Downsizing in the workplace has left many companies shorthanded, and we are no exception. Some time ago, for instance, we lost our Designated Bug Killer, on whom we depended greatly to rid our office of detestable creatures, some of which are almost big enough to be seen with the naked eye. Although this employee left of her own free will -- after signing a statement saying that she would never reveal her bug-killing methods to any rival workplace -- the decision to not replace her has put a great strain on the rest of us. Not only do we struggle to maintain our own crushing workloads, we must now also determine who will destroy the assorted bugs in our building, of which there are many.
Wasps in particular seem to be extremely fond of our office. They come in droves, a drove being defined as: two. Recently one invaded my workspace. After a time of cruising around the cubicle and checking out the books on my shelf -- The Chicago Manual of Style; Words into Type; Useless Grammar Facts that Everyone Except Editors Has Long Ceased to Care About, If Anyone Ever Did -- the wasp finally settled on the American Heritage Dictionary (4th edition).
"Well, he seems to be a literary wasp," someone commented.
We stared at the wasp a while, waiting for it to become bored with "gruesome: causing horror and repugnance; frightful and shocking; see 'large wasps' " and fly off to another part of the office. But it refused to oblige us.
Another co-worked finally offered her services in the Case of the Literate Wasp, declaring that she had a vendetta against wasps since being stung the weekend before at a picnic. If there is a killing job to be done, it is always helpful to secure the services of someone with a vendetta, as the individual is highly motivated to get the job done, and will not merely stand around dithering about it, as the rest of us are wont to do.
As we were discussing the technical difficulties of trapping the wasp in the folds of the dictionary, the vendetta-filled co-worker, armed with only a Kleenex, snuck up on the wasp and neatly transported it from the American Heritage Dictionary (4th edition) to wherever it is wasps go when they are no longer alive. Although we were very grateful, it did seem a shame that such a literate wasp had to be punished for the transgressions of what sounded to be a simple outdoor picnic wasp, who probably had had no opportunity to attain any higher education or read books, much less the American Heritage Dictionary (4th edition), and was just doing what comes naturally to wasps.
Should the economy pick up, and we find ourselves hiring new employees, I propose that we interview them regarding their personal feelings about bugs: Do you have any personal vendettas against bugs? If so, what kind of bugs? Please explain the nature and origin of this vendetta. Would you be willing and able to use this vendetta for the good of the company, and of your fellow co-workers?
With a full-time Designated Bug Killer aboard, the rest of us could rest easily again and attend to our very busy work schedules, including what to order on our pizza.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
O Pioneer!
The uncovering of our 170-year-old fireplace has set off a wave of nostalgia for the good old days. The fact that neither of us is old enough to remember those days has not deterred us. Once we restore the fireplace, we figure, we can add a quaint wood stove. A rug for the hearth. A Windsor rocking chair.
But the call of the quaint and primitive has not stopped there. Slowly a plan is forming in Joe's head, a plan by which we renounce the evils of modern comforts, such as electric lighting and gas heat, and return to the ways of our forefathers. We could, he proposes, use the wood-burning stove to heat the whole house.
"If gas prices shoot up," he said, "we'd be all prepared."
His fondness for candlelight may, I fear, turn into a resolve to eschew the wonders of electricity and use only candles (Birthday Cake Vanilla, with sprinkles) to light our home.
"But this is what our forefathers struggled for," I protested. "They fought and bled and died so we could have a better life -- a life with electricity and toasty warm furnaces.
"If we turn our back on all of this," I said, "their sacrifice will have been in vain."
He appeared unmoved by our forefathers' brave sacrifices.
I fear the direction this is headed. Wood-burning stove. Candles. Can an outhouse be far behind?
But the call of the quaint and primitive has not stopped there. Slowly a plan is forming in Joe's head, a plan by which we renounce the evils of modern comforts, such as electric lighting and gas heat, and return to the ways of our forefathers. We could, he proposes, use the wood-burning stove to heat the whole house.
"If gas prices shoot up," he said, "we'd be all prepared."
His fondness for candlelight may, I fear, turn into a resolve to eschew the wonders of electricity and use only candles (Birthday Cake Vanilla, with sprinkles) to light our home.
"But this is what our forefathers struggled for," I protested. "They fought and bled and died so we could have a better life -- a life with electricity and toasty warm furnaces.
