Sky Mall strikes again

Airlines often seat me next to someone interesting when I fly. By "interesting," I mean annoying.

For instance, on our flight to Illinois over Christmas, I was just drifting off to sleep when I felt several urgent pokes on my shoulder. I looked at the owner of the poking finger, who was seated next to me.

"Look!" he said excitedly, pointing to the SkyMall magazine so thoughtfully provided for passengers who are bored enough to look at useless, overpriced items but not bored enough to go to sleep. "This hanger system holds up to 10 pairs of pants, all fanned out! Isn't that great?!"

I nodded politely and made little sounds of assent that could also have been taken for grunts, if the man had been paying close attention. But his gaze was riveted on the picture of the 10-pant hanger system.

I settled back to sleep and was lost in a dream about soft, fluffy clouds when I again felt the urgent poking. I opened one eye.

"Look at this!" the man said again. "This hanger system holds 20 pairs of pants!"

This time I merely nodded and tried, not very successfully, to move a little farther away.

But the pokes came for the third time. I attempted to ignore them, thinking maybe the man would get the idea that I was trying to sleep. Then I felt I was being uncharitable. I wondered if this were one of those situations where the Lord would want me to turn the other shoulder. But I thought that might be awkward given the tiny space we were in, so instead I dutifully opened my eyes.

"This Chair Valet is kinda neat," the man said, although he sounded less enthusiastic than he had about the pant systems. "See, you can hang your suit on the back, and it's got a little drawer underneath."

Giving up my attempts to sleep, I reached for a book of my own. I was halfway through Ch. 1 when the man put away the SkyMall magazine and announced that he was going to try to get some sleep.

I waited until he was looking very settled and peaceful, no doubt dreaming about sitting in his Chair Valet and having 20 pairs of pants at his fingertips, and then I poked him. Several times, on the shoulder.

"What?" he said, annoyed.

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey," I said contritely to my husband. "I just wanted to read you this one paragraph...."

Dreams do come true!

The Internet is pretty amazing. It spawns all kinds of useful sites, such as the one established for the sole purpose of reuniting lost gloves with their owners. I understand that to date, four human/glove pairs have been happily reunited through this effort. This is something to be celebrated, although if someone really wants to be helpful, they could provide a site that will reunite me with my socks that have gotten lost in the dryer.

This blog hasn't figured out how to do that yet (although I did put forth a theory about where those socks go), but it HAS achieved the amazing feat of helping people's dreams come true. I refer specifically to my writing about the Action Figure Librarian with Amazing Shushing Action. As a direct result of this blog, a number of people (specifically, two, including me) have received the very toys they reminisced about! Not only did I get the Action Librarian for Christmas, I got the deluxe set, complete with a rolling cart of books (with tantalizing titles like "30 Days in Red Pants" and "Pablobian Visions"), a reference desk, a computer with a screen that swivels, a background that simulates a real library (minus gum-chewing adolescents), and a librarian of distinct masculine appearance, although it is supposed to represent a female. (Has anyone ever seen a male librarian? Maybe raising librarians to Action Figure status will encourage today's young men to pursue this worthwhile calling.)

As an aside, it is somewhat scary to compare the Action Figure Librarian with a photo of the real-life librarian who inspired it. If that is what one's likeness in plastic inevitably looks like, I can only hope that no one ever takes it upon themselves to make an action figure of me (Blog Writer with Amazing Ability to Write About Inconsequential Subjects).

But back to our story about fulfilled dreams. You'll recall that after I described the Action Figure Librarian that had so captured my interest, I invited readers to reminisce about a childhood toy they had fond memories of. You might also recall that only one reader took me up on this, and she was rewarded by receiving (though not from me) the Poor Pitiful Pearl doll for her birthday. I have seen Poor Pitiful Pearl (or PPP), and she is a very lovely doll, although she does not come with any accessories like the librarian (which is obviously why she is called poor and pitiful).

I know that the rest of you out there are kicking yourselves for not sharing with us the toy you adored as a child. If you had taken that opportunity, just think...for Christmas you could have gotten that sweet little Baby Diaper Rash or The Chicken Limbo Party Game you secretly coveted. But it's too late now. And don't start whining, or the Amazing Librarian will shush you.

Guide to holiday parties

For most of my life I have worked for nonprofit organizations, where the typical Christmas or "holiday" party consists of having the staff bring in various food items from home (Aunt Millie's fruitcake, burnt Christmas cookies that didn't make the cut, etc.) to celebrate. The entertainment is also home-grown, with some staff member who fancies himself or herself a poet reading an original creation to mark the occasion, while those listening start to sing "Jingle Bells" to drown out the misery of the poetry reading, and somebody from accounting dresses up in a pathetic Santa suit.

But corporate parties are another matter altogether. There, employees do not have to do anything for the party, except spend a couple of paychecks on articles of clothing that they will never wear again.

If you are a woman, you will need to purchase (or find a friend or relative your size who is willing to share) a dress that looks like it was made for Barbie. This dress must cover only 1/4 of the woman's actual skin, allowing her to turn into an icicle even before she reaches the party. This is standard dress no matter if you live in Hawaii or are doing scientific research at the South Pole.

Now, there is some consolation: The woman IS allowed to wear something called a "wrap," which is about the size of a handkerchief and is worn around her shoulders. Ostensibly, the wrap offers some warmth, but its chief occupation during the party will be to slowly work itself down her shoulders and onto her lap during dinner, when her partner will mistake it for his napkin. The remainder of the woman's evening will be spent trying to arrange the wrap in such a manner as to hide the smears from barbecue chicken fingers.

The woman's ensemble is not complete without "party shoes," which are traditionally black but may also be gold or silver and are covered with enough sequins to doubles as lights on the dance floor. But the most important requirement for party shoes is that they must not, under any circumstances, be comfortable. If the woman can put them on and stand up without falling over, they are not proper foot attire for such a gala affair.

But for once, the women are not the only ones who suffer. If you go to a very fancy affair, as we did this year, it will be known as "black tie." This indicates that a man can wear anything he wants, even pajamas, as long as he also has a black tie around his neck. No, actually it means that he must rent, or buy, a tuxedo, which is a suit with approximately 549 pieces of accompaniments.

Here is where the women's revenge comes in. Throughout the rest of the year, whenever a couple is getting ready to go somewhere, the man will jibe the woman about how long it is taking her to get ready. "Look at me!" he gloats. "I got ready in 3.9 minutes!"

But the woman merely smiles, because she knows that at "black tie" events the man will be in agony trying to get all those different pieces of the tux together. And if he puts them on in the wrong order, he has to start all over. If the party begins at 7, he should start dressing at noon.

Another staple of corporate holiday parties is the band. Everyone will love the band in the beginning, because the members are playing very softly while everyone has hors d'oeuvres and drinks and the president makes the requisite announcements about how far the company has come ("This great company was founded in 1763, with myself as president, secretary, and mail boy. The following year...."). Many times you would LIKE the band to start playing more loudly here, but it never does. That does not come until the dinner is served and you attempt to make some conversation with the person next to you. (There is no point in trying to talk to anyone across the table.) A typical conversation over the band's noise goes like this:

"Are you having a good time?"

"WHAT?"

"I SAID, ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD TIME?"

"YES, THE WINE IS GOOD!"

Or this:

"Has little Annie's throat healed?"

"OF COURSE MY FANNY IS REAL!"

So all in all, it's hard to say which type of holiday party is superior, the nonprofit or the corporate. I'll have a better idea once my teeth stop chattering and my hearing returns to normal.

Where the Prissy Princess is

The Prissy Princess's funny bone is worn out from writing this year's Christmas newsletter, and she is exhausted from coaxing her printer to make many, many copies and then sending it to many, many people who may read it or may use it for kindling. She is also tired out from her and the Gallant Hero's trip to Illinois for the holidays, undertaken yesterday, a trip in which they took two planes, a car, a bus, a moped, a unicycle, etc. But there is a lot of new material out here in the Midwest for blogs, so she will return to writing just as soon as she has finished sampling all the family's Christmas cookies.

In the meantime, have you finished your Christmas shopping?? (If so, can you do some for me??)

"I don't need anything"

Those are the worst words you can hear at this time of year, when you are trying to find that perfect Christmas gift for someone on your list: "Oh, I don't need anything."

My mother has been saying these words for as long as I have been on this earth (after I came along, what more did she need? Ahem...just kidding). It is almost automatic now, like saying "Have a good day" to a stranger at the store: Whenever a gift occasion is discussed, my mom says this line.

You can't win when people tell you not to get them a gift, because you can never be quite sure whether they really mean it or whether they are just being polite. And if you don't get them something -- even if they were actually sincere about it -- you risk looking bad in front of everyone else. Once, for instance, I chose to believe that my mom really didn't want anything, and so I didn't get her anything for Mother's Day other than a card. Maybe it was just my imagination, or guilt, but I got some disapproving looks from her friends and relatives for a while after that. I got the feeling that it was no secret I hadn't given her a present.

I was talking with my parents on the phone a few weeks ago when my mother said, predictably, "Don't buy us anything for Christmas."

But my father, picking up on the "us" in her statement, interjected, "Welllll, let's wait a minute here."

