Today is, of course, Leap Day, which only occurs once every four years. I was not born on Leap Day, but I am thinking that it might not be such a bad thing to have a birthday every four years instead of every year. When someone would inquire about your age, this would allow you to say things like, "On my last birthday I turned 16." Astonished, that person would undoubtedly ask what you do to look so young, and you could name pretty much anything -- a diet consisting entirely of foods that begin with O, for example -- and inspire awe in a complete stranger. It would be severely misguided awe, but some of us have to take our awe however we can.
But I was born in April, and the Hero in February, and we like to celebrate our birthdays each year. We firmly believe that the birthday person is special and should get to decide what both of us will do on his or her special day. This belief in the Supreme Reign of the Birthday Person led, this year, to my watching the entire Super Bowl with the Hero, which occurred around his birthday.
This might be considered magnanimous of me, were I not thinking of my own birthday, and what torture I could devise to get back at him. He is fully aware of this, and believes that my retaliation will involve spending an inordinate number of hours watching Pride & Prejudice.
"There are a lot of versions," I mused. "Maybe we should watch one I haven't seen yet."
"Yeah," he said, brightening. "Like maybe a vampire or zombie version."
"Um, no," I said. "I don't think there are any vampire or zombie movie versions."
"Is there one that takes place in outer space?" he said hopefully.
"No," I said. "Maybe we should just watch them all."
This, of course, was said in jest, because there is always his birthday NEXT year to keep my revenge in check. The Super Bowl PLUS a graphic war movie, maybe, or a nine-hour mini-series about how guitars are made...
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
The missteps go public
When the Hero and I initially signed up for our ballroom dance lessons, we were assured that we would have private lessons first. "We want you to feel comfortable out there on the floor before throwing you into a group," the receptionist said.
This reassured us somewhat, but there seems to have been some misunderstanding about what constitutes "feeling comfortable" and how long it might take to achieve this. In my mind it would be about six months down the road, maybe even a few years depending on how things went.
To our dismay Brandon, our instructor, strongly suggested that we take a couple of group lessons after only one private lesson with him. I like Brandon, but I feel now that this may have demonstrated some error in judgment on my part. He didn't SEEM like a masochist when we first met him.
But we went to the next group lesson, buoyed by Brandon's apparent faith in us. As we began the evening, Emily, the group instructor, had a little talk with just the ladies. "Just for tonight," she said in a lowered voice, "on this dance floor, we're going to let the gentleman have complete control. They lead, and we follow, okay? But once you leave here, everything can go back to normal."
She had a similar talk with the gentlemen, encouraging them to make the most of their limited "in control" time while they were there.
We ladies felt that, although Emily was impossibly thin and young and cheerful, she understood how things were between us and our men. This reassured us, and we good-naturedly went along with her suggestion, as long as she was good on her promise that this letting-go-of-control thing would not exceed the next 53 minutes.
We set to work on several of the steps we had already learned, as well as some new ones. Here I will give a quick run-down of each dance and a summary of our progression in each.
Foxtrot: As mentioned in the last post, this step involves stepping backward, forward, and sideways. Once you have mastered this, you and your partner rotate slightly as you are stepping sideways. This increases the interest and excitement of the dance by increasing the chances that the two of you will bump into one of the other couples who are also stepping and rotating.
Waltz: The waltz is a beautiful dance full of glides and fluid motion, yet based on a rather simple step in which dancers trace a box. To actually be said to be waltzing, you must add in rotations every now and then, similar to the foxtrot. THIS will allow you to glide across the floor, now here, now there, one big blur of beauteous motion -- or, if you are us, around and around in a rather small circle that encompasses your original box.
Club swing: Individuals of a certain gender and age may be disappointed to learn that this dance does NOT involve any whoosing of weapons through the air. It is, nonetheless, a very fast and action-packed dance, consisting of -- [WE INTERRUPT THIS NARRATION DUE TO INABILITY TO RECALL EXACTLY WHAT THIS DANCE CONSISTS OF.]
So how did the Hero and I fare while learning all these complicated moves?
Think Fred and Ginger.
Then think Fred and Wilma.
Ta DA! That's us!
This reassured us somewhat, but there seems to have been some misunderstanding about what constitutes "feeling comfortable" and how long it might take to achieve this. In my mind it would be about six months down the road, maybe even a few years depending on how things went.
To our dismay Brandon, our instructor, strongly suggested that we take a couple of group lessons after only one private lesson with him. I like Brandon, but I feel now that this may have demonstrated some error in judgment on my part. He didn't SEEM like a masochist when we first met him.
But we went to the next group lesson, buoyed by Brandon's apparent faith in us. As we began the evening, Emily, the group instructor, had a little talk with just the ladies. "Just for tonight," she said in a lowered voice, "on this dance floor, we're going to let the gentleman have complete control. They lead, and we follow, okay? But once you leave here, everything can go back to normal."
She had a similar talk with the gentlemen, encouraging them to make the most of their limited "in control" time while they were there.
We ladies felt that, although Emily was impossibly thin and young and cheerful, she understood how things were between us and our men. This reassured us, and we good-naturedly went along with her suggestion, as long as she was good on her promise that this letting-go-of-control thing would not exceed the next 53 minutes.
We set to work on several of the steps we had already learned, as well as some new ones. Here I will give a quick run-down of each dance and a summary of our progression in each.
Foxtrot: As mentioned in the last post, this step involves stepping backward, forward, and sideways. Once you have mastered this, you and your partner rotate slightly as you are stepping sideways. This increases the interest and excitement of the dance by increasing the chances that the two of you will bump into one of the other couples who are also stepping and rotating.
Waltz: The waltz is a beautiful dance full of glides and fluid motion, yet based on a rather simple step in which dancers trace a box. To actually be said to be waltzing, you must add in rotations every now and then, similar to the foxtrot. THIS will allow you to glide across the floor, now here, now there, one big blur of beauteous motion -- or, if you are us, around and around in a rather small circle that encompasses your original box.
Club swing: Individuals of a certain gender and age may be disappointed to learn that this dance does NOT involve any whoosing of weapons through the air. It is, nonetheless, a very fast and action-packed dance, consisting of -- [WE INTERRUPT THIS NARRATION DUE TO INABILITY TO RECALL EXACTLY WHAT THIS DANCE CONSISTS OF.]
