Family gatherings, even the most enjoyable, can be fraught with interpersonal dangers and must be negotiated carefully. Saying the wrong word, for example, may trigger a story from a parent or grandparent or uncle, a story that everyone -- distant relatives, the family cat, the neighbor's cat, strangers who have gotten lost in the neighborhood and stopped to ask directions -- has heard numerous times and will go to great lengths to avoid hearing again.
During our recent visit to my parents', we were fortunate to avoid any repeat stories until one night at dinner. Something reminded my father of the story of the milkman, an event that happened before I was born, and he must have thought there was a slim chance that the Hero, at least, had not heard it before. Being relatively new in the family, the Hero is considered a rapt audience for family stories.
"Have you heard the story about the redheaded milkman?" he asked the Hero.
"Say yes," I whispered urgently.
"Yes," the Hero said promptly.
"Thank goodness for that," my mother mumbled, wiping her brow.
My father was clearly disappointed but said no more. Such a tactic does not always work with him, as he is ever ready to suspect a conspiracy, but he is convinced that the Hero is more polite than the rest of us and would never deny my father a story unless he truly had already heard it.
The Hero can, in fact, get away with quite a bit around my father, who has always been outnumbered by women, as he often laments, and who needs the Hero to be on his side to "even things up." Therefore the Hero's trespasses -- which admittedly are few -- are conveniently overlooked. He never gets in trouble for anything like the rest of us do, including my mother.
The four of us were watching a movie one evening, a movie that my mother, the Hero, and I had never seen, and that my father had seen but had forgotten he had seen it. Toward the end he suddenly realized that it was familiar, and proceeded to announce each action just before it occurred on screen:
"Now she's going to get the bad news. Yep, here comes her secretary to get her out of her meeting."
"There she goes to answer the phone call."
"They're gonna tell her he's dead."
After about five of these announcements, the rest of us, including the Hero, shushed my father loudly. A firm believer in pouting, he refused to talk to any of us for some time, and when we later met up with my brother (another individual my father considers to be "on his side") and sister-in-law, my father told on us.
"The girls shushed me during a movie," he said.
My mother and I looked at each other. The girls shushed him?
Someday she and I will make ourselves scarce while my father and the Hero are enjoying some bonding time, but before we do we will casually say to my father, "You know, I don't think he's ever heard about the redheaded milkman..."
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The Hero becomes a member of society once again
Possibly you have heard celebratory sounds emanating from the castle where the Princess and Hero reside, sounds that indicate the end of the Hero's enslavement to this semester's class and his reentry into human society. The Princess -- who, over the last several months, has become unaccustomed to seeing the Hero during daylight hours -- is still unsure as to whether this person is, indeed, the Hero.
"Declare yourself," she says suspiciously.
"Uh..."
"When is my birthday?" she demands.
"April 31?" he says hopefully.
"Okay, I guess you're him."
People frequently ask the Hero what he will do now that he has so much free time.
"Oh, he won't have any trouble with THAT," the Princess says quickly, indicating the long to-do list she has pinned to the Hero's shirt for easy reference.
The Hero, however, has his own list of things to do, putting the Princess's list for him in some jeopardy.
But first they must visit the King and Queen in the North, who have expressed their pleasure at the impending visit and their complete and sensitive understanding of how busy their children have been lately:
"It's about time you came to see us," they say.
The Hero is a special favorite of the King. Although the King often is too busy to talk to the Princess, his own flesh and blood, when she calls -- citing urgent business, such as watching The Sound of Music -- he undergoes a remarkable transformation when he is given to understand that the Hero is on the line.
"Joseph!" he booms. "Been practicing your euchre game?"
It is a running dialogue between them, the Hero's part being "I'm waiting for you to teach me."
On an earlier visit some time ago, the Princess did spot the two, along with the Princess's brother, attempting to play the game. It appeared to the Princess that there was considerably more "discussion," particularly among her two kinsmen, than actual playing.
"How did it go?" she asked the Hero later.
"I'm not quite clear on it yet," he said judiciously.
Maybe during this visit the effort will be more successful. If not, there is always The Sound of Music. And the to-do list.
"Declare yourself," she says suspiciously.
"Uh..."
"When is my birthday?" she demands.
"April 31?" he says hopefully.
"Okay, I guess you're him."
People frequently ask the Hero what he will do now that he has so much free time.
"Oh, he won't have any trouble with THAT," the Princess says quickly, indicating the long to-do list she has pinned to the Hero's shirt for easy reference.
The Hero, however, has his own list of things to do, putting the Princess's list for him in some jeopardy.
But first they must visit the King and Queen in the North, who have expressed their pleasure at the impending visit and their complete and sensitive understanding of how busy their children have been lately:
"It's about time you came to see us," they say.
The Hero is a special favorite of the King. Although the King often is too busy to talk to the Princess, his own flesh and blood, when she calls -- citing urgent business, such as watching The Sound of Music -- he undergoes a remarkable transformation when he is given to understand that the Hero is on the line.
"Joseph!" he booms. "Been practicing your euchre game?"
It is a running dialogue between them, the Hero's part being "I'm waiting for you to teach me."
On an earlier visit some time ago, the Princess did spot the two, along with the Princess's brother, attempting to play the game. It appeared to the Princess that there was considerably more "discussion," particularly among her two kinsmen, than actual playing.
"How did it go?" she asked the Hero later.
"I'm not quite clear on it yet," he said judiciously.
Maybe during this visit the effort will be more successful. If not, there is always The Sound of Music. And the to-do list.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Confessions of a non-green consumer
We are always slightly surprised that we are allowed to live in our neighborhood without owning a dog, or a cat, or even so much as a SIMS pet. I am sure that after we moved in, the association board members debated about the legality of owners not having some sort of pet. They must have pored over the association rules, scratched their heads, and finally admitted that somehow we had slipped in under an egregious loophole, and moved quickly to amend the rules so that such a oversight was never again allowed to happen.
But there is another social breach that we are guilty of, one that is even more egregious.
In an increasingly green community, and indeed society, we are not green.
I confess that I do not automatically search out organic products for my garden. Or organic products to clean my toilet. (Actually I did, once, and the smell made me sneeze so uncontrollably that I went back to Super-Acting Lysol Toilet Bowl Cleaner/Environment Destroyer.) I set out pellets to kill slugs in the garden, pellets that work in a manner that Guantanamo officials might be interested in knowing about.
But because we like where we live, and we respect our neighbors even though they would be horrified if they knew what we harbored in our cupboards, we do not, in general, advertise our non-greenness.
My sister recently came for a weekend for some sisterly bonding. I will admit that I took advantage of this time of bonding to press her into service planting flowers with me in the back yard. Flowers that, yes, I drove many miles out of my way to get rather than shopping at a local nursery.
While I dug holes for the plants, she went to get a bucket of compost. It may come as a surprise that I use compost. It will probably not come as a surprise that I buy it in a large plastic bag that will probably take thousands of millennia to break down.
