Tour trolleys are a great way to see the sights in Boston. They are also -- particularly if you go with the one we did -- a great way to get stranded on the opposite side of the city from where you are staying. We fell into the typical tourist trap of signing up at the first trolley booth we saw, not realizing that this outfit was run by a bunch of puffer fish in the Indian Ocean. They had a suave spokesman, for sure, who promised all kinds of freebies -- a second day at no charge, a water tour at no charge, bathroom facilities at an exorbitant charge, etc. (Just kidding.)
In fact, it was the bathroom thing that should have tipped me off. The "office" of this trolley place was no more than a hole in the side of a building, but the sign proclaimed "Visitor Center," and I assumed it was the visitor center for the city, and I was looking forward to using the restroom that was sure to be located there. Imagine my surprise at finding, not only no public restroom, but no restroom even for the employees. As I said, this place was small.
"We should take the duck tour," I said to Joe. "Everyone says that's popular."
But Joe had not been impressed with the duck tours, which are conducted aboard a contraption that is both truck and boat, that we had seen in Philadelphia. Their drivers tended to do things like lead their groups in a rousing song of "YMCA" with both hands off the wheels.
So, eager to get started on our tour, we ignored all the warning signs of this particular trolley company and signed up. We were herded into line with all the other trolley tourists, most of whom were smarter than us and went with other trolley establishments whose trolleys routinely completed their circuit around the city in a timely manner. Each time a trolley showed up we tried to get on one of them, but once the drivers got a glimpse of our tickets they told us, in solemn tones as if they were very sorry for us, that we wanted the white trolley.
And so we waited for the white trolley.
And waited.
And waited.
People started offering us coins and bits of leftover food as they walked by, figuring we had been there so long we must be beggars.
I can tell you that there are many, many other white vehicles in the city of Boston besides trolleys. As we waited, we would look far down the street and, seeing a large whitish object, go into Excited Mode, which involved jumping up and down and running in little circles around the garbage can. Inevitably, the white thing would come closer, and it would be a garbage truck, or painter's truck, or some other disappointing conveyance. After a while I was ready to board anything white that had a driver, or even to knock the driver off the vehicle, but Joe persuaded me, through threats of jail time, to wait.
When our trolley finally did come, the driver was, predictably, youngish, with long hair and an even longer attitude. He said he was "early." Early for what, I couldn't fathom, unless he meant early for the 25th century. He proposed that we wait for more riders to board. I was tempted to tell him that there would be no more riders besides us, that they had all either died while waiting at the stop or been turned into statues that the pigeons were using for target practice. He seemed keenly interested in a young couple who had been on board when we got on -- I guessed that they had boarded when they were in elementary school and had been riding all this time, the rest of their school group having finally despaired of ever stopping and thrown themselves out the windows -- and grilled them about their livelihoods, home states, travel plans, whether they still had their appendix, etc. Us, he ignored entirely.
When we were finally underway -- miraculously, having indeed gained a few more hapless riders -- the driver gave us those little bits of information you would expect to hear on a tour of one of the oldest cities in the U.S., such as that he, the driver, had grown up in Mississippi. In vain we waited to hear anything of interest about the sights. We intended to get off at the first stop in Cambridge so Joe could visit some bookstores that he hoped would carry books on such fascinating topics as complex diversionary fuzzy functions, but after a while Joe whispered that he thought the driver had driven through that stop, and at the next red light -- at which the driver had to stop -- we hurtled ourselves through the door, bruised but thankful to have escaped.
After happily exploring Cambridge and Harvard, we thought it best to take the T back across the river rather than wait for another trolley. That turned out to be a wise decision. We would still be there if we had waited for the trolley, probably eligible for in-state tuition.
By the end of the day our feet were staging a rebellion and our short memories had all but erased our bad experiences with the trolley. We waited at stop #11, intending to get in on the rest of the trolley tour. We didn't expect much, but we had paid for stops #1-18, and we sure intended to get our money's worth. Again, we waited. This time we also called the trolley office, where a not-too-chipper voice informed us that the trolley would arrive at our stop at approximately 3:30. She declined to say which day at 3:30.
When 3:30 had come and gone, we started walking to the previous trolley stop, hoping to get a glimpse of our white trolley along the way. Instead, we came upon two young men who had been waiting at stop #10 since approximately two days after they'd been born, and had seen no evidence of our trolley. Plenty of the other trolleys, including the duck tour, had of course been sighted.
"We should have taken the duck tour," I said. Joe did not reply.
We waited some time yet, with Joe calling the office again and being assured the trolley would come in 15 minutes, but of course it did not. We finally left, sorry to abandon the two young men, who no doubt would remain there until their hair turned white.
Later that evening we saw, and I am not kidding, one of our white trolleys being towed away.
"Well, that explains that," said Joe.
By the end of the next day we had walked the entire city what seemed like twenty-two bazillion times. We were tired, far from our T stop that would take us back to our inn, and in no mood to hoof it. We decided to give the trolley one last chance. Actually, it was also our last chance to get back in time to grab our luggage and catch our plane. Surely the broken-down trolley we'd seen the night before couldn't be the only one on the fleet.
We were extremely fortunate that the trolley came this time within 10 minutes. It was full, and no one got off, probably because they were afraid they'd never be able to get back on, and we sank into our seats. It was the same driver, but at this point the puffer fish themselves could have been driving and I wouldn't have cared. Our two young friends from the day before were also aboard. All signs pointed to this being the last remaining trolley since the death of the one we'd seen the day before.
As soon as we were within jumping distance of our T stop, we again flung ourselves out the door. We had to go right by the trolley booth where we'd gotten our tickets. There was a swarm of tourists around it, and I was overcome with a desire to yell and scream at them to NOT give away their money to those puffer fish. In the interest of public safety, however -- ours -- Joe restrained me.
As we descended into the depths of the T station, Joe admitted, "We should have taken the duck tour."
