The Flat Tire
When you’re in your 40s, your metabolism slows, your hearing goes, knees ache, your back goes out more than you do, disappointments can fill a pretty big trunk, and “hangovers hurt more than they used to.” But. There are certain benefits.
For example, my 20-something-year-old ear could never have recognized the creaky-rubby-subtly strange sound that a flat tire makes. As I backed out of the garage today, I knew without looking. But I looked. Yep, that slow leak I have been nursing since June turned into a fast leak overnight.
Completely. Utterly. Pancakely. Flat.
Annoying, yes. But, I was able to do a quick forage through my garage to find an industrial-strength extension cord and an air compressor. I had none of those things in my 20s—including the garage.
Again, in my 20s, I would have thought, “Eh, I’m taking it in to get inspected tomorrow, might as well just put in some air and head to the mall to go clothes shopping as planned.” But you know and I know, I would have ended up stranded, either in the mall parking lot or, worse, on the way to work in the morning. (I already need to be three places at once at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. Sitting on the side of the road waiting for a tow truck isn’t one of them.)
So, it’s Sunday. My only choice? Pep Boys.
I’ve gone there before. I know it doesn’t have the best reputation for car work, and I know it’s the expensive choice. But, it’s Sunday and, yeah, I do know better than to procrastinate on this, so I dropped off the car and walked to the mall from there.
Tangent. As I walked, I thought, “Huh, I just gave my car to a total stranger who didn’t give me a receipt of any kind. I mean, you get a sticker for your luggage, you get a little pink itemized list from the dry cleaner, you even get a little ticket if you check a hat. But. I just gave some kid, who is way too young to have his own garage or an ear for flat rubber, my car. Along with my keys, my address, and my garage door opener. Huh.”
Anyhoo, about an hour later, I walked back into Pep Boys. Had to wait in line behind a guy who was well into a not-so-happy discussion (with the kid who had taken my keys) about the work they’d done on his car.
Not boding well.
About 10 minutes further into that discussion, another employee stepped up to the register to help. I told him what kind of car. He tap-tap-tapped on a keyboard and shook his head. I gave him my name. Tap-tap-tap. Again, nothing. He said, “You got an oil change, right?” I explained no, a tire repair. Tap-tap-tap. Nope. I said, haltingly, “It’s not where I parked it? So? I assume? It’s done?” Uh-oh.
But, then, he turned away from the computer, took a look around, and voila, came up with my keys. (Well, you know, I didn’t really think they’d gone joy-riding or had sent someone to ransack my house, but, still, I was a wee bit relieved.) He handed the keys to me along with an envelope and said, “Okay, you’re all set.”
I don’t know a lot about fixing cars but I have had years of experiences that have taught me the chances of fiasco, the multiplying frustrations of a lemon, and the potential for rude, often chauvenistic, frequently duplicitous, snickering-snarling gremlin antics of the average unknown grease monkey. I stood there, credit card in hand, arm extended, and he was turning to the next person in line. And I didn’t know what to think.
“Uh, excuse me, but, I haven’t paid yet.”
“Nope. You’re all set.”
Arm still extended. Brain scrambling. Vocabulary stunted.“But . . . Wha-? Huh? ”
Apparently other-kid had proactively finagled some paperwork in my absence and signed me up for some kind of rewards program, which made me eligible to get the work done for free. He did what? The program is huh? The repair was free?
Free? Really? You’re sure? I can, just, uh, go? Really? (I still don’t understand it, but, yes, really.)
And I thought finding pants that fit in under an hour was the most amazing part of my day.
Pleasant surprises are like a mini life preserver. Had any of your own recently?
Dear Nancy Pelosi,
Dear Nancy Pelosi.
I oppose the Mosque. Let me help you investigate me.
I am a proud member of the human race who remembers the brutal heartbreak of September 11.
I am a candid person who isn’t afraid to state aloud that Muslim Extremists are an enemy to America and all that we stand for as a county and an affront to every person who lived and died in defense of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.
I am proud. I am not embarrassed to be an American. I appreciate my home, my job, my right to vote. I think the United States of America is the bee’s knees. I love this country.
I am not an idiot. I am aware that there are well-meaning and good-hearted Muslims in the world and in our country. (Uh, duh.) I am quite capable of comprehending that not not all Muslims practice their religion/way of life in the same way as those who infiltrated our country, abused our freedoms to gain homes and employment–and to learn how to fly airplanes. I have also managed to wrap my brain around the reality that a group of people—who would, if they could, worship at such a mosque—conceived (and celebrated!) a violent and horrible attack on thousands of innocent civilians.
Yes, I am intelligent enough to realize there is a lot of gray among the black and white in the world. But I am not so void of morality to know that there are still some things in this world that are black and white.
I am a well-mannered person who was raised on right and wrong, who was taught compassion and empathy, who knows that there are consequences to my actions and choices, who is cognizant of the effect my actions have on others.
The issue is not political. It is not financial. It is not legal. It is not about religious freedom. It is not about who’s going to win in November.
This is about common decency.
Would we put a military museum next to where the bomb hit in Hiroshima? Erect a Nazi shrine in the middle of Arlington? How about we put this mosque near that scarred wall of the Pentagon?
Forget political correctness. Grow a spine.
If the Mosque builders truly cared about building bridges and making amends—as they claim—why take this on when nearly 70 percent of the people on the other side of that bridge don’t want it? The guy leading the project talks about it one way in front of Americans and another way in front of Muslims. (Hello? You can’t be that naive, can you?) He feigns indignation, saying he began this project by inquiring how people would feel about it, as if, just asking gives you the right to do anything you want—even if the answer you get is obviously, overwhelmingly, a resounding, appalled “No!”
