The frost is definitely on the pumpkin. It’s the time of year when Linus starts to think about the patron squash of Halloween while the other kids and some adults, including me, begin to wonder about hauntings, witches’ brews, buying trick-or-treat candy, and graveyards.
Apparently it’s also the time when certain species of the animal kingdom start to feel a fascination with the macabre as well. The variety of mice that populate the Butterbean neighborhood seem to be especially fascinated with finding a place to die, and they seem tothink that inside my house is the place to do it.
I understand why mice would begin to come inside at this time of year if they are trying to keep warm. Considering the frost on the gardens, etc, and the fact that they can apparently squirm through an opening the size of a gum wrapper, I would be surprised not to find them inside. But if they were coming inside to get warm, you should be finding them arranged around the space heater like I am.
But I think that there is something else going on.
Maybe mice and elephants have more in common than just a mutual mortal fear. Maybe mice are also compelled by instinct to find the communal graveyard of the rodent world and make a strange pilgrimage there every fall.
Or perhaps there is a mouse version of the Ghost in the Graveyard game and they double-mouse-dare each other to see whether they can enter the graveyard and return. These mice tell scary stories to their children which proclaim that no mouse has ever come back, and well they should, because they never do.
If you think that I am luring mice into something as commonplace as old fashioned mousetraps, you are wrong. I do have a few of those, but I don’t catch many mice. There probably aren’t ghostly mouse legends about the Butterbeans’ mousetraps.
But the graveyard from which no mice ever return happens to be in a deep and dark crevasse into which they mysteriously seem to be compelled to jump or fall without the encouragement of any kind of mouse bait. Somehow they have found a way to die a dramatic death inside of the west wall in my kitchen. I promise that I haven’t lured any of them into that wall with amontillado, or beer or cheese or cake or anything else for that matter. What their fascination with the graveyard is I don’t know, but mice tread the trail of no return year after year, never to see their families again. Apparently there is no way for a mouse to climb out of the “pit” once he is in it.
Believe me, I don’t want dead mice a-moldering away inside of the wall. I prefer not to have the smells of rotting carcasses, no matter how small, emanating from behind the telephone. Nor do I want trapped live mice inside of the wall either. They get hungry and they aren’t able to survive on insulation, electrical wiring and plasterboard. Besides they are afraid of the dark, so they try to scratch and chew themselves out of the wall all the while making highly disturbing noises.
One almost succeeded. I was a little disconcerted to walk into the kitchen one morning and see a snuffling pink nose protruding from a hole at the top of the baseboard. Thankfully the hole was only half the size of a gum wrapper. I’m sorry, but we had to plaster up that hole with little Fortunato trapped inside. It was an evil deed for sure, but I would be very happy if he had not gotten himself into the wall to begin with.
After a few days, when we were pretty sure he was dead and the Halloween games were over, we (we here means Mr. Butterbean) decided to open up the wall to see whether we could find a way to discourage the mice from enacting their death throes inside of it. I am sorry to say that we didn’t and that we removed eighteen little skeletons from inside the wall, all of those from between only two studs.
It’s one of the mysteries of the animal kingdom, but I’m not going to tear down this wall to try to solve it.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
The cost of turning out the lights
Mr. Butterbean is the light-switch Nazi.
What I am saying is that when it comes to the light switches in our house, he is waging a battle against “on” and is determined that light switches should be flipped to the “off” position; and he has an assortment of weapons in his arsenal to enforce “off.”
At nighttime we live in a world of semi-darkness because at some time during his journey to moral maturity, Mr. B.’s compass got pointed in that direction. In plain language (which I should use more often) leaving on more lights than we need to wastes electricity which in turn costs money. How much? I am about to find out…
Okay, this is the deal: according to someone named “billruss” on the ask.yahoo website, “your 75 watt bulb, if it burns for an hour, will use 75 watt-hours of electricity. Typical cost for electricity (check your bill) is 10¢ (around here it’s a little less) per kW-hr or per 1000 watt-hours. So in one hour your bulb uses 75/1000 x 10¢ or 0.75¢.”
According to Bill’s formula and my calculations, I can burn that light bulb for the whole evening which therefore costs about three cents a day, providing I turn it off when I go to bed or leave the house. I can burn it all year for about $10.00. That is less than Mr. B. has tosses into his quart-sized penny jar in a month. That is less than I find in the washer in a couple of months.
Beyond all that, I understand that the cost for using the new-and-improved, energy-efficient kryptonite light bulbs is even less, provided you can scrape together the necessary down payment to buy some. That kind of money can’t be found in the washer or under the couch cushions.
Yes, I am all for saving money. The more I save on light, the more I can spend on other higher-energy-usage electronic devices. So I can probably buy a new computer with the money I save turning off lights in about twenty years.
My problem with semi-darkness is this: I see at about 75% efficiency during daylight hours. When the lights are low, it drops to somewhere around .75%. Things like stairs, tables, closet doors, stools, and chair legs begin to blend into other things like walls, and floors. I suppose that the same thing happens to the rest of you when the amount of light decreases to a certain threshold, whatever wattage that may be your household.
Now then, compare the penny-per-hour cost of electricity to the cost of band-aids and first-aid cream per incidence of stubbed toes, $12.75, or to the cost of ibuprofen for bruised shins and elbows per year, $27.95. Then factor in the cost of stitches to the forehead, one time only, $480 (plus more bandages and ibuprofen), which cost applies only if your laceration is not referred to a plastic surgeon, when it may cost three month’s wages plus whatever dollar amount you want to put on pain and suffering.
As you can see, even figuring conservatively which means excluding the possibility that I might fall down the stairs, turning off the lights may not be cost effective. Apparently the Light Nazi and Blind Bertha are just not a good combination.
Should the current administration of the federal government need a light czar to work under the energy cazr to promote walking around in the dark, and I predict that they will, I know just the man for the job. And he has no ties to the Chicago mob, pays his taxes, and loves apple pie.
Mr. B. can think of hundreds of ways to get you to turn off the lights. Most of them involve the application of that great motivational tool—guilt. The rest of them are “turn out the light,” which is uttered as soon as you stand up from your chair or start for the exit of a particular room. That you are coming back in thirty seconds doesn’t count.
Should we ever have a light czar, no matter who it is, I may have to show up at a light-tea party. I already know what my handmade placard will read: “SAVE OUR SHINS!"
What I am saying is that when it comes to the light switches in our house, he is waging a battle against “on” and is determined that light switches should be flipped to the “off” position; and he has an assortment of weapons in his arsenal to enforce “off.”
At nighttime we live in a world of semi-darkness because at some time during his journey to moral maturity, Mr. B.’s compass got pointed in that direction. In plain language (which I should use more often) leaving on more lights than we need to wastes electricity which in turn costs money. How much? I am about to find out…
Okay, this is the deal: according to someone named “billruss” on the ask.yahoo website, “your 75 watt bulb, if it burns for an hour, will use 75 watt-hours of electricity. Typical cost for electricity (check your bill) is 10¢ (around here it’s a little less) per kW-hr or per 1000 watt-hours. So in one hour your bulb uses 75/1000 x 10¢ or 0.75¢.”
According to Bill’s formula and my calculations, I can burn that light bulb for the whole evening which therefore costs about three cents a day, providing I turn it off when I go to bed or leave the house. I can burn it all year for about $10.00. That is less than Mr. B. has tosses into his quart-sized penny jar in a month. That is less than I find in the washer in a couple of months.
Beyond all that, I understand that the cost for using the new-and-improved, energy-efficient kryptonite light bulbs is even less, provided you can scrape together the necessary down payment to buy some. That kind of money can’t be found in the washer or under the couch cushions.
