I realize that the effectiveness of any mechanical or electrical tool is largely a function of the operator—that any machine is only a good as the “nut behind the wheel,” but I have come across some dangerous appliances in my life.
Not to worry too much. I don’t touch the really menacing ones like chainsaws or lawnmowers so I haven’t yet been hospitalized by anything from the machine shop; but my calling in life requires me to occasionally use washers, dryers, toasters, and irons, all of which can be spiteful.
And just so you don’t think that I am mechanically disabled and that to keep me safe members of my family have to operate all of the equipment for me, I am going to share a story on one of them as well as one on myself.
Everybody in my family cooks—not necessarily well, but they all get into the act. My teenaged daughter once literally got tangled up with the mixer. (No, this is not a story about mechanically braiding hair.) I believe it began with a rubber scraper in the left hand and a mixer in the right hand, and one too many samplings of the chocolate cake batter while mixing.
When the scraper got a little too close to the beaters, they jumped out and sucked the scraper right into the whirlpool, and the hand in charge got spun right in with it. From the other side of the room, there was little I could do to help. Actually, I was quite mesmerized by the whole chain of events and just stood staring.
I watched as she got the mixer stopped and her hand out of the maelstrom. I don’t usually express any other sentiment than fear, anxiety, or “losing it” when my kids have an accident, but this time I have to admit that my reaction was skewed, but not as much as her hand. When she held it up, there were fingers pointing in every direction and an unnatural backward declination in the middle of it all.
I am sorry to say that I burst out laughing and didn’t stop for quite some time, a blunder for which I have never been forgiven. I should have stuck with losing it. Happily the awry digits all eventually resumed their former positions, except for the index finger which has been pointed at me ever since.
As you can see, when they want to be, mechanical devices are diabolical. The following story is something of a family secret, and I have recounted it only once or twice. I think the seven-year statute of limitation has long since run out, so I can tell it without fear of being hauled off to jail. Only the passage of much time and some distance allow me to tell it now.
You mothers know what kind of schemes you resort to in order to get some work accomplished when you have a baby in tow and his preferred method being towed is on your hip. Entertaining baby becomes a rather desperate occupation sometimes.
Well, this particular baby was spellbound by the water swishing around in the washing machine. (Sort of like television except with the water element added.) So while I filled it, I let him sit on the adjacent mechanical device, the dryer. Mind you, I didn’t walk into the next room, nor was I distracted by the phone or anything else. My two feet were right in front of the dryer the whole time.
I bent down to pick up the next piece of laundry, and when I stood up, baby had vanished! I think it was like that scene in Lord of the Rings when Frodo stares into the water and keeps leaning toward it until he tips into the pool with the grateful dead or whatever they were called.
Well, you guessed it. What I saw of my baby was his two feet periscoped above the wash water, and they were agitating back and forth just like the towels were. At least there were two of something to grab which I quickly did and heaved. A spluttering, drenched, baby was hauled safely away from the depths of the beguiling and voracious washing machine. Luckily, Baby only sustained a few knots on the head and one tiny cut, but on a permanent basis he seems to be none the worse for wash-and-wear.
Nevertheless, this diatribe comes with the following warning:
Given its perversity, never operate mechanical equipment while under the influence of chocolate or while in any quantitative state of mental distraction or loss of mind.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Bertha's best friend
I would be the first to admit that I am not a social butterfly; in fact a grub may be more like it. I go home at night and stay there. But in case you think I don’t have any friends, I’m here to tell you that I have one who calls me at least once every day. Her first name is Warranty (her mother was probably a movie star) and her last name is Department.
There are a host of adjectives that could be used to describe my good friend--—words like loyal, reliable, constant, persistent…
Warranty doesn’t mind a bit if I forget to hold up my end of the friendship or the conversation; she just keeps calling no matter how neglectful I am. In fact, I have hung up on her more times than I can count, but she is never discouraged.
She is a little featherbrained, though. One evening she calls to tell me this is my third and final call before my warranty expires, and the next night she calls me to alert me about my second and last warning. She has got it wrong in both cases. Actually my warranties have all expired some time ago. (There may be more truth in that statement than a first reading will reveal.)
I have never actually gotten far enough into a conversation with Warranty to find out how her product works and how much these things cost. Surely the cost is not more than the car is worth. Maybe one of these days I’ll let her sell me a warranty on the Butterbean pickup truck which is old enough never to have had a warranty in the first place, a fact that I have been careful not to communicate to Warranty at this point. But if I do, when Warranty calls to say that my warranty is about to expire, I can truthfully say “What warranty? I don’t have a warranty; I never had a warranty.”
