My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Browsing Category General

Grinched

by on ·General, Holidays, Humanity

A friend once told me that some of my online journal entries tend to get personal. I laughed as I said to her, “You’re kidding, right? If you think the public entries are personal, you should see what I write in my private journal.” Ha Ha.

I intended this entry to be solely a humorous, upbeat post about Christmas because Yuletide is one of my favorite seasons. But, a recent encounter made me reconsider.

Some days ago, I was cruising along an imaginary highway minding my own business, when out of nowhere, Ms. Grinch appeared. She veered into my lane and tried to side-swipe me. I swerved to avoid a collision, but she, appearing to be aching for a confrontation, returned. Hypothetical road rage, for sure. I usually give as good as I get, but it’s Christmastime, so instead of engaging in a battle of words, I told her to butt out and went about my merry way.

People often say that today’s youth are a generation of troublemakers. Granted, many are, but I believe that the behavior of someone young and dumb is more excusable than the foolishness of an immature adult, especially one who is two decades older than Scrooge, á la Ms. Grinch. People like her are perfect examples of misery loves company. The envy and malice they harbor in their heart lead them to create chaos whenever and wherever they can. It doesn’t take a psychologist to know that mean-spiritedness and a penchant for troublemaking are often due to a lack of self-esteem. As a result, grinches live a lonely and unhappy existence. Life is too short to be prone to indiscretion and unnecessary drama. As Rodney King said, “Can’t we all get along?”

That said, I’m switching gears.

My peace-loving friends, stretch your imagination and envision Santa carrying a remedy for universal peace and love inside his big, red gift bag. The contents are shredded like trillions of bits of confetti to make transport and distribution more manageable. During his sleigh ride across the darkened sky on Christmas Eve, Santa will dip his gloved hand into the bag, grab handsful of the confetti, and sprinkle it everywhere he goes. The shavings will fall like snowflakes in a blizzard, landing on buildings, vehicles, and people. Everybody who comes in contact with it succumbs to the effects. It’s more transmittable than COVID and as potent as nerve gas, only non-lethal. However, it is saturated with a chemical that, when touched or inhaled, causes the host to lose all negative emotions and develop a penchant for harmony. As Santa continues ho, ho, hoing around the world, he revels in his achievement because he knows there will be peace in every country, city, and home – worldwide peace – on Christmas Day and forever after.

And one last thing before my pipe dream ends.

Folks will hear him exclaim, ere he drives out of sight, “HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!“

2 Comments

Doggonit! That Confusing Gender Binary Language

by on ·General, Language, Opinion, The Way I See It

According to Heraclitus, “Change is the only constant in life. As I understand it, the Greek philosopher’s statement means that everything we are used to will undergo some transformation sooner or later.

I suspect that many of my boomer subscribers, and the sprinkling of millennial readers, feel as intimidated as I do about how things keep changing. What the flux? As soon as we get used to something, it alters, transforms, it changes before you can say abracadabra!

Let’s talk about language. Grammar rules and word meanings constantly change, proving that language, too, is inconsistent. Remember when a mouse meant a rodent you might see skittering across the floor, not a device sitting on your desktop near your computer? And how long did it take some of us to learn that ghosting meant more than a shadowy image on an old television screen? It seems that as soon as we learn the meaning of certain words or the context used, a language adjustment sprouts like gray hair on an AARP member’s head.

It has become trendy now to use pronouns in non-standard ways. Wait a minute. Did I say trendy? Strike that. As sure as it rains on just-washed cars, some sensitive folks will freak out over my using the word trendy in this situation. So, bear with me while I replace trendy with, oh, let’s say, practical. As I was saying, non-standard pronouns are also described as non-binary or gender-neutral pronouns. Some folks may have been educated about those latter pronouns for a while. But, I, on the other hand, only recently, and unexpectedly, learned the lesson.

Imagine you are cruising along, completely absorbed in a book you are reading, when suddenly you get side-swiped by what you think is an improper pronoun. Such an “accident” is more noticeable when you see the word on a printed page than when you listen to a narrator. In an audiobook, you wonder if you heard what you thought you heard, but when you see a word on a page being used in an unfamiliar manner, it looms in front of you like a bright red STOP sign at an intersection.

