The Prissy Princess and the Gallant Hero will soon head off to the Land of the Frozen Everything, the Midwest, to celebrate Christmas with the royal families. Therefore the blog probably will not appear for a couple of weeks, but take heart. All that time with the royals is bound to provide fresh, amusing material for the new year.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
When therapy is needed
Sometimes a loved one makes choices that can adversely affect the entire family and, if left unchecked, can lead to personal ruin. It is not easy to confront one in this situation, but sometimes we must choose to do what we know is right for the sake of everyone involved. I speak particularly of fashion faux pas.
My hair stylist's husband, by her account, is a sweet man, but woefully lacking in certain areas like fashion. She recently confided to me that he needed help in this department. "We had to have an...intervention with him," she said.
So she consulted with the best experts in men's fashions she could find: her two teenage daughters. "We told him we were taking him shopping for clothes, and we weren't going to Sears," she said.
This intervention seemed to consist mainly of two components:
1. Shut up.
2. Wear what we tell you.
The poor man was taken away to stores like Gap and Martin + Osa, which he had probably never set foot in, and forced to try on jeans that were actually quite flattering ("He looks so cute in his little Gap jeans").
The persuasive powers of three fashion-conscious women began to wear him down, and he gradually realized that he could not continue in his former lifestyle. After extensive shopping therapy sessions, he now stands proudly in front of the mirror, admiring his new confident, bold, and hip look. His wife and daughters can now proudly hold their heads high in public, with no trace of the shame that once threatened their social and emotional well-being.
If you are in a similar situation, may their story inspire you to take gentle but firm action with a loved one. And what better time of year to do it than now, with all the sales going on? No sense in paying more for therapy than necessary. And it may be the best present you could ever give.
My hair stylist's husband, by her account, is a sweet man, but woefully lacking in certain areas like fashion. She recently confided to me that he needed help in this department. "We had to have an...intervention with him," she said.
So she consulted with the best experts in men's fashions she could find: her two teenage daughters. "We told him we were taking him shopping for clothes, and we weren't going to Sears," she said.
This intervention seemed to consist mainly of two components:
1. Shut up.
2. Wear what we tell you.
The poor man was taken away to stores like Gap and Martin + Osa, which he had probably never set foot in, and forced to try on jeans that were actually quite flattering ("He looks so cute in his little Gap jeans").
The persuasive powers of three fashion-conscious women began to wear him down, and he gradually realized that he could not continue in his former lifestyle. After extensive shopping therapy sessions, he now stands proudly in front of the mirror, admiring his new confident, bold, and hip look. His wife and daughters can now proudly hold their heads high in public, with no trace of the shame that once threatened their social and emotional well-being.
If you are in a similar situation, may their story inspire you to take gentle but firm action with a loved one. And what better time of year to do it than now, with all the sales going on? No sense in paying more for therapy than necessary. And it may be the best present you could ever give.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Santa's debriefing
Santa's elves are busy debriefing Santa in preparation for his upcoming deliveries on Christmas Eve. Here they discuss the logistics of reaching a particular home in Maryland.
Elves: Now, Santa, this house is going to present some technical difficulties.
Santa: Like what?
Elves: Definitely don't try going down the chimney. They haven't had the fireplace restored yet and you'd probably bring the whole thing down. Plus, the fireplace opening is still sealed so it's a dead end.
Santa: You'd think they would have taken care of that before Christmas. Well, how about a window?
Elves (coughing discreetly): Uh, their windows aren't exactly accommodating for someone of your, uh, girth.
Santa (eyeing his girth and nodding): Okay, sounds like a door is the best way to go. Back? Front?
Elves (scratching their heads): Well, the front is probably best...if you went in the back you'd have to go up the stairs, and we don't think you'd fit up those, either.
Santa (eyeing his girth again and frowning): Okay, front door it is.
Elves: Now, sometimes they call the back the front, so don't get confused.
Santa (getting exasperated): How am I supposed to know the difference?
Elves: Well, the door you want is right off the street. Plus, they've hung a huge sign above it saying "SANTA ENTER HERE." That should help.
Santa: Okay, so I'm in the front door. What about the inside?
Elves: Open the door very carefully. They didn't have much room to put up the tree because they bought this new big couch, and they should have really replaced their big tree with a smaller one, but they didn't, so the tree and the couch are smooshed into the room and the couch is partially blocking the door.
Santa (stroking his beard thoughtfully): I like their Christmas spirit, keeping a big tree even when there's not much room for it.
Elves: Uh, actually, they liked the big tree because they figured you could fit more presents under it.
Santa (looking stern): How old did you say they were?
Elves: Old enough to buy a nice couch.
Santa: Right. Okay, what else?
Elves: Well, if you go into the kitchen looking for cookies, watch out for possible water on the floor. Their refrigerator is leaking.
Santa (smiling broadly): A little water won't stop me from getting to those cookies, ho-ho-ho!
Elves: They'll probably be gluten free.
Santa: Never mind.
Elves: Now, the good news is --
Santa: Thank goodness there's some good news.
Elves: They don't have any pets for you to worry about.
Santa (stroking his beard): Hmmm, no pets, that's kind of sad...maybe I should bring them a pet for Christmas.
Elves (looking at each other): Uh, they don't really want a pet.
Santa (looking stern again): Don't want a pet! Are you sure they're on the Nice List?
Elves (double-checking the list): Ye-e-e-s, although the man almost made it to the Provisional Naughty List. He was snooping around the presents his wife bought him.
Santa (shaking his head): So how did he stay off the Provisional Naughty List?
Elves: He said he confused Christmas presents with Easter egg hunts.
Santa: Tsk tsk.
Elves: Oh, one more thing. They want you to know they've been very, very good this year. Other than the, uh, snooping part, of course.
Santa: Can their claim be corroborated?
Elves (peering at the couple's file): Yes, they've given us a couple of character references, although the signatures are kind of hard to make out...looks like Gallant Hero and...Prissy Princess.
Santa (impressed): Well, it sounds like they have trustworthy friends in high places. On we go!
Elves: Now, Santa, this house is going to present some technical difficulties.
Santa: Like what?
Elves: Definitely don't try going down the chimney. They haven't had the fireplace restored yet and you'd probably bring the whole thing down. Plus, the fireplace opening is still sealed so it's a dead end.
Santa: You'd think they would have taken care of that before Christmas. Well, how about a window?
Elves (coughing discreetly): Uh, their windows aren't exactly accommodating for someone of your, uh, girth.
Santa (eyeing his girth and nodding): Okay, sounds like a door is the best way to go. Back? Front?
Elves (scratching their heads): Well, the front is probably best...if you went in the back you'd have to go up the stairs, and we don't think you'd fit up those, either.
Santa (eyeing his girth again and frowning): Okay, front door it is.
Elves: Now, sometimes they call the back the front, so don't get confused.
Santa (getting exasperated): How am I supposed to know the difference?
Elves: Well, the door you want is right off the street. Plus, they've hung a huge sign above it saying "SANTA ENTER HERE." That should help.
Santa: Okay, so I'm in the front door. What about the inside?
Elves: Open the door very carefully. They didn't have much room to put up the tree because they bought this new big couch, and they should have really replaced their big tree with a smaller one, but they didn't, so the tree and the couch are smooshed into the room and the couch is partially blocking the door.
Santa (stroking his beard thoughtfully): I like their Christmas spirit, keeping a big tree even when there's not much room for it.
Elves: Uh, actually, they liked the big tree because they figured you could fit more presents under it.
Santa (looking stern): How old did you say they were?
Elves: Old enough to buy a nice couch.
Santa: Right. Okay, what else?
Elves: Well, if you go into the kitchen looking for cookies, watch out for possible water on the floor. Their refrigerator is leaking.
Santa (smiling broadly): A little water won't stop me from getting to those cookies, ho-ho-ho!
Elves: They'll probably be gluten free.
Santa: Never mind.
Elves: Now, the good news is --
Santa: Thank goodness there's some good news.
Elves: They don't have any pets for you to worry about.
Santa (stroking his beard): Hmmm, no pets, that's kind of sad...maybe I should bring them a pet for Christmas.
Elves (looking at each other): Uh, they don't really want a pet.
Santa (looking stern again): Don't want a pet! Are you sure they're on the Nice List?
Elves (double-checking the list): Ye-e-e-s, although the man almost made it to the Provisional Naughty List. He was snooping around the presents his wife bought him.
Santa (shaking his head): So how did he stay off the Provisional Naughty List?
Elves: He said he confused Christmas presents with Easter egg hunts.
Santa: Tsk tsk.
Elves: Oh, one more thing. They want you to know they've been very, very good this year. Other than the, uh, snooping part, of course.
Santa: Can their claim be corroborated?
Elves (peering at the couple's file): Yes, they've given us a couple of character references, although the signatures are kind of hard to make out...looks like Gallant Hero and...Prissy Princess.
Santa (impressed): Well, it sounds like they have trustworthy friends in high places. On we go!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The Christmas secret
Joe is refusing to tell me what he got me for Christmas, and it is driving him nuts.
Every year he is tortured by the knowledge that somewhere in our house sits the perfect gift for me, and he can't tell me what it is. Sometimes the burden of keeping this secret to himself for several weeks, or even several days, becomes too great, and he blurts it out.
This year his inner torture started early, right after Thanksgiving. With the air of one who is determined to reform his ways with respect to some crippling addiction, he announced, "I'm not going to tell you what I got you this year."
To his great disappointment, this did not bother me at all. "I like surprises," I told him.
"Well, just don't go looking for it," he warned.
"I don't want to go looking for it," I said.
Secretly he would love for me to find my gifts. Then this tremendous pressure to keep it a secret would be relieved, and it wouldn't even be his fault.
The general clutter in our house seems to expand greatly at this time of year, and Joe takes advantage of this by plunging the bags with my presents into the middle of this clutter, guessing that I will not attempt to deal with the clutter until January, when there is nothing else to do.
But ironically, I am MUCH more likely to stumble upon his carefully hidden cache by accident, simply by observing a bag where no bag normally resides, even amongst clutter, and saying to myself, "What is THIS doing here?" and looking inside to discover what the offending item could be, and then saying, "Oops." Whereas if he would just TELL me, "That bag legitimately belongs there, and contains the most awesome Christmas present ever given," I would never look inside.
To avoid such a catastrophe, I thought it prudent to ask him to tell me where he hid my present.
"Ah HA!" he said triumphantly. "You DO want to know what it is. Well, I'm not going to tell you."
"I don't want to know what it is," I said. "I just want to know where it is. That way if I see some strange bag somewhere I won't wonder what it is and look inside."
He said he was not born yesterday.
Of course he did not believe me, because when HE finds a suspicious-looking bag this time of year, his mind thinks: strange bag -- gift for me -- must peek. Whereas MY mind thinks: strange bag -- intruder -- must relocate and destroy if necessary.
But he is keeping to his resolution this year, and his lips are sealed about the contents and whereabouts of my present. So it looks like we'll both get what we want this Christmas: he, to surprise me; and me, to be surprised.
Every year he is tortured by the knowledge that somewhere in our house sits the perfect gift for me, and he can't tell me what it is. Sometimes the burden of keeping this secret to himself for several weeks, or even several days, becomes too great, and he blurts it out.
This year his inner torture started early, right after Thanksgiving. With the air of one who is determined to reform his ways with respect to some crippling addiction, he announced, "I'm not going to tell you what I got you this year."
To his great disappointment, this did not bother me at all. "I like surprises," I told him.
"Well, just don't go looking for it," he warned.
"I don't want to go looking for it," I said.
Secretly he would love for me to find my gifts. Then this tremendous pressure to keep it a secret would be relieved, and it wouldn't even be his fault.
The general clutter in our house seems to expand greatly at this time of year, and Joe takes advantage of this by plunging the bags with my presents into the middle of this clutter, guessing that I will not attempt to deal with the clutter until January, when there is nothing else to do.
But ironically, I am MUCH more likely to stumble upon his carefully hidden cache by accident, simply by observing a bag where no bag normally resides, even amongst clutter, and saying to myself, "What is THIS doing here?" and looking inside to discover what the offending item could be, and then saying, "Oops." Whereas if he would just TELL me, "That bag legitimately belongs there, and contains the most awesome Christmas present ever given," I would never look inside.
To avoid such a catastrophe, I thought it prudent to ask him to tell me where he hid my present.
"Ah HA!" he said triumphantly. "You DO want to know what it is. Well, I'm not going to tell you."
"I don't want to know what it is," I said. "I just want to know where it is. That way if I see some strange bag somewhere I won't wonder what it is and look inside."
He said he was not born yesterday.
Of course he did not believe me, because when HE finds a suspicious-looking bag this time of year, his mind thinks: strange bag -- gift for me -- must peek. Whereas MY mind thinks: strange bag -- intruder -- must relocate and destroy if necessary.
But he is keeping to his resolution this year, and his lips are sealed about the contents and whereabouts of my present. So it looks like we'll both get what we want this Christmas: he, to surprise me; and me, to be surprised.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Farewell to Monk
This weekend we hustled and bustled with a great many other people in our small historic town, enjoying Midnight Madness, which is basically a contest to see how many cars can be parked illegally in our parking-challenged town. We have attended Midnight Madness for several years now, and can say with some authority that this year a record must have been set, with cars parked on sidewalks, in driving lanes, on rooftops, in the river, etc.
This year we hustled more than usual in order to get home by 9 p.m. -- a far cry from midnight, we realize -- because that was when the series finale of Monk started. We have watched Monk with great faithfulness our entire marriage, shunning all obligations and invitations on Friday nights during the viewing season ("We regret that, due to a prior engagement, we cannot accept your most gracious invitation to dine at the White House this Friday. Feel free to invite us another time, just not on a Friday.").
We are more faithful in watching Monk than the mailman in his rounds (no offense to Jesse, our very pleasant and timely mail carrier), although I must confess that I do not like to watch the very beginning of each show, which usually consists of eerie music and someone being murdered in a particularly creative manner. I usually find something very urgent to do in another room during these few minutes, such as minutely examining my toothbrush for any sign of deterioration. After the dirty deed is done on the show I can safely return to the couch, and Joe tells me what I missed. His telling usually consists of "You don't want to know."
But now Monk is gone, and we are left with a great void in our Friday night entertainment schedule. We both may have to resort to examining our toothbrushes, or worse for Joe, playing "Bananagrams," which he detests but which does allow him to exercise his creative spelling skills.
On the other hand, positive things may come out of this change in our schedule. Over the years we've been watching Monk, we've noticed how eerily similar our behavior is to Monk's obsessive compulsiveness. As the opening song says, "People say I worry all time. If you paid attention, you'd be worried, too." Well, we've been paying a lot more attention since we started watching, and we are a lot more worried. Maybe now that the show is over, we can return to our pre-Monk state of being blissfully unconcerned about the many ways our world -- as the song further insists -- is trying to kill us.
So if anyone needs a couple of recovering obsessive-compulsive people to do something with on Fridays, we're available.
This year we hustled more than usual in order to get home by 9 p.m. -- a far cry from midnight, we realize -- because that was when the series finale of Monk started. We have watched Monk with great faithfulness our entire marriage, shunning all obligations and invitations on Friday nights during the viewing season ("We regret that, due to a prior engagement, we cannot accept your most gracious invitation to dine at the White House this Friday. Feel free to invite us another time, just not on a Friday.").
We are more faithful in watching Monk than the mailman in his rounds (no offense to Jesse, our very pleasant and timely mail carrier), although I must confess that I do not like to watch the very beginning of each show, which usually consists of eerie music and someone being murdered in a particularly creative manner. I usually find something very urgent to do in another room during these few minutes, such as minutely examining my toothbrush for any sign of deterioration. After the dirty deed is done on the show I can safely return to the couch, and Joe tells me what I missed. His telling usually consists of "You don't want to know."
But now Monk is gone, and we are left with a great void in our Friday night entertainment schedule. We both may have to resort to examining our toothbrushes, or worse for Joe, playing "Bananagrams," which he detests but which does allow him to exercise his creative spelling skills.