She turned over the bag of compost, and suddenly the peacefulness of the morning was shattered.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" she yelped.
"What is it?" I said. I expected a slug. A wolf spider. A tarantula, maybe.
"Ants!" she yelled back. "Miles and miles of ants!" She dance around frantically. "Where's the Raid?? We have to spray them!"
Unfortunately at this juncture, a neighbor happened to stop by to see what we were doing. Possibly she had also stopped by to see whether we were planting any nonnative flowers, which might be cause to turn me in to the gardening club, or the homeowners' association, or maybe even the FBI. I do not utter the names of chemicals in this individual's presence. I do not admit to harboring anything that is not 130% organic, local, and safe for the environment in her presence.
"Ha ha!" I said to my sister, but for this individual's benefit. "The ants are outside. No need to bother them," I said breezily, in what I hoped was a tone that would convince her I had nothing to do with this madwoman about to commit mass murder of innocents in my yard.
She looked dubious, but eventually turned to move on, and when she did I went over to my sister and quietly, calmly, explained the situation.
"What are you DOING??" I said. "Trying to get me kicked out of the neighborhood? Listen," I said, lowering my voice, "there are people here who are seriously Anti-Chemical. You can't say those things out loud here."
"I can't say what? 'Raid?' "
"Shhhh!" I hissed, looking around furtively.
She stared at me as if organic pesticides had clouded my good judgment.
"You work for a conservancy!" I said. "You know what I'm talking about."
She did, and she was quiet for a bit. Then she whispered, "Can I go get the Raid now?"
While I made sure the coast was clear, she dispatched the ants. "There, THAT'S done," she said with relief. "But I really think you should put some weed killer down."
Henceforth, our bonding time might have to be spent inside. With doors closed tight, and all the curtains drawn.
But there is another social breach that we are guilty of, one that is even more egregious.
In an increasingly green community, and indeed society, we are not green.
I confess that I do not automatically search out organic products for my garden. Or organic products to clean my toilet. (Actually I did, once, and the smell made me sneeze so uncontrollably that I went back to Super-Acting Lysol Toilet Bowl Cleaner/Environment Destroyer.) I set out pellets to kill slugs in the garden, pellets that work in a manner that Guantanamo officials might be interested in knowing about.
But because we like where we live, and we respect our neighbors even though they would be horrified if they knew what we harbored in our cupboards, we do not, in general, advertise our non-greenness.
My sister recently came for a weekend for some sisterly bonding. I will admit that I took advantage of this time of bonding to press her into service planting flowers with me in the back yard. Flowers that, yes, I drove many miles out of my way to get rather than shopping at a local nursery.
While I dug holes for the plants, she went to get a bucket of compost. It may come as a surprise that I use compost. It will probably not come as a surprise that I buy it in a large plastic bag that will probably take thousands of millennia to break down.
She turned over the bag of compost, and suddenly the peacefulness of the morning was shattered.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" she yelped.
"What is it?" I said. I expected a slug. A wolf spider. A tarantula, maybe.
"Ants!" she yelled back. "Miles and miles of ants!" She dance around frantically. "Where's the Raid?? We have to spray them!"
Unfortunately at this juncture, a neighbor happened to stop by to see what we were doing. Possibly she had also stopped by to see whether we were planting any nonnative flowers, which might be cause to turn me in to the gardening club, or the homeowners' association, or maybe even the FBI. I do not utter the names of chemicals in this individual's presence. I do not admit to harboring anything that is not 130% organic, local, and safe for the environment in her presence.
"Ha ha!" I said to my sister, but for this individual's benefit. "The ants are outside. No need to bother them," I said breezily, in what I hoped was a tone that would convince her I had nothing to do with this madwoman about to commit mass murder of innocents in my yard.
She looked dubious, but eventually turned to move on, and when she did I went over to my sister and quietly, calmly, explained the situation.
"What are you DOING??" I said. "Trying to get me kicked out of the neighborhood? Listen," I said, lowering my voice, "there are people here who are seriously Anti-Chemical. You can't say those things out loud here."
"I can't say what? 'Raid?' "
"Shhhh!" I hissed, looking around furtively.
She stared at me as if organic pesticides had clouded my good judgment.
"You work for a conservancy!" I said. "You know what I'm talking about."
She did, and she was quiet for a bit. Then she whispered, "Can I go get the Raid now?"
While I made sure the coast was clear, she dispatched the ants. "There, THAT'S done," she said with relief. "But I really think you should put some weed killer down."
Henceforth, our bonding time might have to be spent inside. With doors closed tight, and all the curtains drawn.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Cygnet Lake
If, after enduring a long week of dreary clouds and rain, you should find yourself facing a glorious spring Saturday, and wondering how you should spend it, you COULD do as my family did this weekend and sit inside a darkened middle school theater for several hours watching a production of the ballet Swan Lake. You might do this if the production featured many, many female Tiny Dancers dressed in full swan regalia, and you were a relative of one of the female Tiny Dancers and wished to retain your Favored Relative status. (If you did not currently hold Favored Relative status, then I would advise you by all means to go out and enjoy that glorious weather.)
If you are unfamiliar with Swan Lake, it is a classic tale of romance between a Prince, a maiden-turned-swan, and 892 little swans, which for some unknown reason are called cygnets rather than swanlets.
Strictly speaking, the 892 cygnets are not needed for the advancement of the story line, but they do help take the audience's mind off the fact that, instead of enjoying a nice sunny day, they are inside this dark theater. Mostly, the cygnets help ensure that there IS an audience, because although the mature dancers are by far more technically precise than the Tiny Dancers -- some of whom looked as if they had come straight from the newborn nursery -- everyone of course comes to see the Tiny Dancers, and the older dancers might as well be invisible for all the attention they get from the audience. Had the Tiny Dancers done nothing more than simply stand on the stage in their darling swan costumes, they would have engendered as much wild applause and cheering as is typically experienced at the Super Bowl.
But of course the cygnets did much more than just stand around looking adorable. They also waved their arms gracefully around, and looked adorable. They pointed their toes this way and that, and looked adorable. Occasionally one would forget which way she was supposed to walk off the stage and would bump into another cygnet going in the opposite direction, and both of them would look adorable. The adorableness meter was registering extremely high.
Due to a dearth of male dancers -- for reasons we shall not go into here, other than to say that it was the opinion of some that the males' appearance might actually be helped if they, too, had worn tutus -- the two males who appeared in this production were woefully outnumbered by females, and therefore played all the male parts between the two of them. Actually this task fell to the one who was NOT the Prince, because the Prince had too much face recognition, which left the second male to play various parts including the bad guy (who had an actual name, but who was merely referred to by the eight-year-old with us as "the bad guy"), the Prince's best friend, and a crossbow. This crossbow was added to the show mainly to keep young male persons from rebelling outright at having to attend the ballet. (Desperate parent: "You'll like it! There's a real crossbow!")
