We're pleased to announce the results of the first-ever Slightly Humorous survey: 99% of those surveyed think the Gallant Hero should run for president. No, wait, that's a different survey (one that, as far as we know, is not real, but why not go for it -- there are some openings now!).
The lone respondent who claimed to believe that Joe is not treated fairly in this blog was, surprisingly, Ronald Reagan. Ha! Just kidding. Mr. Reagan had, officially, "no comment" on this survey. Of course the respondent I am referring to was Joe himself, but as the other 80% of respondents did not agree, obviously he needs to rethink his answer and get with the majority, particularly if he wants to be president.
We can extrapolate many other interesting facts from this survey ("extrapolate" meaning "to manipulate" or, more simply, "to make up"). For instance, 66% of respondents said they like the Prissy Princess and Gallant Hero stories the best, and of course 100% of those like the Prissy Princess (just kidding, Hero!).
One person said they enjoyed the stories that make fun of relatives. Shame on this person, who, statistically speaking, has a 99.9% chance of not being a relative I have made fun of in this blog. Also, you will have noticed that the same number of people prefer house sagas as enjoy travel tales. I have no idea what this means, but I thought I would point it out.
"Icky bug stories" got zero votes. (The bugs were very downcast at this news.) Perhaps I should stop putting warnings on the posts about icky bugs so that people will actually read them.
One person admitted to not realizing that the posts have topics; I think this must be the same person who forgot to vote on the second question.
In the interest of full disclosure, we should mention that this survey has an error margin that's pretty high (the square root of PI + prime, multiplied by the number of people in any given country who hate math story problems [2,467,893]). This is how I learned statistics, anyway. It may differ slightly from how you learned statistics, but that is perfectly acceptable. In fact, the word "statistics" comes from the root word "extrapolate," and we've already learned what that means.
But lest you think this was just some mindless survey that serves no useful purpose, let me assure you that this is not the case. Your responses will help shape the very direction of this blog for 2008! For instance, since the survey revealed that 60% of respondents ("60%" being a scientific term for "a whole lot") do not know the definition of "fairly," I think helping us all learn this definition should be a top priority for this year. And to show you how serious I take this responsibility, I am not above sneaking this term into a future survey to provide some motivation for learning it.
There are other interesting things we could mention about this survey, but since they were "not statistically significant" we will not include them here. "Not statistically significant," as any serious scientist knows, refers to something the statistician does not agree with and so will conveniently ignore.
Well, that is about all I can extrapolate from this survey, so stay tuned for the next one!
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Food funny
Take heart, all you non-Martha Stewarts! If you despair of ever cooking or baking anything that does not burn, fall apart, cave in, or explode, read this excerpt of an actual recipe I found on the Web for a chocolate torte:
"After baking, the torte shrinks, leaving a crater-like top that remains crisp. This crust is a perfect contrast to the moist interior of the cake. Don't worry if pieces of the crust fall off. This is a rustic-looking cake and isn't supposed to be perfect. Simply press the fallen pieces back into place."
Isn't that great? See, if you sound confident enough, you can make even your biggest mistakes sound like something you meant to do, something that is even desirable. So the next time you have company and your dessert or bread or turkey or whatever deflates, determine to say with perfect composure, "This is a rustic-looking (dessert or bread or turkey) and isn't supposed to be perfect." Then pick up the fallen pieces and simply press them back into place, along with your bruised ego.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Slightly Humorous reaches 200!
No, we don't mean 200 readers (unless there are 196 very quiet readers who never let us know they're here, which, theoretically speaking, is entirely possible). But today is a very special day...it's the 200th blog post of Slightly Humorous! To celebrate, we were going to have a guest writer today, but Dave* was unavailable.
Joe, however, would like to say a few words in honor of this momentous occasion:
"I would like to say that I feel I am VERY unfairly portrayed in this--"
OKAY, thank you very much, Mr. Guest Speaker!
"But I wasn't done ye--"
MOVING ON, I'm sure some of you are thinking, "Yeah, yeah, we went through all this hype for the 100th blog post. Are we gonna have to do this for every 100th milestone?"
Absolutely. We'll take any excuse we can make up to get out of writing something of substance for one day.
In closing today, Joe would like to remind everyone to vote in the blog survey, and especially to vote "No" for question #--
THANK YOU for that little plug, but let's allow our readers to make up their own minds, shall we? (How does he keep butting in??)
Anyway, stick around for post #300 (and all the ones in between)!
__________
*Barry
Joe, however, would like to say a few words in honor of this momentous occasion:
"I would like to say that I feel I am VERY unfairly portrayed in this--"
OKAY, thank you very much, Mr. Guest Speaker!
"But I wasn't done ye--"
MOVING ON, I'm sure some of you are thinking, "Yeah, yeah, we went through all this hype for the 100th blog post. Are we gonna have to do this for every 100th milestone?"
Absolutely. We'll take any excuse we can make up to get out of writing something of substance for one day.
In closing today, Joe would like to remind everyone to vote in the blog survey, and especially to vote "No" for question #--
THANK YOU for that little plug, but let's allow our readers to make up their own minds, shall we? (How does he keep butting in??)
Anyway, stick around for post #300 (and all the ones in between)!
__________
*Barry
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Water conspiracy
It took us a while to catch on, but there is definitely a conspiracy going on in the water system in our house.
When we moved in, the shower head in our bathroom behaved like any other shower head. You turned it on, water came out, and operatic sounds started issuing from somewhere deep inside you. But gradually, less and less water started coming out when the hot water faucet was turned on. Then, the same thing happened with the cold water. The shower head would spit, and gurgle, and sputter, until finally, ploink -- a single drop would come out. (Also gradually, those operatic sounds gave way to other sounds, but that is not the point here.)
We treated this problem as we treat all household enigmas: We ignored it, confident that this course of action would somehow, miraculously, encourage the problem to fix itself.
Of course this did not work. If it had, I would be writing a bestseller on how to fix all of one's household problems by ignoring them, instead of writing this blog.
The other thing we did in response to this progressive malfunctioning of the shower head was to adapt ourselves to it. For instance, we stood very still under the small stream of water that would condescend to come out, cupped our hands to catch the water, and threw it over ourselves. We also jiggled the faucet handles back and forth in an effort to coax more water out, sometimes pleading, sometimes threatening. These actions, of course, only made the shower head more bold and encouraged it to behave in even stranger ways. Eventually, when we turned on both faucets full blast, absolutely nothing came out of the cold. Hot water would come out after about 5 minutes of vigorous turning of the handle back and forth while singing "The Hokey Pokey" ("The Hokey Pokey," in case you did not know, has been scientifically PROVEN to be effective in these cases, in the same way that lifting your feet off the floor of an airplane is effective in keeping the airplane from crashing).
Now while all this was happening, we had noticed some mysterious spots on our kitchen floor near the sink. Of course we applied our standard treatment, ignoring the problem, to this as well. But one day I grabbed something under the sink and noticed that it felt somewhat damp. I did a quick little calculation and decided that if I were to ignore this problem any further, we would soon have a MUCH bigger problem than no water coming out of the shower head upstairs.
So I ventured a closer look under the kitchen sink and saw what appeared to be a sixth Great Lake, complete with rainbow trout, pleasure boaters, etc. I took a deep breath and emitted the Female Homeowner's Distress Cry: "Ohhhh NOOOOOO! THERE'S WATER UNDER THE SIIIIIIIIINK!!!!"
