Mamacita says: Oh please, society, let us learn from the past, just a little bit?  Because those in charge of those in charge of the education of our children are doing it all wrong.  Real education has nothing to do with money, and everything to do with honor.

“Francie thought it was the most beautiful church in Brooklyn. It was made of old gray stone and had twin spires that rose cleanly into the sky, high above the tallest tenements. Inside, the high vaulted ceilings, narrow deepset stained-glass windows and elaborately carved altars made it a miniature cathedral.”

Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1943) p 390.

This is Most Holy Trinity Church in Brooklyn. Betty Smith used it in her novel and had her heroine, Francie Nolan, in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, love to look at it, and love knowing that her grandfather had carved the altar as part of his tithe. He had no money, so he donated his considerable talent. Francie’s grandfather was a horrible abusive man, but he honored his commitment to God.

Francie’s grandmother and all but two of her daughters were illiterate, but revered literacy. The grandmother did not at first understand that education was free to all in America, so her two older daughters didn’t go to school. Her two younger daughters, however, were sent to school and kept there as long as possible, until family circumstances required them to go to work. Such was life, back then. Formal education was honored above most other things, but it was also one of the first things to go when times got harder.

Two of my favorite books are A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, by Betty Smith, and Everything But Money, by Sam Levinson. They are a great deal alike in that they are both about immigrant parents, the value of education, the great love of learning that is the source of pride to secure parents, and the sacrifices that good parents make so their children can have better lives.

Our immigrant ancestors came to this country pretty much knowing that there was no chance of them, personally, fulfilling very many of their own dreams and aspirations: all of their hopes and dreams and aspirations were for their children.

Our immigrant ancestors didn’t really move to this country for themselves; they were adults, and the time was long past for them to develop and use their talents in any official or professional capacity, especially in a new land that had customs and language that were both unfamiliar in every possible way . There were exceptions, of course, but the truth is, most of our immigrant ancestors put their own hopes and dreams and ambitions on the back burner so they could concentrate on the hopes and dreams and ambitions they held for their children.

Tenement houses were filled with mothers, grandmothers, maiden aunts, and shirttail relatives, singing in the kitchen that their children might some day sing in Carnegie Hall. Factories and stores were filled with fathers, grandfathers, uncles, and more shirttail relatives, singing at the assembly lines and behind the counters and down in the mines that their children might some day sing in synogogues and cathedrals. People with artistic talent displayed their art with beautiful pies, cakes that were a picture, carved altars in the church, rich embroidery on simple pillow slips, and tailoring that was a work of art. Ancestors who, today, might have organized businesses and found success on the stock market used their skills to make something out of nothing, that their children might have something to make something more out of when it was their turn.

Their children were being educated, and that was enough. Our ancestors looked ahead to the future; they had no time or energy or money to do much for themselves. It was all for the children, and for the future.

Parents too weary from sweatshops and never-ending domestic drudgery didn’t have much time to “play” any more. These parents loved their children far too much to stop and indulge themselves; every nap meant pennies not earned. Parents were there for discipline and meals and clothing and love that was demonstrated by the laying aside of their own desires to focus entirely on the future of their children. NOW was never as important as TOMORROW. This forced their children to be inventive, creative, organized, resourceful, problem-solving, appreciative of things that today’s kids throw away, and hungry enough every night to eat whatever Mother put on the table. A child who asked for something else would have been laughed at.

Adults gave each other blessings that relied on the behavior of the children. “May your children bring you happiness,” “May your children make you proud,” “May your find joy in your children,” etc. Children who misbehaved in school or in public or right there in the house brought shame to their parents and disgrace to the family name. His siblings recoiled from a misbehaving kid, and his mother cried. Families used “shame” to help shape a character that knew what it meant and therefore stayed as far away from it as possible.

Adults have changed. A large percentage of adults put their own desires and urges and feelings and wants before the needs and wants of their children. Kids today don’t care if they bring shame and disgrace to their parents. It’s never their fault anyway; it’s that heartless teacher who doesn’t understand Buddy or Muffy and doesn’t appreciate the cute way he stomps his foot when he’s mad or the adorable way she twists and chews her hair when she’s deciding who to invite to her latest party. Adults get home from work far earlier (usually) than their great-grandparents did, yet adults today are too tired to go to PTA meetings or choir concerts or spelling bees, things their ancestors viewed with such honor (they were not available to peasants in the old country) that they wept and trembled with emotion as they bathed and put on their best clothing in order to show respect to the school and the teacher, and to watch their children represent the family in a scholarly event. (Surprisingly, many adults are not too tired to go to an athletic event.)

