Every time we go to the shore, we take more stuff. Last year we added a cooler the size of New Mexico, as some of you may remember. This year it was a beach umbrella, which we bought to keep the sun off us but which actually came in handier to keep us from becoming pillars of sand in the sandstorm (see previous blog entry, if you haven't already and if you enjoy reading about other people's misfortunes). We also acquired two additional towels, which came in handy after our personal monsoon (again, see previous blog entry if, etc., etc.).
As you can imagine, we make quite a spectacle hauling all this stuff to the beach. We look like we are hauling gear for a family of seven but have forgotten the kids. The hotel staff takes one look at us and charges us for a few extra people in the room, figuring all that stuff can't belong just to the two of us.
It was inevitable that our stuff would soon outstrip our ability to carry it. As we were sitting on the beach, huffing and puffing from carrying everything, Joe watched another family -- who did have several kids -- stroll merrily down from the street, pulling a beach stroller that was loaded down with all their gear. It had large rubber wheels and netting sides that kept everything snugly in place. They had even more stuff than we did, and the man was hauling it effortlessly. I saw immediately that Envy was setting in in Joe.
"THAT'S what we need!" he exclaimed. "We gotta get one of those. Just think of everything else we could bring!"
The only thing we hadn't brought down was the car, and I didn't see how we would need that on the beach. But I knew there would be no dissuading him.
After dinner that night we were strolling down the boardwalk when Joe suddenly stopped and stared at a display outside a store. I tried to distract him, tried to tempt him with ice cream just a little farther up, but he ignored me. On display was a beach stroller somewhat like we had seen the man pulling earlier. Joe moved toward it with astonishing speed, as if he was afraid someone else would get to it before he did.
There was no price on it. It looked easy to maneuver, although one side of it had only a bungee cord-like thing to strap in your stuff. It didn't seem all that secure. "Let's see if they have any others inside," he said.
In the back of the store we hit pay dirt. There, in shining glory, was "Wonder Wheels," the Grand Marquis of beach strollers, the answer to all our hauling needs. It came in five colors, and it had two big pouches secured by netting, and four wheels -- two for pulling in the sand, four for pushing on the street. "Look!" I squealed. "It has cup holders!" (As an aside, our great-niece, recently turned 2, received a top-of-the-line wagon for her birthday. My sister expressed some disgust at the fact that the wagon had four cup holders, and her own car had zero.)
Our eyes glazed over. You'd have thought we were looking at a brand-new sports car. In fact, we would have had to buy a new car to even fit the Wonder Wheels in it.
But something wasn't quite right. It wasn't, after all, the stroller for us. Maybe it had something to do with the $225 price tag on it. Surely the tag had been switched? Not that there was anything else in the store that looked like it should be that expensive, either. The clerk assured us that the price was correct.
We left the store, sadly, our longing glances lingering on the Wonder Wheels. "A pack mule would be cheaper," I muttered.
Joe's eyes lit up again. "Hey, now that's an idea..."
Friday, August 10, 2007
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to the shore we go
"Love," I said to Joe last week, " we have to do something exciting...I need some new writing material. I've been reduced to writing about our dead flowers. Soon I'm going to have to write about can openers again."
So Joe -- even though he once paid me a very nice compliment on my ability to write about can openers in an exciting manner -- suggested we go to the shore for the weekend.
Here on the East Coast, we do not go to the beach. We go to the shore, meaning the shore of the Atlantic. Our favorite spot on the shore is Cape May, New Jersey, which is the farthest point on the shore from our home. We drive right past 289 perfectly fine little towns and beaches to get to Cape May. I do not know why. We just drive until we run out of road, and then we stop.
We were anticipating our usual routine at the shore: hauling 2 tons of food, reading material, and various beach paraphernalia down to the water, which we did, and relaxing in the warm sun, which we did not do. At least, I didn't. This particular day there was what might politely be called a sandstorm, and there is nothing relaxing about being in a sandstorm. Joe struggled to get everything protected by the umbrella, which greatly reduced the wind, but the sand insidiously crept into every little crevice of everything we had, including our ears.
Every now and then Joe would say, "The water's coming up closer." I would look and say, "Pfft, it's nowhere near us." Of course, I did not have my glasses on when I said this, not that they would have helped anyway, as they were caked with sand.
