Everyone is writing a memoir these days. After thumbing through a few of them at the bookstore, hoping to find something inspirational -- isn't that a major reason one would want to pen a memoir? -- I realized that there are a whole lot of people out there with a whole lot of personal problems. I had to double check that I wasn't in the fiction section. These stories are inspirational, all right -- they inspire other people with tragic lives to write their memoirs. "He thinks he had it tough, having no father and being abandoned by his mother at age 2 and being raised by abusive cockatoos? I can top that."
It hit me then that I can never write my memoirs. My life has not had enough misery, enough angst to tell a good story. My life has been too happy. Happy and simple.
A popular author wrote about this topic in my writing magazine. Like me, she'd grown up in a wholesome suburb, had parents who loved each other, and got along with her siblings. Her life hadn't had much trauma. She knew she wanted to write, but "write what you know" didn't seem like it would work for her: she didn't know anything.
Ah, a kindred spirit! I thought as I started to read her article. I eagerly scanned it for tips on what to do about this lack of traumatic experience -- after all, she is now a successful author, so she must have some good ideas to pass along.
It turned out that what she lacked for in experience she decided to make up for in research. Not armchair research, such as I am fond of, but research that got her out among diverse people, doing things like, oh, sampling beaver innards in Alaska. So much for a kindred spirit, I thought. Sure, it'd be a great experience to write about, but the rub is I'd have to experience it. Blechh.
"Well," I sighed to Joe, "I guess I am doomed to write about can openers. That's about all I know."
He tried to make me feel better. "But you write the funniest stories about can openers I've ever read," he said.
In a choice between (a) a miserable life and a bestselling memoir, (b) eating beaver innards and authoring popular fiction, and (c) can openers and a loving husband, I'll take (c) any day.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Death and gardening
A columnist in our local paper, whose opinion I respect (and whose job I wouldn't mind having, except that I would have to contract out the parts about gourmet cooking), stated that "death is a big part of gardening." Whew! Was I happy to hear that! I knew it was a big part of my gardening, but I didn't know everybody else had this problem. Although after the incident the other day (see previous blog entry), I'm not sure that death necessarily refers to the plant kingdom, if you know what I mean.
I've lost six plants already this year, and one more looks well on its way to following them. Naturally it has made me wonder what I am doing wrong. The columnist I mentioned, though, has really helped me out in this respect. He says whenever he loses a plant, he engages in "transference," better known in layman's terms as "shifting the blame." This means it is the plant's fault that it died, not the planter's. Hey, I like this guy better and better.
The problem when flowers die is that they don't get an autopsy, so you don't know why they died. If you knew that, presumably you could prevent other flowers of the same type from keeling over. But all you have is a long list of possibilities, like when you go to the doctor with mysterious symptoms: Could be overwatering. Could be underwatering. Too much sun. Not enough sun. Needed more plant food. You overfed it. Garden's too crowded. The plant got lonely. Insects got it. A weird virus spread by chickens got it. You didn't play enough country music for it. Who knows.
Unfortunately the columnist did not give any specific advice in this area. His examples were all about eggplant and such things, which I don't even eat, let alone attempt to grow. Maybe the next time I lose a plant, I'll send it to him and ask him to do an autopsy.
I've lost six plants already this year, and one more looks well on its way to following them. Naturally it has made me wonder what I am doing wrong. The columnist I mentioned, though, has really helped me out in this respect. He says whenever he loses a plant, he engages in "transference," better known in layman's terms as "shifting the blame." This means it is the plant's fault that it died, not the planter's. Hey, I like this guy better and better.
The problem when flowers die is that they don't get an autopsy, so you don't know why they died. If you knew that, presumably you could prevent other flowers of the same type from keeling over. But all you have is a long list of possibilities, like when you go to the doctor with mysterious symptoms: Could be overwatering. Could be underwatering. Too much sun. Not enough sun. Needed more plant food. You overfed it. Garden's too crowded. The plant got lonely. Insects got it. A weird virus spread by chickens got it. You didn't play enough country music for it. Who knows.
Unfortunately the columnist did not give any specific advice in this area. His examples were all about eggplant and such things, which I don't even eat, let alone attempt to grow. Maybe the next time I lose a plant, I'll send it to him and ask him to do an autopsy.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Tough times all over
It's been a little dry here lately. I was watering the flowers outside one day when I was accosted by one of the gerbera daisies. "You," it said, grabbing me around the neck with its long stem and dragging me down til my face was an inch from the flower's center, "you, with the watering can. Ain't ya got a decent drink for folk? Where's the hose, the sprinkler?" It gestured around the garden with its limp green leaves. "What's a flower gotta do to get a respectable bit of food and drink around here? We ain't seen rain in weeks, and you come with a miserly little watering can!"
I apologized for the inadequate water supply and explained that we had no spigot to which we could hook up a hose.
"Oh," the gerbera said. "Well, Daisy, there, you know she don't like this dry, wet, dry, wet business...kinda ruins her complexion, you know?"
I turned my head as much as I could -- the plant still had a good hold on my neck -- and looked at the delicate white gerbera next to him. I agreed that she was looking a bit peaked. I turned back and looked pointedly at the stem wound around my neck.
Daisy's protector abruptly let go. "Sorry about the roughing up," it said, patting me on the back to show it harbored no ill will. "I was just, you know, a little concerned about the situation. Hope I didn't hurt ya too much."
I refrained from rubbing my neck and assured the plant that no permanent damage had been done.
"Well, I guess it's hard times for everyone these days," it sighed.
I agreed, and said that I would try to make sure I watered Daisy more consistently. Daisy perked up a bit.
"Well, now, we'd mightily appreciate that," the gerbera said. "Course, I wouldn't want to take any refreshment away from all these other good folk here in the garden." He looked around, and here and there another flower nodded in agreement.
After saying my farewells I rushed into the house to call Joe at work. "You won't believe what just happened," I said.
"I can't talk right now, love," he said. "There's some emergency here...Mike was walking into work this morning and was grabbed and dragged by some plant at the entrance to the building. We gotta take him to emergency..."
I hung up and called Home Depot. "Yes, I'm looking for a watering can with a very long nozzle, say, from here to Texas...?"
I apologized for the inadequate water supply and explained that we had no spigot to which we could hook up a hose.
"Oh," the gerbera said. "Well, Daisy, there, you know she don't like this dry, wet, dry, wet business...kinda ruins her complexion, you know?"
I turned my head as much as I could -- the plant still had a good hold on my neck -- and looked at the delicate white gerbera next to him. I agreed that she was looking a bit peaked. I turned back and looked pointedly at the stem wound around my neck.
Daisy's protector abruptly let go. "Sorry about the roughing up," it said, patting me on the back to show it harbored no ill will. "I was just, you know, a little concerned about the situation. Hope I didn't hurt ya too much."
I refrained from rubbing my neck and assured the plant that no permanent damage had been done.
"Well, I guess it's hard times for everyone these days," it sighed.
I agreed, and said that I would try to make sure I watered Daisy more consistently. Daisy perked up a bit.
"Well, now, we'd mightily appreciate that," the gerbera said. "Course, I wouldn't want to take any refreshment away from all these other good folk here in the garden." He looked around, and here and there another flower nodded in agreement.
After saying my farewells I rushed into the house to call Joe at work. "You won't believe what just happened," I said.
"I can't talk right now, love," he said. "There's some emergency here...Mike was walking into work this morning and was grabbed and dragged by some plant at the entrance to the building. We gotta take him to emergency..."
I hung up and called Home Depot. "Yes, I'm looking for a watering can with a very long nozzle, say, from here to Texas...?"
Monday, June 25, 2007
A confusing time in history
My mom is a Revisionist Historian. Not of world history, but of family history. A woman who bears five children over a period of 20 years and spends most of her lifetime raising them is clearly a candidate for Revisionism. As I grew up I gradually discovered that things weren't always quite what she had told me they were.
Take the issue of her and my father's ages when I was born. Straightforward enough, wouldn't it seem? Nothing to fool around with there. Unless you are my mother.
I had always been under the impression -- indeed, my mom had told me so herself -- that she was 42 when I was born and my father was the ripe age of 45. Not so unusual now, but it was back then (and if you ask me when "back then" was, I shall do a little revising of history myself). These two numbers were burned into my memory. I recited them to everyone.
When I was 15 and entering driver's ed, I needed a copy of my birth certificate to show the driver's ed people. It was the first time I had seen it, and I was eager to look at it. I had always secretly believed that I had been adopted. Here was my chance to finally prove it! Perhaps I would find that my birth parents' names had been whited-out and my adoptive parents' names typed in their place. Technology wasn't too advanced back then.
And there it was -- my proof! Not in the names of my parents, but their ages. In the little box underneath "Mother's age," "41" was neatly typed. Under "Father's age" was "44."
"I knew it!" I said to my mother. "I was adopted! I always suspected I belonged to someone else!"
"What are you talking about?" she said.
"This!" I said, waving the document in front of her. "This proves I was adopted! How long did you think you could keep it a secret?"
She waited for me to stop waving it around and said calmly, "You are most certainly not adopted. I did not make up all that pain."
"Then how do you explain these ages on here?" I demanded. "You always said you were 42 when I was born, and Dad was 45. Here it says my real mother was only 41 and my father was 44!" I had her now, I thought.
"Oh, that," she sighed.