Yes, I am all for saving money. The more I save on light, the more I can spend on other higher-energy-usage electronic devices. So I can probably buy a new computer with the money I save turning off lights in about twenty years.
My problem with semi-darkness is this: I see at about 75% efficiency during daylight hours. When the lights are low, it drops to somewhere around .75%. Things like stairs, tables, closet doors, stools, and chair legs begin to blend into other things like walls, and floors. I suppose that the same thing happens to the rest of you when the amount of light decreases to a certain threshold, whatever wattage that may be your household.
Now then, compare the penny-per-hour cost of electricity to the cost of band-aids and first-aid cream per incidence of stubbed toes, $12.75, or to the cost of ibuprofen for bruised shins and elbows per year, $27.95. Then factor in the cost of stitches to the forehead, one time only, $480 (plus more bandages and ibuprofen), which cost applies only if your laceration is not referred to a plastic surgeon, when it may cost three month’s wages plus whatever dollar amount you want to put on pain and suffering.
As you can see, even figuring conservatively which means excluding the possibility that I might fall down the stairs, turning off the lights may not be cost effective. Apparently the Light Nazi and Blind Bertha are just not a good combination.
Should the current administration of the federal government need a light czar to work under the energy cazr to promote walking around in the dark, and I predict that they will, I know just the man for the job. And he has no ties to the Chicago mob, pays his taxes, and loves apple pie.
Mr. B. can think of hundreds of ways to get you to turn off the lights. Most of them involve the application of that great motivational tool—guilt. The rest of them are “turn out the light,” which is uttered as soon as you stand up from your chair or start for the exit of a particular room. That you are coming back in thirty seconds doesn’t count.
Should we ever have a light czar, no matter who it is, I may have to show up at a light-tea party. I already know what my handmade placard will read: “SAVE OUR SHINS!"
The chronicles of cold cereal
Bertha is not necessarily well-known for her inclination to discuss the weightier matters. In fact that word you have been hearing so much lately—frivolous—is probably more on the mark.
One of those charming and frivolous products that deserves discussion though, is that breakfast food known as cold cereal which is so characteristic of the American cultural scene, which scene by the way is disappearing rapidly and needs to be preserved.
So, Cheerios, Wheaties and Corn Flakes are older than I am. They were the breakfast of everyone, champions or losers, back in the in the 40s when I was part of the cereal generation.
Excluding oatmeal, I suppose, Corn Flakes is arguably the mother of them all and was “discovered” by John Harvey Kellogg when he was busy making bland food for the patients at his health spa. He hoped the bland food would have a calming effect on some of his patients.. He accidentally overcooked a batch of corn “stuff” which turned it into flakes instead of sheets. (I can only imagine sheets.) Not wanting to throw them out, he served them to the patients, who, interestingly, preferred flakes to sheets. And that was the last time that cereal was thought to have a calming effect on anyone. So cereal came to have historical, if not nutritional or intrinsic value.
Fast forward a couple hundred years from now, though, to when archaeologists excavate certain buildings belonging to this decade. They will no doubt proclaim that little round “O’s (are there any other kind?) must have had religious significance and therefore intrinsic value back then, uh now.
During the 70s when I was raising kids, cereal was the quintessential junk food. There was a national uproar over the lack of food value in something that was used to feed seventy percent of the country’s kids who were just on their way out the door to catch the school bus; in spite of the fact that cold cereal was single-handedly responsible for helping all of those children not miss the bus and therefore morning arithmetic.
But wait, that was back when this country was way ahead of the rest of the world in all of the smart indices. Do you suppose there is a direct correlation between eating junk food and intellect? Well, maybe not. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what tastes better.
Well, that decade may have been the beginning of the socialization of cereal. Someone made the manufacturers put all of the natural nutrients and fibers back into the cereal and take the sugar out. And thus the dumbing down of American school children had begun.
Thanks to some good PR, cereal’s reputation is of late considerably improved. The PR blitzes began way before this however. The industry long ago began to market their product to kids. There are the leprechaun/elf-based marketing strategies which are some of the oldest due to the fact that fairies are immortal. And there are the animal mascot approaches, some of which feature kid-friendly tigers, rabbits and roosters which are septuagenarians. And there are the all-American athlete angles. Willie Mays used to grace a box of Wheaties back in the day.
And alternatively then and now there are the mothers who are desperately trying to maintain control over the contents of the shopping cart. As early as the 70’s cereal had become a method of advancing one’s social status. Children wanted the flashy, colorful, expensively packaged kinds which they ate while they wore their Calvin Klein or Jordache jeans. Cereal boxes and jeans are alike that way sometimes. What goes into them is sometimes worth less than the packaging.
As for me and Mr. B. we have arrived at the age, in this decade, where the only cereals under consideration reside on the top row of the cereal aisle. That makes sense if your marketing target is kids. However, we grew out of our jeans and flashy cereals some time ago. But it is unfortunate that we practically have to get a chair to view the top row of cereal boxes through our bifocals. And we can barely read the nutrition facts at all.
While sitting at the kitchen table reading the cereal box the other day though, I was amused to see, in big letters, that I had bought “Granola—without raisins.”
One of those charming and frivolous products that deserves discussion though, is that breakfast food known as cold cereal which is so characteristic of the American cultural scene, which scene by the way is disappearing rapidly and needs to be preserved.
So, Cheerios, Wheaties and Corn Flakes are older than I am. They were the breakfast of everyone, champions or losers, back in the in the 40s when I was part of the cereal generation.
Excluding oatmeal, I suppose, Corn Flakes is arguably the mother of them all and was “discovered” by John Harvey Kellogg when he was busy making bland food for the patients at his health spa. He hoped the bland food would have a calming effect on some of his patients.. He accidentally overcooked a batch of corn “stuff” which turned it into flakes instead of sheets. (I can only imagine sheets.) Not wanting to throw them out, he served them to the patients, who, interestingly, preferred flakes to sheets. And that was the last time that cereal was thought to have a calming effect on anyone. So cereal came to have historical, if not nutritional or intrinsic value.
Fast forward a couple hundred years from now, though, to when archaeologists excavate certain buildings belonging to this decade. They will no doubt proclaim that little round “O’s (are there any other kind?) must have had religious significance and therefore intrinsic value back then, uh now.
During the 70s when I was raising kids, cereal was the quintessential junk food. There was a national uproar over the lack of food value in something that was used to feed seventy percent of the country’s kids who were just on their way out the door to catch the school bus; in spite of the fact that cold cereal was single-handedly responsible for helping all of those children not miss the bus and therefore morning arithmetic.
But wait, that was back when this country was way ahead of the rest of the world in all of the smart indices. Do you suppose there is a direct correlation between eating junk food and intellect? Well, maybe not. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what tastes better.
Well, that decade may have been the beginning of the socialization of cereal. Someone made the manufacturers put all of the natural nutrients and fibers back into the cereal and take the sugar out. And thus the dumbing down of American school children had begun.
Thanks to some good PR, cereal’s reputation is of late considerably improved. The PR blitzes began way before this however. The industry long ago began to market their product to kids. There are the leprechaun/elf-based marketing strategies which are some of the oldest due to the fact that fairies are immortal. And there are the animal mascot approaches, some of which feature kid-friendly tigers, rabbits and roosters which are septuagenarians. And there are the all-American athlete angles. Willie Mays used to grace a box of Wheaties back in the day.