Friday, September 28, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Planes, trains, trolleys, and other things you catch
Let me say at the outset that we had a good time in Boston. But as Christopher Buckley, who has not only traveled far more than I but also is much more famous, once observed, "Comfortable trips make for the worst stories. Better to have something to complain about." Therefore most of what you will read about our trip will make you think we would have had more fun being dipped in a vat of fish oil and set out as shark bait. Just keep in mind that this blog employs totally biased reporting.
If you are looking for a restful vacation, a destination where you can kick back and relax and enjoy the scenery and the sightseeing, I suggest you go someplace other than Boston. There is nothing relaxing about visiting Boston. First, as I alluded to in yesterday's blog entry, anyone who drives in Boston has a death wish. Therefore driving, as a method of getting around and seeing the admittedly interesting sights Boston offers, is out, unless you have extensive experience in the Indy 500 (or in Rome, which is much more dangerous).
As a guide for those of you who, even after reading these warnings, would like to venture into Boston, here is a primer on getting around.
There are a number of transportation options if you do not wish to become roadkill. One is the "T" -- the subway, which was built in 1897 and, judging from the feel of the ride, seems to contain many of its original cars. Then there are various buses and trolleys, taxis, and good old-fashioned foot power. To see the exciting sights in the city, this is the approximate route you should take:
Bus
Walk
T
Walk
Trolley
Walk
T
Bus
Walk
Trolley
Walk
Repeat approximately 2,379 times, and you will find yourself where you wanted to be, although not in any shape to enjoy whatever it was you intended to do once you arrived.
Let's say you would like to take the T. When you walk into a T station, you are immediately faced with a critical decision: How do you get out again? No, actually, you must decide what color line you want. Do you want the red line? Green line? Blue line? Orange line? Silver line? Polka dot line? No matter which one you want, you will always be on the wrong side. You will have to take a perplexing series of elevators, escalators, stairs, and hot-air balloons to reach the right track. Some daring people, people with adventurous spirit, spurn all these and march right across the track to get to where they want to go.
These people never again have to worry about whether they want the orange or silver line.
The green line has sublines that split off from the main line at some point. Because they were running out of colors, they named these A, B, C, D, gamma, and epsilon. I can't speak from experience about whether any of the other color lines also have multiple sublines, as we determined to keep things easy on ourselves and only go wherever the green line took us. But here's the tricky part: All these sublines are accessed from the same platform. Yes! So not only must you pay attention to the color of your train, you must also know your ABC's and watch for the correct train on the green track. (Hint: The cars do NOT necessarily arrive in alphabetical order, so don't bother humming the ABC song in an attempt to help you locate the right train.)
There is yet another layer of confusion to the T. Do you want inbound or outbound? This seems like a simple choice: Inbound should be toward the city, outbound away, right? Wrong. The inbound always goes to a Dunkin' Donuts (more on that later). The outbound appears to just travel in a circle and come right back to where you started, with no stops. There are people who have been on the outbound T since 1957. The rats of Boston, who are smart enough to figure out to ride the inbound, sometimes take pity on these outbound travelers and bring them little crumbs of donuts.
Assuming you have located the correct alphabetized train, on the correct color line, do not be lulled into inattention while you travel the T. I recommend remaining in a state of intense nervousness and alertness at all times, lest you miss your stop and end up somewhere in Oklahoma, which admittedly would be more relaxing than remaining in Boston. Being alert will help you realize that the voice over the PA that is supposed to be telling you which stop is next is actually speaking in tongues, so that you cannot make out a thing being said. You also cannot rely on the digital destination signs prominently displayed from the ceiling of the train, as they are just as likely to flash the score of the Celtics-Bulls game as the next destination. (Some riders have been observed diligently studying their subway map and muttering, "It doesn't say this train stops at Chicago anywhere.")
So the only way to be sure you get out at the right stop is to ask the person next to you, who hopefully is paying attention, which stop you just left and what the next one is. If there are no stops, you will know you are on the outbound train, though this will give you little comfort. Better hope the rats bring you some Chocolate Glaze crumbs.
Next: Tackling the trolley
If you are looking for a restful vacation, a destination where you can kick back and relax and enjoy the scenery and the sightseeing, I suggest you go someplace other than Boston. There is nothing relaxing about visiting Boston. First, as I alluded to in yesterday's blog entry, anyone who drives in Boston has a death wish. Therefore driving, as a method of getting around and seeing the admittedly interesting sights Boston offers, is out, unless you have extensive experience in the Indy 500 (or in Rome, which is much more dangerous).
As a guide for those of you who, even after reading these warnings, would like to venture into Boston, here is a primer on getting around.
There are a number of transportation options if you do not wish to become roadkill. One is the "T" -- the subway, which was built in 1897 and, judging from the feel of the ride, seems to contain many of its original cars. Then there are various buses and trolleys, taxis, and good old-fashioned foot power. To see the exciting sights in the city, this is the approximate route you should take:
Bus
Walk
T
Walk
Trolley
Walk
T
Bus
Walk
Trolley
Walk
Repeat approximately 2,379 times, and you will find yourself where you wanted to be, although not in any shape to enjoy whatever it was you intended to do once you arrived.
Let's say you would like to take the T. When you walk into a T station, you are immediately faced with a critical decision: How do you get out again? No, actually, you must decide what color line you want. Do you want the red line? Green line? Blue line? Orange line? Silver line? Polka dot line? No matter which one you want, you will always be on the wrong side. You will have to take a perplexing series of elevators, escalators, stairs, and hot-air balloons to reach the right track. Some daring people, people with adventurous spirit, spurn all these and march right across the track to get to where they want to go.
These people never again have to worry about whether they want the orange or silver line.
The green line has sublines that split off from the main line at some point. Because they were running out of colors, they named these A, B, C, D, gamma, and epsilon. I can't speak from experience about whether any of the other color lines also have multiple sublines, as we determined to keep things easy on ourselves and only go wherever the green line took us. But here's the tricky part: All these sublines are accessed from the same platform. Yes! So not only must you pay attention to the color of your train, you must also know your ABC's and watch for the correct train on the green track. (Hint: The cars do NOT necessarily arrive in alphabetical order, so don't bother humming the ABC song in an attempt to help you locate the right train.)