The Female Homeowner's Distress Cry is meant, of course, to startle the male homeowner into action. Unfortunately, sometimes the timing of the alarm is a little off, and the male being so summoned might happen to be in the shower when the alarm sounds. This is unfortunate. When one is startled in the shower, one is apt to knock one's noggin against the shower head, which puts one in, shall we say, not a very good mood. So the male homeowner in residence was not particularly thrilled when I showed him the events transpiring under the kitchen sink and said meekly, "I think I've found where all the water that's supposed to be going to the shower has been hiding out."
Not all stories have a happy ending. Or even any ending at all. Unfortunately, this is one of those stories. Although we got the lake mess cleaned up (boaters escorted from the premises, etc.) and replaced the kitchen faucet, this has had no effect whatsoever on the water output in the shower. The conspiracy continues, as does our tendency to ignore the problem.
When we moved in, the shower head in our bathroom behaved like any other shower head. You turned it on, water came out, and operatic sounds started issuing from somewhere deep inside you. But gradually, less and less water started coming out when the hot water faucet was turned on. Then, the same thing happened with the cold water. The shower head would spit, and gurgle, and sputter, until finally, ploink -- a single drop would come out. (Also gradually, those operatic sounds gave way to other sounds, but that is not the point here.)
We treated this problem as we treat all household enigmas: We ignored it, confident that this course of action would somehow, miraculously, encourage the problem to fix itself.
Of course this did not work. If it had, I would be writing a bestseller on how to fix all of one's household problems by ignoring them, instead of writing this blog.
The other thing we did in response to this progressive malfunctioning of the shower head was to adapt ourselves to it. For instance, we stood very still under the small stream of water that would condescend to come out, cupped our hands to catch the water, and threw it over ourselves. We also jiggled the faucet handles back and forth in an effort to coax more water out, sometimes pleading, sometimes threatening. These actions, of course, only made the shower head more bold and encouraged it to behave in even stranger ways. Eventually, when we turned on both faucets full blast, absolutely nothing came out of the cold. Hot water would come out after about 5 minutes of vigorous turning of the handle back and forth while singing "The Hokey Pokey" ("The Hokey Pokey," in case you did not know, has been scientifically PROVEN to be effective in these cases, in the same way that lifting your feet off the floor of an airplane is effective in keeping the airplane from crashing).
Now while all this was happening, we had noticed some mysterious spots on our kitchen floor near the sink. Of course we applied our standard treatment, ignoring the problem, to this as well. But one day I grabbed something under the sink and noticed that it felt somewhat damp. I did a quick little calculation and decided that if I were to ignore this problem any further, we would soon have a MUCH bigger problem than no water coming out of the shower head upstairs.
So I ventured a closer look under the kitchen sink and saw what appeared to be a sixth Great Lake, complete with rainbow trout, pleasure boaters, etc. I took a deep breath and emitted the Female Homeowner's Distress Cry: "Ohhhh NOOOOOO! THERE'S WATER UNDER THE SIIIIIIIIINK!!!!"
The Female Homeowner's Distress Cry is meant, of course, to startle the male homeowner into action. Unfortunately, sometimes the timing of the alarm is a little off, and the male being so summoned might happen to be in the shower when the alarm sounds. This is unfortunate. When one is startled in the shower, one is apt to knock one's noggin against the shower head, which puts one in, shall we say, not a very good mood. So the male homeowner in residence was not particularly thrilled when I showed him the events transpiring under the kitchen sink and said meekly, "I think I've found where all the water that's supposed to be going to the shower has been hiding out."
Not all stories have a happy ending. Or even any ending at all. Unfortunately, this is one of those stories. Although we got the lake mess cleaned up (boaters escorted from the premises, etc.) and replaced the kitchen faucet, this has had no effect whatsoever on the water output in the shower. The conspiracy continues, as does our tendency to ignore the problem.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Changes
Those of you who are paying close attention will notice a few small changes to this blog. First, I am no longer identified in my profile -- falsely, I might add -- as an accountant living in Afghanistan. You didn't notice this information? Neither did I, until a few days ago. I know how this happened, but I'm too embarrassed to explain, so let's move on to the more interesting changes.
My research shows that the blog needed some more "interactive elements" to get readers involved. You can get more involved by sending me money at...ha ha! Just kidding. (Although if I thought it would work, I would certainly give you my address.) Therefore I have added some simple surveys, which you will see on the left side if you scroll down. Here is your chance to be heard! Or at least counted. Not that it will count for much, but it's more fun than, say, filling out your tax return.
As always, we appreciate your readership. And remember to get involved!
My research shows that the blog needed some more "interactive elements" to get readers involved. You can get more involved by sending me money at...ha ha! Just kidding. (Although if I thought it would work, I would certainly give you my address.) Therefore I have added some simple surveys, which you will see on the left side if you scroll down. Here is your chance to be heard! Or at least counted. Not that it will count for much, but it's more fun than, say, filling out your tax return.
As always, we appreciate your readership. And remember to get involved!
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
The Big Mess
This morning I vacuumed the vacuum cleaner.
Before that, I vacuumed everything in the basement (including our shoes and a broom and dustpan), tripped over boxes and tarps to reach the washer and dryer, and hit my head on a pile of plywood.
All courtesy of He Who Makes a Big Mess.
How big of a mess?
So big that, as I said, I had to vacuum even the vacuum cleaner, which has been sitting right next to his workbench. Like everything else within a day's walk of the workbench, it was covered in sawdust. At first I mistook it for a piece of his woodworking equipment.
Whenever he is in the throes of a Big Project, there is usually a Big Mess. Sometimes I can get him to contain the mess to, say, one room, or one room plus outdoors. This time, the Big Mess extended from the basement (including the laundry room, where clean clothes sometimes reside) through the kitchen on the next floor up to the third floor room now being transformed from junk room to library, and even into the bedroom (which, one might think from the look of things, is being transformed from bedroom into junk room). If there were a way to extend the mess into the attic, I'm sure he would find it.
Now, there were two options for dealing with this situation. I could run around behind He Who Makes a Big Mess and try to contain things, or I could calmly accept the situation and try to convince myself that having to run an obstacle course every time I needed to do laundry might provide some health benefits.
Faced with these two choices, I made up a third: Create my own mess.
I chose to make my own mess in the one room untouched by He Who Makes a Big Mess -- the bathroom. My project was to peel off the old caulking around the tub, clean out all the mold and gunk, and put nice, new caulk on. I would place this project in the Extremely Fun Activity category, where the definition of Extremely Fun means "One of the Worst Possible Jobs You Could Ever Do." In that case, yes, it was an extremely fun work project. The worst part, really, was reading about all the horrible things mold can do to you (make it difficult to breathe, make your hair fall out, cause extra body parts to grow, etc.) after I had already started digging into it, with no protective gear on unless you count clothes.
I would just like to say that it feels really weird to sit in a bathtub with all your clothes on.
But my mess was no match for his mess, not that I was being competitive or anything. I cleaned mine up in almost no time at all.
I complained that his mess was so big, I couldn't even clean any of it up. He Who Makes a Big Mess pointed to some coffee grounds on the counter (I do not drink coffee, if you know what I'm getting at here) and said, "If it would make you feel better, you could clean this mess up."
I asked him if he would like me to illustrate the expression "box your ears" for him, but he suddenly discovered some urgent business he had to take care of at his computer.
Sigh. At least THAT does not involve a Big Mess.
Before that, I vacuumed everything in the basement (including our shoes and a broom and dustpan), tripped over boxes and tarps to reach the washer and dryer, and hit my head on a pile of plywood.
All courtesy of He Who Makes a Big Mess.
How big of a mess?
So big that, as I said, I had to vacuum even the vacuum cleaner, which has been sitting right next to his workbench. Like everything else within a day's walk of the workbench, it was covered in sawdust. At first I mistook it for a piece of his woodworking equipment.