"If we turn our back on all of this," I said, "their sacrifice will have been in vain."
He appeared unmoved by our forefathers' brave sacrifices.
I fear the direction this is headed. Wood-burning stove. Candles. Can an outhouse be far behind?
Thursday, August 27, 2009
How the other half lives
For the past couple of years my parents have been taking turns playing a game, a game called "Let's Go to the Emergency Room and Throw Our Adult Children into a Fit of Anxiety."
This time, it was my father's turn to play the game. A week in the hospital, a few days in rehab.
"How are things going?" I asked.
Asking this question is risky, because although you do want to know how they are doing, you are really hoping to receive the Preferred Answer ("This place is great! Everyone is so nice. There's always so much going on. I never had better food in my life. My roommate has become my best friend. I don't want to go home"). But you never receive the Preferred Answer, although my mother does tend to praise the food in these establishments, mainly because she did not have to cook it.
"No one wants to help me," my father reported. "I have to do everything myself."
"I'm sure the staff is really busy," I said.
He scoffed at this. "Nah, I don't see how they can be," he said. If they are not busy helping him, they are not busy.
"You're in rehab, Dad, not a five-star hotel. They want you to do things for yourself so you can get better and go home."
He grunted, refusing to believe that the staff might have his best interests at heart.
He lowered his voice, although most everyone around him is hard of hearing. "I saw where the rich people live," he said conspiratorially.
"The rich people?"
"Yeah, in the assisted living wing. The rooms there are like mansions! Not closets like we have here. Plus I can tell they're rich because of the wheelchairs."
"The wheelchairs?" I said.
"Yeah. Their wheelchairs are Cadillacs," he said. "People over where I am just have your basic Chevy."
I pictured my father in his basic Chevy wheelchair, spying on the rich residents in assisted living with their Cadillacs and mansions.
"I bet they have the same food," I said, trying to think of something positive.
"Ha!" he said. "They probably get it catered from somewhere."
He was supposed to be there for a few weeks, but they said he was "independent" now and could go home. My father wanted to know what was for dinner once he got home.
"You're independent now," my mother said. "You can get the dinner."
Maybe the rehab place wasn't so bad after all. Even if he just had a Chevy wheelchair.
This time, it was my father's turn to play the game. A week in the hospital, a few days in rehab.
"How are things going?" I asked.
Asking this question is risky, because although you do want to know how they are doing, you are really hoping to receive the Preferred Answer ("This place is great! Everyone is so nice. There's always so much going on. I never had better food in my life. My roommate has become my best friend. I don't want to go home"). But you never receive the Preferred Answer, although my mother does tend to praise the food in these establishments, mainly because she did not have to cook it.
"No one wants to help me," my father reported. "I have to do everything myself."
"I'm sure the staff is really busy," I said.
He scoffed at this. "Nah, I don't see how they can be," he said. If they are not busy helping him, they are not busy.
"You're in rehab, Dad, not a five-star hotel. They want you to do things for yourself so you can get better and go home."
He grunted, refusing to believe that the staff might have his best interests at heart.
He lowered his voice, although most everyone around him is hard of hearing. "I saw where the rich people live," he said conspiratorially.
"The rich people?"
"Yeah, in the assisted living wing. The rooms there are like mansions! Not closets like we have here. Plus I can tell they're rich because of the wheelchairs."
"The wheelchairs?" I said.
"Yeah. Their wheelchairs are Cadillacs," he said. "People over where I am just have your basic Chevy."
I pictured my father in his basic Chevy wheelchair, spying on the rich residents in assisted living with their Cadillacs and mansions.
"I bet they have the same food," I said, trying to think of something positive.
"Ha!" he said. "They probably get it catered from somewhere."
He was supposed to be there for a few weeks, but they said he was "independent" now and could go home. My father wanted to know what was for dinner once he got home.
"You're independent now," my mother said. "You can get the dinner."
Maybe the rehab place wasn't so bad after all. Even if he just had a Chevy wheelchair.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Please have a rice cake
With our move at work a few months ago with a small portion of the staff, there has been a significant drop-off in the number of treats brought in by co-workers for general consumption. In the main building, where most employees remain -- no doubt heartsick over our departure -- such items appear regularly in the eating area, and are not restricted to morning hours. If a particular snack disappears early in the day, something else mysteriously arrives later to take its place, as if depriving the workforce of treats for even a few hours might cause a an enraged rampage, like wild animals bereft of their prey.
