I’ve got several irons in the fire. How do I know when they’re done? And how do I get them out? And why did I think this was a good idea?
Life was much simpler when all I had to worry about was my pot calling my kettle black.
Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category
There’s More to Life Than a Little Dust and Disorder
In Humor on February 26, 2013 at 9:48 pmToday, I got a burst of energy and pulled out the vacuum cleaner. “You know,” I said to my husband and son, who were watching TV, “I used to be an amazing housekeeper.”
“And I used to be 150 pounds,” my husband responded without looking up. My son did look up, quickly, to see my reaction. When I laughed, he returned his attention to the show.
“I don’t remember your ever being 150 pounds,” I said.
“That’s my point,” he answered, with a smile.
I tried to figure out what he meant. Did he mean that it had been a long time since I was a good housekeeper, or that he never remembers my being one? Either way, it didn’t look good for me.
But my husband didn’t seem to mind the chaos raging around him, so why should I? I shouldn’t, I decided, as I put away the vacuum and joined them around the flat screen.
Union Label
In Humor on February 20, 2013 at 11:12 amI dreamt that all of my problems would be solved if I joined a union. My dreams didn’t specify which union, so I guess I’ll have to join them all.
Lysol and Holy Water
In Humor on February 16, 2013 at 12:28 amI know it’s not popular to believe in evil spirits, but I do. I just think it’s strange that, back in Jesus’ day, he and his apostles spent a good amount of time casting out evil spirits. Once the demon spirits were expelled, the cured people were good as new.
So, why would evil spirits just suddenly go away? In my opinion, they didn’t. They just went out of fashion. When society stopped believing in them, they didn’t close up shop. They were busier than ever but, once they became passé, they were able to operate under the radar, ignored and blameless. Now, when people were evil or acted crazy, they were labeled as “unstable”—instead of as “possessed.” I imagine that when the demons were given their free pass, they had a hell of a party.
This all relates, of course, to my recent outing on eBay. All winter long, I had been looking for a nice pair of black leather riding boots with a small stacked heel. Because I only shop at Marshalls and TJ Maxx—along with the rest of humanity—pickings were scarce. Either the heels were sky-high or the prices were, which was surprising considering where I was shopping.
By February, I still didn’t have a pair of black boots, so I decided to risk catching plantar warts and buy a gently used pair on eBay. I figured my chances of contracting warts were slim if I sprayed the inside of the boots with Lysol. Anyway, I found the boots I was looking for, won the bidding war, and paid considerably less (including shipping) than I would have at my usual hunting grounds. Once I paid for them, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to take a look at handbags.
Four successful auctions later, I was the proud owner of one new evening bag and three previously owned leather purses. I got excellent deals on the bags (including shipping); however, I still wasn’t shocked at my husband’s vehement (read “loud”) request that I “get off eBay right now.”
I always confess everything to my husband. Even if I plan in advance to go overboard with whatever I’m doing, I also know that I’m going to tell him what I did, to relieve my guilt. Knowing about my future confession keeps me in check. Kind of.
I told one of my sisters about my purchases and she said, “Ewwww. How can you wear boots, or carry a bag that was owned by someone else?”
“I’m going to wipe down the boots and bags with Lysol wipes and spray their insides with Lysol spray. They’ll be germ-free once I’m done,” I said.
“But they could have bad juju,” she said.
“Juju”? I asked.
“You know, evil spirits or bad auras, or something.”
“Huh,” I said. That was a new one. “Well then, once I clean them, I’ll sprinkle everything, inside and out, with holy water.”
“That might work,” she said. “Hey!” she added, “I think you just invented the next generation of cleaners—ones that get rid of germs and bad juju.”
“Wow,” I said. “You might be right. But, we’ll need to find a new word for juju.”
“Why?” she asked. “Nobody believes in evil spirits, but juju is a commonly accepted thing.”
I can’t help but wonder what kind of people she hangs out with.
A Cure for Forgetfulness
In Humor on February 11, 2013 at 6:50 pmMy new slippers have Memory Foam. Now, when I go into a room to get something, my slippers will remember what I wanted.
