Posts filed under ‘Humor – Commentary’
The Packaging People Must Be Stopped
We all know the OCD-inducing-pick-pick-pick-maybe-some-teeth-okay-the-new-song-I-wanted-to-hear-is-now-an-oldie frustrations of opening CD or DVD packaging. (Honestly? It’s one of the main reasons I like to buy used video games instead of new.) And we’ve all made the transition to the extra bit of paper lid or plastic wrap between us and our over-the-counter medications, a flimsy li’l bit of whatchamacallit to guard us from societal crazies. Heck, there are a lot of kids out there, now old enough to need a couple of Tylenol, Tums, and Vitamin C tablets on a Sunday morning who have no memory of it ever being any easier to get hangover relief.
(Yes, sometimes, on my Conspiracy Theory days, I do sort of wonder if someone didn’t just poison those Tylenol bottles because they had this shiny new business plan in the trunk of their car for a protective packaging business. But I digress. And it’s almost positively not the case.)
(But, you know, if it were true, that a-hole is now very, very rich.)
Some packaging makes sense, and I don’t begrudge the manufacturers a living. That white foam stuff that a computer or microwave oven comes in? Sure, that makes sense. It protects the electronics, makes things less expensive to ship, and getting to your new toy is as simple as opening a shoebox.
Fine.
But why is there a plastic-paper-tin-foil cap on my ketchup? Inside, beneath the real cap, beyond the bit of plastic that was wrapped around the cap. Why is there a super-secret hidden cap that you don’t know is there until you’re attempting to squirt that ketchup. (An-ti-ci-pa-tion, my ass.) Those secrets caps are everywhere now. Ketchup, mustard, mayo (and who the hell thought it was a good idea to put mayo in a squeeze bottle anyway?), salad dressing, chocolate syrup, coffee creamer. Half the time, you can’t get a pinky finger-hold on the spot marked “pull here,” and the other half the time, you pull and the contents go spurt! all over your new work blouse that you are now forced to wear around the office all damn day, including that important meeting with the big boss or the cute vendor.
Now, okay, deep down, you kind of tolerate all of that because, no matter how busy, lazy, or stressed out you may be, you generally don’t want to be poisoned. So, all right, fine.
But.
Let’s talk for a moment about non-edible-product packaging.
All of it designed solely to make a product look good on the shelf. None of it designed to enhance product enjoyment by the customer.
The customer cannot be king if ruled by the evil dictator Twisty-tie.
Twisty-ties made of some super-polymer-covered titanium-like alloy crunched into place by someone very strong. (Picture those hard-core weight lifters every gym has two of, grunting as they put each twisty-tie in place. Unh. Unh. Good one Gunther. Heh heh leetle boy never get to play with toy. Unh.) One small toy; 452 twisty ties holding it place, holding it to the hard plastic envelope thing, holding that to the box it came in. (Hundreds of thousands of twisty-ties that, thanks to my cats quick reflexes and fascination with anything small and plastic, now lie stockpiled beneath my dresser, under the non-rolling rolling file cabinet in my office, behind the dining room buffet, and in every other nook and cranny you might one day have to peer into in search of a dropped pen, a rolling quarter, or a missing passport.)
And if it’s not the twisty-ties, which are designed to make un-twisting, at least, a viable theory, it’s those hard-plastic bands that you need industrial wire cutters to get through. Could there be anything worse?
Uh, yes.
With the long Labor Day weekend, I, like many I would guess, start thinking “home project.” With that in mind yesterday, I stopped in at Bed Bath & Beyond to pick up a few things that needed fixing or replacing. I strolled through the sale rack. (50% off the already marked-down sale price? Who can resist?) There was a lot of really ugly crap. (There’s a reason stuff is 50% off the sale price of course.) But, in the midst of the tie-dye style curtains, the Disco-era bath accessories, and the super-tacky His and Hers laminated faux-antique wall hangings, I spied The Perfect Kitchen Clock.
