If you want to live a long, healthy life, you can do no better than follow my father's lifelong diet. He is as fit as any 86-year-old has a right to be, and it can mostly be attributed to these few sensible tips for eating:
1. For lunch, eat a salami or bologna sandwich every day. Better yet, have both. Never, ever eat wheat bread or anything with the words "whole grain."
2. Also have a bowl of canned, high-sodium soup for lunch every day, even when it is 103 degrees outside.
3. Each evening, heap yourself a bowl full of full-fat ice cream. Then go to bed with this sitting in your stomach.
4. When your spouse is not looking, hide the low-fat turkey lunchmeat she bought, along with anything else that would threaten the delicate balance of high-fat foods you prefer.
In an effort to raise the nutritional value of his food at least a little while my mom was gone, I bought him some of that turkey lunchmeat mentioned in #4. At lunchtime I unveiled it with a dramatic gesture, talking it up as you would when trying to get a toddler to eat his carrots.
But toddlers are not easily fooled, and neither was my father. He poked at the turkey as if it were some laboratory specimen and shrugged. "I could try it, I suppose," he said without much enthusiasm. "Is it any good?"
That would be #5 on Dad's list: If it doesn't taste good, forget it.
His cereal cupboard contains sensible, age-appropriate offerings like Cheerios, Lucky Charms, and Trix. I was quite young when my parents cut me off from eating Trix. Now my cereals are more old-people than my father's.
Dad has far outlived his family members, most of whom probably ate their Wheaties and oatmeal faithfully. Not that he is without his health problems. His little pill container is just as full as other people's his age. But as Dad could tell you, those pills go down much more easily with ice cream than with a bran muffin.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The little horn that couldn't
I love my Honda. I loved the Honda I had before this one. But no matter how much I appreciate the fact that the odometer can run to numbers not typically seen on an American car, there is no denying that all Hondas come with one very embarrassing feature.
The horn.
A Honda horn is the chihuahua of car horns. The horns on other cars, even small cars, they're Great Danes, or German shepherds, or even pit bulls. They mean business. If you do not move out of their way now, they say, you are roadkill.
The Honda horn is not scaring anybody. It can best be described as apologetic. "I don't wish to bother you," it says timidly to another car, "but if it wouldn't be too much trouble -- I'm so sorry to be asking this -- could you possibly move to the next lane, at your earliest convenience, of course?" Even if you lay on a Honda horn, it is only annoying, not intimidating.
The Honda horn is very distinctive. You look in the direction the honk came from, and you are surprised to see a car, because you thought the honk was a bike horn. And you just keep driving, because you are not moving out of the way for a bike horn.
I am always hesitant to use my horn. This is not because I am afraid of being rude. I am afraid of getting laughed at. "Can't you at least try to sound more intimidating?" I beg my horn. "You're embarrassing me here."
It is not surprising that the horn on a Japanese car is polite. The Japanese are probably incapable of making a car with a loud, rude horn. I imagine that when they first started sending cars to America, the timid horn was part of an effort to make us a kinder, gentler nation. But our streets are mean. So as I contemplate buying a new car sometime in the future, I beg the Japanese automakers: Please, please, don't send us chihuahuas to fight with the pit bulls.
The horn.
A Honda horn is the chihuahua of car horns. The horns on other cars, even small cars, they're Great Danes, or German shepherds, or even pit bulls. They mean business. If you do not move out of their way now, they say, you are roadkill.
The Honda horn is not scaring anybody. It can best be described as apologetic. "I don't wish to bother you," it says timidly to another car, "but if it wouldn't be too much trouble -- I'm so sorry to be asking this -- could you possibly move to the next lane, at your earliest convenience, of course?" Even if you lay on a Honda horn, it is only annoying, not intimidating.
The Honda horn is very distinctive. You look in the direction the honk came from, and you are surprised to see a car, because you thought the honk was a bike horn. And you just keep driving, because you are not moving out of the way for a bike horn.
I am always hesitant to use my horn. This is not because I am afraid of being rude. I am afraid of getting laughed at. "Can't you at least try to sound more intimidating?" I beg my horn. "You're embarrassing me here."
It is not surprising that the horn on a Japanese car is polite. The Japanese are probably incapable of making a car with a loud, rude horn. I imagine that when they first started sending cars to America, the timid horn was part of an effort to make us a kinder, gentler nation. But our streets are mean. So as I contemplate buying a new car sometime in the future, I beg the Japanese automakers: Please, please, don't send us chihuahuas to fight with the pit bulls.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The elusive patio
Today is finally supposed to be the day. Of course, every day for the past two weeks was supposed to be the day, too.
Every day we have driven home from work excitedly, wondering: Will today be the day they finally begin building our patio?
But seeing no progress day after day, we begin to lower our expectations. If we could just see some evidence that they are working on it. The foundation. A few bricks, maybe. Okay, one brick. We'd be happy to just see one brick.
After two weeks, we are left to ponder another question: Is today the day the patio guys abscond to Bermuda with our money?
Given that the business card given to us said "Donell's Pool Service," this does not seem an unlikely scenario. Possibly our money is being used to finance someone's lovely backyard pool, with fountains and little statues and boulders around the edge. Boulders that were supposed to be in our new garden.
We think of excuses for why they have not started. "Well," we say, "maybe it's the weather." Except that the weather last week was perfect.
Then we reason, "Maybe they have a big job somewhere else." Like Bermuda, perhaps.
Joe remembers that Bob, the head pool/patio guy, was scheduled to have knee surgery last week. "Maybe there were complications," he suggests. Like maybe the money we have paid him so far wasn't enough to cover the surgery.
Joe makes a casual call to the company, just to inquire if, possibly, we might expect a patio before winter sets in. Predictably, no one answers the phone. We are encouraged, however, that at least the phone is still in service. Surely this must be a good sign.
To bolster my belief that they will indeed come through, I buy some flower bulbs. Bulbs I cannot plant until they finish the patio and the garden. Surely Bob won't let us down. He seemed so fatherly. Besides, could a man who speaks of pansies with such affection be a crook?
Finally, the company's secretary calls. The bricks we chose, she explains, just arrived. We wonder if Bob had to make a trip to Bermuda personally to pick them up, but we are polite and do not say anything. She further tells us that they will start on the patio this week. "Oh, that's fine," we say, as if we believe her. We want to.
But here it is this week, and of course it is raining. And we are beginning to wonder: Maybe we should take our money back and use it to go to Bermuda.
Every day we have driven home from work excitedly, wondering: Will today be the day they finally begin building our patio?
But seeing no progress day after day, we begin to lower our expectations. If we could just see some evidence that they are working on it. The foundation. A few bricks, maybe. Okay, one brick. We'd be happy to just see one brick.