A Really Crummy Day
In Driving, Humor on February 2, 2013 at 7:30 pm“I’m dying,” I thought. “Every bone in my body is in agonizing pain. I must have bone cancer.” This was going through my head while I slept last night. I think I remember kneeling up on my mattress and doing yoga to relieve the pain. I could have dreamed that I assumed the child’s pose to stretch out my back, though. I suppose I’ll never know. If I did, I don’t think it did much for the pain, because I recall that, after doing it, or dreaming that I was doing it, my spine and all of the radiating bones were still on fire.
I also had a very sick stomach. I had gone to bed at 4 p.m. because of my stomach distress. I didn’t wake up for 19 hours, except to assume the child’s pose, if I did, and scare the wits out of my husband. I’m fairly certain that I picked up the stomach bug at the house where I babysit young children. They all had it on Wednesday and I got it on Friday; a two-day incubation period sounds reasonable. While the mother of the children assured me that she had wiped down the entire house with Lysol, she didn’t count on my kissing them. If I got the virus from them, it was my own fault. I just love kissing babies. Kissing sick babies, however, is just not a good idea.
But, back to my midnight musings: Because I had a sick stomach and exquisite pain (I’ve always wanted to use that phrase) in my spine, arms, legs, ribs, neck, and shoulders, I added possible heart attack to my bone-cancer self-diagnosis. Earlier that day, I had taken a CPR class, so I knew what the symptoms of a heart attack were. In my unconscious state, I deduced from my various symptoms that I was on my way out. Considering the pain that I was in, this was not an unwelcome thought.
Around 4 a.m., I went downstairs into the guest room to visit my husband, who had the sense not to sleep with someone who had a stomach bug. He jumped out of bed from fright, and after composing himself, he asked how I was. I told him that I was sick. Very sick. Oh-so-sick. Then I left the room, according to him. I don’t remember much of this visit, except that I didn’t do yoga. What I do recall is that during the time that I was prowling the house, the pain in my spine and numerous bones started to recede. By the time I had made it back upstairs, it was gone. I still had a stomach ache, but the bone cancer had cured itself.
Over the years, I have learned to accomplish things while sleeping. I often come up with ideas for my blog, invent things, create uses for tortilla shells, and recall old grudges. Last night, I solved a problem. I realized that my bones probably ached from the wind coming in through the windows behind my bed. So, I propped a bunch of pillows against the headboard and slept upside down, under a mass of blankets and comforters. In a matter of minutes, I was sleeping like a baby with a stomach ache.
Before I drifted into a heavy sleep, I remember being glad that I didn’t have bone cancer, and probably wasn’t having a heart attack. I also concluded that both my stomach virus and my inflamed bones could have been avoided. I should have worn a mask around the sick kids (or, at the very least, not kissed them), and I should have covered my draughty windows. I also should have read the directions that came with my GPS.
As I mentioned, I had taken a CPR class that morning. The class was half an hour away from my house. I planned on using my GPS to get there, but for once, I had a backup plan: I printed out directions. Why I did this is a mystery to me. I have never had a problem with my GPS before, but someone from the Great Beyond must have whispered “Google Maps” into my ear. And, it was a good thing that I didn’t disregard the Heavenly suggestion.
So, I got into the car, plugged in the GPS, and clicked on the screen that made me swear that I would not touch the GPS while I was driving. I then started the car while the GPS was powering up (I didn’t lie to the GPS; I planned on entering my destination when I was stopped at a red light). As I drove toward the highway, an ear-piercing whistling sound emitted from the device. While driving, I fumbled with the switch on the top of the screen to shut it off, but the screeching continued. I ripped the power cord out, with the same result: the high-pitched whine would not stop.
I was now at the highway entrance and couldn’t pull over. The only thing to do was to shove the GPS between my thighs and keep my legs as tightly closed as possible. This lessened the noise a bit, but not enough. So, I scanned the radio stations until I found one that was playing rap music and played it full-blast. Every once in a while, I could hear the whining of the GPS, so I had to retighten my thighs. This was all done while reading the directions that were propped on the steering wheel.
By the time that I reached the American Red Cross building, my nerves were frayed. After I parked, I looked at the switch on the GPS screen. I fumbled with it again and the noise still wouldn’t stop. Then I held the switch in the Off position for a few seconds. When I released it, all that I heard was blessed silence. While I was grateful that the thing finally shut off, it was annoying to realize that I could have avoided half an hour of electronic whining, loud rap music, and cramps in my thighs, if I had only learned in advance how to turn off the GPS.