"I'm just finding out someone else gave birth to me, and you can only say 'Oh, that?'"
At this point my mother was probably severely tempted to say that yes, I had been adopted, and give me the name and address of some fictitious mother -- far, far away -- who could talk sense into me. Instead she shrugged and opted for the truth.
"I say I was 42 when you were born because I turned 42 just a month later. And your father was 45 just another month later. At that age, a month or two doesn't make much difference."
My big dreams of grandeur -- of being the real daughter of someone wealthy, someone who all her life regretted giving away her beautiful baby, someone who had died tragically and left all her money to that long-lost daughter with the stipulation that the first thing she do with the money would be to buy a car (after all, I was about to enter driver's ed) -- all came crashing down.
Part of me was glad that I hadn't really been adopted. I had the same mother I had always had, and yet she was not the same to me from that moment on. I realized that never again would I be able to take the Revisionist Historian's word at face value.
Take the issue of her and my father's ages when I was born. Straightforward enough, wouldn't it seem? Nothing to fool around with there. Unless you are my mother.
I had always been under the impression -- indeed, my mom had told me so herself -- that she was 42 when I was born and my father was the ripe age of 45. Not so unusual now, but it was back then (and if you ask me when "back then" was, I shall do a little revising of history myself). These two numbers were burned into my memory. I recited them to everyone.
When I was 15 and entering driver's ed, I needed a copy of my birth certificate to show the driver's ed people. It was the first time I had seen it, and I was eager to look at it. I had always secretly believed that I had been adopted. Here was my chance to finally prove it! Perhaps I would find that my birth parents' names had been whited-out and my adoptive parents' names typed in their place. Technology wasn't too advanced back then.
And there it was -- my proof! Not in the names of my parents, but their ages. In the little box underneath "Mother's age," "41" was neatly typed. Under "Father's age" was "44."
"I knew it!" I said to my mother. "I was adopted! I always suspected I belonged to someone else!"
"What are you talking about?" she said.
"This!" I said, waving the document in front of her. "This proves I was adopted! How long did you think you could keep it a secret?"
She waited for me to stop waving it around and said calmly, "You are most certainly not adopted. I did not make up all that pain."
"Then how do you explain these ages on here?" I demanded. "You always said you were 42 when I was born, and Dad was 45. Here it says my real mother was only 41 and my father was 44!" I had her now, I thought.
"Oh, that," she sighed.
"I'm just finding out someone else gave birth to me, and you can only say 'Oh, that?'"
At this point my mother was probably severely tempted to say that yes, I had been adopted, and give me the name and address of some fictitious mother -- far, far away -- who could talk sense into me. Instead she shrugged and opted for the truth.
"I say I was 42 when you were born because I turned 42 just a month later. And your father was 45 just another month later. At that age, a month or two doesn't make much difference."
My big dreams of grandeur -- of being the real daughter of someone wealthy, someone who all her life regretted giving away her beautiful baby, someone who had died tragically and left all her money to that long-lost daughter with the stipulation that the first thing she do with the money would be to buy a car (after all, I was about to enter driver's ed) -- all came crashing down.
Part of me was glad that I hadn't really been adopted. I had the same mother I had always had, and yet she was not the same to me from that moment on. I realized that never again would I be able to take the Revisionist Historian's word at face value.
The cookie debate
Joe and I are of average maturity, or so we like to think. Every now and then something comes up to show us that we, like everyone else, are really just kids on a larger physical scale.
We were heading to an outdoor Shakespeare play yesterday and stopped at Subway to get some dinner to take with us. I explained to Joe, who had gone next door to Starbucks, that the Subway guy had inadvertently switched our cookies. "I'm sure we can sort them out civilly when we get to the park," I said.
"Yeah, we're grownups," he agreed.
Ha ha, we laughed. As if we'd fight over something as silly as cookies.
Ha ha, indeed. No sooner had he gotten ready to take a bite of the chocolate cookie -- my chocolate cookie -- than I started accusing him. "That's my cookie," I said, trying to keep my tone polite. "Remember, I said the guy mixed them up?"
"But I told you to get me the chocolate macadamia nut one," he said.
"They didn't have chocolate macadamia nut ones," I said. "Just macadamia. The chocolate one is mine."
He peered at the cookie and pointed. "No, there's a macadamia right there."
"Those are white chips," I said, my voice rising. I was getting progressively more anxious that he wasn't handing over my cookie. The first thing I used to do when helping kids learn to settle their disputes with each other was to "neutralize" the object they were fighting over by hanging on to it so neither kid could claim it while they worked through their problem. But there was no neutral party at the park, unless you counted the guy sitting next to us, who suddenly seemed to be looking around for a different spot.
"Those aren't chips," Joe said with some disdain. "Look, they're the same as what's in this other cookie that you said is the macadamia one."
"I'm telling you," I said, my voice rising, "the sign on the chocolate cookies didn't say 'chocolate macadamia,' it said 'double chocolate chip.' So I got you the plain macadamia one. THE CHOCOLATE ONE IS MINE."
People were starting to look at us; the man and woman behind us were watching with open interest. We had become the pre-show entertainment. I leaned in closer to Joe and whispered vehemently, "Remember, we agreed we could divide the cookies civilly."
He looked at the cookie, evidently weighing my appeal for rationality and maturity against his certainty that the chocolate cookie was his. I held my breath while he wrestled with this, and then he opened his mouth and took a huge bite of my cookie.
"Told ya he'd eat it," the man behind us said as he sat back in his chair. The woman glared at him and reached into their cooler. She brought out a cookie and extended it to me. "Here, honey," she said soothingly. "You have one of my cookies. They're homemade. And chocolate," she emphasized. She gave the man next to her another glare.
Next time we get cookies, I'll do what any mother or teacher knows is the best solution: get everyone the same kind.
We were heading to an outdoor Shakespeare play yesterday and stopped at Subway to get some dinner to take with us. I explained to Joe, who had gone next door to Starbucks, that the Subway guy had inadvertently switched our cookies. "I'm sure we can sort them out civilly when we get to the park," I said.
"Yeah, we're grownups," he agreed.
Ha ha, we laughed. As if we'd fight over something as silly as cookies.
Ha ha, indeed. No sooner had he gotten ready to take a bite of the chocolate cookie -- my chocolate cookie -- than I started accusing him. "That's my cookie," I said, trying to keep my tone polite. "Remember, I said the guy mixed them up?"
"But I told you to get me the chocolate macadamia nut one," he said.
"They didn't have chocolate macadamia nut ones," I said. "Just macadamia. The chocolate one is mine."
He peered at the cookie and pointed. "No, there's a macadamia right there."
"Those are white chips," I said, my voice rising. I was getting progressively more anxious that he wasn't handing over my cookie. The first thing I used to do when helping kids learn to settle their disputes with each other was to "neutralize" the object they were fighting over by hanging on to it so neither kid could claim it while they worked through their problem. But there was no neutral party at the park, unless you counted the guy sitting next to us, who suddenly seemed to be looking around for a different spot.
"Those aren't chips," Joe said with some disdain. "Look, they're the same as what's in this other cookie that you said is the macadamia one."
"I'm telling you," I said, my voice rising, "the sign on the chocolate cookies didn't say 'chocolate macadamia,' it said 'double chocolate chip.' So I got you the plain macadamia one. THE CHOCOLATE ONE IS MINE."
People were starting to look at us; the man and woman behind us were watching with open interest. We had become the pre-show entertainment. I leaned in closer to Joe and whispered vehemently, "Remember, we agreed we could divide the cookies civilly."
He looked at the cookie, evidently weighing my appeal for rationality and maturity against his certainty that the chocolate cookie was his. I held my breath while he wrestled with this, and then he opened his mouth and took a huge bite of my cookie.
"Told ya he'd eat it," the man behind us said as he sat back in his chair. The woman glared at him and reached into their cooler. She brought out a cookie and extended it to me. "Here, honey," she said soothingly. "You have one of my cookies. They're homemade. And chocolate," she emphasized. She gave the man next to her another glare.
Next time we get cookies, I'll do what any mother or teacher knows is the best solution: get everyone the same kind.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Garden angst
Gardening is a rewards-driven activity. When the plants flourish and the flowers are bright and beautiful, I feel flushed with success and think gardening is the greatest activity one could undertake. I have even gone so far, when the garden is looking extremely well, as to consider joining the gardening committee to pass along my expertise.
Ha ha! Then reality returns. After sweating my brow off, half of the flowers die, and I am ready to kill off the other half and replace the whole lot with plastic flowers. With some gnomes and flamingos thrown in. No doubt this would be frowned upon by the gardening committee, who never kill half of their flowers.
And then there are the weeds to contend with. A brick walkway runs the length of the front of our rowhomes, and weeds are quite happy to live in all the little cracks. I was advised to put vinegar on them and they should -- and here I quote a venerable garden committee member -- "just dry up and blow away."
I had my doubts, but the source seemed confident, and if her front walk was any testimony to the power of vinegar I was ready to try it. Besides, it would save me a lot of work if it was successful.
And so I sprayed vinegar on the weeds. Without meaning to, I also sprayed the bricks, the street, the telephone pole, the steps, the trash cans, the cellar door, the neighbor's cat...okay, not the cat. But the point is that using a sprayer is not an exact science. Whatever's in the sprayer indiscriminately lands on everything. You hope it also lands where you want it to.