Recently, I was listening to an audiobook. After the initial introduction of the male and female characters, whenever the author referenced one of them, if she did not use their name, she referred to the character as they instead of her or him. The first time I heard “they,” when I was expecting to hear “her,” I chalked it up to a typo. Then I heard “they” intended for him, and I wondered facetiously, can the narrator read? As the story progressed, and the same perceived mistake kept recurring, sometimes with different characters, I realized something was off-kilter.

(Note: I use read interchangeably, referring to a printed book or an audio one. In this case, it was an audiobook that caused my angst.)

I’m not exaggerating when I say that the pronoun swap got distracting to the point that it wrecked an otherwise intriguing plot and flowing storyline. So much so that, at one point, I considered ditching the book unfinished. Only curiosity about how the story would end kept me reading.

The most common option for gender-neutral pronouns is the singular usage of the pronouns they/them. Instead of using “he” or “she” in a sentence, you would use the word “they.”

If any of you readers are scratching your head trying to figure this all out, the following is an example of sentences with binary and non-binary pronouns.

Ordinarily, I would write this: “Our teacher called in sick this morning, so Principal Moore taught our class today, and she did well. Kudos to her.” I would not write this (non-binary): “Our teacher called in sick this morning, so Principal Moore taught our class today, and they did well. Kudos to them.”

Still scratching? Perhaps this explanation from Google will help: “The non-binary pronouns are “they,” “them,” and “their.” When talking about someone who identifies as non-binary, use “they/them” (not “he/him” or “she/her”), and use “their” (not “his/her”).”

Got it? You think? Well, imagine reading an entire novel containing non-binary language.

When I began reading the book, I thought that perhaps the author failed to have a copy editor proofread it before it was published. But, of course, she did. Finally, after stressing out over what I thought were numerous proofreading flubs, I figured it out.

I understand that gender-inclusive language is a way to embrace persons whose gender is unknown or undeterminable or a non-binary person who chooses to use “they” as their identifying pronoun. By George, I get it! That makes it no less confusing, especially for uninitiated writers and others.

Call me nonprogressive or old-fashioned, whatever. I think using non-binary pronouns is freaking awkward!

I found a Study by the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill somewhat conciliatory after reading the following: “We speculate that relative unfamiliarity with non-binary they and non-binary gender may…lead writers to avoid using a form that may not be familiar to their [audience].” I hope everyone who writes for a general audience will take that seriously.

In the meantime, traditions keep changing like the seasons. No disrespect intended, but what’s next? Will Christmas novels that have Santa saying, “Ho, Ho, Ho” be banned because some people will consider it offensive, instead forcing Santa’s laugh to be “Ha, Ha, Ha” or “He, He, He.” Wait a minute. Strike that. Replace “He, He, He” with “They, They, They.”

And you, he, she, they, their, them – y’all have a very Merry Christmas!

 

2 Comments

Things That Go Bump in the Night

by on ·Food for Thought, General, Strange Happenings

A strange thing happened to me this morning. Talk about weird occurrences.

As I often do while lying in bed between snoozes, I had a flash of inspiration. It was around 4 AM. I jumped out of bed, grabbed my laptop, and hurried to the dining room table. Before taking a seat, I switch on the kitchen light but leave the dining room light off. My concentration is sharpest when I’m writing in a dimly lit room. I set the laptop on the table, open it, and begin typing. I’m anxious to save the thoughts in my head to the hard drive before I forget them.

My fingers are burning up the keyboard, and I’m enjoying myself in the creativity zone. The early morning hours are my favorite time of the day; it’s when I am most inspired. It’s quiet outside and indoors. For the time being, no noisy emergency vehicles are flying up and down the streets with sirens wailing. No neighbors chattering or children playing loudly outside. The phone isn’t ringing. The TV is off. In my bliss, I recall a line from a Christmas story – “not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” I glance at the clock. It’s 5:12.

