Rethinking the orange

The people who know about such things say that we make, in a single day, gazillions* of decisions. And that's before we get out of bed.

But with most things, we have to decide whether the time and effort we put into something is worth it. Like growing and harvesting your own tiny cherry tomatoes in a container, which entails planting, watering, fertilizing, fretting, moving the container into the sun, moving it out of the sun, chasing away pests, begging the plants to grow, praying for them to grow, threatening to tear them up, vowing to never ever grow anything again. And this is just the first week. Or, you can buy tomatoes from someone else who has done these things, leaving you free to, say, make the decision to stay in bed a little longer each morning.

Or cooking. There is planning, shopping, choosing, chopping, sautéing, turning, burning, scraping off the burnt parts, chasing away bugs, chasing away impatient eaters, seasoning, plating, serving, cleaning up. All that, and then the food is consumed in three minutes flat, if the eaters are in my family.

Or folding your underwear before putting them in the drawer. Or, for some people, even putting them in a drawer. (The Hero is sometimes consumed with inventing a system whereby we just get our clothes from the dryer as we need them, bypassing drawers and hampers and laundry baskets altogether.)

And then there is eating. Some foods are just too much work. A college roommate refused to eat seafood that needed to be shelled first. Of course in college we could rarely afford seafood, so this stand was more of a principle thing. But still.

A colleague and I discovered that neither of eats oranges because, although we like oranges, they obviously do not like to be eaten. If they did, they would make it a lot easier for us. The peel, for example, cannot easily be coaxed away. You must gouge it with your fingernails, repeatedly, and the orange, not unreasonably, fights back. Hard. You are likely to be left with juice, pulp, and other vital orange innards all over your hands, face, and clothes. The orange has nothing to lose by attacking you. And attack it will. You will find yourself in need of one of those disaster cleanup outfits to come in and scrub away the signs of massacre.

Even a grapefruit is preferable, opening-wise, to an orange. Yes, a grapefruit is work.  But all the work can be done with a tool, and does not require you to disfigure your flesh in the opening and cutting of it. Neither is there usually a need to call in Disaster Recovery.

I sincerely hope that our next president will give this issue the attention it deserves. For starters, oranges need either a) an edible peeling, such as the eminently sensible apple, pear, or grape, or b) one of those peelings that whips off in four easy steps, like the banana. And once THAT’S settled, maybe we can turn our attention to kohlrabi, which has to be peeled not once but TWICE.

Disaster Relief cannot come too soon.

_________

*This is a highly scientific fact.

Tough love for plants

“LIVE PLANTS” the package on our doorstep declared. It seemed a stretch to characterize the straggly things inside the package as live, hovering as they did somewhere between living and dead (“divving”). Our job was to nudge them toward the former.

The Hero was incredulous. “They ship plants through the MAIL?” This seemed akin to mailing a small pet (“LIVE CHIHUAHUA. LIVE PYGMY GOAT”).

I was more concerned that LIVE PLANTS might be code for LIVE BUGS, and I prepared myself for sudden movement when I opened the package. Sure enough, a shower of green popcorn packing pieces tumbled out and immediately made off, no two pieces going in the same direction. When no bugs emerged, I took out the plant and unfolded it, somewhat like our artificial Christmas tree.

And then I unfolded the sheet of instructions.

Any hopes we may have harbored about raising seedlings to maturity were severely curtailed by the instruction sheet. There was an entire page of warnings, which basically boiled down to “Do not think that you will succeed in rearing these wimpy seedlings into healthy, thriving plants without basically giving up the rest of whatever it is you spend your time on. And even then, well...”

I read the instruction sheet to the Hero. This took the better part of May, by which time the plants—still in their shipped containers—were beginning to  resemble a compost heap. (Note to grower: To avoid this delay, you really need to say, “Plant and water seedlings first, then read and follow the entire instructions, even though it may mean you redo everything you did.”)

The instructions read, in part,* “Transplanting from indoors to out is a profound shock to a plant. ‘Harden them off’ by progressively introducing them to the outside world. Place in a sheltered location for a few hours each day over 10 to 14 days. This slows their growth and toughens them up”—here the Hero snorted—” and allows for a more mild and controlled transplant shock.” The instructions went on with strict directions for watering and fertilizing (don't even THINK about the latter) during the hardening-off process, bringing the plant indoors overnight during that time, and otherwise making their life as comfortable as possible before basically throwing them to the wolves. Or squirrels.

“Those aren't instructions for growing a plant,“ the Hero said. “They’re for raising a kid.”

