Today we take a break from our very intellectual discussion of towels to bring you something even more meaningful: a Halloween survey. Yes, Halloween is lurking just around a corner near you, and we want to know all about how you celebrate it, particularly whether you eat more candy than you give away. You can find the survey on the left side of the page, and if you can't find it, we suspect you have been bobbing for one too many apples.
As always, the results will be complied and scientifically analyzed, probably at the same time as we conduct a somewhat less scientific analysis of the merits of candy corn versus Tootsie Rolls.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
One person, many towels
Today we ponder the important question of "How many towels does each person in your house have?" And the second, though not necessarily related, question of "How many towels does each person NEED?" The answer to the first question -- supported by rigorous scientific towel research -- is: As many as possible. The answer to the second question is still being determined, and is vigorously debated in such diverse arenas as Internet chat boards, waiting rooms, cocktail parties, prison wards, etc.
Even third graders are being introduced to the issue, as can be seen in this word problem from a math book I am currently editing:
"The Smith family has 5 members. Each member has a hand towel and a bath towel hanging in the bathroom. How many towels are hanging in the bathroom?"
Personally, MY question about the Smiths would be, "Why do they only have one bathroom for 5 people?" But that is beside the point. The real point, I think, is that the Smith family, in addition to lacking in bathrooms, is woefully lacking in towel provisions. If this question were asked about OUR household, for instance, it would read:
"The Bohart family has 2 members. How many towels do THEY have?" (Answer: Enough to cover the entire human species, as well as countless members of various other species, phyla, etc., in thick jacquard velour happiness.)
Support for our large cache of towels comes from esteemed research on towel usage. People in households with a high per-capita count of towels have been found to not only be more healthy in general but are also happier, earn higher salaries, express greater satisfaction in relationships, have less chance of needing a hair transplant, are more likely to understand their Explanation of Benefits insurance forms, and tend to break spontaneously into song more often, although this last attribute is not always seen as positive by those around the individual.
Some hospitals, in an attempt to reduce the risk of patients reinfecting themselves, have instituted a "one person, many towel" policy. Patients are given strict instructions to use a fresh washcloth or towel every time they use one. Fortunately for my mother -- who is extremely frugal and would think the Smith family scandalously rich to have a towel AND a washcloth per person -- her local hospital is not up on the latest towel procedures. If the nurses tried to make her use a new towel all the time during her stays there, she would start hoarding her used towels and try to reuse them when no one was looking. But the nurses would soon catch on.
"Give 'em up, Mrs. B," they would say sternly, holding out their hands for the missing towels. "We know you've been hoarding the towels."
"But I'll wash them myself," she would plead. "Just please don't make me use a fresh one every day."
Researchers are currently looking into the curious phenomenon that, although my mother does not subscribe to the "one person, many towels" philosophy, she does have a tendency to break into song unexpectedly...
Even third graders are being introduced to the issue, as can be seen in this word problem from a math book I am currently editing:
"The Smith family has 5 members. Each member has a hand towel and a bath towel hanging in the bathroom. How many towels are hanging in the bathroom?"
Personally, MY question about the Smiths would be, "Why do they only have one bathroom for 5 people?" But that is beside the point. The real point, I think, is that the Smith family, in addition to lacking in bathrooms, is woefully lacking in towel provisions. If this question were asked about OUR household, for instance, it would read:
"The Bohart family has 2 members. How many towels do THEY have?" (Answer: Enough to cover the entire human species, as well as countless members of various other species, phyla, etc., in thick jacquard velour happiness.)
Support for our large cache of towels comes from esteemed research on towel usage. People in households with a high per-capita count of towels have been found to not only be more healthy in general but are also happier, earn higher salaries, express greater satisfaction in relationships, have less chance of needing a hair transplant, are more likely to understand their Explanation of Benefits insurance forms, and tend to break spontaneously into song more often, although this last attribute is not always seen as positive by those around the individual.
Some hospitals, in an attempt to reduce the risk of patients reinfecting themselves, have instituted a "one person, many towel" policy. Patients are given strict instructions to use a fresh washcloth or towel every time they use one. Fortunately for my mother -- who is extremely frugal and would think the Smith family scandalously rich to have a towel AND a washcloth per person -- her local hospital is not up on the latest towel procedures. If the nurses tried to make her use a new towel all the time during her stays there, she would start hoarding her used towels and try to reuse them when no one was looking. But the nurses would soon catch on.
"Give 'em up, Mrs. B," they would say sternly, holding out their hands for the missing towels. "We know you've been hoarding the towels."
"But I'll wash them myself," she would plead. "Just please don't make me use a fresh one every day."
Researchers are currently looking into the curious phenomenon that, although my mother does not subscribe to the "one person, many towels" philosophy, she does have a tendency to break into song unexpectedly...
Monday, October 26, 2009
Further rules for using kitchen towels
In the interest of public service, Joe would like to add a few more pieces of advice to the previous post regarding his "Guide to Rules for Using Kitchen Towels." His helpful advice is aimed particularly at men who, erroneously believing that all kitchen towels are to be considered serviceable for all tasks, require some assistance in understanding what is and is not permitted in the usage of kitchen towels.
1. Under special circumstances you may be permitted to keep your own stash of washcloths for wiping extremely messy things up, such as a gathering of more than one coffee ground on the counter. These washcloths may be exempt from the usual rules of daily washing, but be advised that these washcloths and your wife will perpetually scowl at each other, and they will become a thorn in your wife's side, and someday the washcloths will disappear altogether, your wife not being able to stand their filthiness any longer. (Note: Be advised that, unless you take drastic precautionary measures, this same fate may also befall your favorite pair of shorts.)
2. Do not under any circumstances go into the drawer where the kitchen towels are kept and attempt to remove one without your wife's permission. These towels are, in fact, artifacts on loan from the Museum of Rare, Extremely Clean Items, and can only be removed by persons who have submitted proper identification, have proven that they thoroughly understand and adhere to the Terms of Usage, and have demonstrated compliance with the Kitchen Towel Usage Act of 1921 B.C.
