Badly needing a getaway for some relaxation, we headed to the Pennsylvania countryside recently. Here, we thought, we could relax, slow down, take life at a leisurely pace.
And then we met our innkeeper.
A petite flurry of activity, she heaped on us not only great food but idea after idea of what to do in the area. An entire antique desk outside our room was filled with brochures, every one of which was pointed out to us with enthusiasm. Were we outdoor people? There was a nature area nearby. Did we like tours? We could tour the quaint countryside, or an Amish home. Antiques? Outlets? Restaurants? They had them all. We could even visit a chocolate museum ("It's kinda small," she said apologetically) or a pretzel factory.
We really wanted to shop, we said.
Ah! This brought on another flurry of brochures, maps, and advice. If we wanted to go to the cute shops in the nearby town -- which we did -- we'd better hurry! They close early.
We said we wanted to go to a flea market and antique shops one day. It's supposed to rain that afternoon, she warned us. Make sure you do the outdoor sales in the morning!
Oh, and these stores aren't open on Sunday!
But THIS place is ONLY open on Sunday!
And some places might not be open on the holiday!
We nodded as if we were actually taking this all in. And for the first two days we became a flurry of activity ourselves. We would be eating lunch when one of us would suddenly remember that the Shaker shop closed at 3, and off we would dash to the Shaker shop. We ate dinner only after everything else closed. Sometimes we misjudged our time. Once, while enjoying an ice cream break, we were dismayed to realize that we had missed the window for visiting the chocolate museum.
By the third day we were exhausted. So we avoided the lure of still more shops and headed for the countryside, where, one of the ubiquitous brochures promised, we could take a leisurely drive and observe several well-preserved covered bridges. Just our pace.
Driving in the countryside IS quite leisurely, unless -- because one is following a map of dubious accuracy -- one accidentally sees rather more of the country than one intended, and one's stomach begins to protest this business of taking one's time. But the brochure described several quaint inns along our drive at which we could stop and refresh ourselves with a bit of local fare, and we looked forward to dining at one of these establishments.
The brochure neglected to warn us that they would all be closed on a holiday.
"What is WRONG with these little towns?" I said as we passed the fourth closed inn. "Just because it's a holiday, everything CLOSES?"
Maybe we are not cut out for a leisurely life after all.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Do you take blueberries?
One can learn a great deal by going away into the wilds of a state like Pennsylvania, where roads and houses and whole towns are swallowed up by trees and hills. One learns, for instance, just how comforting one's spouse can be in anxious situations, such as while driving in the pitch blackness through a thick forest, where creatures of the imagination live in actuality. In such a situation a spouse might seek to reassure one by saying something like, "Here's where I remember every scary movie I ever watched...like the one where a couple drives into a dark, dark forest and is never seen again..."
The spouse quickly learns that the definition of comfort varies greatly among individuals.
One can also learn a great deal from the locals, and from non-locals, such as the couple from New York who stayed at the same B&B as we did. They informed us that bartering is big in New York, and that money is going the way of the typewriter there.
"Like," the woman said, "we know someone who found a good dog walker -- which by the way is a very lucrative business in New York -- and offered to build the dog walker a Web site instead of paying her to walk the dog. Bartering is huge."
This couple had recently ordered, through an admittedly dubious Web site, a blueberry plant that could be grown in one's home and was purported to bear blueberries perpetually. Their idea was that, since they possess no helpful skills that can be bartered for desirable items or services, they could harvest the berries and use them as bartering tools. They envisioned a vast blueberry empire someday, one that would be self-sustaining and would possibly necessitate a move to larger quarters.
Here our B&B host mentioned that she, too, had ordered a blueberry plant. "That was five years ago, and I'm still waiting for it," she said.
This somewhat dampened the couple's enthusiasm, although New Yorkers are not easily discouraged, and they remained confident that we would someday hear of their blueberry empire.
Later while we were antiquing, we realized that the charge cards that define our daily spending were more worthless as currency for buying antiques than missing blueberry plants. We are not accustomed to carrying cash with us, not even change, and we stood helpless before a little garden bench that was calling out to us to take it home. We faced the prospect of a bleak life without its charms, when Joe remembered the bartering.
"We have this rocking chair in the car..." he said to the woman selling the bench.
"No bartering, absolutely!" she said, apparently not up on New York ways.
And so we were forced to purchase the bench in a very primitive manner, by going to the nearby ATM and extracting cold, hard cash and handing it over to the woman.
I guess we won't be ordering any blueberry plants just yet.
The spouse quickly learns that the definition of comfort varies greatly among individuals.
One can also learn a great deal from the locals, and from non-locals, such as the couple from New York who stayed at the same B&B as we did. They informed us that bartering is big in New York, and that money is going the way of the typewriter there.
"Like," the woman said, "we know someone who found a good dog walker -- which by the way is a very lucrative business in New York -- and offered to build the dog walker a Web site instead of paying her to walk the dog. Bartering is huge."
This couple had recently ordered, through an admittedly dubious Web site, a blueberry plant that could be grown in one's home and was purported to bear blueberries perpetually. Their idea was that, since they possess no helpful skills that can be bartered for desirable items or services, they could harvest the berries and use them as bartering tools. They envisioned a vast blueberry empire someday, one that would be self-sustaining and would possibly necessitate a move to larger quarters.
