Category - Random

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You’ll like this cuz it’s like that
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No more HATE
3
Wipe it Clean
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Wisdom of the day
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Crazy Goats on Cliffs – It’s just what they do
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Annoying Ads
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Reactions to Short Skirt Long Jacket
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Bumpkins r us
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I Didn’t Love My Wife When We Got Married | Pop Chassid
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Missed Connection

You’ll like this cuz it’s like that

I “liked” the Lowell George page on Facebook a little while ago.

I was then immediately bombarded with suggestions about other musical artists’ pages I might like to “like”… and, frankly, Facebook’s suggestion that I might appreciate the “The Band” page is rather annoying (almost as annoying as the music of The Band itself).

I adore Fiona Apple. However… in no universe and under no sun does that mean I’d also be enamored of Regina Spektor or Tori Amos. As a matter of fact, my top five favorite female vocalists have NOTHING in common — neither genre, style, quality, pitch, phrasing, nor vocal range.

I’ve been obsessing on Law & Order: Criminal Intent for well over a decade. But, unlike the folks out there who can’t seem to differentiate between well-penned procedurals with complex leads and formulaic drivel with cardboard characters, I do not have the slightest regard for Criminal Minds. Nor would I, even if it were the only thing on.

I won’t eat at a chain restaurant if given a choice… but don’t think that means I idolize Alice Waters or am impressed by trendy foodie establishments and their respective overpriced wine selections.

I rabidly support women’s reproductive rights and gurrrl power. It does not necessarily follow that I wish to ban guns or outlaw nuclear power. Or even that I’m offended by wolf whistles from construction workers.

Don’t box me in.

And while I’m at it, do not offer me poor man’s substitutes, figuring I won’t know the difference.

If I want butter, margarine just won’t do. And ground turkey will never ever cut the mustard (or the mayo, pickle, lettuce, and tomato).

The algorithms of retailers, lobbyists, and other commercial concerns (including Facebook) don’t work on me… and I find the expectation that they would highly insulting.

Don’t box me in.

I don’t vote straight ticket and my taste is my own.

And just because, in the limited imagination of many, A = B, it actually doesn’t… so please don’t ever assume you know what I like or would like/think/say/do about/in any situation or with regard to anything.

Unless you actually, ya know, KNOW.

And chances are, you don’t.

No more HATE

I’ve decided I no longer wish to use the word “hate.” It’s too strong of a negative sentiment, and the fact is I don’t really hate anyone (I don’t even truly hate the Koch Brothers, and they’re as evil as evil gets). And saying I hate a thing, like garlic for example, is just ridiculous. I dislike the effect that garlic has on my gastrointestinal tract, but I don’t HATE it. Please. So from now on, if you see me using that particular word, feel free to call me on it.

Wipe it Clean

“unable to create the temporary folder – Error 183 cannot create a file when that file already exists”

“An error occurred in the database”

“Initialization error”

“can not create temp folder archive”

This all started with a “keyboard error”… which led to a reboot… which led to an automatic Windows “repair” that warned me of restoring to a previous point… which led to Firefox, Chrome, Dropbox, and various other programs not opening… which led to me deleting said programs… which led to me attempting to download new versions of these programs, which apparently is a problem because my downloads folder doesn’t exist even though it does. I even tried to reinstall Chrome and Firefox from old downloads, and my computer just laughed its ass off at me.

I have restored ownership permissions to various temp and program folders (including the downloads folder) that apparently no longer belonged to me (*rolls eyes*), yet I still cannot install Firefox or Chrome. There are other problems as well, such as not being able to designate any “favorite” locations (i.e., shortcuts) in Windows Explorer — all of my previous ones are gone and, no, I do NOT want to put that shortcut on my desktop, thank you very much.

ARGH!!!!!

I’m guessing there are some corrupted registry files now, and that’s a bit beyond my comfort zone to address. Should I just wipe the HD and start over??  Yup, that’s what I’m gonna do.

Annoying Ads

I understand the psychology behind annoying TV/radio/internet commercials. And, yes, I might REMEMBER the name of a product/service based on such an advertising strategy. However, under no circumstances will I spend money on something if I am annoyed or in any way offended by its advertising.

Since annoying and offensive commercials have been on the rise over the past few decades, I can only conclude that I am not the typical consumer and that I fall outside of any relevant demographic.

 

I Didn’t Love My Wife When We Got Married | Pop Chassid

 

I Didn’t Love My Wife When We Got Married

 

Interesting article.  I could barely get past the crazy fact that they were engaged in two months and married in three.  But in any case, although I basically agree with the author of this piece, I have a slightly different take on love and marriage.

Yes, love is about giving to the other person… but more than that, romantic love (true love, not the infatuation of the first year for the very young) isn’t so much an emotion as it is a DECISION.  Love is a decision you make every day to put your relationship (in effect, a distinct entity) before your personal ego.  It’s a choice you make to weather the bad times — even when you’re mad (because you’re right and he’s wrong, or some other stupid thing that doesn’t remotely matter)… or you’re not “getting your needs met”… or it’s no longer fun… or you simply one day don’t “feel it.”

Be a grownup and get over yourself.

As a matter of fact, I think the whole “loss of passion” concept is childish, a way to justify laziness, basically a lame excuse.  Passion does not, and cannot, exist in a vacuum.  It has to be nurtured.  Even when you don’t feel it, if you’ve made that commitment, you work your ass off to bring it back.  There’s nothing magical about love.  It’s hard work.

