Posts filed under ‘Humor – Commentary’
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.
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 
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?
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February 22, 2010 at 4:21 pm 6 comments