Whenever he is in the throes of a Big Project, there is usually a Big Mess. Sometimes I can get him to contain the mess to, say, one room, or one room plus outdoors. This time, the Big Mess extended from the basement (including the laundry room, where clean clothes sometimes reside) through the kitchen on the next floor up to the third floor room now being transformed from junk room to library, and even into the bedroom (which, one might think from the look of things, is being transformed from bedroom into junk room). If there were a way to extend the mess into the attic, I'm sure he would find it.
Now, there were two options for dealing with this situation. I could run around behind He Who Makes a Big Mess and try to contain things, or I could calmly accept the situation and try to convince myself that having to run an obstacle course every time I needed to do laundry might provide some health benefits.
Faced with these two choices, I made up a third: Create my own mess.
I chose to make my own mess in the one room untouched by He Who Makes a Big Mess -- the bathroom. My project was to peel off the old caulking around the tub, clean out all the mold and gunk, and put nice, new caulk on. I would place this project in the Extremely Fun Activity category, where the definition of Extremely Fun means "One of the Worst Possible Jobs You Could Ever Do." In that case, yes, it was an extremely fun work project. The worst part, really, was reading about all the horrible things mold can do to you (make it difficult to breathe, make your hair fall out, cause extra body parts to grow, etc.) after I had already started digging into it, with no protective gear on unless you count clothes.
I would just like to say that it feels really weird to sit in a bathtub with all your clothes on.
But my mess was no match for his mess, not that I was being competitive or anything. I cleaned mine up in almost no time at all.
I complained that his mess was so big, I couldn't even clean any of it up. He Who Makes a Big Mess pointed to some coffee grounds on the counter (I do not drink coffee, if you know what I'm getting at here) and said, "If it would make you feel better, you could clean this mess up."
I asked him if he would like me to illustrate the expression "box your ears" for him, but he suddenly discovered some urgent business he had to take care of at his computer.
Sigh. At least THAT does not involve a Big Mess.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Just answer the question, please
I recently had dinner with a group of women I didn't know all that well (anything to get out of cooking). We chatted about typical girl stuff -- kids, in-laws, why men can find the exact 2-inch nail they need at Home Depot but fail to observe the gallon of milk sitting right in front of them on the top shelf of the refrigerator, etc. Everyone was quite nice and I was finally beginning to relax when the Dreaded Question came.
I knew it would come. It always does with people of a short acquaintance, but that doesn't make it any easier. I hate this question. I hate this question because I do not know the answer.
"So, what does your husband do?"
I swallowed and said to everyone at the table, "He works for an investment company."
They waited expectantly for more.
I swallowed again and said, "He does market data analysis."
When I didn't say anything else, one woman ventured to ask, "Is it classified? You can't say any more than that?" These women were steeped in military and government life, and they understood classified information.
My mouth wanted to say Yes, yes, that's it, but my head shook itself no. I said with some shame, "No, I can't say any more than that because...I don't know any more than that."
They nodded knowingly. They, too, were Women Without a Clue About Their Husband's Profession.
Well, maybe "without a clue" is too strong. See, I do know that Joe's job can roughly be divided into two parts:
1) Programming
2) Stuff that is not programming
It's that second part about which I am clueless. Oh, he's tried explaining it to me. In fact he talks about it quite a bit, but not in words that I can understand. The only thing I know about Number 2 -- this is gleaned from occasional phone calls to him at work and hints he drops during dinner conversations -- is that it includes maligning the pathetic local football team with his colleagues, debating the merits of power tools versus hand tools, and arguing whether Obama or Clinton is more liberal. I have a hunch -- call it women's intuition -- that there is more to it than that. What it might be, I have no idea.
I don't know how this happened. Before I was married, I vowed that I would never be one of those women who don't really know what their husband does. Good grief, my single self would think whenever I came across one of these unfortunate individuals, how can a woman live with a man and not know what he does for 8 or 10 hours a day? I told myself that, were I married, I would certainly know the answer to the Dreaded Question.
You can see how well I have kept this vow.
Almost as bad as the Dreaded Question is when people ask the name of the company where Joe works, as if that's going to help them any. I cringe and say the name of a company most well known for its soup. The next question, like the Dreaded Question, is inevitable.
"Campbell? Like the soup?"
Why, I think to myself in silent agony, couldn't he work in some simple-to-explain field, like advertising? Or garbage collecting? And for a company that doesn't sound like something you eat when you're sick?
No, I want to say to these people, not like the soup -- more like wheat and coffee and sugar. But I do not say this. I merely smile politely and shake my head. (Sometimes, to ward off the question, I tell people he works at "Campbell-Not-the-Soup.")
I console myself with the thought that if other people think Campbell Soup is an investment company, they are even more uninformed than I am.
I knew it would come. It always does with people of a short acquaintance, but that doesn't make it any easier. I hate this question. I hate this question because I do not know the answer.
"So, what does your husband do?"
I swallowed and said to everyone at the table, "He works for an investment company."
They waited expectantly for more.
I swallowed again and said, "He does market data analysis."
When I didn't say anything else, one woman ventured to ask, "Is it classified? You can't say any more than that?" These women were steeped in military and government life, and they understood classified information.
My mouth wanted to say Yes, yes, that's it, but my head shook itself no. I said with some shame, "No, I can't say any more than that because...I don't know any more than that."
They nodded knowingly. They, too, were Women Without a Clue About Their Husband's Profession.
Well, maybe "without a clue" is too strong. See, I do know that Joe's job can roughly be divided into two parts:
1) Programming
2) Stuff that is not programming
It's that second part about which I am clueless. Oh, he's tried explaining it to me. In fact he talks about it quite a bit, but not in words that I can understand. The only thing I know about Number 2 -- this is gleaned from occasional phone calls to him at work and hints he drops during dinner conversations -- is that it includes maligning the pathetic local football team with his colleagues, debating the merits of power tools versus hand tools, and arguing whether Obama or Clinton is more liberal. I have a hunch -- call it women's intuition -- that there is more to it than that. What it might be, I have no idea.
I don't know how this happened. Before I was married, I vowed that I would never be one of those women who don't really know what their husband does. Good grief, my single self would think whenever I came across one of these unfortunate individuals, how can a woman live with a man and not know what he does for 8 or 10 hours a day? I told myself that, were I married, I would certainly know the answer to the Dreaded Question.
You can see how well I have kept this vow.
Almost as bad as the Dreaded Question is when people ask the name of the company where Joe works, as if that's going to help them any. I cringe and say the name of a company most well known for its soup. The next question, like the Dreaded Question, is inevitable.
"Campbell? Like the soup?"
Why, I think to myself in silent agony, couldn't he work in some simple-to-explain field, like advertising? Or garbage collecting? And for a company that doesn't sound like something you eat when you're sick?
No, I want to say to these people, not like the soup -- more like wheat and coffee and sugar. But I do not say this. I merely smile politely and shake my head. (Sometimes, to ward off the question, I tell people he works at "Campbell-Not-the-Soup.")
I console myself with the thought that if other people think Campbell Soup is an investment company, they are even more uninformed than I am.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Pouvez-vous instructions?
Product manuals and labels sure are more complicated now that they have to explain things in 10 different languages. Whereas instructions for operating a 747 plane used to be only a couple of pages long, when they were only in English, now even a box of pencils has to be shipped by freight to accommodate the multi-language instructions. Looking at these things can be quite daunting until you realize this.
When I bought a new vacuum cleaner a few years ago, my dad insisted I return it the instant he saw the instruction booklet. It rivaled the phone book in size, and he was convinced that we would need an advanced degree just to read the Table of Contents.
