Although there are many ways to categorize people, in the summer they pretty much come down to two types: 1) those whom mosquitoes couldn't care less about, and 2) me.
I don't know what mosquitoes down through the ages of time survived on before I came along. Blood banks, maybe. But since I have been around, they seem to feed exclusively on me, taking a break now and then to sample my brother. He complains that his wife never gets bitten, even when they are side by side, and I make the same complaint about the Hero.
This of course has NOTHING to do with their reasons for marrying us, although it does seem to be one of the perks. Online dating sites might consider adding questions about one's propensity for mosquito attraction to member profiles. This could be an attractive feature to someone who is interested in finding such a person in order to achieve bite-immunity ("You'll never need Off again!"). But mosquito-attracting persons might want to forgo photos, as gazillions of red, swollen bites all over one's body is NOT considered an attractive feature.
According to scientists, mosquitoes are attracted to certain chemicals in the blood, which they can sense at great distances. I'm sure that if someone were to do scientific testing on the mosquitoes who have attacked me, they would find at least some that have come from other planets. Other galaxies, even.
Or, like Harold Crick in the movie Stranger than Fiction, who discovers he is merely a character in a book someone is writing, I might in fact be a character in a terrifying Robin Cook medical thriller. Possibly the mosquitoes that are constantly harassing me have had their DNA altered in a secret experiment and will eventually pass along some horrible disease to me, such as turning into a politician.
Scientists have, of course, developed repellents to keep mosquitoes away. These repellents include Charlie Sheen. But the only truly safe way to keep from being bitten, if you are a person who is always on the mosquito menu, is to stay inside when they are most active. This is roughly May through September.
You could move somewhere more inhospitable to the nasty buggers, but wherever that is, you probably wouldn't like it, either. Or, you could just move closer to me. You won't ever have to worry about mosquito bites again.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Water, water everywhere...but no thanks to us
Despite everything I have done to the garden this year, many of the flowers are actually growing quite well. In the interest of encouraging the plants to continue in this manner while we went away for a few days, and fearing there might be a hundred-year drought during that time, we set in motion a multi-pronged plan to make sure they had plenty of water.
This included purchasing a sprinkler with a state-of-the-art timer system, or as state-of-the-art as $17.99 will get you. We had only a short time to test it before we left, but it appeared to be working pretty much the same as more expensive sprinklers, which is to say that it mostly watered the sidewalk and the car. We had visions of it forgetting to turn off at the appointed time and running constantly for days, causing a small flood AND a flood of angry calls from neighbors wanting our ouster from the neighborhood.
For the window boxes, we loaded up on those ingenious self-watering bottles with spikes that are designed to release the water into the soil slowly. At least, they would be ingenious if they really worked. "They're okay if you're gone for a short time," a clerk at the garden store said -- a "short time" about equivalent to a trip to the grocery store. Generally the bottles are emptied before we have even left the house. Occasionally they take "slow release" to mean one drop per day, and the bottle is still full when we return.
But upon our return this time, the flowers appeared to be flourishing, including those in the window boxes. There was no flood in the immediate vicinity. Everything must have worked, we said, and were hopeful that this meant we would not worry so much whenever we went away.
But when the Hero, bent on making sure the timer worked properly, looked outside at the appointed time the next day to see whether the sprinkler had started up, nothing happened.
The reason was traced to a little habit of the Hero's, in which he places used batteries back among the drawer of new batteries, where they can fraternize freely and we are none the wiser as to which are which.
"Dead battery," he said. "I don't think the sprinkler worked at all while we were gone."
"But the flowers have definitely gotten water," I protested. The reason for this turned out to be our neighbor, who, unaware of the state-of-the-art sprinkler with the dead timer battery, but aware that we were away, had thoughtfully watered our yard twice.
I didn't ask whether she also watered the window boxes. I would like to believe that SOME part of our multi-pronged plan worked.
This included purchasing a sprinkler with a state-of-the-art timer system, or as state-of-the-art as $17.99 will get you. We had only a short time to test it before we left, but it appeared to be working pretty much the same as more expensive sprinklers, which is to say that it mostly watered the sidewalk and the car. We had visions of it forgetting to turn off at the appointed time and running constantly for days, causing a small flood AND a flood of angry calls from neighbors wanting our ouster from the neighborhood.
For the window boxes, we loaded up on those ingenious self-watering bottles with spikes that are designed to release the water into the soil slowly. At least, they would be ingenious if they really worked. "They're okay if you're gone for a short time," a clerk at the garden store said -- a "short time" about equivalent to a trip to the grocery store. Generally the bottles are emptied before we have even left the house. Occasionally they take "slow release" to mean one drop per day, and the bottle is still full when we return.
But upon our return this time, the flowers appeared to be flourishing, including those in the window boxes. There was no flood in the immediate vicinity. Everything must have worked, we said, and were hopeful that this meant we would not worry so much whenever we went away.
But when the Hero, bent on making sure the timer worked properly, looked outside at the appointed time the next day to see whether the sprinkler had started up, nothing happened.
The reason was traced to a little habit of the Hero's, in which he places used batteries back among the drawer of new batteries, where they can fraternize freely and we are none the wiser as to which are which.
"Dead battery," he said. "I don't think the sprinkler worked at all while we were gone."
"But the flowers have definitely gotten water," I protested. The reason for this turned out to be our neighbor, who, unaware of the state-of-the-art sprinkler with the dead timer battery, but aware that we were away, had thoughtfully watered our yard twice.
I didn't ask whether she also watered the window boxes. I would like to believe that SOME part of our multi-pronged plan worked.
