We here at Slightly Humorous wish all of our readers a wonderful Christmas. Tomorrow the Princess and the Hero embark on their trip to the castle of the King and Queen in the Great White North, where the inhabitants take a dim view of one's closeting oneself in a room with a computer. They would prefer everyone closeting themselves together in the TV room to watch -- and comment upon the various merits of -- endless renditions of "Miracle on 34th Street." Therefore, new postings to this blog will appear sporadically, if at all, until their return next week.
We leave you with this happy thought: As of last Friday, only 8% of American shoppers had finished their Christmas shopping, so if you are in the other 73.6% (due to Fuzzy Math, numbers do not add up to 100), you are not alone. Unfortunately, this also means you are not alone at the stores for the next few days.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
A new threat to security
This blog generally does not concern itself with political topics, mainly because they make our head hurt. Every once in a while, however, an issue comes to light that must be addressed, no matter how complex. Today we have just such an issue: the failure of the Secret Service to protect the president from a reporter's flying shoes at a news conference in Iraq.
Luckily, the president is in excellent physical condition and was able, despite his agents' slowness, to avoid the incoming shoe missiles. Bush is known for being one of the fittest presidents ever, and even though he has taken some ribbing for sticking to his workout regimen no matter what is happening in the rest of the country, we now see the wisdom of this. It's as if he knew that someday, he was going to face a situation in which his safety would depend on his own quick reflexes. Possibly he has also had extensive practice dodging airborne objects precipitated by his wife.
Officials have of course defended the Secret Service agents' lack of action, because "We failed" was voted down as their motto. The participants in the conference had all been vigorously screened and searched multiple times, officials say. We expect that after this incident, further news conferences will be subject to Standard Inane Airline Security Screenings, in which shoes must be removed and inspected for Potential Airborne Missile Properties.
In response to this situation, several observations have been offered that should reassure us about the president's safety, although they may not reassure the president. One is that having reviewed the tapes of the incident, agents will no doubt make some adjustments, so that the next time a shoe is thrown at the president they will be able, while the shoe is in mid-flight, to get the make and shoe size. How this will help the president is not clear, but it would be a notable feat.
We are further encouraged that the agents did not shoot at the thrower, which, in the words of one official, would have caused "extensive collateral damage" in the crowded room. It is surprising, however, that no one thought to shoot at the shoes. This would have been a cool feat, too.
In their defense, the agents did manage to tackle the reporter after he threw the second shoe. It is not clear whether they thought he had a spare pair that he might start throwing, or possibly a medical condition involving a third foot.
Luckily, the president is in excellent physical condition and was able, despite his agents' slowness, to avoid the incoming shoe missiles. Bush is known for being one of the fittest presidents ever, and even though he has taken some ribbing for sticking to his workout regimen no matter what is happening in the rest of the country, we now see the wisdom of this. It's as if he knew that someday, he was going to face a situation in which his safety would depend on his own quick reflexes. Possibly he has also had extensive practice dodging airborne objects precipitated by his wife.
Officials have of course defended the Secret Service agents' lack of action, because "We failed" was voted down as their motto. The participants in the conference had all been vigorously screened and searched multiple times, officials say. We expect that after this incident, further news conferences will be subject to Standard Inane Airline Security Screenings, in which shoes must be removed and inspected for Potential Airborne Missile Properties.
In response to this situation, several observations have been offered that should reassure us about the president's safety, although they may not reassure the president. One is that having reviewed the tapes of the incident, agents will no doubt make some adjustments, so that the next time a shoe is thrown at the president they will be able, while the shoe is in mid-flight, to get the make and shoe size. How this will help the president is not clear, but it would be a notable feat.
We are further encouraged that the agents did not shoot at the thrower, which, in the words of one official, would have caused "extensive collateral damage" in the crowded room. It is surprising, however, that no one thought to shoot at the shoes. This would have been a cool feat, too.
In their defense, the agents did manage to tackle the reporter after he threw the second shoe. It is not clear whether they thought he had a spare pair that he might start throwing, or possibly a medical condition involving a third foot.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Duty calls
The Princess has been filling in for some of Santa's helpers during this busy holiday season (tasting eggnog, etc.) and has therefore been unavailable for her regular duties regarding this blog. We apologize for this, and hope at some future point to return to a more regular schedule.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The sounds of Christmas, in B-flat BEEP!
This time of year, the sounds of Christmas cheer are everywhere: Santa's jolly ho-ho-ho, strangers wishing you "Happy Holidays!", "I want a hippopotamus for Christmas" playing on the radio an estimated 8,497 times per season, etc. And at the malls we hear the joyous strains of:
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Please return to the nearest service counter. It seems we have neglected to remove the security tag from your purchase. We apologize for the inconvenience and for making you feel like a criminal.
At least, those are the sounds I hear when I go Christmas shopping. I -- and of course anyone within 900 yards of me -- hear BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! when I go into stores, and BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! when I come out. At first this curious occurrence did not seem to have anything to do with me, because of course I had not stolen anything, although I checked my bags to make sure. I figured it must be whoever I happened to be walking out of the store with, and I would look at them with suitable disdain. But then sensors started beeping when there was no one else around. After a couple of incidents I waited to go into or out of a store until someone else was also going in or out, so as to transfer any suspicion aroused from me to them, which may seem pretty unscrupulous. But, in my defense, I did drop the look of disdain.
Despite this maneuver, my palms started getting sweaty whenever I was about to enter or leave a store. I conducted reconnaissance to make sure no salespeople were in proximity. I began to feel that I was guilty. I figured it was only a matter of time before some security person tackled me. And sure enough, finally the inevitable happened:
Nothing.
No one rushed to stop me. No one even called out to me. I went to every store in the mall with a trail of BEEPs! behind me, and no one did a thing.
It happened again when I was shopping with my sister. After an entire day of being at the mall without hearing any BEEPs!, we walked into a department store, and immediately a bevy of BEEPs! announced our arrival. I began to think someone had planted a security tag somewhere inside me, making me a walking Stolen Item.
Rather than do something sensible, like go to the nearest salesperson or return to the last store we'd purchased something from, we decided to conduct an experiment of our own to identify the offending item. "You wait here," my sister said. "I'll go through with my stuff."
She walked out. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! I gave her my look of disdain.
"Ah HA!" I said. "It's not me."
But when she came back through, there was no beep.
"You go through," she said.
I went through and came back in. Both times, BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
"Ah HA!" she said. "It's not me."
This went on for about five minutes, during which time not one salesperson came to see why the sensor was going off every three seconds. A couple of customers gave us odd looks, but we merely continued on as if this was something completely normal that we did every day.
One of us would remove some items and go through with a few other things. Sometimes we beeped, and we thought we had identified the offender. "Ah HA!" we would say. "It's the jeans from Old Navy!" But then the jeans would not beep on the way back in, and something else would beep on the next trip out. "Ah HA!" we would say. "It's the Hogan's Heroes DVD we bought for Dad!"
As you can see, this was a very scientific experiment.
Finally my sister went through without holding anything, not even her purse.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
We gave up and went home. And no one stopped us.
In time, we figure BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! will be heard so often at this time of year that it just may rank right up there with the all-time favorite Christmas songs.
Which do not, in my opinion, have anything to do with hippopotamuses.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Please return to the nearest service counter. It seems we have neglected to remove the security tag from your purchase. We apologize for the inconvenience and for making you feel like a criminal.
At least, those are the sounds I hear when I go Christmas shopping. I -- and of course anyone within 900 yards of me -- hear BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! when I go into stores, and BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! when I come out. At first this curious occurrence did not seem to have anything to do with me, because of course I had not stolen anything, although I checked my bags to make sure. I figured it must be whoever I happened to be walking out of the store with, and I would look at them with suitable disdain. But then sensors started beeping when there was no one else around. After a couple of incidents I waited to go into or out of a store until someone else was also going in or out, so as to transfer any suspicion aroused from me to them, which may seem pretty unscrupulous. But, in my defense, I did drop the look of disdain.
Despite this maneuver, my palms started getting sweaty whenever I was about to enter or leave a store. I conducted reconnaissance to make sure no salespeople were in proximity. I began to feel that I was guilty. I figured it was only a matter of time before some security person tackled me. And sure enough, finally the inevitable happened:
Nothing.
No one rushed to stop me. No one even called out to me. I went to every store in the mall with a trail of BEEPs! behind me, and no one did a thing.
It happened again when I was shopping with my sister. After an entire day of being at the mall without hearing any BEEPs!, we walked into a department store, and immediately a bevy of BEEPs! announced our arrival. I began to think someone had planted a security tag somewhere inside me, making me a walking Stolen Item.
Rather than do something sensible, like go to the nearest salesperson or return to the last store we'd purchased something from, we decided to conduct an experiment of our own to identify the offending item. "You wait here," my sister said. "I'll go through with my stuff."
She walked out. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! I gave her my look of disdain.
"Ah HA!" I said. "It's not me."
But when she came back through, there was no beep.
"You go through," she said.
I went through and came back in. Both times, BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
"Ah HA!" she said. "It's not me."
This went on for about five minutes, during which time not one salesperson came to see why the sensor was going off every three seconds. A couple of customers gave us odd looks, but we merely continued on as if this was something completely normal that we did every day.
One of us would remove some items and go through with a few other things. Sometimes we beeped, and we thought we had identified the offender. "Ah HA!" we would say. "It's the jeans from Old Navy!" But then the jeans would not beep on the way back in, and something else would beep on the next trip out. "Ah HA!" we would say. "It's the Hogan's Heroes DVD we bought for Dad!"
As you can see, this was a very scientific experiment.
Finally my sister went through without holding anything, not even her purse.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
We gave up and went home. And no one stopped us.
In time, we figure BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! will be heard so often at this time of year that it just may rank right up there with the all-time favorite Christmas songs.
Which do not, in my opinion, have anything to do with hippopotamuses.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
A gaggle of geese, a crash of rhinos
Today we are pleased to host a very scholarly discussion of the animal kingdom, thanks to our vast knowledge of how to find trivia on the Internet, and also to our boredom with human topics of interest of late.
Scientists who study animals have the job of making the animal kingdom, which is pretty simple when you think about it, extremely difficult to understand. For instance, if you, an ordinary citizen, were naming a group of, say, partridges, you would probably call them a group of partridges. But scientists, of course, do not think like ordinary citizens. They call a group of partridges a "clutch." But more than that, scientists have to have a different name for groupings of different animals. Pheasants cannot also be said to gather in a clutch, mainly because it does not make them sound pretty enough. So a group of pheasants (who are extremely vain) is called -- really -- a "bouquet."
Groups of both bees and ants, although typically referred to as "swarms" or "groups of bees or ants," are also known as "bikes." This is the REAL secret to how they can travel great distances and still get back to the nest in time for dinner. Also note that young bees are called "fry," as in "The young fry just don't sting like us old folks can."
More than one bullfinch is referred to as "illegal," and they can be ticketed for unlawful assembly. Well, not really. Actually a group of bullfinches is called a "bellowing." If you look up "bullfinch" to see whether it is a bird, a fish, or perhaps a bull, you will find this very helpful description at Wikipedia: "True bullfinches are thick-billed finches in the passerine family Fringillidae." Although enlightening, this definition does nothing to explain why a group of birds might be termed a "bellowing."
But let us not argue with esteemed scientists, who have also given us the term "rabble" to describe a group of butterflies. I myself have been compelled to call the police on several occasions to report rowdy group behavior among the butterflies in our yard. They've opened up little nectar bars, and there they hover, sipping their nectar and generally causing a nuisance.
Among rooks -- which are in the order passerine along with the bullfinches, although they are of a different family, commonly known as the MacPhersons -- you can take your pick of (actual) names for a grouping: a building, clamor, shoal, wing, congregation, or parliament. Rooks are further subdivided into (not actual) right-winged and left-winged parliaments.
If you want to be ordinary when you see birds flying south, you can go ahead and say, like everyone else, "There goes a flock of birds," but if you want to distinguish yourself from everyone else, say "There goes a dissimulation of birds!" Everyone will be very impressed with your knowledge. Or they will think you have been indulging at the nectar bars with the rabble of butterflies.
Mares used to be called, collectively, a "herd," but -- possibly because they wanted a break from being pursued by the opposite sex, or maybe just to mess with the stallions' minds --retermed themselves a "stud." This, of course, confused the stallions, causing them to strut on over to check out the parliaments of rooks.
A "knob" appears to be a term used for a small quantity of some animals, among them the pintail and the pochards. So if you are ever out to dinner at someone's house, and they offer you either pintail or pochards, you can say graciously, "Oh, just a knob of that, please." Do NOT, under any circumstances, inquire what a pintail or pochard is.
This is just a small sample of the vast, amazing world of clamors and dissimulations. We hope you have enjoyed today's presentation, and we look forward to bringing you more bellowing and rabble.
(And yes, a group of rhinos IS called a crash. A group of scientists -- well, you come up with something to describe them.)
Scientists who study animals have the job of making the animal kingdom, which is pretty simple when you think about it, extremely difficult to understand. For instance, if you, an ordinary citizen, were naming a group of, say, partridges, you would probably call them a group of partridges. But scientists, of course, do not think like ordinary citizens. They call a group of partridges a "clutch." But more than that, scientists have to have a different name for groupings of different animals. Pheasants cannot also be said to gather in a clutch, mainly because it does not make them sound pretty enough. So a group of pheasants (who are extremely vain) is called -- really -- a "bouquet."
Groups of both bees and ants, although typically referred to as "swarms" or "groups of bees or ants," are also known as "bikes." This is the REAL secret to how they can travel great distances and still get back to the nest in time for dinner. Also note that young bees are called "fry," as in "The young fry just don't sting like us old folks can."
More than one bullfinch is referred to as "illegal," and they can be ticketed for unlawful assembly. Well, not really. Actually a group of bullfinches is called a "bellowing." If you look up "bullfinch" to see whether it is a bird, a fish, or perhaps a bull, you will find this very helpful description at Wikipedia: "True bullfinches are thick-billed finches in the passerine family Fringillidae." Although enlightening, this definition does nothing to explain why a group of birds might be termed a "bellowing."
But let us not argue with esteemed scientists, who have also given us the term "rabble" to describe a group of butterflies. I myself have been compelled to call the police on several occasions to report rowdy group behavior among the butterflies in our yard. They've opened up little nectar bars, and there they hover, sipping their nectar and generally causing a nuisance.
Among rooks -- which are in the order passerine along with the bullfinches, although they are of a different family, commonly known as the MacPhersons -- you can take your pick of (actual) names for a grouping: a building, clamor, shoal, wing, congregation, or parliament. Rooks are further subdivided into (not actual) right-winged and left-winged parliaments.
If you want to be ordinary when you see birds flying south, you can go ahead and say, like everyone else, "There goes a flock of birds," but if you want to distinguish yourself from everyone else, say "There goes a dissimulation of birds!" Everyone will be very impressed with your knowledge. Or they will think you have been indulging at the nectar bars with the rabble of butterflies.
Mares used to be called, collectively, a "herd," but -- possibly because they wanted a break from being pursued by the opposite sex, or maybe just to mess with the stallions' minds --retermed themselves a "stud." This, of course, confused the stallions, causing them to strut on over to check out the parliaments of rooks.
A "knob" appears to be a term used for a small quantity of some animals, among them the pintail and the pochards. So if you are ever out to dinner at someone's house, and they offer you either pintail or pochards, you can say graciously, "Oh, just a knob of that, please." Do NOT, under any circumstances, inquire what a pintail or pochard is.
This is just a small sample of the vast, amazing world of clamors and dissimulations. We hope you have enjoyed today's presentation, and we look forward to bringing you more bellowing and rabble.
(And yes, a group of rhinos IS called a crash. A group of scientists -- well, you come up with something to describe them.)
