ADDICTED TO CUTE

I've just received some rather disturbing news.  

It appears that my dear, sweet mother is officially "addicted to cute".  

To be more clear: my mother is a "Cute-dict."  

There.  I said it. And believe me, it's as hard to say as it is to spell.

I'm not sure when it started, but at some point my Mother became obsessed with the tiny, the fuzzy, the puffy and the sweet.  

Cute chickens, adorable bears, singing puppies, tiny donuts, miniature refrigerators that hold tiny cartons of tiny eggs.  To say nothing of the hundreds of cute, chubby, little YouTube kids saying the books of the Bible while eating Popsicles. 

Cute has stolen her waking hours and by extension, many of mine.

I know she's going through a bad patch when her emails to me end with graphics of pink kittens in blue tuxedos jumping on yellow marshmallows and waving signs that say, "Let's All Be Cute!"  and "For Cute's Sake."

I'm a grown man, for cryin' out loud.  What am I supposed to do with with this kind of animal?  How am I supposed to respond to this sort of sign?

There's no telling where this will all lead: cute tomato pillows, cute bobble head angels in the back window of the car, sweaters with cute roosters on them saying, "cute-a-doodle-cute".

I'm terrified.

What's worse, I know she's not alone.  It's an epidemic out there.  Many of you are in the same position as my Mother.  Some even worse.

You make cookies in the shape of chubby owls.  Your screen saver is Winnie The Pooh driving a cupcake car.  You have ring tones with Chipmunks singing Christmas songs.  You give your husbands ties covered with...well...you know.  

It's not right. 

"He that is without sin, let him cast the first stone."

This has to stop.  We can't let this go on.  

Only you can help.  Only you can stop this epidemic that is devastating the country.  

How?  

Start by being patient.  The Cute-dict rarely knows she has a problem.  They will deny it by saying things like:

"A LOT of people have teddy bear wall paper."

And...

"What's weird about baby salt and pepper shakers?"

Don't believe them.  They are trying to trip you up.  A lot of people DON'T have that kind of wall paper and there is PLENTY wrong with baby condiments.

Remember that this condition starts slow and grows over many years.  So to cure it, be patent, start slow.  

Start by keeping this and anything like it away from people like my mother:

It only leads to this...

 And this...

And NO one needs THAT.  Whenever possible, replace this...

With this...

And when in doubt, end all emails with pictures of construction sites and stacks of dirty dishes.

Beyond this, have the Cute-dict watch weekly, old war movies, take up karate and sleep on white sheets - no Mickey Mouse sheets...or backpacks.

For the good of this country, for the sake of the world, for my Mother...please...stop with the cute already.

As together we stand and sing.

BP

PREACHER POSITIVE

After preaching what I considered the perfect sermon, one of the congregants came up to me with a big smile and shook my hand and said, "Well, if nothing else, you sure looked like you were enjoying yourself up there!" 

I wasn't exactly sure what he meant by that, but I assumed it wasn't good.

Then later it dawned on me.  I  had been a victim of the back-handed-left-handed compliment.  Or BHLHC.

The BHLHC is actually a put-down disguised as a compliment.  I get 'em all the time from people.

"I saw one of your old sermons the other day on YouTube, Preacher.  It was just great!  Boy, it's been a while, hasn't it?!" 

"Thank you for your sermon this morning, Preacher. I really needed the sleep."


But Preachers aren't the only ones to suffer the BHLHC.


Ever shown someone your driver's license photo?  They look at it and say, "That's YOU?!  No way!!!"

Or worse:

"This picture doesn't look anything like you.  It's SOOO good!"

Or how about:

Them: "You look GREAT for 50."

You: "Thanks.  I'm 35."

While eating a meal you cooked for your wife she says, "No, it's good.  Really!  Plus that, I'm not that hungry."

How about: 

"Oh, your brother is so HANDSOME!  I'd never guess you two were related."

After playing somebody an original tune you wrote on your kazoo they think for a moment and then say, "That was so inspiring.  I love  watching people really try."

Or worse: "Talent isn't everything.  You've got friends."

Or worse: "You know who's a REALLY good kazoo player..." 

Or worse: "You looked like you were really enjoying yourself up there!" 

Or how about this.  After you work hard for a year, losing a bunch of weight, all you ever hear from people for the next year is, "Wow!  You don't look like the same person!  You were SOOO disgusting before!  No, really.  Jabba the Hut had nothin' on you.  You were HUGE!"

I've always liked this one:

"You are a great example of what NOT to do in life."

And...

THEM: "Your new girlfriend is SO much sweeter than you're old girlfriend."

YOU: "This IS my old girlfriend."

How about:

"Of course I like you.  Looks and intelligence just aren't that important to me."

