You will be glad to know, I'm sure, that today concludes our discussion of George Washington and his beloved Mount Vernon. I hope you have gained some helpful insights into our first president, such as that, although he penned 110 "Rules for Civility," they all contain misspellings.
Much as I enjoyed visiting Mount Vernon, however, I don't mind admitting that I am heartily sick of George Washington. And not just because I have been writing about him all week. Ever since our visit to his home, Mr. Washington has invaded our home. His wisdom, his principles (but fortunately not his chamber pot) are slowly threatening to replace our usual haphazard decision making. In short, life in our house has become centered on "What would George Washington do?"
Joe is intrigued by what Washington typically ate for breakfast (something called "hoe cakes" -- which, although made with cornmeal, sounds to me like it is made with something altogether different and inedible) and wants to replicate it. Having no cornmeal, we have settled for Aunt Jemima Whole Wheat Pancakes.
He strategizes what Washington might have done in this particular situation or that. For this, of course, he consults the "Rules for Civility." He liberally shares these with me at strategic points during the day, such as when I am spending vast amounts of time getting ready to go somewhere (Rule #15: "Keep your Nails clean and Short, also your Hands and Teeth Clean, yet without shewing any great Concern for them").
He pores over Mr. Washington's daily schedule, looking for principles that he himself might follow in order to duplicate the great man's success. Washington, for instance, was said to rise and work for several hours before sunrise. Somehow I don't think this included hitting the snooze button repeatedly, which constitutes a large part of our early morning schedule.
He informs me that Mr. Washington's thought upon rising each day was "What good shall I do this day?" and before retiring at night was -- you guessed it -- "How can I change that hideous color in the front parlor without hurting Martha's feelings?" Whoops! That was what he thought at lunch, when he had to pass through that parlor to go to the dining room. At night, of course, his thought was "What good have I done this day?" My thought, throughout an entire day, is generally something more like "What day is today?"
Goodness only knows what Joe will be spurred to do when he finds out that recent excavations in Philadelphia have unearthed the residence George Washington used while president. I am sure that he will want to visit there, too. Perhaps, if I am very lucky, we might find that they have discovered a sequel to Washington's book: "Rules for Incivility."
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
How to behave, according to our founding father
Today we return to our topic of visiting Mount Vernon, because it would not be complete without a discussion of two subjects: George Washington's "Rules for Civility," and food. Also because not much else interesting has been happening lately.
Visitors are offered authentic 1700s cuisine at Mount Vernon in the form of a food court, complete with Pizza Hut. When engaging in this dining experience, it is helpful to have read Washington's little book, the full title of which is "Rules of Civility & Decent Behaviour in Company and Conversation and While Standing in Line at Foode Courts." (That last phrase was part of the original title but has, tragically, gone the way of the timber wolf and black bear on the grounds of Mount Vernon.)
For instance, if one happens to stand in a very long line at the food court because other patrons insist on having a personal pizza made for them on the spot, only to find when one finally arrives at the counter that there are perfectly good pizzas boxed and ready for the taking, one should "Shake not the head, Feet, or Legs, rowl not the eyes, lift not the eyebrows one higher than the other, wry not the mouth" (Rule #12). I regret to say that upon our part there was plenty of shaking and rowling and lifting and wrying of the various body parts described, as we did not know of this rule at the time, having only bought the book afterwards. Also coming in handy in this situation is Rule #49, namely, "Use no Reproachfull language against anyone." To this I might add Rule #762a (Article X, paragraph xxxijkl), which admonishes readers to "Confess not in Public the Reproachfull language ye or your Spouse may have Used against ye Neighbors out of their Hearing as ye headed to ye table to partake of pizza."
Our dining adventures did not end with our visit to Mount Vernon. On our way home we stopped at a little Italian restaurant, where we waited in vain for someone to notice that we wished to be seated at a table. Fortunately by this time we had the "Rules for Civility" book and had gotten as far as Rule #105, "Be not Angry at Table whatever happens & if you have reason to be so, shew it not but on a Cheerfull Countenance especially if there be Strangers." Otherwise there might have been more of that "Reproachfull language."
Once we were finally seated, the menu assured us that if we did not see what we wanted on the menu, we should just let our server know, and the staff would be happy to make something special for us. Apparently this did not mean the same thing in Italian as it did in English, because when we attempted to order chicken with the Ravioli di Portabello, our waitress made it clear, through a series of hand gestures and rather graphic drawings on our beverage napkins, that if we wanted chicken on a pasta dish where no chicken belonged, well, we were welcome to go kill the chicken ourselves. Upon grasping this, we endeavored to put on a "Cheerfull countenance."
Although I have only been able to offer you a smattering of George Washington's civility rules here, I hope that this discussion has shown you how these rules transcend both time and culture. Tomorrow, we will see what happens when ye Spouse refraineth not from quoting the Rules for Civility.
Visitors are offered authentic 1700s cuisine at Mount Vernon in the form of a food court, complete with Pizza Hut. When engaging in this dining experience, it is helpful to have read Washington's little book, the full title of which is "Rules of Civility & Decent Behaviour in Company and Conversation and While Standing in Line at Foode Courts." (That last phrase was part of the original title but has, tragically, gone the way of the timber wolf and black bear on the grounds of Mount Vernon.)
For instance, if one happens to stand in a very long line at the food court because other patrons insist on having a personal pizza made for them on the spot, only to find when one finally arrives at the counter that there are perfectly good pizzas boxed and ready for the taking, one should "Shake not the head, Feet, or Legs, rowl not the eyes, lift not the eyebrows one higher than the other, wry not the mouth" (Rule #12). I regret to say that upon our part there was plenty of shaking and rowling and lifting and wrying of the various body parts described, as we did not know of this rule at the time, having only bought the book afterwards. Also coming in handy in this situation is Rule #49, namely, "Use no Reproachfull language against anyone." To this I might add Rule #762a (Article X, paragraph xxxijkl), which admonishes readers to "Confess not in Public the Reproachfull language ye or your Spouse may have Used against ye Neighbors out of their Hearing as ye headed to ye table to partake of pizza."
Our dining adventures did not end with our visit to Mount Vernon. On our way home we stopped at a little Italian restaurant, where we waited in vain for someone to notice that we wished to be seated at a table. Fortunately by this time we had the "Rules for Civility" book and had gotten as far as Rule #105, "Be not Angry at Table whatever happens & if you have reason to be so, shew it not but on a Cheerfull Countenance especially if there be Strangers." Otherwise there might have been more of that "Reproachfull language."
Once we were finally seated, the menu assured us that if we did not see what we wanted on the menu, we should just let our server know, and the staff would be happy to make something special for us. Apparently this did not mean the same thing in Italian as it did in English, because when we attempted to order chicken with the Ravioli di Portabello, our waitress made it clear, through a series of hand gestures and rather graphic drawings on our beverage napkins, that if we wanted chicken on a pasta dish where no chicken belonged, well, we were welcome to go kill the chicken ourselves. Upon grasping this, we endeavored to put on a "Cheerfull countenance."
Although I have only been able to offer you a smattering of George Washington's civility rules here, I hope that this discussion has shown you how these rules transcend both time and culture. Tomorrow, we will see what happens when ye Spouse refraineth not from quoting the Rules for Civility.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Mount Vernon revisited
Welcome back to our virtual tour of Mount Vernon, George Washington's home when he was not (a) fighting the Revolutionary War or (b) running the new country or (c) following Mrs. George around to all the popular shops in Philadelphia. As we noted yesterday, Mr. Washington actually spent very little time at Mount Vernon, and considering the hideous dark paint covering the walls from floor to ceiling in his front parlor, we do not blame him.
The schedule for seeing the Mansion went approximately like this:
2:00-4:00 Wait in line outside in 94 degrees, your only entertainment the individuals in line behind you, who spend the time in discourse on whether Washington is really buried at Mount Vernon (consensus: only his wooden teeth are buried there).
4:00-4:03 Tour Mansion.
To keep to this schedule, there are costumed interpreters in each room of the Mansion whose sole job is to repeat such boring pieces of information about the house in 5-second loops that visitors are thankful to escape to the next room. Questions are not allowed; this would slow down the movement of visitors within the house, and the interpreters would not be allowed to answer them anyway because all information is still top-secret, such as whether the glop of food on the sideboard in the dining room was actual food in Washington's time that has been preserved.
We felt somewhat akin to Washington when we heard that his house has no square walls, as our does not either. Unlike Washington we do not have chamber pots, which we are extremely thankful for, although with the way our toilet has been acting lately, perhaps we should have some for backup. Now if the gift shops on the grounds really want to offer some useful items, this would be one of them. Unfortunately I did not see any.