On the other hand, positive things may come out of this change in our schedule. Over the years we've been watching Monk, we've noticed how eerily similar our behavior is to Monk's obsessive compulsiveness. As the opening song says, "People say I worry all time. If you paid attention, you'd be worried, too." Well, we've been paying a lot more attention since we started watching, and we are a lot more worried. Maybe now that the show is over, we can return to our pre-Monk state of being blissfully unconcerned about the many ways our world -- as the song further insists -- is trying to kill us.
So if anyone needs a couple of recovering obsessive-compulsive people to do something with on Fridays, we're available.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Company descends into Ice Age
Today we bring you breaking news from a company in northern Maryland, where employees have reportedly entered an Ice Age....
Jane: We've received reports that a company in Maryland, known only as C______, has apparently entered into some type of Ice Age. It was discovered early this morning by a vendor of the company when he attempted to make a delivery. Let's go live now to our reporter, Bill. Bill?
Bill: Jane, this appears to be some sort of bizarre environmental catastrophe. The inside of the building, and everything here, is just encased in ice. We had to hack our way in.
Jane: What about the employees? Do you see anyone?
Bill: So far every employee seems to be frozen in place, most at their computers. This Ice Age seems to have come on gradually; we can see evidence of the employees' pitiful attempts to generate some heat...most are wearing sweaters or jackets, many have gloves on (which are frozen to the computer keyboards), there are even some with hats and scarves on and blankets around them. Here's one employee with an assortment of mugs on her desk...looks like she was drinking a lot of hot beverages to try to stay warm.
Jane: Anything else, Bill?
Bill: Well, if you look below the desks here (camera pans in), many apparently brought in their own heaters or heating pads in an effort to stave off freezing to death. We also found a few bodies huddled together around the copy machine...we're not sure why...
Jane: Maybe they were trying to get some warmth from the papers when they came out?
Bill: Poor souls.
(There is a moment of silence.)
Jane: Do you see anyone not frozen, Bill?
Bill: Oh, here's one gentlemen who appears to have survived whatever happened here. Excuse me, sir?
Gentleman (looking dazed): Hmmm?
Bill: Uh, sir, are you an employee here?
Confused gentleman: Uh, yeah...
Bill: Sir, can you tell us what happened here? Amid concerns of global warming, how is it possible that this building appears to have entered some sort of Ice Age?
Confused gentleman: I...I just don't understand it...they kept saying it was cold, so I turned the heat up a few times...I mean, I turned it up all the way to 18 degrees yesterday...I just don't know what happened... (wanders off to check the thermostat, which is frosted over)
Bill: We've spotted another live employee, you can just see her at the edge of the camera there...it's difficult to keep her in focus, she's -- it looks like she's leaping around, and she appears to be wearing -- is she wearing a bathing suit?
Jane: Someone in a 18-degree building is wearing a bathing suit?
Bill: Hold on, let's see if we can talk to her...excuse me...Ma'am...MA'AM! CAN WE TALK TO YOU FOR A MINUTE? (running to catch up with the leaping woman) Ma'am, your building is in an Ice Age. (pausing to catch breath) Why are you running around in a bathing suit?
Leaping Woman (obviously euphoric): Isn't this fantastic? It's only 23 degrees in here!
Bill: Actually, it's only 18...we think. The thermostat is encased in ice.
Leaping Woman: Even better! (continuing to leap in ecstasy)
Bill: Uh, are you aware that most of your co-workers have been frozen in place?
Leaping Woman: The fools! They kept stupidly complaining it was too cold in here, when it was like a sauna! Thank goodness D_____ kept the thermostat at a decent temperature! Now I can finally concentrate on my work!
Bill (looking at the Leaping Woman's cubicle): But your computer is frozen.
Leaping Woman (ceasing her leaping for the first time): Oh. Well, no matter! I'll just work at home, where it's a balmy 25 degrees! La, la, la! (She leaps out of camera range.)
Bill (shaking his head): Well, that's all we know for now, Jane. Whether or not these poor employees can be revived is questionable. In fact, we need to get out of here ourselves before WE freeze to death.
Jane: Thank you, Bill. That concludes for now our story on C______, a company in Maryland, where a strange Ice Age has descended on the building. We will bring you further updates when more is known.
(Leaping Woman suddenly leaps across the screen): Join me on my crusade to ban thermostats that go higher than 31 degrees! (She is removed, with difficulty, by station employees.) La, la la!
Jane: We've received reports that a company in Maryland, known only as C______, has apparently entered into some type of Ice Age. It was discovered early this morning by a vendor of the company when he attempted to make a delivery. Let's go live now to our reporter, Bill. Bill?
Bill: Jane, this appears to be some sort of bizarre environmental catastrophe. The inside of the building, and everything here, is just encased in ice. We had to hack our way in.
Jane: What about the employees? Do you see anyone?
Bill: So far every employee seems to be frozen in place, most at their computers. This Ice Age seems to have come on gradually; we can see evidence of the employees' pitiful attempts to generate some heat...most are wearing sweaters or jackets, many have gloves on (which are frozen to the computer keyboards), there are even some with hats and scarves on and blankets around them. Here's one employee with an assortment of mugs on her desk...looks like she was drinking a lot of hot beverages to try to stay warm.
Jane: Anything else, Bill?
Bill: Well, if you look below the desks here (camera pans in), many apparently brought in their own heaters or heating pads in an effort to stave off freezing to death. We also found a few bodies huddled together around the copy machine...we're not sure why...
Jane: Maybe they were trying to get some warmth from the papers when they came out?
Bill: Poor souls.
(There is a moment of silence.)
Jane: Do you see anyone not frozen, Bill?
Bill: Oh, here's one gentlemen who appears to have survived whatever happened here. Excuse me, sir?
Gentleman (looking dazed): Hmmm?
Bill: Uh, sir, are you an employee here?
Confused gentleman: Uh, yeah...
Bill: Sir, can you tell us what happened here? Amid concerns of global warming, how is it possible that this building appears to have entered some sort of Ice Age?
Confused gentleman: I...I just don't understand it...they kept saying it was cold, so I turned the heat up a few times...I mean, I turned it up all the way to 18 degrees yesterday...I just don't know what happened... (wanders off to check the thermostat, which is frosted over)
Bill: We've spotted another live employee, you can just see her at the edge of the camera there...it's difficult to keep her in focus, she's -- it looks like she's leaping around, and she appears to be wearing -- is she wearing a bathing suit?
Jane: Someone in a 18-degree building is wearing a bathing suit?
Bill: Hold on, let's see if we can talk to her...excuse me...Ma'am...MA'AM! CAN WE TALK TO YOU FOR A MINUTE? (running to catch up with the leaping woman) Ma'am, your building is in an Ice Age. (pausing to catch breath) Why are you running around in a bathing suit?
Leaping Woman (obviously euphoric): Isn't this fantastic? It's only 23 degrees in here!
Bill: Actually, it's only 18...we think. The thermostat is encased in ice.
Leaping Woman: Even better! (continuing to leap in ecstasy)
Bill: Uh, are you aware that most of your co-workers have been frozen in place?
Leaping Woman: The fools! They kept stupidly complaining it was too cold in here, when it was like a sauna! Thank goodness D_____ kept the thermostat at a decent temperature! Now I can finally concentrate on my work!
Bill (looking at the Leaping Woman's cubicle): But your computer is frozen.
Leaping Woman (ceasing her leaping for the first time): Oh. Well, no matter! I'll just work at home, where it's a balmy 25 degrees! La, la, la! (She leaps out of camera range.)
Bill (shaking his head): Well, that's all we know for now, Jane. Whether or not these poor employees can be revived is questionable. In fact, we need to get out of here ourselves before WE freeze to death.
Jane: Thank you, Bill. That concludes for now our story on C______, a company in Maryland, where a strange Ice Age has descended on the building. We will bring you further updates when more is known.
(Leaping Woman suddenly leaps across the screen): Join me on my crusade to ban thermostats that go higher than 31 degrees! (She is removed, with difficulty, by station employees.) La, la la!
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Thanksgiving secrets
The holidays can be stressful, and sometimes they trigger long-suppressed, painful memories. This Thanksgiving I finally decided to take a step toward personal healing, and revealed to Joe a well-hidden family tragedy surrounding Thanksgiving.
"You know how in most families, everyone takes a nap after Thanksgiving dinner?" I said.
"Yeah," he said, remembering his own turkey-induced naps with fondness.
"Well, we never took Thanksgiving naps in my family," I said sadly.
He stared at me.
"And," I said -- figuring since I had uncorked the bottle of sad memories, I may as well empty it -- "we never grazed on leftovers all day and night."
He looked at me with great sympathy. "Oh, my poor sweetie. I never knew you were so deprived."
"In fact --"
He stopped me. "I think you've relived enough trauma for one day," he said comfortingly.
I had been about to say that I never even got to take leftover turkey sandwiches to school, because by the time Monday rolled around, we -- by which I mean chiefly my father -- had eaten all the turkey. My friends were jealous, because they had to eat turkey sandwiches for a week afterward, and would have happily traded them for salami.
I guess we all suffer in some way or other. But at least they all had each other to commiserate with.
"You know what else?" I said to Joe.
"You don't have to talk about this anymore," he assured me.
"It's okay," I said, looking guilty at my further revelation. "I really don't even like turkey," I whispered. "Neither does my brother."
"Isn't that, like, un-American?" Joe said.
"Well, we eat it," I said defensively. "But we'd really rather have Thanksgiving lasagna."
Joe thought maybe Thanksgiving lasagna would be okay. As long as he could still take a nap afterward.
Note to readers: If you, like me, suffer from the stigma of having family traditions that do not meet the Accepted Standard for Holiday Celebrations set forth by the National Nostalgia Association, I encourage you to talk to a professional. Or Joe. He's much cheaper.
"You know how in most families, everyone takes a nap after Thanksgiving dinner?" I said.
"Yeah," he said, remembering his own turkey-induced naps with fondness.
"Well, we never took Thanksgiving naps in my family," I said sadly.
He stared at me.
"And," I said -- figuring since I had uncorked the bottle of sad memories, I may as well empty it -- "we never grazed on leftovers all day and night."
He looked at me with great sympathy. "Oh, my poor sweetie. I never knew you were so deprived."
"In fact --"
He stopped me. "I think you've relived enough trauma for one day," he said comfortingly.
I had been about to say that I never even got to take leftover turkey sandwiches to school, because by the time Monday rolled around, we -- by which I mean chiefly my father -- had eaten all the turkey. My friends were jealous, because they had to eat turkey sandwiches for a week afterward, and would have happily traded them for salami.
I guess we all suffer in some way or other. But at least they all had each other to commiserate with.
"You know what else?" I said to Joe.
"You don't have to talk about this anymore," he assured me.
"It's okay," I said, looking guilty at my further revelation. "I really don't even like turkey," I whispered. "Neither does my brother."
"Isn't that, like, un-American?" Joe said.
"Well, we eat it," I said defensively. "But we'd really rather have Thanksgiving lasagna."
Joe thought maybe Thanksgiving lasagna would be okay. As long as he could still take a nap afterward.
Note to readers: If you, like me, suffer from the stigma of having family traditions that do not meet the Accepted Standard for Holiday Celebrations set forth by the National Nostalgia Association, I encourage you to talk to a professional. Or Joe. He's much cheaper.
Monday, November 30, 2009
St. Patrick makes a Thanksgiving appearance
Sometimes it takes a child to show us short-sighted grownups the things that matter most in life. Take the traditional Thanksgiving blessing, for instance. We grownups tend to offer thanks for such trivial things as family and friends, good jobs, love, peace, joy, etc., etc. But children have a grasp on the truly important things, like Star Wars LEGOs and the Princess and the Frog Just One Kiss Tiana Doll, which is why they are often asked to make the all-important prayer before the Thanksgiving meal.
This year the six-year-old in our family, revealing an uncharacteristic public shyness, declined to offer the thanks before the meal, and so the four-year-old plunged into the task. We re-create here her memorable Thanksgiving prayer, with a few commentaries included.
"Thank you God for everyone who came, and for the holiday..."
(whose name escapes me right now, but I know the names of lots of others)
"And for Christmas and Easter and Halloween and birthdays..."
(especially mine)
"and St. Patrick's Day, and ALL the holidays..."
(especially ones where I get presents)
"and thank you for Char...I love Char and I'm glad she's here and, um, she's my friend and I'm really glad she's here and I would be sad if she wasn't here..."
(so all these other people, including my parents and grandparents and big brother and aunt and uncle, can just go home because they are not Char)
"and thank you for the turkey and -- what else are we having, Mom? -- oh yeah, and especially the MASHED POTATOES!"
Amen.
This year the six-year-old in our family, revealing an uncharacteristic public shyness, declined to offer the thanks before the meal, and so the four-year-old plunged into the task. We re-create here her memorable Thanksgiving prayer, with a few commentaries included.
"Thank you God for everyone who came, and for the holiday..."
(whose name escapes me right now, but I know the names of lots of others)
"And for Christmas and Easter and Halloween and birthdays..."
(especially mine)
"and St. Patrick's Day, and ALL the holidays..."
(especially ones where I get presents)
"and thank you for Char...I love Char and I'm glad she's here and, um, she's my friend and I'm really glad she's here and I would be sad if she wasn't here..."
(so all these other people, including my parents and grandparents and big brother and aunt and uncle, can just go home because they are not Char)
"and thank you for the turkey and -- what else are we having, Mom? -- oh yeah, and especially the MASHED POTATOES!"
Amen.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Failure to survive
Thanks to global shipping and modern food storage, we can pretty much have anything we want, food-wise, all year round. Unlike our foreparents, we don't have to restrict ourselves to just what's in season, or what grows near us. We can have anything from anywhere! More and more we are being encouraged to take advantage of these abundant opportunities by...growing our own food, in our own backyards.
Well, it makes sense. Growing your own food can save you money and help you eat healthier. Growing your own food reduces your dependence on huge, greedy conglomerate food producers. Growing your own food increases your chances of survival in the event of worldwide catastrophe.
If growing your own food is the way of the future, if someday we have to survive only on what we can coax out of the ground, Joe and I are doomed.
Because unfortunately there is a catch to growing your own food. You have to be able to keep things alive.
This is a problem.
According to one source I have consulted on the subject, "any reasonably intelligent person" can learn what it takes to grow food. I am not encouraged by this. Although I consider myself a reasonably intelligent person, based mainly on a dim memory of the results of an IQ test back in sixth grade ("Your daughter is reasonably intelligent, Mrs. B., but I'm afraid she'll never be able to grow her own food"), in my case intelligence does not seem to extend to keeping things alive, other than Joe. It also does not extend to doing math calculations in my head, but that is an unrelated topic ("Please encourage your daughter to pursue something other than math").
If you doubt that such a simple task as growing food is possible to mess up, just observe the cilantro plant in our kitchen. The cilantro is my first attempt at home gardening -- start small, they say, although usually "small" is considered a 50-foot vegetable garden -- and it seemed easy enough. I wasn't actually growing anything; all I had to do was keep it alive and snip off its fragrant leaves when I needed some herbs.
The cilantro did well at first. For about five hours. Then it entered a slow decline, and after two weeks has become but a former shadow of itself, despite being watered and occasionally pruned and moved to various advantageous locations. I have used it for cooking exactly once. If I don't again soon, there will be nothing left to use.
I am beginning to think that growing one's own food is some sort of societal IQ test. If so, the cilantro experiment does not bode well for my performance on other parts of the test. Maybe I should stick to math.
Further blog posts will probably not appear over the Thanksgiving holiday, as we prepare to enjoy turkey and other traditional Thanksgiving foods and to give thanks that none of these had to be grown in our backyard.
Well, it makes sense. Growing your own food can save you money and help you eat healthier. Growing your own food reduces your dependence on huge, greedy conglomerate food producers. Growing your own food increases your chances of survival in the event of worldwide catastrophe.
If growing your own food is the way of the future, if someday we have to survive only on what we can coax out of the ground, Joe and I are doomed.
Because unfortunately there is a catch to growing your own food. You have to be able to keep things alive.
This is a problem.