Perhaps the pickup ought to have one in its lifetime since it apparently would be committing vehicular suicide to omit it—just ask Warranty. A few spare parts could help it grow ancient gracefully. I read online that most warranty plans detail “a lot of covered parts, but most of the parts on the list are not applicable for the cars on the road today.” It sounds like those parts should be suitable for my truck since it is a miracle that it is on the road today and probably uses most of those non-applicable parts. Buying a warranty on a vehicle like that ought to serve one or the other of us right.
In case you or my brothers think I am not kidding about warranting our pickup, I will herewith put all minds at ease. I watched a lady photocopy one of those extended warranty contracts the other day. The document itself was twenty-one pages long, and the collection included three exclusion pages.
I was tempted to read over her shoulder, but she would have had to stand still for an awful long time. Besides I would really rather park the old truck than read twenty-one pages of legalese covering non-applicable parts. But here are a few of the provisions as I imagined them:
1. This warranty not valid unless vehicle is currently warranted by vehicle’s manufacturer.
2. Exclusions include: all parts deemed not to be stationary or unneedful.
3. Warranty does cover: cracked steering wheel; radio antenna providing such is not embedded in vehicle’s windshield; seatbelt anchor bolts; oil-testing tube cap but does not cover loss of such, directional turn signal fluid/windshield wiper fluid, exhaust muffler bearings, and Johnson maniform rods.
4. Warranty will be rendered null and void upon installation of non-proprietary after-market parts including but not limited to additional cup holders, CD storage systems, or facial tissue dispensers.
Excuse me now—the phone is ringing. It’s probably my friend Warranty..
There are a host of adjectives that could be used to describe my good friend--—words like loyal, reliable, constant, persistent…
Warranty doesn’t mind a bit if I forget to hold up my end of the friendship or the conversation; she just keeps calling no matter how neglectful I am. In fact, I have hung up on her more times than I can count, but she is never discouraged.
She is a little featherbrained, though. One evening she calls to tell me this is my third and final call before my warranty expires, and the next night she calls me to alert me about my second and last warning. She has got it wrong in both cases. Actually my warranties have all expired some time ago. (There may be more truth in that statement than a first reading will reveal.)
I have never actually gotten far enough into a conversation with Warranty to find out how her product works and how much these things cost. Surely the cost is not more than the car is worth. Maybe one of these days I’ll let her sell me a warranty on the Butterbean pickup truck which is old enough never to have had a warranty in the first place, a fact that I have been careful not to communicate to Warranty at this point. But if I do, when Warranty calls to say that my warranty is about to expire, I can truthfully say “What warranty? I don’t have a warranty; I never had a warranty.”
Perhaps the pickup ought to have one in its lifetime since it apparently would be committing vehicular suicide to omit it—just ask Warranty. A few spare parts could help it grow ancient gracefully. I read online that most warranty plans detail “a lot of covered parts, but most of the parts on the list are not applicable for the cars on the road today.” It sounds like those parts should be suitable for my truck since it is a miracle that it is on the road today and probably uses most of those non-applicable parts. Buying a warranty on a vehicle like that ought to serve one or the other of us right.
In case you or my brothers think I am not kidding about warranting our pickup, I will herewith put all minds at ease. I watched a lady photocopy one of those extended warranty contracts the other day. The document itself was twenty-one pages long, and the collection included three exclusion pages.
I was tempted to read over her shoulder, but she would have had to stand still for an awful long time. Besides I would really rather park the old truck than read twenty-one pages of legalese covering non-applicable parts. But here are a few of the provisions as I imagined them:
1. This warranty not valid unless vehicle is currently warranted by vehicle’s manufacturer.
2. Exclusions include: all parts deemed not to be stationary or unneedful.
3. Warranty does cover: cracked steering wheel; radio antenna providing such is not embedded in vehicle’s windshield; seatbelt anchor bolts; oil-testing tube cap but does not cover loss of such, directional turn signal fluid/windshield wiper fluid, exhaust muffler bearings, and Johnson maniform rods.
4. Warranty will be rendered null and void upon installation of non-proprietary after-market parts including but not limited to additional cup holders, CD storage systems, or facial tissue dispensers.
Excuse me now—the phone is ringing. It’s probably my friend Warranty..