After the class, I went home, became violently ill and went to bed. That’s where this story started, and that’s a good place to end it.
Shoes Off A Dead Man
In Humor on January 25, 2013 at 5:42 pm
My 19-year-old son now owns a pair of $450 handmade leather dress shoes. This irks me for a number of reasons. First of all, my son, Luke, (who has forbidden me to blog about him, so I’ll be referring to him as Mike), doesn’t care a whit about shoes. When Mike goes out, he wears whatever sneakers are closest to the front door, even if they belong to my husband, or a visitor. When Mike has to dress up, he doesn’t waste time deciding what to put on his feet; he owned exactly one pair of black dress shoes and they suited him fine. Now, he also owns an extremely well-made pair of brown leather shoes. And, he seemed really happy to get them. That surprised me, but not as much as the manner in which he obtained them.
The shoes came from the closet of a deceased middle-aged man. The man had expensive tastes and closets full of garments and footwear, all with their sales tags attached. His sister inherited his home and its contents. She generously offered her coworkers and their family members the opportunity to check out the merchandise and take whatever they wanted. My husband, some of his colleagues, and Mike decided to take her up on her offer.
I have never been offered a dead woman’s expensive belongings, so it’s not really fair of me to judge my husband or Mike–especially since I have been guilty of attending estate sales and buying things that I have to assume were previously owned by a now-dead person. But, in my defense, I never asked if the owner had passed on (on one occasion, my friend and I were pretty sure that the “dead” person, whose possessions were being sold, was actually alive and hiding in a room because the estate-sale coordinators kept handing food and beverages into a room marked “Keep Out”), so I could honestly tell myself that I wasn’t certain that I was stealing the shoes off a dead man, or woman.
My husband and Mike, however, couldn’t make the same case for their actions. But they didn’t even want to excuse their behavior. “What’s the big deal?” my husband asked me. “All of the stuff was brand new, and we were told to take whatever we wanted. Otherwise, it was going to charity.” I asked him if it wouldn’t have been better if it had gone to charity and he looked at me and said, “No.”
Their haul consisted of two duffel bags filled with beautifully made shirts, a leather jacket, and those shoes. Both my husband and Mike were thrilled with their “purchases.” For two men who hate shopping, I was surprised. Maybe they don’t actually hate shopping–just the paying part.
My husband’s coworker was glad that her brother’s belongings had found good homes and she told the beneficiaries of her generosity that they could go back a second time and see if they overlooked anything during their first visit. I had come to terms with my family’s first trip, but it’s going to take some time to accept that they’re going again. I’d better accompany them this time, just to make sure that they don’t mistake greed for need.
And, besides, I heard that there were brand-new sheet sets up for grabs.
Idiot Lesson
In Humor on January 18, 2013 at 3:35 pmMy mother uses the term “idiot lesson,” when she’s referring to something ridiculous that happened to her or to someone she knows. The “idiot” in question could be anyone involved. Today, I was involved in my own idiot lesson, and the idiot was me.
My mother’s birthday is January 20th, two days from now. I realized this last night. Of course I hadn’t mailed a gift or card. This morning, at work, I made a homemade card on my computer. Then, on my lunch hour, I ran over to the Gap and found the perfect gift for her. That only took 20 minutes, so I headed over to the post office. When I got there, it was gone; the building which had housed it was gapingly empty. That was weird, because I had recently been to that branch, a mere seven or eight years ago.
As I returned to my car, a fur-coated woman walked toward me. My job is in an affluent town–not the town I live in–so I assumed that the well-groomed, be-furred woman lived there and knew where I could find a different post office branch. I asked her if there was another post office in town and she informed me, in a cultured English accent, that no, there was not. And, she added, it was a sad loss to the community when the branch I was standing in front of was closed.
(As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I’m a sucker for an English accent. If you were to tell me, in an upper-class English accent, that I was really a man and had been living a lie for 52 years, I would believe you. I don’t know why this is–why I admire English accents so much, not why I’ve been living as a woman when I’m actually a man. I know my awe is a genetic trait, though. Back when I discovered that I was pregnant, I enlisted my sister’s help in finding me an obstetrician. She made a few calls and told me who to choose. She said she picked this particular doctor because his nurse-receptionist had an English accent. I made an appointment.)
