The Hero and Princess are off to see the Queen and other royals in a far, faraway land. Too bad they can't travel by sleigh -- it would be a little colder, but at least there would be no body scanners involved.
The blog will return, so stay tuned!
Friday, December 17, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Approved for unemployed viewers
Being suddenly unemployed, I find it helpful to surround myself with uplifting, encouraging things, like eggnog and vanilla ice cream and a shake maker. So when our Netflix movie arrived, I anticipated an evening of fun, such as from watching an encouraging Christmas movie, for instance.
"What movie is it?" I asked the Hero.
"Uh, it's about a boy who escapes from a concentration camp."
"Oh, that's uplifting," I said.
"Well, maybe it's a 'lighthearted' look at the concentration camp."
With much reluctance I agreed to watch the movie, but we were, sadly, prevented from watching it because of issues with the disk.
"See?" I said. "I am destined to watch something fun and lighthearted tonight."
Reduced to choosing a movie from our limited stock, Joe put in several bids for "Behind Enemy Lines," which I declared 'not approved for unemployed viewers needing something lighthearted.' "
"Keep looking," I said.
"There's Rudolph," he said. "But I think we just watched that."
"We haven't watched anything Christmasy since last year."
"Like I said, we just watched it."
We settled on Ice Age, despite the movie's warning that it contained 'mild peril.'
"Do you think it qualifies as lighthearted?" the Hero asked. "Are you sure you don't want to watch Behind Enemy Lines?"
"I'll take my chances on Ice Age, thank you."
It was almost like watching an entirely new movie because we had forgotten most of the story, except the squirrel who, during several episodes of 'mild peril,' is destined to forever chase, and never acquire, his acorn.
It was the perfect movie to watch under the circumstances, even with the scenes of peril. Next time, we'll definitely add the eggnog and vanilla ice cream and shake maker.
"What movie is it?" I asked the Hero.
"Uh, it's about a boy who escapes from a concentration camp."
"Oh, that's uplifting," I said.
"Well, maybe it's a 'lighthearted' look at the concentration camp."
With much reluctance I agreed to watch the movie, but we were, sadly, prevented from watching it because of issues with the disk.
"See?" I said. "I am destined to watch something fun and lighthearted tonight."
Reduced to choosing a movie from our limited stock, Joe put in several bids for "Behind Enemy Lines," which I declared 'not approved for unemployed viewers needing something lighthearted.' "
"Keep looking," I said.
"There's Rudolph," he said. "But I think we just watched that."
"We haven't watched anything Christmasy since last year."
"Like I said, we just watched it."
We settled on Ice Age, despite the movie's warning that it contained 'mild peril.'
"Do you think it qualifies as lighthearted?" the Hero asked. "Are you sure you don't want to watch Behind Enemy Lines?"
"I'll take my chances on Ice Age, thank you."
It was almost like watching an entirely new movie because we had forgotten most of the story, except the squirrel who, during several episodes of 'mild peril,' is destined to forever chase, and never acquire, his acorn.
It was the perfect movie to watch under the circumstances, even with the scenes of peril. Next time, we'll definitely add the eggnog and vanilla ice cream and shake maker.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Have yourself a bacon-wrapped Christmas
At this time of year, many of us engage in various time-honored traditions -- spending time with loved ones, choosing the perfect Christmas tree, putting up the perfect Christmas tree, decorating the perfect Christmas tree, cleaning up all the needles shed by the perfect Christmas tree, wishing the perfect Christmas tree would spontaneously combust, etc.
Yet our time-honored traditions are under attack by certain groups who are bent on eradicating all we hold dear. I refer specifically to the time-honored tradition of stuffing ourselves full of food that is not good for us.
This tradition probably dates back even before the original Christmas, and at some point the early Christians, as they eagerly spread the good news of Christ's birth, also spread the good news of bacon-wrapped water chestnuts. And ever since, we have been consuming, in a single month of the year, about 180 megacalories (1 megacalorie being equal to 27,000 regular calories) during the Christmas season. Per day.
But then slowly, insidiously, certain heretics -- calling themselves "nutritionists" -- began a crusade to ban anything with a positive calorie count from our holiday celebrations. Every year now, we are presented with long lists of foods to avoid at holiday parties (pretty much everything). We are told to never to go a party hungry. I'm sorry, is there any reason to even go to a party other than for the food?
Nothing kills the holiday spirit quicker than being told to eat healthy. So it is time to fight back (that is, if we can lift our spoons out of the cheese ball long enough to do so). In an effort to rid these heretical ideas from our holiday celebrations, I have compiled a list of suggestions for keeping the fun -- and calories -- in Christmas.
1. Never eat before going to a party, because you will not want to eat anything at the party, and this will offend the hostess, unless she is a nutritionist.
2. Take your favorite, most fattening dish to a party. That way you'll be sure to have something halfway decent to eat if everyone else brings something healthy.
3. Be sure to eat at the mall food court while doing your holiday shopping. You will rarely find anything healthy there, and if there is anything healthy the nutritionists will consume it all.
4. Avoid eating too many fruits and vegetables. In fact, consider placing a ban on them for the entire month of December. If you must eat them, be sure to use them only as a conveyance for tantalizing, calorie-laden dips.
5. One teeny, tiny concession I will make: Do practice portion control, taking less food than you otherwise might. Just make sure you keep going back for seconds, thirds, thirty-ninths, etc.
6. If you feel you must do something to counteract holiday overeating, plan a progressive meal with your neighbors. That way you can get a little exercise in while walking from one house to another, but there will still be plenty of food. If you're concerned about getting too much exercise, you can always make the trip next door in your car.
We may find that these measures are not enough, in which case we will have to make an all-out assault on calorie Scrooges. No violence, of course. Maybe just a little hacking into Santa's database and changing certain wish lists to include things like pecan pie with oodles of whipped cream on top...
Yet our time-honored traditions are under attack by certain groups who are bent on eradicating all we hold dear. I refer specifically to the time-honored tradition of stuffing ourselves full of food that is not good for us.
This tradition probably dates back even before the original Christmas, and at some point the early Christians, as they eagerly spread the good news of Christ's birth, also spread the good news of bacon-wrapped water chestnuts. And ever since, we have been consuming, in a single month of the year, about 180 megacalories (1 megacalorie being equal to 27,000 regular calories) during the Christmas season. Per day.
But then slowly, insidiously, certain heretics -- calling themselves "nutritionists" -- began a crusade to ban anything with a positive calorie count from our holiday celebrations. Every year now, we are presented with long lists of foods to avoid at holiday parties (pretty much everything). We are told to never to go a party hungry. I'm sorry, is there any reason to even go to a party other than for the food?
Nothing kills the holiday spirit quicker than being told to eat healthy. So it is time to fight back (that is, if we can lift our spoons out of the cheese ball long enough to do so). In an effort to rid these heretical ideas from our holiday celebrations, I have compiled a list of suggestions for keeping the fun -- and calories -- in Christmas.
1. Never eat before going to a party, because you will not want to eat anything at the party, and this will offend the hostess, unless she is a nutritionist.
2. Take your favorite, most fattening dish to a party. That way you'll be sure to have something halfway decent to eat if everyone else brings something healthy.
3. Be sure to eat at the mall food court while doing your holiday shopping. You will rarely find anything healthy there, and if there is anything healthy the nutritionists will consume it all.
4. Avoid eating too many fruits and vegetables. In fact, consider placing a ban on them for the entire month of December. If you must eat them, be sure to use them only as a conveyance for tantalizing, calorie-laden dips.
5. One teeny, tiny concession I will make: Do practice portion control, taking less food than you otherwise might. Just make sure you keep going back for seconds, thirds, thirty-ninths, etc.
6. If you feel you must do something to counteract holiday overeating, plan a progressive meal with your neighbors. That way you can get a little exercise in while walking from one house to another, but there will still be plenty of food. If you're concerned about getting too much exercise, you can always make the trip next door in your car.
We may find that these measures are not enough, in which case we will have to make an all-out assault on calorie Scrooges. No violence, of course. Maybe just a little hacking into Santa's database and changing certain wish lists to include things like pecan pie with oodles of whipped cream on top...
Friday, December 10, 2010
A job is in the mailbox
Our unemployment class is over, and we are now armed with all we need to go out and conquer the job market. We can forget about everything we thought we knew about how to find a job. There is just one thing we need to know to unlock the hidden job market: Talk to the mailman.
The idea is that mailmen know everyone and everything going on, including what you are giving family members for Christmas because you hide the presents in the mailbox, so who better to exchange information with? According to our workshop leader, one of her past participants landed his dream job from a tip he received from his mailman. This all came about simply from the man hanging out in his front yard with his dog and being there when the mailman came by.
Unfortunately we do not have a front yard. Or a dog, despite appearances that a dog is a requirement to live in the neighborhood. Our house sits right on the street, and it might attract some attention were I to hang out in the street, strolling up and down, particularly in 30-degree weather. I would be strolling quite a while, as our mailman also arrives at no particular time that I can discern. This is no doubt to keep the unemployed of the neighborhood guessing.