"You'll never be able to work that thing," he said. "Look how many pages are in this instruction manual!"
I flipped through it. "Dad, the only reason this booklet is so long is that all the instructions are repeated in different languages."
"What?"
"In addition to telling you how to run the vacuum in English, they also tell you in French, Spanish, German...something that looks like it might be Creole...the actual instructions in English are only one page long."
He stared at me. "That's it? One page to find out how to run that complicated thing?" He gestured toward the vacuum. "You'd think they'd have more to say about it than that."
First the instructions were too long, then they weren't long enough. I gave up.
"Does this mean I can keep it?" I asked.
"I guess so," he said.
"Danke schoen," I said.
When I bought a new vacuum cleaner a few years ago, my dad insisted I return it the instant he saw the instruction booklet. It rivaled the phone book in size, and he was convinced that we would need an advanced degree just to read the Table of Contents.
"You'll never be able to work that thing," he said. "Look how many pages are in this instruction manual!"
I flipped through it. "Dad, the only reason this booklet is so long is that all the instructions are repeated in different languages."
"What?"
"In addition to telling you how to run the vacuum in English, they also tell you in French, Spanish, German...something that looks like it might be Creole...the actual instructions in English are only one page long."
He stared at me. "That's it? One page to find out how to run that complicated thing?" He gestured toward the vacuum. "You'd think they'd have more to say about it than that."
First the instructions were too long, then they weren't long enough. I gave up.
"Does this mean I can keep it?" I asked.
"I guess so," he said.
"Danke schoen," I said.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
On borrowed time
Incredible though it may seem, there was a time -- at least, this is what they tell me -- when, to renew your library book, you actually had to go to the library and renew it in person. And the book had to make an appearance, too. Now, of course, it may not even be a real book you're reading, and instead of borrowing it from a real place, you might download it from a cyber library, which is run by 12-year-olds who were always getting kicked out of their community library because they didn't shush when the librarian said shush.
I tried to do this once. I mean download a borrowed book. But those 12-year-olds are clever. They can sense when the person wanting to download the book has absolutely no idea how to do it, and so they encode the book with secret directions that ensure that you will never find it on your computer, perhaps by naming the file something like MSna471bp instead of War and Peace or instructing the file to hide in a folder called Addresses 1972.
So mostly I stick with getting old-fashioned books from the brick-and-mortar (actually it's more like cement block) library. Aside from the fact that printed books are idiot-proof, I prefer them over reading something on the screen. I have noticed a disturbing trend, however, regarding the renewing of library books.
They say the average person's attention span is getting shorter and shorter, so it is a mystery to me why libraries still loan you books for three whole weeks. In the past, sure, this made sense -- it might take you two of those weeks just to get home from the library, going uphill in a snowstorm on foot. But today, so we keep hearing, readers want something that can be digested quickly, like taking a vitamin instead of having a breakfast consisting of actual food.
And on top of the three weeks, you usually get two chances to renew your books, for a total of nine weeks. Nine weeks! Who remembers what they even borrowed that long ago, or why? I think this just encourages us all to be lazy. With our shorter attention span, no one needs nine weeks to read a book, even if it is War and Peace. But, since we have the easy option of renewing our books online, by golly, we're gonna take all nine weeks!
Now, if I were running things at the library, whenever someone tried to renew a book online -- or on the phone, for that matter -- I would make the person complete a survey first:
Are you renewing your books because
a) Your spouse or child has had major surgery and has run you ragged going to the drugstore for prescriptions and making homemade chicken soup and going back to the drugstore for facial tissue WITH lotion in it and so you have not had time to read this book? (this is an acceptable reason for renewal)
b) You know you have the book somewhere, but have not been able to locate it since you came back from vacation and need more time to look for it (e.g., call the resort where you stayed, check with the airlines, clean out your suitcase, etc.)? (weak, but also an acceptable reason)
c) You have been too lazy to read this book knowing you can renew it for three more weeks? (the book is due back, on our desk, in FIVE MINUTES, or we will yank your library privileges AND tell your mother)
I have returned books to the library unfinished despite having had the full nine weeks to read them, simply because I knew that I could keep renewing them. So I think we would all be much better off if we were allowed to check out a book for, say, just three days. This would make us choose our books with more care in the first place. War and Peace would become an in-library-only book, and everyone would be fighting over Make Way for Ducklings.
I tried to do this once. I mean download a borrowed book. But those 12-year-olds are clever. They can sense when the person wanting to download the book has absolutely no idea how to do it, and so they encode the book with secret directions that ensure that you will never find it on your computer, perhaps by naming the file something like MSna471bp instead of War and Peace or instructing the file to hide in a folder called Addresses 1972.
So mostly I stick with getting old-fashioned books from the brick-and-mortar (actually it's more like cement block) library. Aside from the fact that printed books are idiot-proof, I prefer them over reading something on the screen. I have noticed a disturbing trend, however, regarding the renewing of library books.
They say the average person's attention span is getting shorter and shorter, so it is a mystery to me why libraries still loan you books for three whole weeks. In the past, sure, this made sense -- it might take you two of those weeks just to get home from the library, going uphill in a snowstorm on foot. But today, so we keep hearing, readers want something that can be digested quickly, like taking a vitamin instead of having a breakfast consisting of actual food.
And on top of the three weeks, you usually get two chances to renew your books, for a total of nine weeks. Nine weeks! Who remembers what they even borrowed that long ago, or why? I think this just encourages us all to be lazy. With our shorter attention span, no one needs nine weeks to read a book, even if it is War and Peace. But, since we have the easy option of renewing our books online, by golly, we're gonna take all nine weeks!
Now, if I were running things at the library, whenever someone tried to renew a book online -- or on the phone, for that matter -- I would make the person complete a survey first:
Are you renewing your books because
a) Your spouse or child has had major surgery and has run you ragged going to the drugstore for prescriptions and making homemade chicken soup and going back to the drugstore for facial tissue WITH lotion in it and so you have not had time to read this book? (this is an acceptable reason for renewal)
b) You know you have the book somewhere, but have not been able to locate it since you came back from vacation and need more time to look for it (e.g., call the resort where you stayed, check with the airlines, clean out your suitcase, etc.)? (weak, but also an acceptable reason)
c) You have been too lazy to read this book knowing you can renew it for three more weeks? (the book is due back, on our desk, in FIVE MINUTES, or we will yank your library privileges AND tell your mother)
I have returned books to the library unfinished despite having had the full nine weeks to read them, simply because I knew that I could keep renewing them. So I think we would all be much better off if we were allowed to check out a book for, say, just three days. This would make us choose our books with more care in the first place. War and Peace would become an in-library-only book, and everyone would be fighting over Make Way for Ducklings.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Food for thought
I always knew I was missing something by not drinking coffee.
However, before I tell you what I'm missing, please be advised that what follows is for mature readers only (defined as "old enough to drink coffee"). It is not suitable for the faint of heart or stomach (defined as "still drinking hot chocolate"). So stop reading NOW if you would never, ever put something in your mouth that came out of a cat's behind. Oops! Sorry! Didn't mean to give it away!
What I'm missing, according to a recent news story, is an opportunity to drink, voluntarily, coffee that has been processed through a cat's digestive system. Yes. These particular beans go into one end of the kitty, come out the other end, and are then -- one hopes after a complex and well-regulated sanitization process -- made into the very expensive Kopi Luwak coffee.
How expensive? It starts at about $200 a pound.
And you thought a grande macchiato at Starbucks was expensive.