There is yet another layer of confusion to the T. Do you want inbound or outbound? This seems like a simple choice: Inbound should be toward the city, outbound away, right? Wrong. The inbound always goes to a Dunkin' Donuts (more on that later). The outbound appears to just travel in a circle and come right back to where you started, with no stops. There are people who have been on the outbound T since 1957. The rats of Boston, who are smart enough to figure out to ride the inbound, sometimes take pity on these outbound travelers and bring them little crumbs of donuts.
Assuming you have located the correct alphabetized train, on the correct color line, do not be lulled into inattention while you travel the T. I recommend remaining in a state of intense nervousness and alertness at all times, lest you miss your stop and end up somewhere in Oklahoma, which admittedly would be more relaxing than remaining in Boston. Being alert will help you realize that the voice over the PA that is supposed to be telling you which stop is next is actually speaking in tongues, so that you cannot make out a thing being said. You also cannot rely on the digital destination signs prominently displayed from the ceiling of the train, as they are just as likely to flash the score of the Celtics-Bulls game as the next destination. (Some riders have been observed diligently studying their subway map and muttering, "It doesn't say this train stops at Chicago anywhere.")
So the only way to be sure you get out at the right stop is to ask the person next to you, who hopefully is paying attention, which stop you just left and what the next one is. If there are no stops, you will know you are on the outbound train, though this will give you little comfort. Better hope the rats bring you some Chocolate Glaze crumbs.
Next: Tackling the trolley
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
The business trip
The Prissy Princess and the Gallant Hero faced a crisis in their short marriage: a business trip. The service of the kingdom called the Hero to a far-off land, a land where gangs of road bandits called Boston Drivers terrorize naive pedestrians and out-of-town drivers. But since the Hero's business would be conducted primarily indoors and require only foot travel -- from hotel room to conference room to food court, which was conveniently accessed via underground tunnel -- the Princess was not overly worried about road bandits. The real concern on her mind was: Who would kill the spiders at home while the Hero was gone? And, what would the Hero's attire look like when the Princess was not there to advise him?
To deal with the spiders and other creepy crawlies, the Princess utilized a time-honored method traditionally used by males: She simply didn't look for them. And when she did see them, she conveniently forgot that she saw them. This worked so well that she wondered why she hadn't thought of it sooner. The answer: She is not a male. As soon as the Hero returned to the castle, no doubt she would automatically revert to her natural behavior of ferreting out anything with more than two legs, screaming loudly for the Hero to do his hero-ly thing and take care of it. But for now, the technique worked quite nicely.
As to the the Hero's grooming, the Prissy Princess could only hope that, with everyone else's wife staying home like herself, the convention attendees would all look alike and no one would notice if, for instance, any of them wore white socks with black shoes and blue pants or forgot to put on their socks entirely. She thought it best not to ask the Hero what he had worn each day, although she did make a careful check of his suitcase before he left, surreptitiously replacing a few items that -- if worn on the Hero's person at the same time -- might spontaneously combust in protest against bad fashion.
The Princess congratulated herself that things seemed to go smoothly both on the home front and for the Hero far away. Little did the Princess know that her real worries would start when it was her turn to join the Hero in that far-away land for a long weekend.
Next: Getting around Boston (while keeping your sanity)
To deal with the spiders and other creepy crawlies, the Princess utilized a time-honored method traditionally used by males: She simply didn't look for them. And when she did see them, she conveniently forgot that she saw them. This worked so well that she wondered why she hadn't thought of it sooner. The answer: She is not a male. As soon as the Hero returned to the castle, no doubt she would automatically revert to her natural behavior of ferreting out anything with more than two legs, screaming loudly for the Hero to do his hero-ly thing and take care of it. But for now, the technique worked quite nicely.
As to the the Hero's grooming, the Prissy Princess could only hope that, with everyone else's wife staying home like herself, the convention attendees would all look alike and no one would notice if, for instance, any of them wore white socks with black shoes and blue pants or forgot to put on their socks entirely. She thought it best not to ask the Hero what he had worn each day, although she did make a careful check of his suitcase before he left, surreptitiously replacing a few items that -- if worn on the Hero's person at the same time -- might spontaneously combust in protest against bad fashion.
The Princess congratulated herself that things seemed to go smoothly both on the home front and for the Hero far away. Little did the Princess know that her real worries would start when it was her turn to join the Hero in that far-away land for a long weekend.
Next: Getting around Boston (while keeping your sanity)
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The biggest lower lip
My mom always said I had the biggest lower lip she'd seen. When Joe and I got engaged, she told him all about it. "Just wait," she said. "It'll be the saddest thing you've ever seen, and you'll be helpless."
But the first time I used it on him, he was not impressed. "That's all you've got?" he said. "Where's the lower lip the size of Texas, like your mom said? I could do better than that."
And he does. He actually has a poutier, sadder lower lip than I do. He doesn't use it much, but when he does, I am helpless.
Sometimes I stick out my lower lip just to think. It's odd how changing your facial expression can help you ponder weighty problems, like whether you really have to abide by the "don't-wear-white-after-Labor-Day" rule. But this multitasking of the lower lip confuses Joe.
"What's the matter?" he'll ask with concern.
"Nothing, I'm just thinking," I'll say.
He'll make a face of his own, one that clearly communicates his exasperation with the inscrutable ways of women.
"Well, use some other face for thinking," he'll say. "You got me worried."
Hmmm, maybe my famous lower lip is impressive after all.
But the first time I used it on him, he was not impressed. "That's all you've got?" he said. "Where's the lower lip the size of Texas, like your mom said? I could do better than that."
And he does. He actually has a poutier, sadder lower lip than I do. He doesn't use it much, but when he does, I am helpless.