Round red metal, white face, simple style, kind of 40s or 50s? It looks a lot like the one currently hanging in my kitchen, except that it isn’t a cheap, yellowing, plastic-piece-a-crap that I salvaged and painted red around the edge because I couldn’t afford to buy the cool round red metal clock I’d seen in a catalog. And it was on sale. And 50% off the sale price.
I gleefully snatched that clock out of the Beyond aisle and checked out.
This morning, after a good lounge in bed, sighing, “Ah Saturday.” and a good loungy stretchy yawny Ah-Saturday cuppa coffee, I thought, “Ooh! I’ll start the tasks of the day with a fun and easy one: I’ll put my new clock in its place of honor.”
It’s in a cardboard frame sort of lidless box. There’s not even any cellophane over the front. What could be simpler?
I grasped the clock and, one foot already on the step stool, pulled. Huh? No give. Not a budge. And not a twisty-tie in sight.
This clock is held to its packaging with screws. Screws! Two of them—drilled into the back of the box through washers. And, yep, you know it, Phillip’s head.
And so the Labor Day begins. I’ll be in the basement.
What packaging shenanigans would you put an end to if you could? Or, what sort of Labor Day fun are you getting into?
Buffett Babies?
Tomorrow, in Pittsburgh, the Parrot Heads will congregate at StarLake. I’ve lost count of the concerts, but it’s at least my 22nd time to see Jimmy Buffett. (23 if you count the time I shook his hand and said hello on 6th Street in downtown Pittsburgh, when I happened to see him on my lunch hour.)
I’ve been going with pretty much the same friends all these years. And, I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. Drum roll and a short one. This year. August 12, 2010. We are about to introduce some of the next generation to the parking lot. For the girls, a few tips.
1. Eat a good, absorbent breakfast.
2. Wear sun screen and a hat–preferably a straw hat with tropical flowers, plastic hamburgers, or even a game of ring toss on it.
3. Bring toilet paper. If you’re going to use the porta-johns, learn to hover. If you’re going to use the woods, you’re going to need superhuman balance by the end of the day and shorts or a skirt that aren’t too complicated. You’re probably going to pee on your shoes.
4. Speaking of shoes, wear comfortable ones. Ones that do not require superhuman balance, ones you can walk around in all day, ones you don’t really care if you trash (or give away).
5. You can’t take any alcohol into the concert. Or can you? 20-some years running, I have carried in a beer. And, one year, two oranges injected with vodka. (The gate attendant not only let me in that year, I think he had a crush on me.)
6. Don’t buy a souvenir T-shirt inside the concert. First, they’re ridiculously expensive and you’ll either forget it on the lawn or have to carry it around all night. It’s illegal to sell knock-off T-shirts in the parking lot, and security keeps an eye out. So, as you’re buying one, keep it low-key.
7. There are two ways to approach the concert: Go all out and build an attraction around your parking space. Or, travel light and go sight-seeing. Either way, get to the parking lot early. (And ignore all the warnings on the radio the day before the concert when they tell you the gates won’t open early.)
8. Lots of beer. Lots of ice.
9. The fun seats are the lawn seats. You’ll want a blanket, not so much to sit on but to mark your territory on the hill. It’s going to get crowded. Most people will be super friendly and loads of fun. However, there are about 2 people per 100 who are lightweight a-holes. They may sit behind you. Remember that puke and pee run downhill.
9b. Don’t be a lightweight a-hole.
9c. We’ll take care of you no matter what.
9d. But don’t be a lightweight a-hole.
10. Hydrate. And, if you have a friend who doesn’t hydrate and makes fun of you for doing so, don’t make too much fun of her when she gets carted off to the hospital. (Love you Nancy.)