The usual way I know the mail has arrived is this:
1. Mail is shoved through the little slot in the front door, making a great clatter.
2. I grab the nearest weapon, sure that I am about to be attacked by someone coming through the door. (At this time of year, the closest weapon is likely to be a large Mary or Joseph figurine.)
3. I hear, faintly, the mailman laughing to himself on the other side of the door.
So I may be doomed to never reach my dream job goal, and it will be the mailman's fault. Someday, when I am sitting down with a goal-setting book, it is going to ask me, "Have you achieved your goals? If not, why not?" And I will answer, "No, because my mailman is unpredictable."
But let us be positive. When one door closes, somewhere a mail slot opens.
The idea is that mailmen know everyone and everything going on, including what you are giving family members for Christmas because you hide the presents in the mailbox, so who better to exchange information with? According to our workshop leader, one of her past participants landed his dream job from a tip he received from his mailman. This all came about simply from the man hanging out in his front yard with his dog and being there when the mailman came by.
Unfortunately we do not have a front yard. Or a dog, despite appearances that a dog is a requirement to live in the neighborhood. Our house sits right on the street, and it might attract some attention were I to hang out in the street, strolling up and down, particularly in 30-degree weather. I would be strolling quite a while, as our mailman also arrives at no particular time that I can discern. This is no doubt to keep the unemployed of the neighborhood guessing.
The usual way I know the mail has arrived is this:
1. Mail is shoved through the little slot in the front door, making a great clatter.
2. I grab the nearest weapon, sure that I am about to be attacked by someone coming through the door. (At this time of year, the closest weapon is likely to be a large Mary or Joseph figurine.)
3. I hear, faintly, the mailman laughing to himself on the other side of the door.
So I may be doomed to never reach my dream job goal, and it will be the mailman's fault. Someday, when I am sitting down with a goal-setting book, it is going to ask me, "Have you achieved your goals? If not, why not?" And I will answer, "No, because my mailman is unpredictable."
But let us be positive. When one door closes, somewhere a mail slot opens.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Fun with action verbs
Several of us previously employed individuals have managed to lift ourselves off the couch and attend an unemployment workshop, which, if it really wanted to be helpful, would teach us things like how to remain unemployed but get paid for it. This would be a very popular workshop.
But this is not to say that we have not learned important things in the workshop. For instance, we have learned that our resumes need "tweaking" (translated roughly, they stink). To help us tweak them, we each received a bound manual of information that is approximately the weight of a Winnebago. The manual offers help for our ailing resumes, including a list of helpful action verbs that convey to a potential employer what we have accomplished in our careers thus far. From this list we can deduce that potential employers are not interested in knowing that we are accomplished in "having fun," as that does not appear on the list, although we heartily believe it should.
We editors are impressed by this list of action verbs, as our own resumes tend to rely heavily on two verbs: "edited" and "edited some more." In cases where these particular verbs are not adequate to describe what we have done with a manuscript, we might resort to "lit on fire."
So we read the list with some amount of envy, the word "formulate" attracting attention from one participant. "Ooo, that's good," she said. But realizing she was unlikely to ever use this word to apply to her own work, she lamented, "I want to formulate something!"
The action verb list is divided into helpful sections such as "How did you organize something?" and "How did you make decisions?" There was even a section titled "How did you save the day?" on which I was disappointed not to find the action phrase "removed stink bugs from the ladies' restroom." This constituted quite a large portion of our everyday job functioning at our previous company and should, I feel strongly, be duly conveyed.
Our resumes received individual attention from the workshop leader, who no doubt went home from the first session determined to work on her own resume and get another job that has no possibility of contact with editorial persons.
"You would put a colon here," she said to me, inserting two dots after the words "Clients included" in my Freelancing section.
"Um, but that's not grammatically correct," I said meekly. "Colons don't go after a verb..."
I knew this because another way editors "save the day" is by debating, with other editors, proper grammar and style points that no one else believes are important, and we had discussed this very point not long before.
The workshop leader did not appear to appreciate how I was attempting to save the day, and my resume, from grammatical incorrectness. She looked at me sideways, no doubt wondering Dear God, what have I done to deserve this.
She indicated how I could move some items on my resume around, then said, "Again, you would put a colon here -- or not." This was said with heavy and, I personally thought, sarcastic emphasis. She moved on to other participants, seeming to spend more time with non-editors who would not argue with her opinions on colons, but that may have been just my imagination.
Now if only she could show us how to formulate.
But this is not to say that we have not learned important things in the workshop. For instance, we have learned that our resumes need "tweaking" (translated roughly, they stink). To help us tweak them, we each received a bound manual of information that is approximately the weight of a Winnebago. The manual offers help for our ailing resumes, including a list of helpful action verbs that convey to a potential employer what we have accomplished in our careers thus far. From this list we can deduce that potential employers are not interested in knowing that we are accomplished in "having fun," as that does not appear on the list, although we heartily believe it should.
We editors are impressed by this list of action verbs, as our own resumes tend to rely heavily on two verbs: "edited" and "edited some more." In cases where these particular verbs are not adequate to describe what we have done with a manuscript, we might resort to "lit on fire."
So we read the list with some amount of envy, the word "formulate" attracting attention from one participant. "Ooo, that's good," she said. But realizing she was unlikely to ever use this word to apply to her own work, she lamented, "I want to formulate something!"
The action verb list is divided into helpful sections such as "How did you organize something?" and "How did you make decisions?" There was even a section titled "How did you save the day?" on which I was disappointed not to find the action phrase "removed stink bugs from the ladies' restroom." This constituted quite a large portion of our everyday job functioning at our previous company and should, I feel strongly, be duly conveyed.
Our resumes received individual attention from the workshop leader, who no doubt went home from the first session determined to work on her own resume and get another job that has no possibility of contact with editorial persons.
"You would put a colon here," she said to me, inserting two dots after the words "Clients included" in my Freelancing section.
"Um, but that's not grammatically correct," I said meekly. "Colons don't go after a verb..."
I knew this because another way editors "save the day" is by debating, with other editors, proper grammar and style points that no one else believes are important, and we had discussed this very point not long before.
The workshop leader did not appear to appreciate how I was attempting to save the day, and my resume, from grammatical incorrectness. She looked at me sideways, no doubt wondering Dear God, what have I done to deserve this.
She indicated how I could move some items on my resume around, then said, "Again, you would put a colon here -- or not." This was said with heavy and, I personally thought, sarcastic emphasis. She moved on to other participants, seeming to spend more time with non-editors who would not argue with her opinions on colons, but that may have been just my imagination.
Now if only she could show us how to formulate.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Have skills, will travel (out the door)
As I and my fellow previously employed editors set about finding new jobs, we have every reason to be optimistic and upbeat. Editors have many skills that are of great practical benefit in everyday situations, and other people are generally very appreciative of such skills being exercised in their behalf, as evidenced here:
Pointing out mistakes in menus, signs, brochures, etc.
Editor to restaurant manager: Excuse me, did you know that chicken is misspelled on your menu? Twice? A different way each time?
Manager: So don't order the chicken.
Pointing out spelling mistakes on birth certificates
Editor to new parent: You spelled your child's name with a comma in it.
New parent: No, that's an apostrophe.
Editor: No, that's a comma.
New parent: Listen, you, I gave birth to the kid and I'll put semicolons in his name if I want!
Editor (impressed): You know what a semicolon is?
Pointing out font irregularities
Editor to motor vehicle office employee: Um, you do realize the font on the first E on this license plate is not the same as on the second E, right?
Employee: Next!
Reducing unwanted e-mail
New acquaintance to editor: You're an editor, huh? Like, you probably find everything wrong with e-mails people send you? Ha ha, I wouldn't want to e-mail you!
Editor: Great.
Reducing the number of horribly written books on the market
Slight acquaintance of editor: Hey, uh, I wrote this manuscript I thought you might want to look at...you, know, maybe give me some advice for having it published...
Editor (briefly looking over the tome): I think you should go into another line of work. Like selling trash compactors.
So, I am not worried about finding another job. People love editors. The truth about how editors have contributed to a better society may never be known. If everyone else can help it.
Pointing out mistakes in menus, signs, brochures, etc.
Editor to restaurant manager: Excuse me, did you know that chicken is misspelled on your menu? Twice? A different way each time?
Manager: So don't order the chicken.
Pointing out spelling mistakes on birth certificates
Editor to new parent: You spelled your child's name with a comma in it.
New parent: No, that's an apostrophe.
Editor: No, that's a comma.
New parent: Listen, you, I gave birth to the kid and I'll put semicolons in his name if I want!
Editor (impressed): You know what a semicolon is?
Pointing out font irregularities
Editor to motor vehicle office employee: Um, you do realize the font on the first E on this license plate is not the same as on the second E, right?
Employee: Next!
Reducing unwanted e-mail
New acquaintance to editor: You're an editor, huh? Like, you probably find everything wrong with e-mails people send you? Ha ha, I wouldn't want to e-mail you!