Many immigrants came here in the first place so their children could take advantage of the free public education. Illiterate parents pointed with pride to the row of schoolbooks on the kitchen shelf, and boasted that their children could READ THEM! They weren’t worried about new ideas; they encouraged the learning of new things. They did not worry that the new ideas would usurp the old ideas; they just honored all learning and assumed their kids were wise enough to blend the old and the new together and come out with a new “new.” Sam Levinson writes most eloquently and beautifully about his father’s pride in his many sons’ books and accomplishments, even those the old man knew nothing about and knew he never would.

A poorly behaved child brought great sadness and shame to his parents; usually, the sight of his father and mother’s grief, brought on by the child’s poor choices, was enough to straighten the kid out. If not, our ancestors weren’t afraid to use other means to demonstrate to a child that certain behaviors brought certain consequences. Shockingly, this didn’t result in a child quivering with sadness and with no ego or esteem left in his system; it usually resulted in a child who knew better than to try THAT again, by golly.

Modern parents are often so worried about causing their children emotional pain that they ignore or neglect all kinds of opportunities to demonstrate to their children that nice people are a lot more welcome in society than people who feel they have a right to do their own thing regardless of where they are or what the mean old rules might be. A child who is taught in no uncertain terms that one sits quietly at the table, be it at home or elsewhere, eats whatever might be on his plate – or at least tries to eat it – without complaining, and who knows, because he was taught, that one does not get up from the table without permission, and that “please,” “thank you,” and “excuse me” really are magic words. . . well, let us be euphemistic, even though I loathe euphemisms, and just say that nice people of all ages are more welcome and appreciated than are people whose manners and whose tolerance for poor manners need some adjustment. Think of the mall. Think of restaurants.

Our ancestors would be appalled at some of the attitudes and behaviors of their descendants. I know I am.

In many households, the kids are running the show, and the parental helicopter is hovering even over universities and workplaces, lest some “right” is denied and a kid’s self esteem is dealt a blow, deserved or not.

Self esteem.  You really don’t want to get me started.

P.S. Self esteem must be EARNED. It’s not a given. Nobody has a RIGHT to it. We’re not born with it. It can’t be presented as a gift. And kids know the difference even if some adults don’t. We have to deserve it. Otherwise, it’s all just a big joke, and the joke’s on the adults.

P.P.S.  I guess I got started on it.

The post You Want Educational Standards? We Used To Have Them. appeared first on Scheiss Weekly.

My daughter is over 21, if anyone wants to ask me any questions.  Please be sure your resume is current, including gainful employment and a love of steampunk cosplay.

She used to be the most beautiful baby girl in the universe, but not any more. She hasn’t been that for a long time.

She is, however, the most beautiful young woman in the universe. She’s strong and brave and smart and hilarious. She’s a lot nicer than I am.  Her sense of direction is almost perfect. Her sense of ethics and behavior are superior. She can sing like an angel. She can walk into an expensive dress shop and walk out with a $300.00 dress that she got for twelve bucks and matching $125.00 shoes that cost eight – the honest way. She’s kind and caring and patient, unless she’s dealing with an idiot in which case she, sadly, takes after me. She’s the best daughter any mother could ever hope to have, even when she takes the occasional pissy fit, and even then a good margarita will fix that mood swing right up. Mommy knows how to take care of her baby girl.

I didn’t teach her to stick her head in a waterfall, but only because the subject never came up.

She owns several crowns.  This is only fitting.  She also owns a magic wand, but then, so do I. Do these wands work?  Try us; you’ll find out.

Her cat is obese and has never been outdoors.  By my way of thinking, this means she owns a fairly sentient stuffie.

Sometimes, she wears fairy shoes.  This is in no way strange.  <– no sarcasm intended. This is how we are, in this house.  Why do you ask?

Happy Birthday, Princess.

My dad has been gone for several years now, but we never really ever stop missing the people we love. We recover, and get on with our lives, but the memories are still there, and aren’t we all glad they are?