After two weeks, we are left to ponder another question: Is today the day the patio guys abscond to Bermuda with our money?
Given that the business card given to us said "Donell's Pool Service," this does not seem an unlikely scenario. Possibly our money is being used to finance someone's lovely backyard pool, with fountains and little statues and boulders around the edge. Boulders that were supposed to be in our new garden.
We think of excuses for why they have not started. "Well," we say, "maybe it's the weather." Except that the weather last week was perfect.
Then we reason, "Maybe they have a big job somewhere else." Like Bermuda, perhaps.
Joe remembers that Bob, the head pool/patio guy, was scheduled to have knee surgery last week. "Maybe there were complications," he suggests. Like maybe the money we have paid him so far wasn't enough to cover the surgery.
Joe makes a casual call to the company, just to inquire if, possibly, we might expect a patio before winter sets in. Predictably, no one answers the phone. We are encouraged, however, that at least the phone is still in service. Surely this must be a good sign.
To bolster my belief that they will indeed come through, I buy some flower bulbs. Bulbs I cannot plant until they finish the patio and the garden. Surely Bob won't let us down. He seemed so fatherly. Besides, could a man who speaks of pansies with such affection be a crook?
Finally, the company's secretary calls. The bricks we chose, she explains, just arrived. We wonder if Bob had to make a trip to Bermuda personally to pick them up, but we are polite and do not say anything. She further tells us that they will start on the patio this week. "Oh, that's fine," we say, as if we believe her. We want to.
But here it is this week, and of course it is raining. And we are beginning to wonder: Maybe we should take our money back and use it to go to Bermuda.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
The Great Freezer Clean-out
Another task on my visit to my parents' was cleaning out their freezers. For as long as I've been around, my parents have had two freezers -- one in the kitchen, and another, Sam's Club-size one in the basement. In this one, they store food that they can use in the event of a catastrophic occurrence, like a giant meteorite destroying all forms of life except my parents.
There is just one problem with this. My parents do not necessarily use the first in, first out method with the food they put in the freezer, and therefore some of it has been around probably since meteorites were invented.
I have never seen some of the life forms that exist in this freezer. As I bagged them for disposal, it briefly crossed my mind that perhaps I should send them to a scientist who works with rare organisms. Maybe the scientist could even find a cure for some disease with what resides in my parents' freezer. Or create a new disease.
After I had filled two garbage bags with items from the freezer, I went to see my mom. She talked about everything she would have to do when she came home.
"Well, at least I won't have to cook for a while," she said. "Thank goodness there are a lot of meals in the freezer."
"Uh, maybe not as many as there used to be," I said.
She looked at me. I explained about my detoxification efforts and how almost the entire contents of the freezer were now awaiting disposal.
"Bah," she said dismissively. "I use food from that freezer all the time, and it's just fine."
I tried to remember the last time I ate at my parents' house and whether I had noticed anything different afterward, like growing another nose, or almost dying.
It's a good thing my mother is not in charge of making those charts that tell you how long food can stay in the freezer. Hers would look something like this:
Whole chicken: 5 decades, or the homeowner's death, whichever comes last
Pork chops: 6 presidential administrations (more if none of them are re-elected)
Cheese: perhaps not as long as chicken, but certainly longer than pork chops
Meatloaf: can never be destroyed, therefore ideal in event of meteorites hitting
Bread: until the Lord's return, and possibly into eternity
I can imagine receiving a letter from an eminent researcher for my donations to science from the freezer:
Dear Mrs. B.,
Thank you for your recent donation of Unidentified Freezer Life Forms to our laboratory. We regret that we are unable to use them for research. We are curious about one thing, however. How long ago, exactly, did your parents' cat expire?
There is just one problem with this. My parents do not necessarily use the first in, first out method with the food they put in the freezer, and therefore some of it has been around probably since meteorites were invented.
I have never seen some of the life forms that exist in this freezer. As I bagged them for disposal, it briefly crossed my mind that perhaps I should send them to a scientist who works with rare organisms. Maybe the scientist could even find a cure for some disease with what resides in my parents' freezer. Or create a new disease.
After I had filled two garbage bags with items from the freezer, I went to see my mom. She talked about everything she would have to do when she came home.
"Well, at least I won't have to cook for a while," she said. "Thank goodness there are a lot of meals in the freezer."
"Uh, maybe not as many as there used to be," I said.
She looked at me. I explained about my detoxification efforts and how almost the entire contents of the freezer were now awaiting disposal.
"Bah," she said dismissively. "I use food from that freezer all the time, and it's just fine."
I tried to remember the last time I ate at my parents' house and whether I had noticed anything different afterward, like growing another nose, or almost dying.
It's a good thing my mother is not in charge of making those charts that tell you how long food can stay in the freezer. Hers would look something like this:
Whole chicken: 5 decades, or the homeowner's death, whichever comes last
Pork chops: 6 presidential administrations (more if none of them are re-elected)
Cheese: perhaps not as long as chicken, but certainly longer than pork chops
Meatloaf: can never be destroyed, therefore ideal in event of meteorites hitting
Bread: until the Lord's return, and possibly into eternity
I can imagine receiving a letter from an eminent researcher for my donations to science from the freezer:
Dear Mrs. B.,
Thank you for your recent donation of Unidentified Freezer Life Forms to our laboratory. We regret that we are unable to use them for research. We are curious about one thing, however. How long ago, exactly, did your parents' cat expire?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Dad learns about the dishwasher
My 86-year-old father, who is not what you would call a do-it-yourselfer, is nevertheless not a stranger to machines. Over a 50-some year career, he designed and oversaw the installation of conveyor systems in a number of businesses. Yet he is completely mystified by the machines in his own house.
With my mother in rehabilitation after a mild stroke, my dad has been thrust into the decoding of household tasks that have been hers for the past 64 years. One of my tasks on my recent visit to help him out -- other than making sure he is eating more than just salami and ice cream, which, along with bread, compose his three basic food groups -- was to teach him how to use the dishwasher. His previous method of washing dishes involved waiting until an unsuspecting visiting neighbor or relative, wishing to be of assistance, asked what he needed done.
"Well, I'm running out of dishes...." he would say, and in short order he would have clean dishes.
"Dad," I said over the phone one night before my visit, "you can't wash the dishes yourself?"
"Well, people like to help, you know."
During my visit my brother announced to my father that it was time for him to learn how to operate the dishwasher. My father reacted to this predictably: We might as well have suggested that he sell all his possessions and move to a commune somewhere on the other side of the world.
"Your mother never uses it," he protested.
