Some of you know that my daughter runs a bed and breakfast/event center in another city. So far they have been able to fend off the attacks against small enterprises, survive the slowdown and stay in business. Thankfully, some people still get married.
She has three sons who are true to their gender stereotypes and stay as far away from weddings and receptions as they reasonably can. However true to type, again, they exhibit a little interest when it comes to food at weddings.
They will typically come out of their boy caves just before an event and saunter next door for long enough to see what they might be serving at the current reception. They have tasted every kind of wedding cake they make and every kind of dessert dish there is. There are usually leftovers at these events. Did you ever wonder what people do with their leftover wedding cake?
In fact, if knowing what they were eating could make these boys chefs, they would have CPC (Certified Personal Chef) credentials by now. How many of you, especially you males, know what chocolate ganache is? These kids even have ganache preferences.
So usually they aren't terribly impressed with most of the reception fare, but occasionally they wish they were actually invited to the wedding next door so they could eat the food.
One summer Friday, they found out beforehand that Cold Stone Ice Cream was catering that night's wedding reception, and they were impressed.
“Mom, can have some of the ice cream at the reception?”
“No, the only way you would be able to get food at that reception is to get dressed in your Sunday clothes. I think they would notice that you were uninvited guests if you showed up dressed in worn out shorts and flip-flops. You haven't even combed your hair today. Don't even think of going over there.”
Remembering what a struggle it was to get her kids dressed for church on Sunday mornings, Mom patted her own back for cleverly and successfully deflecting that request.
Later that evening, Mom was “working the reception,” making sure that everything went smoothly for the wedding party and their guests. She was in the corner visiting with a guest when she looked across the room toward the food tables and saw three nicely dressed boys being served by the caterers. They seemed to have quite an unhealthy assortment of toppings being mixed into their ice cream too.
“Look at those cute little boys over there; I wonder who they belong to?” she idly asked the guest. Then she squinted a bit harder.
“Oh my gosh, those are my boys!”
“No wonder you thought they were cute.”
“I thought it was safe to tell them they couldn't eat Cold Stone unless they got dressed in their Sunday clothes. I certainly didn't think they would do it. You should hear them complain about tight shoes and stiff collars on Sunday morning.”
The boys successfully and happily got away with crashing the party. And just to make it worth getting dressed up for, they went through the line twice.
I am tickled to think that my grandchildren are resourceful, but my other thought is that serving Cold Stone at church could just possibly change the world.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Dave Barry, who is a hero of mine has said, “If God had wanted us to be concerned for the plight of the toads, he would have made them cute and furry.”
I am assuming that those words are part of some humor column he wrote about endangered species. There are a lot of people who know more than I do about species and such, but worrying about some of them (not the people) is just beyond my realm of concern except for when I accidentally step on one, in which case concern is hardly a strong enough descriptor.
Yes, it's hard to register alarm when we are talking about the possible disappearance of toads, snakes, bats, or anything with rodent or spider in its name, scientific or otherwise.
Getting excited about prairie dogs and desert ragweed is difficult too.
I did a little research and read that many ecosystems are delicately balanced and the endangerment of one species can effect many others in the same environment. In fact the biggest concern is that since humans and wildlife inhabit the same natural environments, it is important that the balance be maintained for the good of humans.
All this time, I thought that environmentalists were altruistic in their desires to protect species and that they were being protected for their own sakes. Silly me.
Although species become extinct as a natural occurrence, we should be concerned when they are helped along by the activities of humans.
Okay, which is it? Are humans the good guys or the bad guys here?
For myself, I am perfectly willing to get along with the grizzly bear, the gray wolf and for that matter, the black-footed ferret. In fact I have a suggestion for preserving their native habitat which I think is somewhere in the mountains. Simply post signs that say, “Caution, grizzly bears live here.” Nine tenths of us would gladly turn around and go home, or at least camp a hundred miles away. The one tenth who persist in hanging around would probably be the kind who leave no trace for one reason or another anyway.
One reason for preserving every species is that they might be useful to us someday. Fifty percent of prescription medications have active ingredients that come from plants or animals. However, by my count, fifty percent of plants are classified as weeds or are the kinds of plants that make us take prescriptions.
In fact, most of the plant species have not been studied sufficiently to determine what they are good for. Similarly, the complete nature of the relationships of most all of the of the species to each other and their habitats is not clearly understood. I suppose a good share of the mitigation programs involve some guesswork.
It's sort of like messing with the economy. Is endangering the housing market going to topple the world's economy? Probably not if we are busy counting fish instead of beans.
Perhaps the next question is whether protecting a fish or a plant is going to endanger a widespread economy? Or does anyone really know?
I am assuming that those words are part of some humor column he wrote about endangered species. There are a lot of people who know more than I do about species and such, but worrying about some of them (not the people) is just beyond my realm of concern except for when I accidentally step on one, in which case concern is hardly a strong enough descriptor.
Yes, it's hard to register alarm when we are talking about the possible disappearance of toads, snakes, bats, or anything with rodent or spider in its name, scientific or otherwise.
Getting excited about prairie dogs and desert ragweed is difficult too.
I did a little research and read that many ecosystems are delicately balanced and the endangerment of one species can effect many others in the same environment. In fact the biggest concern is that since humans and wildlife inhabit the same natural environments, it is important that the balance be maintained for the good of humans.
All this time, I thought that environmentalists were altruistic in their desires to protect species and that they were being protected for their own sakes. Silly me.
Although species become extinct as a natural occurrence, we should be concerned when they are helped along by the activities of humans.
Okay, which is it? Are humans the good guys or the bad guys here?
For myself, I am perfectly willing to get along with the grizzly bear, the gray wolf and for that matter, the black-footed ferret. In fact I have a suggestion for preserving their native habitat which I think is somewhere in the mountains. Simply post signs that say, “Caution, grizzly bears live here.” Nine tenths of us would gladly turn around and go home, or at least camp a hundred miles away. The one tenth who persist in hanging around would probably be the kind who leave no trace for one reason or another anyway.
One reason for preserving every species is that they might be useful to us someday. Fifty percent of prescription medications have active ingredients that come from plants or animals. However, by my count, fifty percent of plants are classified as weeds or are the kinds of plants that make us take prescriptions.
In fact, most of the plant species have not been studied sufficiently to determine what they are good for. Similarly, the complete nature of the relationships of most all of the of the species to each other and their habitats is not clearly understood. I suppose a good share of the mitigation programs involve some guesswork.
It's sort of like messing with the economy. Is endangering the housing market going to topple the world's economy? Probably not if we are busy counting fish instead of beans.
Perhaps the next question is whether protecting a fish or a plant is going to endanger a widespread economy? Or does anyone really know?
Valentine's Day according to Bertha
There may be a slow-down in the economy right now, but I am here to tell you that those who market goods and services to the American public aren't slowing down. In fact they remind me of that car commercial that takes you through the evolution of travel by putting you in the tracks of each stage of that development. The progression from one stage to another picks up speed as it goes along.
Well, of course it does. The whole point of the development of travel is go faster. Right? Well the whole intent of marketers is to get you to spend more money and spend it faster. I have never taken a marketing class in my life so I might be wrong, but I can tell you that I have learned in the school of hard knocks as a consumer that escalation is the name of the game.
I am very resistant. I have also learned in that school that “a fool and his money are soon parted” and to be careful not to “confuse wants with needs,” etc. etc.
The rate of escalation is especially noticeable when it comes to holidays. Take Valentine's Day for instance. Apparently it is an ancient holiday associated with a couple of Saints whose particular deeds have been forgotten. However, in the middle ages Valentine's Day was marked by giving flowers, confections or handwritten notes.
From the mid-19th century in the United States until the mid-20th century, people mainly exchanged valentine cards, either handwritten or manufactured, as an expression of love.
When I was in grade school we bought or made valentines which we traded at school. We put the valentines on the recipients' desk. That was it. We did spend a lot of time deciding which friend should get the biggest valentine (determined by measuring length and width with a ruler and multiplying) and sometimes the verdict was still out until the night before.
Then someone unwittingly invented the candy heart which was a huge leap ahead for retailers and changed Valentine's Day yet again. Ostensibly that happened long before I was born, but they didn't show up on my desk until mid grade-school years. Valentine's Day began to be associated with treats and candy again.
The practice of giving candy hearts at school necessitated the introduction of the Valentine Box. There needed to be a place to deposit those grubby hearts which incidentally were not originally packaged in individual servings. I remember one box made by one of my kids. It was made from a Quaker's oatmeal box to look like a can of Campbell's soup. The label read “Cream of Valentine Soup.”
Candy hearts were soon supplemented with candy bars, sticks of gum, suckers, etc. We did our share of escalating by putting red Jell-o Jigglers on the neighbors' porches and running. Since that time, there has been a huge upgrade in the nature of valentines which are no longer mere valentines but are now “valentine gifts.”
At some point, in the name of correctness, 28 identical valentines were sold in packages instead of a variety. Later valentine boxes were replaced by brown paper bags with hearts and a name colored on them, and valentine cards were replaced with identical packaged treats. Sort of like Halloween or Christmas. Everyone line up and trade candy or gift cards.
But marketers have really targeted the adults among us. No longer does Valentine's Day mean candy and flowers. Be thinking more along the lines of expensive and suggestive. Ignore the old adage which says you can't buy love. Think of diamonds, designer pajamas, dressed teddy bears and “deals” on jewelry like “buy one get one free.” I can only imagine the guy who thinks that is a deal.
Well, of course it does. The whole point of the development of travel is go faster. Right? Well the whole intent of marketers is to get you to spend more money and spend it faster. I have never taken a marketing class in my life so I might be wrong, but I can tell you that I have learned in the school of hard knocks as a consumer that escalation is the name of the game.
I am very resistant. I have also learned in that school that “a fool and his money are soon parted” and to be careful not to “confuse wants with needs,” etc. etc.
The rate of escalation is especially noticeable when it comes to holidays. Take Valentine's Day for instance. Apparently it is an ancient holiday associated with a couple of Saints whose particular deeds have been forgotten. However, in the middle ages Valentine's Day was marked by giving flowers, confections or handwritten notes.
From the mid-19th century in the United States until the mid-20th century, people mainly exchanged valentine cards, either handwritten or manufactured, as an expression of love.
When I was in grade school we bought or made valentines which we traded at school. We put the valentines on the recipients' desk. That was it. We did spend a lot of time deciding which friend should get the biggest valentine (determined by measuring length and width with a ruler and multiplying) and sometimes the verdict was still out until the night before.
Then someone unwittingly invented the candy heart which was a huge leap ahead for retailers and changed Valentine's Day yet again. Ostensibly that happened long before I was born, but they didn't show up on my desk until mid grade-school years. Valentine's Day began to be associated with treats and candy again.
The practice of giving candy hearts at school necessitated the introduction of the Valentine Box. There needed to be a place to deposit those grubby hearts which incidentally were not originally packaged in individual servings. I remember one box made by one of my kids. It was made from a Quaker's oatmeal box to look like a can of Campbell's soup. The label read “Cream of Valentine Soup.”
Candy hearts were soon supplemented with candy bars, sticks of gum, suckers, etc. We did our share of escalating by putting red Jell-o Jigglers on the neighbors' porches and running. Since that time, there has been a huge upgrade in the nature of valentines which are no longer mere valentines but are now “valentine gifts.”
At some point, in the name of correctness, 28 identical valentines were sold in packages instead of a variety. Later valentine boxes were replaced by brown paper bags with hearts and a name colored on them, and valentine cards were replaced with identical packaged treats. Sort of like Halloween or Christmas. Everyone line up and trade candy or gift cards.
But marketers have really targeted the adults among us. No longer does Valentine's Day mean candy and flowers. Be thinking more along the lines of expensive and suggestive. Ignore the old adage which says you can't buy love. Think of diamonds, designer pajamas, dressed teddy bears and “deals” on jewelry like “buy one get one free.” I can only imagine the guy who thinks that is a deal.
The portable power problem
A couple of years ago I wrote an article about batteries in which I concluded that “if I couldn’t spell, I would think that “battery” is a four-letter word. It seems to me that they are the weak link in the universe.”
My grandson, who is my biggest fan, maybe the only one, wanted me to rewrite this article for one reason. He has the best actual example of the deficiencies of batteries that I have heard of.
Part of the article went like this:
With my cell phone, my iPod and my digital camera, I could possibly be described as a techno minimalist. Since there is a whole array of portable electronic devices such as laptops, notebooks, Bluetooths (or is plural Blueteeth?) Blackberrys (Blackberries?), Iphones and gaming devices that I don’t own or even know precisely what they do, I am not anything like a junkie. It’s a good thing.” (I have since acquired a tablet, only because I can't see much on a smart phone display.)
Do you know how many connectors/chargers it takes to run the few devices that I do have? I would hate to try keeping any more little black wires than I have now untangled and together with their devices. And don’t try to kid me; “wireless” does not mean that a device comes without any.
But worse than that, since all of these devices are portable, they all have batteries that have to be charged using one or more of those little black wires.
Think of it—my iPod could conceivably hold enough music to play non-stop for more than a week, which seems over the top considering I would have to charge it’s battery several times for it to play every piece. Suddenly, the thing is not so portable after all. You can’t get too far away from its home computer or its cradle, not without packing up its contingent of wires.
My daughter’s laptop does amazing things, but it needs to charge for two hours so she can use it for one. That seems upside down to me.
And right here is where my grandson's example fits in: “My dad's laptop was plugged in for 2½ years and went dead in three minutes.” This kid is pretty literal and is uncomfortable with exaggeration.
I am not the only one who recognizes the limitations of current batteries. This same kid was invited to go to a workshop for students who are intellectually gifted. One of the instructors challenged the kids there to come up with a better battery, i.e., batteries are lousy.
And then I went on to say that cell phones are even more dysfunctional than that. (I am not uncomfortable with exaggeration.) However, their batteries are weak (pun). They discharge even when you don’t use them. Did cell phone engineers say to one another, “I know how we can make a portable phone, and if we try really hard, maybe we can make a battery that will stay charged for a couple of days.”? If I were one of those engineers, I would be pushing for a month, minimum.
And if you think that digital cameras are going to be carefree, you are wrong. You have to worry about their batteries. Don’t expect to pick up your camera after a week and find that it will make pictures. It might not even turn on. What good is a pocket-sized camera on vacation if you have to bring along a backpack full of batteries to run it?