Dad wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. He and all of his brothers and their father before them were quick-tempered and easy to, as Mom used to say, “set off.” He was also funny and smart; he could sing and he valued education, HIGHLY. He would have been a success at college, but he never went. Instead, he sent four kids through college, and continued to work day after day in a factory, “so we would never have to.”

He taught me hundreds of poems and songs, and he liked to pick me up and stand me on a table and make me sing or recite for people.  (not lately)  ”Purple People Eater” and Robert Frost: I still remember.

My Other Sister and I had a daddy who was playful and laughing. My two younger siblings had a daddy who was cranky and yelling. Dad’s illness began long before anybody realized it, including himself, and the personality changes were just brushed aside as part of the aging process or, possibly, his true colors. Nobody actually said “true colors,” but we all thought it.

By the time dad had had both legs amputated and was bedridden and too weak to feed himself or turn over, we all realized that the diabetes had begun to affect his mind long before it took his body.

He stayed at home and Mom took care of him. I don’t think she went anywhere for three or four years, except her runs to the grocery and drugstores while Dad was at dialysis.  Let me tell you something:  if ever I’m sick like that, I want Mom to take care of me.  I watched her.  She was divinely patient with his dreadful moods, and meticulously careful with his meds and IV’s.

My father is gone, but he still lives in my head, daily. And to that loving and playful and laughing and singing father, I want to say, “Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.”

I knew all along that mean yelling daddy wasn’t really you.  I just wish my two youngest siblings had met that daddy.

So, today, June 15, I salute my beautiful baby daughter, and tomorrow, June 16 – Father’s Day – I salute the good daddy I loved.

This is my brother’s motorcycle, by the way.  You know, the one I used to ride all over town without my mother’s knowledge.  She still doesn’t know.  She never will, unless YOU tell her.

I don’t think my brother knew, either.  I was into the stealth before it was cool.

The post Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. Happy Birthday, Princess. appeared first on Scheiss Weekly.

Excuse me while I go get a sandwich.

Where was I?   Oh, yes, at the hospital vampire lab.

While I was signing in and promising them ALL of my blood so they could test a little of it, I heard a commotion from one of the little rooms.  ”Someone is scared,” I said.

No.  Someone was autistic, and the social worker,  nurses, and techs had been in there with him for several hours trying to persuade him to let them draw a little blood.  This was the fourth day of it.

“I want ice cream.  McDonald’s ice cream!” the young teen kept insisting.  ”After you let us draw your blood, you can have McDonald’s ice cream,” he was promised by everyone in the room.

Still, he could get no further than close enough to touch the chair.

I asked the nurse checking me in if this boy had ever seen blood drawn at all.  She didn’t think so.  I asked her if it might help if he saw my blood drawn.  She went and asked the group in the room, and I was invited in.

Fortunately – because I am not an easy lay draw, this time it went smoothly and easily. I said “Why, this doesn’t hurt. I can’t even feel it!” and “This is just a rubber band! Just a rubber band!” and the boy would call me on it whenever he could, reaching out and feeling the wide rubber band and testing the “bounce” of my vein. I said “I get ice cream after this is done!” and he repeated that several times. “Is it over already? I didn’t feel anything! It didn’t hurt a bit! Now I get ice cream!” It was kind of odd to have a crowd of perfect strangers clustered around me as I sat in the chair with a needle in my arm, but who cares?

People educate each other in all kinds of ways, and more often than not it’s those unexpected, unplanned ways that are the most effective.

I was wearing a Spangler Science shirt, and the social worker said he’d seen Steve on “Ellen” and asked me all about the products and experiments, and if they worked for autistic people.

Yes, indeed, I told him.  Science isn’t just for geniuses whose brains work “normally,” whatever that might be.  Science is for everybody – all ages and levels and personalities, and it connects with every other aspect of curriculum and philosophy and hobby and life.  I told him he might start by sharing a story about people eating bread and butter, and then making butter.  All science ain’t rocket science.

When I left, the boy had advanced as far as the chair, which was a first, but it was doubtful they’d draw any blood today.  Then again, the day isn’t over yet.  He was still demanding McDonald’s ice cream, but I hope they didn’t give him any if he didn’t let them draw his blood.  Autistic kids can manipulate, too.  They’re not stupid.

I gave the social worker the Spot Dot I always carry in my purse – it’s good for so many things: reading, drawing attention to something, rewards, gaining a child’s confidence, magic, whimsy. . . . and yes, I do consider magic and whimsy to be right up there with reading.