Here our B&B host mentioned that she, too, had ordered a blueberry plant. "That was five years ago, and I'm still waiting for it," she said.
This somewhat dampened the couple's enthusiasm, although New Yorkers are not easily discouraged, and they remained confident that we would someday hear of their blueberry empire.
Later while we were antiquing, we realized that the charge cards that define our daily spending were more worthless as currency for buying antiques than missing blueberry plants. We are not accustomed to carrying cash with us, not even change, and we stood helpless before a little garden bench that was calling out to us to take it home. We faced the prospect of a bleak life without its charms, when Joe remembered the bartering.
"We have this rocking chair in the car..." he said to the woman selling the bench.
"No bartering, absolutely!" she said, apparently not up on New York ways.
And so we were forced to purchase the bench in a very primitive manner, by going to the nearby ATM and extracting cold, hard cash and handing it over to the woman.
I guess we won't be ordering any blueberry plants just yet.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
An interview with the Pansies
Today we bring you an excerpt from an interview with the winter pansies growing in the Prissy Princess's garden. There is some controversy over whether the pansies have outstayed their welcome.
Interviewer: Today we welcome a community of winter pansies who have been accused of squatting on land that is intended for other flowers. Welcome, pansies.
Head Pansy: Thank you. We're glad to be here and tell our side of the story.
Interviewer: First tell us a little about what you, as winter pansies, are, exactly.
Head Pansy: Certainly. We get planted in the fall, rather than in the spring like our cousins. We don't die in the winter -- although we do sort of take a little rest; I mean, who wants to always be cheery when it's cold and cloudy out? -- and then we explode like crazy in the spring. In fact we are (if I might say so) the most stunning spring flowers in the garden. (A smattering of applause is heard.)
Interviewer: And when do you -- let me put this delicately -- leave for that Great Garden in the sky?
Head Pansy (evasively): Oh, it varies, sometimes earlier, sometimes later.
I: Can you be more specific?
HP: No.
I: We understand that your gardener was given to understand that you would bloom throughout the winter, even peeking up through the snow, but that you were a little lackluster in this effort.
HP (bristling): Well, we can't help what she was told. It was cold this winter. It was hard keeping up our color all that time. (Other pansies nod.)
I: Let's move on to what's happened this spring. We understand that under the arrangement you had with your gardener, you were to bloom during the winter and spring, and then when planting season rolled around you were to voluntarily withdraw to make room for the spring and summer annuals and perennials. Is this correct?
HP: Well, she may have been told that we would 'voluntarily withdraw' by the guy who planted us for her. But we never made any promises.
I: Nevertheless, the gardener alleges that you are squatting on a patch that is no longer yours, and that you are preventing her from beginning her summer garden. What do you say to those allegations?
HP: With all due respect, we haven't exactly seen many other flowers lined up to take our place. (Laughter) And from what we hear, we're the best thing that ever happened to this garden. It's never been so colorful. So we figure the gardener will never toss us out as long as we're still blooming. (A chorus of assents is heard from the other pansies.)
I: So you refuse to vacate the land and move on to the Great Garden?
HP: I think it's safe to say we're gonna just hang out for a while yet. See how things go. (Looks around at other pansies, who nod in agreement.) Haven't heard a bulldozer coming to force us out. (Laughter is cut short by the sound of an engine starting up. The pansies make a great rush for the exit.)
I (Speaking loudly over the sound of the engine): Thanks for joining us today, ladies and gentlemen. Our guests today have been the Squatting Winter Pansies, although this may have been your last glimpse of them...tune in later!
Interviewer: Today we welcome a community of winter pansies who have been accused of squatting on land that is intended for other flowers. Welcome, pansies.
Head Pansy: Thank you. We're glad to be here and tell our side of the story.
Interviewer: First tell us a little about what you, as winter pansies, are, exactly.
Head Pansy: Certainly. We get planted in the fall, rather than in the spring like our cousins. We don't die in the winter -- although we do sort of take a little rest; I mean, who wants to always be cheery when it's cold and cloudy out? -- and then we explode like crazy in the spring. In fact we are (if I might say so) the most stunning spring flowers in the garden. (A smattering of applause is heard.)
Interviewer: And when do you -- let me put this delicately -- leave for that Great Garden in the sky?
Head Pansy (evasively): Oh, it varies, sometimes earlier, sometimes later.
I: Can you be more specific?
HP: No.
I: We understand that your gardener was given to understand that you would bloom throughout the winter, even peeking up through the snow, but that you were a little lackluster in this effort.
HP (bristling): Well, we can't help what she was told. It was cold this winter. It was hard keeping up our color all that time. (Other pansies nod.)
I: Let's move on to what's happened this spring. We understand that under the arrangement you had with your gardener, you were to bloom during the winter and spring, and then when planting season rolled around you were to voluntarily withdraw to make room for the spring and summer annuals and perennials. Is this correct?
HP: Well, she may have been told that we would 'voluntarily withdraw' by the guy who planted us for her. But we never made any promises.
I: Nevertheless, the gardener alleges that you are squatting on a patch that is no longer yours, and that you are preventing her from beginning her summer garden. What do you say to those allegations?
HP: With all due respect, we haven't exactly seen many other flowers lined up to take our place. (Laughter) And from what we hear, we're the best thing that ever happened to this garden. It's never been so colorful. So we figure the gardener will never toss us out as long as we're still blooming. (A chorus of assents is heard from the other pansies.)
