Snail Mail My Email 2013
It’s that time of year again. Snail Mail My Email has begun. (Here’s another Life Preservers post about the project: Snail Mail My Email Project.)
For one week only (this week!), the Snail Mail My Email team will take your email, hand-write it, decorate it, and mail it. For free. Want to send a one-of-a-kind letter? Go to the Snail Mail My Email website.
Or think about writing a letter to someone this week!
The Snail Mail My Email project was created in 2011 by artist Ivan Cash. In that first year 234 volunteers collectively sent 10,457 letters to 70 countries in just one month. The project has since transitioned to a week-long annual event held every fall. And it’s going on now.
The project has also been captured in a book, which is for sale on amazon.
Cool Project (that Deserves Support)
Have you seen those antique blue dinner plates? The ones with the complex design and tranquil scenery? Well, there’s a designer in Pittsburgh named Don Moyer who re-draws the pattern–but with a twist. He adds a calamity, like attacking aliens or a pirate ship. Check out some of the images here on Flickr. They’re a hoot!
At this point, Don is trying to raise the money to actually produce one of his Calamityware Dinner Plates as a real plate. He has a project up on KickStarter, a site that helps everyday folks help other everyday folks fund creative projects. You make a pledge to fund the project. If the project doesn’t get completed, you get your money back. You can pledge as little as one dollar, simply as a show of support for this delightful bit of genius. For $25, you’ll get one of the Calamity plates. With flying monkeys. (Flying monkeys!)
This image is not mine. Copyright Don Moyer. I’m just borrowing it so you can see how cool it is!
Check out the Calamityware Dinner Plate KickStarter page here for more info, including a video from Don Moyer explaining the project and all of the details about KickStarter. Consider making a donation. I just did. Because I like to support silliness and creativity in the world. And I want one of these plates!
To make a pledge, you have to create a log in on KickStarter and then pay via amazon.com. If you already have an amazon account, you just use your regular log in. If you do not already have an amazon account, you would need to create one. But the pledge process is really simple. If the project is successful, plates will ship around February 2014.
I do not know Don personally, but he is a friend of a friend, so I feel comfortable vouching for this project. Check it out!
Here’s the Problem. (And a Solution.)
In thinking about the pompous clusterf*ck that is our government these days, I wondered how they can still have a job while not going to work, not managing to a budget, and, generally, behaving so badly. I thought, Surely, there has to be a way to fire these people for such incompetence. Surely, our brilliant Founding Fathers covered this?
Well, no. We the People cannot impeach or fire members of Congress. According to Article 1, Section 5, Clause 2 of The Constitution:
Each House may determine the Rules of its Proceedings, punish its Members for disorderly Behaviour, and, with the Concurrence of two thirds, expel a Member.
For comparison: Allow a large group of teenagers to stay home alone for a four-day weekend, with an unlocked liquor cabinet, a big bowl of pot, a stack of 50s, a swimming pool, three sports cars, a kick-ass sound system, and internet access. When you get home, ask them if they’ve behaved themselves.
Sound ridiculous? Well, what goes on in Washington, D.C., is just as illogical, just as stupid, just as out of control. Our Senators and Representatives can make their own rules and do pretty much anything they want because they can only be fired if they vote to fire each other by a two-thirds majority.
Our current national debt is $16,750,300,206,723.60. (That’s nearly $17 trillion.) (Trillion!) But they can decide (among themselves) to say “That’s okay. No worries.” They decide if they get another raise, get ideal health care, have a private retirement fund outside of Social Security. They decide to take more vacation annually than most of us get in 10 years. They decide to pay for limo service or ride in private jets. They decide if they walk off the job. They decide how much we pay in taxes.
And they can raid that liquor cabinet over and over and over again.
We have only one option. We have only one opportunity to change things. We vote.
Apathetic? Disillusioned? Snap out of it. We are not helpless. We are not trapped. And it is our duty as citizens to do our part.
You can bet your bottom dollar, they are all assuming that, by the time the next election comes along, we’ll have forgotten the preposterousness of the current situation. You know they are relying on voter turnout of around 50 percent. They’ll spend a ridiculous amount of money to continue to promote the myth that there are ginormous, life-altering philosophical differences between the democrats and republicans in office. They’re going to do everything in their power to keep us fighting among ourselves, while the majority of them—the majority who are legally allowed to decide on the consequences of their behavior—slide back into their seat, with a thumbs up across the aisle and a knowing chuckle.
While searching the web for the information about how a Congressman can be removed from office, I came across this site: kickthemallout.com (Kick Them All Out). Sounds like a good idea to me.