This particular production of Swan Lake consisted of almost equal parts watching the action on stage and then staring at the closed curtain while mysterious things happened behind it. Occasionally the eight-year-old watching with us needed to know when he could anticipate freedom. "How much longer?" he asked his father periodically.
"Only one more act," his father lied.
"When does the bad guy get killed?" the eight-year-old asked.
"Next act," his father lied.
When the bad guy finally did get killed, he certainly took his time dying. The dancing was concluded and the cleanup crew had nearly dismantled the set by the time he finally gave up the ghost. Of course, as the entire set consisted of a large forest mural and a tree stump, this did not take extremely long.
After all 892 cygnets had each taken an individual bow, they were hustled backstage to change as their families eagerly waited out front, hoping they could still get a glimpse of sunlight outside. While we waited, the eight-year-old with us amused himself by allowing some younger children to pretend to knock him down, and he would pretend to fall down. Both fathers looked on occasionally, checking for any blood, mindful of what the mothers would say if anything happened to the children while the fathers were in charge.
It was clear that the younger children were highly amused by the antics of the eight-year-old. "We rent him out for parties," the eight-year-old's father said helpfully.
When the cygnets finally returned, many received roses from their adoring family members in honor of the occasion. Ours was no exception. She was grateful, but expressed some concern over the possibility of thorns on the stem. "You should take off all the thorns," she said seriously, peering closely at the stem for any potential dangers. "I'm only five, and five-year-olds aren't used to getting and holding flowers all the time, you know."
Something tells me that might change, at least for her. Clearly, she was born for the stage.
If you are unfamiliar with Swan Lake, it is a classic tale of romance between a Prince, a maiden-turned-swan, and 892 little swans, which for some unknown reason are called cygnets rather than swanlets.
Strictly speaking, the 892 cygnets are not needed for the advancement of the story line, but they do help take the audience's mind off the fact that, instead of enjoying a nice sunny day, they are inside this dark theater. Mostly, the cygnets help ensure that there IS an audience, because although the mature dancers are by far more technically precise than the Tiny Dancers -- some of whom looked as if they had come straight from the newborn nursery -- everyone of course comes to see the Tiny Dancers, and the older dancers might as well be invisible for all the attention they get from the audience. Had the Tiny Dancers done nothing more than simply stand on the stage in their darling swan costumes, they would have engendered as much wild applause and cheering as is typically experienced at the Super Bowl.
But of course the cygnets did much more than just stand around looking adorable. They also waved their arms gracefully around, and looked adorable. They pointed their toes this way and that, and looked adorable. Occasionally one would forget which way she was supposed to walk off the stage and would bump into another cygnet going in the opposite direction, and both of them would look adorable. The adorableness meter was registering extremely high.
Due to a dearth of male dancers -- for reasons we shall not go into here, other than to say that it was the opinion of some that the males' appearance might actually be helped if they, too, had worn tutus -- the two males who appeared in this production were woefully outnumbered by females, and therefore played all the male parts between the two of them. Actually this task fell to the one who was NOT the Prince, because the Prince had too much face recognition, which left the second male to play various parts including the bad guy (who had an actual name, but who was merely referred to by the eight-year-old with us as "the bad guy"), the Prince's best friend, and a crossbow. This crossbow was added to the show mainly to keep young male persons from rebelling outright at having to attend the ballet. (Desperate parent: "You'll like it! There's a real crossbow!")
This particular production of Swan Lake consisted of almost equal parts watching the action on stage and then staring at the closed curtain while mysterious things happened behind it. Occasionally the eight-year-old watching with us needed to know when he could anticipate freedom. "How much longer?" he asked his father periodically.
"Only one more act," his father lied.
"When does the bad guy get killed?" the eight-year-old asked.
"Next act," his father lied.
When the bad guy finally did get killed, he certainly took his time dying. The dancing was concluded and the cleanup crew had nearly dismantled the set by the time he finally gave up the ghost. Of course, as the entire set consisted of a large forest mural and a tree stump, this did not take extremely long.
After all 892 cygnets had each taken an individual bow, they were hustled backstage to change as their families eagerly waited out front, hoping they could still get a glimpse of sunlight outside. While we waited, the eight-year-old with us amused himself by allowing some younger children to pretend to knock him down, and he would pretend to fall down. Both fathers looked on occasionally, checking for any blood, mindful of what the mothers would say if anything happened to the children while the fathers were in charge.
It was clear that the younger children were highly amused by the antics of the eight-year-old. "We rent him out for parties," the eight-year-old's father said helpfully.
When the cygnets finally returned, many received roses from their adoring family members in honor of the occasion. Ours was no exception. She was grateful, but expressed some concern over the possibility of thorns on the stem. "You should take off all the thorns," she said seriously, peering closely at the stem for any potential dangers. "I'm only five, and five-year-olds aren't used to getting and holding flowers all the time, you know."
Something tells me that might change, at least for her. Clearly, she was born for the stage.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The latest in rain gear
Weather forecasters for our area seem to have all taken the week off, and left us with exactly the same forecast for the next seven days: heavy rain in the mornings, followed by thunderstorms in the afternoons (which may be heavy at times), with showers in the evenings (good chance of being heavy). Occasionally the forecast does vary, with a call for showers in the mornings and heavy rain in the evenings.
We have all become accustomed to taking an umbrella with us wherever we go, including to the mailbox, the garage, the basement, etc., and indeed for some of us, our umbrellas have become permanently affixed to our bodies.
However, should you find yourself in the midst of a downpour without an umbrella, not to worry! From the streets of the nation's capital come various innovations in rain gear that make one proud to be American.
One popular look in rain gear, especially for those who are deep believers in recycling as well as in innovation, is the plastic grocery store bag loosely pulled over one's head and down to the ears, with the store name prominently displayed upside down across the back of the head. When it stops raining, the bag may be carefully removed from the head, shaken about, and placed in one's bag or pocket for further use when the heavy showers return, of which there is currently a 76% chance.
A more innovative arrangement is protective headgear consisting of a bag of 24 Extra-Super Plushy Soft toilet paper rolls. This is even more striking when seen on two persons side by side, as I observed the other day. The large bag of 24 conveniently extends out from the individual's head, covering his shoulders as well. This covering could present a problem, however, if the bag has any holes in it; the wearer would then be notable not only for innovative headgear but also for innovative, and clingy, bodywear.
I'm sure it is only a matter of time before we see other inventive rain gear for the head -- large leaves, watermelons, other people smaller than oneself carried over the head horizontally. The deeply held American beliefs in innovation and personal comfort -- and for women, not getting our hair messed up -- should never be underestimated.
We have all become accustomed to taking an umbrella with us wherever we go, including to the mailbox, the garage, the basement, etc., and indeed for some of us, our umbrellas have become permanently affixed to our bodies.