So how did the Hero and I fare while learning all these complicated moves?
Think Fred and Ginger.
Then think Fred and Wilma.
Ta DA! That's us!
Thursday, February 23, 2012
May I have this misstep?
The Hero and I have finally decided to take the plunge and sign up to take ballroom dance lessons. We figured this would help us expand our horizons, gain some new skills, and do something fun. Mostly we signed up because we are cheap and got a really good Groupon deal for the lessons.
Let me just say that if you, too, have been desiring to learn to dance but held back because maybe you assumed everyone doing ballroom dancing was upwards of 85 years old, let me assure you, based on our experience, this is not the case. There are plenty of younger dancers. In fact, the first time we walked into the studio and saw the instructors, I felt a strong urge to ask if I could see their driver's licenses, just to make sure they actually were of driving age.
Our fears that we would be the youngest people there by several decades was therefore replaced by a new concern: that we would be considered old enough to be placed in a geriatric dance group ("Forget your walkers today, did we, Mr. and Mrs. B? No worries -- we'll just have you do some sit-dancing").
When the Hero signed us up, he was told that our instructor would be "Brandi," whom I assumed would be a very young female or possibly a slightly older ex-cheerleader. We were about right on the young part, but Brandi turned out to be Brandon, a young man with bleach blond, slicked-back hair and an energetic smile that, as far as we could tell, nothing could disturb, even the news that we had never, ever danced before. (We left out the part about the few DVD dance lessons we've had, lest they raise his expectations for our skills.)
Brandon gave us some preliminary instructions -- walking forward, walking backward, moving to each side, avoiding other nearby couples, not stepping on the studio's Pomeranian, etc. Once these were accomplished to his satisfaction, he launched into teaching us the foxtrot step. This consists entirely of -- for the lady -- stepping back, stepping forward, and stepping sideways once. For the man, it consists of endeavoring not to step on the lady's feet. No, no! Of course for the man the steps are reversed.
The foxtrot involves, according to one source, "subtle rise and fall action." The subtlety rather escaped us, particularly on the "fall" part. But we practiced this sequence several times, and then Brandon told us to keep doing the steps as he attempted to distract us, which he did by, for instance, turning on some music.
Instantly we forgot everything we had just learned. Where was the beat? Were we supposed to be going backward? forward? sideways?
Brandon smoothly got us back on track, and soon we were ready to learn the waltz box step. The waltz, of course, is in 3/4 time, requiring us to forget everything we had learned about the two-count foxtrot step. Fortunately we did not find this difficult. Nor did we find the box step particularly difficult, having practiced it several times with our DVD instructors in the comfort of our own family room.
We learned that to stay on beat, it is sometimes helpful to keep track audibly of the beats in some way, such as by counting "ONE, two, three; ONE, two, three" or using some terminology borrowed from the field of explosives: "BOOM, tick, tick; BOOM, tick, tick."
Our half-hour passed very quickly, and by the end we actually felt we had done something resembling dancing, even if we were still not very subtle about it. If Brandon thought otherwise, he did not say so. He actually announced that we had "potential," which made us giddy with excitement. Imagine how far we might be able to go with dancing!
This euphoria lasted until Brandon announced that we should sign up for not one but two group lessons next before he saw us privately again. This way, he said, we could practice our steps and be able to pick right up with him next time.
We should be fine at the group lesson. So long as they don't turn on any music.
Let me just say that if you, too, have been desiring to learn to dance but held back because maybe you assumed everyone doing ballroom dancing was upwards of 85 years old, let me assure you, based on our experience, this is not the case. There are plenty of younger dancers. In fact, the first time we walked into the studio and saw the instructors, I felt a strong urge to ask if I could see their driver's licenses, just to make sure they actually were of driving age.
Our fears that we would be the youngest people there by several decades was therefore replaced by a new concern: that we would be considered old enough to be placed in a geriatric dance group ("Forget your walkers today, did we, Mr. and Mrs. B? No worries -- we'll just have you do some sit-dancing").
When the Hero signed us up, he was told that our instructor would be "Brandi," whom I assumed would be a very young female or possibly a slightly older ex-cheerleader. We were about right on the young part, but Brandi turned out to be Brandon, a young man with bleach blond, slicked-back hair and an energetic smile that, as far as we could tell, nothing could disturb, even the news that we had never, ever danced before. (We left out the part about the few DVD dance lessons we've had, lest they raise his expectations for our skills.)
Brandon gave us some preliminary instructions -- walking forward, walking backward, moving to each side, avoiding other nearby couples, not stepping on the studio's Pomeranian, etc. Once these were accomplished to his satisfaction, he launched into teaching us the foxtrot step. This consists entirely of -- for the lady -- stepping back, stepping forward, and stepping sideways once. For the man, it consists of endeavoring not to step on the lady's feet. No, no! Of course for the man the steps are reversed.
The foxtrot involves, according to one source, "subtle rise and fall action." The subtlety rather escaped us, particularly on the "fall" part. But we practiced this sequence several times, and then Brandon told us to keep doing the steps as he attempted to distract us, which he did by, for instance, turning on some music.
Instantly we forgot everything we had just learned. Where was the beat? Were we supposed to be going backward? forward? sideways?
Brandon smoothly got us back on track, and soon we were ready to learn the waltz box step. The waltz, of course, is in 3/4 time, requiring us to forget everything we had learned about the two-count foxtrot step. Fortunately we did not find this difficult. Nor did we find the box step particularly difficult, having practiced it several times with our DVD instructors in the comfort of our own family room.
We learned that to stay on beat, it is sometimes helpful to keep track audibly of the beats in some way, such as by counting "ONE, two, three; ONE, two, three" or using some terminology borrowed from the field of explosives: "BOOM, tick, tick; BOOM, tick, tick."
Our half-hour passed very quickly, and by the end we actually felt we had done something resembling dancing, even if we were still not very subtle about it. If Brandon thought otherwise, he did not say so. He actually announced that we had "potential," which made us giddy with excitement. Imagine how far we might be able to go with dancing!
This euphoria lasted until Brandon announced that we should sign up for not one but two group lessons next before he saw us privately again. This way, he said, we could practice our steps and be able to pick right up with him next time.