This was true, but it was because she believed it used too much water, not because she didn't know HOW to use it.
I informed him that training would commence Sunday morning. He reported dutifully after eating breakfast. "Okay, I'm ready," he said confidently.
I looked from him to the dirty dishes he had just put in the sink. I looked back at him.
"What?" he said. "I said I'm ready."
"Dad, first the dishes have to go inside the dishwasher."
He nodded but made no move to put them there.
I sighed and handed the dishes to him one by one, and he put them in. Having only a few dishes and a lot of room in the empty dishwasher, he spaced them out as far as he could. He repeated each direction as I gave it, asking occasional questions to clarify the process, including "Can't I just wait until someone comes over and does them for me?"
When we were done I wrote out step-by-step directions on a large sticky note and stuck it on the dishwasher for future reference. He paled when he saw that the directions continued on the back of the note.
Although he was willing to at least attend the dishwasher training, he firmly believes that doing the laundry is too complicated for him to learn. He expressed some doubt that even I could tackle it.
With my mother in rehabilitation after a mild stroke, my dad has been thrust into the decoding of household tasks that have been hers for the past 64 years. One of my tasks on my recent visit to help him out -- other than making sure he is eating more than just salami and ice cream, which, along with bread, compose his three basic food groups -- was to teach him how to use the dishwasher. His previous method of washing dishes involved waiting until an unsuspecting visiting neighbor or relative, wishing to be of assistance, asked what he needed done.
"Well, I'm running out of dishes...." he would say, and in short order he would have clean dishes.
"Dad," I said over the phone one night before my visit, "you can't wash the dishes yourself?"
"Well, people like to help, you know."
During my visit my brother announced to my father that it was time for him to learn how to operate the dishwasher. My father reacted to this predictably: We might as well have suggested that he sell all his possessions and move to a commune somewhere on the other side of the world.
"Your mother never uses it," he protested.
This was true, but it was because she believed it used too much water, not because she didn't know HOW to use it.
I informed him that training would commence Sunday morning. He reported dutifully after eating breakfast. "Okay, I'm ready," he said confidently.
I looked from him to the dirty dishes he had just put in the sink. I looked back at him.
"What?" he said. "I said I'm ready."
"Dad, first the dishes have to go inside the dishwasher."
He nodded but made no move to put them there.
I sighed and handed the dishes to him one by one, and he put them in. Having only a few dishes and a lot of room in the empty dishwasher, he spaced them out as far as he could. He repeated each direction as I gave it, asking occasional questions to clarify the process, including "Can't I just wait until someone comes over and does them for me?"
When we were done I wrote out step-by-step directions on a large sticky note and stuck it on the dishwasher for future reference. He paled when he saw that the directions continued on the back of the note.
Although he was willing to at least attend the dishwasher training, he firmly believes that doing the laundry is too complicated for him to learn. He expressed some doubt that even I could tackle it.
"Have you ever used this washer and dryer before?" he asked, as if only certified experts should be allowed near them.
I informed him that washers and dryers were pretty much all the same. "Really?" he said in surprise. He thought about this. "But your brother's, now HIS look like some space-age thingies."
I acknowledged that his were probably a little more difficult to operate than the average washer and dryer. My father seemed to feel affirmed that there did exist some household machines that were a little more complicated. And glad that he wouldn't be asked to tackle them.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Off to the North Country
The Prissy Princess is off to the North, where she will visit the King and Queen to make sure they are behaving themselves. In her absence she hopes the Gallant Hero will behave HIMSELF. (She also hopes she will not freeze her royal heinie in the cold North Country.) In the meantime, we wish you all a Happy, um, October 17th. We are sure that it is a holiday SOMEWHERE.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
No pansies in MY yard!
I am very in tune with anything out of place around our house. For instance, coming home from work one day, it does not take me long to notice that three-quarters of our garden is missing.
The plants and flowers are not just trampled. They are no longer there. Being an observant sort of person, I am pretty sure they were there this morning. Then I notice that an enormous boulder, which I'm pretty sure was not there this morning, has been plopped down in the middle of my missing plants. I look around to make sure this is my house. Yes, there's our patio set, and the decorative ladder that we thought was quaint but didn't know what to do with, which we finally propped against the fence as if we are planning a nighttime raid into our neighbor's yard.
But most of the yard looks like hippos have performed a cha-cha through it, and locusts have followed up behind them. The rest of it is untouched.
Upon further reflection, I realize that this is all courtesy of Bob (please see previous blog for an introduction to Bob), who will install our new patio in a few weeks despite having a business card that says "pool service." Apparently he has cleared the way for the patio and thoughtfully provided us -- and all our neighbors -- with a sneak preview of the boulders that will be the centerpiece of the new garden. He has done this without letting us know he was going to do this. He has done this three days before we are expecting guests from out of town. Guests who not only will not see our new patio, but who will now see something akin to a landscape ravaged by war.
Bob later explains that he has saved all my plants and will put them back for me after the patio is done, which of course will not happen before our company comes. But Bob actually has bigger plans than just putting back my measly plants.
"I'll plant some winter pansies for you around the new boulders," he says. "They'll stay through January and really give you a lot of color through the winter."
Whoa, I say. I don't want color through the winter.
Bob is taken aback at this. Everyone likes color. He decides that I just have a thing against pansies, so he offers me other options for plants, grasses, moss -- yes, moss -- that will make the yard look nice until spring, when I can plant whatever else I want.
I shake my head. "Those don't really go with my vision for the garden," I say. Not that I have a vision for the garden, exactly, but whatever it is, it does not include things I have to take care of through the winter.
"It will make your garden stand out from all the others," Bob urges. It sure will. Ours will be the only one with an idiot -- me -- standing in the yard in January, shivering, tending to my plants while all our neighbors are relaxing in front of their fireplace.
Bob is stymied. Apparently he has never had a customer who didn't want him to do at least some landscaping after he has installed a patio/pool/fountain with statues wearing invisible clothing.
"It's going to look really dead all winter," he finally says, shaking his head as if I am making a terrible mistake.
That is the point of winter, I think to myself. Things die in the fall, they rest, and they come back in the spring. It's unnatural for flowers to be alive in the winter. Plus, I am lazy. I want to rest in the winter, too.
Bob gives up trying to sell me on the pansies, but he urges me to think about it. He then proceeds to tell me, step by step, how I can grow moss on my boulders. "It looks very nice," he assures me. This is a revelation, that people would actually create moss on purpose. Moss, to me, is one of those unfortunate life forms that should be referred to the Department of Homeland Security for disposal. I nod politely and deliberately misfile, in my brain, the information on growing moss so that I can never retrieve it.