True love means striving to give not 50/50, not 60/40, but 100/100 percent.  When the going gets rough, when “life” gets in the way, when illness or a family crisis or personal disappointments or money problems or any number of other challenges come up, you or your partner might end up temporarily giving less and/or taking more… but overall you both aim for 100 percent so that you’re always covered.

When both people in the relationship make that 100/100 investment, the return is huge.  And it is hugely satisfying.

Missed Connection

This made me laugh and cry and FEEL a whole hell of a lot. I hope the author is actually out there writing short stories, using this fabricated Craigslist post as a marketing tool; otherwise, it sure is a waste of talent.

Missed Connection – m4w.

Since Craiglist postings up and disappear after awhile, the above link will eventually lead to a dead end… so here’s the text:

Posted: 2013-08-06, 6:50PM EDT
Missed Connection – m4w
I saw you on the Manhattan-bound Brooklyn Q train.

I was wearing a blue-striped t-shirt and a pair of maroon pants. You were wearing a vintage red skirt and a smart white blouse. We both wore glasses. I guess we still do.

You got on at DeKalb and sat across from me and we made eye contact, briefly. I fell in love with you a little bit, in that stupid way where you completely make up a fictional version of the person you’re looking at and fall in love with that person. But still I think there was something there.

Several times we looked at each other and then looked away. I tried to think of something to say to you — maybe pretend I didn’t know where I was going and ask you for directions or say something nice about your boot-shaped earrings, or just say, “Hot day.” It all seemed so stupid.

At one point, I caught you staring at me and you immediately averted your eyes. You pulled a book out of your bag and started reading it — a biography of Lyndon Johnson — but I noticed you never once turned a page.

My stop was Union Square, but at Union Square I decided to stay on, rationalizing that I could just as easily transfer to the 7 at 42nd Street, but then I didn’t get off at 42nd Street either. You must have missed your stop as well, because when we got all the way to the end of the line at Ditmars, we both just sat there in the car, waiting.

I cocked my head at you inquisitively. You shrugged and held up your book as if that was the reason.

Still I said nothing.

We took the train all the way back down — down through Astoria, across the East River, weaving through midtown, from Times Square to Herald Square to Union Square, under SoHo and Chinatown, up across the bridge back into Brooklyn, past Barclays and Prospect Park, past Flatbush and Midwood and Sheepshead Bay, all the way to Coney Island. And when we got to Coney Island, I knew I had to say something.

Still I said nothing.

And so we went back up.

Up and down the Q line, over and over. We caught the rush hour crowds and then saw them thin out again. We watched the sun set over Manhattan as we crossed the East River. I gave myself deadlines: I’ll talk to her before Newkirk; I’ll talk to her before Canal. Still I remained silent.

For months we sat on the train saying nothing to each other. We survived on bags of skittles sold to us by kids raising money for their basketball teams. We must have heard a million mariachi bands, had our faces nearly kicked in by a hundred thousand break dancers. I gave money to the beggars until I ran out of singles. When the train went above ground I’d get text messages and voicemails (“Where are you? What happened? Are you okay?”) until my phone ran out of battery.

I’ll talk to her before daybreak; I’ll talk to her before Tuesday. The longer I waited, the harder it got. What could I possibly say to you now, now that we’ve passed this same station for the hundredth time? Maybe if I could go back to the first time the Q switched over to the local R line for the weekend, I could have said, “Well, this is inconvenient,” but I couldn’t very well say it now, could I? I would kick myself for days after every time you sneezed — why hadn’t I said “Bless You”? That tiny gesture could have been enough to pivot us into a conversation, but here in stupid silence still we sat.

There were nights when we were the only two souls in the car, perhaps even on the whole train, and even then I felt self-conscious about bothering you. She’s reading her book, I thought, she doesn’t want to talk to me. Still, there were moments when I felt a connection. Someone would shout something crazy about Jesus and we’d immediately look at each other to register our reactions. A couple of teenagers would exit, holding hands, and we’d both think: Young Love.

For sixty years, we sat in that car, just barely pretending not to notice each other. I got to know you so well, if only peripherally. I memorized the folds of your body, the contours of your face, the patterns of your breath. I saw you cry once after you’d glanced at a neighbor’s newspaper. I wondered if you were crying about something specific, or just the general passage of time, so unnoticeable until suddenly noticeable. I wanted to comfort you, wrap my arms around you, assure you I knew everything would be fine, but it felt too familiar; I stayed glued to my seat.

One day, in the middle of the afternoon, you stood up as the train pulled into Queensboro Plaza. It was difficult for you, this simple task of standing up, you hadn’t done it in sixty years. Holding onto the rails, you managed to get yourself to the door. You hesitated briefly there, perhaps waiting for me to say something, giving me one last chance to stop you, but rather than spit out a lifetime of suppressed almost-conversations I said nothing, and I watched you slip out between the closing sliding doors.

It took me a few more stops before I realized you were really gone. I kept waiting for you to reenter the subway car, sit down next to me, rest your head on my shoulder. Nothing would be said. Nothing would need to be said.

When the train returned to Queensboro Plaza, I craned my neck as we entered the station. Perhaps you were there, on the platform, still waiting. Perhaps I would see you, smiling and bright, your long gray hair waving in the wind from the oncoming train.

But no, you were gone. And I realized most likely I would never see you again. And I thought about how amazing it is that you can know somebody for sixty years and yet still not really know that person at all.

I stayed on the train until it got to Union Square, at which point I got off and transferred to the L.

Posting ID: 3985247459

Posted: 2013-08-06, 6:50PM EDT

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