We should be fine at the group lesson. So long as they don't turn on any music.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
The Daily News (at a special promotional rate)
Newspapers are under attack these days. Readership is dropping off alarmingly, cuts have forced deep layoffs, advertisers are becoming scarce. (Except, in our area, for Crazy Jack the Multiple Car Dealership Owner [Motto: "Jack says YES!" Question: Jack never quite gets around to that part.])
When a previously loyal, subscribing customer of the newspaper starts to stray from the fold, wanting a shorter subscription, or perhaps wanting to drop the paper altogether, the customer service people are on the alert, ready to lasso the customer and, if necessary, wrestle him or her to the ground.
Here, based loosely on my own recent conversation with a newspaper customer service representative, is a telephone exchange likely to occur in the event of an attempt to cut back on one's newspaper service. I should explain, for those of you who wonder why it is necessary to talk to an actual person to change one's subscription, that it is impossible, at our newspaper anyway, to change your subscription any other way, including online, by e-mail, by snail mail, by singing telegram, by blimp, etc.
Customer: Hello, I'd like to change my newspaper delivery to Saturday/Sunday.
Service rep: Certainly, I can help you with that.
(Note: Many customer service reps, in a variety of industries, begin this way. It makes you want to ask, "Why WOULDN'T you be able to help me with that?" But probably things will go better if you do not.)
Rep: I see you are currently getting seven-day delivery. Before I go ahead and downgrade your subscription to Saturday, Sunday, Wednesday, may I ask why you are downgrading?
Customer: Uh, actually I'd like just Saturday/Sunday. Well, see, we don't really read the paper that much.
Rep: Well, ma'am, what if I offered you a great deal on the seven-day delivery? Would that be enough to refrain from downgrading?
Customer: Well, not really, I just want --
Rep: I understand. But say we give you a promotional subscription cost of $19.95 for a period of 12 weeks.
Customer: Uh, I really don't think --
Rep: That would compare to the three-day delivery of $14.95 for 8 weeks. The promotional deal for seven days is obviously a better deal.
Customer: I'm sorry, what was that you said?
Rep: I said I would be happy to give you a promotional subscription of --
Customer: Yeah, that word you said really softly?
Rep: I'm not sure what --
Customer: I think it starts with a "p."
Rep: "Please"?
Customer: Promotional. I think it means I wouldn't be getting such a great deal after the 12 weeks. I'd probably be paying the same cost I am now, right? Or even more?
Rep: Oh, well, ma'am, I can assure you that you would be getting our best deal on the seven-day delivery. Would you be interested in staying with that?
Customer: It still wouldn't make me read the paper any more that I do now.
(Note: Customer service reps do not care whether you actually READ the newspaper or use it for kindling. THEY don't read it either.)
Rep (sighs heavily): Very well, I will change your subscription, as you request, to Saturday/Sunday/Wednesday.
Customer: Uh, just Saturday/Sunday, please.
Rep: Now you want to downgrade again?
Customer: Oh, never mind. Saturday/Sunday/Wednesday will be fine.
Rep: Wonderful! And should you change your mind and want to return to seven-day service --
Customer: I got it! Thank you! Gotta go!
Rep: Remember, I know where you live!
When a previously loyal, subscribing customer of the newspaper starts to stray from the fold, wanting a shorter subscription, or perhaps wanting to drop the paper altogether, the customer service people are on the alert, ready to lasso the customer and, if necessary, wrestle him or her to the ground.
Here, based loosely on my own recent conversation with a newspaper customer service representative, is a telephone exchange likely to occur in the event of an attempt to cut back on one's newspaper service. I should explain, for those of you who wonder why it is necessary to talk to an actual person to change one's subscription, that it is impossible, at our newspaper anyway, to change your subscription any other way, including online, by e-mail, by snail mail, by singing telegram, by blimp, etc.
Customer: Hello, I'd like to change my newspaper delivery to Saturday/Sunday.
Service rep: Certainly, I can help you with that.
(Note: Many customer service reps, in a variety of industries, begin this way. It makes you want to ask, "Why WOULDN'T you be able to help me with that?" But probably things will go better if you do not.)
Rep: I see you are currently getting seven-day delivery. Before I go ahead and downgrade your subscription to Saturday, Sunday, Wednesday, may I ask why you are downgrading?
Customer: Uh, actually I'd like just Saturday/Sunday. Well, see, we don't really read the paper that much.
Rep: Well, ma'am, what if I offered you a great deal on the seven-day delivery? Would that be enough to refrain from downgrading?
Customer: Well, not really, I just want --
Rep: I understand. But say we give you a promotional subscription cost of $19.95 for a period of 12 weeks.
Customer: Uh, I really don't think --
Rep: That would compare to the three-day delivery of $14.95 for 8 weeks. The promotional deal for seven days is obviously a better deal.
Customer: I'm sorry, what was that you said?
Rep: I said I would be happy to give you a promotional subscription of --
Customer: Yeah, that word you said really softly?
Rep: I'm not sure what --
Customer: I think it starts with a "p."
Rep: "Please"?
Customer: Promotional. I think it means I wouldn't be getting such a great deal after the 12 weeks. I'd probably be paying the same cost I am now, right? Or even more?
Rep: Oh, well, ma'am, I can assure you that you would be getting our best deal on the seven-day delivery. Would you be interested in staying with that?
Customer: It still wouldn't make me read the paper any more that I do now.
(Note: Customer service reps do not care whether you actually READ the newspaper or use it for kindling. THEY don't read it either.)
Rep (sighs heavily): Very well, I will change your subscription, as you request, to Saturday/Sunday/Wednesday.
Customer: Uh, just Saturday/Sunday, please.
Rep: Now you want to downgrade again?
Customer: Oh, never mind. Saturday/Sunday/Wednesday will be fine.
Rep: Wonderful! And should you change your mind and want to return to seven-day service --
Customer: I got it! Thank you! Gotta go!
Rep: Remember, I know where you live!
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Singin' the carrot cake blues
Last weekend we gathered with relatives to celebrate those with February birthdays, which included the Hero and another -- as in-laws are affectionately known in my family -- outlaw. Since it was close to the 14th, we also celebrated Valentine's Day. Basically, it was a gathering of persons bound by blood or marriage and all centered on one purpose: consuming cake.