In the end, with both Joe and Bob lobbying for the pansies, I give in. Of course, they aren't the ones who are going to have to take care of these flowers that go against the natural order of things. But, I figure pansies are better than moss.
The plants and flowers are not just trampled. They are no longer there. Being an observant sort of person, I am pretty sure they were there this morning. Then I notice that an enormous boulder, which I'm pretty sure was not there this morning, has been plopped down in the middle of my missing plants. I look around to make sure this is my house. Yes, there's our patio set, and the decorative ladder that we thought was quaint but didn't know what to do with, which we finally propped against the fence as if we are planning a nighttime raid into our neighbor's yard.
But most of the yard looks like hippos have performed a cha-cha through it, and locusts have followed up behind them. The rest of it is untouched.
Upon further reflection, I realize that this is all courtesy of Bob (please see previous blog for an introduction to Bob), who will install our new patio in a few weeks despite having a business card that says "pool service." Apparently he has cleared the way for the patio and thoughtfully provided us -- and all our neighbors -- with a sneak preview of the boulders that will be the centerpiece of the new garden. He has done this without letting us know he was going to do this. He has done this three days before we are expecting guests from out of town. Guests who not only will not see our new patio, but who will now see something akin to a landscape ravaged by war.
Bob later explains that he has saved all my plants and will put them back for me after the patio is done, which of course will not happen before our company comes. But Bob actually has bigger plans than just putting back my measly plants.
"I'll plant some winter pansies for you around the new boulders," he says. "They'll stay through January and really give you a lot of color through the winter."
Whoa, I say. I don't want color through the winter.
Bob is taken aback at this. Everyone likes color. He decides that I just have a thing against pansies, so he offers me other options for plants, grasses, moss -- yes, moss -- that will make the yard look nice until spring, when I can plant whatever else I want.
I shake my head. "Those don't really go with my vision for the garden," I say. Not that I have a vision for the garden, exactly, but whatever it is, it does not include things I have to take care of through the winter.
"It will make your garden stand out from all the others," Bob urges. It sure will. Ours will be the only one with an idiot -- me -- standing in the yard in January, shivering, tending to my plants while all our neighbors are relaxing in front of their fireplace.
Bob is stymied. Apparently he has never had a customer who didn't want him to do at least some landscaping after he has installed a patio/pool/fountain with statues wearing invisible clothing.
"It's going to look really dead all winter," he finally says, shaking his head as if I am making a terrible mistake.
That is the point of winter, I think to myself. Things die in the fall, they rest, and they come back in the spring. It's unnatural for flowers to be alive in the winter. Plus, I am lazy. I want to rest in the winter, too.
Bob gives up trying to sell me on the pansies, but he urges me to think about it. He then proceeds to tell me, step by step, how I can grow moss on my boulders. "It looks very nice," he assures me. This is a revelation, that people would actually create moss on purpose. Moss, to me, is one of those unfortunate life forms that should be referred to the Department of Homeland Security for disposal. I nod politely and deliberately misfile, in my brain, the information on growing moss so that I can never retrieve it.
In the end, with both Joe and Bob lobbying for the pansies, I give in. Of course, they aren't the ones who are going to have to take care of these flowers that go against the natural order of things. But, I figure pansies are better than moss.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The patio guy
The other day we met with the guy who's going to build a patio for us. He handed me his card.
The man figured we have room for a patio the grand size of 4' x 6'. "You'll be able to fit 11, maybe 12 guests out here," he assured us.
"Donell's Pool Service," it read proudly.
"I thought we were getting a patio," I said to Joe.
"We are. He does pools, too."
"Do we get a discount if we get both?" I asked. "Buy a patio, get a pool free?"
He didn't think so.
"That's more than we can fit inside," I whispered to Joe. "Besides, we don't even know that many people to invite. When it gets dark, we'd have to tell people to go home."
The man eyed our tree, which admittedly is not the healthiest tree around, and pronounced a limited lifespan for it. He seemed doubtful that it would live much longer, maybe not even through next week, but we could try pruning it and shooting little bolts of fertilizer into the ground. All of these he generously offered to do for us. "I used to do trees," he said modestly.
He then moved on to landscaping, which, as he helpfully pointed out, was also listed on the card as one of his services. He would have to remove all of our plants to put the patio in, but he could, he said, save them and replant them for a small fee. Or he could redo the entire garden. His tone clearly indicated his belief that, in our case at least, a brand-new garden was warranted.
The man did not entirely stick with business talk on his first visit. Interspersed among all the services he could provide for us were tales of his personal life -- his interest in model cars; his historic home bought for $1 at auction but missing several integral parts that typically come with houses, such as a stairway to the second floor; his wife's gout. I indicated to Joe that he should bring the conversation back around to our patio, which he promptly did.
"We have this water problem on the other side of the house," he said.
The man perked up. "I can take care of that for you if you want," he said.
"Do you wash windows, too?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Nah," he said.
At last, I thought! Something he couldn't take care of for us.
"But my wife could maybe do it," he added.
We thanked him and said we would be in touch about the patio.
As he turned to go to his truck, he had one last idea. "Do you know anyone who needs a pool?"
The man eyed our tree, which admittedly is not the healthiest tree around, and pronounced a limited lifespan for it. He seemed doubtful that it would live much longer, maybe not even through next week, but we could try pruning it and shooting little bolts of fertilizer into the ground. All of these he generously offered to do for us. "I used to do trees," he said modestly.
He then moved on to landscaping, which, as he helpfully pointed out, was also listed on the card as one of his services. He would have to remove all of our plants to put the patio in, but he could, he said, save them and replant them for a small fee. Or he could redo the entire garden. His tone clearly indicated his belief that, in our case at least, a brand-new garden was warranted.
The man did not entirely stick with business talk on his first visit. Interspersed among all the services he could provide for us were tales of his personal life -- his interest in model cars; his historic home bought for $1 at auction but missing several integral parts that typically come with houses, such as a stairway to the second floor; his wife's gout. I indicated to Joe that he should bring the conversation back around to our patio, which he promptly did.
"We have this water problem on the other side of the house," he said.
The man perked up. "I can take care of that for you if you want," he said.
"Do you wash windows, too?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Nah," he said.
At last, I thought! Something he couldn't take care of for us.
"But my wife could maybe do it," he added.
We thanked him and said we would be in touch about the patio.
As he turned to go to his truck, he had one last idea. "Do you know anyone who needs a pool?"
Thursday, October 9, 2008
What American workers really need
Some time ago we discussed the various search terms that lead readers to this blog. I have concluded, based on an exhaustive scientific scrutiny of these searches, that the greatest need of American workers is not more knowledge, not more degrees, not even more job security. Their greatest need is information on how to decorate their cubicles.