Satisfied that I have saved my story ideas to my hard drive, I click on Facebook and scroll down the page. Then, I click my photos. The first image my eyes land on is a favorite picture of my mother that I posted last Saturday in observance of what would have been her 95 birthday. I decide that I don’t want anyone to steal that photo. (Of course, I realize it’s already too late. Everyone knows that once a picture is posted on social media, it becomes fair game for anyone who wants to copy it.) Still, I decide to delete it. I select the image and tap the delete button on the keyboard. A message on the screen warns me, “Deleting this photo will also delete the post.” Additional instructions about how to delete just the photo and not the post are available if I click “Learn more,” but I don’t click it. Thanks, but no thanks for the warning Facebook. I delete the photo, my message, and all of the appreciated comments from my friends and relatives.

As soon as I delete the post before I even lift the finger that pressed the delete key, I hear a sound like something has fallen near me in the room. Without turning my head, I swing my eyes toward the sound. I am sitting at the dining room table in front of the door leading into the kitchen. The kitchen light behind me and the light on the laptop monitor is the only illumination in the otherwise dark room. And I know the only other person at home is asleep in the bedroom, so I ask myself, “What was that noise?”

I have a pair of 8-by-8-inch canvas African art pieces hanging near the door leading into my apartment, so I think that perhaps the hook came loose, and one of the pieces fell off the wall. I lean back in the chair, reach for the light switch on the wall and flip it on. Then I look toward the door. And I see it, the source of the noise.

The little wooden bird that perches on the console table with my other ornamental animals, a parakeet, and a turtle (my menagerie, I call it), has fallen to the floor. I wonder, how did that happen? Is it possible that the stems on my philodendron plant had a sudden growth spurt and tipped the bird over? Nah. But maybe so. A few days ago, while watering my plant, I picked up a stem extending to the floor and gently laid it over the bird. The stem on my house plant isn’t strong enough to knock a wooden bird or any other inanimate object off that table. I’ve got to stop reading Stephen King.

My rational and imagination wrestle over the issue.

Fact – Immediately after I deleted my mother’s photo, the bird fell (or was knocked off the table by something). Nothing has ever fallen off of that table except one time after a house guest accidentally bumped the table while walking past it. So, how did the bird get off the table and onto the floor? It didn’t fly.

My mother, for religious reasons, did not observe birthdays. I do. Last Saturday, I posted a photo with a message acknowledging mom’s birthday on Facebook. The post generated several kind comments and “Happy Heavenly Birthday” remarks from my friends and relatives.

Imagination – During the days that the birthday message for my mother was posted on Facebook, could it have been transmitted beyond the grave? Did mother see it?

“You know I don’t observe birthdays.” She used to repeat that so often I can still hear her saying it. “But ma, I do,” I’d reply. Did mom’s spirit flick the bird off the table as a playful yet ghostly way of showing me that she knows I continue to acknowledge her birthday?

Okay, enough with the spookiness. Still, I need an explanation. That bird has perched on that table in the same spot for years and has never flown the coop, so to speak. No one was stomping downstairs in the hallway of the building. There was no large truck rumbling by outside. I didn’t feel an earthquake, tremor, or anything that would cause the building to vibrate. The only movement in the room was my fingers tapping on the keyboard. No matter how I try to come up with a reason for how the bird wound up on the floor, I can not. Guess I’ll have to settle for it being a fluke. Stuff happens.

Halloween is two days away. I wonder, are the ghosts (even the holy ones) and goblins already haunting?

2 Comments

Wake-Up Call

by on ·General

My daughter is often not at home when Amazon brings her packages, so she usually has them delivered to my place. She told me yesterday that Amazon would bring a package for her the next day (today). “No problem,” I said.

An hour later, she called me, concerned that the tracking information Amazon emailed her showed that the package would arrive between 4 AM and 8 AM. I said, “It won’t. No one in their right mind makes deliveries in the middle of the night. They probably meant 4 PM to 8 PM.”

Several months ago, an ambitious young Amazon driver brought me a package at 9:45 PM. That was the latest delivery I’ve ever received – that is, until very early this morning when my doorbell chimed, wrenching me from dreamland back to reality. In my darkened bedroom, I trained my squinting eyes on the clock on the nightstand. Once focused, it was as though I could hear the timepiece shouting 5:21 AM! Amazon? I said to myself – at 5:21 in the morning. No way. I reasoned.

