Wish I Had a Camera in My Head
I wish I had a camera in my head.
No, I don’t mean a photographic memory. I mean a camera. In my head. Lens (with zoom) in the middle of my forehead and wires and stuff all connected so that I just had to hard-blink or push a button embedded in my thumb or carol-burnett my ear lobe to capture images.
I have stated this wish for years and I don’t think it’s completely insane to think that, someday, probably, the technology will exist. And somebody better be willing to push my wheel chair to the hospital if it happens in my lifetime.
I have been fascinated with photography since my gramma and grampap gifted me my very first camera (black inset with faux wood paneling) at age 8. I’m on my sixth, somewhat sleeker camera now, and through the years have developed a bit of an eye (or enough dumb luck) to capture some good shots every now and then.
The problem is, I “see” pictures all over the place. And pretty often, I don’t have the camera handy or I don’t have hands free to click. Like tonight, for instance, as I was leaving the office.
As I sat at the end of the office driveway, waiting to pull out, I noticed the stopped car. A rare sight at 5:00. With cars spilling out of every driveway in the office park and everybody going 50 in the 35 zone. Yes, there was a lot of honking, but not, as you might guess, from the other cars lining up behind the stopped one.
Next to that car, above the high curb, on the lovely grass lawn, stood a mama goose, a papa goose, and four goslings. Below the curb, on the road, waddled gosling number five. The little guy’s family was honking like mad. He was walking fast but, you know, fast is relative when you’re about 4 inches high with really teenie feet at the bottom of some stubby new legs. There was no end to the curb in sight and his nubby wings weren’t ready to fly.
Kudos to the driver who managed to see a little goose. Thanks for stopping. And God bless you for your extreme patience. We waited. We sat and watched.
Then mama goose gave a big wild honk and kind of flapped her wings. I don’t know if it was a maternal freak-out or a very timely lesson, but suddenly the little guy kind of lifted his nub-wings and hopped and somehow crested the curb to join his family.
Traffic got moving. And I imagine those other drivers were grinning from ear to ear. And perhaps swallowing a wee lump in the throat.
I wonder if any of them wished they had a camera in their head?
Would you get one? If the technology existed?
Yes!
About three weeks ago, I was sitting on an airplane with my work laptop. Never used the computer on a plane before; have always been more of a book person when flying. But, it was going to be a long flight, and I wanted some variety. So, I turned on the work-Mac, slipped in my ear phones, and sat back to enjoy some music.
But then the music stopped, and the screen went blank as the computer turned itself off. I turned it back on and got one of those international no symbols, with the circle and the slash?
Now, those of you who know me know I am a bit technology-challenged. You likely will not be surprised by the following confession.
I thought this meant I could not use the computer on the airplane. Not as in “you don’t have permission” but as in “we’re too far from earth or some setting is searching for something and can’t find it up here in the clouds.”
Those of you who are not technology-challenged know exactly what horror that symbol announced. But, for the sake of those like me, I’ll explain. The circle stands for “O crap!” and the slash is representative of the sound “pfft.”
My hard drive was gone.
I lost a lot of stuff. Including:
- About a thousand or so family photos, slides, and movies that I spent about 6 months gathering and digitizing last year. Had been meaning to get those onto a DVD . . . and the road to hell is now paved with my baby pictures.
- Every setting, add-on, preference, bookmarked web page, etc.
- A few work files. (Computer gods be praised, I had done a backup not too long ago.)
- All of my itunes, about 180 purchases and about 10 hours of uploaded (or is it downloaded?) CDs.
I thought my tunes would still be accessible because I had itunes (with the same login) on my home pc.
O crap!
I thought, well, they’ll be on my work backup server.
And pfft!
I figured, well, these were purchased electronically, and the company will replace them. Uh . . . not according to their Help page.
The Official Policy is, basically, “Tough beans you should have done a backup you moron.”
To my credit, I have done itunes backups previously, when leaving a job or changing computers. But . . . it’s been a while.
Well, after trying the click-here-ho-ho-try-this-ha!-how-bout-here?-omg-snicker-she’s-still-trying!-heh-heh snipe hunt for over an hour, I figured that was it. But decided it couldn’t hurt to send a note to someone.
I snagged the next Contact-Us email address I found (which was completely unrelated to my question) and sent a plea. I got one of those immediate emails that say things like “We got your question! And we’ll get back to you,” which younger, less cynical types might feel pleased or even hopeful about.
But I am in my mid(ahem)-forties. It’s been quite a long time since Hope swung it’s little hobo stick over a shoulder, flipped me off, and strolled out the door.
But.
Get this.
I heard back from Apple the very next day. Got a very friendly, very helpful note from a customer service rep (who seemed to be a real person) that demonstrated empathy for the problem, provided easy-to-understand instructions, and granted me a one-time deal of replacing all of the music purchases I had lost. FOR FREE. Couple of clicks and it was all downloading.