11. You will be asked, many times, to “show us your tits.” It’s your call.
12. Bring cheap sunglasses. They will get stepped on, sat on, danced on, and probably conga-lined on.
13. Soon as you park, memorize your parking area. Write it on your arm if you have to. (Brain cells will die this day.)
14. Bring a chair and a koozie.
15. If you show up in jeans, wearing heels, sans Hawaiian accessories, carrying a purse, in a state of extreme sobriety, or worried about working the next morning, we will make fun of you all day. (Also, if you show up appropriately attired and in the right frame of mind, we will probably still make fun of you all day.)
Okay kids. The Big Day starts in about 14 hours, and I’m looking forward to it in a whole new way. You’re about to see humanity at its odd best. Get ready for a silly, whacky, very friendly, free-for-all, life-preserving break-from-reality sort of day.
If we couldn’t laugh, we would go insane.
The Winners’ Circle
Yesterday, I played volleyball for the first time in about two years.
My head was in the game. My heart was in the game. My arms and legs? Not so much. Fifty percent of my serves just barely made it over the net. The other fifty just didn’t. My jumps, or the attempt thereof, weren’t what you’d call vertical. My sets were clumpy, lacking the height and the control that, at one time, I was (I’ll admit it) kinda proud of. Oddly enough, I did actually dive a time or two—apparently due to some sorta spastic kamikaze muscle memory—but the current body is way more rock than roll.
Thud.
In short (and I’ve never felt shorter), I played badly.
Worst of all perhaps, yesterday, I walked out of my house wearing shorts to run around in the heat in front of a large group of people, some with cameras.
It should have been a heart-breaking disaster, a big ol’ mid-life bum out, the final crumbling of the little shred of ego I pretend not to cling to.
But here’s the thing.
I wasn’t stumbling around alone on that court. I was part of a team. We do not wear a uniform. We have no locker room. We have no coach or strategy. We don’t even meet at the same gym on the same day of the week anymore. But we’ve known each other a long time and remain connected by a unique mix of memories, simpatico, respect, abuse, alcohol, silliness, and true affection. You know, we’re friends.
I don’t need trophies. I don’t need prizes. I have no need for any new bragging rights beyond this: Yesterday we sat, as the playoffs continued, in the winners’ circle.
We sat in a circle of lawn chairs. Relaxed in the shade. Sharing picnic food and cold beer. We slipped out of our volleyball shoes, peeled sweaty socks, unhooked braces, and laughed our freakin’ asses off.
We used to play volleyball multiple nights a week and tournaments on the weekends. My life pretty much revolved around it. It took pretty much all of my free time and, in gear, gas, travel, fees, and entertainment, a significant portion of my income.
There is a part of me that doesn’t miss it: that’d be my right shoulder. (And the feet, knees, and back.)
But, the rest of me? Yeah. Most of me misses it. A lot.
Cheers my friends. See you next year.
Famous Last Words
Friends applaud, the comedy is finished. (Ludwig van Beethoven)
I should never have switched from Scotch to Martinis. (Humphrey Bogart)
My fun days are over. (James Dean)
Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight. (Lord Byron)
Waiting are they? Waiting are they? Well–let ’em wait. (General Ethan Allen, in response to his doctor saying, “General, I fear the angels are waiting for you.”)
I’ve had a hell of a lot of fun and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. (Errol Flynn)
Am I dying or is this my birthday? (Lady Nancy Astor, seeing all of her children gathered around her bedside)
Get my swan costume ready. (Anna Pavlov)
How were the receipts today at Madison Square Garden? (P.T, Barnum)
You can keep the things of bronze and stone and give me one man to remember me just once a year. (Damon Runyon)
This is no time to make new enemies. (Voltaire, when asked on his deathbed to forswear Satan.)
Either that wallpaper goes, or I do. (Oscar Wilde)
Some of these cannot be 100% verified of course; some are mere coincidence (something said shortly before dying as opposed to an intentional last line), and it’s possible that some were edited by a well-meaning spouse or publicist. That said, as a student of the language and a lover of quotes, clever people, and the inherent irony of Death, I am fascinated by Famous Last Words.