Let’s not forget how much they have screwed up. Let’s ignore their example and work together to get something done. For at least the next election cycle, set aside your preference of democrat or republican or whatever. Vote American, and punish their incompetence. Let’s make sure there isn’t a single incumbent who gets to come back for another term. It won’t guarantee a perfect Congress, but it will send a message. It will show our representatives that We the People will not tolerate greed, corrupt ethics, and gross negligence. It will teach them an important lesson: There are consequences for bad behavior.
Welcome Back, Baseball
If you’re an older Pittsburgher, you were kind of spoiled as a kid when it comes to sports. And, beyond the thrill of winning, beyond the community pride, beyond the bragging rights, a part of you forever yearns to relive those days.
Not, as outsiders may think, because you’re part of an obnoxious fan base that always expects to win. But because your love of sports is forever entwined with the past, when:
- Your grandparents (and for some, your parents) were still alive. You learned about sports because they loved sports. You love the Pirates because they loved the Pirates. You watched games together crowded around a small TV or radio. And you miss those days. You miss them more than a World Series appearance.
- Gas stations still had attendants. A man would pump your gas, wipe the windshield, and hand you the latest Pirates give-away, like a drinking glass or a glossy 8×10 of a player.
- If you were lucky as me, you had a big brother who let you and your sister sit in his room, where he used a team photo poster to help you memorize every name and number.
- There was no ebay. Kids lined up to get autographs for the pure joy of having the signature of a player they adored.
- It was nearly impossible to get tickets to Opening Day.
- Team budgets weren’t hamstrung by greed.
- Baseball players were baseball players, part of one team, part of the city where they played the game.
- Pittsburgh wasn’t a small-market town struggling to make payroll. It was your whole world.
Somewhere, in the same brain that now wrestles thoughts of mortgage and clients and deadlines, you still have Manny’s smile, Steve Blass’ leap, the towering-fame/guy-I-could-have-a-beer-with dichotomy of Bill Mazeroski, the grace and heartbreak of Clemente, the grin and grit of Danny Murtaugh, an enduring crush on Richie Hebner, the mustache of Phil Gardner, the crazy arm of Kent Tekulve, the reassuring presence of Willie Stargell.
As we have a tendency to view most of the past from a distance: It was better then.
As we have gotten older, as we have been forced to let go of the ways of childhood, it felt unfair to also be asked to give up Our Team. To handle years of losing. Years of disappoint. Years of expending deep empathy for the young men who tried. Years of watching bright sparks fade away. Years of feeling like hostages to folks who did not appear to share our beliefs, who did not seem to care, who did not behave as if they had a clue about baseball in this town. Even a couple of years when we very nearly lost baseball altogether.
And then.
Changes were made. A cog shifted and the wheel of a plan we had ceased to believe in began to turn. The gate creaked open and in that rush of air, from that collective gasp, a roar went up. A resonating, goose-bumping, awe-inspiring roar in the hearts, in the homes, in the stands, and in the town where the Pittsburgh Pirates play baseball.
Something in each of us came alive again. We believed again. We hoped again. And that’s a fairly miraculous phenomenon, a life preserver for those of us of a certain age. Even if the season didn’t have a movie script ending. The current run may have ended last night, but — for at least a year, and maybe more — baseball returned to the City of Pittsburgh.
A very Pittsburgh-y group of men led by a very Pittsburgh-y coach gave us an awesome gift.
It was not 1992 all over again. It was not the last hard kick in the pants that pushed you into adulthood.
It was something else.
Lessons Learned
This past weekend, I attended a Zeta Sigma Tau sorority reunion back on the UPJ college campus. It has me thinking about lessons learned.
Life is incredibly random. Embrace it.
Once upon a time there were some administrators in some offices, sorting forms, directing college freshman into dorm rooms and classrooms, affecting who would cross my path in September of 1981.
There are many paths. Be willing to explore.
I had planned to play volleyball and become a teacher. Instead, I joined a sorority and became a writer. If I had it to do over, the only thing I’d do differently is not stress over either decision.
Look up and say hello.
You’ll sit down next to a lot of strangers in your lifetime. One or two might be destined to be a friend for life.
There are parties going on. Attend one.
At 18, I was shy. I was nervous. I was kind of a nerd. I was not a snappy dresser. But I left my dorm room and went to a party. That one brave deed led to Zeta Sigma Tau, which became the center of my life at 18 and the catalyst for a poignant, hilarious, joyful, just-what-I-needed weekend at 50.
Everything changes. Some things never change.
From 18 to 50, we slowly, steadily transform. But it’s not like squashing and reforming a lump of clay. It’s like weaving a broader and more intricate pattern. There is always a thread that ties us to our starry-eyed, stumbling, happy youth. An unsnippable, indestructible, soul-saving thread.
A shared perspective is magic.
It is good to take a long look at the past with those who were there. Not to white-wash or candy-coat but to see clearly from a distance. To put an arm around then and an arm around now and embrace it whole. To understand at a deep level that, warts and all, you are one lucky so-and-so.
