Downsizing in the workplace has left many companies shorthanded, and we are no exception. Some time ago, for instance, we lost our Designated Bug Killer, on whom we depended greatly to rid our office of detestable creatures, some of which are almost big enough to be seen with the naked eye. Although this employee left of her own free will -- after signing a statement saying that she would never reveal her bug-killing methods to any rival workplace -- the decision to not replace her has put a great strain on the rest of us. Not only do we struggle to maintain our own crushing workloads, we must now also determine who will destroy the assorted bugs in our building, of which there are many.
Wasps in particular seem to be extremely fond of our office. They come in droves, a drove being defined as: two. Recently one invaded my workspace. After a time of cruising around the cubicle and checking out the books on my shelf -- The Chicago Manual of Style; Words into Type; Useless Grammar Facts that Everyone Except Editors Has Long Ceased to Care About, If Anyone Ever Did -- the wasp finally settled on the American Heritage Dictionary (4th edition).
"Well, he seems to be a literary wasp," someone commented.
We stared at the wasp a while, waiting for it to become bored with "gruesome: causing horror and repugnance; frightful and shocking; see 'large wasps' " and fly off to another part of the office. But it refused to oblige us.
Another co-worked finally offered her services in the Case of the Literate Wasp, declaring that she had a vendetta against wasps since being stung the weekend before at a picnic. If there is a killing job to be done, it is always helpful to secure the services of someone with a vendetta, as the individual is highly motivated to get the job done, and will not merely stand around dithering about it, as the rest of us are wont to do.
As we were discussing the technical difficulties of trapping the wasp in the folds of the dictionary, the vendetta-filled co-worker, armed with only a Kleenex, snuck up on the wasp and neatly transported it from the American Heritage Dictionary (4th edition) to wherever it is wasps go when they are no longer alive. Although we were very grateful, it did seem a shame that such a literate wasp had to be punished for the transgressions of what sounded to be a simple outdoor picnic wasp, who probably had had no opportunity to attain any higher education or read books, much less the American Heritage Dictionary (4th edition), and was just doing what comes naturally to wasps.
Should the economy pick up, and we find ourselves hiring new employees, I propose that we interview them regarding their personal feelings about bugs: Do you have any personal vendettas against bugs? If so, what kind of bugs? Please explain the nature and origin of this vendetta. Would you be willing and able to use this vendetta for the good of the company, and of your fellow co-workers?
With a full-time Designated Bug Killer aboard, the rest of us could rest easily again and attend to our very busy work schedules, including what to order on our pizza.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
O Pioneer!
The uncovering of our 170-year-old fireplace has set off a wave of nostalgia for the good old days. The fact that neither of us is old enough to remember those days has not deterred us. Once we restore the fireplace, we figure, we can add a quaint wood stove. A rug for the hearth. A Windsor rocking chair.
But the call of the quaint and primitive has not stopped there. Slowly a plan is forming in Joe's head, a plan by which we renounce the evils of modern comforts, such as electric lighting and gas heat, and return to the ways of our forefathers. We could, he proposes, use the wood-burning stove to heat the whole house.
"If gas prices shoot up," he said, "we'd be all prepared."
His fondness for candlelight may, I fear, turn into a resolve to eschew the wonders of electricity and use only candles (Birthday Cake Vanilla, with sprinkles) to light our home.
"But this is what our forefathers struggled for," I protested. "They fought and bled and died so we could have a better life -- a life with electricity and toasty warm furnaces.
"If we turn our back on all of this," I said, "their sacrifice will have been in vain."
He appeared unmoved by our forefathers' brave sacrifices.
I fear the direction this is headed. Wood-burning stove. Candles. Can an outhouse be far behind?
But the call of the quaint and primitive has not stopped there. Slowly a plan is forming in Joe's head, a plan by which we renounce the evils of modern comforts, such as electric lighting and gas heat, and return to the ways of our forefathers. We could, he proposes, use the wood-burning stove to heat the whole house.
"If gas prices shoot up," he said, "we'd be all prepared."
His fondness for candlelight may, I fear, turn into a resolve to eschew the wonders of electricity and use only candles (Birthday Cake Vanilla, with sprinkles) to light our home.
"But this is what our forefathers struggled for," I protested. "They fought and bled and died so we could have a better life -- a life with electricity and toasty warm furnaces.
"If we turn our back on all of this," I said, "their sacrifice will have been in vain."
He appeared unmoved by our forefathers' brave sacrifices.
I fear the direction this is headed. Wood-burning stove. Candles. Can an outhouse be far behind?
Thursday, August 27, 2009
How the other half lives
For the past couple of years my parents have been taking turns playing a game, a game called "Let's Go to the Emergency Room and Throw Our Adult Children into a Fit of Anxiety."
This time, it was my father's turn to play the game. A week in the hospital, a few days in rehab.
"How are things going?" I asked.
Asking this question is risky, because although you do want to know how they are doing, you are really hoping to receive the Preferred Answer ("This place is great! Everyone is so nice. There's always so much going on. I never had better food in my life. My roommate has become my best friend. I don't want to go home"). But you never receive the Preferred Answer, although my mother does tend to praise the food in these establishments, mainly because she did not have to cook it.
"No one wants to help me," my father reported. "I have to do everything myself."
"I'm sure the staff is really busy," I said.
He scoffed at this. "Nah, I don't see how they can be," he said. If they are not busy helping him, they are not busy.
"You're in rehab, Dad, not a five-star hotel. They want you to do things for yourself so you can get better and go home."
He grunted, refusing to believe that the staff might have his best interests at heart.
He lowered his voice, although most everyone around him is hard of hearing. "I saw where the rich people live," he said conspiratorially.
"The rich people?"
"Yeah, in the assisted living wing. The rooms there are like mansions! Not closets like we have here. Plus I can tell they're rich because of the wheelchairs."
"The wheelchairs?" I said.
"Yeah. Their wheelchairs are Cadillacs," he said. "People over where I am just have your basic Chevy."
I pictured my father in his basic Chevy wheelchair, spying on the rich residents in assisted living with their Cadillacs and mansions.
"I bet they have the same food," I said, trying to think of something positive.
"Ha!" he said. "They probably get it catered from somewhere."