Electronics engineers try to get around the battery problem by creating bells, beeps, lights and bars to warn you that your batteries are about to die, but usually, before you can hook up the respirator, they’re dead.
Does anyone besides me want to step on the Energizer Bunny? If someone ever finds a solution for the weak link of the universe and invents a battery with some real lasting power, I hope I am related to him/her. Can you imagine?
The agreement is this: if I rewrite the battery article, my grandson (related to me) has to work on the battery problem.
My grandson, who is my biggest fan, maybe the only one, wanted me to rewrite this article for one reason. He has the best actual example of the deficiencies of batteries that I have heard of.
Part of the article went like this:
With my cell phone, my iPod and my digital camera, I could possibly be described as a techno minimalist. Since there is a whole array of portable electronic devices such as laptops, notebooks, Bluetooths (or is plural Blueteeth?) Blackberrys (Blackberries?), Iphones and gaming devices that I don’t own or even know precisely what they do, I am not anything like a junkie. It’s a good thing.” (I have since acquired a tablet, only because I can't see much on a smart phone display.)
Do you know how many connectors/chargers it takes to run the few devices that I do have? I would hate to try keeping any more little black wires than I have now untangled and together with their devices. And don’t try to kid me; “wireless” does not mean that a device comes without any.
But worse than that, since all of these devices are portable, they all have batteries that have to be charged using one or more of those little black wires.
Think of it—my iPod could conceivably hold enough music to play non-stop for more than a week, which seems over the top considering I would have to charge it’s battery several times for it to play every piece. Suddenly, the thing is not so portable after all. You can’t get too far away from its home computer or its cradle, not without packing up its contingent of wires.
My daughter’s laptop does amazing things, but it needs to charge for two hours so she can use it for one. That seems upside down to me.
And right here is where my grandson's example fits in: “My dad's laptop was plugged in for 2½ years and went dead in three minutes.” This kid is pretty literal and is uncomfortable with exaggeration.
I am not the only one who recognizes the limitations of current batteries. This same kid was invited to go to a workshop for students who are intellectually gifted. One of the instructors challenged the kids there to come up with a better battery, i.e., batteries are lousy.
And then I went on to say that cell phones are even more dysfunctional than that. (I am not uncomfortable with exaggeration.) However, their batteries are weak (pun). They discharge even when you don’t use them. Did cell phone engineers say to one another, “I know how we can make a portable phone, and if we try really hard, maybe we can make a battery that will stay charged for a couple of days.”? If I were one of those engineers, I would be pushing for a month, minimum.
And if you think that digital cameras are going to be carefree, you are wrong. You have to worry about their batteries. Don’t expect to pick up your camera after a week and find that it will make pictures. It might not even turn on. What good is a pocket-sized camera on vacation if you have to bring along a backpack full of batteries to run it?
Electronics engineers try to get around the battery problem by creating bells, beeps, lights and bars to warn you that your batteries are about to die, but usually, before you can hook up the respirator, they’re dead.
Does anyone besides me want to step on the Energizer Bunny? If someone ever finds a solution for the weak link of the universe and invents a battery with some real lasting power, I hope I am related to him/her. Can you imagine?
The agreement is this: if I rewrite the battery article, my grandson (related to me) has to work on the battery problem.
Won't soon forget that memory foam
Thankfully I haven't been a patient in the hospital for years. A couple of outpatient visits to a surgical center have been it. Actually most of my hospital stays have been for the express purpose of having babies, so you can figure for yourself that it has been a while since I stayed in one.
Last week, I made a few visits to my daughter who was at the hospital for the same purpose. Three generations of us in the same room.
Well, some things have changed. The nurse was excited to announce that they had redone their recovery rooms and installed new hospital beds which have memory foam mattresses. I guess that is a good thing, but whoever ordered those for the hospital “forgot” that the goal is to turn over those beds.
And still, my daughter couldn't wait to get home even though her bed at home is quite forgetful. She was convinced that the hospital mattress was suffering from total recall and could remember the patients before her better than it could remember her.
Seriously, memory foam is pressure sensitive. The greater the pressure upon it, the greater the indentation in the foam.
As you can imagine new mothers have to sit up in bed a lot—to hold and feed the baby, to eat hospital food (which is not new and different) from a roll-away table, sign birth certificates and social security applications, to visit with her in-laws, and to impress some of the many caregivers who enter her room every five minutes. These people are more apt to let her go home if she is sitting up in bed looking healthy.
All that sitting up means is that there is a pretty hefty column of pressure forming that indentation right underneath the more vertical parts of her body. Add another eight pounds for the baby and you have quite a few psi's, or maybe column inches or whatever, depressing that foam.
I'm not sure what happens when you stand on a memory foam mattress, which would bring even more pressure to bear, but when you sit on one for a while, you get a pretty big depression down under. Pretty soon, mother needs more help getting out of the mattress than grandpa needs getting out of his chair. Gives a whole new meaning to the term “doughnut cushion.”
After a while of sitting in the doughnut hole (not to be confused with when you have to pay for your own prescriptions) the bottom bottoms out, and underneath that memory foam is something a little less resilient. Something with properties similar to rock or concrete.
At the end (pun) the new mother finds that she is wishing for an old-fashioned doughnut cushion made of absent-minded blow-up vinyl.
Last week, I made a few visits to my daughter who was at the hospital for the same purpose. Three generations of us in the same room.
Well, some things have changed. The nurse was excited to announce that they had redone their recovery rooms and installed new hospital beds which have memory foam mattresses. I guess that is a good thing, but whoever ordered those for the hospital “forgot” that the goal is to turn over those beds.
And still, my daughter couldn't wait to get home even though her bed at home is quite forgetful. She was convinced that the hospital mattress was suffering from total recall and could remember the patients before her better than it could remember her.
Seriously, memory foam is pressure sensitive. The greater the pressure upon it, the greater the indentation in the foam.
As you can imagine new mothers have to sit up in bed a lot—to hold and feed the baby, to eat hospital food (which is not new and different) from a roll-away table, sign birth certificates and social security applications, to visit with her in-laws, and to impress some of the many caregivers who enter her room every five minutes. These people are more apt to let her go home if she is sitting up in bed looking healthy.
All that sitting up means is that there is a pretty hefty column of pressure forming that indentation right underneath the more vertical parts of her body. Add another eight pounds for the baby and you have quite a few psi's, or maybe column inches or whatever, depressing that foam.
I'm not sure what happens when you stand on a memory foam mattress, which would bring even more pressure to bear, but when you sit on one for a while, you get a pretty big depression down under. Pretty soon, mother needs more help getting out of the mattress than grandpa needs getting out of his chair. Gives a whole new meaning to the term “doughnut cushion.”
After a while of sitting in the doughnut hole (not to be confused with when you have to pay for your own prescriptions) the bottom bottoms out, and underneath that memory foam is something a little less resilient. Something with properties similar to rock or concrete.
At the end (pun) the new mother finds that she is wishing for an old-fashioned doughnut cushion made of absent-minded blow-up vinyl.
A couple of old shirt tales
You high school fashionistas won't believe it, but there was a time (when I had about four kids in junior high/high school) that golf shirts were the fashion item of the year. They came in all colors, solids and stripes, with matching or contrasting collars, and they were worn with jeans by both boys and girls.
The colors were not gender specific, nor were the cuts nor the styles. In fact you could find the exact same shirt in the boys or the girls departments of any store. The coveted ones featured embroidered logos on the front, of which Izod Alligators were the hottest.
We were not above saving little Izod Alligators when their shirts wore out and sewing them onto generic shirts.
The fact that the shirts were worn by both boys and girls meant that we ended up with quite an accumulation of shirts that could correctly be worn by anybody in the family. The Butterbean law on the use and abuse of wearables was, “If it can be worn by anyone, it will be.” But not at the same time.
Mornings in the Butterbean household used to go something like this—the case of your brother or sister wearing your shirt:
“Way to go.” (Said while snarling.)
“What?” (Sweet innocence.)
“Way to wear my shirt without asking.” (Louder snarl.)
“What shirt?” (More innocence.)
“Duh, the one you have on.”
“You weren't here, so I couldn't ask you.”
“So wear it anyway. What if I wanted to wear it?”
“You never wear this shirt.”
“That's because it is always dirty from you wearing it.”
Not bad, huh? I didn't raise politicians, but some of them must have missed their callings.
Then there was the case of the disappearing shirt:
“Mom, have you seen my shirt?”
“What shirt?” (This line appears in every scene.)
“My blue shirt from the GAP.”
“I didn't wear it.” (I was trying to be funny, but shirt-boy didn't laugh.)
“I haven't seen it since my big sister left for college.”
“Why would she take it? She has one just like it.”
“No she doesn't.”
“Yes she does; she was wearing it when she left.”
“That was mine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, she wore it first, before I even had a chance to.”
“Then how should I know whose it is?
“You bought it for me.”
“Does she know that?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I didn't know it wasn't hers.”
“Mom, now what am I supposed to wear?”
Now what was I supposed to say? I was in trouble all the time. But it got worse. Just one more scenario:
“Mom, guess what?”
“What?”
“It's bad. It's getting really bad.”
“How bad is it?”
“Mom, listen to this. It's bad enough when I go down town and see my little sister wearing my shirt, but I just saw her friend wearing my shirt and I thought it was upstairs in my drawer.”
“What shirt?”
The colors were not gender specific, nor were the cuts nor the styles. In fact you could find the exact same shirt in the boys or the girls departments of any store. The coveted ones featured embroidered logos on the front, of which Izod Alligators were the hottest.
We were not above saving little Izod Alligators when their shirts wore out and sewing them onto generic shirts.
The fact that the shirts were worn by both boys and girls meant that we ended up with quite an accumulation of shirts that could correctly be worn by anybody in the family. The Butterbean law on the use and abuse of wearables was, “If it can be worn by anyone, it will be.” But not at the same time.
Mornings in the Butterbean household used to go something like this—the case of your brother or sister wearing your shirt:
“Way to go.” (Said while snarling.)
“What?” (Sweet innocence.)
“Way to wear my shirt without asking.” (Louder snarl.)
“What shirt?” (More innocence.)
“Duh, the one you have on.”
“You weren't here, so I couldn't ask you.”
“So wear it anyway. What if I wanted to wear it?”
“You never wear this shirt.”
“That's because it is always dirty from you wearing it.”
Not bad, huh? I didn't raise politicians, but some of them must have missed their callings.
Then there was the case of the disappearing shirt:
“Mom, have you seen my shirt?”
“What shirt?” (This line appears in every scene.)
“My blue shirt from the GAP.”
“I didn't wear it.” (I was trying to be funny, but shirt-boy didn't laugh.)
“I haven't seen it since my big sister left for college.”
“Why would she take it? She has one just like it.”
“No she doesn't.”
“Yes she does; she was wearing it when she left.”
“That was mine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, she wore it first, before I even had a chance to.”
“Then how should I know whose it is?
“You bought it for me.”
“Does she know that?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I didn't know it wasn't hers.”
“Mom, now what am I supposed to wear?”
Now what was I supposed to say? I was in trouble all the time. But it got worse. Just one more scenario:
“Mom, guess what?”
“What?”
“It's bad. It's getting really bad.”
“How bad is it?”
“Mom, listen to this. It's bad enough when I go down town and see my little sister wearing my shirt, but I just saw her friend wearing my shirt and I thought it was upstairs in my drawer.”
“What shirt?”
How the fish in Western waters got bigger
Among my family members and acquaintances there are a lot of fisherpersons. At least there are a lot of persons who go through the motions
If buying fishing gear makes a fisherman, they qualify. They buy lures and plugs and vests and boats and motors and rods and finders and cheese.
If spending time makes a fisherman, they qualify. They will take week-long backpacking trips to do nothing but fish. They will stand on a river bank for hours. They will pull a boat for four hours in order to fish for one.
If making the effort constitutes a fisherman, they qualify. They will carry a full pack for miles to reach the best holes. They will plan a fishing trip for weeks.
If sacrifice makes a fisherman, they qualify. They will jeopardize a promising relationship with a significant other if they can just stop and fish “this one more hole.” They will stand out on the ice in hell frozen over until they don't know whether they still have fingers and toes.
The only trouble is, I am not sure that any of them have actually ever catch fish. They never show up with meat for the table. I see not so much as a fish scale to prove that they are actually fisherpersons.
I realize that there has been a revolution in the sport of fishing. I guess I have known about it for years now. Actually, I don't know why they still call it fishing. They should just call it catch-and-releasing. What it all means is that fisherpersons don't have to bring home the evidence anymore. You've heard the story about the really big one that got away…well, now they all get away, and they are all big.
I think that Catch and Release is supposed to be a conservation measure which is applauded by wildlife enthusiasts. I'm not sure I understand the exact objectives of the policy, The only actual firsthand knowledge I have comes from years of laundering Catch and Release tee-shirts. But if the policy is meant to allow the fish in Western waters to grow bigger, it is working. Just ask any fisherperson.
But you can't catch Bertha so easily with that one. I don't fall for those stories hook, line and sinker, you know. As far as I'm concerned, 11-lb. trout don't exist. These people are going to need more than fish stories to convince me.
Oh, I have seen lots of fish on lots of camera phones, but the fishy thing is, they all look like the same fish to me. Or I get to see a part of a fish which doesn't share the frame with anything that could be used for reference since the fisherman has to hold the fish with one hand and click the phone with the other, like when he is doing his phone ID photo.
A real snapshot might carry a little more weight. But 11 lbs. worth, I don't know. If you ask me, it is difficult to document the actual size of a slippery, wiggling fish. Fish just don't hold still and say “cheese” while you do it. They are busy regretting the cheese. Besides that, I know all about Photoshopping.
As with the enactment of many government policies, I think there were unintended consequences with the Catch and Release program. I'll bet conservationists had no idea that the fish in targeted waters would increase in size so rapidly.
If buying fishing gear makes a fisherman, they qualify. They buy lures and plugs and vests and boats and motors and rods and finders and cheese.
If spending time makes a fisherman, they qualify. They will take week-long backpacking trips to do nothing but fish. They will stand on a river bank for hours. They will pull a boat for four hours in order to fish for one.
If making the effort constitutes a fisherman, they qualify. They will carry a full pack for miles to reach the best holes. They will plan a fishing trip for weeks.