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Restroom hazards
If you are one of the readers who voted in the recent survey against the inclusion of sensitive female issues in this blog, you might want to avoid two places: today's post, and the ladies' restroom at my office. Of course, if you voted in this manner and are also male, we sincerely hope that you would avoid the ladies' restroom anyway, but there is no harm in pointing out the dangers that lie therein.
In restrooms you are held captive to other people's conversations. There is no escaping, because you have to be in there a certain amount of time, and from my experience people holding personal conversations in that location never leave before you do. I keep hoping that during one of these conversations someone will leak the whereabouts of a hidden treasure, or at least the secret to baking really soft cookies, but the only discussions I hear generally involve what Joe's family calls TMI, or Too Much Information.
Yesterday while I was in the restroom, a prominent figure in my company entered with her daughter, who -- this is something I learned while listening to them, which demonstrates that restroom conversations can be enlightening -- apparently works with us. There ensued between mother and daughter, who chose adjoining stalls, a lengthy, detailed discussion of a certain monthly female event, to an extent that I certainly never shared with my own mother. Their motto seemed to be: "No Detail Left Undiscussed."
This left me in a quandary. The longer I waited to leave, the more awkward it seemed to do so. My thought processes went something like this:
Do they know I'm there?
Do they care?
Should I hide? How?
I'll make a noise so they know I'm here.
No, it's too late to make a noise now. The window for letting them know someone else is in here has passed. They'll know I've been listening, and they'll think I listened on purpose.
I'll make myself as small as possible, and keep myself squarely lined up with the center of the door. Maybe they won't notice a closed door.
Of course they'll notice a closed door. The paper towel dispenser is right outside the stall where I am hiding.
I suddenly realized that they had moved on from the topic of Too Much Information and were actually preparing to leave. I was free! But before I could make my own escape, two more people came in. One was saying, "So I went to my gynecologist yesterday...."
Rats. Better luck escaping next time.
In restrooms you are held captive to other people's conversations. There is no escaping, because you have to be in there a certain amount of time, and from my experience people holding personal conversations in that location never leave before you do. I keep hoping that during one of these conversations someone will leak the whereabouts of a hidden treasure, or at least the secret to baking really soft cookies, but the only discussions I hear generally involve what Joe's family calls TMI, or Too Much Information.
Yesterday while I was in the restroom, a prominent figure in my company entered with her daughter, who -- this is something I learned while listening to them, which demonstrates that restroom conversations can be enlightening -- apparently works with us. There ensued between mother and daughter, who chose adjoining stalls, a lengthy, detailed discussion of a certain monthly female event, to an extent that I certainly never shared with my own mother. Their motto seemed to be: "No Detail Left Undiscussed."
This left me in a quandary. The longer I waited to leave, the more awkward it seemed to do so. My thought processes went something like this:
Do they know I'm there?
Do they care?
Should I hide? How?
I'll make a noise so they know I'm here.
No, it's too late to make a noise now. The window for letting them know someone else is in here has passed. They'll know I've been listening, and they'll think I listened on purpose.
I'll make myself as small as possible, and keep myself squarely lined up with the center of the door. Maybe they won't notice a closed door.
Of course they'll notice a closed door. The paper towel dispenser is right outside the stall where I am hiding.
I suddenly realized that they had moved on from the topic of Too Much Information and were actually preparing to leave. I was free! But before I could make my own escape, two more people came in. One was saying, "So I went to my gynecologist yesterday...."
Rats. Better luck escaping next time.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
What's causing YOUR headache?
Over the years, medical personnel have identified a number of different types of headaches people suffer from: stress, migraine, sinus, lack of chocolate, etc. Less studied is a very common type of headache among married couples: spouse-induced.
Out of the blue one day, Joe mused that if we were going to have kids -- you will realize that this was an entirely hypothetical conversation -- he would want to name one of them Rufus. He did not specify whether this would be a name for a male or a female.
I wanted to be clear that Rufus was not an acceptable name for a child, real or hypothetical. "Rufus is a dog's name," I said in disdain.
"It's in the Bible," he pointed out.
"Nebuchadnezzar is in the Bible, too," I said. "You want to name a kid Nebuchadnezzar?"
The spouse-induced headache, were it recognized by the medical community, would rate right up there with migraines. The only known cure is for the spouse causing the headache to say something sensible, such as "Honey, let's go to Hawaii this year!" Instead the spouse, whether aware or not of the effect of his or her words upon the partner, generally persists in inflicting further physical pain.
"Ezekiel is another good name," Joe said decisively. "Rufus and Ezekiel."
The spouse-induced headache may be the greatest medical concern of our time, but recognition is scarce. I urge you to lobby for funding to address this very real malady. Any such funding will go directly to sufferers, to send them to Hawaii.
Disclaimer: The above is NOT a cleverly disguised attempt to announce that there are any Rufuses or Ezekiels expected. In fact, conversations like these merely confirm for me that the world is better off without any offspring in our household, no matter what they are named.
Out of the blue one day, Joe mused that if we were going to have kids -- you will realize that this was an entirely hypothetical conversation -- he would want to name one of them Rufus. He did not specify whether this would be a name for a male or a female.
I wanted to be clear that Rufus was not an acceptable name for a child, real or hypothetical. "Rufus is a dog's name," I said in disdain.
"It's in the Bible," he pointed out.
"Nebuchadnezzar is in the Bible, too," I said. "You want to name a kid Nebuchadnezzar?"
The spouse-induced headache, were it recognized by the medical community, would rate right up there with migraines. The only known cure is for the spouse causing the headache to say something sensible, such as "Honey, let's go to Hawaii this year!" Instead the spouse, whether aware or not of the effect of his or her words upon the partner, generally persists in inflicting further physical pain.
"Ezekiel is another good name," Joe said decisively. "Rufus and Ezekiel."
The spouse-induced headache may be the greatest medical concern of our time, but recognition is scarce. I urge you to lobby for funding to address this very real malady. Any such funding will go directly to sufferers, to send them to Hawaii.
Disclaimer: The above is NOT a cleverly disguised attempt to announce that there are any Rufuses or Ezekiels expected. In fact, conversations like these merely confirm for me that the world is better off without any offspring in our household, no matter what they are named.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Readers have their say
In case you missed the recent Slightly Humorous reader survey, sorry, it is too late to cast your vote. Better luck next time. But we can learn many important things from the results of the survey, which tied with a previous survey for the lowest number of respondents. The first is, never put out a poll right before a major holiday. Turkey brain has already set in, and no one can remember to vote.
With only four readers voting, you might wonder how we can make any conclusions when we did not reach our scientific sample of 6.3874932 voters. The answer is complicated, but basically, the reason is that we can do whatever we want.
The good news is that 75% of respondents said they actually read 100% of any given blog post. 25% read just half. Adding 75 and 100 and 25 and half, we get 250%, which means that people are reading more of a post than is actually there. (We are able to extrapolate these figures thanks to our specialized, secondhand knowledge from Joe's Fuzzy Math course, in which numbers are just suggestions.)
"Random words" did not appear to be a popular method of reading the blog, although we think it might prove more interesting in some cases. Perhaps in the future, as a scientific experiment (or when we run out of things to talk about), we will create a blog consisting entirely of words pulled at random from a variety of blog posts, including other people's.
No one indicated that they read only the first and last words of a blog post. This means that my mother did not vote. Reading only the beginning and ending is her approach to all written materials, including recipes, which makes for some interesting dining experiences.
The next question on the survey was "What topics would you like to read about in this blog?" Surprisingly, no one chose politics or pets. We surmise -- although it is difficult to know with certainty -- that this is because these choices did not appear.
The number one choice of topic was "Joe's math homework on Poisson processes." We are mystified at this, although we surmise two reasons it was so popular: People misread it and were intrigued at the idea of reading about poison processes -- which makes them very suspect -- OR, Joe voted several times. No doubt he would like someone to give him answers to those Poisson process questions.
The adventures of the Prissy Princess and the Gallant Hero came in second in the desired topic category, showing either the enduring popularity of these characters or the limited choice of answers for this question. We choose to believe the first reason.
In contrast, only one respondent noted a desire to read more about the world outside of the Princess and Hero's castle, possibly indicating the majority's belief that there IS no such place.
Although this survey is entirely anonymous, we can surmise, from the two votes for wishing "sensitive female issues" to not appear in the blog, that at least two voters are male. And speaking of sensitive female issues -- ha! Just kidding. You're safe from such things here.
According to scientific polling standards, the final question of the survey -- "How could this blog improve?" -- really should be dismissed from the results because it did not include an obvious answer that I'm sure all our respondents would have chosen had it been an option: "This blog is perfect just as it is." But give people a chance to point out shortcomings, and they certainly will.
Votes were evenly split among "adding pictures," "letting Joe tell his side of things," and "adding new posts more often." As for pictures, you may remember the outcome of the first attempt of this blog to include pictures. If so, you will know why we do not include, and are not likely to include in the near future, pictures.
The votes for adding new posts more often is not surprising, given the reader dissatisfaction we incurred when moving to an every-other-day format, but let me point out that even some major newspapers in the country, due to poor economic times and a lack of interesting news now that the election is over, have themselves moved to fewer issues per week. Although this has nothing to do with us, I just thought I would point it out.
We are relieved that no one chose "shut down immediately" as a suggestion for improving the blog. This is definitely a sensitive female topic, especially to this particular female. We cannot help admitting, however, that secretly we had hoped someone would vote for "having someone else write the blog," and that that someone would also have volunteered to write it occasionally. And include pictures.
With only four readers voting, you might wonder how we can make any conclusions when we did not reach our scientific sample of 6.3874932 voters. The answer is complicated, but basically, the reason is that we can do whatever we want.
The good news is that 75% of respondents said they actually read 100% of any given blog post. 25% read just half. Adding 75 and 100 and 25 and half, we get 250%, which means that people are reading more of a post than is actually there. (We are able to extrapolate these figures thanks to our specialized, secondhand knowledge from Joe's Fuzzy Math course, in which numbers are just suggestions.)
"Random words" did not appear to be a popular method of reading the blog, although we think it might prove more interesting in some cases. Perhaps in the future, as a scientific experiment (or when we run out of things to talk about), we will create a blog consisting entirely of words pulled at random from a variety of blog posts, including other people's.
No one indicated that they read only the first and last words of a blog post. This means that my mother did not vote. Reading only the beginning and ending is her approach to all written materials, including recipes, which makes for some interesting dining experiences.
The next question on the survey was "What topics would you like to read about in this blog?" Surprisingly, no one chose politics or pets. We surmise -- although it is difficult to know with certainty -- that this is because these choices did not appear.
The number one choice of topic was "Joe's math homework on Poisson processes." We are mystified at this, although we surmise two reasons it was so popular: People misread it and were intrigued at the idea of reading about poison processes -- which makes them very suspect -- OR, Joe voted several times. No doubt he would like someone to give him answers to those Poisson process questions.
The adventures of the Prissy Princess and the Gallant Hero came in second in the desired topic category, showing either the enduring popularity of these characters or the limited choice of answers for this question. We choose to believe the first reason.
In contrast, only one respondent noted a desire to read more about the world outside of the Princess and Hero's castle, possibly indicating the majority's belief that there IS no such place.
Although this survey is entirely anonymous, we can surmise, from the two votes for wishing "sensitive female issues" to not appear in the blog, that at least two voters are male. And speaking of sensitive female issues -- ha! Just kidding. You're safe from such things here.
According to scientific polling standards, the final question of the survey -- "How could this blog improve?" -- really should be dismissed from the results because it did not include an obvious answer that I'm sure all our respondents would have chosen had it been an option: "This blog is perfect just as it is." But give people a chance to point out shortcomings, and they certainly will.
Votes were evenly split among "adding pictures," "letting Joe tell his side of things," and "adding new posts more often." As for pictures, you may remember the outcome of the first attempt of this blog to include pictures. If so, you will know why we do not include, and are not likely to include in the near future, pictures.
The votes for adding new posts more often is not surprising, given the reader dissatisfaction we incurred when moving to an every-other-day format, but let me point out that even some major newspapers in the country, due to poor economic times and a lack of interesting news now that the election is over, have themselves moved to fewer issues per week. Although this has nothing to do with us, I just thought I would point it out.
We are relieved that no one chose "shut down immediately" as a suggestion for improving the blog. This is definitely a sensitive female topic, especially to this particular female. We cannot help admitting, however, that secretly we had hoped someone would vote for "having someone else write the blog," and that that someone would also have volunteered to write it occasionally. And include pictures.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Black Friday, then and now
No doubt many of you participated in Black Friday, which supposedly is the official opening of the Christmas shopping season but which is really a cleverly disguised activity for working off all those Thanksgiving calories indulged in the day before. More weight is lost among Americans, collectively, on this day than any other day of the year. If Black Friday shopping is fully participated in, shoppers can expect to expend the following number of calories (all numbers are in the thousands):
-- Hitting, shoving, and otherwise plowing through crowds of fellow shoppers: 972 calories
-- Running through store to get to electronics area: 763 calories
-- Searching for an empty table in the food court: 207 calories
-- Eating while standing up because you could not find an empty table in the food court: 178 calories
-- Shuffling from stall to stall in the public restroom in search of one that is not totally disgusting: 5 calories, or 0 for males, because this activity is generally considered unnecessary for them
-- Going back and forth from one checkout line to another in an attempt to discover which is moving faster: 134 calories
-- Wandering around parking lot looking for lost car: 13,389 calories
Unfortunately, although driving around looking for a parking spot consumes an enormous amount of gas and patience, 0 calories are expended during this activity.
The Pilgrims, of course, did not have to worry about finding a parking spot at the mall on Black Friday, as there were no malls. And no cars. They just ambled on over, at a leisurely pace, to the Indians' place, where they could get all their Christmas gifts in one trip, provided everyone on their list wanted beaver furs and pelts.
But lest you think they had it easy, remember they had to do a lot of bartering. This is because they didn't have coupons yet. "You trade daughter for beaver blanket," the Indians would insist. And the Pilgrims would think hard for about 30 seconds, shrug, and say okay, figuring that meant one less person to buy gifts for.
"Can I have it by Christmas?" was a common question the Pilgrims would ask when putting in their special orders. And the Indians, who had no idea when Christmas was, would shrug and say sure, for an extra helping of mincemeat pie. "What's in that mincemeat pie, anyway?" the Indians would ask.
"You don't want to know," the Pilgrims would say.
Compared to us, the Pilgrims had sharply curtailed shopping hours, because the 3-6 a.m. sales hadn't been invented yet. Plus, they didn't like to be out after dark, especially in Indian territory. The Indians' offer to "have them for dinner sometime" might take on a different meaning if they stuck around too long.
So in this season of thankfulness and cheer, we can be grateful even for all the headaches of modern shopping. As always in life, if you try to avoid the unpleasant parts, you will pay a price. If you choose to do all your shopping online, be warned: You will expend a grand total of 2 calories.
-- Hitting, shoving, and otherwise plowing through crowds of fellow shoppers: 972 calories
-- Running through store to get to electronics area: 763 calories
-- Searching for an empty table in the food court: 207 calories
-- Eating while standing up because you could not find an empty table in the food court: 178 calories
-- Shuffling from stall to stall in the public restroom in search of one that is not totally disgusting: 5 calories, or 0 for males, because this activity is generally considered unnecessary for them
-- Going back and forth from one checkout line to another in an attempt to discover which is moving faster: 134 calories
-- Wandering around parking lot looking for lost car: 13,389 calories
Unfortunately, although driving around looking for a parking spot consumes an enormous amount of gas and patience, 0 calories are expended during this activity.
The Pilgrims, of course, did not have to worry about finding a parking spot at the mall on Black Friday, as there were no malls. And no cars. They just ambled on over, at a leisurely pace, to the Indians' place, where they could get all their Christmas gifts in one trip, provided everyone on their list wanted beaver furs and pelts.