Monday, July 25, 2011
To the beach
Many people escape to the beach to relax. We find that it allows us to have exhilarating new experiences, such as worrying about things we don't have to worry about at home -- being knocked over by enormous waves, being attacked by sharks, being beaten by four-year-olds at Putt-Putt, etc. This time, we took wise precautions, and stayed off the Putt-Putt courses.*
Luckily the only shark we saw on our recent trip to the beach was flying high above the water and attached to a long string, which was tied firmly to a brightly colored beach umbrella. Still, to be safe, I kept well near the shore, although in my opinion one is only completely safe from sharks well inland, such as Idaho (whose state motto could be, though perplexingly is not, "Not one shark attack since statehood in 1890!")
We did see a number of dolphins swimming offshore. Two of them, likely young siblings, were goofing around, and we predicted that the dad dolphin would have to get stern with them: "You two cut it out, or we're turning around right now!"
Another dolphin, possibly imported from Sea World to entertain the tourists on the dolphin-watch boats, showed off by doing a complicated double twister above the water, after first making sure the dolphin-watch tourist boat was well out of sight.
Plenty of humans were engaging in acrobatics, too, as they attempted to navigate the intensely hot sand by touching it as little as possible. For some, this involved walking on tiptoe; others preferred the "Remember the Alamo!" approach, whereby they ran, yelling, at top speed across the sand, sometimes unable to stop before making contact with their, or a stranger's, beach umbrella.
We stayed in a Victorian bed-and-breakfast, which we found out after booking did not actually include a breakfast of any kind. This was fine with us, as the walk to a breakfast place was one of the few acts of physical exercise we were able to achieve on this trip. It was too hot to do much of anything else besides complain about how hot it was, and this seemed to be a popular pastime among beachgoers:
Beachgoer #1: Hot enough for ya?
Beachgoer #2: Yep.
Beachgoer #3: Remember the Alamoooooooooo! (crash)
The obvious way to deal with the heat was to simply remain in the ocean; at least, this WOULD have been the obvious thing to do had not the water been cold enough to engage in a little off-season ice fishing, and if the waves had been quietly lapping at the shoreline instead of threatening to engulf even Idaho.
In the midst of all this extreme nature, the Hero announced: "I think I'll go surfing."
I immediately endeavored to talk him out of it, in a very subtle way so that I would not appear to be trying to talk him out of it.
"Have we ever discussed where you would like to be buried?" I said. "This might be a good time."
But he was of the opinion that it could not be that dangerous, as he never had to sign a waiver when renting a board. They probably figured surfing was less dangerous than wearing the required beach tags with the threatening safety pins.
But back to surfing.
I felt that the best place to surf was Sunset Beach, where waves rarely exceeded the size of waves in the average home bathtub. This suggestion was ignored.
In the end, the waves, the lateness of the hour, and development of an enormous headache on my part meant that we both decided to leave the beach before any surfing could be accomplished. Plus, they were all out of surfboards at the rental place.
I had NOTHING to do with that, although it does give me an idea for next time...
*The Hero wishes to clarify that HE has never been beaten by a four-year-old at Putt-Putt.**
**Because he always pays them off first.
Luckily the only shark we saw on our recent trip to the beach was flying high above the water and attached to a long string, which was tied firmly to a brightly colored beach umbrella. Still, to be safe, I kept well near the shore, although in my opinion one is only completely safe from sharks well inland, such as Idaho (whose state motto could be, though perplexingly is not, "Not one shark attack since statehood in 1890!")
We did see a number of dolphins swimming offshore. Two of them, likely young siblings, were goofing around, and we predicted that the dad dolphin would have to get stern with them: "You two cut it out, or we're turning around right now!"
Another dolphin, possibly imported from Sea World to entertain the tourists on the dolphin-watch boats, showed off by doing a complicated double twister above the water, after first making sure the dolphin-watch tourist boat was well out of sight.
Plenty of humans were engaging in acrobatics, too, as they attempted to navigate the intensely hot sand by touching it as little as possible. For some, this involved walking on tiptoe; others preferred the "Remember the Alamo!" approach, whereby they ran, yelling, at top speed across the sand, sometimes unable to stop before making contact with their, or a stranger's, beach umbrella.
We stayed in a Victorian bed-and-breakfast, which we found out after booking did not actually include a breakfast of any kind. This was fine with us, as the walk to a breakfast place was one of the few acts of physical exercise we were able to achieve on this trip. It was too hot to do much of anything else besides complain about how hot it was, and this seemed to be a popular pastime among beachgoers:
Beachgoer #1: Hot enough for ya?
Beachgoer #2: Yep.
Beachgoer #3: Remember the Alamoooooooooo! (crash)
The obvious way to deal with the heat was to simply remain in the ocean; at least, this WOULD have been the obvious thing to do had not the water been cold enough to engage in a little off-season ice fishing, and if the waves had been quietly lapping at the shoreline instead of threatening to engulf even Idaho.
In the midst of all this extreme nature, the Hero announced: "I think I'll go surfing."
I immediately endeavored to talk him out of it, in a very subtle way so that I would not appear to be trying to talk him out of it.
"Have we ever discussed where you would like to be buried?" I said. "This might be a good time."
But he was of the opinion that it could not be that dangerous, as he never had to sign a waiver when renting a board. They probably figured surfing was less dangerous than wearing the required beach tags with the threatening safety pins.
But back to surfing.
I felt that the best place to surf was Sunset Beach, where waves rarely exceeded the size of waves in the average home bathtub. This suggestion was ignored.
In the end, the waves, the lateness of the hour, and development of an enormous headache on my part meant that we both decided to leave the beach before any surfing could be accomplished. Plus, they were all out of surfboards at the rental place.
