Oh, the places you'll go, the things you...might not be

As usual we are a bit behind on things here, and have only just realized that we missed National Career Development Day, which was way back in November. We admit that Career Day is not nearly as much on our radar as, say, National Eat a Cookie Day.* Nevertheless, careers are important things to consider, especially if you are around that age when you are starting to feel some pressure from others about what you would like to do when you grow up -- say, around the age of 30 or 40.


But even younger individuals are often grilled about their career plans. Ages four and five, for some reason, seem to be the time when adults think you should start thinking about the future. It's important, therefore, to give young children a variety of experiences so they can make intelligent, well-informed decisions. For example, when I was student teaching a preschool class, many of the Little Persons wanted to become doctors when they grew up. But on Wednesdays, their resolve wavered, because that was the day the garbage truck came to haul away the center's trash. The dumpster was right outside our classroom, and most of the Little Persons were glued to the window to watch this exciting process. The sheer size and power of the garbage truck so inspired some of them that, at least on that one day each week, they yearned to be garbage men someday, freeing the trash from the tyranny of the dumpster.


Not many of the girls expressed an interest in this as a career, which perhaps was our fault as teachers. They were more likely to want to be something in the line of traditional female occupations, such as ballerina or princess. Teaching was also high on their list of possible careers, which must have meant that, whatever our failings at steering them toward nontraditional career paths, we must have been doing SOMETHING they wanted to emulate.


These days I am a little out of touch with what Little Persons aspire to be, although certainly it is not likely that any of them long to be an editor. Again, this is perhaps due to the fact that editing as a career choice has simply not been marketed properly to youngsters. Perhaps if they knew that the defining feature of an editor's work is pointing out other people's writing mistakes, and that you get to mark up their manuscripts in a great deal of red, at least some of them might be interested enough to switch from the Garbage Man track.


The other day at work I got a glimpse of what one current child is considering for a career. A co-worker mentioned that her grandson, influenced among other things by Ranger Rick magazine, had declared an interest in zookeeping.


We all nodded appreciatively. Zoology was a very impressive and respectable line of study.


But the grandma looked sheepish. "Well, actually...lately he's thinking he might like to be an elf instead."


"An elephant?" someone asked. "He wants to, like, BE an elephant?"


"Elf," the grandma said. "He wants to be an elf and live at the North Pole."


"That wouldn't be so bad," someone said. "He'd only have to work part of the year."


The grandma continued, "And he's thinking maybe he could somehow combine the zookeeper and elf positions."


We thought this was very enterprising on the young man's part. "Well," someone said, "Santa's reindeer certainly would need a zookeeper."


We continued for some time in this vein, discussing the relative merits of zookeeping and elfism and the possibilities for combining the two. Personally I thought the choice of elf showed somewhat more imagination than, say, a princess. Plus, at least elves contribute to the economy, and also try to make people happy, whereas princesses pretty much get things done FOR them and aren't really known for making others happy. The possible exception is a prince, but only for a short time, until she starts complaining about what he is or is not doing for her.


Obviously the future zookeeper/elf has a lot of decisions to make in the next decade or two. "But first," said his grandma, "he has to learn how to be away from his mom."


________________
*We have been unable to pinpoint exactly when National Eat a Cookie Day is, so we recommend celebrating it every day, just in case.

No reservations

It is time once again for a friendly letter to our Homeowner's Association (HOA), whose function is to watch out for its members by pointing out things that they are doing wrong. (According to the HOA, this is pretty much everything.)


Dear Homeowner's Association,


Congratulations on once again taking a system that seemed to work pretty well for most of us, and changing it so that it works well for...almost none of us. I am referring to your recent tragic discovery in the by-laws (hereafter referred to as "Those Darned By-laws") that we are NOT allowed to have assigned parking spaces. As you are well aware, we have had assigned parking spaces for a very long time. Generations of homeowners have used these reserved spots for their cars, and before that, for their horses. Occasionally, they have also used them for piles of firewood, which comes in handy for burning Those Darned By-laws. (I'm sorry, was that out loud?)