Maybe she didn't want anything for Christmas, but clearly she wasn't speaking for him. If the kids want to get him presents, who is he to spoil their joy? They can get him as many gifts as they want.

"Well," I said, "We're not coming for Christmas this year, remember? So I won't be getting you anything."

"Oh, that's right," my mom said. "Well, we don't need anything anyway."

But as we hung up, I think I heard my dad sigh.

Dumb Christmas ideas

From today's heading, you night think that decking your tree out in ribbon with your spouse, as I chronicled earlier, is the topic again today. Believe it or not, there are even dumber ideas for Christmas decorations and celebrations. I cannot in good conscience take credit for these ideas, but I thought I'd pass them along nonetheless.

First, if you are determined to outdo your neighbor in tacky lawn ornaments, you can do no better than to erect the Blow-up Ferris Wheel. This charming ornament features various characters -- Frosty, Santa, Rudolph, Guiliani, Romney, Clinton, etc. -- encased in a plastic bubble ferris wheel. The expressions on their faces are pretty accurate, judging by my own memories of riding a ferris wheel, but they resemble creatures in formaldehyde jars in a freak show. So if you want shock factor -- which is what Christmas is all about, right? -- this is the way to go!

You won't want to miss the Children's Holiday Party in my neighborhood this weekend. This show will feature not only Frosty and Santa but also those other staples of Christmas events everywhere, Barney and King Kong. Yes! I am not joking! If your kids aren't already confused about holiday celebrations at this time of year, they will be after this party. (As a side note, this event is being held across the street from -- again, I am not kidding -- the house with the Blow-Up Ferris Wheel. Maybe King Kong can go rescue the poor victims on the ferris wheel, while Barney persuades him not to eat them by singing "I love you, you love me...." This will instead induce King Kong to eat Barney.)

If you have seen any dumb Christmas decor or ideas, please let us know! A good shake of the head is almost as fun as a good laugh.

Anti-Speed

Coming home from the grocery store the other day, I felt like I was in a movie that was the opposite of Speed. If you saw that movie, you know that the driver of the bus could not exceed some particular speed or it would trigger a bomb to explode the bus. Well, the driver of the car in front of me on this day must have been convinced that something terrible would happen if he drove too fast. Anytime he approached 20 mph -- I am not exaggerating -- the brake lights would go on and the car would slow down. In turn, all 15 of us following him would slow down. I was about 5th in this line, but one by one the other drivers in front of me bailed out until I was directly behind the Extremely Slow Driver.

At first I thought maybe the driver was looking for a street, and I was willing to cut him a little slack. But when he kept braking with no side streets in sight, the slack I was willing to cut him tightened until it disappeared. He did everything in slow motion. He turned in slow motion. Went around curves in slow motion. Went through green lights in slow motion. Every time we came to a place where he could turn off, my whole body turned in that direction in an effort to somehow subliminally send him that way. But of course he kept going on the route I was following.

Finally, excruciatingly, we approached my street. If this car goes down my street, I thought, I will pretend I live somewhere else and go home later. Even if it is tomorrow.

My whoop of joy as the car passed my road without turning onto it was, I'm sure, heard in the next county. And it probably got there a lot faster than the Extremely Slow Driver did.

Wrapping your tree

I apologize for not writing yesterday. I have a very good reason for it. The reason is that on my way home from the grocery store, I had the misfortune to get behind a driver who graduated from the Extremely Slow-Moving Driver Education School (Motto: "We Break for Ant Crossings"), and I did not get home until today. More on that story later.

Today, I want to talk about wrapping a Christmas tree. "Don't we have enough to do wrapping our gifts??" you are saying. "We have to wrap the tree, too?"

Rest assured that I am not talking about putting wrapping paper around the tree ("Whew!" all you wrapping-challenged readers are saying. I am right there with you. The greatest invention ever was gift bags). When I say "wrap the tree," I am referring to winding ribbon around the tree. This, of course, lends a very festive look to a tree, but the main reason for using ribbon is to cover up any flaws in the tree. And also to avoid having to put so many ornaments on. At least, these are my reasons for using ribbon. Martha Stewart no doubt has very different reasons, which I am not at all interested in hearing.

It is much easier to put ribbon on the tree with two people. I must stress, however, that these two people should be of the same gender. The genders tend to approach ribbon-wrapping, as most other things in life, very differently.

A woman will carefully lay the ribbon among the branches, tucking it in here and there, making it curve in certain places so that it looks rather like a flowing stream. When she is done, you hardly realize the ribbon is not an actual part of the tree, it all blends together so harmoniously. It makes you want to cry (mine makes you want to cry, too, but for slightly different reasons).

A man's approach is quite different. In the first place, no man would voluntarily choose to put ribbon on the tree; it would not even enter into his consciousness to do such a thing. "If God had wanted trees to wear ribbon, He would have made them like that in nature," is the man's motto about beribboned trees. In fact, the man probably would not even bring a large tree into the home, just a little Bonsai one with nothing adorning it, just as naked as the day God made it.

This, at any rate, is what my husband, who is a man, would do. Even now, our second year with a full-size Christmas tree, he occasionally makes noises about how nice it would be to have a little table-top tree. These noises become more prevalent while he is dragging the tree, section by section, up our very steep stairs; when he is moving furniture around, at my direction, to make room for the tree; and while he is being made, against his will and even against his better judgment, to wrap the tree in ribbon.

But I digress. When a man does get roped into putting ribbon on the tree, he approaches it in a very businesslike manner. He holds the spool in one hand and in one continuous motion wraps it around the tree. There is no stopping to tuck it into a branch here or there. There is no careful attention to the angle at which it is placed all the way around. If the ribbon ends three feet from the bottom branch, no matter. He will just add more ornaments down there to cover things up. A tree beribboned by a man looks like a toddler all swaddled in his snowsuit before he heads outside to play: stiff and awkward and barely able to breathe.

So you can imagine what a tree looks like when a man and a woman have attempted to decorate it together with ribbon. If you cannot imagine this, just come to our house. You will see exactly what I mean.

Person vs. Christmas tree

This weekend I attempted to assert some authority over our Christmas tree. If you've ever tried to assemble an artificial tree, you know that it does not take kindly to being poked and prodded into shape. (I imagine that real trees also have their quirks, but as I have no experience with real trees, I will not attempt to speak to their quirks. As you know, everything written in this blog comes ENTIRELY from personal experience and nothing is EVER made up.)

We have sort of a "next-generation" artificial tree, which dismantles into three parts and has the lights attached. In theory, all you are supposed to have to do to assemble this tree is put the three parts into the main pole and the branches will just sort of fold down. The branches, however, do not appear to have gotten this message, maybe because they don't speak whatever language the directions are printed in, which, as near as I can figure out, is some dialect of Tagalog (an actual language not to be confused with the Girl Scout cookies called Tagalongs). This tree is in contrast to the old-fashioned type of artificial tree that I grew up with, where you put in each branch individually by matching the color on the tip of the branch to the color on the tree pole. Even a squirrel could assemble that kind of tree, provided he was not color blind.

But with the new tree, there is no simple way to tell in what order the three parts are intended to be inserted into the pole. You might think, as I did, that the big green button you step on to turn on the lights is probably attached to the bottom third of the tree. WRONG! The big green button belongs to the middle part of the tree. You might find this out only after struggling to put this part of the tree, which is about as easy to move as a wet polar bear, into the stand first, meticulously fluffing out each branch, and then realizing when you go to put the next part of the tree in that the pole does not match up with the part you have already put in. So you must start all over again.

When you finally have the three parts of the tree correctly installed, you will need to take a break. I recommend about a week, because as hard as that was, the next job is even harder. Now you must attempt to impose some sort of order on these branches that have been all cramped up for a year in a box, and look like it. You push and pull and twist to get one side looking perfect. After this effort -- which can take up to two days -- you step back and say, "Yes! This is the most perfect tree ever assembled." And then you move to another angle and scream in horror. On that side, the branches look as if they are practicing contortionism. So you will push and pull and twist the branches on that side to get it perfect, only to find that the first side is now all out of whack. Also, the tree never stands perfectly straight. Tilt it so that it is straight in one direction, and it will appear to be leaning from another direction. You can try having your spouse stand and hold it in one place, but this might get a little tiresome. For the spouse, I mean.

There is always one branch at the bottom that appears to be clinically depressed. It sags, droops, and otherwise refuses to hold itself up and join proudly with the rest of the branches ("I just don't feel like Christmas this year," it moans). Until they make some sort of medication for trees, I do not have any suggestions about fixing this, unless you can get your spouse to take a break from standing and holding the tree and instead lie under the tree and hold up the depressed branch.

In the meantime, needles are piling up all over the floor around your tree -- this is the only respect in which an artificial tree resembles a real one -- and are starting to migrate to other parts of the house, where eventually they will combine to create a full-grown evergreen in, say, your attic. This is actually good, because by the time Christmas is over there will not be enough needles left on the original tree to justify setting it up the following year. I think this is the real reason it is called a "next-generation" tree.