Now, the writer of Genesis tells us that when God created the sea, He placed boundaries on it and said, "This far shalt thou come, and no farther." That afternoon at the shore, a rogue wave came out of nowhere to defy its Maker and swallow our towels, beach chairs, umbrella, coolers, sandals, and everything else we had. I saw it just before it hit and ran, screaming, grabbing whatever I could, including the people next to us, who were more startled by our screaming and running than they were by the wave. And no wonder. After the wave receded, we looked around. We were the only ones the wave had hit. Everything else, and everyone else, was perfectly dry, as if our personal monsoon had never happened.
We retrieved our bedraggled belongings and retreated to our hotel room, safe from all wind, sand, water, and other hostile elements. I looked helplessly at the pile of mush that had been our stuff, then said to Joe, "Writing about can openers isn't such a bad thing, is it?"
So Joe -- even though he once paid me a very nice compliment on my ability to write about can openers in an exciting manner -- suggested we go to the shore for the weekend.
Here on the East Coast, we do not go to the beach. We go to the shore, meaning the shore of the Atlantic. Our favorite spot on the shore is Cape May, New Jersey, which is the farthest point on the shore from our home. We drive right past 289 perfectly fine little towns and beaches to get to Cape May. I do not know why. We just drive until we run out of road, and then we stop.
We were anticipating our usual routine at the shore: hauling 2 tons of food, reading material, and various beach paraphernalia down to the water, which we did, and relaxing in the warm sun, which we did not do. At least, I didn't. This particular day there was what might politely be called a sandstorm, and there is nothing relaxing about being in a sandstorm. Joe struggled to get everything protected by the umbrella, which greatly reduced the wind, but the sand insidiously crept into every little crevice of everything we had, including our ears.
Every now and then Joe would say, "The water's coming up closer." I would look and say, "Pfft, it's nowhere near us." Of course, I did not have my glasses on when I said this, not that they would have helped anyway, as they were caked with sand.
Now, the writer of Genesis tells us that when God created the sea, He placed boundaries on it and said, "This far shalt thou come, and no farther." That afternoon at the shore, a rogue wave came out of nowhere to defy its Maker and swallow our towels, beach chairs, umbrella, coolers, sandals, and everything else we had. I saw it just before it hit and ran, screaming, grabbing whatever I could, including the people next to us, who were more startled by our screaming and running than they were by the wave. And no wonder. After the wave receded, we looked around. We were the only ones the wave had hit. Everything else, and everyone else, was perfectly dry, as if our personal monsoon had never happened.
We retrieved our bedraggled belongings and retreated to our hotel room, safe from all wind, sand, water, and other hostile elements. I looked helplessly at the pile of mush that had been our stuff, then said to Joe, "Writing about can openers isn't such a bad thing, is it?"
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
A short history of the Indians and the Atlantic Ocean
Whenever we go on a long car ride, say to Target, we always take an audiotape with us. If the trip is extra long, say to church, we take five or six audiotapes. The choice of subject of these stories is always a struggle, with me leaning toward mysteries that will keep me white-knuckled on the steering wheel and Joe preferring some sort of nonfiction account of important people who are long since dead. No sense in wasting brain cells, is his feeling on the subject of mysteries.
So, like any wise couple, we compromise and get what Joe likes. Usually these stories involve one of the founding fathers, such as George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, or George W. Bush. One time, I rebelled and got a story on the founding mothers. What's good for the gander is good for the goose, is my feeling on the subject of founding parents.
The trouble with these books is that they all tend to be extremely boring. Five miles down the road, we are singing rousing drinking songs ("12,000 bottles of beer on the wall...") over the audiotape just to stay awake.
But our most recent story, about the Mayflower, did have some redeeming features. For instance, Indians. You can usually count on tales of Indians being pretty exciting, especially if the tale is told by white people. There is never any balance of opinion in stories about Indians and settlers. Either the Indians are portrayed as bloodthirsty savages preying on helpless families and eating their children for supper, or the white people are the ones perpetrating atrocities on the helpless Indians with alcohol, guns, or smallpox, sometimes all three. In these stories, the only good white people are those who have gone over to the Indians and decided to live with them. You never hear that there might have been both bad and good Indians, and both bad and good settlers.
But this story was kind of different. We learned that there were both bad and good Indians, at least in Massachusetts, even before the arrival of the Pilgrims. So the bad Indians cannot be blamed on the Pilgrims. These particular Indians had apparently been bad for thousands of years. No one knows exactly how long, because any smoke signals that might have told us have long since evaporated.