I had NOTHING to do with that, although it does give me an idea for next time...
*The Hero wishes to clarify that HE has never been beaten by a four-year-old at Putt-Putt.**
**Because he always pays them off first.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
What's back there, anyway?
On the radio each morning as I go to work there are approximately three different ads: one for a commercial vehicle one that allows your inner painter, floral arranger, or landscape architect to do what it does best by accommodating all your stuff; one for a well-known men's clothing store whose announcer declares, in an astonishingly annoying voice, spectacular sales on everything in the stores including, one presumes, the dressing room curtains; and one for a local remodeling company, representatives of which have visited our home and, despite hinting that they have done work in the neighborhood, have admitted upon questioning that they actually have not, whereupon the Hero has told them to come back after they've done some work for our neighbors.
Every now and then there is also an ad for a shoe company that shall be referred to here as Van Dyke & Ham, which apparently has a long and distinguished tradition; indeed, from its proudly recited heritage and important-sounding music on the radio ad, one might infer that the company even invented the shoe all by itself.
This ad promises that if the company's shoes do not fit perfectly when you try them on, they WILL fit perfectly after "they take them into that famous little back room and work on them."
What happens, exactly, in this company's "little back room" is not specified in the ad. I imagine there is a shoe horn involved, but one more the size of a shovel, which they use to beat your foot into the shoe. If THAT doesn't work they no doubt have other techniques, probably outlawed by the Geneva Convention, for making the shoe fit. This is offset by the fact that you receive a guarantee for the life of the shoes, voided if "the customer, at any time, removes the shoes from his or her feet."
And if you protest any of this treatment, there is probably ANOTHER little back room not mentioned in the ad, one that is even further removed from the Geneva Convention tenets.
So if you are ever tempted to try on some shoes at Van Dyke & Ham, you'd do well to act as if the shoes fit you perfectly, even if they don't, and assure the salesman that there is no need to visit the little back room. And if you see an oversized shoe horn anywhere, run.
Every now and then there is also an ad for a shoe company that shall be referred to here as Van Dyke & Ham, which apparently has a long and distinguished tradition; indeed, from its proudly recited heritage and important-sounding music on the radio ad, one might infer that the company even invented the shoe all by itself.
This ad promises that if the company's shoes do not fit perfectly when you try them on, they WILL fit perfectly after "they take them into that famous little back room and work on them."
What happens, exactly, in this company's "little back room" is not specified in the ad. I imagine there is a shoe horn involved, but one more the size of a shovel, which they use to beat your foot into the shoe. If THAT doesn't work they no doubt have other techniques, probably outlawed by the Geneva Convention, for making the shoe fit. This is offset by the fact that you receive a guarantee for the life of the shoes, voided if "the customer, at any time, removes the shoes from his or her feet."
And if you protest any of this treatment, there is probably ANOTHER little back room not mentioned in the ad, one that is even further removed from the Geneva Convention tenets.
So if you are ever tempted to try on some shoes at Van Dyke & Ham, you'd do well to act as if the shoes fit you perfectly, even if they don't, and assure the salesman that there is no need to visit the little back room. And if you see an oversized shoe horn anywhere, run.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
A midsummer day's slump
Gardens everywhere have slipped into their usual midsummer slump, when temperatures soar and plants droop, their leaves eventually draping together on the ground to form one big, wilty mass. OUR plants are way ahead of most in this annual display, having entered the midsummer slump soon after being planted in May (and continuing through September). A few have given up completely, expressing their wishes in a last will and testament: "Just lay us on the compost heap," they beg.
My solution is to get MORE plants to make things look less pathetic. Unfortunately it is also midsummer slump at the nurseries, and the only available plants look as if they have been dug up from gardens like mine, repotted, and plunked on a table for sale. I might be buying back some of my own plants without knowing it.
So I find myself, in 175% humidity, planting new flowers, despite knowing that in a week or so they will look just like the rest of the plants. Hope springs eternal, but so does stupidity.
However, we did achieve a small milestone this summer: The flowers in the hanging baskets have survived longer than any of their predecessors. On the plant tags of the baskets I buy, they generally say warn, "Blooms all summer, unless the Princess is in charge. Then, 2 days." I have no explanation for the unexpected longevity this year, other than maybe no one told these plants that I was in charge.
The Hero has joined the effort to keep things alive. His way of doing this is to water the same plants I've already watered, and to forget the ones I also forgot. He has taken up where my father left off years ago, helping me kill off my plants. Underwatering, overwatering -- we'll do them in somehow.
"We need some sort of schedule," I say, like parents might make when they have a lot of kids' stuff to keep track of: Timmy gets medication at 7:00, Jessica at 5:30, Melissa NONE. Even this might not help US if we had kids -- not only would we forget to give Timmy his medication at 7:00, we would say in bewilderment, "We have a kid named Timmy?"
To help offset our plant ineptness, the Hero suggests planting plastic flowers, which is tempting. With my luck, however, there are plastic-chewing bugs out there somewhere -- probably China -- and they would find our garden. We would be the only gardeners in history whose plastic flowers died of insect invasion.
My solution is to get MORE plants to make things look less pathetic. Unfortunately it is also midsummer slump at the nurseries, and the only available plants look as if they have been dug up from gardens like mine, repotted, and plunked on a table for sale. I might be buying back some of my own plants without knowing it.
So I find myself, in 175% humidity, planting new flowers, despite knowing that in a week or so they will look just like the rest of the plants. Hope springs eternal, but so does stupidity.
