Don’t spit out your energy drink, but I’m turning over a new leaf. At least for the next 20 minutes.
Yeah, even me – I’m sick of being sick of everything – complaining. Sort of like when Tony Montana realized he’d snorted just a tiny bit too much cocaine and started giving spot-tracheotomies with his AK-47, it occurred to me that I was about two more sarcastic, sad-sack comments away from being called a crybaby . . or at least self-imploding in negativity lava.
Again, this remorse will probably pass soon, so I thought I should take action quickly by trying a little experiment. How about 10 positive nuggets of lifey, cuddly joy you didn’t know about me? Why the hell not? And who cares if Fred Rogers is rolling over in his grave?
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February 11, 2010 Comments Off
a memorial for my beloved grandmother, Phyllis Timpanaro (1918-2010)
Remembering my grandmother is simply the story of a spoiled grandson. I got everything I wanted from this amazing woman, even when it was too much . . .
. . . like the summer after 7th grade. In July of 1982, I showed up in Lyndhurst, NJ for a fun two-week visit; but it ended up being sort of a Reverse Fat Camp. I put on about 15 pounds and added probably 2-3 inches to my waistline. How did this happen, you ask? Easy: about 5 meals per day, sprinkled in with Mazur’s Jelly Donuts, bowling alley snacks, and daily visits to Bruno’s Pizza just down the street. Oh, and I was a growing boy.
Sure, I waddled into the 8th grade that year to a few snickers and guffaws. But it was a small price to pay. I was loved and well-fed, and that was that.
Even from when I was a small boy, I have the fondest memories of grandma’s house. I loved how she cut my PB & J into perfect triangles. I loved eating at the shiny small table in the kitchen, or at the giant octagon table with the rolling-wheeled chairs. Always cooking, always serving, always fattening us up; this is what we expect out of our grandmothers, and Phyllis delivered it like no one else.
It is impossible for me to recall grandma’s life without recalling also the physical layout of the house she kept. I could navigate every square foot of 375 Sanford Ave. blindfolded. It was almost like a person I knew; it lived and it breathed. It was neat and orderly, yet always the hub of some fun activity. It smelled like oregano, soppressata, amazing bread, and the best damn gravy (that’s Italian tomato sauce for you non-paisanos) you could possibly imagine. Its rooms and memories will always be in my mind; especially – for some reason – the basement.
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“Everyone has a little secret he keeps;
I light the fires while the city sleeps”
- MC 900 ft. Jesus, “The City Sleeps”
I read an article Monday on Kyle Lacy’s blog that had me all charged up, thinking maybe I could change the world with my next blog post. You know. Really set the world on fire. This would be a good thing.
Then I received my own personal bitch-slap by Dr. Alejandro Junger, who, in his groundbreaking book Clean, writes about the toxicity of complaint. It seems that EVERYONE is complaining. The cumulative effect is a scourge of quantum toxins, which is drowning our bodies and spirits like the Indonesian tsunami. This would be a bad thing.
What does this have to do with little old me? In the recently overhauled About section of my website, I describe myself as a Friction Writer – basically a complainer who sparks healthy discourse. So . . . .
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This past Monday, I was nominated – along with three others in my local business community – for the 2009 Mentor of the Year Award.
After dispatching the Looney Police and slamming my blinds shut, I contacted the Lake Houston Chamber of Commerce to make sure there wasn’t another “Jeff Timpanaro” or “Oberata Consulting” listed in the 2009 business directory. Nope. This had to be me.
With this reality closing in on me like Hillary running for office again, I was forced to reflect on 2009. What did I do?
2009 saw both success and the Fail Whale for Oberata. From January through April, I had done seminars, established an online identity through social media, made inroads in the blog-o-sphere by writing lots of articles, and increased sales more than 20% from the previous year. This semi-equates to “helping lots of folks.”
Yet, in the process of doing all the work, I’d ground myself to a halt. In August, I was forced to take a sabbatical (which continues today) for health reasons, exhaustion, and curiosity about other pursuits.
Five months later, an award nomination lands <thud> in my Inbox. Congrats Jeff!
a copy of a letter I just sent to a Quizno’s franchise in Kingwood, TX, and to its franchisor
Dear Quiznos,
What an unholy failure it was to get an order at your restaurant on Monday evening (1/25/10).
At about 6:15 p.m., my 6 year old son and I pulled up into the parking spot right in front of your store. I looked to my right and I saw the two white pillars with the white bench-like structure. You know the one. Upon it were perched two unkempt looking teenage girls smoking cigarettes. Feet up.
“Not unusual,” I think. “This is Kingwood; it’s full of teens.”
These two don’t even look at me and my son as we approach the door to go in. We enter a completely empty store and walk back to the order counter. We wait. 60 seconds. Nothing. Then I hear the front door of the store open. One of the smoking girls comes in, removes her jacket, and proceeds to put on her latex gloves (SKIPPING WHAT IMPORTANT STEP, CLASS?) Ah yes. The hand-washing! I understand that the gloves do an adequate job protecting from germs, but this is just disgusting, not to mention against the freaking health code.
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