Now, before you rush out and buy some beans and stuff them down Fluffy's mouth in the hopes of building yourself a rich coffee empire, let me share some important facts. One -- and the reason for this is not mentioned in the article I read -- is that there is a particular cat used as the vehicle for making Kopi Luwak coffee. And no, it is not the Kopi Luwak cat. It goes by the name palm civet (loosely translated, "will eat just about anything"). Two, this cat is not roaming your neighborhood or waiting at your local pet store for you to adopt it. It lives in Southeast Asia. So, now that you are armed with these important facts, you can rush over to Asia to find some palm civets and start building your coffee empire.
What I'd like to know is, what else is in there with those coffee beans? Actually, never mind, I would not like to know. But how do they know they haven't inadvertently included, maybe, some cat hairs? Or even mouse hairs? You can never convince me that this stuff is sanitized enough to not make you sick. Not that anyone has ever claimed to get sick from it. But shoot, just the thought of it makes me want to -- well, never mind.
It should come as no surprise that this whole disturbing process originated in Asia. It's not enough that cats and dogs sometimes end up as meat there, now cats are being used as a cooking method. We can only hope that the next step is not to use a cat's or dog's posterior as an oven.
So excuse me while I pass on this exotic opportunity and head to the kitchen to make some good ol' fashioned hot chocolate. THAT, at least, is sanitary. Unless, of course, you count all the chemicals that could be in the water -- lead, chlorine....
However, before I tell you what I'm missing, please be advised that what follows is for mature readers only (defined as "old enough to drink coffee"). It is not suitable for the faint of heart or stomach (defined as "still drinking hot chocolate"). So stop reading NOW if you would never, ever put something in your mouth that came out of a cat's behind. Oops! Sorry! Didn't mean to give it away!
What I'm missing, according to a recent news story, is an opportunity to drink, voluntarily, coffee that has been processed through a cat's digestive system. Yes. These particular beans go into one end of the kitty, come out the other end, and are then -- one hopes after a complex and well-regulated sanitization process -- made into the very expensive Kopi Luwak coffee.
How expensive? It starts at about $200 a pound.
And you thought a grande macchiato at Starbucks was expensive.
Now, before you rush out and buy some beans and stuff them down Fluffy's mouth in the hopes of building yourself a rich coffee empire, let me share some important facts. One -- and the reason for this is not mentioned in the article I read -- is that there is a particular cat used as the vehicle for making Kopi Luwak coffee. And no, it is not the Kopi Luwak cat. It goes by the name palm civet (loosely translated, "will eat just about anything"). Two, this cat is not roaming your neighborhood or waiting at your local pet store for you to adopt it. It lives in Southeast Asia. So, now that you are armed with these important facts, you can rush over to Asia to find some palm civets and start building your coffee empire.
What I'd like to know is, what else is in there with those coffee beans? Actually, never mind, I would not like to know. But how do they know they haven't inadvertently included, maybe, some cat hairs? Or even mouse hairs? You can never convince me that this stuff is sanitized enough to not make you sick. Not that anyone has ever claimed to get sick from it. But shoot, just the thought of it makes me want to -- well, never mind.
It should come as no surprise that this whole disturbing process originated in Asia. It's not enough that cats and dogs sometimes end up as meat there, now cats are being used as a cooking method. We can only hope that the next step is not to use a cat's or dog's posterior as an oven.
So excuse me while I pass on this exotic opportunity and head to the kitchen to make some good ol' fashioned hot chocolate. THAT, at least, is sanitary. Unless, of course, you count all the chemicals that could be in the water -- lead, chlorine....
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
In defense of reading as a hobby
Yesterday I wrote about hobbies and how, in Joe's opinion anyway, they ought to "produce" something. (Debt comes to mind as the outcome of many hobbies, but more on that later.) But the more I ponder this subject -- hey, perhaps I could turn pondering into a hobby -- the more I think that reading, which is my personal favorite, is the perfect hobby.
This is precisely because reading does not "produce" anything. When in the course of pursuing a hobby you actually have something to show for it, you are in danger of that something not being as good as someone else's something. For instance, I know without even trying that I would be miserable at any art or craft involving sharp needles or threads or paint or anything whereby I must take a blank thing and make something lovely out of it. Or make anything out of it, for that matter. Also scrapbooking. My few attempts at scrapbooking in the past have been, well, sad.
If you are highly fearful of having your efforts come up short compared with other people's, as I am, then these types of hobbies that produce something are not for you. On the other hand, having a leisure-time pursuit with no tangible outcome, such as reading, is perfect. There is nothing to compare, no danger of not measuring up, no chance of being judged deficient (other than in the matter of having no "real" hobbies). If you tend to skip over descriptions in a book, or even several chapters, no one is going to know. Or care. (But do not try this in an English class.)
I believe that a proper hobby is something that gives you as much enjoyment as possible with as little effort as possible, and for as little cost as possible (unless, of course, spending money does bring you enjoyment and you can do it with very little effort). What fits this bill better than reading? You don't have to brave cold and wind and snow to participate in it, or melt in the heat. Reading does not require dressing in any weird, fantastic clothes, like biker's shorts, nor does it require fancy, expensive equipment, like a Coring Rig with Large Base Stand, Vac-U-Rig Kit, and Meter Box (which is a real tool, by the way). Yes, you need some printed matter, but if you are like me -- cheap -- you can just go to your local library and get it all for free. Or make friends with someone who always buys the latest bestseller as soon as it comes out, and ask if you can borrow it when they're done reading it. (Just don't let them catch on to your cheapness.)
Reading is also very low-impact, which is important if you are interested in reducing your chances of, say, losing a vital member of your body whose presence you have gotten used to and would sorely miss if it were chopped off in some woodworking or rowing accident.
So as far as I am concerned, reading is the very best hobby one could have. And now if you'll excuse me, I must get back to being unproductive -- er, reading.
This is precisely because reading does not "produce" anything. When in the course of pursuing a hobby you actually have something to show for it, you are in danger of that something not being as good as someone else's something. For instance, I know without even trying that I would be miserable at any art or craft involving sharp needles or threads or paint or anything whereby I must take a blank thing and make something lovely out of it. Or make anything out of it, for that matter. Also scrapbooking. My few attempts at scrapbooking in the past have been, well, sad.
If you are highly fearful of having your efforts come up short compared with other people's, as I am, then these types of hobbies that produce something are not for you. On the other hand, having a leisure-time pursuit with no tangible outcome, such as reading, is perfect. There is nothing to compare, no danger of not measuring up, no chance of being judged deficient (other than in the matter of having no "real" hobbies). If you tend to skip over descriptions in a book, or even several chapters, no one is going to know. Or care. (But do not try this in an English class.)
I believe that a proper hobby is something that gives you as much enjoyment as possible with as little effort as possible, and for as little cost as possible (unless, of course, spending money does bring you enjoyment and you can do it with very little effort). What fits this bill better than reading? You don't have to brave cold and wind and snow to participate in it, or melt in the heat. Reading does not require dressing in any weird, fantastic clothes, like biker's shorts, nor does it require fancy, expensive equipment, like a Coring Rig with Large Base Stand, Vac-U-Rig Kit, and Meter Box (which is a real tool, by the way). Yes, you need some printed matter, but if you are like me -- cheap -- you can just go to your local library and get it all for free. Or make friends with someone who always buys the latest bestseller as soon as it comes out, and ask if you can borrow it when they're done reading it. (Just don't let them catch on to your cheapness.)
Reading is also very low-impact, which is important if you are interested in reducing your chances of, say, losing a vital member of your body whose presence you have gotten used to and would sorely miss if it were chopped off in some woodworking or rowing accident.