He was supposed to be there for a few weeks, but they said he was "independent" now and could go home. My father wanted to know what was for dinner once he got home.
"You're independent now," my mother said. "You can get the dinner."
Maybe the rehab place wasn't so bad after all. Even if he just had a Chevy wheelchair.
This time, it was my father's turn to play the game. A week in the hospital, a few days in rehab.
"How are things going?" I asked.
Asking this question is risky, because although you do want to know how they are doing, you are really hoping to receive the Preferred Answer ("This place is great! Everyone is so nice. There's always so much going on. I never had better food in my life. My roommate has become my best friend. I don't want to go home"). But you never receive the Preferred Answer, although my mother does tend to praise the food in these establishments, mainly because she did not have to cook it.
"No one wants to help me," my father reported. "I have to do everything myself."
"I'm sure the staff is really busy," I said.
He scoffed at this. "Nah, I don't see how they can be," he said. If they are not busy helping him, they are not busy.
"You're in rehab, Dad, not a five-star hotel. They want you to do things for yourself so you can get better and go home."
He grunted, refusing to believe that the staff might have his best interests at heart.
He lowered his voice, although most everyone around him is hard of hearing. "I saw where the rich people live," he said conspiratorially.
"The rich people?"
"Yeah, in the assisted living wing. The rooms there are like mansions! Not closets like we have here. Plus I can tell they're rich because of the wheelchairs."
"The wheelchairs?" I said.
"Yeah. Their wheelchairs are Cadillacs," he said. "People over where I am just have your basic Chevy."
I pictured my father in his basic Chevy wheelchair, spying on the rich residents in assisted living with their Cadillacs and mansions.
"I bet they have the same food," I said, trying to think of something positive.
"Ha!" he said. "They probably get it catered from somewhere."
He was supposed to be there for a few weeks, but they said he was "independent" now and could go home. My father wanted to know what was for dinner once he got home.
"You're independent now," my mother said. "You can get the dinner."
Maybe the rehab place wasn't so bad after all. Even if he just had a Chevy wheelchair.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Please have a rice cake
With our move at work a few months ago with a small portion of the staff, there has been a significant drop-off in the number of treats brought in by co-workers for general consumption. In the main building, where most employees remain -- no doubt heartsick over our departure -- such items appear regularly in the eating area, and are not restricted to morning hours. If a particular snack disappears early in the day, something else mysteriously arrives later to take its place, as if depriving the workforce of treats for even a few hours might cause a an enraged rampage, like wild animals bereft of their prey.
In the new building, although we certainly talk about food a great deal, not much has been forthcoming in the way of treats mysteriously appearing in the kitchen. When someone does bring something in, we have been forced, by the fear of certain parties hostile to heavily caloric treats, to take elaborate measures to hide them.
Recently, for instance, it was proposed that donuts be brought in. It was felt that the donuts should be restricted to our own department, so as to avoid any censure by these certain hostile parties, and consequently a hiding place was chosen for the donuts, known only to those who are friendly to heavily caloric foods. This elaborate ruse in no way had anything to do with our unwillingness to share our bounty, although certainly we were happy to have more donuts to ourselves.
It was further suggested that, to avoid any chance of our donuts becoming discovered -- and perhaps confiscated, in the name of "health" -- by hostile parties, we should devise a code word to use when referring to them. After some discussion, it was felt that "rice cakes" would be an adequate substitution, and could be used thus in conversation:
"The rice cakes are here."
"Can I get you a rice cake?"
"Do you need some help finishing off those rice cakes?"
"Mmmm, delicious rice cakes!"
This way, if any parties hostile to donuts were to overhear us, they would experience a measure of satisfaction that finally, to all appearances at least, we were heeding the words of wisdom and learning to eat sensibly, and they would forgo chastising us for our unhealthy lifestyle choices.
This plan worked beautifully, with none the wiser at our deception, and the rice cakes were thoroughly enjoyed by all. At least all who knew of their existence.
But only a few short days later a most decadent birthday cake was brought in for one employee, and all pretense at hiding it was abandoned. We freely displayed, devoured, and sang the praises of this cake, with no reference to rice cakes or anything else remotely healthy. And as the birthday person was turning an age of which she was not proud, and insisted that she did not wish us to sing "Happy Birthday" because it was NOT a happy birthday, we therefore heartily sang "Adequate Birthday to You" instead, which no doubt cheered her immensely.
And the rest of us are cheered by the thought of, sometime in the future, more rice cakes.
In the new building, although we certainly talk about food a great deal, not much has been forthcoming in the way of treats mysteriously appearing in the kitchen. When someone does bring something in, we have been forced, by the fear of certain parties hostile to heavily caloric treats, to take elaborate measures to hide them.
Recently, for instance, it was proposed that donuts be brought in. It was felt that the donuts should be restricted to our own department, so as to avoid any censure by these certain hostile parties, and consequently a hiding place was chosen for the donuts, known only to those who are friendly to heavily caloric foods. This elaborate ruse in no way had anything to do with our unwillingness to share our bounty, although certainly we were happy to have more donuts to ourselves.
It was further suggested that, to avoid any chance of our donuts becoming discovered -- and perhaps confiscated, in the name of "health" -- by hostile parties, we should devise a code word to use when referring to them. After some discussion, it was felt that "rice cakes" would be an adequate substitution, and could be used thus in conversation:
"The rice cakes are here."
"Can I get you a rice cake?"
"Do you need some help finishing off those rice cakes?"
"Mmmm, delicious rice cakes!"
This way, if any parties hostile to donuts were to overhear us, they would experience a measure of satisfaction that finally, to all appearances at least, we were heeding the words of wisdom and learning to eat sensibly, and they would forgo chastising us for our unhealthy lifestyle choices.
This plan worked beautifully, with none the wiser at our deception, and the rice cakes were thoroughly enjoyed by all. At least all who knew of their existence.
But only a few short days later a most decadent birthday cake was brought in for one employee, and all pretense at hiding it was abandoned. We freely displayed, devoured, and sang the praises of this cake, with no reference to rice cakes or anything else remotely healthy. And as the birthday person was turning an age of which she was not proud, and insisted that she did not wish us to sing "Happy Birthday" because it was NOT a happy birthday, we therefore heartily sang "Adequate Birthday to You" instead, which no doubt cheered her immensely.