Editor: Great.
Reducing the number of horribly written books on the market
Slight acquaintance of editor: Hey, uh, I wrote this manuscript I thought you might want to look at...you, know, maybe give me some advice for having it published...
Editor (briefly looking over the tome): I think you should go into another line of work. Like selling trash compactors.
So, I am not worried about finding another job. People love editors. The truth about how editors have contributed to a better society may never be known. If everyone else can help it.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
New beginnings are good (as long as they involve food)
The blog's new look is brought to you courtesy of the Princess's former employer, who has set her and many of her former co-workers free to pursue other pursuits. These pursuits should not, in the Hero's opinion, include eating brownies all day, excepting those brownies consumed while commiserating with other previously employed individuals and swapping tips for finding new jobs that involve being paid to eat brownies.
But there are many bright spots to this event, not the least of which is that the Princess is now free from Stink Bug Duty, which constituted quite a bit of her time in her former job. Presumably the stink bugs will now run amok at the company; indeed, in time they may run the company.
As the Princess seeks new opportunities, which hopefully do not include multiple-legged creatures, the Hero has encouraged her to keep on task by making a list of things to do, and this she has diligently carried out:
1. Wrap Christmas gifts
2. Put up tree
3. Take long naps
4. Make social engagements each day
5. Make oodles of Christmas cookies (and consume them)
6. Avoid showing this list to Hero
Of course the Princess will endeavor to spend time -- she is certain she can find a few minutes here and there between important social engagements -- devoted to job hunting, and she has already begun a list of her best qualifications:
1. Offering violence-free bug removal
2. Raising staff morale through such activities as decorating with festive window stickees, placing musical soap in the restroom at holiday time, placing glow-in-the-dark soap in the restroom at other holiday times
3. Encouraging operations personnel to keep the office environment comfortable, that is, above 32 degrees
4. Managing large inventories, especially her personal cache of tea
5. Supporting employee endeavors, particularly those involving birthday cake
There is no doubt that other companies will need an individual of such talents, and so the Princess doggedly marches on, holding the brownie banner high.
But there are many bright spots to this event, not the least of which is that the Princess is now free from Stink Bug Duty, which constituted quite a bit of her time in her former job. Presumably the stink bugs will now run amok at the company; indeed, in time they may run the company.
As the Princess seeks new opportunities, which hopefully do not include multiple-legged creatures, the Hero has encouraged her to keep on task by making a list of things to do, and this she has diligently carried out:
1. Wrap Christmas gifts
2. Put up tree
3. Take long naps
4. Make social engagements each day
5. Make oodles of Christmas cookies (and consume them)
6. Avoid showing this list to Hero
Of course the Princess will endeavor to spend time -- she is certain she can find a few minutes here and there between important social engagements -- devoted to job hunting, and she has already begun a list of her best qualifications:
1. Offering violence-free bug removal
2. Raising staff morale through such activities as decorating with festive window stickees, placing musical soap in the restroom at holiday time, placing glow-in-the-dark soap in the restroom at other holiday times
3. Encouraging operations personnel to keep the office environment comfortable, that is, above 32 degrees
4. Managing large inventories, especially her personal cache of tea
5. Supporting employee endeavors, particularly those involving birthday cake
There is no doubt that other companies will need an individual of such talents, and so the Princess doggedly marches on, holding the brownie banner high.
Monday, November 29, 2010
In 2. miles, turn...the GPS OFF
This Thanksgiving as I headed to my family's home in my trusty car, I made sure to bring my faithful GPS, which has never steered me wrong because I also always bring along a map of wherever I am going.
I did not need the GPS, of course, to go to my relatives' house, where I have been many times. The GPS was to help me find a new route to avoid the annual Thanksgiving tradition out here in the East, which is to park one's car along a 1,000-mile stretch of Interstate 95 and, every now and then -- about every two hours -- put the car back into drive, drive forward no more than two millimeters, and stop again. This puts one at one's destination just in time for the family holiday dinner at Easter.
This year the Thanksgiving traffic was projected to be even worse, because, by government decree, the toll booths had to undergo major renovations on this, the most heavily trafficked day of the year, and they must begin merging lanes at least 3,500 miles before the toll booth, and they must reduce the usually plentiful number of ticket booths available to somewhere in the negative numbers. Officials were advising drivers to find another route to their destination, preferably one by way of Mexico City. The newspaper printed a handy chart of peak drive times, and suggested that drivers choose a non-peak time to travel the interstate, such as March 6, 2016.
So before I became part of the enormous parking lot I turned off the interstate, and promptly threw the GPS into panic. It insisted that I turn around and get back on the interstate, offering up every street and driveway that could possibly be used to turn around.
In .2 miles, it urged, turn left on Goat Hill Road.
"I am not turning left on Goat Hill Road," I said firmly while passing Goat Hill Road.
It tried again. In .9 miles, turn right on Snake Lane.
"I am not turning right on Snake Lane, either. Get over it," I said. "Tell me something useful, like where a Starbucks is around here."
In .4 miles, turn left into Starbucks, the GPS said.
"Really?" I said hopefully.
Ha ha ha ha ha! You are 916 kilometers from the nearest Starbucks!
"Kilometers, kilometers...kilometers are smaller than miles, right? So that's, like, only .3 miles, right? Like, it's close?"
Ha ha ha ha ha! the GPS jeered again.
The GPS continued to vie with the Christmas music station for my attention, certain that what I really wanted was to turn around and drive 900 kilometer-miles back to the interstate. Eventually it gave up on this, and settled for helpfully pointing out nearby points of interest.
You are 3,000 miles away from the nearest Dunkin' Donuts. You are 562 light-years away from the nearest restroom (which is closed). You are...
I did not need the GPS, of course, to go to my relatives' house, where I have been many times. The GPS was to help me find a new route to avoid the annual Thanksgiving tradition out here in the East, which is to park one's car along a 1,000-mile stretch of Interstate 95 and, every now and then -- about every two hours -- put the car back into drive, drive forward no more than two millimeters, and stop again. This puts one at one's destination just in time for the family holiday dinner at Easter.
This year the Thanksgiving traffic was projected to be even worse, because, by government decree, the toll booths had to undergo major renovations on this, the most heavily trafficked day of the year, and they must begin merging lanes at least 3,500 miles before the toll booth, and they must reduce the usually plentiful number of ticket booths available to somewhere in the negative numbers. Officials were advising drivers to find another route to their destination, preferably one by way of Mexico City. The newspaper printed a handy chart of peak drive times, and suggested that drivers choose a non-peak time to travel the interstate, such as March 6, 2016.
So before I became part of the enormous parking lot I turned off the interstate, and promptly threw the GPS into panic. It insisted that I turn around and get back on the interstate, offering up every street and driveway that could possibly be used to turn around.
In .2 miles, it urged, turn left on Goat Hill Road.
"I am not turning left on Goat Hill Road," I said firmly while passing Goat Hill Road.
It tried again. In .9 miles, turn right on Snake Lane.
"I am not turning right on Snake Lane, either. Get over it," I said. "Tell me something useful, like where a Starbucks is around here."
In .4 miles, turn left into Starbucks, the GPS said.
"Really?" I said hopefully.
Ha ha ha ha ha! You are 916 kilometers from the nearest Starbucks!
"Kilometers, kilometers...kilometers are smaller than miles, right? So that's, like, only .3 miles, right? Like, it's close?"
Ha ha ha ha ha! the GPS jeered again.
The GPS continued to vie with the Christmas music station for my attention, certain that what I really wanted was to turn around and drive 900 kilometer-miles back to the interstate. Eventually it gave up on this, and settled for helpfully pointing out nearby points of interest.
You are 3,000 miles away from the nearest Dunkin' Donuts. You are 562 light-years away from the nearest restroom (which is closed). You are...
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Oh, if Elvis would only come
It's holiday time, which means it is time for the Princess and Hero to take their annual Christmas Torture Photo, which the Hero looks forward to almost as much as watching Pride and Prejudice. During this annual event the Hero is reminded of our wedding-photo session, which lasted a record nine days and left him with a permanent phobia of cameras.
For the second year in a row, Elvis has failed to appear in our little touristy town on the day we have planned to take our photo, greatly disappointing the Hero. Not only does he feel Elvis would add some interest to the annual photo, more importantly, Elvis would not stand around for 350 pictures, thereby greatly shortening the length of our photo session.
Lacking Elvis, the Hero attempted to come up with some other masculine-interest photo idea this year. "We could take a picture...with a football," he suggested.
"Please," I said. "I'm a girl."
"Well...we could use a pink football."
"How about we take a picture throwing leaves?" I suggested.
"Hey, we could sit in the leaves."
"Too much contact with nature," I said.
And so, with no clear idea of what we wanted to do for this picture -- which is often the case -- we headed for a nearby trail abounding in nature. Overcome by the beauty around us, I enthusiastically endorsed the idea of sitting in the leaves, whereupon the Hero offered the sobering reminder that Nature was in the leaves.
"There could be spiders in there," he said. "Centipedes. Snakes!"