Anyway, we also learned that there were far more Indians in Massachusetts when the Pilgrims landed (quite by mistake; they were actually trying to get to Manhattan, where the women insisted there was better shopping) than we had ever realized. I had always pictured a handful of Indians emerging from the forest to welcome the settlers, leaving the bad ones behind for the time being. But apparently there were all kinds of tribes in the area, some with as many as 20,000 people, and with interesting names like the Narragansett, the Samoset, the Erector Set, and the Neiman Marcus Set.
This history of the Indians stayed with us as we vacationed on the New Jersey coast. At least, it stayed with Joe. One night as we sat overlooking the ocean at a restaurant, he wondered aloud if the ancient Indians knew about the ocean.
"Knew what?" I said, coming out of my musings about whether the woman on the beach with seven children was the mother or grandmother of the children (none of whom were Indian). Whichever was the case, she looked tired.
"Well, that it wasn't just a big river," he explained.
"Oh, I suppose they went exploring it a time or two," I said. He nodded.
"And then," I said, warming to my subject, "when they ran out of clean underwear, they turned around and came back home."
Come to think of it, our own ideas of history are much more interesting than what you learn on these audiotapes. So maybe we should make our own story. And throw in a little mystery to keep people awake.
So, like any wise couple, we compromise and get what Joe likes. Usually these stories involve one of the founding fathers, such as George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, or George W. Bush. One time, I rebelled and got a story on the founding mothers. What's good for the gander is good for the goose, is my feeling on the subject of founding parents.
The trouble with these books is that they all tend to be extremely boring. Five miles down the road, we are singing rousing drinking songs ("12,000 bottles of beer on the wall...") over the audiotape just to stay awake.
But our most recent story, about the Mayflower, did have some redeeming features. For instance, Indians. You can usually count on tales of Indians being pretty exciting, especially if the tale is told by white people. There is never any balance of opinion in stories about Indians and settlers. Either the Indians are portrayed as bloodthirsty savages preying on helpless families and eating their children for supper, or the white people are the ones perpetrating atrocities on the helpless Indians with alcohol, guns, or smallpox, sometimes all three. In these stories, the only good white people are those who have gone over to the Indians and decided to live with them. You never hear that there might have been both bad and good Indians, and both bad and good settlers.
But this story was kind of different. We learned that there were both bad and good Indians, at least in Massachusetts, even before the arrival of the Pilgrims. So the bad Indians cannot be blamed on the Pilgrims. These particular Indians had apparently been bad for thousands of years. No one knows exactly how long, because any smoke signals that might have told us have long since evaporated.
Anyway, we also learned that there were far more Indians in Massachusetts when the Pilgrims landed (quite by mistake; they were actually trying to get to Manhattan, where the women insisted there was better shopping) than we had ever realized. I had always pictured a handful of Indians emerging from the forest to welcome the settlers, leaving the bad ones behind for the time being. But apparently there were all kinds of tribes in the area, some with as many as 20,000 people, and with interesting names like the Narragansett, the Samoset, the Erector Set, and the Neiman Marcus Set.
This history of the Indians stayed with us as we vacationed on the New Jersey coast. At least, it stayed with Joe. One night as we sat overlooking the ocean at a restaurant, he wondered aloud if the ancient Indians knew about the ocean.
"Knew what?" I said, coming out of my musings about whether the woman on the beach with seven children was the mother or grandmother of the children (none of whom were Indian). Whichever was the case, she looked tired.
"Well, that it wasn't just a big river," he explained.
"Oh, I suppose they went exploring it a time or two," I said. He nodded.
"And then," I said, warming to my subject, "when they ran out of clean underwear, they turned around and came back home."
Come to think of it, our own ideas of history are much more interesting than what you learn on these audiotapes. So maybe we should make our own story. And throw in a little mystery to keep people awake.
Please follow these instructions
Joe and I shopped in an antique store the other day, looking for treasures like a primitive cupboard, an old meat fork, and the women's restroom. I am always hesitant to use restrooms in antique stores, for fear the restrooms will be antique, too. This one was very modern, but it was obviously overseen by someone who did not trust that the people who would use it had ever seen a modern restroom before. There were instructions taped all over the walls, paper dispensers, counters, ceiling, etc., telling patrons in no uncertain terms how things worked in this bathroom. I couldn't see that anything worked differently than in any other public restroom I've ever used, which must be about 9,573 by now if I think about it, which I would prefer not to do.