I: So you refuse to vacate the land and move on to the Great Garden?
HP: I think it's safe to say we're gonna just hang out for a while yet. See how things go. (Looks around at other pansies, who nod in agreement.) Haven't heard a bulldozer coming to force us out. (Laughter is cut short by the sound of an engine starting up. The pansies make a great rush for the exit.)
I (Speaking loudly over the sound of the engine): Thanks for joining us today, ladies and gentlemen. Our guests today have been the Squatting Winter Pansies, although this may have been your last glimpse of them...tune in later!
Thursday, May 21, 2009
The new reality
In speaking with other wives, I find that two subjects of conversation frequently arise: husbands, and trash cans. These two subjects are generally mentioned together in the same conversation, and are usually understood to be in opposition to each other; that is, the higher the household trash becomes, the more disinclination arises on the part of husbands to remove it from the household.
This situation has led one of my co-workers to take up betting, a pastime she shares with her young daughter, in which they bet on how long it will take Dad to notice that the trash has left the confines of the trash can and is now growing toward the ceiling, down the stairs, into the garage, into the neighbors' yard, etc. So far, whoever has bet on the garbage has been a big winner.
The betting is not confined to the garbage situation. This co-worker was dismayed when a friend, who thought she was doing a good deed, hefted a heavy bag of mulch off my co-worker's walkway in the yard. "I left that there on purpose," she said. "We were betting to see how long it would take my husband to move it."
Despite considerable discussion among wives, no logical explanation has been found for the seeming inability of husbands to notice, without reminders, such chores around the house. It is Joe's fervent belief, however, that the fault lies with wives, who in some mysterious, womanly fashion, cause men to -- and I quote -- "lose all their brains" when they enter the matrimonial state. "You wives just line us all up at the top of a hill and send us sprawling down. We're helpless to think of anything ourselves."
From her own experiences, my co-worker has developed an idea for a new reality show, which would feature husbands in a familiar home environment. The men would be responsible for completing certain household tasks, but would not be told what those tasks are. The challenge, of course, is that they must discover, for themselves, what jobs they are to complete, and then complete them. The appeal of such a show for viewers, who of course would all be women, is to watch how long this process takes.
My co-worker is betting that this could be a multi-season show.
This situation has led one of my co-workers to take up betting, a pastime she shares with her young daughter, in which they bet on how long it will take Dad to notice that the trash has left the confines of the trash can and is now growing toward the ceiling, down the stairs, into the garage, into the neighbors' yard, etc. So far, whoever has bet on the garbage has been a big winner.
The betting is not confined to the garbage situation. This co-worker was dismayed when a friend, who thought she was doing a good deed, hefted a heavy bag of mulch off my co-worker's walkway in the yard. "I left that there on purpose," she said. "We were betting to see how long it would take my husband to move it."
Despite considerable discussion among wives, no logical explanation has been found for the seeming inability of husbands to notice, without reminders, such chores around the house. It is Joe's fervent belief, however, that the fault lies with wives, who in some mysterious, womanly fashion, cause men to -- and I quote -- "lose all their brains" when they enter the matrimonial state. "You wives just line us all up at the top of a hill and send us sprawling down. We're helpless to think of anything ourselves."
From her own experiences, my co-worker has developed an idea for a new reality show, which would feature husbands in a familiar home environment. The men would be responsible for completing certain household tasks, but would not be told what those tasks are. The challenge, of course, is that they must discover, for themselves, what jobs they are to complete, and then complete them. The appeal of such a show for viewers, who of course would all be women, is to watch how long this process takes.
My co-worker is betting that this could be a multi-season show.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The great escape
To celebrate our upcoming anniversary and holiday weekend -- but mostly because Joe, having finished his semester of classes, has recently rejoined society -- we set about searching the Web for a nice little place to visit. Our requirements were not too great, as when Joe is in school our outings consist of things like going to Target for toilet paper, so pretty much anyplace is exciting to us, particularly if toilet paper is already provided.
"Oooo, look at this cute little town," I said of one place in Pennsylvania. "It's got all these quaint shops."
Joe peered at the photos and shrugged. "It looks just like our town. It'd be like going down the street for three days."
"But we've never been to these shops," I pointed out, with a woman's fine distinction between various retail establishments. "Besides, we don't have a chocolate cafe. Or a pretzel factory." Realizing this last would not appeal to someone who can't eat pretzels, I added encouragingly, "Maybe they have gluten-free pretzels for you."
He did not seem overly grateful for the pretzel factory's potential generosity on his behalf.
But he did take it upon himself to locate some lodging nearby, and his enthusiasm increased considerably upon finding a somewhat more manly B&B than we traditionally stay in. I call it The Lodge, although it is modest in size and there are no obvious displays, in the photos on the Web site, of animal heads on the walls, although one can never be sure of these things until one actually sees a place in person.
Joe filled out the online reservation request, answering the questions put to him faithfully and to the best of his ability. They were the standard questions, all fairly straightforward, such as "How did you hear about us?" "How long do you plan to stay?" "How do you feel about animal heads on the walls?" "Do your spouse's views on this subject differ from yours?" etc.
He was also asked the reason for our visit. I thought he might answer, "So my wife can stop talking about this supposedly wonderful pretzel factory and chocolate cafe," but he merely wrote: "Get away."