And the rest of us are cheered by the thought of, sometime in the future, more rice cakes.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Zzzzzzz
KMDKKCHPTKDCH...that is the sound of the Hero's alarm clock going off this morning, which the Princess does not usually hear because she is already awake and writing (hopefully) humorous stories about not much at all, but which she heard today because she did not hear HER alarm one hour earlier. We extend profuse apologies to our faithful readers for the absence of any (hopefully) humorous stories today, and promise to return next week, provided Hurricane Bill does not inflict any damage upon our computer or our person over the weekend.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
It's a bird, it's a plane -- it's spaghetti squash
With Joe on a gluten-free diet, one would think that our culinary experiences have been severely curtailed. But just because we have given up things like oven-warm bread, double-cheese pizza, Awesome Shrimp Pasta, chocolate cupcakes with chocolate chocolate frosting, and double chocolate frosted donuts, doesn't mean we can't enjoy food. At least that is what we keep telling ourselves.
But this opportunity has opened up new worlds to us, worlds we would never have explored had we not been forced to. These worlds contain ingredients we have never heard of, and which cause us to wonder whether they are actually food, or some mystery substances from outer space spun off by a passing comet. These ingredients have names like "spelt" and "garbanzo bean-fava flour."
A trick of GF eating is to substitute these odd types of food for things you are no longer allowed to have. Instead of pasta, for instance, there is: spaghetti squash.
Now, we have not had any pasta for several months. This explains why I was persuaded to buy a spaghetti squash, wanting desperately to believe that it would indeed resemble spaghetti. In actuality it more closely resembles Bert on Sesame Street, only without the striped shirt.
I knew that it would be difficult to generate much enthusiasm from Joe for the "squash is the new spaghetti" idea. Squash is in his category of suspicious foods, especially one that looks like a Sesame Street character. I therefore attempted to conceal my plans from him.
When he asked, more than once, what we were having for dinner, I was vague. "Something new," I told him, which is code for "You're not going to like it, but I'm making it, and you can't do anything about it, so just forget about it."
Unfortunately, it is difficult to disguise a spaghetti squash. And there is nowhere to hide it, except in the oven, and I learned long ago never to hide anything in the oven. If you do, the oven, being an evil-minded creature, will somehow turn itself on without your knowledge, and soon the object sitting inside it will turn to soot. So the spaghetti squash remained on the kitchen counter.
Joe, being an observant sort of person, spied it sitting there in plain sight and immediately wanted to know what I was making with THAT. As if THAT were a plate of eyeballs rolling around.
I explained that I was going to cook THAT, and with any luck it would at least LOOK like spaghetti -- which it did in the cookbook picture, although they probably used actual spaghetti for the photo -- even if it didn't taste exactly the same.
"You're going to kill Bert?" he said.
I ignored this and put Ber-- the squash in the microwave, then scraped out the insides, which with a great amount of imagination did sort of resemble pasta. I put it all in a casserole, with various ingredients that were more familiar to us, which would hopefully make us forget the squash was in there.
Surprisingly, we liked it, and we almost forgot that it wasn't really spaghetti. Almost.
Maybe sometime we'll be brave enough to try garbanzo bean-fava flour.
But this opportunity has opened up new worlds to us, worlds we would never have explored had we not been forced to. These worlds contain ingredients we have never heard of, and which cause us to wonder whether they are actually food, or some mystery substances from outer space spun off by a passing comet. These ingredients have names like "spelt" and "garbanzo bean-fava flour."
A trick of GF eating is to substitute these odd types of food for things you are no longer allowed to have. Instead of pasta, for instance, there is: spaghetti squash.
Now, we have not had any pasta for several months. This explains why I was persuaded to buy a spaghetti squash, wanting desperately to believe that it would indeed resemble spaghetti. In actuality it more closely resembles Bert on Sesame Street, only without the striped shirt.
I knew that it would be difficult to generate much enthusiasm from Joe for the "squash is the new spaghetti" idea. Squash is in his category of suspicious foods, especially one that looks like a Sesame Street character. I therefore attempted to conceal my plans from him.
When he asked, more than once, what we were having for dinner, I was vague. "Something new," I told him, which is code for "You're not going to like it, but I'm making it, and you can't do anything about it, so just forget about it."
Unfortunately, it is difficult to disguise a spaghetti squash. And there is nowhere to hide it, except in the oven, and I learned long ago never to hide anything in the oven. If you do, the oven, being an evil-minded creature, will somehow turn itself on without your knowledge, and soon the object sitting inside it will turn to soot. So the spaghetti squash remained on the kitchen counter.
Joe, being an observant sort of person, spied it sitting there in plain sight and immediately wanted to know what I was making with THAT. As if THAT were a plate of eyeballs rolling around.
I explained that I was going to cook THAT, and with any luck it would at least LOOK like spaghetti -- which it did in the cookbook picture, although they probably used actual spaghetti for the photo -- even if it didn't taste exactly the same.
"You're going to kill Bert?" he said.
I ignored this and put Ber-- the squash in the microwave, then scraped out the insides, which with a great amount of imagination did sort of resemble pasta. I put it all in a casserole, with various ingredients that were more familiar to us, which would hopefully make us forget the squash was in there.
Surprisingly, we liked it, and we almost forgot that it wasn't really spaghetti. Almost.
Maybe sometime we'll be brave enough to try garbanzo bean-fava flour.
Monday, August 17, 2009
What you don't know...
The arrival of our first-ever grown-up couch, as mentioned in the previous blog post, has triggered many memories of past furniture experiences. Memories of my childhood furniture being perpetually covered with sheets. Memories of objects becoming lost in the cushions -- remote controls, Cheez-Its, whole civilizations. And memories of Joe's purple couches.
I myself do not have any memories of Joe's purple couches, which is fortunate. Nor did I possess any knowledge of these purple couches until this time.
"You used to have...purple...couches?" I asked slowly when this was revealed.
"Yeah, they were great! Huge. I could barely get them in the apartment."