First of all, why are you even looking in Those Darned By-laws? We elected you with the understanding that you, like the rest of us, had never and would never peek inside them unless the outcome was seriously in the favor of homeowners (such as, maybe, "Every other year, HOA dues shall be reduced by 10%, until they reach the point where the homeowners are RECEIVING money rather than paying it").


For most of us these previously reserved spots were very handy, being located in front of or near our respective residences. But now, we are gravely concerned that we may be required to park as far away as TWO additional houses and trudge, with all our groceries and potting soil and firewood, to our homes. 


And what's more, your new policy that parking is on a first-come, first-served basis has had the chilling effect of turning us into greedy individuals who, previously, would have generously left our reserved spot open for other individuals in our household (spouse, cat, parakeet, etc.). But now, if we see it open, we swoop in there ourselves with little regard for whether our loved ones will have to park somewhere in the next municipality.


We are afraid that in time, this new ruling will unravel the very fabric of our community and erode the freedoms that we have so earnestly strived for. I mean, what will be next? Will Those Darned By-laws be suddenly found to decree that we have no reserved space on our property for our trash cans, and that we must stand with them outside on trash day and HAND them to the garbage men? 


For your own safety, we recommend that you back away from Those Darned By-laws NOW, and hand them over. And then, please excuse us...we need to get some extra firewood.


Sincerely yours,
Concerned but Determined Homeowners


___________
Apropos of nothing, we have discovered that there is an organization called the National Association of Pediatric Nurse Practitioners, whose name not entirely accurately but very conveniently abbreviates to the acronym NAPNAP. We believe we should like to work for a place called NAPNAP; more importantly, we should like to work for a place in which one can take napnaps during the work day and not get in trouble.

Seat belt insanity

Strictly for fun, I have been researching seat belt laws in various states. (We book editors know how to live it up on AND off the job.) 


Laws regarding the usage of seat belts have been getting stricter and stricter, perhaps because it has been difficult to get people to wear them voluntarily. Seat belts have long suffered from an image of uncoolness, particularly among young people. It is WAY more cool to be bodily ejected from a vehicle during a mishap than to wear a seat belt and perhaps remain in the vehicle.


Seat belt laws have become so restrictive that now in many states, seat belts must be fastened at all times, even when the car is sitting in a junk heap and is likely to remain there for the duration of its natural life.


Most seat belt laws have to do with some sort of height and weight or age requirement. For example, historically, infants under a year old have had to ride in a rear-facing car seat in the back seat because this position is safer for Little Persons with Large Heads that Tend to Wobble a Lot. (Also because babies, like seat belts, are getting more sophisticated, and could probably figure out pretty quickly how to drive the car if they were allowed to face forward in the front seat.)


But many Little Persons are not happy with this arrangement, because they get bored looking at the same small patch of leather or fabric while riding in the car. A Relative of ours, when he was a Tiny Person, considered his incarceration in a rear-facing car seat to be a peculiar form of torture, and emitted sounds consistent with that belief. For Tiny Persons like this, the first birthday is something to be cheered, because on that magical date they are released from the bondage of facing backward and allowed to graduate to a forward-facing car seat, although they still have to be trussed up like a turkey in it. Such occasions sometimes bring on large celebrations rivaling royal weddings.


But according to a body of medical professionals, these celebrations are occurring WAYYYY too soon. Kids should not actually sit in a forward-facing car seat, experts say, until they are legally old enough to get married, and even then it's safer if they wait until after they've had their first mammogram or prostate exam. We suspect that these "medical professionals" are in actuality former driver's ed instructors, who remain so traumatized by their experiences that they themselves will never travel by car again and are determined to see that no one else does, either.


Once kids have gained the freedom to face forward in the back seat, it is recommended that they stay in the back seat until they are Medicare-eligible or weigh 367 pounds, whichever comes first. This could very well explain America's consistent upward trend toward obesity. Think about it. First one to 367 pounds gets the car keys!