And I hadn't even gotten to the part where they recommended restricting visitors and excess noise, keeping strict bedtimes, providing a special blanket for comfort, keeping a nightlight on, etc.

It occurred to me that it is a little reckless of growers to send out these plants to people whom they have no idea are trustworthy or not. What if I lock the plants in the basement where they never see the light of day? What if I don't talk to them, or sing? What if I DO sing to them?

At the very least, the grower could make me take an oath to cherish and nourish the plants until harvest and eating do us part.

In fact I did sing to the plants, driven to this desperate measure by the complete failure of the sun to appear for several days after the plants’ arrival. Seeing their discouraged appearance and fearing they might return to the earth whence they came before I could hasten that process by neglect or overattention (I favor both roughly equally), I belted out “The sun’ll come out tomorrow…”

“You're singing to tomatoes,” the Hero observed, in a voice that indicated this might be something he should bring to a doctor’s attention.

“Well, look how droopy they are,” I said. “They need sun.”

“Hey, I feel droopy too with no sun.”

So I sang to the Hero too. At least he brightened up, even if the plants did not.

_____________

*a very small part

Unexpected side effects

I recently picked up my new inhaler from the pharmacy. Before the tech handed over the box with the inhaler inside, she shoved a clipboard and pen toward me. “Sign here, please,” she said.

“Why? Is this a controlled substance or something?”

“No, it's a waiver in case you throw out your back from lifting the box.”

The box containing my new inhaler was quite large. Inside, however, the actual medication took up perhaps 1/32 of the space. The rest was occupied by the written instructions, which unfolded large enough to contain a map of the universe, except with no color and tinier writing. I assumed this was due to the same words being given in 17 or so languages, and the English part would be a half page or so.

But no. The ENTIRE thing was in English.

The instructions outlined the use of the medication, various side effects and warnings, the chemical makeup of the drug, details of its clinical trials, the amount of donuts and cups of coffee consumed by scientists during these trials, the number of European vacations earned by company executives owing to anticipated sales of the drug, etc.

There was a final warning that “This instruction booklet does not constitute the entirety of known knowledge on this drug. Patients should speak with their health care provider or pharmacist for more details. Although really, why would you want to?”

I imagined a discussion with my health care provider wherein I inquired for more details on this medication. “I think the insert covers pretty much everything,” she would say, consulting her list of “further details.” “Oh, there is one more thing it didn't mention: ’You may die while taking this medication.’”

The instructions in the box were right. I don't want to know more. On the upside, I think I'm starting to get some stronger muscles from folding and unfolding them.

The apportionment of cake

Some time ago a discussion arose among friends, as it often does, about food. Specifically, cake. A theory, which we shall refer to as the Theory of Cake Calories, was put forth and much debated. This theory centers on the idea that the eating of cake* involves a finite number of calories, and that whether one consumes these calories in small, well-reasoned amounts, or in overzealous proportions, is simply a matter of distribution.

Let's illustrate with an example, which may be theoretical. Or not.

One individual explained that she sometimes--only sometimes--finds herself, after consuming a reasonable portion of cake, or brownie, or whatever sweet happens to present itself, slicing off jusssst a bit more of it. She reasoned that she was likely to consume more of this treat later in the day--the first portion often being part of her breakfast--so why not have that portion of calories now? It would be fresher, and who knew if it would even be there later in the day? She felt a duty to protect her rightful share of calories from her husband, who, upon seeing unclaimed sweets sitting around, might take it upon himself to rid the kitchen of them.

Many of us supported our sister in this course of action. One person, however, did not think her strategy went far enough. “Well, in a year I'm going to consume this much cake”--here he traced an enormous, imaginary cake with his hands--”so why not eat it all now?”

This discussion had a definite impression on the Hero. Later that week, after we enjoyed a white cake with buttercream frosting for my birthday, he said, “I think we should eat tomorrow’s cake today.”

I looked at the enormous amount of two-layer cake still to be consumed and said, “We should definitely eat at least tonight’s cake today. And tomorrow’s cake tonight, and...”

__________

*Happily, according to Mathematical Rule 3.14159, the theory can also be extended to other foods of caloric generosity.

The Princess and the parking garage

On a recent trip to the City of Brotherly Love (Hays, Kansas*), I had occasion to solidify the stereotypical view of tourists as well meaning but essentially inane. (When opportunity knocks…)

On my way to a work conference I had to navigate narrow streets in an unfamiliar city and locate a parking garage within walking distance of the convention center, and I had managed to do this with perfect ease, as if I spent every day making sure I was turning the right way down one-way streets and careening out of the way of crazed taxi-cab drivers.