"You never told me you had...purple...couches," I said. I tried to assimilate this information, as one tries to reconcile some sudden, unsettling piece of knowledge about a loved one's past, such as that he or she used to rob banks, or owned thirty cats at the same time.
I endeavored to find out more. "What did these...purple...couches look like?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Just purple."
"Well, were they dark purple?" I persisted. "Light purple? Leather? Fabric? Polka-dotted?"
He was vague as to any details, except that they had not contained any polka dots. This was scant comfort to my imagination, which conjured up something out of Solomon's palace, or a fortune-teller's chamber -- beaded and jeweled, elaborate curves, deep purple velvet. Tacky. Gaudy.
I asked what had happened to the purple couches.
"No one wanted them," he said. "I couldn't give them away. I had to haul them to the Dumpster."
They must have been more hideous than even I had imagined.
I looked at this man who had owned not one, but two purple couches -- proudly owned them. How could one not know something of this magnitude about another person? And most important, was he still fond of purple couches? Did he harbor a secret wish to own one again?
He gave assurances that he loved our new couch, which is decidedly un-purple.
Yet I remained uncomfortable with my new knowledge. I wondered what else might be lurking in his past that I did not know about.
"So, did you ever own more than one cat at a time...?"
I myself do not have any memories of Joe's purple couches, which is fortunate. Nor did I possess any knowledge of these purple couches until this time.
"You used to have...purple...couches?" I asked slowly when this was revealed.
"Yeah, they were great! Huge. I could barely get them in the apartment."
"You never told me you had...purple...couches," I said. I tried to assimilate this information, as one tries to reconcile some sudden, unsettling piece of knowledge about a loved one's past, such as that he or she used to rob banks, or owned thirty cats at the same time.
I endeavored to find out more. "What did these...purple...couches look like?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Just purple."
"Well, were they dark purple?" I persisted. "Light purple? Leather? Fabric? Polka-dotted?"
He was vague as to any details, except that they had not contained any polka dots. This was scant comfort to my imagination, which conjured up something out of Solomon's palace, or a fortune-teller's chamber -- beaded and jeweled, elaborate curves, deep purple velvet. Tacky. Gaudy.
I asked what had happened to the purple couches.
"No one wanted them," he said. "I couldn't give them away. I had to haul them to the Dumpster."
They must have been more hideous than even I had imagined.
I looked at this man who had owned not one, but two purple couches -- proudly owned them. How could one not know something of this magnitude about another person? And most important, was he still fond of purple couches? Did he harbor a secret wish to own one again?
He gave assurances that he loved our new couch, which is decidedly un-purple.
Yet I remained uncomfortable with my new knowledge. I wondered what else might be lurking in his past that I did not know about.
"So, did you ever own more than one cat at a time...?"
Friday, August 14, 2009
The great cover-up
In the life of any family, there are many milestones. Weddings. A first home. Perhaps children. Going into debt to pay for the children's education. Emerging from debt approximately 78 years later.
This week we have achieved a milestone worthy of celebration. A milestone we have longed for. Dreamed of. Wondered if it would ever come. We are, finally, the proud owners of our first-ever grown-up sofa.
It sits regally in its spot in the study, gleaming leather, smooth curves, not a blemish anywhere.
And my first instinct is to cover it up.
This instinct comes, I am sure, from my mother. Everything in our house when I was growing up was covered with a sheet. My mother considered this necessary to protect the furniture from we wild things who roamed the house, bent on wreaking havoc and destruction on my parents' hard-earned sofas and chairs. Even my father was never allowed to sit on anything that wasn't covered. The house looked perpetually like we were getting ready to move.
The sheets never matched, either. The living room couch might be covered in plain white, and the two chairs opposite it might sport lavender flowers and Holly Hobbie. This did not bother my mother a bit, so long as the fabric was protected.
The only time the sheets came off was when we had guests. The unveiling of the furniture was accompanied by great fanfare, as we all stood around trying to remember what the furniture looked like under the sheets: "I TOLD you it had blue stripes!" "Did this always have pink flowers?"
Hardly had our guests backed out of the driveway when my mother would bustle to the linen closet and bring out the sheets. She could not rest until everything was covered again. I am surprised we ever bothered to have guests.
These were not museum-quality pieces of furniture we are talking about. But no matter -- we could have had castoffs donated by passersby, hardly any of the color left on them, and my mother would still have insisted that they be covered. And the furniture remained covered well into our adulthood, long after it was in any danger from us.
So as I look at our beautiful new grown-up sofa, I can hear my mother's horrified voice: "You SIT on that without a SHEET?" Yes, we do. And we love it.
But maybe if my mother comes to visit, I'll cover it up for her.
This week we have achieved a milestone worthy of celebration. A milestone we have longed for. Dreamed of. Wondered if it would ever come. We are, finally, the proud owners of our first-ever grown-up sofa.
It sits regally in its spot in the study, gleaming leather, smooth curves, not a blemish anywhere.
And my first instinct is to cover it up.
This instinct comes, I am sure, from my mother. Everything in our house when I was growing up was covered with a sheet. My mother considered this necessary to protect the furniture from we wild things who roamed the house, bent on wreaking havoc and destruction on my parents' hard-earned sofas and chairs. Even my father was never allowed to sit on anything that wasn't covered. The house looked perpetually like we were getting ready to move.
The sheets never matched, either. The living room couch might be covered in plain white, and the two chairs opposite it might sport lavender flowers and Holly Hobbie. This did not bother my mother a bit, so long as the fabric was protected.
The only time the sheets came off was when we had guests. The unveiling of the furniture was accompanied by great fanfare, as we all stood around trying to remember what the furniture looked like under the sheets: "I TOLD you it had blue stripes!" "Did this always have pink flowers?"
Hardly had our guests backed out of the driveway when my mother would bustle to the linen closet and bring out the sheets. She could not rest until everything was covered again. I am surprised we ever bothered to have guests.
These were not museum-quality pieces of furniture we are talking about. But no matter -- we could have had castoffs donated by passersby, hardly any of the color left on them, and my mother would still have insisted that they be covered. And the furniture remained covered well into our adulthood, long after it was in any danger from us.