To make matters worse, seat belt laws vary greatly by state. If you are planning a road trip that will take you through several states, you would do well to research ahead of time the seat belt laws in those states, particularly if you are traveling with children (or adults less than 367 pounds). Such research will inevitably lead to some much-needed discussions on vehicle-related safety:


Husband: I think we're going to have to get Junior a new booster seat before our trip.


Wife: But why? Junior's 14.


Husband: He's under 6 feet tall. Legally in State A, he has to be in a booster seat.


Wife: Hey, I'M under 6 feet.


Husband (muttering): Great. Now we have to get TWO booster seats.


Wife: Maybe we can just avoid that state.


Husband: Well, we could go through State B, but then we'd have to leave the baby home.


Wife: What??


Husband: Legally in State B, kids under 2 can only travel in armored tanks.


Wife (sighing heavily): Maybe we should just camp out in the back yard this year.


Husband: Fine. But the tent will have to have bulletproof sides.


Of course, all these rules and guidelines are meant to keep drivers and passengers and pedestrians safer, though we doubt they will do much for driver's ed instructors. And now, if you will excuse me, this book editor is dying to find out more about laws governing the keeping of alligators and camels in one's bathtub. Yes, they do exist.

A Bowl of our own making

In the spirit of Super Bowl season, today we present a short but exciting account of our own personal playoffs that we have been involved in lately: choosing the winning refrigerator and stove to grace our kitchen.


We didn't exactly set out to be in this game, much preferring to chase down, say, an antique chair or a new stereo system than to learn the intricacies of Sixth Sense temperature management refrigerator systems. But with the right coach, and a little luck, even underdogs like us can sometimes come out on top... 


Pre-season warmup: We agree that we need a new stove and refrigerator, and that we should research them. 


Regular season: During the next several months we make zero progress toward our goal, and many fans, including ourselves, question our commitment. Then, spurred on by grave injuries among our rivals -- frequent leaks inside the refrigerator, frequent blowing out of the pilot light on the stove -- we surge ahead in our determination to finally win this thing. 


The Playoffs: Unfortunately our skill rarely matches our determination, and our form is sloppy. We go after the bottom-freezer fridge. But we can't make it work, and we go back to the time-tested. traditional top freezer. We try a long-distance, online coach, but although she is helpful, she can't devote the amount of time we need to training. Again our goals languish, but somehow we still make it to the... 


Appliance Bowl
First quarter: We actually go to the store, where we promptly make a fumble, realizing that we have no idea of the dimensions of our current refrigerator and have consequently no idea what dimensions the new one should be. No first down.


Second quarter: We return to the store, armed with our stats. Ray becomes our coach by default, as he is the only one in the refrigerator section. He is very hands-off, respecting our technique of blindly going from one fridge to the next, trying to score a win. No doubt Ray suspects we should have stayed in the minors, but is too polite to say so.


Third quarter: We are dumped by Ray, probably because we cannot seem to settle on a winning strategy and because he can make far more money with other players. Our new coach, Annie, delivers instructions and encouragement from the sidelines as we make our way through the baffling array of appliances ("Remember, you're after the convection ovens. Go right. No, not that deep! Now you're into the no-warming drawer ovens. That's not where you want to be"). No matter how confused we get, or how tired we are of looking at stoves that all look the same after a while, Annie encourages us to go back in. 


Brief time-out: We huddle to consider suggesting that Annie pursue a different line of work, such as slave-driving, but we decide that she really does have our best interests at heart. Plus her commission.


Fourth quarter: The clock is winding down. In a burst of energy and blind luck, we score a touchdown on a refrigerator, mainly because it is the only one that will fit in our small space. Fueled by this success, we zero in on two stove choices. But with a minute to go, we choke. We cannot agree on a play. The stove with a warming drawer but burner choices I don't like, or the stove without the warming drawer and better burner choices?


Overtime: Exhausted by these last-minute challenges, we decide to regroup and come back in a few days.


Luckily, Annie promises that she'll be there for us. Of course, she has invested too much in us to let go now.


Will there be a win?? We certainly hope so. If not, we'll undoubtedly get sent back to the minors to cook over a fire pit. Stay tuned.

