After reading that the veins of convicted killer Clayton Lockett burst when the lethal cocktail ordered for his Oklahoma execution was administered by jailers, I again contemplate the quintessential question: “Is everybody nuts?” I haven’t taken it, but I understand that heroin is the ultimate high. Take enough of it, as dead celebrities can attest, and one sails to Valhalla in a blissful state with no taint of cruel and unusual treatment. Perhaps someone can explain why cheap heroin isn’t the drug of choice for prison officials. I know. It’s a rhetorical question best posed by the clueless Captain Obvious.
Their personalities, missions and philosophies are as diverse as the world’s language spectrum, but it dawned on me that the planet could do perfectly well by putting Angies in charge of everything. Give Angela Merkle free reign and our economy might bounce back faster than when men are in control. Turn Angelina Jolie loose on humanitarian issues and give her decision-making powers. Domestically, appoint the Angie’s List founder to the agency overseeing consumer-related matters. A literal A-List of women named Angie has the potential to change the world in ways no lame A-Team of guys could possibly do.
Sheryl and I weren’t pleased with the service we received from the wait staff at a favorite restaurant. Then, when my gift card was rejected, we made the unusual decision to skimp on the gratuity. Problem is, we were handed seven slips of paper when our credit cards were returned and they were so confusingly shuffled, we wound up giving our lame server a 25-percent tip instead of the intended 10-percent. This is what happens when two creative thinkers eat chocolate cake while juggling math challenges. I don’t resent the tip. I do resent not ordering the larger cake slice.
Internet dating follows a typical trajectory as communications move from introductory to exploratory: you write, you call, you meet. Amen. But I’ve recently had to rethink my, “Sorry, we’re not right for each other” speech. Thought I had it nailed until I sent forth a recent kinder and gentler “get lost” note and received this dramatic response: “You HOPE I meet the woman of my dreams soon??? But, wait! I hear her knocking on my door!!!! You were right!!! She’s here!” I counted exclamation points for accuracy. Guess a simple FU may be the way to go in the future.
Graduate school at the University of Georgia was idyllic: Gorgeous city; awesome football team (Go Dawgs); Deborah Norville hanging over at the J School and Atlanta nearby. Our neighbor, a PhD candidate in biological agriculture, had access to the best pot in Georgia, but I’m not sure that any of us “make love not war” advocates could “deal” with Governor Nathan Deal’s Safe Gun protection Act of 2014. Nicknamed the “guns everywhere” bill, the law goes into effect on July 1st. I still have time to visit my alma mater without bringing my will or a weapon. Paradise lost. Sigh.
I can’t trust anyone to give me the correct time these days. My computer says one thing. The Weather Channel says another. The TV Guide channel is off by minutes and none of these times match up with my four clocks or my wrist watch. I find this alarming. Suppose I die and the doctor puts down the wrong time of death. More alarming: I arrive at my “final destination” too late to gain admittance or too early to be recognized. You’re laughing. I’m not. If there’s one thing I’ve learned after living this long it’s that timing is everything.
I once observed all road etiquette rules, but nowadays, other drivers won’t allow me to do so. Recently, truck drivers blocked me from entering lanes despite my blinker flashing for miles, road construction lane closures were ghost towns upon arrival, I nearly hit a few stealth autos driving in thunderstorms without lights on and I was tempted to rear end drivers of $60,000 cars darting from land-to-lane at 90 mph during aforementioned downpours. My car is awash in duct tape. If I was another driver, I’d take that as a sign that I have nothing to lose and behave appropriately.
Heather’s and Rich’s adorable daughter Emma is quite the firecracker. She’s smart and her personality belies her years, but when I picked up a small gift–a journal/diary–to mark her 10th birthday, I wasn’t expecting a thank you. Fact is, I received a card that’s downright frame worthy. It reads: “Hi Gail! Thank you so much for the journal. You’ve got great taste! From Emma.” Great taste? No 10-year-old has ever paid me that compliment. Come to think of it, I rarely hear that from adults. I can’t stop laughing at the short, sassy message. Emma: You’re the bomb.
“Do I look fat in this?” is a sentence capable of torpedoing friendships, so lying makes perfect sense. But a recent study reveals that certain mannerisms can give me away. Next time we chat, question my truthfulness if my eyes dart up and to the left–or if I stare blankly, cover my mouth, adjust my shirt, bite my lip or stroke my ear. Of course, I could be mulling your thoughtful words, protecting you from a cough, addressing an undone shirt button or maybe my ear itches. Then again, nobody trusts folks wearing bags over their heads in public.
I’m no fan of Steve Jobs’ nasty personality, but I’d grovel at his feet if I could get my hands on a new Apple computer. Hacking has become a regular part of my life since I went to the dark side and bought a PC out of desperation and lack of funds. But there comes a time when you run out of password combinations that pair up the names of dead cats. Don’t get me wrong. My PC tries to do good work, but it’s like sleeping with a perfectly nice guy ‘cause the one you crave is already married.