So as I look at our beautiful new grown-up sofa, I can hear my mother's horrified voice: "You SIT on that without a SHEET?" Yes, we do. And we love it.
But maybe if my mother comes to visit, I'll cover it up for her.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Branch Manager is coming
It's that time of year, according to a brochure we found on our doorknob one day, for the local electric company to make its rounds of the neighborhood. The purpose is to hunt for any trees that pose a risk to our electrical safety, and to deal with these trees in no uncertain manner by hacking them to pieces, even if they are miles from any electrical wires. This method not only assures our continued safety and uninterrupted electrical service, it also serves as a warning to other trees contemplating messing with any wires. "Man, did you see what happened to Lenny?" come the whispers after the "Branch Manager" (as he is called in the brochure) has come through, wielding his merciless saw.
There is a picture of the Branch Manager on the front of the brochure. Around his waist is an assortment of tree-trimming tools, including a chain saw that is in the correct "down" position for safety purposes, except that it is pointing directly at his right foot. He is holding a large branch that he has apparently recently conquered with his assortment of tools. He is wearing a helmet, from which emerges on either side what are, no doubt, earphones, although they appear to be immature antler buds. The overall effect leaves one to wonder whether this is really a person, or some fantastic woodland creature.
The brochure explains, in some depth, what exactly will occur on Cutting Day (known in the tree community as DD Day, or Death and Destruction Day). It explains this in some depth because the company knows that, after Cutting Day, it will begin to hear from irate homeowners whose trees, which they have spent hundreds of hours nurturing and which have, perhaps, been on the property for generations and are considered close relatives of the family, now resemble a head of hair that has been operated on by a toddler with blunt scissors. The brochure therefore attempts to justify the company's actions, using thought-provoking questions such as "Do you know what 160 million volts can do to you?" in an attempt to make people fearful of their own trees and therefore more agreeable to drastic measures.
According to the brochure, all wood over 8 inches will be left on the property for the owners' "personal use." This is presented as an altruistic gesture, a gift from the electric company to you, the owner, when in fact only .00003 percent of owners have any personal use for such wood, and must undertake, at their own expense and effort, its removal. No doubt some owners will exercise their "personal use" by employing the leftover wood as a means of whacking their Branch Manager, or some other representative of the electric company, on some part of their person not protected by a helmet.
The brochure also acknowledges that the way the trees are to be pruned may change their shape, and that, in some instances -- by which they mean ALL instances -- owners may not like the way they look. The brochure also hastens to say, however, that the pruning methods employed conform to industry standards, which can be roughly translated to "When in doubt, take it out."
To help owners understand the different types of pruning that may be utilized, the brochure contains several drawings of trees that have undergone different types of cuts. Due to government standards of decency, however, the pictures cannot show graphic representations of gaping knots where branches have been whacked off, and so the trees in the drawings look like happy little clumps of broccoli, perhaps a little misshapen but otherwise whole. This is far from what the trees in your yard will look like once the Branch Manager has done his work.
After inspecting these drawings, Joe mused that perhaps our own tree might receive a "V" pruning due to several wires running right through it. "Maybe they'll cut down our dead branches," he said hopefully.
"I doubt it," I said. All electric companies have a strict policy of cutting only branches that are perfectly healthy, ones that without human intervention would live to a ripe old age and delight generations of residents.
I have been trying to prepare our tree for what's coming, assuring it that I will not let any unnecessary harm come to it. But of course these are just empty promises. There is no resistance against the Branch Manager.
There is a picture of the Branch Manager on the front of the brochure. Around his waist is an assortment of tree-trimming tools, including a chain saw that is in the correct "down" position for safety purposes, except that it is pointing directly at his right foot. He is holding a large branch that he has apparently recently conquered with his assortment of tools. He is wearing a helmet, from which emerges on either side what are, no doubt, earphones, although they appear to be immature antler buds. The overall effect leaves one to wonder whether this is really a person, or some fantastic woodland creature.
The brochure explains, in some depth, what exactly will occur on Cutting Day (known in the tree community as DD Day, or Death and Destruction Day). It explains this in some depth because the company knows that, after Cutting Day, it will begin to hear from irate homeowners whose trees, which they have spent hundreds of hours nurturing and which have, perhaps, been on the property for generations and are considered close relatives of the family, now resemble a head of hair that has been operated on by a toddler with blunt scissors. The brochure therefore attempts to justify the company's actions, using thought-provoking questions such as "Do you know what 160 million volts can do to you?" in an attempt to make people fearful of their own trees and therefore more agreeable to drastic measures.
According to the brochure, all wood over 8 inches will be left on the property for the owners' "personal use." This is presented as an altruistic gesture, a gift from the electric company to you, the owner, when in fact only .00003 percent of owners have any personal use for such wood, and must undertake, at their own expense and effort, its removal. No doubt some owners will exercise their "personal use" by employing the leftover wood as a means of whacking their Branch Manager, or some other representative of the electric company, on some part of their person not protected by a helmet.
The brochure also acknowledges that the way the trees are to be pruned may change their shape, and that, in some instances -- by which they mean ALL instances -- owners may not like the way they look. The brochure also hastens to say, however, that the pruning methods employed conform to industry standards, which can be roughly translated to "When in doubt, take it out."
To help owners understand the different types of pruning that may be utilized, the brochure contains several drawings of trees that have undergone different types of cuts. Due to government standards of decency, however, the pictures cannot show graphic representations of gaping knots where branches have been whacked off, and so the trees in the drawings look like happy little clumps of broccoli, perhaps a little misshapen but otherwise whole. This is far from what the trees in your yard will look like once the Branch Manager has done his work.
After inspecting these drawings, Joe mused that perhaps our own tree might receive a "V" pruning due to several wires running right through it. "Maybe they'll cut down our dead branches," he said hopefully.
"I doubt it," I said. All electric companies have a strict policy of cutting only branches that are perfectly healthy, ones that without human intervention would live to a ripe old age and delight generations of residents.
I have been trying to prepare our tree for what's coming, assuring it that I will not let any unnecessary harm come to it. But of course these are just empty promises. There is no resistance against the Branch Manager.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Staying cool
Today, for lack of any interesting goings-on about which to write, we bring you a public service piece on How to Deal with Summer Now that It Is Finally Here. Here in the East, instead of the typical progression of spring and summer months this year -- April, May, June, July, August, August, August -- we have experienced something more like April, March, May, October, July, June, April. But now summer has finally arrived, and it is expected to last exactly: 53 hours.
