In the Fun House

 

Picture facing THAT--and the ball throwers were teenagers!
(photo by Yan Krukau on Pexels)

I recently asked myself, “E, when was the last time you had FUN?” 

 

I gotta tell you, E was stumped. First of all, define fun, right? When I think of my funnest times, I think of watching standup comedy and reading funny books and enjoying funny movies…hmmm, I guess those are not very participatory. Common understandings of “fun” are more along the lines of “running barefoot in the rain,” or “sticking your hands in the air on a roller coaster” or “playing dodge ball on a mission trip” (I actually did this last one, and fun is the last word I’d use to describe this sadistic youth group game, played by hurling a ball at full speed towards someone’s stomach or head).

 

I can’t very well continue down the road of life having zero fun, right? So, I checked and Eureka! I discovered the burgeoning consulting business known as “fun coaching.” Seems folks are paying the big bucks to hire someone who will reconnect them (and/or their office team) with simple childhood joys. Imagine paying a “coach” to teach adults to blow bubbles, to skip rope, to romp! According to my research, one can spend an average of $125 a session (4 sessions minimum!) to re-learn playdoh pummeling, hopscotch, and finger painting. The websites wax rhapsodic about our neglected need to belly laugh, to play with abandon, to channel our inner toddlers.

 

My visual image of these shenanigans? The HR department, clad in office casual, reduced to clapping their hands delightedly as a Jack-in-the-Box pops up. Yippee! 

 

I suppose, for some, “fun” is an alien concept that must be carefully taught, and maybe hiring a fun coach is the way to go. But I think if you have to study fun, you’re missing the whole point—much like repeatedly pinching someone to teach them how to be sad (which might work in a “pinch”—sorry!—if you were applying to be a professional mourner). “Fun” is, I feel, completely subjective (some of the church youth seemed to really enjoy throwing balls at me. Go figure.)

 

Just in case I’m missing out, though, I’m planning to hire my own personal “fun coach." My ideal teacher is 11 months old, spends large chunks of the day chuckling manically over absolutely nothing, and delights in smearing mashed potato in their hair. This happy kid would inspire by example, and would never expect a 67-year-old woman to join in the jolly potato hair massage. No, my fun coach would totally support me doing what I already DO for fun--writing essays, mindlessly surfing the internet, and eating the elaborate, highly caloric desserts I bake, ostensibly for the other people in the house, but really for me. 

 

Best of all, I could probably get away with paying my coach in Peppa Pig stickers.

 

Meanwhile, I’ll get tons of enjoyment watching those trendy “fun coaching” companies gradually fade away, as we all return to our natural feelings of impatience, anger and fear. Back to normal!

Fun Coach Patrick

WEIRDEST JOBS YOU WON'T BELIEVE ARE REAL--BUT THEY ARE!

Teaching dogs to surf: actual job
(picture by chandlervid85 on Freepik)

I’ll start with a confession: I'm the person for whom the clickbait title writer writes; the stranger the headline, the more compelled I am to check it out. Combine that with my ongoing search for blog material, and you get posts like today’s gem. Weirdest jobs I won’t believe are real? Yes, please!! As I perused the list, I kept asking myself—how much money would it take for me to agree to DO these jobs? Does Elise have her price? Read on…

 

HAIR BOILER: Curly wigs are made by…boiling the hair! Who knew? Since I have experience trying, as a sixth grader, to straighten my naturally curly locks with the clothes iron, I’d be game to boil hair (as long as it’s not on my head). I do recall the stench of my frizzled mane, though, and wonder how boiled hair smells. For $11/hour, I think I’ll pass.

 

TRAIN PUSHER: This job requires someone willing and able to push as many people as possible onto a crowded train before the doors close. I may not have the upper-body strength for this, plus I’m not ready to move to Japan (where most of the “oshiya”-- train pushers--push.) Earning potential listed as “variable” (I guess you’d get a bonus if no pushee loses a limb). Arigatō, but no.

PET FOOD TASTER: This appetizing pursuit requires actually sampling the food Mittens' owner will be buying. The way I see it, it can’t taste worse than my Nana’s cooking (she of the charred-beyond-recognition roast “meat”). For the right price, I’d probably chow down on some puppy chow. Alas, the salary is quoted as only $45K—not enough moolah, Purina!