And alternatively then and now there are the mothers who are desperately trying to maintain control over the contents of the shopping cart. As early as the 70’s cereal had become a method of advancing one’s social status. Children wanted the flashy, colorful, expensively packaged kinds which they ate while they wore their Calvin Klein or Jordache jeans. Cereal boxes and jeans are alike that way sometimes. What goes into them is sometimes worth less than the packaging.
As for me and Mr. B. we have arrived at the age, in this decade, where the only cereals under consideration reside on the top row of the cereal aisle. That makes sense if your marketing target is kids. However, we grew out of our jeans and flashy cereals some time ago. But it is unfortunate that we practically have to get a chair to view the top row of cereal boxes through our bifocals. And we can barely read the nutrition facts at all.
While sitting at the kitchen table reading the cereal box the other day though, I was amused to see, in big letters, that I had bought “Granola—without raisins.”
Where the body meets the car
I am fearful that in the quest to control our driving habits, some car czar in the upper echelons of the motor vehicle industry, lately the federal government, will be trying to annihilate every semblance of comfort in a car on the grounds that if you get too comfortable in those things, you will become impaired enough to run over a lizard or a rabbit or something.
Now I know that when it comes to vehicle performance, roughly half of you are more concerned with where the rubber meets the road. But if cars become smaller and more Spartan, surely they will become less comfortable in that area where the body meets the car—the car seat.
Speaking of car seats, look at what they have done to our under-60-lbs. population where their little backsides meet the car. Child car-seat engineers ought to be required to drive for at least three hours straight with a couple of rear-facing, strapped-in kids who will be screaming because they are rear-facing and strapped-in.
I’m sorry, but those conditions don’t enhance safety much since two screaming kids are more of a distraction to the driver than a diaper bag full of cell phones all receiving text messages at once. Besides who doesn’t drive more carefully when his payload isn’t strapped down?
In addition to the distraction issue. there is the bodily injury issue. I’m not talking about the collision-induced kind. Did you ever try to put a pacifier into a baby’s back-seat rear-facing mouth from the front-seat forward-facing driver’s seat? An Olympic gymnast couldn’t do it. After a couple of shoulder dislocations, you will soon learn that you need to pull over for that one. By the way, speaking of Olympic athletes, do you know how fast and how far an eleven-month-old can throw a pacifier? Try moving quickly enough to catch one when you are buckled up.
But I digress. Back to the issue of driver/passenger comfort. I will have to admit that I haven’t test-driven a whole lot of cars. A few Fords, a few Chevys, middle-of-the-road types of vehicles. But I think they are getting more uncomfortable lately. There are more leather seats around, at least within my frame of reference.
Are leather seats practical? Not from the cow’s point of view.
Are leather seats really leather? If they are, I can’t imagine why PETA isn’t all over that one.
Are leather seats comfortable? No, and I don’t know what kinds of positives they are supposed to deliver either. They are cold in winter and hot in summer. During all seasons they are slippery and you tend to slide forward in them until you are in danger of taking a seat on the floor. Everything you set on them—your purse, your mail, your groceries reacts the same way.
I’m sorry, I’m not buckling in my accessories. It is bad enough to be told by an unforgiving beeper that I have to buckle myself in. Not that I wouldn’t want a seat belt in place if I ever needed one, but I just want to be the one to decide to place it.
Then there is the headrest which is a misnomer and should be called a pain in the neck. Whether it is really designed to be a whiplash preventer but was then given the misleading name of headrest to prevent our emotional unrest, I am not sure, but don’t plan on resting your head on that thing. I question its ability to prevent whiplash since whiplash could easily occur somewhere in the huge gulf between the head and the “headrest.”
Okay, just so you don’t think that all I do is complain, here is a great big thumbs-up, high-five, A-okay, whatever is good, to the inventor of the seat heater, alternately called the heat seater. Somebody got that one right. It is actually warm in winter. It warms almost half your body while it gently relaxes your shoulders which were probably previously hunched against the cold or dislocated from reaching the baby or strained from trying to lay your head back onto the whiplash preventer.
Now I know that when it comes to vehicle performance, roughly half of you are more concerned with where the rubber meets the road. But if cars become smaller and more Spartan, surely they will become less comfortable in that area where the body meets the car—the car seat.
Speaking of car seats, look at what they have done to our under-60-lbs. population where their little backsides meet the car. Child car-seat engineers ought to be required to drive for at least three hours straight with a couple of rear-facing, strapped-in kids who will be screaming because they are rear-facing and strapped-in.
I’m sorry, but those conditions don’t enhance safety much since two screaming kids are more of a distraction to the driver than a diaper bag full of cell phones all receiving text messages at once. Besides who doesn’t drive more carefully when his payload isn’t strapped down?
In addition to the distraction issue. there is the bodily injury issue. I’m not talking about the collision-induced kind. Did you ever try to put a pacifier into a baby’s back-seat rear-facing mouth from the front-seat forward-facing driver’s seat? An Olympic gymnast couldn’t do it. After a couple of shoulder dislocations, you will soon learn that you need to pull over for that one. By the way, speaking of Olympic athletes, do you know how fast and how far an eleven-month-old can throw a pacifier? Try moving quickly enough to catch one when you are buckled up.
But I digress. Back to the issue of driver/passenger comfort. I will have to admit that I haven’t test-driven a whole lot of cars. A few Fords, a few Chevys, middle-of-the-road types of vehicles. But I think they are getting more uncomfortable lately. There are more leather seats around, at least within my frame of reference.
Are leather seats practical? Not from the cow’s point of view.
Are leather seats really leather? If they are, I can’t imagine why PETA isn’t all over that one.
Are leather seats comfortable? No, and I don’t know what kinds of positives they are supposed to deliver either. They are cold in winter and hot in summer. During all seasons they are slippery and you tend to slide forward in them until you are in danger of taking a seat on the floor. Everything you set on them—your purse, your mail, your groceries reacts the same way.
I’m sorry, I’m not buckling in my accessories. It is bad enough to be told by an unforgiving beeper that I have to buckle myself in. Not that I wouldn’t want a seat belt in place if I ever needed one, but I just want to be the one to decide to place it.
Then there is the headrest which is a misnomer and should be called a pain in the neck. Whether it is really designed to be a whiplash preventer but was then given the misleading name of headrest to prevent our emotional unrest, I am not sure, but don’t plan on resting your head on that thing. I question its ability to prevent whiplash since whiplash could easily occur somewhere in the huge gulf between the head and the “headrest.”
Okay, just so you don’t think that all I do is complain, here is a great big thumbs-up, high-five, A-okay, whatever is good, to the inventor of the seat heater, alternately called the heat seater. Somebody got that one right. It is actually warm in winter. It warms almost half your body while it gently relaxes your shoulders which were probably previously hunched against the cold or dislocated from reaching the baby or strained from trying to lay your head back onto the whiplash preventer.
How to negotiate a four-way stop intersection
We have acquired a some new low-volume, high-stress (four-way stop) intersections in our town lately. Until now they have been few and far between. Drivers could still get where they wanted to go by detouring occasionally so as to avoid them.
Suddenly, it is nearly inevitable that you will have to use one of those intersections unless you want to go somewhere by way of Colorado.
One of the problems with four-way stops is that too many of us took Driver’s Ed. too long ago. The other problem is that some of us weren’t paying attention during the four-way stop chapter anyway.
Just so you know, I happen to fall into the first group, not the second. So I got online and looked up the four-way-stop rules in an effort to get up to speed on this one, which is the only reason I am qualified to write about it. So unless you like going to Colorado, here is the missing chapter.