Some ground rules for haircuts

Occasionally the Hero and I subject ourselves to haircuts at our respective establishments of choice. We try to be supportive of each other at these times, and offer small bits of encouragement as the other leaves for an appointment:


"Tell her to cut it shorter!" I yell encouragingly when he leaves. 


"Tell her not to cut it so short!" he yells encouragingly when I leave. 


And when we return from our appointments, we generally see that our encouragement was for naught.


"She didn't cut enough," I say, inspecting his haircut.


"She cut too much off," he says, inspecting mine.


But at this time of year, when it is cold outside, our ground rules for both our haircuts pretty much boil down to this one:


1. Please leave me some hair.


We believe this is a reasonable request. After all, it is winter, and deer and bears and fox and other animals grow a winter coat. We need our winter hair.


My stylist, while sympathetic to this need, nevertheless has difficulty refraining from cutting off all my hair.


The Hero's recent haircut, shorter than usual, left him feeling a little drafty. Upon mentioning this to an acquaintance, the acquaintance launched into a tale about having suffered from an odd headache once, and concluded that it was due to the fact that his barber had left so little hair on the back of his neck that the cold just went straight to his bones.


The Hero, who prefers his hair on the longer side any time of year, said to me, "See? All the more reason not to cut it too short."


In an effort to distract my stylist from removing too much hair from my head at a recent appointment, I asked what the latest in hair fashion was.


"Curls," she said instantly. "Curls are everywhere. They're hot." 


"Rats," I said, eyeing my super-straight hair in the mirror. "I'm out of fashion again."


She talked about her daughter, who is moving to New York. "I"m so glad for her," she said. "She's 22. I don't want her stuck here all her life," as if Maryland were the backwaters of the U.S., when in fact this particular town was voted one of the top 5 places to live in the entire country.


But of course it is not New York.


"There," she said when she was done cutting my hair. "You've got a winter haircut."


Maybe a winter haircut for Florida, I thought as I looked at it. Not a winter here. But it would work.


I hope her daughter's hair is ready for a New York winter.

Exercise, anyone?

Ah, there is nothing quite like a brisk, early morning sprint, particularly when it involves running down a steep flight of stairs in your own home, careening through the entire house, dodging pieces of furniture, sprinting out the door, and coming to a skidding stop at the garbage cans, because you have suddenly realized that you forgot to put the trash out. You realize this because you hear the unmistakable sounds of the garbage truck very close by. 


There is no time to stop and put on proper shoes, so you go out into the rain in your bare feet. But now the garbage truck driver sees you, and understands instantly that you are not prepared. You race to put the trash cans in place at the curb. HE guns the truck to pass you by, or at least splash you. But you are quicker. In defeat he stops to let his henchmen empty your trash cans. You win!


Now you can trudge back inside and return to the sound sleep from which you were awakened, because the evil garbage truck comes at 4 in the morning.


Of course, this scenario never happens at OUR house. I am only speaking in hypotheticals here. Sometimes, hypothetically, you will also see your neighbor taking HIS trash out after his own sprint through the house. You nod sheepishly at each other, secretly glad that you are not, hypothetically, the only knucklehead who has neglected to put out the trash at a decent hour the night before.


Luckily, this little sprint to put the trash out could count toward your exercise for the day, particularly if the experience elevated your heart rate. This is likely, since you do not want to be outwitted and have your trash remain with you for a whole extra week. "No trash left behind" is an important homeowner's motto.


But this may not be the end of your travails. Sometime later, at a more decent hour to be awake, you leave the house to go to work, and somehow, somewhere along your route it will be there -- the evil garbage truck, right in the middle of your path. And peering out the driver's side window will be the driver himself, grinning an evil grin. Score one for the garbage truck!


No problem. Next week maybe you'll have the chance to even things up. Hypothetically, of course.

Vitamins: Present and future

During our Christmas visit to family, a Male Relative took the Hero aside. "Here," he said, handing the Hero a bottle of pills. "I can't use these. But I thought maybe you could."


"These" were multipurpose vitamins that the Relative hadn't noticed were for "Adults under 50." He had meant to buy the "Men over 50" formula.