But back to the Mansion.
One guide has been there since the Mansion opened for tours back in 1872, telling countless shuffling visitors about the cobweb in the corner of the blue bedroom that is original to George's time. We got just a glimpse of it as we were whisked along by the crowd to the brown room, and we saw no reason to doubt the guide's information.
The one room we were allowed to linger at was George and Martha's bedroom. Many guests commented upon the large bed, which was specially made to fit George's large frame, although we were assured by the guide in the room that his wooden teeth did not repose with him in the bed. What impressed me, however, was not the bed. I nudged Joe. "Look at the size of that closet!" And we, the owners of an old home whose total storage space equals the trunk space in Smart cars, gazed longingly at the first walk-in closet in an American residence, dreaming of what we could do with all that space. Our dreams were rudely interrupted by the throng behind us pushing us down the stairs, and our tour resumed.
As you can no doubt tell, Mount Vernon is very impressive. We contemplated everything we had seen as we made our way out of the house, and Joe inquired as to what was my favorite part. The banister that is original to the house? The chandelier that is 80 years older than George himself? The impressive closet?
As amazing as all these things were, my thoughts were elsewhere as I busily did some calculations. "Do you realize that no one has lived in this house for 150 years? Do they ever dust? Sweep the floors? Change the mattresses?"
We'll never know the answers, although given the size of the cobwebs, I have a pretty good idea.
The schedule for seeing the Mansion went approximately like this:
2:00-4:00 Wait in line outside in 94 degrees, your only entertainment the individuals in line behind you, who spend the time in discourse on whether Washington is really buried at Mount Vernon (consensus: only his wooden teeth are buried there).
4:00-4:03 Tour Mansion.
To keep to this schedule, there are costumed interpreters in each room of the Mansion whose sole job is to repeat such boring pieces of information about the house in 5-second loops that visitors are thankful to escape to the next room. Questions are not allowed; this would slow down the movement of visitors within the house, and the interpreters would not be allowed to answer them anyway because all information is still top-secret, such as whether the glop of food on the sideboard in the dining room was actual food in Washington's time that has been preserved.
We felt somewhat akin to Washington when we heard that his house has no square walls, as our does not either. Unlike Washington we do not have chamber pots, which we are extremely thankful for, although with the way our toilet has been acting lately, perhaps we should have some for backup. Now if the gift shops on the grounds really want to offer some useful items, this would be one of them. Unfortunately I did not see any.
But back to the Mansion.
One guide has been there since the Mansion opened for tours back in 1872, telling countless shuffling visitors about the cobweb in the corner of the blue bedroom that is original to George's time. We got just a glimpse of it as we were whisked along by the crowd to the brown room, and we saw no reason to doubt the guide's information.
The one room we were allowed to linger at was George and Martha's bedroom. Many guests commented upon the large bed, which was specially made to fit George's large frame, although we were assured by the guide in the room that his wooden teeth did not repose with him in the bed. What impressed me, however, was not the bed. I nudged Joe. "Look at the size of that closet!" And we, the owners of an old home whose total storage space equals the trunk space in Smart cars, gazed longingly at the first walk-in closet in an American residence, dreaming of what we could do with all that space. Our dreams were rudely interrupted by the throng behind us pushing us down the stairs, and our tour resumed.
As you can no doubt tell, Mount Vernon is very impressive. We contemplated everything we had seen as we made our way out of the house, and Joe inquired as to what was my favorite part. The banister that is original to the house? The chandelier that is 80 years older than George himself? The impressive closet?
As amazing as all these things were, my thoughts were elsewhere as I busily did some calculations. "Do you realize that no one has lived in this house for 150 years? Do they ever dust? Sweep the floors? Change the mattresses?"
We'll never know the answers, although given the size of the cobwebs, I have a pretty good idea.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Following in our first father's footsteps, or, Where are the restrooms?
In keeping with our firm resolve to avoid vacations involving historic sites this year, because we are tired of them, we visited Mount Vernon this weekend (nothing historic there!). Mount Vernon, of course, was the home of George Washington, where you can learn all sorts of things about our first president, such as that there is no evidence that cherry trees ever existed on the estate and therefore George must have been making that whole "I cannot tell a lie" thing up. This skill obviously stood him in good stead when he became president.
Mount Vernon offers many authentic experiences to help you understand Washington's life. For instance, Washington believed in the value of working hard, and the exhibits are deliberately scattered all over his 8,000-acre hilly estate, forcing visitors to walk uphill to wherever they want to go (okay, so there is a little shuttle bus that goes to the most far-flung areas, but really, we have our pride). To make things even more authentic, thoughtful exhibit planners have set up special events at locations at opposite ends of the grounds, so that you must be in the northeast quadrant at 1:00 for a sewing demonstration, then hoof it over to the southwest quadrant at 1:30 for a cooking demonstration, then race back to the northeast quadrant at 2:00 for a demonstration on the care of wooden teeth. And the restrooms are ALWAYS at the opposite end from where you currently happen to be.
I must say that the boat excursion offered is nothing like what Washington's crossing of the Delaware must have been like, with its rough seas and biting wind, although the same heart-palpitating sense of danger may be replicated by paying for the concessions they offer on board. George could have fed a year's worth of visitors to his home for what you now pay for 2 waters and a measly bag of popcorn.
There are, of course, interpreters placed strategically throughout the exhibits to help you get the most from your visit, and also to tell you that you are nowhere near the restrooms. Many interpreters are dressed in period clothing, which basically means the most uncomfortable things some historian with a deviant sense of humor could locate. Occasionally you will even see children acting as guides (apparently working under the same child labor laws as in Washington's time), such as the one we had by the sheep pen, who kept pointing out helpfully, in a loud voice, that "That one's going to the bathroom!" Amazingly, this information was included in the price of the ticket.
There is much more that can be said about Mount Vernon, or you could just buy the guidebook like we did and learn everything from the comfort of your own home, which has the added advantage of nearby restrooms. Tomorrow, we'll take a look at the Mount Vernon Mansion, in which in one year alone the Washingtons hosted 677 overnight visitors, although Washington himself was not among them (it was a busy year for running the fledgling nation).
Mount Vernon offers many authentic experiences to help you understand Washington's life. For instance, Washington believed in the value of working hard, and the exhibits are deliberately scattered all over his 8,000-acre hilly estate, forcing visitors to walk uphill to wherever they want to go (okay, so there is a little shuttle bus that goes to the most far-flung areas, but really, we have our pride). To make things even more authentic, thoughtful exhibit planners have set up special events at locations at opposite ends of the grounds, so that you must be in the northeast quadrant at 1:00 for a sewing demonstration, then hoof it over to the southwest quadrant at 1:30 for a cooking demonstration, then race back to the northeast quadrant at 2:00 for a demonstration on the care of wooden teeth. And the restrooms are ALWAYS at the opposite end from where you currently happen to be.
I must say that the boat excursion offered is nothing like what Washington's crossing of the Delaware must have been like, with its rough seas and biting wind, although the same heart-palpitating sense of danger may be replicated by paying for the concessions they offer on board. George could have fed a year's worth of visitors to his home for what you now pay for 2 waters and a measly bag of popcorn.
There are, of course, interpreters placed strategically throughout the exhibits to help you get the most from your visit, and also to tell you that you are nowhere near the restrooms. Many interpreters are dressed in period clothing, which basically means the most uncomfortable things some historian with a deviant sense of humor could locate. Occasionally you will even see children acting as guides (apparently working under the same child labor laws as in Washington's time), such as the one we had by the sheep pen, who kept pointing out helpfully, in a loud voice, that "That one's going to the bathroom!" Amazingly, this information was included in the price of the ticket.
There is much more that can be said about Mount Vernon, or you could just buy the guidebook like we did and learn everything from the comfort of your own home, which has the added advantage of nearby restrooms. Tomorrow, we'll take a look at the Mount Vernon Mansion, in which in one year alone the Washingtons hosted 677 overnight visitors, although Washington himself was not among them (it was a busy year for running the fledgling nation).
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Banana headache
We got a new game a while ago that has quickly turned into Joe's favorite, favorite meaning there are few games he hates more. It is called Bananagrams. It is like Scrabble, only there is no board, and the letter tiles come in a cute little bag in the shape of a banana. Joe accuses me of buying the game mainly for this reason. "Taken in by a fake banana," he mutters.
I freely admit to being taken in by the banana packaging, but another big draw -- and if you are a Scrabble player you will know what I mean -- is that you get a lot of tiles to make words with. With four players you get 17 tiles. With three players you get 21 tiles. I was in heaven. 21 tiles! Instead of being limited to words like anger, you could make beautiful, exhilarating, gastrocnemius...practically all in the same round.