I rolled out of bed. Then, shuffling sleepily along the hallway, I continued through the living room and to the door, thinking – I must be dreaming. This is not happening. I switched the light on along the way and stole a glance in the wall mirror, startling myself. The eye mask I had hurriedly pushed up on my forehead was lop-sided, leaning left, while my night scarf had slid down and partially covered my right eye. I looked a fright; I mean sight.

When I reached the door and peered through the peephole, I could see someone who looked like a baby-faced junior high school kid wearing the familiar Amazon uniform. Still, I cautiously asked, “Who is it?”

He politely said, “Good Morning, Mam. Amazon. I have your delivery.”

In my sluggishness, I had forgotten to put on my robe, so I adjusted my nightgown to modestly cover “the girls” before cracking open the door just wide enough to grab the cereal-box-sized package being extended.

“Thanks,” I said before closing the door. I was tempted to add a few choice words about the ridiculousness of making deliveries in the middle of the night, but then I decided why take out my frustration on a kid trying to earn an honest living.

As I write this, it is 5:58 AM, and I have been wide awake since the predawn delivery. I’m entertaining the idea of sending a message to Amazon telling them what I think about their delivering packages during a time when most normal people (and undoubtedly some abnormal ones, too) are asleep. Or maybe I’ll call their 24-hour customer service number and share my thoughts. Instead, I let rational rule. What good would it do to chastise a customer service rep? He or she will likely follow procedure, apologize and tell me that my complaint has been duly noted and will be forwarded to the appropriate manager. Then as soon as our call ends, the rep will start laughing with coworkers about the crazy customer’s complaint before sending it to the recycle bin, aka File 13.

Now, I am sitting here flippantly imagining what if the company has created an after-midnight deliveries shift to penalize customers who they consider frequent complainers. Customers like me who call them and fuss about orders received days later than scheduled, damaged items, and packages that they show were delivered – “Delivered to someone, but not to me,” I tell them.

I envision tit for tat; Amazon will penalize people on the frequent complainers’ list by disturbing us with early morning wake-up call deliveries. The unique packaging will be imprinted with a retaliatory slogan, instead of “Better late than never,” the taunting catchphrase would read “Better early than never!” followed by a smiley face emoji.

Energized by a cup of freshly brewed coffee, the sleuth in me learned that Amazon’s standard delivery time is between 8 AM and 8 PM. As a result, most purchases reach the customer’s residence no later than 8 PM. However, deliveries for Prime members who request either same-day or two-day delivery can arrive as late as 10 PM. I also discovered that the company hires DSP (Delivery Service Partners) and Flex drivers who are independent contractors. Those workers can choose their hours and schedules; some have a quota they need to satisfy on the days they elect to work. Most importantly, I discovered that when a Prime customer places an order, if they select the delivery “Overnight by 8 AM” option, the order will be delivered between 4:00 AM and 8 AM.

I wonder if my daughter inadvertently checked that overnight box? I need to phone her right now and ask her. But it’s early. Um, yes, it is.

 

0 Comments

Clearing Headspace of Rambling Thoughts

by on ·Food for Thought, General, Humor

I am a contented introvert and don’t mind admitting it. I can socialize without awkwardness, but I’d rather have my privacy than interact with a crowd. Unlike extroverts who draw energy from social gatherings, I’ve never felt the need to surround myself with people. I prefer to enjoy my solitude and be alone with my thoughts at this stage in my life. I found it interesting to learn that, according to Business2Community.com, some celebrities have been identified as popular introverts, including Harrison Ford, Warren Buffet, and Anthony Hopkins. I chuckled when I read that Hopkins said, “We are dying from overthinking. We are slowly killing ourselves by thinking about everything. Think. Think. Think.”

I admit I do, do, do spend much time in my head, and if it’s true that overthinking leads to procrastination – well, bingo! That explains a lot.

I don’t just think about contemporary things; sometimes, I contemplate the past. Take the declaration made by historical figures like the alleged promoter of personal freedoms, Patrick Henry, who said, “Give me liberty or give me death.” But, of course, that has me thinking, “Wasn’t Henry a slave-owner?” Go figure.