As a Word Person, I feel a certain amount of self-induced pressure to be eloquent in public, whether preparing a speech, fine-tuning a short story, clacking out a blog post, or, yes, even signing a Birthday card. Given a bit of time, I can usually manage to put some decent words in order. Given a few years (how about 50?) to think about it, I might be able to come up with some cool Last Words of my own.
But, here’s the thing.
Although I may manage some level of grace on the two-dimensional page, I am not so graceful in the 3D real world.
I bump into walls, furniture, people, cars, telephone poles. I fall down stairs. I slip on throw rugs on hardwood floors. I’m the one who would walk smack into a screen door (knocked it a good five feet out into the yard). There’s been a broken toe. Broken foot. Torn tendons. Chipped tooth. Skinned knees. Stoved fingers. Sprained ankles. One concussion. There are scars on my fingers from Exacto knives, kitchen knives, a broken wine glass, and one broken window. I drop things and I bang my head off stuff while picking them up.
I have tripped on a TV game show (I was four); fell like a rock from the top of monkey bars (I was 10); closed my fingers in a car door (I was 17); and, while painting cabinets, stepped off a kitchen counter into mid-air (about a year ago).
We’re talking Dick Van Dyke without the long legs, the ottoman, or the musical sound effects; Lucille Ball without the pretty dresses and high heels. Jerry Lewis without the intentionally goofy face. Time bomb ticking. Recipe for disaster. Banana peel soul. I am the proverbial bull in a china shop — on roller skates, juggling monkeys.
I am. A clutz.
And so, no matter how morbid it may be that I think about this . . . I harbor an odd (but, I think you’ll agree, not really unfounded) fear that my Last Words will be: “Oh Crap!”
Given the Opportunity, What Would You Say?
Yardwork Tips
When you buy a house, you become more than just a homeowner. You become, like it or not, in one way or another, painter, inspector, handyman, window washer, plumber, security guard, and groundskeeper.
I have been the groundskeeper at my little house for nearly 13 years. And, as I gaze out on the freshly mown lawn and the flower beds that line my driveway this summer, I thought it worth sharing a few tips hard won over the years.
- If you have a really steep hill, you can use an S-hook to attach a bull rope to raise and lower the mower (until the S-hook slips and the mower rolls away).
- If you have a really steep hill, you can go out and buy an easier to handle electric mower and cut sideways while rope-wrangling the cord.
- If you have a really steep hill, you can hire someone to cut your grass.
- Small pine trees that are dying when you move in can be revived with some careful attention and regular applications of Miracid. It really works and will greatly increase the challenge in about 13 years when you decide to cut down those big ugly pine trees.
- Beware flowering plants at hardware stores. They often come with a lot of weeds and may not be that hardy. Find a small, local nursery with a kind and friendly owner who knows her stuff. Better plants and a more enjoyable shopping experience.
- Many people get confused about this next one. The difference between perennial and annual is that all of the plants in a flat of annuals will last about one season. And perennials is spelled differently.
- Deer eat the flowers off of tulips. Additionally, deer are careful planners who will travel miles, often by bus or rail, to arrive in your neighborhood on the same day your tulips bloom.
- Miracle Gro really does work. Don’t believe me? Come sit in the shade of my dandelion trees.
- Get a decent set of gardening tools. Cheap ones bend or break. Good ones will last a long time.
- If you purchase 20 or 40 tulip bulbs, they grow better if you plant in the spring or fall—instead of leaving them in a bag in the garage until they rot. (But at least the deer don’t get them.)
- A beautiful garden and a beautiful manicure are mutually exclusive.
- There is one flowering plant that grows well at my house. Sweet peas. Sound delightful. Grow little pinkish whitish flowers on delicate tendrils . . . tendrils which grow as if in a time-lapse video and choke out every other living thing in a 2-mile radius.
- Each spring, set aside $100-200 for your garden. After the last frost, put that money in a shredder and spread it evenly among the bare, dead, brown plant beds.