In the new building, although we certainly talk about food a great deal, not much has been forthcoming in the way of treats mysteriously appearing in the kitchen. When someone does bring something in, we have been forced, by the fear of certain parties hostile to heavily caloric treats, to take elaborate measures to hide them.
Recently, for instance, it was proposed that donuts be brought in. It was felt that the donuts should be restricted to our own department, so as to avoid any censure by these certain hostile parties, and consequently a hiding place was chosen for the donuts, known only to those who are friendly to heavily caloric foods. This elaborate ruse in no way had anything to do with our unwillingness to share our bounty, although certainly we were happy to have more donuts to ourselves.
It was further suggested that, to avoid any chance of our donuts becoming discovered -- and perhaps confiscated, in the name of "health" -- by hostile parties, we should devise a code word to use when referring to them. After some discussion, it was felt that "rice cakes" would be an adequate substitution, and could be used thus in conversation:
"The rice cakes are here."
"Can I get you a rice cake?"
"Do you need some help finishing off those rice cakes?"
"Mmmm, delicious rice cakes!"
This way, if any parties hostile to donuts were to overhear us, they would experience a measure of satisfaction that finally, to all appearances at least, we were heeding the words of wisdom and learning to eat sensibly, and they would forgo chastising us for our unhealthy lifestyle choices.
This plan worked beautifully, with none the wiser at our deception, and the rice cakes were thoroughly enjoyed by all. At least all who knew of their existence.
But only a few short days later a most decadent birthday cake was brought in for one employee, and all pretense at hiding it was abandoned. We freely displayed, devoured, and sang the praises of this cake, with no reference to rice cakes or anything else remotely healthy. And as the birthday person was turning an age of which she was not proud, and insisted that she did not wish us to sing "Happy Birthday" because it was NOT a happy birthday, we therefore heartily sang "Adequate Birthday to You" instead, which no doubt cheered her immensely.
And the rest of us are cheered by the thought of, sometime in the future, more rice cakes.
In the new building, although we certainly talk about food a great deal, not much has been forthcoming in the way of treats mysteriously appearing in the kitchen. When someone does bring something in, we have been forced, by the fear of certain parties hostile to heavily caloric treats, to take elaborate measures to hide them.
Recently, for instance, it was proposed that donuts be brought in. It was felt that the donuts should be restricted to our own department, so as to avoid any censure by these certain hostile parties, and consequently a hiding place was chosen for the donuts, known only to those who are friendly to heavily caloric foods. This elaborate ruse in no way had anything to do with our unwillingness to share our bounty, although certainly we were happy to have more donuts to ourselves.
It was further suggested that, to avoid any chance of our donuts becoming discovered -- and perhaps confiscated, in the name of "health" -- by hostile parties, we should devise a code word to use when referring to them. After some discussion, it was felt that "rice cakes" would be an adequate substitution, and could be used thus in conversation:
"The rice cakes are here."
"Can I get you a rice cake?"
"Do you need some help finishing off those rice cakes?"
"Mmmm, delicious rice cakes!"
This way, if any parties hostile to donuts were to overhear us, they would experience a measure of satisfaction that finally, to all appearances at least, we were heeding the words of wisdom and learning to eat sensibly, and they would forgo chastising us for our unhealthy lifestyle choices.
This plan worked beautifully, with none the wiser at our deception, and the rice cakes were thoroughly enjoyed by all. At least all who knew of their existence.
But only a few short days later a most decadent birthday cake was brought in for one employee, and all pretense at hiding it was abandoned. We freely displayed, devoured, and sang the praises of this cake, with no reference to rice cakes or anything else remotely healthy. And as the birthday person was turning an age of which she was not proud, and insisted that she did not wish us to sing "Happy Birthday" because it was NOT a happy birthday, we therefore heartily sang "Adequate Birthday to You" instead, which no doubt cheered her immensely.