But lest you think they had it easy, remember they had to do a lot of bartering. This is because they didn't have coupons yet. "You trade daughter for beaver blanket," the Indians would insist. And the Pilgrims would think hard for about 30 seconds, shrug, and say okay, figuring that meant one less person to buy gifts for.
"Can I have it by Christmas?" was a common question the Pilgrims would ask when putting in their special orders. And the Indians, who had no idea when Christmas was, would shrug and say sure, for an extra helping of mincemeat pie. "What's in that mincemeat pie, anyway?" the Indians would ask.
"You don't want to know," the Pilgrims would say.
Compared to us, the Pilgrims had sharply curtailed shopping hours, because the 3-6 a.m. sales hadn't been invented yet. Plus, they didn't like to be out after dark, especially in Indian territory. The Indians' offer to "have them for dinner sometime" might take on a different meaning if they stuck around too long.
So in this season of thankfulness and cheer, we can be grateful even for all the headaches of modern shopping. As always in life, if you try to avoid the unpleasant parts, you will pay a price. If you choose to do all your shopping online, be warned: You will expend a grand total of 2 calories.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Reminder: VOTE!
No, this blog is not in a time warp, urging you to vote for president. We mean the Slightly Humorous survey, which is taking up quite a bit of room to the left of this page and is FAR MORE important than the presidential election. For starters, your vote could determine the direction of this blog, and therefore your level of entertainment satisfaction, for the next 6 months, or whenever we decide to think up some more vital ("lame") questions for another poll. Remember that we need a scientific sample (approximately 6.3874932 people) to make any valid conclusions. And valid conclusions are what we are known for.
Disclaimer: Voting in this survey will have no bearing on the raising or lowering of your taxes.
Disclaimer: Voting in this survey will have no bearing on the raising or lowering of your taxes.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Reach out and beep someone
Joe's telephone conversations with his mother are often punctuated by laughter. My phone conversations with my own parents are often punctuated by...other sounds. Reconstructed here is my most recent discussion with them, after my mother's return home from inpatient therapy.
I ask my mother if she is glad to be home.
"No," she says.
Well, this is off to a positive start.
"You mean Dad's not treating you like a queen and doing everything for you?" I ask.
My mother does not snort, but she comes dangerously close this time.
"He drops me off at the door to the grocery store," she says.
"That's helpful, " I say encouragingly.
"It would be more helpful if he came in with me."
Our conversation is periodically interrupted by a loud BEEP!, which we attempt to ignore for a while.
"What is that sound?" my mother finally asks.
"It sounds like someone is pushing the buttons on the phone," I say pointedly.
My father coughs. He explains, in a somewhat irritated tone, that he is trying to turn the volume down on the TV. He clearly would appreciate being left alone to handle this task.
My mother attempts to explain to him that one generally uses the remote to turn down the volume on the TV, and that he is not going to be successful by pushing the telephone buttons, no matter how many BEEPs! he makes.
But in her haste to be helpful, she calls the telephone the television, so that her advice comes out like this:
"You're using the television, Jim."
"Yes, I know I'm using the television," he says. "I'm trying to turn it down."
"But it's not going to work by pushing the television," she insists. "You have to use the, uh, other thing...."
"I am using the other thing," he insists.
The conversation proceeds in this manner for some time, punctuated by more BEEPs! I finally point out that what my mother is trying to recommend is the use of the remote.
"That's right!" she says. "The remote."
The BEEPs! subside, as does the noise coming from the television, and my mother and I continue our discussion.
But soon we hear water running. My mother sighs. "Now what are you doing?" she asks my father.
"I'm rinsing my dishes off, like I'm supposed to," he says somewhat peevishly. He has come under fire recently from more than one of his children for not helping my mother with the dishes, and here he is trying to be helpful, yet he gets reprimanded.
His dishes must have been very dirty, because the water continues to run for a while. My mother and I talk over the sound.
Things are quiet for a while, then we hear a bag rustling. My mother inquires yet again what my dad is doing.
"I'm having my snack," he explains. "There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"
"Do you have to do it while we're on the phone?" she asks.
He regards this as a frivolous question and continues to rustle in the bag. My mother attempts to pick up where we left off talking.
Gradually we become aware of munching sounds.
My mother sighs heavily. "Well, what can you do with him?" she says rhetorically to me.
"With who?" my father demands. Although he cannot hear much of what we are saying over his munching -- WE cannot hear much of what we are saying over his munching -- he hears enough to suspect, with that uncanny sense husbands and fathers everywhere possess, that we are discussing him. And if we are, he wants to know about it.
I begin to say my goodbyes. "Call back when it's not so noisy," my father says. "I could hardly hear a word you said."
There is one final sound. It is from my mother, and she is snorting.
I ask my mother if she is glad to be home.
"No," she says.
Well, this is off to a positive start.
"You mean Dad's not treating you like a queen and doing everything for you?" I ask.
My mother does not snort, but she comes dangerously close this time.
"He drops me off at the door to the grocery store," she says.
"That's helpful, " I say encouragingly.
"It would be more helpful if he came in with me."
Our conversation is periodically interrupted by a loud BEEP!, which we attempt to ignore for a while.
"What is that sound?" my mother finally asks.
"It sounds like someone is pushing the buttons on the phone," I say pointedly.
My father coughs. He explains, in a somewhat irritated tone, that he is trying to turn the volume down on the TV. He clearly would appreciate being left alone to handle this task.
My mother attempts to explain to him that one generally uses the remote to turn down the volume on the TV, and that he is not going to be successful by pushing the telephone buttons, no matter how many BEEPs! he makes.
But in her haste to be helpful, she calls the telephone the television, so that her advice comes out like this:
"You're using the television, Jim."
"Yes, I know I'm using the television," he says. "I'm trying to turn it down."
"But it's not going to work by pushing the television," she insists. "You have to use the, uh, other thing...."
"I am using the other thing," he insists.
The conversation proceeds in this manner for some time, punctuated by more BEEPs! I finally point out that what my mother is trying to recommend is the use of the remote.
"That's right!" she says. "The remote."
The BEEPs! subside, as does the noise coming from the television, and my mother and I continue our discussion.
But soon we hear water running. My mother sighs. "Now what are you doing?" she asks my father.
"I'm rinsing my dishes off, like I'm supposed to," he says somewhat peevishly. He has come under fire recently from more than one of his children for not helping my mother with the dishes, and here he is trying to be helpful, yet he gets reprimanded.
His dishes must have been very dirty, because the water continues to run for a while. My mother and I talk over the sound.
Things are quiet for a while, then we hear a bag rustling. My mother inquires yet again what my dad is doing.
"I'm having my snack," he explains. "There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"
"Do you have to do it while we're on the phone?" she asks.
He regards this as a frivolous question and continues to rustle in the bag. My mother attempts to pick up where we left off talking.
Gradually we become aware of munching sounds.
My mother sighs heavily. "Well, what can you do with him?" she says rhetorically to me.
"With who?" my father demands. Although he cannot hear much of what we are saying over his munching -- WE cannot hear much of what we are saying over his munching -- he hears enough to suspect, with that uncanny sense husbands and fathers everywhere possess, that we are discussing him. And if we are, he wants to know about it.
I begin to say my goodbyes. "Call back when it's not so noisy," my father says. "I could hardly hear a word you said."
There is one final sound. It is from my mother, and she is snorting.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Survey # I forget
Once more it is time for our Periodic Drive to Raise Money for the Slightly Humorous Blog. No, wait, I meant it is time for our Periodic Slightly Humorous, Extremely Scientific Survey (although if you WANT to send money, we will not stop you). This time we have some exciting new questions, along with some we have probably asked before, but since I don't remember which are which, I am counting on you not to remember either. So please take some time to answer the four questions at left. As always, I know you will ponder each question deeply, search your heart for your honest feelings, and then answer at random. Since this is an anonymous survey, fortunately for you all answers cannot and will not be used against you.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Mis(sed)-communication
Many couples, due to their busy lives, find that they must schedule time to have conversations with each other on important topics, such as whether they have three children (which is what they have always thought), and if so why there are six in the kitchen at the present moment, all clamoring to be fed.
In our case, our varied preferences in times for getting up and for going to bed mean that Joe and I have a tiny window of time when we can optimally comprehend each other's conversation. This window of time is approximately 7:13-7:52 p.m. Outside of this time slot our ability to communicate coherently is several compromised, and any conversation attempted must be repeated later. This can be seen in the following examples.
"Good morning, sweetie," I say brightly one morning, as I do on most mornings.
He mumbles something that might be "Morning," or possibly "Caffeine, I need caffeine."
This type of response in no way intimidates or deters a morning person, which I have inexplicably become after many years of being a mumbler myself before 10 a.m. It only makes us more determined to help the other person become coherent. So I press on.
"Did you sleep good?" I inquire.
"Uh huh."
Before I can continue this scintillating conversation, he leaves the room. He is back a few minutes later. "Good morning!" he says cheerily.
I look around to see if there is anyone else he might be talking to. "Didn't we already have this conversation?" I ask.
"Yeah, but I wasn't ready for it yet," he says.
Later in the day, during our window of optimal mutual comprehension, he informs me of his plans to keep inflicting damage to the family room wall in his quest to liberate the fireplace hidden behind it.
Alarmed, I tell him we need to talk about this.
"We already did," he says.
"When?"
"Last night."
"When last night?"
He is vague on the exact time, but I gather it was well after I had gone to sleep.
"I was already asleep," I say. "You must have been talking to someone else."
But he insists that it was me. "I told you that it would be really easy to keep working on the fireplace if I made some handles on a piece of plywood and fit it into the opening when I'm not working on it. It would look much better than just sticking a slab of wood there."
"And what did I say?"
"You said it sounded like a terrific idea."
"I wasn't ready for that conversation," I declare. "We'd better have it again. And NOT at 2 a.m.," I clarify. "7:34 tomorrow night should work."
In our case, our varied preferences in times for getting up and for going to bed mean that Joe and I have a tiny window of time when we can optimally comprehend each other's conversation. This window of time is approximately 7:13-7:52 p.m. Outside of this time slot our ability to communicate coherently is several compromised, and any conversation attempted must be repeated later. This can be seen in the following examples.
"Good morning, sweetie," I say brightly one morning, as I do on most mornings.
He mumbles something that might be "Morning," or possibly "Caffeine, I need caffeine."
This type of response in no way intimidates or deters a morning person, which I have inexplicably become after many years of being a mumbler myself before 10 a.m. It only makes us more determined to help the other person become coherent. So I press on.
"Did you sleep good?" I inquire.
"Uh huh."
Before I can continue this scintillating conversation, he leaves the room. He is back a few minutes later. "Good morning!" he says cheerily.
I look around to see if there is anyone else he might be talking to. "Didn't we already have this conversation?" I ask.
"Yeah, but I wasn't ready for it yet," he says.
Later in the day, during our window of optimal mutual comprehension, he informs me of his plans to keep inflicting damage to the family room wall in his quest to liberate the fireplace hidden behind it.
Alarmed, I tell him we need to talk about this.
"We already did," he says.
"When?"
"Last night."
"When last night?"
He is vague on the exact time, but I gather it was well after I had gone to sleep.
"I was already asleep," I say. "You must have been talking to someone else."
But he insists that it was me. "I told you that it would be really easy to keep working on the fireplace if I made some handles on a piece of plywood and fit it into the opening when I'm not working on it. It would look much better than just sticking a slab of wood there."
"And what did I say?"
"You said it sounded like a terrific idea."
"I wasn't ready for that conversation," I declare. "We'd better have it again. And NOT at 2 a.m.," I clarify. "7:34 tomorrow night should work."
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Letter of complaint
Dear Employer,
Now that I have had my 6-month new-employee review and my probationary period is past, let me just say that although I greatly appreciate the privilege of working for a company that provides free calorie-laden foods several times a week, I wish to make a complaint about certain working conditions that have come to my attention.
#1: First, the weather. I'm sure you have noticed that it is getting colder outside. I realize that this issue is generally considered to be out of an employer's control, but I would like to suggest certain weather-related policies that would greatly benefit your employees' health and sense of well-being and, hence, productivity. For instance, perhaps it is not really necessary for employees to come to work on days when the temperature is not expected to reach, say, 45 degrees. It is really quite inconvenient to struggle into one's coat, scarf, hat, mittens, boots, etc. each morning. And that's just to get out of bed to turn the alarm off.
Not having to come to work on cold days would also prevent us from having to get into cold cars in the morning. As you are no doubt aware, no one in Maryland has a garage, except possibly those who are incarcerated at taxpayers' expense. I believe this is written into the state Constitution ("Garages are an unnecessary and unsightly appendage to a domicile and are therefore hereby outlawed for the remainder of this millennium, or until the entire state of Maryland is overtaken by the Chesapeake Bay due to global warming, whichever comes first").
I realize that in certain states, having a cold-weather policy would result in industry shutting down completely during four or five or six months of the year, but just think how refreshed those employees would be when they returned to work in the warmer months! As for making employees come to work during bad weather, the state of Ohio's public education site refers to various hazardous weather conditions -- defined as "anytime the temperature plunges to 45 degrees" -- as "public calamities." Do you really want your employees on the road during a public calamity? Wouldn't it be far better for them to remain safe at home with their loved ones, their hot chocolate, and their comfortable sweatpants? I know that my mental well-being is certainly enhanced by some hot chocolate and sweatpants.
Speaking of sweatpants, have you noticed that your employees are dressing more warmly now, including blankets? This is generally a sign that it is time to turn off the air conditioning.
#2. On a more personal note, I have noticed a disturbing trend occurring whenever there is an important announcement made to the entire company through the intercom. As you are no doubt aware, the intercom does not extend into the restrooms. Why is it that, whenever some such announcement is made -- such as that a fire drill is imminent, or that I have won the office lottery -- you wait until I am in the restroom to make the announcement? As this has happened several times now, my associates are aware of the issue, and I live in fear that someday I will win a raffle of $1,000,000 and when they realize that I did not hear the joyous news, they will refrain from telling me in the hopes that I will not find out and they can split the winnings.
#3: This is more of a suggestion than a complaint. I have heard rumors that we may be holding a "Pajama Day" at work, in which employees have the privilege of coming to work looking just like they rolled out of bed. I think this is a great idea. In fact, maybe we could take the concept one step further and declare a "Pajama Day in Your Home," wherein each employee remains at home for the workday in her or her night wear. This would, I'm sure, greatly boost morale, particularly if employees were required to do no work while in their pajamas.
I would be happy to discuss these matters further at your convenience. Preferably over the phone, while I am at my residence, relaxing in my pajamas.
Respectfully submitted,
Editor #6
Now that I have had my 6-month new-employee review and my probationary period is past, let me just say that although I greatly appreciate the privilege of working for a company that provides free calorie-laden foods several times a week, I wish to make a complaint about certain working conditions that have come to my attention.
#1: First, the weather. I'm sure you have noticed that it is getting colder outside. I realize that this issue is generally considered to be out of an employer's control, but I would like to suggest certain weather-related policies that would greatly benefit your employees' health and sense of well-being and, hence, productivity. For instance, perhaps it is not really necessary for employees to come to work on days when the temperature is not expected to reach, say, 45 degrees. It is really quite inconvenient to struggle into one's coat, scarf, hat, mittens, boots, etc. each morning. And that's just to get out of bed to turn the alarm off.
Not having to come to work on cold days would also prevent us from having to get into cold cars in the morning. As you are no doubt aware, no one in Maryland has a garage, except possibly those who are incarcerated at taxpayers' expense. I believe this is written into the state Constitution ("Garages are an unnecessary and unsightly appendage to a domicile and are therefore hereby outlawed for the remainder of this millennium, or until the entire state of Maryland is overtaken by the Chesapeake Bay due to global warming, whichever comes first").