If sacrifice makes a fisherman, they qualify. They will jeopardize a promising relationship with a significant other if they can just stop and fish “this one more hole.” They will stand out on the ice in hell frozen over until they don't know whether they still have fingers and toes.
The only trouble is, I am not sure that any of them have actually ever catch fish. They never show up with meat for the table. I see not so much as a fish scale to prove that they are actually fisherpersons.
I realize that there has been a revolution in the sport of fishing. I guess I have known about it for years now. Actually, I don't know why they still call it fishing. They should just call it catch-and-releasing. What it all means is that fisherpersons don't have to bring home the evidence anymore. You've heard the story about the really big one that got away…well, now they all get away, and they are all big.
I think that Catch and Release is supposed to be a conservation measure which is applauded by wildlife enthusiasts. I'm not sure I understand the exact objectives of the policy, The only actual firsthand knowledge I have comes from years of laundering Catch and Release tee-shirts. But if the policy is meant to allow the fish in Western waters to grow bigger, it is working. Just ask any fisherperson.
But you can't catch Bertha so easily with that one. I don't fall for those stories hook, line and sinker, you know. As far as I'm concerned, 11-lb. trout don't exist. These people are going to need more than fish stories to convince me.
Oh, I have seen lots of fish on lots of camera phones, but the fishy thing is, they all look like the same fish to me. Or I get to see a part of a fish which doesn't share the frame with anything that could be used for reference since the fisherman has to hold the fish with one hand and click the phone with the other, like when he is doing his phone ID photo.
A real snapshot might carry a little more weight. But 11 lbs. worth, I don't know. If you ask me, it is difficult to document the actual size of a slippery, wiggling fish. Fish just don't hold still and say “cheese” while you do it. They are busy regretting the cheese. Besides that, I know all about Photoshopping.
As with the enactment of many government policies, I think there were unintended consequences with the Catch and Release program. I'll bet conservationists had no idea that the fish in targeted waters would increase in size so rapidly.
Try mid-year resolutions
When you really think about our customs and traditions associated with the New Year, they are pretty silly. People stay up late, drink too much, gather at Time Square by the millions where they will have no access to bathrooms after the drinking too much, and stand in the cold to wait for a giant glass ball to fall out of the sky.
Those of us lucky enough not to live near Time Square might do things like run outside and bang pans, or shoot guns. (If you think it is silly standing outside at midnight in NYC, try Vernal, Utah. I think the idea is to make noise. Okay.
I am also skeptical of the practice of making New Year's Resolutions. Especially if you resolve to drink less after drinking more the night before.
Mostly, I figure that if you are serious about changing your life, you don't put it off until January 1. You start working on the problem as soon as you identify it.
Waiting for the new year to decide to make some changes wastes a lot of time.
And I don't think there is a day near the end of December when everyone figures out that they need to make some changes, unless there is a balance-the-checkbook-after-Christmas day.
By the way, whoever thought to put Christmas in December, anyway? It is also pay-your- property-taxes month, settle-your-church-contributions month, fill-the-propane-tank month and the month of some other big expenses which I am too tired to think of right now. If you insist on having a legitimate New Year's resolution, you can have that one—figure out how to be prepared for the month of December next year.
I guess you could start whenever you figure it out.
I actually ran across an article online that began this way: “A new year can be a great time for a new beginning. The past is behind you. Start anew. Set some goals you would like to achieve. Making New Year's Resolutions can be the first step to self-improvement this year.” The article's headline was “Making New Year's resolutions is a great way to begin a new year.” (And I thought an article had to be a little bit original.)
So since I have a rebellious streak and don't do New Year's resolutions myself (unless I figure out sometime near the end of December that I have a problem), I thought I could suggest a few for the rest of you. Don't worry, I have had to start on some of these at various times of the year and more than once as well.
1.Lose some weight, but only in the right places.
2.Get out of debt, at least by December.
3.Learn how to use your tablet, especially if you got it for Christmas
4.Recycle, unless you have a problem with it.
5.Shovel someone else's snow. The timing is right.
6.Eat dinner together with the family. You can start over every day.
Okay, that's enough. Let's keeps this manageable. As soon as you have completed one resolution, add another. You will have a head start on all your friends since you don't have to wait until 2012 to begin.
Those of us lucky enough not to live near Time Square might do things like run outside and bang pans, or shoot guns. (If you think it is silly standing outside at midnight in NYC, try Vernal, Utah. I think the idea is to make noise. Okay.
I am also skeptical of the practice of making New Year's Resolutions. Especially if you resolve to drink less after drinking more the night before.
Mostly, I figure that if you are serious about changing your life, you don't put it off until January 1. You start working on the problem as soon as you identify it.
Waiting for the new year to decide to make some changes wastes a lot of time.
And I don't think there is a day near the end of December when everyone figures out that they need to make some changes, unless there is a balance-the-checkbook-after-Christmas day.
By the way, whoever thought to put Christmas in December, anyway? It is also pay-your- property-taxes month, settle-your-church-contributions month, fill-the-propane-tank month and the month of some other big expenses which I am too tired to think of right now. If you insist on having a legitimate New Year's resolution, you can have that one—figure out how to be prepared for the month of December next year.
I guess you could start whenever you figure it out.
I actually ran across an article online that began this way: “A new year can be a great time for a new beginning. The past is behind you. Start anew. Set some goals you would like to achieve. Making New Year's Resolutions can be the first step to self-improvement this year.” The article's headline was “Making New Year's resolutions is a great way to begin a new year.” (And I thought an article had to be a little bit original.)
So since I have a rebellious streak and don't do New Year's resolutions myself (unless I figure out sometime near the end of December that I have a problem), I thought I could suggest a few for the rest of you. Don't worry, I have had to start on some of these at various times of the year and more than once as well.
1.Lose some weight, but only in the right places.
2.Get out of debt, at least by December.
3.Learn how to use your tablet, especially if you got it for Christmas
4.Recycle, unless you have a problem with it.
5.Shovel someone else's snow. The timing is right.
6.Eat dinner together with the family. You can start over every day.
Okay, that's enough. Let's keeps this manageable. As soon as you have completed one resolution, add another. You will have a head start on all your friends since you don't have to wait until 2012 to begin.
Research
I was introduced to one of those comprehensive email pass-alongs that included a list of “pithy sayings” by my grandson who read me the whole list while he held me (his audience) captive. We were riding in the car, and I couldn't very easily jump out.
It wasn't the torture that you might think. There were some good aphorisms, and most of them were funny. Of course everything is funny when you are overtired.
Given my propensity for distrusting any statement when it is associated with the word “research,” one of the witticisms caught my attention.
It went like this: “ To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism. To steal from many
is research.”
Since none of the dictums in the list gave due credit, I will simply have to conduct some research and perhaps analyze or organize them if I want to use them. Right? I can do that.
This first group is strategies for dealing with yourself or others when intelligence might be an issue.
-Do not argue with an idiot. He will drag you down to his level and beat you with experience.
-Light travels faster than sound. This is why some people appear bright until you hear them speak.
-If I agreed with you we'd both be wrong.
-Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.
-Dolphins are so smart that within a few weeks of captivity, they can train people to stand on the very edge of the pool and throw them fish.
While I am organizing, here are some clever sayings for the social/political category:
-War does not determine who is right—only who is left.
-Going to church doesn't make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.
-The early bird might get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.
-Evening news is where they begin with 'Good evening', and then proceed to tell you why it isn't.
-Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut, and still think they are sexy.
Here is a category called “The Workplace”
-I thought I wanted a career, turns out I just wanted pay checks.
-A bus station is where a bus stops. A train station is where a train stops. On my desk, I have a work station.
Irony is one of the best kinds of humor:
-How is it one careless match can start a forest fire, but it takes a whole box to start a campfire?
-To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first and call whatever you hit the target.
-Some people hear voices. Some see invisible people. Others have no imagination whatsoever.
-A bus is a vehicle that runs twice as fast when you are after it as when you are in it.
-Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion
stars, but check when you say the paint is wet?
It wasn't the torture that you might think. There were some good aphorisms, and most of them were funny. Of course everything is funny when you are overtired.
Given my propensity for distrusting any statement when it is associated with the word “research,” one of the witticisms caught my attention.
It went like this: “ To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism. To steal from many
is research.”
Since none of the dictums in the list gave due credit, I will simply have to conduct some research and perhaps analyze or organize them if I want to use them. Right? I can do that.
This first group is strategies for dealing with yourself or others when intelligence might be an issue.
-Do not argue with an idiot. He will drag you down to his level and beat you with experience.
-Light travels faster than sound. This is why some people appear bright until you hear them speak.
-If I agreed with you we'd both be wrong.
-Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.
-Dolphins are so smart that within a few weeks of captivity, they can train people to stand on the very edge of the pool and throw them fish.
While I am organizing, here are some clever sayings for the social/political category:
-War does not determine who is right—only who is left.
-Going to church doesn't make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.
-The early bird might get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.
-Evening news is where they begin with 'Good evening', and then proceed to tell you why it isn't.
-Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut, and still think they are sexy.
Here is a category called “The Workplace”
-I thought I wanted a career, turns out I just wanted pay checks.
-A bus station is where a bus stops. A train station is where a train stops. On my desk, I have a work station.
Irony is one of the best kinds of humor:
-How is it one careless match can start a forest fire, but it takes a whole box to start a campfire?
-To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first and call whatever you hit the target.
-Some people hear voices. Some see invisible people. Others have no imagination whatsoever.
-A bus is a vehicle that runs twice as fast when you are after it as when you are in it.
-Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion
stars, but check when you say the paint is wet?
Being treed is a good thing
You all know that English is a language that is constantly changing. It alters and expands to accommodate new meanings, technologies or practices.
True, your vocabulary has to grow if you are going to stay on top of things, but it's a good thing. We wouldn't want to be calling iPods portable electronic multiple-platform media-playing devices.
Some clever high schoolers in the town where most of my kids grew up developed a practice (at least the practice was new to me) that needed a new word, so one was found. I'm not sure how widespread the practice is. I haven't heard of it being done here, but as you also know, some words are locale specific, although the usage of such words tends to spread as the practice does.
Check your dictionary for an entry of the verb “tree.” Your edition may be missing an important meaning for that word unless it looks something like this:
tree vt (treed, treeing) a. (1700) to drive to or up a tree. (treed by a bull) (dogs treeing game) b. to put someone into a position of extreme disadvantage, corner, esp. to bring to bay c. vi (1990) to haul a large number of used Christmas trees to a domestic property where they are stood upright in the snow, creating an illusion of a healthy evergreen forest (treed by the senior class) (kids treeing their teachers).
Okay, if you are like a lot of other people and don't want to read a whole dictionary entry, let alone look up a word, you can get by with reading only definition c. above. That is the one that may be new to you, and that is the one I want to call to your attention.
Should you awaken one morning soon to find that your front yard looks like an overcrowded tree lot, you will know that you have been treed by means of definition c.
So that you will know how to respond to such a situation, let me remind you that you need not confuse definition c. with definition b. Nor do you need to confuse it with hate mail. It is not the kiss of death nor any other message from the Mafia.
It is most likely just a manifestation of being noticed by a group of high school kids with access to some trees, a pickup truck and time on their hands.
Let me also point out that treeing is in to way dangerous nor destructive unless you find that holes in your snow are particularly perilous.
True, someone will have to clean up those trees, but it's not as bad as you think. Just put them out on the curb on the first garbage day after the New Year, and they will be removed by the local garbage service. (Check dates and times for your area.) You will be doing them a favor. The trees are already gathered, and the refuse technician can pick up the whole neighborhood's trees in one stop instead of forty.
Or run them through the mulcher and scatter them in the flower garden next spring. Saves you lots of money. Or consider them an early start on next year's wood pile.
Or take advantage of having your own national forest and hike among the trees, ski between them, have a winter campout, try snowshoeing, feed the birds…
That is, should you find you have been treed.
To their great credit, I have lately noticed a few high schoolers dropping off trees, one at a time, at people's homes—trees decorated with lights and ornaments. Those recipients have been treed as well, and they will know what the message is.
True, your vocabulary has to grow if you are going to stay on top of things, but it's a good thing. We wouldn't want to be calling iPods portable electronic multiple-platform media-playing devices.
Some clever high schoolers in the town where most of my kids grew up developed a practice (at least the practice was new to me) that needed a new word, so one was found. I'm not sure how widespread the practice is. I haven't heard of it being done here, but as you also know, some words are locale specific, although the usage of such words tends to spread as the practice does.
Check your dictionary for an entry of the verb “tree.” Your edition may be missing an important meaning for that word unless it looks something like this:
tree vt (treed, treeing) a. (1700) to drive to or up a tree. (treed by a bull) (dogs treeing game) b. to put someone into a position of extreme disadvantage, corner, esp. to bring to bay c. vi (1990) to haul a large number of used Christmas trees to a domestic property where they are stood upright in the snow, creating an illusion of a healthy evergreen forest (treed by the senior class) (kids treeing their teachers).
Okay, if you are like a lot of other people and don't want to read a whole dictionary entry, let alone look up a word, you can get by with reading only definition c. above. That is the one that may be new to you, and that is the one I want to call to your attention.
Should you awaken one morning soon to find that your front yard looks like an overcrowded tree lot, you will know that you have been treed by means of definition c.
So that you will know how to respond to such a situation, let me remind you that you need not confuse definition c. with definition b. Nor do you need to confuse it with hate mail. It is not the kiss of death nor any other message from the Mafia.
It is most likely just a manifestation of being noticed by a group of high school kids with access to some trees, a pickup truck and time on their hands.
Let me also point out that treeing is in to way dangerous nor destructive unless you find that holes in your snow are particularly perilous.
True, someone will have to clean up those trees, but it's not as bad as you think. Just put them out on the curb on the first garbage day after the New Year, and they will be removed by the local garbage service. (Check dates and times for your area.) You will be doing them a favor. The trees are already gathered, and the refuse technician can pick up the whole neighborhood's trees in one stop instead of forty.
Or run them through the mulcher and scatter them in the flower garden next spring. Saves you lots of money. Or consider them an early start on next year's wood pile.
Or take advantage of having your own national forest and hike among the trees, ski between them, have a winter campout, try snowshoeing, feed the birds…
That is, should you find you have been treed.
To their great credit, I have lately noticed a few high schoolers dropping off trees, one at a time, at people's homes—trees decorated with lights and ornaments. Those recipients have been treed as well, and they will know what the message is.
