I sometimes think of my first big girl dance with anything but fond memories. In some antiquated offshoot of southern belle-hood in Omaha, NE,a between our kickball match-ups and Egyptian history, most of my sixth grade classmates and I signed up for cotillion classes. Rather, our parents signed us up.
As with most foods, homemade ice cream tastes infinitely better and is usually much healthier for you too. Old-fashioned ice cream is no exception. Often richer and creamier, you can customize it to exactly the perfect flavor. From basic vanilla made of cream, sugar and vanilla to taste explosions filled with fruits, expensive flavorings and other exotic ingredients, old-fashioned ice cream knows no limits.
Two weeks ago tomorrow marked an occasion many of you users of online banking may not have registered. But to those few Luddites (me included) who are still beholden to physical banking and mailing, it marked a disastrous revelation. My particular revelation came when I failed to open my bank doors. Confusion reigned in those first few seconds, and I pulled again. Panic. I pulled again.
Thankfully, I was gifted with the powers of reason, however late to the party they were. The lights in the bank were off. Ergo, the bank was closed. Thus, there must be a reason for the bank to be closed and, by extension, a strawman for my rage.
Upon checking my calendar, I discovered it was Columbus Day. And I discovered that Columbus Day, for some God-awful inexplicable reason, is still federally recognized.
With the advent of the remote control and cable TV, we have begun drifting farther away from family values, real laughter and good old-fashioned motion. I remember when being a kid meant going outside to make hay forts, climb trees or look for frogs. My kids, while they are still young, have never really done any of those things. I’ll bet mine aren’t unique, either. Kids are more comfortable in their safe little homes with their safe little TVs. But what is the cost for this comfort and security?
Quick note before continuing. I have discovered that I'm going to use the word bumper sticker a lot throughout this post. I'm going to, from now on, refer to bumper sticker with the singular acronym B. S. Any similarity to any already extisting acronyms is purely coincidental (and hilariously appropriate). Let's try it: the B. S. is prevalent throughout American roadways.
Ha. It tickles.
Here we stand, at the yawning mouth of the 21st century, and in the same breath that people decry American-made socialism and bemoan the impending loss of individualism, they buy assembly-line-made bumper stickers that decry American-made socialism and bemoan the impending loss of individualism. Maybe they even fist bump their neighbors when they return home to the delightful surprise that their neighbor has the exact same bumper sticker.