I am still a bit astounded.
In this day and age when overworked-ness or over-lawyered-ness or budget cuts or just plain bad manners have amped up the Useless Jagoff Meter in nearly every aspect of so-called service, there is a company—that already has my money—that helped me? Even though their Policy says otherwise? And they did it for free, without secretly adding an automatic deduction from my checking account somewhere deep in the fine print? And they were nice about it?
This my friends is what I call the international symbol for yes:
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.
Thanks Mom
What is it about these curlers?
They look funny and they never hold all the hair you want them to. They sometimes even hurt a bit and they are surely an awkward item to store, but, I admit here to you today that I love my curlers. I don’t use them very often. On a normal day, I barely have time to camouflage a cowlick with the curling iron or a strategically placed barrette.
But. Every once in a while, when I have all the time in the world, I put the curlers in. And I get such a big kick out of them. I walk around. I jiggle my head. I look in the mirror and I giggle.
Today, with a jiggle and a giggle, I pondered this odd thrill. And I found myself back in time.
I am sitting in the kitchen at 312 Pennsylvania with my Mom and my sister. Curlers and pin curls in my hair. A great big balloon of a hat, puffing heat and slipping down my forehead. That balloon-hat of course was part of an old-fashioned hair dryer. For those who have only grown up with the hand-held variety, picture an over-sized shower cap made of vinyl. And picture a big tube connected to that cap, connected to a box-contraption with buttons, connected to an electrical cord, plugged into the wall. And imagine sitting, connected to all this for half an hour or longer.
Sounds awful doesn’t it? So why oh why does the memory make me smile?
Because it is something uniquely girlish – or, more specifically, uniquely mother-daugther-rite-of-passage-ish.
It belongs to a collection of moments in life when you discover the things that are (feminists be damned) distinctly female. How to bake a batch of cookies. How to set the table. How to iron, do laundry, sew on a button. Can you remember when these things were not chores? When they were exciting and new and, yes, fun.
Better yet think of the moments when your Mom let you go through her jewelry, revealing hidden treasures in velvet cases, little pouches, old boxes. Beads and gems and sparkly items. This was my mother’s. This was a gift from your Dad when we were dating. Go ahead, you can try it on.
Entrance to the inner sanctum!
Didn’t every girl, at some point in time, fall in love—and, yes, covet!—her mother’s Pretty Things? My Mom had a pair of patent-leather, ankle-high, kitten-heel boots that, to this day, I think were the most smashing pair of shoes I have ever seen.
There was a kind of magical osmosis that occurred when you witnessed her excitement when getting dressed up. In a pretty dress, wearing the special jewelry, and a bit of makeup. This was not everyday Mom who made you clean your room, stand in the corner, and finish your dinner. To trail after her as she got ready and then watch her put on her good coat and go out the front door with Dad with a big smile on her face, looking even more beautiful than ever. These were real-life Cinderella moments.
That is why, I believe, we women still, years and years and years removed from those front-door moments, get a little inexplicably giddy about things like the perfect shade of lipstick, a pretty perfume bottle, a sexy dress, a new pair of shoes. And yes, even curlers.
Curlers look silly and feel weird, but they also look and feel like a treat because they remind me of having my Mom do my hair; of being allowed to use Her Things; of feeling loved, pampered, and joyfully girlie.
That joy is not, as some may see it—or as today’s advertising and movies may portray it—a symbol of vanity or veneer. I believe these things are symbols of something to be cherished. Pretty Things are a connection to the child we were and the women we adore. Amidst the run-down monotony of work and responsibility, we remember fairy tales. Despite a few extra pounds, gray hairs, or worry lines, we may yet carry a few secret bits and baubles that reveal our true identity, our inner princess.
So, I may be spending a rainy Sunday, wearing sweats and ratty slippers, doing laundry, scooping cat pooh, and putting out the garbage, but my hair looks fabulous.
What’s one of your favorite items from your Mom’s closet, jewelry box, or dress-up routine?
Cheers to the Girls
This post is for a particular group of girlfriends who are life preservers cut from the highest quality cloth that you could ever find (in the irregulars bin).
On the way into work today, I heard a new song by Martin Sexton, Livin’ the Life. He asks:
Are you livin’ the life that you’ve always dreamed of?
Giving your time to the ones who make you smile?
And, although the first line had me thinking “Oh, no . . . ,” the second brought me back with a “Hell yeah.”
This past Saturday night I enjoyed a night out with a group of women who’ve been making me smile for a lot of years. We’ve known each other our entire adult lives, which is between 20 and 30 years depending on who met who at which point in time (and depending of course on how you define adult). But, however you figure it, we’ve been friends a long time.