The boy and his “crew” will be back tomorrow to try again.  Maybe they’re a step closer, and maybe they’re not.  Who knows?  A kid is a kid, and autism has nothing to do with THAT.

Now I want ice cream.  And I’d go out and get some, too, except for three minor details:  I’m fat; I’m diabetic; and I’m broke.

If not for those things, I’d be in line at the Pokey Treat Jiffy Treat RIGHT NOW.

Darn minor details.

P.S.  You’ll get there, kid.  I liked your face.  However, the ice cream is only for AFTER you let them draw your blood.  A deal is a deal.

The post Blood, Science, Autism, & McDonald’s Ice Cream appeared first on Scheiss Weekly.

Mamacita says:  This is Moxy Fruvous, one of my favorite bands. They’ve been on hiatus for several years, no doubt the day after they discovered that I liked them. I have that effect on bands. And restaurants. I don’t expect them to get back together any time soon, as they’ve all gone on to other things; besides, them rebanding would make me happy and we can’t have that, can we. I still love them, though. They had a beautiful sound.

Go on and click the link:

Gulf War Song

We got a call to write a song about the war in the Gulf
But we shouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings
So we tried, then gave up, ’cause there was no such song
But the trying was very revealing. . . .

What makes a person so poisonous righteous
That they’d think less of anyone who just disagreed?
She’s just a pacifist, he’s just a patriot
If I said you were crazy, would you have to fight me?

Fighters for liberty, fighters for power
Fighters for longer turns in the shower
Don’t tell me I can’t fight, ’cause I’ll punch out your lights
And history seems to agree that I would fight you for me

So we read and we watched all the specially selected news
And we learned so much more ’bout the good guys
Won’t you stand by the flag? Was the question unasked
Won’t you join in and fight with the allies?

What could we say…we’re only 25 years old?
With 25 sweet summers, and hot fires in the cold
This kind of life makes that violence unthinkable
We’d like to play hockey, have kids and grow old

Fighters for Texaco, fighters for power
Fighters for longer turns in the shower
Don’t tell me I can’t fight ’cause I’ll punch out your lights
And history seems to agree that I would fight you for me
That us would fight them for we

He’s just a peacenik and she’s just a warhawk
That’s where the beach was, that’s where the sea
What could we say…we’re only 25 years old?
And history seems to agree
that I would fight you for me
That us would fight them for we

Is that how it always will be?

——–Moxy Fruvous

Learn this by heart.  Do it.  All four parts. (Please.) You know you want to, and I know you can.  A Cappella is a kind of magic.

*from Pete’s Dragon

The post There’s Room For Everyone In This World, If Everyone Makes Some Room* appeared first on Scheiss Weekly.

When our mothers are young, we don’t consider them ‘friends.’ We don’t consider them young, either, because when we’re very young, all adults are old. Heck, our 12-year-old cousins seem like adults.  Our 22-year-old teacher and Grandma: one and the same, age-wise. No, to a child, most adults are old; they’re not sweet young things. They never were; it’s not possible.

Our mother was always a mother.  She had no life before us.  She’s just Mommy, when we’re young, and when she’s young. We don’t even know she was young till we look at old pictures. And then we’re blown away because, “Oh my gosh, look how YOUNG she was there!”

But as we get older, our mothers seem to stay the same, and somehow the years between us don’t matter as much as they used to.

They stay the same, that is, until we take a good long look at them and it hits us that they look old. Not just mom-old, but OLD. Wrinkly. And you know there’s white underneath the Miss Clairol. And they aren’t as sure-footed as they used to be.

This is shocking, but it’s okay, as long as the MOM is still there inside the stranger-every-day body. You know, MOM. The lady who can make magic with a word or a touch? Her? That’s the one.

Good thing WE’LL never get old like that, huh.

I’ve read that when we are in our twenties, the fifty-year-old mother is somehow at her peak of Mom-ness and Friend-ness. Our fifty-year-old mother is an expert in so many things.

What we don’t realize is that our fifty-year-old mother is still missing HER fifty-year-old mother.

And what very few of you know yet, is that your fifty-year-old mother is still as insecure and wondering as she was when she was in her twenties. Your fifty-year-old mother is still beating herself to death over mistakes she made when you were three.

How do I know this? I’d rather not say.

The seventy-year-old mother is still cool. Still Mom. It’s just that the fragility is starting to show, and the mortality thing comes to mind more than we’d like.