I realize that in certain states, having a cold-weather policy would result in industry shutting down completely during four or five or six months of the year, but just think how refreshed those employees would be when they returned to work in the warmer months! As for making employees come to work during bad weather, the state of Ohio's public education site refers to various hazardous weather conditions -- defined as "anytime the temperature plunges to 45 degrees" -- as "public calamities." Do you really want your employees on the road during a public calamity? Wouldn't it be far better for them to remain safe at home with their loved ones, their hot chocolate, and their comfortable sweatpants? I know that my mental well-being is certainly enhanced by some hot chocolate and sweatpants.
Speaking of sweatpants, have you noticed that your employees are dressing more warmly now, including blankets? This is generally a sign that it is time to turn off the air conditioning.
#2. On a more personal note, I have noticed a disturbing trend occurring whenever there is an important announcement made to the entire company through the intercom. As you are no doubt aware, the intercom does not extend into the restrooms. Why is it that, whenever some such announcement is made -- such as that a fire drill is imminent, or that I have won the office lottery -- you wait until I am in the restroom to make the announcement? As this has happened several times now, my associates are aware of the issue, and I live in fear that someday I will win a raffle of $1,000,000 and when they realize that I did not hear the joyous news, they will refrain from telling me in the hopes that I will not find out and they can split the winnings.
#3: This is more of a suggestion than a complaint. I have heard rumors that we may be holding a "Pajama Day" at work, in which employees have the privilege of coming to work looking just like they rolled out of bed. I think this is a great idea. In fact, maybe we could take the concept one step further and declare a "Pajama Day in Your Home," wherein each employee remains at home for the workday in her or her night wear. This would, I'm sure, greatly boost morale, particularly if employees were required to do no work while in their pajamas.
I would be happy to discuss these matters further at your convenience. Preferably over the phone, while I am at my residence, relaxing in my pajamas.
Respectfully submitted,
Editor #6
Thursday, November 13, 2008
The Universal Law of Cleaning
Due to technical difficulties (none of which had anything to do with ME), this post appears much later in the day than it was supposed to. We apologize for any inconvenience.
There is, I believe, a Universal Law of Cleaning when Expecting Company. This law states that the tasks you have put off for the last five years because they are so unappealing suddenly become the things you must do when you are supposed to be doing something even less appealing, like making your entire house presentable for visitors. We don't have visitors very often -- you will doubtless see why as you read further -- but when we do, this law is in full force.
This law affects the genders in quite different ways. Women, for instance, generally find themselves compelled to do tasks that, though not entirely necessary at the moment -- such as the removal of all knobs on the stove for the purpose of cleaning around them -- nevertheless make some sort of improvement in the appearance or functioning of the home. When the Universal Law of Cleaning when Expecting Company is applied to men, however, the result, instead of improving the home, usually involves varying degrees of property destruction. Let me illustrate with a recent example.
With company expected the next day at our house, Joe's task is to clean the family room in the basement. This is important, because this is the room that welcomes you into the house, unless you are the daily mail, in which case you are flung through a little slot in the front door upstairs and deposited unceremoniously on the floor of the study. But for people, they generally first see the basement.
Now, we have a large contingent of household objects with no permanent dwelling place -- not as large as we used to have, but nevertheless substantial enough that when a visit is imminent, it is Joe's job to magically remove these objects to another part of the house so as to give our visitors the impression that we are intimately acquainted with Martha Stewart's Rules for Gracious Living. This task is so enormous that we write it in large letters in our daily calendar: CLEAN FAMILY ROOM!!!!!!!!!!! The number of exclamation marks following this directive represents approximately how much cleaning we estimate will be needed. The exclamation marks generally take up all the room on the calendar.
On this particular occasion, however, Joe felt another call upon his time. It was imperative, he felt, that this very day, instead of making the family room presentable for our guests' imminent visit, he must set about liberating the 170-year-old fireplace that has been walled up for at least 20 years. Indeed, it was his duty.
This act would involve knocking through the wall of the family room to find the fireplace. The room he was supposed to be cleaning. But the Universal Law of Cleaning when Expecting Company must be obeyed. I began to hear sounds that were not compatible with cleaning, and when I entered the room I noticed -- being an observant sort of person -- that roughly a square foot of the wall was missing. Well, not completely missing. Most if it was strewn all over the floor.
In keeping with the Spousal Confidence Laws of Maryland, I will not divulge the discussion we had when I discovered this situation, but let's just say that it is fortunate that I was not the one holding the ax.
Despite the Universal Law of Cleaning when Expecting Company, I blame this on the real estate agent who sold us the house. His hobby, when not selling houses, was to smash holes in the walls of his historic home to see what might be behind them. He encouraged Joe to take up this hobby himself, enticing him with visions of finding and restoring stone walls and brick fireplaces. "If you don't like what you see," he said, "cover it up and try someplace else." This is the only advice of a real estate professional that Joe has ever followed. I am quite sure, however, that by "cover it up" the man meant restoring a wall to its original appearance, whereas the experiments on our walls are merely covered over with plywood, so that the room appears as if some crazed animal has attempted to smash through the walls in an effort to escape.
I have ceased trying to come up with an explanation for these slabs of plywood on the walls to our guests, and now just ignore them. My only hope is that visitors of both genders will, upon seeing our desecrated walls, instantly recognize the application of the Universal Law.
There is, I believe, a Universal Law of Cleaning when Expecting Company. This law states that the tasks you have put off for the last five years because they are so unappealing suddenly become the things you must do when you are supposed to be doing something even less appealing, like making your entire house presentable for visitors. We don't have visitors very often -- you will doubtless see why as you read further -- but when we do, this law is in full force.
This law affects the genders in quite different ways. Women, for instance, generally find themselves compelled to do tasks that, though not entirely necessary at the moment -- such as the removal of all knobs on the stove for the purpose of cleaning around them -- nevertheless make some sort of improvement in the appearance or functioning of the home. When the Universal Law of Cleaning when Expecting Company is applied to men, however, the result, instead of improving the home, usually involves varying degrees of property destruction. Let me illustrate with a recent example.
With company expected the next day at our house, Joe's task is to clean the family room in the basement. This is important, because this is the room that welcomes you into the house, unless you are the daily mail, in which case you are flung through a little slot in the front door upstairs and deposited unceremoniously on the floor of the study. But for people, they generally first see the basement.
Now, we have a large contingent of household objects with no permanent dwelling place -- not as large as we used to have, but nevertheless substantial enough that when a visit is imminent, it is Joe's job to magically remove these objects to another part of the house so as to give our visitors the impression that we are intimately acquainted with Martha Stewart's Rules for Gracious Living. This task is so enormous that we write it in large letters in our daily calendar: CLEAN FAMILY ROOM!!!!!!!!!!! The number of exclamation marks following this directive represents approximately how much cleaning we estimate will be needed. The exclamation marks generally take up all the room on the calendar.
On this particular occasion, however, Joe felt another call upon his time. It was imperative, he felt, that this very day, instead of making the family room presentable for our guests' imminent visit, he must set about liberating the 170-year-old fireplace that has been walled up for at least 20 years. Indeed, it was his duty.
This act would involve knocking through the wall of the family room to find the fireplace. The room he was supposed to be cleaning. But the Universal Law of Cleaning when Expecting Company must be obeyed. I began to hear sounds that were not compatible with cleaning, and when I entered the room I noticed -- being an observant sort of person -- that roughly a square foot of the wall was missing. Well, not completely missing. Most if it was strewn all over the floor.
In keeping with the Spousal Confidence Laws of Maryland, I will not divulge the discussion we had when I discovered this situation, but let's just say that it is fortunate that I was not the one holding the ax.
Despite the Universal Law of Cleaning when Expecting Company, I blame this on the real estate agent who sold us the house. His hobby, when not selling houses, was to smash holes in the walls of his historic home to see what might be behind them. He encouraged Joe to take up this hobby himself, enticing him with visions of finding and restoring stone walls and brick fireplaces. "If you don't like what you see," he said, "cover it up and try someplace else." This is the only advice of a real estate professional that Joe has ever followed. I am quite sure, however, that by "cover it up" the man meant restoring a wall to its original appearance, whereas the experiments on our walls are merely covered over with plywood, so that the room appears as if some crazed animal has attempted to smash through the walls in an effort to escape.
I have ceased trying to come up with an explanation for these slabs of plywood on the walls to our guests, and now just ignore them. My only hope is that visitors of both genders will, upon seeing our desecrated walls, instantly recognize the application of the Universal Law.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Oh, the things you don't know
You might think that editing textbooks would be a boring profession. Pretty much you'd be right. BUT, every now and then the editor is rewarded with amusing little pieces of information, or misinformation, that make her satisfied that she did not go into some other line of more interesting work, such as wilderness instructor. In the interest of not being selfish, I will now share with you some of these amusing little pieces of (1) information and (2) misinformation.
First, Rembrandt's Night Watch is a beautiful, haunting image of three confident musketeers striding through a crowd of people who seem confused as to why they are even in this painting. But the interesting thing about the painting is not the subject. In addition to Night Watch, it has several alternative names. One, which our fifth grade art book thoughtfully points out, is The Sortie of the Captain Banning Cocq's Company of the Civic Guard. This painting is on display in the Netherlands, at the Rijksmuseum, where it no doubt carries an equally long and absurd title, more so because it is in Dutch.
But this title does provide some explanation, at least, for why the people in the painting look confused. They have asked all around, and no one knows what a cocq is. Some believe it is the central musketeer's name; others insist that it is a clue to some hidden treasure, the location of which is known only to the musketeers, which is why they are the only ones not looking confused. In the absence of a consensus on this issue, the title Night Watch was unanimously chose in place of the original, and the people in the painting also voted to limit future titles of artwork to one word (or 15 in French).
The second interesting fact deals with issues a little closer to home, at least if you live in the U.S. Although everyone knows that the U.S. treated the Indians very shamefully in the past, few realize -- unless you read the answer key to our sixth grade history book questions -- that the U.S., at a very critical turning point in history, signed a peach treaty with the Indians. Yes. The answer key does not give any details of this treaty, which must have been very complicated and therefore secret, but I surmise that it went along the following lines:
Indians: You take too many of our peaches. This stop.
U.S.: Okay.
(Some sources believe that instead of saying "Okay," the U.S. responded with "How many is too many?" but these sources are pessimistic.)
Judging from the abundance of peaches still available today, this was one of the few treaties the U.S. ever kept with the Indians. Otherwise we would have picked them clean by 1843. The peaches, that is.
Time does not permit us to share more of these little-known facts with you, but we trust that there will be more opportunities in the future to do so. Wilderness instructors never led such an exciting life.
First, Rembrandt's Night Watch is a beautiful, haunting image of three confident musketeers striding through a crowd of people who seem confused as to why they are even in this painting. But the interesting thing about the painting is not the subject. In addition to Night Watch, it has several alternative names. One, which our fifth grade art book thoughtfully points out, is The Sortie of the Captain Banning Cocq's Company of the Civic Guard. This painting is on display in the Netherlands, at the Rijksmuseum, where it no doubt carries an equally long and absurd title, more so because it is in Dutch.
But this title does provide some explanation, at least, for why the people in the painting look confused. They have asked all around, and no one knows what a cocq is. Some believe it is the central musketeer's name; others insist that it is a clue to some hidden treasure, the location of which is known only to the musketeers, which is why they are the only ones not looking confused. In the absence of a consensus on this issue, the title Night Watch was unanimously chose in place of the original, and the people in the painting also voted to limit future titles of artwork to one word (or 15 in French).
The second interesting fact deals with issues a little closer to home, at least if you live in the U.S. Although everyone knows that the U.S. treated the Indians very shamefully in the past, few realize -- unless you read the answer key to our sixth grade history book questions -- that the U.S., at a very critical turning point in history, signed a peach treaty with the Indians. Yes. The answer key does not give any details of this treaty, which must have been very complicated and therefore secret, but I surmise that it went along the following lines:
Indians: You take too many of our peaches. This stop.
U.S.: Okay.
(Some sources believe that instead of saying "Okay," the U.S. responded with "How many is too many?" but these sources are pessimistic.)
Judging from the abundance of peaches still available today, this was one of the few treaties the U.S. ever kept with the Indians. Otherwise we would have picked them clean by 1843. The peaches, that is.
Time does not permit us to share more of these little-known facts with you, but we trust that there will be more opportunities in the future to do so. Wilderness instructors never led such an exciting life.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Drama at the castle
Today we bring you breaking news in a developing situation on the back porch of the Gallant Hero and the Prissy Princess. For several days, they have been keeping a careful eye on three pumpkins sitting on their steps.
"What's the situation?"
"There are chunks missing from P1, P2, and P3. Doesn't look good."
"Damage from the ladder fall, you think?"
"No, the pattern of breaks looks more like the work of a predator. He leaves no trail, though."
"Well, keep an eye on it."
All is quiet during the days work is being done on the patio, which joins the porch. Then, suddenly, there is another development: pumpkin guts lie all the new patio.
"P1 is breached; we'd better get a crew down here to clean it up. Looks like whoever's responsible got away with some of the material inside."
"Destroy P1; it's no use to us any longer, and it will only encourage him to come back. Let's get everyone on this so we can catch this guy. And beef up security around P2 and P3."
There is some discussion on possible parties responsible for the intrusion. Suggestions for likely candidates are offered by interested co-workers, neighbors, CIA agents, etc. The perpetrator is given a code name: The Elusive Pumpkin Eater.
The day after P1 is removed, he strikes again.
"P2 was discovered at 1700 hours on the lower steps of the yard. One side is severely scarred, but it has not been breached."
"Whoever did this was not happy to find P1 missing. The Elusive Pumpkin Eater is leaving us a message."
There is a sudden commotion in the command room.
"There's been a sighting of the perp! The suspect is about a foot and a half long with a bushy tail. Looks like the same guy suspected in the Tomato Heist a few weeks ago."
"Did he say anything?"
"Yeah, we got a recording. Sounds like CHHKKLLL CHHKKLL CHHKKLL."
"Hmmm, doesn't resemble anything we have on file...this guy is bold. Strikes in broad daylight and doesn't care if he's seen."
"What should we do?"
"P2 is compromised, and we can't risk further damage to it. It must be destroyed. And move P3 to a more secure location. We can't risk him getting that one, too."
P3 is moved to the front porch in the hopes of confusing the suspect. The suspect's code name is changed from The Elusive Pumpkin Eater to Bob the Squirrel.
Things are quiet for a few days. Then...
"We've just received a message. We think it may be from Bob the Squirrel."
"Why?"
"It's, um, written in pumpkin seeds. Analysis confirms the seeds are from P1 and P2."
"Well?"
"It says, 'You may have won this time. But I'll be back next year.' "
"Sounds like our ruse worked...anything else?"
"Yeah...it looks like it says 'P.S. Got any more tomatoes?' "
"What's the situation?"
"There are chunks missing from P1, P2, and P3. Doesn't look good."
"Damage from the ladder fall, you think?"
"No, the pattern of breaks looks more like the work of a predator. He leaves no trail, though."
"Well, keep an eye on it."
All is quiet during the days work is being done on the patio, which joins the porch. Then, suddenly, there is another development: pumpkin guts lie all the new patio.
"P1 is breached; we'd better get a crew down here to clean it up. Looks like whoever's responsible got away with some of the material inside."
"Destroy P1; it's no use to us any longer, and it will only encourage him to come back. Let's get everyone on this so we can catch this guy. And beef up security around P2 and P3."
There is some discussion on possible parties responsible for the intrusion. Suggestions for likely candidates are offered by interested co-workers, neighbors, CIA agents, etc. The perpetrator is given a code name: The Elusive Pumpkin Eater.
The day after P1 is removed, he strikes again.
"P2 was discovered at 1700 hours on the lower steps of the yard. One side is severely scarred, but it has not been breached."
"Whoever did this was not happy to find P1 missing. The Elusive Pumpkin Eater is leaving us a message."
There is a sudden commotion in the command room.
"There's been a sighting of the perp! The suspect is about a foot and a half long with a bushy tail. Looks like the same guy suspected in the Tomato Heist a few weeks ago."