There is a very important difference between this game and conventional Scrabble, however. There are no points. Since you build your own little grid of words, the first person to use up the tiles wins. This is a definite drawback to Scrabble lovers for whom racking up points is like feasting on blood. But -- 21 tiles! I couldn't resist.
My sister played with us the first time. I looked at my 21 tiles in rapture. Should I make kinkajou? Perhaps katzenjammer? I was busy figuring out whether I could make thermoluminescence when my sister announced she had won. We stared at her. Neither of us had made more than half a word yet.
Then I looked at her tiles, which read like a toddler's daily log of conversation:
no
dog
hi
go
mine
moo
"What's this?" I demanded. " 'Moo??' " I'm making thermoluminescence and you put down moo??"
"But I went out first, so I won," she said smugly.
We declared a rematch. But we might as well have been challenging Michael Phelps to a race in the butterfly. I just could not bring myself to make moo when I could make zeptosecond instead. We all shaved a little bit of time off, but so did she, until her words had gone from toddler to infant status: I, oh, um, eh.
Finally we called a halt, defeated. She was unbeatable. The lure of 21 tiles and carpophagous had no power over her.
Now whenever someone suggests playing Bananagrams, we just look at each other and say, soberly, "moo."
I freely admit to being taken in by the banana packaging, but another big draw -- and if you are a Scrabble player you will know what I mean -- is that you get a lot of tiles to make words with. With four players you get 17 tiles. With three players you get 21 tiles. I was in heaven. 21 tiles! Instead of being limited to words like anger, you could make beautiful, exhilarating, gastrocnemius...practically all in the same round.
There is a very important difference between this game and conventional Scrabble, however. There are no points. Since you build your own little grid of words, the first person to use up the tiles wins. This is a definite drawback to Scrabble lovers for whom racking up points is like feasting on blood. But -- 21 tiles! I couldn't resist.
My sister played with us the first time. I looked at my 21 tiles in rapture. Should I make kinkajou? Perhaps katzenjammer? I was busy figuring out whether I could make thermoluminescence when my sister announced she had won. We stared at her. Neither of us had made more than half a word yet.
Then I looked at her tiles, which read like a toddler's daily log of conversation:
no
dog
hi
go
mine
moo
"What's this?" I demanded. " 'Moo??' " I'm making thermoluminescence and you put down moo??"
"But I went out first, so I won," she said smugly.
We declared a rematch. But we might as well have been challenging Michael Phelps to a race in the butterfly. I just could not bring myself to make moo when I could make zeptosecond instead. We all shaved a little bit of time off, but so did she, until her words had gone from toddler to infant status: I, oh, um, eh.
Finally we called a halt, defeated. She was unbeatable. The lure of 21 tiles and carpophagous had no power over her.
Now whenever someone suggests playing Bananagrams, we just look at each other and say, soberly, "moo."
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
The vacation cycle
People have different approaches to planning a vacation. Some use the spontaneous method, wherein they spin a globe around and poke their finger somewhere on it, and that is where they go right then, even if it is the town right next door. Other people plan their dream vacation for years, only to find that their destination -- an exotic island in the Pacific -- was wiped out in Hurricane Attila the Hun and no longer exists. Some people, such as my parents, have given up taking trips altogether because it is too much trouble to actually go anywhere, and they have decided that it is much more fun to watch the neighbors out the window and gossip about where they are going.
We personally are very regimented in planning and taking a vacation. We generally go through three stages:
During the Pre-trip Stage, which lasts from the beginning of discussions about the trip to the moment we get in the car to leave, Joe expresses his excitement about the trip in this manner:
1. I don't want to go.
2. I don't have time to go.
3. Why are we going?
Of course, I am supportive during this phase. I smile, ignore his protests, and plan the trip anyway.
During the Embarking Stage, which begins immediately upon pulling away from the house and lasts until we arrive at our destination, he experiences apparent amnesia of his initial reluctance:
1. I'm so glad I suggested we take this vacation!
I generously refrain from reminding him of his earlier resistance. Sometimes.
During the Preparing for Going Home Stage -- which lasts pretty much the rest of the trip -- Joe begins to mentally prepare for reentering our normal, daily lives:
1. I don't want to go home.
2. I don't want to go home.
3. I don't want to go home.
4. Can we move here?
5. I don't want to go home.
And I smile, ignore his protests, and begin planning for the next Vacation Cycle.
Sometimes, as in the case of our most recent trip -- which was the first since our trips to the farm and pumpkin patch in our kindergarten days, it seemed -- we just skip the first two stages and go right to stage 3, even before we've left home. Who knows? Maybe sometime we'll even try the globe method.
We personally are very regimented in planning and taking a vacation. We generally go through three stages:
During the Pre-trip Stage, which lasts from the beginning of discussions about the trip to the moment we get in the car to leave, Joe expresses his excitement about the trip in this manner:
1. I don't want to go.
2. I don't have time to go.
3. Why are we going?
Of course, I am supportive during this phase. I smile, ignore his protests, and plan the trip anyway.
During the Embarking Stage, which begins immediately upon pulling away from the house and lasts until we arrive at our destination, he experiences apparent amnesia of his initial reluctance:
1. I'm so glad I suggested we take this vacation!
I generously refrain from reminding him of his earlier resistance. Sometimes.
During the Preparing for Going Home Stage -- which lasts pretty much the rest of the trip -- Joe begins to mentally prepare for reentering our normal, daily lives:
1. I don't want to go home.
2. I don't want to go home.
3. I don't want to go home.
4. Can we move here?
5. I don't want to go home.
And I smile, ignore his protests, and begin planning for the next Vacation Cycle.
Sometimes, as in the case of our most recent trip -- which was the first since our trips to the farm and pumpkin patch in our kindergarten days, it seemed -- we just skip the first two stages and go right to stage 3, even before we've left home. Who knows? Maybe sometime we'll even try the globe method.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Further beach experiences
After all the excitement of the Parking Spot Search at the beach, which I outlined for you yesterday, our actual beach experience was a bit of a letdown. But we tried to have fun anyway. For instance, we sampled our way through the fine cuisines unique to the area, embarking on the "No Ice Cream Left Behind" tour, which included Dairy Queen, TCBY, and Cold Stone Creamery.
We did notice that in the north end of town, no one was playing the Parking Spot Search. This was odd considering that parking there was free and pretty abundant, but we were lucky enough to hear an educational talk given by a gas station attendant who had been in the area approximately since cars were first invented. He explained to us the complex relationship between higher gas prices and lower tourism rates and theorized that this was why there were no players in the Parking Spot Search in his end of town. We suspected it had more to do with the lack of tattoo establishments, but we didn't want to appear insensitive to his considerable body of wisdom.
Joe later declared that he is in favor of higher gas prices if it means fewer people to jostle at the beach. In fact, in November he plans to vote for the candidate who will do his best to keep tourists from being able to afford to go anywhere, except us.
Of course we did not spend our entire day at the beach eating ice cream and talking to gas station attendants. Joe also talked to a former policeman collecting money for charity at the local SuperFresh. If you've ever wondered if these people are somehow not quite not legitimate, wonder no more. This guy was pretty much there to tell people how to beat the Parking Spot Search scam. His best tip was to park at the police station, which was empty because the cops were all at the tattoo establishments at the other end of town, keeping an eye on things and, occasionally, getting a tattoo themselves. We know this tip was legal, because the guy was, after all, a former policeman.
And of course we managed to save some time to lie on the beach and go in the water. Well, Joe went in the water. Personally, I think the ocean is merely backdrop for napping in the sand. It is much too cold and icky to actually swim in. I did, however, admire one kid's technique on a boogie board. "Now that's how I like to surf," I said to Joe as we watched him.
"How's that?" Joe asked.
"On land."
There wasn't too much time left to enjoy either sand or water after setting up our umbrella, laying our towels strategically to catch the greatest amount of sun (me) or the least amount (Joe), spreading on 150 sunscreen so we do not spend our twilight years wishing we hadn't spent all that time baking in the sun, finding the perfect book to read out of the 173 we brought, deciding which snack from two coolers to start with, etc. So of course we'll go back again. After all, we didn't manage to hit Baskin Robbins.
We did notice that in the north end of town, no one was playing the Parking Spot Search. This was odd considering that parking there was free and pretty abundant, but we were lucky enough to hear an educational talk given by a gas station attendant who had been in the area approximately since cars were first invented. He explained to us the complex relationship between higher gas prices and lower tourism rates and theorized that this was why there were no players in the Parking Spot Search in his end of town. We suspected it had more to do with the lack of tattoo establishments, but we didn't want to appear insensitive to his considerable body of wisdom.