Next: "Wrapping" the tree

Cookie exchanges, Part II

If you missed Part I of this exciting blog episode, please report for detention to Room...oops, just kidding. But please be sure to read yesterday's Introduction to Cookie Exchanges before reading the conclusion today, or today's discussion may not make much sense (of course, it may not make much sense anyway). We left off where I went to get a snack because all the talk about cookies was making me hungry. I'm hungry again now, of course -- it being a new day -- but I will try to stay on task here.

Yesterday you learned, among other important rules for cookie exchanges, that you should not bring Girl Scout cookies to an exchange. People often want to know (I personally have never had anyone ask me this, but I'm sure people want to know, just the same) what kind of cookies they should make for a cookie exchange. The answer is: The ones your great-great-great-great-great-grandmother used to make over in Europe, before there even was Christmas, and for which the recipe has long been lost and probably wasn't written in a language you could read anyway. If it even was written down, because as you know good cooks are always fearful of anyone stealing their best recipes, and so they never record them and sometimes cannot even remember them themselves ("Was that a teaspoon of sugar or a pound?").

If you cannot locate an ancient family recipe, the next best thing is to use one that's a little more recent in the family history, say only a few generations back. If your family is scarce on treasured recipes, you will have to resort to either making something up or flipping through a cookbook or magazine and choosing one that looks promising (I recommend the "eeny meeny miny moe" method for choosing). Ideally you should make this recipe at least once before the actual cookie exchange so that if it is a total flop, you have time to beg some Girl Scout cookies off your neighbor or sister-in-law.

In an effort to hasten our discussion of cookie exchanges to a prompt end before we all faint of hunger, I will condense the parts of the actual cookie exchange into these simple steps:

1. Take your cookies with you. They are your ticket into the exchange.
2. Take a container for the other cookies you will receive, preferably something about the size of a wheelbarrow.
3. Once all the cookies are laid out, rush madly around trying to collect as many as you can.
4. Laugh at those who were not fast enough to get their fair share.
5. Take your cookies home and hide them from your family, or better yet, eat them all before you even get home.
6. For New Year's, resolve to never eat another cookie, at least not until next year's exchange.

As a postscript, I mentioned earlier that I was once bamboozled into organizing a cookie exchange. I carefully followed all the instructions I have laid out here before you, with the unsurprising result that 2 people showed up, one of which was me. But the other lady and I had a grand time, giving each other rides in our wheelbarrows before filling them with our meager haul of 12 cookies. And because her name rhymed with mine, we composed a song about the experience (this is true) that roughly corresponded to the tune of "Have a Holly Jolly Christmas" and was titled "Have a Holly Polly Cookie Exchange." Unfortunately -- or fortunately, depending on your viewpoint -- this song, like so many of our aforementioned great-great-great-ancestors' recipes, has been lost to posterity, and neither of us ever went on to compose another hit. Sad, but true.

Cookie exchanges, Part I

This time of year is full of traditions that people eagerly look forward to, such as shopping for themselves when they are supposed to be buying gifts for the friends and loved ones on their list. (Not that this is a tradition I, personally, would ever think of taking part in.) Another such tradition for many people is the cookie exchange, in which you get a lot of wonderful cookies in exchange for donating your Aunt Bessie's fruitcake.

No, no. The purpose of a cookie exchange is to get rid of all those calorie-laden goodies accumulating in your house and bring home even more. But lest you think this is a good way to dispose of all those old Girl Scout cookies that have been slowly hardening into hockey pucks around your house, there's a trick: You must actually bake something to bring to a cookie exchange. That is, if you do not want to be the laughingstock of the event. And please, do not bring those slice-and-bake cookies, either. If you spent 16 hours rolling out homemade gingerbread cookie dough and cutting out minute elves, reindeer, and stockings and frosting and decorating them with every teeny tiny edible decoration ever created, would you be happy if someone else brought something that a golden retriever could make? Not unless you are my husband, who does not discriminate against any cookie based on its origin.

There are formulas for determining how many cookies each person is to bring to a cookie exchange, based on the number of people involved in the exchange. (Some people think it should be based on how many people live in your house, because let's face it, if you have a big family, you're not going to see many of the cookies you bring home.) But the general rule is that each person brings a dozen cookies for each other person in the exchange, so if there are 4 of you, each person would bring 3 dozen cookies (unless you want to bring home a dozen of your own, in which case you would bring...4 dozen), and if there are 6 of you, each would bring 5 dozen (or 6).

If there are 12 of you -- well, perhaps you could all agree to just 2 cookies per person. But chances are that you will not have to worry about such high numbers, because quite frankly, not all that many people are interested in doing a cookie exchange. You'll be lucky if you get 6. In the typical group of coworkers, friends, neighbors, preschool moms, etc., you will have roughly 8 who decline to participate because they are not interested in doing all that work, 5 who bow out because they are on diets, 3 whose family members are allergic to wheat or dairy, and 2 who cannot find their oven and would not know how to operate it if they could find it. This will leave, on average, 4.8 people who are actually interested in doing the exchange.

Although these 4.8 people will happily participate in the event, none will want to organize it. I know, because I have been the person nominated to organize one. At the time I was a new employee in a nonprofit organization, and as generally is the rule when something needs to be done that no one wants to do, I got assigned because I was the new person. Also, it may have had something to do with the fact that I innocently declared, for all to hear, that I had participated in cookie exchanges before and loved them. Note: If you do not want to be volunteered to be the organizer, do not say that you love cookie exchanges. Do not even say that you love cookies. Just keep a low profile, eating Wheat Thins and celery sticks, and when an organizer is appointed and plans are put into motion, THEN say that you would like to participate. Under NO circumstances should you mention that you have won a baking contest in the past (particularly if this is true).

All this talk about cookies has made me hungry. We will now take a break and resume our discussion of cookie exchanges tomorrow.

A little fuzzy

I have never had much use for math. Anything that uses "imaginary numbers" and "fuzzy logic" should be regarded with suspicion. I have a feeling that advanced math textbooks are written by deranged people who, for society's safety, have been removed to remote locations and given the task of copying down their innermost thoughts.

Joe took a course in fuzzy logic this semester. When he tells people this, they often react by giving me a look of sympathy. I myself was skeptical of it, even when he told me that fuzzy logic is used in the programming of washing machines, which would seem to give it some legitimacy.

Now, if he'd said it was used in dryers, that would make perfect sense. Think about it. Your socks, which are fuzzy, go into the dryer two at a time. They come out only one to a pair, with no trace of the second one, and the surviving sock is so emotionally scarred by the experience that it has to be thrown away, or at the very best used for dusting.

Could it be that the dryer, if working on a fuzzy logic system, periodically needs to have additional fuzzy input, hence the disappearing socks? Somewhere in that system, hapless socks are being sacrificed to keep the dryer running.

Of course, this is all in the realm of Imaginary Fuzzy Logic, but I think it would make an excellent thesis. Maybe I could even get invited to contribute the idea for a textbook.

How we really live

I have mentioned before our reluctance to invite people to our home because of the necessity of making sure their shots are up to date. Our stuff, being far out of proportion to the size of the house, is in a constant state of disarray, which means that the house is potentially hazardous to anyone who is unfamiliar with negotiating it.

Even a five minutes' visit from someone necessitates a frenzy of stuffing things into closets, behind curtains, in the dryer, etc. (I read once that the dryer is a good place to store things in a pinch, but I actually had one guest, who must have read the same thing and wanted to see if I had, open the dryer when he came over for the first time. Fortunately I had not followed the advice.)

Should anyone venture to look into these areas where we temporarily stash things, we would be required, by the Rules for Handling Sneaky Guests, to shoot them. Therefore we take great care in making sure they do not venture into them. It would just add to the mess.

Although we have made great strides in whittling down our "stuff" -- mainly by shifting it to our booth in an antique mall so other people can buy it and clutter up their houses -- there is a core group of boxes containing items that have no permanent home as of yet. They shuffle, like refugees, from one part of the basement to another. A few weeks ago they shuffled to the laundry room in anticipation of a friend's visit. Over the weekend they stayed there, as, on principle, I do not do laundry on weekends. Or I may have just been too lazy to put them back, I forget which.

Monday morning, I was to regret this. At 6:30 a man from the gas company unexpectedly appeared at our door, requesting to look at our gas meter. This is located, as you may have guessed, in our laundry room.

"Sure!" I said, standing in my pink polka-dot pajamas, barely awake. "When was your last tetanus shot?"

No, I did not really say that. And the Rules for Handling Sneaky Guests do not apply to service personnel, so I couldn't shoot him. I had no choice but to lead him down to the basement. He climbed over the mountain of boxes, bags, and miscellaneous junk as I hovered over him, wishing I could make both the mess and my polka-dot pajamas instantly disappear. I'm sure he had plenty to talk about at the dinner table that night, such as his wish that he had gone to law school so he could work in a nice, plush office instead of people's deplorable basements.

All of this is pretty humiliating. But I regained some of my dignity while reading a "Cathy" comic strip recently. Cathy was frantically trying to clean her house before her family's arrival for Thanksgiving, and she told her husband that all the mess wasn't really how she lived. The husband, evidently not married long enough to know not to touch that subject, insisted that it was how she lived -- the house looked like that all the time. Cathy drew herself up to her full height (which, in the newspaper, is about 1.8 centimeters) and declared, "This is only how I'm living until I have time to live the way I really live!"