After drenching everything in vinegar, I sat back and waited eagerly for the weeds to die. I expected, oh, for them to uproot themselves, stagger around, lean over the sewer in a last-ditch attempt to get some water, and keel over into it, leaving me with nothing to clean up. After just 15 minutes, they...did nothing. After an hour, they still did nothing. After 2 days, they appeared heartier than ever before and stuck out their tongues at me. After a week, I finally gave in and pulled them all out the old-fashioned way. In the process I may have muttered a few things about vinegar and gardening committees.
When the walk was finally weed-free and I could barely stand up anymore, I looked around at my handiwork. Then I looked next door, where weeds continued to happily grow large, extended families, and tsked. What is their problem? I thought.
It doesn't take much to go from slobbishness to self-righteousness.
Ha ha! Then reality returns. After sweating my brow off, half of the flowers die, and I am ready to kill off the other half and replace the whole lot with plastic flowers. With some gnomes and flamingos thrown in. No doubt this would be frowned upon by the gardening committee, who never kill half of their flowers.
And then there are the weeds to contend with. A brick walkway runs the length of the front of our rowhomes, and weeds are quite happy to live in all the little cracks. I was advised to put vinegar on them and they should -- and here I quote a venerable garden committee member -- "just dry up and blow away."
I had my doubts, but the source seemed confident, and if her front walk was any testimony to the power of vinegar I was ready to try it. Besides, it would save me a lot of work if it was successful.
And so I sprayed vinegar on the weeds. Without meaning to, I also sprayed the bricks, the street, the telephone pole, the steps, the trash cans, the cellar door, the neighbor's cat...okay, not the cat. But the point is that using a sprayer is not an exact science. Whatever's in the sprayer indiscriminately lands on everything. You hope it also lands where you want it to.
After drenching everything in vinegar, I sat back and waited eagerly for the weeds to die. I expected, oh, for them to uproot themselves, stagger around, lean over the sewer in a last-ditch attempt to get some water, and keel over into it, leaving me with nothing to clean up. After just 15 minutes, they...did nothing. After an hour, they still did nothing. After 2 days, they appeared heartier than ever before and stuck out their tongues at me. After a week, I finally gave in and pulled them all out the old-fashioned way. In the process I may have muttered a few things about vinegar and gardening committees.
When the walk was finally weed-free and I could barely stand up anymore, I looked around at my handiwork. Then I looked next door, where weeds continued to happily grow large, extended families, and tsked. What is their problem? I thought.
It doesn't take much to go from slobbishness to self-righteousness.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
The middle seat
I am a middle-seat person.
In cars, on planes, at the dinner table when there are lots of guests, middle-seat people never get the outside seat or chair. They are always stuck between other people. They do not even try for those coveted spaces anymore; a lifetime of being consigned to the middle seat has made them assume, along with everyone else, that they will sit in the middle.
In a car, they have become used to squeezing their hips into a teeny tiny space and having only the protection of a lap belt. What does it matter? If there is an accident, they are not going anywhere because they are held firmly in place by the passenger on either side of them. When the car makes a sharp turn, they have gotten used to floating in space, with no door or armrest to hold on to. They have also gotten used to having the heat or air conditioning blasting right in their face.
Middle-seat people never fly on planes with only two seats to a side. They never get the aisle or window seat. They never view the clouds or city lights unobstructed. They never have the chance to stick their head out in the aisle for a little fresh air or a better view of the beverage cart. Everything is obscured by heads or tops of seats (unless they are tall, but middle-seat people are never tall). It is a little like being a child and seeing everything through a sea of knees. Middle-seat people never have an armrest to call their own, and what little space they do have is often encroached upon by their seatmates.
Middle-seat people also get the inside spot at the dinner table. All during the meal they are jostled from both sides, so that they end up sitting partially sideways in an effort to give themselves a little more room. Their knees are bruised from constantly banging into the table leg. They cannot comfortably get up from the table before the people on either side of them, as they have no side exit and no easy way of backing their chair away from the table if there is carpeting beneath.
You may be saying, "But middle-seat people are smaller. It's more comfortable to sit in the middle when you're smaller." As a lifetime middle-seat person, I can say that the middle seat is not comfortable no matter if you are the size of a flea. But this does brings up another interesting point: Are middle-seat people really smaller to begin with, or do they gradually shrink as their body is continually squeezed into tight places?
In cars, on planes, at the dinner table when there are lots of guests, middle-seat people never get the outside seat or chair. They are always stuck between other people. They do not even try for those coveted spaces anymore; a lifetime of being consigned to the middle seat has made them assume, along with everyone else, that they will sit in the middle.
In a car, they have become used to squeezing their hips into a teeny tiny space and having only the protection of a lap belt. What does it matter? If there is an accident, they are not going anywhere because they are held firmly in place by the passenger on either side of them. When the car makes a sharp turn, they have gotten used to floating in space, with no door or armrest to hold on to. They have also gotten used to having the heat or air conditioning blasting right in their face.
Middle-seat people never fly on planes with only two seats to a side. They never get the aisle or window seat. They never view the clouds or city lights unobstructed. They never have the chance to stick their head out in the aisle for a little fresh air or a better view of the beverage cart. Everything is obscured by heads or tops of seats (unless they are tall, but middle-seat people are never tall). It is a little like being a child and seeing everything through a sea of knees. Middle-seat people never have an armrest to call their own, and what little space they do have is often encroached upon by their seatmates.
Middle-seat people also get the inside spot at the dinner table. All during the meal they are jostled from both sides, so that they end up sitting partially sideways in an effort to give themselves a little more room. Their knees are bruised from constantly banging into the table leg. They cannot comfortably get up from the table before the people on either side of them, as they have no side exit and no easy way of backing their chair away from the table if there is carpeting beneath.
You may be saying, "But middle-seat people are smaller. It's more comfortable to sit in the middle when you're smaller." As a lifetime middle-seat person, I can say that the middle seat is not comfortable no matter if you are the size of a flea. But this does brings up another interesting point: Are middle-seat people really smaller to begin with, or do they gradually shrink as their body is continually squeezed into tight places?
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Neighbors
(No, C & A, this is not about you, so you can relax!)
We just learned that two young men will be renting the rowhouse next door to us. The previous tenant was a very nice young woman who was rarely home and, thus, caused us no trouble whatsoever. Except when a 20-foot gutter fell from her house and the one on the other side of her and brought down our cable line, but then we could hardly blame her for that.
Several thoughts entered our mind on hearing the news that guys would be moving in, the first of which was that we needed to stock up on earplugs.
"You know they'll be loud!" I wailed to Joe. "Loud music, video games keeping us up at all hours of the night, wild parties on the patio...they probably won't go to bed until we're getting up!"
"Yeah, and probably a bunch of their loud friends will always be hanging out there," he said glumly.
"Why couldn't the owner rent to someone nice, like an 83-year-old grandma?" I said.
"Well, she would have a hard time getting up those steep stairs in the house," Joe said.
I shot him a don't-give-me-any-logic look.
"I'm sure they won't keep it up nicely," I sniffed. "They'll probably leave trash all over the place, have broken windows...do you think they'll be into drugs, too?"
Joe shrugged. "Guys like that, who knows? Drugs, gambling...could be all kinds of illegal stuff."
"Gambling too?" I squeaked. "I suppose the cops will be over there all the time."
We sat in silence, contemplating the chaos about to be unleashed on our formerly quiet neighborhood. I didn't feel safe anymore.
"Well, there goes the neighborhood," I sighed. "And it was such a nice place, too."
"Yeah," Joe agreed. "It's been a great year, but I guess we should think of selling and getting out while we can, before things really start going downhill."
Another neighbor sympathized but advised that it was too soon to panic. As she pointed out, the gentlemen in question might not be all that young; they might actually be retired for all we know, and interested only in quiet pursuits. Such as bird watching, perhaps.
One can only hope. In the meantime, I'm going to start looking for industrial-strength earplugs.
We just learned that two young men will be renting the rowhouse next door to us. The previous tenant was a very nice young woman who was rarely home and, thus, caused us no trouble whatsoever. Except when a 20-foot gutter fell from her house and the one on the other side of her and brought down our cable line, but then we could hardly blame her for that.
Several thoughts entered our mind on hearing the news that guys would be moving in, the first of which was that we needed to stock up on earplugs.
"You know they'll be loud!" I wailed to Joe. "Loud music, video games keeping us up at all hours of the night, wild parties on the patio...they probably won't go to bed until we're getting up!"
"Yeah, and probably a bunch of their loud friends will always be hanging out there," he said glumly.
"Why couldn't the owner rent to someone nice, like an 83-year-old grandma?" I said.
"Well, she would have a hard time getting up those steep stairs in the house," Joe said.
I shot him a don't-give-me-any-logic look.
"I'm sure they won't keep it up nicely," I sniffed. "They'll probably leave trash all over the place, have broken windows...do you think they'll be into drugs, too?"
Joe shrugged. "Guys like that, who knows? Drugs, gambling...could be all kinds of illegal stuff."
"Gambling too?" I squeaked. "I suppose the cops will be over there all the time."
We sat in silence, contemplating the chaos about to be unleashed on our formerly quiet neighborhood. I didn't feel safe anymore.
"Well, there goes the neighborhood," I sighed. "And it was such a nice place, too."