Joe later declared that he is in favor of higher gas prices if it means fewer people to jostle at the beach. In fact, in November he plans to vote for the candidate who will do his best to keep tourists from being able to afford to go anywhere, except us.
Of course we did not spend our entire day at the beach eating ice cream and talking to gas station attendants. Joe also talked to a former policeman collecting money for charity at the local SuperFresh. If you've ever wondered if these people are somehow not quite not legitimate, wonder no more. This guy was pretty much there to tell people how to beat the Parking Spot Search scam. His best tip was to park at the police station, which was empty because the cops were all at the tattoo establishments at the other end of town, keeping an eye on things and, occasionally, getting a tattoo themselves. We know this tip was legal, because the guy was, after all, a former policeman.
And of course we managed to save some time to lie on the beach and go in the water. Well, Joe went in the water. Personally, I think the ocean is merely backdrop for napping in the sand. It is much too cold and icky to actually swim in. I did, however, admire one kid's technique on a boogie board. "Now that's how I like to surf," I said to Joe as we watched him.
"How's that?" Joe asked.
"On land."
There wasn't too much time left to enjoy either sand or water after setting up our umbrella, laying our towels strategically to catch the greatest amount of sun (me) or the least amount (Joe), spreading on 150 sunscreen so we do not spend our twilight years wishing we hadn't spent all that time baking in the sun, finding the perfect book to read out of the 173 we brought, deciding which snack from two coolers to start with, etc. So of course we'll go back again. After all, we didn't manage to hit Baskin Robbins.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Park 'n Snore
This weekend we engaged in a popular ritual here in the East: getting up at 5 a.m. to drive to the ocean 3 hours away, lying on a bit of sand with roughly the populations of Virginia, Massachusetts, and New Jersey combined (and possibly Ecuador as well), then driving 3 hours home, stopping periodically for caffeine so as not to fall asleep at the wheel. This is considered relaxing.
The most popular activity at the beach, judging from the amount of people engaging in it, was the Parking Space Search. You need a ticket to get into this game, and what makes it so much fun is that it is a bit like Musical Chairs, with about nine fewer parking spots available than cars. So around and around the parking lot you all go, vying to be the first to nab an open spot before your ticket times out and a large crane comes and bodily removes your car and all its occupants from the lot.
This game is also good for teaching aggression, as the more time it takes you to find a spot, the more aggressive your tactics become. These include:
1. Rolling down your window to tell someone who is already parked but not leaving that they have won the Mystery Lottery but must collect it, in person and in their car, at the other end of town.
2. Making an anonymous call to the towing company to report a disabled vehicle needing removal from the space where you want to park.
3. Engaging in Car Croquet, wherein you bump a car -- ideally smaller than your own -- out of its spot, which now becomes YOUR spot.
4. Running down innocent children and dogs and little old people and anyone else unlucky enough to come to the beach that day and not leave soon enough.
A twist to the Parking Space Search is the Disappearing Space. In this version, one of you in the car spots an open space in the row next to you. (Note: This open spot is NEVER in your row.) The driver excitedly heads to the next row to park in the open spot, but by the time you get there, it has disappeared, and indeed it appears that all spots in that row have been occupied since 1952. All the car owners have probably died riding the rides on the boardwalk rather than give up their parking spot to anyone. The average driver spots about 12.7 open spots before (a) actually getting one or (b) becoming personally acquainted with that crane we mentioned earlier.
If you are lucky enough to snag (a), this is what you do once you actually park and stagger to the beach:
1. Lay right on the hot sand, too exhausted to get out your beach towels.
2. Think about getting up for lunch, but decide it is too much trouble. There are plenty of food droppings from previous beachgoers if you need sustenance.
And if you're like us, you'll find the whole experience so relaxing that you can't wait to do it again!
The most popular activity at the beach, judging from the amount of people engaging in it, was the Parking Space Search. You need a ticket to get into this game, and what makes it so much fun is that it is a bit like Musical Chairs, with about nine fewer parking spots available than cars. So around and around the parking lot you all go, vying to be the first to nab an open spot before your ticket times out and a large crane comes and bodily removes your car and all its occupants from the lot.
This game is also good for teaching aggression, as the more time it takes you to find a spot, the more aggressive your tactics become. These include:
1. Rolling down your window to tell someone who is already parked but not leaving that they have won the Mystery Lottery but must collect it, in person and in their car, at the other end of town.
2. Making an anonymous call to the towing company to report a disabled vehicle needing removal from the space where you want to park.
3. Engaging in Car Croquet, wherein you bump a car -- ideally smaller than your own -- out of its spot, which now becomes YOUR spot.
4. Running down innocent children and dogs and little old people and anyone else unlucky enough to come to the beach that day and not leave soon enough.
A twist to the Parking Space Search is the Disappearing Space. In this version, one of you in the car spots an open space in the row next to you. (Note: This open spot is NEVER in your row.) The driver excitedly heads to the next row to park in the open spot, but by the time you get there, it has disappeared, and indeed it appears that all spots in that row have been occupied since 1952. All the car owners have probably died riding the rides on the boardwalk rather than give up their parking spot to anyone. The average driver spots about 12.7 open spots before (a) actually getting one or (b) becoming personally acquainted with that crane we mentioned earlier.
If you are lucky enough to snag (a), this is what you do once you actually park and stagger to the beach:
1. Lay right on the hot sand, too exhausted to get out your beach towels.
2. Think about getting up for lunch, but decide it is too much trouble. There are plenty of food droppings from previous beachgoers if you need sustenance.
And if you're like us, you'll find the whole experience so relaxing that you can't wait to do it again!
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Commuter couple
Everybody is looking for ways to save on gas these days, and we are no exception. So when I got a job that's close to where Joe works, the first thing he said was "Great! We can commute together!"
Now, I am all for couple togetherness, but my car is my private space. Having anyone else in it while driving to work, even my beloved spouse, would be a violation of that space.
"I mean, we can use the time to talk, right?" he said. "You're always wanting to talk."
"Yessss," I said cautiously. I did like to talk as a couple, but speeding down a crowded highway at 7 a.m. really didn't seem conducive to the kind of talking I liked to do.
"Well," he said, "in the car we can talk about what we'd like to do with the patio, how to put some storage upstairs, how to put some storage downstairs..."
These topics were definitely not on my commuting agenda.
Just as there are Morning People and Night People, there are Social Commuters and Introspective Commuters. We Introspective Commuters like to use our drive time to ponder important things, like exactly why it is that we are speeding down the highway at 7 a.m. We do not like to use the time to solve home ownership issues.
But a little time with the budget and calculator overcame my reluctance, and we set off on our first commute together. It was okay, actually. For the first two minutes. Then, somewhere between Exit 22 and 25, the Social Commuter broke my cardinal rule of commuting, which is:
While in the car there will be no discussion of putting paneling in the basement, or any other subject that has a direct correlation to my blood pressure.
"So I was thinking I could put some paneling in the basement," he said enthusiastically.
He could hardly have picked a subject that I would respond more negatively to. Paneling ranks right up there with shag carpeting, in my book. The house I grew up in had a family room that was completely paneled, and it was not my Happy Room.
"Look, honey," I said, "I want to be calm and peaceful when I get to work." I made a rolling gesture with my arms to indicate being peaceful. "I was happy when I got in the car, I want to be happy when I get out of the car."
"You'll be happy when I get out of the car," he said.
But since then, we've been fine. We've worked out our little differences in commuting preferences, and everyone's been happy. Mainly because he drives to work in his car now, and I drive in mine.
Now, I am all for couple togetherness, but my car is my private space. Having anyone else in it while driving to work, even my beloved spouse, would be a violation of that space.
"I mean, we can use the time to talk, right?" he said. "You're always wanting to talk."
"Yessss," I said cautiously. I did like to talk as a couple, but speeding down a crowded highway at 7 a.m. really didn't seem conducive to the kind of talking I liked to do.
"Well," he said, "in the car we can talk about what we'd like to do with the patio, how to put some storage upstairs, how to put some storage downstairs..."
These topics were definitely not on my commuting agenda.
Just as there are Morning People and Night People, there are Social Commuters and Introspective Commuters. We Introspective Commuters like to use our drive time to ponder important things, like exactly why it is that we are speeding down the highway at 7 a.m. We do not like to use the time to solve home ownership issues.
But a little time with the budget and calculator overcame my reluctance, and we set off on our first commute together. It was okay, actually. For the first two minutes. Then, somewhere between Exit 22 and 25, the Social Commuter broke my cardinal rule of commuting, which is:
While in the car there will be no discussion of putting paneling in the basement, or any other subject that has a direct correlation to my blood pressure.