Far too many workers are entering the workplace not only without the necessary skills to build an attractive cubicle from the ground up, but also without the awareness that this is an expectation. I believe that the job interview is an excellent venue for sharing the employer's expectations for cubicle visual appearance (CVA), and to avoid mismatches in the hiring process, I propose that all employers conduct an interview such as the following.
Interviewer: It says here on your resume that you are a CVA. That's pretty impressive.
Potential Employee: Um, actually, that's CPA.
Interviewer: Oh?
Potential Employee: Yes, in my last position I saved my employer over $5,000,000 due to --
Interviewer: Yes, yes, I'm sure you would make a very capable accountant for us. Now tell me a little bit about your cubicle decorating experience.
Potential Employee: Well, um, I guess you might say I am somewhat of a minimalist. I prefer subtle touches, such as photos of myself water skiing, photos of myself with my poodle, also some occasional photos of myself helping orphans in Africa. Oh, I brought some pictures of my previous cubicle here for you. (reaches into briefcase and hands them to interviewer) It won an award for Most Improved Cubicle (proudly).
I: (glances through photos) I see. Have you had any experience with other media, such as silk flowers, mismatched vases, streamers, Grecian pillars, and so on?
P.E.: (scratches head) Well, I once tried hanging some oversized pineapples over my desk, but the fire marshal declared them a hazard and made me take it all down.
I: (nods soberly) Yes, fire marshals are sometimes hostile to the decorated working environment. (looks at photos again) And how large was this cubicle you were responsible for? It's difficult to tell with this rather large photo of you surfing.
P.E.: It was, um, about 5 x 6.
I: (frowns) And did you stay at that level? Were you ever given extra responsibilities in a larger cubicle capacity?
P.E. (brightens): One year I was in charge of holiday decorating for the entire office.
I: Excellent. We happen to have an opening here for Holiday Decorator. The last person in that position, poor woman, disappeared in Michael's and was never seen again.
P.E.: I'm so sorry.
I: (looks away) She was last seen in the Hawaiian aisle, fingering the leis. We were having a Hawaiian-themed party that year....Yes, it was in the service of our company that she disappeared. (sniffs in a somewhat undignified manner)
P.E.: (murmurs sympathetically)
I: (clears throat) Yes, well, of course that was just a fluke; I'm sure nothing like that would ever happen to the next person in that position.
P.E.: (smiles weakly)
I: (looks over photos one last time) Well, I think you would fit in very well here. The job is yours if you want it.
P.E.: Uh, may I ask whether I'm being hired as a CPA or a Holiday Decorator?
I: Both, certainly! Times are tough everywhere. We don't have the budget to hire just a CPA who has no other skills.
P.E.: Okay.
I: And you're just in time! Halloween is just around the corner, and you'll need to get started right away. Oh, and I'll need your plan on dealing with the fire marshal first thing Monday morning.
Far too many workers are entering the workplace not only without the necessary skills to build an attractive cubicle from the ground up, but also without the awareness that this is an expectation. I believe that the job interview is an excellent venue for sharing the employer's expectations for cubicle visual appearance (CVA), and to avoid mismatches in the hiring process, I propose that all employers conduct an interview such as the following.
Interviewer: It says here on your resume that you are a CVA. That's pretty impressive.
Potential Employee: Um, actually, that's CPA.
Interviewer: Oh?
Potential Employee: Yes, in my last position I saved my employer over $5,000,000 due to --
Interviewer: Yes, yes, I'm sure you would make a very capable accountant for us. Now tell me a little bit about your cubicle decorating experience.
Potential Employee: Well, um, I guess you might say I am somewhat of a minimalist. I prefer subtle touches, such as photos of myself water skiing, photos of myself with my poodle, also some occasional photos of myself helping orphans in Africa. Oh, I brought some pictures of my previous cubicle here for you. (reaches into briefcase and hands them to interviewer) It won an award for Most Improved Cubicle (proudly).
I: (glances through photos) I see. Have you had any experience with other media, such as silk flowers, mismatched vases, streamers, Grecian pillars, and so on?
P.E.: (scratches head) Well, I once tried hanging some oversized pineapples over my desk, but the fire marshal declared them a hazard and made me take it all down.
I: (nods soberly) Yes, fire marshals are sometimes hostile to the decorated working environment. (looks at photos again) And how large was this cubicle you were responsible for? It's difficult to tell with this rather large photo of you surfing.
P.E.: It was, um, about 5 x 6.
I: (frowns) And did you stay at that level? Were you ever given extra responsibilities in a larger cubicle capacity?
P.E. (brightens): One year I was in charge of holiday decorating for the entire office.
I: Excellent. We happen to have an opening here for Holiday Decorator. The last person in that position, poor woman, disappeared in Michael's and was never seen again.
P.E.: I'm so sorry.
I: (looks away) She was last seen in the Hawaiian aisle, fingering the leis. We were having a Hawaiian-themed party that year....Yes, it was in the service of our company that she disappeared. (sniffs in a somewhat undignified manner)
P.E.: (murmurs sympathetically)
I: (clears throat) Yes, well, of course that was just a fluke; I'm sure nothing like that would ever happen to the next person in that position.
P.E.: (smiles weakly)
I: (looks over photos one last time) Well, I think you would fit in very well here. The job is yours if you want it.
P.E.: Uh, may I ask whether I'm being hired as a CPA or a Holiday Decorator?
I: Both, certainly! Times are tough everywhere. We don't have the budget to hire just a CPA who has no other skills.
P.E.: Okay.
I: And you're just in time! Halloween is just around the corner, and you'll need to get started right away. Oh, and I'll need your plan on dealing with the fire marshal first thing Monday morning.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Play ball!
In an effort to enjoy the wonderful fall day on Saturday, Joe and I played a little basketball together. Unfortunately, we had to do this with a football, as we did not have a basketball. We could have used a Frisbee, but once we realized that we are both much more accurate with a football than a Frisbee, we tossed it aside. In fact, we may never play Frisbee again, as it generally involves too much exercise. We have played a few rounds of Frisbee Golf in our time, which involves throwing a disc blindly into a great collection of trees, where it is immediately swallowed like some sort of offering, leaving you to tread through the woods calling softly "Here, Frisbee disc, here Frisbee disc." As a game, Frisbee Golf has its limits, but it's a great way to see nature.