"Did he say anything?"
"Yeah, we got a recording. Sounds like CHHKKLLL CHHKKLL CHHKKLL."
"Hmmm, doesn't resemble anything we have on file...this guy is bold. Strikes in broad daylight and doesn't care if he's seen."
"What should we do?"
"P2 is compromised, and we can't risk further damage to it. It must be destroyed. And move P3 to a more secure location. We can't risk him getting that one, too."
P3 is moved to the front porch in the hopes of confusing the suspect. The suspect's code name is changed from The Elusive Pumpkin Eater to Bob the Squirrel.
Things are quiet for a few days. Then...
"We've just received a message. We think it may be from Bob the Squirrel."
"Why?"
"It's, um, written in pumpkin seeds. Analysis confirms the seeds are from P1 and P2."
"Well?"
"It says, 'You may have won this time. But I'll be back next year.' "
"Sounds like our ruse worked...anything else?"
"Yeah...it looks like it says 'P.S. Got any more tomatoes?' "
Thursday, November 6, 2008
A quick guide to the Christmas shopping experience
I am not one to hang on to a holiday once it is past. The day after Halloween, my sister and I hit the mall to start our Christmas shopping. The bags piled up. Our arms ached. We had to make a run to the car to get rid of everything so we could buy more. We were giddy with our success. "We'll get done early this year!" we said.
When I tallied up the things I had bought, I surpassed even my own expectations: things for me: 11; Christmas gifts: 0.
"I didn't do so good on the gifts," I said to my sister.
"But you got a lot of nice things," she pointed out, which was comforting.
Despite my best intentions, this is pretty much how I start my Christmas shopping every year, and I actually highly recommend it. If everyone would do this, we wouldn't have to shop for gifts for other people at all. And everyone would get exactly what they want. Plus, the earlier you start, the more things you get for yourself. This is in keeping with the Christmas spirit, which is "good will to all people," including yourself.
My brother has a slightly different method of buying Christmas gifts:
1. Hound family members for a list of exactly what they want for Christmas. Get sizes, colors, brand names, all the identifying information you possibly can.
2. Ignore lists and buy people whatever you want.
As you can see, his method makes my method necessary. And so if you'll excuse me, I must go start my Christmas shopping. Again.
When I tallied up the things I had bought, I surpassed even my own expectations: things for me: 11; Christmas gifts: 0.
"I didn't do so good on the gifts," I said to my sister.
"But you got a lot of nice things," she pointed out, which was comforting.
Despite my best intentions, this is pretty much how I start my Christmas shopping every year, and I actually highly recommend it. If everyone would do this, we wouldn't have to shop for gifts for other people at all. And everyone would get exactly what they want. Plus, the earlier you start, the more things you get for yourself. This is in keeping with the Christmas spirit, which is "good will to all people," including yourself.
My brother has a slightly different method of buying Christmas gifts:
1. Hound family members for a list of exactly what they want for Christmas. Get sizes, colors, brand names, all the identifying information you possibly can.
2. Ignore lists and buy people whatever you want.
As you can see, his method makes my method necessary. And so if you'll excuse me, I must go start my Christmas shopping. Again.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Frightfully fun
Our usual Halloween consists of sitting around the candy bowl, waiting for trick or treaters who never come, because we do not have a porch light and our house is shrouded in darkness. This has never really bothered us, because of course we buy the candy for ourselves, knowing full well we will never get any kids. But this year I was privileged to spend Halloween with my niece's two children, who at the tender ages of five and three have the process down quite well.
The three-year-old -- who has never in her life come within ten feet of me of her own free will -- was so beside herself with excitement that when her brother announced my arrival she flew straight at my legs and wrapped herself around them, fairy wings and all, and squeezed as tight as she could. "Hello?" I wanted to say. "This is Aunt Holly. You don't like me." I tried to hide my face so she wouldn't look up and suddenly realize her mistake. Even without a mask, I am pretty scary to her.
According to a recent story in the newspaper -- which, you might recall from an earlier blog, no longer carries actual news, and the story reported here must be completely fabricated, as you will see -- it is important to make sure children get some actual nutrition on Halloween before they go out into the wide world beyond to collect cavities. The article notes that due to all the excitement of the occasion, some children may be reluctant to acquire this nutrition, and suggests that parents stimulate more interest by having the kids help make the dinner. And not just any dinner. They must plan dinner as an art project, wherein the kids help make foods that the parents themselves would never think of eating but that kids find attractive, such as things that look like spiders and ghosts and eyeballs.
The article was accompanied by several photos of a mother and two children making what the article said was turkey meatball spiders, but what appeared to be cupcakes with various crustacean parts sticking out at odd angles. The meatballs consisted of -- and this is true -- turkey, shredded zucchini, oatmeal, and 12-grain bread. The article did not indicate whether the children actually ate any of this, but I would be highly suspicious of them if they did.
My niece did not have her children make turkey meatball spiders, but she did make a homemade chicken pot pie for dinner. The net food intake for one child was two peas from her pot pie and also four grapes; the other child wouldn't eat a bite and ended up getting a hot dog, which, once on his plate, was subjected to rough treatment as a hockey puck. No doubt the meal would have been more successful if we had called it something interesting, like Brain Pot Pie.
Then it was time for the obligatory photos of everyone in costume, which kids like even less than going to get their picture taken with Santa, because every minute spent standing still for a photo translates into roughly 5 lost pieces of potential candy. My niece lined up four squirming children, her two and the neighbors', and we all snapped away. In an attempt to assure their cooperation, she informed them that they would appreciate these photos someday. They squirmed even more.
When they were finally released to go out, they immediately scattered in four different directions. Most of my time was spent running after a child, only to find out that I didn't know the child, and the one I was supposed to be watching was by now probably perched in some neighbor's kitchen, contentedly eating candy and Brain Pot Pie.
The first five houses they went to -- once we had corralled the children who actually belonged to us -- were all lit up like Christmas trees, yet the kids insisted that no one was home at any of them. I finally realized that they were not announcing themselves in any manner. They made plenty of noise running across the yards, but when they got to a porch they stood silently, peering through the window to see if anyone was coming. If no one came within approximately two nanoseconds, they declared that no one was home, and off they went to the next house to repeat this process.
Apparently they expected the adults to have Silent Radar, which would immediately set off alarms in the house when the children crossed some invisible threshold in the yard -- BWEEP! BWEEP BWEEP! -- and cause the adults to drop whatever they were doing and scurry to do the children's bidding. The only homes where they got any actual candy were those where other children had already done the grunt work of getting homeowners to come to the door.
In the end I got a pretty good deal. The kids graciously shared their haul with me -- once they had figured out how to activate the Candy Acquisition Process -- and waiting for me at home was my full bowl of candy.
The three-year-old -- who has never in her life come within ten feet of me of her own free will -- was so beside herself with excitement that when her brother announced my arrival she flew straight at my legs and wrapped herself around them, fairy wings and all, and squeezed as tight as she could. "Hello?" I wanted to say. "This is Aunt Holly. You don't like me." I tried to hide my face so she wouldn't look up and suddenly realize her mistake. Even without a mask, I am pretty scary to her.
According to a recent story in the newspaper -- which, you might recall from an earlier blog, no longer carries actual news, and the story reported here must be completely fabricated, as you will see -- it is important to make sure children get some actual nutrition on Halloween before they go out into the wide world beyond to collect cavities. The article notes that due to all the excitement of the occasion, some children may be reluctant to acquire this nutrition, and suggests that parents stimulate more interest by having the kids help make the dinner. And not just any dinner. They must plan dinner as an art project, wherein the kids help make foods that the parents themselves would never think of eating but that kids find attractive, such as things that look like spiders and ghosts and eyeballs.
The article was accompanied by several photos of a mother and two children making what the article said was turkey meatball spiders, but what appeared to be cupcakes with various crustacean parts sticking out at odd angles. The meatballs consisted of -- and this is true -- turkey, shredded zucchini, oatmeal, and 12-grain bread. The article did not indicate whether the children actually ate any of this, but I would be highly suspicious of them if they did.
My niece did not have her children make turkey meatball spiders, but she did make a homemade chicken pot pie for dinner. The net food intake for one child was two peas from her pot pie and also four grapes; the other child wouldn't eat a bite and ended up getting a hot dog, which, once on his plate, was subjected to rough treatment as a hockey puck. No doubt the meal would have been more successful if we had called it something interesting, like Brain Pot Pie.
Then it was time for the obligatory photos of everyone in costume, which kids like even less than going to get their picture taken with Santa, because every minute spent standing still for a photo translates into roughly 5 lost pieces of potential candy. My niece lined up four squirming children, her two and the neighbors', and we all snapped away. In an attempt to assure their cooperation, she informed them that they would appreciate these photos someday. They squirmed even more.
When they were finally released to go out, they immediately scattered in four different directions. Most of my time was spent running after a child, only to find out that I didn't know the child, and the one I was supposed to be watching was by now probably perched in some neighbor's kitchen, contentedly eating candy and Brain Pot Pie.
The first five houses they went to -- once we had corralled the children who actually belonged to us -- were all lit up like Christmas trees, yet the kids insisted that no one was home at any of them. I finally realized that they were not announcing themselves in any manner. They made plenty of noise running across the yards, but when they got to a porch they stood silently, peering through the window to see if anyone was coming. If no one came within approximately two nanoseconds, they declared that no one was home, and off they went to the next house to repeat this process.
Apparently they expected the adults to have Silent Radar, which would immediately set off alarms in the house when the children crossed some invisible threshold in the yard -- BWEEP! BWEEP BWEEP! -- and cause the adults to drop whatever they were doing and scurry to do the children's bidding. The only homes where they got any actual candy were those where other children had already done the grunt work of getting homeowners to come to the door.
In the end I got a pretty good deal. The kids graciously shared their haul with me -- once they had figured out how to activate the Candy Acquisition Process -- and waiting for me at home was my full bowl of candy.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Dad's tips for healthy eating
If you want to live a long, healthy life, you can do no better than follow my father's lifelong diet. He is as fit as any 86-year-old has a right to be, and it can mostly be attributed to these few sensible tips for eating:
1. For lunch, eat a salami or bologna sandwich every day. Better yet, have both. Never, ever eat wheat bread or anything with the words "whole grain."
2. Also have a bowl of canned, high-sodium soup for lunch every day, even when it is 103 degrees outside.
3. Each evening, heap yourself a bowl full of full-fat ice cream. Then go to bed with this sitting in your stomach.
4. When your spouse is not looking, hide the low-fat turkey lunchmeat she bought, along with anything else that would threaten the delicate balance of high-fat foods you prefer.
In an effort to raise the nutritional value of his food at least a little while my mom was gone, I bought him some of that turkey lunchmeat mentioned in #4. At lunchtime I unveiled it with a dramatic gesture, talking it up as you would when trying to get a toddler to eat his carrots.
But toddlers are not easily fooled, and neither was my father. He poked at the turkey as if it were some laboratory specimen and shrugged. "I could try it, I suppose," he said without much enthusiasm. "Is it any good?"
That would be #5 on Dad's list: If it doesn't taste good, forget it.
His cereal cupboard contains sensible, age-appropriate offerings like Cheerios, Lucky Charms, and Trix. I was quite young when my parents cut me off from eating Trix. Now my cereals are more old-people than my father's.
Dad has far outlived his family members, most of whom probably ate their Wheaties and oatmeal faithfully. Not that he is without his health problems. His little pill container is just as full as other people's his age. But as Dad could tell you, those pills go down much more easily with ice cream than with a bran muffin.
1. For lunch, eat a salami or bologna sandwich every day. Better yet, have both. Never, ever eat wheat bread or anything with the words "whole grain."
2. Also have a bowl of canned, high-sodium soup for lunch every day, even when it is 103 degrees outside.
3. Each evening, heap yourself a bowl full of full-fat ice cream. Then go to bed with this sitting in your stomach.
4. When your spouse is not looking, hide the low-fat turkey lunchmeat she bought, along with anything else that would threaten the delicate balance of high-fat foods you prefer.
In an effort to raise the nutritional value of his food at least a little while my mom was gone, I bought him some of that turkey lunchmeat mentioned in #4. At lunchtime I unveiled it with a dramatic gesture, talking it up as you would when trying to get a toddler to eat his carrots.
But toddlers are not easily fooled, and neither was my father. He poked at the turkey as if it were some laboratory specimen and shrugged. "I could try it, I suppose," he said without much enthusiasm. "Is it any good?"
That would be #5 on Dad's list: If it doesn't taste good, forget it.
His cereal cupboard contains sensible, age-appropriate offerings like Cheerios, Lucky Charms, and Trix. I was quite young when my parents cut me off from eating Trix. Now my cereals are more old-people than my father's.
Dad has far outlived his family members, most of whom probably ate their Wheaties and oatmeal faithfully. Not that he is without his health problems. His little pill container is just as full as other people's his age. But as Dad could tell you, those pills go down much more easily with ice cream than with a bran muffin.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The little horn that couldn't
I love my Honda. I loved the Honda I had before this one. But no matter how much I appreciate the fact that the odometer can run to numbers not typically seen on an American car, there is no denying that all Hondas come with one very embarrassing feature.
The horn.
A Honda horn is the chihuahua of car horns. The horns on other cars, even small cars, they're Great Danes, or German shepherds, or even pit bulls. They mean business. If you do not move out of their way now, they say, you are roadkill.
The Honda horn is not scaring anybody. It can best be described as apologetic. "I don't wish to bother you," it says timidly to another car, "but if it wouldn't be too much trouble -- I'm so sorry to be asking this -- could you possibly move to the next lane, at your earliest convenience, of course?" Even if you lay on a Honda horn, it is only annoying, not intimidating.
The Honda horn is very distinctive. You look in the direction the honk came from, and you are surprised to see a car, because you thought the honk was a bike horn. And you just keep driving, because you are not moving out of the way for a bike horn.
I am always hesitant to use my horn. This is not because I am afraid of being rude. I am afraid of getting laughed at. "Can't you at least try to sound more intimidating?" I beg my horn. "You're embarrassing me here."
It is not surprising that the horn on a Japanese car is polite. The Japanese are probably incapable of making a car with a loud, rude horn. I imagine that when they first started sending cars to America, the timid horn was part of an effort to make us a kinder, gentler nation. But our streets are mean. So as I contemplate buying a new car sometime in the future, I beg the Japanese automakers: Please, please, don't send us chihuahuas to fight with the pit bulls.
The horn.
A Honda horn is the chihuahua of car horns. The horns on other cars, even small cars, they're Great Danes, or German shepherds, or even pit bulls. They mean business. If you do not move out of their way now, they say, you are roadkill.
The Honda horn is not scaring anybody. It can best be described as apologetic. "I don't wish to bother you," it says timidly to another car, "but if it wouldn't be too much trouble -- I'm so sorry to be asking this -- could you possibly move to the next lane, at your earliest convenience, of course?" Even if you lay on a Honda horn, it is only annoying, not intimidating.
The Honda horn is very distinctive. You look in the direction the honk came from, and you are surprised to see a car, because you thought the honk was a bike horn. And you just keep driving, because you are not moving out of the way for a bike horn.
I am always hesitant to use my horn. This is not because I am afraid of being rude. I am afraid of getting laughed at. "Can't you at least try to sound more intimidating?" I beg my horn. "You're embarrassing me here."
It is not surprising that the horn on a Japanese car is polite. The Japanese are probably incapable of making a car with a loud, rude horn. I imagine that when they first started sending cars to America, the timid horn was part of an effort to make us a kinder, gentler nation. But our streets are mean. So as I contemplate buying a new car sometime in the future, I beg the Japanese automakers: Please, please, don't send us chihuahuas to fight with the pit bulls.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The elusive patio
Today is finally supposed to be the day. Of course, every day for the past two weeks was supposed to be the day, too.