Sometimes I stick out my lower lip just to think. It's odd how changing your facial expression can help you ponder weighty problems, like whether you really have to abide by the "don't-wear-white-after-Labor-Day" rule. But this multitasking of the lower lip confuses Joe.
"What's the matter?" he'll ask with concern.
"Nothing, I'm just thinking," I'll say.
He'll make a face of his own, one that clearly communicates his exasperation with the inscrutable ways of women.
"Well, use some other face for thinking," he'll say. "You got me worried."
Hmmm, maybe my famous lower lip is impressive after all.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Days off
Please be informed that the blog may be updated infrequently in the next couple of weeks, as the Prissy Princess is painting. No, really, she is just goofing off while the Gallant Hero is off to Boston to learn new ways to goof -- I mean, be more productive at work -- for a while. During his absence, friends and family are keeping the Princess occupied and away from paintbrushes, with which she might do considerable damage without supervision.
But take heart. Later this week the Princess joins the Hero in that city famous for its role in history and for its bad drivers, and the Princess and the Hero loose on the streets and subways of Boston -- neither has much sense of direction, which drops to nil in an unfamiliar place -- should make for some interesting tales when they return. So stay tuned.
But take heart. Later this week the Princess joins the Hero in that city famous for its role in history and for its bad drivers, and the Princess and the Hero loose on the streets and subways of Boston -- neither has much sense of direction, which drops to nil in an unfamiliar place -- should make for some interesting tales when they return. So stay tuned.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Date, please
WARNING:Today's blog entry concerns a certain "female issue," so you squeamish males can just stop reading now and go do something that will not make you squeamish, such as killing large spiders.
Today's topic is rarely discussed, even among women who laugh at squeamishness. Why is it, when a woman goes to the doctor, she is always asked the date of her last menstrual period? It does not matter if she is seeing the foot doctor for bunions, she is expected to know this information off the top of her head, as well as the dates and times of all her other periods since they began, and those of her immediate female relatives as well. I have yet to hear of any medical reason why periods and bunions should be related, but there must be some sort of connection there.
The average woman has enough on her mind when she goes to the doctor's. The groceries she must pick up on the way home. Her aching bunions. Whether she will have to put on one of those ridiculously tiny gowns to have her bunions examined.
In the midst of these worries, the woman is asked -- sometimes by several different people -- when her last period was. If the hapless patient cannot give an immediate answer that makes sense -- "last month" is not acceptable -- she is made to feel ashamed of herself for being so out of touch with her body. The question is asked so perfunctorily that the woman is sure that every other patient can answer without thinking. What is wrong with her? The frowning nurse plunks down a calendar in front of the patient to jog her memory. "Somewhere about...here" the patient will say, taking a wild stab at the calendar with her finger and landing on a date 6 months from now. And if she does happen to come up with a date that sounds plausible, the nurse will then inquire as to exact time of day, where the patient was, how she felt, whether she has eaten popcorn lately, etc.
After several incidences of this embarrassment, the woman might learn to rehearse, all the way to the doctor's office, the all-important date. If she is stopped for speeding on the way and asked if she knows why she was stopped, she will blurt out "November 22!" When she arrives at the office, she will write down "November 22!" on the sign-in sheet at the desk. The anxiety to remember it builds until, when the nurse asks, "First day of your last menstrual period?" the patient will blurt out, "I was speeding!"
I look forward to the day when I can go to the foot doctor -- or any other doctor -- and not be asked this question, probably when I'm about 83. But by then, I'll probably know the answer.
Today's topic is rarely discussed, even among women who laugh at squeamishness. Why is it, when a woman goes to the doctor, she is always asked the date of her last menstrual period? It does not matter if she is seeing the foot doctor for bunions, she is expected to know this information off the top of her head, as well as the dates and times of all her other periods since they began, and those of her immediate female relatives as well. I have yet to hear of any medical reason why periods and bunions should be related, but there must be some sort of connection there.
The average woman has enough on her mind when she goes to the doctor's. The groceries she must pick up on the way home. Her aching bunions. Whether she will have to put on one of those ridiculously tiny gowns to have her bunions examined.
In the midst of these worries, the woman is asked -- sometimes by several different people -- when her last period was. If the hapless patient cannot give an immediate answer that makes sense -- "last month" is not acceptable -- she is made to feel ashamed of herself for being so out of touch with her body. The question is asked so perfunctorily that the woman is sure that every other patient can answer without thinking. What is wrong with her? The frowning nurse plunks down a calendar in front of the patient to jog her memory. "Somewhere about...here" the patient will say, taking a wild stab at the calendar with her finger and landing on a date 6 months from now. And if she does happen to come up with a date that sounds plausible, the nurse will then inquire as to exact time of day, where the patient was, how she felt, whether she has eaten popcorn lately, etc.
After several incidences of this embarrassment, the woman might learn to rehearse, all the way to the doctor's office, the all-important date. If she is stopped for speeding on the way and asked if she knows why she was stopped, she will blurt out "November 22!" When she arrives at the office, she will write down "November 22!" on the sign-in sheet at the desk. The anxiety to remember it builds until, when the nurse asks, "First day of your last menstrual period?" the patient will blurt out, "I was speeding!"
I look forward to the day when I can go to the foot doctor -- or any other doctor -- and not be asked this question, probably when I'm about 83. But by then, I'll probably know the answer.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
By the numbers
It has been brought to my attention that there have been no new blogs for (gasp) two days. I could blame it on the Gallant Hero, who is busy with his studies and therefore has had little opportunity to provide me with writing material. However, if I were to allow this to influence my frequency of writing, then you would see no new blog entries for the next few years.
Or, I could take the high road and admit the fault is all mine, and immediately set about to rectify the situation. Being one to shift responsibility to others whenever I can, this is personally my least favorite option, but I guess traveling on the high road never gave anyone travel sickness.
When one has little writing material to work with (i.e., nothing interesting has happened of late), one must delve into that bottomless well of ideas: can openers. Just kidding! I'm sure you will be greatly relieved to know that even I cannot think of anything new to write about THAT subject.