And the rest of us are cheered by the thought of, sometime in the future, more rice cakes.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Zzzzzzz
KMDKKCHPTKDCH...that is the sound of the Hero's alarm clock going off this morning, which the Princess does not usually hear because she is already awake and writing (hopefully) humorous stories about not much at all, but which she heard today because she did not hear HER alarm one hour earlier. We extend profuse apologies to our faithful readers for the absence of any (hopefully) humorous stories today, and promise to return next week, provided Hurricane Bill does not inflict any damage upon our computer or our person over the weekend.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
It's a bird, it's a plane -- it's spaghetti squash
With Joe on a gluten-free diet, one would think that our culinary experiences have been severely curtailed. But just because we have given up things like oven-warm bread, double-cheese pizza, Awesome Shrimp Pasta, chocolate cupcakes with chocolate chocolate frosting, and double chocolate frosted donuts, doesn't mean we can't enjoy food. At least that is what we keep telling ourselves.
But this opportunity has opened up new worlds to us, worlds we would never have explored had we not been forced to. These worlds contain ingredients we have never heard of, and which cause us to wonder whether they are actually food, or some mystery substances from outer space spun off by a passing comet. These ingredients have names like "spelt" and "garbanzo bean-fava flour."
A trick of GF eating is to substitute these odd types of food for things you are no longer allowed to have. Instead of pasta, for instance, there is: spaghetti squash.
Now, we have not had any pasta for several months. This explains why I was persuaded to buy a spaghetti squash, wanting desperately to believe that it would indeed resemble spaghetti. In actuality it more closely resembles Bert on Sesame Street, only without the striped shirt.
I knew that it would be difficult to generate much enthusiasm from Joe for the "squash is the new spaghetti" idea. Squash is in his category of suspicious foods, especially one that looks like a Sesame Street character. I therefore attempted to conceal my plans from him.
When he asked, more than once, what we were having for dinner, I was vague. "Something new," I told him, which is code for "You're not going to like it, but I'm making it, and you can't do anything about it, so just forget about it."
Unfortunately, it is difficult to disguise a spaghetti squash. And there is nowhere to hide it, except in the oven, and I learned long ago never to hide anything in the oven. If you do, the oven, being an evil-minded creature, will somehow turn itself on without your knowledge, and soon the object sitting inside it will turn to soot. So the spaghetti squash remained on the kitchen counter.
Joe, being an observant sort of person, spied it sitting there in plain sight and immediately wanted to know what I was making with THAT. As if THAT were a plate of eyeballs rolling around.
I explained that I was going to cook THAT, and with any luck it would at least LOOK like spaghetti -- which it did in the cookbook picture, although they probably used actual spaghetti for the photo -- even if it didn't taste exactly the same.
"You're going to kill Bert?" he said.
I ignored this and put Ber-- the squash in the microwave, then scraped out the insides, which with a great amount of imagination did sort of resemble pasta. I put it all in a casserole, with various ingredients that were more familiar to us, which would hopefully make us forget the squash was in there.
Surprisingly, we liked it, and we almost forgot that it wasn't really spaghetti. Almost.
Maybe sometime we'll be brave enough to try garbanzo bean-fava flour.
But this opportunity has opened up new worlds to us, worlds we would never have explored had we not been forced to. These worlds contain ingredients we have never heard of, and which cause us to wonder whether they are actually food, or some mystery substances from outer space spun off by a passing comet. These ingredients have names like "spelt" and "garbanzo bean-fava flour."
A trick of GF eating is to substitute these odd types of food for things you are no longer allowed to have. Instead of pasta, for instance, there is: spaghetti squash.
Now, we have not had any pasta for several months. This explains why I was persuaded to buy a spaghetti squash, wanting desperately to believe that it would indeed resemble spaghetti. In actuality it more closely resembles Bert on Sesame Street, only without the striped shirt.
I knew that it would be difficult to generate much enthusiasm from Joe for the "squash is the new spaghetti" idea. Squash is in his category of suspicious foods, especially one that looks like a Sesame Street character. I therefore attempted to conceal my plans from him.
When he asked, more than once, what we were having for dinner, I was vague. "Something new," I told him, which is code for "You're not going to like it, but I'm making it, and you can't do anything about it, so just forget about it."
Unfortunately, it is difficult to disguise a spaghetti squash. And there is nowhere to hide it, except in the oven, and I learned long ago never to hide anything in the oven. If you do, the oven, being an evil-minded creature, will somehow turn itself on without your knowledge, and soon the object sitting inside it will turn to soot. So the spaghetti squash remained on the kitchen counter.