3. We have already indicated that if you must wipe up a spill on the kitchen floor, you must use a towel from the "yucky" towel bin that your wife maintains for such purposes. ("Yucky" towels are towels that used to be "good" towels, but that for some reason -- your wife grew tired of the color, perhaps, or they once were used to wipe up a single bread crumb from the counter -- have been relegated to yucky status, to be used only for yucky chores.) If, when you are wiping up such a spill from the floor with an approved "yucky" towel, you happen upon the dead stinkbug you killed two months ago but were subsequently unable to locate, do not audibly express this discovery by using some expression such as "Ewwww!" This will alert your wife that you have found something disgusting, and when she sees the stinkbug in the "yucky" towel, she will declare the yucky towel unfit for even yucky chores, and will order you to burn it in the backyard. You yourself may be quarantined for several days.
We hope that these guidelines have been of some help to those of you navigating the tricky waters of kitchen towel usage. And remember: Do keep an eye on that favorite pair of shorts.
1. Under special circumstances you may be permitted to keep your own stash of washcloths for wiping extremely messy things up, such as a gathering of more than one coffee ground on the counter. These washcloths may be exempt from the usual rules of daily washing, but be advised that these washcloths and your wife will perpetually scowl at each other, and they will become a thorn in your wife's side, and someday the washcloths will disappear altogether, your wife not being able to stand their filthiness any longer. (Note: Be advised that, unless you take drastic precautionary measures, this same fate may also befall your favorite pair of shorts.)
2. Do not under any circumstances go into the drawer where the kitchen towels are kept and attempt to remove one without your wife's permission. These towels are, in fact, artifacts on loan from the Museum of Rare, Extremely Clean Items, and can only be removed by persons who have submitted proper identification, have proven that they thoroughly understand and adhere to the Terms of Usage, and have demonstrated compliance with the Kitchen Towel Usage Act of 1921 B.C.
3. We have already indicated that if you must wipe up a spill on the kitchen floor, you must use a towel from the "yucky" towel bin that your wife maintains for such purposes. ("Yucky" towels are towels that used to be "good" towels, but that for some reason -- your wife grew tired of the color, perhaps, or they once were used to wipe up a single bread crumb from the counter -- have been relegated to yucky status, to be used only for yucky chores.) If, when you are wiping up such a spill from the floor with an approved "yucky" towel, you happen upon the dead stinkbug you killed two months ago but were subsequently unable to locate, do not audibly express this discovery by using some expression such as "Ewwww!" This will alert your wife that you have found something disgusting, and when she sees the stinkbug in the "yucky" towel, she will declare the yucky towel unfit for even yucky chores, and will order you to burn it in the backyard. You yourself may be quarantined for several days.
We hope that these guidelines have been of some help to those of you navigating the tricky waters of kitchen towel usage. And remember: Do keep an eye on that favorite pair of shorts.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Towel etiquette
Today, Joe shares his wisdom on when to use the towels and dishcloths in the kitchen. (The short answer is: Never.) He hopes that this knowledge will help other struggling husbands understand the very complex rules governing kitchen towel usage.
1. Do not be fooled. Just because kitchen towels and dishcloths are hanging in strategic locations in your kitchen does not mean that they are meant to actually be used. If you ARE allowed to use them, it must be for something that is clean, such as dishes or hands that have just been thoroughly scrubbed and disinfected. Under no circumstance should a towel be allowed to touch a surface that in any way may have been contaminated by a single speck of dirt or germ.
2. A drop of water on the counter may, under special circumstances, be okay to wipe up with a towel, but you should check with your wife first.
3. If you are told not to use a particular towel for some purpose, do not ask why, or even "What CAN I use this towel for?" The answer will be: Nothing.
4. Do not use a kitchen towel or dishcloth to wipe up your coffee maker. For this purpose, you are expected to use the worst rags in the house. Warning: Penalty for violating this rule is severe.
5. Under NO circumstances is a towel to be used to wipe up any part of your person that is bleeding. For this you must seek some other object of cleanup, preferably one found outdoors, such as leaves.
6. Also do not, under any circumstances, use any kitchen towels to wipe up spills on the floor, even if a spill is merely water that is pouring out from under the refrigerator and is threatening to swamp your whole house unless you wipe it up right away. In this situation you are expected to go into the basement, rummage around in the "yucky" towel container, and bring several "yucky" towels back to the kitchen to wipe up the mess. You will not see any difference whatsoever between the "yucky" towels and the towels already in your kitchen, but this does not matter. Your wife knows the difference.
7. When you are done wiping up the swamp in your kitchen with the "yucky" towels, do not put the "yucky" towels in the wash with the "good" towels. This will somehow, according to your wife, transfer yuckiness from the yucky towels to the good towels, and she will have to relegate them all to the yucky towel container and buy new good towels, which of course you will not be allowed to touch for at least two years.
8. If all these rules are too hard to remember, just adhere to this one simple rule: Use paper towels for everything.
Joe's Guide to Rules for Using Kitchen Towels
1. Do not be fooled. Just because kitchen towels and dishcloths are hanging in strategic locations in your kitchen does not mean that they are meant to actually be used. If you ARE allowed to use them, it must be for something that is clean, such as dishes or hands that have just been thoroughly scrubbed and disinfected. Under no circumstance should a towel be allowed to touch a surface that in any way may have been contaminated by a single speck of dirt or germ.
2. A drop of water on the counter may, under special circumstances, be okay to wipe up with a towel, but you should check with your wife first.
3. If you are told not to use a particular towel for some purpose, do not ask why, or even "What CAN I use this towel for?" The answer will be: Nothing.
4. Do not use a kitchen towel or dishcloth to wipe up your coffee maker. For this purpose, you are expected to use the worst rags in the house. Warning: Penalty for violating this rule is severe.
5. Under NO circumstances is a towel to be used to wipe up any part of your person that is bleeding. For this you must seek some other object of cleanup, preferably one found outdoors, such as leaves.