Thanking him, the Hero brought the vitamins home and suggested I use them too.


"Sorry," I said, "I have to use the 'Women under 50' formula."


What would happen if I took his instead? he wanted to know.


I wasn't sure, but clearly, judging from the vast array of vitamins now available, I should take no chances on something as generic as "Adults under 50." I needed a more specific formula -- one for individuals of my gender, age group, level of fitness, hair color, eye color, handedness (leftie or rightie?), etc.


Today's "multipurpose" vitamins have evolved into "specific purpose" vitamins, even though they are still called multipurpose. (Similarly, "all-purpose flour" is not so all-purpose, as a Female Relative found out when she tried using it as a substitute for cake flour. "Why do they call it all-purpose if you can't use if for all purposes?" she said.)


But as for the vitamins, not to worry. Vitamin makers have things well in hand, and they have a product for whoever you are and whatever you need. Has your skin lost its lustre? Try the "healthy skin support" formula. Pregnant? Menopausal? A teen? They've got you covered. A pregnant menopausal teen? Well, give them time; I'm sure they'll come up with something.


There's also an "active mind and body" version for people whose active lifestyle requires some extra support from their daily supplement. In other words, for people NOT like me. 


Thankfully, they didn't forget people like me. For us, there is a "Couch Potato/Lazy Bum" vitamin. Just kidding! But maybe we could use the "Energy" formula, specifically formulated to boost our synapses and neurons with things like ginseng, guarana, and -- in case those don't do anything for us -- plain old caffeine.


But maybe it's not enough to have vitamins for kids, teens, adults under 50, and adults over 50. Maybe companies could concoct mixtures for 29 and Holding, Adults in their Second Career, Adults in their Second Childhood, Seniors + + (over 100), Senior Galapagos Tortoises (over 150), Senior Mice (over 10 days), or Senior Houseflies (over 10 minutes).


In time, I'm sure the companies will figure out how to add even more specifics to vitamin formulas. Vitamins could then be ordered individually, like coffee: Senior post-menopausal female African-Americano couch potato introvert, with whipped cream.


Please make sure mine includes chocolate.

Wimpiness is catchy

Maryland, my adopted state, is -- I say this lovingly -- wimpy. Or more accurately, Marylanders are wimpy. A report of a single snowflake sends our state into panic. Buy milk! Buy bread! Shut the schools! We may be housebound for a week! This snowflake could be forecast for Montana, and Marylanders would still be calling for the National Guard.


The Hero and I, however, come from good, hearty Midwestern stock. Having experienced REAL winters in our native states, we know that this behavior is irrational. I mean, you need at least THREE snowflakes to make a storm.


But something is changing. On our trip to Michigan over Christmas, we arrived at my parents' church on Christmas Day. Before we got out of the car, I looked around at the other people going in. They were not wearing coats. The Hero and I were wearing, respectively, a substantial wool coat and a down jacket.


"Oh, no," I said in dismay. "It's 38 degrees out, and none of these people are wearing coats. Look at us. We're turning into wimpy Marylanders!"


This was a sobering revelation, and we were suitably ashamed. The Hero started inching out of his coat.


"We have to retain our hearty Midwestern ways!" I said. "We should be able to handle a little cold...boy, I sure hope they have the heat on inside."


It was sunny that day. In Michigan, if the sun is shining it is considered warm, no matter the actual temperature. Sun + 78 degrees = warm. Sun + minus 78 degrees = still warm. In Maryland, sun is irrelevant. 78 degrees = better think about putting another layer on.


A couple of years ago we had Snowmaggedon. Things were pretty much shut down for a week. Kids used up all their snow days for the next 15 years. Our mail and paper ("Neither sleet nor rain nor snow will keep us from our post -- OK, let's just take snow off that list") were not delivered for two weeks. We were the laughing stock of places like Montana, where a single snowfall can completely cover all the buildings. THEY dig themselves out, and then they go about their daily routine, such as attending the town barbeque.


Now, not ALL of Maryland is wimpy. In the western part of the state, where there are mountains, they do not get all excited about a single snowflake. This is good, because they routinely get bajillions of snowflakes per season.