Speaking of death and briefly putting sarcasm aside, I must vent about something. (That’s one advantage to having your own platform.) I can’t stop thinking about the most recent tragic shootings in Buffalo, New York, and Uvalde, Texas. What kind of deranged person shoots down people shopping for groceries and little elementary school kids like he’s playing a violent video game? Some folks say that the perpetrators are (or were, in the case of the Uvalde shooter) mentally ill. Do we know that? DO WE KNOW THAT, or is it just a lame excuse alleged because the act was so unconscionable? I think such evildoers are mad with the world, and because they are dissatisfied with their life, they can’t stand to see anyone else happy. Undeniably, misery loves company. I don’t care what the killer’s race or ethnicity is. I don’t care what political or social mandate they endorse; there is no justification for the cold-blooded, ruthless killing of anyone, especially children. Killing people is not a black or brown thing. It’s not a white thing. Maliciously killing someone is an evil act, regardless of who the moral degenerate is behind it.

God – if S/He is still alive – must certainly be disappointed in humankind. As if the original sins are not enough, centuries of people have added a multitude of unnatural transgressions, keeping the hellfire burning. I imagine that contemporary Moses will have at least 2000 Commandments saved on a computer tablet instead of ten inscribed on two stones whenever there is a world reboot.

Every time I scratch my head, I think about hair. Hair is a sensitive subject for Black women. It’s one of those topics that we aren’t supposed to talk about in public, like politics, religion, and sex. But Black women aren’t the only ones who wear the fake stuff. According to the Ultimate Looks blog, “Hollywood hairstylist Priscilla Valles, whose clients include Kylie Jenner, Chrissy Teigen, and Christina Aguilera, estimates that 97 percent of all female stars wear hair extensions — both onscreen and off.”

I wonder how some folks would cope if the fake hair industry suddenly went bust? Can you imagine how many celebrities and wanna-be celebs would lose their minds if they could no longer buy those long tresses? Never say never, readers. It could happen. Anytime there can be a shortage of toilet paper, paper towels, and even baby formula – baby formula, for God’s sake! So then, what’s to prevent fake hair from suddenly becoming unavailable? I imagine that some of you readers are saying, “don’t even think about it.”

After seven straight years of going to the gym three days a week, my routine got canceled by the pandemic, and I haven’t been back. My wallet appreciates the rest, but my body is punishing me by puffing up. Although I exercise at home, I am not as driven to stay on a sixty-minute, tri-weekly schedule as I used to do. When Coronavirus shut down everything, I had two months of credit remaining on my membership, but I suspect my credit has expired since I have yet to return.

Tamper-proof packaging has gone too far. I understand that the Chicago Tylenol murders in ’82 prompted the wrap rage, but now it takes a village to open a factory-sealed package, like that bottle of eye drops I recently brought. I struggled for several minutes to get the clear plastic shrink band off the cap before I could finally grip and tear its perforated edge. And then, as if removing the shrink band wasn’t tricky enough, the cap presented another challenge. I was twisting it and snarling like a pit bull mangling a chihuahua. The lid wouldn’t bug until I grabbed a pair of pliers off the shelf. Even with the pliers, it took several teeth-gritting, forceful turns before the cap loosened. I know that tamper-proof packing is to prevent wrongdoers from tinkering with products and protect young children from ingesting detergent pods and other poisonous substances. But what’s the point of safety sealed packaging if consumers can’t open the products? I wonder if the CDC Injury Center keeps track of how many people wind up cut and bloodied while struggling to open blister packs, clam-shell hard-plastic, and heat-sealed items. And OMG, the irony of the situation is that there is a prize created for products with the hardest-to-open packaging – the Oyster Award. Don’t take my word for it; ask Google.

And while it’s on my mind – I’m not a big fan of the idiot box. But, except for a couple of all-news channels, I have one favorite TV program, The View. I am so happy that the show is nominated for nine Emmy Awards. I can hardly wait until September to see how many of the golden statues they’ll win. The cohosts are intelligent and entertaining, and their hot topics always give me something else to think about (besides a preposition at the end of a sentence).

(Artwork for this post created by Khalil Brown-Royal.)

0 Comments