"Yeah," Joe agreed. "It's been a great year, but I guess we should think of selling and getting out while we can, before things really start going downhill."
Another neighbor sympathized but advised that it was too soon to panic. As she pointed out, the gentlemen in question might not be all that young; they might actually be retired for all we know, and interested only in quiet pursuits. Such as bird watching, perhaps.
One can only hope. In the meantime, I'm going to start looking for industrial-strength earplugs.
Fear of commitment
Being in the market for a new can opener (see previous blog entry for why), I was talking with a friend about them. I mentioned that we didn't have enough counter space for an electric one, and she suggested a wall-mounted one.
I gasped. "I can't just put something like that on the wall," I whispered. "There's a process we have to go through to put anything on the walls."
Hanging things on the walls of my home, in terms of commitment, ranks right up there with buying the home itself. I have to find just the right item and just the right spot for it. This can take decades. The item occupies prime floor space while I decide for certain where -- or even if -- I want it on the wall. And the whole house has to be done at the same time, so that there is an overall theme to things. I am paralyzed by fear that I will ruin the wall, ruin the look of the arrangement, change my mind and have holes all over the place. Once I do put something up, it's up for life, so I don't want to screw anything up. The result is that a year after we moved into our place, the walls remain largely free of adornment.
Not surprisingly, this process sometimes exasperates Joe. He does not understand why perfectly good pictures and antique items have to remain in the moving boxes when there is plenty of wall space to accommodate them. He'll carry a picture around to every wall in the house and ask, "How about here? This is a good spot."
But it is never good enough for me, and I always beg him to wait on making a decision. As if another, more acceptable wall will somehow pop up further down the road.
One day we were trying to find the perfect spot to mount an antique cup holder in the bathroom. This should have been easy. We could pretty much rule out the wall with the shower on it, and of course behind the door. That left only two walls. And yet I just could not make a final -- for-the-rest-of-my-life, at least in this house -- decision. Who knew what could happen if we chose the wrong spot?
Finally, Joe said, "Here, give me that," and grabbed the drill I was holding. Without bothering to measure anything or even make a pencil mark, he drilled a hole, screwed in the cup holder, and popped the glass cup in the holder. It was all over in 15 seconds.
"Was that so hard?" he asked.
"It's too high," I said immediately.
"Well, that's where it's staying," he said.
And ever since, I have regretted putting it where we did. I look at that cup holder every day and will it to move lower.
We have not hung another thing on the walls since.
I gasped. "I can't just put something like that on the wall," I whispered. "There's a process we have to go through to put anything on the walls."
Hanging things on the walls of my home, in terms of commitment, ranks right up there with buying the home itself. I have to find just the right item and just the right spot for it. This can take decades. The item occupies prime floor space while I decide for certain where -- or even if -- I want it on the wall. And the whole house has to be done at the same time, so that there is an overall theme to things. I am paralyzed by fear that I will ruin the wall, ruin the look of the arrangement, change my mind and have holes all over the place. Once I do put something up, it's up for life, so I don't want to screw anything up. The result is that a year after we moved into our place, the walls remain largely free of adornment.
Not surprisingly, this process sometimes exasperates Joe. He does not understand why perfectly good pictures and antique items have to remain in the moving boxes when there is plenty of wall space to accommodate them. He'll carry a picture around to every wall in the house and ask, "How about here? This is a good spot."
But it is never good enough for me, and I always beg him to wait on making a decision. As if another, more acceptable wall will somehow pop up further down the road.
One day we were trying to find the perfect spot to mount an antique cup holder in the bathroom. This should have been easy. We could pretty much rule out the wall with the shower on it, and of course behind the door. That left only two walls. And yet I just could not make a final -- for-the-rest-of-my-life, at least in this house -- decision. Who knew what could happen if we chose the wrong spot?
Finally, Joe said, "Here, give me that," and grabbed the drill I was holding. Without bothering to measure anything or even make a pencil mark, he drilled a hole, screwed in the cup holder, and popped the glass cup in the holder. It was all over in 15 seconds.
"Was that so hard?" he asked.
"It's too high," I said immediately.
"Well, that's where it's staying," he said.
And ever since, I have regretted putting it where we did. I look at that cup holder every day and will it to move lower.
We have not hung another thing on the walls since.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Throwing in the towel
How do you decide when to throw things out? And how do you get your spouse to agree that it's necessary?
I'm speaking, of course, theoretically. We never have problems of this nature in our household. We both promptly dispose of items that have fulfilled their purpose and no longer fit into our busy lifestyle. Or our small house.
Right.
Some people have a difficult time getting rid of things even when they no longer work, and have no hope of ever working again. My husband is one such person.
For a long time now, the can opener and I have been at odds. I wanted it to work, and it did not want to oblige me. It repeatedly came up with new ways to avoid working. Sometimes it would get halfway around the can and then just stop, as if it were 5:00 and quitting time. Sometimes it was almost impossible to turn, and sweat would be pouring down my back when I finally finished turning it. Sometimes it would go all the way around the can, seemingly as it should, but the lid would still be as stuck as the day it was soldered on. In desperation I would sometimes use a bottle opener to punch little holes in the can and drain the contents, drip by agonizingly slow drip. I knew the can opener's days were numbered, but I also knew Joe would not see this issue quite the same way.
One day the can opener staged an open rebellion. It would not even grip the can properly. When I closed the handles, two rows of teeth met above the can. The teeth made a jeering smile, looking up at me, daring me to make the opener pry open the can.
"That's it," I said. "I should have done this a long time ago." I opened the wastebasket, held the can opener over it for a few seconds to let it know I was serious, and gleefully dropped it in. I felt a strange sense of giddiness.
And then I remembered two things. One, I needed that can opened to make dinner. Two, Joe would not be happy to know I had thrown something out, even if it didn't work.
I solved #1 by borrowing a friend's can opener. #2 was a bit more tricky. The can opener could still nark on me, lying as it was right on the top of the wastebasket, and Joe could easily take it back out of the wastebasket, which he might very well do. So I took a deep breath, plunged my hand deep in the wastebasket, and buried the can opener under the other garbage. There, I said. He'll never know it's gone. I figured since he didn't have much personal knowledge of the can opener, he would never know when I bought a new one that I had replaced it.
See the lengths to which a person will go when her spouse refuses to get rid of things? Reduced to hiding things at the bottom of the wastebasket.
I made one teeny tiny mistake, which ruined all my carefully laid plans. I left the borrowed can opener on the kitchen counter, intending to return it the next day. "Hey, what's this?" Joe asked when he saw it. Apparently he had enough knowledge of our former can opener to know that this wasn't it.
"Um, that's Abbie's can opener," I said. "I'm, um, watching it for her."
He looked skeptical.
"Well, actually, our can opener wouldn't work, so I borrowed hers." I was deliberately vague about the fate of our own can opener. I tried to block his view of the wastebasket so he wouldn't get any ideas.
"Well," he said, "don't throw the other one out. I'm sure we can still use it."
I must have looked guilty. Or maybe it was my eyes, straying toward the wastebasket, that tipped him off.
"You threw it out," he said accusingly.
I nodded.
"But it was less than two years old!" he said.
"It wouldn't work," I said.
"But it was less than two years old!"
"That can opener hasn't worked right for ages!" I said. "It's supposed to be this fancy thing that's soooo easy to turn and works like a dream but no, the stupid thing refuses to turn and this time it wouldn't even grip the can and I got tired of it not working and so I threw it out."
He looked at me as if I were a small child. "Was the can upside down?" he asked.
"What do you mean, was the can upside down? Of course the can wasn't upside down!" I said indignantly.
"Cuz I had trouble with the can opener one time, and I realized I had the can upside down," he said.
Of course, the problem is never with the object itself. I must have a faulty method of operation.
"It wouldn't work, I'm telling you," I said.
He sighed and looked at the wastebasket.
"Don't even think about it," I warned. "It's buried wayyyy down at the bottom."
I'm speaking, of course, theoretically. We never have problems of this nature in our household. We both promptly dispose of items that have fulfilled their purpose and no longer fit into our busy lifestyle. Or our small house.
Right.
Some people have a difficult time getting rid of things even when they no longer work, and have no hope of ever working again. My husband is one such person.
For a long time now, the can opener and I have been at odds. I wanted it to work, and it did not want to oblige me. It repeatedly came up with new ways to avoid working. Sometimes it would get halfway around the can and then just stop, as if it were 5:00 and quitting time. Sometimes it was almost impossible to turn, and sweat would be pouring down my back when I finally finished turning it. Sometimes it would go all the way around the can, seemingly as it should, but the lid would still be as stuck as the day it was soldered on. In desperation I would sometimes use a bottle opener to punch little holes in the can and drain the contents, drip by agonizingly slow drip. I knew the can opener's days were numbered, but I also knew Joe would not see this issue quite the same way.
One day the can opener staged an open rebellion. It would not even grip the can properly. When I closed the handles, two rows of teeth met above the can. The teeth made a jeering smile, looking up at me, daring me to make the opener pry open the can.
"That's it," I said. "I should have done this a long time ago." I opened the wastebasket, held the can opener over it for a few seconds to let it know I was serious, and gleefully dropped it in. I felt a strange sense of giddiness.
And then I remembered two things. One, I needed that can opened to make dinner. Two, Joe would not be happy to know I had thrown something out, even if it didn't work.
