Some might find me to be self-sabotaging (daft or clueless, at least!) as my first aspiration is to provide support to young families on the road to "happy".
Occasionally, a potential parent/client's request infers a suppressed need to hold onto that cash, or that they may have been coerced into this investigation. In respect/responsibility, my response provides them with a door "out" of their guilt.
(Should I have my head examined? There are a number of "envelopes with little cellophane windows"(AKA bills,) just lying in wait for my attention, on my own counter!)
Par example, my response to a recent inquiry from a parent whose initial email requested information about my services/prices for his 2 year old's birthday party:
Hi (insert name nere,)
Entertaining three month to three year olds is my specialty and delight, although I have equal success and experience with all ages. I believe that whether or not you offer entertainment, you can have a great party.
The inclusion of prof. ent. can allow the attending adults to enjoy the party even more, but is not a mandate.The younger ones truly enjoy the guitar music, and my experience has amply equipped me for the task of holding their attention and entertaining them with the best...In addition, I offer a festive but plain clothed appearance, or a costume, which does not include face obscurity, as this often produces fear in toddlers.
These younger ones usually prefer to have their hands (instead of faces) painted, so that they can observe the process. And balloons are an option, but I caution parents to ensure that they are never near their children's mouths, as they present a choking hazard.
I urge you to not underestimate the value of families getting together, and children playing in non-structured situations. Current societal pressures urge us to always have an itinerary, which is often the antithesis of what little people need.
Friends, community and celebration is truly sufficient.
I would love to participate in the festivities and celebration. It's up to you, but I promise, your party will be rewarding and memorable, regardless of whether or not you hire outside entertainment.
If you decide to go with prof. ent, please email me the max number of children you anticipate, and I will provide a quote.
Best,Cotton
It is doubtful that I would experience as much peace in my own life's storms, were my response to differ. If you need me, I'll be standing in the soup line, but with a smile on my face... ; )
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
ARCHIVING SUMMER...
Doesn't it seem like the more we have, the more we complain? Simple pursuits are ever cluttered with" stuff", rendering us unable to prioritize a number of daily responsibilities. Realistically, with the advent of time saving, the less time we have access to.
-And forget about thinking and deductive reasoning, as both are now (unnecessary)wasters of time. If any element of your life isn't directly linked to producing a bank roll, don't touch it. Pay someone else to take care of your yard, your home, (your declining parents who served as the wind beneath your own wings,) and even your offspring. You need to be scheming your next windfall. Smart people know how to purchase techno-tools or hire services to perform anything that needs doing.
I love spring and fall, as each provides a trademark style of "ahhhh" relief from harsher elements of their immediate neighbors. "AhhhSpring", freshly stippling a monochromatic winter-wrought palette with pinks, greens and yellows, the promise of new beginning; and "AhhhAutumn's" fond farewell to mosquitoes and sweaty lawn mowing, as wisps of orange, brown, red and gold in brief glory of flight, descend through brisk clean air, to unite with earth below.
While I was still working on my ABCs* and exploring such anomalies as butterflies, candle wax and time, I accepted without question permanent, immutable guidelines as handed down by my ancestors. An operating code that preserved innocence and faith in humanity. Somehow, the rules were invisibly tied to our efforts producing desired outcomes.
One such axiom was that you had to wear shoes to play outside all winter long and into spring. Even after pastel petaled spring signs were popping forth from all the formerly lifeless bush and tree limbs in your yard. Even with all the little baby birdies happily chirping the chorus of spring, you still had to wait until your mom told you it was the day your shoes could stay inside while you went out.
Ahhhh, but the wait always produced a sweeter reward, having been yearned for. There, in the center of eternal spring one newly bare foot would come to land upon soft prickles of freshly cut grass as above, a bluer world knowingly smiled down, canvassed by white puffy pillows of heaven. Ahhh.