6. Also do not, under any circumstances, use any kitchen towels to wipe up spills on the floor, even if a spill is merely water that is pouring out from under the refrigerator and is threatening to swamp your whole house unless you wipe it up right away. In this situation you are expected to go into the basement, rummage around in the "yucky" towel container, and bring several "yucky" towels back to the kitchen to wipe up the mess. You will not see any difference whatsoever between the "yucky" towels and the towels already in your kitchen, but this does not matter. Your wife knows the difference.
7. When you are done wiping up the swamp in your kitchen with the "yucky" towels, do not put the "yucky" towels in the wash with the "good" towels. This will somehow, according to your wife, transfer yuckiness from the yucky towels to the good towels, and she will have to relegate them all to the yucky towel container and buy new good towels, which of course you will not be allowed to touch for at least two years.
8. If all these rules are too hard to remember, just adhere to this one simple rule: Use paper towels for everything.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Is that a hint?
Wives throughout history have been dropping hints to their husbands whenever they want a particular gift for an occasion. And wives throughout history have been disappointed at what they actually get. Yet we keep on hinting, thinking SOMEDAY it will click. Secretly we believe that, ideally, we would not even have to drop a hint when we want something. We would just have a random thought -- "Gee, I think I might like a new Coach purse" -- and voila! in a couple of days or so a Coach purse would mysteriously show up at our house in a beautifully wrapped box, with our name on it.
But instead of a Coach purse, we find ourselves trying to express enthusiasm for the Automatic Soy Milk Maker we receive. Note to husbands: If we want an Automatic Soy Milk Maker, we will just go buy one. No woman in history has ever hinted for an Automatic Soy Milk Maker.
I personally have always viewed the hint method as an invitation to disappointment, and much prefer my family's way of asking for gifts. Nothing is left to chance or whim with them. We write up very detailed wish lists for Christmas and other occasions involving gifts ("Winston Lidded Baskets at Pottery Barn, between Sephora and The Barbie Shop at the mall. Park at Macy's and proceed through the store to the mall, then turn left at....").
In my family we are also very careful not to make too many favorable comments about an item owned by another family member, lest that person take the comments as hints that we want a similar item. We used to make innocent comments of appreciation about, say, a family member's new Timberland Outdoor Adventure Moon Rover Boots, oohing and aahing over the leather, the stitching, and the cool look, and without warning the following Christmas a pair in our size would wind up under the tree. Now when one of us gets something new and cool, the rest of us merely look at it and say, "Hmm-mm."
Joe, although appreciative of not having any vague hints thrown his way that he must guess the meaning of, was at first a little taken aback at my family's direct approach to gift-seeking. "There's no surprise the way your family does gifts," he said.
"That's the point," I said.
But Joe is not fooled into thinking I will never hint for something. I am a woman, after all. So, following the advice of his male friends and co-workers ("ALL women hint. If she says she's not hinting, she's hinting"), he is alert to any comment that might possibly be construed as a hint. I told him one day after going to the grocery store that I had seen the butcher, who is always very helpful, in the floral department buying some flowers for someone special. This story seemed to Joe to have no point -- and there must be SOME point, or why would I be telling it -- and I said that I simply thought it was sweet of the butcher to buy flowers for someone. Suddenly Joe said, "I get it! You'd like me to get YOU some flowers!"
The thought had actually not crossed my mind at all, having learned to be much more direct when I do want something. But maybe there is some hope for this hinting thing after all.
But instead of a Coach purse, we find ourselves trying to express enthusiasm for the Automatic Soy Milk Maker we receive. Note to husbands: If we want an Automatic Soy Milk Maker, we will just go buy one. No woman in history has ever hinted for an Automatic Soy Milk Maker.
I personally have always viewed the hint method as an invitation to disappointment, and much prefer my family's way of asking for gifts. Nothing is left to chance or whim with them. We write up very detailed wish lists for Christmas and other occasions involving gifts ("Winston Lidded Baskets at Pottery Barn, between Sephora and The Barbie Shop at the mall. Park at Macy's and proceed through the store to the mall, then turn left at....").
In my family we are also very careful not to make too many favorable comments about an item owned by another family member, lest that person take the comments as hints that we want a similar item. We used to make innocent comments of appreciation about, say, a family member's new Timberland Outdoor Adventure Moon Rover Boots, oohing and aahing over the leather, the stitching, and the cool look, and without warning the following Christmas a pair in our size would wind up under the tree. Now when one of us gets something new and cool, the rest of us merely look at it and say, "Hmm-mm."
Joe, although appreciative of not having any vague hints thrown his way that he must guess the meaning of, was at first a little taken aback at my family's direct approach to gift-seeking. "There's no surprise the way your family does gifts," he said.
"That's the point," I said.
But Joe is not fooled into thinking I will never hint for something. I am a woman, after all. So, following the advice of his male friends and co-workers ("ALL women hint. If she says she's not hinting, she's hinting"), he is alert to any comment that might possibly be construed as a hint. I told him one day after going to the grocery store that I had seen the butcher, who is always very helpful, in the floral department buying some flowers for someone special. This story seemed to Joe to have no point -- and there must be SOME point, or why would I be telling it -- and I said that I simply thought it was sweet of the butcher to buy flowers for someone. Suddenly Joe said, "I get it! You'd like me to get YOU some flowers!"
The thought had actually not crossed my mind at all, having learned to be much more direct when I do want something. But maybe there is some hope for this hinting thing after all.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The cow wallet
It is a fact that people who are dating, or who are engaged, do things that are entirely out of character, in the hopes of making their object of interest think they are much better people than they really are. This perhaps explains why I, of my own free will, bought Joe a cow hair wallet when we were engaged.
It was what he wanted for his birthday, and of course I felt compelled to get it for him, even though it made me wonder what kind of person I was marrying, that he carried a wallet that looks like the side of a Holstein, and also made me wonder what kind of person I was for agreeing to buy him another one.