 

BICYCLE FISHER: It’s a real thing in the Netherlands, where a number of the 800,000 Dutch bikes end up in one of Amsterdam’s 165 canals. Filling a definite need, and a nice opportunity to get some fresh air and exercise. However, I neither ride a bike nor swim. Too bad, as this one also has “variable” pay (perhaps based on the value of the cycle: you’d get more retrieving a new Audi Sport Racer, say, than a rusted, dented old Schwinn). 

 

SNAKE MILKER: No, reptiles don’t produce milk (if they did, I’m sure the upscale cafes would be pouring it into their specialty Cobra Lattes). Snake milkers collect snake venom, so that antidotes can be developed. Salary here up to $5K/month, which sounds decent until you factor in the potential fatality. Alas, not for me!

 

FORTUNE COOKIE WRITER: Ah!!! Now we’re in business!! I would LOVE this job!!! I have endless ideas for the fortunes already—though it pays an average of $60K annually, I honestly would do this one for free. “You will make it BIG in the movies. Better cut back on buttered popcorn.”  “Move in the direction of your dreams. Turn off TV and go to bed.” 

 

My careers go in 20 year cycles (20 as actor, 20 as church worker, etc), so I predict a “weird” 2042-2062 for me! 

Photo by RDNE Stock Project on Pexels

 

 

 

My Love Language

 

Photo by rovenimages on Pexels

Time was, when we talked about “loving," we had a fairly agreed-upon concept in mind. Saint Paul put it thusly to the good people of Corinth, and his wise words have since been repeated in 10 jillion wedding ceremonies, draining them of all meaning:

"Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable; it keeps no record of wrongs; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends."   (1 Corinthians 13 v. 4-8)

I've amended this ever so slightly: 

"Love is patient, as long as loved one gets to the damn point sometime in the next century. Love is kind (of nice), Love is not  envious/boastful/arrogant/rude, unless there are GOOD REASONS to be. Love does not insist on its own way, but if Love's way is correct, of course it does insist. Love is understandably irritable if Love is awakened in the middle of the night by loved one's unbearable snoring (and Love does keep records). Love rejoices in the truth, so long as the truth is that Love is beautiful, bright, funny and generally far superior to all other spouses. Love believes, hopes and endures to a certain extent; Love is not an idiot. Love never ends, except when it does."

There, fixed it for you, Paul!

Well, now, a mere 2000 years later, along comes Dr. Gary Chapman and his bestselling tome, The Five Love Languages™--apparently there is a mere handful of (patented) ways people show their devotion to one another:

 

Hmmm...Acts of Service? My honey bun can show me his love, not by buying me a diamond bracelet, but by lugging the trash can (filled with his trash) to the curb? He can spend his idea of Quality Time with me (watching football) and that counts as affection? As for Words of Affirmation, what woman wouldn't be swept off her feet by a man telling her she does an excellent load of (his) laundry? Then there's Physical Touch: all well and good, but high fives and fist bumps should not count as adequate PDAs. Finally, "Receiving" Gifts. I'm a tad confused--isn't giving gifts the truer sign of love? I mean, when the four year old birthday child grabs the toy that mommy drove all over creation to find, does the grunt accompanying said grab mean "I'm so eternally grateful, mother dear, and I love you"? Convince me!

I believe that Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing, but much of the splendor comes from its myriad expressions. Let's not be so limiting! As for me, I finally found the meme that explained my personal love language better than I ever could...

My love language is cooking elaborate meals screaming at everyone to get out of the kitchen then loudly announcing the food was NOT MY BEST and waiting for compliments.

Hugs and kisses!

 

Custom-ized

Christmas 1989--notice the new baby AND the decorated tree!

At a baby shower last weekend, we played some games (as is the custom). One involved a list of baby-related traditions around the world (we had to guess which country had which custom). By then, I’d stopped competing for a prize, since I’d done abysmally at guessing the mom-to-be’s belly size, and remembering what was in a briefly unveiled pile of infant care items. But I did enjoy learning some interesting stuff (babies in India have their heads shaved! German babies’ names must be approved by the government! Greek newborns should not see themselves in a mirror!) Some of these can be traced to superstitions or religious practices, others are thought to have health benefits (Icelandic babies nap outdoors. Iceland. Let that sink in).

Now, I am aware that we Americans also have some pretty odd customs--Groundhog Day! Presidential turkey pardons! Not using the metric system! So, I do not feel globally superior in any way. Indeed, I’d love it if we espoused many customs from other lands—such as the Nordic Jólabókaflóðið (Christmas book flood), when gifts of books are exchanged, and then folks snuggle up and read all night—presumably indoors, but you never know (see Iceland, above). And it must be swell to be my age in Korea, where elders are highly respected, always deferred to, and served food first at the table. Guessing “OK Boomer” is NOT an Asian thing. 