The day before the birthday dinner, I inquired eagerly about the cake. Chocolate? Yellow? Chocolate AND yellow? Yummy creamy stuff in between the layers?
"It's carrot," my sister said.
"Carrot!" I said, in much the same way I might have responded had she said the cake was broccoli and artichoke with ketchup frosting and a little bit of sawdust for crunch. I decided it would be rude to say any more, or to inquire whose brilliant idea it had been to have carrot cake. All day, and the next, I tried not to think about how we could have had a cookies and cream cake with a gooey fudgy center and chocolate marshmallow frosting.
But no, we were having carrot cake. Dry, stringy carrot cake. Well, at least there would be ice cream. I hoped it did not have kelp in it.
Dinner was the usual lively affair, with nine adults and five children and one knock-knock joke book. When it was time for cake, everyone eagerly asked what kind it was.
"Carrot," someone said.
"Carrot!" several voices said. You could tell they had meant to say, "Ewwwww!" I took some comfort in the fact that I was not the only one disturbed by the choice of cake.
Since the Hero cannot have gluten, regular flour cakes are off limits. But on this occasion it did not make him downhearted, as his special gluten-free coconut cake slice he had brought from home now looked positively luscious. I served it to him at the table, causing an instant uproar among others who were still dealing with the betrayal of the carrot cake.
"Hey!" one adult Male Relative said. "What's HE got? That's not carrot cake! I want THAT!"
"It's, uh, white carrot cake," I said. "Albino carrots."
The Hero basked in the knowledge that he had the most popular cake, and that since we had only brought one slice, he could not be forced to share it with anyone. He ate it with gusto, in case anyone was watching.
At least one Male Relative had nothing against the carrot cake. When his was gone, he scouted the table for other, unclaimed slices. "Is your piece up for grabs?" he said to me, gesturing to a piece discreetly set to the side of my bowl of ice cream.
"It's all yours," I said, relieved to no longer have it staring at me reproachfully.
With cake, ice cream, and an assortment of Valentine candy, we all consumed rather more sugar than was prudent, and when someone mentioned the recent passing of Whitney Houston, our sugar-saturated minds decided a tribute was in order. I'm sure Ms. Houston would have considered it more of a travesty, particularly when we exhausted our repertoire of her songs and segued into others, including Climb Every Mountain and Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.
The children among us behaved much better. Probably because THEY weren't served carrot cake. THEY had yummy cupcakes.
Which is what we want next time.
The day before the birthday dinner, I inquired eagerly about the cake. Chocolate? Yellow? Chocolate AND yellow? Yummy creamy stuff in between the layers?
"It's carrot," my sister said.
"Carrot!" I said, in much the same way I might have responded had she said the cake was broccoli and artichoke with ketchup frosting and a little bit of sawdust for crunch. I decided it would be rude to say any more, or to inquire whose brilliant idea it had been to have carrot cake. All day, and the next, I tried not to think about how we could have had a cookies and cream cake with a gooey fudgy center and chocolate marshmallow frosting.
But no, we were having carrot cake. Dry, stringy carrot cake. Well, at least there would be ice cream. I hoped it did not have kelp in it.
Dinner was the usual lively affair, with nine adults and five children and one knock-knock joke book. When it was time for cake, everyone eagerly asked what kind it was.
"Carrot," someone said.
"Carrot!" several voices said. You could tell they had meant to say, "Ewwwww!" I took some comfort in the fact that I was not the only one disturbed by the choice of cake.
Since the Hero cannot have gluten, regular flour cakes are off limits. But on this occasion it did not make him downhearted, as his special gluten-free coconut cake slice he had brought from home now looked positively luscious. I served it to him at the table, causing an instant uproar among others who were still dealing with the betrayal of the carrot cake.
"Hey!" one adult Male Relative said. "What's HE got? That's not carrot cake! I want THAT!"
"It's, uh, white carrot cake," I said. "Albino carrots."
The Hero basked in the knowledge that he had the most popular cake, and that since we had only brought one slice, he could not be forced to share it with anyone. He ate it with gusto, in case anyone was watching.
At least one Male Relative had nothing against the carrot cake. When his was gone, he scouted the table for other, unclaimed slices. "Is your piece up for grabs?" he said to me, gesturing to a piece discreetly set to the side of my bowl of ice cream.
"It's all yours," I said, relieved to no longer have it staring at me reproachfully.
With cake, ice cream, and an assortment of Valentine candy, we all consumed rather more sugar than was prudent, and when someone mentioned the recent passing of Whitney Houston, our sugar-saturated minds decided a tribute was in order. I'm sure Ms. Houston would have considered it more of a travesty, particularly when we exhausted our repertoire of her songs and segued into others, including Climb Every Mountain and Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.
The children among us behaved much better. Probably because THEY weren't served carrot cake. THEY had yummy cupcakes.
Which is what we want next time.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Happy Hallmark Day
This year Valentine's Day was ushered in by a vehement, middle-of-the-night disagreement between a male and female somewhere within earshot of our rowhome. At least, we assumed there was a male involved, although we could only hear the female. It went on for some time.
"Looks like they won't be having a nice Valentine's Day," the Hero observed.
"Maybe they'll kiss and make up," I said. "Or maybe they'll exchange anti-Valentine's cards."
"Do they HAVE anti-Valentine's cards?"
"Hallmark has everything," I said.
Hallmark is pretty much responsible for the valentine phenomenon, and I figure they're not above putting another spin on the holiday if it helps business.
Earlier, the Hero and I had decided that we would not feel compelled to celebrate Valentine's Day. "I refuse to kowtow to Hallmark," the Hero declared.
"Me, too," I said.
But it is not always so easy. There on my computer keyboard on Valentine's morning was a card.
"So much for not kowtowing to Hallmark," I said.
"Well," he said sheepishly.
For my part, I was willing and able to not kowtow to Hallmark, but found it too much to resist kowtowing to the Hero's card. So I got him one in return.
Maybe next Valentine's Day we'll take on the floral industry.
"Looks like they won't be having a nice Valentine's Day," the Hero observed.
"Maybe they'll kiss and make up," I said. "Or maybe they'll exchange anti-Valentine's cards."