Easter and eggs, picnics, candy and such
There are several myths associated with the Easter holiday. Interestingly, they all involve the secular aspects of the festivities rather than the religious ones.
One is that a there is a tradition where you pack a lunch and go the park or the woods and have an Easter picnic. Well, okay you can try it; but if it means spreading a tablecloth on the green grass and enjoying the warm sunshine, I don’t remember it ever happening. All of the Easter picnics I have attended were accompanied by wind, rain or snow, and freezing temperatures. Come to think of it, so are most other holidays around here.
I guess the key figure associated with Easter is the Easter bunny/beagle whose primary responsibility is to bring/hide the Easter eggs/candy, however I don’t think that there is much consistency in his methods of operation. He and the tooth fairy are first cousins and both of them were invented by greedy children who were smarter than their parents which isn’t necessarily saying much.
The Easter bonnet must be a holdover from the horse and buggy days, because I don’t think that the bonnet trade is too brisk now no matter which holiday you are shopping for.
I remember that when I was a child, my friends went to dance class where they danced to a song called The Easter Parade. Since I didn’t get to go to dance class and wished I did and didn’t have an Easter bonnet and wished I had, I have since harbored unforgiving feelings toward Easter bonnets and wouldn’t wear one if it were the prevailing social custom to wear them to Wal-Mart. These feelings are a holdover from my early days, which fortunately date only back to the Nash Rambler era.
There is also a myth that Marshmallow Peeps are a variety of Easter candy. I guess people must buy them. I don’t think they eat them though, in fact I don’t think they are edible. In many cases they seem to be holdovers from last year. They are more suitably used for art projects, pets, ball games, packing, trouble toys, science projects, and to make political statements.
Another myth, as far as I am concerned, is the Easter dress. I never remember about the custom of getting a new spring dress until I sit down in church on Easter Sunday and begin to look around. That is probably because it is rarely spring when Easter comes.
Last but not least is the Easter egg. Coloring eggs is an activity where happy children make colorful artistic creations without ever cracking an egg. Myth.
Actually coloring eggs is when grabby-handed mad-scientists stand on chairs around the kitchen island and mix different colors of dye. They don’t remember from one year to the next that all of the colors of dye mixed together result in eggs that are similar to that other proverbial spheroid, the lead balloon. The same holds true for the trendy “natural/organic” dyes.
This is also a time to redecorate the surface of the countertops, as well as various articles of clothing, the chair legs, the front porch and themselves in the same dingy color with time out needed for crying when the eggs roll off the counter in various directions.
Look at it this way: you can boast that you had a gray Easter. What could be more natural than that? Just look at the sky; and I hope I didn’t just lay an egg here.
One is that a there is a tradition where you pack a lunch and go the park or the woods and have an Easter picnic. Well, okay you can try it; but if it means spreading a tablecloth on the green grass and enjoying the warm sunshine, I don’t remember it ever happening. All of the Easter picnics I have attended were accompanied by wind, rain or snow, and freezing temperatures. Come to think of it, so are most other holidays around here.
I guess the key figure associated with Easter is the Easter bunny/beagle whose primary responsibility is to bring/hide the Easter eggs/candy, however I don’t think that there is much consistency in his methods of operation. He and the tooth fairy are first cousins and both of them were invented by greedy children who were smarter than their parents which isn’t necessarily saying much.
The Easter bonnet must be a holdover from the horse and buggy days, because I don’t think that the bonnet trade is too brisk now no matter which holiday you are shopping for.
I remember that when I was a child, my friends went to dance class where they danced to a song called The Easter Parade. Since I didn’t get to go to dance class and wished I did and didn’t have an Easter bonnet and wished I had, I have since harbored unforgiving feelings toward Easter bonnets and wouldn’t wear one if it were the prevailing social custom to wear them to Wal-Mart. These feelings are a holdover from my early days, which fortunately date only back to the Nash Rambler era.
There is also a myth that Marshmallow Peeps are a variety of Easter candy. I guess people must buy them. I don’t think they eat them though, in fact I don’t think they are edible. In many cases they seem to be holdovers from last year. They are more suitably used for art projects, pets, ball games, packing, trouble toys, science projects, and to make political statements.
Another myth, as far as I am concerned, is the Easter dress. I never remember about the custom of getting a new spring dress until I sit down in church on Easter Sunday and begin to look around. That is probably because it is rarely spring when Easter comes.
Last but not least is the Easter egg. Coloring eggs is an activity where happy children make colorful artistic creations without ever cracking an egg. Myth.