"Shoes-off" day was an annual rite of passage. Because of an eternally long "shoes-on" season, the moment of bare feet connecting with bare ground was divine. We would soon forget that feeling, spending much of our summer unshod; but it was that first day of privilege, bearing such significance that in memory, will stand as a good thing.
The world of summer offered other unique opportunities. Neighbors would inhabit their lawns for reasons that didn't involve maintenance or aesthetics. Everywhere you looked, there would be humans, not in cars; but walking, waving, playing, laughing, talking. Perhaps due to open windows, screen doors and window box fans, which served as the most modern of "air conditioners". I don't remember complaining about the heat, not like now. Average temps today peak higher than back then. We have become acclimated to a man made environment, with all windows of our homes, cars, stores, efficiently shut, year-round. Sadly, we hardly noticed the eventual demise of drive-ins.
The fan in the window gave "ahhh"relief from otherwise hot, stagnant summer air. Much comfort and sweet dreams were produced by the ongoing drone of that little machine as it converted the object of our oppression into one long continuing lovely summer breeze. Little girls who dreamed of one day becoming famous singers would perch themselves directly in front of the window fan, to belt out the latest chart-topper from Johnny Mathis or Dinah Shore. It was there, within an inch of mightily whirring metal blades that a normally amateurish tone would be magically transformed into a professional style operatic trill.
We were more connected to our environment (before the invention of "freon-ized" AC,) and it was a good thing. The absence of closed home environments forced us to share life with weather, with all sorts of flying bugs, with other people, and with knowledge derived from incoming scents and sounds that we will never know again.
Summer evenings would usually bring people outside of their homes. And when it was the evening of the mosquito truck, you'd have thought the state fair had come to town! Lawn chairs, coolers, picnics, boys and girls on bikes, neighbors in happy alignment, all poised in anticipation of this special treat. At any time a low, distant rumbling engine hum would be detected, growing louder by seconds, until a huge whitish gray cloud-enveloped truck would roll ever so slowly past our house and continue on its way, thrilling spectators with every formerly visible thing becoming now obscured by mosquito fog (AKA, DDT). The more adventurous young bicyclists would take off behind the fog casting truck, to follow along and sustain foggy merriment.
The play of children was left to imaginings, so depending on who you hung out with, you either had fun or you were bored. Living in a neighborhood comprised mostly of NC State Univ. Profs and their families provided us kids with an extra measure of richness for scheming our play themes. There were classes, lessons and activities, but somehow they didn't dominate family schedules. There was no such thing as a shortage of time; and all children used time to wonder and discover without prompts. We made our own investigations, and drew our own conclusions, and it was enough.
We turned empty front porches into castles, bare picnic tables into feasts, swing sets into battleships, and wooden tables into horses. We discovered fools' gold and mica right there in our driveways, we sculpted beauty salons out of sand boxes. We made up theme songs and ate mayonnaise sandwiches. We propped up one side of cardboard boxes with sticks, placing a carrot underneath so that we might later discover a wild beast in captivity. We worked on learning to throw our voices and talked to each other with string-connected tin cans. We invented, we imagined, we pretended in glory.
If onions were available for our cooked-out hamburgers, everyone had to eat onions, or nobody could eat onions, as this prevented any non-onion eaters from experiencing onion breath from the onion eaters. How considerate.
Sadly, the Ahhh-feeling of summer is no longer so significant. Nowadays, the only people to be sighted out upon their lawns are mowing, watering or weed-eating. If a fellow motorist is traveling with windows open, it is pretty safe to assume that their compressor/condenser is out of whack.
All the while, glorious days of Heavenly summer live, in the hearts and memories of the DDT generation...Those of us who learned to continue our games of hopscotch when the occasional big sounding "BOOM" would rock the summer world, with WWIII still only a faraway imagining. Just another air flight breaking the sound barrier.
*add another item to my list of "OH NO!s..spell check tried to influence me to add an apostrophe to "ABCs!" Such wrongs are sustained, and will soon become standards. And there is nothing we can do to protest effectively.