"Do they HAVE anti-Valentine's cards?"
"Hallmark has everything," I said.
Hallmark is pretty much responsible for the valentine phenomenon, and I figure they're not above putting another spin on the holiday if it helps business.
Earlier, the Hero and I had decided that we would not feel compelled to celebrate Valentine's Day. "I refuse to kowtow to Hallmark," the Hero declared.
"Me, too," I said.
But it is not always so easy. There on my computer keyboard on Valentine's morning was a card.
"So much for not kowtowing to Hallmark," I said.
"Well," he said sheepishly.
For my part, I was willing and able to not kowtow to Hallmark, but found it too much to resist kowtowing to the Hero's card. So I got him one in return.
Maybe next Valentine's Day we'll take on the floral industry.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Need a job?
Maybe I shouldn't be saying this, because it might be considered classified information. But I think the FBI is totally desperate for new employees. I say this because I personally was referred to the FBI as a possible job candidate, resulting in my being invited, along with about 200 other possible applicants, to the FBI for an "informational overview."
I figure it doesn't really hurt to go public with this, because all of it occurred in my dream the other night.
It did not seem odd to me, in the dream, to be considering working for the FBI. It must not have seemed odd to the Hero, either, because he was there too, although he was not considering employment so he only showed up near the end. Possibly, whoever referred me to the FBI may not have been someone looking out for the bureau's best interest. After all, I have only the vaguest notion of what goes on there, but then maybe that is exactly the kind of quality they are looking for in prospective employees. In the dream, at least.
But even in a dream the bureau was leaving nothing to chance. All of us prospects were transported to a secret location for the presentation, so we had no idea where we were or how we had gotten there. We also, it turned out, had no idea how to get back home when we were done, which presented difficulties that I shall enlarge upon later.
By some great mistake I was left alone before the presentation, and I took advantage of this opportunity to check out the building. Part of the building housed employees who wished to live onsite. I know, this perhaps should have been a clue that I was not entirely in the land of reality, but it was a very nice house -- Victorian, several antiques -- and I thought I wouldn't mind living there. I admit that it did not occur to me to inquire whether spouses could live there too.
It was finally time for the actual presentation, and our speaker, a woman, welcomed us and went over a great deal of information that I immediately forgot, because behind her were several small shops, like the kind in an airport. One of these shops sold popcorn, and I was preoccupied with wondering whether we were going to be served any. (We weren't.)
But soon I started paying attention again, because she started explaining that, like the CIA, if we worked for the bureau we would not be allowed to tell anyone where we worked, or what we did. This did not sit well with many in the audience, who were already disgruntled at not getting any popcorn. Now they were being told they'd have to basically live a lie. This group, a considerable number, got up and left.
I figured it would not be too difficult for me personally to keep my job a secret from other people, because my present job is already a mystery to most people. ("You're a book editor, huh? So you, like, add commas to books and stuff?" Yes, I have an advanced degree in Comma Apportionment and Rearrangement.)
So I stayed.
To those of us who remained, it was revealed that the specific unit of the FBI that needed agents was the "underwater division." The speaker, a woman, proceeded to show us a movie about the type of underwater investigating we would be doing, if we were accepted. I couldn't help but notice that the quality of the water shown in the movie, in which various "agents" were swimming and diving, was questionable, and did not look at all inviting. I admit, however, that the murkiness provided excellent cover for whatever the agents were supposed to be doing in it.
I decided, with some regret -- I really liked that Victorian house -- that the underwater division was not for me. Others must have also been turned off by the waterpart, because shortly after the movie the entire meeting broke up, even though she hadn't gotten to the part about compensation yet. Possibly they would have paid us in popcorn.
At some point before the end of the presentation Joe joined me, and when it was over we walked outside with everyone else. Very quickly everyone else disappeared, while we were left with the realization that we had no idea where we were, or how to get home. Clearly no one from the bureau was going to come to our assistance. Was this part of the test to see if you would make a good agent? We whipped out our cell phones to use the GPS, and --
I woke up.
Somewhere, outside an FBI building/Victorian home/popcorn store, we are still frantically trying to find our way home via GPS. If we ever did have to cover up what we did for a living, we'd have no trouble convincing others that we weren't FBI agents.
I figure it doesn't really hurt to go public with this, because all of it occurred in my dream the other night.
It did not seem odd to me, in the dream, to be considering working for the FBI. It must not have seemed odd to the Hero, either, because he was there too, although he was not considering employment so he only showed up near the end. Possibly, whoever referred me to the FBI may not have been someone looking out for the bureau's best interest. After all, I have only the vaguest notion of what goes on there, but then maybe that is exactly the kind of quality they are looking for in prospective employees. In the dream, at least.
But even in a dream the bureau was leaving nothing to chance. All of us prospects were transported to a secret location for the presentation, so we had no idea where we were or how we had gotten there. We also, it turned out, had no idea how to get back home when we were done, which presented difficulties that I shall enlarge upon later.
By some great mistake I was left alone before the presentation, and I took advantage of this opportunity to check out the building. Part of the building housed employees who wished to live onsite. I know, this perhaps should have been a clue that I was not entirely in the land of reality, but it was a very nice house -- Victorian, several antiques -- and I thought I wouldn't mind living there. I admit that it did not occur to me to inquire whether spouses could live there too.
It was finally time for the actual presentation, and our speaker, a woman, welcomed us and went over a great deal of information that I immediately forgot, because behind her were several small shops, like the kind in an airport. One of these shops sold popcorn, and I was preoccupied with wondering whether we were going to be served any. (We weren't.)
But soon I started paying attention again, because she started explaining that, like the CIA, if we worked for the bureau we would not be allowed to tell anyone where we worked, or what we did. This did not sit well with many in the audience, who were already disgruntled at not getting any popcorn. Now they were being told they'd have to basically live a lie. This group, a considerable number, got up and left.
I figured it would not be too difficult for me personally to keep my job a secret from other people, because my present job is already a mystery to most people. ("You're a book editor, huh? So you, like, add commas to books and stuff?" Yes, I have an advanced degree in Comma Apportionment and Rearrangement.)
So I stayed.