Actually coloring eggs is when grabby-handed mad-scientists stand on chairs around the kitchen island and mix different colors of dye. They don’t remember from one year to the next that all of the colors of dye mixed together result in eggs that are similar to that other proverbial spheroid, the lead balloon. The same holds true for the trendy “natural/organic” dyes.
This is also a time to redecorate the surface of the countertops, as well as various articles of clothing, the chair legs, the front porch and themselves in the same dingy color with time out needed for crying when the eggs roll off the counter in various directions.
Look at it this way: you can boast that you had a gray Easter. What could be more natural than that? Just look at the sky; and I hope I didn’t just lay an egg here.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Understanding Ebay shopping
You can buy anything on Ebay--the great bazaar in the sky, or more precisely in cyberspace which realm equates to heaven in many minds. I guess the operative assumption of online auctions is that someone somewhere will buy something, anything, sight unseen at that; and I am here to prove it since I myself and an Ebay shopper. More about that later.
The need to shop online ensues from the condition of living in a small town in the outback. That is how it begins anyway. Then after that it becomes a quest to see whether you can ever be the last bidder and win an item that many other people want. I usually only win when I am the only one bidding. And I still lose sometimes. I lost a hairdryer hanging rack when I was sure I was the only one in the world who wanted one.
Since the quantity of items for sale on Ebay is roughly comparable to the amount of the national debt, I thought I could help you make some sense of it all by categorizing some of those things for you. I know Ebay has it’s own system—a list of items you can click on, such as electronics, guns, cameras, etc. My list is a bit more to the point of your sensibilities.
First there are the nothing-for-something deals. You can buy a quart jar of Ozark air, a snowball from the Colorado Rockies, and a square inch of real estate in Hawaii. You will be happy to know that you can also buy a insulting email delivered direct to your inbox. I am wondering why anyone would pay for one of those. I always thought they came free. Isn’t that sort of like spending good money for houseflies?
Second, there is the unique/antique (anything old or scarce) market. I saw an 1850s prosthetic leg made of wood and steel for sale the other day. (I didn’t just type in prosthetic leg and up it came. I was looking for my special kind of socks.) Just so you know, you can’t sell any human remains on Ebay. Prosthetics are okay though.
Then thirdly, there is the collector’s exchange. You might find the last penny for your set of consecutive pennies from 1900 to present on Ebay. One seller found a penny on the ground and with his sales earnings was able to buy a VW bus and drive all the way from wherever to the Jay Leno show. Wow!
Next there is a category I have named the holy food group. You might want to watch your potato chips, cereal, and pretzels more carefully. You may have already eaten a trip to Disneyland or something. There is a current Ebay sale of a pretzel shaped like Mary holding Baby Jesus which last time I checked had a high bid of $3,150. Yes, dollars. Incidentally, someone had contacted the seller to see how many salt crystals were baked on the pretzel since that number might be significant of something—I can’t think what.
Then there is the hard-to-find division. It includes some of those things that are useful but uncommon. I am not an electronic geek by any means, but even I can tell when my old phone charger won’t charge my new phone because the little plug-in thing is the wrong size. Buying a new charger is sometimes impossible, as well as expensive. Where is the government electronics recycle agency when I need it? Well Ebay is it, only free-market capitalism created it. For $2.10 I found on Ebay an adapter the size of a half a pencil that made me the proud owner of a phone charger that I can use and which I might otherwise have had to sell on Ebay.
Finally, there is the you-are-about-to-be-had category which is similar to the first one, only in number one, you are about to be had and you know about it. One of the first things I ever bought on Ebay was a used (red flag) overedge hemmer. Well, it’s a sewing machine, and it could belong to the hard-to-find category, except that about-to-be-had takes precedence.
Well, the used overedge hemmer might have hemmed when the seller shipped it, but there was not a chance that it could by the time I got it. As you know, sewing machines are not round like a ball nor soft like a pillow. You would not play catch with one nor sleep on it. They have spindles, hinges, corners and edges, moistly made of metal or hard plastic.
My machine came shipped in an oversized cardboard box into which it and its parts had been dumped with not even a square of bubble wrap or a piece of popcorn or newspaper for padding. What I got was a Swiss cheese box and the proverbial bucket of bolts but only the pieces that were too big to fall through the holes. To add to the pain, the operating instructions were written in Chinese and the pictures were drawn in Swahili.