The fifty-year-old Mom is the epitome of Momitude. She KNOWS things. We should listen more to our fifty-year-old Mom.

Unless she’s a meddling idiot with outdated stupid ideas and a lot of unwanted advice, of course. You don’t have to listen then.

Chances are, however, that if your fifty-year-old Mom is mean and judgmental and delights in hurting people’s feelings, she was exactly the same when she was in her twenties. Bodies change a lot**. Personalities seldom do.

The following has been making the internet rounds for a long time now, and most of you have no doubt seen it before. However, I’m posting it anyway, because for some reason, it means more to me with each passing year.

============

The Images of Mother

4 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mommy can do anything!

8 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mom knows a lot! A whole lot!

12 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mother doesn’t really know quite everything.

14 YEARS OF AGE ~ Naturally, Mother doesn’t know that, either.

16 YEARS OF AGE ~ Mother? She’s hopelessly old-fashioned.

18 YEARS OF AGE ~ That old woman? She’s way out of date!

25 YEARS OF AGE ~ Well, she might know a little bit about it.

35 YEARS OF AGE ~ Before we decide, let’s get Mom’s opinion.

45 YEARS OF AGE ~ Wonder what Mom would have thought about it?

65 YEARS OF AGE ~ Wish I could talk it over with Mom.

======

Let’s talk things over with Mom while we have the chance.

If your own mommy doesn’t appreciate you, come right on over here. I’m not saying exactly how old this Mommy is, but she’s in her peak and prime of Momitude.  I do, however, screw it up sometimes, even now.  I do my best.  That’s all we can do, in any and every phase.

I have a lot of advice, but I’ll wait till you ask me for it***.

*If I knew the author and the name of the article, I’d have mentioned it up above, silly.
**Unless you’re Jamie Lee Curtis.
***Most of the time.

The post Happy Mother’s Day to All, and to All a Good Night appeared first on Scheiss Weekly.

NO. Please, no.

Mamacita says: Every year around this time, I like to re-run this little piece about choosing a gift for your children’s teachers. We really do appreciate anything and everything we receive from our kids and their families, but some things are appreciated a little more than others.

********************************************************************************

The school year is winding down;  summer vacation is just around the corner, and It’s time to be thinking about giving your child’s teacher a gift of appreciation.  After all, this dedicated professional has spent more time with other people’s children than their parents have, and deserves some little something to show them you care.  You don’t have to do this, of course; in fact, most families don’t, but if you do, here are some suggestions.

Might I suggest – nay, plead – that you NOT give your child’s teacher a candle, statue, t-shirt, mug, plaque, hankie, seasonal brooch, earrings (unless they’re actual jewelry), snowglobe, poster, pencil holder, candy,  book (unless you know for sure it’s one she/he really wants), toiletry (unless you know exactly what kind he/she likes) homemade goodies (however pinteresting they might be), or a framed picture of your child? Teachers have more than enough of that stuff, and we never really liked most of it in the first place. Trinkets are something that must either be displayed or packed away, and who has the space to do either? The third option will be explained later in this post.*

I loved your children, but I didn’t want their pictures on my wall or dangling from my Christmas tree or sitting on my desk. Those spaces are for my own children.

Yes, please. Oh dear lord, YES.

What your child’s teachers really want are gift cards to restaurants, stores, and cool educational websites. Your child’s teacher would genuinely appreciate some genuine appreciation. Teachers have very little spare time; gift cards to restaurants are really appreciated. The best educational toys are found online, and since science isn’t tested in most states yet, science toys would be met with grateful thanks of such sincere intensity that you might shed a few tears, yourself.

Teacher Appreciation certificates, good for merchandise, are also well-received. The simple act of letting a teacher know that he/she IS appreciated is really all we want, but a little swag added to it is nice, too.

I know it’s easy, heading to the Dollar Tree or WalMart or one of those overpriced classroom supply stores when it’s time to get a little something for Billy’s teacher, and anything sincerely given is sincerely appreciated. But if you want your child’s teacher to remember you forever as a parent who KNOWS, go for the science toys, restaurant cards, and even a mall card, good for every store in the shopping center. If the teacher has young children herself/himself, fast food cards are a lifesaver; you know how much YOU appreciate having the wherewithal to run through the occasional drive-through, well, a teacher is just like you, except he/she has 30 children (200 if he/she is a secondary teacher) instead of three and less free time than . . . . well, you. If your kid is in secondary school, please don’t forget those teachers, too. Elementary teachers always rake in the loot, but junior high and high school teachers, who deal with hundreds of students each day, are often forgotten.