Joe, being an observant sort of person, spied it sitting there in plain sight and immediately wanted to know what I was making with THAT. As if THAT were a plate of eyeballs rolling around.
I explained that I was going to cook THAT, and with any luck it would at least LOOK like spaghetti -- which it did in the cookbook picture, although they probably used actual spaghetti for the photo -- even if it didn't taste exactly the same.
"You're going to kill Bert?" he said.
I ignored this and put Ber-- the squash in the microwave, then scraped out the insides, which with a great amount of imagination did sort of resemble pasta. I put it all in a casserole, with various ingredients that were more familiar to us, which would hopefully make us forget the squash was in there.
Surprisingly, we liked it, and we almost forgot that it wasn't really spaghetti. Almost.
Maybe sometime we'll be brave enough to try garbanzo bean-fava flour.
Monday, August 17, 2009
What you don't know...
The arrival of our first-ever grown-up couch, as mentioned in the previous blog post, has triggered many memories of past furniture experiences. Memories of my childhood furniture being perpetually covered with sheets. Memories of objects becoming lost in the cushions -- remote controls, Cheez-Its, whole civilizations. And memories of Joe's purple couches.
I myself do not have any memories of Joe's purple couches, which is fortunate. Nor did I possess any knowledge of these purple couches until this time.
"You used to have...purple...couches?" I asked slowly when this was revealed.
"Yeah, they were great! Huge. I could barely get them in the apartment."
"You never told me you had...purple...couches," I said. I tried to assimilate this information, as one tries to reconcile some sudden, unsettling piece of knowledge about a loved one's past, such as that he or she used to rob banks, or owned thirty cats at the same time.
I endeavored to find out more. "What did these...purple...couches look like?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Just purple."
"Well, were they dark purple?" I persisted. "Light purple? Leather? Fabric? Polka-dotted?"
He was vague as to any details, except that they had not contained any polka dots. This was scant comfort to my imagination, which conjured up something out of Solomon's palace, or a fortune-teller's chamber -- beaded and jeweled, elaborate curves, deep purple velvet. Tacky. Gaudy.
I asked what had happened to the purple couches.
"No one wanted them," he said. "I couldn't give them away. I had to haul them to the Dumpster."
They must have been more hideous than even I had imagined.
I looked at this man who had owned not one, but two purple couches -- proudly owned them. How could one not know something of this magnitude about another person? And most important, was he still fond of purple couches? Did he harbor a secret wish to own one again?
He gave assurances that he loved our new couch, which is decidedly un-purple.
Yet I remained uncomfortable with my new knowledge. I wondered what else might be lurking in his past that I did not know about.
"So, did you ever own more than one cat at a time...?"
I myself do not have any memories of Joe's purple couches, which is fortunate. Nor did I possess any knowledge of these purple couches until this time.
"You used to have...purple...couches?" I asked slowly when this was revealed.
"Yeah, they were great! Huge. I could barely get them in the apartment."
"You never told me you had...purple...couches," I said. I tried to assimilate this information, as one tries to reconcile some sudden, unsettling piece of knowledge about a loved one's past, such as that he or she used to rob banks, or owned thirty cats at the same time.
I endeavored to find out more. "What did these...purple...couches look like?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Just purple."
"Well, were they dark purple?" I persisted. "Light purple? Leather? Fabric? Polka-dotted?"
He was vague as to any details, except that they had not contained any polka dots. This was scant comfort to my imagination, which conjured up something out of Solomon's palace, or a fortune-teller's chamber -- beaded and jeweled, elaborate curves, deep purple velvet. Tacky. Gaudy.
I asked what had happened to the purple couches.
"No one wanted them," he said. "I couldn't give them away. I had to haul them to the Dumpster."
They must have been more hideous than even I had imagined.
I looked at this man who had owned not one, but two purple couches -- proudly owned them. How could one not know something of this magnitude about another person? And most important, was he still fond of purple couches? Did he harbor a secret wish to own one again?
He gave assurances that he loved our new couch, which is decidedly un-purple.
Yet I remained uncomfortable with my new knowledge. I wondered what else might be lurking in his past that I did not know about.
"So, did you ever own more than one cat at a time...?"
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