I solved #1 by borrowing a friend's can opener. #2 was a bit more tricky. The can opener could still nark on me, lying as it was right on the top of the wastebasket, and Joe could easily take it back out of the wastebasket, which he might very well do. So I took a deep breath, plunged my hand deep in the wastebasket, and buried the can opener under the other garbage. There, I said. He'll never know it's gone. I figured since he didn't have much personal knowledge of the can opener, he would never know when I bought a new one that I had replaced it.
See the lengths to which a person will go when her spouse refuses to get rid of things? Reduced to hiding things at the bottom of the wastebasket.
I made one teeny tiny mistake, which ruined all my carefully laid plans. I left the borrowed can opener on the kitchen counter, intending to return it the next day. "Hey, what's this?" Joe asked when he saw it. Apparently he had enough knowledge of our former can opener to know that this wasn't it.
"Um, that's Abbie's can opener," I said. "I'm, um, watching it for her."
He looked skeptical.
"Well, actually, our can opener wouldn't work, so I borrowed hers." I was deliberately vague about the fate of our own can opener. I tried to block his view of the wastebasket so he wouldn't get any ideas.
"Well," he said, "don't throw the other one out. I'm sure we can still use it."
I must have looked guilty. Or maybe it was my eyes, straying toward the wastebasket, that tipped him off.
"You threw it out," he said accusingly.
I nodded.
"But it was less than two years old!" he said.
"It wouldn't work," I said.
"But it was less than two years old!"
"That can opener hasn't worked right for ages!" I said. "It's supposed to be this fancy thing that's soooo easy to turn and works like a dream but no, the stupid thing refuses to turn and this time it wouldn't even grip the can and I got tired of it not working and so I threw it out."
He looked at me as if I were a small child. "Was the can upside down?" he asked.
"What do you mean, was the can upside down? Of course the can wasn't upside down!" I said indignantly.
"Cuz I had trouble with the can opener one time, and I realized I had the can upside down," he said.
Of course, the problem is never with the object itself. I must have a faulty method of operation.
"It wouldn't work, I'm telling you," I said.
He sighed and looked at the wastebasket.
"Don't even think about it," I warned. "It's buried wayyyy down at the bottom."
Friday, June 15, 2007
Bathroom dilemmas
As I mentioned in an earlier blog entry, the toilet lid at our house remains firmly down at all times. Not just the seat, the lid too. This is due in large part to the information we came across about how germs spread like 14 feet when you flush the toilet, making a beeline for your toothbrush. But besides that, we keep the lid down because who wants to look at a toilet bowl? Our bathroom is right at the top of the stairs, and the toilet bowl is at eye level when you come up the stairs, and it's not especially attractive even when it's clean.
Now this causes me a dilemma when I am at other people's homes. Do I put their toilet lid down, as I would at home, or would the next person consider this a nuisance? If I put it down, should I leave a note about why I am putting it down? Or should I just leave it up, as it was when I came in? Have the hosts read the germ statistics? Do they care that their toothbrushes might get infected? Perhaps I should leave the lid up, out of concern for the next person entering, but cover the toothbrushes.
The dilemmas do not stop with the toilet lid when I am a guest in someone else's bathroom. How do I arrange the towel after using it -- the way it was, all scrunched up from 13 other people using it, or folded nicely the way I would at home? And is this the way the hostess would fold it? Which towel do I use, anyway? Sometimes there is more than one to choose from, although generally the bath towels can be discounted.
And where do I stop after the towels? Should I thoughtfully clean up all the water drips between the sink and the towels? Should I replace the soap if it is getting low? Turn the shampoo bottle upside down to maximize the last little bit left? Replace the light bulb with a more efficient one? I am paralyzed with indecision.
And my husband wonders why I take so long in the bathroom.
Now this causes me a dilemma when I am at other people's homes. Do I put their toilet lid down, as I would at home, or would the next person consider this a nuisance? If I put it down, should I leave a note about why I am putting it down? Or should I just leave it up, as it was when I came in? Have the hosts read the germ statistics? Do they care that their toothbrushes might get infected? Perhaps I should leave the lid up, out of concern for the next person entering, but cover the toothbrushes.
The dilemmas do not stop with the toilet lid when I am a guest in someone else's bathroom. How do I arrange the towel after using it -- the way it was, all scrunched up from 13 other people using it, or folded nicely the way I would at home? And is this the way the hostess would fold it? Which towel do I use, anyway? Sometimes there is more than one to choose from, although generally the bath towels can be discounted.
And where do I stop after the towels? Should I thoughtfully clean up all the water drips between the sink and the towels? Should I replace the soap if it is getting low? Turn the shampoo bottle upside down to maximize the last little bit left? Replace the light bulb with a more efficient one? I am paralyzed with indecision.
And my husband wonders why I take so long in the bathroom.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Dirt wuss
Yesterday I had grand visions of cleaning our patio, the railing, the fence, and the patio furniture. All looked like they have been neglected since the Kennedy administration. But by the time I scrubbed the fence,the chairs, and the table, I was so sick of dirt and muck and cobwebs and spider eggs and bird poop that I had to put the rest off for another day.
Of course, we had a big storm last night and the bottom of the fence and the table have reverted to their 1960s appearance.
I am a dirt wuss. I hate dirt and getting dirty. No doubt I was one of those prissy little girls who cried if a speck of dirt got on me at recess. I probably never played with playdough (did they have it back then?). It probably also explains my lack of artistic ability -- maybe it's not that I don't have some, but that the thought of paint adhering to my arm hairs just scares the creativity right out of me.
This is also why I do not like to clean. You'd think I'd relish getting rid of all that dirt and grime around me, but I cannot stand being in the middle of it, or touching it. I do not like mops, dusting cloths, or anything else that is reusable. Looking at all the dirt they've picked up makes me want to throw up. Cleaning apparatuses that can be thrown away are the only ones I can stomach. I want the yucky stuff out-out-OUT of my sight. This is why, despite our having almost no carpeting in the house, I still vacuum everything. You gotta love those disposable vacuum bags. You never have to see what's been on your floors.
The vacuum offers the additional advantage of allowing you to remain as far as possible from the source of the dirt. If the dirt is on the other end of a long hose, you don't have to actually come in contact with it. This doesn't seem to be an important factor to Joe, who is in charge of cleaning our two stairways. He wasn't satisfied with any of the ways I suggested he clean the steps and was happy to use just a damp paper towel. Hey, if he wants to have only a micro-thin piece of recycled paper between him and stairs that are only slightly cleaner than the sidewalk, more power to him.
My mom, similarly, is not easily disgusted by the dirt she finds lurking in her house. She would always show me the bottom of the mop or towel she had cleaned her kitchen floor with. "Look how filthy this floor was," she would tsk-tsk.
Why would I want to see what I've been walking on? I suppose she hoped it would inspire me to greater heights of cleanliness. It only made me want to run, screaming, and donate my life's savings to science in the hopes that someone would invent some sort of sterile environment that would automatically remove all dirt and pathogens from the air and solid surfaces, while you sleep.
My aversion to dirt is also one of the main reasons I don't like to garden (that, and everything dies on me). It's why I don't like to camp, paint a room, or make meatloaf. Think about it. Doesn't that gross you out to put your hands up to your elbows in raw meat, eggs, and who knows what else? If I ever made meatloaf I would SO wear rubber gloves to mix it.
Some people love that primal feeling of being one with the earth and all that. I really wish I were more fond of getting dirty; I could enjoy the great outdoors, dig for worms, clean my own chickens and fish...on second thought, maybe I'm not really missing out on anything.
Of course, we had a big storm last night and the bottom of the fence and the table have reverted to their 1960s appearance.
I am a dirt wuss. I hate dirt and getting dirty. No doubt I was one of those prissy little girls who cried if a speck of dirt got on me at recess. I probably never played with playdough (did they have it back then?). It probably also explains my lack of artistic ability -- maybe it's not that I don't have some, but that the thought of paint adhering to my arm hairs just scares the creativity right out of me.
This is also why I do not like to clean. You'd think I'd relish getting rid of all that dirt and grime around me, but I cannot stand being in the middle of it, or touching it. I do not like mops, dusting cloths, or anything else that is reusable. Looking at all the dirt they've picked up makes me want to throw up. Cleaning apparatuses that can be thrown away are the only ones I can stomach. I want the yucky stuff out-out-OUT of my sight. This is why, despite our having almost no carpeting in the house, I still vacuum everything. You gotta love those disposable vacuum bags. You never have to see what's been on your floors.
The vacuum offers the additional advantage of allowing you to remain as far as possible from the source of the dirt. If the dirt is on the other end of a long hose, you don't have to actually come in contact with it. This doesn't seem to be an important factor to Joe, who is in charge of cleaning our two stairways. He wasn't satisfied with any of the ways I suggested he clean the steps and was happy to use just a damp paper towel. Hey, if he wants to have only a micro-thin piece of recycled paper between him and stairs that are only slightly cleaner than the sidewalk, more power to him.
My mom, similarly, is not easily disgusted by the dirt she finds lurking in her house. She would always show me the bottom of the mop or towel she had cleaned her kitchen floor with. "Look how filthy this floor was," she would tsk-tsk.
Why would I want to see what I've been walking on? I suppose she hoped it would inspire me to greater heights of cleanliness. It only made me want to run, screaming, and donate my life's savings to science in the hopes that someone would invent some sort of sterile environment that would automatically remove all dirt and pathogens from the air and solid surfaces, while you sleep.