However, we did achieve a small milestone this summer: The flowers in the hanging baskets have survived longer than any of their predecessors. On the plant tags of the baskets I buy, they generally say warn, "Blooms all summer, unless the Princess is in charge. Then, 2 days." I have no explanation for the unexpected longevity this year, other than maybe no one told these plants that I was in charge.
The Hero has joined the effort to keep things alive. His way of doing this is to water the same plants I've already watered, and to forget the ones I also forgot. He has taken up where my father left off years ago, helping me kill off my plants. Underwatering, overwatering -- we'll do them in somehow.
"We need some sort of schedule," I say, like parents might make when they have a lot of kids' stuff to keep track of: Timmy gets medication at 7:00, Jessica at 5:30, Melissa NONE. Even this might not help US if we had kids -- not only would we forget to give Timmy his medication at 7:00, we would say in bewilderment, "We have a kid named Timmy?"
To help offset our plant ineptness, the Hero suggests planting plastic flowers, which is tempting. With my luck, however, there are plastic-chewing bugs out there somewhere -- probably China -- and they would find our garden. We would be the only gardeners in history whose plastic flowers died of insect invasion.
And so we will struggle through the midsummer slump, as always. And if temperatures don't cool down soon, I may be ready for the compost heap.
Monday, July 18, 2011
No need to...PANIC!
In the unlikely event you should ever be trapped in an elevator, you may feel tempted to panic. This is normal, but if you have a cell phone handy, and you give me a call, I can help you out. I know EXACTLY how to panic.
This is because I recently found myself in an elevator that did not want to budge. I had worked late, and was anxious to get home, and the elevator evidently knew this and decided not to cooperate. Which brings us to the first of several rules I discovered for stuck elevators:
1. The elevator will never get stuck as you are trying to get TO your job, or anywhere else you really do not want to go, such as to a colonoscopy.
No, it is only when you WANT to get someplace, like home, or to a meeting where you expect to be told that you are the sole heir of a vast fortune but must claim your inheritance within 20 minutes, that an elevator will become inoperable. This is tricky if there are other people in the elevator with you, because even if you are not headed anyplace important, they might be.
If you do find yourself stuck, simply reach for the call-for-help phone and push the button that will immediately connect you to someone who can assist you. This phone is plainly visible, except...
2. In an actual emergency, the phone will be nowhere to be found.
This MAY occur for the simple reason that you are flustered and not thinking clearly -- see #5 -- but I suspect that it is something more. The phone, sensing your vulnerability, will completely disappear into the elevator wall. When you do eventually locate it...
3. There will be someone on the other end of the line to assist you, but you will have no idea what this person is saying.
Again, this could be due to your flustered state, but it will sound as if the person has the receiver jammed into his mouth. It is probably a retired pilot, with plenty of experience speaking in a manner that no one can understand. He may be asking what building you are calling from, or he MAY be telling you that you are going to run out of air in approximately 7 minutes. There is simply no way to tell.
After several rounds of him saying something, and you not understanding what he is saying, you will clearly hear him declare that...
4. He is going to put you on hold. When he does, the elevator will be filled with the sounds of -- yes -- elevator music.
This is meant to relax you, but you will feel as if you have lost your lifeline, and you will begin to feel something else as well..
5. As soon as you have lost connection with a live person, you will begin to feel that the air is getting a little thin.
You will tell yourself this is not true, but you still have that little niggling worry about whether the helpful operator said you would lose air in 7 minutes (how long ago was that, you wonder, trying to figure out how much time you might have left). You decide you should use your waning time wisely, so you pull out your cell phone and...
6. Nothing on your phone will work, except a game of Hangman. You realize that...
7. The end will come swiftly. No, not your end! I was referring to Hangman.
8. Eventually, the elevator will be forced into submission and you will be free.
A few days later, all employees at your workplace will receive an e-mail about the elevators. "You may have noticed some problems with the elevators recently," it will say, as if the elevators are merely moving a little slowly. "Please be patient while we attempt to have the problems corrected." But YOU...
9. From now on, will always take the stairs.
This is because I recently found myself in an elevator that did not want to budge. I had worked late, and was anxious to get home, and the elevator evidently knew this and decided not to cooperate. Which brings us to the first of several rules I discovered for stuck elevators:
1. The elevator will never get stuck as you are trying to get TO your job, or anywhere else you really do not want to go, such as to a colonoscopy.
No, it is only when you WANT to get someplace, like home, or to a meeting where you expect to be told that you are the sole heir of a vast fortune but must claim your inheritance within 20 minutes, that an elevator will become inoperable. This is tricky if there are other people in the elevator with you, because even if you are not headed anyplace important, they might be.
If you do find yourself stuck, simply reach for the call-for-help phone and push the button that will immediately connect you to someone who can assist you. This phone is plainly visible, except...
2. In an actual emergency, the phone will be nowhere to be found.
This MAY occur for the simple reason that you are flustered and not thinking clearly -- see #5 -- but I suspect that it is something more. The phone, sensing your vulnerability, will completely disappear into the elevator wall. When you do eventually locate it...
3. There will be someone on the other end of the line to assist you, but you will have no idea what this person is saying.
Again, this could be due to your flustered state, but it will sound as if the person has the receiver jammed into his mouth. It is probably a retired pilot, with plenty of experience speaking in a manner that no one can understand. He may be asking what building you are calling from, or he MAY be telling you that you are going to run out of air in approximately 7 minutes. There is simply no way to tell.
After several rounds of him saying something, and you not understanding what he is saying, you will clearly hear him declare that...
4. He is going to put you on hold. When he does, the elevator will be filled with the sounds of -- yes -- elevator music.
This is meant to relax you, but you will feel as if you have lost your lifeline, and you will begin to feel something else as well..