But I did agree, and set out on a big game hunt for a cow hair wallet. But one was nowhere to be found, and I was getting desperate after a few weeks of searching, and one day my sister and I sauntered into Neiman Marcus, which we occasionally do when we need a good laugh, and there, in a case with other exotic wallets, was a genuine cow hair wallet. Of course I knew, even without looking at the price tag, that I could sell all my worldly possessions including my house and still not be able to afford this wallet. But the salesman had already spotted us looking in the case, so we asked him to take the wallet out for us.
As expected, the wallet would take years of hard labor to work off, but we didn't want to let the salesman know that. We pretended to show great interest in it. We opened it, looked in all the little compartments, stroked the cow hair, and made appreciative little murmurs about its quality, all the while thinking desperately of a way to gracefully decline this purchase that all of us, including the salesman, knew we were not going to make.
Finally my sister said, with the air of one who has found a tiny flaw in a precious gem, "Didn't Joe say he wanted a bi-fold wallet? This one is tri-fold."
I grasped at this ticket out. "You're right," I said. "This one won't work at all." We tried our best to look both regretful and slightly disapproving as I handed the wallet back to the salesman.
I eventually did find a cow wallet that, happily, did not require the selling of all my worldly goods. That cow wallet is still with us, and often draws interested looks and comments from strangers, in much the same way PETA might show interest in a fur coat. I do not tell these people that I was the one who bought it.
Recently Joe asked what I would like for Christmas. "I think I want a wallet," I said.
"I could get you a cow wallet," he suggested.
"I appreciate the offer,"I said quickly, "but I think one cow wallet per household is enough. We wouldn't want to violate the Personal Bovine Item Limit."
He asked what kind of wallet I might want.
"I'm not sure," I said. "But maybe we could go look at Neiman Marcus."
It was what he wanted for his birthday, and of course I felt compelled to get it for him, even though it made me wonder what kind of person I was marrying, that he carried a wallet that looks like the side of a Holstein, and also made me wonder what kind of person I was for agreeing to buy him another one.
But I did agree, and set out on a big game hunt for a cow hair wallet. But one was nowhere to be found, and I was getting desperate after a few weeks of searching, and one day my sister and I sauntered into Neiman Marcus, which we occasionally do when we need a good laugh, and there, in a case with other exotic wallets, was a genuine cow hair wallet. Of course I knew, even without looking at the price tag, that I could sell all my worldly possessions including my house and still not be able to afford this wallet. But the salesman had already spotted us looking in the case, so we asked him to take the wallet out for us.
As expected, the wallet would take years of hard labor to work off, but we didn't want to let the salesman know that. We pretended to show great interest in it. We opened it, looked in all the little compartments, stroked the cow hair, and made appreciative little murmurs about its quality, all the while thinking desperately of a way to gracefully decline this purchase that all of us, including the salesman, knew we were not going to make.
Finally my sister said, with the air of one who has found a tiny flaw in a precious gem, "Didn't Joe say he wanted a bi-fold wallet? This one is tri-fold."
I grasped at this ticket out. "You're right," I said. "This one won't work at all." We tried our best to look both regretful and slightly disapproving as I handed the wallet back to the salesman.
I eventually did find a cow wallet that, happily, did not require the selling of all my worldly goods. That cow wallet is still with us, and often draws interested looks and comments from strangers, in much the same way PETA might show interest in a fur coat. I do not tell these people that I was the one who bought it.
Recently Joe asked what I would like for Christmas. "I think I want a wallet," I said.
"I could get you a cow wallet," he suggested.
"I appreciate the offer,"I said quickly, "but I think one cow wallet per household is enough. We wouldn't want to violate the Personal Bovine Item Limit."
He asked what kind of wallet I might want.
"I'm not sure," I said. "But maybe we could go look at Neiman Marcus."
Friday, October 16, 2009
Today
The Princess regrets that today's blog post will not appear, at least not today, due to unforeseen illness. If it had been foreseen, of course, something might have been done to prevent it, but what's done is done. And this blog is done for today.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
An entrepreneurial idea
We are not pet people. Basically we are too lazy and selfish to have pets. If someone would only invent, say, a dog that required very little upkeep, could clean up all its hair, poop, etc. -- or better yet, refrain from engaging in such activities altogether -- and manage its own exercise and social schedule, THEN we might think about getting a pet. This pet would pretty much resemble a vacuum cleaner, but with fur.
We had, in fact, been holding out for the day when someone would invent an Astro, the robot dog on The Jetsons. I have always been bitterly disappointed that our world, so far, does not remotely resemble the world of the Jetsons. I used to think, when I watched that show, that that's how life would be when I grew up. Everyone would be whizzing through the air in cute little airships. A robot maid would clean and make your bed for you. A robot dog would take care of itself and clean up after itself (or the maid would do it).
But if things keep going the way they are, with actual, non-robot pets being so pampered, we may not have to wait for an Astro to get the kind of pet we want: no maintenance, all fun.
I say this because in addition to professional dog walkers, there are now people who will, for a fee, come to your yard and scoop up your pet's, um, organic deposits. One such individual I have heard about recently is known as Miss Poop, no doubt so named because it is more catchy than, say, Miss Organic Deposit.
We see a great deal of promise in this development. All we need are a few more pet-minded entrepreneurs, and all our objections to owning a pet will disappear. We can outsource everything.
"It doesn't even have to live here," Joe suggested. "Someone else would keep our pet at their house, and we could call up every once in while and say, 'Hello, Mrs. Hoover-Smith, we'd like to come over and see Rusty for a few minutes...no, no need to bring him over here. We won't be long."
From this idea we progressed to the thought of a boarding school for pets, which would provide us the warm, fuzzy feelings of being pet owners without any of the daily responsibility. Our pet would stay at school most of the time, and the staff would send occasional updates on its progress and emotional development ("He's a great favorite with the girls, and is beginning to show some promise in swing dance"). These notes would be personalized with a wet paw and signed Love, Rusty.
When our pet came home on vacation, we would keep it busy with camps, doggy play dates, trips to the doggy spa (with a special reserved time in the therapeutic pool) -- all arranged and taken care of by a Pet Social Manager -- and we would hardly be inconvenienced at all. During one of these school holidays, we would have our annual Christmas photo taken, because the cuteness factor of this photo would be much enhanced with a pet.