According to one source I have consulted on the subject, "any reasonably intelligent person" can learn what it takes to grow food. I am not encouraged by this. Although I consider myself a reasonably intelligent person, based mainly on a dim memory of the results of an IQ test back in sixth grade ("Your daughter is reasonably intelligent, Mrs. B., but I'm afraid she'll never be able to grow her own food"), in my case intelligence does not seem to extend to keeping things alive, other than Joe. It also does not extend to doing math calculations in my head, but that is an unrelated topic ("Please encourage your daughter to pursue something other than math").
If you doubt that such a simple task as growing food is possible to mess up, just observe the cilantro plant in our kitchen. The cilantro is my first attempt at home gardening -- start small, they say, although usually "small" is considered a 50-foot vegetable garden -- and it seemed easy enough. I wasn't actually growing anything; all I had to do was keep it alive and snip off its fragrant leaves when I needed some herbs.
The cilantro did well at first. For about five hours. Then it entered a slow decline, and after two weeks has become but a former shadow of itself, despite being watered and occasionally pruned and moved to various advantageous locations. I have used it for cooking exactly once. If I don't again soon, there will be nothing left to use.
I am beginning to think that growing one's own food is some sort of societal IQ test. If so, the cilantro experiment does not bode well for my performance on other parts of the test. Maybe I should stick to math.
Further blog posts will probably not appear over the Thanksgiving holiday, as we prepare to enjoy turkey and other traditional Thanksgiving foods and to give thanks that none of these had to be grown in our backyard.
Monday, November 23, 2009
The year-round Christmas
I'm sure you have noticed that the Christmas season seems to be starting earlier each year. If not, either you are living in an extremely isolated locale, or you are dead.
The rest of us are expected to have already begun our Christmas shopping; put up the tree and outdoor lights; taken the family's annual Christmas picture; bought, signed, sealed, and stamped our Christmas cards; and have seven dozen cookies in the freezer ready to give away. Ideally, these things should have been done by Halloween, so that you would have plenty of time to focus on the things that matter most at this season, such as making sure that the homemade gifts you are putting together are better than your sister's.
Now, I can understand that in cold locations, which to me includes pretty much every place on earth except maybe Tahiti, people may not want to wait too far into the season to put up their outdoor Christmas lights. In Michigan, for instance, people routinely take advantage of a warm day to put up their lights. This year the warm day was July 3rd, so people are a bit tired of their outdoor decorations by now, but unfortunately they have to wait for another warm day to take them down, which may not occur until after the snow melts next August.
There are always a few holdouts in Michigan and other cold places who do not put up their lights until December. These individuals account for a substantial number of emergency room visits each year, their fingers frozen to the ladder, a string of lights trailing behind them as they seek help. To ease the burden these thoughtless people put on the health care system, eventually there may be a state law making it illegal for anyone to put up outdoor lights after a certain date. To make it easier for everyone to remember when this date is, they could make it the same as the school cutoff date: By August 1 you must be 5 to enter kindergarten, and by August 1 you must have your Christmas lights up.
Usually I am quite behind in the rush to get ready for Christmas, but not this year. This year I am getting my act together early. In fact, I'm way ahead of a lot of people. I've already eaten all my Christmas cookies.
The rest of us are expected to have already begun our Christmas shopping; put up the tree and outdoor lights; taken the family's annual Christmas picture; bought, signed, sealed, and stamped our Christmas cards; and have seven dozen cookies in the freezer ready to give away. Ideally, these things should have been done by Halloween, so that you would have plenty of time to focus on the things that matter most at this season, such as making sure that the homemade gifts you are putting together are better than your sister's.
Now, I can understand that in cold locations, which to me includes pretty much every place on earth except maybe Tahiti, people may not want to wait too far into the season to put up their outdoor Christmas lights. In Michigan, for instance, people routinely take advantage of a warm day to put up their lights. This year the warm day was July 3rd, so people are a bit tired of their outdoor decorations by now, but unfortunately they have to wait for another warm day to take them down, which may not occur until after the snow melts next August.
There are always a few holdouts in Michigan and other cold places who do not put up their lights until December. These individuals account for a substantial number of emergency room visits each year, their fingers frozen to the ladder, a string of lights trailing behind them as they seek help. To ease the burden these thoughtless people put on the health care system, eventually there may be a state law making it illegal for anyone to put up outdoor lights after a certain date. To make it easier for everyone to remember when this date is, they could make it the same as the school cutoff date: By August 1 you must be 5 to enter kindergarten, and by August 1 you must have your Christmas lights up.
Usually I am quite behind in the rush to get ready for Christmas, but not this year. This year I am getting my act together early. In fact, I'm way ahead of a lot of people. I've already eaten all my Christmas cookies.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Candles in the windows
Like many people, we enjoy decorating our home for Christmas. This includes putting candles in the windows, a practice that was started long, long ago, in 1934 in Colonial Williamsburg. Really. When Williamsburg reopened after restoration, historians were charged with decorating the buildings for Christmas in a traditional manner, which proved to be problematic because the traditional manner in which colonial Virginians celebrated the season of Christmas involved a great deal of fasting and repentance, which sounds a lot like Easter, and which does not lend itself to festive decorations.
So, based on one person's recollection of an old family tradition, candles were placed in the windows at Williamsburg. They became a big hit, and everyone put them in their own houses, especially after electric lights became available and people could stop burning their houses down. Now everyone has candles in their windows at Christmas, giving warmth and love to friends and strangers alike.
Only in our case, the candles we recently put in the windows make our home seem more suited to Halloween, because they are bright orange and exhibit a very obvious flicker, as if beckoning all the unsuspecting to see what lurks within. We bought these particular candles because a) Joe loves all things LED, and b) I have a marked tendency to accidentally knock candles with cords off the windowsill as I am opening and closing curtains. If we had had actual candles in our windows, our home would have burned down many times over.
So when we saw these candles that could turn themselves on and off at a certain time each day, AND came with suction cups so they could be securely attached to the window and not be susceptible to the clumsy among us, we bought one for every window. Joe painstakingly put them all out while I was gone, and when I came home he asked how they looked from outside.
"It looks like we have a haunted house," I said.
I had driven by the front of the house, and thought I must be mistaken about it being our house, because there were orange things shining out of the first floor window that I knew did not belong to us. I immediately thought it must be the new neighbors' house, and mentally chastised them for introducing such unsightly window decorations into the neighborhood.
"I bought some LED tea lights, too," Joe said in explanation.
I mentally apologized to the new neighbors.
The orange candles were short-lived, and now lie neatly packed away in their original packaging ready to go back to the store. We are confident, however, that, like the historians at Williamsburg, we will ultimately be successful in our quest to decorate our home for the holidays, however historically inaccurately.
So, based on one person's recollection of an old family tradition, candles were placed in the windows at Williamsburg. They became a big hit, and everyone put them in their own houses, especially after electric lights became available and people could stop burning their houses down. Now everyone has candles in their windows at Christmas, giving warmth and love to friends and strangers alike.
Only in our case, the candles we recently put in the windows make our home seem more suited to Halloween, because they are bright orange and exhibit a very obvious flicker, as if beckoning all the unsuspecting to see what lurks within. We bought these particular candles because a) Joe loves all things LED, and b) I have a marked tendency to accidentally knock candles with cords off the windowsill as I am opening and closing curtains. If we had had actual candles in our windows, our home would have burned down many times over.
So when we saw these candles that could turn themselves on and off at a certain time each day, AND came with suction cups so they could be securely attached to the window and not be susceptible to the clumsy among us, we bought one for every window. Joe painstakingly put them all out while I was gone, and when I came home he asked how they looked from outside.
"It looks like we have a haunted house," I said.
I had driven by the front of the house, and thought I must be mistaken about it being our house, because there were orange things shining out of the first floor window that I knew did not belong to us. I immediately thought it must be the new neighbors' house, and mentally chastised them for introducing such unsightly window decorations into the neighborhood.
"I bought some LED tea lights, too," Joe said in explanation.
I mentally apologized to the new neighbors.
The orange candles were short-lived, and now lie neatly packed away in their original packaging ready to go back to the store. We are confident, however, that, like the historians at Williamsburg, we will ultimately be successful in our quest to decorate our home for the holidays, however historically inaccurately.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Worms in space
Being an astronaut requires rigorous training, and competition is fierce. Especially if you're a worm astronaut. Four thousand "wormonauts" went up in Atlantis this week as part of a study on the effects of zero gravity on human muscles. These lucky few beat out 58,426 other worm applicants with winning essays on "What I Would Do if I Got Loose in a Space Shuttle."
Of course, no one really knows what these worms would do if they got loose in a space shuttle, because they are microscopic worms, and theoretically they could pretty much do anything they want up there and no one would know, including setting the controls to shift the shuttle on a path toward a distant planet where babe worms are known to hang out.
According to Wikipedia, on earth these worms are often found in gardens. Their preferred method of travel, when they are not in space, is on an insect or other small creature, and according to Wikipedia, when they are carried by such a host and reach a "desirable location" -- say, Ruth's Chris Steakhouse -- they "get off." Research is not yet conclusive on whether they offer adequate compensation to their hosts for this service, although in laboratory situations the worms have been known to consume the hosts if they happen to die. I think this is something the astronauts on Atlantis should be aware of.
The effects of space travel on worm muscles are being studied because "muscle wasting is a major problem for astronauts," as their muscles do not get used properly in the absence of gravity. Amazingly, MY muscles show the same wasting tendency even IN the presence of gravity. I suppose I could offer myself for research, and I wouldn't even have to go into space.
The worms are a good choice for a study on human muscles because apparently they "share up to 80% of their genes with humans," and are therefore considered "a perfect substitute" for us. This information concerns me somewhat. Lately at work we have been seeing a proliferation of worms in the building. They seemingly randomly crawl around the building, in and out of cubicles, restrooms, copiers, etc., but now I wonder: Are these worms that didn't make the NASA cut, and now they've been forced out onto the streets to fend for themselves, find jobs, earn a living? Are they looking to take OUR jobs? Never mind that the space worms are microscopic, and these are only too visible. They are all related somehow.
Personally I can think of several other organisms I would like to see sent into space, preferably permanently. Cave crickets, for instance, which were highlighted in the previous blog post. I think cave crickets have had ample time to try to prove they have a purpose for being here, and as far as I know they haven't come up with anything convincing, so why not ship them out too?
And with them we can send the worms from the office. Just in case.
Of course, no one really knows what these worms would do if they got loose in a space shuttle, because they are microscopic worms, and theoretically they could pretty much do anything they want up there and no one would know, including setting the controls to shift the shuttle on a path toward a distant planet where babe worms are known to hang out.
According to Wikipedia, on earth these worms are often found in gardens. Their preferred method of travel, when they are not in space, is on an insect or other small creature, and according to Wikipedia, when they are carried by such a host and reach a "desirable location" -- say, Ruth's Chris Steakhouse -- they "get off." Research is not yet conclusive on whether they offer adequate compensation to their hosts for this service, although in laboratory situations the worms have been known to consume the hosts if they happen to die. I think this is something the astronauts on Atlantis should be aware of.
The effects of space travel on worm muscles are being studied because "muscle wasting is a major problem for astronauts," as their muscles do not get used properly in the absence of gravity. Amazingly, MY muscles show the same wasting tendency even IN the presence of gravity. I suppose I could offer myself for research, and I wouldn't even have to go into space.
The worms are a good choice for a study on human muscles because apparently they "share up to 80% of their genes with humans," and are therefore considered "a perfect substitute" for us. This information concerns me somewhat. Lately at work we have been seeing a proliferation of worms in the building. They seemingly randomly crawl around the building, in and out of cubicles, restrooms, copiers, etc., but now I wonder: Are these worms that didn't make the NASA cut, and now they've been forced out onto the streets to fend for themselves, find jobs, earn a living? Are they looking to take OUR jobs? Never mind that the space worms are microscopic, and these are only too visible. They are all related somehow.
Personally I can think of several other organisms I would like to see sent into space, preferably permanently. Cave crickets, for instance, which were highlighted in the previous blog post. I think cave crickets have had ample time to try to prove they have a purpose for being here, and as far as I know they haven't come up with anything convincing, so why not ship them out too?
And with them we can send the worms from the office. Just in case.
Monday, November 16, 2009
A letter to Mr. Bug Guy
Dear Mr. Bug Guy,
I have read your information online about cave crickets, those delightful creatures that look like a cross between a mutant spider and a grasshopper, or a shrimp and a grasshopper, depending on the particular type, and can leap over sofas and tables and washing machines and refrigerators with no effort whatsoever. Having discovered several of these creatures in my home and workplace, I heartily concur with your observation that "cave crickets often startle residents who discover them in the basement." Perhaps, though, this observation does not go far enough. "Startles them into life-threatening heart palpitations" is, I think, not too strong of a description of what happens when you find one of these things.
You also state that cave crickets are "harmless." Perhaps you and I have differing understandings of the word "harmless." If I, upon discovery of such a creature in my home, scream, leap over the end table and knock a lamp to the floor, destroy four pairs of my husband's shoes from trying to hit the intruder, then create large holes in the walls and floors from repeated attempts to hit it with a 2 x 4, is it still considered "harmless"?
Thank you for your reassurance that cave crickets are "disinclined to mate indoors unless under damp, dark conditions." Until I read this, I confess it did not cross my mind to wonder whether cave crickets were mating in my basement. Now I have a new thought to keep me up at night, along with my new-found knowledge -- thanks also to you -- that these creatures will eat their own limbs to avoid starving, and that although they are theoretically edible, they probably "don't taste very good due to their diet," which may included canine feces. No doubt the thought of MOST people upon discovering a cave cricket in their dwelling is "Can I have this for dinner?" You have obviously saved a great number of us from the dire consequences of our curiosity.
I am encouraged by your advice that I can get rid of these creatures by eliminating the "dark, damp conditions they prefer" and creating a "clean, dry home." I have already begun this process, and my efforts to make our home less hospitable for cave crickets are paying off. We have seen a marked decline in their numbers. There is just one problem. In order to create a "clean, dry home," I have eliminated everything in the house except a few old newspapers, in case we see any more cave crickets. What do we do now?
Sincerely,
Cave Cricket Vanquisher
I have read your information online about cave crickets, those delightful creatures that look like a cross between a mutant spider and a grasshopper, or a shrimp and a grasshopper, depending on the particular type, and can leap over sofas and tables and washing machines and refrigerators with no effort whatsoever. Having discovered several of these creatures in my home and workplace, I heartily concur with your observation that "cave crickets often startle residents who discover them in the basement." Perhaps, though, this observation does not go far enough. "Startles them into life-threatening heart palpitations" is, I think, not too strong of a description of what happens when you find one of these things.
You also state that cave crickets are "harmless." Perhaps you and I have differing understandings of the word "harmless." If I, upon discovery of such a creature in my home, scream, leap over the end table and knock a lamp to the floor, destroy four pairs of my husband's shoes from trying to hit the intruder, then create large holes in the walls and floors from repeated attempts to hit it with a 2 x 4, is it still considered "harmless"?
Thank you for your reassurance that cave crickets are "disinclined to mate indoors unless under damp, dark conditions." Until I read this, I confess it did not cross my mind to wonder whether cave crickets were mating in my basement. Now I have a new thought to keep me up at night, along with my new-found knowledge -- thanks also to you -- that these creatures will eat their own limbs to avoid starving, and that although they are theoretically edible, they probably "don't taste very good due to their diet," which may included canine feces. No doubt the thought of MOST people upon discovering a cave cricket in their dwelling is "Can I have this for dinner?" You have obviously saved a great number of us from the dire consequences of our curiosity.
I am encouraged by your advice that I can get rid of these creatures by eliminating the "dark, damp conditions they prefer" and creating a "clean, dry home." I have already begun this process, and my efforts to make our home less hospitable for cave crickets are paying off. We have seen a marked decline in their numbers. There is just one problem. In order to create a "clean, dry home," I have eliminated everything in the house except a few old newspapers, in case we see any more cave crickets. What do we do now?
Sincerely,
Cave Cricket Vanquisher
Thursday, November 12, 2009
How robbing a bank keeps your brain young
As we saw in the previous blog post, performing routine tasks with your eyes closed can be highly beneficial to your brain's health. Of course it may not be so beneficial for the health of various other parts of your body, namely the ones that have to move through space guided only by what you can fell, hear, smell, or run into.