To those of us who remained, it was revealed that the specific unit of the FBI that needed agents was the "underwater division." The speaker, a woman, proceeded to show us a movie about the type of underwater investigating we would be doing, if we were accepted. I couldn't help but notice that the quality of the water shown in the movie, in which various "agents" were swimming and diving, was questionable, and did not look at all inviting. I admit, however, that the murkiness provided excellent cover for whatever the agents were supposed to be doing in it.
I decided, with some regret -- I really liked that Victorian house -- that the underwater division was not for me. Others must have also been turned off by the waterpart, because shortly after the movie the entire meeting broke up, even though she hadn't gotten to the part about compensation yet. Possibly they would have paid us in popcorn.
At some point before the end of the presentation Joe joined me, and when it was over we walked outside with everyone else. Very quickly everyone else disappeared, while we were left with the realization that we had no idea where we were, or how to get home. Clearly no one from the bureau was going to come to our assistance. Was this part of the test to see if you would make a good agent? We whipped out our cell phones to use the GPS, and --
I woke up.
Somewhere, outside an FBI building/Victorian home/popcorn store, we are still frantically trying to find our way home via GPS. If we ever did have to cover up what we did for a living, we'd have no trouble convincing others that we weren't FBI agents.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Where have all the stink bugs gone?
Recently, the news -- which usually leans distinctly toward the negative -- reported a very positive development in the natural world: a dramatic drop in the stink bug population in Maryland last fall. After extensive theorizing and research, stink bug scientists have come up with a very scientific explanation: "We don't know what happened to them."
But some experts speculate that, since the decline was noticed after a series of hurricanes and storms, perhaps the bugs drowned. With all due respect to these scientists, I think it's pretty clear that this is not the case. The stink bugs are not dead, they've just relocated. And it's pretty clear where they've relocated.
Our house.
We certainly did not notice a drop in their population last fall. If anything they increased, until colder weather came in and they retreated to the walls of our house. With the warm winter, they have ceased to be interested in remaining there and have been making occasional forays through the house, walking around on the kitchen ceiling, curtains, sinks, etc., occasionally stopping to ask, "Hey, ya got anything to eat around here?"
We put off getting our Christmas tree down from the attic because we were afraid stink bugs would come out, too. And then we postponed putting the tree back in the attic for the same reason. We even considered just getting a new, artificial tree every year. Maybe donate them after Christmas each year. Anything to keep from disturbing potential attic-dwellers.
But as far as scientists are concerned, so many stink bugs have disappeared that their future is unclear: "We'll have to see what the numbers are like when they come out in the spring."
"Hey, honey," I called to the Hero. "Did you know there aren't any stink bugs around until the spring?"
He offered to round some of ours up and ship them off to the scientists, with helpful little tags on them: "Camille, January 16, 7:03 a.m., laundry room." "Ronnie, February 2, 2012, 8:34 p.m., bathroom light bulb."
This would force scientists to come up with a new theory for the bugs' "disappearance." They would probably conclude that our home is the winter resort of choice -- the Florida -- for stink bugs.
None of the scientists would say what I personally wish to hear, namely, that the stink bugs have PERMANENTLY disappeared and will never come back again, or that they have decided to hightail it back to China and stay there, or that they have been kidnapped by UFOs.
The aliens would surely give them back.
But some experts speculate that, since the decline was noticed after a series of hurricanes and storms, perhaps the bugs drowned. With all due respect to these scientists, I think it's pretty clear that this is not the case. The stink bugs are not dead, they've just relocated. And it's pretty clear where they've relocated.
Our house.
We certainly did not notice a drop in their population last fall. If anything they increased, until colder weather came in and they retreated to the walls of our house. With the warm winter, they have ceased to be interested in remaining there and have been making occasional forays through the house, walking around on the kitchen ceiling, curtains, sinks, etc., occasionally stopping to ask, "Hey, ya got anything to eat around here?"
We put off getting our Christmas tree down from the attic because we were afraid stink bugs would come out, too. And then we postponed putting the tree back in the attic for the same reason. We even considered just getting a new, artificial tree every year. Maybe donate them after Christmas each year. Anything to keep from disturbing potential attic-dwellers.
But as far as scientists are concerned, so many stink bugs have disappeared that their future is unclear: "We'll have to see what the numbers are like when they come out in the spring."
"Hey, honey," I called to the Hero. "Did you know there aren't any stink bugs around until the spring?"
He offered to round some of ours up and ship them off to the scientists, with helpful little tags on them: "Camille, January 16, 7:03 a.m., laundry room." "Ronnie, February 2, 2012, 8:34 p.m., bathroom light bulb."
This would force scientists to come up with a new theory for the bugs' "disappearance." They would probably conclude that our home is the winter resort of choice -- the Florida -- for stink bugs.
None of the scientists would say what I personally wish to hear, namely, that the stink bugs have PERMANENTLY disappeared and will never come back again, or that they have decided to hightail it back to China and stay there, or that they have been kidnapped by UFOs.
The aliens would surely give them back.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Have earplugs, will work
As if I need any help in being distracted at work, a variety of machines have been conspiring against me to make SURE that any actual work accomplished is minimal. Located right outside my office, for instance, is the World's Loudest Printer. It emits a large number of squeaks, groans, coughs, and other noises that defy description, none of which is below 200 decibels. These noises can occur even when the printer is not actively attempting to print anything. Suspicious types might believe that the printer is communicating with the mother ship somewhere.
I don't know about a mother ship, but I do suspect the printer of secretly communicating with the construction workers outside my office window. The construction work produces its own preponderance of loud noises, which are capable of not only destroying eardrums but also rearranging various internal organs. I am sure that my kidneys have changed places with my lungs.
Sometimes loud, continual beeping emits from both the printer and the construction site at the same time. The printer is out of paper, a truck is backing up. Unfortunately the printer and the truck do not beep at the same pitch. If I appear frazzled to anyone during these times, I am sure they will understand the difficulty of NOT appearing frazzled when caught between beeping in B flat, and beeping in A natural.
The printer has been serviced many times, which only seems to increase its capacity for producing loud, guttural noises. It also increases the likelihood that something else will go wrong with it. At one point it refused to print in blue ink. Soon after being serviced for that, a taped sign appeared on the printer advising users thus: "To print in any color, go to 3rd floor."