"So I was thinking I could put some paneling in the basement," he said enthusiastically.
He could hardly have picked a subject that I would respond more negatively to. Paneling ranks right up there with shag carpeting, in my book. The house I grew up in had a family room that was completely paneled, and it was not my Happy Room.
"Look, honey," I said, "I want to be calm and peaceful when I get to work." I made a rolling gesture with my arms to indicate being peaceful. "I was happy when I got in the car, I want to be happy when I get out of the car."
"You'll be happy when I get out of the car," he said.
But since then, we've been fine. We've worked out our little differences in commuting preferences, and everyone's been happy. Mainly because he drives to work in his car now, and I drive in mine.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
The tongue that no man can tame
One of the perks of working for a textbook publisher is that when things are slow, there are plenty of interesting things to read about in the textbooks. (Happily, since we only go up to eighth grade, there is no book on calculus.) Take the okapi of Africa, for instance.
These animals appear to be part giraffe, part zebra, and they live in a rainforest. (One little-known fact, which is not in the textbook, is that they used to live primarily in frat houses, but the elders kept complaining that the young okapi hung their long tongues out the windows all the time, and it was unsightly for the neighborhood.) Their tongue is their main claim to fame. It's so long that they can use it to clean their eyes. And apparently they do use it to clean their eyes.
I don't know about you, but the first thing I wonder when I think about that is, why would they want to?
I mean, in humans, anyway, the eyeball is the cleanest part of our body. The tongue is one of the dirtiest. Common sense would tell you to keep that tongue away from the eyeball. But here are the okapi, gratuitously swishing their long tongues around in their eye sockets.
It also makes me wonder what other bizarre things they use their tongues for. Do they clean each other's eyes out with their tongues? "Here, you've got a sleepy in your eye, let me help you get that out..." Do mother okapi have to yell, "Get your tongue out of your sister's eye!"? Does the tongue double as a tie when they want to go eat from a tree in a fancy part of town?
The tongue is no doubt used by adolescent okapi to snatch a meal that their sibling is just about to eat, prompting a protest of "Mom! Barney took my lunch again!" And Mother Okapi probably sighs and wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to be something a little less unique, like an ant.
Like many fathers, the dad okapi probably take their role of mentor and teacher very seriously. Certain rituals and behaviors must be passed down to the young, and they are the ones to do it. Therefore they carefully instruct their children, particularly the boys, in the important ritual of tapping an unsuspecting okapi on the far shoulder with their tongue and quickly withdrawing it, making the other okapi look at...nothing. I say "particularly the boys" because the mothers are no doubt too smart to let their mates teach their daughters any such nonsense.
I'm thinking, though, that it might be handy to have an okapi around the house for certain chores. Washing the windows on the third story, for instance. Maybe they could also rescue kittens from trees, although the felines in our neighborhood seem more inclined to hide under cars than climb trees. But I wouldn't want to have to clean its tongue. What would you use, a steamer and carpet cleaner?
If you need to know any other useless facts about obscure animals of the world, just ask. I probably know some.
These animals appear to be part giraffe, part zebra, and they live in a rainforest. (One little-known fact, which is not in the textbook, is that they used to live primarily in frat houses, but the elders kept complaining that the young okapi hung their long tongues out the windows all the time, and it was unsightly for the neighborhood.) Their tongue is their main claim to fame. It's so long that they can use it to clean their eyes. And apparently they do use it to clean their eyes.
I don't know about you, but the first thing I wonder when I think about that is, why would they want to?
I mean, in humans, anyway, the eyeball is the cleanest part of our body. The tongue is one of the dirtiest. Common sense would tell you to keep that tongue away from the eyeball. But here are the okapi, gratuitously swishing their long tongues around in their eye sockets.
It also makes me wonder what other bizarre things they use their tongues for. Do they clean each other's eyes out with their tongues? "Here, you've got a sleepy in your eye, let me help you get that out..." Do mother okapi have to yell, "Get your tongue out of your sister's eye!"? Does the tongue double as a tie when they want to go eat from a tree in a fancy part of town?
The tongue is no doubt used by adolescent okapi to snatch a meal that their sibling is just about to eat, prompting a protest of "Mom! Barney took my lunch again!" And Mother Okapi probably sighs and wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to be something a little less unique, like an ant.
Like many fathers, the dad okapi probably take their role of mentor and teacher very seriously. Certain rituals and behaviors must be passed down to the young, and they are the ones to do it. Therefore they carefully instruct their children, particularly the boys, in the important ritual of tapping an unsuspecting okapi on the far shoulder with their tongue and quickly withdrawing it, making the other okapi look at...nothing. I say "particularly the boys" because the mothers are no doubt too smart to let their mates teach their daughters any such nonsense.
I'm thinking, though, that it might be handy to have an okapi around the house for certain chores. Washing the windows on the third story, for instance. Maybe they could also rescue kittens from trees, although the felines in our neighborhood seem more inclined to hide under cars than climb trees. But I wouldn't want to have to clean its tongue. What would you use, a steamer and carpet cleaner?
If you need to know any other useless facts about obscure animals of the world, just ask. I probably know some.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
The Prissy Princess and the Leaky Toilet
Owing to a minor plumbing disaster in the castle, which was NO fault of the Prissy Princess's, today's blog will be somewhat shorter than usual. If it were on paper, it would also be somewhat soggier.
On the eve of the Hero's final exam, the Princess did not wish to bother him with such a small problem as a toilet that would not stop running. He is continually encouraging her to try to figure things out herself instead of always relying on other people to do things, and so she decided to take his advice.
It turns out that when the Hero says the Princess should try to figure things out herself, he is not talking about fixing the toilet. Apparently he is thinking of less destructive pursuits, such as how to upload photos to her blog. (And no, if you're wondering, there will not be any pictures of the plumbing disaster.)
She says how was she supposed to know that there was a geyser hidden in the depths of the tank, just waiting for the right victim to come along and unleash its power all over the Princess and the contents of their tiny bathroom?
This experience has, however, brought the Princess closer to God, as she now prays fervently each time she even thinks about using the toilet. She prays that it might not erupt like Old Faithful and that it might stop at its intended boundaries and not keep on running until the Lord returns.
In the end, the Hero -- although at first clearly annoyed at the Princess's clumsy interventions -- did tell her that he was proud of her for trying to fix the situation by herself. He also warned her to never, ever try it again.
On the eve of the Hero's final exam, the Princess did not wish to bother him with such a small problem as a toilet that would not stop running. He is continually encouraging her to try to figure things out herself instead of always relying on other people to do things, and so she decided to take his advice.
It turns out that when the Hero says the Princess should try to figure things out herself, he is not talking about fixing the toilet. Apparently he is thinking of less destructive pursuits, such as how to upload photos to her blog. (And no, if you're wondering, there will not be any pictures of the plumbing disaster.)
She says how was she supposed to know that there was a geyser hidden in the depths of the tank, just waiting for the right victim to come along and unleash its power all over the Princess and the contents of their tiny bathroom?
This experience has, however, brought the Princess closer to God, as she now prays fervently each time she even thinks about using the toilet. She prays that it might not erupt like Old Faithful and that it might stop at its intended boundaries and not keep on running until the Lord returns.
In the end, the Hero -- although at first clearly annoyed at the Princess's clumsy interventions -- did tell her that he was proud of her for trying to fix the situation by herself. He also warned her to never, ever try it again.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Fashion faux pause
If spring is when a young man's fancy turns to love, summer is the time for wedding guests to worry about what to wear to all those summer weddings they're invited to. Not to fear! We recently attended an outdoor wedding, so we are now experts on what to wear to such an occasion, at least in a Maryland garden in the evening in July. As a bonus, we've thrown in some other etiquette rules. Of course, if the wedding you are attending is indoors, somewhere else in the country, or at a different time of day, there are a different set of rules. And don't ask me what they are.
As women are most often the ones in charge of attire in the household (including of any animals, if present), these guidelines will be addressed to you females. Males, you may choose to print this out and give it to your female counterpart for future use, or you can use it for a placemat.
And here, without further ado, is our Guide to Attending Summer Weddings (Based on Experience!).
1. (This first recommendation is entirely optional, but since we took this step we highly recommend it.) Have your spouse take a summer course in the evenings that will interfere with any weddings you may be invited to. This will ensure that you will have no end of conversation with other guests, because they will constantly ask nosy questions about where your spouse is. Arrange the class time, however, so that your spouse can easily make the reception, which is all he is interested in anyway.
2. Before the wedding, search the Internet for appropriate attire for the type of occasion you will be attending. If their advice does not agree with what you privately want to wear, ignore it. For instance, express disdain for those Web sites suggesting suits for men attending evening garden weddings. What do they know?