They are my confidantes and co-conspirators. They’ve been my concert buddies since before there was a StarLake. We have been teammates—the (original and only true) Ms. Fits—cheering as champions, empathizing as losers, or, way more often than either of those, laughing our collective butts off at something-other-than-win-or-lose. (Like that tournament when we spent the three- or four-hour delay between pool play and the championship drinking beer and a bit of schnapps.)
Yeah. We lost. But we were entertaining.
In addition to Ms. Fits, we’ve called ourselves Pikers, Mustang Sisters, and, more recently, the Mutant Middle-Age Ninja Toilet-Paperers. We’ve driven each other’s cars. We’ve slept on each other’s couches. We have painted each other’s houses (and one garage). We sit on the bride’s side. And then go after the bouquet wearing baseball gloves. We’ve watched the Civic Arena roof open up. We’ve watched the Candle Glo close down. We’ve spent many a fine night talking (and a hilarious couple of hours hiding) on each other’s porches. These ladies make it okay to be yourself, whether yourself is happy, sad, successful, poor, dressed up, dressed down, good hair day, bad hair day, half-naked, drunk, smart, stupid, or just an a-hole. We have enjoyed infamous vacations and crazy long weekends. Couple of us even lived together for a bit in a lovely (ahem) duplex down in Sharpsburg. We’ve skied, played, dined, and stayed. We’ve been campfire dancing, inter-tubing, skinny-dipping, moon-bathing, conga-lining, bowling, and practical joking for years. And all of it in (mostly) good (mostly) clean (mostly) legal fun.
I never laugh as hard as when I am with these chicks. These are humans in the rarest of categories who have a tremendous capacity to laugh-with but who may (and do) laugh-at with immunity. If we’re together, for twenty minutes or eight hours, there is a constant whir of giggling, tittering, chuckling, cackling, squealing, guffawing, belly laughing—and, yes, the occasional buck-snort, which only starts us laughing all over again. It’s the kind of hilarity when you can barely catch your breath before the next zinger, one-liner, or remember-when has you gasping. Going out with this group is like going to a very small comedy club to see headliners with great comedic timing and superb material.
The material comes from a distinct familiarity, a simpatico, a frame of reference constructed over years and years and years of shared experiences. And through that history, we gained the other key to friendship: Trust. They trust me around their children. I trust them to guard a port-a-john door. I trust them with my purse (even tho I know they’ll fill it up with sugar packets or silverware). I trust them to watch my beer (even tho I know they’ll pass it around and drink it all before I return). We know each other’s secrets. We walk in without knocking. I would trust them with a pin number, a winning lottery ticket, or a date. Whether we cross paths daily or annually, I trust they’ll be there when needed.
Yeah, maybe this is not the life I always dreamed of, but it’s been a life that’s brought me life-long friendships. And if laughter truly is the best medicine, that’ll be long enough to raise some hell and a few eyebrows at the old folks home.
(Oh, and when the time comes, I’m trusting you guys with some of my ashes.)
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?
Grilled Cheese Wisdom
From Hamlet’s soliloquy about what ’tis nobler to a cry for “Serenity now!” there are many many quotations and inspiring thoughts that we all recognize. Nursery rhymes, parables, fables, and ancient text to teach that it is bad to cry wolf; it is dangerous to swim immediately after eating; it is good to try, try again; and lefty-loosey-righty-tighty.
In addition to this collective knowledge, we each (I believe) have our own repertoire of quotable quotes, personal mantras, words that the original speaker may not even remember but that had great impact. For example.
“Don’t let a grilled cheese sandwich get the best of you.”
I was working as a waitress in a diner. My first job. And, on this particular day, making a forced transition from handing out food to actually making it.
It was a very stressful day. Short staffed with lots of orders and me attempting to do stuff I had never done before. Now, I’m not saying I had never cooked anything, but there is a dramatic difference between slipping an egg into a cute little pan on a kitchen stove and cracking one open on a 6×4-foot piece of flat angry sizzlin’ metal. And there is a dramatic difference between slapping together a grilled cheese at home for yourself and cooking one on above-mentioned monster grill while the person who is going to pay for what you’re concocting is sitting about 3 feet away, watching your every move.
On a big hot diner grill? Cheese really melts good. And the bread tho crisp is greasy. And you try plating and slicing one of those gooey sliding things (using a knife that would stop Crocodile Dundee in his tracks) (in front of an audience) without making a big mess. Each time I tentatively placed the knife edge on the bread, before I’d even begun to cut, things started to shift, slide, ooze.
Customer waiting, other orders piling up. My big chance for advancement. I was flubbing it. I got frustrated. I got nervous. I didn’t know what to do!
And.
Suddenly.
She was right there. The waitress and cook in charge, loved by all customers, my boss, about 30 years my senior. It was Mean Mary Jean. One of the finest mentors I have ever known.