So as far as I am concerned, reading is the very best hobby one could have. And now if you'll excuse me, I must get back to being unproductive -- er, reading.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Getting a hobby
Joe's new woodworking hobby has really taken off, and it has given him some airs. One day, for instance, he noted that I didn't seem to have any hobbies. His tone clearly indicated that he wanted to know the reason for this and that the situation should be immediately rectified.
"I do too have hobbies," I said defensively. "I read."
"But you don't...produce anything," he said. "With hobbies, you produce something." He went on to give examples of things he is producing, which are eminently practical things like shelves and pegs for hanging our coats.
"I'm producing a broader mind," I said.
He was skeptical of this. "By reading mysteries? What do you learn -- how to poison someone?"
It crossed my mind, briefly, that this knowledge might come in handy, should one possess it. But I kept this to myself.
But perhaps he's right. Maybe I should get a hobby where I produce something. The problem is what to do with the things I would produce. Our place is too small to accommodate loads of craft projects, assuming I'd be interested in making any, which I am not. Our photos certainly could use a better home than they have now, which is a cardboard box languishing in the basement. But I am more inclined to just slap them in an album than to make them into a work of art with all those cute scrapbooking things they have now. (I have a suspicion that fancy treatments of your photos are a ploy to make your vacation or whatever seem more interesting than it really was.)
The one hobby I can think of that meets the important criteria of being enjoyable, something I actually might have the skills to do, and -- most important of all -- would not clutter up the house, is cake decorating. True, this would produce a lot of cakes, but I have a hunch they would not last long enough to actually produce clutter.
So over the weekend we went to Border's, where I looked through every cake decorating book they had. You might be surprised, as I was, to know just how many of these books there are. Now, since I'm a beginner, I want some simple instructions. How to make pretty little flowers with icing. How to write Happy Birthday with frosting without having it look like I indulged in some rum while writing it. I am not interested in knowing how to fashion marzipan into cute little panda bears, or body parts, or broccoli heads.
Nor am I interested in learning how to make cakes that lean. I can already do that. One book had a whole chapter on how to make, on purpose, leaning cakes. Don't bakers toil for hours to make their cakes perfectly straight? Why change the rules, especially in a book for beginners?
I came home a little discouraged after looking through these books. Although I haven't given up on the idea yet, cake decorating is perhaps not the best choice of endeavors right now anyway, when both of us are trying to eat a bit more sensibly. But I figure if my new hobby doesn't work out, I can always tell Joe I tried, and then maybe I can go back to reading mysteries.
"I do too have hobbies," I said defensively. "I read."
"But you don't...produce anything," he said. "With hobbies, you produce something." He went on to give examples of things he is producing, which are eminently practical things like shelves and pegs for hanging our coats.
"I'm producing a broader mind," I said.
He was skeptical of this. "By reading mysteries? What do you learn -- how to poison someone?"
It crossed my mind, briefly, that this knowledge might come in handy, should one possess it. But I kept this to myself.
But perhaps he's right. Maybe I should get a hobby where I produce something. The problem is what to do with the things I would produce. Our place is too small to accommodate loads of craft projects, assuming I'd be interested in making any, which I am not. Our photos certainly could use a better home than they have now, which is a cardboard box languishing in the basement. But I am more inclined to just slap them in an album than to make them into a work of art with all those cute scrapbooking things they have now. (I have a suspicion that fancy treatments of your photos are a ploy to make your vacation or whatever seem more interesting than it really was.)
The one hobby I can think of that meets the important criteria of being enjoyable, something I actually might have the skills to do, and -- most important of all -- would not clutter up the house, is cake decorating. True, this would produce a lot of cakes, but I have a hunch they would not last long enough to actually produce clutter.
So over the weekend we went to Border's, where I looked through every cake decorating book they had. You might be surprised, as I was, to know just how many of these books there are. Now, since I'm a beginner, I want some simple instructions. How to make pretty little flowers with icing. How to write Happy Birthday with frosting without having it look like I indulged in some rum while writing it. I am not interested in knowing how to fashion marzipan into cute little panda bears, or body parts, or broccoli heads.
Nor am I interested in learning how to make cakes that lean. I can already do that. One book had a whole chapter on how to make, on purpose, leaning cakes. Don't bakers toil for hours to make their cakes perfectly straight? Why change the rules, especially in a book for beginners?
I came home a little discouraged after looking through these books. Although I haven't given up on the idea yet, cake decorating is perhaps not the best choice of endeavors right now anyway, when both of us are trying to eat a bit more sensibly. But I figure if my new hobby doesn't work out, I can always tell Joe I tried, and then maybe I can go back to reading mysteries.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Fill 'er up
I am going out to dinner tonight, and I am ready. I am ready for a long wait to be seated. Ready to send back my burger for further annihilation if it is undercooked, which it often is. Ready to sit on the other side of the booth from some 4-year-old whose dining manners include full body thrusts against the back of the booth seat.
But most of all, I am ready to engage in the Silent War on My Water Glass.
I always ask for water when I go out to eat -- you used to get it automatically, like napkins and silverware; now you have to ask for it like it is an item on the menu -- and am almost always drawn, reluctantly, into a war with the waitperson on my water glass. Waitpersons seem to be of the opinion that I expect to ingest my entire day's ration of water at this one meal, as if I had deprived myself of liquid all day and am at the point of dehydration, and accordingly they rush to refill my water glass every chance they get.
Some patrons like this, the constant refilling of their water glass. And some of your better restaurants (the Double "T" Diner, Ma's Place, etc.) actually tell their waitstaff to never let the water in anyone's glass drop below half. These are the people who always wait on me. But here's the thing: I feel an obligation to drink everything in my glass. Now I do not have this same compunction to eat whatever's on my plate. My mother could tell you that. Waiters could pile on heap after heap of my favorite foods, and I would eat the same as I would've had only the original food been there.
But water is different. I cannot properly enjoy my dining experience with 8 or 12 or 24 ounces of liquid staring at me. I see that glass sitting there, sparkling with crystal clear water, and I have to start making a dent in it. So I start taking some sips, some big, some not so big. I am aiming to get to the halfway mark, at which point I feel I can relax somewhat and enjoy my food. I have Fulfilled My Water Duty.
But just when I have reached this state of relaxation, along comes Mr. or Miss Conscientious Water Filler to replace what I have so painstakingly drained, and I am back to where I started.
I look longingly at my food, but first I must try to decrease some of that water. I do this very, very slowly, letting it hover just above the halfway mark in the hopes that the waitperson will be fooled into thinking it's too soon to refill it. When it dips below that point, I try to hide the glass behind something, like the dessert menu.
But they see right through that trick, and my water glass is quickly filled up again. And I was so close!
Even more agonizing, sometimes the waitperson comes BEFORE the water has reached halfway. No fair! I want to shout. You're not playing by the rules. But of course I have to go on drinking whatever they put in, regardless of how unfair it might be. At the end of this grueling back-and-forth, I will waddle out of the restaurant.
So tonight, I am ready. This time I have deprived myself of my usual water during the day so that I have room to drink everything the waiter can fit in my glass (several times over). Who knows -- this time, I might even ask to have it refilled.
But most of all, I am ready to engage in the Silent War on My Water Glass.
I always ask for water when I go out to eat -- you used to get it automatically, like napkins and silverware; now you have to ask for it like it is an item on the menu -- and am almost always drawn, reluctantly, into a war with the waitperson on my water glass. Waitpersons seem to be of the opinion that I expect to ingest my entire day's ration of water at this one meal, as if I had deprived myself of liquid all day and am at the point of dehydration, and accordingly they rush to refill my water glass every chance they get.
