The Chairman's Voice

Chairman Meow’s Little Red Book

He, Super Mike, is away; oh the bombastic notion of being super, albeit tongue in cheek; and to add insult; leaving one’s blog open, thank heavens. But oh the humiliation I feel, for me to read and to learn of my gastrointestinal distress in print.


Yes, on Monday I did have a minor upset stomach caused by my ingesting copious amounts of my own fur. What else was I to do but hack it on the floor? Does he think that this was a pleasant experience for me? Well it wasn’t. I suppose I could have gacked on the wood flooring, but it would have blended in and been difficult to see.

Plus, you can just imagine the abuse he’d heap upon me if I should let my lustrous black and white suit get tatty.

I lost my breakfast too boot and had to wait a full eight hours before my moist supper arrived. Why I thought that I’d perish and all the while he was sitting and tippety, tapping on that box thing AND making light of my infirmity. Oh boy, there are things that I could and should tell you about…him.



First my name, it is Chairman Meow Tse Tung or Fez, that’s it, one formal and one informal name, but he uses these only about fifty percent of the time and often calls me by other monikers when we’re alone together and rarely when others can witness the insult.

He sometimes refers to me as Nebuchadnezzar or Little Nebby. Let me be clear, I am only like Nebuchadnezzar with respect to my wisdom and Little Nebby is just plain foolish.

I'm called Baby too. I am not and never was a baby; I was a kitten of the cutest kind and have grown into a full grown tom who knows how to cherish his pride.

He is good to me. My litter box is cleaned daily, I get two helpings of wet food and clean water and kibble are always waiting for me on the floor.

He is sometimes loud and when home alone only with me will sing at the top of his lungs.


Or talk to himself.

Or laugh uncontrollably at seemingly nothing.


Still, he allows me to puddle up on the bed with him and purr to my heart’s content.

And when the monsters come to the house, I can manage to open the closet doors and find a dark quiet place to hide.


I do not however appreciate him making light of my gentle constitution.

Q

I love the game. I love the excitement, but seriously, something happens to my manners and decorum as I watch.



Perhaps it is the bouncing ball. The constant thud on the hardwood flooring causes me to leak I.Q. points and forces my sensibilities as a southern gentleman to ebb.

At the ACC tournament three years ago my dear friend and fellow big mouth Dee taught me how to scream, “Sit down coach.”

Dee directed her howl at a well known and respected ladies coach from Chapel Hill.

Oooo, I loved the way it sounded as it echoed off the hardwood floors at Greensboro. “Sit down Sylvia!” Oh my, it had such a ring to it. Perhaps I loose so many I.Q. points during games that I lack original thought or the ability to adequately filter.

So in Raleigh, last night watching my team play Old Dominion University, I tried my version, “Sit down coach.”


She didn’t and I doubt that she heard me. Ten minutes later and in the second half, I bellowed again. Bear in mind that we were now some thirty minutes into play and I’d leaked a whole lot of I.Q. points and my sense of decorum and manners was all but gone. Why I’d venture to guess that perhaps I was half a generation out of a cave.



Similarly, it would never occur to me that my mouth, petite as it is, might bother a fellow fan and especially one pulling for my beloved Wolf Pack Ladies.
But oh the agony, Super Mike was wrong, I know perish the thought, Super Mike ruffle feathers, no way; especially not a kindred spirit, a fellow woolfie; a pack follower. Alas I was wrong or perhaps she was just a witch who’d infiltrated our ranks; a woolfie who turned and scolded me with the look and demeanor of an angry third grade teacher.


“Are you serious?” she asked.


Holding my gaze with a very accusatory look and repeating her question with a look of disgust and disdain. Just like my third grade teacher.

She went on, pointing at our beloved coach and stating, “She stands the whole game. So, are you serious?”

I weakly apologized stating that I didn’t mean to offend. Still her look of disgust held until she turned to her companion and related to her what an uncultured, oaf and buffoon I was and that I was in fact lower than a one eyed snake belly.


I was cut to the quick, mortified and humiliated by the fact that I’d caused a fellow fan distress and angst. I remained silent for the rest of the game. I clapped and I threw my arms up in the air, when we finally pulled it out at the end, but alas there was no more bellowing in Historic Reynolds Coliseum; well there was bellowing but my voice didn’t join the chorus. Lesson Learned.

You can't defy physical science

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I love my morning coffee. I will sometimes get up early to start my day with a nice strong cuppa. If I miss my cuppa or two, or three or heck…the whole pot; well then I can get a wee bit cranky.

This morning I awoke to Chairman Meow gacking all over the house. Thankfully my first appointment wasn’t until ten am so I had time to seek out and clean up vile hair balls mixed with Meow Mix. Oh what a foul cat I have. Toxic waste comes out both ends.

After clean up and removing my hazmat suit I even had time to languish over an extra cup or two of piping hot, sweet, creamy coffee. I can write my blogs, I can surf the net, I can read other blogs and the news all whilst sitting in my jammies; watching the sun come up and sipping on coffee. Life couldn’t get much better.

But, my coffee maker doesn’t always get my coffee as hot as I like it.

And…

The light on my microwave oven that displays the numerals is, well, on the fritz. I have to kind of guess at the cook time I’ve punched in. Typically a minute thirty seconds does the trick for heating up my coffee but this morning I must have punched in four minutes thirty seconds. Way too long, too long I tell you, but easy to do, the numeral one sits directly atop the numeral four. Plus, I have huge fingers, kind of a handicap when it comes to mashing buttons.

My coffee was boiling; but stopped bubbling as I carried it across the kitchen.