But for the rest of us, you can actually hear a little whimper when snow or ice is headed our way. It's been very warm this particular winter, but we know It's coming sometime.


The forecast for tonight and tomorrow is (this is official) "weird winter stuff." Were I still living in Michigan, such a report would barely register with me. I MIGHT decide to wear shoes, instead of flip flops. But like the wimpy Marylander I fear I am becoming, I am planning to work at home tomorrow.

Christmas traditions

When we were younger, the Hero and I both tended to get instantly attached to one of the gifts we'd gotten for Christmas. And when I say "younger," I mean just this past Christmas. 


The Hero received a burgundy flannel shirt that he immediately bonded with, and refuses to be separated from. He will not take it off even long enough for me to wash it. I suspect he sneaks it to work when I am not looking ("Hey, uh, Bill, could you, like, hold on to this shirt for me for a while?...How long? Uh, just 'til my wife's done doing the laundry... Thanks, dude. Oh, and uh, if my wife calls, the shirt's not here. You know nothing about it.").


I have threatened to dump both him AND the shirt in the washer. Nothing moves him.


The main reason I bought this shirt was that I had grown extremely tired of seeing him in another of his flannel shirts, which was plaid and which he also wore everywhere, probably even to church under his suit jacket. He tends to show extreme loyalty to certain clothing items ("I pledge allegiance to the shirt..."). But now that he has abandoned the plaid shirt in favor of the new one, I feel guilty. This is not helped by the fact that the unloved, cast-off shirt looks at me reproachfully whenever I pass it. 


I personally take a slightly different tact with Christmas gifts. The more I like them, the longer they sit under the tree. I make a nice little pile so I can look at them every now and then.


When I was little this came in handy when various well-meaning relatives asked what I'd gotten for Christmas. I was much more likely to remember the correct answers if the gifts were still together under the tree. If they had all been removed to more permanent locations, I would have to make things up: "Uh, I got a, uh, a tea set. Yeah, a tea set."


"Oh, how nice," the relatives would say. "We'll have to have tea with you sometime."


Fortunately they never made good on these threats, or I would have had to come up with a tea set from somewhere.


There is a glimmer of hope now for getting the new shirt washed. The Hero noted a small stain on the sleeve, and is fearful that he will ruin his beloved shirt if it does not receive proper care. So, probably in another month he'll be ready to let it go. I'll be sure to have the plaid flannel ready as an emergency substitute.

Ode to gluttony

On Saturday night, at a gathering of friends and neighbors for a birthday celebration, we enjoyed a six-course meal prepared for us by a personal chef in a personal home. Unfortunately it was not OUR personal chef in OUR personal home, nor was it something that takes place on a regular basis, but we're choosing to "believe that the impossible can happen."


Not that six-course meals are anything new to us, if you count a glass of water, a fork, and a napkin as three courses. But during this meal, each course consisted of some delectable combination of food, which the chef described to us as the course was brought out. This description typically required him to use his hands in quick yet precise gestures, and included words I personally did not always recognize, such as "beets." But everything was so outstanding that he could have told us the food was taken straight from Oscar's garbage can, and we would have eaten everything just as happily.


During the final course, one attendee became convinced that she had been transported to Heaven, consisting of a spoon and a chocolaty-orange concoction. While not exactly the biblical description of Heaven, the dessert -- as well as the entire meal -- nevertheless did seem otherworldly, and one we are eager to experience again. Just as soon as we can get up off the couch where we have been recuperating ever since.


As we were all about to slip into a comatose state in our chairs after dessert, it was announced that we should not leave just yet -- as if we were physically capable of doing so -- because there was "more." The "more" turned out not to be the personal weight loss and fitness trainers we all sorely needed at that point, but individually wrapped chocolate-filled croissants weighing in at approximately seven million calories each. These, we were told, were "for the next day." This immediately negated our promise that we would never touch -- nay, never LOOK at -- food ever again.


Even the Hero, who is not supposed to eat anything with gluten in it and who is generally pretty good at sticking to this, instantly came under the spell of the chocolate croissant. He declared it "not dripping with gluten," thereby rendering it within his diet. 