Amazon cards are lovely, too. Breathtakingly lovely.

*Oh, and that third option, for dealing with the onslaught of the candles, picture frames, apple-shaped stuff, mugs, ornaments, and trinkets?  Brace yourself:

Summer yard sale. Do you really want to see the gift your child gave his/her teacher on the ten-cent-table?

But then, what would YOU do if you were given forty trinkets every year?

So, do what I tell you. Gift cards. Restaurant cards. Science toys. Certificates of appreciation/swag-of-choice.  Starbucks.  Prepaid Visa.  (A girl can dream. . . .)

Amazon card. iTunes. (Make sure the teacher uses iTunes first.)

Teachers are people, you know. Most of them are INTERESTING people. They have actual LIVES, lives that really don’t include ten thousand candles, statues, picture frames, and “World’s Best Teacher” mugs. They don’t really want more wax and ceramics, but they could really, really use some gifts that give them a little breather (coughcoughrestaurantcardcough), and useful things they can actually use at home or in the classroom.

Please include a positive, grateful note.  That will be the best part.  Those, we save.  You don’t even need to include a gift – a positive, grateful, thank-you means so much.  I’m not exaggeration.  Those notes mean the world to a teacher.  I’ve saved every one I ever got.

P.S.  Did I mention that your teacher already has enough mugs and lotion to start a shop?  I did?  Well, I”m mentioning it again.

P.P.S.  Even if we already love you, your child, and the whole family, please be careful about bringing a teacher home-made edibles.  We have allergies, too, or diets, or even just likes and dislikes.  I hate to break it to you well-meaning, generous, lovely givers, but most homemade goodies end up in the wastebasket.  All those adorable, crafty, homemade “favorite teacher” treats you’re seeing on Pinterest?

No.  Thank you, and we appreciate the effort and we know you are appreciative, but. . . . no.

P.P.P.S.  I’m mentioning gift cards again.  Total coincidence.

P.P.P.P.S.  One of the best gifts I ever got from a parent was a pair of razor-sharp fabulous fantastic marvelous Fiskar’s scissors.  It was over ten years ago, and I still thank that woman every time I run into her.

P.P.P.P.P.S.  I also adore the 2-ft.-tall hourglass a student gave me.  Not every teacher would, but this kid knew me well.  Who else among you has a gigantic 2-ft.- tall hourglass, prominently displayed in the living room for all to see? That’s just what I thought.  I rule.

The post Teacher Appreciation 101 appeared first on Scheiss Weekly.

My question is simply this: What has happened to us as a society that we give all this time and attention to such people when it’s the OTHER kind of people who are most deserving of it?

In any group of 100 people*, for example, 95 of them are good, kind, honest, decent, considerate, intelligent, polite, hard-working, savvy people. 95 out of 100 people earn a living, help others, discipline their children, read things other than the sports page, keep promises, control their hormones, appreciate, thank, accept responsibility for their own actions, and take care of their responsibilities properly and well. These people know what love is, and what love does. I shall refer to this group as the “cream.”

As for the remaining 5, who lie, cheat, steal, abandon, betray, abuse, annoy, harm, distract, neglect, attack, ignore, and defy**, and who choose themselves and their own personal convenience first, above and beyond any person or any responsibility they might have, and who consider “consequences” as some coincidental oddity that occasionally falls from the sky for no apparent reason, and just generally do their utmost to prevent others from learning, achieving, living a good life, being comfortable, feeling secure, or in any way being able to trust? These people believe that love is sex. I shall refer to this group as “skim milk,” or , the “lowest common denominator.” (LCD)

The lowest common denominator is, naturally, at the head of the line when it comes to attention-grabbing, which is one reason the media is all over them like piranha on a cow’s hind leg. The lowest common denominator is fascinating to read about, for their antics and general lifestyles are so far from what decent, intelligent people believe and do that it’s often like watching or reading about an alien species.  (Hoarders.  Honey Boo Boo.  I rest my case.)

Which, indeed, it is. And not a superior one, either. Quite the opposite. Maybe, an evil alien species that’s trying to take over the planet in order to drain it to keep itself alive. “To Serve Man” etc.