Some patrons like this, the constant refilling of their water glass. And some of your better restaurants (the Double "T" Diner, Ma's Place, etc.) actually tell their waitstaff to never let the water in anyone's glass drop below half. These are the people who always wait on me. But here's the thing: I feel an obligation to drink everything in my glass. Now I do not have this same compunction to eat whatever's on my plate. My mother could tell you that. Waiters could pile on heap after heap of my favorite foods, and I would eat the same as I would've had only the original food been there.
But water is different. I cannot properly enjoy my dining experience with 8 or 12 or 24 ounces of liquid staring at me. I see that glass sitting there, sparkling with crystal clear water, and I have to start making a dent in it. So I start taking some sips, some big, some not so big. I am aiming to get to the halfway mark, at which point I feel I can relax somewhat and enjoy my food. I have Fulfilled My Water Duty.
But just when I have reached this state of relaxation, along comes Mr. or Miss Conscientious Water Filler to replace what I have so painstakingly drained, and I am back to where I started.
I look longingly at my food, but first I must try to decrease some of that water. I do this very, very slowly, letting it hover just above the halfway mark in the hopes that the waitperson will be fooled into thinking it's too soon to refill it. When it dips below that point, I try to hide the glass behind something, like the dessert menu.
But they see right through that trick, and my water glass is quickly filled up again. And I was so close!
Even more agonizing, sometimes the waitperson comes BEFORE the water has reached halfway. No fair! I want to shout. You're not playing by the rules. But of course I have to go on drinking whatever they put in, regardless of how unfair it might be. At the end of this grueling back-and-forth, I will waddle out of the restaurant.
So tonight, I am ready. This time I have deprived myself of my usual water during the day so that I have room to drink everything the waiter can fit in my glass (several times over). Who knows -- this time, I might even ask to have it refilled.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Check out this research
We here at the Totally Unscientific Research Center (which doesn't make for a very cool acronym, so we are thinking of changing it) have taken an interest in those self-checkout lanes that are becoming so ubiquitous at grocery stores and other fine establishments near you. Our unscientific study (based on a sample of about 4.35 people) reveals that consumers either love them or hate them. No one has, of yet, admitted to being indifferent toward them, although some people clearly are confused by their purpose, such as the young boy who insisted that if his mother put the frozen pizza they were purchasing on the belt, it would come out fully cooked at the other end. (He was a little off, yes, but so have all great inventors been a little off. We therefore expect great things of this young man in the future.)
Although a self-checkout machine can speed up the checkout process, it also has a great capacity to annoy people. One way in which it accomplishes this is to give contradictory commands. It will tell you, for instance, that the bagging area is full and that you must bag some items before proceeding. Barely have you squeezed by your cart to follow these instructions, however, when the machine (gleefully, so it seems) reminds you that it is waiting, and that if you are finished shopping to please finish and pay. (As if it has anything more important to do.) Saying to the machine "You told me to bag some items, so have a little patience while I bag some items!" does not do anything to placate it (this is a finding from our own research), but it does tend to make one feel better, in the same way kicking a flat tire makes one feel better. We highly recommend having a shoe on when you kick a tire (also from our own research).
For my mother, self-checkout lanes are definitely a love-hate relationship. She loves the feeling that she has mastered something modern, but she is exasperated by the unending demands the machine places on her. One day the machine -- in one of its favorite tricks -- pretended to not recognize that my mother had placed her item in the bag, and it promptly admonished her to do so.
"But I did place the item in the bag," she wailed at it.
This aroused the sympathy of the other shoppers in line with her -- which should tell you something about my mother, as most shoppers would merely get exasperated at such a delay -- and one said, nodding vigorously at the machine, "She did put the item in the bag. I saw her!"
More and more we appreciate the sentiment of the woman who got in the self-checkout lane one day and peered at the machine, then said with some disgust, "Is this one of those check-yourself-out lanes?"
She was assured that it was.
"Oh, I don't believe in those," and off she went.
Although a self-checkout machine can speed up the checkout process, it also has a great capacity to annoy people. One way in which it accomplishes this is to give contradictory commands. It will tell you, for instance, that the bagging area is full and that you must bag some items before proceeding. Barely have you squeezed by your cart to follow these instructions, however, when the machine (gleefully, so it seems) reminds you that it is waiting, and that if you are finished shopping to please finish and pay. (As if it has anything more important to do.) Saying to the machine "You told me to bag some items, so have a little patience while I bag some items!" does not do anything to placate it (this is a finding from our own research), but it does tend to make one feel better, in the same way kicking a flat tire makes one feel better. We highly recommend having a shoe on when you kick a tire (also from our own research).
For my mother, self-checkout lanes are definitely a love-hate relationship. She loves the feeling that she has mastered something modern, but she is exasperated by the unending demands the machine places on her. One day the machine -- in one of its favorite tricks -- pretended to not recognize that my mother had placed her item in the bag, and it promptly admonished her to do so.
"But I did place the item in the bag," she wailed at it.
This aroused the sympathy of the other shoppers in line with her -- which should tell you something about my mother, as most shoppers would merely get exasperated at such a delay -- and one said, nodding vigorously at the machine, "She did put the item in the bag. I saw her!"
More and more we appreciate the sentiment of the woman who got in the self-checkout lane one day and peered at the machine, then said with some disgust, "Is this one of those check-yourself-out lanes?"
She was assured that it was.
"Oh, I don't believe in those," and off she went.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Hey, dude
Men have a jargon all their own when talking to other males. This is not limited to teens, as I can testify to after listening to some of Joe's phone conversations. On his end, these conversations go something like this:
"Hey. Hey, man! Heyyy. Yeah, that was a bummer, man. Hey, what about -- yeah, dude. OK, I got it. Hey, talk to you later, man. Hey."
Naturally I am curious about what sort of caller makes him turn into some prehistoric creature who does little more than grunt, and so I try to find out who the caller was. I do not generally have much luck:
Me: Who was that?
Joe (shrugging): Oh, you know.
Me: No, I don't.
Joe (vaguely): Uh, some guy from work.
Me: Which guy from work?
Joe: You know.
At this point I usually give up, as it is clear his mind has shifted the phone conversation to an "inactive" box in his brain, where it is Not to Be Disturbed, and has moved on to other things. I could ask if the caller was the queen of England and he might say -- still vaguely -- "Yeah, hey."
I must note that this is NOT a representative example of Joe's phone conversations. Most sound far more intelligent than I have indicated here. For instance, sometimes they end with "bye" instead of "hey."
Okay, so the incident above only happened once. But it did happen. Even if Joe doesn't remember it.
"Hey. Hey, man! Heyyy. Yeah, that was a bummer, man. Hey, what about -- yeah, dude. OK, I got it. Hey, talk to you later, man. Hey."
Naturally I am curious about what sort of caller makes him turn into some prehistoric creature who does little more than grunt, and so I try to find out who the caller was. I do not generally have much luck:
Me: Who was that?
Joe (shrugging): Oh, you know.
Me: No, I don't.
Joe (vaguely): Uh, some guy from work.
Me: Which guy from work?
Joe: You know.
At this point I usually give up, as it is clear his mind has shifted the phone conversation to an "inactive" box in his brain, where it is Not to Be Disturbed, and has moved on to other things. I could ask if the caller was the queen of England and he might say -- still vaguely -- "Yeah, hey."
I must note that this is NOT a representative example of Joe's phone conversations. Most sound far more intelligent than I have indicated here. For instance, sometimes they end with "bye" instead of "hey."