First there was the notice on the toilet paper dispenser. "TEAR TISSUE ON THE EDGE OF THE HOLDER," it declared. I didn't see how else you would tear it, because the edge is where the teeth were. I supposed, however, that some unscrupulous person might tear it by hand off to the side.
The soap instructions were even more basic. "PUSH PUMP FOR SOAP," the sign said, with an abundance of arrows pointing not to the pump but to the floor. There was no conceivable way to get soap other than to push the pump, so I'm not sure why someone thought this particular notice was necessary. Perhaps they didn't want people to waste their time looking for a nonexistent bar of soap.
After obediently pushing the pump for soap, I went over to the wall get some paper towel. I was greeted by a sign that said, "PULL HANDLE SLOWLY HOLDING PAPER." The "SLOWLY" AND "HOLDING" were written vertically, whether to emphasize them or to fit the words on the dispenser, which was longer than it was wide, I wasn't sure. But it takes longer to read words that are written vertically -- which is why the Founding Fathers of English decided that we should read words across -- and so while I was trying to decipher the directions for getting the paper towel out of the dispenser, my hands were dripping water all over the floor. So I hastily pumped the dispenser and tore off my towel. As this was in direct opposition to the directions, I waited for something bad to happen. But the dispenser did not come off the wall. It did not refuse to dispense me a towel. Apparently it did not set off some secret alarm somewhere, because no Towel Police came running.
I dried my hands and threw the towel away -- surprised that there were no directions on the trash can -- and pushed the door open. I expected to see a sign that read, "DID YOU WASH YOUR HANDS?" and then another on the outer door that said, "...WITH SOAP??"
I pictured the person who had written all these signs. I wondered if her home was also plastered with instructions: On the fridge, "OPEN DOOR TO DISPENSE FOOD;" on the screen door to the outside, "OPEN SLOWLY DO NOT BANG!" (written vertically); in the bathroom, "USE TWO HANDS TO REMOVE TOILET PAPER HOLDER"; and in the laundry room, "BEFORE OPERATING, MAKE SURE CAT IS NOT INSIDE."
I asked Joe later if the men's room had been filled with written instructions, too. "Nope," he said, "I guess they trust guys more than women."
Then he thought again."Well, actually, there was a sign," he said. "It said, 'MAKE SURE YOUR WIFE WASHED HER HANDS.' "
First there was the notice on the toilet paper dispenser. "TEAR TISSUE ON THE EDGE OF THE HOLDER," it declared. I didn't see how else you would tear it, because the edge is where the teeth were. I supposed, however, that some unscrupulous person might tear it by hand off to the side.
The soap instructions were even more basic. "PUSH PUMP FOR SOAP," the sign said, with an abundance of arrows pointing not to the pump but to the floor. There was no conceivable way to get soap other than to push the pump, so I'm not sure why someone thought this particular notice was necessary. Perhaps they didn't want people to waste their time looking for a nonexistent bar of soap.
After obediently pushing the pump for soap, I went over to the wall get some paper towel. I was greeted by a sign that said, "PULL HANDLE SLOWLY HOLDING PAPER." The "SLOWLY" AND "HOLDING" were written vertically, whether to emphasize them or to fit the words on the dispenser, which was longer than it was wide, I wasn't sure. But it takes longer to read words that are written vertically -- which is why the Founding Fathers of English decided that we should read words across -- and so while I was trying to decipher the directions for getting the paper towel out of the dispenser, my hands were dripping water all over the floor. So I hastily pumped the dispenser and tore off my towel. As this was in direct opposition to the directions, I waited for something bad to happen. But the dispenser did not come off the wall. It did not refuse to dispense me a towel. Apparently it did not set off some secret alarm somewhere, because no Towel Police came running.
I dried my hands and threw the towel away -- surprised that there were no directions on the trash can -- and pushed the door open. I expected to see a sign that read, "DID YOU WASH YOUR HANDS?" and then another on the outer door that said, "...WITH SOAP??"
I pictured the person who had written all these signs. I wondered if her home was also plastered with instructions: On the fridge, "OPEN DOOR TO DISPENSE FOOD;" on the screen door to the outside, "OPEN SLOWLY DO NOT BANG!" (written vertically); in the bathroom, "USE TWO HANDS TO REMOVE TOILET PAPER HOLDER"; and in the laundry room, "BEFORE OPERATING, MAKE SURE CAT IS NOT INSIDE."