5. As soon as you have lost connection with a live person, you will begin to feel that the air is getting a little thin.
You will tell yourself this is not true, but you still have that little niggling worry about whether the helpful operator said you would lose air in 7 minutes (how long ago was that, you wonder, trying to figure out how much time you might have left). You decide you should use your waning time wisely, so you pull out your cell phone and...
6. Nothing on your phone will work, except a game of Hangman. You realize that...
7. The end will come swiftly. No, not your end! I was referring to Hangman.
8. Eventually, the elevator will be forced into submission and you will be free.
A few days later, all employees at your workplace will receive an e-mail about the elevators. "You may have noticed some problems with the elevators recently," it will say, as if the elevators are merely moving a little slowly. "Please be patient while we attempt to have the problems corrected." But YOU...
9. From now on, will always take the stairs.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Was that so bad?
We enjoy our nearby state park, which provides ample opportunity for enjoying nature, keeping fit, and learning about the history of the area. Or so we have heard. Ha! Of course we have actually been there a time or two ourselves.
There are hiking trails of varying difficulty, many of which allow hikers to challenge their skills, which is why we always stick to the paved, flat trails. We KNOW what would happen if we challenged our skills. Somewhere along the trail we would finally just give out, drop where we are, and become petrified matter. Boy Scout leaders would use us as grim examples: "Remember, boys, never let yourself get into such sad shape as THESE two did. They clearly were not fit enough to hike even the Turtle Trail."
On our last hike we set out on a trail along the river, a ranger having assured us that once we reached the swinging bridge over the river, there would be restrooms and a drinking fountain. And there were. He merely forgot to mention that they would be on the OTHER side of the bridge. A bridge that seemed to sway dangerously whenever the tiniest leaf fell on it.
The Hero started across confidently. I thought it wouldn't hurt to take a little more time to think about it.
Unfortunately peer pressure does not end at a certain age. That is the only reason I can give for finally stepping out onto the bridge even as the cautious, rational part of me was giving the less rational part of me dozens of reasons why I shouldn't. But that part decided we were not going to be left behind.
"This bridge has been here a long time," the Hero called, trying to reassure me. Unfortunately he waited to say this until we were in the middle of the bridge, and I suddenly thought about what low construction standards they probably had back whenever it was built. The part of me that had not listened to caution and reason a few minutes before suddenly decided that yes, this WAS a dumb idea, and yes, we should go back. But by then it was too late.
Then my feet got into the debate going on in my head, and they planted themselves right there in the middle of the bridge, until once again peer pressure and fear of public embarrassment propelled me to the other side.
"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" said the Hero.
My answer gave him to believe that maybe that had not been the most sensitive thing to say.
After using the facilities there, it was time to go back across the bridge.
"You go ahead," I said to the Hero. "I'll just wait."
"Wait for what?"
"Oh, a boat, a taxi, amnesia about how bad it was coming over the first time -- whatever."
But of course I did not wait. To my surprise the return trip was not nearly so bad, though I did not admit this to the Hero.
Then began our grueling trip back another entire mile along that straight, paved, flat trail. It had been at least an hour or two since we had last had sustenance, not counting the water from the drinking fountain. This was an hour or two longer than we were used to going without any sustenance.
We met a few other intrepid explorers along the way, one of whom informed us, "There's a doe up ahead about 50 feet." In our famished state we fancied he said "doughnuts up ahead," and our response was perhaps more enthusiastic than a doe might be expected to elicit. One hundred feet later, we could see neither doe nor doughnuts, and we were hungrier than ever.
We had a mild celebration when we finally reached our car, where the Hero, noticeably, did NOT say, "Well, that wasn't too bad."
If we ever go back, doughnuts are going with us.
There are hiking trails of varying difficulty, many of which allow hikers to challenge their skills, which is why we always stick to the paved, flat trails. We KNOW what would happen if we challenged our skills. Somewhere along the trail we would finally just give out, drop where we are, and become petrified matter. Boy Scout leaders would use us as grim examples: "Remember, boys, never let yourself get into such sad shape as THESE two did. They clearly were not fit enough to hike even the Turtle Trail."
On our last hike we set out on a trail along the river, a ranger having assured us that once we reached the swinging bridge over the river, there would be restrooms and a drinking fountain. And there were. He merely forgot to mention that they would be on the OTHER side of the bridge. A bridge that seemed to sway dangerously whenever the tiniest leaf fell on it.
The Hero started across confidently. I thought it wouldn't hurt to take a little more time to think about it.
Unfortunately peer pressure does not end at a certain age. That is the only reason I can give for finally stepping out onto the bridge even as the cautious, rational part of me was giving the less rational part of me dozens of reasons why I shouldn't. But that part decided we were not going to be left behind.
"This bridge has been here a long time," the Hero called, trying to reassure me. Unfortunately he waited to say this until we were in the middle of the bridge, and I suddenly thought about what low construction standards they probably had back whenever it was built. The part of me that had not listened to caution and reason a few minutes before suddenly decided that yes, this WAS a dumb idea, and yes, we should go back. But by then it was too late.
Then my feet got into the debate going on in my head, and they planted themselves right there in the middle of the bridge, until once again peer pressure and fear of public embarrassment propelled me to the other side.
"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" said the Hero.
My answer gave him to believe that maybe that had not been the most sensitive thing to say.
After using the facilities there, it was time to go back across the bridge.
"You go ahead," I said to the Hero. "I'll just wait."
"Wait for what?"
"Oh, a boat, a taxi, amnesia about how bad it was coming over the first time -- whatever."
But of course I did not wait. To my surprise the return trip was not nearly so bad, though I did not admit this to the Hero.