However, should you find yourself in the midst of a downpour without an umbrella, not to worry! From the streets of the nation's capital come various innovations in rain gear that make one proud to be American.
One popular look in rain gear, especially for those who are deep believers in recycling as well as in innovation, is the plastic grocery store bag loosely pulled over one's head and down to the ears, with the store name prominently displayed upside down across the back of the head. When it stops raining, the bag may be carefully removed from the head, shaken about, and placed in one's bag or pocket for further use when the heavy showers return, of which there is currently a 76% chance.
A more innovative arrangement is protective headgear consisting of a bag of 24 Extra-Super Plushy Soft toilet paper rolls. This is even more striking when seen on two persons side by side, as I observed the other day. The large bag of 24 conveniently extends out from the individual's head, covering his shoulders as well. This covering could present a problem, however, if the bag has any holes in it; the wearer would then be notable not only for innovative headgear but also for innovative, and clingy, bodywear.
I'm sure it is only a matter of time before we see other inventive rain gear for the head -- large leaves, watermelons, other people smaller than oneself carried over the head horizontally. The deeply held American beliefs in innovation and personal comfort -- and for women, not getting our hair messed up -- should never be underestimated.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Strangers, beware
Public transportation often enables one to learn, quite without effort, strategic information that is obtained in few other venues. Generally this occurs when one is not even aware that he needs the information.
Yesterday, for instance, a conversation overheard on the train centered on the appropriate distance a stranger should maintain when sitting next to another stranger. The speakers were most concerned with the appropriate distance for a specific part of a stranger, namely the part used for sitting. There ensued a lively debate on how far a stranger's rear end must remain from the other person in order for that person to feel completely comfortable. Strangers whose rear ends edged over into the Too Close Zone were strongly condemned. Particularly egregious, the speakers agreed, were those instances in which a heinie belonging to a person of the same gender was in the Too Close Zone.
One speaker summed up this infraction eloquently:"Ewwwwwww."
They seemed to be in agreement that this particular violation warranted the harshest punishment allowable, something on the order of the individual's having his heinie placed in the stocks for others to throw rotten apples at. Passengers in proximity to strangers are advised, therefore, to be aware at all times of the location of their various body parts in relation to their seatmate's ("Legs?" "Check." "Elbows?" Check." "Heinie?" "Oops."), and, if necessary, to make any proper adjustments.
Those who repeatedly offend may, perhaps, lack an awareness of their body in space, or an awareness that ALL of their back end belongs to them and not to someone else. In such cases persons may be helped by attending Rear End Awareness Training, which would include simulations of rear ends sitting in and out of the Too Close Zone. Participants would need to choose which was appropriate, and which might land them in the stocks.
During the overheard conversation, no discussion was held on what one should do if the Too Close Zone is violated, but several scenarios might be imagined. One scenario might involve pretending that the space has NOT been invaded, and the person would commence moving away from the point of invasion, repeating as necessary should the offending body part move inexorably further into one's Too Close Zone. Another option might involve making a counterinvasion of the stranger's space with something in one's possession to alert him of the violation -- a pointy umbrella comes to mind -- and then quickly withdrawing it so the stranger cannot absolutely be sure that what he thought happened actually did happen. This would hopefully make him shift in his seat and, in so doing, regather all his own personal parts on his own side.
In some cases it is not a part of the body at all, but some possession of a stranger's that wanders into the Too Close Zone, such as an extremely cold, wet water bottle. This happened to me, and although it was uncomfortable, I chose the route of ignoring the water bottle and moving away from it slightly. This encouraged the water bottle to follow me. It quickly moved past the Too Close Zone, past the Unapproved Zone, and rolled into the Absolutely No-No Zone, and still I acted as if I did not notice that an extremely cold, wet water bottle was slowly turning my leg purple.
When the owner finally noticed these goings-on, he whisked the bottle away as if I were the one trying to cozy up to it, instead of the other way around. I consoled myself with the thought that it was only a water bottle. But maybe I had better start carrying a sharp, pointy object, just in case.
Yesterday, for instance, a conversation overheard on the train centered on the appropriate distance a stranger should maintain when sitting next to another stranger. The speakers were most concerned with the appropriate distance for a specific part of a stranger, namely the part used for sitting. There ensued a lively debate on how far a stranger's rear end must remain from the other person in order for that person to feel completely comfortable. Strangers whose rear ends edged over into the Too Close Zone were strongly condemned. Particularly egregious, the speakers agreed, were those instances in which a heinie belonging to a person of the same gender was in the Too Close Zone.
One speaker summed up this infraction eloquently:"Ewwwwwww."
They seemed to be in agreement that this particular violation warranted the harshest punishment allowable, something on the order of the individual's having his heinie placed in the stocks for others to throw rotten apples at. Passengers in proximity to strangers are advised, therefore, to be aware at all times of the location of their various body parts in relation to their seatmate's ("Legs?" "Check." "Elbows?" Check." "Heinie?" "Oops."), and, if necessary, to make any proper adjustments.
Those who repeatedly offend may, perhaps, lack an awareness of their body in space, or an awareness that ALL of their back end belongs to them and not to someone else. In such cases persons may be helped by attending Rear End Awareness Training, which would include simulations of rear ends sitting in and out of the Too Close Zone. Participants would need to choose which was appropriate, and which might land them in the stocks.
During the overheard conversation, no discussion was held on what one should do if the Too Close Zone is violated, but several scenarios might be imagined. One scenario might involve pretending that the space has NOT been invaded, and the person would commence moving away from the point of invasion, repeating as necessary should the offending body part move inexorably further into one's Too Close Zone. Another option might involve making a counterinvasion of the stranger's space with something in one's possession to alert him of the violation -- a pointy umbrella comes to mind -- and then quickly withdrawing it so the stranger cannot absolutely be sure that what he thought happened actually did happen. This would hopefully make him shift in his seat and, in so doing, regather all his own personal parts on his own side.
In some cases it is not a part of the body at all, but some possession of a stranger's that wanders into the Too Close Zone, such as an extremely cold, wet water bottle. This happened to me, and although it was uncomfortable, I chose the route of ignoring the water bottle and moving away from it slightly. This encouraged the water bottle to follow me. It quickly moved past the Too Close Zone, past the Unapproved Zone, and rolled into the Absolutely No-No Zone, and still I acted as if I did not notice that an extremely cold, wet water bottle was slowly turning my leg purple.
When the owner finally noticed these goings-on, he whisked the bottle away as if I were the one trying to cozy up to it, instead of the other way around. I consoled myself with the thought that it was only a water bottle. But maybe I had better start carrying a sharp, pointy object, just in case.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Allergy attack -- and counterattack
The Princess is delighted to have someone else to blame for the failure of last week's blog post to appear on Friday. This someone is Blogger, which was inexplicably "not available" during several attempts made by the Princess to post this blog. Although no excuses were given, the public was given several assurances that Blogger was "expected to be back to normal soon," soon meaning "whenever we get around to it."