The basic rule of the four-way stop is to pay attention as you approach the intersection because the vehicles go through the intersection in the order they stopped at it. By the way, four-way stop does not mean that you have to wait for three more cars to stop before you can move through the intersection. It’s not rocket science; however, there are a few contingencies which might make it akin to computer programming.
First, the definition of “stop” is: none of your wheels are turning. (“Rolling stop” is an oxymoron that has no place in the lexicon of driving terminology.) That contingency might make it necessary for you to keep one eye on your rearview mirror in case the driver behind you thinks that “rolling stop” is a legitimate maneuver. This condition makes you realize a whole new meaning to the dictum “I got your back,” which in turn makes it difficult to recall which cars arrived at the intersection in which order.
Second, if you see that one of the drivers at the intersection is using a cell phone, you may have to assume that he/she doesn’t know who got to the intersection first either. In that case you may resort to hand-waving which may solve the problem of who goes first. Please note: you may be the type of person who opens the door for football players, but polite isn’t relative here. Do not wait for all of the other cars to go first unless you are sure that you got there last.
Fourth, one or more cars may actually arrive at the intersection at the same time. This isn’t the same as not knowing who arrived when. However, your perceptions of “the same time” may not be the same as someone else’s. You may be at the intersection with a Nascar driver wannabe who doesn’t comprehend second or third. If you suspect that you are at the intersection with one of those people, just pretend that you came in second or third, in spite of the usual regulation which prescribes that the car on the right goes first.
Fifth, in rare instances four cars might actually arrive at the intersection at the same time, which results in maneuvers similar to performing the Hokey-Pokey, or maybe it’s a square dancing routine that I am thinking of. I am sorry, but none of the rules apply since everyone is on someone’s right and since taking turns is going to require more than just holding up one, two, three, or four fingers. The way I see it everyone will be signaling “we’re number one.” You won’t see a peace sign anywhere.
For this contingency, I recommend carrying an empty pop bottle under your back seat, or brushing up on your Rock, Paper, Scissors skills. Another strategy is to make sure that you and three other cars are not arriving at the intersection simultaneously. The safest way to do that is to get there last. It’s not first, but it’s a strategy that gives you control over the situation. No one will try to beat you out of that position, and hey, believe it or not, the object is to get through the intersection without a bent fender.
The State of Utah Driver’s Handbook is mysteriously silent on the subject of four-way stops. Perhaps Utah drivers weren’t sleeping through four-way stop classes. Maybe there weren’t any, which might explain the general confusion at four-way stops. I did find this instruction on a website which describes some method for maneuvering a crowded four-way stop: “The alternating directions take turns. In other words, north and south go, then west and east. Those turning left yeild (original spelling maintained) to the car coming the opposite direction, just like with a green light.” I think that the instructions contained in the Utah Handbook are more helpful.
For your information, though, there are two pages of instructions in that handbook devoted to the maneuver of parallel parking. Now there is something that you can still manage to avoid without detouring through Colorado.
Suddenly, it is nearly inevitable that you will have to use one of those intersections unless you want to go somewhere by way of Colorado.
One of the problems with four-way stops is that too many of us took Driver’s Ed. too long ago. The other problem is that some of us weren’t paying attention during the four-way stop chapter anyway.
Just so you know, I happen to fall into the first group, not the second. So I got online and looked up the four-way-stop rules in an effort to get up to speed on this one, which is the only reason I am qualified to write about it. So unless you like going to Colorado, here is the missing chapter.
The basic rule of the four-way stop is to pay attention as you approach the intersection because the vehicles go through the intersection in the order they stopped at it. By the way, four-way stop does not mean that you have to wait for three more cars to stop before you can move through the intersection. It’s not rocket science; however, there are a few contingencies which might make it akin to computer programming.
First, the definition of “stop” is: none of your wheels are turning. (“Rolling stop” is an oxymoron that has no place in the lexicon of driving terminology.) That contingency might make it necessary for you to keep one eye on your rearview mirror in case the driver behind you thinks that “rolling stop” is a legitimate maneuver. This condition makes you realize a whole new meaning to the dictum “I got your back,” which in turn makes it difficult to recall which cars arrived at the intersection in which order.
Second, if you see that one of the drivers at the intersection is using a cell phone, you may have to assume that he/she doesn’t know who got to the intersection first either. In that case you may resort to hand-waving which may solve the problem of who goes first. Please note: you may be the type of person who opens the door for football players, but polite isn’t relative here. Do not wait for all of the other cars to go first unless you are sure that you got there last.
Fourth, one or more cars may actually arrive at the intersection at the same time. This isn’t the same as not knowing who arrived when. However, your perceptions of “the same time” may not be the same as someone else’s. You may be at the intersection with a Nascar driver wannabe who doesn’t comprehend second or third. If you suspect that you are at the intersection with one of those people, just pretend that you came in second or third, in spite of the usual regulation which prescribes that the car on the right goes first.
Fifth, in rare instances four cars might actually arrive at the intersection at the same time, which results in maneuvers similar to performing the Hokey-Pokey, or maybe it’s a square dancing routine that I am thinking of. I am sorry, but none of the rules apply since everyone is on someone’s right and since taking turns is going to require more than just holding up one, two, three, or four fingers. The way I see it everyone will be signaling “we’re number one.” You won’t see a peace sign anywhere.
For this contingency, I recommend carrying an empty pop bottle under your back seat, or brushing up on your Rock, Paper, Scissors skills. Another strategy is to make sure that you and three other cars are not arriving at the intersection simultaneously. The safest way to do that is to get there last. It’s not first, but it’s a strategy that gives you control over the situation. No one will try to beat you out of that position, and hey, believe it or not, the object is to get through the intersection without a bent fender.
The State of Utah Driver’s Handbook is mysteriously silent on the subject of four-way stops. Perhaps Utah drivers weren’t sleeping through four-way stop classes. Maybe there weren’t any, which might explain the general confusion at four-way stops. I did find this instruction on a website which describes some method for maneuvering a crowded four-way stop: “The alternating directions take turns. In other words, north and south go, then west and east. Those turning left yeild (original spelling maintained) to the car coming the opposite direction, just like with a green light.” I think that the instructions contained in the Utah Handbook are more helpful.
For your information, though, there are two pages of instructions in that handbook devoted to the maneuver of parallel parking. Now there is something that you can still manage to avoid without detouring through Colorado.
How to cope with medical shortfalls
The appearance of the first “medicine person” in the Butterbean family may have occurred back in the days when the Butterbeans’ immediate ancestors moved out to a ranch 15 miles away from the real doctor and when cars weren’t so dependable.
To get to the doctor’s office back then, you had to drive a car that had to be push-started, was liable to get a flat tire on the way there, and was usually out of gas. (My, how times have changed in the Butterbean family.)
After the car was up and on its way, someone had to drive over roads that were either sandy, muddy or washed out. (Walking through snow was reserved for children going to school—three miles uphill both ways.)
Then as now, our family had an impeccable history of becoming sick or maimed only on weekends when doctors go into hiding and it does you no good to drive to town anyway.
Since those days, there has always been at lest one bona fide, bone-wearing shaman among the generations of the Butterbean tribe. Come to think of it, it’s a wonder there isn’t a real doctor in the family. There is no shortage of aspirants.
Through the years, we have been known to consult the family shaman in cases of loose teeth, split fingernails, floor burns, road rashes, sprains, lacerations, nosebleeds, hay fever, dog bites, tick bites, and numerous other accidentally self-inflicted wounds—a fact which has made top executives of our medical insurance companies ever grateful.
Common treatments involved vitamin C, salt water, soap and water, rest in bed, band-aids when they could be located, fishing line, sport tape and elastic wraps.