When I was first house shopping, I thought about purchasing a row house in an area of town where property was cheap. (It has since become popular and kind of expensive.) I decided not to move to that area because . . . I wanted a yard.
Yeah, that’s funny.
If I had all of the money in the bank that I’ve spent on the dang yard over the years, I wouldn’t have to wait to renovate the basement. And I’d probably have enough left to get a stove with four working burners and an oven temperature control gauge that matches the oven temperature.
I have abdicated grass cutting. Part of a hedge is currently being held up by a bungee cord. The flowers are sparse this year. I do not have whatever talent or magic my grandmother had. And, there is certainly irony in me using these green-thumbless hands to type under the heading of Life Preservers.
But. Still. It is a good thing, to dig in the dirt.
What’s growing in your yard?
Say Cheese
I mentioned previously that I’ve had a camera since age 8. About five years ago, I made the big leap from 35mm to digital.
I know we are not supposed to love things. But. I loved my Olympus, like an adorable pet, like an old comfy friend, like a cherished Christmas-morn toy.
It took a lot of convincing to get me to set my beloved Olympus (and it’s wonderful zoom and macro lenses purchased over the years) aside, and it took a lot of money to get a digital camera that would give me the quality and versatility I was used to. The keys to purchasing something new were the assurances (from the camera seller at Ritz Camera) that (1) digital cameras had become capable of providing the same quality and (2) the camera I was purchasing offered a variety of lens attachments that could be purchased later.
Now, I will admit the quality is there. And of course, the ability to know you got a shot before waiting to get pix developed is fantastic. Similarly, eliminating that sickening moment of realization that the film had not caught and advanced properly is beyond awesome.
Yesterday, I decided it was time to pick up an accessory lens. I’m heading on a vacation of a lifetime soon (walking tour in Ireland). And, if that doesn’t warrant a bit of a splurge on camera accessories, I don’t know what does.
I returned to Ritz. Not the same store where I bought the camera, but the same chain. They’d be able to help, right? They’d be able to fulfill the promises they made when I purchased the camera, right?
I began by asking if there was any possibility to get an adapter to put old Olympus lenses onto a Canon. Clerk 1 says no. I ask if it’s possible to buy a digital Olympus base that would take old Olympus lenses. She said maybe but she’d need to see the lenses. (Okay, you’re a kid who doesn’t know cameras all that well, that’s fair.) I asked what lenses they had available for a Canon G5. She told me that camera won’t take any other lenses.
I explained that, when I bought the camera (at a Ritz), I was assured I’d be able to buy lenses.
Clerk 1 asked Clerk 2. Clerk 2 explained that my camera can sort of take other lenses but you need an adapter and the lenses aren’t very good and the lenses are quite expensive for the quality you’d get.
Okay, well, can I see what you have?
“No, we’re in a tiff with Canon and aren’t selling any Canon lenses right now.”
Hmm. Can you show me any of the newer cameras that WILL take additional good lenses?
Clerk 1 gestured at the display case and then looked at me expectantly. I asked her to please pick one out to show me.
So, I looked, but there was pretty much no way I could rationalize buying an entirely new camera (plus lenses). It’s not just the cost; it would feel wasteful when I’ve already got a “good” camera, y’know?
I was about to leave and had a thought: Do you have any kind of trade-in program? They do! Can you tell me the trade-in value of my G5? Well, it depends on the condition. Well, can you give me a ballpark? Um, no. Well, could you look it up? Let’s pretend it’s in mint condition, just to give me a ballpark number.
I waited 10 minutes for “the program to load.”
And, going just short of a giving me a drumroll, Clerk 1 announced . . . $36.
I laughed out loud. Yes, you could characterize the sound as a guffaw.
I bought a good camera for nearly $800. A replacement plus a lens attachment is going to cost me about $1,000. And the trade in (for the camera you sold me by telling me I’d be able to purchase a variety of lenses) is $36?