I am sure that Benjamin Franklin, were he making observations about the habits and moral characteristics of his fellow man, would say something wise about this situation. Like, "She who endures cacophony outside herself will learn to delight in inward silence." Although that may have been the advice of a recent fortune cookie I opened.
There is not much hope of either source of noise ending anytime soon. The printer cannot be moved. The building is far from being finished. Besides, something else would just take their place. So I have made my peace at least with the printer. But it is an uneasy peace. Someday, my co-workers may find a sign taped to my door: "To work in quiet, went to 3rd floor."
I don't know about a mother ship, but I do suspect the printer of secretly communicating with the construction workers outside my office window. The construction work produces its own preponderance of loud noises, which are capable of not only destroying eardrums but also rearranging various internal organs. I am sure that my kidneys have changed places with my lungs.
Sometimes loud, continual beeping emits from both the printer and the construction site at the same time. The printer is out of paper, a truck is backing up. Unfortunately the printer and the truck do not beep at the same pitch. If I appear frazzled to anyone during these times, I am sure they will understand the difficulty of NOT appearing frazzled when caught between beeping in B flat, and beeping in A natural.
The printer has been serviced many times, which only seems to increase its capacity for producing loud, guttural noises. It also increases the likelihood that something else will go wrong with it. At one point it refused to print in blue ink. Soon after being serviced for that, a taped sign appeared on the printer advising users thus: "To print in any color, go to 3rd floor."
I am sure that Benjamin Franklin, were he making observations about the habits and moral characteristics of his fellow man, would say something wise about this situation. Like, "She who endures cacophony outside herself will learn to delight in inward silence." Although that may have been the advice of a recent fortune cookie I opened.
There is not much hope of either source of noise ending anytime soon. The printer cannot be moved. The building is far from being finished. Besides, something else would just take their place. So I have made my peace at least with the printer. But it is an uneasy peace. Someday, my co-workers may find a sign taped to my door: "To work in quiet, went to 3rd floor."
Monday, February 6, 2012
Creative workouts
The Hero and I, along with hundreds of other slackers, have made our annual New Year's trek to pay homage to the workout machines at our local Y. We are proud to say that we have made it there two weeks in a row. Plus, we have actually used a piece of equipment or two while there. For example, I personally have pumped the handwashing soap dispenser, in an energetic manner, several times during my two visits.
My arm hurt for a few days, but I have vowed not to give up.
The computerized tracking system keeps track of how much weight we lift while on the machines. If we are lifting the weights too fast, the system flashes a warning: Try to slow down! This is because controlled lifting is the key to actually working your muscles, and also because the persons who design the tracking system are masochists. They WANT you to feel pain.
What some of us need is to have the system sense that we are lifting the weights too slowly. In such a case it would go into snooze mode, and eventually emit snoring sounds loud enough for those around us to hear. Theoretically this would shame us into putting a little more effort into our workouts, or failing that, to go work out with the handwashing dispenser some more.
The Hero, having lifted some 2,000 pounds on various machines over our two visits, looks forward to receiving an email congratulating him on lifting .14 of an elephant. I think I can look forward to an email congratulating me on lifting an entire giant puffball mushroom.
In the event that I miss a time or two at the Y -- which, given our history there, is more than likely -- I have a backup exercise routine designed by Old Man Winter. This routine occurs on mornings when it is below freezing and there has been some precipitation, and all the frozen precipitation gathers itself together in the door lock mechanism on my car. This renders the locks inoperable, and they will NOT unlock, even though they make little token noises of doing so when the remote is pressed. The key is equally powerless to make them open. Here begins the exercise routine, which goes something like this:
1. In between frantic pressing of the remote, as you hear the locks making noise and taunting you, try to open the door handle. This will be fruitless, but is an important step.*
*We're not sure WHY, other than that people in desperate situations are probably destined to try useless solutions.
2. Run around to the other side of the car and repeat Step 1 with another door, even though you know this, too, will be in vain.
3. Carefully survey the surrounding area to make sure no one is about to witness your next move.
4. If you observe no one, unlock the hatchback with the remote -- which, thankfully, never seems to be affected by the weather -- open both the lower and upper doors, and, with one additional glance around, crawl inside the back of the car.
5. Crawl over the back seat, in your nice work outfit, with your bag, your lunch, your purse, etc. Dump all the belongings in the front seat. From the back seat, put the key in the ignition and start the car, remembering to put the defrost on full blast.
6. Grab the ice scraper, back out of the rear of the car, and run around all four sides of the car to scrape the windows. (If this is starting to sound somewhat similar to a Chinese fire drill, it sort of is similar.)
7. Crawl back inside the rear of the car and close both doors of the hatch behind you. Make your way over the back seat, then over the front seat and into the driver's seat.
8. Drive off, congratulating yourself on not only outwitting your frozen locks but also burning 263 calories in the process.
9. Suddenly realize that, since the door locks are frozen, and the hatch cannot be opened from the inside of the car, you are now effectively trapped in the car.
At this point it's important to not panic. Remember that you have shown great ingenuity in getting the car going thus far, so there is only one thing left for such an ingenious person as you to do:
10. YELL FOR YOUR MOM.
My arm hurt for a few days, but I have vowed not to give up.
The computerized tracking system keeps track of how much weight we lift while on the machines. If we are lifting the weights too fast, the system flashes a warning: Try to slow down! This is because controlled lifting is the key to actually working your muscles, and also because the persons who design the tracking system are masochists. They WANT you to feel pain.
What some of us need is to have the system sense that we are lifting the weights too slowly. In such a case it would go into snooze mode, and eventually emit snoring sounds loud enough for those around us to hear. Theoretically this would shame us into putting a little more effort into our workouts, or failing that, to go work out with the handwashing dispenser some more.
The Hero, having lifted some 2,000 pounds on various machines over our two visits, looks forward to receiving an email congratulating him on lifting .14 of an elephant. I think I can look forward to an email congratulating me on lifting an entire giant puffball mushroom.