Which brings us to the question of why do-it-yourself medicine is still practiced in the Butterbean family: neither I nor the insurance company can afford the real kind.
Somewhere between those days when it was impractical to drive to the doctor’s office and now when you will have a hard time paying for the service when you get there, were the days when it did you no good if you did go there.
If you are in my age bracket (usually the highest one), you will remember those days of general antibiotic hysteria when the only way you could get a prescription for an antibiotic was to show proof, be you living or dead, that you had “strep.” No other illness warranted the use of antibiotics. The only way to rule out all other strains of sore throat was to show up at the doctor’s for a throat culture. If it was positive, you were rewarded with antibiotics. If not, you were sent home with an aspirin in your hand.
My friend, who raised her children during the Great American Antibiotic Freeze, took her daughter to the doctor twice, two weeks running, with a sore throat. Each time she was charged the going rate and sent home with a handshake: “Congratulations, your daughter has the non-strep variety of sore throat.”
But my friend was getting smarter. The next time her daughter had a sore throat, she used her own strategy. No, she didn’t visit the family shaman. Instead of making an appointment, then driving to the doctor’s office and waiting in line, she telephoned him and reported that her daughter again had a sore throat and would he please add the usual $35 to her bill while she gave her daughter an aspirin.
In case you were wondering what the family shaman needed fishing line for (besides fishing of course); he has been known to suture his own lacerations for two reasons. He didn’t have strep, and he couldn’t find a band-aid.
To get to the doctor’s office back then, you had to drive a car that had to be push-started, was liable to get a flat tire on the way there, and was usually out of gas. (My, how times have changed in the Butterbean family.)
After the car was up and on its way, someone had to drive over roads that were either sandy, muddy or washed out. (Walking through snow was reserved for children going to school—three miles uphill both ways.)
Then as now, our family had an impeccable history of becoming sick or maimed only on weekends when doctors go into hiding and it does you no good to drive to town anyway.
Since those days, there has always been at lest one bona fide, bone-wearing shaman among the generations of the Butterbean tribe. Come to think of it, it’s a wonder there isn’t a real doctor in the family. There is no shortage of aspirants.
Through the years, we have been known to consult the family shaman in cases of loose teeth, split fingernails, floor burns, road rashes, sprains, lacerations, nosebleeds, hay fever, dog bites, tick bites, and numerous other accidentally self-inflicted wounds—a fact which has made top executives of our medical insurance companies ever grateful.
Common treatments involved vitamin C, salt water, soap and water, rest in bed, band-aids when they could be located, fishing line, sport tape and elastic wraps.
Which brings us to the question of why do-it-yourself medicine is still practiced in the Butterbean family: neither I nor the insurance company can afford the real kind.
Somewhere between those days when it was impractical to drive to the doctor’s office and now when you will have a hard time paying for the service when you get there, were the days when it did you no good if you did go there.
If you are in my age bracket (usually the highest one), you will remember those days of general antibiotic hysteria when the only way you could get a prescription for an antibiotic was to show proof, be you living or dead, that you had “strep.” No other illness warranted the use of antibiotics. The only way to rule out all other strains of sore throat was to show up at the doctor’s for a throat culture. If it was positive, you were rewarded with antibiotics. If not, you were sent home with an aspirin in your hand.
My friend, who raised her children during the Great American Antibiotic Freeze, took her daughter to the doctor twice, two weeks running, with a sore throat. Each time she was charged the going rate and sent home with a handshake: “Congratulations, your daughter has the non-strep variety of sore throat.”
But my friend was getting smarter. The next time her daughter had a sore throat, she used her own strategy. No, she didn’t visit the family shaman. Instead of making an appointment, then driving to the doctor’s office and waiting in line, she telephoned him and reported that her daughter again had a sore throat and would he please add the usual $35 to her bill while she gave her daughter an aspirin.
In case you were wondering what the family shaman needed fishing line for (besides fishing of course); he has been known to suture his own lacerations for two reasons. He didn’t have strep, and he couldn’t find a band-aid.
Just a little off base
A few people have asked me why I didn’t say something about this or the other thing in last week’s article about baseball caps. Well, it was getting a little too long and a little too late as it was.
But I was tempted to say that, great American past time notwithstanding, the best thing to come out of baseball may be the baseball cap.
Of course, we don’t live in a city or even a state that has a team in either big league so we are probably a little too far removed from all the action if there is any.
My son who lives further east than we do follows big-league baseball, but he lives within a couple of hours traveling time of four teams’ home ball parks. In addition to that, there is the Toledo Mud Hens also within that range, which team I was lucky enough to watch play.
But as sports go, baseball is one of them. A couple of my kids played baseball, so I have been to the park a few hundred times to watch the games. At least the games are held in the summer, as opposed to football and soccer, which sports aren’t perfect either as their games are on one end or the other of winter.
If your kid is the pitcher, watching baseball is an okay activity, unless he walks nine in a row. If he’s the right fielder, you are better off bringing along a supplementary amusement like a history book or a math assignment for the bottom halves of the innings in case things get a little slow.
Since we don’t really have any geographical ties to baseball, my kids were all over the ballpark when it came to picking a major league team to cheer for. They tended to pick their own baseball team fan caps based on color more than anything else, i.e. “I like blue, and I look good in blue; I’ll root for Boston. Besides that, my name starts with ‘B’.”
“Well, I’ll get a Yankees hat, even though, thank goodness, my name doesn’t start with ‘Y.’ Their hats just look the best.”
Similarly, I think my friend’s son was playing baseball, and not soccer, because “the boys just look so cute in their baseball suits.” I think that Bertha has already written about the pros and cons of baseball uniforms versus soccer gear. Baseball requires way too much equipment.
I don’t know whether it is baseball that has changed or whether I have. I used to follow the sport and at least watch the World Series along with everybody else. And, truth to tell, I don’t know whether one can truly be an American patriot and not like baseball.
American culture and social history would have a huge holes in it without baseball, its Hall of Fame, and the stories, movies, music and food associated with it—not to mention the influence of baseball on the English language.
Do you realize how many baseball idioms there are? You might have noticed a couple already in this article. But I’ll bet you could think of at least twenty once you got out of the dugout and started swinging.
When was the last time you didn’t go through a day (that would be a Yogiism right there) without “striking out” or “dropping the ball?” We can certainly hope for a few more “homeruns and “grand slams” than instances of “being caught off base” in that day though.
And if you think that this particular column is a swing and a miss, how would you like to pinch hit sometime?
Thankfully, it’s over when it’s over.
But I was tempted to say that, great American past time notwithstanding, the best thing to come out of baseball may be the baseball cap.
Of course, we don’t live in a city or even a state that has a team in either big league so we are probably a little too far removed from all the action if there is any.
My son who lives further east than we do follows big-league baseball, but he lives within a couple of hours traveling time of four teams’ home ball parks. In addition to that, there is the Toledo Mud Hens also within that range, which team I was lucky enough to watch play.
But as sports go, baseball is one of them. A couple of my kids played baseball, so I have been to the park a few hundred times to watch the games. At least the games are held in the summer, as opposed to football and soccer, which sports aren’t perfect either as their games are on one end or the other of winter.
If your kid is the pitcher, watching baseball is an okay activity, unless he walks nine in a row. If he’s the right fielder, you are better off bringing along a supplementary amusement like a history book or a math assignment for the bottom halves of the innings in case things get a little slow.
Since we don’t really have any geographical ties to baseball, my kids were all over the ballpark when it came to picking a major league team to cheer for. They tended to pick their own baseball team fan caps based on color more than anything else, i.e. “I like blue, and I look good in blue; I’ll root for Boston. Besides that, my name starts with ‘B’.”