But soon enough it came time to find my way back to the car, get out of the garage, and drive back to where I was staying out of the city. Somewhere between the time I left my car in the morning and returned to it later that afternoon, the car moved. It was not where I left it. At least, not on the level where I was sure I had left it. In the spot where it should have been, according to my razor-sharp spatial memory, was the garage exit. One needs one’s car to exit the garage, so clearly my car was not on this level.

Brilliantly deducing that my car must have somehow moved one level up, I started to backtrack to the stairs. This movement caught the attention of the security guard, who was in a lull between helping drivers make their way through the exit, and he called me over to see why I appeared to be vacillating between level 1a and level 2a. He asked to see my parking ticket. I guessed this was so he could see where I was parked and help me get there by saying, “SEE, IT SAYS 2E, YOU’RE PARKED IN 2E” in a loud voice, with upward hand gestures, to compensate for my fragility of mind.

This request to see my parking ticket prompted immediate evasive maneuvers on the part of the ticket in my purse, and it took me some moments to locate it. The guard was patient, but clearly already thinking about calling for backup, or perhaps considering skipping that step all together and calling the nearest mental facility directly to report an escaped patient. He even asked my name—this favored the reporting directly option—and told me his, probably to put me at ease in case I was suspicious of people who ask my name.

Finally, the ticket located and inspected by the guard, and making no move as of yet for his phone or walked talkie, he directed me up the ramp—so I could be hit by a car?—to the next level.

When I returned, in my car, I hoped fervently that the guard would have miraculously disappeared, but no miracle was forthcoming. I nodded to him, got in line, and just about when it was my turn to pay, the parking ticket, bent on mischief and feeling grumpy at having been thwarted by its earlier attempts to elude my grasp, now slipped from my hand and disappeared into the abyss between the seat and the console.

Now, had I been driving the Hero’s car, this charade would have ended right there, and the guard would have had no further reason to suspect me of any deficiency in mental functioning. In the Hero’s car, objects that fall into this abyss are easily retrieved by the driver. My car, for reasons known only to its creators, mysteriously allows passage down this crevasse for objects the size of Miami, but not a human hand.

I knew from experience that the only hope to coax the ticket to return was to get out of the car, crawl in the back seat, stuff myself under the driver's seat, and beg. But I would not do this while still in the pay lane. I have some dignity. So I pulled into the only spot at hand, marked Parking Garage Superintendent Only, hoped fervently that the esteemed parking garage superintendent did not work on weekends, and crawled in the back seat to commence my begging for the parking ticket to reveal itself.

I am sure that the guard, at this point, figured he had no choice but to call me in to somebody. “Yeah, Michael here. This driver can't find her car, then claims her ticket ‘disappeared.’ Says her name is ‘Holly’—sounds kind of suspicious, ya know? Can I get some backup here? All we need is another wacko driving the city streets.”

But once the ticket was safely handed over to the man ensconced in the ticket booth, this wacko did make it onto the streets. Had I known that my trials to that point were only the beginning of a long and tortuous journey home—the GPS insisted I go this way to the expressway but this way was closed because of construction, and it simply could not conceive of another way to get me onto the expressway, and I was forced to rely on my own wits to find another route, and it was well past dinnertime before my wits succeeded—I may not have minded had the parking garage officials caught up with me and taken me to a nice, warm place. Maybe they would have even offered me milk and chocolate chip cookies.

______

* Not really.

Farewell, Outlook. I will miss your tidy folders

I'm sorry, Outlook, but it just isn't going to work out between us. There's someone else, you see.

I know this might be unexpected, but if you'd paid attention you might have seen it coming. For a while, a long while, you were it for my work email. We were thrown together by IT, and we forged quite a partnership.

I confess that your facelift a couple of years ago took a little getting used to—your inbox entries were harder to read, and I sorely missed the way you used to separate emails by day and week. But I am not a shallow person. I soon learned to appreciate this new version of you over the old, even during that little rough patch there trying to negotiate your calendar and schedule meetings. No big deal that my personal calendar entries could be seen by pretty much everyone for a while, right?

But then there were the chronic viruses. Back doors not secure. You blamed me for not protecting you adequately, and perhaps I could have done more. But really, you could have gone for help sooner. In fact, you should have been on a prevention plan. We could have avoided so much misunderstanding.