A cursory search revealed nothing too nature-y, and our photo session commenced, consisting of several rounds of the following:
1. Sister snaps photo and gives camera to us to view.
2. The Hero gives enthusiastic approval, no matter if we are not looking at the camera, or even if we are not in the picture. Especially if we are not in the picture.
3. The Princess rejects it, usually on the grounds that the Hero looks pained.
The Hero used increasingly wily tactics in an attempt to end his torture, including appealing to the Princess's vanity:
1st picture: "Oh, this one's great."
2nd picture: "This one's PERFECT!"
495th picture: "Oh, honey, your hair is perfect in this one."
By this point even the Princess's standards have slipped a little, and eventually a photo is approved that, later, will turn out to be of someone else. Ha! Not really. Although the Hero is not above bribing a complete stranger to take his place in the photo.
But at least for this year he is finished with the torture. And maybe next year, Elvis will be around.
For the second year in a row, Elvis has failed to appear in our little touristy town on the day we have planned to take our photo, greatly disappointing the Hero. Not only does he feel Elvis would add some interest to the annual photo, more importantly, Elvis would not stand around for 350 pictures, thereby greatly shortening the length of our photo session.
Lacking Elvis, the Hero attempted to come up with some other masculine-interest photo idea this year. "We could take a picture...with a football," he suggested.
"Please," I said. "I'm a girl."
"Well...we could use a pink football."
"How about we take a picture throwing leaves?" I suggested.
"Hey, we could sit in the leaves."
"Too much contact with nature," I said.
And so, with no clear idea of what we wanted to do for this picture -- which is often the case -- we headed for a nearby trail abounding in nature. Overcome by the beauty around us, I enthusiastically endorsed the idea of sitting in the leaves, whereupon the Hero offered the sobering reminder that Nature was in the leaves.
"There could be spiders in there," he said. "Centipedes. Snakes!"
A cursory search revealed nothing too nature-y, and our photo session commenced, consisting of several rounds of the following:
1. Sister snaps photo and gives camera to us to view.
2. The Hero gives enthusiastic approval, no matter if we are not looking at the camera, or even if we are not in the picture. Especially if we are not in the picture.
3. The Princess rejects it, usually on the grounds that the Hero looks pained.
The Hero used increasingly wily tactics in an attempt to end his torture, including appealing to the Princess's vanity:
1st picture: "Oh, this one's great."
2nd picture: "This one's PERFECT!"
495th picture: "Oh, honey, your hair is perfect in this one."
By this point even the Princess's standards have slipped a little, and eventually a photo is approved that, later, will turn out to be of someone else. Ha! Not really. Although the Hero is not above bribing a complete stranger to take his place in the photo.
But at least for this year he is finished with the torture. And maybe next year, Elvis will be around.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Accidentally speaking
I don't mean to be insensitive, but I have one teeny, tiny suggestion for all the drivers out there who have been getting into accidents lately on my route to and from work: Could they please choose some other road to have an accident on?
Of course when you come upon an accident you are grateful that it is not you in the accident, but once the gratefulness has worn off -- in like a half second -- the next thing you think, if it is a very recent accident, is: Can I get around this accident before all the rescue vehicles get here and block me in?
The answer to that, if you are me, is no. Twice recently the rescue vehicles have roared in just when it was my turn to make my way around the accident site, as if they have some radar that lets them know when I am coming, and they rush to get there before I can escape. One time the fire truck came to rest within two feet of my car, giving me a ringside seat to all the action, which I did not want to see if it included any blood. If there is any blood around, and I see it, they will be putting me on a stretcher:
Rescue person 1 to rescue person 2, carrying stretcher: ANOTHER victim?
Rescue person 2: Nah, this one just fainted in her car while watching all the action.
Really, my being at an accident scene is just going to cause more work for everyone involved. So to avoid that, let's just not have any accidents on my route, okay? The rescue people will thank you.
Of course when you come upon an accident you are grateful that it is not you in the accident, but once the gratefulness has worn off -- in like a half second -- the next thing you think, if it is a very recent accident, is: Can I get around this accident before all the rescue vehicles get here and block me in?
The answer to that, if you are me, is no. Twice recently the rescue vehicles have roared in just when it was my turn to make my way around the accident site, as if they have some radar that lets them know when I am coming, and they rush to get there before I can escape. One time the fire truck came to rest within two feet of my car, giving me a ringside seat to all the action, which I did not want to see if it included any blood. If there is any blood around, and I see it, they will be putting me on a stretcher:
Rescue person 1 to rescue person 2, carrying stretcher: ANOTHER victim?
Rescue person 2: Nah, this one just fainted in her car while watching all the action.
Really, my being at an accident scene is just going to cause more work for everyone involved. So to avoid that, let's just not have any accidents on my route, okay? The rescue people will thank you.
Friday, November 19, 2010
The War of Pillows
Today we bring you a short poem composed by the Hero, who, like other men we know, has developed a marked animosity toward couch pillows.
"I do not like these pillows," said he.
"I do not like them in a chair.
I do not like them in the air."
"They're not in a chair or in the air," I pointed out.
He thought some more.
"I do not like them on the couch
Where feathers can poke through and -- ouch!"
Of course as the principal decorator I take his feelings about such things into account when considering new purchases for the home. For instance, knowing how he feels about decorative pillows, I might buy even more pillows. Because having more pillows is a fundamental right of females.
Unfortunately this right directly interferes with the right of men to an Uncluttered Seating Area, on which they can plop themselves down to sit, nap, roll over and fall off, etc. So men, particularly husbands who feel their personal couch space has been grossly invaded by pillows, want to take away our right to pillows. They are probably this moment forming Guys Against Pillows (GAP) to lobby against having any pillows in the home that do not fulfill a functional purpose, defined as something they can sleep on.
The Hero certainly equates pillows with sleeping, and is disturbed when a pillow proves unfit for such an activity, such as the couch pillows with their poky feathers. But the feathers are a protective mechanism. Tired of years of abuse from guys plopping down for a nap on their delicate forms, decorative pillows have learned to fight back, sometimes with feathers, sometimes with a stray button or other decoration. With more pillows, it is possible to build up an arsenal of attack, until finally a man will not sit anywhere near the couch as long as there are pillows on it.
Which is, of course, the point of having all those pillows. They are there to be looked at and admired. We females dream of a day when the War of Pillows is won, and we will no longer have to follow behind our men and fluff up the squashed pillows they leave in their wake.
Until then, the fight will continue to inspire us to purchase more pillows, and perhaps inspire more poems.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Mistext
A new study shows that individuals, particularly teens, who text most often -- like, when they are awake, and sometimes also when they are asleep -- are more at risk for engaging in dangerous behaviors. This is sobering news, but the good news is, the Hero and I should be safe!
I say this on the basis of the total number of texts we send, which are limited by our severely incompetent fingers. The fingers express their displeasure at being made to perform an exacting task for which they were never intended -- if they had been, our hands would be about a third of their actual size -- by sabotaging the whole process, with the result that when we are sure we texted
Get bread store
it actually gets sent as
Braid dog more
Once I was at the store attempting to choose just one kind of ice cream to bring home, and I texted the Hero for his input. He responded with
U choose, Locus
This text was quickly followed by an amended text saying
I mean Lovie
"Locus" attempted not to laugh too noticeably, there in the ice cream aisle, where a family of three was also making efforts to choose just one kind of ice cream.
Another night I had been stuck in traffic on Interstate 70, and in an effort to spare the Hero the same fate, I texted him Don't come home 70. At least, that's what I thought I texted. My traitorous fingers rearranged my text to say
Don't come Jo
and then, with absolutely no authorization from me, they pushed "send."
I tried again, this time sending, prematurely,
Don't come ho
At this point I considered just calling, but the time it would take to dial, ring, him to pick up, etc., was...hmmm, substantially less time than to send another text.
Today's blog brought to you by Locus and Jo
I say this on the basis of the total number of texts we send, which are limited by our severely incompetent fingers. The fingers express their displeasure at being made to perform an exacting task for which they were never intended -- if they had been, our hands would be about a third of their actual size -- by sabotaging the whole process, with the result that when we are sure we texted
Get bread store
it actually gets sent as
Braid dog more
Once I was at the store attempting to choose just one kind of ice cream to bring home, and I texted the Hero for his input. He responded with
U choose, Locus
This text was quickly followed by an amended text saying
I mean Lovie
"Locus" attempted not to laugh too noticeably, there in the ice cream aisle, where a family of three was also making efforts to choose just one kind of ice cream.
Another night I had been stuck in traffic on Interstate 70, and in an effort to spare the Hero the same fate, I texted him Don't come home 70. At least, that's what I thought I texted. My traitorous fingers rearranged my text to say
Don't come Jo
and then, with absolutely no authorization from me, they pushed "send."
I tried again, this time sending, prematurely,
Don't come ho
At this point I considered just calling, but the time it would take to dial, ring, him to pick up, etc., was...hmmm, substantially less time than to send another text.