-And forget about thinking and deductive reasoning, as both are now (unnecessary)wasters of time. If any element of your life isn't directly linked to producing a bank roll, don't touch it. Pay someone else to take care of your yard, your home, (your declining parents who served as the wind beneath your own wings,) and even your offspring. You need to be scheming your next windfall. Smart people know how to purchase techno-tools or hire services to perform anything that needs doing.
I love spring and fall, as each provides a trademark style of "ahhhh" relief from harsher elements of their immediate neighbors. "AhhhSpring", freshly stippling a monochromatic winter-wrought palette with pinks, greens and yellows, the promise of new beginning; and "AhhhAutumn's" fond farewell to mosquitoes and sweaty lawn mowing, as wisps of orange, brown, red and gold in brief glory of flight, descend through brisk clean air, to unite with earth below.
While I was still working on my ABCs* and exploring such anomalies as butterflies, candle wax and time, I accepted without question permanent, immutable guidelines as handed down by my ancestors. An operating code that preserved innocence and faith in humanity. Somehow, the rules were invisibly tied to our efforts producing desired outcomes.
One such axiom was that you had to wear shoes to play outside all winter long and into spring. Even after pastel petaled spring signs were popping forth from all the formerly lifeless bush and tree limbs in your yard. Even with all the little baby birdies happily chirping the chorus of spring, you still had to wait until your mom told you it was the day your shoes could stay inside while you went out.
Ahhhh, but the wait always produced a sweeter reward, having been yearned for. There, in the center of eternal spring one newly bare foot would come to land upon soft prickles of freshly cut grass as above, a bluer world knowingly smiled down, canvassed by white puffy pillows of heaven. Ahhh.
"Shoes-off" day was an annual rite of passage. Because of an eternally long "shoes-on" season, the moment of bare feet connecting with bare ground was divine. We would soon forget that feeling, spending much of our summer unshod; but it was that first day of privilege, bearing such significance that in memory, will stand as a good thing.
The world of summer offered other unique opportunities. Neighbors would inhabit their lawns for reasons that didn't involve maintenance or aesthetics. Everywhere you looked, there would be humans, not in cars; but walking, waving, playing, laughing, talking. Perhaps due to open windows, screen doors and window box fans, which served as the most modern of "air conditioners". I don't remember complaining about the heat, not like now. Average temps today peak higher than back then. We have become acclimated to a man made environment, with all windows of our homes, cars, stores, efficiently shut, year-round. Sadly, we hardly noticed the eventual demise of drive-ins.
The fan in the window gave "ahhh"relief from otherwise hot, stagnant summer air. Much comfort and sweet dreams were produced by the ongoing drone of that little machine as it converted the object of our oppression into one long continuing lovely summer breeze. Little girls who dreamed of one day becoming famous singers would perch themselves directly in front of the window fan, to belt out the latest chart-topper from Johnny Mathis or Dinah Shore. It was there, within an inch of mightily whirring metal blades that a normally amateurish tone would be magically transformed into a professional style operatic trill.
We were more connected to our environment (before the invention of "freon-ized" AC,) and it was a good thing. The absence of closed home environments forced us to share life with weather, with all sorts of flying bugs, with other people, and with knowledge derived from incoming scents and sounds that we will never know again.
Summer evenings would usually bring people outside of their homes. And when it was the evening of the mosquito truck, you'd have thought the state fair had come to town! Lawn chairs, coolers, picnics, boys and girls on bikes, neighbors in happy alignment, all poised in anticipation of this special treat. At any time a low, distant rumbling engine hum would be detected, growing louder by seconds, until a huge whitish gray cloud-enveloped truck would roll ever so slowly past our house and continue on its way, thrilling spectators with every formerly visible thing becoming now obscured by mosquito fog (AKA, DDT). The more adventurous young bicyclists would take off behind the fog casting truck, to follow along and sustain foggy merriment.