To which I can only say, Amen.

A letter

A Letter of Complaint to Whoever Invented Business Casual Dress:

No doubt you are revered throughout the working world for transforming the workplace from stuffy to friendly. I, for one, do not thank you. This practice has moved every level of clothing down a notch. Suits and dresses are reserved for fancy parties and funerals -- maybe. What used to be worn for casual social occasions is now worn to work. Sweatpants, which used to be reserved for relaxing at home, running errands, or attending early morning college classes, are now worn when entertaining friends. As if business casual weren't casual enough, some places allow jeans on Fridays. Soon people will be attending annual stockholder's meetings in beachwear! And goodness knows what people are wearing in the privacy of their own homes.

This change has precipitated many a disagreement in our household. Monday through Friday mornings, my husband happily dons his Dockers and polo shirts. These clothes, however, are now tainted, in his mind, as "work clothes," with the result that he refuses to wear them anywhere else. What is left for social occasions and other public outings? To better illustrate what is left in his mind, I have taken the liberty of including the following chart that shows my husband's clothing preferences since the widespread implementation of your policies:

Occasion Appropriate item of clothing
Shop at Home Depot Pajamas

Visit family or friends Pajamas

Tour the White House and
discuss foreign policy
with the president Pajamas, maybe slippers

I have a suggestion about how to reverse this trend. Business Casual probably started with Casual Friday, which then got out of hand. Why not institute Dressy Friday, in which workers wear, one day a week, what they used to wear to work? Eventually, people will be enticed to break the rules and try sneaking into the office in a dress or suit on, say, a Wednesday, and before you know it there will be a wholesale rebellion and everyone will be burning their Dockers and open-collared shirts. Maybe even their jeans and t-shirts.

I'll be first in line with my husband's pajamas.

Sincerely,
The Pajama Wearer's Wife

Eating before bed

This morning I told myself, as I have occasionally on other mornings, that I need to stop eating before I go to bed. How else do you explain dreaming about being chased through a large, unknown building by a giant anaconda?

Joe and my sister were also in this dream with me, but they were not being chased by a giant anaconda. They probably did something more sensible before going to bed, such as read a quiet, uneventful book. My sister did have the presence of mind to ask, as I flew past her, what my blood type was, as if that would make any difference if the snake attacked me. But it was thoughtful of her to inquire. No doubt she also wanted to ask if she could have my collection of antiques if the anaconda caught up with me.

Through a combination of luck, fast legs, and my wily intellect, I managed to escape from the snake. But when I woke up I was still in flight mode, and I did a thorough check under the bed, in the closet, in the shower -- evil things are always lurking in showers, at least in the movies -- just to make sure.

Then again, maybe these wild dreams don't have anything to do with what I eat before I go to sleep. Getting out of bed in the morning is something I've never submitted to easily, and it's a fight I engage in every day. Usually, more time in bed wins. I'm beginning to suspect that maybe this is the Lord's way of getting my heinie out of bed and doing something productive. He knows I hate snakes. I wouldn't be surprised if He used a giant anaconda to scare me into getting up.

Adventures in Band-Aids

Because I had nothing better to do one day last week, I sliced through two of my fingernails with a serrated knife. Okay, I was actually supposed to be cutting a loaf of bread, but the fingers on my left hand -- apparently tiring of always having to play a supportive role while those on the right hand get to have all the fun -- got too close to the action.

So now I am waiting for the damaged nails to grow out, which is like waiting for lettuce to grow. In the meantime, I am becoming better acquainted with Band-Aids than ever before. I am not impressed. They do not stay where I put them. They are always coming off at the most inconvenient times, such as when making dinner or hunting through boxes of shoes at Kohl's. In exasperation I went to the store to find a better alternative.

There were sport Band-Aids, waterproof Band-Aids, sport AND waterproof Band-Aids. And then I saw them: 2X Band-Aids that use the same material as duct tape! Band-Aids that "stay on until you want them to come off." Yes! That's what I needed!

I have worn these things for one day. What the box really means by "the Band-Aids stay on until you want them to come off" is "until the Band-Aids have become a vital part of your circulatory system and must be surgically removed." There really is no need to have more than one per box, because you can't get the first one off to put another one on.

I expect that I will live out my days with eight normal fingernails and two stubs ending in flesh-colored duct tape. It will be interesting to see whether the new nail growth will be able to push through the Band-Aid, since I can't get it off. Or, I could attempt to cut bread again and hope that the Band-Aid gets in the way.

Thanksgiving oops

This was expected to be a goof-free Thanksgiving for me. All I had to do was show up at my family's with pumpkin bread, something I have been making since the Pilgrims had their first feast. There would be no turkey to accidentally roast with the giblets still inside. No lumpy mashed potatoes. No lumpy gravy.

I hadn't counted on the cranberry sauce.

It's tough to imagine how one could mess up cranberry sauce, especially when it is canned. But that is exactly what I did.

I was handed a can opener, two cans of cranberry sauce, and a bowl. I applied them to one another, in the order given, but found that the cranberry sauce was dead set against exiting the can. I therefore searched for a spoon to give it some encouragement. My encouraging ministrations were interrupted by a blood-curdling scream, which, had it occurred in the days of the Pilgrims, would surely have put an end to Thanksgiving then and there. The can was yanked out of my hands. A menacing male family member, The Protector of Cranberry Sauce, turned almost as dark as the sauce and began hastily stuffing it back inside the can, as if I had unleashed something malevolent and Armageddon would soon follow. He glared at the spoon in my hand as if it were a creature of evil.

"Bottom!" he finally managed to blurt out. "You're supposed to open the bottom! Then you slice it!"

This did nothing to illuminate the problem for me, and I turned a confused look on The Protector of Cranberry Sauce.

He looked around wildly for the can opener, turned the second can upside down -- apparently, it was too late to do whatever he wanted to do to the first one -- and stared at it. I stared, also.

"Well," he said. "I guess this bottom doesn't open."

Slowly he deflated. He began to explain, dejectedly, that the idea with canned cranberry sauce was to open both ends -- why, I never did fully understand -- and plop the sauce out into the bowl all in one piece. Then it is sliced.

This seemed very primitive to me. "That's not cranberry sauce," I said. "That's cranberry blob."

The Protector moaned. "Didn't you ever have cranberry sauce?"

No. No, I hadn't. It was the one Thanksgiving food that I studiously avoided, on the basis that it contained no recognizable ingredients.

Resigning himself to the ruin of the cranberry sauce this year, he handed the can back to me and, with a little sigh of regret, instructed me to carry on as I had been.

I didn't have the heart to tell him the Pilgrims never ate canned cranberry sauce.

Post-Thanksgiving

Well, I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving. As you've no doubt noticed, urgent matters have kept me away from the blog for several days. I was one of the estimated 147 million people who were busy stimulating the economy post-Thanksgiving (this included 47 million babies and 10 million purse dogs). Never let it be said that I shirk my civil duties!

I also hope you all had a chance to ponder the real reason we celebrate Thanksgiving, which is, of course, to finally get around to cleaning your house. The big question is, if you are hosting the dinner, do you clean before your guests come, or after?

Let me know your thoughts on that weighty issue, and I'll be back tomorrow in regular blog form.

The origins of my ironing

Yesterday I examined the little matter of recalcitrant shirts upon the ironing board. Thinking about my (lack of) ironing skills, I conclude that it is my 10th-grade consumer ed. teacher's fault that they are not better developed. I have forgotten this teacher's name now, but it was something haughty, like Ms. Pisani, or Ms. Pirani, or maybe even Ms. Piranha. In her class, which was filled with an astonishing number of males given the subject matter, we learned important self-sufficiency tasks like balancing a checkbook, planning meals, and ironing shirts. I think we secretly hoped we would also learn how to become millionaires who could hire people to do these things for us, but that never appeared on the course outline.

I evidently looked, to the teacher, as if I had been born knowing how to iron, for she never called on me to demonstrate my skill at ironing in front of the class. This embarrassing procedure she saved for the males in the class, whom she probably assumed did not know an iron from a toaster. Judging from their practice sessions, she was not far off.

The truth was that I myself did not easily distinguish an iron from a toaster, either. I had never been made to iron at home. This probably had something to do with the fact that I was the youngest and therefore, as my siblings are fond of saying, extremely spoiled. I personally did not see what the fuss about ironing was; what did it matter if one's clothes looked as if they'd been trampled by wild boars?

But if I got away with not learning how to iron at home, I did not think I would get off so easily at school. My goal during the ironing unit was to make sure that no one -- no one -- learned of my ignorance of this basic survival skill. Though I knew I should probably pay attention to how it was done, and therefore actually learn something, I was also desperate to avoid being found out. Pretending to doodle, and feigning as much boredom and disinterest as I could muster (which wasn't hard, given my age and the subject matter), I surreptitiously took notes as the teacher instructed some poor boy in the art of subjugating a wrinkled shirt: "Always begin at the neckline. No, not the sleeves! The sleeves we save for last. Now, pull the garment taut with one hand, and firmly -- don't wrestle it as if it were an alligator! -- guide the iron up toward the neck...."

