Posts filed under ‘Humor – Commentary’
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.
Customer Service Jumps the Shark
Today at lunchtime, I went to a sub shop touting really great sandwiches in an old-fashioned atmosphere. (In other words, not a Subway; nicer seating than a fast food place but without menus or waiters.) Standing in line at the counter to order, I spied “cheese steak” among a sparse list of choices. Now, for the past few weeks, I’ll admit I’ve had an unhealthy, totally-not-vegitarian, artery-clogging, there-is-no-way-I’m-getting-one hankering for a cheese steak.
My resistance to this point was aided by the knowledge that the cheese steak I was really craving hasn’t been made for 20-some years. What I wanted was a Delti Chi cheese steak. (And I say that with apologies to any college friends who may read this who will now also be hopelessly craving one.)
Nothing else on the list really appealed to me, so, with naughty glee, I stepped up to the counter. The conversation went something like this.
Overly Cheerful: What will you have?
Me: The cheese steak.
Overly Cheerful: What size?
Me (looking up at the various signage and thinking, if I’m going to be bad, I’ll feel better if I just get the): Small.
Overly Cheerful: What type of bread?
Me: Um, what are the options?
Not Quite As Cheerful: There’s wheat, everything, and sesame.
Me (thinking that none of those sounds like the basis for a good cheese steak): Uh…
Overly Patient: And, we have seedless. (Note: Apparently, seedless is what normal people would call a plain white hoagie roll.)
Me: Yes, I’ll have that.
Obviously Relieved: Okay.
Me: I’d like that without green peppers.
Back to Overly Cheerful: Okay.
Me: Do you have mushrooms?
She Finds This Question Very Odd: No.
Me (thinking, who the hell makes a cheese steak without the option of mushrooms but for some bizarre reason, I am bending over backwards to be very polite because of that sorta-kinda embarrassment even the most grown-up or confident human being among us feels when forced to follow some secret process that the teenagers behind the counter expect you to be familiar with): Oh, all right, no problem.
Rattling: D’ya-want-mayo-mustard-ketchup-Italian-‘r-any-dressing? D’y’want lettuce? D’y’want tomato?
Me: No. No. No.
Incredulous: You don’t want anything else?
Me (hmm, she seems so surprised, I must have forgotten something. What did I forget!?): Um, no?
Speaking Really Slowly: Sooooo, you just want onions and steak…?
Me (smiling and laughing a bit, cause, ya know, on a cheese steak, one would assume you don’t have to ask): Well, I want cheese.
Why The Hell Are You Just Telling Me This Now?: What kind of cheese?
Me: (Well, it should be provolone, shouldn’t it? Oh my gawd, the way she is looking at me? What if I get this wrong? I have the urge to yell “Mulligatawny!” It is provolone, isn’t it?): Um, whatever you normally put on a cheese steak?
Blatant Eye-rolling: We have American, Swiss, Mozarella, Provolone…
Me: Provolone, please. (omg, did I just say please? I did. I just said please.)
She mumbled something (she was standing there in person but as incomprehensible as if she were talking to me through a drive-thru speaker) and gave me a dirty look. I took that to mean that my order was complete, and I moved forward toward the cash register, too intimidated and rattled to even consider a side dish, a beverage, or a cookie.
So. It wasn’t the worst cheese steak I’ve ever had. But it certainly wasn’t worth the hassle or the 8 bucks.
I understand that restaurants think it is swell of them to let you have things your way, but it’s not like I walked in and said, “Hullo, I’d like a sandwich.” I ordered A Cheese Steak. And, I would be willing to bet that, to 99.99% of anyone who has ever ordered one, options like swiss cheese, “everything bread,” mustard, or Italian dressing do not even cross their mind.
Burgers are made for a variety of options. Same with hot dogs. But a cheese steak is a thing. It is very thinly sliced, fried meat; it’s cheese melted to that point of a moment before a solid becomes a liquid; it’s juicy enough not to require any dressing; and it’s all greasy enough to magically morph with the inside layer of the (seedless) bread.
That’s a given, isn’t it?