While the lowest common denominator is out there doing its “thang,” the cream is busy taking care of people: their own, and those the lowest common denominator left behind. The cream is working two or three jobs, making sure their children and other people’s children have shoes and milk. The cream is trying desperately, with little or no support, to educate both the cream and the LCD, often amidst great reluctance at the best and chaos, destruction, and harm at the worst from the lowest common denominator. The LCD will often protest being asked to lay aside their egos and fun and body parts – instant gratification – merely for the sometimes delayed gratification of thinking, connecting, exploring, and probing their heretofore unexplored brains. That’s too hard, and besides, most of the LCD don’t have a large enough vocabulary to make very many connections. Small vocabularies are also one of the causes of much of the violence: when someone doesn’t have the means to communicate verbally, he/she tends to strike out physically.

The more words we know, the more connections we are able to make. The more connections we are able to make, the more we can understand. The more we understand, the less apt we are to be violent.

The more we understand, the more we want others to be able to understand, too.

Uneducated, undereducated, lazy, small-minded people perceive the world to be equally small, and treat it likewise. To the LCD, the world is a buffet of victims and freebies, all of which belong to him.

The cream tends to perceive the world as being just like themselves: eager to know, willing to learn, trustworthy, hardworking, and worthy of respect. Even after being victimized time and again by the lowest common denominator, the cream still has hope.

I wish the media, the business world, and the schools would stop giving the lowest common denominator so much more than their fair share of attention or focus. Making headlines out of adultery, betrayal, violence, bullying, drugs, disruptions, adultery, selfishness, etc, somehow makes such things “okay” to a person without the means to make proper connections. “Wow, it’s in the paper! Cool!” is not a good attitude to cultivate in our young people, or in our LCD older people, either.

The cream doesn’t usually make headlines. The LCD have money, and they aren’t interested in spending it to find out about cancer cures, rocket science, volunteering, sacrifice, donations, and people who go about their lives quietly, decently, doing the right thing even when the wrong thing would be easier and a lot more fun. The LCD feed on discord and personal pleasure, and lately they’ve had plenty to feast upon.

No matter how the lowest common denominator may prosper, and no matter how much attention they get from the media and the people who finance it, and no matter how much our schools ignore, neglect, and even punish the pupils and teachers who work and care above and beyond the norm, the cream will continue to work, care, love, and display those very unfashionable traits like loyalty, fidelity, ethics, citizenship, good behavior, charity, and other positive attributes laughed at, devalued, and mocked by the lowest common denominator

In the end, the cream will rise. It always does, no matter how hard the LCD tries to push it down or mix it up. The cream will continue to rise, and work, and love, and be shining examples that get no press to those fortunate enough to know them.

The lowest common denominator may get most of the attention, money, services, and press, in business, education, media, etc, but it is the cream who will ultimately rise to the top.

Let’s all give the cream the time and attention they so rightly deserve.

* I made up this statistic, but I stand by it.

**The bad, negative kind of “defy,” not the cool, out-of-the-box kind that creative people are often forced to do.

Oh, oops, is “stupid” a politically correct word? My bad. And, too bad. Used properly, it’s the perfect description for some.

Besides, overuse of political correctness and euphemisms cheapens our language, and our society.

Bring it on.

The post Good People Exist & They Shall Prevail! appeared first on Scheiss Weekly.

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There are people who are always supposed to be there, even if they’re strangers we know only from the big screen, small screen, book covers, stage, radio. . . .  It’s getting to the point where watching a fairly recent movie wherein everybody in the cast is still alive is more and more rare.

Is this why so many television shows are killing off favorite characters faster than we can adjust our hearts to the loss, to help us cope with real people dropping off the face of the earth, no more to entertain or love us?  I’m not actually talking about people we know personally – family, friends, etc.  That is also happening at a rate faster than our hearts can take, but this post is about “celebrity” deaths that make us cry, because, in a way, we also love those who make us laugh, cry, and enjoy life more because they were there, even though these people don’t know us.

I can barely think of my beloved Madeline L’Engle without sobbing about never knowing what will happen to her characters now. . . .

I am thinking in particular of Roger Ebert and Richard Griffiths, but whenever I watch an old movie (or a new one, for that matter!) I find myself looking at the beautiful, healthy, talented people and wondering how they could possibly be dead.