Somehow I made it through Ironing Instruction without ever being called upon to actually pick up an iron. Everything I learned about ironing was acquired through mere observation, which could very well account for my inadequacies.

Or, we could blame it on those ornery shirts.

The behavior of shirts

I recently came to the agonizing yet liberating decision to have Joe's shirts sent out for cleaning and pressing. Did I do this because we have an excess of funds and can't think of anything more interesting to spend them on? No. Did I do this because I am lazy? Partly. But mainly, I did it because dress shirts exhibit supremely frustrating behaviors when I am trying to iron them. Let me illustrate.

First, there is mortal animosity between my iron and a dress shirt. For its part, the iron shows this animosity by hissing at the shirt -- or at me, as the agent of its maneuvering -- and the shirt responds by stubbornly refusing to give up any of its wrinkles. Or, in another of its favorite tricks, the shirt yields up one wrinkle, only to form another in some other part when I am not looking. When I get all the way around the shirt, it looks like I have not even started. Shirts frequently exit my ironing process with more wrinkles than when they entered it.

Further, all the parts of a shirt do not stay on the board at one time. A sleeve, or the neckline, or the hem is going to be dragging on the floor at any given moment; almost always it is a part that I have just ironed. This not only tends to restore any wrinkles I may, by sheer luck, have removed, it also tends to make the shirt dirty again.

The sleeves, in particular, are ornery to the extreme. I always start on the back of a sleeve, with the expectation that any mistakes (and there will be mistakes) can be ironed out on the front, where it really matters. But the sleeve simply refuses to lie flat. I stretch and press and smooth it out, only to find when I turn it over that there is an enormous new crease cutting diagonally across the sleeve. If I try to iron out that crease, a new one is inevitably created on the back of the sleeve. At this point I generally give up altogether.

So at the end of a long, arduous ironing process, with a hot iron hissing at me in unexpected bursts, I am rewarded with a dirty, wrinkled shirt -- which is precisely what I had before I washed and ironed the shirt. So the idea of ironing is what, exactly? To make me certifiably crazy? Multiply these frustrations by about 12 shirts -- I usually put the task off as long as I possibly can, until the only thing Joe has left to wear to work is his pajamas -- and you will understand that I have come perilously close to insanity.

The situation is helped none by using wrinkle-free shirts. Upon entering our home, such shirts are immediately corrupted by the non-wrinkle-free shirts, with the result that any shirts that are "Guaranteed to Not Wrinkle!" are certain to be just the opposite.

I confided my dilemma and solution for it to a family member, who declared that she has always sent her husband's shirts out, stating most emphatically that "I wouldn't know what to do with them." Incidentally, this is also basically Joe's argument for why he does not iron his shirts.

After two years of wrestling with misbehaving shirts, I have come to the conclusion that I don't know what to do with them, either. What they need, I decided, is Boot Camp. And the dry cleaning lady is just the one to run it. If anyone can subdue those wrinkle-prone shirts, it is her. One look from her and they won't even think of wrinkling. They will stand at attention, as crisp as if they'd been starched. I'm hoping that someday, after they've been in Boot Camp long enough, all I will have to do is just threaten to send them back there, and they'll shape up.

Art the lazy way

My recent painting project brought to mind pleasant memories from my college art class, which I begged to get out of due to zero talent -- I was never in demand on Pictionary teams -- but to no avail. This was a course for teachers, and no matter that I was specializing in preschool special education, I needed to study the great masters of art! I have always believed a course in refrigerator art would have been more relevant, but no one asked my opinion, and no one offered such a course.

After we had studied several different art styles and the artists who exemplified them, we were given an assignment to produce some original works in these different styles. We did what college students do when faced with a challenging, thought-provoking assignment such as this: We looked for the easy way out.

We found that easy way out in the artist Jackson Pollack. If you know as much about art as I did back then (and still do), you might not be familiar with Mr. Pollack. His paintings consisted of brightly colored paint plopped and flicked onto enormously large canvases in random fashion. (The refrigerators of preschool parents are filled with mini-Jackson Pollack type paintings. Little do they realize that with just a bit of encouragement, their darling children could become starving artists!)

Compared with the great masters of other styles we had studied, such as Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Seurat, Mr. Clean, etc., we all thought Jackson Pollack was a bit lazy. This was something we admired enormously and were eager to emulate, at least artwise, and especially for this assignment. How hard could it be to flick paint on paper? This could even be fun!

Our hopes for an easy grade, however, were dashed almost immediately when the instructor informed us that under no circumstances would a Pollack style be accepted. The whole aspect that set Pollack apart -- other than his apparent laziness -- was the enormous scale on which he worked. It would be impossible, the instructor explained, for us to imitate it. Flicking paint onto a 14" x 17" canvas -- or even a 24" x 48" -- just wasn't the same.

Privately, we thought this wasn't such an obstacle, a there were plenty of buildings on campus that could use some sprucing up. They were big, just what we needed. No sooner had we thought it, though, than the instructor warned, "And no graffiti!" in his most solemn tones. No doubt some class before us had already thought of this solution, tried it, and failed, making things harder for the rest of us.

We briefly considered painting our living rooms in the Jackson Pollack style, but we couldn't get past the problem of how to bring the finished product to class. Anyway, I wouldn't recommend painting your living room in this style. For one thing, all the furniture would end up Pollack-looking, too, no mater how well you covered it.

I have long forgotten what I ended up doing for that assignment. But the class left me with one overarching impression about art: The Pollack family must have had one enormous refrigerator.

I dream of...

Dreams are often amusing and entertaining, especially when they are your spouse's. Occasionally I get a privileged glimpse into one of Joe's dreams, such as when he mutters something profound and deeply moving, like "getting water from the water tower." Unfortunately, when he wakes up and is informed about these interesting details and asked for more, he is unable to recall anything further.

Once in a while Joe makes a foray into my dreams. The results of this are often not good. The other night I dreamed that we were in this sort of retreat place, with a bunch of other people, but somehow the lower level turned into our new house. Joe was restoring the stone fireplace -- something he has often talked about doing in real life (although ours is probably brick, not stone), if only it didn't promise to be so messy.

In my dream, I stood beholding his handiwork. Instead of the admiration this might be expected to arouse, I was conscious only of a rising anger. Though he had done a beautiful job on the stone, he wasn't content with its natural beauty. He was painting it. More than that, he was painting it pink. Pink!

You know how weird dreams are. You do things you would probably never even think to do in real life. In this case, however, I did exactly what I probably would have done if this had actually happened. I said, "Honey, let's talk about this. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING??"

In my dream it had no effect on him. He merely told me he wasn't going to change his mind on this and there was no use trying (as I said, in dreams you often do things out of character). No matter that he had no good reason for painting our beautiful stone fireplace pink. I spent the rest of the dream stomping around and muttering (not so out of character). I was still mad at him when I woke up.

Later that morning, when we were both fully awake, he asked me why I seemed so out of sorts.

"You painted the fireplace pink!" I said, brandishing a fork at him and getting mad all over again. "And you wouldn't even listen to me when I tried to talk about it!"

And now, dear Loves to Laugh and other readers, you know why I am the one who wields the paintbrush in our house. Who knows WHAT colors we might end up with.

What color is your castle?

I am considering officially giving up the Pursuit of the Perfect Paint Color. Somewhere out in the vast land of paint colors, I have been convinced lives a color so right, so perfect, it could just make you weep. So far, this color has eluded me, but not the weeping part.

Last year I painted our bathroom "Sailcloth," which I had thought meant "Rich Taupe" but which actually turned out to mean "Boring Beige." From the moment I rolled it on the walls, I hated this color. For a year, I have muttered against it. Everything in that room was boring beige -- the walls, the ceiling, the vanity, the tile, even the shower curtain -- and it wore on me until I couldn't stand it anymore. So I did the unthinkable. I painted it again.

Maybe this doesn't seem so strange to some of you. Consider, however, that for me, painting ranks right up there with such favored activities as removing nail fungus, and you will get a sense of how much I disliked this color to paint the room all over again.

Actually, I tried my best to find a solution that would not involve painting it again. I bought five or six new shower curtains to see if they would liven the room up. But the boring beige just sucked all the life out of every one of them. Short of, perhaps, a shower curtain filled with happy little ducks, I gradually came to the realization that a new one would not help.

So began the quest for the Perfect Paint Color, one that would guarantee my happiness and complete fulfillment, causing me to look with rapturous glow upon our wonderful little bathroom. This quest, the details of which I shall have to save for another day (or two or three or ....), was agonizingly drawn out. It was compounded by the fact that I wanted a color that could accommodate our entire towel color scheme, which at last count included five different colors. So you can see that it was a tall order. And I was sick of light colors. I wanted something deep and rich, like caramel, perhaps, or butterscotch. At last I hit upon "Tawny," which promised, from the minuscule paint chip I carried everywhere with me, to fulfill all my hopes and dreams.

I did have a twinge of doubt when I had the paint mixed up; the tiny sample dot on the top of the paint can looked awfully orange, but I shored up my courage by telling myself that anything would be better than Boring Beige.

The man at the paint store warned me that darker colors go on very light and gradually darken as they dry, so I should not, he said, um...he paused, looking for just the right words of comfort and advice.