The play of children was left to imaginings, so depending on who you hung out with, you either had fun or you were bored. Living in a neighborhood comprised mostly of NC State Univ. Profs and their families provided us kids with an extra measure of richness for scheming our play themes. There were classes, lessons and activities, but somehow they didn't dominate family schedules. There was no such thing as a shortage of time; and all children used time to wonder and discover without prompts. We made our own investigations, and drew our own conclusions, and it was enough.
We turned empty front porches into castles, bare picnic tables into feasts, swing sets into battleships, and wooden tables into horses. We discovered fools' gold and mica right there in our driveways, we sculpted beauty salons out of sand boxes. We made up theme songs and ate mayonnaise sandwiches. We propped up one side of cardboard boxes with sticks, placing a carrot underneath so that we might later discover a wild beast in captivity. We worked on learning to throw our voices and talked to each other with string-connected tin cans. We invented, we imagined, we pretended in glory.
If onions were available for our cooked-out hamburgers, everyone had to eat onions, or nobody could eat onions, as this prevented any non-onion eaters from experiencing onion breath from the onion eaters. How considerate.
Sadly, the Ahhh-feeling of summer is no longer so significant. Nowadays, the only people to be sighted out upon their lawns are mowing, watering or weed-eating. If a fellow motorist is traveling with windows open, it is pretty safe to assume that their compressor/condenser is out of whack.
All the while, glorious days of Heavenly summer live, in the hearts and memories of the DDT generation...Those of us who learned to continue our games of hopscotch when the occasional big sounding "BOOM" would rock the summer world, with WWIII still only a faraway imagining. Just another air flight breaking the sound barrier.
*add another item to my list of "OH NO!s..spell check tried to influence me to add an apostrophe to "ABCs!" Such wrongs are sustained, and will soon become standards. And there is nothing we can do to protest effectively.
Friday, July 10, 2009
THE EVOLUTION OF PARENTING
As successful living increasingly enjoins all humanity toward “MENSA-esque” time management, babies must share their lap tops with laptops. Diligent parents are pressured to dismiss all “dismissibles”, AKA matters of interest which serve to define our individuality. We schedule-in fun plans with the same enthusiasm that we bring to reconciling our checking accounts. Today’s parents must cleverly and competitively strive to surpass yesterday’s workplace successes (which often means work follows us home), while sustaining and creating a “soft place to land” on the home front. We are compelled to trade in the here and now for unrelieved strategizing. Such ambition usually produces in us a diminished availability for sensing how those closest to us are feeling or thinking.
My older daughter is fortunate to be able to work from home most of the time. With a more flexible schedule, I, or “Gammy” am usually able to be present at the criticaltime of day known as “One Hour Long Phone Conference Lasting Three Hours.” Unfortunately, my granddaughter happens to be a five month old who entered this world with an agenda, all-impervious to even the most ardent expressions of Grandmotherly love. (This is why the first doll this grandmother gave was a Barbie, not Baby doll.)
Resistant to bring it up, I dearly wish she could have enjoyed the simpler and community-supported era of parenting when I was her mom. Those days, doing one thing at a time was sufficient. Without consideration of latest findings,,I confidently availed myself of all rights and entitlement to focus exclusively on being the best mommy possible, without the encumbrance of demonstrating daily allegiance to a cash-paying employer.
Foremost among all that I own are grateful remembrances of an eternal stream of lazy summer days with my children. I fondly recall those early years with my firstborn, my daughter. Without fail, Friday afternoons would find me walking my baby in the stroller with our dog on a leash. We would merrily traverse four miles of sidewalk leading to Charlottetown Mall, where I would purchase a new wind chime for my backyard collection. Later, Daddy would join us there, for ice cream or other mall fare. With dinner hour approaching, three spent-but-happy travelers would enjoy a welcome Daddy-mobile rescue from hoofing any additional miles homeward. This was how we would kick off every weekend.