Our lives are increasingly controlled by numbers -- Social Security numbers, home phone numbers, cell phone numbers, work phone numbers, house numbers, student ID numbers, confirmation numbers for everything imaginable, prisoner numbers...At our house, another kind of number rules. This is the number of things we have.
The other day I was rearranging glasses and mugs in the kitchen cupboard to make room for some mugs we'd gotten last Christmas (this is how long it takes us to put away our Christmas gifts). Amazed at the seemingly endless number of glasses and mugs, I was seized with a curiosity to know exactly how many we had. I blame this abnormal curiosity on my mother, who counts obsessively and can tell you exactly how many steps there are in any given stairway, or how many boards there are in a wooden fence.
But back to our cupboard. Among water glasses, juice glasses, coffee mugs (which only one of us uses for coffee), plastic glasses (so we don't have to worry about breaking the glass ones), and kids' cups (for when all the other plastic ones are dirty), I counted 43 drinking vessels. And these are just the ones we use for every day. Fortunately, the goblets in the china cabinet did not, to my knowledge, need any rearranging, and therefore I was spared from counting those, too. I know that after our wedding we had 24 in there, but I suspect that they have been multiplying behind closed doors. They are probably holding family reunions.
Another day when I was folding towels, I said to Joe, "Did you know we have 17 washcloths?" It did not seem to impress him as overly extravagant that two people should have 17 washcloths. He merely shrugged, grabbed one off the top of the pile, and headed to the shower. He, the Math Wizard, does not waste too much time worrying about the more philosophical aspects of numbers.
The real question raised by all this number crunching, which no doubt has already formed in the minds of those of you who have been following closely, is why do we have odd numbers of everything?
Looks like I'm going to have to start checking out those family reunions going on behind closed doors.
Or, I could take the high road and admit the fault is all mine, and immediately set about to rectify the situation. Being one to shift responsibility to others whenever I can, this is personally my least favorite option, but I guess traveling on the high road never gave anyone travel sickness.
When one has little writing material to work with (i.e., nothing interesting has happened of late), one must delve into that bottomless well of ideas: can openers. Just kidding! I'm sure you will be greatly relieved to know that even I cannot think of anything new to write about THAT subject.
Our lives are increasingly controlled by numbers -- Social Security numbers, home phone numbers, cell phone numbers, work phone numbers, house numbers, student ID numbers, confirmation numbers for everything imaginable, prisoner numbers...At our house, another kind of number rules. This is the number of things we have.
The other day I was rearranging glasses and mugs in the kitchen cupboard to make room for some mugs we'd gotten last Christmas (this is how long it takes us to put away our Christmas gifts). Amazed at the seemingly endless number of glasses and mugs, I was seized with a curiosity to know exactly how many we had. I blame this abnormal curiosity on my mother, who counts obsessively and can tell you exactly how many steps there are in any given stairway, or how many boards there are in a wooden fence.
But back to our cupboard. Among water glasses, juice glasses, coffee mugs (which only one of us uses for coffee), plastic glasses (so we don't have to worry about breaking the glass ones), and kids' cups (for when all the other plastic ones are dirty), I counted 43 drinking vessels. And these are just the ones we use for every day. Fortunately, the goblets in the china cabinet did not, to my knowledge, need any rearranging, and therefore I was spared from counting those, too. I know that after our wedding we had 24 in there, but I suspect that they have been multiplying behind closed doors. They are probably holding family reunions.
Another day when I was folding towels, I said to Joe, "Did you know we have 17 washcloths?" It did not seem to impress him as overly extravagant that two people should have 17 washcloths. He merely shrugged, grabbed one off the top of the pile, and headed to the shower. He, the Math Wizard, does not waste too much time worrying about the more philosophical aspects of numbers.
The real question raised by all this number crunching, which no doubt has already formed in the minds of those of you who have been following closely, is why do we have odd numbers of everything?
Looks like I'm going to have to start checking out those family reunions going on behind closed doors.
Monday, September 10, 2007
A little history lesson
Many people are bored by history. If they didn't get to experience it firsthand, they are not interested in learning about it after the fact. But learning about history can be quite exciting, and you can discover some unexpected and, dare I say, surprising things.
Take our recent trip to Philadelphia. If ever there was a city made for the learning of history, this is it. Crucial events took place here, events that made our nation what it is today: a nation of people curious to see where the movie "National Treasure" took place. You can also gain fascinating knowledge about our Founding Fathers in Philadelphia. For instance, we learned that Benjamin Franklin, in 1787, decided that his "privy pit" was much too small given his social standing and had a larger one built. The historical significance of this is obvious. Since that time, millions of Americans have followed Franklin's example and remodeled their bathrooms. Unfortunately, many of them have not followed his example of frugality and have gone into debt to finance this remodeling.
You can see Franklin's privy pit today, through a glass-covered hole in the ground. Even the most history-averse person cannot stand at this site, looking down into the large, brick-lined pit several feet deep, without being moved to wonder whether people in Franklin's day used toilet paper.
Astute observers at the site will note that Franklin's neighbor's privy pit was only a few feet from his water supply. In these days of white-washing the truth, it is refreshing to know that the people of the National Parks Service, who oversee these particular historical sites, did not try to hide this unsavory fact from the public.
Also in Philadelphia, there is an old street called Elfreth's Alley, which is where they used to house immigrants who were unable to pronounce "Elfreth." No, actually, Elfreth's Alley is one of the few intact streets of rowhomes from the 18th century left in the country. And, if you believe the postcard about Elfreth's Alley that I saw in a gift store, "many of the original residents are still standing."
Those residents must be pretty tired by this time, that's all I've got to say.
Philadelphia, of course, does not have a monopoly on exciting history. The Alabama Historical Commission's Web site boasts, among other activities, an "active cemetery program."
The site does not explain what, exactly, an "active cemetery program" involves, but someone should check to see if there have been any mysterious disappearances of people on historic tours down there. Whatever it is, we can safely assume that it doesn't involve the original residents of Elfreth's Alley, who are still standing after two centuries. Maybe they are waiting in line to use Franklin's privy pit.