2000s to the Curb
A few posts back, I bemoaned the avalanche of disorganization in my life, especially in my home. I missed that feeling of being caught up or, more aptly, that feeling of feeling as if, should I want to, I could get caught up.
I would have said it’s been this way for a couple of years, max. But, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this snowball started rolling somewhere around-about the year 2000.
Now, we all have our own set of troubles and I’m not here to unload mine, but, for the sake of explanation, let me just note that the 2000s have been difficult, trying, and surprising (in the bad way). Said good-bye to some really good, significant people. I had three really really (really) bad boyfriends followed by (on the insistence of well-meaning friends who I may never forgive) the bizarro world of online dating that led me to dates with dreamboats like Psycho Businessman, Racist Dwarf, Creepy Dog Owner, and Guy With a Dent in His Head. Said good-bye to my beloved Mustang, which I miss more than the boyfriends. Got laid off (twice). Blew out my knee. A pipe broke. The roof leaked. The air conditioner died. The furnace and water heater got red-tagged due to a gas leak. Had to put my cat to sleep. My purse was stolen (twice). A van hit my house. And. I turned 40.
The past decade has been, pardon my French, a real torrentielle de merde.
Maybe I gave up. Maybe I was depressed. Maybe I was lazy. Maybe my priorities shifted. Whatever it was, I got behind on stuff. Stop. Sit. Repeat. My behinder got bigger.
And soon, instead of doing a tidy-up once a week (or even every other week), what little energy you manage to gather is spent on the development of more creative ways to hide The Junk That Doesn’t Go There because someone is at the door. You use one arm to sweep everything on your dresser into a drawer; you jam dirty laundry into a closet hoping the door doesn’t explode behind you; you put dirty dishes in the oven. You know what I mean.
(You do know what I mean, don’t you?)
This past weekend, I don’t know how or why, but I awoke early on Saturday and thought, “I should do some laundry.” Amazingly, I did not shove the thought under a couch cushion and sit on it. Instead, I put on shoes, which is a rare accomplishment in or around my house at any time of year.
I pushed on.
I cleared a path to the washer and dryer and began sorting. And laundry inevitably led me to all the places that laundry goes. And beyond. Drawers, closets, cupboards. The garbage bags piled up. Stack by stack, room by room, upstairs, downstairs, bit by bit. It got done.
By the time the playoffs started on Sunday, the summer clothes were packed away in the basement and the winter clothes were wearable. Cupboards and drawers are neat. The bills are paid. A wardrobe or two await a trip to Goodwill. A big ol’ broken chair went to the curb, and I’ve got some special things lined up to leave the garbage men for the next few weeks. The dishes in the dishwasher are dirty. The sheets on the bed are clean. I threw caution to the wind and threw away all of the single socks! And, yes, all of the Christmas decorations are back in the attic.
Now, lest you be too amazed, I should point out that the car did not get washed or driven to the grocery store. The garage remains very garage-like. And one-fourth of my basement remains overrun by misfit furniture sitting on the cracked up floor that was under the carpet I had to pull up when the basement flooded a bit in 2004.
Good-bye decade. It’s been fun, but I’m kickin’ you to the curb.
Got a dirty house secret? Wanna share?
Ah Technology
Inventions and the human imagination have enabled us to do many new and amazing things, but I think perhaps technology has jumped the shark.
I made it through college (as a writing major mind you) with a manual typewriter. Went from that, giddily, to one that typed like a player piano, to a desktop computer, to a laptop, to (if I could figure it out) a way to create and send documents on my cell phone.
My brother and sister and I grew up watching a black-and-white Zenith with about 4 channels and a National Anthem end to the programming day. Tonight I can watch a gazillion programs on a big ol’ color TV, a VCR, a DVR, a DVD, or (if I could figure it out) my cell phone.
I once had thee coolest electric-blue AM radio shaped like a donut. Later I had a gargantuan glass-fronted cabinet that stored a turntable, receiver, and my albums. Then cassette player, double cassette player, CD player, 5-disk CD player. Now it’s a recordable CD drive and itunes, plus (if I could figure it out) a way to listen to my tunes on my cell phone.