Occasionally the problem is not fingers that act on their own authority, but the delay in receiving texts sent to or from home, where there is a notoriously weak signal. Our texts, instead of being instantaneous, rival the post office for time delays:
Me (upon Hero's arrival home with a large supply of leeks): "Why did you buy leeks?"
Hero: "You texted me to get some."
Me: "No, that was last week. And it was cheese, not leeks."
And so we forge on with our texting, thankful that world security does not rest on such text communications as
Home late -- couch needs engine painted
Today's blog brought to you by Locus and Jo
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
We encounter a problem
As you are no doubt aware, we here at Indecision Inc. have been attempting to choose a sofa, and by the looks of things space exploration will be well advanced by the time we actually do. Other Earthlings will be choosing furnishings for their second home on Mars, and we will still be debating the merits of the Little Bunny Foo-Foo fabric for our present home.
But now a terrifying new thought has suddenly hit us: What if the sofa that we THINK we want doesn't fit through the door?
We are well acquainted with things not fitting into our house, which was apparently built at a time when all household furnishings could just be rolled up and fit through a crack in the outside wall. When the moving men attempted to fit our antique typewriter desk through the front door, they told us gravely that they would have to amputate one of its legs, or leave it out on the sidewalk. Without even the benefit of anesthesia -- for me -- they whacked off one of the legs near the middle of the desk, and the desk managed to squeeze through. We never even bothered to put the leg back on, and the desk has adjusted to its handicap courageously and with great dignity.
But to cut off one leg of a sofa might present more difficulties, such as that those who are sitting on it would all be piled up at the lower end. Or we could decide to shorten all the legs equally, and make a Sofa for Vertically Challenged People. This could have some advantages, the chief one being that my feet could actually touch the floor when I sit in it.
But the Hero would prefer to keep the sofa intact, and so he made a prototype of a very convincing sofa-like object to see if we could simulate the sofa fitting through the doorway. This prototype consisted of two sticks arranged in a T-shape, somewhat like a divining rod, and after much measuring and maneuvering the sticks through the doorway in a manner resembling the movements of tai chi, we came to the very definite, scientific conclusion that a) the sofa might fit or b) it might not.
Then, deciding to assume that the actual result would be option a), we tested the prototype IN the room to see how it might fit with the existing furniture. Even with our crude device, it was apparent that the only other thing that would fit in the room with this sofa would be: a plant. On the windowsill.
"Maybe we should just get matching footstools," the Hero suggested.
So as we begin the process of choosing an item of seating all over again, we console ourselves with the thought that perhaps we don't have to give up entirely on this sofa. It might look nice in our second home on Mars someday.
But now a terrifying new thought has suddenly hit us: What if the sofa that we THINK we want doesn't fit through the door?
We are well acquainted with things not fitting into our house, which was apparently built at a time when all household furnishings could just be rolled up and fit through a crack in the outside wall. When the moving men attempted to fit our antique typewriter desk through the front door, they told us gravely that they would have to amputate one of its legs, or leave it out on the sidewalk. Without even the benefit of anesthesia -- for me -- they whacked off one of the legs near the middle of the desk, and the desk managed to squeeze through. We never even bothered to put the leg back on, and the desk has adjusted to its handicap courageously and with great dignity.
But to cut off one leg of a sofa might present more difficulties, such as that those who are sitting on it would all be piled up at the lower end. Or we could decide to shorten all the legs equally, and make a Sofa for Vertically Challenged People. This could have some advantages, the chief one being that my feet could actually touch the floor when I sit in it.
But the Hero would prefer to keep the sofa intact, and so he made a prototype of a very convincing sofa-like object to see if we could simulate the sofa fitting through the doorway. This prototype consisted of two sticks arranged in a T-shape, somewhat like a divining rod, and after much measuring and maneuvering the sticks through the doorway in a manner resembling the movements of tai chi, we came to the very definite, scientific conclusion that a) the sofa might fit or b) it might not.
Then, deciding to assume that the actual result would be option a), we tested the prototype IN the room to see how it might fit with the existing furniture. Even with our crude device, it was apparent that the only other thing that would fit in the room with this sofa would be: a plant. On the windowsill.
"Maybe we should just get matching footstools," the Hero suggested.
So as we begin the process of choosing an item of seating all over again, we console ourselves with the thought that perhaps we don't have to give up entirely on this sofa. It might look nice in our second home on Mars someday.
Friday, November 12, 2010
The glass ceiling may be electric
Despite all the gains women have made regarding equality with men, it was demonstrated recently at my workplace that there remains at least one frontier on which women have not yet achieved parity with the opposite sex: operating electric can openers.
Normally operating such a machine is something I, as a technically and mechanically challenged person, avoid anyway. But, having a can of tuna fish for my lunch one day, and unable to locate the low-tech version of the can opener that usually resides in our office cafe, and having been too lazy to open my can of tuna fish at home, I had no choice but to face the Intimidator. It mocked my ineptitude by whirring and turning around and around, but refusing to make actual contact with the tuna fish can.
I finally broke down and asked for help, which as a woman I am fortunately allowed to do, or I long ago would have perished in our high-tech world. We women like to do things in groups, and to support each other and have many consultations with each other, so we eventually had five women working on the electric can opener, including one expert who warned that this particular machine was "temperamental." At one point the can opener quit making any noise at all, having tired of mocking us, and we concluded that it had permanently died. My tuna fish can was not even dented.
Women are very good at rallying around the wounded and offering balm and solace and, in this case, peanut butter and cheese from their own private stashes. But sometimes you just have to forge your own solutions in the world, and I decided my solution this time was to go to McDonald's.
Much later in the afternoon a male in the office heard of our humiliation at the hands of the can opener, and he declared that he uses it all the time and never has a problem. The can of tuna fish was duly handed to him, and we went in to witness what we supposed would be his humiliation at the hands of the can opener.
"It's probably not plugged in," he said, whereupon we scoffed, because of course we had checked that. Who did he think we were, females?
As we watched, the traitorous can opener purred and neatly sliced open the tuna fish.
Being women, we proceeded to dissect this turn of events and put forth various hypotheses for the outcome, finally deciding that he had some secret of can opener operation that he was not sharing. This he vigorously denied, although he looked very smug.
Despite our humiliation, I determined to learn from this situation. Namely, I would henceforth open my tuna fish cans at home, in private, with my trusty low-tech, hand-operated can opener. At least, until it gets old and rusty and I can't turn it anymore and I have to ask the Hero for help...
Normally operating such a machine is something I, as a technically and mechanically challenged person, avoid anyway. But, having a can of tuna fish for my lunch one day, and unable to locate the low-tech version of the can opener that usually resides in our office cafe, and having been too lazy to open my can of tuna fish at home, I had no choice but to face the Intimidator. It mocked my ineptitude by whirring and turning around and around, but refusing to make actual contact with the tuna fish can.
I finally broke down and asked for help, which as a woman I am fortunately allowed to do, or I long ago would have perished in our high-tech world. We women like to do things in groups, and to support each other and have many consultations with each other, so we eventually had five women working on the electric can opener, including one expert who warned that this particular machine was "temperamental." At one point the can opener quit making any noise at all, having tired of mocking us, and we concluded that it had permanently died. My tuna fish can was not even dented.
Women are very good at rallying around the wounded and offering balm and solace and, in this case, peanut butter and cheese from their own private stashes. But sometimes you just have to forge your own solutions in the world, and I decided my solution this time was to go to McDonald's.
Much later in the afternoon a male in the office heard of our humiliation at the hands of the can opener, and he declared that he uses it all the time and never has a problem. The can of tuna fish was duly handed to him, and we went in to witness what we supposed would be his humiliation at the hands of the can opener.
"It's probably not plugged in," he said, whereupon we scoffed, because of course we had checked that. Who did he think we were, females?
As we watched, the traitorous can opener purred and neatly sliced open the tuna fish.
Being women, we proceeded to dissect this turn of events and put forth various hypotheses for the outcome, finally deciding that he had some secret of can opener operation that he was not sharing. This he vigorously denied, although he looked very smug.
Despite our humiliation, I determined to learn from this situation. Namely, I would henceforth open my tuna fish cans at home, in private, with my trusty low-tech, hand-operated can opener. At least, until it gets old and rusty and I can't turn it anymore and I have to ask the Hero for help...
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Little Bunny Foo-Foo reprise
I'm sure you are all waiting breathlessly to find out which fabric we have chosen for our new sofa. Well, we are still waiting too.
In a turn of events unpredicted by the usual laws of male and female behavior -- particularly that law that says women can never make up their minds on such issues -- I have made a firm decision on which fabric I like, while the Hero, grasping the importance of such a decision, finds himself unable to quite commit to one choice or another.
The Hero is somewhat attached to the fabric that my sister calls the Little Bunny Foo-Foo fabric, which just shows that he is wholly unacquainted with the real character of Little Bunny Foo-Foo. Little Bunny Foo-Foo, who as mentioned in a previous post features prominently in a child's rhyme, is an individual not to be emulated, who displays a wanton disregard for authority and who delights in destructive behavior. In other words, an individual that kids can really like.