Every day we have driven home from work excitedly, wondering: Will today be the day they finally begin building our patio?
But seeing no progress day after day, we begin to lower our expectations. If we could just see some evidence that they are working on it. The foundation. A few bricks, maybe. Okay, one brick. We'd be happy to just see one brick.
After two weeks, we are left to ponder another question: Is today the day the patio guys abscond to Bermuda with our money?
Given that the business card given to us said "Donell's Pool Service," this does not seem an unlikely scenario. Possibly our money is being used to finance someone's lovely backyard pool, with fountains and little statues and boulders around the edge. Boulders that were supposed to be in our new garden.
We think of excuses for why they have not started. "Well," we say, "maybe it's the weather." Except that the weather last week was perfect.
Then we reason, "Maybe they have a big job somewhere else." Like Bermuda, perhaps.
Joe remembers that Bob, the head pool/patio guy, was scheduled to have knee surgery last week. "Maybe there were complications," he suggests. Like maybe the money we have paid him so far wasn't enough to cover the surgery.
Joe makes a casual call to the company, just to inquire if, possibly, we might expect a patio before winter sets in. Predictably, no one answers the phone. We are encouraged, however, that at least the phone is still in service. Surely this must be a good sign.
To bolster my belief that they will indeed come through, I buy some flower bulbs. Bulbs I cannot plant until they finish the patio and the garden. Surely Bob won't let us down. He seemed so fatherly. Besides, could a man who speaks of pansies with such affection be a crook?
Finally, the company's secretary calls. The bricks we chose, she explains, just arrived. We wonder if Bob had to make a trip to Bermuda personally to pick them up, but we are polite and do not say anything. She further tells us that they will start on the patio this week. "Oh, that's fine," we say, as if we believe her. We want to.
But here it is this week, and of course it is raining. And we are beginning to wonder: Maybe we should take our money back and use it to go to Bermuda.
Every day we have driven home from work excitedly, wondering: Will today be the day they finally begin building our patio?
But seeing no progress day after day, we begin to lower our expectations. If we could just see some evidence that they are working on it. The foundation. A few bricks, maybe. Okay, one brick. We'd be happy to just see one brick.
After two weeks, we are left to ponder another question: Is today the day the patio guys abscond to Bermuda with our money?
Given that the business card given to us said "Donell's Pool Service," this does not seem an unlikely scenario. Possibly our money is being used to finance someone's lovely backyard pool, with fountains and little statues and boulders around the edge. Boulders that were supposed to be in our new garden.
We think of excuses for why they have not started. "Well," we say, "maybe it's the weather." Except that the weather last week was perfect.
Then we reason, "Maybe they have a big job somewhere else." Like Bermuda, perhaps.
Joe remembers that Bob, the head pool/patio guy, was scheduled to have knee surgery last week. "Maybe there were complications," he suggests. Like maybe the money we have paid him so far wasn't enough to cover the surgery.
Joe makes a casual call to the company, just to inquire if, possibly, we might expect a patio before winter sets in. Predictably, no one answers the phone. We are encouraged, however, that at least the phone is still in service. Surely this must be a good sign.
To bolster my belief that they will indeed come through, I buy some flower bulbs. Bulbs I cannot plant until they finish the patio and the garden. Surely Bob won't let us down. He seemed so fatherly. Besides, could a man who speaks of pansies with such affection be a crook?
Finally, the company's secretary calls. The bricks we chose, she explains, just arrived. We wonder if Bob had to make a trip to Bermuda personally to pick them up, but we are polite and do not say anything. She further tells us that they will start on the patio this week. "Oh, that's fine," we say, as if we believe her. We want to.
But here it is this week, and of course it is raining. And we are beginning to wonder: Maybe we should take our money back and use it to go to Bermuda.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
The Great Freezer Clean-out
Another task on my visit to my parents' was cleaning out their freezers. For as long as I've been around, my parents have had two freezers -- one in the kitchen, and another, Sam's Club-size one in the basement. In this one, they store food that they can use in the event of a catastrophic occurrence, like a giant meteorite destroying all forms of life except my parents.
There is just one problem with this. My parents do not necessarily use the first in, first out method with the food they put in the freezer, and therefore some of it has been around probably since meteorites were invented.
I have never seen some of the life forms that exist in this freezer. As I bagged them for disposal, it briefly crossed my mind that perhaps I should send them to a scientist who works with rare organisms. Maybe the scientist could even find a cure for some disease with what resides in my parents' freezer. Or create a new disease.
After I had filled two garbage bags with items from the freezer, I went to see my mom. She talked about everything she would have to do when she came home.
"Well, at least I won't have to cook for a while," she said. "Thank goodness there are a lot of meals in the freezer."
"Uh, maybe not as many as there used to be," I said.
She looked at me. I explained about my detoxification efforts and how almost the entire contents of the freezer were now awaiting disposal.
"Bah," she said dismissively. "I use food from that freezer all the time, and it's just fine."
I tried to remember the last time I ate at my parents' house and whether I had noticed anything different afterward, like growing another nose, or almost dying.
It's a good thing my mother is not in charge of making those charts that tell you how long food can stay in the freezer. Hers would look something like this:
Whole chicken: 5 decades, or the homeowner's death, whichever comes last
Pork chops: 6 presidential administrations (more if none of them are re-elected)
Cheese: perhaps not as long as chicken, but certainly longer than pork chops
Meatloaf: can never be destroyed, therefore ideal in event of meteorites hitting
Bread: until the Lord's return, and possibly into eternity
I can imagine receiving a letter from an eminent researcher for my donations to science from the freezer:
Dear Mrs. B.,
Thank you for your recent donation of Unidentified Freezer Life Forms to our laboratory. We regret that we are unable to use them for research. We are curious about one thing, however. How long ago, exactly, did your parents' cat expire?
There is just one problem with this. My parents do not necessarily use the first in, first out method with the food they put in the freezer, and therefore some of it has been around probably since meteorites were invented.
I have never seen some of the life forms that exist in this freezer. As I bagged them for disposal, it briefly crossed my mind that perhaps I should send them to a scientist who works with rare organisms. Maybe the scientist could even find a cure for some disease with what resides in my parents' freezer. Or create a new disease.
After I had filled two garbage bags with items from the freezer, I went to see my mom. She talked about everything she would have to do when she came home.
"Well, at least I won't have to cook for a while," she said. "Thank goodness there are a lot of meals in the freezer."
"Uh, maybe not as many as there used to be," I said.
She looked at me. I explained about my detoxification efforts and how almost the entire contents of the freezer were now awaiting disposal.
"Bah," she said dismissively. "I use food from that freezer all the time, and it's just fine."
I tried to remember the last time I ate at my parents' house and whether I had noticed anything different afterward, like growing another nose, or almost dying.
It's a good thing my mother is not in charge of making those charts that tell you how long food can stay in the freezer. Hers would look something like this:
Whole chicken: 5 decades, or the homeowner's death, whichever comes last
Pork chops: 6 presidential administrations (more if none of them are re-elected)
Cheese: perhaps not as long as chicken, but certainly longer than pork chops
Meatloaf: can never be destroyed, therefore ideal in event of meteorites hitting
Bread: until the Lord's return, and possibly into eternity
I can imagine receiving a letter from an eminent researcher for my donations to science from the freezer:
Dear Mrs. B.,
Thank you for your recent donation of Unidentified Freezer Life Forms to our laboratory. We regret that we are unable to use them for research. We are curious about one thing, however. How long ago, exactly, did your parents' cat expire?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Dad learns about the dishwasher
My 86-year-old father, who is not what you would call a do-it-yourselfer, is nevertheless not a stranger to machines. Over a 50-some year career, he designed and oversaw the installation of conveyor systems in a number of businesses. Yet he is completely mystified by the machines in his own house.
With my mother in rehabilitation after a mild stroke, my dad has been thrust into the decoding of household tasks that have been hers for the past 64 years. One of my tasks on my recent visit to help him out -- other than making sure he is eating more than just salami and ice cream, which, along with bread, compose his three basic food groups -- was to teach him how to use the dishwasher. His previous method of washing dishes involved waiting until an unsuspecting visiting neighbor or relative, wishing to be of assistance, asked what he needed done.
"Well, I'm running out of dishes...." he would say, and in short order he would have clean dishes.
"Dad," I said over the phone one night before my visit, "you can't wash the dishes yourself?"
"Well, people like to help, you know."
During my visit my brother announced to my father that it was time for him to learn how to operate the dishwasher. My father reacted to this predictably: We might as well have suggested that he sell all his possessions and move to a commune somewhere on the other side of the world.
"Your mother never uses it," he protested.
This was true, but it was because she believed it used too much water, not because she didn't know HOW to use it.
I informed him that training would commence Sunday morning. He reported dutifully after eating breakfast. "Okay, I'm ready," he said confidently.
I looked from him to the dirty dishes he had just put in the sink. I looked back at him.
"What?" he said. "I said I'm ready."
"Dad, first the dishes have to go inside the dishwasher."
He nodded but made no move to put them there.
I sighed and handed the dishes to him one by one, and he put them in. Having only a few dishes and a lot of room in the empty dishwasher, he spaced them out as far as he could. He repeated each direction as I gave it, asking occasional questions to clarify the process, including "Can't I just wait until someone comes over and does them for me?"
When we were done I wrote out step-by-step directions on a large sticky note and stuck it on the dishwasher for future reference. He paled when he saw that the directions continued on the back of the note.
Although he was willing to at least attend the dishwasher training, he firmly believes that doing the laundry is too complicated for him to learn. He expressed some doubt that even I could tackle it.
With my mother in rehabilitation after a mild stroke, my dad has been thrust into the decoding of household tasks that have been hers for the past 64 years. One of my tasks on my recent visit to help him out -- other than making sure he is eating more than just salami and ice cream, which, along with bread, compose his three basic food groups -- was to teach him how to use the dishwasher. His previous method of washing dishes involved waiting until an unsuspecting visiting neighbor or relative, wishing to be of assistance, asked what he needed done.
"Well, I'm running out of dishes...." he would say, and in short order he would have clean dishes.
"Dad," I said over the phone one night before my visit, "you can't wash the dishes yourself?"
"Well, people like to help, you know."
During my visit my brother announced to my father that it was time for him to learn how to operate the dishwasher. My father reacted to this predictably: We might as well have suggested that he sell all his possessions and move to a commune somewhere on the other side of the world.
"Your mother never uses it," he protested.
This was true, but it was because she believed it used too much water, not because she didn't know HOW to use it.
I informed him that training would commence Sunday morning. He reported dutifully after eating breakfast. "Okay, I'm ready," he said confidently.
I looked from him to the dirty dishes he had just put in the sink. I looked back at him.
"What?" he said. "I said I'm ready."
"Dad, first the dishes have to go inside the dishwasher."
He nodded but made no move to put them there.
I sighed and handed the dishes to him one by one, and he put them in. Having only a few dishes and a lot of room in the empty dishwasher, he spaced them out as far as he could. He repeated each direction as I gave it, asking occasional questions to clarify the process, including "Can't I just wait until someone comes over and does them for me?"
When we were done I wrote out step-by-step directions on a large sticky note and stuck it on the dishwasher for future reference. He paled when he saw that the directions continued on the back of the note.
Although he was willing to at least attend the dishwasher training, he firmly believes that doing the laundry is too complicated for him to learn. He expressed some doubt that even I could tackle it.
"Have you ever used this washer and dryer before?" he asked, as if only certified experts should be allowed near them.
I informed him that washers and dryers were pretty much all the same. "Really?" he said in surprise. He thought about this. "But your brother's, now HIS look like some space-age thingies."
I acknowledged that his were probably a little more difficult to operate than the average washer and dryer. My father seemed to feel affirmed that there did exist some household machines that were a little more complicated. And glad that he wouldn't be asked to tackle them.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Off to the North Country
The Prissy Princess is off to the North, where she will visit the King and Queen to make sure they are behaving themselves. In her absence she hopes the Gallant Hero will behave HIMSELF. (She also hopes she will not freeze her royal heinie in the cold North Country.) In the meantime, we wish you all a Happy, um, October 17th. We are sure that it is a holiday SOMEWHERE.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
No pansies in MY yard!
I am very in tune with anything out of place around our house. For instance, coming home from work one day, it does not take me long to notice that three-quarters of our garden is missing.
The plants and flowers are not just trampled. They are no longer there. Being an observant sort of person, I am pretty sure they were there this morning. Then I notice that an enormous boulder, which I'm pretty sure was not there this morning, has been plopped down in the middle of my missing plants. I look around to make sure this is my house. Yes, there's our patio set, and the decorative ladder that we thought was quaint but didn't know what to do with, which we finally propped against the fence as if we are planning a nighttime raid into our neighbor's yard.
But most of the yard looks like hippos have performed a cha-cha through it, and locusts have followed up behind them. The rest of it is untouched.
Upon further reflection, I realize that this is all courtesy of Bob (please see previous blog for an introduction to Bob), who will install our new patio in a few weeks despite having a business card that says "pool service." Apparently he has cleared the way for the patio and thoughtfully provided us -- and all our neighbors -- with a sneak preview of the boulders that will be the centerpiece of the new garden. He has done this without letting us know he was going to do this. He has done this three days before we are expecting guests from out of town. Guests who not only will not see our new patio, but who will now see something akin to a landscape ravaged by war.
Bob later explains that he has saved all my plants and will put them back for me after the patio is done, which of course will not happen before our company comes. But Bob actually has bigger plans than just putting back my measly plants.
"I'll plant some winter pansies for you around the new boulders," he says. "They'll stay through January and really give you a lot of color through the winter."
Whoa, I say. I don't want color through the winter.
Bob is taken aback at this. Everyone likes color. He decides that I just have a thing against pansies, so he offers me other options for plants, grasses, moss -- yes, moss -- that will make the yard look nice until spring, when I can plant whatever else I want.
I shake my head. "Those don't really go with my vision for the garden," I say. Not that I have a vision for the garden, exactly, but whatever it is, it does not include things I have to take care of through the winter.
"It will make your garden stand out from all the others," Bob urges. It sure will. Ours will be the only one with an idiot -- me -- standing in the yard in January, shivering, tending to my plants while all our neighbors are relaxing in front of their fireplace.
Bob is stymied. Apparently he has never had a customer who didn't want him to do at least some landscaping after he has installed a patio/pool/fountain with statues wearing invisible clothing.
"It's going to look really dead all winter," he finally says, shaking his head as if I am making a terrible mistake.
That is the point of winter, I think to myself. Things die in the fall, they rest, and they come back in the spring. It's unnatural for flowers to be alive in the winter. Plus, I am lazy. I want to rest in the winter, too.
Bob gives up trying to sell me on the pansies, but he urges me to think about it. He then proceeds to tell me, step by step, how I can grow moss on my boulders. "It looks very nice," he assures me. This is a revelation, that people would actually create moss on purpose. Moss, to me, is one of those unfortunate life forms that should be referred to the Department of Homeland Security for disposal. I nod politely and deliberately misfile, in my brain, the information on growing moss so that I can never retrieve it.
In the end, with both Joe and Bob lobbying for the pansies, I give in. Of course, they aren't the ones who are going to have to take care of these flowers that go against the natural order of things. But, I figure pansies are better than moss.
The plants and flowers are not just trampled. They are no longer there. Being an observant sort of person, I am pretty sure they were there this morning. Then I notice that an enormous boulder, which I'm pretty sure was not there this morning, has been plopped down in the middle of my missing plants. I look around to make sure this is my house. Yes, there's our patio set, and the decorative ladder that we thought was quaint but didn't know what to do with, which we finally propped against the fence as if we are planning a nighttime raid into our neighbor's yard.
But most of the yard looks like hippos have performed a cha-cha through it, and locusts have followed up behind them. The rest of it is untouched.