This book I am reading about mental fitness is fond of using this method to strengthen connections in the brain. For instance, it is suggested that you try getting dressed in the morning with your eyes closed. To do this, the authors say you should lay out your clothes the night before, or that you have someone else lay them out for you. ("Your clothes are ready, madam." "Thank you, Rose, that will be all." "Very good, madam.")
With your clothes all laid before you by the thoughtful Rose, your task is to arrange them on your person using only your sense of touch. Rose has gone off to attend to the vacuuming, so you are on your own. Without looking you must distinguish and put on your pants, shirt, socks or stockings, toupee, etc.
This may have been the way bank robbers first hit upon the idea of wearing a stocking over their face. While trying to kickstart his brain, a man with an ordinary office job -- let's call him Bob -- got dressed with his eyes closed, but fortunately looked in the mirror before leaving for work. Aware of the inappropriateness of wearing a stocking over his face to the office, he instantly realized the potential of his appearance for more nefarious activities, and set off to rob First National. Of course this leads one to wonder why Bob was wearing stockings in the first place, but let's be kind and assume he accidentally put on some of his wife's clothes, which Rose had carelessly arranged too closely to his.
Other tasks that can be performed with your eyes closed:
-- Keep a collection of small objects in your pockets, and when you are idle -- waiting for the teller to stuff your bags with money, for instance -- try to identify the objects strictly by touch. (Note: Do NOT try this with the collection of objects in anyone else's pocket, unless you are SURE no one can see your face through the stocking.)
-- If the booty from your robbery includes a substantial variation of coins, place some in a cup holder in your car. At red lights, try to identify the different denominations simply by feeling them. (Note: If you are stopped by a police officer and your vast amount of coins arouses suspicion, simply hand the officer a copy of the book, explain how he can increase his mental fitness with all these closed-eye exercises, and suggest he try it out right there. When his eyes are closed, run.)
This book I am reading about mental fitness is fond of using this method to strengthen connections in the brain. For instance, it is suggested that you try getting dressed in the morning with your eyes closed. To do this, the authors say you should lay out your clothes the night before, or that you have someone else lay them out for you. ("Your clothes are ready, madam." "Thank you, Rose, that will be all." "Very good, madam.")
With your clothes all laid before you by the thoughtful Rose, your task is to arrange them on your person using only your sense of touch. Rose has gone off to attend to the vacuuming, so you are on your own. Without looking you must distinguish and put on your pants, shirt, socks or stockings, toupee, etc.
This may have been the way bank robbers first hit upon the idea of wearing a stocking over their face. While trying to kickstart his brain, a man with an ordinary office job -- let's call him Bob -- got dressed with his eyes closed, but fortunately looked in the mirror before leaving for work. Aware of the inappropriateness of wearing a stocking over his face to the office, he instantly realized the potential of his appearance for more nefarious activities, and set off to rob First National. Of course this leads one to wonder why Bob was wearing stockings in the first place, but let's be kind and assume he accidentally put on some of his wife's clothes, which Rose had carelessly arranged too closely to his.
Other tasks that can be performed with your eyes closed:
-- Keep a collection of small objects in your pockets, and when you are idle -- waiting for the teller to stuff your bags with money, for instance -- try to identify the objects strictly by touch. (Note: Do NOT try this with the collection of objects in anyone else's pocket, unless you are SURE no one can see your face through the stocking.)
-- If the booty from your robbery includes a substantial variation of coins, place some in a cup holder in your car. At red lights, try to identify the different denominations simply by feeling them. (Note: If you are stopped by a police officer and your vast amount of coins arouses suspicion, simply hand the officer a copy of the book, explain how he can increase his mental fitness with all these closed-eye exercises, and suggest he try it out right there. When his eyes are closed, run.)
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Your brain on an exercise program
Because I have a deep-seated psychological compulsion to read self-improvement books that do not result in any actual self-improvements -- unfortunately I have no equally compelling drive to follow what the books say -- I am currently reading a book about improving your memory and mental fitness. The title has the word "brain" in it. I think. I can't remember for sure.
Contrary to popular belief -- according to the book -- new brain cells are not just generated when you're young. Adult brains also generate new brain cells. Unfortunately these cells are mostly put there by TV and radio advertisers, with the result that one cell starts singing "You say 'good buy,' and I say 'hello...' " and pretty soon all the other cells are singing it too.
A vital brain activity for staying young mentally is communication among the nerve cells. Unfortunately some of these nerve cells are male, and some are female, and so you can imagine that communication has a tendency to be somewhat problematic. To increase the sharing of information across brain cells, the book advocates a brain exercise program that uses the five senses in novel ways and "shakes up everyday routines."
I have scoured the book from beginning to end, and nowhere does it talk about shaking up your everyday routine by, say, unexpectedly winning large sums of money. But as disappointing as this may be, the idea of doing things in new ways, thereby stimulating new pathways in the brain, nevertheless may have some merit.
Take the daily commute. If you're like many people, commuting is one activity where your brain pretty much gets to take a nap, and it looks forward to this time. The book advocates implementing tough love, whereby your brain is not allowed to take naps while you are commuting, but is forced to pay attention to its environment in new ways.
One way to do this is to perform routine tasks, to which your brain pays scant attention because they are so routine, with your eyes closed. You should, the book says, attempt to use only your sense of touch and memory to, for instance, unlock the car, find the ignition, put on your seat belt, turn on the radio, put on your makeup, spill coffee in your lap, etc. Your other senses are forced to give you information about the items you are touching, which encourages your brain to form new responses to the stimuli, such as "What the heck is THAT?"
This type of exercise can have unexpected effects not only for you but also for those who live around you, who may be saying, "Why is the neighbor trying to open the hood of our car with her keys?" "Now she's putting the gas cap up to her ear. Do you think we should call the police?"
It is not recommended that you extend this little exercise to its logical conclusion, which would be to actually drive with your eyes closed, even though it may seem that a good percentage of the OTHER drivers on the road do this routinely. Be assured that although they seem to do this effortlessly, in their brain a full-blown war is taking place between the male and female cells:
Female cell: "We should have turned left back there!"
Male cell: "You think I don't know how to get to work? Stop trying to tell me how to get to work! I could do this with my eyes open!"
My physical being has so far resisted any attempts to make it more fit, but perhaps I'll have better luck with my brain.
Contrary to popular belief -- according to the book -- new brain cells are not just generated when you're young. Adult brains also generate new brain cells. Unfortunately these cells are mostly put there by TV and radio advertisers, with the result that one cell starts singing "You say 'good buy,' and I say 'hello...' " and pretty soon all the other cells are singing it too.
A vital brain activity for staying young mentally is communication among the nerve cells. Unfortunately some of these nerve cells are male, and some are female, and so you can imagine that communication has a tendency to be somewhat problematic. To increase the sharing of information across brain cells, the book advocates a brain exercise program that uses the five senses in novel ways and "shakes up everyday routines."
I have scoured the book from beginning to end, and nowhere does it talk about shaking up your everyday routine by, say, unexpectedly winning large sums of money. But as disappointing as this may be, the idea of doing things in new ways, thereby stimulating new pathways in the brain, nevertheless may have some merit.
Take the daily commute. If you're like many people, commuting is one activity where your brain pretty much gets to take a nap, and it looks forward to this time. The book advocates implementing tough love, whereby your brain is not allowed to take naps while you are commuting, but is forced to pay attention to its environment in new ways.
One way to do this is to perform routine tasks, to which your brain pays scant attention because they are so routine, with your eyes closed. You should, the book says, attempt to use only your sense of touch and memory to, for instance, unlock the car, find the ignition, put on your seat belt, turn on the radio, put on your makeup, spill coffee in your lap, etc. Your other senses are forced to give you information about the items you are touching, which encourages your brain to form new responses to the stimuli, such as "What the heck is THAT?"
This type of exercise can have unexpected effects not only for you but also for those who live around you, who may be saying, "Why is the neighbor trying to open the hood of our car with her keys?" "Now she's putting the gas cap up to her ear. Do you think we should call the police?"
It is not recommended that you extend this little exercise to its logical conclusion, which would be to actually drive with your eyes closed, even though it may seem that a good percentage of the OTHER drivers on the road do this routinely. Be assured that although they seem to do this effortlessly, in their brain a full-blown war is taking place between the male and female cells:
Female cell: "We should have turned left back there!"
Male cell: "You think I don't know how to get to work? Stop trying to tell me how to get to work! I could do this with my eyes open!"
My physical being has so far resisted any attempts to make it more fit, but perhaps I'll have better luck with my brain.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Please follow these instructions (but not if you're hungry)
Microwaves may have made cooking easier, but frozen microwaved meals are becoming more and more complex. The early generation of microwave meals were attractive mainly for their simple directions:
1. Put box in microwave until hot.
2. Eat until full.
These simple instructions made it possible for consumers to, say, have their Yorkshire terrier heat up their dinner for them. But now you must now have a commercial kitchen license to cook a frozen lunch or dinner in the microwave. Following are the typical directions one will find on the box of one of these meals:
1. Directions are given for CRISPIER flatbread as well as for SOFTER flatbread. Note: We highly recommend that if you love your flatbread crispy, you learn to love it softer, as the directions for soft flatbread are far simpler.
2. For both CRISPIER and SOFTER flatbread, open carton at perforated tab, then peel back the top. If you love your flatbread CRISPY, TEAR OFF the top of the carton, but DO NOT DISCARD IT. You will need it in Step 172 A.
3. If you love your flatbread SOFTER, DO NOT, UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH, PERJURY, AND HIGHER TAXES, TEAR OFF THE TOP OF THE CARTON. JUST PEEL IT BACK. Do not be concerned that the carton top is not secured; this operation will be completed in Step 53 C.
4. If you love your flatbread SOFTER, remove the shrinkwrap from the flatbread and discard it (unless you have children in middle school, in which case the shrinkwrap may come in handy for a school science project). But if you love your flatbread CRISPY, do not attempt this maneuver until Step 14.
5. For SOFTER flatbread, place flatbread back INTO carton. It must be perfectly centered in the carton, 2.7 centimeters from the edge in all directions. Note: We regret that due to rising shipping costs, we are no longer able to provide centimeter rulers with our products. You will have to borrow one.
6. For CRISPY flatbread, first remove from the carton and hold securely in one hand. With the other hand, flip the carton over to make a platform. Retrieve the carton top that was removed during Step 2 and place it, SILVER SIDE UP, on the platform. With a third hand (procedures for obtaining a third hand are not included here; please see our Web site), assemble the platform such that it resembles a teepee.
7. For SOFTER flatbread, close the carton. Glue tab AB to tab 714Q~^6 with microwave- and food-safe glue, and microwave on HIGH for 3 minutes and 47.6 seconds. Halfway through, rotate the box 64 degrees and continue heating. Allow product to stand in microwave for exactly 4.72 to the fifth minutes, unless you are making this in an office microwave and others are waiting to heat up their flatbread, in which case it is permissible to let stand for 4.72 to the third minutes.
8. If you love your flatbread CRISPIER, NOW is the time to remove the shrinkwrap. Please look out for our planet and recycle the shrinkwrap. Place the flatbread inside the teepee platform you have assembled, making sure to securely tuck all flaps under the carton. Microwave on HIGH for -- (due to our ongoing efforts to provide you with the highest quality foods, please check our Web site for the most current recommended cooking time for CRISPIER flatbread).
9. Carefully remove your CRISPIER or SOFTER flatbread from the microwave. Congratulations! You have successfully assembled an authentic, edible replica of an 1843 Sioux Indian teepee. Enjoy.
1. Put box in microwave until hot.
2. Eat until full.
These simple instructions made it possible for consumers to, say, have their Yorkshire terrier heat up their dinner for them. But now you must now have a commercial kitchen license to cook a frozen lunch or dinner in the microwave. Following are the typical directions one will find on the box of one of these meals:
1. Directions are given for CRISPIER flatbread as well as for SOFTER flatbread. Note: We highly recommend that if you love your flatbread crispy, you learn to love it softer, as the directions for soft flatbread are far simpler.
2. For both CRISPIER and SOFTER flatbread, open carton at perforated tab, then peel back the top. If you love your flatbread CRISPY, TEAR OFF the top of the carton, but DO NOT DISCARD IT. You will need it in Step 172 A.
3. If you love your flatbread SOFTER, DO NOT, UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH, PERJURY, AND HIGHER TAXES, TEAR OFF THE TOP OF THE CARTON. JUST PEEL IT BACK. Do not be concerned that the carton top is not secured; this operation will be completed in Step 53 C.
4. If you love your flatbread SOFTER, remove the shrinkwrap from the flatbread and discard it (unless you have children in middle school, in which case the shrinkwrap may come in handy for a school science project). But if you love your flatbread CRISPY, do not attempt this maneuver until Step 14.
5. For SOFTER flatbread, place flatbread back INTO carton. It must be perfectly centered in the carton, 2.7 centimeters from the edge in all directions. Note: We regret that due to rising shipping costs, we are no longer able to provide centimeter rulers with our products. You will have to borrow one.
6. For CRISPY flatbread, first remove from the carton and hold securely in one hand. With the other hand, flip the carton over to make a platform. Retrieve the carton top that was removed during Step 2 and place it, SILVER SIDE UP, on the platform. With a third hand (procedures for obtaining a third hand are not included here; please see our Web site), assemble the platform such that it resembles a teepee.
7. For SOFTER flatbread, close the carton. Glue tab AB to tab 714Q~^6 with microwave- and food-safe glue, and microwave on HIGH for 3 minutes and 47.6 seconds. Halfway through, rotate the box 64 degrees and continue heating. Allow product to stand in microwave for exactly 4.72 to the fifth minutes, unless you are making this in an office microwave and others are waiting to heat up their flatbread, in which case it is permissible to let stand for 4.72 to the third minutes.
8. If you love your flatbread CRISPIER, NOW is the time to remove the shrinkwrap. Please look out for our planet and recycle the shrinkwrap. Place the flatbread inside the teepee platform you have assembled, making sure to securely tuck all flaps under the carton. Microwave on HIGH for -- (due to our ongoing efforts to provide you with the highest quality foods, please check our Web site for the most current recommended cooking time for CRISPIER flatbread).
9. Carefully remove your CRISPIER or SOFTER flatbread from the microwave. Congratulations! You have successfully assembled an authentic, edible replica of an 1843 Sioux Indian teepee. Enjoy.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Halloween survey results
It is time for our analysts to make some sense of our recent Halloween survey, which was generously filled out by an overwhelming total of 4 people. Thank you to all of our willing participants for helping to advance society's understanding of typical Halloween behavior. Your responses will no doubt one day lead to a very important breakthrough in understanding why most people -- at least according to this survey -- despite the fact that they have 11 whole months to decide on a costume, end up wearing some variation of a bed sheet.
Let me assure everyone that the scientific integrity of this survey is in no way compromised by the fact that we had to bribe some family members, friends, little old ladies crossing the street, etc., to fill it out. And although 4 respondents does not seem enough on which to base conclusions that are representative of the population in general, we figure half of the general population needs to be bribed to go through life itself, so our 4 responses should be a good representative sample. It would have, of course, been much easier to report our findings if FIVE people had responded, because 5 lends itself to percentages very nicely, but at least 4 is easier to make percentages out of than 3.
By far the most popular activity on Halloween -- besides eating all of one's own candy, which unfortunately was not an option on this question -- was sitting in one's house with all the lights turned off. It is difficult to say what this finding means. Are these people afraid to answer their door? Why are they afraid to answer their door? Did they forget to buy candy? Did they eat all the candy and have nothing left to give away? Were they waiting to pounce on unsuspecting trick-or-treaters and scare them off, thereby not having to explain why there is no candy left?
(This brings up an important point that has nothing to do with the survey. Due to our own neglect to buy any candy this year -- a decision prompted by the total lack of trick-or-treaters at our home the past three years -- Joe, failing to find any secret stash of chocolate, was forced to rummage through the pantry and give the four costumed children who came to our door whatever he could find. I sincerely apologize to those trick-or-treaters for any mental anguish caused by being the only ones in the entire county to receive low-fat granola bars in their candy bags.)