Little Bunny Foo-Foo, for reasons best known to himself, roams the forest looking for field mice that he can, as the rhyme indicates, "bop on the head." He is told thrice by a fairy godmother to cease this behavior, or dire consequences will occur. Although he makes some halfhearted attempts to follow this advice, he just cannot seem to avoid that little inner voice that says "Bop the field mice!" In the end Little Bunny Foo-Foo, yielding to this inner voice, comes to a very sad, yet somehow deserving fate: He is turned, by the fairy godmother, into a goon.
I had no idea, when I was young, what a goon was, but I knew that I would not want to be turned into one.
But to the Hero, the Little Bunny Foo-Foo fabric represents none of this sordid tale, and he appreciates the fabric's soothing pastoral qualities: trees, animals, grass, bunnies, field mice, no fairy godmother, etc. He does think it a little strange that there are strings of numbers and letters also woven into the design, but he is willing to overlook this.
On the other hand, he has objections to the design on the fabric I like, mainly because amid stately red vases, flowers, and vines, It also says, in random places, the year 1806.
"Why does it say 1806 on it?" he demanded. "Our house wasn't built in 1806. The sofa wasn't built then. Why should we sit on something that says 1806?"
"Maybe 1806 was an eventful year in the fabric industry," I suggested. We searched for events of note in 1806 but found none pertaining directly to fabric. We did learn that Andrew Jackson, who would later become president, killed a man in a duel in 1806 over Jackson's wife.
Probably the man had criticized the wife's taste in fabric. And Jackson bopped him on the head.
In a turn of events unpredicted by the usual laws of male and female behavior -- particularly that law that says women can never make up their minds on such issues -- I have made a firm decision on which fabric I like, while the Hero, grasping the importance of such a decision, finds himself unable to quite commit to one choice or another.
The Hero is somewhat attached to the fabric that my sister calls the Little Bunny Foo-Foo fabric, which just shows that he is wholly unacquainted with the real character of Little Bunny Foo-Foo. Little Bunny Foo-Foo, who as mentioned in a previous post features prominently in a child's rhyme, is an individual not to be emulated, who displays a wanton disregard for authority and who delights in destructive behavior. In other words, an individual that kids can really like.
Little Bunny Foo-Foo, for reasons best known to himself, roams the forest looking for field mice that he can, as the rhyme indicates, "bop on the head." He is told thrice by a fairy godmother to cease this behavior, or dire consequences will occur. Although he makes some halfhearted attempts to follow this advice, he just cannot seem to avoid that little inner voice that says "Bop the field mice!" In the end Little Bunny Foo-Foo, yielding to this inner voice, comes to a very sad, yet somehow deserving fate: He is turned, by the fairy godmother, into a goon.
I had no idea, when I was young, what a goon was, but I knew that I would not want to be turned into one.
But to the Hero, the Little Bunny Foo-Foo fabric represents none of this sordid tale, and he appreciates the fabric's soothing pastoral qualities: trees, animals, grass, bunnies, field mice, no fairy godmother, etc. He does think it a little strange that there are strings of numbers and letters also woven into the design, but he is willing to overlook this.
On the other hand, he has objections to the design on the fabric I like, mainly because amid stately red vases, flowers, and vines, It also says, in random places, the year 1806.
"Why does it say 1806 on it?" he demanded. "Our house wasn't built in 1806. The sofa wasn't built then. Why should we sit on something that says 1806?"
"Maybe 1806 was an eventful year in the fabric industry," I suggested. We searched for events of note in 1806 but found none pertaining directly to fabric. We did learn that Andrew Jackson, who would later become president, killed a man in a duel in 1806 over Jackson's wife.
Probably the man had criticized the wife's taste in fabric. And Jackson bopped him on the head.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Cleanliness is next to...last on the list
Let us have a brief moment of silence for our departed maple tree, which was carried away last week by Tree Men with saws, and for the surrounding plants and flowers, which were trampled by the Tree Men, AND for our neighbor's plants, which were not able to escape the onslaught either despite holding up little signs saying "Please don't hurt us." And let us also remember our decorative wooden ladder, which thanks to the Tree Men ended the day in more pieces than when it began.
Both yards, covered with tree shavings, now appear as if they have suffered through a severe sand storm. Our yard seems to be cursed with such sand storms, having experienced one when our new drywall and subflooring sat on the patio for a while, just long enough to leave a fine covering of shavings on all the plants.
We have had a lot of work done on our house and yard lately, and this work can generally be broken down into three distinct phases:
1. People come to our house to make some alleged improvement. (duration: 1 day to 16 weeks)
2. I clean up after their improvements. (duration: the life of the house mortgage)
3. (Repeat step 1.)
The one exception to this cycle was the contractor who worked on our family room, whom we will refer to as "Dale," that being his actual name, or at least the name we wrote the check out to. By some magical process unknown to most contractors -- called "cleaning" -- Dale never left behind a mess after his work day. We would come home, look around, and, based on the fact that nothing was dirty or out of place, decide that maybe Dale had not been there that day. Then we would notice something small, such as that a brick wall had been completely covered over in new drywall, and we would realize that perhaps Dale had been there after all, and had waved some magic wand to make all the mess go away.
I have to wonder whether Dale is that tidy in his own home. I hinted broadly to someone who lives in our house that this habit of cleaning up after one's project was a thing to be emulated, but I was conveniently ignored. Whenever he undertakes a project, there are also three distinct phases involved:
1. The Hero hauls out a great number of tools and materials, and proceeds to cover as large an area as possible with them.
2. The Princess sees the mess and faints.
3. The Hero and Princess call Dale.
Ha! Of course we do not call Dale after we make a mess. But -- sigh -- it might be nice.
Both yards, covered with tree shavings, now appear as if they have suffered through a severe sand storm. Our yard seems to be cursed with such sand storms, having experienced one when our new drywall and subflooring sat on the patio for a while, just long enough to leave a fine covering of shavings on all the plants.
We have had a lot of work done on our house and yard lately, and this work can generally be broken down into three distinct phases:
1. People come to our house to make some alleged improvement. (duration: 1 day to 16 weeks)
2. I clean up after their improvements. (duration: the life of the house mortgage)
3. (Repeat step 1.)
The one exception to this cycle was the contractor who worked on our family room, whom we will refer to as "Dale," that being his actual name, or at least the name we wrote the check out to. By some magical process unknown to most contractors -- called "cleaning" -- Dale never left behind a mess after his work day. We would come home, look around, and, based on the fact that nothing was dirty or out of place, decide that maybe Dale had not been there that day. Then we would notice something small, such as that a brick wall had been completely covered over in new drywall, and we would realize that perhaps Dale had been there after all, and had waved some magic wand to make all the mess go away.
I have to wonder whether Dale is that tidy in his own home. I hinted broadly to someone who lives in our house that this habit of cleaning up after one's project was a thing to be emulated, but I was conveniently ignored. Whenever he undertakes a project, there are also three distinct phases involved:
1. The Hero hauls out a great number of tools and materials, and proceeds to cover as large an area as possible with them.
2. The Princess sees the mess and faints.
3. The Hero and Princess call Dale.
Ha! Of course we do not call Dale after we make a mess. But -- sigh -- it might be nice.
Friday, November 5, 2010
A new cat in town
Last year when we visited family for Christmas, my brother's new cat kept us all entertained with cries and scratchings, mostly during the night, as she was convinced that behind the closed doors of our bedrooms a handsome male cat awaited her, and she wanted in. Fortunately this behavior abruptly stopped after a little visit to the vet, although after that little visit Piper not only did not want anything more to do with male cats, she did not want anything to do with any of us.
This year when we visit there will be a new male cat in residence, although Piper will now have considerably less interest in him for his male qualities than as a general playmate. The friendship should prove an interesting one, as Piper is about the size of a chipmunk, and the new cat, of the Savannah breed, will grow to be roughly the size of a small elephant.
Okay, more like the size of a dog. In fact, Savannahs mimic many dog-like actions, such as walking contentedly on a leash, rolling over on command, fetching the newspaper, chasing neighborhood cars, getting into friendly scraps with other neighborhood dogs, visiting the vet after getting into friendly scraps, etc. Owners of both a Savannah and a dog may at times be confused over which is which:
"Honey, where's the cat? I haven't seen it for a couple of days now."
"It's sitting on your lap."
(pause) "Well, then where's the dog?"
The new cat's name will be Kuda, not to be confused with the seahorse of that name, which is distinguished from the cat by the fact that it generally does not have spots (although scientific evidence suggests that early models may have had spots). But Kuda will likely enjoy water as much as a seahorse, and given how smart Savannahs can be, will probably figure out in his first hours in the home how to open every toilet lid in the house and, under the guise of "play and exploration," completely empty the bowls of their contents.
Curiosity leads Savannahs to thoroughly explore their environment, which includes the tops of high cabinets and Christmas trees, and possibly also the inside of refrigerators, microwaves, car engines, etc. Savannahs are also known for engaging freely in "head-butts," or an unexpected pouncing upon someone, which is an affectionate greeting that conveys the animal's happiness to see you as well as a curiosity about whether you are food.