But back to our game of basketball/football. We quickly decided that dribbling a football also has its limits, and so we repaired to a game of football. Our version of football is perhaps not what you are used to seeing. For starters, since my aim is most accurate at short distances, we stood about ten feet from each other when we were throwing the ball. As you may have perhaps surmised, we are not big on a lot of running around when we engage in sports, so this also cut down on the amount of energy we had to exert. In fact, our version of football involves very little running, although to vary things a bit, we do try to throw the ball to one side of the other player every now and then, but this rarely involves moving more than one step in either direction.
At one point I bent over to throw the ball to him from between my legs. (We had some discussion on what this play is called, and decided upon "watermeloning.") This gets the player disoriented, which is good for the other player, although it does increase the chances that the person catching it will have to actually move from his position in order to catch the ball, which may be wildly off course due to the thrower's disorientation.
"Hike!" I yelled, as much as my upside-down position would let me yell.
"No," he said as he caught the ball, "I'm supposed to say 'hike.' "
"But I'm throwing the ball," I said, "so I should say 'Hike,' as in 'Take a hike and get the ball.' "
"You don't say it," he insisted.
"Fine," I said, "next time I'll yell 'Fore!' "
Lacking the typical structure found in a regular football game, our simple game of catch quickly deteriorated into a game of Calvinball, in which new rules are made on the spot, sometimes without the benefit of the other player knowing. For instance, when Joe threw the ball way over my head, I yelled, "You have to sing the 'I'm Very Sorry Song!' "
"How does that go?" he said.
"I don't remember, but I get to sing part of it, too, and call you a scurvy scalawag. Oh, and you have to go get the ball."
Because the sun was blinding at particular angles, our positions were somewhat fluid. When one of us got tired of looking into the sun, that person simply rotated 90 degrees, and the other player adjusted his position to one ten feet away. Eventually we got back to where we started, which seemed like a good time to end the game.
Later, we reviewed our strategies and skills. Joe was genuinely impressed with my throwing ability, even at the short distances our laziness dictated, and said so.
"You thought I was going to be a weenie, didn't you," I said smugly.
He admitted that such a preconceived notion had existed. He also insisted that I must have had significant prior experience that I was not sharing with him, such as perhaps having played football with my brother when I was younger. Or having been a professional in a previous life.
"I don't remember any early football experiences," I said, "although I was drafted into carrying around the basketball for my brother and his friends when I was about three. Mostly I staggered around the driveway with it. I doubt I made too many baskets."
He did not see that this would have had much bearing on my football ability.
But overall we felt we had played a very satisfying, if nontraditional, game of football. We look forward to another game, when maybe we'll even do some running.
But back to our game of basketball/football. We quickly decided that dribbling a football also has its limits, and so we repaired to a game of football. Our version of football is perhaps not what you are used to seeing. For starters, since my aim is most accurate at short distances, we stood about ten feet from each other when we were throwing the ball. As you may have perhaps surmised, we are not big on a lot of running around when we engage in sports, so this also cut down on the amount of energy we had to exert. In fact, our version of football involves very little running, although to vary things a bit, we do try to throw the ball to one side of the other player every now and then, but this rarely involves moving more than one step in either direction.
At one point I bent over to throw the ball to him from between my legs. (We had some discussion on what this play is called, and decided upon "watermeloning.") This gets the player disoriented, which is good for the other player, although it does increase the chances that the person catching it will have to actually move from his position in order to catch the ball, which may be wildly off course due to the thrower's disorientation.
"Hike!" I yelled, as much as my upside-down position would let me yell.
"No," he said as he caught the ball, "I'm supposed to say 'hike.' "
"But I'm throwing the ball," I said, "so I should say 'Hike,' as in 'Take a hike and get the ball.' "
"You don't say it," he insisted.
"Fine," I said, "next time I'll yell 'Fore!' "
Lacking the typical structure found in a regular football game, our simple game of catch quickly deteriorated into a game of Calvinball, in which new rules are made on the spot, sometimes without the benefit of the other player knowing. For instance, when Joe threw the ball way over my head, I yelled, "You have to sing the 'I'm Very Sorry Song!' "
"How does that go?" he said.
"I don't remember, but I get to sing part of it, too, and call you a scurvy scalawag. Oh, and you have to go get the ball."
Because the sun was blinding at particular angles, our positions were somewhat fluid. When one of us got tired of looking into the sun, that person simply rotated 90 degrees, and the other player adjusted his position to one ten feet away. Eventually we got back to where we started, which seemed like a good time to end the game.
Later, we reviewed our strategies and skills. Joe was genuinely impressed with my throwing ability, even at the short distances our laziness dictated, and said so.
"You thought I was going to be a weenie, didn't you," I said smugly.
He admitted that such a preconceived notion had existed. He also insisted that I must have had significant prior experience that I was not sharing with him, such as perhaps having played football with my brother when I was younger. Or having been a professional in a previous life.
"I don't remember any early football experiences," I said, "although I was drafted into carrying around the basketball for my brother and his friends when I was about three. Mostly I staggered around the driveway with it. I doubt I made too many baskets."
He did not see that this would have had much bearing on my football ability.
But overall we felt we had played a very satisfying, if nontraditional, game of football. We look forward to another game, when maybe we'll even do some running.
Monday, October 6, 2008
The Prissy Princess is attacked
The Hero relaxed peacefully. Here, in his secret chamber on the upper level of the castle, he was truly monarch. There was no one to interrupt his reading, no one to summon him for acts of duty, no one to --
"Excuse me," the Prissy Princess called politely from the bottom of the stairs, "I don't wish to disturb you, dearest, but do you have any immediate plans to return downstairs?"
The Hero sighed. There was only one reason the Princess would disturb him in his secret chamber. "How big is it?" he called.
"How big is what?"
"Whatever it is you want me to kill."
"Oh. Well, there is a bit of a situation here...."
He waited.
"It's...big," she said finally.
"Okay," he said, trying to speak patiently, "get a flyswatter --"
"We don't have a flyswatter that big," she interrupted.
"-- and just give the thing a good whack."
He heard her retreat, then there was silence for a few minutes. When he heard her return to the foot of the stairs, he said, "Well? Did you do what I told you?"
"Well, I opened the door for it," she said, "but it doesn't seem to be taking the hint."
He sighed again. "Did you at least try to coax it out with the flyswatter?"
"Um, I would have to get too close to it to do that."
"I see. And exactly how close did you get to it?"
"Well, I'm not very good at estimating great distances."
He tried to reassure her. "You know, you're much bigger than whatever it is."
"Well, see, I've never really believed that size had anything to do with it," she said.
Really, the Hero thought, the Prissy Princess could be very trying at times.
He reluctantly left his refuge and went down the stairs. There, the Princess, evidently believing that he was not going to offer any physical assistance, was advancing bravely toward the creature, her weapon held high. It was sitting complacently on the wall, ignoring the open door below. She took aim at it.