But back to our survey. In contrast to the respondents who sit in the dark on Halloween, one person apparently openly welcomes trick-or-treaters, but instead of giving them candy, hands out apples and toothbrushes. Clearly, this individual is concerned about children's health and well-being and is willing to buck tradition to be proactive about it. Clearly this individual is also sorely in need of psychological help. It is not the business of our analysts to think up punishments for respondents, but in this case they could not help thinking of a few.
For the next question on the survey, the category of pumpkin carving respondents felt they were mostly likely to win, half indicated that they would probably win the "most likely to end up in the emergency room" category. One individual checked "most likely to use power tools" to carve his (or her, but likely not) pumpkin. We suspect that this person, too, is likely to end up in the emergency room, but as the survey allowed for only one answer per question, this cannot be ascertained for certain.
The next two questions on the survey concerned dressing up for Halloween. Seventy-five percent of respondents indicated either that they still harbor secret wishes of being able to dress up and go trick-or-treating, or that they indeed still do so. These individuals are likely endeavoring to recapture some thrill from their youth, or perhaps just interested in free candy. We can probably safely conclude that as children, they were never confronted by the respondent who gives out apples and toothbrushes, or they would want nothing to do with trick-or-treating anymore.
As for what sort of costume respondents would dress up in if they were to dress up, one person indicated that he (or she, but I doubt it) would dress as a dead celebrity pirate. If this respondent is who I think he is, this yearning was no doubt inspired by past visits to the Carolinas, which for some reason have a number of deceased celebrity pirates in the area.
Half of respondents said that their costume would consist of whatever they could create in three minutes with a sheet, glitter, a hairnet, a fanny pack, and gladiator sandals. This image is truly frightening. Equally frightening, one respondent said that he (or she, which in this case is 50-50) would dress as his (or her) mother. Actually the sheet, glitter, hairnet, fanny pack, and gladiator sandals could be a description of someone's mother, although it does not describe MY mother, because MY mother would NEVER be caught wearing a bed sheet in public, unless it was ironed.
And finally, the question that probed for the information we all want to know about our acquaintances: "Do you plan to eat more candy than you give away?" Based on the results -- 75% admitted right out, or less right out, that they do -- some Halloween re-education is clearly warranted. Perhaps the apple-and-toothbrush individual should be the one to carry it out.
This marks our last discussion of Halloween on this blog, leaving it but a distant, happy memory, except for those unfortunate children who came to our door looking for Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and were sent away with low-fat granola bars. Hey, at least the granola bars weren't gluten free.
Let me assure everyone that the scientific integrity of this survey is in no way compromised by the fact that we had to bribe some family members, friends, little old ladies crossing the street, etc., to fill it out. And although 4 respondents does not seem enough on which to base conclusions that are representative of the population in general, we figure half of the general population needs to be bribed to go through life itself, so our 4 responses should be a good representative sample. It would have, of course, been much easier to report our findings if FIVE people had responded, because 5 lends itself to percentages very nicely, but at least 4 is easier to make percentages out of than 3.
By far the most popular activity on Halloween -- besides eating all of one's own candy, which unfortunately was not an option on this question -- was sitting in one's house with all the lights turned off. It is difficult to say what this finding means. Are these people afraid to answer their door? Why are they afraid to answer their door? Did they forget to buy candy? Did they eat all the candy and have nothing left to give away? Were they waiting to pounce on unsuspecting trick-or-treaters and scare them off, thereby not having to explain why there is no candy left?
(This brings up an important point that has nothing to do with the survey. Due to our own neglect to buy any candy this year -- a decision prompted by the total lack of trick-or-treaters at our home the past three years -- Joe, failing to find any secret stash of chocolate, was forced to rummage through the pantry and give the four costumed children who came to our door whatever he could find. I sincerely apologize to those trick-or-treaters for any mental anguish caused by being the only ones in the entire county to receive low-fat granola bars in their candy bags.)
But back to our survey. In contrast to the respondents who sit in the dark on Halloween, one person apparently openly welcomes trick-or-treaters, but instead of giving them candy, hands out apples and toothbrushes. Clearly, this individual is concerned about children's health and well-being and is willing to buck tradition to be proactive about it. Clearly this individual is also sorely in need of psychological help. It is not the business of our analysts to think up punishments for respondents, but in this case they could not help thinking of a few.
For the next question on the survey, the category of pumpkin carving respondents felt they were mostly likely to win, half indicated that they would probably win the "most likely to end up in the emergency room" category. One individual checked "most likely to use power tools" to carve his (or her, but likely not) pumpkin. We suspect that this person, too, is likely to end up in the emergency room, but as the survey allowed for only one answer per question, this cannot be ascertained for certain.
The next two questions on the survey concerned dressing up for Halloween. Seventy-five percent of respondents indicated either that they still harbor secret wishes of being able to dress up and go trick-or-treating, or that they indeed still do so. These individuals are likely endeavoring to recapture some thrill from their youth, or perhaps just interested in free candy. We can probably safely conclude that as children, they were never confronted by the respondent who gives out apples and toothbrushes, or they would want nothing to do with trick-or-treating anymore.
As for what sort of costume respondents would dress up in if they were to dress up, one person indicated that he (or she, but I doubt it) would dress as a dead celebrity pirate. If this respondent is who I think he is, this yearning was no doubt inspired by past visits to the Carolinas, which for some reason have a number of deceased celebrity pirates in the area.
Half of respondents said that their costume would consist of whatever they could create in three minutes with a sheet, glitter, a hairnet, a fanny pack, and gladiator sandals. This image is truly frightening. Equally frightening, one respondent said that he (or she, which in this case is 50-50) would dress as his (or her) mother. Actually the sheet, glitter, hairnet, fanny pack, and gladiator sandals could be a description of someone's mother, although it does not describe MY mother, because MY mother would NEVER be caught wearing a bed sheet in public, unless it was ironed.
And finally, the question that probed for the information we all want to know about our acquaintances: "Do you plan to eat more candy than you give away?" Based on the results -- 75% admitted right out, or less right out, that they do -- some Halloween re-education is clearly warranted. Perhaps the apple-and-toothbrush individual should be the one to carry it out.
This marks our last discussion of Halloween on this blog, leaving it but a distant, happy memory, except for those unfortunate children who came to our door looking for Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and were sent away with low-fat granola bars. Hey, at least the granola bars weren't gluten free.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Happy Soggy Halloween!
Halloween celebrations often have a theme, such as the 50s, cartoon characters, dead celebrities, etc. The theme of our Halloween this year was: rain.
It rained not a bit the whole day until my pumpkin nephew and angel niece stepped foot outside to begin their adventure. We discovered, among other things, that rain and angel wings do not mix. The angel was down one wing right out of the house, and the other wing sagged sadly until, weighed down with water and despair at not being able to properly do its job, finally collapsed to the ground in a heap.
As we slogged along, the kids happily skipping in the rain while the adults all tried to huddle under one umbrella, the six-year-old remarked on the lack of trick-or-treaters out.
"It's probably because of the rain," we told him.
He stopped, astonished at this thought. "Why would that make any difference?" he said.
We also discovered that trick-or-treaters should be encouraged to travel as lightly as possible. The more accouterments they are lugging around, the more likely they are to ditch them in a neighbor's yard, use them as weapons, or -- worst of all -- make you carry the things. Such was the case with a young grim reaper among us, who soon grew weary of carrying his plastic ax. It got passed from person to person until it came to me, who had never met the young man before that evening, and who regarded the skull on the end of the ax as highly distasteful. I tried to look as if I were unaware and unconcerned that I was carrying a weapon with a highly distasteful skull on the end.
After some time, it dawned on Grim Reaper that I was carrying his ax. "Hey, that's my ax," he said pleasantly.
"It is," I agreed. "Would you like it back?" I held it out to him encouragingly.
He thought for several seconds. "No, thanks, I'm good," he said politely. "You can keep carrying it."
And so I soldiered on, drenched, with a skull ax in one hand and a bedraggled angel wing in the other. Next time, we bring a wagon. For all the accouterments, and for me.
It rained not a bit the whole day until my pumpkin nephew and angel niece stepped foot outside to begin their adventure. We discovered, among other things, that rain and angel wings do not mix. The angel was down one wing right out of the house, and the other wing sagged sadly until, weighed down with water and despair at not being able to properly do its job, finally collapsed to the ground in a heap.
As we slogged along, the kids happily skipping in the rain while the adults all tried to huddle under one umbrella, the six-year-old remarked on the lack of trick-or-treaters out.
"It's probably because of the rain," we told him.
He stopped, astonished at this thought. "Why would that make any difference?" he said.
We also discovered that trick-or-treaters should be encouraged to travel as lightly as possible. The more accouterments they are lugging around, the more likely they are to ditch them in a neighbor's yard, use them as weapons, or -- worst of all -- make you carry the things. Such was the case with a young grim reaper among us, who soon grew weary of carrying his plastic ax. It got passed from person to person until it came to me, who had never met the young man before that evening, and who regarded the skull on the end of the ax as highly distasteful. I tried to look as if I were unaware and unconcerned that I was carrying a weapon with a highly distasteful skull on the end.
After some time, it dawned on Grim Reaper that I was carrying his ax. "Hey, that's my ax," he said pleasantly.
"It is," I agreed. "Would you like it back?" I held it out to him encouragingly.
He thought for several seconds. "No, thanks, I'm good," he said politely. "You can keep carrying it."
And so I soldiered on, drenched, with a skull ax in one hand and a bedraggled angel wing in the other. Next time, we bring a wagon. For all the accouterments, and for me.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Halloween wisdom
This Halloween we were determined not to make the same mistakes we made last year, one of which involved neglecting to sneak through the little people's bags of candy before they did, resulting in not getting the choice pick of goodies.
Another error that was important to rectify was losing children in the darkness. It does not seem within the realm of possibility for two children to scatter in sixteen directions, but somehow they managed it quite well last year. This year we were better prepared, having put two tricks to our advantage.
First, it is extremely advantageous if children are dressed in brightly colored costumes so that they can be easily located in the darkness by lost parents or, in our case, lost aunts. We, for instance, had a pumpkin among us. It was very easy to find him, particularly since all his friends were dressed in black, and when they all ran down the street it looked as if the pumpkin was alone, the others blending into the darkness.
But if a child objects to parading about in a brightly colored costume on the grounds that it is not cool (and be aware that ANY costume you suggest to a child is not cool), you can simply place a variety of glow sticks about his person. The glow sticks can be bent into a ring and placed about the child's wrists, neck, arms, ears, etc. If the child is dressed in all black, this will give the effect of glowing rings moving of their own accord through the darkness, but at least you will always know where the child is. Unless all his friends are wearing glow sticks, too.
A second easy solution for keeping track of your child in the darkness is to teach him or her a Halloween song, and to tell the child that singing it at the top of one's lungs will keep the Candy Monster at bay. This works best with younger children, who do not yet realize that YOU are the Candy Monster, and that no amount of jolly Halloween songs will keep you from plundering the child's loot later on.
Your child may even be inclined to make up his or her own song. The four-year-old in our care showed great imagination when it came to inventing a song, as she was not bound by any beliefs that a Halloween song need have anything to do with Halloween, but liberally threw in references to puppies, sunshine, and Santa.
Between the bright orange pumpkin and the song-belting angel, we had no difficulty in locating our charges this year. Or in locating our favorite candy in their bags.
Another error that was important to rectify was losing children in the darkness. It does not seem within the realm of possibility for two children to scatter in sixteen directions, but somehow they managed it quite well last year. This year we were better prepared, having put two tricks to our advantage.
First, it is extremely advantageous if children are dressed in brightly colored costumes so that they can be easily located in the darkness by lost parents or, in our case, lost aunts. We, for instance, had a pumpkin among us. It was very easy to find him, particularly since all his friends were dressed in black, and when they all ran down the street it looked as if the pumpkin was alone, the others blending into the darkness.
But if a child objects to parading about in a brightly colored costume on the grounds that it is not cool (and be aware that ANY costume you suggest to a child is not cool), you can simply place a variety of glow sticks about his person. The glow sticks can be bent into a ring and placed about the child's wrists, neck, arms, ears, etc. If the child is dressed in all black, this will give the effect of glowing rings moving of their own accord through the darkness, but at least you will always know where the child is. Unless all his friends are wearing glow sticks, too.
A second easy solution for keeping track of your child in the darkness is to teach him or her a Halloween song, and to tell the child that singing it at the top of one's lungs will keep the Candy Monster at bay. This works best with younger children, who do not yet realize that YOU are the Candy Monster, and that no amount of jolly Halloween songs will keep you from plundering the child's loot later on.
Your child may even be inclined to make up his or her own song. The four-year-old in our care showed great imagination when it came to inventing a song, as she was not bound by any beliefs that a Halloween song need have anything to do with Halloween, but liberally threw in references to puppies, sunshine, and Santa.
Between the bright orange pumpkin and the song-belting angel, we had no difficulty in locating our charges this year. Or in locating our favorite candy in their bags.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Halloween survey
Today we take a break from our very intellectual discussion of towels to bring you something even more meaningful: a Halloween survey. Yes, Halloween is lurking just around a corner near you, and we want to know all about how you celebrate it, particularly whether you eat more candy than you give away. You can find the survey on the left side of the page, and if you can't find it, we suspect you have been bobbing for one too many apples.
As always, the results will be complied and scientifically analyzed, probably at the same time as we conduct a somewhat less scientific analysis of the merits of candy corn versus Tootsie Rolls.
As always, the results will be complied and scientifically analyzed, probably at the same time as we conduct a somewhat less scientific analysis of the merits of candy corn versus Tootsie Rolls.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
One person, many towels
Today we ponder the important question of "How many towels does each person in your house have?" And the second, though not necessarily related, question of "How many towels does each person NEED?" The answer to the first question -- supported by rigorous scientific towel research -- is: As many as possible. The answer to the second question is still being determined, and is vigorously debated in such diverse arenas as Internet chat boards, waiting rooms, cocktail parties, prison wards, etc.
Even third graders are being introduced to the issue, as can be seen in this word problem from a math book I am currently editing:
"The Smith family has 5 members. Each member has a hand towel and a bath towel hanging in the bathroom. How many towels are hanging in the bathroom?"
Personally, MY question about the Smiths would be, "Why do they only have one bathroom for 5 people?" But that is beside the point. The real point, I think, is that the Smith family, in addition to lacking in bathrooms, is woefully lacking in towel provisions. If this question were asked about OUR household, for instance, it would read:
"The Bohart family has 2 members. How many towels do THEY have?" (Answer: Enough to cover the entire human species, as well as countless members of various other species, phyla, etc., in thick jacquard velour happiness.)
Support for our large cache of towels comes from esteemed research on towel usage. People in households with a high per-capita count of towels have been found to not only be more healthy in general but are also happier, earn higher salaries, express greater satisfaction in relationships, have less chance of needing a hair transplant, are more likely to understand their Explanation of Benefits insurance forms, and tend to break spontaneously into song more often, although this last attribute is not always seen as positive by those around the individual.
Some hospitals, in an attempt to reduce the risk of patients reinfecting themselves, have instituted a "one person, many towel" policy. Patients are given strict instructions to use a fresh washcloth or towel every time they use one. Fortunately for my mother -- who is extremely frugal and would think the Smith family scandalously rich to have a towel AND a washcloth per person -- her local hospital is not up on the latest towel procedures. If the nurses tried to make her use a new towel all the time during her stays there, she would start hoarding her used towels and try to reuse them when no one was looking. But the nurses would soon catch on.
"Give 'em up, Mrs. B," they would say sternly, holding out their hands for the missing towels. "We know you've been hoarding the towels."
"But I'll wash them myself," she would plead. "Just please don't make me use a fresh one every day."
Researchers are currently looking into the curious phenomenon that, although my mother does not subscribe to the "one person, many towels" philosophy, she does have a tendency to break into song unexpectedly...
Even third graders are being introduced to the issue, as can be seen in this word problem from a math book I am currently editing:
"The Smith family has 5 members. Each member has a hand towel and a bath towel hanging in the bathroom. How many towels are hanging in the bathroom?"