Perhaps. Perhaps, cultural differences make it difficult for you to comprehend how offensive this is. But, you’re in America. You want to be part of it. Try understanding it and adapting to it even one-tenth as much as Americans try to understand and adapt to your way of life.
Ms. Pelosi, your investigation about me would also reveal that I am not a sheep. I don’t care if, to further your own agenda, you call me names or twist my words and deeds. I know what is in my heart.
I know right from wrong. Beneath the ridiculous charade of politics, in a straight line through your maneuverings, more valuable than the millions of dollars changing hands, behind the thick layers of lies (and makeup), the question of whether or not to build a Muslim shrine so near Ground Zero has a very simple answer.
That is my opinion. As an American, I can state this opinion. As an American, I can spend my money to protest. (Might as well spend it on something before all those new taxes that your buddy said my tax bracket wouldn’t see go into effect.) As an American, it is my right to rant a bit on a blog to ease the pain of knowing that such a ridiculous person as yourself holds a place of power in the country I love.
Perhaps, while launching an investigation (on the tax-payers’ dime) into the decent people who oppose this Mosque, you should investigate a little thing called the First Amendment.
God Bless America. In God we trust. E pluribus unum. You bitch.
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?
Lawnchair!
Back to the real world and slowly getting sucked back into the technology in my life after an I-hope-it’s-not-but-very-well-may-be-a-once-in-a-lifetime trip to Ireland.
I was on a 10-day hiking tour from Bray to Dingle (REI Adventures’ “Ireland Coast to Coast,”) and got to share every experience (and, once again, a room) with my original playmate, my sister.
Hard to put all that we did and saw into a readably short blog post. To start, a look at our typical day.
7:00: Alarm goes off.
7:30: Big ol’ breakfast at the B&B. Although I never attempted “The Full Irish” (which includes fruit, cereal, eggs, potato, toast, bacon, ham, and sausage), we ate well.
8:00: On the road.
9:00-5:00: Hiking and/or sightseeing.
Toughest day: 10 miles in Glendalough, which means Glen of Two Lakes. Photo 1: Lake #2 and a view of the mountain we were about to climb. Photo 2: Taken from the middle of the hike, looking back down at the same lake from about 1600 feet up.
Photo 1: Beginning of Glendalough hike.
Photo 4: Ornamental cottage near Cahir Castle. (Where the rich folks used to go, to “play peasant” for the day.)
7:00: Dinner then pub. Live music and a pint of Guinness, Smithwick’s, or (my favorite new beverage discovery) Bulmer’s Irish Cider.
Note: Cheers in Irish is “Slainte!” (slawn’ chə). Our guide told us to think “lawnchair” to help us remember the pronunciation.
For two weeks, I didn’t use a phone or a computer. I didn’t check email. I didn’t make a peep on facebook. For two weeks, I got away from It All to wander in countryside so beautiful that even a 360-degree camera wouldn’t have done it justice (but I snapped off 537 photos without realizing until I got home and sat astounded during the downloading) and so deeply peaceful that even quaint little Ennis (our last stop near the Shannon airport) was physically and emotionally jarring in comparison.
Home again and (mostly) readjusted to work, time zone, noise, and, now, all of my technological connections, it is at moments of rush and routine difficult to grasp that I was actually there but grin-inducing to know that I have, indeed, checked A Dream off the list. (And, despite nearly a lifetime of anticipation and the bold, Fate-flaunting risk of daring to allow expectations to rise higher than mountain peaks, it did not disappoint.)
Fair warning: As I sort through the memories, there may be more blog posts to come of this.
Where would you like to go, for the first time or back again?
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.
The Best Mom in the World
Here is a very short list of wonderful Mom things.
1. My mom packed our lunches every day for school. And she’d leave little notes on the napkin.
2. When we were kids, she would make us (well, me and my sister only) a special Christmas dress every year.
3. Sit down family dinner–every night.
4. Georgie Girl and Galway Bay and a gazillion other piano tunes. She’d play. I’d sit beside her and sing along.
5. She tucked us in at night: prayers, a story, and a kiss with a “Sweet dreams” or “Off to Lily White’s party” or “Shuffle off to Buffalo” or “Don’t let the bed bugs bite!”
6. She taught me how to cook, clean, sew, and iron. Not that the student has gone on to do great things, but I can handle that stuff when I need to thanks to her.
7. Her presentation of “the birds and the bees” was straightforward and loving. (And extra points for poise because it began one quiet day while we were merrily making a puzzle in the living room, and I blurted out, “Hey Mom, what does f— mean?”) (And I didn’t use the dashes that time.)
8. She taught me to walk, to talk, to wipe my bottom, to eat my veggies, to draw, to write my name, to hit a softball, to play volleyball, to put on eye shadow, to pick out a fancy dress, to waltz, to play Perquackey, to drive a car.
9. She taught me the joy to be found in simple things and the fun to be had spur of the moment.
10. She taught us to be honest and fair. And to take responsibility for our actions.
11. She taught us to be resilient, grounded non-wimps—but she also had a great big shoulder, an understanding heart, and unquestionable love when the tragedies of childhood broke me.
12. She is still there for me.
I could go on for days with examples and memories, but I need to stop now to prepare the house and plan a meal for Mother’s Day tomorrow.
(How she did this sort of thing on a daily basis, I will never know.)
One day doesn’t seem anywhere near a fair trade for the most giving person I know. All I can say is that I am grateful. And I know I am blessed. And I know, in at least one thing in life, I am the luckiest person in the world.
Happy Mother’s Day to my very first and most significant life preserver.
What makes your mom the Best Mom in the World?
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 
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?
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September 4, 2010 at 3:35 am Leave a comment