Bertha's original redneck jokes
How many redneck jokes are there? As many as flies on roadkill? Somehow or other, they have multiplied like country rabbits until you hear at least one every day. You will also hear a reference to the “redneck” term in speech or read it somewhere at least that often.
All of which is the same as saying that the whole theme is overdone, timeworn, stale. And yet people keep coning up with a different photo, a new joke or another reference.
Okay, I live in the country and have produced my share of roadkill, but I let it lie. Years back I lived in a trailer but couldn't wait to upgrade to something with a cement foundation. And I have heard plenty of redneck jokes, and I don't usually repeat them.
But somehow or other I ran into a couple of stories last week that I wanted to add to the lexicon. These aren't the kind of stories that someone shared with me and I am passing along. We lived these stories. They are original. Feel free to share them, pass them along or post them if you wish, however.
The other day my son announced to the family, “So, I went to see my taxidermist yesterday.” Some of you might not find that funny, but I started laughing out loud as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
You will notice that he didn't say he went to see his tax accountant yesterday. Nor did he visit his dermatologist.
Who has a taxidermist? Does one schedule appointments with him at six-month or six-week intervals? After quizzing my son, I am finding that having your own taxidermist meas more than just having his number on speed dial. It means that one doesn't need to call ahead because one doesn't need an appointment to see him.
So I guess the actual joke goes like this:
“You might be a redneck if…you have your own taxidermist.”
By the way, while we are speaking of taxidermists, here is my very own taxidermist joke:
“What is the definition of a taxidermist? Someone who can help you have your elk and eat it too.”
The second story needs a little background as well. I had occasion (besides wanting to sleep while riding in the car) to need one of those little pillows that are roughly U-shaped and are used to support the head and neck. One of my daughters has one that I intended to borrow, but she had sublet it previously to someone and forgotten who that was. While trying to locate the pillow she texted a friend:
“Have you seen my red neck pillow?”
“Her friend texted back, “What is a red neck pillow? A slice of hay?”
Okay, I just shared a couple of redneck jokes. That may make me a fringe redneck, and I just don't know it. Having a son who has a taxidermist may make me one by relationship. I don't claim to be any closer than fringe though, because I have learned to differentiate between terms like “red neck” and “redneck.” as well as “pickup and “pick up.”
All of which is the same as saying that the whole theme is overdone, timeworn, stale. And yet people keep coning up with a different photo, a new joke or another reference.
Okay, I live in the country and have produced my share of roadkill, but I let it lie. Years back I lived in a trailer but couldn't wait to upgrade to something with a cement foundation. And I have heard plenty of redneck jokes, and I don't usually repeat them.
But somehow or other I ran into a couple of stories last week that I wanted to add to the lexicon. These aren't the kind of stories that someone shared with me and I am passing along. We lived these stories. They are original. Feel free to share them, pass them along or post them if you wish, however.
The other day my son announced to the family, “So, I went to see my taxidermist yesterday.” Some of you might not find that funny, but I started laughing out loud as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
You will notice that he didn't say he went to see his tax accountant yesterday. Nor did he visit his dermatologist.
Who has a taxidermist? Does one schedule appointments with him at six-month or six-week intervals? After quizzing my son, I am finding that having your own taxidermist meas more than just having his number on speed dial. It means that one doesn't need to call ahead because one doesn't need an appointment to see him.
So I guess the actual joke goes like this:
“You might be a redneck if…you have your own taxidermist.”
By the way, while we are speaking of taxidermists, here is my very own taxidermist joke:
“What is the definition of a taxidermist? Someone who can help you have your elk and eat it too.”
The second story needs a little background as well. I had occasion (besides wanting to sleep while riding in the car) to need one of those little pillows that are roughly U-shaped and are used to support the head and neck. One of my daughters has one that I intended to borrow, but she had sublet it previously to someone and forgotten who that was. While trying to locate the pillow she texted a friend:
“Have you seen my red neck pillow?”
“Her friend texted back, “What is a red neck pillow? A slice of hay?”
Okay, I just shared a couple of redneck jokes. That may make me a fringe redneck, and I just don't know it. Having a son who has a taxidermist may make me one by relationship. I don't claim to be any closer than fringe though, because I have learned to differentiate between terms like “red neck” and “redneck.” as well as “pickup and “pick up.”
What do I look like?
Mr. B. grew up in the Sixties. Well, it took a little bit longer than just one decade for him to grow up, but he was a teenager when Elvis, The Beachboys, and the Everly Brothers were all turning out music. You will have to admit that it was pretty good music.
Apparently Sixties music is worth remembering, because Mr. B. remembers it all. He is a walking music encyclopedia, for the Sixties music volume, that is.
Back in those days KVEL radio station gave away movie tickets if you could call in and identify the artist of the song they were playing, or name the number two hit of the week, or tell how many hits the Beatles had on the charts right then. We had to start giving away our movie tickets because we couldn't use them all. (My job was to go to the movies with Mr. B.)
Mr. B. still thinks it is “Name That Tune” time whenever he gets you in the same room or car with a radio or some other music player.
“Hey Bertha, who sings this song?”
“Jay and the Americans.”
“Wrong, guess again.”
Guessing is what it is because my ear isn't good enough to identify the singer by voice and because my memory isn't good enough to remember who recorded it, providing I ever really heard it.
A couple of years ago, the kids decided to give Mr. B. an iPod for Christmas. They agonized over that decision because they were afraid he might not use it very much. Whatever. He could suddenly carry the whole lexicon of 60's music with him wherever he went. He could listen to it whenever he wanted, and again, all of a sudden, he had a reason to become computer literate—to download music.
If we thought he was the king of Sixties pop trivia before, now he could study up everyday all day long. Just another few songs downloaded a day, a few more chances to commit it all to memory.
Hey Sis, who sings this one?”
“The Temptations.”
“Wrong, listen closer.”
“The Supremes.”
“What? Not hardly. Guess again.”
“Dad, do I look like a jukebox?”
“No, thinner—more like an iPod.”
Well, someone got one right answer in this quiz game.
I got an iPod that year as well, and I download audio books. Ask me whether I like Gale or Peeta. Ask me who wrote “Sense and Sensibility.” Ask me who the Herdmans are.
And, no, I don't look like a bookbag.
Apparently Sixties music is worth remembering, because Mr. B. remembers it all. He is a walking music encyclopedia, for the Sixties music volume, that is.
Back in those days KVEL radio station gave away movie tickets if you could call in and identify the artist of the song they were playing, or name the number two hit of the week, or tell how many hits the Beatles had on the charts right then. We had to start giving away our movie tickets because we couldn't use them all. (My job was to go to the movies with Mr. B.)
Mr. B. still thinks it is “Name That Tune” time whenever he gets you in the same room or car with a radio or some other music player.
“Hey Bertha, who sings this song?”
“Jay and the Americans.”
“Wrong, guess again.”
Guessing is what it is because my ear isn't good enough to identify the singer by voice and because my memory isn't good enough to remember who recorded it, providing I ever really heard it.
A couple of years ago, the kids decided to give Mr. B. an iPod for Christmas. They agonized over that decision because they were afraid he might not use it very much. Whatever. He could suddenly carry the whole lexicon of 60's music with him wherever he went. He could listen to it whenever he wanted, and again, all of a sudden, he had a reason to become computer literate—to download music.
If we thought he was the king of Sixties pop trivia before, now he could study up everyday all day long. Just another few songs downloaded a day, a few more chances to commit it all to memory.
Hey Sis, who sings this one?”
“The Temptations.”
“Wrong, listen closer.”
“The Supremes.”
“What? Not hardly. Guess again.”
“Dad, do I look like a jukebox?”
“No, thinner—more like an iPod.”
Well, someone got one right answer in this quiz game.
I got an iPod that year as well, and I download audio books. Ask me whether I like Gale or Peeta. Ask me who wrote “Sense and Sensibility.” Ask me who the Herdmans are.
And, no, I don't look like a bookbag.
To Grandmother's house we go
Down to the airport and into the sky,
To Grandmother's house we go.
We park our sedan and get in the van
Our luggage we do tow.
After lurching about from lot A to Z,
At the concourse we arrive.
We froze our toes as well each nose,
We barely got there alive.
The building is full, and the lines are long
The ticket gates are a-jam
With holiday travelers testing the skies.
All are headed to visit the “fam.”
Our luggage we check, and its fees we all pay
Our passes are in hand.
Now on up the concourse we all head
For more lines in which to stand.
The longer we wait, and the closer we get
To to the gate marked “security.”
The more we do stress and the more confess
That we don't like what we see.
The look of distress on the faces we find
Ahead of us in line
Is the same one I wear—for right up there
Is the choice that must be all mine.
“Show me your luggage” the TSA warns,
“And take off your belts and shoes.
Now full-body scan (show me your tan)
Or a pat-down you may choose.”
I never have had, at least not until now,
A fear of going by plane.
But I am not a fan of a pat nor a scan,
Or am I just insane?
No wonder we long for days gone by.
I'd rather hitch up the horse and sleigh,
And take to the woods than fly through the skies
For to have a Thanksgiving Day.
To Grandmother's house we go.
We park our sedan and get in the van
Our luggage we do tow.
After lurching about from lot A to Z,
At the concourse we arrive.
We froze our toes as well each nose,
We barely got there alive.
The building is full, and the lines are long
The ticket gates are a-jam
With holiday travelers testing the skies.
All are headed to visit the “fam.”
Our luggage we check, and its fees we all pay
Our passes are in hand.
Now on up the concourse we all head
For more lines in which to stand.
The longer we wait, and the closer we get
To to the gate marked “security.”
The more we do stress and the more confess
That we don't like what we see.
The look of distress on the faces we find
Ahead of us in line
Is the same one I wear—for right up there
Is the choice that must be all mine.
“Show me your luggage” the TSA warns,
“And take off your belts and shoes.
Now full-body scan (show me your tan)
Or a pat-down you may choose.”
I never have had, at least not until now,
A fear of going by plane.
But I am not a fan of a pat nor a scan,
Or am I just insane?
No wonder we long for days gone by.
I'd rather hitch up the horse and sleigh,
And take to the woods than fly through the skies
For to have a Thanksgiving Day.
Students are still passing notes
Writing about the cell phone explosion and texting takes a bit of courage on my part since I mostly use my cell phone only to call other people. They usually can't call me because I haven't turned it on, or because I haven't charged it in the first place.
I hate being tied to the thing, carrying it around, and remembering to keep it charged. I suppose that out-of-the-loop is an understatement where I am concerned. Perhaps “uninformed” is the better term, but “staying connected” is something that I obviously don't get.
From my perspective, cellphoning or texting puts too much control in hands of the connectee. What I don't want is to call someone who has a cell phone which they do keep glued to their hand or their ear and get screened out. If I want to speak to someone, I want to be spoken to. Totally selfish on my part.
Most of the forms of non-face-to-face communication (faxing, emailling, texting) preclude the knowledge of actual communication. And if my children are driving, which they do almost as much as they communicate, I don't want them talking or texting anyway. What I don't like is not actually communicating when I am communicating, or more precisely, not knowing whether I am actually communicating.
I know, that is just what happened in that last paragraph. But texting is open-ended because you don't know whether your message was actually received. Last weekend my son had to borrow my car to drive to a friend's house to find out whether she received his text message since she didn't reply.
That's high-tech communication for you.
When we were in grade school, we passed notes. We weren't supposed to pass notes, so that was part of the attraction of passing notes. Getting a note to its intended receiver without getting caught was half the satisfaction. It was also a challenge to get the note to its intended without someone else taking the liberty of opening up the little ball of paper and reading it, in which case, again, the intended may or may not actually have gotten it anyway. Reading others' notes was social taboo, but of course some kids didn't follow the rules. If the teacher caught up with the note, it was read in class, (contrary to social protocol) and that curbed the practice for a minute or two.
The coolest notes had check boxes which was shorthand for “decide and pick the best answer.” “Do you like me?” The recipient then made an X” in the appropriate box (yes or no) and passed the note back after crossing out his own name on the outside,and writing the new receiver's name. It was polite to mark the “yes” box.
As near as I can tell, texting is the techno-age equivalent of passing notes. Part of its attraction is that the older generation (teacher) tries to limit it. The similarities don't end there, either. Apparently, like passing notes, it is often done in school or in class, and kids don't often get caught. That part I don't get—how do you compose a text message from inside your pocket?
I guess that a common in-school text message is “BTD” (bored to death). I am not commenting on teaching presentation or skills, just reporting. But the obvious solution here is for the teacher to text-message the day's lesson to the students. Some kids will be sleeping and not get the message, but what else is new? They will at least have the option of getting it later—or deleting it. Again, what else is new?
I hate being tied to the thing, carrying it around, and remembering to keep it charged. I suppose that out-of-the-loop is an understatement where I am concerned. Perhaps “uninformed” is the better term, but “staying connected” is something that I obviously don't get.
From my perspective, cellphoning or texting puts too much control in hands of the connectee. What I don't want is to call someone who has a cell phone which they do keep glued to their hand or their ear and get screened out. If I want to speak to someone, I want to be spoken to. Totally selfish on my part.
Most of the forms of non-face-to-face communication (faxing, emailling, texting) preclude the knowledge of actual communication. And if my children are driving, which they do almost as much as they communicate, I don't want them talking or texting anyway. What I don't like is not actually communicating when I am communicating, or more precisely, not knowing whether I am actually communicating.
I know, that is just what happened in that last paragraph. But texting is open-ended because you don't know whether your message was actually received. Last weekend my son had to borrow my car to drive to a friend's house to find out whether she received his text message since she didn't reply.
That's high-tech communication for you.
When we were in grade school, we passed notes. We weren't supposed to pass notes, so that was part of the attraction of passing notes. Getting a note to its intended receiver without getting caught was half the satisfaction. It was also a challenge to get the note to its intended without someone else taking the liberty of opening up the little ball of paper and reading it, in which case, again, the intended may or may not actually have gotten it anyway. Reading others' notes was social taboo, but of course some kids didn't follow the rules. If the teacher caught up with the note, it was read in class, (contrary to social protocol) and that curbed the practice for a minute or two.
The coolest notes had check boxes which was shorthand for “decide and pick the best answer.” “Do you like me?” The recipient then made an X” in the appropriate box (yes or no) and passed the note back after crossing out his own name on the outside,and writing the new receiver's name. It was polite to mark the “yes” box.