Since we all willingly and eagerly participated in this gluttony, we fully deserved any ill effects we may have suffered from our actions. Further, we would be quite happy to do it all over again.


____________


In other food-related news, astonishingly we ate MORE food at home the very next day. Part of that day's meal was a quinoa and vegetable pilaf, which I made from a mix. Permit me to share the final instructions on the bag, which made me wonder whether I would need some industrial-strength tool: 


"After cooking, mix with work, and serve warm."


And now, back to my croissant. If the Hero hasn't eaten it.

The Christmas tree wars

In my family, the length of time our Christmas tree stayed up after Christmas correlated strongly with my mother's age. As she got older, she was less inclined to want to make the effort to dismantle everything and put it away. She even began to hint that it wouldn't be so bad if the tree stayed up all year round, would it? We were scandalized, but she would accept no help in putting things away. "You wouldn't do it right," she would say.


We were the only ones we knew who had an Ides of March tree in the living room. We considered buying red, white, and blue ornaments in case the tree was still up in July.


I thought of this the other day when I wondered how long we could keep our tree up. "I'm not ready to take it down," I declared to the Hero. "It seems like we just put it up."


"That's okay -- it can stay up 'til January 6," he said.


"What happens after that date?" I asked. "The tree spontaneously combusts?"


"I wish," he said fervently.


The tree is not universally loved in our house, at least not THIS tree. It's too tall, Scrooge complains. It's too poofy. It gets in the way of the electronics stuff. There's no good place to store it. It doesn't smell like a real tree.


For a couple of years now Scrooge has attempted to convince me to exchange our tree for a different one, putting forth the virtues of small trees. Short trees. Skinny trees. Table trees.


If someone invented a microscopic tree, he would want it.


Another Christmas tree debate exists at a Male Relative's house, where there is an ongoing disagreement over whether to have a traditional, use-whatever-ornaments-have-been-in-the-attic-for-three-decades-as-long-as-they-don't-match-tree, or a "designer" tree with a  particular color scheme, beautiful hand-blown glass ornaments, satiny ribbon, numerous Do Not Touch signs, etc.


Traditionally the designer tree, favored by the Male Relative, has won out over the simple tree preferred by the Female Relative. The effect, though striking, is somewhat diminished by the necessity of keeping the bottom two feet of the tree completely bare, lest the Cat Relatives -- who disdain Do Not Touch signs -- be tempted to play with the pretty baubles.


But the Female Relative has never relinquished all her cherished, mismatched ornaments, keeping them in a box for the day when she will be triumphant. In the meantime little skirmishes are waged in this war. This year I spotted a lone, humble snowman on their tree amidst all the fancy ornaments. The Male Relative was blissfully unaware of the intruder until someone brought it to his attention. 


"Hmmmph," he said.


As for our own tree dilemma, maybe someday I will see the merits of a skinnier tree. Or maybe Scrooge will make peace with the too-tall, too-poofy tree. And maybe someday my mother will take her tree down.

How may I (not) help you?

The Hero and I are singlehandedly keeping the makers of Excedrin Migraine, Extra-Strength Tylenol, Mega-Super-Duper-Industrial Advil, etc., in business and making considerable profits. This stems from the fact that as intelligent, college-educated homeowners, we are unable to comprehend our Annual Escrow Account Statement without repeatedly requesting assistance from our lender's Customer Service Representatives.


We cannot reprint here the entirety of our most recent telephone conversation with one of these representatives -- doing so would crash this computer -- but here is the gist of it:


"Wanda," Service Rep: How may I help you today?


Us: Uh, we don't understand our escrow statement.


Wanda: Certainly, I can help you with that. What part specifically?


Us: All of it.


Wanda: [a loud sigh is heard, along with the rattling of a bottle of medication]


Us: Uh, hello?


Wanda: Yes, yes, please go ahead. 


Us: Well, what we want to know is, why does our escrow always show a shortage that we have to "make up"? What are you people doing with our money?


Wanda: Most likely this is due to your property taxes or your homeowner's insurance going up. Or both.