Many a holiday season over the years I have spent fighting off one illness or another, from strep throat to pneumonia to bronchitis, and I firmly believe all my decorating, shopping, card writing and baking were directly to blame…not to mention my stubborn insistence on pushing through my discomfort, so as not to ruin The Christmas Magic. I’m convinced my kids always truly appreciated the festive Yuletide meal prepared by their coughing, feverish mom! 

Well, the lovely Irish offer us stressed-out women our own special annual day to chill—Nollaig na mBan. Observed in the west of Ireland on January 6^th, “Women’s Little Christmas” is time for the hard-working ladies to put a figurative “gone fishin” sign on the front door, and head on down to the local pub for a pint or two. Of course, before they are allowed this brief respite, they have to take down and put away ALL the Christmas decorations in the house; waiting until January 7^th is bad luck. It’s said that “even God rested on the seventh day, Irish women didn't stop until the twelfth!” Haha! We work harder than you, God! 

Next year, I’m definitely making some big changes. Every holiday going forward, it will be “customary” for me to lie in bed for hours reading, while my respectful family serves me tasty snacks. Later, I will make my Happy Hour appearance at the Oreland Inn, where my female friends and I will clink glasses, see our shadows, and talk about all the turkeys we used to date. 

And I’ll stop looking in mirrors. Best custom ever.

Three Irish gals in Dublin!

Pop Goes the Tart

Photo by Isabella Fischer on Unsplash

“Dreams really do come true!”

 -sign held by mascot, Pop Tarts Bowl 2023

 I witnessed some of last week’s televised college football match between Kansas State and North Carolina State, but not because I gave a flip about the teams or outcome of the game. No, it was because I’d heard it was the Pop Tarts Bowl, named after its sugary sponsor (it was formerly the Blockbuster Bowl), and I just had to see how the whole affair would be handled. I was riveted by the person romping around dressed as a smiling, square breakfast treat. Fun mascot, right? But rumor had it that the ending would involve the winning team actually chowing down on a gigantic Pop Tart. Say it ain’t so, General Mills! Consuming Mr. or Ms. Strawberry seemed beyond the pale, almost cannibalistic.   

The powers-that-be were prepared for this understandable hesitation. So, to soothe us, the sponsor’s clever advertising team spun it this way: yes, Pop Tarts are made to be eaten, but they (the tarts) actually ENJOY the process of being chewed up!! No need to cry for Strawberry—they may be interacting adorably with the football fans now—but they will soon go happily to their delicious fate!   

And indeed, in the spectacle’s bizarre finale, the mascot, still grinning and waving, was lowered into a giant toaster, emerging flattened and ready to be consumed. The Kansas State Wildcats and families were seen chomping merrily away on pieces of a huge actual Pop Tart. This transformation felt obscenely like a ritual sacrifice, more grotesque and stomach-turning than lighthearted fun. And so to bed, impressionable kiddies! Happy Pop Tart dreams/nightmares!   

Let’s unpack this. On one level, a live Pop Tart was just a really stupid idea. On another, it was the pinnacle--some might even say the nadir--of ludicrous sports mascots (and here I thought the Phillie Phanatic was weird). But, hey! On further thought, maybe it was designed to be subversive, a scathing satire of the over-commercialization of…well, everything.  

Nah, something tells me that these folks are totally serious.  

Time was, bowls were named Rose, Orange and Super, and that was that. If a company invested heavily in a stadium or performance arena, said locale wasn’t automatically renamed something unbearably clunky. But nowadays, the aforementioned Phanatic cavorts for the baseball fans in “Citizens Bank Park.” The New Orleans Pelicans play basketball in “Smoothie King Arena” (named for a Korean soft serve ice cream franchise). And Elton John’s Memphis farewell concert really was held in the “FedEx Forum.”   

Where do we go from here?   I suggest we take a big step back. Let’s pause in our re-labeling frenzy. Perhaps our corporations would look more attractive and community-minded if they let their venues “speak” for themselves. Personally, I’d much rather go to a sporting event in, say, Madison Square Garden than at "Diet Pepsi Stadium." Don’t worry, sponsors! I’ll still know you "own" the place!   

For now, though, tasty toaster pastries are just ruined for me.