Suddenly the Princess -- completely forgetting that she was holding a weapon and that she was a lot bigger than the creature -- was running, screaming, with the creature flying haphazardly in apparent pursuit, although it could have been sheer luck that it was headed in her direction. Seeing that she was not going to stop, the Hero quickly moved aside, and she flung the flyswatter at him as she passed. "Run for your life!" she screamed. "It's after us!"
But the creature merely returned to the wall above the door, where the Hero, flyswatter in hand, expertly maneuvered it outdoors and quickly shut the door. He turned toward the Princess, who was slowly reentering the room.
"Is it gone?" she said, looking around furtively, as if it might come after her again.
"It's gone."
"Well, if you know what's good for you," she said haughtily, "you will not laugh."
But she could see that it was too late.
She sighed. Really, she thought, the Hero was sometimes very trying.
"Excuse me," the Prissy Princess called politely from the bottom of the stairs, "I don't wish to disturb you, dearest, but do you have any immediate plans to return downstairs?"
The Hero sighed. There was only one reason the Princess would disturb him in his secret chamber. "How big is it?" he called.
"How big is what?"
"Whatever it is you want me to kill."
"Oh. Well, there is a bit of a situation here...."
He waited.
"It's...big," she said finally.
"Okay," he said, trying to speak patiently, "get a flyswatter --"
"We don't have a flyswatter that big," she interrupted.
"-- and just give the thing a good whack."
He heard her retreat, then there was silence for a few minutes. When he heard her return to the foot of the stairs, he said, "Well? Did you do what I told you?"
"Well, I opened the door for it," she said, "but it doesn't seem to be taking the hint."
He sighed again. "Did you at least try to coax it out with the flyswatter?"
"Um, I would have to get too close to it to do that."
"I see. And exactly how close did you get to it?"
"Well, I'm not very good at estimating great distances."
He tried to reassure her. "You know, you're much bigger than whatever it is."
"Well, see, I've never really believed that size had anything to do with it," she said.
Really, the Hero thought, the Prissy Princess could be very trying at times.
He reluctantly left his refuge and went down the stairs. There, the Princess, evidently believing that he was not going to offer any physical assistance, was advancing bravely toward the creature, her weapon held high. It was sitting complacently on the wall, ignoring the open door below. She took aim at it.
Suddenly the Princess -- completely forgetting that she was holding a weapon and that she was a lot bigger than the creature -- was running, screaming, with the creature flying haphazardly in apparent pursuit, although it could have been sheer luck that it was headed in her direction. Seeing that she was not going to stop, the Hero quickly moved aside, and she flung the flyswatter at him as she passed. "Run for your life!" she screamed. "It's after us!"
But the creature merely returned to the wall above the door, where the Hero, flyswatter in hand, expertly maneuvered it outdoors and quickly shut the door. He turned toward the Princess, who was slowly reentering the room.
"Is it gone?" she said, looking around furtively, as if it might come after her again.
"It's gone."
"Well, if you know what's good for you," she said haughtily, "you will not laugh."
But she could see that it was too late.
She sighed. Really, she thought, the Hero was sometimes very trying.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Come again?
The Prissy Princess has been granted permission, from the Gallant Hero himself, to take a day off from blogging. (She has a permission note and everything.) Any complaints should be directed to the Hero, whose contact information is conveniently unavailable at this time.
However, to help tide you over the weekend, we will share the following tidbits of humor. These are, unfortunately, not made up:
However, to help tide you over the weekend, we will share the following tidbits of humor. These are, unfortunately, not made up:
- an e-bay ad: "Primitive fire hose cabinet with quail feeder" (For all your fire-fighting and quail-feeding needs in one spot!)
- sign in an antique shop: "All breakage is responsibility of the customer." (Well, get to it! It's your responsibility to break something!)
- included in instructions for medication: "Store at 77 degrees, with excursions permitted between 59 and 86 degrees." (excursions by bus? train? plane??)
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Rhinos in need
The following conversation is based on a newspaper report regarding the reaccreditation of our local zoo. Although this will bring much-needed funds to the aging zoo, zoo officials have warned that "there is a lot to do. For instance, the rhinoceroses need a new kitchen." Although the particular conversation related below was not reported in the article, we have no doubt that it actually took place.
Mrs. Rhinoceros: All of our troubles are over, dear! With the reaccreditation, we'll finally be able to fix this place up! I'll be able to get my new kitchen! New countertops! La Cornue Chateau range, hand-built to order! A new --
Mr. Rhinoceros: Now, dearest, don't go spending money before we get it. There's a lot that has to be done with that money. I'm sure we'll only get a fraction of it.
Mrs. Rhinoceros: Oh, don't be silly, dear. Of course we'll get a lot of money. I mean, it's only fair. The Hippos have had granite countertops for months now. We still have that atrocious Formica! (shudders)
Mr. Rhinoceros: I'm just trying to be prudent, dear. We might need to downsize our renovation plans. Instead of a new kitchen, maybe they'll give us a...a kitchenette.
Mrs. Rhino:(not listening, humming as she goes about the kitchen, wondering if a granite or quartz countertop would look better)
Mr. Rhino (raising his voice slightly): I mean, with Junior gone to the Boston Zoo for his internship, we don't really need all that refrigerator space anyway.
Mrs. Rhino (stopping her humming and staring at Mr. Rhino): What are you talking about, dear?
Mr. Rhino (sweeping his hands about): Us. The house. The new kitchen you want. it might not happen.
Mrs. Rhino: Of course it will happen. We've been here for years. They simply have to give us a new kitchen.
Mr. Rhino (shaking his head): We're getting too old to be much of an attraction, sweets. Visitors want to see cute baby animals, not two middle-aged rhinos.
Mrs. Rhino (bristling): What do you mean, middle-aged? I'm barely 35. And the other day Mrs. Hippo declared that my skin looks like it belongs to someone half my age!
Mr. Rhino (wisely refraining from further comments on the subject of age): I'm merely pointing out, my sweet pigeon, that dollars will go to the most popular animals. We can't compete with the baby elephant, the baby giraffe, and that baby camel who's been visiting. When was the last time there was a baby rhino?
Mrs. Rhino (staring): Is that what this is all about? You want us to have another baby?
Mr. Rhino (flustered): Of course not.
Mrs. Rhino: Good, because I am NOT going through another sixteen months of misery. No matter how wonderful Junior is.
Mr. Rhino: Yes, yes, of course. I'm just saying we don't have the clout to be able to get much of the new funds coming in.