Clerk 1 did not see the humor in this. She even felt compelled to underline the fact that I’d only get $36 if the camera was in mint condition. I really did try to stifle the next laugh. She looked a bit offended, poor thing.
Boy, it seems crazy that Ritz stores are going out of business everywhere, don’t it?
So, for now, I’ll stick with what I have. I have no tiff with Canon. But I still love my Olympus more.
Are there any good camera stores left? You know, some small shop tucked away somewhere, run by some old guy who actually knows something about cameras and appreciates photography? If you know of one, please share.
Do you enjoy the go?
The other day Charmin, sellers of bathroom tissue (what us normal people call toilet paper), encouraged me to “Enjoy the go.”
When I first saw the commercial, I posted my confusement on facebook. A few people didn’t quite believe it was true. I don’t blame them. I don’t lie, but I am, on occasion, a smart-ass. Heck, if I hadn’t been able to rewind and pause live TV, I wouldn’t have believed me myself.
Enjoy the go, eh? I guess, Everybody Poops but not everybody really enjoys themselves?
Don’t know ’bout you, but I don’t generally approach a powder room door with an expectation of balloons and confetti falling from the ceiling. Not that the loo is an un-happy place but, you know, it ain’t Disney World, people.
I saw the tagline again yesterday, and, curiosity got the best of me. I googled it. And I’ve learned more about this campaign—a campaign that someone thought up and (instead of just amusing colleagues with fake mockups) shared with a client, that someone reviewed, that someone presented to the boss, that someone approved and spent a lot of money on.
Enjoy the go is part of Procter & Gamble’s “Charmin-branded bathrooms. . . . multi-channel campaign. . . . [which] includes a microsite, a mobile application, social media and charity components.”
That sentence alone is a preposterous and euphemistic gigglefest.
But there’s more.
Their bathrooms include extra, giant toilets. For “photo ops.” They do a daily blog. Yes, they publish a journal about what goes on inside their bathrooms.
Please insert your own pretend bathroom blog post here. I tried. But I just couldn’t do it without slipping to a level of humor that would only have been appreciated by my 12-year-old nephew and my cousin Denny. And a Lady always edits.
I vow to you Life Preserver readers: I will never blog from the smallest room in the house.
Last but not least, Charmin offers consumers (a word choice I would have deliberately avoided in such a promotion) the benefit of being entertained by the Charmin Go Team. No, they are not there to monitor your performance or cheer on your efforts. They are there to perform musicals.
Yes, I said musicals. Inside the bathrooms.
Now, I believe in the beauty and magic of dreams as much as the next old-fashioned starry-eyed romantic, but if you’ve packed your little bag and run off to the big city and your break finally comes and it’s doing song-and-dance in a public bathroom, it might be time to become a hooker.
Okay folks. Looks like intermission is almost over and the bottle of champagne I keep in the tank is perfectly chilled. I gotta go.
How To Make a Pie
Today, I was having over some impromptu company. Pulled pork in the crock pot and figured I’d make a quick pie using ready-made crust and canned filling. So, after I got home from a run to the grocery store, I realized . . . I forgot the crust.
Now, I am not a bad cook. But pie crust from scratch is my kitchen nemesis. I have just never been able to get it right. Yes, I considered a second trip to the grocery store, but laziness won out and I pulled out the recipe card box. I have six different recipes for pie crust. Not different pies. Just different ways to make pie crust. (You see, I have tried this before.)
This time, things appear to have turned out okay. So, I thought I’d share a how-to on pie making.
Step 1. Clear and clean some counter space in tiny kitchen and set out ingredients in neat rows (milk, flour, oil, salt, pie pan, bowl, measuring cups and spoons).
Step 2. Dig rolling pin and fancy (bought it cause I thought maybe that would help) pie-crust rolling mat out of kitchen drawer.
Step 3. Call mom to ask, “Does this recipe I got from you make 1 crust or 2?