I imagined the proprietor reading this in some alarm, believing us to be criminals fleeing the scene of our crime and the prospect of capture and punishment, seeking a safe haven -- in a little Amish enclave where we would just blend in with everyone else -- until everything blew over.
I further imagined the proprietor, upon finding out that Joe requires gluten-free foods, thinking that here was his chance to aid justice, to turn over these dastardly criminals to the authorities, through a simple scheme: Serve Joe pretzels -- perhaps as a topping to a breakfast casserole -- that are not gluten free, thereby disabling him and allowing the authorities time to come and haul us away to pay for whatever it was we had done.
Unfortunately for the proprietor, the worst this scheme would do would be to cause Joe some minor pain, which would certainly not be enough to detain us if we were criminals. We could simply make our escape to the pretzel factory and hide there.
As long as it had toilet paper.
"Oooo, look at this cute little town," I said of one place in Pennsylvania. "It's got all these quaint shops."
Joe peered at the photos and shrugged. "It looks just like our town. It'd be like going down the street for three days."
"But we've never been to these shops," I pointed out, with a woman's fine distinction between various retail establishments. "Besides, we don't have a chocolate cafe. Or a pretzel factory." Realizing this last would not appeal to someone who can't eat pretzels, I added encouragingly, "Maybe they have gluten-free pretzels for you."
He did not seem overly grateful for the pretzel factory's potential generosity on his behalf.
But he did take it upon himself to locate some lodging nearby, and his enthusiasm increased considerably upon finding a somewhat more manly B&B than we traditionally stay in. I call it The Lodge, although it is modest in size and there are no obvious displays, in the photos on the Web site, of animal heads on the walls, although one can never be sure of these things until one actually sees a place in person.
Joe filled out the online reservation request, answering the questions put to him faithfully and to the best of his ability. They were the standard questions, all fairly straightforward, such as "How did you hear about us?" "How long do you plan to stay?" "How do you feel about animal heads on the walls?" "Do your spouse's views on this subject differ from yours?" etc.
He was also asked the reason for our visit. I thought he might answer, "So my wife can stop talking about this supposedly wonderful pretzel factory and chocolate cafe," but he merely wrote: "Get away."
I imagined the proprietor reading this in some alarm, believing us to be criminals fleeing the scene of our crime and the prospect of capture and punishment, seeking a safe haven -- in a little Amish enclave where we would just blend in with everyone else -- until everything blew over.
I further imagined the proprietor, upon finding out that Joe requires gluten-free foods, thinking that here was his chance to aid justice, to turn over these dastardly criminals to the authorities, through a simple scheme: Serve Joe pretzels -- perhaps as a topping to a breakfast casserole -- that are not gluten free, thereby disabling him and allowing the authorities time to come and haul us away to pay for whatever it was we had done.
Unfortunately for the proprietor, the worst this scheme would do would be to cause Joe some minor pain, which would certainly not be enough to detain us if we were criminals. We could simply make our escape to the pretzel factory and hide there.
As long as it had toilet paper.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Gluten-free vs. wallet
Joe and I are looking at our budget. We have put off this task for some time, as if by giving the budget some space, we felt it might be encouraged to spontaneously increase. This idea, like so many other great ideas throughout history -- the three-hot-dogs-a-day diet, for instance -- has proven to be tragically misinformed.
We noted that a generous amount of our income is spent on food.
"Those gluten-free foods of yours are not cheap," I said. "It's getting expensive to keep you. We might have to do some sort of fundraiser. Do you have any talents we can exploit?"
A few talents were named and/or demonstrated, after which it was decided that perhaps another financial solution should be pursued.
Joe suggested I start a business selling gluten-free baked goods. "There's not much out there," he said. "You could charge whatever you want."
"That's a great idea," I said. "Just one thing wrong."
"What?"
"I've never baked a single gluten-free thing."
"How hard can it be?" said the voice of wisdom. But the voice of wisdom has never looked at a gluten-free baked-good recipe.
I, on the other hand, have looked at several, which explains why I have not tried any of them. I ordered a cookbook sight unseen with some trepidation, expecting 189 ingredients in each recipe, with things I had never heard of that would involve extensive travel to locate ("You must use the Canniloris cocoa bean, which grows only in the remote Cannilora region of Huro-Kai-Shi, which is inhabited by cannibals. Shots are required before visiting, as we do not want to spread disease among the cannibalistic natives"). But when the book finally came, I realized that all my worry had been for nothing. The recipes contained only 67 ingredients each.
But although each recipe contains a mere 67 ingredients, each uses several other entire recipes from the book, so that you have to make those recipes first, with their 67 ingredients, in order to make the one you want.
A typical list of ingredients might include, among others, the following:
1 chocolate base (p. 79, first making cupcakes from p. 162)
1 cup chocolate sauce (p. 231, using directions from vanilla drizzle, p. 378)
2 cups chocolate crumbs (leftover from chocolate macaroons, p. 894)
rum-laced double chocolate sauce (see The New York Times cooking section, June 29, 1986, or possibly 1973)
This brings the total number of ingredients for a single recipe to about 1,497, and the amount of time required to make one item -- say, a basic chocolate cake -- from all these other recipes is so great that someone from the next generation will have to finish baking it, because I certainly will not be around to do so.