My aversion to dirt is also one of the main reasons I don't like to garden (that, and everything dies on me). It's why I don't like to camp, paint a room, or make meatloaf. Think about it. Doesn't that gross you out to put your hands up to your elbows in raw meat, eggs, and who knows what else? If I ever made meatloaf I would SO wear rubber gloves to mix it.
Some people love that primal feeling of being one with the earth and all that. I really wish I were more fond of getting dirty; I could enjoy the great outdoors, dig for worms, clean my own chickens and fish...on second thought, maybe I'm not really missing out on anything.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
An even bigger cooler
Some of you may recall that a while back I wrote about our obsession with coolers and how we take food and beverages with us wherever we go, even if it's just to the mailbox. I submitted that story to my writing class, and my instructor noted that our obsession with always having food and drink with us was "funny, although weird." I guess I will take praise however I can get it, even if I have to be considered weird.
But he also suggested that I exaggerate the part about the cooler, specifically about its size. (If you recall, Joe was on the hunt for a cooler the size of New Mexico.) So, when it came time for me to submit a revision of a story I'd already done, I figured I could earn some points with my stingy instructor by taking his suggestions. I revised part of the story and resubmitted it for the last required assignment of the course, and low and behold my trick worked. He loved it. If only we could have started out the course with this glowing feedback.
But anyway, below is my revision of Joe's search for the perfect (read: enormous) cooler. Enjoy.
But he also suggested that I exaggerate the part about the cooler, specifically about its size. (If you recall, Joe was on the hunt for a cooler the size of New Mexico.) So, when it came time for me to submit a revision of a story I'd already done, I figured I could earn some points with my stingy instructor by taking his suggestions. I revised part of the story and resubmitted it for the last required assignment of the course, and low and behold my trick worked. He loved it. If only we could have started out the course with this glowing feedback.
But anyway, below is my revision of Joe's search for the perfect (read: enormous) cooler. Enjoy.
By the time Joe actually hit the stores to purchase the cooler, summer was nearing an end. Rakes and shovels had replaced most of the coolers on the shelves. Several nights he came home discouraged, but he pressed on.
One evening he burst through the door. “I FOUND IT!” he cried.
I looked at his empty hands. “Well? Where is it?”
“It’s being delivered. Should be here Saturday.”
“Delivered?” I said, puzzled. “Didn’t they have it in stock?”
“It wouldn’t fit in the car,” he said.
I felt a new sympathy for wives who yield to the impulse to take a blunt instrument to their husband’s head.
On Saturday a freight delivery truck pulled in the driveway. “Were you expecting something?” I yelled to Joe.
He looked out the window. “The cooler!” he said excitedly, and ran out the door.
It took six men to roll out the new cooler. It had eight wheels—two in front, two in the rear, and four in the middle. The lid opened with a remote control, which also triggered a rope ladder to fall to the ground for easy access. The cooler could hold a field of watermelon; enough hot dogs to serve a crowd of baseball fans; 1563 bags of buns; 250 pounds of baby carrots, 2 tons of catsup, mustard, and mayonnaise, and 10 barrels of lemonade. There would still be plenty of room left for several sides of beef.
“How do you propose we get it to the beach?” I finally managed to say.
“Oh, we can rent a trailer to haul it,” he said.
“It’s against the homeowner’s association rules to have something like that parked here permanently,” I warned.
He did not seem bothered by this. “Maybe we could build an addition to the garage.”
“Why don’t we just attach it to the house and use it as a walk-in freezer?” I said.
“Hey, that’s a great idea!” he said. “See, I knew you’d like it.”
I shook my head and started back into the house. He scrambled up the ladder and peered over the edge of the cooler.
“Allllright!” he yelled.
What now? I turned around.
“You should see the size of these ice packs!” he said.
They had better be big, I thought. He would need them for the king-size headache he was going to feel, just as soon as I found something suitably big to cause it.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Men, women, and criticism
I am just finishing up a 10-week course in humor writing. I've really learned a lot. For instance, I've learned that my writing stinks. Of course, the instructor did not come out and say this, but we writer wannabes understand instructors' little code words for these things. "This piece was light on humor" means you'd better not give up your day job. "This piece has no humor" means it would be better for all if you just retired to a deserted little island somewhere to spend out the remainder of your miserable, pointless days.
Poor Joe has had to put up with my frequently contradictory complaints about the class, assignments, and instructor. "We have to write 500 words about that?" "How does he expect me to write only 500 words about this topic?" "I wish he would give more specific feedback." "I want to know how I'm doing overall!" "Why doesn't he say how brilliant my writing is?" "I want him to be completely honest. I don't think he's being honest." "What did he mean, the ending was flat?!! It was a perfect ending!" "He said he liked the ending, but I think he was just being nice."
I also learned something during this course that had nothing to do with writing humor. I learned a key difference between men and women (besides the toilet seat issue, which I'm happy to say is not an issue in our house, not since I quoted to Joe a statistic about how far germs are spread by flushing). We women tend to complain that others do not give us enough strokes. That person's too blunt! we say. Too negative! Why can't he be more encouraging? We need some affirmation here!
But when I would share these sentiments with Joe, specifically about my writing instructor, he put a different spin on the instructor's perceived deficiencies. Don't take offense at the criticism. Learn from it. Use it to spur you on to write better.
This is how he reacts to criticism, to negative feedback. He does not crawl in a hole, pull his knees up to his chest, and feel sorry for himself.
I must say this was a revolutionary thought for me. Oh, once in a while I am able to recognize that criticism might, just might, have some truth to it. But first, I have to go crawl in that hole and feel sorry for myself.
It was hard to keep myself out of the hole during the class. I kept muttering to myself things like: Learn from it. It'll make you a better writer. Resist the urge to tear the instructor's head off.
I am sure Joe is relieved that the class is ending, and happy there is no Advanced Humor Writing. But just wait until I start sending stuff out for publication and getting rejections. We may have to make that hole big enough for two.
Poor Joe has had to put up with my frequently contradictory complaints about the class, assignments, and instructor. "We have to write 500 words about that?" "How does he expect me to write only 500 words about this topic?" "I wish he would give more specific feedback." "I want to know how I'm doing overall!" "Why doesn't he say how brilliant my writing is?" "I want him to be completely honest. I don't think he's being honest." "What did he mean, the ending was flat?!! It was a perfect ending!" "He said he liked the ending, but I think he was just being nice."
I also learned something during this course that had nothing to do with writing humor. I learned a key difference between men and women (besides the toilet seat issue, which I'm happy to say is not an issue in our house, not since I quoted to Joe a statistic about how far germs are spread by flushing). We women tend to complain that others do not give us enough strokes. That person's too blunt! we say. Too negative! Why can't he be more encouraging? We need some affirmation here!
But when I would share these sentiments with Joe, specifically about my writing instructor, he put a different spin on the instructor's perceived deficiencies. Don't take offense at the criticism. Learn from it. Use it to spur you on to write better.
This is how he reacts to criticism, to negative feedback. He does not crawl in a hole, pull his knees up to his chest, and feel sorry for himself.
I must say this was a revolutionary thought for me. Oh, once in a while I am able to recognize that criticism might, just might, have some truth to it. But first, I have to go crawl in that hole and feel sorry for myself.
It was hard to keep myself out of the hole during the class. I kept muttering to myself things like: Learn from it. It'll make you a better writer. Resist the urge to tear the instructor's head off.
I am sure Joe is relieved that the class is ending, and happy there is no Advanced Humor Writing. But just wait until I start sending stuff out for publication and getting rejections. We may have to make that hole big enough for two.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Dogs and babies
Joe and I could never be accused of being dog lovers. But since we live in a neighborhood where the dog population probably outnumbers that of humans, we at least have had to strike an uneasy truce with the dogs (we don't make threatening gestures toward their owners, such as saying hello or waving, and they don't attack us). And we recognize that dogs do have their uses. We don't always know who the people are who we see while walking or driving, but we recognize their dogs. "Oh, yes, there's Mrs. Bulldog." "Haven't seen the poodle's kid lately, have we? Wonder if he went off to camp or something."
The dogs also play a big factor in who we are interested in getting to know more. If a dog seems friendly, we might strike up a conversation with its owner. One morning I saw a woman passing our window who looked like she might be nice to know, but I couldn't see the dog on the other end of the leash. I got up for a better look and sat right back down. It was a Doberman.
But there is one dog in our neighborhood, Baxter, who we think is the Best Dog in the World. I'm not even sure what kind of dog Baxter is, some little white furry kind, but that doesn't matter -- he is the most well-behaved, friendly, confident, and patient little furry ball I've ever seen. He never barks, doesn't jump all over you, and doesn't lick you to death. He appreciates displays of affection but doesn't insist on them. His owner (we call her Baxter's mom, though she does actually have her own name) frequently takes him on walks, so we see him a lot. She says Baxter is one of the few dogs that the store owners in town will allow into their domains, on account of his extraordinarily good doggie behavior (he doesn't ask for treats). A couple of months ago Baxter was attacked by another dog in the area and had a long recuperation, which included the indignity of wearing a lampshade around his neck so he couldn't scratch at his stitches. The sympathy factor caused his popularity, in our eyes, to go through the roof.