The cat may also hiss, which is nothing new for a cat, but the sound has been described as more of a snake hiss than a cat hiss. According to Wikipedia, this may alarm people unaccustomed to it. Um, maybe, yeah. Especially if it happens in the middle of the night.
This year when we visit there will be a new male cat in residence, although Piper will now have considerably less interest in him for his male qualities than as a general playmate. The friendship should prove an interesting one, as Piper is about the size of a chipmunk, and the new cat, of the Savannah breed, will grow to be roughly the size of a small elephant.
Okay, more like the size of a dog. In fact, Savannahs mimic many dog-like actions, such as walking contentedly on a leash, rolling over on command, fetching the newspaper, chasing neighborhood cars, getting into friendly scraps with other neighborhood dogs, visiting the vet after getting into friendly scraps, etc. Owners of both a Savannah and a dog may at times be confused over which is which:
"Honey, where's the cat? I haven't seen it for a couple of days now."
"It's sitting on your lap."
(pause) "Well, then where's the dog?"
The new cat's name will be Kuda, not to be confused with the seahorse of that name, which is distinguished from the cat by the fact that it generally does not have spots (although scientific evidence suggests that early models may have had spots). But Kuda will likely enjoy water as much as a seahorse, and given how smart Savannahs can be, will probably figure out in his first hours in the home how to open every toilet lid in the house and, under the guise of "play and exploration," completely empty the bowls of their contents.
Curiosity leads Savannahs to thoroughly explore their environment, which includes the tops of high cabinets and Christmas trees, and possibly also the inside of refrigerators, microwaves, car engines, etc. Savannahs are also known for engaging freely in "head-butts," or an unexpected pouncing upon someone, which is an affectionate greeting that conveys the animal's happiness to see you as well as a curiosity about whether you are food.
The cat may also hiss, which is nothing new for a cat, but the sound has been described as more of a snake hiss than a cat hiss. According to Wikipedia, this may alarm people unaccustomed to it. Um, maybe, yeah. Especially if it happens in the middle of the night.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Keeping our heinies happy
Now that our family room renovations are finally complete, we are endeavoring to decorate the room in somewhat of a colonial period manner. The two most important criteria for creating this look are, of course: a) very little furniture, and b) very uncomfortable furniture.
So far we are succeeding spectacularly in both a) and b). Right now the room consists entirely of a few pieces made of the hardest wood one can imagine, unless you count our coats and jackets strewn across them. One of these pieces is a red garden bench, which looked very cute in the antique store but which was never meant for one to actually sit on, being decidedly unfriendly to one's heinie. When we watch TV we sit ramrod straight on this bench, getting up periodically -- like every 10 seconds -- to restore some feeling.
No one can blame people in colonial times for having uncomfortable furniture, as they had more important things to worry about, such as how not to let their heinies freeze while using the privy in the winter. Plus many of them endeavored to follow the good Puritan standard of discomfort is next to godliness, which no doubt carried over to their choice of furniture.
But one does wish that they would have the foresight to invent sofas, which of course they could not because their doorways were too small to allow a sofa to fit through. Our own home, though it does not quite hark back to colonial days, nevertheless also has small doors and doorways. Colonists would have felt right at home with our doorways:
"Ah, thou hast a goodly doorway here! Mine buxom wife will but feebly fit through it!"
As it is, people have had to invent sofas that resemble what we imagine a sofa would have looked like back then, if they had had them. We have been endeavoring to choose one of these sofas for our family room, although they are called a settle rather than a sofa, because it sounds more authentic and because once you have settled in one you cannot get back out of it.
After painstaking research and deliberations, which involved, at one point, using the eeny-meeny-miny-moe method, we have finally chosen a particular settle and fabric. Well, we have chosen three fabric samples. The final choice will require, of course, further deliberations, consultations with every female I am acquainted with, and perhaps more rounds of eeny-meeny-miny-moe.
My sister has already weighed in on the three samples, giving her opinion that the one labeled Virginia Sampler, which consists of various trees and animals, reminds her of -- and I quote -- "Little Bunny Foo-Foo." Little Bunny Foo-Foo features prominently in a rhyme from my childhood, a rhyme valued chiefly for its ability to annoy adults with its constant repetition. I personally would never have associated the Virginia Sampler fabric with Little Bunny Foo-Foo. Clearly, consultation with others who have a deeper understanding of these things is already paying off.
The Hero, being unacquainted with Little Bunny Foo-Foo, likes all three fabric samples. Actually, he would like any of them. Okay, so he would like me to just choose one already so we can watch more than 10 seconds of TV at a time.
So far we are succeeding spectacularly in both a) and b). Right now the room consists entirely of a few pieces made of the hardest wood one can imagine, unless you count our coats and jackets strewn across them. One of these pieces is a red garden bench, which looked very cute in the antique store but which was never meant for one to actually sit on, being decidedly unfriendly to one's heinie. When we watch TV we sit ramrod straight on this bench, getting up periodically -- like every 10 seconds -- to restore some feeling.
No one can blame people in colonial times for having uncomfortable furniture, as they had more important things to worry about, such as how not to let their heinies freeze while using the privy in the winter. Plus many of them endeavored to follow the good Puritan standard of discomfort is next to godliness, which no doubt carried over to their choice of furniture.
But one does wish that they would have the foresight to invent sofas, which of course they could not because their doorways were too small to allow a sofa to fit through. Our own home, though it does not quite hark back to colonial days, nevertheless also has small doors and doorways. Colonists would have felt right at home with our doorways:
"Ah, thou hast a goodly doorway here! Mine buxom wife will but feebly fit through it!"
As it is, people have had to invent sofas that resemble what we imagine a sofa would have looked like back then, if they had had them. We have been endeavoring to choose one of these sofas for our family room, although they are called a settle rather than a sofa, because it sounds more authentic and because once you have settled in one you cannot get back out of it.
After painstaking research and deliberations, which involved, at one point, using the eeny-meeny-miny-moe method, we have finally chosen a particular settle and fabric. Well, we have chosen three fabric samples. The final choice will require, of course, further deliberations, consultations with every female I am acquainted with, and perhaps more rounds of eeny-meeny-miny-moe.
My sister has already weighed in on the three samples, giving her opinion that the one labeled Virginia Sampler, which consists of various trees and animals, reminds her of -- and I quote -- "Little Bunny Foo-Foo." Little Bunny Foo-Foo features prominently in a rhyme from my childhood, a rhyme valued chiefly for its ability to annoy adults with its constant repetition. I personally would never have associated the Virginia Sampler fabric with Little Bunny Foo-Foo. Clearly, consultation with others who have a deeper understanding of these things is already paying off.
The Hero, being unacquainted with Little Bunny Foo-Foo, likes all three fabric samples. Actually, he would like any of them. Okay, so he would like me to just choose one already so we can watch more than 10 seconds of TV at a time.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Trick-or-Kit-Kat
This year we took to heart the traditional Halloween motto: Be prepared. It's a good thing, too, because we ended up with a record number of trick-or-treaters: 4.
In preparation, I had bought a bag of candy I personally liked, so that in the likely event we had no trick-or-treaters the candy would not go to waste. It's possible that I was hoping we would have no trick-or treaters, because when the first knock sounded the bag of candy wasn't even open.
Superman knocked rather forcefully, and we went into action. I frantically tried to open the bag of Kit Kats, failed, and threw it to Joe and yelled "Open!" while I lunged for the door.
Joe, mistaking "Open!" for a directive to also open the door, collided with the Kit Kats midair. Luckily it was not a giant bag of Kit Kats, or our Halloween might have been spent at the emergency clinic, where medical personnel would have filled out the following report:
Nature of injury: Bruise to left ear
Cause of injury: Giant heat-seeking Kit Kat missile
The Kit Kat bag appears to have been sealed by someone with a healthy eating agenda, determined that if people are going to eat this junk they may as well work off some calories while opening the bag. Joe frantically struggled to open it, leaving me to entertain Superman and Spider-Man for several seconds, which consisted alternately of them saying "Trick-or-treat!" and me saying, "Aren't you cute!" and whispering fiercely to Joe, "Is it open yet!"
Joe finally plunged a pair of scissors into the bag, which reluctantly yielded up its contents, and in relief I almost threw all the candy at Superman and Spider-Man.
Superman peered at his take closely, and approved it by saying "Awwright! Kit Kat!" This sounded to Joe like a different expression involving "Kick" and another term for donkey, and he was a bit taken aback at Superman's vocabulary until I set him right. We did not get Spider-Man's assessment, as he was already off to the next house, which fortunately for him was just two Spider-Man steps away.
The next group we almost missed, as we were in the basement having family therapy with our furnace, which periodically refuses to work. But Joe got to the door in time to give some Kit Kats to a fairy and another indeterminate girl character, and that proved to be the end of the Halloween action for us.
The furnace, likewise, saw no further action. Maybe we should give it some Kit Kats.