It is also very likely that this process of making several pre-recipes will result in your forgetting, at least temporarily, which recipe you wanted to make in the first place. So you find yourself with chocolate crumbs, some vanilla frosting, and a cup of roasted apples, but no idea what you were going to make with them.
And then there is the issue of equipment. There appears to be some law by which gluten-free foods cannot be made using standard-size bowls, pans, etc., but only with bowls, pans, etc. that are either 1-1/4 inch larger or smaller than the standard, and there can be no substitutions, or dire consequences may result. Like the gluten-free ingredients, this special equipment is not easy to locate, nor is it cheap if you are lucky enough to do so.
"How many mortgages do you suppose they let you take out on a house?" I asked Joe.
"Why?"
"Oh, no reason."
We noted that a generous amount of our income is spent on food.
"Those gluten-free foods of yours are not cheap," I said. "It's getting expensive to keep you. We might have to do some sort of fundraiser. Do you have any talents we can exploit?"
A few talents were named and/or demonstrated, after which it was decided that perhaps another financial solution should be pursued.
Joe suggested I start a business selling gluten-free baked goods. "There's not much out there," he said. "You could charge whatever you want."
"That's a great idea," I said. "Just one thing wrong."
"What?"
"I've never baked a single gluten-free thing."
"How hard can it be?" said the voice of wisdom. But the voice of wisdom has never looked at a gluten-free baked-good recipe.
I, on the other hand, have looked at several, which explains why I have not tried any of them. I ordered a cookbook sight unseen with some trepidation, expecting 189 ingredients in each recipe, with things I had never heard of that would involve extensive travel to locate ("You must use the Canniloris cocoa bean, which grows only in the remote Cannilora region of Huro-Kai-Shi, which is inhabited by cannibals. Shots are required before visiting, as we do not want to spread disease among the cannibalistic natives"). But when the book finally came, I realized that all my worry had been for nothing. The recipes contained only 67 ingredients each.
But although each recipe contains a mere 67 ingredients, each uses several other entire recipes from the book, so that you have to make those recipes first, with their 67 ingredients, in order to make the one you want.
A typical list of ingredients might include, among others, the following:
1 chocolate base (p. 79, first making cupcakes from p. 162)
1 cup chocolate sauce (p. 231, using directions from vanilla drizzle, p. 378)
2 cups chocolate crumbs (leftover from chocolate macaroons, p. 894)
rum-laced double chocolate sauce (see The New York Times cooking section, June 29, 1986, or possibly 1973)
This brings the total number of ingredients for a single recipe to about 1,497, and the amount of time required to make one item -- say, a basic chocolate cake -- from all these other recipes is so great that someone from the next generation will have to finish baking it, because I certainly will not be around to do so.
It is also very likely that this process of making several pre-recipes will result in your forgetting, at least temporarily, which recipe you wanted to make in the first place. So you find yourself with chocolate crumbs, some vanilla frosting, and a cup of roasted apples, but no idea what you were going to make with them.
And then there is the issue of equipment. There appears to be some law by which gluten-free foods cannot be made using standard-size bowls, pans, etc., but only with bowls, pans, etc. that are either 1-1/4 inch larger or smaller than the standard, and there can be no substitutions, or dire consequences may result. Like the gluten-free ingredients, this special equipment is not easy to locate, nor is it cheap if you are lucky enough to do so.
"How many mortgages do you suppose they let you take out on a house?" I asked Joe.
"Why?"
"Oh, no reason."
Friday, May 15, 2009
The ant solution
One of the worst things about dealing with ants -- or any other of "nature's friendly creatures" who are unaware that you do not consider the inside of your home to be part of their territory -- is going to the store to seek out a "solution." These solutions are usually found in the dingiest, scariest aisle of the store. And they always display prominently, on every side of the packaging, larger-than-life images of all the bugs the product is intended to dispose of.
These are creatures that have crawled right out of a Stephen King novel onto the package, and they stare at you, menacingly, as you try to read the instructions. You begin to imagine that you see them start to move. To crawl toward you. The millipede's legs are magnified 11,742 times, and they are all wiggling. You begin to itch uncontrollably, and finally you flee the store with whatever product happens to be closest at hand, and your spouse later wonders why you have brought home weed killer to unleash on the ants.
You tell your spouse, using certain words and gestures and tone of voice that will leave no doubt as to your meaning, that if he wants to go back to the store and enter that horror-filled aisle and have the bejeebies scared out of him by the bug pictures on the package, well, then, he is perfectly welcome to do so. But you will not.
This leads you to search out other solutions that do not involve such mental anguish, which coincidentally are generally more healthy for the environment as well, although you are not as concerned about the environment as with your own comfort.
So you sprinkle baby powder, which you have heard to be an effective device against ants and which does not portray horrifying figures on the front of the container, in a few strategic places. The ants merely go around it. You reason, with that keen intellect human beings have, that if something does not work, the solution is to try more of it. So you uncork the baby powder and pour it all over the house. Eventually it begins to seep out the windows, bathing the outside of your home in a powdery dust that when passersby breathe in, they are instantly bombarded with happy memories of their childhood.
At some point you forget about the ants, and why there is baby powder all over the house, because you really do not want to know if the ants are still there. So you sweep up the baby powder and forget all the unpleasantness that has been your lot.
Until the next invasion.