Yes, a cell phone is a huge improvement over the wall-bound rotary dial, and it has been a godsend during a couple of emergency situations—like being stranded at night with a flat tire or getting separated from my friends at a Jimmy Buffett concert. But there was a time when you never heard a phone ring in a theater, in the grocery store, or (not making this up) at a funeral. There was a time, not so very long ago, when you could actually get away from it all because the hotel didn’t have cell service or internet. There was a time when you never had to listen carefully to the options for pressing 1, 2, 3, 4, star, or pound.
Yesterday I pushed a bunch of those buttons to activate my new ATM card, and the recording told me I had to hold the line to confirm something (sounded official). And . . . ah, ohhhh . . . I had to dodge the advances of a zealous, rude, pitbull of a telemarketer—without the hang-up option—before being “approved” to have access to my own money.
I will concede that, despite a real nostalgia for gas station attendants who would saunter up to the driver’s side window and chat pleasantly, wash the windshield, put air in the tires, and check the oil, there are times when being able to pump the gas myself when rolling home on fumes at midnight has had its advantages. Today at lunchtime, before they would actually allow gasoline to flow, I had to answer 2,735 questions to (apparently) explain why I was standing in a gas station freezing my ass off while parked next to a gas pump with my gas cap off.
Technology has not made our lives easier. It has given new ideas to the Evil Bastards. And they learn faster than my middle-age brain.
In high school, I learned to type in a class that lasted an entire semester. When desktop computers were new, I attended a two-day training seminar to learn WordPerfect. These days, with absolutely no formal training, I can’t get through my day without Word, Excel, PowerPoint, Photoshop, Diskus, InDesign, iCalendar, iMovie, three different voicemail systems, three different email programs, two different IM programs, a bit of Illustrator, a CRM system, and two different web/CMS systems. And, oh yeah, the programs to manage my blog, my facebook page, and my Twitter tweets.
As technology has made it possible to accomplish more and more tasks more and more quickly, we have, quite simply, become accustomed to having more tasks on the to-do list, doing more things ourselves, providing more information, reading more manuals . . . and expanding our vocabulary to include phrases like stress headache, hyper-tension, and Why does it say paper jam when there is no paper jam?
Pick a technological advancement in your lifetime. Tell me why you love it and/or hate it.
I Was a Sentimental Child
It’s January 17, and I have yet to make the great back-breaking trek of a thousand steps, eight steps at a time, to put the boxes of Christmas decorations back into the attic. The lights; the Santas; the ornaments; the wrapping paper, tags, and ribbon; the garland; the wreath; the stockings. It is all bubble-wrapped, gum-banded, tissue-papered, de-tangled, packed in boxes, and . . . stacked up in my living room. It sits there, only about 8 feet (as the crow flies) from where it should be.
I was a sentimental child. And I could, if I chose to, make a pretty convincing argument that these boxes remain un-put-away because I hate to see Christmas go. And you’d believe me. And maybe even think it quirky or sweet. And you’d look past the pile of boxes.
However. As your eyes looked past that pile of boxes, they’d alight on the un-done laundry, the dishes piled in the sink, the un-made bed, and the precarious stack of mail, likely including soon-to-be-overdue bills.
I have online banking and I’m late when I used to write out checks and lick stamps and have every bill sent on time. I used to be organized. I used to do my nails. I used to exercise regularly. I used to polish my shoes. I used to get my oil changed every 3,000 miles. I used to wash, wax, and vacuum my car–and my house–on a weekly basis. I used to make it into work on time with makeup on, my hair done, and a good cup of coffee in hand. I used to have a calendar. I used to keep track of people’s Birthdays. Hell, I used to iron! I used to feel, at least on an occasional basis, caught up.
I tell you true, there was a time when I was a Type-A person, but my average slipped to a B sometime in the ’90s. And I would guess that someone somewhere is about to mail my Mom a note telling her I’m failing Adulthood.
It’s Sunday night. The cupboard is bare, and dinner isn’t made. While writing this, I realized I have already missed three 2010 Birthdays. And it’s garbage night.
It’s January 17, and my Christmas decorations aren’t put away. I guess I’m just way too sentimental.
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?
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July 15, 2010 at 9:31 am 3 comments