As near as I can tell, texting is the techno-age equivalent of passing notes. Part of its attraction is that the older generation (teacher) tries to limit it. The similarities don't end there, either. Apparently, like passing notes, it is often done in school or in class, and kids don't often get caught. That part I don't get—how do you compose a text message from inside your pocket?
I guess that a common in-school text message is “BTD” (bored to death). I am not commenting on teaching presentation or skills, just reporting. But the obvious solution here is for the teacher to text-message the day's lesson to the students. Some kids will be sleeping and not get the message, but what else is new? They will at least have the option of getting it later—or deleting it. Again, what else is new?
Deer hunter grammar
I have recently had the good fortune of hosting a group of hunters in my home. They have been here for a few days and they are still hunting. They like to stay at my house because I don't charge them to stay there, and because when they do they are already twenty minutes closer to the deer and elk playgrounds.
Hunters hunt in the day and at night they sit around the table and tell hunting stories. They swap tips about hunting websites and television shows, and they talk about guns, ammo, camo, taxidermists, and jerky.
I am usually absent when the hunters start telling stories, so in the interest of finding a little more ammunition for an article about hunting, I visited a couple of those websites myself. The blogs are the best because hunters post stories and in their own words and using their own hunting jargon.
I hate to stereotype anyone, but to put it nicely, the blogs I visited led me to believe that a smattering of contemporary hunters were dreaming of six-point elk when they should have been paying attention in English class. The following paragraphs were cut and pasted from a few representative sources:
“Humorous Stories, antedotes, and jokes about our favorite sport
“I slowly turned, raised my 30.06 and fired…..CLICK! My rifle misfired, so i quickly rechambered my bolt action, raised my rifle and ClICK!…Another misfire. This happened 2 more times, before I had to completely reload my rifle. Surprising, the Deer didn’t even noticed me. It continued to slowly walk, it’s nose to the earth, completely oblivious to my frantic attempts to get my damn gun to fire…
“DeerBeards.com spokesman Chet Norris said the video games were expected to be released last Wednesday, but he game no details regarding the delays. The games, including Big Bucks Revenge 2, were handed over for release at 10.51 p.m. last evening, said Norris.
“I shot my first Deer in November of 2004. We were hunting private land in Pine County, MN and it was freezing outside. Swede and I were stand hunting and after sitting for about 2 hours in 12 degree weather, I was frozen. I hadn’t seen nor heard a thing except for the farmers donkey, when i heard that ” Snap”. I looked behind me and there was a nice 9pt just walking along, smelling the rut, without a care in the world.
And finally, “One day Gaston and Bubba were Deer Hunting, and they got lost. Gaston tells Bubba "wait, don't panic I learned what to do in case this happens. Your supposed to shoot up into the air three times and someone will here you and come with help,"
“Okay" said Bubba. So he shoots three times into the air. They both wait an hour and no one shows up. So they shoot three times again and still no one shows up. Bewildered they try this again and again for the next couple of hours. Gaston starts to look a little worried, then he shouts "It better work this time, were down to our last three arrows!"
I know a few hunting widows who would like to know some hunting antedotes themselves.
Actually I have one. When I sat down at the computer to write my article, I noticed that someone had typed “How to hunt elk” into the search line of my internet home page.
Hunters hunt in the day and at night they sit around the table and tell hunting stories. They swap tips about hunting websites and television shows, and they talk about guns, ammo, camo, taxidermists, and jerky.
I am usually absent when the hunters start telling stories, so in the interest of finding a little more ammunition for an article about hunting, I visited a couple of those websites myself. The blogs are the best because hunters post stories and in their own words and using their own hunting jargon.
I hate to stereotype anyone, but to put it nicely, the blogs I visited led me to believe that a smattering of contemporary hunters were dreaming of six-point elk when they should have been paying attention in English class. The following paragraphs were cut and pasted from a few representative sources:
“Humorous Stories, antedotes, and jokes about our favorite sport
“I slowly turned, raised my 30.06 and fired…..CLICK! My rifle misfired, so i quickly rechambered my bolt action, raised my rifle and ClICK!…Another misfire. This happened 2 more times, before I had to completely reload my rifle. Surprising, the Deer didn’t even noticed me. It continued to slowly walk, it’s nose to the earth, completely oblivious to my frantic attempts to get my damn gun to fire…
“DeerBeards.com spokesman Chet Norris said the video games were expected to be released last Wednesday, but he game no details regarding the delays. The games, including Big Bucks Revenge 2, were handed over for release at 10.51 p.m. last evening, said Norris.
“I shot my first Deer in November of 2004. We were hunting private land in Pine County, MN and it was freezing outside. Swede and I were stand hunting and after sitting for about 2 hours in 12 degree weather, I was frozen. I hadn’t seen nor heard a thing except for the farmers donkey, when i heard that ” Snap”. I looked behind me and there was a nice 9pt just walking along, smelling the rut, without a care in the world.
And finally, “One day Gaston and Bubba were Deer Hunting, and they got lost. Gaston tells Bubba "wait, don't panic I learned what to do in case this happens. Your supposed to shoot up into the air three times and someone will here you and come with help,"
“Okay" said Bubba. So he shoots three times into the air. They both wait an hour and no one shows up. So they shoot three times again and still no one shows up. Bewildered they try this again and again for the next couple of hours. Gaston starts to look a little worried, then he shouts "It better work this time, were down to our last three arrows!"
I know a few hunting widows who would like to know some hunting antedotes themselves.
Actually I have one. When I sat down at the computer to write my article, I noticed that someone had typed “How to hunt elk” into the search line of my internet home page.
Band-aids and the good life
There seems to be a hole in my education, and right now I don't have time to get on line and try to fill it. So if I perpetuate any heresies herewith, feel free to call and correct me.
I am not sure about what characteristics qualify a country for the status of third-world, second-world, first-world, etc. I think even in geography settings, the terms are more than a bit fuzzy in meaning. I am also quite sure that they don't necessarily mean what they used to.
But for the sake of launching this column, I am going to assume that our country is a first-world country, and I am also assuming that the abundance of laptops, cellphones, hospitals, antibiotics, celebrities and food are what keep us in that category.
I would like to add a few little items of my own to that list—necessities for civilized living which must certainly help to qualify a country for a first-world label.
In my estimation, a few developments worth mentioning are the digital camera, the I-Pod, Velcro, and last but not least, adhesive bandage strips, hereafter called band-aids. Band-aids have been around longer than the rest of the items I mentioned, thank goodness, because without band-aids to assist parents in raising children, life as we know it would cease to exist. Without penicillin and band-aids, most children wouldn't live beyond the age of five. At least that is how I remember it, and I am certainly glad that I was able to raise my kids in the age of band-aids.
A band-aid can cure a child who is dying of a hangnail, a bump on the head, a mosquito bite, a broken fingernail, chicken pox, a stomach ache, a sprain, a blister, road rash, and what else but a small laceration. Band-aids are especially beneficial when blood is in evidence. So it is not hard to gauge the contributions of the band-aid to the good life—or any life at all for that matter.
But dying children are not the only ones to benefit from the miracles worked by band-aids. Speaking of developments, my kids were pioneers in the area of new and innovative uses for band-aids. They discovered that they can be used for hanging pictures, wrapping packages, padding shoes, decorating mirrors, sealing diaries, splicing wires, and further, some obsolete uses such as mending cassette tape decks.
We should have been paid for our developments. Johnson and Johnson could launch a whole new advertising campaign based on our groundbreaking work.
The problem was that whenever someone cut a finger, there was never a band-aid in the medicine cabinet. We had to take them off the mirror, or the wall, or the tape decks before we could staunch the flow of blood and tears. (If you can get the tears stopped, you can live with the rest.) And some kids were particular enough to want a new one, fresh out of the wrapper.
So, put band-aids on another list—that list of things you have to hide if you ever want to have any. Things like chocolate chips, cellophane tape, scissors and glue.
One thing I have a problem with though: if band-aids are so wonderful, for injuries that is, why can't a kid ever leave one on for more than five minutes?
I am not sure about what characteristics qualify a country for the status of third-world, second-world, first-world, etc. I think even in geography settings, the terms are more than a bit fuzzy in meaning. I am also quite sure that they don't necessarily mean what they used to.
But for the sake of launching this column, I am going to assume that our country is a first-world country, and I am also assuming that the abundance of laptops, cellphones, hospitals, antibiotics, celebrities and food are what keep us in that category.
I would like to add a few little items of my own to that list—necessities for civilized living which must certainly help to qualify a country for a first-world label.
In my estimation, a few developments worth mentioning are the digital camera, the I-Pod, Velcro, and last but not least, adhesive bandage strips, hereafter called band-aids. Band-aids have been around longer than the rest of the items I mentioned, thank goodness, because without band-aids to assist parents in raising children, life as we know it would cease to exist. Without penicillin and band-aids, most children wouldn't live beyond the age of five. At least that is how I remember it, and I am certainly glad that I was able to raise my kids in the age of band-aids.
A band-aid can cure a child who is dying of a hangnail, a bump on the head, a mosquito bite, a broken fingernail, chicken pox, a stomach ache, a sprain, a blister, road rash, and what else but a small laceration. Band-aids are especially beneficial when blood is in evidence. So it is not hard to gauge the contributions of the band-aid to the good life—or any life at all for that matter.
But dying children are not the only ones to benefit from the miracles worked by band-aids. Speaking of developments, my kids were pioneers in the area of new and innovative uses for band-aids. They discovered that they can be used for hanging pictures, wrapping packages, padding shoes, decorating mirrors, sealing diaries, splicing wires, and further, some obsolete uses such as mending cassette tape decks.
We should have been paid for our developments. Johnson and Johnson could launch a whole new advertising campaign based on our groundbreaking work.
The problem was that whenever someone cut a finger, there was never a band-aid in the medicine cabinet. We had to take them off the mirror, or the wall, or the tape decks before we could staunch the flow of blood and tears. (If you can get the tears stopped, you can live with the rest.) And some kids were particular enough to want a new one, fresh out of the wrapper.
So, put band-aids on another list—that list of things you have to hide if you ever want to have any. Things like chocolate chips, cellophane tape, scissors and glue.
One thing I have a problem with though: if band-aids are so wonderful, for injuries that is, why can't a kid ever leave one on for more than five minutes?
How to eat Halloween candy
I have dressed up kids and sent them out to beg for candy on Halloween night for something like 22 years. That is probably close to a Guiness record. And so now I dress up the grandkids. (One of them wants to buy some candy ahead of time and practice trick-or-treating. He says he doesn’t want to do it wrong.) But whether I hold a record or not, I know I I have done it long enough to be something of an expert, so I am speaking out.
Similarly, the National Safety Council offers all kinds of seasonal advice from what color costumes are safest to what to do so the kids won’t get lost. But nobody tells them what to do with all of that candy.
The secret to surviving Halloween candy is to let the kids eat up all of it right when they get home from collecting it. In fact, encourage them to eat it right when they get it if they can get it open. (If they are busy eating, they will have less time for amassing.) Hopefully they will have eaten a good share of it by the time they get home. Don’t let them sort or count what is left; just keep them eating. It’s easy.
Whatever you do, don’t put it on top of the fridge or try to hide it. You will just have to fight them for every piece, and do you really want kids snooping around in cupboards and closets this close to Christmas?
I know this strategy goes against every natural instinct for protecting your kids, but read on. You have yourself to consider also, you know.
There are several pitfalls that you can avoid by getting rid of that candy immediately. The first is a three-week sugar high. Granted, the one-night high will be monumental, but it will be over with by morning. You will only have to live with juiced-up kids for one night. They may have a hangover when morning comes, but at least they won’t be able to eat more candy and start the binge all over again.
You will also not have to deal with candy wrappers all over the house for more than one day. Since all of that candy has to be wrapped according to NSC standards, which means it has to be tightly wrapped, it has to be shredded in order to be removed from the candy. The pieces of wrapper will be multiplying in quantity whenever you are not looking.
I’m warning you—you will find bits of tinfoil, paper, cellophane, and sucker sticks under the beds, beneath the sofa cushions, in front of the TV, in the dryer, and you will never be through with the wrappers until Christmas when you will have to start all over again. Just finish it off, clean up the mess the next morning and be done with it.
My dentist will back me up on this. It is better for their teeth to get twenty pounds of sugar all at once and then get ruthlessly brushed than it is to keep them bathed in sugar at the rate of an ounce per hour for the next three weeks.
Don’t worry about the kids getting sick. I never had one do it on Halloween candy. But if they do, maybe they will feel like going to bed early, in spite of the sugar coursing through their veins.
Similarly, the National Safety Council offers all kinds of seasonal advice from what color costumes are safest to what to do so the kids won’t get lost. But nobody tells them what to do with all of that candy.
The secret to surviving Halloween candy is to let the kids eat up all of it right when they get home from collecting it. In fact, encourage them to eat it right when they get it if they can get it open. (If they are busy eating, they will have less time for amassing.) Hopefully they will have eaten a good share of it by the time they get home. Don’t let them sort or count what is left; just keep them eating. It’s easy.
Whatever you do, don’t put it on top of the fridge or try to hide it. You will just have to fight them for every piece, and do you really want kids snooping around in cupboards and closets this close to Christmas?
I know this strategy goes against every natural instinct for protecting your kids, but read on. You have yourself to consider also, you know.
There are several pitfalls that you can avoid by getting rid of that candy immediately. The first is a three-week sugar high. Granted, the one-night high will be monumental, but it will be over with by morning. You will only have to live with juiced-up kids for one night. They may have a hangover when morning comes, but at least they won’t be able to eat more candy and start the binge all over again.
You will also not have to deal with candy wrappers all over the house for more than one day. Since all of that candy has to be wrapped according to NSC standards, which means it has to be tightly wrapped, it has to be shredded in order to be removed from the candy. The pieces of wrapper will be multiplying in quantity whenever you are not looking.
I’m warning you—you will find bits of tinfoil, paper, cellophane, and sucker sticks under the beds, beneath the sofa cushions, in front of the TV, in the dryer, and you will never be through with the wrappers until Christmas when you will have to start all over again. Just finish it off, clean up the mess the next morning and be done with it.
My dentist will back me up on this. It is better for their teeth to get twenty pounds of sugar all at once and then get ruthlessly brushed than it is to keep them bathed in sugar at the rate of an ounce per hour for the next three weeks.