Okay, so the incident above only happened once. But it did happen. Even if Joe doesn't remember it.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Now hiring
I wrote some time ago about the typical verbal exchange I have with a mechanic when something is wrong with my car. Well, I had the joyous experience of taking my car in again this week, but this time, after looking over the invoice and paying for the work, I decided that I am in the wrong line of work. I paid something like $326 for 2 1/2 hours of labor, which translates to a whole lot more money than I make with a master's degree. Therefore, I'd like to have another talk with someone at the garage, but not about my car.
Me: Hi. I'd like to apply for a job as a mechanic.
Supervisor: Do you have any experience?
Me: You mean in getting highly paid?
Supervisor (coughing discreetly): No, I meant as a mechanic.
Me: Oh, is that necessary?
Supervisor (huffily): Of course it's necessary. Our mechanics are highly trained and experienced.
Me: Well, I'm sure I could learn everything I'd need to know.
Supervisor (peering closely at me): OK, what would you do if a car's EGR valve was not opening when the engine was lugging?
Me (thinking quickly): I'd charge 'em $499 for 2 hours of "examination," $125 for "consultation," and then send them somewhere else to have the work done.
Supervisor: Hmmm, maybe you would work out!
I realize that being a mechanic is not exactly a dream job, even considering the money. For instance, there is the little matter of getting dirty. I do not like to get dirty. I do not like to be around things or people that are dirty. But maybe I could rise to supervisor really fast, and then I wouldn't have to get dirty. I would just have to get really good at catching people when they faint at finding out how much I make.
Me: Hi. I'd like to apply for a job as a mechanic.
Supervisor: Do you have any experience?
Me: You mean in getting highly paid?
Supervisor (coughing discreetly): No, I meant as a mechanic.
Me: Oh, is that necessary?
Supervisor (huffily): Of course it's necessary. Our mechanics are highly trained and experienced.
Me: Well, I'm sure I could learn everything I'd need to know.
Supervisor (peering closely at me): OK, what would you do if a car's EGR valve was not opening when the engine was lugging?
Me (thinking quickly): I'd charge 'em $499 for 2 hours of "examination," $125 for "consultation," and then send them somewhere else to have the work done.
Supervisor: Hmmm, maybe you would work out!
I realize that being a mechanic is not exactly a dream job, even considering the money. For instance, there is the little matter of getting dirty. I do not like to get dirty. I do not like to be around things or people that are dirty. But maybe I could rise to supervisor really fast, and then I wouldn't have to get dirty. I would just have to get really good at catching people when they faint at finding out how much I make.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Why am I talking to you?
The telephone, as everyone knows, was invented more than a hundred years ago by Alexander Graham Bell Ameritech Sprint. Although there have been astonishing developments in telephone technology over the years, one of the phone's most useful purposes -- especially if you are over 70 -- is that it allows you to talk to another person in your own house.
Why would you need to talk on the phone to someone who is right there in the same house with you? I don't know either, but it happens all the time at my parents' home. I'll call them up for a nice long daughter-to-parent conversation, only to be forgotten as the two of them -- who can go for days without talking to anyone besides each other -- proceed to carry on a discussion. Here is a typical example:
Me: So, what have you two been up to lately? Staying out of the emergency room, I hope.
Dad: That reminds me -- Violet, did you pick up my prescription?
Mom: What prescription?
Dad: The one from the heart doctor. You know, I gave it to you yesterday.
Mom: You didn't give me any prescription. From Dr. Ugendorf?
Dad: No, no, the other guy...what's his name...
Mom: Dr. Kleinehut?
Dad: Yeah! Dr. Kleinehut.
Mom: What about Dr. Kleinehut?
Dad: I don't know, you brought him up.
Me: Hello! Does anyone remember I'm here?
Mom and Dad, startled: Who's that?
Other favorite topics of in-house phone conversations are whether or not the mail has been retrieved, who is responsible for eating the last piece of cake without asking, and who was the last one to use the toilet before it broke. If I didn't interrupt these discussions, they could talk to each other for a half hour, hang up, and completely forget they had been talking to me. "Now, why were we on the phone?" one would say, and they would both shrug and go off in search of the forgotten prescription, or the delivered mail.
This would actually be a neat trick to discourage telemarketers. Assuming there's a pause in the telemarketer's monologue, you and another member of your household could start a pointed conversation about, say, how you're getting a little rusty on your shooting skills and could really use some target practice, or how you miss Aunt Beulah since she passed away and isn't it a shame she didn't tell you she was deathly allergic to shrimp. Before long you'd be listening to a dial tone.
Unfortunately Alexander Graham Ameritech Bell's mother, being deaf, most likely was not able to take advantage of his invention to talk to her son while he was in the house. It might have come in handy if she'd needed a prescription filled.
Why would you need to talk on the phone to someone who is right there in the same house with you? I don't know either, but it happens all the time at my parents' home. I'll call them up for a nice long daughter-to-parent conversation, only to be forgotten as the two of them -- who can go for days without talking to anyone besides each other -- proceed to carry on a discussion. Here is a typical example:
Me: So, what have you two been up to lately? Staying out of the emergency room, I hope.
Dad: That reminds me -- Violet, did you pick up my prescription?
Mom: What prescription?
Dad: The one from the heart doctor. You know, I gave it to you yesterday.
Mom: You didn't give me any prescription. From Dr. Ugendorf?
Dad: No, no, the other guy...what's his name...
Mom: Dr. Kleinehut?
Dad: Yeah! Dr. Kleinehut.
Mom: What about Dr. Kleinehut?
Dad: I don't know, you brought him up.
Me: Hello! Does anyone remember I'm here?
Mom and Dad, startled: Who's that?
Other favorite topics of in-house phone conversations are whether or not the mail has been retrieved, who is responsible for eating the last piece of cake without asking, and who was the last one to use the toilet before it broke. If I didn't interrupt these discussions, they could talk to each other for a half hour, hang up, and completely forget they had been talking to me. "Now, why were we on the phone?" one would say, and they would both shrug and go off in search of the forgotten prescription, or the delivered mail.
This would actually be a neat trick to discourage telemarketers. Assuming there's a pause in the telemarketer's monologue, you and another member of your household could start a pointed conversation about, say, how you're getting a little rusty on your shooting skills and could really use some target practice, or how you miss Aunt Beulah since she passed away and isn't it a shame she didn't tell you she was deathly allergic to shrimp. Before long you'd be listening to a dial tone.
Unfortunately Alexander Graham Ameritech Bell's mother, being deaf, most likely was not able to take advantage of his invention to talk to her son while he was in the house. It might have come in handy if she'd needed a prescription filled.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
The Prissy Princess refuses to take a number
The Prissy Princess was known for her excellent memory, especially when it involved a mishap on the part of the Gallant Hero. She had not forgotten, for instance, all those pokes on the shoulder she had received from him while trying to catch up on her beauty sleep on the plane. The following day, as the Hero lay placidly in his own royal slumber, the Princess poked him several times.
"Please take a number," the Hero's voice droned. "You will be helped in the order in which you came."
"Excuse me?" the Princess said.
"Please take a number," he repeated, louder this time.
She looked around. "But there's only me," she said.
"Doesn't matter."
"But I'm the Princess!" she said indignantly.
The Hero conveniently fell back to sleep. He was soon inconveniently awakened by a pillow being whomped over his head.
He wisely said no more about taking a number.
"Please take a number," the Hero's voice droned. "You will be helped in the order in which you came."
"Excuse me?" the Princess said.
"Please take a number," he repeated, louder this time.
She looked around. "But there's only me," she said.
"Doesn't matter."
"But I'm the Princess!" she said indignantly.
The Hero conveniently fell back to sleep. He was soon inconveniently awakened by a pillow being whomped over his head.
He wisely said no more about taking a number.
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