Then began our grueling trip back another entire mile along that straight, paved, flat trail. It had been at least an hour or two since we had last had sustenance, not counting the water from the drinking fountain. This was an hour or two longer than we were used to going without any sustenance.
We met a few other intrepid explorers along the way, one of whom informed us, "There's a doe up ahead about 50 feet." In our famished state we fancied he said "doughnuts up ahead," and our response was perhaps more enthusiastic than a doe might be expected to elicit. One hundred feet later, we could see neither doe nor doughnuts, and we were hungrier than ever.
We had a mild celebration when we finally reached our car, where the Hero, noticeably, did NOT say, "Well, that wasn't too bad."
If we ever go back, doughnuts are going with us.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
The quilt quest
For generations, quilts made by the Amish and others have been giving people immense pleasure, keeping them warm through bitter winters, causing disagreements among couples as to who is hogging more of the quilt on their side, etc. It is estimated that currently there are enough Amish quilts in existence for each non-Amish, 3.2-person household in America to have 11.6 of them. Swept up in nostalgia, the Hero and I, already in possession of one quilt, recently betook ourselves to Amish country to buy another one.
We may not seem to be likely quilt buyers. Amish quilts are generally considered to be full of high standards, whereas OUR standards for household furnishings are cheerfully low. People like us should not even be allowed to TOUCH a nice quilt.
We learned more about quilts on this trip than I thought possible to know without actually quilting, mainly because the Hero prizes thorough research on potential purchases. So anyone who showed the slightest inclination to tell us about quilts was encouraged to do so. We learned about the flying geese pattern, which to me looked as if it could just as easily have been called the log cabin pattern, which could have been called the trip around the world pattern, which could have been called the sunshine and shadow pattern. Conversations generally proceeded thus:
Knowledgeable quilt person: Now THIS pattern is one of the oldest known in -- but you're probably not interested in all this detail.
Hero: Yes, please continue!
Me (in despair): Noooooooo!
This scene was repeated several times, followed by our examining each quilt in each store in minutest detail. Each one, in turn, was rejected -- mainly by me -- due to wrong color, wrong size, wrong pattern, wrong color in the wrong size in the wrong pattern, unfortunate resemblance to a quilt once owned by an unpleasant relative long deceased, etc.
Then, at a store that seemed to carry quilts only as an afterthought, I picked up a small beige quilt with red cabin-looking dwellings on it (although this was NOT, in some quirk of quilt naming, called the "log cabin" pattern).
"THIS is the one!" I said with satisfaction, holding it up.
The Hero stared in disbelief. "It's DIRTY!" he said.
"I don't think so," I said. "I think it's just dyed in tea to LOOK dirty. And old and heirloomish."
"It's made in INDIA!" he said, reading the tag.
I decided this would be our back-up choice, as we were nearing desperation and -- astonishingly -- running out of quilt shops. Then we happened upon a store's table display that included a burlap coffee bean bag. "Let's put that on the wall in place of a quilt," I suggested.
"Oh, how low we have sunk," he said. "From quilts to burlap bags."
We might be the owners of that bag now, if it weren't for the fact that we could not agree which side of the bag we would display. "Of course you're supposed to see THIS side," he said, indicating an aqua-colored horse and "Harar Horse" in large, bold letters.
"What is Harar Horse?" I said.
"Probably the bean company," he said.
"I don't know Harar Horse," I said. "Juan Valdez, I know. Not Harar Horse."
I wanted to display the other side, which had faded lettering that we could not make out. For all we knew, it might have said, "These beans were hand-picked by children under 12 who were tragically yanked out of school and who have no hope of a better future." But I thought the lettering was charming.
"You've got to be kidding," he said.
Clearly the burlap bag would not come home with us.
I then spotted an old door with peeling paint, and bold letters proclaiming that "This is the day that the Lord has made; we will rejoice and be glad." It, too, I thought would be charming over the sofa.
Although the Hero admired the verse, "we're sinking lower," he moaned. "A faded burlap bag and a paint-flaking door."
The door, too, stayed where it was.
On our way out we noticed the same beige quilt with red cabin-looking dwellings that we had seen in the previous store, the quilt that was our backup, only this particular one looked like it had been used in battle in 1513, and perhaps several battles since.
"It's dirty," I said.
"Hallelujah!" the Hero said. And it stayed there, too.
Not surprisingly, the wall above our sofa is still bare, but maybe we can hang a fence on it. We have plenty of them in the garden.
We may not seem to be likely quilt buyers. Amish quilts are generally considered to be full of high standards, whereas OUR standards for household furnishings are cheerfully low. People like us should not even be allowed to TOUCH a nice quilt.
We learned more about quilts on this trip than I thought possible to know without actually quilting, mainly because the Hero prizes thorough research on potential purchases. So anyone who showed the slightest inclination to tell us about quilts was encouraged to do so. We learned about the flying geese pattern, which to me looked as if it could just as easily have been called the log cabin pattern, which could have been called the trip around the world pattern, which could have been called the sunshine and shadow pattern. Conversations generally proceeded thus:
Knowledgeable quilt person: Now THIS pattern is one of the oldest known in -- but you're probably not interested in all this detail.
Hero: Yes, please continue!
Me (in despair): Noooooooo!
This scene was repeated several times, followed by our examining each quilt in each store in minutest detail. Each one, in turn, was rejected -- mainly by me -- due to wrong color, wrong size, wrong pattern, wrong color in the wrong size in the wrong pattern, unfortunate resemblance to a quilt once owned by an unpleasant relative long deceased, etc.