Don’t worry about the kids getting sick. I never had one do it on Halloween candy. But if they do, maybe they will feel like going to bed early, in spite of the sugar coursing through their veins.
Some of my grandkids want to become rich and famous. They just might make it. I don't think they will be doing anything from the middle of the road when they do though. More like from somewhere off the beaten path.
For example, my grandson who is the Lego afficionado also does LegoMotion which involves making an animation video using Legos. (There are some of those videos on YouTube in case you want to see what I am writing about.) I am not sure whether he is responding to a YouTube trend or whether there was some kind of challenge on the box of his latest set of Legos.
Actually he already has one uploaded on Youtube as well. And tonight he made another one. I know what this one was in response to. There is a product out there in drugstores called NeilMed Sinus Rinse. (I didn't make that up. It can actually be found in drugstores near you.)
I will explain what it has to do with being rich and famous here if I can. So the product's manufacturer, Neil, I guess, is sponsoring a contest. Entrants need to make a video about the product and enter it into their contest.
I can only imagine what some of the sinus rinse videos are going to look like. They might be able to be picked up by ???????????????? Anyway, the winner gets $15,000. I don't know where the announcement about the contest can be found in case you are interested in making a video of your own. I searched NeilMed and only came up with a coupon for $9.
Maybe the announcement was on the box of his aunt's latest bottle of NeilMed.
So LegoBoy thinks he will become rich by making a LegoMotion for his contest entry. He thinks he will become famous by getting his grandmother to put a link of it on her blog, and by publishing it here. Of course winning the contest won't hurt his name recognition either. Never mind that if he uploads it to YouTube it is likely to become their intellectual property, and believe me this is intellectual.
Nevertheless, here is his video link, and I will be tallying hits: Neil Med Vid.wmv
If your computer, modem, server, or whatever is experiencing technical difficulties which is likely to be the case, I will describe for you the NeilMed LegoMotion contest entry.
The scene opens and Lego's Indiana Jones character is standing on a green Lego platform. He is artistically placed right of center and in the foreground. There is something like a Tinkertoy in the background, He has a large white “bottle” in one hand and a whip in the other. Indiana Jones (voiceovers by Elliot Michaelson) says, “Hi, I am Indiana Jones and I use NeilMed because it is clinically proven to be more effective.”
Indiana then lifts the bottle to his nose, or somewhere near there, and the voiceover issues a juicy sniff. It could be worse. Indiana moves the bottle away from his noise and the voiceover says, “Ah, I feel better already.” Ostensibly Indiana needs the product after being drug for miles behind a 1940s truck along a dirt road.
At one point Indiana's alter-image with his Fedora and vest appears momentarily in the background—I think to signify that he will be his old self as soon as the sinus wash does its stuff.
I think he should use Darth Vader for his next NeilMed promo. We all know what kind of mess his sinuses are in.
For example, my grandson who is the Lego afficionado also does LegoMotion which involves making an animation video using Legos. (There are some of those videos on YouTube in case you want to see what I am writing about.) I am not sure whether he is responding to a YouTube trend or whether there was some kind of challenge on the box of his latest set of Legos.
Actually he already has one uploaded on Youtube as well. And tonight he made another one. I know what this one was in response to. There is a product out there in drugstores called NeilMed Sinus Rinse. (I didn't make that up. It can actually be found in drugstores near you.)
I will explain what it has to do with being rich and famous here if I can. So the product's manufacturer, Neil, I guess, is sponsoring a contest. Entrants need to make a video about the product and enter it into their contest.
I can only imagine what some of the sinus rinse videos are going to look like. They might be able to be picked up by ???????????????? Anyway, the winner gets $15,000. I don't know where the announcement about the contest can be found in case you are interested in making a video of your own. I searched NeilMed and only came up with a coupon for $9.
Maybe the announcement was on the box of his aunt's latest bottle of NeilMed.
So LegoBoy thinks he will become rich by making a LegoMotion for his contest entry. He thinks he will become famous by getting his grandmother to put a link of it on her blog, and by publishing it here. Of course winning the contest won't hurt his name recognition either. Never mind that if he uploads it to YouTube it is likely to become their intellectual property, and believe me this is intellectual.
Nevertheless, here is his video link, and I will be tallying hits: Neil Med Vid.wmv
If your computer, modem, server, or whatever is experiencing technical difficulties which is likely to be the case, I will describe for you the NeilMed LegoMotion contest entry.
The scene opens and Lego's Indiana Jones character is standing on a green Lego platform. He is artistically placed right of center and in the foreground. There is something like a Tinkertoy in the background, He has a large white “bottle” in one hand and a whip in the other. Indiana Jones (voiceovers by Elliot Michaelson) says, “Hi, I am Indiana Jones and I use NeilMed because it is clinically proven to be more effective.”
Indiana then lifts the bottle to his nose, or somewhere near there, and the voiceover issues a juicy sniff. It could be worse. Indiana moves the bottle away from his noise and the voiceover says, “Ah, I feel better already.” Ostensibly Indiana needs the product after being drug for miles behind a 1940s truck along a dirt road.
At one point Indiana's alter-image with his Fedora and vest appears momentarily in the background—I think to signify that he will be his old self as soon as the sinus wash does its stuff.
I think he should use Darth Vader for his next NeilMed promo. We all know what kind of mess his sinuses are in.
How should I figure the studies?
I have a problem with scientific studies. Or maybe it's just the science part that is the problem. I know that every research center has a bank of computers stuffed with all kinds of RAM and other acronyms, but with the widespread use of computers with data processing capabilities, processing data seems to be what everyone does.
I wonder how the studies get engineered these days. Is the data driving the study, or is the need to know something driving the gathering of data? Does some researcher surf the sites until he comes across a data bank with statistics about a population and a substance and then start running numbers? I am just asking questions here.
The reason I was wondering is that there seem to be more studies on the efficacy of tomatoes, wine and coffee that all the other studies combined. Perhaps a requirement in Research Studies 101 is for students to find out something good about coffee. If students do real well, they can go to work for the Institute for Coffee Studies when they enter the wonderful world of work which may mean that they get to sit around all day and drink coffee. No wonder coffee drinkers have less stress and fewer headaches. (I didn't make up that part about the Institute.)
I will be the first to admit that when I was in school, a computer was a picture in my science book of a huge structure that filled a whole room. There were only a few of them, and researchers had to wait in line to use them. There were probably protocols for establishing priorities for computer use. Researchers probably didn't get to use the computers for finding out why people don't ride their bikes to work. (That is like trying to figure out why people eat doughnuts.)
Even now, I can't imagine that information on coffee consumption is in the need-to-know-now category, but for some reason, it seems to be the study of the day. Coffee consumption can't be very interesting either, but apparently there are more studies done on coffee than there are on cancer.
Speaking of which: “A cup or more daily (of coffee) may cut your risk of some types of head and neck cancers says an analysis of nine studies. Decaf doesn't seem to do the trick, neither does tea.” That was it.
I just read that in the health section of a widely circulated national magazine. If anyone needs to know which one, give me a call. I hesitate to embarrass the magazine given that the only bit of specific information in the whole discussion is the number “nine.” Perhaps somewhere in a computer or an obscure magazine article, there are some more details. Maybe not. The rest of the article was about expensive drugs, eating fish, keeping journals and, yes, sitting around.
Can anyone tell me what I just read in that magazine? Does it mean that if I am afraid of head and neck cancers I should drink more coffee? What if I don't drink any coffee? What if I am afraid of bathrooms? Or what if only stomach and liver cancers are prevalent in my family tree? Can I spend less time in bathrooms?
Should I search the web until I find a study about stomach and liver cancers? Should I begin a habit this late in my life that ties me to the coffeemaker, the bathroom and another aisle in the grocery store on the outside chance that I might develop “some type” of head or neck cancer? And who exactly pays pays for this research, and how are the conclusions reached?
And then, how do they control these types of studies? Does someone (outside of at the Institute for Coffee Studies) eat or drink nothing but coffee for six years? Otherwise how can researchers rule out the effects of other “contributing factors” like, for instance, the reluctance of members of the study group to ride a bike to work, which really could be linked to how many cups of coffee they need before they start out for work and how many bathrooms there are along the way.
I wonder how the studies get engineered these days. Is the data driving the study, or is the need to know something driving the gathering of data? Does some researcher surf the sites until he comes across a data bank with statistics about a population and a substance and then start running numbers? I am just asking questions here.
The reason I was wondering is that there seem to be more studies on the efficacy of tomatoes, wine and coffee that all the other studies combined. Perhaps a requirement in Research Studies 101 is for students to find out something good about coffee. If students do real well, they can go to work for the Institute for Coffee Studies when they enter the wonderful world of work which may mean that they get to sit around all day and drink coffee. No wonder coffee drinkers have less stress and fewer headaches. (I didn't make up that part about the Institute.)
I will be the first to admit that when I was in school, a computer was a picture in my science book of a huge structure that filled a whole room. There were only a few of them, and researchers had to wait in line to use them. There were probably protocols for establishing priorities for computer use. Researchers probably didn't get to use the computers for finding out why people don't ride their bikes to work. (That is like trying to figure out why people eat doughnuts.)
Even now, I can't imagine that information on coffee consumption is in the need-to-know-now category, but for some reason, it seems to be the study of the day. Coffee consumption can't be very interesting either, but apparently there are more studies done on coffee than there are on cancer.
Speaking of which: “A cup or more daily (of coffee) may cut your risk of some types of head and neck cancers says an analysis of nine studies. Decaf doesn't seem to do the trick, neither does tea.” That was it.
I just read that in the health section of a widely circulated national magazine. If anyone needs to know which one, give me a call. I hesitate to embarrass the magazine given that the only bit of specific information in the whole discussion is the number “nine.” Perhaps somewhere in a computer or an obscure magazine article, there are some more details. Maybe not. The rest of the article was about expensive drugs, eating fish, keeping journals and, yes, sitting around.
Can anyone tell me what I just read in that magazine? Does it mean that if I am afraid of head and neck cancers I should drink more coffee? What if I don't drink any coffee? What if I am afraid of bathrooms? Or what if only stomach and liver cancers are prevalent in my family tree? Can I spend less time in bathrooms?
Should I search the web until I find a study about stomach and liver cancers? Should I begin a habit this late in my life that ties me to the coffeemaker, the bathroom and another aisle in the grocery store on the outside chance that I might develop “some type” of head or neck cancer? And who exactly pays pays for this research, and how are the conclusions reached?
And then, how do they control these types of studies? Does someone (outside of at the Institute for Coffee Studies) eat or drink nothing but coffee for six years? Otherwise how can researchers rule out the effects of other “contributing factors” like, for instance, the reluctance of members of the study group to ride a bike to work, which really could be linked to how many cups of coffee they need before they start out for work and how many bathrooms there are along the way.
The mountain valley softball game
Members of the Butterbean family spent part of the last weekend visiting Jackson and Teton National Park. We hiked, saw the sights, hunted for wildlife, and remembered times from a few years back when two of our daughters worked there in the resorts.
There are a few stories worth telling of their experiences there. Some of them I had forgotten about until we revisited the area and recalled them. Hearing the elk bugle on the mountains from the hiking trail we were on reminded us of the of the story of the elk and the softball game.
My girls went to Jackson back then with some fairly good softball skills and their mitts. When the various lodges in the area organized softball teams into a Park league, they were excited to play. The teams played against each other in the evenings at a grassy field near Moran Junction. Sometimes their games were delayed while various small animals were chased off the field.
One night the teams met for their weekly games, and it looked like rain. There was a roll of thunder in the distance and dark clouds building around the mountaintops. They quickly got their game underway, hoping to get in a few innings before they were rained out.
Soon the cloud cover was thick, dark, and low, obscuring the mountains and all but the nearer views. The wildlife seemed to be restless and on the move. The was an eerie ominous feeling settling over the alpine meadow.
Off to the left of first base, higher up in the trees, they heard an elk bugle. His call was answered from the other side of the field by another bugle. They first elk replied and the second countered.
The hitting team huddled up and chatted around the “dugout” telling stories of elk they had seen and heard. The fielders tried to concentrate on the game as they heard the two elk bugling again and again, and all the while their calls were getting closer and closer and sounding angrier and angrier.
By the bottom of the fifth inning, the bulls were obviously nearby and converging on the baseball diamond. The first bull burst out of the trees and into the meadow followed hesitantly by his milling cows. He announced his arrival with an eerie screech accompanied by a clap of thunder.
“Strike one.” The second “granddaddy” arrived on the scene with an answering call and his harem.
“Strike two.” The fielders were relieved to be able to gather up around home, and the hitters were hesitant to take the field.
The two bulls began to size each other up and trot closer toward one another. They circled around, and snorted and challenged. It looked as if they might be going to hold their own contest somewhere between center field and second base.
“Strike one.” The outfielders were keeping one eye on each elk and that didn't leave them any eyes left to keep on the ball. They just prayed for a swing and a miss. And with all of the thunder, wind and bugling, they weren't going to be able to hear anything like the crack of the bat.
The bulls drew closer together, apparently oblivious to the game in progress and the human players on the field. Finally the humans gave way, backing or scampering quietly towards the benches and their parked vehicles.
And the bulls began sparring in the midst of a darkening thunderstorm. They first clashed in the outfield just beyond second base. Some of the ball players stayed for the whole competition. Others, including my daughters, were content to clear out and leave the whole spooky ball park to the big boys.
Elk hunters walk for days hoping to find a cow or a bull within range of their binoculars. Our softball players were driven off by a couple of them who completely took over the field. It may have been the first and only game ever called on account of sparring in the outfield.
There are a few stories worth telling of their experiences there. Some of them I had forgotten about until we revisited the area and recalled them. Hearing the elk bugle on the mountains from the hiking trail we were on reminded us of the of the story of the elk and the softball game.
My girls went to Jackson back then with some fairly good softball skills and their mitts. When the various lodges in the area organized softball teams into a Park league, they were excited to play. The teams played against each other in the evenings at a grassy field near Moran Junction. Sometimes their games were delayed while various small animals were chased off the field.
One night the teams met for their weekly games, and it looked like rain. There was a roll of thunder in the distance and dark clouds building around the mountaintops. They quickly got their game underway, hoping to get in a few innings before they were rained out.