“Well, I’ll get a Yankees hat, even though, thank goodness, my name doesn’t start with ‘Y.’ Their hats just look the best.”
Similarly, I think my friend’s son was playing baseball, and not soccer, because “the boys just look so cute in their baseball suits.” I think that Bertha has already written about the pros and cons of baseball uniforms versus soccer gear. Baseball requires way too much equipment.
I don’t know whether it is baseball that has changed or whether I have. I used to follow the sport and at least watch the World Series along with everybody else. And, truth to tell, I don’t know whether one can truly be an American patriot and not like baseball.
American culture and social history would have a huge holes in it without baseball, its Hall of Fame, and the stories, movies, music and food associated with it—not to mention the influence of baseball on the English language.
Do you realize how many baseball idioms there are? You might have noticed a couple already in this article. But I’ll bet you could think of at least twenty once you got out of the dugout and started swinging.
When was the last time you didn’t go through a day (that would be a Yogiism right there) without “striking out” or “dropping the ball?” We can certainly hope for a few more “homeruns and “grand slams” than instances of “being caught off base” in that day though.
And if you think that this particular column is a swing and a miss, how would you like to pinch hit sometime?
Thankfully, it’s over when it’s over.
“Do you like my hat?”
I suppose there was a time when baseball caps were worn only for playing baseball. I should like to hear the complete and unabridged history of the invention and popularization of the baseball cap.
Just in case you feel the same way, let me tell you it isn’t in the encyclopedia. However if you google baseball cap history, you will return about 1,300.000 entries, which is a lot of history. The first and second sites disagreed on which baseball team first wore them, so history, schmistory, I made one up and here it is.
One hot summer day, at the height of baseball season, Ty Cobb (probably the earliest baseball players that I know of) complained to his manager that the sun got in his eyes when he stood in centerfield (if he played centerfield), and he needed something to shade his eyes. The manager took the problem to his wife who borrowed her son’s beanie and sewed a bill on it.
Ty was a pioneer who wasn’t afraid to show up in never-before-seen headgear, so he tried it out the next game, and it worked pretty well. The seamstress had the foresight to make it in the team’s colors, and the skill to put a block letter on the front of it.
Soon the left fielder and the second baseman wanted one too. And the catcher, who had been looking for something to keep his hair clean when he replaced his mask after throwing it in the dirt around home plate, asked for one too. It didn’t take him long to realize that wearing it backwards was about the only way he was going to be able to wear it at all. (Credit catchers with being first to wear baseball caps backwards.)
Fans and fishermen were probably the first to wear baseball caps off the playing field. Fans wanted to look just like Ty, and fishermen wanted a place to put their flies. From there it snowballed. Truck drivers began to wear them, as did farmers and bald men. Cowboys discovered that a baseball cap fit into the cab of a pickup truck better than a Stetson did, so baseball caps crossed over into the rigid realm of cowboy attire.
Sometime during the 70s it was discovered that the sun got into the eyes of women also, and so the baseball cap crossed another line—the gender line. About that same time denim pants crossed the same line, and one just followed the other.
Baseball caps began to appear in more types of social settings, and they began to be worn to make a fashion statement as well as a literal statement.
Which just about brings us up to the present. Everyone needs a few baseball caps in his or her wardrobe. One to wear to the mall, one to wear jogging, one for visiting friends, one for camp, one to wear to school outside of class, one to wear to work, and oh yes, one to wear to the ballgame.
You can say just about anything with your baseball cap, as well. But pay attention. Make sure that the cap you wear and the way you wear it, i.e. frontward, sideways, backward, inside out, makes the correct statement about your political preferences, your lifestyle, your socio-economic attachments, etc. If you think a baseball cap is neutral, you are mistaken. It can cross the gender line, but be careful about taking it across any other lines. It sits up there on top of your head like a billboard. It isn’t like a wallet that hides in your pocket. Make sure it makes the correct statement.
Well, not a bad reconstruction of history given the evidence in the closet, right? It was easy. Someone needed a sunshade in centerfield and the hat scene is changed for ever after.
I was thinking I could take this history thing a step further and tackle that more useless part of the baseball uniform—the stirrup—but I am having a hard time with it. Which baseball player walked up to his manager and said, “Hey Joe, now my socks don’t match my cap.”?
Just in case you feel the same way, let me tell you it isn’t in the encyclopedia. However if you google baseball cap history, you will return about 1,300.000 entries, which is a lot of history. The first and second sites disagreed on which baseball team first wore them, so history, schmistory, I made one up and here it is.
One hot summer day, at the height of baseball season, Ty Cobb (probably the earliest baseball players that I know of) complained to his manager that the sun got in his eyes when he stood in centerfield (if he played centerfield), and he needed something to shade his eyes. The manager took the problem to his wife who borrowed her son’s beanie and sewed a bill on it.
Ty was a pioneer who wasn’t afraid to show up in never-before-seen headgear, so he tried it out the next game, and it worked pretty well. The seamstress had the foresight to make it in the team’s colors, and the skill to put a block letter on the front of it.
Soon the left fielder and the second baseman wanted one too. And the catcher, who had been looking for something to keep his hair clean when he replaced his mask after throwing it in the dirt around home plate, asked for one too. It didn’t take him long to realize that wearing it backwards was about the only way he was going to be able to wear it at all. (Credit catchers with being first to wear baseball caps backwards.)
Fans and fishermen were probably the first to wear baseball caps off the playing field. Fans wanted to look just like Ty, and fishermen wanted a place to put their flies. From there it snowballed. Truck drivers began to wear them, as did farmers and bald men. Cowboys discovered that a baseball cap fit into the cab of a pickup truck better than a Stetson did, so baseball caps crossed over into the rigid realm of cowboy attire.
Sometime during the 70s it was discovered that the sun got into the eyes of women also, and so the baseball cap crossed another line—the gender line. About that same time denim pants crossed the same line, and one just followed the other.
Baseball caps began to appear in more types of social settings, and they began to be worn to make a fashion statement as well as a literal statement.
Which just about brings us up to the present. Everyone needs a few baseball caps in his or her wardrobe. One to wear to the mall, one to wear jogging, one for visiting friends, one for camp, one to wear to school outside of class, one to wear to work, and oh yes, one to wear to the ballgame.
You can say just about anything with your baseball cap, as well. But pay attention. Make sure that the cap you wear and the way you wear it, i.e. frontward, sideways, backward, inside out, makes the correct statement about your political preferences, your lifestyle, your socio-economic attachments, etc. If you think a baseball cap is neutral, you are mistaken. It can cross the gender line, but be careful about taking it across any other lines. It sits up there on top of your head like a billboard. It isn’t like a wallet that hides in your pocket. Make sure it makes the correct statement.
Well, not a bad reconstruction of history given the evidence in the closet, right? It was easy. Someone needed a sunshade in centerfield and the hat scene is changed for ever after.
I was thinking I could take this history thing a step further and tackle that more useless part of the baseball uniform—the stirrup—but I am having a hard time with it. Which baseball player walked up to his manager and said, “Hey Joe, now my socks don’t match my cap.”?
Dreams do have meaning, but only one
Half of the modern novels I’ve read have some chapter or scene where the hero has an intricate and convoluted dream which the author describes in great detail. They are usually about the character being in a large grassy field with mists or fog. I guess the reader is supposed to interpret the dream and understand what is going to happen next in the story line or what character traits the heroine has buried under layers of consciousness. I never get it. Even by the end of the book, I never get it.