Or these great ones:

"You're gonna love this guy, he's like a cute Frankenstein."

"But Honey, I LIKE you fat."

"I don't care what other people say, you...are...SMART."

"You're personality makes you more handsome."

"You have such a pretty face, the rest doesn't matter."

"You are the most prolific, mediocre writer I know."

My own mother looked at me when I was first born and said, "Oh, look!  What a pretty tan my baby has!"

I had yellow jaundice.

The Asian-American comedian Joy Koy has a great one: "Oh you're Asian!  I LOVE Orange Chicken!"

The list is never-ending.  Sometimes when people offer up these gems, it's back-handed, and meant to hurt.  But many times I think people are really trying to give a compliment and just mess it up.

I'm good  either way. That's because I know I can't control what comes out of anyone's else's mouth, and more importantly I am naturally what's called: Preacher Positive.  

Preacher Positive makes me unstoppable.  With it, I can take any compliment (good or bad, back-handed or otherwise) and instantly turn it to my advantage.  Suddenly I realize:

I DO look better than my driver's license picture.  That's GOOD news.

I WAS disgustingly fat.  Now I'm not.  GOOD!

My wife IS rarely hungry.  Lucky me.

I DO look great for 91.  Hooray!

I AM smarter and more talented and more handsome than people think I am.  Take THAT!

I WAS having a good time up there preaching a prolific, mediocre sermon. Nanny, nanny, poo, poo.

Whenever I employ Preacher Positivity I always win.  It's devastating.  It keeps me from going off the nasty, dark paths of negativity that can lead to nowhere.  Instead, I become unstoppable.  

Suddenly whatever compliment was hidden in the back-handed one I am able to extract and use for good.  And in the end that's always more important than trying to control what comes out of anybody's mouth.

Preacher Positivity...saves you every time.  

Try it.

As together we stand and sing.

BP

POEM POWER (#5)

Uncomfortable and dirty
A place where eyes go shut
Forgive this naughty wordy
There's a sliver in my butt

To some this sounds appealing
To others it's bad news
To me it's just the feeling
Of sitting on church pews.

Fabulous "pew-pic" by aesaint

As together we stand and sing.


BP

HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR EGGS?

A few years ago, I saw a sign in the window of a diner that read, "Today's Special: Grilled Shrimp with rice and veggies.  All Day."  It was around lunch time so I decided to go in and have a quick bite.

Inside it was loud and busy - just the way I like it.  When I sat down at the counter I was immediately met by a non-smiling, middle aged waiter who was obviously in a hurry.  His shirt sleeves were tightly rolled up his arm, and his stained, sweaty shirt and apron were proof of a previously hard fought breakfast rush.  He spoke in a thick Greek accent. 

"You want drink?" he asked.

"Sure," I said.  "Just a glass of water, please."

"Why you no want Coke?"  he said.

"Oh I don't know.  Water's fine for now."  I said.

"You should have Coke." he said.

"Yeah, well, I really just want the water for right now.  Thanks." I said.

"This is America, have Coke!  Why not?" he said.  

"Yeah, well..." I stuttered.

"What?  You no like Coke?" he asked.

"Sure," I said, "I like Coke.  I just want water for now."

"You should have Coke,"  he said, "Is delicious.  Is American way!"

"Water is fine for now." I said.

"Have both." he said, "This America!  A-me-ri-ca!"

"I don't want both!"  I said.

"Have both!" he said.  "You should have both.  Both.  Yes?  Have both.  Have.  You.  Both.  Now."

"OK, " I said.  "I'll have both!"  What else could I do?  It WAS America after all. 

He didn't smile but nodded briskly and then slapped a menu on the counter in front of me.  

"You read.  I come back."  he said.  

Then he wiped my part of the counter semi-clean of toast remnants with a smelly, dirty, wet rag, which left me feeling like I was eating on a mildewed, slightly sticky Slip-N-Slide.

The diner was just the kind I like: loud, busy, confusing.  There's something about people being fed that I find very comforting.  I busied myself making up stories in my head about all the people in the diner, when suddenly the Waiter showed up again and proudly slapped a cup of steaming hot coffee and an orange juice down in front of me.

"Oops," I said smiling much too broadly while motioning at the coffee and juice.  "Oopsy," I said again. 

"What?  What for?"  he said.  "Is coffee."

"Um, yes, I see that it's coffee and juice," I said, "But I think I was the one wanting the water and a Diet Coke?  Yes?  Yes?"  

I noticed I was slowly starting to speak in a slight Greek accent.

"You want water and Coke?"  he said.

"Yes."  I said.

"Sure, sure. OK, I bring, I bring.  Is very bizee now, yes?"  he said and pulled out his pencil and pad. "Very, very bizee."