But even Baxter has his moments. The other day a group of us had gathered outside to talk about the weather, recent vandalism in the area, higher electricity rates, etc., when Baxter, who had stretched out on the sidewalk and was peering intently into one of our neighbor's back doors, made a low growl in his throat. Not an unusual thing for a dog to do, but as I said, Baxter is the Best Dog in the World, and it seemed out of character for him. He isn't the type of dog to even give a squirrel or a rabbit much notice.
I looked at his mom, who looked at the door Baxter was growling at. "Oh," she said knowingly. "There's an evil baby in there."
We all looked. We could barely make out the shape of a baby in the dim doorway, but it didn't look evil. It looked like a baby, minding its own business. It wasn't making faces at Baxter or tormenting him with doggy treats.
Baxter's mom explained that Baxter didn't care much for babies and felt compelled to protect her from their possible evil influence. We all laughed at this.
Another dog sauntered over to Baxter and immediately began growling at the baby as well. Zach may have been looking for a little bonding experience, or he may have felt a need to show that he is just as tough as Baxter, who is a quarter of his size. I imagined a conversation between the two dogs.
Zach: What are we growling at?
Baxter: The baby.
Zach: What baby?
Baxter: The baby in that house, nitwit!
Zach (peering inside the house): It can't even stand up on its own! Looks harmless enough to me. Why are we growling at it?
Baxter: Dude, we gotta protect our territory! You let one of those things in your house, it's all over for you, man.
Zach: Oh, my owners love me too much. They'd never choose a slobbering baby over me.
Baxter: Man, you've got a lot to learn.
Zach (seeming to waver): You really think we're in danger from that little thing?
Baxter: I know it.
Zach: Grrrrrr.
We are comforted by the assurance that should we ever be threatened by an evil baby, Baxter (and possibly Zach) will be there to protect us. My real concern, however, is who will protect us from the Doberman.
The dogs also play a big factor in who we are interested in getting to know more. If a dog seems friendly, we might strike up a conversation with its owner. One morning I saw a woman passing our window who looked like she might be nice to know, but I couldn't see the dog on the other end of the leash. I got up for a better look and sat right back down. It was a Doberman.
But there is one dog in our neighborhood, Baxter, who we think is the Best Dog in the World. I'm not even sure what kind of dog Baxter is, some little white furry kind, but that doesn't matter -- he is the most well-behaved, friendly, confident, and patient little furry ball I've ever seen. He never barks, doesn't jump all over you, and doesn't lick you to death. He appreciates displays of affection but doesn't insist on them. His owner (we call her Baxter's mom, though she does actually have her own name) frequently takes him on walks, so we see him a lot. She says Baxter is one of the few dogs that the store owners in town will allow into their domains, on account of his extraordinarily good doggie behavior (he doesn't ask for treats). A couple of months ago Baxter was attacked by another dog in the area and had a long recuperation, which included the indignity of wearing a lampshade around his neck so he couldn't scratch at his stitches. The sympathy factor caused his popularity, in our eyes, to go through the roof.
But even Baxter has his moments. The other day a group of us had gathered outside to talk about the weather, recent vandalism in the area, higher electricity rates, etc., when Baxter, who had stretched out on the sidewalk and was peering intently into one of our neighbor's back doors, made a low growl in his throat. Not an unusual thing for a dog to do, but as I said, Baxter is the Best Dog in the World, and it seemed out of character for him. He isn't the type of dog to even give a squirrel or a rabbit much notice.
I looked at his mom, who looked at the door Baxter was growling at. "Oh," she said knowingly. "There's an evil baby in there."
We all looked. We could barely make out the shape of a baby in the dim doorway, but it didn't look evil. It looked like a baby, minding its own business. It wasn't making faces at Baxter or tormenting him with doggy treats.
Baxter's mom explained that Baxter didn't care much for babies and felt compelled to protect her from their possible evil influence. We all laughed at this.
Another dog sauntered over to Baxter and immediately began growling at the baby as well. Zach may have been looking for a little bonding experience, or he may have felt a need to show that he is just as tough as Baxter, who is a quarter of his size. I imagined a conversation between the two dogs.
Zach: What are we growling at?
Baxter: The baby.
Zach: What baby?
Baxter: The baby in that house, nitwit!
Zach (peering inside the house): It can't even stand up on its own! Looks harmless enough to me. Why are we growling at it?
Baxter: Dude, we gotta protect our territory! You let one of those things in your house, it's all over for you, man.
Zach: Oh, my owners love me too much. They'd never choose a slobbering baby over me.
Baxter: Man, you've got a lot to learn.
Zach (seeming to waver): You really think we're in danger from that little thing?
Baxter: I know it.
Zach: Grrrrrr.
We are comforted by the assurance that should we ever be threatened by an evil baby, Baxter (and possibly Zach) will be there to protect us. My real concern, however, is who will protect us from the Doberman.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Gifts
Joe calls me one afternoon to tell me he is coming home from work. "I have a present for you," he adds.
Oh, boy! I can't wait. What could it be?!
When he comes home, he hands me a square package wrapped in shiny silver paper. I look at it, and several thoughts go through my head, none of which are "My husband is so thoughtful!"
What I think is, It's not my birthday. It's not our anniversary. It's certainly not Christmas. And this is far too professional a wrapping job. There is only one explanation.
"Campbell gift?" I say.
He nods sheepishly. Campbell is where Joe works, and several times a year -- every other month, it seems -- the company gives every employee a shiny-wrapped package of some extravagant gift festooned with "Campbell and Co."
Though Joe has only worked there for three years, these company gifts are a large part of the reason we need extra storage. There is a large duffel bag. A glass ice bucket with tongs but no lid. A wine decanter that has an uneven bottom so that it sits crooked on the table and looks like it might fall over at the slightest provocation (a feature that, apparently, is supposed to allow for maximum "mixing"). For a long time we wondered whether there was something wrong with the one we'd gotten; maybe it had been a second-hand find somewhere. But no, everyone else's sat crooked, too.
And there are the shirts. Joe's entire work wardrobe consists of Campbell shirts. (And one tie, which he can only wear at company functions because it has "CAMPBELL" emblazoned down it, and only at Christmas because in between the C, A, M, P, B, E, L, and L are little reindeer.) These he does not give to me.
I look again at the package I'm holding. "Shall we play guess-what-it-is, or guess-where-we're-going-to-put-it?" I asked.
"I already know what it is," he admitted. "Some other people opened theirs at the office."
Selfish people! I think. They didn't take it home to their spouses first.
I open the gift and stare at the contents. This is a common reaction to Campbell gifts, other than the duffel bag and the shirts, which are pretty self-explanatory. In the box are two -- there is still an unopened lump, which I assume contains two more of whatever these things are -- pewter objects that look like small gavels. They have a crab engraved on the head and, of course, the requisite "Campbell and Co."
"What...are...they?" I finally ask.
"They're crab hammers," he says. "So we can have people over for a crab fest!"
I hope that he is joking. Not being a native Marylander, I still find it difficult to understand this state's obsession with eating crab. Crabs are not particularly attractive, especially dead on your plate, and the amount of work you have to undertake to get even a teeny tiny bit of meat out of them leaves you listless for weeks afterward. And the mess created by all this effort would dismay even the most stalwart of Molly Maids.
I will say the gifts are beautiful. Many are glass, or crystal, or, like the crab hammers, pewter. But having the company's name all over them creates a definite problem, one we have not yet solved. We cannot regift these items and give them to someone who appreciates crooked wine decanters and creating a mess in their home with crab fests. We cannot even sell them in our antique booth ("What if the president of Campbell comes in one day?" Joe shudders at the mere thought).
And so they end up, inevitably, in some remote corner of the basement, to be shuffled around whenever we need a suitcase or the Christmas ornaments. If anyone needs a gift, just let me know. We probably have just what you need.
Oh, boy! I can't wait. What could it be?!
When he comes home, he hands me a square package wrapped in shiny silver paper. I look at it, and several thoughts go through my head, none of which are "My husband is so thoughtful!"
What I think is, It's not my birthday. It's not our anniversary. It's certainly not Christmas. And this is far too professional a wrapping job. There is only one explanation.
"Campbell gift?" I say.
He nods sheepishly. Campbell is where Joe works, and several times a year -- every other month, it seems -- the company gives every employee a shiny-wrapped package of some extravagant gift festooned with "Campbell and Co."
Though Joe has only worked there for three years, these company gifts are a large part of the reason we need extra storage. There is a large duffel bag. A glass ice bucket with tongs but no lid. A wine decanter that has an uneven bottom so that it sits crooked on the table and looks like it might fall over at the slightest provocation (a feature that, apparently, is supposed to allow for maximum "mixing"). For a long time we wondered whether there was something wrong with the one we'd gotten; maybe it had been a second-hand find somewhere. But no, everyone else's sat crooked, too.
And there are the shirts. Joe's entire work wardrobe consists of Campbell shirts. (And one tie, which he can only wear at company functions because it has "CAMPBELL" emblazoned down it, and only at Christmas because in between the C, A, M, P, B, E, L, and L are little reindeer.) These he does not give to me.
I look again at the package I'm holding. "Shall we play guess-what-it-is, or guess-where-we're-going-to-put-it?" I asked.
"I already know what it is," he admitted. "Some other people opened theirs at the office."
Selfish people! I think. They didn't take it home to their spouses first.
