It is that time of year again, when the air is crisp, leaves crunch underfoot, and we commence our annual search for the perfect pumpkin. Following this, we begin our annual fight with the local squirrels, who believe pumpkins are theirs by divine right.
There are approximately a kajillion and a half pumpkins at each pumpkin patch, farm, or store we see. These places should be squirrel meccas. Yet we have never seen a bite taken out of any of these pumpkins. The day we bring our lone pumpkin home, however, the squirrels are waiting. It's like they have a Pumpkin Watch set up, manned by junior squirrels who raise the alarm: "Hey, it's here!" And like many tribes in the human world, the juniors watch, longingly, as the more mature of the bunch go off to attack and enjoy the spoils. "Next time," they tell the young buck squirrels, eager for action.
While we were searching for this year's squirrel target at a farm, a young girl stood next to me, solemnly looking at all the pumpkins in the large bin. She made occasional commentary on the ones I picked up, chiefly variations on "Hmmm." Clearly she was looking for a very specific pumpkin. Finally I asked her what kind she was searching for.
"I'm looking for the one with NO dirt on it," she announced solemnly.
It was a secret wish of mine, too, but of course it doesn't matter whether one's pumpkin is dirty. Because the squirrels are going to eat it anyway.
The Hero is hoping not to repeat his rather scary experience from a recent Halloween. He was handing out candy and noticed a young girl in a rather odd, homemade costume that looked like -- but no, it couldn't be --
"Is she a stink bug?" he said to the father.
His tone, I am sure, suggested that he thought the situation might warrant a call to protective services. But the father, oblivious, proudly indicated that yes, his sweet daughter WAS impersonating one of the most vile members of the insect world -- the Hero's personal nemesis.
The Hero can only hope that this year, or some Halloween in the near future, some youngster, armed and dressed as the Mortal Enemy of Stink Bugs, will show up to take care of this menace once and for all. And THAT child will have all the candy he -- or she -- will ever want.
Maybe we'll throw in a dirt-free pumpkin, too.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Tour de White House
The White House, which relatives and I toured recently, is one of the few residences of a head of state in the world that is open to the public. This is thanks to our wise founding fathers, who foresaw that the American people would yearn to walk in the hallowed rooms of their leaders, behold with their own eyes the fascinating china patterns of successive administrations, jump fences and crash internationals galas, etc. They therefore set aside rooms in the White House whose only function is for public gawking.
This provision can be found in Federal Document #932A: Public Access to Executive Residence (or at Least Part of It), which states that "A percentage of Rooms in the Executive Residence, to be named forthwith, shall be preserved solely for Public Viewing; they shall have no Bearing on actual Governmental Function nor on the President's day-to-day Business. Neither the President nor his Cabinet Members, nor Members of Congress, nor any visiting Dignitary, shall ever set Foot in any of these Rooms, unless doing so as a Member of the General Public. Nor shall any Member of the President's Family do so, unless in an Emergency in order to retrieve, for example, the Presidential Dog."
On any given day, there are throngs of people from the general public lined up to view these rooms, which include the Green Room, Blue Room, Red Room, Purple Room, Striped Room, Polka-Dot Room, the Multipurpose Room, the Multitasking Multipurpose Room, the Room Decorated by the Cat in Residence, etc. You can tell that these rooms have no actual governmental function because during tours they are staffed by "Secret Service" persons, who are obviously not true Secret Service because they do not wear dark glasses. They ARE, however, equipped with little earpieces, from which they receive top-secret governmental information, such as "bottom of the ninth, two outs, and Fernandez is up..."
Before entering these rooms, visitors are led along a corridor featuring photos of various presidents through the years. These photos also prominently feature presidential pets, who are often remembered fondly by visitors, even when their owners are somewhat difficult to remember. "Look, here's Him and Her! They were such cute beagles. Let's see, who was president then...Nixon? Ford?" "No, no, I'm sure it was earlier -- it was...him and..her..."