Because having severe allergies results in looking like your face is blowing up, or possibly breaking down, people with allergies are often mistaken for having some extremely contagious disease. If you are one of these unlucky persons, you may notice subtle clues from those around you that confirm this:
In a crowd of people, everyone will be leaning collectively away from you as one mass. On a train or bus, other passengers will throw glances of pity in the direction of the person sitting next to you, at the same time secretly glad that THEY are not the person sitting next to you. Strangers toss Kleenexes at you, most often while still in the box. Co-workers anonymously leave the name and number of well-known contagious disease specialists on your desk, along with a copy of the employee policy about coming to work when you are sick ("If anyone on staff becomes ill due to your thoughtless negligence and willful disregard for human life, you will be persecuted to the full extent of the law, including having pollen directly injected into your veins").
You may even find discrimination in unlikely places, such as the local library. While I was perusing the audiobook selection at my library recently, trying to disguise my constantly running eyes and nose by pretending to be markedly affected by what I was reading on the book cover, an employee suddenly said to me, casually, that the library was conducting a survey. If I took an item off the shelf, she said, and then decide I didn't want it, I should just put it to the side instead of reshelving it. The idea was, she said, that library personnel would know that a patron had looked at the item, but had no further interest in it.
For some reason this killed any further interest on my part right then in looking at the audiobooks, and I went to check out my materials. It was not until I was leaving the library -- sneezing violently -- that it suddenly hit me that there WAS no survey -- or rather, I was the only participant: She had made it all up so she could collect all the items I had contaminated with whatever dreaded germs I was transmitting to the public at this venerable institution, and go decontaminate the items somehow, preferably by burning them.
On days when I am ready to submit to having a total face replacement because I no longer recognize my own features anyway, I have considered wearing a dust mask to protect myself from the airborne particles my body is convinced are sworn enemies. I realize, however, that this would only inflame the public more. You KNOW they would think I was carrying some type of biological weapon under there. I know this because I have thought the same thing of lone individuals wearing masks in public.
But an idea begins to occur to me...what if I were to put a mask on when I get on the train, and when someone looks oddly at me -- or asks outright why I am wearing it -- I were to say nonchalantly, "Oh, it's probably nothing, but I just -- I'm sure it's just my imagination, but -- well, it seems like the air in this train makes me sick."
With human beings as suggestive as we are, I think within a week everyone on the train would have a mask. And I would no longer be singled out for library surveys.
Because having severe allergies results in looking like your face is blowing up, or possibly breaking down, people with allergies are often mistaken for having some extremely contagious disease. If you are one of these unlucky persons, you may notice subtle clues from those around you that confirm this:
In a crowd of people, everyone will be leaning collectively away from you as one mass. On a train or bus, other passengers will throw glances of pity in the direction of the person sitting next to you, at the same time secretly glad that THEY are not the person sitting next to you. Strangers toss Kleenexes at you, most often while still in the box. Co-workers anonymously leave the name and number of well-known contagious disease specialists on your desk, along with a copy of the employee policy about coming to work when you are sick ("If anyone on staff becomes ill due to your thoughtless negligence and willful disregard for human life, you will be persecuted to the full extent of the law, including having pollen directly injected into your veins").
You may even find discrimination in unlikely places, such as the local library. While I was perusing the audiobook selection at my library recently, trying to disguise my constantly running eyes and nose by pretending to be markedly affected by what I was reading on the book cover, an employee suddenly said to me, casually, that the library was conducting a survey. If I took an item off the shelf, she said, and then decide I didn't want it, I should just put it to the side instead of reshelving it. The idea was, she said, that library personnel would know that a patron had looked at the item, but had no further interest in it.
For some reason this killed any further interest on my part right then in looking at the audiobooks, and I went to check out my materials. It was not until I was leaving the library -- sneezing violently -- that it suddenly hit me that there WAS no survey -- or rather, I was the only participant: She had made it all up so she could collect all the items I had contaminated with whatever dreaded germs I was transmitting to the public at this venerable institution, and go decontaminate the items somehow, preferably by burning them.
On days when I am ready to submit to having a total face replacement because I no longer recognize my own features anyway, I have considered wearing a dust mask to protect myself from the airborne particles my body is convinced are sworn enemies. I realize, however, that this would only inflame the public more. You KNOW they would think I was carrying some type of biological weapon under there. I know this because I have thought the same thing of lone individuals wearing masks in public.
But an idea begins to occur to me...what if I were to put a mask on when I get on the train, and when someone looks oddly at me -- or asks outright why I am wearing it -- I were to say nonchalantly, "Oh, it's probably nothing, but I just -- I'm sure it's just my imagination, but -- well, it seems like the air in this train makes me sick."
With human beings as suggestive as we are, I think within a week everyone on the train would have a mask. And I would no longer be singled out for library surveys.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Look what's growing
Around the middle of last summer our garden had so few living things left that it narrowly avoided being downgraded from Garden to Collection of Nonliving Objects of Some Possible Interest. The lone tree had provided a handy place on which to lean and hang things as a distraction from the realization that there weren't many things growing, such as a ladder, buckets filled with stones and shells, laundry, etc. But now the tree, too, is gone, so this year we are forced to look for other alternatives for sprucing up the garden.
Looking to other people's yards for inspiration, I could not help but notice a house I pass on the train that has 11 toilets on the front porch.
The 11 toilets are all neatly lined up, as if to provide extra facilities should those in the nearby train station prove inadequate during a sudden rush on the loo.
It is possible that 11 males with exceptionally poor personal care skills live in the house, and that one female also lives in the house, and she finally decided to banish them to the porch for their personal care routines.
Or perhaps the family is remodeling, and the woman of the house is having a difficult time deciding on just the right toilet for the master bathroom. "Definitely white," she thinks one day, but "definitely eggshell" another day. "Round -- no, oblong"; self-closing -- no, not self-closing." And perhaps the man of the house has not kept the receipts for all the toilets the woman wants and then doesn't want, and simply lines up the unwanted ones on the front porch.
The Hero feels that perhaps the owners of the home simply have really bad luck with toilets. Or that they are running a compassionate Home for Unwanted Cans, taking in abandoned strays with no questions asked.
There are seemingly no end to creative uses of toilets outside the bathroom.
In certain parts of the country, such as a particular house not too far from our house, extra toilets are a) placed on the porch with a scarecrow-like individual perched on it in a realistic manner for Halloween, alongside a statue of Jesus, and then b) never bothered to be taken down.
Sadly, I cannot compete with either of these yards. I must be content to remain among the Collection of Nonliving (But Not Yet Tacky) Objects of Interest.
Looking to other people's yards for inspiration, I could not help but notice a house I pass on the train that has 11 toilets on the front porch.