3. Wear white sandals. When you arrive, notice that all the other women (except possibly the bride, whose shoes you can't really see anyway) are wearing black sandals, and wonder why they would wear such a dreary color in the middle of the summer. Feel superior to them, until your sister explains, a week after the wedding, that white shoes are generally considered inappropriate for an evening garden wedding in the East.
4. Choose a casual outfit for your husband to wear, believing that "garden" is merely French for "casual." Those French! They are always trying to trip up stupid Americans. Throw in a tie so your spouse can feel superior, too.
5. Immediately notice two things upon your arrival. No one is bearing gifts, except you, and all the men are wearing suits, with jackets. And not sports jackets, either. Suddenly realize that you should have gone with the Maryland interpretation for "garden," which means "the same as a church."
6. Ditch gift in car, reasoning that you can always give it to the couple later when it will be less obtrusive, like on their fifth anniversary.
7. Politely excuse self to a secluded spot to frantically call spouse and tell him to wear suit coat. Emphasize the point that if he comes without it he will not be allowed into the reception, because you will hide his place card.
8. Arrive at your table at the reception to find two seats open. One is directly in front of an overzealous air conditioner, which may, if you are situated just right in front of it, offer other guests a good view of your undergarments. Thoughtfully leave this seat for your spouse, whose only moveable garment will be his suit coat. If he remembers to wear it.
9. Answer more questions about where your spouse is from your table mates.
As women are most often the ones in charge of attire in the household (including of any animals, if present), these guidelines will be addressed to you females. Males, you may choose to print this out and give it to your female counterpart for future use, or you can use it for a placemat.
And here, without further ado, is our Guide to Attending Summer Weddings (Based on Experience!).
1. (This first recommendation is entirely optional, but since we took this step we highly recommend it.) Have your spouse take a summer course in the evenings that will interfere with any weddings you may be invited to. This will ensure that you will have no end of conversation with other guests, because they will constantly ask nosy questions about where your spouse is. Arrange the class time, however, so that your spouse can easily make the reception, which is all he is interested in anyway.
2. Before the wedding, search the Internet for appropriate attire for the type of occasion you will be attending. If their advice does not agree with what you privately want to wear, ignore it. For instance, express disdain for those Web sites suggesting suits for men attending evening garden weddings. What do they know?
3. Wear white sandals. When you arrive, notice that all the other women (except possibly the bride, whose shoes you can't really see anyway) are wearing black sandals, and wonder why they would wear such a dreary color in the middle of the summer. Feel superior to them, until your sister explains, a week after the wedding, that white shoes are generally considered inappropriate for an evening garden wedding in the East.
4. Choose a casual outfit for your husband to wear, believing that "garden" is merely French for "casual." Those French! They are always trying to trip up stupid Americans. Throw in a tie so your spouse can feel superior, too.
5. Immediately notice two things upon your arrival. No one is bearing gifts, except you, and all the men are wearing suits, with jackets. And not sports jackets, either. Suddenly realize that you should have gone with the Maryland interpretation for "garden," which means "the same as a church."
6. Ditch gift in car, reasoning that you can always give it to the couple later when it will be less obtrusive, like on their fifth anniversary.
7. Politely excuse self to a secluded spot to frantically call spouse and tell him to wear suit coat. Emphasize the point that if he comes without it he will not be allowed into the reception, because you will hide his place card.
8. Arrive at your table at the reception to find two seats open. One is directly in front of an overzealous air conditioner, which may, if you are situated just right in front of it, offer other guests a good view of your undergarments. Thoughtfully leave this seat for your spouse, whose only moveable garment will be his suit coat. If he remembers to wear it.
9. Answer more questions about where your spouse is from your table mates.
10. In conversation with others at your table, discover that you attended high school with the brother of one guest. When he asks your name, say it indistinctly to avoid having the brother make any connection between the person you are now -- suave, perfectly etiquetted -- with the gawky, pimply teenager he might have known in high school.
11. Chat amiably with the monk seated next to you until your spouse arrives -- happily, wearing his suit coat -- and asks the monk, who is clearly garbed in a monk's robe (and the only male guest over the age of 4 who is not expected to wear a suit coat), what kind of work he does. Bury yourself in the tablecloth, which is conveniently long for this sort of purpose.
12. Ahead of time, arrange for your spouse to go out of town the following morning, necessitating your both being at the airport at 5 a.m. This will ensure that you will look like duds leaving the reception early, and will prevent you from experiencing the best part of the evening: having cake.
13. Breathe a sigh of relief at escaping without committing any further faux pas (faux pases?). Now that you are an expert at wedding etiquette, confidently look forward to your next wedding: a Jewish-Christian underwater cowboy-and-Indian themed affair!
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Hear ye! Hear ye! Reader poll results
Our secret sources tell us that since we posted the reader poll -- whose results could have far-reaching implications not only for this blog but also for the country, although we doubt it -- roughly 73.5 people (and 2 cats) visited the blog. There is a slight discrepancy between this number and the number of those who actually responded to the survey, which was a grand total of: 4.
Dividing the number of respondents by the number of actual readers by the average commute time in Gillette, Wyoming (18 hours, 26 minutes), and multiplying by 1.5 Euros to account for our international readers, we arrive at a fewer percentage of readers responding to the poll than that of eligible cocker spaniels voting in the last presidential election. (How they voted continues to be a closely guarded secret.)
These findings confirm what pollsters in national elections have long suspected: more cocker spaniels than people vote. No one knows why this is, although spaniels are strongly suspected of receiving Kibbles 'n Bits kickbacks for their votes.
We also have it on good authority (mine) that one respondent took the survey twice. In other polls this would be grounds for disqualifying both the respondent's answers, and possibly grounding of the respondent as well; in this poll, however, we can't afford to be too choosy, so we will just assume this person has a split personality and is therefore eligible to cast a vote for each personality.
So without further dithering ("qualifying" in scientific language), let's analyze our 4 votes and see what imaginary results we can come up with.
Now, it is very important that the respondents of a poll represent the total population in general in characteristics like age, gender, like or dislike of Martha Stewart, etc. Our first survey question indicated two people who admitted to an actual age range, and two people who said that they are not as young as they'd like to be. By 2020 (a year arrived at totally through experimenter license), there will be as many baby boomers as people of all other ages put together -- although given boomers' tendency to be high achievers, they may get there sooner -- so I'd say that our sample, two sort-of-young and two not-so-young, adequately represents the general population.
We could extrapolate ("make up") all kinds of additional information about these respondents who did not admit to an age, but in the interest of continuing to have people take part in these polls, I think it wise to move on to the next question.
We here at Slightly Humorous like to know how our readers found out about us. We also like to think that it was through a segment on David Letterman, but what we like isn't really important. At least that's what our mother always said.
But one person did say he or she learned about the blog through Oprah. Since -- and I know this will be shocking news to you -- this blog has never been mentioned on Oprah's show, I assume that this respondent has some sort of direct, personal connection to Oprah, or that the person has a computer-literate cocker spaniel named Oprah.
One reader apparently has been forced to read this blog as punishment for not doing his or her homework. I would be most interested in speaking with this person's parent or other person of authority on the topic of alternative ideas for "punishment."
There was 100% agreement on "reading this blog more than once," which leads to a scientifically significant question: Did you people study together? One of these people, however, must not have been there for all the study sessions, as he or she went on to answer the next question about why he or she does not read this blog more than once. Again, in the interest of keeping people happy enough to take future surveys, we will refrain from making extrapolations about this person's mental capabilities.
And so this ends the scientific analysis of our third (fourth? We're not all that good with numbers, even though we are very scientific) reader poll. As soon as we can come up with some more questions that are totally meaningless, we'll have another survey. Watch for it on Oprah.
Dividing the number of respondents by the number of actual readers by the average commute time in Gillette, Wyoming (18 hours, 26 minutes), and multiplying by 1.5 Euros to account for our international readers, we arrive at a fewer percentage of readers responding to the poll than that of eligible cocker spaniels voting in the last presidential election. (How they voted continues to be a closely guarded secret.)
These findings confirm what pollsters in national elections have long suspected: more cocker spaniels than people vote. No one knows why this is, although spaniels are strongly suspected of receiving Kibbles 'n Bits kickbacks for their votes.
We also have it on good authority (mine) that one respondent took the survey twice. In other polls this would be grounds for disqualifying both the respondent's answers, and possibly grounding of the respondent as well; in this poll, however, we can't afford to be too choosy, so we will just assume this person has a split personality and is therefore eligible to cast a vote for each personality.