Us: OK, but the numbers don't add up. WE figure our increase to be only $137 a year, but YOU guys show it to be $10,863.


Wanda: It's basically the same thing.


Us: Huh?


Wanda: See, if you take the annual minimum balance minus the annual maximum curbage and multiply it by the average number of tons an elephant can lift during its lifetime, you get our answer. So we're right.


Us [scratching our heads]: We still don't see it.


Wanda: I'm referring to an AFRICAN elephant.


Us: Oh! Well, we assumed you meant an ASIAN elephant. 


Wanda [generously]: A common mistake. But actually we always use African elephant statistics for our comparisons.


Us: Whew! We're glad that's cleared up.


Wanda: Great!AnythingelseIcanhelpyouwithtoday?No?Great.Wellthanksforcall--


Us: Actually, we do have another question.


Wanda [with another loud sigh]: Of course.


Us: So why, if we pay this lump sum of $10,863 now, does our monthly payment still go up by 7 million rupees?


Wanda: [Gives some unintelligible answer, probably expressing her desire to retire from Customer Service and purchase a houseboat.]


Us: Huh?


Wanda: Well, you see --


[Here, for approximately 46 minutes, we basically ask the same question, in different ways, and Wanda basically gives us the same answer, also in different ways.]


Wanda [wearily]: Have I answered all your questions? I'd like to go home now. 


Us [still confused, but resigned to our confusion]: Uh, if we could just ask one more thing...


Wanda: Yes?


Us: About this charge on our escrow statement of $26,783 for Excedrin Migraine...

Riding in a car without seat belts

We regret that an intended posting indicating that the blog would take a little holiday was never actually posted. We hope the break invigorated you and made you eager for Slightly Humorous 2012, although probably this is just wishful thinking.


We have returned from visiting relatives in the Great Frigid North, where it turned out not to be so frigid. At the end of our trip, as we were repacking to come home, the Hero smugly pointed out that once again I had overpacked while HE had not. There ensued a discussion on the definition of overpacking. I did not consider an extra seventeen sweaters to constitute overpacking; it was merely prudent to be prepared in the event that, say, an Ice Age suddenly occurred during our holiday visit.


The warmish weather meant that there was no riding in one-horse open sleighs during our trip. We made up for this, however -- due to one family member's car being in the shop -- by squeezing six adults into one car everywhere we went, ensuring many times of togetherness. It also ensured many times of illegal travel without seat belts. This did not seem to greatly concern most of the four in the back seat, as we had greater worries, such as being able to breathe.


Not wearing seat belts seemed to bother only me, which may have had something to do with the numerous safety videos I was forced to view, for my own good, back in driver's ed class. In these videos, cars with crash dummies were smashed at high speeds into immovable barriers such as cement walls. The dummies who were not wearing seat belts were all pulverized, while the ones who had been wearing seat belts walked away from each crash, laughing at the fate of the other poor stupids.


I was traumatized by these videos, by the sight of all those crash dummy parts flying around the smashed-up car. I now zealously put on my seat belt when getting in any vehicle, and have undertaken various personal crusades to warn others of the dangers of neglecting this practice, including yelling at careless individuals on TV. I am nervous while riding in vehicles that lack seat belts, and have even been known to try to fashion one in these situations from materials at hand, such as the neckties of passengers next to me on the train.


But back to our trip. When we returned, the temperature continued to rise for several days, until finally nature got confused and started bursting out all over. We noticed with some dismay that our neighbors, too, were confused, and instead of spending time being lazy indoors, were outside attending to nature.



The Hero and I, feeling like we, too, should be outdoors -- but not wanting it to involve anything industrious -- finally settled on walking to the nearby coffee shop later in the afternoon.


Whereupon I promptly fell asleep for a couple of hours, and when awakened by the Hero we both noted that it was not sunny anymore, and decided that it was probably getting cold, and we declared ourselves off the hook for any required outdoor enjoyment.


And now, just a few days later, the temperature has plummeted, and we are in the Great Frigid East. Which makes us happy, as long as we get to stay inside. And buckle up on the couch.