In the event that I miss a time or two at the Y -- which, given our history there, is more than likely -- I have a backup exercise routine designed by Old Man Winter. This routine occurs on mornings when it is below freezing and there has been some precipitation, and all the frozen precipitation gathers itself together in the door lock mechanism on my car. This renders the locks inoperable, and they will NOT unlock, even though they make little token noises of doing so when the remote is pressed. The key is equally powerless to make them open. Here begins the exercise routine, which goes something like this:
1. In between frantic pressing of the remote, as you hear the locks making noise and taunting you, try to open the door handle. This will be fruitless, but is an important step.*
*We're not sure WHY, other than that people in desperate situations are probably destined to try useless solutions.
2. Run around to the other side of the car and repeat Step 1 with another door, even though you know this, too, will be in vain.
3. Carefully survey the surrounding area to make sure no one is about to witness your next move.
4. If you observe no one, unlock the hatchback with the remote -- which, thankfully, never seems to be affected by the weather -- open both the lower and upper doors, and, with one additional glance around, crawl inside the back of the car.
5. Crawl over the back seat, in your nice work outfit, with your bag, your lunch, your purse, etc. Dump all the belongings in the front seat. From the back seat, put the key in the ignition and start the car, remembering to put the defrost on full blast.
6. Grab the ice scraper, back out of the rear of the car, and run around all four sides of the car to scrape the windows. (If this is starting to sound somewhat similar to a Chinese fire drill, it sort of is similar.)
7. Crawl back inside the rear of the car and close both doors of the hatch behind you. Make your way over the back seat, then over the front seat and into the driver's seat.
8. Drive off, congratulating yourself on not only outwitting your frozen locks but also burning 263 calories in the process.
9. Suddenly realize that, since the door locks are frozen, and the hatch cannot be opened from the inside of the car, you are now effectively trapped in the car.
At this point it's important to not panic. Remember that you have shown great ingenuity in getting the car going thus far, so there is only one thing left for such an ingenious person as you to do:
10. YELL FOR YOUR MOM.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Twist, squeeze, and shout
I think it's safe to say that the front door of our house has been taken off and on its hinges more often than the average door, because the doorway is too narrow to accommodate anything wider than a medium-sized person carrying Barbie.
This dismays people who come to the house to deliver a large item, like the refrigerator we recently purchased. They look at the door, get out their measuring tape, shake their head, and start what has become a familiar routine:
"Ma'am..." they begin.
"I know," I say. "It's not gonna fit."
"No, ma'am," they say, with obvious relief that I am not placing any blame on them personally. "We're gonna have to take the door off."
"No problem," I say, and go back to whatever I had been doing.
The door comes off, the delivery people make several attempts to squeeze the item -- couch, refrigerator, large SUV -- inside, and the spokesman addresses me again.
"Uh, ma'am...we'll also have to remove this weatherstripping around the doorway."
"Fine," I say, barely looking up from what I am doing.
The interruptions sometimes continue indefinitely.
"Ma'am, I think we could just about make it if the refrigerator and freezer were not connected...do you happen to have a chainsaw?"
"Ma'am, it looks like we'll need to make your doorway a little wider...you kept that chainsaw out, didn't you?"
"Uh, Ma'am, how would you feel about having an extra window in the front of the house? A really BIG window?"
"You know, ma'am, we notice that this house down the street has a wider doorway...how about we just take your refrigerator in to your neighbor's, and you can just kind of go over and use it when you need to...What's that?...It would be a little awkward? Well, I suppose it would..."
"Really, ma'am, we don't think it looks too bad having your refrigerator right out here on the sidewalk...why don't you just try it for a few days, see what you think..."
We have never needed to actually leave anything out on the sidewalk, although some of the largest items have had to give up certain expendable parts, like legs. But the issues do not always end there. Sometimes after all the trauma of getting something IN the house, it will not fit in the spot we have designated for it. But usually we are on our own with this, as the service people are long gone to their next delivery -- to some house where Air Force One would fit comfortably through the doorway, were there a need, and come to rest quite easily in the living room, next to Mt. Rushmore.
The delivery people squeezed our new refrigerator into its tight little corner in the kitchen, near an unfortunately situated air duct. Only after their hasty disappearance did we discover that while technically the refrigerator door opens, extracting anything from it occurs on a hypothetical basis only.
But it is no use calling the delivery people back. I know what they'll say.
"Got a chainsaw, Ma'am?"
This dismays people who come to the house to deliver a large item, like the refrigerator we recently purchased. They look at the door, get out their measuring tape, shake their head, and start what has become a familiar routine:
"Ma'am..." they begin.
"I know," I say. "It's not gonna fit."
"No, ma'am," they say, with obvious relief that I am not placing any blame on them personally. "We're gonna have to take the door off."
"No problem," I say, and go back to whatever I had been doing.
The door comes off, the delivery people make several attempts to squeeze the item -- couch, refrigerator, large SUV -- inside, and the spokesman addresses me again.
"Uh, ma'am...we'll also have to remove this weatherstripping around the doorway."
"Fine," I say, barely looking up from what I am doing.
The interruptions sometimes continue indefinitely.
"Ma'am, I think we could just about make it if the refrigerator and freezer were not connected...do you happen to have a chainsaw?"
"Ma'am, it looks like we'll need to make your doorway a little wider...you kept that chainsaw out, didn't you?"
"Uh, Ma'am, how would you feel about having an extra window in the front of the house? A really BIG window?"
"You know, ma'am, we notice that this house down the street has a wider doorway...how about we just take your refrigerator in to your neighbor's, and you can just kind of go over and use it when you need to...What's that?...It would be a little awkward? Well, I suppose it would..."
"Really, ma'am, we don't think it looks too bad having your refrigerator right out here on the sidewalk...why don't you just try it for a few days, see what you think..."
We have never needed to actually leave anything out on the sidewalk, although some of the largest items have had to give up certain expendable parts, like legs. But the issues do not always end there. Sometimes after all the trauma of getting something IN the house, it will not fit in the spot we have designated for it. But usually we are on our own with this, as the service people are long gone to their next delivery -- to some house where Air Force One would fit comfortably through the doorway, were there a need, and come to rest quite easily in the living room, next to Mt. Rushmore.
The delivery people squeezed our new refrigerator into its tight little corner in the kitchen, near an unfortunately situated air duct. Only after their hasty disappearance did we discover that while technically the refrigerator door opens, extracting anything from it occurs on a hypothetical basis only.
But it is no use calling the delivery people back. I know what they'll say.
"Got a chainsaw, Ma'am?"
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