So without further dithering ("qualifying" in scientific language), let's analyze our 4 votes and see what imaginary results we can come up with.
Now, it is very important that the respondents of a poll represent the total population in general in characteristics like age, gender, like or dislike of Martha Stewart, etc. Our first survey question indicated two people who admitted to an actual age range, and two people who said that they are not as young as they'd like to be. By 2020 (a year arrived at totally through experimenter license), there will be as many baby boomers as people of all other ages put together -- although given boomers' tendency to be high achievers, they may get there sooner -- so I'd say that our sample, two sort-of-young and two not-so-young, adequately represents the general population.
We could extrapolate ("make up") all kinds of additional information about these respondents who did not admit to an age, but in the interest of continuing to have people take part in these polls, I think it wise to move on to the next question.
We here at Slightly Humorous like to know how our readers found out about us. We also like to think that it was through a segment on David Letterman, but what we like isn't really important. At least that's what our mother always said.
But one person did say he or she learned about the blog through Oprah. Since -- and I know this will be shocking news to you -- this blog has never been mentioned on Oprah's show, I assume that this respondent has some sort of direct, personal connection to Oprah, or that the person has a computer-literate cocker spaniel named Oprah.
One reader apparently has been forced to read this blog as punishment for not doing his or her homework. I would be most interested in speaking with this person's parent or other person of authority on the topic of alternative ideas for "punishment."
There was 100% agreement on "reading this blog more than once," which leads to a scientifically significant question: Did you people study together? One of these people, however, must not have been there for all the study sessions, as he or she went on to answer the next question about why he or she does not read this blog more than once. Again, in the interest of keeping people happy enough to take future surveys, we will refrain from making extrapolations about this person's mental capabilities.
And so this ends the scientific analysis of our third (fourth? We're not all that good with numbers, even though we are very scientific) reader poll. As soon as we can come up with some more questions that are totally meaningless, we'll have another survey. Watch for it on Oprah.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Whose job is it, anyway?
They say the #1 topic over which couples express a difference of opinion is money. I can't say that this is true in our case, although it is not because we have a great excess of it.
Fast approaching #1 in our household is the question of who is in charge of killing spiders and other unwanted residents. Those, we do have an excess of. Joe is dubious about this, but I clearly remember the minister including this duty in our marriage vows: "And do you, Joseph, promise to always protect Holly from insects, spiders, and basically anything that moves, including ugly, hairy creatures that are bigger than you?"
I'm sure that Joe looked lovingly into my eyes and answered that yes, he would do so even if a spider's bite doth us part.
But as I said, he does not remember this, and the issue remains unresolved.
"You kill things when I'm not here," he says.
"But you're the head of the household," I remind him. "I wouldn't dream of usurping your authority when you're here." Especially the authority to deal with spiders.
"I did it last time," he will often say, as if it is a household chore we have agreed to split.
But to me this is a clear case of gender distinction. I find the offending creature and scream, he kills it. I am sure this is in the Constitution somewhere. "We hold this truthe to be self-evident, that the husbande shall assume responsibility for the slaying of all dragons and otherwise dangerous creatures within his domaine. If he refuse to discharge his duty is this matter, his wyfe shall be given authority and impunity to use a fry pan upon his head."
"You should be able to take care of it by now" is another of Joe's responses when I find a spider, as if killing things is something one grows into.
But after much discussion of the matter -- only to find that whatever bug we were discussing the dispatching of has taken advantage of our inattention to wander away -- I have found a rather simple solution. I gaze trustingly into Joe's eyes, give him a tender touch, and say in a sweet, caressing voice, "Do you want this to become a blog?"
And generally this strategy works, but it is good for only one spider or bug per day. If I happen to find another one before we go to bed, all the blackmail and sweet talking and begging will not move him. He is the Implacable Non-Hero.
In the great tradition of wives everywhere, I want him to deal with these nasty invaders, but I also want to tell him how to do it.
If the bug is on a wall, I caution him to move everything sitting on the floor underneath the bug. Sometimes this necessitates the rearrangement of an entire room, a reasonable precaution to me. Joe does not view this as reasonable, and watches while I do it. Then I place a wastebasket in the expected projectory of the bug after it is hit, to minimize cleanup.
"Now don't lose it," I warn as he gets ready to deal the blow.
The frequency with which he does seem to lose them, even with a wastebasket the size of the bed of a Dodge Ram placed right underneath, makes me suspect he is doing this on purpose, out of spite. He is unperturbed and unrepentant when this happens. I consider a dead bug with whereabouts unknown almost as disturbing as a live one in plain sight.
"Okay, cleanup time!" he announces when he does locate it.
"I'll get you a Kleenex," I say, but by the time I return with it, he has retreated far from the scene.
"There's a dead arachnid on my rug!" I yell, thinking maybe he has forgotten and is already off to another adventure.
"So clean it up!" he yells back.
I go to find him. I bestow upon him a look of disdain and express, by means of stuffing the Kleenex in a strategic place on his face, just what I think of the idea that I clean up eight legs -- give or take a few, depending on how hard the blow was -- and a squashed torso.
And I tell him to consider himself lucky that I did not exercise my Constitutionally guaranteed rights by using a frying pan.
Fast approaching #1 in our household is the question of who is in charge of killing spiders and other unwanted residents. Those, we do have an excess of. Joe is dubious about this, but I clearly remember the minister including this duty in our marriage vows: "And do you, Joseph, promise to always protect Holly from insects, spiders, and basically anything that moves, including ugly, hairy creatures that are bigger than you?"
I'm sure that Joe looked lovingly into my eyes and answered that yes, he would do so even if a spider's bite doth us part.
But as I said, he does not remember this, and the issue remains unresolved.
"You kill things when I'm not here," he says.
"But you're the head of the household," I remind him. "I wouldn't dream of usurping your authority when you're here." Especially the authority to deal with spiders.
"I did it last time," he will often say, as if it is a household chore we have agreed to split.
But to me this is a clear case of gender distinction. I find the offending creature and scream, he kills it. I am sure this is in the Constitution somewhere. "We hold this truthe to be self-evident, that the husbande shall assume responsibility for the slaying of all dragons and otherwise dangerous creatures within his domaine. If he refuse to discharge his duty is this matter, his wyfe shall be given authority and impunity to use a fry pan upon his head."
"You should be able to take care of it by now" is another of Joe's responses when I find a spider, as if killing things is something one grows into.
But after much discussion of the matter -- only to find that whatever bug we were discussing the dispatching of has taken advantage of our inattention to wander away -- I have found a rather simple solution. I gaze trustingly into Joe's eyes, give him a tender touch, and say in a sweet, caressing voice, "Do you want this to become a blog?"
And generally this strategy works, but it is good for only one spider or bug per day. If I happen to find another one before we go to bed, all the blackmail and sweet talking and begging will not move him. He is the Implacable Non-Hero.
In the great tradition of wives everywhere, I want him to deal with these nasty invaders, but I also want to tell him how to do it.
If the bug is on a wall, I caution him to move everything sitting on the floor underneath the bug. Sometimes this necessitates the rearrangement of an entire room, a reasonable precaution to me. Joe does not view this as reasonable, and watches while I do it. Then I place a wastebasket in the expected projectory of the bug after it is hit, to minimize cleanup.
"Now don't lose it," I warn as he gets ready to deal the blow.
The frequency with which he does seem to lose them, even with a wastebasket the size of the bed of a Dodge Ram placed right underneath, makes me suspect he is doing this on purpose, out of spite. He is unperturbed and unrepentant when this happens. I consider a dead bug with whereabouts unknown almost as disturbing as a live one in plain sight.
"Okay, cleanup time!" he announces when he does locate it.
"I'll get you a Kleenex," I say, but by the time I return with it, he has retreated far from the scene.
"There's a dead arachnid on my rug!" I yell, thinking maybe he has forgotten and is already off to another adventure.
"So clean it up!" he yells back.
I go to find him. I bestow upon him a look of disdain and express, by means of stuffing the Kleenex in a strategic place on his face, just what I think of the idea that I clean up eight legs -- give or take a few, depending on how hard the blow was -- and a squashed torso.
And I tell him to consider himself lucky that I did not exercise my Constitutionally guaranteed rights by using a frying pan.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Tomorrow
"TO----morrow, to-MORROW, I'll love you tomorrow..." Joe sang at the top of his lungs one evening.
"You'll only love me tomorrow?" I inquired. "Not today?" It's good to clear up any misunderstandings early, like before they start.
"Well, isn't that how the song goes?" he said.
"Not quite...it's I love you, tomorrow," I said.
He frowned. "Why would someone sing about loving tomorrow?"
He frowned. "Why would someone sing about loving tomorrow?"