Personally, MY question about the Smiths would be, "Why do they only have one bathroom for 5 people?" But that is beside the point. The real point, I think, is that the Smith family, in addition to lacking in bathrooms, is woefully lacking in towel provisions. If this question were asked about OUR household, for instance, it would read:
"The Bohart family has 2 members. How many towels do THEY have?" (Answer: Enough to cover the entire human species, as well as countless members of various other species, phyla, etc., in thick jacquard velour happiness.)
Support for our large cache of towels comes from esteemed research on towel usage. People in households with a high per-capita count of towels have been found to not only be more healthy in general but are also happier, earn higher salaries, express greater satisfaction in relationships, have less chance of needing a hair transplant, are more likely to understand their Explanation of Benefits insurance forms, and tend to break spontaneously into song more often, although this last attribute is not always seen as positive by those around the individual.
Some hospitals, in an attempt to reduce the risk of patients reinfecting themselves, have instituted a "one person, many towel" policy. Patients are given strict instructions to use a fresh washcloth or towel every time they use one. Fortunately for my mother -- who is extremely frugal and would think the Smith family scandalously rich to have a towel AND a washcloth per person -- her local hospital is not up on the latest towel procedures. If the nurses tried to make her use a new towel all the time during her stays there, she would start hoarding her used towels and try to reuse them when no one was looking. But the nurses would soon catch on.
"Give 'em up, Mrs. B," they would say sternly, holding out their hands for the missing towels. "We know you've been hoarding the towels."
"But I'll wash them myself," she would plead. "Just please don't make me use a fresh one every day."
Researchers are currently looking into the curious phenomenon that, although my mother does not subscribe to the "one person, many towels" philosophy, she does have a tendency to break into song unexpectedly...
Monday, October 26, 2009
Further rules for using kitchen towels
In the interest of public service, Joe would like to add a few more pieces of advice to the previous post regarding his "Guide to Rules for Using Kitchen Towels." His helpful advice is aimed particularly at men who, erroneously believing that all kitchen towels are to be considered serviceable for all tasks, require some assistance in understanding what is and is not permitted in the usage of kitchen towels.
1. Under special circumstances you may be permitted to keep your own stash of washcloths for wiping extremely messy things up, such as a gathering of more than one coffee ground on the counter. These washcloths may be exempt from the usual rules of daily washing, but be advised that these washcloths and your wife will perpetually scowl at each other, and they will become a thorn in your wife's side, and someday the washcloths will disappear altogether, your wife not being able to stand their filthiness any longer. (Note: Be advised that, unless you take drastic precautionary measures, this same fate may also befall your favorite pair of shorts.)
2. Do not under any circumstances go into the drawer where the kitchen towels are kept and attempt to remove one without your wife's permission. These towels are, in fact, artifacts on loan from the Museum of Rare, Extremely Clean Items, and can only be removed by persons who have submitted proper identification, have proven that they thoroughly understand and adhere to the Terms of Usage, and have demonstrated compliance with the Kitchen Towel Usage Act of 1921 B.C.
3. We have already indicated that if you must wipe up a spill on the kitchen floor, you must use a towel from the "yucky" towel bin that your wife maintains for such purposes. ("Yucky" towels are towels that used to be "good" towels, but that for some reason -- your wife grew tired of the color, perhaps, or they once were used to wipe up a single bread crumb from the counter -- have been relegated to yucky status, to be used only for yucky chores.) If, when you are wiping up such a spill from the floor with an approved "yucky" towel, you happen upon the dead stinkbug you killed two months ago but were subsequently unable to locate, do not audibly express this discovery by using some expression such as "Ewwww!" This will alert your wife that you have found something disgusting, and when she sees the stinkbug in the "yucky" towel, she will declare the yucky towel unfit for even yucky chores, and will order you to burn it in the backyard. You yourself may be quarantined for several days.
We hope that these guidelines have been of some help to those of you navigating the tricky waters of kitchen towel usage. And remember: Do keep an eye on that favorite pair of shorts.
1. Under special circumstances you may be permitted to keep your own stash of washcloths for wiping extremely messy things up, such as a gathering of more than one coffee ground on the counter. These washcloths may be exempt from the usual rules of daily washing, but be advised that these washcloths and your wife will perpetually scowl at each other, and they will become a thorn in your wife's side, and someday the washcloths will disappear altogether, your wife not being able to stand their filthiness any longer. (Note: Be advised that, unless you take drastic precautionary measures, this same fate may also befall your favorite pair of shorts.)
2. Do not under any circumstances go into the drawer where the kitchen towels are kept and attempt to remove one without your wife's permission. These towels are, in fact, artifacts on loan from the Museum of Rare, Extremely Clean Items, and can only be removed by persons who have submitted proper identification, have proven that they thoroughly understand and adhere to the Terms of Usage, and have demonstrated compliance with the Kitchen Towel Usage Act of 1921 B.C.
3. We have already indicated that if you must wipe up a spill on the kitchen floor, you must use a towel from the "yucky" towel bin that your wife maintains for such purposes. ("Yucky" towels are towels that used to be "good" towels, but that for some reason -- your wife grew tired of the color, perhaps, or they once were used to wipe up a single bread crumb from the counter -- have been relegated to yucky status, to be used only for yucky chores.) If, when you are wiping up such a spill from the floor with an approved "yucky" towel, you happen upon the dead stinkbug you killed two months ago but were subsequently unable to locate, do not audibly express this discovery by using some expression such as "Ewwww!" This will alert your wife that you have found something disgusting, and when she sees the stinkbug in the "yucky" towel, she will declare the yucky towel unfit for even yucky chores, and will order you to burn it in the backyard. You yourself may be quarantined for several days.
We hope that these guidelines have been of some help to those of you navigating the tricky waters of kitchen towel usage. And remember: Do keep an eye on that favorite pair of shorts.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Towel etiquette
Today, Joe shares his wisdom on when to use the towels and dishcloths in the kitchen. (The short answer is: Never.) He hopes that this knowledge will help other struggling husbands understand the very complex rules governing kitchen towel usage.
1. Do not be fooled. Just because kitchen towels and dishcloths are hanging in strategic locations in your kitchen does not mean that they are meant to actually be used. If you ARE allowed to use them, it must be for something that is clean, such as dishes or hands that have just been thoroughly scrubbed and disinfected. Under no circumstance should a towel be allowed to touch a surface that in any way may have been contaminated by a single speck of dirt or germ.
2. A drop of water on the counter may, under special circumstances, be okay to wipe up with a towel, but you should check with your wife first.
3. If you are told not to use a particular towel for some purpose, do not ask why, or even "What CAN I use this towel for?" The answer will be: Nothing.
4. Do not use a kitchen towel or dishcloth to wipe up your coffee maker. For this purpose, you are expected to use the worst rags in the house. Warning: Penalty for violating this rule is severe.
5. Under NO circumstances is a towel to be used to wipe up any part of your person that is bleeding. For this you must seek some other object of cleanup, preferably one found outdoors, such as leaves.
6. Also do not, under any circumstances, use any kitchen towels to wipe up spills on the floor, even if a spill is merely water that is pouring out from under the refrigerator and is threatening to swamp your whole house unless you wipe it up right away. In this situation you are expected to go into the basement, rummage around in the "yucky" towel container, and bring several "yucky" towels back to the kitchen to wipe up the mess. You will not see any difference whatsoever between the "yucky" towels and the towels already in your kitchen, but this does not matter. Your wife knows the difference.
7. When you are done wiping up the swamp in your kitchen with the "yucky" towels, do not put the "yucky" towels in the wash with the "good" towels. This will somehow, according to your wife, transfer yuckiness from the yucky towels to the good towels, and she will have to relegate them all to the yucky towel container and buy new good towels, which of course you will not be allowed to touch for at least two years.
8. If all these rules are too hard to remember, just adhere to this one simple rule: Use paper towels for everything.
Joe's Guide to Rules for Using Kitchen Towels
1. Do not be fooled. Just because kitchen towels and dishcloths are hanging in strategic locations in your kitchen does not mean that they are meant to actually be used. If you ARE allowed to use them, it must be for something that is clean, such as dishes or hands that have just been thoroughly scrubbed and disinfected. Under no circumstance should a towel be allowed to touch a surface that in any way may have been contaminated by a single speck of dirt or germ.
2. A drop of water on the counter may, under special circumstances, be okay to wipe up with a towel, but you should check with your wife first.
3. If you are told not to use a particular towel for some purpose, do not ask why, or even "What CAN I use this towel for?" The answer will be: Nothing.
4. Do not use a kitchen towel or dishcloth to wipe up your coffee maker. For this purpose, you are expected to use the worst rags in the house. Warning: Penalty for violating this rule is severe.
5. Under NO circumstances is a towel to be used to wipe up any part of your person that is bleeding. For this you must seek some other object of cleanup, preferably one found outdoors, such as leaves.
6. Also do not, under any circumstances, use any kitchen towels to wipe up spills on the floor, even if a spill is merely water that is pouring out from under the refrigerator and is threatening to swamp your whole house unless you wipe it up right away. In this situation you are expected to go into the basement, rummage around in the "yucky" towel container, and bring several "yucky" towels back to the kitchen to wipe up the mess. You will not see any difference whatsoever between the "yucky" towels and the towels already in your kitchen, but this does not matter. Your wife knows the difference.
7. When you are done wiping up the swamp in your kitchen with the "yucky" towels, do not put the "yucky" towels in the wash with the "good" towels. This will somehow, according to your wife, transfer yuckiness from the yucky towels to the good towels, and she will have to relegate them all to the yucky towel container and buy new good towels, which of course you will not be allowed to touch for at least two years.
8. If all these rules are too hard to remember, just adhere to this one simple rule: Use paper towels for everything.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Is that a hint?
Wives throughout history have been dropping hints to their husbands whenever they want a particular gift for an occasion. And wives throughout history have been disappointed at what they actually get. Yet we keep on hinting, thinking SOMEDAY it will click. Secretly we believe that, ideally, we would not even have to drop a hint when we want something. We would just have a random thought -- "Gee, I think I might like a new Coach purse" -- and voila! in a couple of days or so a Coach purse would mysteriously show up at our house in a beautifully wrapped box, with our name on it.
But instead of a Coach purse, we find ourselves trying to express enthusiasm for the Automatic Soy Milk Maker we receive. Note to husbands: If we want an Automatic Soy Milk Maker, we will just go buy one. No woman in history has ever hinted for an Automatic Soy Milk Maker.
I personally have always viewed the hint method as an invitation to disappointment, and much prefer my family's way of asking for gifts. Nothing is left to chance or whim with them. We write up very detailed wish lists for Christmas and other occasions involving gifts ("Winston Lidded Baskets at Pottery Barn, between Sephora and The Barbie Shop at the mall. Park at Macy's and proceed through the store to the mall, then turn left at....").
In my family we are also very careful not to make too many favorable comments about an item owned by another family member, lest that person take the comments as hints that we want a similar item. We used to make innocent comments of appreciation about, say, a family member's new Timberland Outdoor Adventure Moon Rover Boots, oohing and aahing over the leather, the stitching, and the cool look, and without warning the following Christmas a pair in our size would wind up under the tree. Now when one of us gets something new and cool, the rest of us merely look at it and say, "Hmm-mm."
Joe, although appreciative of not having any vague hints thrown his way that he must guess the meaning of, was at first a little taken aback at my family's direct approach to gift-seeking. "There's no surprise the way your family does gifts," he said.
"That's the point," I said.
But Joe is not fooled into thinking I will never hint for something. I am a woman, after all. So, following the advice of his male friends and co-workers ("ALL women hint. If she says she's not hinting, she's hinting"), he is alert to any comment that might possibly be construed as a hint. I told him one day after going to the grocery store that I had seen the butcher, who is always very helpful, in the floral department buying some flowers for someone special. This story seemed to Joe to have no point -- and there must be SOME point, or why would I be telling it -- and I said that I simply thought it was sweet of the butcher to buy flowers for someone. Suddenly Joe said, "I get it! You'd like me to get YOU some flowers!"
The thought had actually not crossed my mind at all, having learned to be much more direct when I do want something. But maybe there is some hope for this hinting thing after all.
But instead of a Coach purse, we find ourselves trying to express enthusiasm for the Automatic Soy Milk Maker we receive. Note to husbands: If we want an Automatic Soy Milk Maker, we will just go buy one. No woman in history has ever hinted for an Automatic Soy Milk Maker.
I personally have always viewed the hint method as an invitation to disappointment, and much prefer my family's way of asking for gifts. Nothing is left to chance or whim with them. We write up very detailed wish lists for Christmas and other occasions involving gifts ("Winston Lidded Baskets at Pottery Barn, between Sephora and The Barbie Shop at the mall. Park at Macy's and proceed through the store to the mall, then turn left at....").
In my family we are also very careful not to make too many favorable comments about an item owned by another family member, lest that person take the comments as hints that we want a similar item. We used to make innocent comments of appreciation about, say, a family member's new Timberland Outdoor Adventure Moon Rover Boots, oohing and aahing over the leather, the stitching, and the cool look, and without warning the following Christmas a pair in our size would wind up under the tree. Now when one of us gets something new and cool, the rest of us merely look at it and say, "Hmm-mm."
Joe, although appreciative of not having any vague hints thrown his way that he must guess the meaning of, was at first a little taken aback at my family's direct approach to gift-seeking. "There's no surprise the way your family does gifts," he said.
"That's the point," I said.
But Joe is not fooled into thinking I will never hint for something. I am a woman, after all. So, following the advice of his male friends and co-workers ("ALL women hint. If she says she's not hinting, she's hinting"), he is alert to any comment that might possibly be construed as a hint. I told him one day after going to the grocery store that I had seen the butcher, who is always very helpful, in the floral department buying some flowers for someone special. This story seemed to Joe to have no point -- and there must be SOME point, or why would I be telling it -- and I said that I simply thought it was sweet of the butcher to buy flowers for someone. Suddenly Joe said, "I get it! You'd like me to get YOU some flowers!"
The thought had actually not crossed my mind at all, having learned to be much more direct when I do want something. But maybe there is some hope for this hinting thing after all.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The cow wallet
It is a fact that people who are dating, or who are engaged, do things that are entirely out of character, in the hopes of making their object of interest think they are much better people than they really are. This perhaps explains why I, of my own free will, bought Joe a cow hair wallet when we were engaged.
It was what he wanted for his birthday, and of course I felt compelled to get it for him, even though it made me wonder what kind of person I was marrying, that he carried a wallet that looks like the side of a Holstein, and also made me wonder what kind of person I was for agreeing to buy him another one.
But I did agree, and set out on a big game hunt for a cow hair wallet. But one was nowhere to be found, and I was getting desperate after a few weeks of searching, and one day my sister and I sauntered into Neiman Marcus, which we occasionally do when we need a good laugh, and there, in a case with other exotic wallets, was a genuine cow hair wallet. Of course I knew, even without looking at the price tag, that I could sell all my worldly possessions including my house and still not be able to afford this wallet. But the salesman had already spotted us looking in the case, so we asked him to take the wallet out for us.
As expected, the wallet would take years of hard labor to work off, but we didn't want to let the salesman know that. We pretended to show great interest in it. We opened it, looked in all the little compartments, stroked the cow hair, and made appreciative little murmurs about its quality, all the while thinking desperately of a way to gracefully decline this purchase that all of us, including the salesman, knew we were not going to make.
Finally my sister said, with the air of one who has found a tiny flaw in a precious gem, "Didn't Joe say he wanted a bi-fold wallet? This one is tri-fold."
I grasped at this ticket out. "You're right," I said. "This one won't work at all." We tried our best to look both regretful and slightly disapproving as I handed the wallet back to the salesman.
I eventually did find a cow wallet that, happily, did not require the selling of all my worldly goods. That cow wallet is still with us, and often draws interested looks and comments from strangers, in much the same way PETA might show interest in a fur coat. I do not tell these people that I was the one who bought it.
Recently Joe asked what I would like for Christmas. "I think I want a wallet," I said.
"I could get you a cow wallet," he suggested.