"No, I understand, I just...if I could just get the water and Coke that'd be great." I said.

He stood staring at me for a minute then said, "So what you want?"

I suddenly went blank trying to remember what it was exactly I had come in for in the first place.  Then I said, "I think I'm just gonna get the special."

"Frong day weendoh?" he asked. 

"Excuse me?"  I said.

"Frong day weendooh?"  he said.

"Window?"  I said.

"Yes, " he said "Frong day special in day weendoh?"

"Oh!  Yeah!  Yes, the shrimp thing." I said.

"OK, sure," he said.  "How do you like your eggs?"

"Excuse me?"  I asked.  I was sure I had somehow misheard the question.

"How do you like your eggs?" he said again slower and much louder like I had suddenly turned 90 years old.

I wasn't sure how this question played into my shrimp order, but I could tell he was in a hurry so I assumed it must be some sort of secret diner code between how I like my eggs cooked and how they would prepare the shrimp.  So I said, "Um, scrambled?  I guess?"

He nodded once, tucked the pad and pencil in his apron, grabbed the menu and walked away, leaving the coffee and juice, as he yelled something in Greek to the man in the kitchen.

At that point I really wasn't sure what had just happened.  So I got up and went outside to look at the sign I had seen when I first came in.  Maybe I had misread it.  Maybe it was too late or too early for THAT particular special.  But when I read the sign again, there it was: "Today's Special: Grilled Shrimp with rice and veggie.  All Day."  Satisfied that I hadn't as yet gone gone completely crazy, I went back inside and sat down once more at my seat at the counter.  

Just as I settled in, the Waiter returned with a plate in his hand and said, "Is hot plate.  Very hot.  Watch!" and then carefully set down a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs in front of me.  Just eggs.  Nothing else.  Then he said, "And..." and then placed a huge milk shake in front of me as well.

For the first time he smiled a huge toothy grin at me and said, "Is goot?  Yes?  Yes?"

"Um..." I stammered.  "Sure.  I guess. Yeah.  Everything looks...good."

"You eat."  he said.

"What?"  I said.

"Eat.  You eat." he said.

"I'm going to eat, yes."  I said.

" No, now!  You eat now!  Is goot! Yes?"  he said.

"Oh!" I said, "Right!  Sure." 

And then I picked up a fork and took a bite of what may have been the best scrambled eggs I have ever eaten.  They were NOT shrimp.  But they were some REALLY great eggs.  And by the way, if you haven't  had scrambled eggs and a milk shake since you were 9 years old, you should give this taste treat a whirl.  It's fantastic.

Then I looked at him and smiled.  Then he smiled at me, poured me some more unwanted coffee and walked away. 

I still don't know what happened that day.  I don't know if I had breakfast or lunch or accidentally invented something new.  What I do know is that it wasn't what I was expecting at all.  

But sometimes...that's OK.

As together we stand and sing.

BP

THE MULTITASKING MYTH

This just in:

MULTITASKING DOES NOT EXIST!

Whew!  What great news!  I feel better already.  Don't you? 

Now, you may go about the remainder of your day free from the overwhelming dread of THINKING that you HAVE to talk on your cell phone, drive your SUV, bake a cake, read the latest biography of Gumby, pray for ball games, contemplate soup, catch a Gilligan's Island marathon, and design a swim suit ALL AT THE SAME TIME. 

Why?  Because...

MULTITASKING DOES NOT EXIST!

You're FREE!

I especially would like the lady who nearly rear-ended me this morning to know this exciting bit of news. 

Apparently she thought she COULD do all of the above at the same time.   She even thought she was GOOD at it.  Imagine her surprise when, after she screeched to a smoky stop, 2 inches behind my STOPPED car, when I suggested she was NOT good at it AT ALL; and that she could make BOTH of our lives better if she would simply cut the number of her "multitasks" down to just the DRIVING for the remainder of her trip? 

She claimed I was nuts.  She said she had everything under control, because she had been Multitasking.  What a relief.  She might as well have said that she had been collecting rainbows. Because like collecting rainbows...

MULTITASKING DOES NOT EXIST!

What DOES exist is bad, unfocused, dangerous, distracted driving.  What DOES exist is crappy, pointless writing, directionless, frustrating meetings, and uncompleted, never-ending projects.  

Thanks, Multitasking! 

Why be like this unfortunate, soon to be sued woman?  Why not grab onto the truth instead?  

Why not know that instead of pretending to Multitask, you can actually FOCUS on ONE task at a time, BE in the moment, and really HEAR when someone is talking to you, instead of texting someone ELSE and miss the whole conversation?  

Why not realize that you can go camping under the stars and SEE stars instead of updating your calendar on a sleeping bag?