Step 4. Mix 1-1/3 C flour and tsp. of salt in mixing bowl.
Step 5. Put 1/3 C oil and 3 Tbs. milk in measuring cup. Do not stir.
Step 6. Realize you will not have enough oil to make the second crust. Pick up measuring cup and run to neighbor’s house.
Step 7. As you leave the house, pull door shut tight behind you. As it clicks, realize that you have just locked yourself out of your house.
Step 8. Climb in through kitchen window, unlock front door, and leave house again to get oil from very kind neighbor.
Step 9. Put all the ingredients together and stir using the big fancy whisk that has the neat little whisk ball inside of it.
Step 10. Dig dough bits out of whisk. Bend outer whisk to remove stupid ball thingie and dig dough bits out of that with a fork.
Step 11. Throw fancy whisk into sink and finish mixing with hands.
Step 12. Layout fancy Tupperware rolling mat, sprinkle mat, rolling pin, self, floor, and counter top liberally with flour.
Step 13. Make more counter space in tiny kitchen so you have room to actually use a rolling pin properly.
Step 14. Roll dough out, aiming for the perfect 9” circle that is imprinted on fancy rolling mat.
Step 15. Steal chunks of amoeba-shaped dough and add to spots where there is no dough.
Step 16. Look at dough. Look at pie pan. After some thought, place pie pan upside-down on dough. Flip over entire mat. When cloud of flour clears, see that this worked just fine.
Step 17. Steal more bits of dough to Frankestein a somewhat circular, somewhat full-coverage bottom layer.
Step 18. Remove everything that you cleared from counter from out of the cupboard where you store the can opener. Open pie filling can. Dump into bottom crust.
Step 19. Make second crust, repeating most of the steps above. And crimp edges.
Step 20. Poke in some pie holes with a fork.
Step 21. Cover pie in wax paper and foil. Place on a dinner plate. And slide into refrigerator.
Step 22. Call Mom to ask, “Hey, what temp and how long do you bake a pie?” and “Oh, so I should bake it now instead of waiting til dinner time?
Step 23. Preheat over to 425 degrees and remove pie from refrigerator. Remove foil. Remove wax paper. Place pie in oven.
Step 24. Remove pie from oven and take it off of the dinner plate. Put pie back in oven.
Step 25. Bake at 425 for 15 minutes. Use that piece of foil to cover crust edges to keep them from burning. Then, bake at 350 degrees for half an hour.
Step 26. Remove from oven and place on cooling rack to cool for at least 2 hours to “let filling settle” (according to recipes.com).
Step 27. Enjoy! (I hope.)
Have any tips for making pie crust? Please do share them with me in the comments box.
Where I’d Like to Put the Snow
City sidewalks. Busy sidewalks. Dressed in holiday style.
It’s a pretty song. But, living in the city, 60 days past the playing of Christmas songs, after record-breaking snowfall, the sidewalks are not a pretty sight.
While I’m in a residential neighborhood, my ZIP code is city. And, when you pay city taxes, the sidewalks that run along the street in front of your house are your responsibility. And when your house is at a sort of intersection, the sidewalks that are your responsibility are pretty long. And when you live in the city but have to commute for more than an hour (when the roads are clear), it isn’t exactly convenient to shovel during the daylight hours. And when you get, over the course of less than a month, more than 3 feet of snow, keeping everything clear can be a challenge.
But, you do what you can. And the snow plow guys do what they can. And the City does what it can.
Let me be clear. I have had no complaints with the City to this point. While mostly everyone was complaining about their response to all this snow, I, on an occasion or two, defended them. We are all only human after all, and way-above-average snowfall followed by days and days of way-below-average temperatures, is no human’s fault.
This morning, before heading out to shovel another 4-5 inches, I sat down with a cup of coffee to watch the local news and find out how much more is expected. Because, yes, more snow is expected.