"I appreciate the offer,"I said quickly, "but I think one cow wallet per household is enough. We wouldn't want to violate the Personal Bovine Item Limit."
He asked what kind of wallet I might want.
"I'm not sure," I said. "But maybe we could go look at Neiman Marcus."
It was what he wanted for his birthday, and of course I felt compelled to get it for him, even though it made me wonder what kind of person I was marrying, that he carried a wallet that looks like the side of a Holstein, and also made me wonder what kind of person I was for agreeing to buy him another one.
But I did agree, and set out on a big game hunt for a cow hair wallet. But one was nowhere to be found, and I was getting desperate after a few weeks of searching, and one day my sister and I sauntered into Neiman Marcus, which we occasionally do when we need a good laugh, and there, in a case with other exotic wallets, was a genuine cow hair wallet. Of course I knew, even without looking at the price tag, that I could sell all my worldly possessions including my house and still not be able to afford this wallet. But the salesman had already spotted us looking in the case, so we asked him to take the wallet out for us.
As expected, the wallet would take years of hard labor to work off, but we didn't want to let the salesman know that. We pretended to show great interest in it. We opened it, looked in all the little compartments, stroked the cow hair, and made appreciative little murmurs about its quality, all the while thinking desperately of a way to gracefully decline this purchase that all of us, including the salesman, knew we were not going to make.
Finally my sister said, with the air of one who has found a tiny flaw in a precious gem, "Didn't Joe say he wanted a bi-fold wallet? This one is tri-fold."
I grasped at this ticket out. "You're right," I said. "This one won't work at all." We tried our best to look both regretful and slightly disapproving as I handed the wallet back to the salesman.
I eventually did find a cow wallet that, happily, did not require the selling of all my worldly goods. That cow wallet is still with us, and often draws interested looks and comments from strangers, in much the same way PETA might show interest in a fur coat. I do not tell these people that I was the one who bought it.
Recently Joe asked what I would like for Christmas. "I think I want a wallet," I said.
"I could get you a cow wallet," he suggested.
"I appreciate the offer,"I said quickly, "but I think one cow wallet per household is enough. We wouldn't want to violate the Personal Bovine Item Limit."
He asked what kind of wallet I might want.
"I'm not sure," I said. "But maybe we could go look at Neiman Marcus."
Friday, October 16, 2009
Today
The Princess regrets that today's blog post will not appear, at least not today, due to unforeseen illness. If it had been foreseen, of course, something might have been done to prevent it, but what's done is done. And this blog is done for today.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
An entrepreneurial idea
We are not pet people. Basically we are too lazy and selfish to have pets. If someone would only invent, say, a dog that required very little upkeep, could clean up all its hair, poop, etc. -- or better yet, refrain from engaging in such activities altogether -- and manage its own exercise and social schedule, THEN we might think about getting a pet. This pet would pretty much resemble a vacuum cleaner, but with fur.
We had, in fact, been holding out for the day when someone would invent an Astro, the robot dog on The Jetsons. I have always been bitterly disappointed that our world, so far, does not remotely resemble the world of the Jetsons. I used to think, when I watched that show, that that's how life would be when I grew up. Everyone would be whizzing through the air in cute little airships. A robot maid would clean and make your bed for you. A robot dog would take care of itself and clean up after itself (or the maid would do it).
But if things keep going the way they are, with actual, non-robot pets being so pampered, we may not have to wait for an Astro to get the kind of pet we want: no maintenance, all fun.
I say this because in addition to professional dog walkers, there are now people who will, for a fee, come to your yard and scoop up your pet's, um, organic deposits. One such individual I have heard about recently is known as Miss Poop, no doubt so named because it is more catchy than, say, Miss Organic Deposit.
We see a great deal of promise in this development. All we need are a few more pet-minded entrepreneurs, and all our objections to owning a pet will disappear. We can outsource everything.
"It doesn't even have to live here," Joe suggested. "Someone else would keep our pet at their house, and we could call up every once in while and say, 'Hello, Mrs. Hoover-Smith, we'd like to come over and see Rusty for a few minutes...no, no need to bring him over here. We won't be long."
From this idea we progressed to the thought of a boarding school for pets, which would provide us the warm, fuzzy feelings of being pet owners without any of the daily responsibility. Our pet would stay at school most of the time, and the staff would send occasional updates on its progress and emotional development ("He's a great favorite with the girls, and is beginning to show some promise in swing dance"). These notes would be personalized with a wet paw and signed Love, Rusty.
When our pet came home on vacation, we would keep it busy with camps, doggy play dates, trips to the doggy spa (with a special reserved time in the therapeutic pool) -- all arranged and taken care of by a Pet Social Manager -- and we would hardly be inconvenienced at all. During one of these school holidays, we would have our annual Christmas photo taken, because the cuteness factor of this photo would be much enhanced with a pet.
So, if anyone is thinking about starting a pet boarding school, please let us know. In the meantime, we'll watch some reruns of The Jetsons.
We had, in fact, been holding out for the day when someone would invent an Astro, the robot dog on The Jetsons. I have always been bitterly disappointed that our world, so far, does not remotely resemble the world of the Jetsons. I used to think, when I watched that show, that that's how life would be when I grew up. Everyone would be whizzing through the air in cute little airships. A robot maid would clean and make your bed for you. A robot dog would take care of itself and clean up after itself (or the maid would do it).
But if things keep going the way they are, with actual, non-robot pets being so pampered, we may not have to wait for an Astro to get the kind of pet we want: no maintenance, all fun.
I say this because in addition to professional dog walkers, there are now people who will, for a fee, come to your yard and scoop up your pet's, um, organic deposits. One such individual I have heard about recently is known as Miss Poop, no doubt so named because it is more catchy than, say, Miss Organic Deposit.
We see a great deal of promise in this development. All we need are a few more pet-minded entrepreneurs, and all our objections to owning a pet will disappear. We can outsource everything.
"It doesn't even have to live here," Joe suggested. "Someone else would keep our pet at their house, and we could call up every once in while and say, 'Hello, Mrs. Hoover-Smith, we'd like to come over and see Rusty for a few minutes...no, no need to bring him over here. We won't be long."
From this idea we progressed to the thought of a boarding school for pets, which would provide us the warm, fuzzy feelings of being pet owners without any of the daily responsibility. Our pet would stay at school most of the time, and the staff would send occasional updates on its progress and emotional development ("He's a great favorite with the girls, and is beginning to show some promise in swing dance"). These notes would be personalized with a wet paw and signed Love, Rusty.
When our pet came home on vacation, we would keep it busy with camps, doggy play dates, trips to the doggy spa (with a special reserved time in the therapeutic pool) -- all arranged and taken care of by a Pet Social Manager -- and we would hardly be inconvenienced at all. During one of these school holidays, we would have our annual Christmas photo taken, because the cuteness factor of this photo would be much enhanced with a pet.
So, if anyone is thinking about starting a pet boarding school, please let us know. In the meantime, we'll watch some reruns of The Jetsons.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Stinkbugging while driving
Here in Maryland it is now against the law to text while driving. While I applaud our legislators for taking this important step toward our communal safety, I would like to point out that texting is not nearly as dangerous as another activity that I personally, though unwillingly, have been engaging in while driving lately: stinkbugging, or chasing bugs around one's car.
My car has somehow become a gathering place, an insect taxi, for indigent bugs. These include stinkbugs, which are large beetle-type bugs clad in bullet-proof armor. Although they look lumberous, they can move surprisingly fast, especially when you are trying to get them to go one way, such as out the window of the car, and they are determined to go another way, such as under your seat.
I never discover these bugs when I am on a quiet, two-lane road, where I could safely pull over and use my female skills of persuasion -- which consist chiefly of a considerable amount of screaming -- to get them to leave my car. No, it is not until I am on the highway, in the middle lane of 18 lanes of traffic zooming along at speeds dangerously close to the speed of the earth's rotation, that a bug suddenly appears.
I fully expect to be on the radio traffic report some night, as the news chopper spots my CRV driving in a haphazard manner on the highway: "Dan, we're not sure what the problem is with this car, but maybe we can zoom in a bit...yes, Dan, we can see the problem now -- there's a large stinkbug on the SEEK button of the dashboard, and the driver appears to be trying to convince it to leave through the nearest window. The stinkbug is now sticking its tongue out at the driver. Whoops, the car just veered off into a ditch...now the driver is out of the car, running around and screaming, but from what we can tell the bug is still inside, trying to figure out how to turn the radio to FM."
My latest encounter involved several miles of alternately paying attention to the road and tracking a stinkbug, which was curiously exploring the interior of the car, including the back seat, where I lost it. I convinced myself that it was reading a map in the pocket of the passenger seat, far from my own seat. When I finally stopped at the drug store I conducted a thorough search for it, much to the interest of the owner of the car parked next to me, who was prevented from getting into his car by the fact that all four of my doors were open. I finally discovered the stinkbug on the window, but had a difficult time convincing him to take the chance at freedom I was offering. Eventually he was persuaded to leave quietly, and I promised I would not press charges.
I went into the drug store and was looking at the shampoo when out of the corner of my eye I saw the stinkbug crawl over my shoulder. Although no one would describe me as a great dancer, I invented some very unique moves right there in Rite Aid. At some point the stinkbug was ejected onto the floor. I left him there in Aisle 7, looking from the detangler to the volumizer, trying to decide which would make him more attractive to the ladies.
So I agree with our lawmakers that driving has become more dangerous with all the distractions out there. I would appreciate, therefore, if they could maybe pass a law outlawing bugs from commuting. At least during rush hour.
My car has somehow become a gathering place, an insect taxi, for indigent bugs. These include stinkbugs, which are large beetle-type bugs clad in bullet-proof armor. Although they look lumberous, they can move surprisingly fast, especially when you are trying to get them to go one way, such as out the window of the car, and they are determined to go another way, such as under your seat.
I never discover these bugs when I am on a quiet, two-lane road, where I could safely pull over and use my female skills of persuasion -- which consist chiefly of a considerable amount of screaming -- to get them to leave my car. No, it is not until I am on the highway, in the middle lane of 18 lanes of traffic zooming along at speeds dangerously close to the speed of the earth's rotation, that a bug suddenly appears.
I fully expect to be on the radio traffic report some night, as the news chopper spots my CRV driving in a haphazard manner on the highway: "Dan, we're not sure what the problem is with this car, but maybe we can zoom in a bit...yes, Dan, we can see the problem now -- there's a large stinkbug on the SEEK button of the dashboard, and the driver appears to be trying to convince it to leave through the nearest window. The stinkbug is now sticking its tongue out at the driver. Whoops, the car just veered off into a ditch...now the driver is out of the car, running around and screaming, but from what we can tell the bug is still inside, trying to figure out how to turn the radio to FM."
My latest encounter involved several miles of alternately paying attention to the road and tracking a stinkbug, which was curiously exploring the interior of the car, including the back seat, where I lost it. I convinced myself that it was reading a map in the pocket of the passenger seat, far from my own seat. When I finally stopped at the drug store I conducted a thorough search for it, much to the interest of the owner of the car parked next to me, who was prevented from getting into his car by the fact that all four of my doors were open. I finally discovered the stinkbug on the window, but had a difficult time convincing him to take the chance at freedom I was offering. Eventually he was persuaded to leave quietly, and I promised I would not press charges.
I went into the drug store and was looking at the shampoo when out of the corner of my eye I saw the stinkbug crawl over my shoulder. Although no one would describe me as a great dancer, I invented some very unique moves right there in Rite Aid. At some point the stinkbug was ejected onto the floor. I left him there in Aisle 7, looking from the detangler to the volumizer, trying to decide which would make him more attractive to the ladies.
So I agree with our lawmakers that driving has become more dangerous with all the distractions out there. I would appreciate, therefore, if they could maybe pass a law outlawing bugs from commuting. At least during rush hour.
Friday, October 9, 2009
What your sneeze says about you
In the last blog post we looked at the fascinating subject of sneezes, learning that sneezes can be classified into a few easily recognizable categories, except my mother's, which as far as I know is entirely unique ("Hur-RAH!").
Sneezes have been studied quite extensively, mainly because the allergy medication manufacturers have a whole bunch of money they don't know what to do with. This is because those of us with allergies, in order to stay well-drugged with their products, give them a significant portion of our income.
Thanks to all these studies, and the sneeze experts who conduct them, we know a lot about sneezes, such as that the word sneeze is a cool word. So today, using wholly scientific, analytic methods, we will attempt to explain different personalities based on the classification of sneezes we learned about last time.
First, the Chihuahua Sneeze. This is a short, dainty, rapid sneeze that is followed by at least 17 others exactly the same. Chihuahua Sneezers, though generally considered polite and apologetic, may actually exhibit passive-aggressive tendencies. They want attention, and if they don't get it by sneezing daintily several times in a row, they may be forced to take more drastic measures, such as nipping at other people's heels.
The Cheer Sneezer is more difficult to analyze, mainly because my mother is the only known Cheer Sneezer. I suspect that the uniqueness of her sneeze has something to do with having five children spread out over 20 years, and it is a wonder she does not exhibit other, even more unique personality characteristics.
Noah Sneezers exhibit great empathy for others. This can be seen in the fact that their sneezes always come in twos, as if the Noah Sneezers are anxious that a sneeze not be alone, and that it has someone to keep it company. Noah Sneezers are also known for great physical feats and for perseverance in the face of great odds, although they do tend to get a little apprehensive when they hear thunder.
And finally, we have the Big Bang Sneezers, who get their sneezes over with in one violent, dramatic explosion. These action-driven individuals simply do not have the time for multiple little Chihuahua Sneezes, or even for two Noah Sneezes. They are too busy trying to solve the world's puzzles and mysteries, such as why anyone would want to study sneezing in the first place.
And thus ends our brief but wholly scientific analysis of sneezing. If any of you disagrees with our analysis of your particular personality, and you think another personality more accurately describes you, well, you might think about changing the way you sneeze.
Hur-RAH!
This wholly scientific analysis has been supported by the makers of Sleepadryl, Allegro, Clarifin, and Zzzzrtec, none of which, unfortunately, has paid us any actual money.
Sneezes have been studied quite extensively, mainly because the allergy medication manufacturers have a whole bunch of money they don't know what to do with. This is because those of us with allergies, in order to stay well-drugged with their products, give them a significant portion of our income.
Thanks to all these studies, and the sneeze experts who conduct them, we know a lot about sneezes, such as that the word sneeze is a cool word. So today, using wholly scientific, analytic methods, we will attempt to explain different personalities based on the classification of sneezes we learned about last time.
First, the Chihuahua Sneeze. This is a short, dainty, rapid sneeze that is followed by at least 17 others exactly the same. Chihuahua Sneezers, though generally considered polite and apologetic, may actually exhibit passive-aggressive tendencies. They want attention, and if they don't get it by sneezing daintily several times in a row, they may be forced to take more drastic measures, such as nipping at other people's heels.
The Cheer Sneezer is more difficult to analyze, mainly because my mother is the only known Cheer Sneezer. I suspect that the uniqueness of her sneeze has something to do with having five children spread out over 20 years, and it is a wonder she does not exhibit other, even more unique personality characteristics.
Noah Sneezers exhibit great empathy for others. This can be seen in the fact that their sneezes always come in twos, as if the Noah Sneezers are anxious that a sneeze not be alone, and that it has someone to keep it company. Noah Sneezers are also known for great physical feats and for perseverance in the face of great odds, although they do tend to get a little apprehensive when they hear thunder.
And finally, we have the Big Bang Sneezers, who get their sneezes over with in one violent, dramatic explosion. These action-driven individuals simply do not have the time for multiple little Chihuahua Sneezes, or even for two Noah Sneezes. They are too busy trying to solve the world's puzzles and mysteries, such as why anyone would want to study sneezing in the first place.
And thus ends our brief but wholly scientific analysis of sneezing. If any of you disagrees with our analysis of your particular personality, and you think another personality more accurately describes you, well, you might think about changing the way you sneeze.
Hur-RAH!