In preparation, I had bought a bag of candy I personally liked, so that in the likely event we had no trick-or-treaters the candy would not go to waste. It's possible that I was hoping we would have no trick-or treaters, because when the first knock sounded the bag of candy wasn't even open.
Superman knocked rather forcefully, and we went into action. I frantically tried to open the bag of Kit Kats, failed, and threw it to Joe and yelled "Open!" while I lunged for the door.
Joe, mistaking "Open!" for a directive to also open the door, collided with the Kit Kats midair. Luckily it was not a giant bag of Kit Kats, or our Halloween might have been spent at the emergency clinic, where medical personnel would have filled out the following report:
Nature of injury: Bruise to left ear
Cause of injury: Giant heat-seeking Kit Kat missile
The Kit Kat bag appears to have been sealed by someone with a healthy eating agenda, determined that if people are going to eat this junk they may as well work off some calories while opening the bag. Joe frantically struggled to open it, leaving me to entertain Superman and Spider-Man for several seconds, which consisted alternately of them saying "Trick-or-treat!" and me saying, "Aren't you cute!" and whispering fiercely to Joe, "Is it open yet!"
Joe finally plunged a pair of scissors into the bag, which reluctantly yielded up its contents, and in relief I almost threw all the candy at Superman and Spider-Man.
Superman peered at his take closely, and approved it by saying "Awwright! Kit Kat!" This sounded to Joe like a different expression involving "Kick" and another term for donkey, and he was a bit taken aback at Superman's vocabulary until I set him right. We did not get Spider-Man's assessment, as he was already off to the next house, which fortunately for him was just two Spider-Man steps away.
The next group we almost missed, as we were in the basement having family therapy with our furnace, which periodically refuses to work. But Joe got to the door in time to give some Kit Kats to a fairy and another indeterminate girl character, and that proved to be the end of the Halloween action for us.
The furnace, likewise, saw no further action. Maybe we should give it some Kit Kats.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Trick-or-treat equal opportunity
It's almost Halloween, and that means many parents are going to be frantically searching last-minute for the perfect costume for their kids, or at least a costume, or at the very least a trash bag, which can be many things with just a little imagination, including a bag of trash.
A co-worker said the kids in her childhood neighborhood started trick-or-treating a whole week early, and went every night through Halloween. This probably came about as a result of the parents realizing they had spent a collective 2,374 hours making their kids' costumes, and by golly the kids were gonna wear those costumes more than one night! This must have seemed like a good idea to everyone except the parent whose kid needed 17 hours to put on the costume.
Another co-worker's daughter wants to be a princess every year, and being equal-opportunity parents who want to free their daughter from demeaning stereotypical roles, last year they encouraged her to be a chicken. (Hey, both boys AND girls can be chickens.) As a result of their encouragement to break out of the princess mold, she has been a princess only one Halloween, although she has also been a cupcake fairy, which the parents consider a close relative to the princess.
Other parents interested in equal opportunity costumes might choose, say, Bat Girl, or the Grim Reaper. If you have a little girl who just doesn't want to give up her dream of wearing a tiara, maybe you can compromise, and have her be the Chicken Princess. Or -- this just might catch on -- a Trash Bag With Tiara.
A co-worker said the kids in her childhood neighborhood started trick-or-treating a whole week early, and went every night through Halloween. This probably came about as a result of the parents realizing they had spent a collective 2,374 hours making their kids' costumes, and by golly the kids were gonna wear those costumes more than one night! This must have seemed like a good idea to everyone except the parent whose kid needed 17 hours to put on the costume.
Another co-worker's daughter wants to be a princess every year, and being equal-opportunity parents who want to free their daughter from demeaning stereotypical roles, last year they encouraged her to be a chicken. (Hey, both boys AND girls can be chickens.) As a result of their encouragement to break out of the princess mold, she has been a princess only one Halloween, although she has also been a cupcake fairy, which the parents consider a close relative to the princess.
Other parents interested in equal opportunity costumes might choose, say, Bat Girl, or the Grim Reaper. If you have a little girl who just doesn't want to give up her dream of wearing a tiara, maybe you can compromise, and have her be the Chicken Princess. Or -- this just might catch on -- a Trash Bag With Tiara.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Hands off the rubber ducks
This month at work has been a busy one, with new lesson manuals to edit, planning meetings to attend, birthday parties to organize, birthday cake to eat, pink rubber ducks to fight over, etc. Okay, so we didn't actually fight over the pink rubber ducks. But the new management policy regarding pink ducks remains somewhat of a sore spot with employees. We editors feel it most keenly.
Every October the company celebrates Breast Cancer Awareness month with various "pink" fundraising activities, one of which involves several pink rubber ducks floating in a tub of water. You pay a dollar per duck, and each duck has a number on the bottom corresponding to a bag of goodies that you win. Most of the bags have things like candy and Lotto tickets, but some have bigger prizes, except not the bags that I pick.
In the past we were able to keep the pink ducks in our cubicles for the entire day of the fundraiser, which we editors got excited about, because we are all women and the pink ducks are cute and we are highly susceptible to cute. We lined them up on the top edges of our adjoining cubes, arranging them in various cute postures, as much as a stiff rubber animal can be made to assume various cute postures. The ducks made us extremely and ridiculously happy, and of course they did not interfere with our concentration on our work in ANY way ("Do you think my duck would look better facing this way?" "Maybe we should alternate the light and dark pinks").
But for the past couple of years, since some departments including our own moved to a different building, we are no longer able to take the pink ducks with us and keep them in our cubes. "Ducks must remain in the building at all times" is the new motto, lest they not come back and the company must spend approximately 66 cents per duck to replace them. So now we must surrender them immediately, and they are dropped unceremoniously, and unloved, into a bucket to be put into storage until the next fundraiser. Appeals for custody, even temporary, have been denied.
Someday, we vow, we are going to liberate those pink ducks and give them a proper, loving home, which would of course be in our cubes. Until then, we wait and dream of having our pink ducks back, and maybe even dressing them up...
Every October the company celebrates Breast Cancer Awareness month with various "pink" fundraising activities, one of which involves several pink rubber ducks floating in a tub of water. You pay a dollar per duck, and each duck has a number on the bottom corresponding to a bag of goodies that you win. Most of the bags have things like candy and Lotto tickets, but some have bigger prizes, except not the bags that I pick.
In the past we were able to keep the pink ducks in our cubicles for the entire day of the fundraiser, which we editors got excited about, because we are all women and the pink ducks are cute and we are highly susceptible to cute. We lined them up on the top edges of our adjoining cubes, arranging them in various cute postures, as much as a stiff rubber animal can be made to assume various cute postures. The ducks made us extremely and ridiculously happy, and of course they did not interfere with our concentration on our work in ANY way ("Do you think my duck would look better facing this way?" "Maybe we should alternate the light and dark pinks").
But for the past couple of years, since some departments including our own moved to a different building, we are no longer able to take the pink ducks with us and keep them in our cubes. "Ducks must remain in the building at all times" is the new motto, lest they not come back and the company must spend approximately 66 cents per duck to replace them. So now we must surrender them immediately, and they are dropped unceremoniously, and unloved, into a bucket to be put into storage until the next fundraiser. Appeals for custody, even temporary, have been denied.
Someday, we vow, we are going to liberate those pink ducks and give them a proper, loving home, which would of course be in our cubes. Until then, we wait and dream of having our pink ducks back, and maybe even dressing them up...
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Cakes 'R Not Us
So the cake decorating class is over, the class that I was hoping would launch me into a new hobby. Mostly it has launched me into debt from having to buy 907 decorating tips and other absolutely necessary, non-food accessories, such as Crisco.
The class was held in a community college and attracted some attention from passing students, who expressed their amazement that they could be taking cake decorating instead of snoozing through Algebra II, and who enthusiastically volunteered themselves for any task that might involve tasting something we were making.
But although the class has not exactly turned me into Ace of Cakes, I learned a great deal from taking it, such as that I should have taken some other class. It is difficult to know which of us is more relieved that the class is over, me or the instructor, who, if she had been required to evaluate me on my cake decorating skills, would have been forced by circumstances to write I am recommending this student for remedial cake class (but with some other instructor).
Take the rose. To make an icing rose you pipe a base and then, starting at the top, you pipe a series of what looks to me like stand-up collars, and somehow when they all overlap they become a rose. That is, if you are the other students they become a rose. Even the students who had missed half the classes could make a rose. My roses more resembled a joining of Baby Bop's head with the Abominable Lettuce Head Creature.
But for some reason I could make a passable pansy, and to bolster my self-esteem after failing spectacularly at roses I became a pansy-making machine, filling my practice space with pansy after pansy while my classmates created The Eiffel Tower of Roses. The instructor did not encourage me to move on to anything else, obviously relieved that I could at least do something that did not involve stencils and spray icing.
So now I am left with this collection of cake decorating paraphernalia, and no talent. And a half jar of Crisco. At least the Crisco might come in handy this winter should we need an emergency source of fuel.
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