For those 53 hours, and for those of you in other locations facing a heat advisory ("Be advised that the heat will be very hot today"), here are some tips to help you stay cool and safe. First, some definitions are in order to help you understand heat.
Heat Wave: The "wave" done under extreme temperatures. This can be very dangerous, because it is difficult to tell the difference between the wave done for entertainment and one meaning "Help! Water! We're dying of heat exhaustion!"
Heat exhaustion: A condition caused by overheating, often due to working too hard in extreme temperatures. The treatment, of course, is to avoid any work or exercise when the temperature exceeds, say, 72 degrees. Victims should lie inert in a quiet place. Cats are excellent at simulating heat exhaustion.
Heat stroke: A more serious condition than heat exhaustion. Victims can be treated with a cold bath or sponge. They should not, however, be tossed directly into a freezing pool or other body of water, for the obvious reason that if they survive this treatment, you will be in big trouble, as they will remember everything that happened and may not be appropriately thankful for your actions on their behalf.
Now that we have a full understanding of the dangers of high heat exposure, let's review how to avoid these problems.
1. Avoid strenuous work, especially during the peak hours of 6 a.m. to 9 p.m. This means, of course, that you should not attempt to go to work, as the typical workday is way too exertion-filled. Just opening the garage door and getting into you car can trigger a serious heat-related condition. Your boss will fully understand the situation.
2. Also avoid exercising during peak times, which are more extensive than for general work, with the result that you should exercise only on hot days from about 10:09 p.m. to 10:17 p.m. Of course, if your normal exercise routine involves no exercise, this is not the time to change that. There are always hard-core fitness fanatics who insist on jogging, biking, or hang-gliding even when it is baking outside. If you should see such individuals, remember that they are trying to impress everyone with their dedication. You should thus feel free to explain the dangers they are facing by yelling something like "You dummy! You're not impressing ME!" as they go by.
3. Remain indoors and in the air conditioning as much as possible. If you do not have air conditioning, go somewhere that does, such as a local movie theater, the mall, etc., and stay there for several hours. Again, your boss will understand.
4. Drink plenty of water and also be sure to eat several small meals, all of which should preferably involve large quantities of chocolate, because it will make you thirsty and more water is good for you.
Just follow these reminders, and you will easily breeze through these hot days. And remember, this will all look better in January.
For those 53 hours, and for those of you in other locations facing a heat advisory ("Be advised that the heat will be very hot today"), here are some tips to help you stay cool and safe. First, some definitions are in order to help you understand heat.
Heat Wave: The "wave" done under extreme temperatures. This can be very dangerous, because it is difficult to tell the difference between the wave done for entertainment and one meaning "Help! Water! We're dying of heat exhaustion!"
Heat exhaustion: A condition caused by overheating, often due to working too hard in extreme temperatures. The treatment, of course, is to avoid any work or exercise when the temperature exceeds, say, 72 degrees. Victims should lie inert in a quiet place. Cats are excellent at simulating heat exhaustion.
Heat stroke: A more serious condition than heat exhaustion. Victims can be treated with a cold bath or sponge. They should not, however, be tossed directly into a freezing pool or other body of water, for the obvious reason that if they survive this treatment, you will be in big trouble, as they will remember everything that happened and may not be appropriately thankful for your actions on their behalf.
Now that we have a full understanding of the dangers of high heat exposure, let's review how to avoid these problems.
1. Avoid strenuous work, especially during the peak hours of 6 a.m. to 9 p.m. This means, of course, that you should not attempt to go to work, as the typical workday is way too exertion-filled. Just opening the garage door and getting into you car can trigger a serious heat-related condition. Your boss will fully understand the situation.
2. Also avoid exercising during peak times, which are more extensive than for general work, with the result that you should exercise only on hot days from about 10:09 p.m. to 10:17 p.m. Of course, if your normal exercise routine involves no exercise, this is not the time to change that. There are always hard-core fitness fanatics who insist on jogging, biking, or hang-gliding even when it is baking outside. If you should see such individuals, remember that they are trying to impress everyone with their dedication. You should thus feel free to explain the dangers they are facing by yelling something like "You dummy! You're not impressing ME!" as they go by.
3. Remain indoors and in the air conditioning as much as possible. If you do not have air conditioning, go somewhere that does, such as a local movie theater, the mall, etc., and stay there for several hours. Again, your boss will understand.
4. Drink plenty of water and also be sure to eat several small meals, all of which should preferably involve large quantities of chocolate, because it will make you thirsty and more water is good for you.
Just follow these reminders, and you will easily breeze through these hot days. And remember, this will all look better in January.
Friday, August 7, 2009
We will now hear all sides
As the traditional "heart and soul" of the home, the female generally entertains innocent thoughts of being the sole decorator of the home, arranging it in accordance with her own tastes, which are of course sanctioned by 125 of her closest friends, with whom she confers daily when faced with a Home Decorating Decision. She is led to believe that the male of the house, although helpful in many areas pertaining to daily living, has no desire to be involved in decisions regarding the outfitting of the home and thus has no opinion to express on such decisions.
This is a lie.
Somewhere around 1987 there was inserted into the the Marital Book of Rules, unbeknownst to most women, a clause that gives men the right to not only have an opinion about the decorating of the home, but also to freely express that opinion, through such enlightened statements as "What the heck would you choose that color for?"
As a direct consequence of this policy, parts of our home have remained unpainted for the last three years because we cannot agree on a color. This situation has progressed to the point that we may have to take drastic action, such as my waiting until Joe is gone sometime and painting whatever color I want. Just kidding! But an equally drastic action presents itself: attending Color Mediation, wherein a neutral party hears the petition of each side and then makes a binding, non-negotiable decision that the couple must paint their home whatever the female wants it to be. Just kidding again! Sort of.
Color Mediation proceeds something like this:
Mediator: Now, Mr. & Mrs. B, I understand you are having some disagreement over the choice of paint color to use in your family room. Mrs. B, let's start with your opinion on the issue.
