 |
| Search |
|
|
|
|
GatorBytes
Say, hey, we're baaccckk; like a bad penny and a "no, no, bad dog." So, 'Byte Browsers, here we start on another year of noted adventures. Mikey and I decided we would discuss emotions this year, at least until we can't stand it any more and the Prozac starts looking good. This is not to be confused with emoticons :-) or necessarily the general laundry list of traditionally recognized emotions (love, hate, et al.). We might even make up a few, depending upon which weed of the day Mikey might ingest. Therefore, still being a little unsteady after the horrors of the holidays, we have picked Expectations or Expectability as our "emotion" of the day. That's e-x-p-e-c-t-ability (shouted, with lots of soul and great rhythm).
Let's leave hope, want, need, fear and deserve on the playground for the moment and take a look at Expectability. Expectations and Expectability are curious things. Do they have anything to do with reality? Ever? Are they ever expressed nicely, by kind people, sans even litotes? Ever? E-x-p-e-c-t-ability (love that soul-rock and shouting!). Let's even leave our personal expectations of ourselves out of this. It's "them." Everybody else. Our family, friends, co-workers, casual acquaintances, the others in the grocery store line, the bank line, at the red traffic signal.
My mother is always a good example of that which pisses me off - ever? Always. A recent example, my year 2000 Christmas cards were "homemade," with a laminated 12-month calendar on the reverse side of my "homemade" Christmas poem. "Homemade," like cookies, except not so sweet; like quilts, but not so warming. As I do custom graphics, what else would you expect? I make "homemade" for birthdays, anniversaries, silliness and any other appropriate or not reason. I always send "homemade," and heretofore always considered that an extra present, clearly exhibiting the enormous amount of time I spent to make each one "so special, just for you," and imbuing it with natural talent and the exigency of a perfectionist. When mother finally located her Christmas Card somewhere in the holiday card pile, she said, "Oh that thing you made - yeah, I got it. Let me tell you about Joe-Joe's potty training." Well, I'll tell you, that's not the reaction I expected. Of course, mother ignores the efforts behind the gift and tells people that I'm too cheap even to send "real" cards. What does she expect? But then, this is so typically mother, what do I expect?
My friends are another excellent example. Now that I "don't work" (everyone, except me, seems to "know" that starting one's own business can be effected while eating bon bons and watching the soaps, not by putting in 10-18 hour days engaged in ulcer-provoking business strategies in one's home office). We've discussed this expectation quotient before. So, this example started with a 10:00 p.m. call Tuesday night, informing me that I was expected to take someone's relative, who I had never met, to a mediation hearing in Tampa (approx. 50 miles South) on Wednesday (for litigation that I don't believe in, even in principle). It was to be cut-and-dried, except for travel, in-out-done deal, 30 minutes tops. I left home at 11:30 a.m., I got back to my humble abode and a much miffed Mikey at 7:20 p.m. What did I expect?
Apparently I still have that tattoo on my forehead (rather than a cool one on my butt) that says "Great Expectations Granted." Here in God's Waiting Room, one isn't safe from the Expectability quotient even in the grocery store. While in the express line with two items, one of the local citizenry asked to go ahead of me with her eight items because her husband was waiting impatiently in the car in the handicapped parking zone. I waved at him, and told her the beer and dog cookies I was buying were more important to the continuance of my marketing plans than his returning to his couch potato status. What did she expect from this little face?
Back to that all-purpose family/extended family group. Where did I miss the child rearing experts' theory that a child's development and future chances for success would be jeopardized if the child was not photographed on a weekly non-professional basis and at least six times a year professionally, with an assortment of all the pictures being sent on a regular basis to anyone remotely connected to the family? Of course, if one considers the cost involved in even home photography, perhaps there could be found testimony to the lack of funds left to allocate to the child's upbringing. Why are we expected to supply pictures of a child who doesn't want to be a model to someone who stuffs said photos into a shoe box?
At Mikey's request, I share the following. Besides the Chad Wars and the other incredible stupidity here in God's Waiting Room, the popular craze is Road Rage. Separate but not necessarily apart from the familiar southern Road Kill. There was a minor fender non-bender on the entry to the freeway recently. Both motorists pulled over. A burly man rushed from his car, screaming at the woman who had tapped his bumper, then reached into the woman's passenger's seat, grabbed a small Poodle riding there and threw it across the median into oncoming traffic. Mikey wants to know what the lady motorist expected with such a little frou-frou dog for a companion. The woman, and the rest of us, were horrified. In court, the man knows what to expect - Road Rage seems to have replaced "temporary insanity" as a plea for any lack of self-control. If we accept that, what can we expect?
Oh well, it's always something. TTFN. I need to go get that butt tattoo that says, "Bite Me." Or just a snapping Florida Gator...
© Copyright 2000-2006 Spanitz
Consulting, Inc.
Top of Page
|
|
|
Spanitz Consulting - Article Headlines
GatorBytes
Latest Headlines
|
|