Mrs. Rhino (huffing): Well, we at least need a new deck. I could have died when poor Mrs. Hippo fell off our poor excuse for one the last time she and Mr. H. came for a cookout.
Mr. Rhino (to himself): It wasn't the deck's fault Mrs. H. fell off.
Mrs. Rhino: What did you say?
Mr. Rhino (coughing discreetly) Nothing, dear. (sighing) It would be nice to get a new grill.
Mrs. Rhino: And what would you cook on it, oh Great Chef? Grass?
Mr. Rhino (bristling): Well, you want a new stove.
Mrs. R: Of course I want a new stove, one built to my size specifications. You try frying leaves standing on your hind feet.
(They are interrupted here by a breathless Mrs. Hippo.) Hello! Hello! Anybody home?
Mr. Rhino (muttering): Where else would we be? We live in a zoo.
Mrs. Rhino: Be quiet, dear. (louder) Come in, dear Harriet! What is it?
Mrs. Hippo: (catching her breath) They've just announced...the awards! Who's...going to get...the money!
(cries from Mrs. Rhino) Mr. Rhino: Well? Who won? Out with it!
Mrs. Hippo: The animals here...in Africa...will get some money, but most of it will go toward a...a new dining hall.
Mrs. Rhino (whispering): We're..we're getting a new dining hall? We don't have to cook anymore?
Mrs. Hippo (shaking her head violently): No, no -- a dining hall for the visitors.
(silence, then wailing from Mrs. Rhino)
Mrs. Hippo: There, there, dear. But cheer up. They did say you would be getting something new for your kitchen.
Mrs. Rhino (calming down somewhat): They did? W-w-what?
Mrs. Hippo: I think they said you could use a new broom and dustpan.
(Renewed wailing from Mrs. Rhino. Mr. Rhino tries to comfort her as Mrs. Hippo takes her leave.)
Mrs. Rhino (hiccuping): Oh, Alan! No granite countertops! No Cornue Chateau range! (collapsing into sobs)
Mr. Rhino: I know, dear. Maybe next year. (muttering and beginning to pace) We have to do something to attract attention...(an idea begins to form) Dear...when you say you absolutely do not want to have another baby, does that mean you MIGHT be willing to consider it...?
Mrs. Rhinoceros: All of our troubles are over, dear! With the reaccreditation, we'll finally be able to fix this place up! I'll be able to get my new kitchen! New countertops! La Cornue Chateau range, hand-built to order! A new --
Mr. Rhinoceros: Now, dearest, don't go spending money before we get it. There's a lot that has to be done with that money. I'm sure we'll only get a fraction of it.
Mrs. Rhinoceros: Oh, don't be silly, dear. Of course we'll get a lot of money. I mean, it's only fair. The Hippos have had granite countertops for months now. We still have that atrocious Formica! (shudders)
Mr. Rhinoceros: I'm just trying to be prudent, dear. We might need to downsize our renovation plans. Instead of a new kitchen, maybe they'll give us a...a kitchenette.
Mrs. Rhino:(not listening, humming as she goes about the kitchen, wondering if a granite or quartz countertop would look better)
Mr. Rhino (raising his voice slightly): I mean, with Junior gone to the Boston Zoo for his internship, we don't really need all that refrigerator space anyway.
Mrs. Rhino (stopping her humming and staring at Mr. Rhino): What are you talking about, dear?
Mr. Rhino (sweeping his hands about): Us. The house. The new kitchen you want. it might not happen.
Mrs. Rhino: Of course it will happen. We've been here for years. They simply have to give us a new kitchen.
Mr. Rhino (shaking his head): We're getting too old to be much of an attraction, sweets. Visitors want to see cute baby animals, not two middle-aged rhinos.
Mrs. Rhino (bristling): What do you mean, middle-aged? I'm barely 35. And the other day Mrs. Hippo declared that my skin looks like it belongs to someone half my age!
Mr. Rhino (wisely refraining from further comments on the subject of age): I'm merely pointing out, my sweet pigeon, that dollars will go to the most popular animals. We can't compete with the baby elephant, the baby giraffe, and that baby camel who's been visiting. When was the last time there was a baby rhino?
Mrs. Rhino (staring): Is that what this is all about? You want us to have another baby?
Mr. Rhino (flustered): Of course not.
Mrs. Rhino: Good, because I am NOT going through another sixteen months of misery. No matter how wonderful Junior is.
Mr. Rhino: Yes, yes, of course. I'm just saying we don't have the clout to be able to get much of the new funds coming in.
Mrs. Rhino (huffing): Well, we at least need a new deck. I could have died when poor Mrs. Hippo fell off our poor excuse for one the last time she and Mr. H. came for a cookout.
Mr. Rhino (to himself): It wasn't the deck's fault Mrs. H. fell off.
Mrs. Rhino: What did you say?
Mr. Rhino (coughing discreetly) Nothing, dear. (sighing) It would be nice to get a new grill.
Mrs. Rhino: And what would you cook on it, oh Great Chef? Grass?
Mr. Rhino (bristling): Well, you want a new stove.
Mrs. R: Of course I want a new stove, one built to my size specifications. You try frying leaves standing on your hind feet.
(They are interrupted here by a breathless Mrs. Hippo.) Hello! Hello! Anybody home?
Mr. Rhino (muttering): Where else would we be? We live in a zoo.
Mrs. Rhino: Be quiet, dear. (louder) Come in, dear Harriet! What is it?
Mrs. Hippo: (catching her breath) They've just announced...the awards! Who's...going to get...the money!
(cries from Mrs. Rhino) Mr. Rhino: Well? Who won? Out with it!
Mrs. Hippo: The animals here...in Africa...will get some money, but most of it will go toward a...a new dining hall.
Mrs. Rhino (whispering): We're..we're getting a new dining hall? We don't have to cook anymore?
Mrs. Hippo (shaking her head violently): No, no -- a dining hall for the visitors.
(silence, then wailing from Mrs. Rhino)
Mrs. Hippo: There, there, dear. But cheer up. They did say you would be getting something new for your kitchen.
Mrs. Rhino (calming down somewhat): They did? W-w-what?
Mrs. Hippo: I think they said you could use a new broom and dustpan.
(Renewed wailing from Mrs. Rhino. Mr. Rhino tries to comfort her as Mrs. Hippo takes her leave.)
Mrs. Rhino (hiccuping): Oh, Alan! No granite countertops! No Cornue Chateau range! (collapsing into sobs)
Mr. Rhino: I know, dear. Maybe next year. (muttering and beginning to pace) We have to do something to attract attention...(an idea begins to form) Dear...when you say you absolutely do not want to have another baby, does that mean you MIGHT be willing to consider it...?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)