So, if anyone is thinking about starting a pet boarding school, please let us know. In the meantime, we'll watch some reruns of The Jetsons.
We had, in fact, been holding out for the day when someone would invent an Astro, the robot dog on The Jetsons. I have always been bitterly disappointed that our world, so far, does not remotely resemble the world of the Jetsons. I used to think, when I watched that show, that that's how life would be when I grew up. Everyone would be whizzing through the air in cute little airships. A robot maid would clean and make your bed for you. A robot dog would take care of itself and clean up after itself (or the maid would do it).
But if things keep going the way they are, with actual, non-robot pets being so pampered, we may not have to wait for an Astro to get the kind of pet we want: no maintenance, all fun.
I say this because in addition to professional dog walkers, there are now people who will, for a fee, come to your yard and scoop up your pet's, um, organic deposits. One such individual I have heard about recently is known as Miss Poop, no doubt so named because it is more catchy than, say, Miss Organic Deposit.
We see a great deal of promise in this development. All we need are a few more pet-minded entrepreneurs, and all our objections to owning a pet will disappear. We can outsource everything.
"It doesn't even have to live here," Joe suggested. "Someone else would keep our pet at their house, and we could call up every once in while and say, 'Hello, Mrs. Hoover-Smith, we'd like to come over and see Rusty for a few minutes...no, no need to bring him over here. We won't be long."
From this idea we progressed to the thought of a boarding school for pets, which would provide us the warm, fuzzy feelings of being pet owners without any of the daily responsibility. Our pet would stay at school most of the time, and the staff would send occasional updates on its progress and emotional development ("He's a great favorite with the girls, and is beginning to show some promise in swing dance"). These notes would be personalized with a wet paw and signed Love, Rusty.
When our pet came home on vacation, we would keep it busy with camps, doggy play dates, trips to the doggy spa (with a special reserved time in the therapeutic pool) -- all arranged and taken care of by a Pet Social Manager -- and we would hardly be inconvenienced at all. During one of these school holidays, we would have our annual Christmas photo taken, because the cuteness factor of this photo would be much enhanced with a pet.
So, if anyone is thinking about starting a pet boarding school, please let us know. In the meantime, we'll watch some reruns of The Jetsons.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Stinkbugging while driving
Here in Maryland it is now against the law to text while driving. While I applaud our legislators for taking this important step toward our communal safety, I would like to point out that texting is not nearly as dangerous as another activity that I personally, though unwillingly, have been engaging in while driving lately: stinkbugging, or chasing bugs around one's car.
My car has somehow become a gathering place, an insect taxi, for indigent bugs. These include stinkbugs, which are large beetle-type bugs clad in bullet-proof armor. Although they look lumberous, they can move surprisingly fast, especially when you are trying to get them to go one way, such as out the window of the car, and they are determined to go another way, such as under your seat.
I never discover these bugs when I am on a quiet, two-lane road, where I could safely pull over and use my female skills of persuasion -- which consist chiefly of a considerable amount of screaming -- to get them to leave my car. No, it is not until I am on the highway, in the middle lane of 18 lanes of traffic zooming along at speeds dangerously close to the speed of the earth's rotation, that a bug suddenly appears.
I fully expect to be on the radio traffic report some night, as the news chopper spots my CRV driving in a haphazard manner on the highway: "Dan, we're not sure what the problem is with this car, but maybe we can zoom in a bit...yes, Dan, we can see the problem now -- there's a large stinkbug on the SEEK button of the dashboard, and the driver appears to be trying to convince it to leave through the nearest window. The stinkbug is now sticking its tongue out at the driver. Whoops, the car just veered off into a ditch...now the driver is out of the car, running around and screaming, but from what we can tell the bug is still inside, trying to figure out how to turn the radio to FM."
My latest encounter involved several miles of alternately paying attention to the road and tracking a stinkbug, which was curiously exploring the interior of the car, including the back seat, where I lost it. I convinced myself that it was reading a map in the pocket of the passenger seat, far from my own seat. When I finally stopped at the drug store I conducted a thorough search for it, much to the interest of the owner of the car parked next to me, who was prevented from getting into his car by the fact that all four of my doors were open. I finally discovered the stinkbug on the window, but had a difficult time convincing him to take the chance at freedom I was offering. Eventually he was persuaded to leave quietly, and I promised I would not press charges.
I went into the drug store and was looking at the shampoo when out of the corner of my eye I saw the stinkbug crawl over my shoulder. Although no one would describe me as a great dancer, I invented some very unique moves right there in Rite Aid. At some point the stinkbug was ejected onto the floor. I left him there in Aisle 7, looking from the detangler to the volumizer, trying to decide which would make him more attractive to the ladies.
So I agree with our lawmakers that driving has become more dangerous with all the distractions out there. I would appreciate, therefore, if they could maybe pass a law outlawing bugs from commuting. At least during rush hour.
My car has somehow become a gathering place, an insect taxi, for indigent bugs. These include stinkbugs, which are large beetle-type bugs clad in bullet-proof armor. Although they look lumberous, they can move surprisingly fast, especially when you are trying to get them to go one way, such as out the window of the car, and they are determined to go another way, such as under your seat.
I never discover these bugs when I am on a quiet, two-lane road, where I could safely pull over and use my female skills of persuasion -- which consist chiefly of a considerable amount of screaming -- to get them to leave my car. No, it is not until I am on the highway, in the middle lane of 18 lanes of traffic zooming along at speeds dangerously close to the speed of the earth's rotation, that a bug suddenly appears.
I fully expect to be on the radio traffic report some night, as the news chopper spots my CRV driving in a haphazard manner on the highway: "Dan, we're not sure what the problem is with this car, but maybe we can zoom in a bit...yes, Dan, we can see the problem now -- there's a large stinkbug on the SEEK button of the dashboard, and the driver appears to be trying to convince it to leave through the nearest window. The stinkbug is now sticking its tongue out at the driver. Whoops, the car just veered off into a ditch...now the driver is out of the car, running around and screaming, but from what we can tell the bug is still inside, trying to figure out how to turn the radio to FM."