Take our recent trip to Philadelphia. If ever there was a city made for the learning of history, this is it. Crucial events took place here, events that made our nation what it is today: a nation of people curious to see where the movie "National Treasure" took place. You can also gain fascinating knowledge about our Founding Fathers in Philadelphia. For instance, we learned that Benjamin Franklin, in 1787, decided that his "privy pit" was much too small given his social standing and had a larger one built. The historical significance of this is obvious. Since that time, millions of Americans have followed Franklin's example and remodeled their bathrooms. Unfortunately, many of them have not followed his example of frugality and have gone into debt to finance this remodeling.
You can see Franklin's privy pit today, through a glass-covered hole in the ground. Even the most history-averse person cannot stand at this site, looking down into the large, brick-lined pit several feet deep, without being moved to wonder whether people in Franklin's day used toilet paper.
Astute observers at the site will note that Franklin's neighbor's privy pit was only a few feet from his water supply. In these days of white-washing the truth, it is refreshing to know that the people of the National Parks Service, who oversee these particular historical sites, did not try to hide this unsavory fact from the public.
Also in Philadelphia, there is an old street called Elfreth's Alley, which is where they used to house immigrants who were unable to pronounce "Elfreth." No, actually, Elfreth's Alley is one of the few intact streets of rowhomes from the 18th century left in the country. And, if you believe the postcard about Elfreth's Alley that I saw in a gift store, "many of the original residents are still standing."
Those residents must be pretty tired by this time, that's all I've got to say.
Philadelphia, of course, does not have a monopoly on exciting history. The Alabama Historical Commission's Web site boasts, among other activities, an "active cemetery program."
The site does not explain what, exactly, an "active cemetery program" involves, but someone should check to see if there have been any mysterious disappearances of people on historic tours down there. Whatever it is, we can safely assume that it doesn't involve the original residents of Elfreth's Alley, who are still standing after two centuries. Maybe they are waiting in line to use Franklin's privy pit.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Life enrichment
Are you a grad school widow whose husband has chosen to take two demanding math courses at the same time, leaving you with lots of unsupervised time? Welcome to the Life Enrichment division of your local community college! We offer many courses whose titles rival that of your husband's "Fuzzy Logic" class, at a fraction of the cost. These actual courses are very popular, so don't delay in signing up!
Are you a hopeless wreck in the kitchen? A Martha Stewart wanna-be? Try out "Magic for Beginners." Materials fee for magic wand due at first class. Limited scholarships and student aid available.
Have trouble with unruly hair? Do you feel more attractive with a bag over your head? There's hope! "Happy Hair" features beauty salon dropouts who will have you running back to your regular hair stylist in appreciation of all she does for you.
For those of you who have received threats from neighbors due to the overgrown state of your garden, "The Lazy Gardener" is just what you need. Learn the differences between plastic and silk flowers. Materials fee due at first class.
Why wait for the electric company to send a repairman to your house when something goes wrong, when you can fix it yourself? In "Electricity for the Novice," our talented, overpaid instructors will teach you everything about what your mother told you not to touch. We regret that due to a lack of graduates from "Electricity for the Novice," we have canceled "Electricity for the Pro."
We have several appreciation classes, in which you are required to do nothing but appreciate how ingenious the course designers are at thinking up lame topics. For instance, you might try your hand at "Appreciating Sherlock Holmes." The knowledge you gain could come in handy when your husband loses yet another white sock. For those of you less literary inclined, we offer "Beer Appreciation." (You must bring a designated driver to each class.)
And finally, just in time for the hectic holidays, we are pleased to bring you "Santa Claus Training." Learn how to make promises you cannot possibly keep to thousands of screaming children, and still look happy. Sorry, the school's standard discount for senior citizens does not apply. However, we do offer half off "Beer Appreciation" for those who have both taken "Santa Claus Training" and worked an actual Santa Claus stint. (No need to worry about bringing documentation of the stint -- we'll know by the crazed look in your eyes.)
We are always looking for talented people to teach new classes. If you have a special talent that is of a similar caliber to those described above, please contact us. However, please understand that we are not interested in running a support group for grieving grad school widows. We prefer a more positive approach. Our motto is: A busy wife makes her husband wonder what she's up to!
Are you a hopeless wreck in the kitchen? A Martha Stewart wanna-be? Try out "Magic for Beginners." Materials fee for magic wand due at first class. Limited scholarships and student aid available.
Have trouble with unruly hair? Do you feel more attractive with a bag over your head? There's hope! "Happy Hair" features beauty salon dropouts who will have you running back to your regular hair stylist in appreciation of all she does for you.
For those of you who have received threats from neighbors due to the overgrown state of your garden, "The Lazy Gardener" is just what you need. Learn the differences between plastic and silk flowers. Materials fee due at first class.
Why wait for the electric company to send a repairman to your house when something goes wrong, when you can fix it yourself? In "Electricity for the Novice," our talented, overpaid instructors will teach you everything about what your mother told you not to touch. We regret that due to a lack of graduates from "Electricity for the Novice," we have canceled "Electricity for the Pro."
We have several appreciation classes, in which you are required to do nothing but appreciate how ingenious the course designers are at thinking up lame topics. For instance, you might try your hand at "Appreciating Sherlock Holmes." The knowledge you gain could come in handy when your husband loses yet another white sock. For those of you less literary inclined, we offer "Beer Appreciation." (You must bring a designated driver to each class.)
And finally, just in time for the hectic holidays, we are pleased to bring you "Santa Claus Training." Learn how to make promises you cannot possibly keep to thousands of screaming children, and still look happy. Sorry, the school's standard discount for senior citizens does not apply. However, we do offer half off "Beer Appreciation" for those who have both taken "Santa Claus Training" and worked an actual Santa Claus stint. (No need to worry about bringing documentation of the stint -- we'll know by the crazed look in your eyes.)