Then, at a store that seemed to carry quilts only as an afterthought, I picked up a small beige quilt with red cabin-looking dwellings on it (although this was NOT, in some quirk of quilt naming, called the "log cabin" pattern).
"THIS is the one!" I said with satisfaction, holding it up.
The Hero stared in disbelief. "It's DIRTY!" he said.
"I don't think so," I said. "I think it's just dyed in tea to LOOK dirty. And old and heirloomish."
"It's made in INDIA!" he said, reading the tag.
I decided this would be our back-up choice, as we were nearing desperation and -- astonishingly -- running out of quilt shops. Then we happened upon a store's table display that included a burlap coffee bean bag. "Let's put that on the wall in place of a quilt," I suggested.
"Oh, how low we have sunk," he said. "From quilts to burlap bags."
We might be the owners of that bag now, if it weren't for the fact that we could not agree which side of the bag we would display. "Of course you're supposed to see THIS side," he said, indicating an aqua-colored horse and "Harar Horse" in large, bold letters.
"What is Harar Horse?" I said.
"Probably the bean company," he said.
"I don't know Harar Horse," I said. "Juan Valdez, I know. Not Harar Horse."
I wanted to display the other side, which had faded lettering that we could not make out. For all we knew, it might have said, "These beans were hand-picked by children under 12 who were tragically yanked out of school and who have no hope of a better future." But I thought the lettering was charming.
"You've got to be kidding," he said.
Clearly the burlap bag would not come home with us.
I then spotted an old door with peeling paint, and bold letters proclaiming that "This is the day that the Lord has made; we will rejoice and be glad." It, too, I thought would be charming over the sofa.
Although the Hero admired the verse, "we're sinking lower," he moaned. "A faded burlap bag and a paint-flaking door."
The door, too, stayed where it was.
On our way out we noticed the same beige quilt with red cabin-looking dwellings that we had seen in the previous store, the quilt that was our backup, only this particular one looked like it had been used in battle in 1513, and perhaps several battles since.
"It's dirty," I said.
"Hallelujah!" the Hero said. And it stayed there, too.
Not surprisingly, the wall above our sofa is still bare, but maybe we can hang a fence on it. We have plenty of them in the garden.
Monday, July 11, 2011
We do junk
Our quest for antiques -- defined by us as "old things that were not personally owned by our parents" -- often finds us deliberating with great care over a possible purchase. We can take a day or two to discuss the pros and cons of an item, as would be expected when considering buying a fine piece of furniture or an expensive painting. The only difference in OUR situation is that we take this same amount of deliberation time for a $5 framed window screen that needs a good scrub, or a four-foot section of picket fence badly in need of paint.
This is not because we need to decide whether the item is worth fixing up once we get it home. No, we believe in leaving things in their original state. Our motto is "Why ruin a good piece of junk?" (This is also what we tell ourselves regarding our entire house when things begin needing attention.)
On this trip we made a mutual decision to stop only at establishments that met our standards: "Too nice," we would say as we passed one by. Or, "Oooo, let's stop THERE. They have junk!"
At several shops we saw enough small sections of "rustic" picket fence to surround a large estate, and I wanted to buy every piece to put in our garden, although it in no way resembles a large estate.
"The fences don't match," the Hero said, in an effort to convince me to leave at least some of the fences at the store for some other hapless husband to deal with.
"They don't have to," I said.
He shook his head, no doubt because when we shop for other household items, or clothes, and he chooses something to go with something else, he constantly hears, "They don't match!" This is another one of those mystifying topics he wishes would be included in a "Guy's Guide to How Women Think the Universe Should Run": the Rules of When Things Should Match and When They Should Not Match.
At the same store where we deliberated at great length over the picket fences, we noticed several pleasant signs meant to be displayed in one's garden: Plant smiles--grow giggles--harvest love; A beautiful garden is a work of heart; Gardens are a little bit of Heaven on earth, etc. Although these were inspirational and touching, we looked for something very special for our own garden, something that would express its uniqueness and how we feel about it. Finally, we saw it:
Grow, dang it!
Although we did not, in the end, buy this sign for our garden, it would have looked perfect on our new fences.
This is not because we need to decide whether the item is worth fixing up once we get it home. No, we believe in leaving things in their original state. Our motto is "Why ruin a good piece of junk?" (This is also what we tell ourselves regarding our entire house when things begin needing attention.)
On this trip we made a mutual decision to stop only at establishments that met our standards: "Too nice," we would say as we passed one by. Or, "Oooo, let's stop THERE. They have junk!"
At several shops we saw enough small sections of "rustic" picket fence to surround a large estate, and I wanted to buy every piece to put in our garden, although it in no way resembles a large estate.
"The fences don't match," the Hero said, in an effort to convince me to leave at least some of the fences at the store for some other hapless husband to deal with.
"They don't have to," I said.
He shook his head, no doubt because when we shop for other household items, or clothes, and he chooses something to go with something else, he constantly hears, "They don't match!" This is another one of those mystifying topics he wishes would be included in a "Guy's Guide to How Women Think the Universe Should Run": the Rules of When Things Should Match and When They Should Not Match.
At the same store where we deliberated at great length over the picket fences, we noticed several pleasant signs meant to be displayed in one's garden: Plant smiles--grow giggles--harvest love; A beautiful garden is a work of heart; Gardens are a little bit of Heaven on earth, etc. Although these were inspirational and touching, we looked for something very special for our own garden, something that would express its uniqueness and how we feel about it. Finally, we saw it:
Grow, dang it!
Although we did not, in the end, buy this sign for our garden, it would have looked perfect on our new fences.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Antiquing and other smelly adventures
Although the Hero and I went antiquing over the holiday weekend, he declared at the outset that he did NOT want to shop the entire weekend. So, we did NOT shop the entire weekend. We also, in an extreme measure of compromise on my part, took lots of breaks to eat and sleep.