My latest encounter involved several miles of alternately paying attention to the road and tracking a stinkbug, which was curiously exploring the interior of the car, including the back seat, where I lost it. I convinced myself that it was reading a map in the pocket of the passenger seat, far from my own seat. When I finally stopped at the drug store I conducted a thorough search for it, much to the interest of the owner of the car parked next to me, who was prevented from getting into his car by the fact that all four of my doors were open. I finally discovered the stinkbug on the window, but had a difficult time convincing him to take the chance at freedom I was offering. Eventually he was persuaded to leave quietly, and I promised I would not press charges.
I went into the drug store and was looking at the shampoo when out of the corner of my eye I saw the stinkbug crawl over my shoulder. Although no one would describe me as a great dancer, I invented some very unique moves right there in Rite Aid. At some point the stinkbug was ejected onto the floor. I left him there in Aisle 7, looking from the detangler to the volumizer, trying to decide which would make him more attractive to the ladies.
So I agree with our lawmakers that driving has become more dangerous with all the distractions out there. I would appreciate, therefore, if they could maybe pass a law outlawing bugs from commuting. At least during rush hour.
Friday, October 9, 2009
What your sneeze says about you
In the last blog post we looked at the fascinating subject of sneezes, learning that sneezes can be classified into a few easily recognizable categories, except my mother's, which as far as I know is entirely unique ("Hur-RAH!").
Sneezes have been studied quite extensively, mainly because the allergy medication manufacturers have a whole bunch of money they don't know what to do with. This is because those of us with allergies, in order to stay well-drugged with their products, give them a significant portion of our income.
Thanks to all these studies, and the sneeze experts who conduct them, we know a lot about sneezes, such as that the word sneeze is a cool word. So today, using wholly scientific, analytic methods, we will attempt to explain different personalities based on the classification of sneezes we learned about last time.
First, the Chihuahua Sneeze. This is a short, dainty, rapid sneeze that is followed by at least 17 others exactly the same. Chihuahua Sneezers, though generally considered polite and apologetic, may actually exhibit passive-aggressive tendencies. They want attention, and if they don't get it by sneezing daintily several times in a row, they may be forced to take more drastic measures, such as nipping at other people's heels.
The Cheer Sneezer is more difficult to analyze, mainly because my mother is the only known Cheer Sneezer. I suspect that the uniqueness of her sneeze has something to do with having five children spread out over 20 years, and it is a wonder she does not exhibit other, even more unique personality characteristics.
Noah Sneezers exhibit great empathy for others. This can be seen in the fact that their sneezes always come in twos, as if the Noah Sneezers are anxious that a sneeze not be alone, and that it has someone to keep it company. Noah Sneezers are also known for great physical feats and for perseverance in the face of great odds, although they do tend to get a little apprehensive when they hear thunder.
And finally, we have the Big Bang Sneezers, who get their sneezes over with in one violent, dramatic explosion. These action-driven individuals simply do not have the time for multiple little Chihuahua Sneezes, or even for two Noah Sneezes. They are too busy trying to solve the world's puzzles and mysteries, such as why anyone would want to study sneezing in the first place.
And thus ends our brief but wholly scientific analysis of sneezing. If any of you disagrees with our analysis of your particular personality, and you think another personality more accurately describes you, well, you might think about changing the way you sneeze.
Hur-RAH!
This wholly scientific analysis has been supported by the makers of Sleepadryl, Allegro, Clarifin, and Zzzzrtec, none of which, unfortunately, has paid us any actual money.
Sneezes have been studied quite extensively, mainly because the allergy medication manufacturers have a whole bunch of money they don't know what to do with. This is because those of us with allergies, in order to stay well-drugged with their products, give them a significant portion of our income.
Thanks to all these studies, and the sneeze experts who conduct them, we know a lot about sneezes, such as that the word sneeze is a cool word. So today, using wholly scientific, analytic methods, we will attempt to explain different personalities based on the classification of sneezes we learned about last time.
First, the Chihuahua Sneeze. This is a short, dainty, rapid sneeze that is followed by at least 17 others exactly the same. Chihuahua Sneezers, though generally considered polite and apologetic, may actually exhibit passive-aggressive tendencies. They want attention, and if they don't get it by sneezing daintily several times in a row, they may be forced to take more drastic measures, such as nipping at other people's heels.
The Cheer Sneezer is more difficult to analyze, mainly because my mother is the only known Cheer Sneezer. I suspect that the uniqueness of her sneeze has something to do with having five children spread out over 20 years, and it is a wonder she does not exhibit other, even more unique personality characteristics.
Noah Sneezers exhibit great empathy for others. This can be seen in the fact that their sneezes always come in twos, as if the Noah Sneezers are anxious that a sneeze not be alone, and that it has someone to keep it company. Noah Sneezers are also known for great physical feats and for perseverance in the face of great odds, although they do tend to get a little apprehensive when they hear thunder.
And finally, we have the Big Bang Sneezers, who get their sneezes over with in one violent, dramatic explosion. These action-driven individuals simply do not have the time for multiple little Chihuahua Sneezes, or even for two Noah Sneezes. They are too busy trying to solve the world's puzzles and mysteries, such as why anyone would want to study sneezing in the first place.
And thus ends our brief but wholly scientific analysis of sneezing. If any of you disagrees with our analysis of your particular personality, and you think another personality more accurately describes you, well, you might think about changing the way you sneeze.
Hur-RAH!
This wholly scientific analysis has been supported by the makers of Sleepadryl, Allegro, Clarifin, and Zzzzrtec, none of which, unfortunately, has paid us any actual money.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
And God bless you
According to sneeze researchers -- why didn't my guidance counselors ever tell me I could be a sneeze researcher? -- there are several different types of sneezes. There is the loud sneeze; the subdued sneeze; the smothered sneeze; and the no-nonsense sneeze, which is gotten out of the way quickly so the individual can get on to more important things, although sneeze researchers do not suggest what these important things may be.