The need to shop online ensues from the condition of living in a small town in the outback. That is how it begins anyway. Then after that it becomes a quest to see whether you can ever be the last bidder and win an item that many other people want. I usually only win when I am the only one bidding. And I still lose sometimes. I lost a hairdryer hanging rack when I was sure I was the only one in the world who wanted one.
Since the quantity of items for sale on Ebay is roughly comparable to the amount of the national debt, I thought I could help you make some sense of it all by categorizing some of those things for you. I know Ebay has it’s own system—a list of items you can click on, such as electronics, guns, cameras, etc. My list is a bit more to the point of your sensibilities.
First there are the nothing-for-something deals. You can buy a quart jar of Ozark air, a snowball from the Colorado Rockies, and a square inch of real estate in Hawaii. You will be happy to know that you can also buy a insulting email delivered direct to your inbox. I am wondering why anyone would pay for one of those. I always thought they came free. Isn’t that sort of like spending good money for houseflies?
Second, there is the unique/antique (anything old or scarce) market. I saw an 1850s prosthetic leg made of wood and steel for sale the other day. (I didn’t just type in prosthetic leg and up it came. I was looking for my special kind of socks.) Just so you know, you can’t sell any human remains on Ebay. Prosthetics are okay though.
Then thirdly, there is the collector’s exchange. You might find the last penny for your set of consecutive pennies from 1900 to present on Ebay. One seller found a penny on the ground and with his sales earnings was able to buy a VW bus and drive all the way from wherever to the Jay Leno show. Wow!
Next there is a category I have named the holy food group. You might want to watch your potato chips, cereal, and pretzels more carefully. You may have already eaten a trip to Disneyland or something. There is a current Ebay sale of a pretzel shaped like Mary holding Baby Jesus which last time I checked had a high bid of $3,150. Yes, dollars. Incidentally, someone had contacted the seller to see how many salt crystals were baked on the pretzel since that number might be significant of something—I can’t think what.
Then there is the hard-to-find division. It includes some of those things that are useful but uncommon. I am not an electronic geek by any means, but even I can tell when my old phone charger won’t charge my new phone because the little plug-in thing is the wrong size. Buying a new charger is sometimes impossible, as well as expensive. Where is the government electronics recycle agency when I need it? Well Ebay is it, only free-market capitalism created it. For $2.10 I found on Ebay an adapter the size of a half a pencil that made me the proud owner of a phone charger that I can use and which I might otherwise have had to sell on Ebay.
Finally, there is the you-are-about-to-be-had category which is similar to the first one, only in number one, you are about to be had and you know about it. One of the first things I ever bought on Ebay was a used (red flag) overedge hemmer. Well, it’s a sewing machine, and it could belong to the hard-to-find category, except that about-to-be-had takes precedence.
Well, the used overedge hemmer might have hemmed when the seller shipped it, but there was not a chance that it could by the time I got it. As you know, sewing machines are not round like a ball nor soft like a pillow. You would not play catch with one nor sleep on it. They have spindles, hinges, corners and edges, moistly made of metal or hard plastic.
My machine came shipped in an oversized cardboard box into which it and its parts had been dumped with not even a square of bubble wrap or a piece of popcorn or newspaper for padding. What I got was a Swiss cheese box and the proverbial bucket of bolts but only the pieces that were too big to fall through the holes. To add to the pain, the operating instructions were written in Chinese and the pictures were drawn in Swahili.
To sit and not faint
There is one thing I have never been able to understand. How is it that children can be sitting quietly on a chair when it seems that suddenly a gravitational anomaly grabs them and they are suddenly on the floor? Whump! One second they are on a chair, and the next they are on the floor in a heap?
I am not talking about kids who only have one cheek on the chair to begin with; nor am I talking about kids on unstable or broken chairs. I do not refer to kids on rolling office chairs----just ordinary four-legged chairs. I am not even talking about kids who have that leaning-back-on-the-chair syndrome which is otherwise known as deacon’s disease.
The fallen children think they are the victims of some sort of trickery, be it gravity, rubber chair legs or whatever, as well. They usually howl like they have been pushed from their chairs. I have seen at least one of them get up and kick the chair. I have also seen them look around for some supposed human culprit.
I am sorry, but I have been known to laugh right out loud and hard when it happens. The “fallen” get up and want to punish me if not the chair.
I don’t get how you fall off a chair. Do you momentarily fall asleep? Do you temporarily forget how to hold yourself upright?