"I shouldn't freak out?" I supplied.

"Basically, yeah," he agreed.

I didn't bother telling him that I was almost guaranteed to freak out, no matter what the color ended up looking like; that is just my nature when it comes to painting. It is a scary process of faith when one undertakes to change an entire room's look. I once took an hour to paint a register, safe in the knowledge that if I goofed up no one would see it, before feeling comfortable enough to move on to the rest of the wall. Even then, I felt a lingering conviction that I would ruin everything.

My spirits lifted when I poured the rich paint into the tray. It was a rich butterscotch color. Not quite caramel, but possibly even better.

After the first coat, Joe asked me how it was going.

"It's...orange," I told him, in a somewhat strangled voice.

He assured me, in the confident tones of one who does not have much painting experience, that it would look completely different -- presumably better -- after the second coat.

After the second coat he asked me how I liked it.

"It's not beige anymore," I said, trying to sound cheerful. "Isn't that the most important thing?"

"Well, how is it?" he asked again.

"Well, it's not exactly caramel, and it's not exactly butterscotch..." I said. "It's more, well, butternut squash. If you use your imagination a little, I suppose it could pass for pumpkin, or even cinnamon..."

But even though "Tawny" came out a little different than expected, I really do like it. I like it so much that it has fired my motivation to take up the Pursuit of the Perfect Paint Color again for the basement, which is even More Boring White. I'm thinking maybe a deep, rich, chocolate color...

Dumb or dumber?

So I was having a pity party. I even invited my husband, which I thought was generous of me, but he declined. In very strong words. The only "whine" he wanted in our house, he said, was the kind that goes in your mouth, not out of it.

I had been trying to do an assignment for an online class I'm taking, Research Methods for Writers. I thought it would be fun. I thought it would be interesting. I thought it would be informative. It's been informative, all right. It's informed me that I am not even as smart as a second grader. During a seemingly simple search of the Library of Congress Web site, I could not find anything even remotely related to the search terms I entered. If I put in "humorous quotes," it gave me something about a priest leading a St. Patrick's Day parade. If I put in "talk show hosts," I got several entries about Catherine the Great.

After about a half hour of this, the pity party began. "What am I doing wrong??" I whined. Yes, whined.

Joe did take great pity on me, even though he allowed me none for myself. "Think how else you could enter the terms," he urged. "This is forcing you to be creative." And he was right. It did force me to be creative, if by "creative" he meant "go crazy."

Later I was searching the Web site of an elementary school curriculum and randomly picked the second-grade curriculum to browse. Do you know what 7-year-olds are learning these days? In addition to "express ideas in original compositions" and "study time, money, temperature, and capacity," there were technology goals, including learning to use spreadsheets and databases.

"Forget continuing ed classes," I said to Joe. "I need to go back to second grade!" Just before my pity party, I'd been asking him to please explain databases in language I could understand. No doubt these 7-year-olds could have told me.

In social studies, the kids were expected to learn about "old-world figures," by which they probably meant Tony Blair. I brightened considerably when I read the science objectives. The kids would learn about rocks! Surely I know everything there is to know about rocks. They're hard. Gray. And would really, really hurt if they hit you in the head.

Maybe I'm not so dumb after all.

Doctor visit

My trip to the doctor the other day was eerily reminiscent of my recent trip to the mechanic with my badly misbehaving car. Describing your symptoms to a medical professional is often as fun as describing your car's noises to an auto professional. And almost as costly.

Doctor: So, what seems to be the problem?
Patient: Well, our furnace quit working, and I think the refrigerator--
Doctor: I meant with your health.
Patient: Oh. Well, I have this pain.
Doctor: And where is this pain?
Patient, pointing vaguely to her middle section: Here.
Doctor: I see. Can you be more specific?
Patient, huffily: I don't know the medical term for it.
Doctor, soothingly: Of course not. Just tell me what the pain feels like.
Patient: Well, it hurts. A lot.
Doctor, sighing heavily: I'm sure it does. How, exactly, are you hurting? Is it a burning? A sharp jab of pain when you move? Dull throb?
Patient, relieved to have something to choose from: Um, no, it's more constant. Sort of like an elephant is sitting on me.
Doctor, scribbling: I see. And this elephant, it never leaves?
Patient: Nooo, not really. Not that I've ever asked it to.
Doctor: I see. [NOTE: This means, in plain, nonmedical language, that the doctor has no idea what is wrong with you, other than that an elephant is possibly sitting on you.]
Patient: But sometimes, it feels like the elephant is joined by a monkey.
Doctor: I see.

And on it goes. By the time you are finished telling the doctor what's wrong with you, you have developed five more symptoms. And as you walk out the door after your visit, you will have three more. But it is too late.

Of course the doctor -- and other assorted health professionals -- has to ask you a lot of questions. One of them is "How are you today?" You get asked this not once, but at least five times before you even see the doctor. Lest you think this is an attempt at politeness or to put you at ease, I will clue you in: They want to take you off guard to see how really sick you are.

Think about it. If you answer this question with the usual "fine" or "good," as you might in everyday, non-sick-people contexts, the health care watchdogs might refuse to let you see the doctor. "Well, if you're so 'fine,' " the nurse might say, "you do not need to be taking up space in our waiting room. There are very sick people here! Shame on you. Come back when you feel so awful you have to crawl in here."

On the other hand, the question of "how are you doing" is not an invitation for you to pour out your litany of complaints to the nurse or receptionist. That is what the doctor gets paid for. Therefore I have determined that it is best not to answer the question at all, at least with words, but just to make some sort of grunting noise. This lets them know that yes, there really is something wrong with you, and if they care about not infecting the whole rest of the office they will get you in to see the doctor pronto.

Besides, you'll need to save your words for telling the doctor what's wrong with you.

Amazing librarians

The other day I wrote about the Librarian Action Figure with AMAZING Shushing Action. Some of you probably thought I was making this up. As Nosy Neighbor can tell you, I most certainly was not. It is an actual toy.

We first came across the Shushing Librarian when we were house hunting. In a house we loved, we were admiring the owner's impressive wall of bookcases and interesting book contents. Tucked amongst Shakespeare and Michener was the Librarian, still encased in her original packaging. She embodied just about every stereotype of librarians you could think of, including the requisite spectacles. A little stack of plastic books was even thoughtfully included. And when you pushed a button in her back, she raised her finger to her lips. No shushing noise accompanied this action, but none was needed. The action said it all.

For some reason this librarian really struck a chord in us. Our agent, who was trying to show us the possibilities in the loft upstairs, came over to see what was so amusing. "This is great!" we said. "We need this librarian." Don't ask me why. It was just one of those things you know you need when you see it, though you can think of no good reason.

We asked our agent, only half-joking, whether the Shushing Librarian came with the house. Our agent, totally joking, said he would ask.

We were very disappointed when we didn't get the house, OR the Shushing Librarian. Our pain was eased with the thought that maybe she DIDN'T come with the house, and so maybe the new owner didn't get all that great a deal. As we resumed our house hunt, we kept an eye out for the toy. We found other similar action figures -- Rosie the Riveter and Nico the Espresso Stand Barista come to mind -- but no Shushing Librarian. One store owner tried to cheer us up by offering us a Sigmund Freud doll. We politely declined.

We have a house we love even better now, but still no Librarian. But, there's always Christmas...

Chuka-chuka boom BOOM

In these days of global communication, it's important to know at least a smattering of a foreign language. You never know, for instance, when you will have to take a day off work to sit in the cramped office of your local mechanic, explaining the noise your car has been making. I, personally, would far rather have to drag myself into the emergency room, bleeding profusely from deep bear gashes in my side and head, than to attempt to describe to a mechanic the sound my car is making.

Here is a typical exchange between me and a car mechanic:

Mechanic: So, what kind of sound is the car making?
Me: Um, I'm not sure.
Mechanic: You said it's making a noise, right?
Me: Yes. Yes, it's definitely making a noise. And it's not a good one.
Mechanic: Can you be more specific?
Me: Um, maybe if this was a multiple-choice type of thing, I could tell you better.
Mechanic: What?
Me: Well, multiple-choice tests are always easier than open-ended essay questions, don't you think?
Mechanic: Ma'am, this isn't a test...
Me: If you could just give me a list of sounds to choose from, I'm sure I could pick it out.
Mechanic, sighing: How about if I ask you questions about the sound?
Me, looking dubious: Okay, I'll try, but I'm not very good at oral tests, either.
Mechanic, settling back: Is the car making a grinding noise?
Me: Um, what would that sound like?
Mechanic: Geerogherrrrr.
Me: Nope, that's not quite it.
Mechanic: Okay, how about whining?
Me: You want me to whine? My husband says I can do a pretty good--
Mechanic: I'm asking if your car is making a whining noise.
Me: What does it have to whine about? Sure, we don't have a garage for it, but--
Mechanic, hastily: What about squeaking? Is the car squeaking? Or squealing?
Me, frowning in concentration: I don't think so.
Mechanic: Would you say it's a high-pitched noise?
Me: No, I'd say it's more middle-C.
Mechanic, reaching for Tums: How about this: tuckaTHUCKtuckaTHUCKtucka?
Me: No, but that's kinda close...more like...chuka-chuka-chuka.
Mechanic: Chuka-chuka-chuka?
Me: Yeah, you know, like a bike changing gears!
Mechanic: A bike changing gears.
Me: Yeah!
Mechanic: So, a ratcheting sound?
Me, uncertainly: I guess so. But there's something else...
Mechanic: Something else along with the ratcheting?
Me: Yeah...could you give some more choices?
Mechanic, sighing heavily: Grrrgulagrrgul vum wum wum...
Me, considering: Hmmm, I kinda like that one. Could you make it again?
Mechanic, reaching for aspirin: How about puhVROOpuhHOOpuhVROOpuhHOO, or floovb floovb floovb vwomp vwomp vwomp, or nnYinn nnYinn nnnyonggg nnnyonggg, or--
Me, jumping up and knocking over chair: That's it!
Mechanic, spilling aspirin all over desk: What's it?
Me: That floovb vwomp sound you said!
Mechanic: Floovb floovb floovb vwomp vwomp vwomp?
Me: Yes!
Mechanic: So let's see if I've got this straight. Your car sounds like chuka-chuka-chuka floovb floovb floovb vwomp vwomp vwomp?
Me: Yes! Yes! That's it!
Mechanic, beaming: Congratulations, ma'am, your car is in labor!