To these venerable findings I would like to add my own observations of sneezes, based on the small sample of sneezes with which I am most familiar:
1. The Chihuahua Sneeze. The Chihuahua Sneeze is a dainty little exhalation, pitched several times higher than the individual's normal speaking voice. It is short and quick, as if there is not enough air capacity to emit a full-size sneeze. Those who exhibit the Chihuahua Sneeze are satisfied with no fewer than 18 sneezes in a row, although some have been observed to sneeze up to 56 times at once, after which the exhausted individual keels over with all four limbs in the air. Most likely to be exhibited by girls under 7, ladies over 79, and my sister.
2. The Cheer Sneeze. Although most sneezes include some variation of the word "achoo" (which means "incoming germs!"), the Cheer Sneeze is notably different. The word used in a Cheer Sneeze more closely resembles the word "Hurrah," with the emphasis on the last syllable: "Hur-RAH!" Most likely to be exhibited by my mother, although she vehemently denies that she says anything like "Hur-RAH!" when she sneezes.
3. The Noah Sneeze. In contrast to the Chihuahua Sneeze, which is actually 18-56 sneezes at once, we have the Noah Sneeze. The Noah Sneeze may be emitted at any volume, but the defining feature is that they invariably come in twos. No more, no less. If you are familiar with the Noah Sneeze you know that there is no point in blessing the individual after the first sneeze, because inevitably it will be followed by a second, and you will have to repeat your blessing, which cancels out the first one. The Gallant Hero is a Noah Sneezer.
4. The Big Bang Sneeze. The Big Bang Sneeze is the most dramatic sneeze. This sneeze is emitted in one violent breath, with such force as to take all the individual's cranial particles with it. The sound of this sneeze is frequently elongated: "Ah-CHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" A variant of the Big Bang Sneeze is the Prolonged Big Bang Sneeze, in which the sneeze is preceded by an extensive wind-up phase, during which there is some doubt that the individual will ever get to the actual sneeze: "Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-CHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" The Big Bang Sneeze carries such force that some scientists, not entirely satisfied with the Big Bang theory of the world's creation but also unwilling to believe that God spoke the world into being, have hit upon the Big Bang Sneeze as a compromise: God sneezed, and there we were. A little wet, perhaps, but there we were. Although I myself adhere to the speaking explanation of creation, I do exhibit a Big Bang Sneeze.
There are fascinating suggestions as to what a sneeze says about the individual exhibiting it. In the next blog post we will explore this subject more closely, not so much because we think we can learn anything from it, but mostly so we can make fun of people we know.
To these venerable findings I would like to add my own observations of sneezes, based on the small sample of sneezes with which I am most familiar:
1. The Chihuahua Sneeze. The Chihuahua Sneeze is a dainty little exhalation, pitched several times higher than the individual's normal speaking voice. It is short and quick, as if there is not enough air capacity to emit a full-size sneeze. Those who exhibit the Chihuahua Sneeze are satisfied with no fewer than 18 sneezes in a row, although some have been observed to sneeze up to 56 times at once, after which the exhausted individual keels over with all four limbs in the air. Most likely to be exhibited by girls under 7, ladies over 79, and my sister.
2. The Cheer Sneeze. Although most sneezes include some variation of the word "achoo" (which means "incoming germs!"), the Cheer Sneeze is notably different. The word used in a Cheer Sneeze more closely resembles the word "Hurrah," with the emphasis on the last syllable: "Hur-RAH!" Most likely to be exhibited by my mother, although she vehemently denies that she says anything like "Hur-RAH!" when she sneezes.
3. The Noah Sneeze. In contrast to the Chihuahua Sneeze, which is actually 18-56 sneezes at once, we have the Noah Sneeze. The Noah Sneeze may be emitted at any volume, but the defining feature is that they invariably come in twos. No more, no less. If you are familiar with the Noah Sneeze you know that there is no point in blessing the individual after the first sneeze, because inevitably it will be followed by a second, and you will have to repeat your blessing, which cancels out the first one. The Gallant Hero is a Noah Sneezer.
4. The Big Bang Sneeze. The Big Bang Sneeze is the most dramatic sneeze. This sneeze is emitted in one violent breath, with such force as to take all the individual's cranial particles with it. The sound of this sneeze is frequently elongated: "Ah-CHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" A variant of the Big Bang Sneeze is the Prolonged Big Bang Sneeze, in which the sneeze is preceded by an extensive wind-up phase, during which there is some doubt that the individual will ever get to the actual sneeze: "Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-CHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" The Big Bang Sneeze carries such force that some scientists, not entirely satisfied with the Big Bang theory of the world's creation but also unwilling to believe that God spoke the world into being, have hit upon the Big Bang Sneeze as a compromise: God sneezed, and there we were. A little wet, perhaps, but there we were. Although I myself adhere to the speaking explanation of creation, I do exhibit a Big Bang Sneeze.
There are fascinating suggestions as to what a sneeze says about the individual exhibiting it. In the next blog post we will explore this subject more closely, not so much because we think we can learn anything from it, but mostly so we can make fun of people we know.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Whose hair is it, anyway?
Joe is lucky when it comes to getting his hair cut, because his haircut has to be approved by only one person: me. I, on the other hand, have to submit plans for approval of my haircut, well in advance of the appointment, to three people: Joe. Myself. The stylist.
Due to one unfortunate mishap in the salon a few years ago, Joe is now petrified every time I say that I am going to get my hair cut.
"So that stylist cut it a little short that one time," I said when I announced recently that I was going to the salon. "I don't go to her anymore anyway."
"A little short? You didn't have any hair left."
"It'll be fine. Don't worry about it."
"Should I send a note to the stylist?" he asked anxiously. "Leave my wife's hair ALONE."
I assured him a note was not necessary.
"Or picket outside the place maybe?"
"I'm sure I saw a sign in the window that says "No Picketing. Especially Husbands."
He tried one last time to persuade me not to go. "Why do you need to get it cut? Your hair looks really good today."