In this present age of parenting, an adoring parent will be required numerous times daily to divert her attention away from her babies. Anything but simple, parenting must include an ever-pressing myriad of outside responsibilities.
It has been my greatest privilege to have been gifted with twenty-some years as a mom, (with the most recent fifteen as a single one). From three down to only one (sob) nestling, (but here, insert “Grandmother of two”), it is my hope that parents feel hopeful and happy about parenting today, while never allowing the dreams they have for their children to overshadow their children's dreams.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
WHEN I WAS RICH
When I was young, my parents ran the universe. They were my "higher power."
When I was around six years of age, a friend and I were busy playing when My father decided to present each of us with one of his personal checks, in the amount of one million dollars.I have no recollection about preceding details, but what lingers is the instant rush of exuberance this daughter felt as she hastily assessed her investment options.For a brief hour or so, one little girl made serious decisions, without a trace of doubt as to the validity of her gift, nor her father's ability to extend the in-kind hospitality to her guest.
It became clear, that with such a windfall I could buy the biggest entity in the universe...which just happened to be the Ridgewood Pharmacy; a mainstay to many, including we who rode horses at Meredith College.
Hungry patrons would trade stories of the day, as fine culinary wizardry effortlessly proceeded from the man in the white paper hat, who would often commandeer the conversation to express lunch-counter"isms." His grilled cheese sandwiches were what we usually ordered, and as the man would wield his spatula into what seemed to be a 10 gallon jar of mayonnaise, we would listen to our mothers remark about his spreading that mayonnaise on both outsides of the bread, in contrast to the standard of butter, to grill them.
Quite commonplace then, for the adults to linger and talk too long following any meal "out," we girls would expend our restlessness by wandering about the store, in awestruck marvel at the sheer quantity of things one could buy, if one had the money and a mind to.
It was during one of these post-lunch sessions that as I began my way down the next aisle of inventory, my eyes were instantaneously sparked to settle upon the most exquisite toiletry set in the world, and right there at Ridgewood Pharmacy. Nestled together in a lovely satin-lined box, I'd found perfume and powder from France. Never before had these eyes beheld anything, anywhere so beautiful and classy-and how did they make a perfume bottle of so rich a royal blue color and tiny sparkly silver stars, scattered about?
I fancied myself to be the first shopper in the whole world to spot it, too. I knew what I had to do: Buy it for my mother. Unable to remember how or when the acquisition was made possible, I clearly recall mountainous pride swelling within my young heart as I impatiently watched my mother lovingly remove drug store gift-wrapping to reveal "Evening in Paris" toilet water and bath powder with the lovely blue satin-backed powder-puff!
For my mom, it had to have been love, and love alone.
When I was around six years of age, a friend and I were busy playing when My father decided to present each of us with one of his personal checks, in the amount of one million dollars.I have no recollection about preceding details, but what lingers is the instant rush of exuberance this daughter felt as she hastily assessed her investment options.For a brief hour or so, one little girl made serious decisions, without a trace of doubt as to the validity of her gift, nor her father's ability to extend the in-kind hospitality to her guest.
It became clear, that with such a windfall I could buy the biggest entity in the universe...which just happened to be the Ridgewood Pharmacy; a mainstay to many, including we who rode horses at Meredith College.
There would be no finer glory than to own Ridgewood pharmacy, and all its contents. An infinity of shelves upon shelves brimming with high-fashion toiletries and trinkets spun wildly in my mind. An added bonus would be that I would also own the grill located in the back of the store,where the grill man would never think of beginning his day without a starched white linen apron and a fresh, crisp paper hat (matching-white too, but with a thin red line traversing its top.)