Upon further reflection, I realize that this is all courtesy of Bob (please see previous blog for an introduction to Bob), who will install our new patio in a few weeks despite having a business card that says "pool service." Apparently he has cleared the way for the patio and thoughtfully provided us -- and all our neighbors -- with a sneak preview of the boulders that will be the centerpiece of the new garden. He has done this without letting us know he was going to do this. He has done this three days before we are expecting guests from out of town. Guests who not only will not see our new patio, but who will now see something akin to a landscape ravaged by war.
Bob later explains that he has saved all my plants and will put them back for me after the patio is done, which of course will not happen before our company comes. But Bob actually has bigger plans than just putting back my measly plants.
"I'll plant some winter pansies for you around the new boulders," he says. "They'll stay through January and really give you a lot of color through the winter."
Whoa, I say. I don't want color through the winter.
Bob is taken aback at this. Everyone likes color. He decides that I just have a thing against pansies, so he offers me other options for plants, grasses, moss -- yes, moss -- that will make the yard look nice until spring, when I can plant whatever else I want.
I shake my head. "Those don't really go with my vision for the garden," I say. Not that I have a vision for the garden, exactly, but whatever it is, it does not include things I have to take care of through the winter.
"It will make your garden stand out from all the others," Bob urges. It sure will. Ours will be the only one with an idiot -- me -- standing in the yard in January, shivering, tending to my plants while all our neighbors are relaxing in front of their fireplace.
Bob is stymied. Apparently he has never had a customer who didn't want him to do at least some landscaping after he has installed a patio/pool/fountain with statues wearing invisible clothing.
"It's going to look really dead all winter," he finally says, shaking his head as if I am making a terrible mistake.
That is the point of winter, I think to myself. Things die in the fall, they rest, and they come back in the spring. It's unnatural for flowers to be alive in the winter. Plus, I am lazy. I want to rest in the winter, too.
Bob gives up trying to sell me on the pansies, but he urges me to think about it. He then proceeds to tell me, step by step, how I can grow moss on my boulders. "It looks very nice," he assures me. This is a revelation, that people would actually create moss on purpose. Moss, to me, is one of those unfortunate life forms that should be referred to the Department of Homeland Security for disposal. I nod politely and deliberately misfile, in my brain, the information on growing moss so that I can never retrieve it.
In the end, with both Joe and Bob lobbying for the pansies, I give in. Of course, they aren't the ones who are going to have to take care of these flowers that go against the natural order of things. But, I figure pansies are better than moss.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The patio guy
The other day we met with the guy who's going to build a patio for us. He handed me his card.
The man figured we have room for a patio the grand size of 4' x 6'. "You'll be able to fit 11, maybe 12 guests out here," he assured us.
"Donell's Pool Service," it read proudly.
"I thought we were getting a patio," I said to Joe.
"We are. He does pools, too."
"Do we get a discount if we get both?" I asked. "Buy a patio, get a pool free?"
He didn't think so.
"That's more than we can fit inside," I whispered to Joe. "Besides, we don't even know that many people to invite. When it gets dark, we'd have to tell people to go home."
The man eyed our tree, which admittedly is not the healthiest tree around, and pronounced a limited lifespan for it. He seemed doubtful that it would live much longer, maybe not even through next week, but we could try pruning it and shooting little bolts of fertilizer into the ground. All of these he generously offered to do for us. "I used to do trees," he said modestly.
He then moved on to landscaping, which, as he helpfully pointed out, was also listed on the card as one of his services. He would have to remove all of our plants to put the patio in, but he could, he said, save them and replant them for a small fee. Or he could redo the entire garden. His tone clearly indicated his belief that, in our case at least, a brand-new garden was warranted.
The man did not entirely stick with business talk on his first visit. Interspersed among all the services he could provide for us were tales of his personal life -- his interest in model cars; his historic home bought for $1 at auction but missing several integral parts that typically come with houses, such as a stairway to the second floor; his wife's gout. I indicated to Joe that he should bring the conversation back around to our patio, which he promptly did.
"We have this water problem on the other side of the house," he said.
The man perked up. "I can take care of that for you if you want," he said.
"Do you wash windows, too?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Nah," he said.
At last, I thought! Something he couldn't take care of for us.
"But my wife could maybe do it," he added.
We thanked him and said we would be in touch about the patio.
As he turned to go to his truck, he had one last idea. "Do you know anyone who needs a pool?"
The man eyed our tree, which admittedly is not the healthiest tree around, and pronounced a limited lifespan for it. He seemed doubtful that it would live much longer, maybe not even through next week, but we could try pruning it and shooting little bolts of fertilizer into the ground. All of these he generously offered to do for us. "I used to do trees," he said modestly.
He then moved on to landscaping, which, as he helpfully pointed out, was also listed on the card as one of his services. He would have to remove all of our plants to put the patio in, but he could, he said, save them and replant them for a small fee. Or he could redo the entire garden. His tone clearly indicated his belief that, in our case at least, a brand-new garden was warranted.
The man did not entirely stick with business talk on his first visit. Interspersed among all the services he could provide for us were tales of his personal life -- his interest in model cars; his historic home bought for $1 at auction but missing several integral parts that typically come with houses, such as a stairway to the second floor; his wife's gout. I indicated to Joe that he should bring the conversation back around to our patio, which he promptly did.
"We have this water problem on the other side of the house," he said.
The man perked up. "I can take care of that for you if you want," he said.
"Do you wash windows, too?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Nah," he said.
At last, I thought! Something he couldn't take care of for us.
"But my wife could maybe do it," he added.
We thanked him and said we would be in touch about the patio.
As he turned to go to his truck, he had one last idea. "Do you know anyone who needs a pool?"
Thursday, October 9, 2008
What American workers really need
Some time ago we discussed the various search terms that lead readers to this blog. I have concluded, based on an exhaustive scientific scrutiny of these searches, that the greatest need of American workers is not more knowledge, not more degrees, not even more job security. Their greatest need is information on how to decorate their cubicles.
Far too many workers are entering the workplace not only without the necessary skills to build an attractive cubicle from the ground up, but also without the awareness that this is an expectation. I believe that the job interview is an excellent venue for sharing the employer's expectations for cubicle visual appearance (CVA), and to avoid mismatches in the hiring process, I propose that all employers conduct an interview such as the following.
Interviewer: It says here on your resume that you are a CVA. That's pretty impressive.
Potential Employee: Um, actually, that's CPA.
Interviewer: Oh?
Potential Employee: Yes, in my last position I saved my employer over $5,000,000 due to --
Interviewer: Yes, yes, I'm sure you would make a very capable accountant for us. Now tell me a little bit about your cubicle decorating experience.
Potential Employee: Well, um, I guess you might say I am somewhat of a minimalist. I prefer subtle touches, such as photos of myself water skiing, photos of myself with my poodle, also some occasional photos of myself helping orphans in Africa. Oh, I brought some pictures of my previous cubicle here for you. (reaches into briefcase and hands them to interviewer) It won an award for Most Improved Cubicle (proudly).
I: (glances through photos) I see. Have you had any experience with other media, such as silk flowers, mismatched vases, streamers, Grecian pillars, and so on?
P.E.: (scratches head) Well, I once tried hanging some oversized pineapples over my desk, but the fire marshal declared them a hazard and made me take it all down.
I: (nods soberly) Yes, fire marshals are sometimes hostile to the decorated working environment. (looks at photos again) And how large was this cubicle you were responsible for? It's difficult to tell with this rather large photo of you surfing.
P.E.: It was, um, about 5 x 6.
I: (frowns) And did you stay at that level? Were you ever given extra responsibilities in a larger cubicle capacity?
P.E. (brightens): One year I was in charge of holiday decorating for the entire office.
I: Excellent. We happen to have an opening here for Holiday Decorator. The last person in that position, poor woman, disappeared in Michael's and was never seen again.
P.E.: I'm so sorry.
I: (looks away) She was last seen in the Hawaiian aisle, fingering the leis. We were having a Hawaiian-themed party that year....Yes, it was in the service of our company that she disappeared. (sniffs in a somewhat undignified manner)
P.E.: (murmurs sympathetically)
I: (clears throat) Yes, well, of course that was just a fluke; I'm sure nothing like that would ever happen to the next person in that position.
P.E.: (smiles weakly)
I: (looks over photos one last time) Well, I think you would fit in very well here. The job is yours if you want it.
P.E.: Uh, may I ask whether I'm being hired as a CPA or a Holiday Decorator?
I: Both, certainly! Times are tough everywhere. We don't have the budget to hire just a CPA who has no other skills.
P.E.: Okay.
I: And you're just in time! Halloween is just around the corner, and you'll need to get started right away. Oh, and I'll need your plan on dealing with the fire marshal first thing Monday morning.
Far too many workers are entering the workplace not only without the necessary skills to build an attractive cubicle from the ground up, but also without the awareness that this is an expectation. I believe that the job interview is an excellent venue for sharing the employer's expectations for cubicle visual appearance (CVA), and to avoid mismatches in the hiring process, I propose that all employers conduct an interview such as the following.
Interviewer: It says here on your resume that you are a CVA. That's pretty impressive.
Potential Employee: Um, actually, that's CPA.
Interviewer: Oh?
Potential Employee: Yes, in my last position I saved my employer over $5,000,000 due to --
Interviewer: Yes, yes, I'm sure you would make a very capable accountant for us. Now tell me a little bit about your cubicle decorating experience.
Potential Employee: Well, um, I guess you might say I am somewhat of a minimalist. I prefer subtle touches, such as photos of myself water skiing, photos of myself with my poodle, also some occasional photos of myself helping orphans in Africa. Oh, I brought some pictures of my previous cubicle here for you. (reaches into briefcase and hands them to interviewer) It won an award for Most Improved Cubicle (proudly).
I: (glances through photos) I see. Have you had any experience with other media, such as silk flowers, mismatched vases, streamers, Grecian pillars, and so on?
P.E.: (scratches head) Well, I once tried hanging some oversized pineapples over my desk, but the fire marshal declared them a hazard and made me take it all down.
I: (nods soberly) Yes, fire marshals are sometimes hostile to the decorated working environment. (looks at photos again) And how large was this cubicle you were responsible for? It's difficult to tell with this rather large photo of you surfing.
P.E.: It was, um, about 5 x 6.
I: (frowns) And did you stay at that level? Were you ever given extra responsibilities in a larger cubicle capacity?
P.E. (brightens): One year I was in charge of holiday decorating for the entire office.
I: Excellent. We happen to have an opening here for Holiday Decorator. The last person in that position, poor woman, disappeared in Michael's and was never seen again.
P.E.: I'm so sorry.
I: (looks away) She was last seen in the Hawaiian aisle, fingering the leis. We were having a Hawaiian-themed party that year....Yes, it was in the service of our company that she disappeared. (sniffs in a somewhat undignified manner)
P.E.: (murmurs sympathetically)
I: (clears throat) Yes, well, of course that was just a fluke; I'm sure nothing like that would ever happen to the next person in that position.
P.E.: (smiles weakly)
I: (looks over photos one last time) Well, I think you would fit in very well here. The job is yours if you want it.
P.E.: Uh, may I ask whether I'm being hired as a CPA or a Holiday Decorator?
I: Both, certainly! Times are tough everywhere. We don't have the budget to hire just a CPA who has no other skills.
P.E.: Okay.
I: And you're just in time! Halloween is just around the corner, and you'll need to get started right away. Oh, and I'll need your plan on dealing with the fire marshal first thing Monday morning.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Play ball!
In an effort to enjoy the wonderful fall day on Saturday, Joe and I played a little basketball together. Unfortunately, we had to do this with a football, as we did not have a basketball. We could have used a Frisbee, but once we realized that we are both much more accurate with a football than a Frisbee, we tossed it aside. In fact, we may never play Frisbee again, as it generally involves too much exercise. We have played a few rounds of Frisbee Golf in our time, which involves throwing a disc blindly into a great collection of trees, where it is immediately swallowed like some sort of offering, leaving you to tread through the woods calling softly "Here, Frisbee disc, here Frisbee disc." As a game, Frisbee Golf has its limits, but it's a great way to see nature.
But back to our game of basketball/football. We quickly decided that dribbling a football also has its limits, and so we repaired to a game of football. Our version of football is perhaps not what you are used to seeing. For starters, since my aim is most accurate at short distances, we stood about ten feet from each other when we were throwing the ball. As you may have perhaps surmised, we are not big on a lot of running around when we engage in sports, so this also cut down on the amount of energy we had to exert. In fact, our version of football involves very little running, although to vary things a bit, we do try to throw the ball to one side of the other player every now and then, but this rarely involves moving more than one step in either direction.
At one point I bent over to throw the ball to him from between my legs. (We had some discussion on what this play is called, and decided upon "watermeloning.") This gets the player disoriented, which is good for the other player, although it does increase the chances that the person catching it will have to actually move from his position in order to catch the ball, which may be wildly off course due to the thrower's disorientation.
"Hike!" I yelled, as much as my upside-down position would let me yell.
"No," he said as he caught the ball, "I'm supposed to say 'hike.' "
"But I'm throwing the ball," I said, "so I should say 'Hike,' as in 'Take a hike and get the ball.' "
"You don't say it," he insisted.
"Fine," I said, "next time I'll yell 'Fore!' "
Lacking the typical structure found in a regular football game, our simple game of catch quickly deteriorated into a game of Calvinball, in which new rules are made on the spot, sometimes without the benefit of the other player knowing. For instance, when Joe threw the ball way over my head, I yelled, "You have to sing the 'I'm Very Sorry Song!' "
"How does that go?" he said.
"I don't remember, but I get to sing part of it, too, and call you a scurvy scalawag. Oh, and you have to go get the ball."
Because the sun was blinding at particular angles, our positions were somewhat fluid. When one of us got tired of looking into the sun, that person simply rotated 90 degrees, and the other player adjusted his position to one ten feet away. Eventually we got back to where we started, which seemed like a good time to end the game.
Later, we reviewed our strategies and skills. Joe was genuinely impressed with my throwing ability, even at the short distances our laziness dictated, and said so.
"You thought I was going to be a weenie, didn't you," I said smugly.
He admitted that such a preconceived notion had existed. He also insisted that I must have had significant prior experience that I was not sharing with him, such as perhaps having played football with my brother when I was younger. Or having been a professional in a previous life.
"I don't remember any early football experiences," I said, "although I was drafted into carrying around the basketball for my brother and his friends when I was about three. Mostly I staggered around the driveway with it. I doubt I made too many baskets."
He did not see that this would have had much bearing on my football ability.
But overall we felt we had played a very satisfying, if nontraditional, game of football. We look forward to another game, when maybe we'll even do some running.
But back to our game of basketball/football. We quickly decided that dribbling a football also has its limits, and so we repaired to a game of football. Our version of football is perhaps not what you are used to seeing. For starters, since my aim is most accurate at short distances, we stood about ten feet from each other when we were throwing the ball. As you may have perhaps surmised, we are not big on a lot of running around when we engage in sports, so this also cut down on the amount of energy we had to exert. In fact, our version of football involves very little running, although to vary things a bit, we do try to throw the ball to one side of the other player every now and then, but this rarely involves moving more than one step in either direction.
At one point I bent over to throw the ball to him from between my legs. (We had some discussion on what this play is called, and decided upon "watermeloning.") This gets the player disoriented, which is good for the other player, although it does increase the chances that the person catching it will have to actually move from his position in order to catch the ball, which may be wildly off course due to the thrower's disorientation.
"Hike!" I yelled, as much as my upside-down position would let me yell.
"No," he said as he caught the ball, "I'm supposed to say 'hike.' "
"But I'm throwing the ball," I said, "so I should say 'Hike,' as in 'Take a hike and get the ball.' "
"You don't say it," he insisted.
"Fine," I said, "next time I'll yell 'Fore!' "
Lacking the typical structure found in a regular football game, our simple game of catch quickly deteriorated into a game of Calvinball, in which new rules are made on the spot, sometimes without the benefit of the other player knowing. For instance, when Joe threw the ball way over my head, I yelled, "You have to sing the 'I'm Very Sorry Song!' "
"How does that go?" he said.
