chat with a Colombian FB friend who I danced with at one of our local clubs. He did not speak or understand English any more than I understood Spanish. I referred to our language barrier and declared to my FB friends that I wasn't sure whether I was engaged or I had just bought a goat. That was a 'like and comment' home-run. On the other hand, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I've unwittingly started bitter arguments by posting an off-hand remark about a political issue.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN07NFFVqiVs_xokd4UCXAvGxXNTRa4023cwBcYxZaGgAk-yvkcbiCMR9_2NRLM8HFeUh5FtwLlvbKarne7_nMnpbbCFrRKWHbZLZbgXlX5f52UM_qOWtYXlPm_1Lwo5OlnJlizLJhMCPz/s1600/likebutton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN07NFFVqiVs_xokd4UCXAvGxXNTRa4023cwBcYxZaGgAk-yvkcbiCMR9_2NRLM8HFeUh5FtwLlvbKarne7_nMnpbbCFrRKWHbZLZbgXlX5f52UM_qOWtYXlPm_1Lwo5OlnJlizLJhMCPz/s320/likebutton.jpg" height="177" width="320" /></a>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After 5 years on FB, I still can't crack the 'post-reaction code'. I've posted status updates that I thought were either smart, insightfull or funny that have not yeilded a</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> single ‘like’ or ‘comment.’ Ugh. It's like the feeling you have when your friends leave you hanging after
you've raised your hand for a high five. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bummer! But th</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">is is </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">where your kids can come
in handy. After much begging and threatening, my sixteen-year-old daughter finally agreed to be my friend. She's a sweetheart, so I can usually count on her
for a mercy-like.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A Facebook wall can be a snapshot of someone’s life, albeit an inaccurate one.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Through the years I have added relatives, old
friends and new ones. What I have come to love </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">about FB is that I can keep in
touch with friends and relatives across the country and in some cases across
the world. Cousins that I haven’t seen since I was a child, are in my life
again. I get to learn about their lives and get an inkling of their core
values. It's a blessing to be able to communicate regularly with so many special people. As face paced as most of our lives are these days would that be possible without social media? I'm not so sure.</span></div>
</div>
Audrey Knerlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021734394380262308noreply@blogger.com6