He'd tirelessly crank out lunch counter fare for the world. Red and white-swirled paper straws (that obviously came from the same place where the man got his hats) filled glass dispensers rhythmically positioned in line down the formica counter top, just beside the "face-reflective" metal napkin dispensers, right beside the metal-topped sugar containers, just beside the normally-greasy matching salt and pepper shakers.Hungry patrons would trade stories of the day, as fine culinary wizardry effortlessly proceeded from the man in the white paper hat, who would often commandeer the conversation to express lunch-counter"isms." His grilled cheese sandwiches were what we usually ordered, and as the man would wield his spatula into what seemed to be a 10 gallon jar of mayonnaise, we would listen to our mothers remark about his spreading that mayonnaise on both outsides of the bread, in contrast to the standard of butter, to grill them.
Quite commonplace then, for the adults to linger and talk too long following any meal "out," we girls would expend our restlessness by wandering about the store, in awestruck marvel at the sheer quantity of things one could buy, if one had the money and a mind to.
It was during one of these post-lunch sessions that as I began my way down the next aisle of inventory, my eyes were instantaneously sparked to settle upon the most exquisite toiletry set in the world, and right there at Ridgewood Pharmacy. Nestled together in a lovely satin-lined box, I'd found perfume and powder from France. Never before had these eyes beheld anything, anywhere so beautiful and classy-and how did they make a perfume bottle of so rich a royal blue color and tiny sparkly silver stars, scattered about?
I fancied myself to be the first shopper in the whole world to spot it, too. I knew what I had to do: Buy it for my mother. Unable to remember how or when the acquisition was made possible, I clearly recall mountainous pride swelling within my young heart as I impatiently watched my mother lovingly remove drug store gift-wrapping to reveal "Evening in Paris" toilet water and bath powder with the lovely blue satin-backed powder-puff!
I was enjoying the notion that my ability to purchase something from Paris would impress my mother, who probably thought up to that point that I only knew how to give her things from America.
My mom being a bit of a quality-detective, did her best to conceal anything less than gratitude. And because she loved me, she actually wore that stuff. I found it at a store, years later, and took a whiff that nearly recalled my earlier lunch. It was common knowledge that cheap people wore cheap perfume, kind of like an invisible quantifier of status. Like beautiful fancy diamond rings that would turn your finger green.
To gallantly bring that stench along, everywhere she was to arrive, and until her next bath...For my mom, it had to have been love, and love alone.
For me, it had been about the package.
And who would have ever imagined that I would later be so instantly rich enough to buy the whole store? I was sure that one million dollars would cover and seal the deal, exactly.
Monday, July 6, 2009
STILL HERE?
Was it cell phones, or the implementation of texting that popularized the notion that you are living a boring life if you are not engaged in communication with someone other than present company?
As I found myself walking behind a couple of women on the sidewalk at North Hills last week, I deliberated as to whether or not these two were together. They remained side-by-side long enough for me to determine that they were, in fact, together, making their way to the restaurant up ahead. But each of these women was avidly engaged with non-present ones, via cell phone repartee.
Has it come to this? “I can meet you for lunch on Tuesday. Okay, see you then…oh, and did I mention that I will be on a conference call, so I won’t have time to talk with you, but we can grab a bite to eat together, at least. Oh, and I know I will want the Pecan Apricot Consommé with the eggplant roulade, and sweet tea, so would you be a dear and give the wait person my order, so I won’t have to mute my call?” >Lovely.
A popular morning news program recently asked viewers to share some unusual places from which they had texted others. Responses ranged from, “While giving birth to twins,” to “Scaling an icy section of flat VERTICAL rock 5 miles above sea level.” When did it cease to be sufficient to be fully present and plugged-in to our present environment, thereby availing ourselves of a real-time experience, and does this trend represent gain, or loss?
A popular book by once Harvard professor Richard Alpert, (born April 6, 1931 and AKA Baba Ram Dass,) became a 1971 bestseller among hippie intellectuals. BE HERE NOW introduced a generation of young Westerners to Eastern philosophies. I remember having read the book, and even having met Prof. Ram Dass at a retreat where he spoke, however all that “took” was the title of the book, oh- and that BRD was tall, and spoke and moved quite too slowly for my liking.