I asked Joe later if the men's room had been filled with written instructions, too. "Nope," he said, "I guess they trust guys more than women."
Then he thought again."Well, actually, there was a sign," he said. "It said, 'MAKE SURE YOUR WIFE WASHED HER HANDS.' "
Friday, August 3, 2007
The Great Zucchini Problem
A friend brought up an issue that a great many people face each summer. Besides what to do with their kids while they're out of school, I mean.
I am speaking of the Great Zucchini Problem. Each year, thousands, perhaps millions of people, plant zucchini, completely forgetting that they had told themselves the year before that they would NEVER again plant zucchini. And each year, millions of other people, who did NOT plant zucchini, out of pity for their forgetful friends, neighbors, relatives, real estate agents, etc., find themselves agreeing to take home a few hundred zucchinis.
These zucchinis are relatives of the blimp. You need a wheelbarrow to bring them home, and sometimes it is necessary to remove the door to your home to get them inside. Some people have found it easier to just cut them outside with a chain saw.
As my friend pointed out, once you accept a zucchini from someone, you have to do something with it. You have to go out and buy, using money, ingredients to make something with the free zucchini. So you now have ingredients you never would have bought, using money you never would have spent, all because you felt sorry for your zucchini-inundated neighbor or coworker or postal carrier. And for the next seven months, you eat nothing but zucchini. Zucchini bread, zucchini cake, zucchini pancakes, zucchini casseroles, zucchini cookies, zucchini cheese, zucchini popsicles, etc.
Now, I have a solution to the Great Zucchini Problem. I propose that the government require a permit to grow zucchinis, and only a limited amount of permits would be allowed per geographical location. This would, of course, cut down on the number of zucchini growers, and consequently on the number of zucchini. In our particular geographical location, permits would be strictly outlawed, but they could be carefully controlled in other areas.
If people who were awarded zucchini permits wanted to continue to give some of their zucchini away, they would still be allowed to do so to family and friends and neighbors. But to give them away to coworkers would require, in addition to the growing permit, a license. There would be a hefty fee involved to obtain this license, which would of course reduce the number of employees pushing zucchini at the office, which is very disruptive and cuts down on work productivity. In fact, the government found in a recent study that zucchini arguments at work were responsible for last month's decline of the U.S. auto industry; the other carmakers long ago outlawed zucchini in the workplace, and if the Big Three don't follow suit soon, they will have to start issuing rebates for zucchinis as well as cars. The government will have to bail these companies out, paying millions per zucchini, and turn around and repurpose the zucchini as environmentally friendly cars.
Now, requiring a license to dispense zucchini in the workplace might cause some hard feelings among zucchini growers, as they are well aware that other employees do not need special permission to sell, on behalf of their children, cookies, candy bars, wrapping paper, previously worn snowsuits, etc. But with the U.S. economy at stake, I'm sure American employees will do the right thing and obey the new laws.
And eventually, once people see the success of my program, we can move on to Phase 2: outlawing zucchini.
I am speaking of the Great Zucchini Problem. Each year, thousands, perhaps millions of people, plant zucchini, completely forgetting that they had told themselves the year before that they would NEVER again plant zucchini. And each year, millions of other people, who did NOT plant zucchini, out of pity for their forgetful friends, neighbors, relatives, real estate agents, etc., find themselves agreeing to take home a few hundred zucchinis.
These zucchinis are relatives of the blimp. You need a wheelbarrow to bring them home, and sometimes it is necessary to remove the door to your home to get them inside. Some people have found it easier to just cut them outside with a chain saw.
As my friend pointed out, once you accept a zucchini from someone, you have to do something with it. You have to go out and buy, using money, ingredients to make something with the free zucchini. So you now have ingredients you never would have bought, using money you never would have spent, all because you felt sorry for your zucchini-inundated neighbor or coworker or postal carrier. And for the next seven months, you eat nothing but zucchini. Zucchini bread, zucchini cake, zucchini pancakes, zucchini casseroles, zucchini cookies, zucchini cheese, zucchini popsicles, etc.
Now, I have a solution to the Great Zucchini Problem. I propose that the government require a permit to grow zucchinis, and only a limited amount of permits would be allowed per geographical location. This would, of course, cut down on the number of zucchini growers, and consequently on the number of zucchini. In our particular geographical location, permits would be strictly outlawed, but they could be carefully controlled in other areas.