Sometimes when my children who are now mothers and fathers complain about their kids falling off chairs, I explain to them about genetics and how they did it too. However, I never remember falling off a chair myself and neither does Mr. B., so either it is a case of spontaneous gene alteration or they are going to have to blame the other side of their families. But since all of those kids had at least one parent who was unsteady on their seat, they are going to have a hard time getting away with it. But if they are raising a generation of chair-floppers, they are not blaming me for that one.
I was listing toward the gene-alteration theory until just the other day when I witnessed one of my kids’ in-laws do the unthinkable. That’s right! The person in question fell off the bench!
I don’t think this person went to sleep; we were at a sporting event watching our mutual grandkids who seem to run better than they sit. Forgetting how to sit upright would be a little more plausible. My generation is at the age where we forget all kinds of things. Or perhaps the distraction index was a little too high.
So, again, I don’t quite get it, but the kids in that family haven’t got a chance because they have inherited chair-flopping from more than one source.
Before you start counting up my kids and deciding who their in-laws are, I will make it easy for you. The person who lost her seating is a teacher who says her kindergartners fall off their chairs all the time.
Someone probably needs to get a research grant and spend some time and money studying the affliction of spontaneous unseating. Sooner or later someone is going to get hurt.
I am not talking about kids who only have one cheek on the chair to begin with; nor am I talking about kids on unstable or broken chairs. I do not refer to kids on rolling office chairs----just ordinary four-legged chairs. I am not even talking about kids who have that leaning-back-on-the-chair syndrome which is otherwise known as deacon’s disease.
The fallen children think they are the victims of some sort of trickery, be it gravity, rubber chair legs or whatever, as well. They usually howl like they have been pushed from their chairs. I have seen at least one of them get up and kick the chair. I have also seen them look around for some supposed human culprit.
I am sorry, but I have been known to laugh right out loud and hard when it happens. The “fallen” get up and want to punish me if not the chair.
I don’t get how you fall off a chair. Do you momentarily fall asleep? Do you temporarily forget how to hold yourself upright?
Sometimes when my children who are now mothers and fathers complain about their kids falling off chairs, I explain to them about genetics and how they did it too. However, I never remember falling off a chair myself and neither does Mr. B., so either it is a case of spontaneous gene alteration or they are going to have to blame the other side of their families. But since all of those kids had at least one parent who was unsteady on their seat, they are going to have a hard time getting away with it. But if they are raising a generation of chair-floppers, they are not blaming me for that one.
I was listing toward the gene-alteration theory until just the other day when I witnessed one of my kids’ in-laws do the unthinkable. That’s right! The person in question fell off the bench!
I don’t think this person went to sleep; we were at a sporting event watching our mutual grandkids who seem to run better than they sit. Forgetting how to sit upright would be a little more plausible. My generation is at the age where we forget all kinds of things. Or perhaps the distraction index was a little too high.
So, again, I don’t quite get it, but the kids in that family haven’t got a chance because they have inherited chair-flopping from more than one source.
Before you start counting up my kids and deciding who their in-laws are, I will make it easy for you. The person who lost her seating is a teacher who says her kindergartners fall off their chairs all the time.
Someone probably needs to get a research grant and spend some time and money studying the affliction of spontaneous unseating. Sooner or later someone is going to get hurt.
The madness that is March
March seems to be the month for all kinds of craziness. For instance, look at what Congress is doing. And then there is the NCAA and what it is doing.
To tell the truth, March Madness is a phenomenon that I totally understand and am involved in, at least from a local, as in Utah, perspective. I am as mad as the rest of them. But, you can only blame part of mankind’s erratic early spring behavior on basketball. The March-hare metaphor was in use long before the game of basketball was invented.
Some of the madness of March is due to anxiety over the fact that tax time is just around the corner; and if you put off filing until basketball is over, it will be too late. Then there is the return to daylight savings time which makes everyone all the more cranky, The other factor contributing to the madness is that we are only barely coming out on the other end of a long winter, which, by the way, would be intolerable without basketball.
The most popular winter sports, I once read, are ice skating, skiing, and jumping up and yelling, "That was a foul, you idiot." I participate in only one of them.
Well, I used to actually play basketball, and I raised four boys and three girls who all played basketball at one level or another, from church ball to high school state championship. It was bound to happen. Between cold weather and basketball exposure (pun), it was a given that I would sit in front of the TV under a comforter and watch the games.