The 11 toilets are all neatly lined up, as if to provide extra facilities should those in the nearby train station prove inadequate during a sudden rush on the loo.
It is possible that 11 males with exceptionally poor personal care skills live in the house, and that one female also lives in the house, and she finally decided to banish them to the porch for their personal care routines.
Or perhaps the family is remodeling, and the woman of the house is having a difficult time deciding on just the right toilet for the master bathroom. "Definitely white," she thinks one day, but "definitely eggshell" another day. "Round -- no, oblong"; self-closing -- no, not self-closing." And perhaps the man of the house has not kept the receipts for all the toilets the woman wants and then doesn't want, and simply lines up the unwanted ones on the front porch.
The Hero feels that perhaps the owners of the home simply have really bad luck with toilets. Or that they are running a compassionate Home for Unwanted Cans, taking in abandoned strays with no questions asked.
There are seemingly no end to creative uses of toilets outside the bathroom.
In certain parts of the country, such as a particular house not too far from our house, extra toilets are a) placed on the porch with a scarecrow-like individual perched on it in a realistic manner for Halloween, alongside a statue of Jesus, and then b) never bothered to be taken down.
Sadly, I cannot compete with either of these yards. I must be content to remain among the Collection of Nonliving (But Not Yet Tacky) Objects of Interest.
Monday, May 9, 2011
An innocent but dull bystander
In ancient days, springtime heralded the beginning of marauding season. Various armies or other up-to-no-gooders would pick an enemy to maraud, and would announce this intention by saying to the enemy, "What does maraud mean?"
The reason spring was such a popular time for mutual invasion and destruction is generally assumed to be because spring thaws allowed armies to move about more freely, but this is only part of the reason. Another important main reason people took advantage of spring to attack their enemies was that with spring would come their greatest offensive weapon: allergy season.
If someone wished to do harm to a particular enemy, they would simply send them copious gifts of flowers, trees, bushes, or anything loosely considered "nature" with instructions to -- in case this was not clear -- "inhale deeply." Within minutes, roughly 40% of the enemy population would be completely helpless -- some being taken by fits of sneezing, some held hostage by runny noses, and some having fallen fast asleep where they stood due to first-generation allergy medicine. The people not affected by allergies would be kept busy running to get Kleenexes for those who were, and the invaders would just walk in and it would be all over. They would take their booty, being careful to also take back their treacherous gifts of nature, which would then be sent to the next enemy on their list of potential spring conquests.
In modern times, of course, flowers and trees are no longer used as weapons of war (having been outlawed by the Geneva Convention), but spring nevertheless remains basically a war season for allergy sufferers. There are two sides in this war:
Allergens: the bad guys
Immune system: the good but possibly overeager guys (GPOG)
If you are an allergy sufferer, your immune system (GPOG) declares itself to be its own army, independent of anything and everything you wish it to do or not do, and this army holds firmly to the belief that every whiff of pollen or other allergen that comes in must be destroyed at once with an entire arsenal of weapons. Under GPOG rule, no one is safe from suspicion. Even innocents are subjected to intense and unpleasant scrutiny ("Sure, sure, you SAY you're just a molecule of french fry smell...LET'S SEE SOME I.D.!").
Even the GPOG's mothers, if they HAD mothers, wouldn't get by easily ("Sure, sure, everybody says they're my mother").
One of the effects of your body's constant alertness to enemy attacks is that you, the actual but ineffective head of this determined army, stand around in a perpetual fog of dullness. At work, for instance, you might stare at your to-do list for a while, and when a coherent thought finally forms (this could take until lunchtime), it is this: What are all these marks on this paper? After considerable more time spent staring at these marks on the paper, you might think, Do they mean something? And finally, when it is just about time to wrap things up for the day and head home, this thought makes its way into your foggy brain: Should I be concerned that I don't KNOW what these marks mean?
But luckily this state of affairs will not go on forever. Eventually the bad guys will grow tired fo baiting the GPOG and will go away, and the GPOG will no longer have any reason for existence and will thenceforth run for national political office. So take heart, allergy sufferers! It may be spring, but hay fever season's coming.
The reason spring was such a popular time for mutual invasion and destruction is generally assumed to be because spring thaws allowed armies to move about more freely, but this is only part of the reason. Another important main reason people took advantage of spring to attack their enemies was that with spring would come their greatest offensive weapon: allergy season.
If someone wished to do harm to a particular enemy, they would simply send them copious gifts of flowers, trees, bushes, or anything loosely considered "nature" with instructions to -- in case this was not clear -- "inhale deeply." Within minutes, roughly 40% of the enemy population would be completely helpless -- some being taken by fits of sneezing, some held hostage by runny noses, and some having fallen fast asleep where they stood due to first-generation allergy medicine. The people not affected by allergies would be kept busy running to get Kleenexes for those who were, and the invaders would just walk in and it would be all over. They would take their booty, being careful to also take back their treacherous gifts of nature, which would then be sent to the next enemy on their list of potential spring conquests.
In modern times, of course, flowers and trees are no longer used as weapons of war (having been outlawed by the Geneva Convention), but spring nevertheless remains basically a war season for allergy sufferers. There are two sides in this war:
Allergens: the bad guys
Immune system: the good but possibly overeager guys (GPOG)
If you are an allergy sufferer, your immune system (GPOG) declares itself to be its own army, independent of anything and everything you wish it to do or not do, and this army holds firmly to the belief that every whiff of pollen or other allergen that comes in must be destroyed at once with an entire arsenal of weapons. Under GPOG rule, no one is safe from suspicion. Even innocents are subjected to intense and unpleasant scrutiny ("Sure, sure, you SAY you're just a molecule of french fry smell...LET'S SEE SOME I.D.!").
Even the GPOG's mothers, if they HAD mothers, wouldn't get by easily ("Sure, sure, everybody says they're my mother").
One of the effects of your body's constant alertness to enemy attacks is that you, the actual but ineffective head of this determined army, stand around in a perpetual fog of dullness. At work, for instance, you might stare at your to-do list for a while, and when a coherent thought finally forms (this could take until lunchtime), it is this: What are all these marks on this paper? After considerable more time spent staring at these marks on the paper, you might think, Do they mean something? And finally, when it is just about time to wrap things up for the day and head home, this thought makes its way into your foggy brain: Should I be concerned that I don't KNOW what these marks mean?
But luckily this state of affairs will not go on forever. Eventually the bad guys will grow tired fo baiting the GPOG and will go away, and the GPOG will no longer have any reason for existence and will thenceforth run for national political office. So take heart, allergy sufferers! It may be spring, but hay fever season's coming.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
A birthday outing
The Hero was given permission this year to plan my birthday outing, and as usual he had some surprises up his sleeve, one of which was that we did NOT go to Lowe's this time. Last year on my birthday, after a fine evening, which he had planned, of dinner and coffee, he felt that something was missing. That something turned out to be a half hour or so of looking at hex flange nuts (metric) and variable speed cordless drills (with case).