Bonus: A group of aging brains remembers more great stuff than one aging brain.
At 50, adult humans become capable of time travel.
Don’t ask me about the science, but it’s true.
Stages of life.
There will be drama. You’ll have good acts and bad ones. Sometimes the script will suck. Sometimes you’ll be confused or scared. There will be those who shout. Or throw tomatoes. But, ultimately, Life is an exquisite comedy. Find a great supporting cast. And stick around for the whole show.
It’s funny . . .
Sadness and happiness get murky. Anger and joy wane. Achievements and disappointments fade away. But funny is funny forever.
It’s never about the stuff.
True friendship is not about popularity or possessions. It is about who giggles at the same dumb stuff that you do. It’s about hugging someone who hugs back. It’s about who picks you up when you fall (from hard times or too much grain punch or a skid across a dance floor). It’s about being able to join the conversation in a heartbeat, whether you’re returning from a hard day of classes or from a 30-year absence.
Graduating and grief.
Leaving your college friends at graduation is a lot like the grieving process. Over time, you cry less, you get passed how much you miss them, you get on with life. But there will be moments when that sweet ache stops you in your tracks. And you miss them all, all over again, more than can be expressed.
Women are kind, beautiful, and amazing.
If you don’t believe this one, find new friends.
This post dedicated to my sorority sisters, some of the best damn women I have ever had the privilege to know. Til next time, don’t forget for one moment that you are brilliant and lovely and funny as hell. I loved who you were. I love who you’ve become. You have a place in my heart forever as uniquely qualified life preservers.
Mac > PC
I am (finally!) the proud owner of my very own Mac. I could tell a crazy story: The brain-frying, hunch-backing research; the frustration of computereeze; the joy of smart and patient translating friends (thank-you Nancy, Robin, and Steve!); the highs and lows; the anticipation and disappointments; the ebay bidding; the problems, the fixes; the fear and relief; that final trip out to buy another mfdvi monitor adapter. I could tell the story of how this Mac ended up here. But the beginning of this story is better.
My fascination with Apple’s Mac started in the late 80s, when companies were making the transition to desktop computers.
I worked with a woman named Lynne. She was a colleague, a friend, a humorous human, and an all-around good egg. She was given the opportunity (in corporate parlance, was empowered) to decide whether or not the company’s design team would get PCs or Macs. She did the research. She involved the team. With conscientious attention to detail, all due diligence, and an open, honest, for-the-best-of-all approach, decided that, for current and future needs, the Mac was the better fit.
There lived in this village a Much-Higher-Up who had a penchant for PCs and a predilection for getting his own way. He was her boss’ boss’ boss. She didn’t stand a chance. She was bullied. She was lied about. She was pressured. She was expected to cave.
She stood her ground.
It was traumatic and dramatic stuff back then. She was my friend. It was unfair, and it was disillusioning. I felt really bad for her. But, most of all, I admired her chutzpah. I guess it showed because I was pulled aside and oh-so sincerely, oh-my-how seriously warned not to associate with her. All of the things that were wrong with that conversation couldn’t fit in a blog post, but Lynne and I laughed about it many times.
Things were never quite the same for her after that. Eventually, she got tired of fighting the lies and sick of playing the games and she got another job elsewhere. We kept in touch for a year or two, but then we lost touch. I got a call from her Mom one day, about 8 years later. Lynne had passed away. Suddenly. Tragically. She was 30 years old.
In that quirky, strange way of the brain, I realize that my fondness for the Mac is entwined forever with my fondness for Lynne. So, of course, the telling of a tale of frustration in getting a computer set up seems inconsequential. And having a heated debate over which is better — Mac or PC — is foolish.
‘Cause Macs are better. It’s what they use in heaven.
Today’s Work Environment
In-depth field research conducted over a quarter of a century has shown that the following things never occur in a traditional office setting:
– Dancing in the office space on a non-Friday.
– Playing any type of music at a loud volume, without using headphones.
– Variable start time of whenever you damn well feel like it.
– Lunch eaten at the desk due to work enjoyment.
– Mean, ignorant, and ridiculous people barred from entering the premises.
– No “developmental discussion” required as follow-up action for a cussing incident.
– Dress code permitting Eeyore sweatpants and a T-shirt, bra optional.
– Kitty cat on the desk; kitty cat on the extra office chair.
– Send email to anyone about anything with confidence in its privacy.
– Laughing is the norm when something stupid happens in your vicinity.
– One full-color printer, scanner, copier, and fax machine per person.
– An office as big as a house.
– Private kitchen with a fully stocked bar.
– Permission to leave work early to go have dinner with a friend.
Dear Giant Eagle/Brentwood
I am not a fan of grocery shopping. I go only when I absolutely have to—which is when I am out of either cat food or toilet paper. Otherwise, I make do.