Mrs. B: Well, since we live in a historic house, I prefer neutral, classic, historic colors.
Mediator: Such as?
Mrs. B: Oh, Court House Reddish Brown is attractive...or the Wetherburn's Tavern Bisque. Something along those lines.
Mediator: I see. So, Mr. B, your wife prefers neutral, historic --
Mr. B: You mean boring.
Mediator (sternly): All parties will refrain from offering judgmental comments!
(Mrs. B glances primly at Mr. B.)
Mediator: Now, Mr. B, please tell us your own color preferences.
Mr. B: I want something FUN.
Mediator: Such as?
Mr. B: Yellow. Blue. Or yellow. Or blue.
Mrs. B: How about River Mud? That's fun.
(Mr. B refrains from offering another judgmental comment.)
Mediator (clearing his throat): Uh, Mrs. B, possibly River Mud may not be universally considered a fun color. Can you offer another example of a historic color you would accept, but which might also fall into the fun category?
Mrs. B (in thought for some time): Well, I guess I wouldn't mind George Pitt House Caramel.
Mr. B: See, that's how she tries to confuse me. She tells me she's gonna paint the bathroom "Cinnamon" or "Caramel," and all of a sudden the bathroom is brown. That's all she likes! Brown, brown, boring brown.
Mrs. B (primly): I am perfectly willing to compromise.
Mediator: And what would you consider a compromise, Mrs. B?
Mrs. B: Well, instead of historic colors, I could go with food-themed colors, like maybe Shaved Chocolate, Double Chocolate, Iced Espresso, Caramel Sauce, Double Oreo-Whipped Cream-Chocolate Shavings...
Mediator: Mr. B?
Mr. B (moaning): Brown! Brown! They're all brown!
Mediator: So you are against the food theme?
Mr. B: I like food. But why can't we have something more like Banana Cream Pie-Fluffy Whipped Cream?
Mediator: Mrs. B?
Mrs. B (in thought again): I guess I could go with that...as long as we could top it off with some Shaved Chocolate and Caramel Sauce...
Mr. B (runs from the room): Noooooooooo...
Sadly, not all sessions of Color Mediation end well. And don't even ask about Wallpaper Mediation.
This is a lie.
Somewhere around 1987 there was inserted into the the Marital Book of Rules, unbeknownst to most women, a clause that gives men the right to not only have an opinion about the decorating of the home, but also to freely express that opinion, through such enlightened statements as "What the heck would you choose that color for?"
As a direct consequence of this policy, parts of our home have remained unpainted for the last three years because we cannot agree on a color. This situation has progressed to the point that we may have to take drastic action, such as my waiting until Joe is gone sometime and painting whatever color I want. Just kidding! But an equally drastic action presents itself: attending Color Mediation, wherein a neutral party hears the petition of each side and then makes a binding, non-negotiable decision that the couple must paint their home whatever the female wants it to be. Just kidding again! Sort of.
Color Mediation proceeds something like this:
Mediator: Now, Mr. & Mrs. B, I understand you are having some disagreement over the choice of paint color to use in your family room. Mrs. B, let's start with your opinion on the issue.
Mrs. B: Well, since we live in a historic house, I prefer neutral, classic, historic colors.
Mediator: Such as?
Mrs. B: Oh, Court House Reddish Brown is attractive...or the Wetherburn's Tavern Bisque. Something along those lines.
Mediator: I see. So, Mr. B, your wife prefers neutral, historic --
Mr. B: You mean boring.
Mediator (sternly): All parties will refrain from offering judgmental comments!
(Mrs. B glances primly at Mr. B.)
Mediator: Now, Mr. B, please tell us your own color preferences.
Mr. B: I want something FUN.
Mediator: Such as?
Mr. B: Yellow. Blue. Or yellow. Or blue.
Mrs. B: How about River Mud? That's fun.
(Mr. B refrains from offering another judgmental comment.)
Mediator (clearing his throat): Uh, Mrs. B, possibly River Mud may not be universally considered a fun color. Can you offer another example of a historic color you would accept, but which might also fall into the fun category?
Mrs. B (in thought for some time): Well, I guess I wouldn't mind George Pitt House Caramel.
Mr. B: See, that's how she tries to confuse me. She tells me she's gonna paint the bathroom "Cinnamon" or "Caramel," and all of a sudden the bathroom is brown. That's all she likes! Brown, brown, boring brown.
Mrs. B (primly): I am perfectly willing to compromise.
Mediator: And what would you consider a compromise, Mrs. B?
Mrs. B: Well, instead of historic colors, I could go with food-themed colors, like maybe Shaved Chocolate, Double Chocolate, Iced Espresso, Caramel Sauce, Double Oreo-Whipped Cream-Chocolate Shavings...
Mediator: Mr. B?
Mr. B (moaning): Brown! Brown! They're all brown!
Mediator: So you are against the food theme?
Mr. B: I like food. But why can't we have something more like Banana Cream Pie-Fluffy Whipped Cream?
Mediator: Mrs. B?
Mrs. B (in thought again): I guess I could go with that...as long as we could top it off with some Shaved Chocolate and Caramel Sauce...
Mr. B (runs from the room): Noooooooooo...
Sadly, not all sessions of Color Mediation end well. And don't even ask about Wallpaper Mediation.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Quilt haggling
The Resident Efficiency Expert in our house decreed a vital need for a new summer quilt for the bed. He came to this conclusion based on very detailed, scientific calculations, performed while watching me nightly remove our existing heavy, winter comforter from the bed and arrange it neatly on the bench at the foot of the bed, out of the way.
"That takes too long," was his scientific analysis. The time could be better spent, he declared, in sleeping.
It is hard to argue with an Efficiency Expert, especially when his calculations include more sleep time. We therefore determined to find a lighter bed covering that we could leave on the bed at all times.
And so we set off in search of the quintessential American bed covering, the quilt, imagining ourselves to be pioneers of old, hunkering down under a handmade heirloom. Not that we would actually make the quilt, of course. This would violate Efficiency standards, particularly because my own skills are severely challenged by merely sewing a button.