I sensed that he hadn't really been paying close attention when watching "Annie." It was a long time ago.
"Because for the orphans, there was always the possibility that tomorrow would be better than today," I explained.
Unless, of course, they happened to read Matthew 6:34, in which case, no matter how horrible the current day was, they would know that compared with what tomorrow might bring it was paradise. Everything from there on out was headed downhill, probably fast, so they had better enjoy mopping those floors.
"Because for the orphans, there was always the possibility that tomorrow would be better than today," I explained.
Unless, of course, they happened to read Matthew 6:34, in which case, no matter how horrible the current day was, they would know that compared with what tomorrow might bring it was paradise. Everything from there on out was headed downhill, probably fast, so they had better enjoy mopping those floors.
Matthew 6:34, in case I have not adequately expressed my feelings about it, is a verse I personally find to be one of the most depressing in the Bible: "Each day has enough trouble of its own." This verse is widely quoted by many -- my mother included -- as a reason not to worry. What comfort such people find in it, I do not know. Personally, I think it's the best argument for worry that anyone could possibly make. How can the knowledge that tomorrow will be just as bad as today not make you worry? Not only does it make you worry in general, it makes you worry that tomorrow's worry will be worse than today's worry.
I picture a big Worry Meter somewhere, and at the end of any given day the needle is pointing straight at More Trouble than Job Had. The next morning it drops to Free as a Bird, but inevitably, it will reach Job status again.
I picture a big Worry Meter somewhere, and at the end of any given day the needle is pointing straight at More Trouble than Job Had. The next morning it drops to Free as a Bird, but inevitably, it will reach Job status again.
I wonder what Abraham Lincoln thought of this verse. There was a man who had a few things to worry about. He was also a man who read the Bible. I picture him seeking to glean a bit of comfort from the Scriptures on, perhaps, the eve of Gettysburg, and reading the first part of Matthew 6:34: "So do not worry about tomorrow." His mind is greatly relieved. "What did I tell you?" his aide says. "Everything's going to be just fine."
But then Abe keeps reading. And when he gets to the last part of the verse, the part where he is warned that tomorrow may be worse than today, his earlier worry seizes him again with such intensity that his beard -- which he has been carefully cultivating after receiving a rather pointed suggestion from a little girl who didn't even know him -- just gives up hope and and droops in a heap all over his chin. And sure enough, the following day is worse.
Nope, you never hear Matthew 6:34 set to music. Maybe, after all, "I'll love you tomorrow." Unless I'm too worried.
But then Abe keeps reading. And when he gets to the last part of the verse, the part where he is warned that tomorrow may be worse than today, his earlier worry seizes him again with such intensity that his beard -- which he has been carefully cultivating after receiving a rather pointed suggestion from a little girl who didn't even know him -- just gives up hope and and droops in a heap all over his chin. And sure enough, the following day is worse.
Nope, you never hear Matthew 6:34 set to music. Maybe, after all, "I'll love you tomorrow." Unless I'm too worried.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Your chance at the polls is almost over
Today's Reader Public Service Announcement is...
Remember to vote in the reader poll at left!
Vote once!
Vote twice!
Vote and win a pizza slice!
(OK, not really, we just got carried away in the spirit of Dr. Seuss. I'm sure HE never meant anything he wrote, either.)
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Reader poll!
While the Prissy Princess is gearing up for holiday festivities, including sending the Gallant Hero to see his family while she ventures off to see hers, she may not have much time to spend in thinking up funny things to write. In the meantime, please take some time to fill out the reader poll in the left column! As always, your answers will be scientifically analyzed and the results reported in a future post. We regret that prizes cannot be awarded; that would not be very scientific.
We hope you enjoy the holiday; if you do not have a holiday this weekend, I'm sure you'll have one coming up soon. Every day is a holiday somewhere in the world.
We hope you enjoy the holiday; if you do not have a holiday this weekend, I'm sure you'll have one coming up soon. Every day is a holiday somewhere in the world.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Saving Daylight Savings Time
You may have noticed that Daylight Savings Time keeps getting longer. Last fall, it was extended one week, and in the spring we sprang forward three weeks earlier than usual, with the result that millions of children all over America were awake long after their parents stumbled to bed in a daze. "They'll get used to it sooner or later," they mumbled to each other, as their children, unable to fall asleep an hour earlier, gleefully glued bits of paper to the family dog as an "art project."
Although I appreciate the sun rising at 6:00 a.m. in the middle of March as much as the next city-dwelling person who must arise three hours before the start of work in order to get there on time, if the DST people really wanted to be helpful, they would address a more pressing issue facing the average American in the summertime: when to fill our cars with gas and water our lawns.
Consider these facts and resulting dilemmas:
Fact 1. We are not supposed to fill our gas tanks during hot, humid weather lest we allow harmful ozone-eating gases to escape. In this part of the country in July, hot, humid weather is pretty much with us the entire day and night, leaving approximately the hours of 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. to safely fill our cars with gas.
Dilemma 1: Relatively few -- say, 0 -- gas stations are open during these hours.
Fact 2: These hours are also bad for watering our lawns and gardens.
Dilemma 2: Although those homeowners blessed with automatic sprinklers can easily set them to come on between 2 and 4 -- and frequently did where I used to live -- it is a little more inconvenient for those of us who have to deliver water via cupped hands to our parched flowers to do so in the dead of night.
Therefore, I propose that we institute an Extreme Daylight Savings Program, wherein the time allotted for necessary activities, like putting gas in the car or watering the yard, is stretched to 12 hours, and work time is reduced to between the hours of 10 and 1 daily (with an hour for lunch). Whatever time is left over from your Necessary Activity Time Allotment could be used for Leisure Pursuits. After all, experts are always saying that we work-driven and sleep-deprived Americans need more time for ourselves and our families.
Even better, we could establish work hours between the hours of 2 and 4 a.m., and leave all the rest of the time for other pursuits. Any actual work done during this time would, of course, be on the honor system.
Now, some do-gooder worried about the most vulnerable members of our society is going to say, "But what about the children?" To which I say, What about them? Most of them like to stay up late, so I'm sure something could be worked out so that they do not fall behind in their studies. The average public school only delivers actual education for about an hour a day anyway, so in my model -- the 2 to 4 a.m. model -- the little ones would be doubling their time of learning. Why, they'd get to be so smart, someday when they are grown up they'd only have to work from 2 to 3.
In the meantime, my body is on Sleep All the Time Time, so you'll excuse me if I bow out early. I have to be up at 2 to go fill my car with gas.
Although I appreciate the sun rising at 6:00 a.m. in the middle of March as much as the next city-dwelling person who must arise three hours before the start of work in order to get there on time, if the DST people really wanted to be helpful, they would address a more pressing issue facing the average American in the summertime: when to fill our cars with gas and water our lawns.
Consider these facts and resulting dilemmas:
Fact 1. We are not supposed to fill our gas tanks during hot, humid weather lest we allow harmful ozone-eating gases to escape. In this part of the country in July, hot, humid weather is pretty much with us the entire day and night, leaving approximately the hours of 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. to safely fill our cars with gas.
Dilemma 1: Relatively few -- say, 0 -- gas stations are open during these hours.
Fact 2: These hours are also bad for watering our lawns and gardens.
Dilemma 2: Although those homeowners blessed with automatic sprinklers can easily set them to come on between 2 and 4 -- and frequently did where I used to live -- it is a little more inconvenient for those of us who have to deliver water via cupped hands to our parched flowers to do so in the dead of night.
Therefore, I propose that we institute an Extreme Daylight Savings Program, wherein the time allotted for necessary activities, like putting gas in the car or watering the yard, is stretched to 12 hours, and work time is reduced to between the hours of 10 and 1 daily (with an hour for lunch). Whatever time is left over from your Necessary Activity Time Allotment could be used for Leisure Pursuits. After all, experts are always saying that we work-driven and sleep-deprived Americans need more time for ourselves and our families.
Even better, we could establish work hours between the hours of 2 and 4 a.m., and leave all the rest of the time for other pursuits. Any actual work done during this time would, of course, be on the honor system.
Now, some do-gooder worried about the most vulnerable members of our society is going to say, "But what about the children?" To which I say, What about them? Most of them like to stay up late, so I'm sure something could be worked out so that they do not fall behind in their studies. The average public school only delivers actual education for about an hour a day anyway, so in my model -- the 2 to 4 a.m. model -- the little ones would be doubling their time of learning. Why, they'd get to be so smart, someday when they are grown up they'd only have to work from 2 to 3.
In the meantime, my body is on Sleep All the Time Time, so you'll excuse me if I bow out early. I have to be up at 2 to go fill my car with gas.
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