Should I ever write a novel (not to worry) the dreams will have only one theme, which as near as I can tell from my real-life research and my personal observation is the only theme dreams ever come in. (Those novelists are up in the night.)
As you will notice, this is a timely as well as controversial subject, but as far as I am concerned, all dreams are about one thing—being late for class and not being able to get your locker open. Either you have forgotten the combination or it doesn’t work.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you that your school years are unimportant. You will literally be dreaming about them for the rest of your life.
Okay, there are variations on the theme, but they are all the same thing. You can’t get where you need to be (class or school) with all of your stuff and on time to save yourself.
One variation is the “I can’t remember my schedule” dream in which you keep trying to find clues to help you get where you need to be, but you can’t. You keep slogging around trying different classrooms or halls to see if any of them ring a bell, but they don’t. You can’t even find the principal’s office in order to ask someone what your schedule is. Or if during the odd dream you miraculously find it, they can’t find your schedule either.
Then there is the “I can’t get ready for school” dream in which you can’t find the right clothes or shoes, or you get to school and discover that you forgot the most important article of clothing—your pants (or when I went to school, your skirt).
There is also the “I forgot basketball tryouts” dream in which your friends find you after the fact and ask you why you weren’t at tryouts running multiple ladders like they were.
One more variant of the school dream is the one where you find, when you finally get to your class, that there is a 100-question test for which you are totally unprepared.
I guess fairly recent dream research (not similar to the kind I have done) has shown that people need to get the right kind of sleep so they can dream which in turn makes them well-adjusted and psychologically healthy. Well, either I am not getting the right kind of sleep or not dreaming the right kind of dreams because after one of the locked-locker dreams, I wake up in the middle of an anxiety attack. And that hardly feels healthy.
I have read that anxiety dreams are telling us about current behavior patterns or psychological imbalances that need to be corrected and also that they are present in people who are diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder. What does all of this tell you about high school?
Well, I am not a psychologist, but it’s not that hard. High school is pure raw trauma—an experience from which you will probably never recover no matter how many times you dream about it which explains why you dream about it.
Your only hope is to have a subsequent traumatic experience which will eclipse the high school one and “graduate” your psychological imbalances so that you dream that you can never get to work on time with your trousers on.
Should I ever write a novel (not to worry) the dreams will have only one theme, which as near as I can tell from my real-life research and my personal observation is the only theme dreams ever come in. (Those novelists are up in the night.)
As you will notice, this is a timely as well as controversial subject, but as far as I am concerned, all dreams are about one thing—being late for class and not being able to get your locker open. Either you have forgotten the combination or it doesn’t work.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you that your school years are unimportant. You will literally be dreaming about them for the rest of your life.
Okay, there are variations on the theme, but they are all the same thing. You can’t get where you need to be (class or school) with all of your stuff and on time to save yourself.
One variation is the “I can’t remember my schedule” dream in which you keep trying to find clues to help you get where you need to be, but you can’t. You keep slogging around trying different classrooms or halls to see if any of them ring a bell, but they don’t. You can’t even find the principal’s office in order to ask someone what your schedule is. Or if during the odd dream you miraculously find it, they can’t find your schedule either.
Then there is the “I can’t get ready for school” dream in which you can’t find the right clothes or shoes, or you get to school and discover that you forgot the most important article of clothing—your pants (or when I went to school, your skirt).
There is also the “I forgot basketball tryouts” dream in which your friends find you after the fact and ask you why you weren’t at tryouts running multiple ladders like they were.
One more variant of the school dream is the one where you find, when you finally get to your class, that there is a 100-question test for which you are totally unprepared.
I guess fairly recent dream research (not similar to the kind I have done) has shown that people need to get the right kind of sleep so they can dream which in turn makes them well-adjusted and psychologically healthy. Well, either I am not getting the right kind of sleep or not dreaming the right kind of dreams because after one of the locked-locker dreams, I wake up in the middle of an anxiety attack. And that hardly feels healthy.
I have read that anxiety dreams are telling us about current behavior patterns or psychological imbalances that need to be corrected and also that they are present in people who are diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder. What does all of this tell you about high school?
Well, I am not a psychologist, but it’s not that hard. High school is pure raw trauma—an experience from which you will probably never recover no matter how many times you dream about it which explains why you dream about it.
Your only hope is to have a subsequent traumatic experience which will eclipse the high school one and “graduate” your psychological imbalances so that you dream that you can never get to work on time with your trousers on.
How to make good use of commercial messages
I am sure that the world’s advertising agencies go to great trouble to make commercials that will make us all sit right up and pay attention for thirty seconds, a minute, or however long it is that ads run. I don’t suppose they are as long as they seem. If they were, there wouldn’t be any time left for regular programming because there are at least eight of them during a half-hour television show.
None of that is anything you didn’t already know, but even if the ads are only thirty seconds long, they are long enough to put me to sleep. When regular programming is on, I can stay awake. When an ad comes on, my eyes fall shut.
Ironically, the worst kind are the ones that promote sleep aids. The background music is restful; they feature people lying in comfortable-looking beds; even the colors and images are calming. Add all of that calmness to the fact that this same commercial has already aired six times during the last half hour and ended the same way every time—with the subject falling asleep—and hmmm, I have direct access to the thirty-second power nap.
And I don’t have to worry about missing any of my program because I always wake up at the end of the commercial during the enumeration of the product’s side effects. Now that part of the promotion is a little jarring to the nerves. Especially when they say, “in rare instances, this product may cause heart attack or stroke.”
That’s enough to wake me up and get me thinking about the possibility of having a stroke, and I further think that if I were going to have a stroke, I wouldn’t want to have it during a pharmaceutically-induced sleep session. I might miss “my program.”
After a few of those kind of commercials, I have resolved that I don’t want to take that kind of product ever, which is also ironic.
Who needs to take anything? You could just record a couple of commercials to play when you get in bed, making sure to edit out the parts about the side effects.
So, after a good night’s sleep plus or minus a few power naps, I might be found in my car going here and there. When I am driving, I listen to talk radio. Believe me, it has it’s share of commercial messages as well. Given the effect that television commercials have on me, I need to be careful about listening to radio commercials while I am driving—power naps and all notwithstanding. So far, my radio station is judicious enough to refrain from advertising sleep aids.
On the contrary, they often air “paid announcements” that serve to wake me right up. One of those is paid for some entity called “Save Our National Parks Foundation” or something like that. Obviously this commercial has failed to drive home to me what the name of the organization is, but their message I got: our national parks are in disrepair because they are underfunded, so please send money to improve them.
So, this is a little jarring to the nerves, and I think that commercials like this might give me a stroke. When Bertha, who is not well-known for her rationality but sometimes has a lucid thought, analyzes this commercial message, it comes out like this:
Say you own a really nice house. Someone more important that you are comes along and takes over the care and upkeep of your house because you might not know how to do that. Their rationale is that they have more resources and can do that better than you can. They pretend that you still own your house, but you don’t; in fact, you will have to get in line to visit it, and you will have to pay a fee to use it, You will have to pay not to use it also. Besides that you will have to pay for upkeep and expenses on it. But the party soon gets tired of spending the money that you give him on his house, and he wants to buy jet airplanes with it instead.
Consequently the repairs and maintenance have fallen behind. He implores a third party to beg you to send more money to fix up the house you don’t own so you can pay more money to visit or not visit a house that you don’t own that this time we are going to fix up. Promise.
And by the way, some of the money will be used to pay for this commercial message which you can record and play back whenever you need a non-pharmaceutical jolt to keep you awake.
None of that is anything you didn’t already know, but even if the ads are only thirty seconds long, they are long enough to put me to sleep. When regular programming is on, I can stay awake. When an ad comes on, my eyes fall shut.