"Of course it looks good today," I said. "It always looks good the day I'm scheduled to get it cut. It knows when it's time. But if I don't go, tomorrow it will be back to its usual limp, uncooperative self."
I finally made it out the door, having been forced to agree that I would administer an oath to the stylist in which she would promise to take off an imperceptible amount of hair, and as each strand of hair was cut I would inspect it and measure it with a ruler.
When I had finished explaining Joe's reservations to my stylist, and she had laughed and outlined her own plans for my hair, and I had nixed those plans and repeated the "not too short" requirement, and she had modified her plans, and I had nixed those plans, she looked at me thoughtfully.
"Will he really notice that it's shorter?" she finally asked.
"Well, he knows I was coming here, and he knows it wasn't to pick up toothpaste."
"You're lucky," she said. "My husband wouldn't notice anything different if I walked around the house naked."
I assured her I thought he would notice that.
She proceeded to take a minuscule amount of hair off, and everyone seemed moderately happy with the result. Joe. Me. The stylist.
But the one entity happiest with my hair that day was my hair itself, because no matter what plans any of us make for it, or how I get it cut, it does whatever it wants anyway.
Due to one unfortunate mishap in the salon a few years ago, Joe is now petrified every time I say that I am going to get my hair cut.
"So that stylist cut it a little short that one time," I said when I announced recently that I was going to the salon. "I don't go to her anymore anyway."
"A little short? You didn't have any hair left."
"It'll be fine. Don't worry about it."
"Should I send a note to the stylist?" he asked anxiously. "Leave my wife's hair ALONE."
I assured him a note was not necessary.
"Or picket outside the place maybe?"
"I'm sure I saw a sign in the window that says "No Picketing. Especially Husbands."
He tried one last time to persuade me not to go. "Why do you need to get it cut? Your hair looks really good today."
"Of course it looks good today," I said. "It always looks good the day I'm scheduled to get it cut. It knows when it's time. But if I don't go, tomorrow it will be back to its usual limp, uncooperative self."
I finally made it out the door, having been forced to agree that I would administer an oath to the stylist in which she would promise to take off an imperceptible amount of hair, and as each strand of hair was cut I would inspect it and measure it with a ruler.
When I had finished explaining Joe's reservations to my stylist, and she had laughed and outlined her own plans for my hair, and I had nixed those plans and repeated the "not too short" requirement, and she had modified her plans, and I had nixed those plans, she looked at me thoughtfully.
"Will he really notice that it's shorter?" she finally asked.
"Well, he knows I was coming here, and he knows it wasn't to pick up toothpaste."
"You're lucky," she said. "My husband wouldn't notice anything different if I walked around the house naked."
I assured her I thought he would notice that.
She proceeded to take a minuscule amount of hair off, and everyone seemed moderately happy with the result. Joe. Me. The stylist.
But the one entity happiest with my hair that day was my hair itself, because no matter what plans any of us make for it, or how I get it cut, it does whatever it wants anyway.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
War zone
I was fortunate to not grow up in one of those families where mealtime resembled a war zone, with individuals having to be quick-witted and quick-handed if they wanted to get any food. Since getting married, however, this situation has changed dramatically.
Not that we fight over our food. We are too refined for that. No, Joe brilliantly deploys the Stealth Food Attack method, wherein the last portion of some food or snack -- generally containing chocolate ingredients -- that I have been saving, and looking forward to savoring, mysteriously disappears.
This circumstance has forced me to resort to Food Camouflage. Since anything in plain sight will likely be stolen by the other side, I secretly hide whatever it is I want to protect in the back of the refrigerator. Bars of gold could be stashed back there, and they would never be discovered. The only things that exist for Joe are in the very front row of the refrigerator. Many a treasured food item has been saved in this manner.
But it is not always possible to hide things. Some must be stored in plain sight -- the Danger Zone -- with the knowledge that at any moment, Stealth Man may come and whisk them away.
Last night I was anticipating consuming the last of the Black Bean Tamale Pie for dinner while Joe went to class. My food radar immediately went off when I opened the refrigerator to put something else away. There, where my Black Bean Tamale Pie should have been, was a big hole. Stealth Man strikes again!
Stealth Man is very, very lucky he is not here right now, I thought. His class had saved him from great bodily harm.
But I confronted him when he came home. "I thought we had an agreement," I said, "wherein you ask me if I want something before taking the last of it."
"Well, see, I did have that conversation with you," he said. "In my head. I imagined myself asking you if I could have it, and I imagined you saying yes."
I told him next time to imagine me standing guard in front of my food with a heavy metal object. This is, after all, war.
Not that we fight over our food. We are too refined for that. No, Joe brilliantly deploys the Stealth Food Attack method, wherein the last portion of some food or snack -- generally containing chocolate ingredients -- that I have been saving, and looking forward to savoring, mysteriously disappears.
This circumstance has forced me to resort to Food Camouflage. Since anything in plain sight will likely be stolen by the other side, I secretly hide whatever it is I want to protect in the back of the refrigerator. Bars of gold could be stashed back there, and they would never be discovered. The only things that exist for Joe are in the very front row of the refrigerator. Many a treasured food item has been saved in this manner.
But it is not always possible to hide things. Some must be stored in plain sight -- the Danger Zone -- with the knowledge that at any moment, Stealth Man may come and whisk them away.
Last night I was anticipating consuming the last of the Black Bean Tamale Pie for dinner while Joe went to class. My food radar immediately went off when I opened the refrigerator to put something else away. There, where my Black Bean Tamale Pie should have been, was a big hole. Stealth Man strikes again!
Stealth Man is very, very lucky he is not here right now, I thought. His class had saved him from great bodily harm.
But I confronted him when he came home. "I thought we had an agreement," I said, "wherein you ask me if I want something before taking the last of it."
"Well, see, I did have that conversation with you," he said. "In my head. I imagined myself asking you if I could have it, and I imagined you saying yes."
I told him next time to imagine me standing guard in front of my food with a heavy metal object. This is, after all, war.
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