Some visitors are lucky enough to get a glimpse, as we did, of important members of the First Family during their tour. In our case it was the presidential dogs, Bo and Sunny, who made an appearance, albeit brief. The dogs were gracious but did not, following years of protocol, offer autographs.
The "Secret Service" people are full of interesting tidbits of information, such as that the room heavily decorated in green tones is known as the Green Room, or that the many pieces of furniture with eagles on them are from Teddy Roosevelt's era. ("He liked eagles," the Secret Service man offered. They certainly know their stuff, those Secret Service people.)
You will also learn, as a visitor, the number of rooms in the house (132), the number of fireplaces (28), and most important, the number of bathrooms (35). Visitors, of course, never see ANY bathrooms, they having not yet been invented when the idea for the Visitor Wing was conceived.
Despite this shortcoming, the tour is very informative and not to be missed. Of course, you could see much the same things on a virtual tour of the White House online. Maybe even a bathroom.
This provision can be found in Federal Document #932A: Public Access to Executive Residence (or at Least Part of It), which states that "A percentage of Rooms in the Executive Residence, to be named forthwith, shall be preserved solely for Public Viewing; they shall have no Bearing on actual Governmental Function nor on the President's day-to-day Business. Neither the President nor his Cabinet Members, nor Members of Congress, nor any visiting Dignitary, shall ever set Foot in any of these Rooms, unless doing so as a Member of the General Public. Nor shall any Member of the President's Family do so, unless in an Emergency in order to retrieve, for example, the Presidential Dog."
On any given day, there are throngs of people from the general public lined up to view these rooms, which include the Green Room, Blue Room, Red Room, Purple Room, Striped Room, Polka-Dot Room, the Multipurpose Room, the Multitasking Multipurpose Room, the Room Decorated by the Cat in Residence, etc. You can tell that these rooms have no actual governmental function because during tours they are staffed by "Secret Service" persons, who are obviously not true Secret Service because they do not wear dark glasses. They ARE, however, equipped with little earpieces, from which they receive top-secret governmental information, such as "bottom of the ninth, two outs, and Fernandez is up..."
Before entering these rooms, visitors are led along a corridor featuring photos of various presidents through the years. These photos also prominently feature presidential pets, who are often remembered fondly by visitors, even when their owners are somewhat difficult to remember. "Look, here's Him and Her! They were such cute beagles. Let's see, who was president then...Nixon? Ford?" "No, no, I'm sure it was earlier -- it was...him and..her..."
Some visitors are lucky enough to get a glimpse, as we did, of important members of the First Family during their tour. In our case it was the presidential dogs, Bo and Sunny, who made an appearance, albeit brief. The dogs were gracious but did not, following years of protocol, offer autographs.
The "Secret Service" people are full of interesting tidbits of information, such as that the room heavily decorated in green tones is known as the Green Room, or that the many pieces of furniture with eagles on them are from Teddy Roosevelt's era. ("He liked eagles," the Secret Service man offered. They certainly know their stuff, those Secret Service people.)
You will also learn, as a visitor, the number of rooms in the house (132), the number of fireplaces (28), and most important, the number of bathrooms (35). Visitors, of course, never see ANY bathrooms, they having not yet been invented when the idea for the Visitor Wing was conceived.
Despite this shortcoming, the tour is very informative and not to be missed. Of course, you could see much the same things on a virtual tour of the White House online. Maybe even a bathroom.
Monday, October 6, 2014
Frisbee as a contact sport
Many relationship experts recommend that couples participate in various leisure activities, even sports, together. The Hero and I try to do this, although perhaps Rearranging Cars in the Parking Lot is not quite the sort of bonding activity the relationship experts have in mind.