I know you blame me for leaving, but I tried to make it work. I really did. But IT was pressuring all the staff to throw their allegiance to Gmail. With its seemingly unlimited storage, who could blame them? You just couldn't deal with all the stuff I needed to store. Still, I was determined not to abandon you. You were professional. A gentleman. Gmail was...common. Cocky. Too familiar. I stuck with you for weeks. Do you remember?

For a time I tried to give you both attention. I know this made you jealous. I guess I would have felt the same. But then you started with the temper tantrums. The drama. Crashing for no reason, multiple times a day. You wouldn't even let me talk to you. Fine. It was so exhausting trying to keep up with your mood swings, I didn't really want to talk either.

You really gave me no choice. I had to move on, find someone to keep me organized, juggle my appointment reminders and goals and tasks. Gmail was there with open arms. I even learned to understand—sort of—the foreign language of labels, not the folders you and I used to communicate with.

I tried to check on you a few times. I did. But you shut me out.

And then one day out of the blue you showed up, acting as if nothing had happened. You showered me with attention and reminders of what we once shared (“Meeting with Lois B. Monday, 2:00,” “12:30 Chili cook-off for staff!” “Edits due to Creative Services”). Sadly, these were tired and old reminders. Gmail never brings up the past—only the bright future. It makes sure I get where I need to be, when I need to be there.

And right now, that is at a Spirit Committee meeting (11:30, Gmail tells me), planning a staff taco lunch. Good luck! I wish you well.

P.S. I really miss having folders to sort my mail into. Please don't tell Gmail.

Addition of the Simple Human

When we hosted an Easter meal for several guests recently, we figured we should probably decorate in some fashion. But Martha was unavailable for the occasion,* so we were left to our own devices.**

We therefore carefully arranged some simple table decorations (Flowers. Old milk bottles. Tap water.) and some brightly colored cloth napkins strewn here and there. As it turned out, however, these decorations were not what caught our guests’ attention, appreciative though they seemed to be of our efforts.  

The star attraction turned out to be our new Simple Human Stainless Steel Rectangular Step Can (with Liner), purchased just the day before to replace our old kitchen trash can, the victim of an unfortunate incident that left the lid standing at permanent attention.

Amid all his other duties to get ready for our guests (e.g., making new holes in a wall somewhere in the house), the Hero had frantically searched nearby stores for a replacement trash can that in our small home had to meet the following requirements:

• Fit into the tiny space between the counter and pantry (thereby disqualifying anything of a round shape).
• Be so positioned as to allows scraps to be thrown or scooped off the end of the counter directly into the trash can.
• Not bang into the wall when opened. (Here the Hero’s advanced math knowledge came in handy, as numerous calculations were required to ascertain the maximum potential height, depth, width, and swing arc of the new trash can.)
• Operate more or less soundlessly.
• Blend in with the surrounding appliances and furnishings.
• Not trip any passersby, either with malicious or benign intent.

Can #1, which the Hero brought home two days before our guests would arrive, failed miserably at bullet points 3 and 4. We suspected it might also fail at bullet 6, although we did not let the can stick around long enough to prove or disprove this. Several other cans failed their preliminary test right at the store. The Hero texted photo after photo to me, on which I gave various commentaries—too small, too big, looks too eerily like a robot. We were getting a little desperate.

But finally he returned and set up the Simple Human can. We stared at it. It met every bullet so perfectly, it could have been made for us. It was foot operated and closed automatically. It was attractive. Sleek. Stylish. Studies have shown that baby creatures of pretty much all species are universally considered to be cute. It turns out that the same is true of trash cans.

The Simple Human can seemed . . . polite, even. We half-expected it might talk to us (“Thank you for this opportunity to join your household. How might I be of service?”). We wondered how we had ever gotten along without it.

In the rush of getting the meal ready on Easter, we didn't think much about the can. But as each guest came in, we were greeted with “Hi, how are you? . . . Oooooo!” and over they went to inspect the trash can. At any one time there was a small crowd gathered around it, stepping on the pedal, watching the lid open, then watching it close soundlessly by itself. Soon that crowd would drift and another would form. We could have sold tickets. We all saved our trash and threw it away one item at a time, just so we could have more opportunities to go through the process again and again.

One husband admitted wistfully, with a reproachful look at his wife, “She won't let us get a step can.”

“We don't have room,” she said in exasperation, in what was obviously a long-running disagreement.

I sympathized, and gave the can a little pat on the top when no one was looking. “I’m glad we have room for you,”  I said.

_____

*So was Ina, which was probably just as well. She would have wanted to arrange the table several weeks in advance, leaving nowhere for us to eat our daily meals but in the laundry room.

**Not good.

May I help you?