These are creatures that have crawled right out of a Stephen King novel onto the package, and they stare at you, menacingly, as you try to read the instructions. You begin to imagine that you see them start to move. To crawl toward you. The millipede's legs are magnified 11,742 times, and they are all wiggling. You begin to itch uncontrollably, and finally you flee the store with whatever product happens to be closest at hand, and your spouse later wonders why you have brought home weed killer to unleash on the ants.
You tell your spouse, using certain words and gestures and tone of voice that will leave no doubt as to your meaning, that if he wants to go back to the store and enter that horror-filled aisle and have the bejeebies scared out of him by the bug pictures on the package, well, then, he is perfectly welcome to do so. But you will not.
This leads you to search out other solutions that do not involve such mental anguish, which coincidentally are generally more healthy for the environment as well, although you are not as concerned about the environment as with your own comfort.
So you sprinkle baby powder, which you have heard to be an effective device against ants and which does not portray horrifying figures on the front of the container, in a few strategic places. The ants merely go around it. You reason, with that keen intellect human beings have, that if something does not work, the solution is to try more of it. So you uncork the baby powder and pour it all over the house. Eventually it begins to seep out the windows, bathing the outside of your home in a powdery dust that when passersby breathe in, they are instantly bombarded with happy memories of their childhood.
At some point you forget about the ants, and why there is baby powder all over the house, because you really do not want to know if the ants are still there. So you sweep up the baby powder and forget all the unpleasantness that has been your lot.
Until the next invasion.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Ants without a purpose
We have had reason lately to seek out remedies for dealing with ants -- about 563 reasons, which is the approximate number of ants that have moved in with us over the past few days. They have come uninvited and unannounced, and expect us to provide food, entertainment, bathing facilities, opportunities for meeting ants of the opposite sex, etc.
"At least that's one good thing about spiders," I told Joe. "When they come to visit, they don't bring 500 of their closest friends and relatives along."
Joe studied the ants intently, as he does all problems that require a solution, and announced that everything we have previously thought about ants -- that they are diligent workers, that they have extrasensory perception when it comes to finding sugar in one's house, that they are excellent line dancers, etc. -- does not apply to our ants.
"These ants have no idea what they're doing," he said. "They just wander around in different directions. No one's taking charge. There's no order. There's food around, but they've been here for three days and haven't found it yet." (Editorial note: Although it may sound this way, Joe is not actually advocating that the ants DO find our food.)
"This tells me something," he said.
"What does it tell you?"
"That these ants have no purpose."
So there you have it. We have been invaded by ants pursuing a Purposeless-Driven Life. Whatever their mission is, they have evidently chosen not to accept it, preferring instead a life of idleness and aimless wandering. They have not taken stock of their talents and abilities and pondered how they might put these to use for the good of the rest of the clan, like getting food so they can all survive.
The Purposeless-Driven Ants may not know enough to have located our mother lode of food, but they do know what not to touch: the ant traps. They look at the little white plastic mounds with their inviting entrances, entrances that whisper of hidden treasures within. The ants look at them, laugh, and go on their way.
"See?" I say to the ants, pointing to the picture on the package of ant traps. "This is what you're supposed to do. Crawl in the little holes, like this happy ant in the picture, and then go tell your queen what you found. I'm sure she'll want to know all about it."
The ants laugh some more. And continue to pursue their Purposeless-Driven Life.
"At least that's one good thing about spiders," I told Joe. "When they come to visit, they don't bring 500 of their closest friends and relatives along."
Joe studied the ants intently, as he does all problems that require a solution, and announced that everything we have previously thought about ants -- that they are diligent workers, that they have extrasensory perception when it comes to finding sugar in one's house, that they are excellent line dancers, etc. -- does not apply to our ants.
"These ants have no idea what they're doing," he said. "They just wander around in different directions. No one's taking charge. There's no order. There's food around, but they've been here for three days and haven't found it yet." (Editorial note: Although it may sound this way, Joe is not actually advocating that the ants DO find our food.)
"This tells me something," he said.
"What does it tell you?"
"That these ants have no purpose."
So there you have it. We have been invaded by ants pursuing a Purposeless-Driven Life. Whatever their mission is, they have evidently chosen not to accept it, preferring instead a life of idleness and aimless wandering. They have not taken stock of their talents and abilities and pondered how they might put these to use for the good of the rest of the clan, like getting food so they can all survive.
The Purposeless-Driven Ants may not know enough to have located our mother lode of food, but they do know what not to touch: the ant traps. They look at the little white plastic mounds with their inviting entrances, entrances that whisper of hidden treasures within. The ants look at them, laugh, and go on their way.
"See?" I say to the ants, pointing to the picture on the package of ant traps. "This is what you're supposed to do. Crawl in the little holes, like this happy ant in the picture, and then go tell your queen what you found. I'm sure she'll want to know all about it."
The ants laugh some more. And continue to pursue their Purposeless-Driven Life.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The sanctity of hair
As we saw last week, I am always in search of the perfect hair. Thus far it has eluded me, but we women are hopeful souls, believing in that which we cannot yet see. We also hope, for instance, that someday our men will take out the trash without being reminded, and before it has achieved hazardous materials status.
But even though the hair I do have is less than perfect, it is no unloved stepchild. It is washed and dried and rolled and teased. It is sprayed with various products (no animals having been harmed in the process, although Joe insists that their use is harming HIM), then sprayed with additional various products in case the first various products were not sufficient. After this lengthy ritual has been completed, the last thing I want anyone to do is mess up my hair.