Soon the cloud cover was thick, dark, and low, obscuring the mountains and all but the nearer views. The wildlife seemed to be restless and on the move. The was an eerie ominous feeling settling over the alpine meadow.
Off to the left of first base, higher up in the trees, they heard an elk bugle. His call was answered from the other side of the field by another bugle. They first elk replied and the second countered.
The hitting team huddled up and chatted around the “dugout” telling stories of elk they had seen and heard. The fielders tried to concentrate on the game as they heard the two elk bugling again and again, and all the while their calls were getting closer and closer and sounding angrier and angrier.
By the bottom of the fifth inning, the bulls were obviously nearby and converging on the baseball diamond. The first bull burst out of the trees and into the meadow followed hesitantly by his milling cows. He announced his arrival with an eerie screech accompanied by a clap of thunder.
“Strike one.” The second “granddaddy” arrived on the scene with an answering call and his harem.
“Strike two.” The fielders were relieved to be able to gather up around home, and the hitters were hesitant to take the field.
The two bulls began to size each other up and trot closer toward one another. They circled around, and snorted and challenged. It looked as if they might be going to hold their own contest somewhere between center field and second base.
“Strike one.” The outfielders were keeping one eye on each elk and that didn't leave them any eyes left to keep on the ball. They just prayed for a swing and a miss. And with all of the thunder, wind and bugling, they weren't going to be able to hear anything like the crack of the bat.
The bulls drew closer together, apparently oblivious to the game in progress and the human players on the field. Finally the humans gave way, backing or scampering quietly towards the benches and their parked vehicles.
And the bulls began sparring in the midst of a darkening thunderstorm. They first clashed in the outfield just beyond second base. Some of the ball players stayed for the whole competition. Others, including my daughters, were content to clear out and leave the whole spooky ball park to the big boys.
Elk hunters walk for days hoping to find a cow or a bull within range of their binoculars. Our softball players were driven off by a couple of them who completely took over the field. It may have been the first and only game ever called on account of sparring in the outfield.
The ever-present little white trailer
Does anyone besides me get annoyed every time they drive through the intersection at 500 North and 1500 West (the canal road and the Maeser highway)?
I know, some of you probably never have reason to go that way, but since it is half a country block away from the high school, and otherwise a main artery to the west end of the valley, a lot of people do.
I am one of them, and I usually drive through it twice a day on weekdays. Both times I find myself feeling cramped, facing restricted vision, and becoming increasingly grumpy.
A year or so ago, whichever entity is responsible for road maintenance there put in a new stoplight, widened the roads a bit and made it easier to see adjacent traffic and safely travel through the intersection. Mind you, the project took a while. I was overjoyed when it was completed so I could execute my daily commute with one less hazard.
My happiness was short-lived though. One day I “noticed” an unmarked. little white, enclosed trailer parked there, just barely off the road. Like six inches beyond the white outside line. Three safety cones were set beside it, and that was it. I didn't give it much thought then. Surely it would be gone the next day. It wasn't.
I idly wondered for a few days after that what the heck that trailer was doing there. One day I imagined that it was a horse trailer for a short horse that might have broken down there. Another day I thought it might be a camp trailer for the water master who had to keep a close eye on the farmers. Then I thought it must have been abandoned by someone trafficking in something illegal like body parts.
A few days later I began to seriously wonder just how a little white trailer could be parked beside a main road, a few feet from a stop-lighted intersection, and not be hauled off, impounded, or moved by some law enforcement cadre, or better yet, side-swiped by some texter. Believe me, there has been plenty of time for either to happen.
By the way, it took only two days for the law to track down some of my high-school kids when their unregistered clunker really did break down by the roadside—far away from any intersection, on a back-country lane, and well off the shoulder besides. They were nearly written up for abandoning a vehicle, which was completely untrue. They hadn't abandoned it, they just didn't know how or when they were going to move it.
I began to ask questions. I asked Mr. B. I asked some other family members. Whenever I remembered, I asked all of the trailer-savvy people I met what the little trailer was and why it was there. A complete mystery.
Finally after days and days, I asked the right person—someone in a position to know the answer. He does know who and what, but the why there and for how long he doesn't know.
When I tell you, you will think my imaginations about the purpose of the little white trailer weren't too farfetched at all. Actually they sound downright plausible in the face of the reality.
As a matter of fact, you wouldn't believe me if I told you, so just pick one—short horse trailer, water master camper, or dead body parts. Any one is as good as the real story.
I am half tempted to attach a sign that says something like “trailer for sale, call 555-5555.”
I am hereby telling you kids who are test-driving your fixer-uppers to make sure and break down on a busy road near an intersection. Just carry three safety cones in the trunk, if there is one, and put them out before you leave the scene. Then just get on with your life.
I know, some of you probably never have reason to go that way, but since it is half a country block away from the high school, and otherwise a main artery to the west end of the valley, a lot of people do.
I am one of them, and I usually drive through it twice a day on weekdays. Both times I find myself feeling cramped, facing restricted vision, and becoming increasingly grumpy.
A year or so ago, whichever entity is responsible for road maintenance there put in a new stoplight, widened the roads a bit and made it easier to see adjacent traffic and safely travel through the intersection. Mind you, the project took a while. I was overjoyed when it was completed so I could execute my daily commute with one less hazard.
My happiness was short-lived though. One day I “noticed” an unmarked. little white, enclosed trailer parked there, just barely off the road. Like six inches beyond the white outside line. Three safety cones were set beside it, and that was it. I didn't give it much thought then. Surely it would be gone the next day. It wasn't.
I idly wondered for a few days after that what the heck that trailer was doing there. One day I imagined that it was a horse trailer for a short horse that might have broken down there. Another day I thought it might be a camp trailer for the water master who had to keep a close eye on the farmers. Then I thought it must have been abandoned by someone trafficking in something illegal like body parts.
A few days later I began to seriously wonder just how a little white trailer could be parked beside a main road, a few feet from a stop-lighted intersection, and not be hauled off, impounded, or moved by some law enforcement cadre, or better yet, side-swiped by some texter. Believe me, there has been plenty of time for either to happen.
By the way, it took only two days for the law to track down some of my high-school kids when their unregistered clunker really did break down by the roadside—far away from any intersection, on a back-country lane, and well off the shoulder besides. They were nearly written up for abandoning a vehicle, which was completely untrue. They hadn't abandoned it, they just didn't know how or when they were going to move it.
I began to ask questions. I asked Mr. B. I asked some other family members. Whenever I remembered, I asked all of the trailer-savvy people I met what the little trailer was and why it was there. A complete mystery.
Finally after days and days, I asked the right person—someone in a position to know the answer. He does know who and what, but the why there and for how long he doesn't know.
When I tell you, you will think my imaginations about the purpose of the little white trailer weren't too farfetched at all. Actually they sound downright plausible in the face of the reality.
As a matter of fact, you wouldn't believe me if I told you, so just pick one—short horse trailer, water master camper, or dead body parts. Any one is as good as the real story.
I am half tempted to attach a sign that says something like “trailer for sale, call 555-5555.”
I am hereby telling you kids who are test-driving your fixer-uppers to make sure and break down on a busy road near an intersection. Just carry three safety cones in the trunk, if there is one, and put them out before you leave the scene. Then just get on with your life.
Capitalism at work
A year or so ago, I wrote one of these articles about the world's oldest profession—selling lemonade by the roadside. I said that lemonade stands had been around for a long time considering no one ever made any money at them.
Well, one set of my grandkids from another town in Utah have forced me to rethink my position. In fact, they have proved me wrong. Of course they live across the street from where certain events like marathons, charity walk/runs, long bike rides and artist's walks, etc., are held in their town. Sometimes the events end there and sometimes they begin there. Sometimes they are just on the way.
Those events attract a lot of people from all over Utah and beyond. In fact, sometimes there are hundreds of participants. So the kids are fortunate enough to have a good location for their proprietorship, which, as you know, makes all the difference.
And they have a good recipe. They don't make yellow Kool-aid. In fact they have perfected a recipe for an easy-to-make, but high-end, Brazilian lemonade. I would pass it on if I knew it, but it is a secret and there are proprietary laws after all. They do offer an additional menu item—an economy lemonade which is more like your basic lemon-sugar-and-water recipe.
A local restauranteur tasted their wares, finished his glass, and then came back for more. Ostensibly. He really came back to quiz them about their recipe. Before they realized who he was, they had spilled the lemons. They are pretty sure that he will have their drink on his menu next time they go to his restaurant, but they don't think he will be letting out trade secrets either. They still refer to that incident as the “great lemonade recipe heist.”
So the kids can sell quite a bit of lemonade when the runners end a marathon at their location.The same is true for bike competitions. And artist-walkers love to sip and saunter.
So, the other day they had everything—a hot Saturday, a marathon, and an artist's walk all at once. They really had to scramble to keep the lemonade coming.
Their next door neighbor, who only sells bikes, came by for a glass and wondered what the kids were going to do with their profits. He thought perhaps they were doing some kind of benefit like coming over to buy a new bike tire, or donating their proceeds like the artists were doing. The 12-year-old assured him that all of the proceeds were of a capitalistic nature and would be used either to buy more lemons or more Legos.
“All of the money we make will be going to the 'ade' of lemons.' Get it?” the 9-year-old put in tartly. And they did have to send Dad on a lemon run sometime during the afternoon.
So finally they ran out of customers and lemonade, and they moved inside to count their money and pay Dad for the production materials. After all the bills were paid, they were left with profits in the amount of $119.30.
They probably netted more than the bike retailer did that day, considering that a lot a marathoners and not many bikers were milling around.
Well, one set of my grandkids from another town in Utah have forced me to rethink my position. In fact, they have proved me wrong. Of course they live across the street from where certain events like marathons, charity walk/runs, long bike rides and artist's walks, etc., are held in their town. Sometimes the events end there and sometimes they begin there. Sometimes they are just on the way.
Those events attract a lot of people from all over Utah and beyond. In fact, sometimes there are hundreds of participants. So the kids are fortunate enough to have a good location for their proprietorship, which, as you know, makes all the difference.
And they have a good recipe. They don't make yellow Kool-aid. In fact they have perfected a recipe for an easy-to-make, but high-end, Brazilian lemonade. I would pass it on if I knew it, but it is a secret and there are proprietary laws after all. They do offer an additional menu item—an economy lemonade which is more like your basic lemon-sugar-and-water recipe.
A local restauranteur tasted their wares, finished his glass, and then came back for more. Ostensibly. He really came back to quiz them about their recipe. Before they realized who he was, they had spilled the lemons. They are pretty sure that he will have their drink on his menu next time they go to his restaurant, but they don't think he will be letting out trade secrets either. They still refer to that incident as the “great lemonade recipe heist.”
So the kids can sell quite a bit of lemonade when the runners end a marathon at their location.The same is true for bike competitions. And artist-walkers love to sip and saunter.
So, the other day they had everything—a hot Saturday, a marathon, and an artist's walk all at once. They really had to scramble to keep the lemonade coming.
Their next door neighbor, who only sells bikes, came by for a glass and wondered what the kids were going to do with their profits. He thought perhaps they were doing some kind of benefit like coming over to buy a new bike tire, or donating their proceeds like the artists were doing. The 12-year-old assured him that all of the proceeds were of a capitalistic nature and would be used either to buy more lemons or more Legos.
“All of the money we make will be going to the 'ade' of lemons.' Get it?” the 9-year-old put in tartly. And they did have to send Dad on a lemon run sometime during the afternoon.
So finally they ran out of customers and lemonade, and they moved inside to count their money and pay Dad for the production materials. After all the bills were paid, they were left with profits in the amount of $119.30.
They probably netted more than the bike retailer did that day, considering that a lot a marathoners and not many bikers were milling around.
Is there a cellphone agent?
I wouldn't want it to be too generally known, but my cellphone contract expires here in a couple of months. I have spent almost two years complaining about the service that I have now.
Oh-oh, she's going to complain about it once again, you think. Well, I could, but actually the thought of replacing the old cell phone and service is what has me worried. And that's what I want to complain about.
Just considering the options that I have before me (which really aren't that many compared to real metropolitan areas) gives me a headache and makes my palms sweat. First I will have to choose a service and that represents a bigger commitment than some marriages. Then I will have to weigh the advantages and disadvantages of the various plans. Then I will have pick a phone since the old one (which doesn't show a bit of wear and is a nice color) will be locked, and then I will have to purchase all new accessories since none of them are interchangeable.
I calculate that I have approximately 210 different choices to consider. Most of them I don't want to consider at all.
So what I am doing here is searching for a cell phone agent. I don't want one of those cellphone agents whose real name is cellphone salesperson and they all sell cellphones down by the seashore. And on the dot coms and on Ebay and at the cellphone store and at the box stores and department stores.
That is not the kind of agent I am looking for. I want one that is completely independent. Someone who can connect me with the best phone and service for me at the best price. If I could get all of that in one package, I wouldn't mind signing on for two years or even more.
But with the knowledge in my possession right now, I would be reduced to picking my new cellphone by color.
Owning a cell phone is a big investment as well as a long-term commitment. During these past two years I have spent over $1200 on mobile phone service. Unlike choosing a husband, though, I am not allowed to date a cellphone or try a service plan to find out whether it is right for me. Most of the phone models are chained to the counter. You can only pick them up and hold them for a minute. You can read about them, but the literature only tells you what they can do, not what they can't do. And yes, I am ending the comparison right there.
I know, I could ask my kids which phone or service to buy, but they don't know any more about it than I do. In fact, they are willing to get the right color, along with texting, at any price. They do know how to use their phones though. They use them for all sorts of things. However, I still think their main function is similar to that of a GPS device (which by the way they could buy for a low one-time price). They mostly want to know where each other is and where they will meet up. They may have to move to a new position to get service though. That we all find a little bit annoying.
Take me, on the other hand. I think we all have “Friends-and-Family” so I can call family and tell one of them to bring home a loaf of bread.
“Yes,” you are thinking, “she does need a cellphone agent—someone to tell her that she doesn't need a cellphone at all and to just find a bigger shopping cart instead.”
Oh-oh, she's going to complain about it once again, you think. Well, I could, but actually the thought of replacing the old cell phone and service is what has me worried. And that's what I want to complain about.