"I don't remember, but I get to sing part of it, too, and call you a scurvy scalawag. Oh, and you have to go get the ball."
Because the sun was blinding at particular angles, our positions were somewhat fluid. When one of us got tired of looking into the sun, that person simply rotated 90 degrees, and the other player adjusted his position to one ten feet away. Eventually we got back to where we started, which seemed like a good time to end the game.
Later, we reviewed our strategies and skills. Joe was genuinely impressed with my throwing ability, even at the short distances our laziness dictated, and said so.
"You thought I was going to be a weenie, didn't you," I said smugly.
He admitted that such a preconceived notion had existed. He also insisted that I must have had significant prior experience that I was not sharing with him, such as perhaps having played football with my brother when I was younger. Or having been a professional in a previous life.
"I don't remember any early football experiences," I said, "although I was drafted into carrying around the basketball for my brother and his friends when I was about three. Mostly I staggered around the driveway with it. I doubt I made too many baskets."
He did not see that this would have had much bearing on my football ability.
But overall we felt we had played a very satisfying, if nontraditional, game of football. We look forward to another game, when maybe we'll even do some running.
Monday, October 6, 2008
The Prissy Princess is attacked
The Hero relaxed peacefully. Here, in his secret chamber on the upper level of the castle, he was truly monarch. There was no one to interrupt his reading, no one to summon him for acts of duty, no one to --
"Excuse me," the Prissy Princess called politely from the bottom of the stairs, "I don't wish to disturb you, dearest, but do you have any immediate plans to return downstairs?"
The Hero sighed. There was only one reason the Princess would disturb him in his secret chamber. "How big is it?" he called.
"How big is what?"
"Whatever it is you want me to kill."
"Oh. Well, there is a bit of a situation here...."
He waited.
"It's...big," she said finally.
"Okay," he said, trying to speak patiently, "get a flyswatter --"
"We don't have a flyswatter that big," she interrupted.
"-- and just give the thing a good whack."
He heard her retreat, then there was silence for a few minutes. When he heard her return to the foot of the stairs, he said, "Well? Did you do what I told you?"
"Well, I opened the door for it," she said, "but it doesn't seem to be taking the hint."
He sighed again. "Did you at least try to coax it out with the flyswatter?"
"Um, I would have to get too close to it to do that."
"I see. And exactly how close did you get to it?"
"Well, I'm not very good at estimating great distances."
He tried to reassure her. "You know, you're much bigger than whatever it is."
"Well, see, I've never really believed that size had anything to do with it," she said.
Really, the Hero thought, the Prissy Princess could be very trying at times.
He reluctantly left his refuge and went down the stairs. There, the Princess, evidently believing that he was not going to offer any physical assistance, was advancing bravely toward the creature, her weapon held high. It was sitting complacently on the wall, ignoring the open door below. She took aim at it.
Suddenly the Princess -- completely forgetting that she was holding a weapon and that she was a lot bigger than the creature -- was running, screaming, with the creature flying haphazardly in apparent pursuit, although it could have been sheer luck that it was headed in her direction. Seeing that she was not going to stop, the Hero quickly moved aside, and she flung the flyswatter at him as she passed. "Run for your life!" she screamed. "It's after us!"
But the creature merely returned to the wall above the door, where the Hero, flyswatter in hand, expertly maneuvered it outdoors and quickly shut the door. He turned toward the Princess, who was slowly reentering the room.
"Is it gone?" she said, looking around furtively, as if it might come after her again.
"It's gone."
"Well, if you know what's good for you," she said haughtily, "you will not laugh."
But she could see that it was too late.
She sighed. Really, she thought, the Hero was sometimes very trying.
"Excuse me," the Prissy Princess called politely from the bottom of the stairs, "I don't wish to disturb you, dearest, but do you have any immediate plans to return downstairs?"
The Hero sighed. There was only one reason the Princess would disturb him in his secret chamber. "How big is it?" he called.
"How big is what?"
"Whatever it is you want me to kill."
"Oh. Well, there is a bit of a situation here...."
He waited.
"It's...big," she said finally.
"Okay," he said, trying to speak patiently, "get a flyswatter --"
"We don't have a flyswatter that big," she interrupted.
"-- and just give the thing a good whack."
He heard her retreat, then there was silence for a few minutes. When he heard her return to the foot of the stairs, he said, "Well? Did you do what I told you?"
"Well, I opened the door for it," she said, "but it doesn't seem to be taking the hint."
He sighed again. "Did you at least try to coax it out with the flyswatter?"
"Um, I would have to get too close to it to do that."
"I see. And exactly how close did you get to it?"
"Well, I'm not very good at estimating great distances."
He tried to reassure her. "You know, you're much bigger than whatever it is."
"Well, see, I've never really believed that size had anything to do with it," she said.
Really, the Hero thought, the Prissy Princess could be very trying at times.
He reluctantly left his refuge and went down the stairs. There, the Princess, evidently believing that he was not going to offer any physical assistance, was advancing bravely toward the creature, her weapon held high. It was sitting complacently on the wall, ignoring the open door below. She took aim at it.
Suddenly the Princess -- completely forgetting that she was holding a weapon and that she was a lot bigger than the creature -- was running, screaming, with the creature flying haphazardly in apparent pursuit, although it could have been sheer luck that it was headed in her direction. Seeing that she was not going to stop, the Hero quickly moved aside, and she flung the flyswatter at him as she passed. "Run for your life!" she screamed. "It's after us!"
But the creature merely returned to the wall above the door, where the Hero, flyswatter in hand, expertly maneuvered it outdoors and quickly shut the door. He turned toward the Princess, who was slowly reentering the room.
"Is it gone?" she said, looking around furtively, as if it might come after her again.
"It's gone."
"Well, if you know what's good for you," she said haughtily, "you will not laugh."
But she could see that it was too late.
She sighed. Really, she thought, the Hero was sometimes very trying.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Come again?
The Prissy Princess has been granted permission, from the Gallant Hero himself, to take a day off from blogging. (She has a permission note and everything.) Any complaints should be directed to the Hero, whose contact information is conveniently unavailable at this time.
However, to help tide you over the weekend, we will share the following tidbits of humor. These are, unfortunately, not made up:
However, to help tide you over the weekend, we will share the following tidbits of humor. These are, unfortunately, not made up:
- an e-bay ad: "Primitive fire hose cabinet with quail feeder" (For all your fire-fighting and quail-feeding needs in one spot!)
- sign in an antique shop: "All breakage is responsibility of the customer." (Well, get to it! It's your responsibility to break something!)
- included in instructions for medication: "Store at 77 degrees, with excursions permitted between 59 and 86 degrees." (excursions by bus? train? plane??)
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Rhinos in need
The following conversation is based on a newspaper report regarding the reaccreditation of our local zoo. Although this will bring much-needed funds to the aging zoo, zoo officials have warned that "there is a lot to do. For instance, the rhinoceroses need a new kitchen." Although the particular conversation related below was not reported in the article, we have no doubt that it actually took place.
Mrs. Rhinoceros: All of our troubles are over, dear! With the reaccreditation, we'll finally be able to fix this place up! I'll be able to get my new kitchen! New countertops! La Cornue Chateau range, hand-built to order! A new --
Mr. Rhinoceros: Now, dearest, don't go spending money before we get it. There's a lot that has to be done with that money. I'm sure we'll only get a fraction of it.
Mrs. Rhinoceros: Oh, don't be silly, dear. Of course we'll get a lot of money. I mean, it's only fair. The Hippos have had granite countertops for months now. We still have that atrocious Formica! (shudders)
Mr. Rhinoceros: I'm just trying to be prudent, dear. We might need to downsize our renovation plans. Instead of a new kitchen, maybe they'll give us a...a kitchenette.
Mrs. Rhino:(not listening, humming as she goes about the kitchen, wondering if a granite or quartz countertop would look better)
Mr. Rhino (raising his voice slightly): I mean, with Junior gone to the Boston Zoo for his internship, we don't really need all that refrigerator space anyway.
Mrs. Rhino (stopping her humming and staring at Mr. Rhino): What are you talking about, dear?
Mr. Rhino (sweeping his hands about): Us. The house. The new kitchen you want. it might not happen.
Mrs. Rhino: Of course it will happen. We've been here for years. They simply have to give us a new kitchen.
Mr. Rhino (shaking his head): We're getting too old to be much of an attraction, sweets. Visitors want to see cute baby animals, not two middle-aged rhinos.
Mrs. Rhino (bristling): What do you mean, middle-aged? I'm barely 35. And the other day Mrs. Hippo declared that my skin looks like it belongs to someone half my age!
Mr. Rhino (wisely refraining from further comments on the subject of age): I'm merely pointing out, my sweet pigeon, that dollars will go to the most popular animals. We can't compete with the baby elephant, the baby giraffe, and that baby camel who's been visiting. When was the last time there was a baby rhino?
Mrs. Rhino (staring): Is that what this is all about? You want us to have another baby?
Mr. Rhino (flustered): Of course not.
Mrs. Rhino: Good, because I am NOT going through another sixteen months of misery. No matter how wonderful Junior is.
Mr. Rhino: Yes, yes, of course. I'm just saying we don't have the clout to be able to get much of the new funds coming in.
Mrs. Rhino (huffing): Well, we at least need a new deck. I could have died when poor Mrs. Hippo fell off our poor excuse for one the last time she and Mr. H. came for a cookout.
Mr. Rhino (to himself): It wasn't the deck's fault Mrs. H. fell off.
Mrs. Rhino: What did you say?
Mr. Rhino (coughing discreetly) Nothing, dear. (sighing) It would be nice to get a new grill.
Mrs. Rhino: And what would you cook on it, oh Great Chef? Grass?
Mr. Rhino (bristling): Well, you want a new stove.
Mrs. R: Of course I want a new stove, one built to my size specifications. You try frying leaves standing on your hind feet.
(They are interrupted here by a breathless Mrs. Hippo.) Hello! Hello! Anybody home?
Mr. Rhino (muttering): Where else would we be? We live in a zoo.
Mrs. Rhino: Be quiet, dear. (louder) Come in, dear Harriet! What is it?
Mrs. Hippo: (catching her breath) They've just announced...the awards! Who's...going to get...the money!
(cries from Mrs. Rhino) Mr. Rhino: Well? Who won? Out with it!
Mrs. Hippo: The animals here...in Africa...will get some money, but most of it will go toward a...a new dining hall.
Mrs. Rhino (whispering): We're..we're getting a new dining hall? We don't have to cook anymore?
Mrs. Hippo (shaking her head violently): No, no -- a dining hall for the visitors.
(silence, then wailing from Mrs. Rhino)
Mrs. Hippo: There, there, dear. But cheer up. They did say you would be getting something new for your kitchen.
Mrs. Rhino (calming down somewhat): They did? W-w-what?
Mrs. Hippo: I think they said you could use a new broom and dustpan.
(Renewed wailing from Mrs. Rhino. Mr. Rhino tries to comfort her as Mrs. Hippo takes her leave.)
Mrs. Rhino (hiccuping): Oh, Alan! No granite countertops! No Cornue Chateau range! (collapsing into sobs)
Mr. Rhino: I know, dear. Maybe next year. (muttering and beginning to pace) We have to do something to attract attention...(an idea begins to form) Dear...when you say you absolutely do not want to have another baby, does that mean you MIGHT be willing to consider it...?
Mrs. Rhinoceros: All of our troubles are over, dear! With the reaccreditation, we'll finally be able to fix this place up! I'll be able to get my new kitchen! New countertops! La Cornue Chateau range, hand-built to order! A new --
Mr. Rhinoceros: Now, dearest, don't go spending money before we get it. There's a lot that has to be done with that money. I'm sure we'll only get a fraction of it.
Mrs. Rhinoceros: Oh, don't be silly, dear. Of course we'll get a lot of money. I mean, it's only fair. The Hippos have had granite countertops for months now. We still have that atrocious Formica! (shudders)
Mr. Rhinoceros: I'm just trying to be prudent, dear. We might need to downsize our renovation plans. Instead of a new kitchen, maybe they'll give us a...a kitchenette.
Mrs. Rhino:(not listening, humming as she goes about the kitchen, wondering if a granite or quartz countertop would look better)
Mr. Rhino (raising his voice slightly): I mean, with Junior gone to the Boston Zoo for his internship, we don't really need all that refrigerator space anyway.
Mrs. Rhino (stopping her humming and staring at Mr. Rhino): What are you talking about, dear?
Mr. Rhino (sweeping his hands about): Us. The house. The new kitchen you want. it might not happen.
Mrs. Rhino: Of course it will happen. We've been here for years. They simply have to give us a new kitchen.
Mr. Rhino (shaking his head): We're getting too old to be much of an attraction, sweets. Visitors want to see cute baby animals, not two middle-aged rhinos.
Mrs. Rhino (bristling): What do you mean, middle-aged? I'm barely 35. And the other day Mrs. Hippo declared that my skin looks like it belongs to someone half my age!
Mr. Rhino (wisely refraining from further comments on the subject of age): I'm merely pointing out, my sweet pigeon, that dollars will go to the most popular animals. We can't compete with the baby elephant, the baby giraffe, and that baby camel who's been visiting. When was the last time there was a baby rhino?
Mrs. Rhino (staring): Is that what this is all about? You want us to have another baby?
Mr. Rhino (flustered): Of course not.
Mrs. Rhino: Good, because I am NOT going through another sixteen months of misery. No matter how wonderful Junior is.
Mr. Rhino: Yes, yes, of course. I'm just saying we don't have the clout to be able to get much of the new funds coming in.
Mrs. Rhino (huffing): Well, we at least need a new deck. I could have died when poor Mrs. Hippo fell off our poor excuse for one the last time she and Mr. H. came for a cookout.
Mr. Rhino (to himself): It wasn't the deck's fault Mrs. H. fell off.
Mrs. Rhino: What did you say?
Mr. Rhino (coughing discreetly) Nothing, dear. (sighing) It would be nice to get a new grill.
Mrs. Rhino: And what would you cook on it, oh Great Chef? Grass?
Mr. Rhino (bristling): Well, you want a new stove.
Mrs. R: Of course I want a new stove, one built to my size specifications. You try frying leaves standing on your hind feet.
(They are interrupted here by a breathless Mrs. Hippo.) Hello! Hello! Anybody home?
Mr. Rhino (muttering): Where else would we be? We live in a zoo.
Mrs. Rhino: Be quiet, dear. (louder) Come in, dear Harriet! What is it?
Mrs. Hippo: (catching her breath) They've just announced...the awards! Who's...going to get...the money!
(cries from Mrs. Rhino) Mr. Rhino: Well? Who won? Out with it!
Mrs. Hippo: The animals here...in Africa...will get some money, but most of it will go toward a...a new dining hall.
Mrs. Rhino (whispering): We're..we're getting a new dining hall? We don't have to cook anymore?
Mrs. Hippo (shaking her head violently): No, no -- a dining hall for the visitors.
(silence, then wailing from Mrs. Rhino)
Mrs. Hippo: There, there, dear. But cheer up. They did say you would be getting something new for your kitchen.
Mrs. Rhino (calming down somewhat): They did? W-w-what?
Mrs. Hippo: I think they said you could use a new broom and dustpan.
(Renewed wailing from Mrs. Rhino. Mr. Rhino tries to comfort her as Mrs. Hippo takes her leave.)
Mrs. Rhino (hiccuping): Oh, Alan! No granite countertops! No Cornue Chateau range! (collapsing into sobs)
Mr. Rhino: I know, dear. Maybe next year. (muttering and beginning to pace) We have to do something to attract attention...(an idea begins to form) Dear...when you say you absolutely do not want to have another baby, does that mean you MIGHT be willing to consider it...?
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