She stepped up, took the knife from my hand, and zip-zap: perfect diagonal. As she performed this miraculous demonstration, she said, with kindness and humor and modest wisdom, “Kiddo, don’t let a grilled cheese sandwich get the best of you!”
It’s not in Bartlett’s. It cannot be searched for on thinkexist.com. It will never be carved in marble on a monument. But it is profound.
- Sometimes, the solution to a problem is to just go at it with confidence.
- The answer you seek might just happen to be very, very simple.
- When you consider what is actually evil and scary in the world and when you consider people who have real challenges in life, it is pretty damn preposterous to let something as mundane as a grilled cheese sandwich frazzle your self-esteem.
- I am stronger and smarter than a sandwich.
Although that epiphany came nearly 30 years ago, it has not lost any of its power. These days, on the job, the tough tasks are a bit more complicated, the consequences affect more people, the cost of failure is a bit higher than $2.95, and a quick cut with a sharp knife is rarely the answer, but, when I face the impossible, when that horrid hairy beastie Fear hooks in a paralyzing talon, when I think “I can’t!” . . . well, in those moments, I hear her voice clearly, chuckle and all. And I marvel at the persistence of silliness. And I shake my head at my slip. And I slice that beastie like a grilled cheese sandwich.
Cheers to Mean Mary Jean (who was not so very mean at all).
Please share your favorite unique line of unconventional wisdom in the comments box.
How to Survive a Blizzard
Been off-line for a bit with no power due to the greatest amount of snow I’ve ever seen while living somewhere that shoveling it was my responsibility. I measured 21 inches on Saturday and have gotten another 5-7 between last night and today. (And it is still snowing.)
I was without power at my house for nearly 80 hours. No lights. No internet. No land-line phone. No stove. No furnace. And, for the first 48 hours or so, no way to leave the neighborhood without a much better pair of boots than those I own.
Am I glad it’s over? Hell yeah. But, it was, as these things often are, not an all-bad adventure and it was, as these things can always be, a learning experience. Here is some stuff I’ve learned.
1. Putting groceries out on the porch is a great idea because food that is ruined because it has frozen does not smell as bad as food that rots inside a refrigerator.
2. Chivas Regal snow cone? Not bad. Not bad at all.
3. In the early 70s, Panasonic made some kick-ass radios. A few posts back, I mentioned that I once had a very cool electric-blue radio shaped like a donut. Well, turns out, that very item was still in a box in the attic. I put in a battery and voi-de-la, after 30 years of non-use, it still worked. (And that is how I got to listen to Super Bowl 44.)
4. My thermostat only goes down to 45 degrees. Beyond that, who knows?
5. If you can see your own breath in your home, you need to be concerned about freezing pipes and . . . makes sense but who knew?. . . freezing toilet bowls and tanks. If turning the water off at the main and leaving immediately for Key West isn’t an option, the thing to do is leave the lowest faucet in the house running at a trickle and add a bit of anti-freeze to toilets and drains.
6. Shoveling snow is a good way to get warm. And, if it is cold enough in your house, even old, out-of-shape muscles do not ache from even the most extreme bouts of shoveling.
7. A well-timed cup of hot coffee can save a life.
8. When bad circumstances arise, people are pretty darn swell. They smile. They wave. They knock on doors. They lend a hand. They invite you in. They help each other shovel it out and laugh it off.
9. When bad circumstances arise, people are pretty damn stupid—like the lady who wouldn’t get out of the street, despite there being a good 10 feet of shoveled space right in front of her and despite the very icy conditions that make it impossible to completely, reliably control a vehicle and despite my very polite, genuinely concerned, and sincerely friendly pre-flight waving and honking before attempting my one and only slip-swerving, white-knuckled, come-on-baby shot to get up hill 1 of 3 to reach Home. Had I not managed to slide by within inches of her motionless, stubborn, hand-on-hip stare, I could have gladly used her fat ass for traction.
10. You can make an almost passable cup of tea with hot tap water.
11. Forget stocking up on T.P. and bread. Stock up on unread books!
12. If you place a lot of candles on cookie sheets lined with tin foil and fashion also a tin foil back drop of sorts, you can generate a bit of heat, do a crossword puzzle without squinting, and throw enough light that a neighbor will call to see if you somehow got your power back on.
13. Mini marts and Rite-Aids do not sell tonic water.
14. If you get dressed in the dark it is impossible to tell if your socks match.
15. You can survive without heat. You can survive without lights. You can survive on a strange variety of foodstuffs. You can survive without internet, facebook, and email. But you cannot survive without family and friends.
Thanks to those who noticed the absence. Thanks to those who tolerated the babbling when I did make contact. Thanks to all who offered help, concern, understanding, and cheer. The cockles of my heart never even caught a chill.
What did you learn in the blizzard of 2010?
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 
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.
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April 22, 2010 at 11:51 am 3 comments