Our vision of early American nirvana lasted until we pioneers encountered the distinctly modern prices that quilts command these days. We very nearly gave up on our dream, but the reality of my vastly inefficient bedspread-removal ritual each night spurred us on.
At length, in the heart of Amish country, we located a quilt that carried a more reasonable, if not exactly modest, price tag. The Efficiency Expert, being also the Cost-Effectiveness Expert, determined to bring the price down even further through the process of Haggling, in which he also holds Expert status.
He has haggled with the toughest sellers and come out on top. The gatekeeper to our quilt was a sweet, older Amish woman. No problem.
He began with the standard Haggle question: "Can you do any better on that quilt?"
But the sweet, older Amish woman looked at him as if he were daft. "You won't find cheaper! Do ye know how much work goes into these?"
Of course we did not. But we did when she was through telling us.
The Cost-Effectiveness Expert quickly calculated that the quilts were bringing only a dollar or two for each hour of labor. Suddenly it seemed un-American not to buy one at full price.
"Okay, we'll take it," he said to the sweet, older Amish woman.
Or, as we now affectionately refer to her, the tough old bird.
"That takes too long," was his scientific analysis. The time could be better spent, he declared, in sleeping.
It is hard to argue with an Efficiency Expert, especially when his calculations include more sleep time. We therefore determined to find a lighter bed covering that we could leave on the bed at all times.
And so we set off in search of the quintessential American bed covering, the quilt, imagining ourselves to be pioneers of old, hunkering down under a handmade heirloom. Not that we would actually make the quilt, of course. This would violate Efficiency standards, particularly because my own skills are severely challenged by merely sewing a button.
Our vision of early American nirvana lasted until we pioneers encountered the distinctly modern prices that quilts command these days. We very nearly gave up on our dream, but the reality of my vastly inefficient bedspread-removal ritual each night spurred us on.
At length, in the heart of Amish country, we located a quilt that carried a more reasonable, if not exactly modest, price tag. The Efficiency Expert, being also the Cost-Effectiveness Expert, determined to bring the price down even further through the process of Haggling, in which he also holds Expert status.
He has haggled with the toughest sellers and come out on top. The gatekeeper to our quilt was a sweet, older Amish woman. No problem.
He began with the standard Haggle question: "Can you do any better on that quilt?"
But the sweet, older Amish woman looked at him as if he were daft. "You won't find cheaper! Do ye know how much work goes into these?"
Of course we did not. But we did when she was through telling us.
The Cost-Effectiveness Expert quickly calculated that the quilts were bringing only a dollar or two for each hour of labor. Suddenly it seemed un-American not to buy one at full price.
"Okay, we'll take it," he said to the sweet, older Amish woman.
Or, as we now affectionately refer to her, the tough old bird.
Monday, August 3, 2009
The Hero turns over a new leaf
Joe and I have always been very open with each other about our faults. One day, in a desire to be completely free of the bondage in which a particular fault had held him lifelong, he admitted to me, "I just have a hard time spending large amounts of money."
"Oh, sweetie," I said, looking at him with great compassion, as I personally have never experienced this difficulty. "I can help you with that problem," I said. "That's what spouses are for, right? We help each other where we're weak." I assured him that if he just listened to me, he would soon be spending money freely and with abandon. For the first time, he would be truly living!
Before he could change his mind and slide back into his old, reluctant-to-part-with-money ways, I whisked him off to the furniture store to order our sofa. Some of you may remember this sofa, which was reputed to "add a surprise from the derriere," and though we still fail to comprehend what, exactly, this "surprise" is, the sofa has remained our favorite for quite some time -- long enough that we were surprised that it remains in production, and has not been relegated to some furniture museum somewhere ("This piece was purported to surprise one's derriere, but merely confused one instead").
The salesman who benefitted from Joe's change of heart regarding purchases was happily surprised that we did not dally long over such a large purchase. He briskly put the order through, and soon it was time for Joe to show that his change of heart was indeed real, and sign the electronic credit card pad.
Here the salesman and I both experienced a moment of doubt. Or perhaps panic. Would Joe sign? He seemed to hesitate slightly. We held our breath, although for the salesman the act of Joe's signing meant merely a tidy commission, and with very little effort on his part. He could not know that history was being made.
I readied myself, if necessary, to grab Joe's hand and help him complete the signature. He was so close; I could not let him falter in his resolve to put his old habits behind him. Sometimes, love is tough.
Each letter was painstakingly formed, and at long last the final "t" was crossed. I felt a new thankfulness that Joe's name is rather short, and not something like John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt. It may very well have made the difference between freedom, and falling off the wagon.
Now for that new bed....
"Oh, sweetie," I said, looking at him with great compassion, as I personally have never experienced this difficulty. "I can help you with that problem," I said. "That's what spouses are for, right? We help each other where we're weak." I assured him that if he just listened to me, he would soon be spending money freely and with abandon. For the first time, he would be truly living!
Before he could change his mind and slide back into his old, reluctant-to-part-with-money ways, I whisked him off to the furniture store to order our sofa. Some of you may remember this sofa, which was reputed to "add a surprise from the derriere," and though we still fail to comprehend what, exactly, this "surprise" is, the sofa has remained our favorite for quite some time -- long enough that we were surprised that it remains in production, and has not been relegated to some furniture museum somewhere ("This piece was purported to surprise one's derriere, but merely confused one instead").
The salesman who benefitted from Joe's change of heart regarding purchases was happily surprised that we did not dally long over such a large purchase. He briskly put the order through, and soon it was time for Joe to show that his change of heart was indeed real, and sign the electronic credit card pad.
Here the salesman and I both experienced a moment of doubt. Or perhaps panic. Would Joe sign? He seemed to hesitate slightly. We held our breath, although for the salesman the act of Joe's signing meant merely a tidy commission, and with very little effort on his part. He could not know that history was being made.
I readied myself, if necessary, to grab Joe's hand and help him complete the signature. He was so close; I could not let him falter in his resolve to put his old habits behind him. Sometimes, love is tough.
Each letter was painstakingly formed, and at long last the final "t" was crossed. I felt a new thankfulness that Joe's name is rather short, and not something like John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt. It may very well have made the difference between freedom, and falling off the wagon.
Now for that new bed....
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