Okay, so we took other breaks too. We went to see a live presentation of the biblical story of Joseph, where the people in charge understand shoppers like me, and provide opportunities to browse, and buy, overpriced items in their little gift store. Naturally I took advantage of one of these opportunities, and during intermission purchased a tee-shirt for the Hero that says, in large letters, "Not your average Joe."
"It was either the tee-shirt or a magnet," I told him. He unfortunately had to know about the shirt, because he stuck to me like glue during intermission, probably fearing that I would buy something at the gift shop. As if his being there would dissuade me.
The Joseph show was quite well-done and entertaining, and even featured live animals, whose handlers would occasionally lead them off stage into the audience. This brought a reaction from everyone: the adults, most of whom couldn't help wondering, "What if they poop in the aisle?" and the kids, who were thinking, "Maybe they'll poop in the aisle!"
But as far as we could discern, there was no pooping in unauthorized areas. For that we had to get back in our car to drive to the hotel, on the same roads as the Amish buggies, which are led by mighty poop-producing horses. Unfortunately, what happens on the road in Amish country stays on the road in Amish country. But the whole effect of the buggies is so charming that it is hard to mind what occurs in their wake.
The Amish also occasionally can be seen riding scooters, which surprised us somewhat, as the scooters are actually kind of cool-looking and therefore seemingly would be banned from Amish use. The scooters produced some admiration in the Hero, but, fortunately or unfortunately, they were not sold at the Joseph gift shop. I'm sure if scooters had been around in Joseph's day, he would have snatched them up for the army to use in place of horses, as he strikes me as a man who would appreciate clean streets.
The day after the show, the Hero braced for a full day of shopping at the outlet stores. He was considerably cheered to find that the stores included a Black & Decker, at which he spent quite a bit of time, returning with an item he has long been coveting: a set of four flexible cutting mats, color coded for meat, veggies, dairy, cake and ice cream, etc.
"That's all you bought at the Black & Decker store?" I said.
It transpired that there had been other things more interesting than cutting mats that had interested him, such as a mobile woodworking station, but he had had the strength to pass these up. I silently applauded Black & Decker for carrying such an item as cutting mats, and was tempted to personally write a letter encouraging the store to also consider other marriage-enhancing merchandise for guys, such as a guide to locating items in the refrigerator using only their own wits. But since the Hero has, on his own initiative, recently bought not only cutting mats but also a vacuum cleaner which he uses, I did not wish to be greedy.
But the store could probably have a lot of success if they sold scooters. And I know a ready buyer for one.
Okay, so we took other breaks too. We went to see a live presentation of the biblical story of Joseph, where the people in charge understand shoppers like me, and provide opportunities to browse, and buy, overpriced items in their little gift store. Naturally I took advantage of one of these opportunities, and during intermission purchased a tee-shirt for the Hero that says, in large letters, "Not your average Joe."
"It was either the tee-shirt or a magnet," I told him. He unfortunately had to know about the shirt, because he stuck to me like glue during intermission, probably fearing that I would buy something at the gift shop. As if his being there would dissuade me.
The Joseph show was quite well-done and entertaining, and even featured live animals, whose handlers would occasionally lead them off stage into the audience. This brought a reaction from everyone: the adults, most of whom couldn't help wondering, "What if they poop in the aisle?" and the kids, who were thinking, "Maybe they'll poop in the aisle!"
But as far as we could discern, there was no pooping in unauthorized areas. For that we had to get back in our car to drive to the hotel, on the same roads as the Amish buggies, which are led by mighty poop-producing horses. Unfortunately, what happens on the road in Amish country stays on the road in Amish country. But the whole effect of the buggies is so charming that it is hard to mind what occurs in their wake.
The Amish also occasionally can be seen riding scooters, which surprised us somewhat, as the scooters are actually kind of cool-looking and therefore seemingly would be banned from Amish use. The scooters produced some admiration in the Hero, but, fortunately or unfortunately, they were not sold at the Joseph gift shop. I'm sure if scooters had been around in Joseph's day, he would have snatched them up for the army to use in place of horses, as he strikes me as a man who would appreciate clean streets.
The day after the show, the Hero braced for a full day of shopping at the outlet stores. He was considerably cheered to find that the stores included a Black & Decker, at which he spent quite a bit of time, returning with an item he has long been coveting: a set of four flexible cutting mats, color coded for meat, veggies, dairy, cake and ice cream, etc.
"That's all you bought at the Black & Decker store?" I said.
It transpired that there had been other things more interesting than cutting mats that had interested him, such as a mobile woodworking station, but he had had the strength to pass these up. I silently applauded Black & Decker for carrying such an item as cutting mats, and was tempted to personally write a letter encouraging the store to also consider other marriage-enhancing merchandise for guys, such as a guide to locating items in the refrigerator using only their own wits. But since the Hero has, on his own initiative, recently bought not only cutting mats but also a vacuum cleaner which he uses, I did not wish to be greedy.
But the store could probably have a lot of success if they sold scooters. And I know a ready buyer for one.
Monday, July 4, 2011
There may be delays
The Princess regrets that blog posts may not appear for several days, as she will be attending a family funeral out of state. But never fear; she and the Hero have just returned from more antiquing than anyone should do in four days, and there are plenty of adventures to relate. They may be the only antiquing adventures to be related for a long time, as the Hero has reached absolute saturation point with antiques and has declared his intention to "live in the modern world again." Although he DID profess some admiration for the Amish simple way of life...
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