Just considering the options that I have before me (which really aren't that many compared to real metropolitan areas) gives me a headache and makes my palms sweat. First I will have to choose a service and that represents a bigger commitment than some marriages. Then I will have to weigh the advantages and disadvantages of the various plans. Then I will have pick a phone since the old one (which doesn't show a bit of wear and is a nice color) will be locked, and then I will have to purchase all new accessories since none of them are interchangeable.
I calculate that I have approximately 210 different choices to consider. Most of them I don't want to consider at all.
So what I am doing here is searching for a cell phone agent. I don't want one of those cellphone agents whose real name is cellphone salesperson and they all sell cellphones down by the seashore. And on the dot coms and on Ebay and at the cellphone store and at the box stores and department stores.
That is not the kind of agent I am looking for. I want one that is completely independent. Someone who can connect me with the best phone and service for me at the best price. If I could get all of that in one package, I wouldn't mind signing on for two years or even more.
But with the knowledge in my possession right now, I would be reduced to picking my new cellphone by color.
Owning a cell phone is a big investment as well as a long-term commitment. During these past two years I have spent over $1200 on mobile phone service. Unlike choosing a husband, though, I am not allowed to date a cellphone or try a service plan to find out whether it is right for me. Most of the phone models are chained to the counter. You can only pick them up and hold them for a minute. You can read about them, but the literature only tells you what they can do, not what they can't do. And yes, I am ending the comparison right there.
I know, I could ask my kids which phone or service to buy, but they don't know any more about it than I do. In fact, they are willing to get the right color, along with texting, at any price. They do know how to use their phones though. They use them for all sorts of things. However, I still think their main function is similar to that of a GPS device (which by the way they could buy for a low one-time price). They mostly want to know where each other is and where they will meet up. They may have to move to a new position to get service though. That we all find a little bit annoying.
Take me, on the other hand. I think we all have “Friends-and-Family” so I can call family and tell one of them to bring home a loaf of bread.
“Yes,” you are thinking, “she does need a cellphone agent—someone to tell her that she doesn't need a cellphone at all and to just find a bigger shopping cart instead.”
Real men eat what?
In the Butterbean family, the measure of a man has nothing to do with quiche. Instead, real men eat sandwiches. And the more you can put on your sandwich and still get a mouth on it, the better man you are. Dagwood is a family idol, but Mr. Butterbean is quite heroic as well.
Mr. B. says to me, “You had a busy day. Let’s have something simple for dinner.” What he means is, “Let’s have sandwiches,”—that simplest of foods! To have one we only need (minimum) bread, butter, mayo, meat, salt and pepper, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, onions, more meat, more cheese, and a space large enough to set it all out on. Beyond all of that we still might need to include things like hot peppers, vinegar and oil, cilantro, lemon pepper, sprouts, mushrooms—and the list goes on.
I am here to tell you that there is no simple or efficient way to make a sandwich in a kitchen. The first assembly line was probably not invented by Henry Ford; but instead, envisioned by the little old neighborhood deli-man in his pastrami-ridden brain while searching for a stress-free way to build a sandwich. A factory assembly line might work, (in fact it does at Subway) but the modern kitchen isn’t set up for it.
The main problem is that all of the components for a sandwich are kept in different places. The bread is in the drawer, the knives are in another drawer, the meat and butter is in the fridge, the pickles are on the shelf. Some things are not in the cupboard or the frig, but are still at the store instead. By the time you get everything gathered up, used, and put away, you need a nap.
The sandwich-maker (me) begins to think that it takes more macho to build this thing than it does to eat it. But the most fearless person of all is the one who asks for another sandwich just after you get all of the ingredients put away.
Now, I’m not sure I trust people who like to mix too many different foods together, and I am not of the opinion that anything tastes good on a slice of bread. I’m the odd one in the family. (I happen to like plain bread, and not just because making a sandwich is so much work.) I happen to think there are some exceptions to the “everything-tastes better-on-bread” dictum. Interestingly, those things are of that class of foods that are usually associated with bread and mayonnaise—for instance, a nice juicy slice of roast turkey or a home-grown tomato.
And back to bread—what tastes better than freshly baked bread? I expect that French chefs cringe when they see people desecrating croissants with even the best of meat and cheese. Croissants were not made to be covered with anything. They stand on their own, or should. So do a few other kinds of bread.
It’s like my brother once quipped when I announced that I had dinner under control because I had just baked bread and bought baloney (he’s a real wimp who only puts butter on his sandwiches): “Sounds like a waste of a perfectly good piece of bread to me.”
I'm not sure whether that was an assessment of the bread or the baloney, but now, there's one thing that does taste better on bread.
Mr. B. says to me, “You had a busy day. Let’s have something simple for dinner.” What he means is, “Let’s have sandwiches,”—that simplest of foods! To have one we only need (minimum) bread, butter, mayo, meat, salt and pepper, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, onions, more meat, more cheese, and a space large enough to set it all out on. Beyond all of that we still might need to include things like hot peppers, vinegar and oil, cilantro, lemon pepper, sprouts, mushrooms—and the list goes on.
I am here to tell you that there is no simple or efficient way to make a sandwich in a kitchen. The first assembly line was probably not invented by Henry Ford; but instead, envisioned by the little old neighborhood deli-man in his pastrami-ridden brain while searching for a stress-free way to build a sandwich. A factory assembly line might work, (in fact it does at Subway) but the modern kitchen isn’t set up for it.
The main problem is that all of the components for a sandwich are kept in different places. The bread is in the drawer, the knives are in another drawer, the meat and butter is in the fridge, the pickles are on the shelf. Some things are not in the cupboard or the frig, but are still at the store instead. By the time you get everything gathered up, used, and put away, you need a nap.
The sandwich-maker (me) begins to think that it takes more macho to build this thing than it does to eat it. But the most fearless person of all is the one who asks for another sandwich just after you get all of the ingredients put away.
Now, I’m not sure I trust people who like to mix too many different foods together, and I am not of the opinion that anything tastes good on a slice of bread. I’m the odd one in the family. (I happen to like plain bread, and not just because making a sandwich is so much work.) I happen to think there are some exceptions to the “everything-tastes better-on-bread” dictum. Interestingly, those things are of that class of foods that are usually associated with bread and mayonnaise—for instance, a nice juicy slice of roast turkey or a home-grown tomato.
And back to bread—what tastes better than freshly baked bread? I expect that French chefs cringe when they see people desecrating croissants with even the best of meat and cheese. Croissants were not made to be covered with anything. They stand on their own, or should. So do a few other kinds of bread.
It’s like my brother once quipped when I announced that I had dinner under control because I had just baked bread and bought baloney (he’s a real wimp who only puts butter on his sandwiches): “Sounds like a waste of a perfectly good piece of bread to me.”
I'm not sure whether that was an assessment of the bread or the baloney, but now, there's one thing that does taste better on bread.
A few good things
Okay, I have reached the age where guys don't whistle at me anymore. Well, possibly they never did that much, but reaching that numerical stature is still a tough pill to swallow along with my Tylenol Arthritis and my glucosamine.
My once-attractive eyes are now peering out from behind trifocals, and they don't help me see a whole lot better. And any physical activity I try to engage in is now done in one vertical plane (flat on the ground) and at one speed—slow.
You know the list. You've heard over and over about all of the disadvantages of growing older.
Just in case you are my age and your stomach hurts, you can't sleep at night, and you don't look as good as you used to, I have a little list to help you get over it.
Good things about being an older lady, little or not (besides getting senior prices at restaurants):
-Someone will always get the door for you.
-People don't swear at you when you cut them off—not out loud at least.
-No one expects your makeup to be on straight.
-No one crowds in front of you at the grocery store.
-You aren't expected to wear high heels.
-People would be surprised if you were “in style.”
-The bank is more apt to forgive you if you bounce a check.
-There doesn't have to be method to your madness.
-You don't have to be technologically savvy.
-Your clothes don't have to match particularly well.
-You can be excused for forgetting birthdays.
-And randomly, teenagers don't throw you overboard when you go rafting.
If you are not sure whether you are technically due some of the advantages of older age, you can tell you are in the perked-up age bracket if you can remember 78RPM records, Black Jack chewing gum, mimeographed paper, S&H Green Stamps, roller skate keys, and soda pop machines that dispensed bottles.
Remembering these aforementioned perks can make being an older woman is a little easier. You understand, of course, that being an older woman is not the same as being a little old lady. I am industriously working on not becoming one of those. If I have to learn to accept that fate, it will be later on—much later on.
In the meantime, this nice young man is going to help me across the street.
My once-attractive eyes are now peering out from behind trifocals, and they don't help me see a whole lot better. And any physical activity I try to engage in is now done in one vertical plane (flat on the ground) and at one speed—slow.
You know the list. You've heard over and over about all of the disadvantages of growing older.
Just in case you are my age and your stomach hurts, you can't sleep at night, and you don't look as good as you used to, I have a little list to help you get over it.
Good things about being an older lady, little or not (besides getting senior prices at restaurants):
-Someone will always get the door for you.
-People don't swear at you when you cut them off—not out loud at least.
-No one expects your makeup to be on straight.
-No one crowds in front of you at the grocery store.
-You aren't expected to wear high heels.
-People would be surprised if you were “in style.”
-The bank is more apt to forgive you if you bounce a check.
-There doesn't have to be method to your madness.
-You don't have to be technologically savvy.
-Your clothes don't have to match particularly well.
-You can be excused for forgetting birthdays.
-And randomly, teenagers don't throw you overboard when you go rafting.
If you are not sure whether you are technically due some of the advantages of older age, you can tell you are in the perked-up age bracket if you can remember 78RPM records, Black Jack chewing gum, mimeographed paper, S&H Green Stamps, roller skate keys, and soda pop machines that dispensed bottles.
Remembering these aforementioned perks can make being an older woman is a little easier. You understand, of course, that being an older woman is not the same as being a little old lady. I am industriously working on not becoming one of those. If I have to learn to accept that fate, it will be later on—much later on.
In the meantime, this nice young man is going to help me across the street.
Cut-and-paste in 101
There is a fine and fuzzy line between original writing and plagiarism. Since I am a writer (by my own definition) I should know. I have to try to do this once a week and do it all by myself—which I do, by the way, I think. Most of you know by now that what happens in my family and in my head just couldn't be happening anywhere else.
But we live in the cut-and-paste age, and it is easier than ever before to borrow words and ideas.
This little story which I am carefully referencing here is from the Sept. 2010 issue of the Reader's Digest, p. 60, and was submitted for publication by one Bob Wheeler. It is the perfect case in point:
At a planning meeting at my college, I congratulated a colleague on producing some superb student-guidance notes explaining how to combat plagiarism.
“How long did it take you to write that?” I asked.
“Not long,” he said. “I copied them from another university's website.”
It is interesting that either the original author, the colleague who borrowed, or the submitter sees the need to “combat” plagiarism as if it were a campus terrorist group or the H1N1 virus. Perhaps in the gilded halls of academia, it is possible to get all three abominations confused, at least in terms of their severity.
So, what I want to know is what those guidance notes said. Since they were student notes, they were presumably written to help students fight the dreaded plague, not to aid professors and administrators in their battle against it. But just so you know, most students don't really care. it's the latter's war.
Maybe rule number one said, “Never read your textbook or any other author. You will only be tempted to learn, understand and possibly at some point, repeat what you learned.
And perhaps rule number two: remember that even if your term paper is graded on clarity, you will have to resort to your own phrases and labels, however ambiguous or second-rate they may be. In fact, once you hear a perfectly turned phrase, you will never be satisfied with another, but the tendency to repeat it must be aggressively withstood. No wonder America's students are lagging behind.
I know, you are thinking that America's students should be having their own ideas, and be concisely stating them in their own words. Well, there are only so many of those to go around and most of them are already taken. Not only that, they are sure to be circulated out there somewhere in cut-and-paste land.
My solution to the problem is for more students to skip the liberal arts and focus on math and sciences. In those disciplines, the learner is encouraged to use the exact same methods for solving problems as the teacher or textbook author presents.
In fact copying is the standard mode of demonstrating what you have learned, and no ambiguity is tolerated, nor is original thinking. You don't have to be trying to think up new ways to solve math problems or trying to produce a different answer than the textbook has. Takes off all the pressure.
Okay, all of you English and literature teachers, relax. I am just trying to express an original idea or two about plagiarism, and I don't expect to inspire any cut-and-paste rebellions.
But we live in the cut-and-paste age, and it is easier than ever before to borrow words and ideas.
This little story which I am carefully referencing here is from the Sept. 2010 issue of the Reader's Digest, p. 60, and was submitted for publication by one Bob Wheeler. It is the perfect case in point:
At a planning meeting at my college, I congratulated a colleague on producing some superb student-guidance notes explaining how to combat plagiarism.
“How long did it take you to write that?” I asked.
“Not long,” he said. “I copied them from another university's website.”
It is interesting that either the original author, the colleague who borrowed, or the submitter sees the need to “combat” plagiarism as if it were a campus terrorist group or the H1N1 virus. Perhaps in the gilded halls of academia, it is possible to get all three abominations confused, at least in terms of their severity.
So, what I want to know is what those guidance notes said. Since they were student notes, they were presumably written to help students fight the dreaded plague, not to aid professors and administrators in their battle against it. But just so you know, most students don't really care. it's the latter's war.
Maybe rule number one said, “Never read your textbook or any other author. You will only be tempted to learn, understand and possibly at some point, repeat what you learned.
And perhaps rule number two: remember that even if your term paper is graded on clarity, you will have to resort to your own phrases and labels, however ambiguous or second-rate they may be. In fact, once you hear a perfectly turned phrase, you will never be satisfied with another, but the tendency to repeat it must be aggressively withstood. No wonder America's students are lagging behind.
I know, you are thinking that America's students should be having their own ideas, and be concisely stating them in their own words. Well, there are only so many of those to go around and most of them are already taken. Not only that, they are sure to be circulated out there somewhere in cut-and-paste land.
My solution to the problem is for more students to skip the liberal arts and focus on math and sciences. In those disciplines, the learner is encouraged to use the exact same methods for solving problems as the teacher or textbook author presents.
In fact copying is the standard mode of demonstrating what you have learned, and no ambiguity is tolerated, nor is original thinking. You don't have to be trying to think up new ways to solve math problems or trying to produce a different answer than the textbook has. Takes off all the pressure.
Okay, all of you English and literature teachers, relax. I am just trying to express an original idea or two about plagiarism, and I don't expect to inspire any cut-and-paste rebellions.
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