Following a few incidences this summer, the Hero has put more of a premium on activities that are safe. Safe for HIM. Safe for him from ME. There was, for instance, the incident of the guillotine Frisbee. To say that I am not very good at Frisbee golf would be to insult giant tortoises everywhere, who would surely be better at it than I. Anyone observing my strategy would conclude that it is this:
1. Locate basket into which Frisbee is intended to land.
2. Do several warm-up swings to get comfortable with the force needed and proper direction.
3. Throw Frisbee in any direction but where the basket is located.
4. Retrieve Frisbee from bushes, swamp, or clump of poison ivy where it has landed.
5. Repeat steps 1-4 until Frisbee has successfully landed in basket or Frisbee partner gives up and heads for home, whichever comes first.
The Hero is very good-natured about this process, even when his patient attempts to help me improve meet with very little success. He has learned to set modest goals for me ("The basket's about 100 yards that way, but aim for that patch of grass two feet away"), and to praise me for small successes ("It hit the rock instead of going into the stream! Great!").
But neither of us was prepared for just how dangerous I could be, until on one hole I aimed straight uphill, gave the Frisbee a mighty heave, and sent it rocketing 180 degrees to my right. It just missed the Hero's head.
A few weeks earlier, my Frisbee had headed right for a friend's leg, striking it rather violently, although it did not cause any major damage. Given that incident, and now the Hero's near limb malfunction, probably my Frisbee privileges should have been revoked on the spot. But after a few words of understanding from the equanimous Hero ("Never do that again"), we decided that perhaps it would be prudent to leave the course while we still had all our limbs intact and did not require advanced medical care. And while we could still remember how to get back to our car, as the designers of this course seemed to have done their best to make directionally challenged people even more directionally challenged.
We enthusiastically told some friends -- one of whom suffered that ill-advised Frisbee blow of mine to her leg -- about this new course that we'd found, and suggested we all go sometime. They were equally enthusiastic. Maybe this time, in the interest of public safety, I'll just throw my Frisbee in a thick patch of briars and leave it there. Better yet, I'll AIM for the thick patch of briars, and maybe it will actually go toward the basket.
Following a few incidences this summer, the Hero has put more of a premium on activities that are safe. Safe for HIM. Safe for him from ME. There was, for instance, the incident of the guillotine Frisbee. To say that I am not very good at Frisbee golf would be to insult giant tortoises everywhere, who would surely be better at it than I. Anyone observing my strategy would conclude that it is this:
1. Locate basket into which Frisbee is intended to land.
2. Do several warm-up swings to get comfortable with the force needed and proper direction.
3. Throw Frisbee in any direction but where the basket is located.
4. Retrieve Frisbee from bushes, swamp, or clump of poison ivy where it has landed.
5. Repeat steps 1-4 until Frisbee has successfully landed in basket or Frisbee partner gives up and heads for home, whichever comes first.
The Hero is very good-natured about this process, even when his patient attempts to help me improve meet with very little success. He has learned to set modest goals for me ("The basket's about 100 yards that way, but aim for that patch of grass two feet away"), and to praise me for small successes ("It hit the rock instead of going into the stream! Great!").
But neither of us was prepared for just how dangerous I could be, until on one hole I aimed straight uphill, gave the Frisbee a mighty heave, and sent it rocketing 180 degrees to my right. It just missed the Hero's head.
A few weeks earlier, my Frisbee had headed right for a friend's leg, striking it rather violently, although it did not cause any major damage. Given that incident, and now the Hero's near limb malfunction, probably my Frisbee privileges should have been revoked on the spot. But after a few words of understanding from the equanimous Hero ("Never do that again"), we decided that perhaps it would be prudent to leave the course while we still had all our limbs intact and did not require advanced medical care. And while we could still remember how to get back to our car, as the designers of this course seemed to have done their best to make directionally challenged people even more directionally challenged.
We enthusiastically told some friends -- one of whom suffered that ill-advised Frisbee blow of mine to her leg -- about this new course that we'd found, and suggested we all go sometime. They were equally enthusiastic. Maybe this time, in the interest of public safety, I'll just throw my Frisbee in a thick patch of briars and leave it there. Better yet, I'll AIM for the thick patch of briars, and maybe it will actually go toward the basket.
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