If people who were awarded zucchini permits wanted to continue to give some of their zucchini away, they would still be allowed to do so to family and friends and neighbors. But to give them away to coworkers would require, in addition to the growing permit, a license. There would be a hefty fee involved to obtain this license, which would of course reduce the number of employees pushing zucchini at the office, which is very disruptive and cuts down on work productivity. In fact, the government found in a recent study that zucchini arguments at work were responsible for last month's decline of the U.S. auto industry; the other carmakers long ago outlawed zucchini in the workplace, and if the Big Three don't follow suit soon, they will have to start issuing rebates for zucchinis as well as cars. The government will have to bail these companies out, paying millions per zucchini, and turn around and repurpose the zucchini as environmentally friendly cars.
Now, requiring a license to dispense zucchini in the workplace might cause some hard feelings among zucchini growers, as they are well aware that other employees do not need special permission to sell, on behalf of their children, cookies, candy bars, wrapping paper, previously worn snowsuits, etc. But with the U.S. economy at stake, I'm sure American employees will do the right thing and obey the new laws.
And eventually, once people see the success of my program, we can move on to Phase 2: outlawing zucchini.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
The Prissy Princess and the smelly garbage
The Gallant Hero was worried. And when the Hero was worried, the Prissy Princess was worried. This time the Hero was worried about his studies.
"How will I ever finish this class?" he moaned to the Princess. "My next class is going to be starting soon!"
The Hero was studying to become a Wizard of Math, and the Princess was very proud of him, even if she did think some of the classes seemed rather useless, like Fuzzy Logic. She did not see that Fuzzy Logic was something one had to learn; she herself had used Fuzzy Logic plenty of times, and she had certainly never had to be instructed in it.
But the Hero could not find enough time to study; he had too many things on his Gallant Hero list, a list compiled mostly by the Prissy Princess. Now the Princess was consumed by guilt. She asked too much of her Hero! If he failed in his quest to become Wizard of Math, surely it would be all her fault. Oh, she was far too selfish! She must relieve him of some of his Hero duties. She set about feverishly doing his chores, giving him precious moments for his studies. Clear the table! Wash the dishes! Clean the stairs! Take out the garbage!
It was as she was lifting the garbage bag out of the kitchen trash can one day, trying not to gag (the Gallant Hero, who usually did this job, wasn't called the Gallant Hero for nothing), that she heard the Hero say that he should be finished with his class in a couple of days. The Princess paused, trash bag still in her hand.
"What did you say?" she asked.
"I said I'm almost done with my class! Isn't that great?"
"But-but, I thought you had two more sections to go!" she said.
"Oh, no, there are just seven sections altogether, and I'm almost done with the last one," he said cheerfully. "I should finish up way before my next class starts. Plenty of time to relax."
The Prissy Princess dropped the garbage bag she was holding back into the trash can and shut the lid. She walked into the study.
"The garbage needs to go out," she calmly told the future Wizard, and sat down to read the newspaper.
"How will I ever finish this class?" he moaned to the Princess. "My next class is going to be starting soon!"
The Hero was studying to become a Wizard of Math, and the Princess was very proud of him, even if she did think some of the classes seemed rather useless, like Fuzzy Logic. She did not see that Fuzzy Logic was something one had to learn; she herself had used Fuzzy Logic plenty of times, and she had certainly never had to be instructed in it.
But the Hero could not find enough time to study; he had too many things on his Gallant Hero list, a list compiled mostly by the Prissy Princess. Now the Princess was consumed by guilt. She asked too much of her Hero! If he failed in his quest to become Wizard of Math, surely it would be all her fault. Oh, she was far too selfish! She must relieve him of some of his Hero duties. She set about feverishly doing his chores, giving him precious moments for his studies. Clear the table! Wash the dishes! Clean the stairs! Take out the garbage!
It was as she was lifting the garbage bag out of the kitchen trash can one day, trying not to gag (the Gallant Hero, who usually did this job, wasn't called the Gallant Hero for nothing), that she heard the Hero say that he should be finished with his class in a couple of days. The Princess paused, trash bag still in her hand.
"What did you say?" she asked.
"I said I'm almost done with my class! Isn't that great?"
"But-but, I thought you had two more sections to go!" she said.
"Oh, no, there are just seven sections altogether, and I'm almost done with the last one," he said cheerfully. "I should finish up way before my next class starts. Plenty of time to relax."
The Prissy Princess dropped the garbage bag she was holding back into the trash can and shut the lid. She walked into the study.