Early on, Joe endorsed this, not understanding that it applied to him.
He would blithely and freely try to touch my hair. He would get within several inches of it, arms outstretched, and then --
BEEP BEEP BEEP.
"What was that?" he would say, startled.
The hair alarm has sounded. You are too close to the hair. Please step away from the hair.
"But I just want to --"
Mayday! Mayday! Intruder will not retreat!
"Oh, forget it," he would eventually mutter.
Sacrosanctity successfully preserved.
But even though the hair I do have is less than perfect, it is no unloved stepchild. It is washed and dried and rolled and teased. It is sprayed with various products (no animals having been harmed in the process, although Joe insists that their use is harming HIM), then sprayed with additional various products in case the first various products were not sufficient. After this lengthy ritual has been completed, the last thing I want anyone to do is mess up my hair.
Early on, Joe endorsed this, not understanding that it applied to him.
He would blithely and freely try to touch my hair. He would get within several inches of it, arms outstretched, and then --
BEEP BEEP BEEP.
"What was that?" he would say, startled.
The hair alarm has sounded. You are too close to the hair. Please step away from the hair.
"But I just want to --"
Mayday! Mayday! Intruder will not retreat!
"Oh, forget it," he would eventually mutter.
Sacrosanctity successfully preserved.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Refusing to bloom
Ahhh, spring here in the East. The cherry trees have blossomed. The fragile white petals of the dogwood delight the senses. And the azaleas are in bountiful bloom, resplendent in pink and red. Every azalea, that is, except mine.
Mine are still mulling over the whole idea of blooming. Do we really want to come out there? It's cold and wet. Maybe we'll just stay tucked in here where it's nice and warm and dry.
And so while everyone else's bushes and trees are flowering, mine are in a state of perpetual budding. I have threatened to replace them with hydrangeas, but this has not been enough to coax them from their warm, dry place. I tell them that blooming is not optional. They just close their little buds tighter as if to ward off my voice, like a teenager who refuses to get out of bed.
And who can blame them? It has been gloomy and raining here for the past six months, it seems. It would not surprise me in the least to receive some divine instructions for building an ark.
That is the problem with spring. Spring promises a great many things -- warmer days, sunshine, buds and blossoms and blooms, green grass, full trees -- but it has a tendency to not deliver on these things. Oh, the grass is green, all right -- how could it be anything else with all this rain? But spring teases with a day or two of sunshiny bliss, then retreats somewhere far away, like Fuji. At least with winter, you know what to expect. Winter doesn't promise anything it can't deliver.
And so the azaleas happily sleep away most of the spring. Who knows if they will decide to bloom this year? But I do have a bumper crop of mushrooms.
Mine are still mulling over the whole idea of blooming. Do we really want to come out there? It's cold and wet. Maybe we'll just stay tucked in here where it's nice and warm and dry.
And so while everyone else's bushes and trees are flowering, mine are in a state of perpetual budding. I have threatened to replace them with hydrangeas, but this has not been enough to coax them from their warm, dry place. I tell them that blooming is not optional. They just close their little buds tighter as if to ward off my voice, like a teenager who refuses to get out of bed.
And who can blame them? It has been gloomy and raining here for the past six months, it seems. It would not surprise me in the least to receive some divine instructions for building an ark.
That is the problem with spring. Spring promises a great many things -- warmer days, sunshine, buds and blossoms and blooms, green grass, full trees -- but it has a tendency to not deliver on these things. Oh, the grass is green, all right -- how could it be anything else with all this rain? But spring teases with a day or two of sunshiny bliss, then retreats somewhere far away, like Fuji. At least with winter, you know what to expect. Winter doesn't promise anything it can't deliver.
And so the azaleas happily sleep away most of the spring. Who knows if they will decide to bloom this year? But I do have a bumper crop of mushrooms.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Good hair, bad hair
Joe knows the wail well, and dreads it. It is the wail of a woman having a bad hair day.
The wail rises to a crescendo and finally, amid mutters about the merits of wearing a hijab, collapses in a heap of despair.
"But your hair looks good to me," Joe says, grateful that the wailing has stopped but genuinely confused as to why it occurred in the first place, and concerned about the hijab comments.
"It always looks good to you," I moan.
Yes, we women want our men to always like how we look. But if they can't tell when our hair is a total catastrophe, it makes us suspicious as to whether they can truly appreciate it when it looks awesome.
"Someone needs to write a book for men showing pictures of 'good hair' and 'bad hair,' " Joe says impatiently, "because I sure can't tell the difference."
It is a great idea, if men could stay awake long enough to get through all the technicalities. As any woman knows, there can be subtle nuances that differentiate 'good hair' from 'bad hair' that would probably, even in picture form with little arrows and explanations, be lost on a gender that can take days, weeks even, to notice a slight change in one's hairstyle, such as that one is now blonde where one has always been a brunette.
One cannot necessarily differentiate bad hair from good hair by whether it has been styled by the individual herself or by a hair professional. In the book Joe is proposing, a picture of hair styled by an average, ordinary woman and the picture of the same hair styled by a talented hair professional for $400 per hair follicle may be the very same picture. In some cases these two photos may be followed by a third, which would reflect the woman having gone home after paying this small ransom to have her hair done, frantically undoing everything the stylist did, redoing it her own way, and ending up with exactly the same hair.