Just in case you are interested, basketball is the only non-contact sport where the injured list is longer than the bench. Broken noses, permanent shin splints, sprained ankles, and bruised egos are among the injuries we have worked through or lived with in our family.
A backyard or a basketball court full of snow didn’t stop them from “practicing” their sports. My kids have tried to set up an indoor version of every ball game invented. They have erected goal posts using wrapping paper rolls, tape and string. They have set up basketball hoops under the open stairs—both fixed and breakaway kinds. They have strung volleyball nets from the bunk beds, and they have mounted the water balloon launcher on the handrail. They should have been so imaginative with math or English or anything cerebral.
They always started out playing a mild version of every game. Nerf balls or rolled-up socks were- allowable, barely, but escalation of the game was as natural as playing it. The football passes started out as mere pitches but soon turned into long bombs. The fingertip sets soon became vicious spikes. The slam dunks got harder and the basket got higher.
I invariably became one of those “idiots” who can’t see fouls, and I always had to throw everyone out of the game or at least bench them until the end of March. They always tried to get me to reverse my calls too.
So back to the current March--I may have to go into coaching now that I don’t have to referee so much anymore. I have paid enough attention to know that the top talking point in any discussion about the Jazz is whether they can win on the road. Every coach and sports commentator has posed the question. Some of them have answers. Most of them just talk around in a circle and come right back to square one (I’m practicing being a sports commentator, too):
Q: Are the Jazz going to find a way to win on the road?
Well, I have thought it over at some length myself, and I have it…
A: In order to make on-the-road feel like home, they need to bring their own basketballs, their own ball boys, their own sweat towels, and their own “idiots.”
To tell the truth, March Madness is a phenomenon that I totally understand and am involved in, at least from a local, as in Utah, perspective. I am as mad as the rest of them. But, you can only blame part of mankind’s erratic early spring behavior on basketball. The March-hare metaphor was in use long before the game of basketball was invented.
Some of the madness of March is due to anxiety over the fact that tax time is just around the corner; and if you put off filing until basketball is over, it will be too late. Then there is the return to daylight savings time which makes everyone all the more cranky, The other factor contributing to the madness is that we are only barely coming out on the other end of a long winter, which, by the way, would be intolerable without basketball.
The most popular winter sports, I once read, are ice skating, skiing, and jumping up and yelling, "That was a foul, you idiot." I participate in only one of them.
Well, I used to actually play basketball, and I raised four boys and three girls who all played basketball at one level or another, from church ball to high school state championship. It was bound to happen. Between cold weather and basketball exposure (pun), it was a given that I would sit in front of the TV under a comforter and watch the games.
Just in case you are interested, basketball is the only non-contact sport where the injured list is longer than the bench. Broken noses, permanent shin splints, sprained ankles, and bruised egos are among the injuries we have worked through or lived with in our family.
A backyard or a basketball court full of snow didn’t stop them from “practicing” their sports. My kids have tried to set up an indoor version of every ball game invented. They have erected goal posts using wrapping paper rolls, tape and string. They have set up basketball hoops under the open stairs—both fixed and breakaway kinds. They have strung volleyball nets from the bunk beds, and they have mounted the water balloon launcher on the handrail. They should have been so imaginative with math or English or anything cerebral.
They always started out playing a mild version of every game. Nerf balls or rolled-up socks were- allowable, barely, but escalation of the game was as natural as playing it. The football passes started out as mere pitches but soon turned into long bombs. The fingertip sets soon became vicious spikes. The slam dunks got harder and the basket got higher.
I invariably became one of those “idiots” who can’t see fouls, and I always had to throw everyone out of the game or at least bench them until the end of March. They always tried to get me to reverse my calls too.
So back to the current March--I may have to go into coaching now that I don’t have to referee so much anymore. I have paid enough attention to know that the top talking point in any discussion about the Jazz is whether they can win on the road. Every coach and sports commentator has posed the question. Some of them have answers. Most of them just talk around in a circle and come right back to square one (I’m practicing being a sports commentator, too):
Q: Are the Jazz going to find a way to win on the road?
Well, I have thought it over at some length myself, and I have it…
A: In order to make on-the-road feel like home, they need to bring their own basketballs, their own ball boys, their own sweat towels, and their own “idiots.”
Just a lilttle scam
My mother called me the other day to tell me that she had a letter from someone who wanted to send her $500. She had the notice. She had already won. She didn’t have to pay taxes on her winnings, and all she had to do was to fill out her acceptance form and send it somewhere overseas.