You used to be right up the street. It wasn’t a big store or a “Market District” store, but it sure was convenient. Especially for someone like me who can get halfway through a recipe and realize she’s missing an ingredient.
Then you moved to a bigger location farther away. I adjusted. I re-learned where everything was. I could still leave my house, do a full shop, and be home in under an hour.
In the past few months, for some reason (that is not in the least bit obvious) you rearranged all of the aisles. And you rearranged them again. And you rearranged them yet again. Today’s less-than-major shop took me more than an hour and a half due to the required back and forth searching. And all the times I had to stop and express my frustration under my breath.
For added fun, today, while looking for the yogurt that you apparently no longer sell, I noticed a package of yogurt that had been partially opened. There were two employees less than 10 feet away. As I passed them on my way to get butter (one of the few things that is actually still in the same place), I mentioned the yogurt. I was told to tell some other employees about it. These other people were much farther away. Not farther than I could walk, of course, but, after wandering up and down every aisle and then some to pick up a few freaking items, I really wasn’t in the mood.
He suggested it twice. I ignored him twice and walked away, secretly hoping someone would soon turn that yogurt into a cleanup announcement.
Do you not realize how frustrating and annoying your store currently is? Do you think maybe a little extra effort on the customer service side of things might help? Here are a few more questions:
– Why is kitty litter no longer in the same aisle as the cat food?
– Why do you have munchies broken up into three different half aisles?
– Why is Newman’s salsa four aisles away from the tortilla chips and other salsas? (and why do you now have fewer flavors of Newman’s salsa? Where is the mild? It was my favorite. And I had a coupon.)
– Why are spices in a completely different aisle from baking supplies?
– Why are different varieties of frozen pizza in different aisles?
– Where the hell are the pancake mix packets? (I have yet to find them in three trips.)
And last but not least . . .
– Did you know they recently opened an Aldi’s in the neighborhood?
Happy Birthday, Old Friend
This post dedicated to a dear friend who was born August 28, 1963. Some thoughts on turning 50.
- After a 50th birthday, you wake up and realize, you can stop freaking out about turning 50.
- The friendships that have lasted this long are pretty much good to go. And new people worthy of your time, energy, and love are easier to spot.
- You can now drop an F-bomb in front of your parents and they’ll just laugh.
- This is the first birthday in a long time during which you will be celebrated as you were when you were a kid. Enjoy every minute. ‘Cause the next big one is 60 – and that will just be sad.
- You don’t have to join A.A.R.P. if you don’t want to.
- Whether it’s a fancy night out with your sweetie, a no-fuss game night with friends, or an evening with Haagen Dazs and Dean Martin, you know how to – and you make the choice to – recharge as needed.
- At 50, tragedy has touched you. And tempered you.
- At 50, you are capable of soul-expanding joy.
- At 50, you never ever have to ride your bike to get a candy bar, dig through couch cushions to purchase a pop (aka soda), or worry about borrowing clothes for a formal event.
- Whether you are tall or short, overweight or skinny, straight-laced or goofy, graceful or clutzy, you are loved. And you know it.
- Whether you are rich or poor, brilliant or ditzy, famous or ordinary, fabulous or frumpy, there are people who don’t like you. And you’re okay with that. Maybe even a little proud of that.
- No one (including you) will ever expect you to drink until 3:00 a.m., run a triathlon, or wear a bikini.
- You’ve forgotten more stuff than the youngsters will ever know. And you’re about to start forgetting even more stuff.
- The number of years until you can retire is now a comprehensible span of time.
- You have arrived at 50. You know what matters most to you and it doesn’t matter if the same things are important to a friend, co-worker, neighbor, or the person taking your pizza order.
- You have friends who have already turned 50. And they are cheerfully, wickedly relieved that you have to go through it, too.
Happy Birthday, Vern. You are one my life preservers.
NOTE: A variation of this post is available to purchase as a poster. Click here to go to the product in my zazzle store.
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
B-attitude
Blessed are the kind-hearted.
Blessed are the imperfect.
Blessed are those who trust in goodness – but learn from experience.
Blessed are the funny, the witty, and the droll.
Blessed are the stupid, for they doth be amusing.
Blessed are those who preserve and run old movies.
Blessed are those who use a turn signal.
Blessed are the misunderstood; one day they shall be vindicated. Or at least learn not to give a rat’s ass.
Blessed are those with their head up their arse (because at least that shuts them up).
Blessed are they who do not forward chain letters.
Blessed are those who hope despite all of the evidence.
Blessed are those creative enough to design a bumper sticker that isn’t in the shape of a looped ribbon.
Blessed are they who still make, sell, buy, and read real books.
Blessed are the cheese makers.
Blessed are the silly for they lie closest to understanding the world.
Blessed are the lapsed Catholics.
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August 29, 2013 at 6:13 pm Leave a comment