We are always looking for talented people to teach new classes. If you have a special talent that is of a similar caliber to those described above, please contact us. However, please understand that we are not interested in running a support group for grieving grad school widows. We prefer a more positive approach. Our motto is: A busy wife makes her husband wonder what she's up to!
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Bear scare
People are always saying they want to experience the great outdoors. But when the great outdoors makes an attempt to come indoors, they are not so keen on experiencing it.
Recently in western Maryland a rabid black bear attacked a family's window air conditioner. Really. The woman of the house clutched at the air conditioner from the inside while her husband ran to get his shotgun. You can probably guess that this story does not have a happy ending for the bear.
Now the family certainly had a right to defend its air conditioner, as well as the family goats (which the bear had previously tried to eat). But let's look at it from the bear's point of view. First, she is rudely interrupted while trying to get a snack (the goats). Then, instead of inviting her into the house to calmly discuss this little disagreement, the family slams the screen door in her face. The noise from the air conditioning unit is probably starting to drive her crazy, so she goes after that next. Or maybe she is a little menopausal and wants to hook up the AC unit to her den. Whatever the reason, the bear gets into a tussle over the AC with the Mrs. (What kind of weights does she lift that she can keep a 134-pound bear from tearing out the air conditioner?)
Next thing the bear knows, a gun muzzle appears in an opening between the wall and the AC. The bear grabs it, and (STOP READING IF YOU DISLIKE ANIMAL VIOLENCE) kapow! She gets a mouthful of shot.
Now, is that any way to treat a neighbor?
Recently in western Maryland a rabid black bear attacked a family's window air conditioner. Really. The woman of the house clutched at the air conditioner from the inside while her husband ran to get his shotgun. You can probably guess that this story does not have a happy ending for the bear.
Now the family certainly had a right to defend its air conditioner, as well as the family goats (which the bear had previously tried to eat). But let's look at it from the bear's point of view. First, she is rudely interrupted while trying to get a snack (the goats). Then, instead of inviting her into the house to calmly discuss this little disagreement, the family slams the screen door in her face. The noise from the air conditioning unit is probably starting to drive her crazy, so she goes after that next. Or maybe she is a little menopausal and wants to hook up the AC unit to her den. Whatever the reason, the bear gets into a tussle over the AC with the Mrs. (What kind of weights does she lift that she can keep a 134-pound bear from tearing out the air conditioner?)
Next thing the bear knows, a gun muzzle appears in an opening between the wall and the AC. The bear grabs it, and (STOP READING IF YOU DISLIKE ANIMAL VIOLENCE) kapow! She gets a mouthful of shot.
Now, is that any way to treat a neighbor?
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Seeking quiet
All day long I've been looking forward to relaxing on our back patio with a book. Joe does not share my view of this as relaxing, as our pavement tilts at what seems like a 60-degree angle. But as long as I don't make any sudden movements while seated, it's quite comfy. And listening to the birds, the crickets, the river, and the occasional train on the opposite bank of the river is usually very soothing. Until tonight.
Tonight my reading session is delayed before it even begins. Glancing out the window, I notice our neighbor is tinkering in her garden, and I prefer to be alone when I'm out there. It looks like she's going to be there awhile, so I decide that there's no need to wait until I'm outside to read; I'll just sit down on the couch. Later, when the coast is clear, I head out, chair, book, phone, and the ever-present water bottle in tow.
Immediately I realize why I had not actually heard my neighbor go into her house. She is down a few doors, chatting with some other neighbors. They are too far away for me to hear anything being said, so I settle happily into my chair and begin my relaxing time of reading.
After about five minutes I hear a cat, a very small cat, begin to meow piteously. We do not own a cat. Our next-door neighbors do, but theirs is rather large and not wont to wonder outdoors. I try to ignore the very small cat. It meows even more piteously and insistently. I look around to see if anyone else has noticed the very small cat, hoping that perhaps someone is searching for it at this very moment and will relieve me of the responsibility of finding it. But there is no one. I sigh, heave myself out of the chair (being careful to maintain my balance on the 60-degree angle concrete), and bend over to look under our porch. There are all kinds of things under the porch, things I would rather not see, but there is no cat. It may be under the neighbor's porch, which adjoins ours, but I figure I have done my duty by the cat: It is not on my property and so therefore not my responsibility.
I go back to reading my book. Air conditioners suddenly come alive, scaring me almost off the chair. The neighbors on the other side of us both emerge from their back door, one to walk the dog and the other to chat on his cell phone. It sounds like the latter is giving directions to someone. The dog-walker joins the chatty neighbors down the way, introducing himself to the new neighbor and breaking away every now and then to retrieve the dog, who is more interested in sniffing everyone's yard than in listening to gossip. The dog finds its way to our steps and comes bounding up toward me. It almost reaches me before its owner realizes where it has gone and comes to retrieve it. The owner stops to say that the dog likes our steps for some reason, that at least every other day he has to chase it off our porch. I laugh and wonder, with the neighbor, what scent in our yard has caught the dog's attention. I hope fervently that it is not a very small cat under the porch.
At this point I have attempted to read the same paragraph about five times. I try to shut out everything around me in order to concentrate. A car pulls up in the dog-chaser's parking spot, and a woman emerges -- no doubt the person on the other end of the line with the cell phone talker. Seeing the large group of people gathered down the way, she joins them with loud, effusive greetings. She and her two hosts -- followed, reluctantly, by the dog -- wander back my way. They settle in on their porch, next to ours, for some friendly conversation. Conversation that sounds as if it will last quite some time. Their voices are soon muffled, however, by the roar of a train, which tonight seems exceptionally loud. Two more dog owners wander by with their charges.
Suddenly the cacophony of voices, train, dogs, air conditioners, and meowing of the very little cat is too much. I shut my book rather forcefully. This throws my precariously perched chair off balance, and I am deposited unceremoniously -- and loudly -- on the hard ground. But I am just one more sound in the cacophony.
Maybe Joe is right. Sitting on the porch to read isn't all that relaxing.