Surveys, prizes, etc.

Congratulations to Nosy and Nostalgic Neighbor, who so far is the only reader to have responded to our polite request for stories of favorite (or hated) childhood toys. For her willingness to share, we are pleased to award her the Librarian Action Figure with Amazing Shushing Action, which we introduced in that same blog entry (not that we want to shush our good Neighbor, we just think it 's a cool toy). To those of you who read the polite request but did NOT respond, we are forced to conclude that either you did not HAVE any toys as a child -- in which case we award you the Poor Pitiful Pearl doll, so fondly remembered by Nostalgic Neighbor, to remind you that things could be worse -- or else that you can't be bothered with responding to our little survey, in which case we award you the Annoying Choking Chicken. We'll even throw in a babushka.

Got buttons?

You know those extra buttons that clothing manufacturers so thoughtfully include with the garments they sell? Does anyone ever use those buttons? I have faithfully saved every button that came with every shirt, skirt, dress, or pair of pants I've ever bought, and I have never, ever used any of them. I have buttons dating from clothes I wore when I used my babysitting money to buy them, clothes that long ago went into the donation bag. I feel guilty for having given away clothes without also including the extra buttons. Like giving your sandwich to someone who is hungry but keeping the cookies for yourself.

Every time I've moved, I have studied my burgeoning button collection, wondering if it is worth taking along some 300-odd buttons that I have never used. But I dare not get rid of them, for then I'd be sure to lose 6 buttons off a shirt in one day. Keeping a button collection is like keeping an umbrella in your car: As long as it is there, it will never rain while you are out driving, but if you once forget and leave it in the house, it will rain like Noah ain't never seen.

The ironic thing is that if I ever did need an extra button, the one I needed would be sure to come up missing. I would pour out the whole collection on my kitchen table, or the bed, and frantically comb through it for, say, a largish black button with four holes. And what I would find would be 17 silver buttons with fancy little edges, or one bright red square button, or 5 lion's-head buttons, but no largish black button with four holes. And then what would I do?

I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd ask my mom if I could look through her button collection. With over 7 decades' worth of buttons, she would be bound to have what I need.

Toys, good and otherwise

My sister came to visit this weekend, as she often does when there are no better offers. We had a lot of things on our to-do list, like hanging pictures, painting the bathroom, and cleaning out the basement. It was a very ambitious list and the two of us, together, could accomplish a lot on it. So, naturally, we went shopping instead.

At one store I happened upon the PERFECT Christmas gift for the great-nieces and nephews on my side of the family. As you are no doubt aware, the only thing better than finding the perfect Christmas gift for someone is finding it in October. This never happens to me, perhaps because I do not generally start my shopping until after Christmas. But because I was not looking for gifts, of course I found them.

It was such a great find that I immediately rushed to show my sister. "Nyah, nyah," I sang when I found her. "I'm gonna be the favorite aunt-ie!"

Her face went pale, even though she knows there is no way in the world she can be toppled from her status of Favorite Aunt (of the Whole World, Not Just Family). She did, however, agree that with this toy, I could considerably raise my own status, which is currently Who Are You, Again?

In case any of the children's parents are reading this, this toy is a chicken that does the chicken dance, complete with off-key singing. But the BEST part is that when the chicken crosses the line (or the road) (sorry) from amusing to annoying, instead of simply shutting it off, your sweet, innocent children can put their chubby little hands around the chicken's neck and squeeze for all they're worth. This immediately induces the chicken to start fighting for its life, thrashing around, making pathetic squawking noises, flapping it wings violently, etc. Isn't that great?! This toy could change your child's whole career outlook, inspiring him or her to become a butcher!

Of course I am just kidding. I would never get such a mind-sucking, violence-inducing toy for a child. Or for my husband, for that matter. There's no telling what he would do with it.

Once, for instance, Joe and I were in a mall (Yes, I got him into a shopping mall. But just once) and walked past this display where a kid about 16 years old (who turned out to be the salesman) was maneuvering some sort of flying contraption. It narrowly missed the heads of several shoppers, including ours. I guess that was how he tried to get people's attention.

It got Joe's attention, all right. Before my eyes, he turned from a 30-something-old guy on the brink of marriage to a 10-year-old struck with infatuation over a toy helicopter. It could hover, fly straight up and down, and do other sorts of fascinating things (if you are a guy). It was without a doubt the coolest toy he'd seen since parting ways with his GI Joe action figures some decades earlier. The kid, seeing Joe's obvious interest (drool puddling on his shirt, etc.), offered him the controls. I glared at the kid and tugged on Joe, which is the universal command for "Let's get out of here!" This had about as much effect as asking a two-year-old if he wants to stop playing with his favorite trains to go potty.

I could see this toy ending up on our wedding registry, amidst the Addison dinner plates and Monet wine goblets. Absolutely useless flying thing, 1. Please ship directly to groom's residence, immediately.

In the end, it was Joe's reluctance to spend money on the thing that got us out of there without the toy. But all the way through the mall -- and for some time afterward -- it was all he talked about. The beautiful Christmas decorations impressed him not a bit. Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Great Pumpkin could have all walked right past him together and he would not have noticed. He was too busy planning how, IF he were to get this toy, he could mount it on some sort of track around the ceiling and actually make it useful by making it into a conveyor and having it fetch things for us. I thought that's what HE was for, but obviously I didn't know much of anything at that point.

So, yes, parents of children we buy gifts for, I realize the importance of choosing wisely when it comes to toys. That's why, this Christmas, everyone will be getting the Librarian Action Figure, with AMAZING Shushing Action! At least it might bring a little quiet to your home.

Tell us what toy from your childhood -- or belonging to your child -- stands out in your mind, fun or otherwise! What toy do you wish you or your child had never laid eyes on? Where can I get it for your child for Christmas?? (Just kidding on that last one.)

The electrician who didn't want to work

Some time ago I called an electrician to restore the lights in our bedroom and stairway to working order. It took him five minutes to determine that he was going to need to climb up into the attic and work from there. It took him two hours to try to figure out a way to avoid doing this.

I didn't blame him. Our attic opening is roughly the size of a keyhole. Things have been collecting up there -- debris, insulation, dead animals -- for 167 years. No, I did not blame him for wanting to find some other way to fix the problem. But I wasn't paying him by the hour to avoid working.

After I followed him around for two hours, pointedly looking at my watch every few seconds, he finally resigned himself to his fate. When you determine that you must do something you don't want to do, the best thing is to rope someone else into doing it with you. So he looked at me and said solemnly , "I'm going to need your help."

"Like...handing you tools and stuff?" I said hopefully. I wasn't getting paid to go into the attic, and I fervently prayed that I would not have to.

"No, it's a bit more complicated than that," he said. He went into the bathroom, took off the cover plate from the outlet, and motioned vaguely to the wires living behind it. "I'll be fishing wire down from the attic, and I need you to pull it for me."

I looked at the network of wires in the wall. It looked like those kids' puzzles where you have to figure out which balloon the clown is holding by following the string, which is hopelessly entangled with about 159 other strings.

"Will this be painful?" I asked.

"Nah," he said. "Only if you touch the wrong wires."

Thus reassured, I was immediately inducted as an Electrician's Apprentice. I felt a great sympathy for those young men of yore who were apprenticed to, say, a master joiner and had absolutely no idea what a joiner joined, or why, and who really wanted to just watch the clouds float by.

First, I was told, the electrician was going to have to drill. I expected him to drill into wood somewhere, so you can imagine my surprise when the drill started coming through the ceiling.

I protested this as strongly as I could, given that he was up in the attic and I was down a floor. He either did not hear me or chose not to.