Ironically, the worst kind are the ones that promote sleep aids. The background music is restful; they feature people lying in comfortable-looking beds; even the colors and images are calming. Add all of that calmness to the fact that this same commercial has already aired six times during the last half hour and ended the same way every time—with the subject falling asleep—and hmmm, I have direct access to the thirty-second power nap.
And I don’t have to worry about missing any of my program because I always wake up at the end of the commercial during the enumeration of the product’s side effects. Now that part of the promotion is a little jarring to the nerves. Especially when they say, “in rare instances, this product may cause heart attack or stroke.”
That’s enough to wake me up and get me thinking about the possibility of having a stroke, and I further think that if I were going to have a stroke, I wouldn’t want to have it during a pharmaceutically-induced sleep session. I might miss “my program.”
After a few of those kind of commercials, I have resolved that I don’t want to take that kind of product ever, which is also ironic.
Who needs to take anything? You could just record a couple of commercials to play when you get in bed, making sure to edit out the parts about the side effects.
So, after a good night’s sleep plus or minus a few power naps, I might be found in my car going here and there. When I am driving, I listen to talk radio. Believe me, it has it’s share of commercial messages as well. Given the effect that television commercials have on me, I need to be careful about listening to radio commercials while I am driving—power naps and all notwithstanding. So far, my radio station is judicious enough to refrain from advertising sleep aids.
On the contrary, they often air “paid announcements” that serve to wake me right up. One of those is paid for some entity called “Save Our National Parks Foundation” or something like that. Obviously this commercial has failed to drive home to me what the name of the organization is, but their message I got: our national parks are in disrepair because they are underfunded, so please send money to improve them.
So, this is a little jarring to the nerves, and I think that commercials like this might give me a stroke. When Bertha, who is not well-known for her rationality but sometimes has a lucid thought, analyzes this commercial message, it comes out like this:
Say you own a really nice house. Someone more important that you are comes along and takes over the care and upkeep of your house because you might not know how to do that. Their rationale is that they have more resources and can do that better than you can. They pretend that you still own your house, but you don’t; in fact, you will have to get in line to visit it, and you will have to pay a fee to use it, You will have to pay not to use it also. Besides that you will have to pay for upkeep and expenses on it. But the party soon gets tired of spending the money that you give him on his house, and he wants to buy jet airplanes with it instead.
Consequently the repairs and maintenance have fallen behind. He implores a third party to beg you to send more money to fix up the house you don’t own so you can pay more money to visit or not visit a house that you don’t own that this time we are going to fix up. Promise.
And by the way, some of the money will be used to pay for this commercial message which you can record and play back whenever you need a non-pharmaceutical jolt to keep you awake.
Who knew I was a morning person?
When I was a kid, everyone was a “morning person.” Night people were social outcasts. Well, at least our parents let us know that “early to bed, early to rise” described the expected norm.
When I got old enough, I was permitted to stay up only until the TV news was over at which time even the high school seniors went to bed. Next morning, breakfast was served at seven. Everyone came to breakfast. Everyone ate the same food, and everyone began his day thereafter.
Then someone shattered family life as we knew it by getting a grant and discovering that there are “morning people” and there are “night people.” Morning people like things the way they always were. They like to get up early, plan their day, then get their day’s work done, watch the news, and go to bed afterwards.
Night people are the ones who begin to come alive around nine p.m. They clean their rooms well after sundown. They call fellow night people to come over and make cookies after the news is over. They go shopping at midnight—to the stores that are open, which are only the video stores and the grocery stores, but that is enough to outfit a party.
I know all this because there are people of both kinds in my family. When they all lived at home, the night people stayed up at night, and the morning people got up in the morning. Guess who lost sleep on both ends?
I myself have been known to go to bed before the news begins. Now don’t start jumping to conclusions about my psychological makeup. If I don’t know what kind of person I am, neither does anyone else. I have also been known to stay up late with a good book. However, I do remember that back in the day I didn’t get much sleep when the night people were phoning or when Saturday Night Live was playing. Sometimes I just got up and ate cookies and read yearbooks with everyone else.
On the other hand, I didn’t sleep too well with morning piano practicing or the sounds of someone fixing breakfast. So I usually got out of bed and poured milk on the cereal before someone else poured it on the floor.
What could I say? The morning people had tradition on their side, and the night people had the studies in the medical journals on theirs. (Trying to turn a night person into a morning person can have long-term negative psychological effects, just as trying to turn a left-handed child into a right-handed one can.) And which is worse, a very sleepy mom or a bunch of neurotic kids?
I may have finally overcome the social pressures exerted by the night and morning people in my life who did their level best to turn me into a person of their own order. Perhaps I have blossomed into the kind of person I was meant to be—originally.
For a while there, after most of the kids left home, I rebounded and became an afternoon person—someone who goes to bed early and gets up late. It seemed that I should take advantage of the opportunity to get extra sleep whenever I could, just in case everyone moved back home again.
As for now, in case anyone cares, I seem to be a traditional morning person At least I find myself awake early most mornings trying to get a plan for the day, and ready for bed by the time the news comes on.
Speaking of which, I hear the ten o’clock news winding down right now. It must be time for me to be done here and to be going off to bed.
When I got old enough, I was permitted to stay up only until the TV news was over at which time even the high school seniors went to bed. Next morning, breakfast was served at seven. Everyone came to breakfast. Everyone ate the same food, and everyone began his day thereafter.
Then someone shattered family life as we knew it by getting a grant and discovering that there are “morning people” and there are “night people.” Morning people like things the way they always were. They like to get up early, plan their day, then get their day’s work done, watch the news, and go to bed afterwards.
Night people are the ones who begin to come alive around nine p.m. They clean their rooms well after sundown. They call fellow night people to come over and make cookies after the news is over. They go shopping at midnight—to the stores that are open, which are only the video stores and the grocery stores, but that is enough to outfit a party.
I know all this because there are people of both kinds in my family. When they all lived at home, the night people stayed up at night, and the morning people got up in the morning. Guess who lost sleep on both ends?
I myself have been known to go to bed before the news begins. Now don’t start jumping to conclusions about my psychological makeup. If I don’t know what kind of person I am, neither does anyone else. I have also been known to stay up late with a good book. However, I do remember that back in the day I didn’t get much sleep when the night people were phoning or when Saturday Night Live was playing. Sometimes I just got up and ate cookies and read yearbooks with everyone else.
On the other hand, I didn’t sleep too well with morning piano practicing or the sounds of someone fixing breakfast. So I usually got out of bed and poured milk on the cereal before someone else poured it on the floor.
What could I say? The morning people had tradition on their side, and the night people had the studies in the medical journals on theirs. (Trying to turn a night person into a morning person can have long-term negative psychological effects, just as trying to turn a left-handed child into a right-handed one can.) And which is worse, a very sleepy mom or a bunch of neurotic kids?
I may have finally overcome the social pressures exerted by the night and morning people in my life who did their level best to turn me into a person of their own order. Perhaps I have blossomed into the kind of person I was meant to be—originally.
For a while there, after most of the kids left home, I rebounded and became an afternoon person—someone who goes to bed early and gets up late. It seemed that I should take advantage of the opportunity to get extra sleep whenever I could, just in case everyone moved back home again.
As for now, in case anyone cares, I seem to be a traditional morning person At least I find myself awake early most mornings trying to get a plan for the day, and ready for bed by the time the news comes on.
Speaking of which, I hear the ten o’clock news winding down right now. It must be time for me to be done here and to be going off to bed.
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