So, I headed over to a convenience store in my town, ten minutes away, that had a post office in the back. I sent the package via two-day mail and sighed in relief as the clerk affixed the postage to my package. My sigh was sucked back in when she told me that the package would definitely arrive by Tuesday. Tuesday, holy crap! But, it made sense, once I clicked on my brain. Two days from now was Sunday, a day the post office doesn’t deliver, and the next day was Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, a federal holiday. If I had previously known these two facts, I wouldn’t have run all over two different towns during my allotted 60-minute break—a break that was rapidly becoming a no-minutes-left break. I could have just ordered flowers over the Internet and had them delivered on time, with no hassle for me. But, it was too late for remorse. I decided to cut my losses and get back to work on time.
I hopped onto the highway connector–which I never drive on–and almost missed the exit to the highway. Almost. I quickly checked the lane next to me, forgetting to also check my blind spot, and moved into the exit lane, almost causing an accident, judging by the angry horn blast from the car behind me. My heart jumped through my chest and landed in my lap. I gave an “I’m-sorry-I-cut-you-off-but-I’m-glad-you-didn’t-crash-into-me” wave to the driver behind me, reinserted my heart, and got off the highway onto a local road. As I approached my workplace, I passed a post office branch in a strip mall–exactly one block from the closed post office I had visited earlier. I could not believe that that English woman had led me astray, and into an almost-accident.
What an idiot lesson, to quote my mother, who will not be receiving her gift on her birthday. I guess I’d better order those flowers, after all. Bloody hell.
English as my Second Accent
In Humor on January 5, 2013 at 10:22 pmWhen I had to choose a foreign language to take in high school in 1974, my mother suggested French, because French, at that time, was the international language—i.e., the language spoken by diplomats. She also said that it sounded elegant. I never considered being a diplomat; speaking French diplomatically to other diplomats held no appeal for me (plus, I couldn’t fathom what diplomats did exactly). Speaking an elegant foreign language to impress others and make me feel superior did, however, hold an attraction for me. So, I took French classes all through high school for four years and got an A every year. Then, I took my college French entrance exam and wound up back at the beginning, in French 101. I blamed my test-taking abilities on my failure to test out of a few levels—or even one—of French.
In college, I took five quarters (my university dealt in quarters instead of semesters) of French. Again, I received A’s every quarter. Soon after completing my studies, I went to a French restaurant in Manhattan, placed my order in French, and was looked at by the waiter as if I were speaking Pig Latin. I was beginning to wonder if my dream of impressing people with my French-speaking ability was to remain a dream. Then I decided that I spoke French quite elegantly; the problem was the snooty French waiter who was trained to sneer at Americans. Everyone knows that the French don’t like Americans.
My mother immediately disproved my theory when she went to Paris and was graciously received by everyone she encountered when she broke out her high-school French. Every French person she met there showed nothing but appreciation for, and patience with, her attempts to speak their language. One restaurant owner spent an entire evening conversing with her in French. After hearing this, I was forced to rethink my opinion about the French, and my inability to be understood by them. I concluded that my teachers were incompetent.
I didn’t give up my dream of speaking in a way that would make others feel inferior to me. I just changed my focus. I decided to learn an accent that I deemed superior to the one I had. I determined to speak my native language in an upper-class English accent. I listened endlessly to English actors, royals, and politicians, and mimicked their speech patterns. I imagined that I eventually would be mistaken for a native Londoner.
Just as I was on the point of taking my accent to the streets, I read an article about how pretentious and idiotic Americans sound when they attempt an English accent. That gave me pause—but only for a moment. This was only one person’s opinion, and who knew what his agenda was? He was probably laughed at when he tried to pass himself off as a native in England.
Then I met an Englishman who said that, while English actors can perfectly mimic an American accent, Gwyneth Paltrow was the only American who could faultlessly speak in an English accent. My first thought was: how does he know if English actors aren’t making pronunciation mistakes? My second thought was: Well, of course Gwyneth can do it. Her husband is English. She hears him speak all of the time. My husband is from the Bronx. I’m not going to get any help there.
I guess my next step is to get a best friend from England. My husband would probably put his foot down on my pursuing an English substitute for him. At least, I hope he would.
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