“You know,” she said, “I kind of worry when I have to send it overseas.”
Ding, ding, ding, ding! (Alarms going off in my head.) If any of you don’t know how old I am, you haven’t been paying attention. If you have, stop here and figure out how old my mother is. If you think “preying on the elderly” might apply here, you must have passed fifth grade math; and you are right.
I begin yelling at my mother over the phone. “Don’t send anyone anything. Where overseas? Was is Brisbane or Nigeria?”
“Well, let me see now, where was it? Oh yes, somewhere in Australia.” (Oh, my gosh! I frantically begin to go over my options. Whew, it’s after five o’clock; she can’t mail it today. I still have time to get hold of that letter before it disappears somewhere into the clutches of the United States Postal Service, which never loses scammer correspondence, only important social announcements and mortgage payments.)
“Did they tell you that they need some money so they can recover their family’s rightful throne and fortune?”
“No, they just said I won the prize.”
“Did they tell you you’ve won the lottery but they need to know where to deposit the money?”
“Well, no, I just have to say I want the money.” (Do birds fly?)
“Did they ask for your bank account number?”
“No, they just asked me to fill in my name and address.”
“They already have that,” I remind her through clenched teeth. “Did they ask you for your social security number?” (They probably already have that too.)
“No, I can’t remember it anyway.”
“Did they say they need some money so they can fly to Switzerland to unfreeze their assets?”
“No.”
“Well, you just hang onto that correspondence until I can look at it. It’s probably a scam.”
“A what?”
“You know, someone is trying to cheat you out of your money.”
“Oh, they wouldn’t do that.”
Next day I “drop in” to check on “the mail.”
“Okay, let me see that letter about the money you won.”
“Well, I am too going to send that in. It says I have already won $5,000, and it’s tax free.” (Do pigs fly?)
“Five thousand! You said five hundred.”
“I knew it was five-something. (Close.) Anyway, they probably want to reward me. Why, I’m their best customer."
“What?”
“I have been taking the Reader’s Digest ever since I can remember, and what’s more I read it. And my mother before me took it all her life, and Dad and I got it for all you kids for all these years. Who deserves their prize money more than I do?”
Good question. I guess Reader’s Digest is outsourcing these days.
I’ll let you know.
“You know,” she said, “I kind of worry when I have to send it overseas.”
Ding, ding, ding, ding! (Alarms going off in my head.) If any of you don’t know how old I am, you haven’t been paying attention. If you have, stop here and figure out how old my mother is. If you think “preying on the elderly” might apply here, you must have passed fifth grade math; and you are right.
I begin yelling at my mother over the phone. “Don’t send anyone anything. Where overseas? Was is Brisbane or Nigeria?”
“Well, let me see now, where was it? Oh yes, somewhere in Australia.” (Oh, my gosh! I frantically begin to go over my options. Whew, it’s after five o’clock; she can’t mail it today. I still have time to get hold of that letter before it disappears somewhere into the clutches of the United States Postal Service, which never loses scammer correspondence, only important social announcements and mortgage payments.)
“Did they tell you that they need some money so they can recover their family’s rightful throne and fortune?”
“No, they just said I won the prize.”
“Did they tell you you’ve won the lottery but they need to know where to deposit the money?”
“Well, no, I just have to say I want the money.” (Do birds fly?)
“Did they ask for your bank account number?”
“No, they just asked me to fill in my name and address.”
“They already have that,” I remind her through clenched teeth. “Did they ask you for your social security number?” (They probably already have that too.)
“No, I can’t remember it anyway.”
“Did they say they need some money so they can fly to Switzerland to unfreeze their assets?”
“No.”
“Well, you just hang onto that correspondence until I can look at it. It’s probably a scam.”
“A what?”
“You know, someone is trying to cheat you out of your money.”
“Oh, they wouldn’t do that.”
Next day I “drop in” to check on “the mail.”
“Okay, let me see that letter about the money you won.”
“Well, I am too going to send that in. It says I have already won $5,000, and it’s tax free.” (Do pigs fly?)
“Five thousand! You said five hundred.”
“I knew it was five-something. (Close.) Anyway, they probably want to reward me. Why, I’m their best customer."
“What?”
“I have been taking the Reader’s Digest ever since I can remember, and what’s more I read it. And my mother before me took it all her life, and Dad and I got it for all you kids for all these years. Who deserves their prize money more than I do?”
Good question. I guess Reader’s Digest is outsourcing these days.
I’ll let you know.
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