Then again, maybe that’s one of the wonderful things about preserved media – it makes us all immortal.

I do have a message for all of you living people, however.  Here it is:

Don’t die.  I can’t take much more of this.

Then again, maybe I’ve just been watching too many “What’s My Line” celebrity guest shots from the 1950′s and ’60′s – so much talent, most of it gone.

Thank you, film, for preserving this talent so we can appreciate it years and years after these wonderful people have gone.

And now, I’m heading back to Tweetdeck, fingers crossed.

Also?  Hourglasses used to scare me to death when I was a child.  I think it has something to do with The Wizard of Oz.

The post No More Death, I Mean It! (Anybody got a peanut?) appeared first on Scheiss Weekly.

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Dihydrogen Monoxide: When people do not have sufficient knowledge of science, terrible things can happen!

IX:  Deadly science in the home: be sure you know what to look for!

Every year, thousands of people die from exposure to dihydrogen monoxide.  Widely unreported by the media and virtually ignored by government agencies, this silent toxin remains unknown to the majority of people at risk.

Some officials believe that dihydrogen monoxide’s deadly facts and statistics will never be fully released to the public because of government dependence on its addictive qualities; in other words, the “feel good” sensations it can deliver are blinding people to the harm it can also cause, and it’s been proven that most federal, state, and local governments are made up of people who simply can’t do without it.

The presence of dihydrogen monoxide has been found in schools, businesses, and even homes, and traces of it exist in many toxic chemicals such as sulfuric acid and ethyl alcohol.  Many estimates show that every home in America – if not every home in the world – contains a DHMO source, intensifying the danger of this potentially deadly and hazardous compound.

In addition to the dangers posed to living creatures, DHMO has caused billions of dollars worth of property and environmental damage.  The chemical compound in DHMO has been known to wipe out entire cities at record-breaking speed.

Perhaps the most surprising aspect of dihydrogen monoxide is its wide-spread use in almost every aspect of daily life.  Research has proven that this chemical compound is used for everything from sanitizer to pesticides.  In recent years, dihydrogen monoxide has been used as a performance-enhancing supplement; in other words, athletes and potential athletes are using DHMO as an energy booster before a race or game, etc.  (the fairness and sportsmanship of this practice is being questioned, but the use of DHMO by athletes is rising yearly.)  Younger children, seeing the older athletes using DHMO freely, are imitating them in rising numbers.

A surprising number of young parents have been seen – in public – giving children as young as 2 weeks a dose of dihydrogen monoxide in order to quiet or silence them.  One can only imagine how much DHMO these innocent babies are getting at home.

Dihydrogen monoxide is a popular, much-sought-after substance in the public schools.  Even elementary children have begged for it, right in the middle of the school day, so addicted that they’ve become unashamed in their desperate longing for a “hit.”  Little wonder, too, as we see so many adults carrying a stash of DHMO into stores and other public and private places, unable to do without a “hit” themselves.

When frozen, DHMO expands to the level that can cause severe damage to people’s homes, often in the night when people are sleeping.  IN fact, DHMO can expand with such violent force that it is not possible to make a usable pipe strong enough to withstand this force.  Variations of DHMO have also been found in homemade bombs, which would use the pressure and explosive power of this compound to destroy.

The American Burn Association has identified DHMO as a target for a public awareness campaign regarding the dangers of the compound, as even a simple action such as heating it in a microwave can cause it to explode unexpectedly and violently, causing first and second degree burns on anyone in its path.

Dihydrogen monoxide can also cause exponential growth of mold and bacteria.  Under the right conditions, DHMO will encourage molds to grow rampantly, quickly covering surfaces and rising to toxic levels.

Even when people are well-trained in the use of dihydrogen monoxide, accidents will inevitably happen and are more often than not fatal.  People’s failure to train their children in the proper use of DHMO will almost always result in shock/trauma at the very least, and brain damage and even death at the very worst.

Dihydrogen Monoxide is a clear and odorless liquid and is often difficult to detect; experts must be called in when a severe build-up is discovered.  It is difficult if not impossible to totally isolate our society from dihydrogen monoxide, so our survival will depend on our skill in identifying it and using it properly.

Parents, especially, are urged to secure their homes against dihydrogen monoxide misuse, as the lives and well-being of their children, as well as themselves, depend on it.

Be cautious.  Be careful.  Most of all, BE AWARE.

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