I open the gift and stare at the contents. This is a common reaction to Campbell gifts, other than the duffel bag and the shirts, which are pretty self-explanatory. In the box are two -- there is still an unopened lump, which I assume contains two more of whatever these things are -- pewter objects that look like small gavels. They have a crab engraved on the head and, of course, the requisite "Campbell and Co."
"What...are...they?" I finally ask.
"They're crab hammers," he says. "So we can have people over for a crab fest!"
I hope that he is joking. Not being a native Marylander, I still find it difficult to understand this state's obsession with eating crab. Crabs are not particularly attractive, especially dead on your plate, and the amount of work you have to undertake to get even a teeny tiny bit of meat out of them leaves you listless for weeks afterward. And the mess created by all this effort would dismay even the most stalwart of Molly Maids.
I will say the gifts are beautiful. Many are glass, or crystal, or, like the crab hammers, pewter. But having the company's name all over them creates a definite problem, one we have not yet solved. We cannot regift these items and give them to someone who appreciates crooked wine decanters and creating a mess in their home with crab fests. We cannot even sell them in our antique booth ("What if the president of Campbell comes in one day?" Joe shudders at the mere thought).
And so they end up, inevitably, in some remote corner of the basement, to be shuffled around whenever we need a suitcase or the Christmas ornaments. If anyone needs a gift, just let me know. We probably have just what you need.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
The range revisited
All great writers, at some point in their writing career, put forth an article or a book or at least an ad in the phone book that generates both praise and criticism from readers. Yesterday's blog entry, on the proliferation of wildlife in our area, was just such a piece. I heard from others whose peaceful, tranquil lives -- and property -- has, like ours, been intruded upon by four-footed critters, and from some who admire these animals' intellect in getting us to provide them with free food.
But naysaying is always to be expected, especially if you are a great writer (awful writers, of course, have their naysayers as well, so that it is sometimes hard to distinguish between the two). Somewhat surprisingly, I received a comment from the animals themselves. On top of pilfering greens from our gardens and keeping us up at night, they are now demanding respect for these activities, with the somewhat lame excuse that we should find them "at least somewhat cute."
Now the idea that we should excuse inexcusable behavior on the basis of cuteness is not new. Curious George has committed innumerable mischievous, even destructive, acts during his long literary lifetime and has never received so much as a time-out in consequence. And in real life, babies and puppies get away with barfing on your best dry-cleaned skirt, chewing your shoes, and destroying your favorite lamp. But one hopes that these individuals eventually learn not to behave this way. Wildlife, on the other hand, though they might learn to display pseudo-civilized behavior (banging on doors, bringing along fork and knife to the garden buffet, etc.), never get to the point where they are truly well-behaved. They outgrow their cuteness the minute they sink their little teeth into your lilies. I used to think rabbits were cute. I know better now.
I realize that this blog may anger my wild neighbors even more. They are probably unionizing right now.
But naysaying is always to be expected, especially if you are a great writer (awful writers, of course, have their naysayers as well, so that it is sometimes hard to distinguish between the two). Somewhat surprisingly, I received a comment from the animals themselves. On top of pilfering greens from our gardens and keeping us up at night, they are now demanding respect for these activities, with the somewhat lame excuse that we should find them "at least somewhat cute."
Now the idea that we should excuse inexcusable behavior on the basis of cuteness is not new. Curious George has committed innumerable mischievous, even destructive, acts during his long literary lifetime and has never received so much as a time-out in consequence. And in real life, babies and puppies get away with barfing on your best dry-cleaned skirt, chewing your shoes, and destroying your favorite lamp. But one hopes that these individuals eventually learn not to behave this way. Wildlife, on the other hand, though they might learn to display pseudo-civilized behavior (banging on doors, bringing along fork and knife to the garden buffet, etc.), never get to the point where they are truly well-behaved. They outgrow their cuteness the minute they sink their little teeth into your lilies. I used to think rabbits were cute. I know better now.
I realize that this blog may anger my wild neighbors even more. They are probably unionizing right now.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Home, home on the range
The other morning I got a glimpse of what appeared to be the back end of a cow disappearing behind a tree across the street. Now we have a cow in the neighborhood? I thought. It did not surprise me at all, though; animals roam our streets and backyard -- they are notorious for not using sidewalks -- like it's an animal sanctuary: rabbits, deer, fox, cats...especially cats.
The cats here are demanding. They knock on your back door -- it doesn't matter whose -- when they're hungry and complain bitterly if they are left out in the rain or after dark: "Hey, it's getting cold out here! Do you suppose you could open the door, you miserable cat ignorer? How would you like to sleep out here?" It's gotten so bad I've taken to sleeping with a pillow jammed over my ears to drown out their insistent whining.
The other animals help themselves to everyone's well-tended flowers, the ones we have spent agonizing hours bringing to birth and coaxing back from the dead. They think we've opened a restaurant just for them: "Let's go to the Hosta Grill tonight! It's all you can eat!" And then they are off to someone else's yard for dessert, without so much as a tip.
The cow turned out not to be a cow, and I was rather relieved. But now I'm waiting for a bear to emerge from the woods and ask for a jar of honey.
The cats here are demanding. They knock on your back door -- it doesn't matter whose -- when they're hungry and complain bitterly if they are left out in the rain or after dark: "Hey, it's getting cold out here! Do you suppose you could open the door, you miserable cat ignorer? How would you like to sleep out here?" It's gotten so bad I've taken to sleeping with a pillow jammed over my ears to drown out their insistent whining.
The other animals help themselves to everyone's well-tended flowers, the ones we have spent agonizing hours bringing to birth and coaxing back from the dead. They think we've opened a restaurant just for them: "Let's go to the Hosta Grill tonight! It's all you can eat!" And then they are off to someone else's yard for dessert, without so much as a tip.
The cow turned out not to be a cow, and I was rather relieved. But now I'm waiting for a bear to emerge from the woods and ask for a jar of honey.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Whose birthday is it, anyway?
I want to know where it is written that it is a wife's job to keep track of family birthdays -- including her husband's family -- and send them appropriate cards. I did not sign up for this responsibility when I agreed to get married, unless it was in some fine print on the marriage license, which I admit I looked at only long enough to make sure I was legally marrying the right person.
After missing the first few birthdays in Joe's family after our marriage because I didn't know they had occurred, I decided Joe and I should split this responsibility. He buys cards for his family members and signs them; I do everything else. I nag him for three weeks to buy each card, I take it out of the bag when he brings it home, locate a pen that works, put the card and pen in plain sight so he will see them and realize he is supposed to do something with them, remind him who the card is for, nag him for four days to sign the card, put the cap back on the pen when he is done, put the signed card in the envelope and seal it, address the envelope, find a stamp, affix the stamp to the envelope, and put the card in the mailbox. You can see that we have a very fair distribution of responsibility with regard to this matter. I'm sure many women are not so lucky.
Husband: You want me to do what, now?
Patient wife: Get a birthday card for your mom.
Husband: What's that?
Patient wife: You know, a greeting card. "Happy Birthday," Hallmark...
Husband: Never heard of 'em.
Now before the man is married, it is perfectly acceptable for him to not only not send a card but to be totally ignorant of the fact that other people even have birthdays. If he is invited to a celebration for someone, he attends entirely based on the knowledge that there will be food served, a commodity in short supply in many bachelor households. At least, food that any human being would want to consume.
Joe was amazed at the amount of birthday cards I received the first year we were married. "How come you get so many?" he wanted to know.
"Because I send these people cards for their birthdays," I explained.
"Cool," he said. "Maybe I should send my friends birthday cards, too."
"Sure," I said. "First you have to find out when all their birthdays are, then remember to get the cards, then..."
"Forget it," he said, his eyes glazing over.
I smiled. Yes! My job description didn't need any expanding.
After missing the first few birthdays in Joe's family after our marriage because I didn't know they had occurred, I decided Joe and I should split this responsibility. He buys cards for his family members and signs them; I do everything else. I nag him for three weeks to buy each card, I take it out of the bag when he brings it home, locate a pen that works, put the card and pen in plain sight so he will see them and realize he is supposed to do something with them, remind him who the card is for, nag him for four days to sign the card, put the cap back on the pen when he is done, put the signed card in the envelope and seal it, address the envelope, find a stamp, affix the stamp to the envelope, and put the card in the mailbox. You can see that we have a very fair distribution of responsibility with regard to this matter. I'm sure many women are not so lucky.
Husband: You want me to do what, now?
Patient wife: Get a birthday card for your mom.
Husband: What's that?
Patient wife: You know, a greeting card. "Happy Birthday," Hallmark...
Husband: Never heard of 'em.
Now before the man is married, it is perfectly acceptable for him to not only not send a card but to be totally ignorant of the fact that other people even have birthdays. If he is invited to a celebration for someone, he attends entirely based on the knowledge that there will be food served, a commodity in short supply in many bachelor households. At least, food that any human being would want to consume.
Joe was amazed at the amount of birthday cards I received the first year we were married. "How come you get so many?" he wanted to know.
"Because I send these people cards for their birthdays," I explained.
"Cool," he said. "Maybe I should send my friends birthday cards, too."
"Sure," I said. "First you have to find out when all their birthdays are, then remember to get the cards, then..."
"Forget it," he said, his eyes glazing over.
I smiled. Yes! My job description didn't need any expanding.
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