While we were there, he noted that there was another couple in the store who were celebrating their anniversary, and remarked that at least he hadn't brought me there on our anniversary.
He sounded wistful about that.
But this year there were no hex nuts in confusing metric measurements. Instead, the Hero made the supreme sacrifice of shopping with me at stores I like -- stores known to him and to my brother as "frou-frou stores." These are establishments that, in many males, cause extreme allergic reactions, such as the formation of hairballs. So when the Hero gamely went in with me to several such establishments, I took it as a sign of his complete devotion. Or possibly he was taking anti-hairball medication.
We also went into a store that, at any one time, has every possible inch of space crammed with party dresses. Whenever we pass or go into this shop, the Hero and I engage in the same script: He asks if I would like one of the dresses, and I demur by saying they never have my size. Although this is true -- I have personally checked about three of the numerous ones they carry, and those three were not my size -- mostly I am not interested in these dresses because a) there is not much fabric to them, and b) you must walk from the dressing room on one side of the store to the mirror on the other side if you wish to see how a dress looks on you, and you are in plain view of other customers, all of whom have nothing better to do than stare at you and silently critique your figure.
It is easier to tell the Hero that they do not carry my size.
But the Hero, not understanding this, changed the script a little this time:
Hero: Would you like one of those dresses?
Me (sighing): They never have my size.
Hero, to salesperson who is about 12 years old (possibly 12 1/2): Hey, you don't have any sundresses in her size, do you?
Me: (Wish for hole to open up in floor.)
The Hero, with the remarkable perception that comes from observing his wife, behind the salesperson's back, make frantic "No! Stop!" gestures, immediately discerned that this was something he Should Not Have Done, although he had no idea why he Should Not Have Done It.
And so I found myself in the dressing room with all manner of inappropriate dresses -- picked out for me by the 12- or possibly 12 1/2-year-old salesperson -- and pretending to try them on ("How are we doing in there?" "Fine, fine." "Any luck?" "Nope, no luck, what a shame"). I refused to set foot outside the dressing room, despite the Hero's assurances that no one else was in the store, although I finally relented with one dress mainly because both the Hero and the salesperson seemed so disappointed.
We finally made our escape from the store while the salesgirl was distracted with someone else who did not mind parading in front of the mirror and other customers. I contemplated on the thought that perhaps this little incident was my punishment for having made the Hero endure so many frou-frou shops.
And my contemplation continues. Our anniversary is in a few weeks. Might a visit to Lowe's be on the menu?
While we were there, he noted that there was another couple in the store who were celebrating their anniversary, and remarked that at least he hadn't brought me there on our anniversary.
He sounded wistful about that.
But this year there were no hex nuts in confusing metric measurements. Instead, the Hero made the supreme sacrifice of shopping with me at stores I like -- stores known to him and to my brother as "frou-frou stores." These are establishments that, in many males, cause extreme allergic reactions, such as the formation of hairballs. So when the Hero gamely went in with me to several such establishments, I took it as a sign of his complete devotion. Or possibly he was taking anti-hairball medication.
We also went into a store that, at any one time, has every possible inch of space crammed with party dresses. Whenever we pass or go into this shop, the Hero and I engage in the same script: He asks if I would like one of the dresses, and I demur by saying they never have my size. Although this is true -- I have personally checked about three of the numerous ones they carry, and those three were not my size -- mostly I am not interested in these dresses because a) there is not much fabric to them, and b) you must walk from the dressing room on one side of the store to the mirror on the other side if you wish to see how a dress looks on you, and you are in plain view of other customers, all of whom have nothing better to do than stare at you and silently critique your figure.
It is easier to tell the Hero that they do not carry my size.
But the Hero, not understanding this, changed the script a little this time:
Hero: Would you like one of those dresses?
Me (sighing): They never have my size.
Hero, to salesperson who is about 12 years old (possibly 12 1/2): Hey, you don't have any sundresses in her size, do you?
Me: (Wish for hole to open up in floor.)
The Hero, with the remarkable perception that comes from observing his wife, behind the salesperson's back, make frantic "No! Stop!" gestures, immediately discerned that this was something he Should Not Have Done, although he had no idea why he Should Not Have Done It.
And so I found myself in the dressing room with all manner of inappropriate dresses -- picked out for me by the 12- or possibly 12 1/2-year-old salesperson -- and pretending to try them on ("How are we doing in there?" "Fine, fine." "Any luck?" "Nope, no luck, what a shame"). I refused to set foot outside the dressing room, despite the Hero's assurances that no one else was in the store, although I finally relented with one dress mainly because both the Hero and the salesperson seemed so disappointed.
We finally made our escape from the store while the salesgirl was distracted with someone else who did not mind parading in front of the mirror and other customers. I contemplated on the thought that perhaps this little incident was my punishment for having made the Hero endure so many frou-frou shops.
And my contemplation continues. Our anniversary is in a few weeks. Might a visit to Lowe's be on the menu?
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Underwear reigns
It is a very great responsibility to be an aunt to Tiny Persons, who are so impressionable and in need of wise guidance from the adults around them in order to find their way in life's often confusing maze. That is why, when I recently searched for a book to give to one particular Tiny Person on the occasion of his fourth birthday -- a particularly impressionable age -- I chose, after great deliberation, Bear in Underwear.
Bear in Underwear is, despite its name, a story about a bear and underwear. It is one of those books that are a hit with Tiny Persons because they possess one timeless characteristic: an object that is unmentionable in Polite Circles. A bear, quite unplanned, stumbles upon a castaway backpack, which the bear takes with him but is smart enough not to open it up. He eventually succumbs to peer pressure about what is in the backpack, and opens it up to reveal Harry Potter. No, not really. The backpack is hoarding multitudes of underwear, of every shape and color and size and texture.
The bear is further persuaded by his peers to try on the underwear, and herein lies the enjoyment for Tiny Persons. This is precisely what no child would be allowed to do in real life. How many times, growing up, did you hear YOUR parents admonish you not to try on strange underwear you'd found in a strange backpack, and their sarcastic "If all your friends were trying on underwear from a strange backpack, would YOU, too?"
Underwear is king in the Tiny Realm.
Bear in Underwear is fun to read, which is fortunate for parents, because with a child at this age parents must be prepared to read a particular book to the child approximately 5 gazillion times a day, sometimes repeating it before they have even finished reading it. So naturally the parent wants a book he or she can enjoy, too. Now if the parent is forced to read a book such as Froggie Drinks from a Big Cup 5 gazillion times a day, either the parent or the child may very well never make it to the child's fourth birthday.
But Bear in Underwear proved to be a hit with the Tiny Person's father, who appreciates that it is not only amusing but also has "good rhythm." He laments the great quantity of poor-quality children's books that get published, he believes, only because "this world is unjust."