Did you know that if you DON'T multitask you can accurately decipher the look on your poor dog's face and see that he is saying, "I haven't been let out yet today and am about to do a 'No No' on the carpet if you don't start paying attention to me," instead of, "Hellooo, Handsome!"

Amazingly, once you begin to accept the death of Multitasking you will soon find that you can STILL text, update your calendar, check in with more than one friend and do anything else you need to do because when you DON'T Multitask, each task is instantly given the proper amount of attention it needs to get done.  

Amazing.

When you don't play into the myth of Multitasking,  you can bring whatever it is you are working on to this thing called "completion", instead of having it linger on for years.  You can actually attain goals.  You can fix problems.  You can finish projects. 

"But I'm good at Multitasking," you say.

No.  You are not.

What you ARE is a poor, deluded soul, who THINKS you're getting many things done at once. This is like saying you are "good" at shopping for electric pretzels in the 4th dimension of the planet Krog.   

You are NOT.  Why?  Because electric pretzels and the planet Krog do not exist.

This will be hard for some of you to accept.  It is time you accept it.

Look at me, writing this BlermonTM.  To the untrained eye, it looks as though I type, drink coffee, and ride a pony all at the same time.

This is incorrect.  

In reality, I am only typing WHILE I'm typing. Nothing else is happening.  When I drink coffee, I STOP typing and drink coffee.  If I try to Multitask, I mess up the typing, or spill the coffee which then adds two more tasks to my day; namely: clean up the coffee and RE-type.

And I am not really RIDING the pony, I am simply ON it.  It is a miracle I haven't been thrown off yet.  As a matter of fact, I just looked up and have no idea where I am now.

Note to self: lose pony, get chair.  But not at the same time.  Why?  Because...

Well, you know. 

Sigh.

Now...doesn't that feel better?  

As together we stand and sing.

BP

GONE GIDGET GONE

Gidget left me the other day.

I don't mean for good.  I mean for the next couple of weeks.  


She's gone to the Preacher's Wife Summer Seminar in Ocheebobee, Oklahoma.  It's something she does every year.  I'm glad she gets to go.  It ain't easy being a PW.  Especially mine.

I know she'll have a great time there, and will no doubt come back refreshed and ready to once again shake hands at the back of the auditorium, do some sick and afflicted visits and experiment with some new Jell-o salad recipes.  

But I want you all to remember Gidget in your prayers while she's gone.  It can be kinda tough on her being away from me for such a long time.  I'm sure you all understand.  

You see, Gidget is addicted to me.  She can't get enough of me.  She can't live without me.  Can you blame her? 

I don't know who she's gonna fuss over while she's gone; laugh at, who she'll pick on, who's hair she'll re-arrange, who she'll make go for an early morning run, or who's outfit she'll re-work just as they're going out the door.  

It's a well know fact that Gidget can't start her day without telling somebody to sign some papers, take things to the Post Office and to trim certain wild hairs out of certain unreachable places. Well, good luck with that.

The Pop Tart and Cheerios breakfast I make her every morning will undoubtedly be replaced with fancy restaurant Eggs Benedict, and big city Steaks instead of grilled weenies.  Poor Gidget.

And I doubt there will be any slightly poofy stomachs handy for her to examine, sniff at derisively, and then lecture at for 20 minutes on the evils of Twinkies and the joys of sit ups.

And I don't know who's gonna get up and turn on the fan for her when she gets hot in the middle of the night, then turn OFF the fan when she gets cold 10 minutes later, then turn it back on 5 minutes after that.  I don't care how fancy the hotel is, they just don't have people to do that.  

And I'd love to hear her plan for when she wakes up from a bad dream all grumpy and scared.  I have yet to see a big, long hotel pillow hold her close and rub her head and then get her some juice with a straw.  

I don't know who she thinks she's gonna make my favorite chicken and noodles dish for.  She has no pans.

Of course, I'll do what I can to help.  While she's gone I'll be sure to not exercise, lose my keys 4 times a day, forget to eat, take off my glasses and stick 'em where I've never put them before, wear sweat pants and a dress shirt to church, stay up too late, get up too early, neglect shaving, partially bathe, leave Monopoly game parts all over the house, listen to Jazz too loud for too long, and take no notice of the day of the week.

When she comes home, she'll know she was missed.  It's the least I can do.

So pray for Gidget.  Poor thing.

And while you're at it, say a word or two for me too.

As together we stand and sing. 


BP

THOUGHT OF THE DAY #9

Here's a thought...

Hold on.  Nope.  Sorry.

I think that was gas.

My bad. Coulda sworn that was a thought.

Retitling now...

BURP OF THE DAY #1

That's better.   Well, it's not BETTER, but it IS more accurate.

As together we stand and sing.

BP