Intellectually I know that adding Splenda to very, very, very hot coffee lowers said liquids boiling point. This morning however, I'm Super Mike and the laws of physical science shall not defy me for I have cleaned up massive amounts of toxic cat waste.



I couldn’t.



My coffee exploded all over the kitchen with just one itsy, bitsy spoonful of Splenda.



Maybe its time for a new microwave oven.

It must be Monday

Ooooo, my bed is so warm and so safe.

I could stay here in the dreamscape forever. In my dream and in the distance I hear a steam locomotive coming. What a serene and peaceful sound and setting.



The dell is golden with blooming apple trees, why this is an image right out of Little House on the Prairie. Soon, I hope to see Laura and her sisters running down the hill through the cacophony of blooming wild flowers.



Gosh, that locomotive is getting loud.


It is sounding rather violent too. What is that? I’m not on the prairie, this is Durham. It’s Monday and that train isn’t a train, it’s my cat the Chairman Meow and he’s gacking all over my rugs. That notion that I was hearing a train is the cold hard reality of a hair ball.

Could this happen on the hardwood flooring?



Nope!

Happy Monday.

November musings

November musings

Home Schooling

I do think that if children are home schooled that this should be considered for the right reasons. Those being, the child needs special one on one attention that the public and private school systems cannot provide. That the child is unable to function intelligently and rationally within the confines of the system and is then considered to be a disruption and must be removed from the school for the greater good. Personally, I don’t believe keeping a child home based on Christian principals is the right decision.
What exactly do the scriptures say…

"And it came to pass afterward, that He went throughout every city and village, preaching and showing the glad tidings of the kingdom of God: and the twelve were with Him.." Luke 8:1.

That’s what Jesus did; He went into the world, into every city and village preaching and SHOWING the glad tidings. Jesus is our example not to hide from, or run from the world but to go into the world. How sad it is that many who home school their children miss their commission to show the world what it is we’re made of. Why in some circumstances it might be fair to ascertain that those who hide from the world are just as bad as those in fundamental madrassas who promote violence against the world. Those who hide from and shun the world have given up on it and that is a sin. The sin, again from scripture;

And Jesus came and spoke to them, saying, "All authority has been given to Me in heaven and on earth. Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all things that I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age." Amen. (Matthew 28:18-20)

Simply, this commission cannot be achieved whilst hiding out at home. How will others see what we’re supposed to be doing when we’re hiding out from them? Parents who train and teach their young ones well have nothing to fear from a school system. Perhaps those most fearful are those who’ve fallen the most short in their job to train their children well, with strong morals, ethics and steadfast belief in who they are and what they believe.

Oh I expect to hear lots of whining that “Our children can’t pray at school.” That, “God has been removed from the school.” “That the schools are full of persecutors.”

This is all poppycock. At no time in my life when I have either shut my eyes or not, to pray has anyone prevented me from doing so. If God has indeed been removed from school, well then who is to blame for that? Could it be those who’ve taken up their marbles also known as their children and packed up and forsaken the system with a refusal to participate? Maybe. Could it be that those who’ve cut and run are creating spiritually weak offspring who when grown will not be able to function with, confront and respect those of a different mind, perhaps.

To wrap it up, many of those who’ve cut and run are demonstrating that they don’t love or care for their fellow citizens, they have shunned them and in that shunning, they have shunned God’s light in those who they’ve forsaken.

My Pathways to God: The Telephone Nazi

My Pathways to God: The Telephone Nazi: "Telephone Nazi I spend a lot of time day in and day out on the telephone. I use voice mail constantly and I hope that I use voice mail c..."

The Telephone Nazi

Telephone Nazi

I spend a lot of time day in and day out on the telephone. I use voice mail constantly and I hope that I use voice mail correctly.
I have several clients and have had a business partner who I will classify as telephone or voice mail Nazis. A telephone voice mail Nazi is an individual who phones and leaves the following message, “Hi Michael, this is Mary, call me.” Click.

In this instance the telephone is being used as a nearly lethal weapon, a control weapon, and electronic leash or cattle prod. My challenge is how I cope with this electronic terrorism.

I typically tend not to phone back immediately. Over time I’ve determined that these folks have nothing pressing to discuss with me. Typically when I phone back I’m faced with people who don’t remember why they’ve phoned me in the first place, people who really don’t have a question, comment or concern at all, but simply want to revisit some obvious fact or matter. I’ve also discovered that these jerks on the electronic leash come toward the end of a business day, in the evening when most folks are engaged in family time or toward the end of my work week; late on a Saturday afternoon. The risk then for me is that my patience is low and I’m tired and fatigued.

So…over time I’ve learned not to phone back on the day the jerk on the leash arrives. I phone back the next morning or on the next business day, when I’m fresh and can field whatever might be thrown my way, which is typically NOTHING. In the case of my former business partner, she would amp up her requests for a return call, even going so far to say that the nature of the call was an emergency. It never was, in every instance Henny Penny was simply clucking that the sky was falling.

I’ve noticed too, that if I happen to fall into the call back trap and then try to move away from it, the jerks on the leash become more violent…so to speak. With the advent of text messaging, texts come, emails also come, but the nature of the call is NEVER shared. Seems to me that by its name "voice mail" would clue folks in that like a letter, there would be a salutation, a body with the meat of the message and a signature or sign off.

I know that the phone and communication is the life line of my business, but I am going to give props to my friend Ray who ascribes to the notion that my telephone is for my convenience and I will therefore return calls when it is convenient for me. Perhaps this is the best way to cope with a telephone voice mail Nazi.