The Tiny Person was desirous of sharing Bear in Underwear with his classmates, so one day his father came to school and read it to all the Tiny Persons. Predictably, the book produced lots of tee hees, but the most popular feature was the actual underwear-- tighty whities -- that the bear wears on the cover of the book. For this reason the book had to be passed around the circle of Tiny Persons, so everyone had a chance to firsthand touch the bear's tighty whities.
If any author is struggling, at this moment, with how to really involve readers in the entire book experience, that author should take a lesson from Bear in Underwear. He or she can do no better than to include actual underwear somewhere in the book. And it won't even matter whether or not the book is for children.
Bear in Underwear is, despite its name, a story about a bear and underwear. It is one of those books that are a hit with Tiny Persons because they possess one timeless characteristic: an object that is unmentionable in Polite Circles. A bear, quite unplanned, stumbles upon a castaway backpack, which the bear takes with him but is smart enough not to open it up. He eventually succumbs to peer pressure about what is in the backpack, and opens it up to reveal Harry Potter. No, not really. The backpack is hoarding multitudes of underwear, of every shape and color and size and texture.
The bear is further persuaded by his peers to try on the underwear, and herein lies the enjoyment for Tiny Persons. This is precisely what no child would be allowed to do in real life. How many times, growing up, did you hear YOUR parents admonish you not to try on strange underwear you'd found in a strange backpack, and their sarcastic "If all your friends were trying on underwear from a strange backpack, would YOU, too?"
Underwear is king in the Tiny Realm.
Bear in Underwear is fun to read, which is fortunate for parents, because with a child at this age parents must be prepared to read a particular book to the child approximately 5 gazillion times a day, sometimes repeating it before they have even finished reading it. So naturally the parent wants a book he or she can enjoy, too. Now if the parent is forced to read a book such as Froggie Drinks from a Big Cup 5 gazillion times a day, either the parent or the child may very well never make it to the child's fourth birthday.
But Bear in Underwear proved to be a hit with the Tiny Person's father, who appreciates that it is not only amusing but also has "good rhythm." He laments the great quantity of poor-quality children's books that get published, he believes, only because "this world is unjust."
The Tiny Person was desirous of sharing Bear in Underwear with his classmates, so one day his father came to school and read it to all the Tiny Persons. Predictably, the book produced lots of tee hees, but the most popular feature was the actual underwear-- tighty whities -- that the bear wears on the cover of the book. For this reason the book had to be passed around the circle of Tiny Persons, so everyone had a chance to firsthand touch the bear's tighty whities.
If any author is struggling, at this moment, with how to really involve readers in the entire book experience, that author should take a lesson from Bear in Underwear. He or she can do no better than to include actual underwear somewhere in the book. And it won't even matter whether or not the book is for children.
Monday, May 2, 2011
The Spirit Committee strikes back
As we mentioned last time, the Spirit Committee at work has launched two new initiatives. The first is a walking group, which meets once a week at lunchtime to walk the city streets and get some exercise, stop at Whole Foods for some quick shopping, stop at an ice cream truck for "research," etc. (This last is purely my own personal agenda for the walking group, as I am highly into "research.")
The walking group is of course entirely voluntary, unless the Spirit Committee -- which, as we shall see, wields a lot of power -- decides that the staff, at sanctioned staff parties, is collectively consuming too many Things That Taste Really, Really Good But Are Terribly, Horribly Bad for You. At that point -- well, forced lunchtime marches may not be entirely too far-fetched.
The first group that gathered to walk was enthusiastic, if not large in number. We began the first day's walk with a sensible warm-up: taking the elevator to the lobby. No sense in winding ourselves before even starting, we reasoned. The six of us soon found ourselves dividing into smaller groups based on preferred walking pace. There were the fast walkers, and the medium-speed walkers. And then there was my group, the taxi-hailers.
The second time we met, the walking group was going strong -- all three of us. When questioned about skipping the walk, the others gave some meager excuse about "having to work." No doubt this work involved "research."
This time we walked several blocks to Whole Foods. In keeping with the principles befitting an exercise group such as ours, we spent approximately 10 minutes walking, 15 minutes in the store, and 3 hours waiting for traffic lights to change. We were assured that the trip back would not seem as long as the trip there, and indeed this was true. We spent only 2 hours 45 minutes waiting for traffic lights on the way back.
But after this dismal showing of interest in fresh air and exercise, and several more birthday and goodbye parties at work with more cake than ever, the Spirit Committee launched a full-scale attack on our gluttony. Not a forced health march, but worse: a staff potluck consisting of...salad.
Looking at the sign-up sheet, you would be hard-pressed to find anything containing any of that Terribly Horribly Bad Stuff for you, and some would argue that you would be hard-pressed to find anything that might be mistaken for actual food. Interest in the salad potluck so far is tepid, but we shall see. Should the Committee attempt to impose a rule that from henceforth all birthday and goodbye parties will serve only salad, there will no doubt be an uprising. If we can get off our exercise-deprived keisters to stage it.
The walking group is of course entirely voluntary, unless the Spirit Committee -- which, as we shall see, wields a lot of power -- decides that the staff, at sanctioned staff parties, is collectively consuming too many Things That Taste Really, Really Good But Are Terribly, Horribly Bad for You. At that point -- well, forced lunchtime marches may not be entirely too far-fetched.
The first group that gathered to walk was enthusiastic, if not large in number. We began the first day's walk with a sensible warm-up: taking the elevator to the lobby. No sense in winding ourselves before even starting, we reasoned. The six of us soon found ourselves dividing into smaller groups based on preferred walking pace. There were the fast walkers, and the medium-speed walkers. And then there was my group, the taxi-hailers.
The second time we met, the walking group was going strong -- all three of us. When questioned about skipping the walk, the others gave some meager excuse about "having to work." No doubt this work involved "research."
This time we walked several blocks to Whole Foods. In keeping with the principles befitting an exercise group such as ours, we spent approximately 10 minutes walking, 15 minutes in the store, and 3 hours waiting for traffic lights to change. We were assured that the trip back would not seem as long as the trip there, and indeed this was true. We spent only 2 hours 45 minutes waiting for traffic lights on the way back.
But after this dismal showing of interest in fresh air and exercise, and several more birthday and goodbye parties at work with more cake than ever, the Spirit Committee launched a full-scale attack on our gluttony. Not a forced health march, but worse: a staff potluck consisting of...salad.
Looking at the sign-up sheet, you would be hard-pressed to find anything containing any of that Terribly Horribly Bad Stuff for you, and some would argue that you would be hard-pressed to find anything that might be mistaken for actual food. Interest in the salad potluck so far is tepid, but we shall see. Should the Committee attempt to impose a rule that from henceforth all birthday and goodbye parties will serve only salad, there will no doubt be an uprising. If we can get off our exercise-deprived keisters to stage it.
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