Sighing, I readied myself for my responsibility of watching the little network of wires and, when I saw a new wire coming down, pulling on it. Our "creative communication" went something like this:

Electrician: Do you see it?
Me, hearing only what sounded like a cat crying from afar: What?
Electrician: I SAID, DO YOU SEE THE WIRE?
Me: Oh. Yes. I see it.
Electrician: WHAT?
Me: I SAID, I SEE IT!
Electrician: Mffmd mmfdem.
Me: WHAT?
Electrician: I SAID, PULL THE WIRE!

And so it went. Interestingly, I could hear perfectly fine when something went wrong up in the attic and the electrician used a few words that I'm sure are not in the Manual of Fixing Electrical Things.

Now, lest you think this apprentice thing was a cush job, let me say that the wire was not all that easy to pull. In fact, I had to tug so hard on it that I kept expecting, at any moment, to see the electrician himself pop right through the opening. Fortunately this did not happen.

After I had pulled enough wire to completely surround the bathroom, he came down from the attic. I was disappointed when I did not receive some sort of badge for my courage and heroism, or at least a diploma for successful completion of the Electrician Apprenticeship.

He wrote up his invoice and gave it to me. I looked it over. "I don't see anything on here about the hole in the bathroom ceiling," I said. "Don't I get a credit for that? Or how about the cupboard shelf that broke when you used it to walk across the beams in the attic? Or..."

But he was already out the door, on to his next Apprentice, who I'm sure he hoped would not have an attic.

Raisins

There seems to be an undue amount of attention given to raisins in the comments about the hypothetical casserole I wrote about the other day. I would just like to make assurances that there were NO raisins, real or hypothetical, or anything remotely resembling a raisin, in my hypothetical casserole.

I prefer to eat my raisins plain, out of the box, so there is NO chance of confusing them with something that might move, if you know what I mean.

Audiobooks, revisited

I know I have spoken harshly in the past about audiobooks that attempt to teach you something, as opposed to books that aim to wipe away every last vestige of brain matter you may possess. I much prefer the latter. But lately I've come close to reconsidering my position on this. Nonfiction audiobooks can actually offer several benefits.

First, they give you something to talk about with your spouse at dinner. It is well known that the number one cause of lack of communication among spouses is not listening to "intelligent" audiobooks. If the most exciting dinner conversation you have is whether to put more salt on the vegetables, imagine how that conversation can be transformed when you have spent your commute listening to a riveting account of how mold grows!

When I was listening to The Mayflower -- a book I highly recommend whenever you have approximately 3500 hours of listening time available -- the story was often the centerpiece of our dinner conversations. We would barely sit down before I'd blurt out, "Guess what? Squanto died!"

And this would unleash a flurry of discussion over whether Squanto, held up to generations of schoolchildren as the "friend of the Pilgrims," died of natural causes -- as is generally assumed by the non-audiobook-listening public -- or whether things were a little more sinister than that, as maintained by the conspiracy groupees, who are never happy when someone dies of natural causes.

The people in this story became like part of the family during the time I was listening to it. It was the first thing Joe would ask about when he came home from work. "Hi, honey, how's William Bradford doing? He sure got a wallop on the head from Mrs. B's second-best iron skillet!" Of course, watching a lame TV show like Lost will accomplish the same thing. During past seasons of this show I have felt like the characters were living with us. Only when they died, it was never from natural causes.

The second benefit of audiobooks is that they give you something to talk about at the hair salon, in the post office line, at the dentist's office -- basically, wherever you have to wait and want to help speed things up a bit. After five minutes of spouting Mayflower trivia, I guarantee that you will be ushered to the front of the line so people can be rid of you.

Third, it makes you feel pretty good to know something about the world, even if it's something that happened 300 years ago. Plus, when someone asks "Are you smarter than a fifth-grader?" you can answer "yes" and back it up with proof: "Does a fifth-grader know that the Pilgrims were actually trying to find Manhattan and accidentally landed at Plymouth instead? Of course not! They don't have audiobooks in schools! If they did, those kids might learn something worth knowing!"

So I heartily recommend "intelligent" audiobooks. Someday, I may even listen to another one.

Your name is served

Neighborhood cookouts serve a lot of functions, not the least of which is to remind you, once a year, of all your neighbors' names, which you will promptly forget until next year's cookout. This year Joe and I were determined that our ignorance would not be so apparent.

"Now, let's go over everyone's names and what we know about them," said Joe, before we left with our contribution of brownies. "Hopefully we can fill in the blanks tonight."

And so we began at one end of the block, naming residents, making up names when we had no idea, and offering little interesting tidbits about them that we might be able to work into a conversation to appear knowledgeable.

"And then there's JB, the dog," Joe was saying.

"Wait a minute," I said. "I thought JB was Amanda's husband."

"No, no, that's CJ. JB is their next door neighbor's dog...can't think of their names, though."

"Well, what is Amanda and CJ's dog's name? I thought the dog was CJ."

He shrugged. (We found out later that it is Levi, shortened to Lee because the cat -- whose name we never did catch -- also has a name with two syllables, and this greatly confuses Levi. Lee.)

When we were finished, we realized we knew more about the dogs who live on the block than their owners. We did know that there was one couple with a baby, a professional bike rider (who turned out to be the dad of the baby, not a separate person), two new couples we knew absolutely nothing about, and two Steves and a Steven. Happily, there are two empty homes, which cut down on the number of names we had to come up with. We gave up entirely on who might have cats.

Feeling confident, we betook ourselves down the street to the cookout. We listened carefully to everyone's conversation, filing away information, and didn't speak much on the grounds that then we couldn't embarrass ourselves. Unfortunately, the one time we did say something, we messed up by calling Chris "Dan" (now we know there are two Chrises, although there could be more). But we were feeling pretty good about appearing to know everyone and what was going on in the neighborhood. Then someone casually mentioned that Steve had moved out.

"Which Steve?" I asked.

"The one next to you," someone else said.

"On which side?" I persisted.

"Phil's roommate."

I was dumbfounded. How had I missed that bright-red car for a week and not realized what had happened?

"And Casey, too," someone said.

I looked blank.

"The dog," they reminded me.

"Oh, right," I said. "Of course, if Steve moved out, Casey would have to go, too," I said, attempting to cover up my forgetfulness of the dog who, for reasons known only to herself, frequently visited our porch.

We found out that Jeff and Kristen plan to move sometime, and also the couple with baby. "Oh, no," I moaned later to Joe. "If they move, and the two unoccupied houses get sold or rented, that means next year we'll have four new households to learn!"

"We can just call them all Steve," Joe suggested. "We're bound to be right some of the time."

Going buggy

WARNING: Today's topic deals with bugs. Specifically, bugs in food. If this topic makes your stomach turn, please go do something that is easier to, ahem, digest -- like read the morning paper or listen to the news.

Now, the situation I am going to describe is one that you may never encounter. But if you do, it is good to be prepared. Therefore I am going to talk about what to do when a creature lands in the casserole you are making.

Understand that this is strictly a hypothetical situation. I would never allow creatures in my house, let alone in my kitchen or my casserole. Uh uh. No way.

Now that we understand that this never really, actually happened last night, we can proceed with what to do if it were to happen. Strictly hypothetically, of course. Food-invading bugs invariably choose the moment you have finished mixing up whatever it is you are making -- in this hypothetical case, a casserole -- to land in it. They do not jump or fly in after just one or two ingredients are in the bowl, which might allow you to dump everything and start over. They're not stupid. They want all the good stuff, too!

This presents a problem. It has taken you a long time to put this dish together; you've probably been working on it since breakfast. You are minutes away from putting it into the oven. Do you really want to throw the whole thing out, although utterly disgusted by this unwanted ingredient, and risk a mutiny from your hungry husband and perhaps children and dog? If you do, what will you serve instead? Do you have a backup meal at your fingertips? If so, why did you bother making the casserole in the first place?

But back to our hypothetical dilemma. Let's imagine that in this case there is no backup plan, other than to run to KFC or serve Froot Loops. Your other choice is to -- here comes the squeamish part; it's not too late to go read that newspaper -- scoop out a section of the casserole with the bug in it and cook the rest. Fortunately the bug has not run all over your casserole, in which case it would be impossible to save, but imagine that this dish has enough mayonnaise in it to effectively render the bug unable to move. For those of you who are extra-sensitive to the well-being of bugs, we will be kind and assume that in this hypothetical case, the creature died instantly.

So you scoop out a portion of the casserole that has been invaded and dispose of it, preferably using toxic waste removal methods. To be on the safe side, you should probably remove about nine-tenths of the food, which means you might have to break out those Froot Loops after all. BUT, at least all is not lost.

The next step, as you put the much smaller casserole into the oven -- and this is very important -- is to remember which side of the dish the bug was on. This is the side you will serve to the other members of your family. You, of course, will take the unadulterated side. Hey, you've been through a lot of grief with this process; this is only fair.

It is well known that any contaminated parts that might remain before baking -- although if you have followed my directions, you shouldn't have to worry about that -- will, from the heat of the oven, be turned into cheese. Just make sure you leave the dish in long enough for this process to occur, which should be about two weeks or so.

NOW, the final step in dealing with this most unpleasant hypothetical situation is to decide whether to tell anyone else. In my opinion, this can serve no purpose whatsoever. Just tell them you put extra cheese in.

Although, on second thought, if you did tell them what happened, you would probably not have to cook anymore. Hypothetically.