"The garbage needs to go out," she calmly told the future Wizard, and sat down to read the newspaper.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Garden update
There are many things for people to be concerned about these days. Things like health care, war, moral corruption, my garden. I'm sure you are all lying awake at night, wondering what is happening with my garden.
Actually, a lot is happening with my garden. Death, mostly. All of my pretty pink and white flowers -- whose name temporarily escapes me but is something hideous and sounds like a disease, like Aspiricum -- have gone to that great Garden in the Sky. All of them, at the exact same time. I don't blame them. It's as if a voice suddenly boomed down and said, "Aspiricum, your time has come. You are of no more earthly use to anyone. Come and join my Garden, which is nothing like that pitiful plot of land you've been living on." These flowers know a good retirement plan when they hear one. And so they just bowed over and died. This was, of course, the most numerous flower I planted, so half the garden now looks extremely forlorn.
There is a family near us who is renting just for a month, probably because their old garden was looking pretty wilty and they wanted someplace bright and cheery for the rest of the summer. Anyway, I was talking to the woman one day and she said, "Your rock garden is lovely."
Now, that might be a compliment if you are growing a rock garden. But I am not trying to grow a rock garden. I am trying to grow flowers. Apparently I would have better luck if I just uprooted all the flowers and let the rocks do their thing. It's true we have a lot of rocks, but if you look closely, you can see some actual flowers. You can tell they are not rocks because they have more color. Well, some of them do. Plus, there are usually a bunch of insects buzzing around the flowers. They don't seem too interested in the rocks.
I have also been engaged in a mighty battle with leaf-chewing insects and something else that likes to gnaw on my dahlias. I think the insects and something elses are winning. The pink dahlia looks perpetually like a sheared sheep.
But the weeds are doing fine. Oh, yes, they are really thriving! Every now and then I look out the front window and think, what a fine batch of weeds we grew this year! We should enter them in a contest.
Last night Joe and I took a walk around the neighborhood, admiring everyone else's gardens, which actually have identifiable flowers in them. Near where Baxter the Best Dog in the Whole World lives, I noticed some ivy whose color seemed otherworldly. Now, you know that I am not the world's greatest authority on plants, but even I suspected that they were not real. Joe leaned over to touch them. Sure enough, they were fake.
I may have mostly rocks in my garden, but at least my rocks are real.
Actually, a lot is happening with my garden. Death, mostly. All of my pretty pink and white flowers -- whose name temporarily escapes me but is something hideous and sounds like a disease, like Aspiricum -- have gone to that great Garden in the Sky. All of them, at the exact same time. I don't blame them. It's as if a voice suddenly boomed down and said, "Aspiricum, your time has come. You are of no more earthly use to anyone. Come and join my Garden, which is nothing like that pitiful plot of land you've been living on." These flowers know a good retirement plan when they hear one. And so they just bowed over and died. This was, of course, the most numerous flower I planted, so half the garden now looks extremely forlorn.
There is a family near us who is renting just for a month, probably because their old garden was looking pretty wilty and they wanted someplace bright and cheery for the rest of the summer. Anyway, I was talking to the woman one day and she said, "Your rock garden is lovely."
Now, that might be a compliment if you are growing a rock garden. But I am not trying to grow a rock garden. I am trying to grow flowers. Apparently I would have better luck if I just uprooted all the flowers and let the rocks do their thing. It's true we have a lot of rocks, but if you look closely, you can see some actual flowers. You can tell they are not rocks because they have more color. Well, some of them do. Plus, there are usually a bunch of insects buzzing around the flowers. They don't seem too interested in the rocks.
I have also been engaged in a mighty battle with leaf-chewing insects and something else that likes to gnaw on my dahlias. I think the insects and something elses are winning. The pink dahlia looks perpetually like a sheared sheep.
But the weeds are doing fine. Oh, yes, they are really thriving! Every now and then I look out the front window and think, what a fine batch of weeds we grew this year! We should enter them in a contest.
Last night Joe and I took a walk around the neighborhood, admiring everyone else's gardens, which actually have identifiable flowers in them. Near where Baxter the Best Dog in the Whole World lives, I noticed some ivy whose color seemed otherworldly. Now, you know that I am not the world's greatest authority on plants, but even I suspected that they were not real. Joe leaned over to touch them. Sure enough, they were fake.
I may have mostly rocks in my garden, but at least my rocks are real.
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