My purpose in sharing the preceding is that, while I do not ascribe to Eastern ways, I did (and do) like the thought of being fully engaged in “now,” as this "now" is the only available space, truly. I certainly would prefer to live among others who value the present as all-inclusive, and likewise direct the whole of their attention to any undertakings and pursuits. For example: my family surgeon, dentist and what about my carpool driver or my pilot? Daily news reports offer too much proof that split-attention is shared through all populous and among all once-trusted professions.
And, due to splitting-attention, we don’t even HEAR the stories. I was shocked to discover that only a handful of people were aware that (three years ago) a slew of major US Hospitals (not to exclude Raleigh’s Rex Hospital and Wake Med,) had been exposed for transplanting stolen cadaver parts in many surgeries. It had made major news headlines, including an in-depth 60 Minutes expose. Google it FYI. This enterprise had become a major money-maker, with thieves digging up graves for bones, skin, etc. 60 Minutes showed X-rays of cadaver hip joints, where stolen parts had been replaced with PVC pipes, thoughtfully utilizing an L-joint at the hip socket.
A couple of years ago I was heading in to shop at Whole Foods, when one posting on the entrance's bulletin board momentarily drew my attention from shopping. At the top of the layout was a photo of an aged, more sedentary Baba Ram Dass, with following text announcing an upcoming speaking engagement on his latest literary effort: STILL HERE. As I remained there to read and reflect upon what I inferred as an aging social activist’s attempt to revive what had been his 15 minutes, I wondered if I would be the only one to consider implication beyond the info as printed, or if any others who were “there” would even take note of the author of this post.
Reading on, I learned BRD had survived a stroke. Still Here…, he shares with anyone willing to read it.
Well, I have come to realize the pointlessness of deliberating the five “Ws,” as the practice of multi-tasking is likely to escalate. I'm trying not to complain, honest.
So, like many others who miss the present, I remain….Still Here.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Credit Blunderland
to be sung to the tune of "Winter Wonderland:"
words by Cottonworld Chronicles, of course!
Here we are, all together,
One more day…nothin’ better.
We were cruisin’ along but something went wrong.
(And now we’re)
Livin’ in a credit blunderland.
So they share, with a smile
Upward trends, all the while
The credit we used
Has become our noose
Livin’ in a credit blunderland.
Come on, everybody let’s get food stamps
Medicaid to pay for all our ills
We’ll apply for supple'mental income
& Uncle Sam can worry bout the bill.
Those with cash, still out shoppin’
Makin’ deals, values droppin’
Stock prices decline
The jobless,in line
Prayin’ for someone who’ll lend a hand.
What secures today will change tomorrow
Absolutes are quickly losing ground
If your mind is overcome with sorrow
A pill or five will bring you “back around.”
What’s the use, to keep tryin’
~To sustain what is dyin’?
We must face, unafraid,
The mess that we made,
Livin’ in a credit blunderland.
words by Cottonworld Chronicles, of course!
Here we are, all together,
One more day…nothin’ better.
We were cruisin’ along but something went wrong.
(And now we’re)
Livin’ in a credit blunderland.
So they share, with a smile
Upward trends, all the while
The credit we used
Has become our noose
Livin’ in a credit blunderland.
Come on, everybody let’s get food stamps
Medicaid to pay for all our ills
We’ll apply for supple'mental income
& Uncle Sam can worry bout the bill.
Those with cash, still out shoppin’
Makin’ deals, values droppin’
Stock prices decline
The jobless,in line
Prayin’ for someone who’ll lend a hand.
What secures today will change tomorrow
Absolutes are quickly losing ground
If your mind is overcome with sorrow
A pill or five will bring you “back around.”
What’s the use, to keep tryin’
~To sustain what is dyin’?
We must face, unafraid,
The mess that we made,
Livin’ in a credit blunderland.
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