Browsing in a bookstore recently, I picked up a book about clothing styles. It had lots of pictures of the two authors, modeling what one should and shouldn't wear when one has certain unfortunate body imperfections.
"Look!" I said to Joe. I stabbed my finger at a picture in the book. "Look at her hair! I want that hair. I gotta show this to my stylist."
He looked closely at the picture. "So that's good hair?" he asked.
"That," I said, "is excellent hair."
The wail rises to a crescendo and finally, amid mutters about the merits of wearing a hijab, collapses in a heap of despair.
"But your hair looks good to me," Joe says, grateful that the wailing has stopped but genuinely confused as to why it occurred in the first place, and concerned about the hijab comments.
"It always looks good to you," I moan.
Yes, we women want our men to always like how we look. But if they can't tell when our hair is a total catastrophe, it makes us suspicious as to whether they can truly appreciate it when it looks awesome.
"Someone needs to write a book for men showing pictures of 'good hair' and 'bad hair,' " Joe says impatiently, "because I sure can't tell the difference."
It is a great idea, if men could stay awake long enough to get through all the technicalities. As any woman knows, there can be subtle nuances that differentiate 'good hair' from 'bad hair' that would probably, even in picture form with little arrows and explanations, be lost on a gender that can take days, weeks even, to notice a slight change in one's hairstyle, such as that one is now blonde where one has always been a brunette.
One cannot necessarily differentiate bad hair from good hair by whether it has been styled by the individual herself or by a hair professional. In the book Joe is proposing, a picture of hair styled by an average, ordinary woman and the picture of the same hair styled by a talented hair professional for $400 per hair follicle may be the very same picture. In some cases these two photos may be followed by a third, which would reflect the woman having gone home after paying this small ransom to have her hair done, frantically undoing everything the stylist did, redoing it her own way, and ending up with exactly the same hair.
Browsing in a bookstore recently, I picked up a book about clothing styles. It had lots of pictures of the two authors, modeling what one should and shouldn't wear when one has certain unfortunate body imperfections.
"Look!" I said to Joe. I stabbed my finger at a picture in the book. "Look at her hair! I want that hair. I gotta show this to my stylist."
He looked closely at the picture. "So that's good hair?" he asked.
"That," I said, "is excellent hair."
Monday, May 4, 2009
Not wanted: verbs
You may have been taught, as I was, that verbs are essential to one's conversation. I have learned from the man who runs my dry cleaners, however, that one is quite able to conduct a conversation with no verbs whatsoever. Our typical exchange when I drop off clothes at his establishment goes something like this:
Him: Hot today, eh?
Me: Hot, yes. But tomorrow, no.
Him: Tomorrow cold?
Me (nodding): Tomorrow cold. Wind. (simulate blowing)
Him: Ahhhh.
As with all newcomers just learning a second language, I am lost whenever the man attempts to speak in longer sentences. One day I wondered why it had been so hot in the store.
Me: Hot here. Why?
Him: (produces a string of words, none of which resembles any words I am familiar with, although I fancy that I hear "management," "crazy," and possibly a more colorful word)
Me: (blank look)
Him (with a longsuffering sigh): Air conditioning dead.
Me (brightening): Ahhh.
Our longest exchange to date came after Easter, when he ventured to ask what I had done to celebrate the holiday.
Him: You...nice Easter?
Me: Yes, thank you.
Him: You...party?
Me: Party?
Him: Party, yes. Eggs...grass.
Here he pantomimed looking for eggs, and gestured in the direction of the church behind the store. I gathered that there had been an Easter egg hunt there.
Me: Oh. No...no party.
He seemed disappointed at this, as if thinking he had finally figured out what the typical American did to celebrate Easter, and here I was claiming to not participate in this tradition. I hastened to clarify.
Me: But big dinner. Food, much.
Him (brightening): Ahhhh.
And so I would like to say a little something to my high school English teachers, who drilled into me the importance of using strong verbs to get my point across: "Verbs. No."
Him: Hot today, eh?
Me: Hot, yes. But tomorrow, no.
Him: Tomorrow cold?
Me (nodding): Tomorrow cold. Wind. (simulate blowing)
Him: Ahhhh.
As with all newcomers just learning a second language, I am lost whenever the man attempts to speak in longer sentences. One day I wondered why it had been so hot in the store.
Me: Hot here. Why?
Him: (produces a string of words, none of which resembles any words I am familiar with, although I fancy that I hear "management," "crazy," and possibly a more colorful word)
Me: (blank look)
Him (with a longsuffering sigh): Air conditioning dead.
Me (brightening): Ahhh.
Our longest exchange to date came after Easter, when he ventured to ask what I had done to celebrate the holiday.
Him: You...nice Easter?
Me: Yes, thank you.
Him: You...party?
Me: Party?
Him: Party, yes. Eggs...grass.
Here he pantomimed looking for eggs, and gestured in the direction of the church behind the store. I gathered that there had been an Easter egg hunt there.
Me: Oh. No...no party.
He seemed disappointed at this, as if thinking he had finally figured out what the typical American did to celebrate Easter, and here I was claiming to not participate in this tradition. I hastened to clarify.
Me: But big dinner. Food, much.
Him (brightening): Ahhhh.
And so I would like to say a little something to my high school English teachers, who drilled into me the importance of using strong verbs to get my point across: "Verbs. No."
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