This wholly scientific analysis has been supported by the makers of Sleepadryl, Allegro, Clarifin, and Zzzzrtec, none of which, unfortunately, has paid us any actual money.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
And God bless you
According to sneeze researchers -- why didn't my guidance counselors ever tell me I could be a sneeze researcher? -- there are several different types of sneezes. There is the loud sneeze; the subdued sneeze; the smothered sneeze; and the no-nonsense sneeze, which is gotten out of the way quickly so the individual can get on to more important things, although sneeze researchers do not suggest what these important things may be.
To these venerable findings I would like to add my own observations of sneezes, based on the small sample of sneezes with which I am most familiar:
1. The Chihuahua Sneeze. The Chihuahua Sneeze is a dainty little exhalation, pitched several times higher than the individual's normal speaking voice. It is short and quick, as if there is not enough air capacity to emit a full-size sneeze. Those who exhibit the Chihuahua Sneeze are satisfied with no fewer than 18 sneezes in a row, although some have been observed to sneeze up to 56 times at once, after which the exhausted individual keels over with all four limbs in the air. Most likely to be exhibited by girls under 7, ladies over 79, and my sister.
2. The Cheer Sneeze. Although most sneezes include some variation of the word "achoo" (which means "incoming germs!"), the Cheer Sneeze is notably different. The word used in a Cheer Sneeze more closely resembles the word "Hurrah," with the emphasis on the last syllable: "Hur-RAH!" Most likely to be exhibited by my mother, although she vehemently denies that she says anything like "Hur-RAH!" when she sneezes.
3. The Noah Sneeze. In contrast to the Chihuahua Sneeze, which is actually 18-56 sneezes at once, we have the Noah Sneeze. The Noah Sneeze may be emitted at any volume, but the defining feature is that they invariably come in twos. No more, no less. If you are familiar with the Noah Sneeze you know that there is no point in blessing the individual after the first sneeze, because inevitably it will be followed by a second, and you will have to repeat your blessing, which cancels out the first one. The Gallant Hero is a Noah Sneezer.
4. The Big Bang Sneeze. The Big Bang Sneeze is the most dramatic sneeze. This sneeze is emitted in one violent breath, with such force as to take all the individual's cranial particles with it. The sound of this sneeze is frequently elongated: "Ah-CHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" A variant of the Big Bang Sneeze is the Prolonged Big Bang Sneeze, in which the sneeze is preceded by an extensive wind-up phase, during which there is some doubt that the individual will ever get to the actual sneeze: "Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-CHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" The Big Bang Sneeze carries such force that some scientists, not entirely satisfied with the Big Bang theory of the world's creation but also unwilling to believe that God spoke the world into being, have hit upon the Big Bang Sneeze as a compromise: God sneezed, and there we were. A little wet, perhaps, but there we were. Although I myself adhere to the speaking explanation of creation, I do exhibit a Big Bang Sneeze.
There are fascinating suggestions as to what a sneeze says about the individual exhibiting it. In the next blog post we will explore this subject more closely, not so much because we think we can learn anything from it, but mostly so we can make fun of people we know.
To these venerable findings I would like to add my own observations of sneezes, based on the small sample of sneezes with which I am most familiar:
1. The Chihuahua Sneeze. The Chihuahua Sneeze is a dainty little exhalation, pitched several times higher than the individual's normal speaking voice. It is short and quick, as if there is not enough air capacity to emit a full-size sneeze. Those who exhibit the Chihuahua Sneeze are satisfied with no fewer than 18 sneezes in a row, although some have been observed to sneeze up to 56 times at once, after which the exhausted individual keels over with all four limbs in the air. Most likely to be exhibited by girls under 7, ladies over 79, and my sister.
2. The Cheer Sneeze. Although most sneezes include some variation of the word "achoo" (which means "incoming germs!"), the Cheer Sneeze is notably different. The word used in a Cheer Sneeze more closely resembles the word "Hurrah," with the emphasis on the last syllable: "Hur-RAH!" Most likely to be exhibited by my mother, although she vehemently denies that she says anything like "Hur-RAH!" when she sneezes.
3. The Noah Sneeze. In contrast to the Chihuahua Sneeze, which is actually 18-56 sneezes at once, we have the Noah Sneeze. The Noah Sneeze may be emitted at any volume, but the defining feature is that they invariably come in twos. No more, no less. If you are familiar with the Noah Sneeze you know that there is no point in blessing the individual after the first sneeze, because inevitably it will be followed by a second, and you will have to repeat your blessing, which cancels out the first one. The Gallant Hero is a Noah Sneezer.
4. The Big Bang Sneeze. The Big Bang Sneeze is the most dramatic sneeze. This sneeze is emitted in one violent breath, with such force as to take all the individual's cranial particles with it. The sound of this sneeze is frequently elongated: "Ah-CHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" A variant of the Big Bang Sneeze is the Prolonged Big Bang Sneeze, in which the sneeze is preceded by an extensive wind-up phase, during which there is some doubt that the individual will ever get to the actual sneeze: "Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-CHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" The Big Bang Sneeze carries such force that some scientists, not entirely satisfied with the Big Bang theory of the world's creation but also unwilling to believe that God spoke the world into being, have hit upon the Big Bang Sneeze as a compromise: God sneezed, and there we were. A little wet, perhaps, but there we were. Although I myself adhere to the speaking explanation of creation, I do exhibit a Big Bang Sneeze.
There are fascinating suggestions as to what a sneeze says about the individual exhibiting it. In the next blog post we will explore this subject more closely, not so much because we think we can learn anything from it, but mostly so we can make fun of people we know.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Whose hair is it, anyway?
Joe is lucky when it comes to getting his hair cut, because his haircut has to be approved by only one person: me. I, on the other hand, have to submit plans for approval of my haircut, well in advance of the appointment, to three people: Joe. Myself. The stylist.
Due to one unfortunate mishap in the salon a few years ago, Joe is now petrified every time I say that I am going to get my hair cut.
"So that stylist cut it a little short that one time," I said when I announced recently that I was going to the salon. "I don't go to her anymore anyway."
"A little short? You didn't have any hair left."
"It'll be fine. Don't worry about it."
"Should I send a note to the stylist?" he asked anxiously. "Leave my wife's hair ALONE."
I assured him a note was not necessary.
"Or picket outside the place maybe?"
"I'm sure I saw a sign in the window that says "No Picketing. Especially Husbands."
He tried one last time to persuade me not to go. "Why do you need to get it cut? Your hair looks really good today."
"Of course it looks good today," I said. "It always looks good the day I'm scheduled to get it cut. It knows when it's time. But if I don't go, tomorrow it will be back to its usual limp, uncooperative self."
I finally made it out the door, having been forced to agree that I would administer an oath to the stylist in which she would promise to take off an imperceptible amount of hair, and as each strand of hair was cut I would inspect it and measure it with a ruler.
When I had finished explaining Joe's reservations to my stylist, and she had laughed and outlined her own plans for my hair, and I had nixed those plans and repeated the "not too short" requirement, and she had modified her plans, and I had nixed those plans, she looked at me thoughtfully.
"Will he really notice that it's shorter?" she finally asked.
"Well, he knows I was coming here, and he knows it wasn't to pick up toothpaste."
"You're lucky," she said. "My husband wouldn't notice anything different if I walked around the house naked."
I assured her I thought he would notice that.
She proceeded to take a minuscule amount of hair off, and everyone seemed moderately happy with the result. Joe. Me. The stylist.
But the one entity happiest with my hair that day was my hair itself, because no matter what plans any of us make for it, or how I get it cut, it does whatever it wants anyway.
Due to one unfortunate mishap in the salon a few years ago, Joe is now petrified every time I say that I am going to get my hair cut.
"So that stylist cut it a little short that one time," I said when I announced recently that I was going to the salon. "I don't go to her anymore anyway."
"A little short? You didn't have any hair left."
"It'll be fine. Don't worry about it."
"Should I send a note to the stylist?" he asked anxiously. "Leave my wife's hair ALONE."
I assured him a note was not necessary.
"Or picket outside the place maybe?"
"I'm sure I saw a sign in the window that says "No Picketing. Especially Husbands."
He tried one last time to persuade me not to go. "Why do you need to get it cut? Your hair looks really good today."
"Of course it looks good today," I said. "It always looks good the day I'm scheduled to get it cut. It knows when it's time. But if I don't go, tomorrow it will be back to its usual limp, uncooperative self."
I finally made it out the door, having been forced to agree that I would administer an oath to the stylist in which she would promise to take off an imperceptible amount of hair, and as each strand of hair was cut I would inspect it and measure it with a ruler.
When I had finished explaining Joe's reservations to my stylist, and she had laughed and outlined her own plans for my hair, and I had nixed those plans and repeated the "not too short" requirement, and she had modified her plans, and I had nixed those plans, she looked at me thoughtfully.
"Will he really notice that it's shorter?" she finally asked.
"Well, he knows I was coming here, and he knows it wasn't to pick up toothpaste."
"You're lucky," she said. "My husband wouldn't notice anything different if I walked around the house naked."
I assured her I thought he would notice that.
She proceeded to take a minuscule amount of hair off, and everyone seemed moderately happy with the result. Joe. Me. The stylist.
But the one entity happiest with my hair that day was my hair itself, because no matter what plans any of us make for it, or how I get it cut, it does whatever it wants anyway.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
War zone
I was fortunate to not grow up in one of those families where mealtime resembled a war zone, with individuals having to be quick-witted and quick-handed if they wanted to get any food. Since getting married, however, this situation has changed dramatically.
Not that we fight over our food. We are too refined for that. No, Joe brilliantly deploys the Stealth Food Attack method, wherein the last portion of some food or snack -- generally containing chocolate ingredients -- that I have been saving, and looking forward to savoring, mysteriously disappears.
This circumstance has forced me to resort to Food Camouflage. Since anything in plain sight will likely be stolen by the other side, I secretly hide whatever it is I want to protect in the back of the refrigerator. Bars of gold could be stashed back there, and they would never be discovered. The only things that exist for Joe are in the very front row of the refrigerator. Many a treasured food item has been saved in this manner.
But it is not always possible to hide things. Some must be stored in plain sight -- the Danger Zone -- with the knowledge that at any moment, Stealth Man may come and whisk them away.
Last night I was anticipating consuming the last of the Black Bean Tamale Pie for dinner while Joe went to class. My food radar immediately went off when I opened the refrigerator to put something else away. There, where my Black Bean Tamale Pie should have been, was a big hole. Stealth Man strikes again!
Stealth Man is very, very lucky he is not here right now, I thought. His class had saved him from great bodily harm.
But I confronted him when he came home. "I thought we had an agreement," I said, "wherein you ask me if I want something before taking the last of it."
"Well, see, I did have that conversation with you," he said. "In my head. I imagined myself asking you if I could have it, and I imagined you saying yes."
I told him next time to imagine me standing guard in front of my food with a heavy metal object. This is, after all, war.
Not that we fight over our food. We are too refined for that. No, Joe brilliantly deploys the Stealth Food Attack method, wherein the last portion of some food or snack -- generally containing chocolate ingredients -- that I have been saving, and looking forward to savoring, mysteriously disappears.
This circumstance has forced me to resort to Food Camouflage. Since anything in plain sight will likely be stolen by the other side, I secretly hide whatever it is I want to protect in the back of the refrigerator. Bars of gold could be stashed back there, and they would never be discovered. The only things that exist for Joe are in the very front row of the refrigerator. Many a treasured food item has been saved in this manner.
But it is not always possible to hide things. Some must be stored in plain sight -- the Danger Zone -- with the knowledge that at any moment, Stealth Man may come and whisk them away.
Last night I was anticipating consuming the last of the Black Bean Tamale Pie for dinner while Joe went to class. My food radar immediately went off when I opened the refrigerator to put something else away. There, where my Black Bean Tamale Pie should have been, was a big hole. Stealth Man strikes again!
Stealth Man is very, very lucky he is not here right now, I thought. His class had saved him from great bodily harm.
But I confronted him when he came home. "I thought we had an agreement," I said, "wherein you ask me if I want something before taking the last of it."
"Well, see, I did have that conversation with you," he said. "In my head. I imagined myself asking you if I could have it, and I imagined you saying yes."
I told him next time to imagine me standing guard in front of my food with a heavy metal object. This is, after all, war.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The less fortunate
My mother, full of timely wisdom, used to say by way of comfort during difficult trials growing up that I should count my blessings, because things could be much worse. Although this generally did not elicit a great degree of thankfulness on my part, I have come to take comfort in this philosophy.
Take my co-worker, for example.
There is evidently some sort of technology warp around her home, such that no two pieces of technology ever work at the same time, and sometimes none of them works. If cable is humming along as it should, the phone is dead. If the phone is working, the AC is not. Though normally many of these components function quite independently, in her case some sort of interconnectedness binds them all together, and there is apparently a limit to how many can function all at the same time.
For a time her cable was out, and the poor creature had to resort to dial-up Internet. "I've gone 20 days without cable," she confided.
We suggested that "20 Days Without Cable" might be a nice title for a reality show, on which contestants vie to see who can go the longest as, gradually, piece by piece of modern technology is forceably removed from their daily lives.
Then, in the cruel reality show that is my co-worker's life, even her dial-up stopped working. Truly, I count my blessings.
She fears that some sort of curse has been placed on her, perhaps for transgressions unknown, and has been advised to make penance, preferably in several ways and in keeping with different faiths. She is quite willing to do this, if only she could be assured that such efforts would result in being able to Google again in a timely manner.
She suggests that in the meantime, anyone wishing to get in touch with her at home could resort to a caveman-style communication, wherein a friend would scrawl a large message on the side of her home, and she would reply in like manner:
Friend: HOW ARE YOU GETTING ALONG LIVING IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY?
Co-worker: FINE! I AM EVEN LEARNING TO BAKE BREAD IN THE TRADITION OF MY FOREMOTHERS!
She has also theorized that perhaps she was actually meant to be Amish, and that somehow her non-technological roots are dogging her in an effort to return her to the fold. In support of this theory, I pointed out that she does have a common Amish first name.
If the Amish theory is correct, somewhere her modern twin is living in an Amish community, ever under a cloud of suspicion for displaying technological wisdom in a non-technological world. On market day she probably sneaks into some Internet cafe, where she makes exhaustive efforts to connect with a twin she knows is out there somewhere.
But it is unlikely they will ever meet, unless the twin can somehow make it to my co-worker's house and scrawl a message on the side.
Take my co-worker, for example.
There is evidently some sort of technology warp around her home, such that no two pieces of technology ever work at the same time, and sometimes none of them works. If cable is humming along as it should, the phone is dead. If the phone is working, the AC is not. Though normally many of these components function quite independently, in her case some sort of interconnectedness binds them all together, and there is apparently a limit to how many can function all at the same time.
For a time her cable was out, and the poor creature had to resort to dial-up Internet. "I've gone 20 days without cable," she confided.
We suggested that "20 Days Without Cable" might be a nice title for a reality show, on which contestants vie to see who can go the longest as, gradually, piece by piece of modern technology is forceably removed from their daily lives.
Then, in the cruel reality show that is my co-worker's life, even her dial-up stopped working. Truly, I count my blessings.
She fears that some sort of curse has been placed on her, perhaps for transgressions unknown, and has been advised to make penance, preferably in several ways and in keeping with different faiths. She is quite willing to do this, if only she could be assured that such efforts would result in being able to Google again in a timely manner.
She suggests that in the meantime, anyone wishing to get in touch with her at home could resort to a caveman-style communication, wherein a friend would scrawl a large message on the side of her home, and she would reply in like manner:
Friend: HOW ARE YOU GETTING ALONG LIVING IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY?
Co-worker: FINE! I AM EVEN LEARNING TO BAKE BREAD IN THE TRADITION OF MY FOREMOTHERS!
She has also theorized that perhaps she was actually meant to be Amish, and that somehow her non-technological roots are dogging her in an effort to return her to the fold. In support of this theory, I pointed out that she does have a common Amish first name.
If the Amish theory is correct, somewhere her modern twin is living in an Amish community, ever under a cloud of suspicion for displaying technological wisdom in a non-technological world. On market day she probably sneaks into some Internet cafe, where she makes exhaustive efforts to connect with a twin she knows is out there somewhere.
But it is unlikely they will ever meet, unless the twin can somehow make it to my co-worker's house and scrawl a message on the side.
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