And what do I hear? The City wants everyone to know that any un-shoveled sidewalks will incur a fine.
Really?
Really?
This from the same people that did not touch my street for days and days after the initial onslaught. The same people that have left us with barely a single lane to drive on for weeks since. The same people who sign the paychecks of the snow plow drivers who dump mountains of snow on top of the mounds of snow on top of my sidewalks.
Let me note that, even if my sidewalks were clear, no citizen could even get to them without resurrecting Sir Edmund Hillary to help them reach the summit of the piles of frozen sludge the City has left sitting at either end.
Oh, this is a group of wunderkinds with some real snowballs.
And what do the “journalists” have to say about this? Those reporting this dire warning to the City’s slackers saw fit to back-up the ridiculous by giving us a man-on-the-street interview with a concerned citizen who said, “Oh, I think the threat of fines is a good thing. I mean, I’m going to The Pops tonight and I’m wearing heels and it’s very difficult to get around.”
So. Let me get this straight. The point you’re making is that I need to have clean sidewalks so that some dipshit can venture out in this weather without putting boots on?
Maybe they should have interviewed my 91-year-old neighbor, who’s husband is in the hospital and who’s only son just visited the emergency room (twice) in the past week, who is now fretting because she thinks she could be arrested for not shoveling her sidewalk. (Now, she really doesn’t have to worry. The neighbors pitch in to keep her shoveling done. And the neighbors would pitch-fork in with torches, tar, and feathers if anyone tried to harass her. But still. She heard it on the news, and she, being much sweeter than I, and therefore unlikely to even think about telling the City to kiss her ass, is fretting.)
I say, you want to scold me, you inept collection of idiots? You want to fine me, you absurd bunch of brain-dead dingleberries? Go right ahead. Fine me.
Good luck getting to my mailbox.
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
Nice Day, Isn’t It?
Late summer, early fall, Indian summer, Autumnal Equinox, ohmigawd-it’s-late-September? Call it what you will, I call it darn-near perfection.
Your favorite season and mine may not be the same. But, will you do me one favor, fair people of Earth?
Over the next several weeks, keep an eye out for co-workers, friends, and fellow human beings with a look in the eye that—if you take the time to look—bluntly and gleefully tells you, “Given half a chance, I will run from this office building to go out and play.”
You will see these people. They may be complete strangers. But one of them will turn to you, with a big ol’ grin and kite-flying eyes, and say, “Nice day, isn’t it?”
Here’s the favor. Try, please try, not to respond thusly:
“Eh, we’ll be needing snow shovels before you know it.”
“I guess, but . . .”
“Unh, but you know what’s coming.”
“Santa’s not real; you’ll never find love; and falling stars are, in actuality, flaming planets, inhabited mostly by puppies, hurtling toward certain destruction.”
Keep it to yourselves you party-pooping, parade-drenching doom-doom heads!
Yes. As a matter of fact, I do know that after autumn comes winter. I kind of mastered all four seasons a while back. (I also tie my own shoes and can draw an awesome turkey with a thumb-shaped head.)
Winter comes each year. But autumn is here now.
Grass and weed growth have slowed. Bathing suit as well as galoshes lie un-needed in the bottom of the closet. Sweatshirt weather. Rag-top days with brilliant sunlight and fabulous, numerous cumulus in startling Crayola skies. Jean jackets. Suede shoes. Campfires. S’mores. Football Sundays. Crock pot stews, crusty bread, Cabernet. Windows-open-no-furnace-needed-and-no-AC-neither sleeping weather. No humidity. Not much rain. Woodsy, ancient smells and scrunch-crunchiness and landscapes of impossible shades.
C’mon people!
It’s autumn. Gorgeous, lovely, genteel, snuggly, be-outside-without-sweating, breathe-without-your-boogars-freezing autumn.
Take a breath. Take a look. Take a moment to enjoy it.
What’s your favorite thing about autumn?
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September 22, 2010 at 1:47 am 3 comments