Tonight my reading session is delayed before it even begins. Glancing out the window, I notice our neighbor is tinkering in her garden, and I prefer to be alone when I'm out there. It looks like she's going to be there awhile, so I decide that there's no need to wait until I'm outside to read; I'll just sit down on the couch. Later, when the coast is clear, I head out, chair, book, phone, and the ever-present water bottle in tow.
Immediately I realize why I had not actually heard my neighbor go into her house. She is down a few doors, chatting with some other neighbors. They are too far away for me to hear anything being said, so I settle happily into my chair and begin my relaxing time of reading.
After about five minutes I hear a cat, a very small cat, begin to meow piteously. We do not own a cat. Our next-door neighbors do, but theirs is rather large and not wont to wonder outdoors. I try to ignore the very small cat. It meows even more piteously and insistently. I look around to see if anyone else has noticed the very small cat, hoping that perhaps someone is searching for it at this very moment and will relieve me of the responsibility of finding it. But there is no one. I sigh, heave myself out of the chair (being careful to maintain my balance on the 60-degree angle concrete), and bend over to look under our porch. There are all kinds of things under the porch, things I would rather not see, but there is no cat. It may be under the neighbor's porch, which adjoins ours, but I figure I have done my duty by the cat: It is not on my property and so therefore not my responsibility.
I go back to reading my book. Air conditioners suddenly come alive, scaring me almost off the chair. The neighbors on the other side of us both emerge from their back door, one to walk the dog and the other to chat on his cell phone. It sounds like the latter is giving directions to someone. The dog-walker joins the chatty neighbors down the way, introducing himself to the new neighbor and breaking away every now and then to retrieve the dog, who is more interested in sniffing everyone's yard than in listening to gossip. The dog finds its way to our steps and comes bounding up toward me. It almost reaches me before its owner realizes where it has gone and comes to retrieve it. The owner stops to say that the dog likes our steps for some reason, that at least every other day he has to chase it off our porch. I laugh and wonder, with the neighbor, what scent in our yard has caught the dog's attention. I hope fervently that it is not a very small cat under the porch.
At this point I have attempted to read the same paragraph about five times. I try to shut out everything around me in order to concentrate. A car pulls up in the dog-chaser's parking spot, and a woman emerges -- no doubt the person on the other end of the line with the cell phone talker. Seeing the large group of people gathered down the way, she joins them with loud, effusive greetings. She and her two hosts -- followed, reluctantly, by the dog -- wander back my way. They settle in on their porch, next to ours, for some friendly conversation. Conversation that sounds as if it will last quite some time. Their voices are soon muffled, however, by the roar of a train, which tonight seems exceptionally loud. Two more dog owners wander by with their charges.
Suddenly the cacophony of voices, train, dogs, air conditioners, and meowing of the very little cat is too much. I shut my book rather forcefully. This throws my precariously perched chair off balance, and I am deposited unceremoniously -- and loudly -- on the hard ground. But I am just one more sound in the cacophony.
Maybe Joe is right. Sitting on the porch to read isn't all that relaxing.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Painting in real time
It may be that I missed making a blog entry yesterday, Labor Day, because we were attempting to Paint Your Whole House in 10 Minutes! (Including the Exterior!).
As it happens, that is not what we were doing yesterday, but lately I have been pondering this and similar promises made in home improvement magazines. Nothing energizes homeowners more for the task of improving their home than the thought of getting it done quickly, unless it is a lot of caffeine and aspirin.
Wow, I think when I read these articles. Here are real people, painting real houses (most of which could swallow our house with little effort), in only 10 minutes!
Unfortunately, my enthusiasm for a painting project does not even last 10 minutes. And even with my vast experience with painting, dating all the way back to 2006, just deciding on a color takes me longer than the time many people stay in one house. By the time I finally choose a color -- for one room -- and go to the paint store, the color has been discontinued and I have to start all over again ("I'm sorry, ma'am, that color went out with avocado refrigerators").
Then there is the matter of gathering all the other supplies, things like brushes, stirrers, pans, painter's tape, dropcloths, a chisel to open the paint can with, a hammer to close it again when I'm done, rollers, roller covers, power rollers, rolling pins, etc. I prefer to just buy out the entire paint section at Home Depot rather than attempt to choose individual items. I'm sure that at some point in my painting career I will need aluminum fence touch-up paint.
About the only part of the whole painting process that takes just 10 minutes is deciding I don't like the new color, after all. That the old color was better. Of course, since the old color predates avocado refrigerators by several decades, I have to get used to the new one.
At least until someone tells me how to Paint Your House in 5 Minutes!....
As it happens, that is not what we were doing yesterday, but lately I have been pondering this and similar promises made in home improvement magazines. Nothing energizes homeowners more for the task of improving their home than the thought of getting it done quickly, unless it is a lot of caffeine and aspirin.
Wow, I think when I read these articles. Here are real people, painting real houses (most of which could swallow our house with little effort), in only 10 minutes!
Unfortunately, my enthusiasm for a painting project does not even last 10 minutes. And even with my vast experience with painting, dating all the way back to 2006, just deciding on a color takes me longer than the time many people stay in one house. By the time I finally choose a color -- for one room -- and go to the paint store, the color has been discontinued and I have to start all over again ("I'm sorry, ma'am, that color went out with avocado refrigerators").
Then there is the matter of gathering all the other supplies, things like brushes, stirrers, pans, painter's tape, dropcloths, a chisel to open the paint can with, a hammer to close it again when I'm done, rollers, roller covers, power rollers, rolling pins, etc. I prefer to just buy out the entire paint section at Home Depot rather than attempt to choose individual items. I'm sure that at some point in my painting career I will need aluminum fence touch-up paint.
About the only part of the whole painting process that takes just 10 minutes is deciding I don't like the new color, after all. That the old color was better. Of course, since the old color predates avocado refrigerators by several decades, I have to get used to the new one.
At least until someone tells me how to Paint Your House in 5 Minutes!....
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