Why did the chicken cross the road? Well, it left this side of the road, but I didn’t see it surface on the other side.
You know the inevitables—death and taxes. Bertha is adding one to the list. If you talk to anyone who owns a car, you will soon hear a complaint about the condition of the roads.
In the old days, the roads were unpaved, sometimes muddy or sandy and vehicles got stuck. Someone might not come along for hours. But after they paved the roads it was potholes. And don’t worry, someone is right behind you. You just have to keep right on going over, around or through the potholes or get run over.
Out in the county where I live, there are some shining examples. I am pretty good at missing them because most of them have won tenure. But my car still appears on the upper reaches of the front-end alignment frequency chart.
I guess the harsh weather is to blame for most of our potholes, and our weather is in the same place on the weather charts. What can I say?
Just so you know, it is not only a local problem. When we lived on the other side of the state, things were worse. One spring, I’m not kidding, this notice appeared in the Classified Ads of the local paper:
“WANTED. One dead horse to fill the hole on Utah Avenue.” Utah Avenue is a main cross-town artery.
Not all of the holes in the roads are the fault of Mother Nature. A friend of mine was complaining about the manhole covers. Some of them have sunk a little too far to be called covers. Maybe liners. He said, “You know they make rings that they can put on the edges of the casings to raise up the covers. How hard could it be to get some of those?”
So I was reading in another paper about manhole covers. I don’t want to make any suggestions, but apparently in other parts of the country thieves steal the covers and sell them for scrap metal. How do you think it feels to hit an open manhole with your passenger side front wheel? We should be happy.
I have to quote the story though. “According to a report in USA Today, hundreds of covers have been ripped off in several states the last three months—another sign of the sluggish economy.” Is that a pun?
Pun or not, it is a stretch to get my mind around the sluggish part since I thought the manhole covers had disappeared because the price of steel has soared.
My brother, who lives in New Jersey, blamed the weather for his manhole-cover anecdote. You may think it only happens in the movies, but one day it was raining so hard in Hoboken that the manhole covers began to pop. I think those things weigh more than I do. He just tried not to be on top of one when it blew. For your information, black, sticky, gooey material describes the stuff they put in potholes, as well as what comes out of manholes. His advice: When it rains, don’t ever run out of gas on top of a manhole.
Speaking of running out of gas, I told him that I hadn’t ever run out of gas since I got the kind of car that displays the number of miles you have left on your tank. Well, my brother the scientist says, “I don’t know how accurate those devices are though.”
I replied, “What? You’re in research. Do you need me to tell you how to test that? I know how to figure that out. I have let the little gauge get down to ‘0 miles left’ at least three times, and I haven’t run out of gas yet. So I know mine works.”
He said, “Great, but I can’t be conducting those kinds of experiments. I wouldn’t want to run out of gas on the New Jersey Turnpike or anywhere near it.”
We could all use a little device that says “pothole dead ahead,” though, providing it was accurate. Some of those holes are surely big enough to show up on satellite views and be entered into a GPS system.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Bmw or Batmobile
I used to drive a enormous, low-slung 1969 Pontiac. Just so you know, I didn’t drive it in 1969, nor in 1970. In fact, we didn’t own it until about 1985, and I was still driving it in 1990. To be fair about it, underneath the hood was a well-muscled machine with an engine-size of 428 somethings which is impressive I think. I also think that my boys raced it more than once and usually won.
Whether they won any money or not, I don’t know, but it would not have been hard to hustle up some unsuspecting competition, because judging the car by the part outside the hood, you would think that it could do no more than limp.
One Halloween, even my shiny, clean, brand-new red 1990 BMW convertible (with only 300 and something under the hood) went out in costume. It was disguised as a paint-chipped, crunch-fendered, khaki-colored 1969 Pontiac Grand Prix. We called it the Batmobile—not because it was smart enough to catch penguins, but because it was so scary.
And sound effects! The Batmobile could furnish backgrounds for the House of Usher. The passenger door sounded like the most Gothic of iron gates when it swung on its hinges.
The mufflers thumped like Sasquatch running through the swamp. When the speedometer cable squealed and the hood-liner flapped, we had giant man-eating bats fleeing some underground cavern.
In more ways than one, bats have become an important part of the spoken and written lore of the Butterbean family. And I’m not referring to bats in the belfry this time.
Most of the bat incidents involve the person in the family who lives in mortal fear of bats. Some people probably go through life and never see one. Not this family member. Of course bats are nocturnal animals, and so is she, which accounts for her running into them more often than the rest of us.
When she worked as a maid cleaning cabins at a mountain resort, hers was always the cabin with bats in it. When she went out to meditate under the stars, bats flew around her head.
I told the following story already, but I should have saved it for Halloween. In case you missed it, here it is again. If you didn’t miss it, skip down a couple of paragraphs.
One summer night our phobic daughter wrapped up in a blanket and went outside to take a breath of fresh air (check on the movements of the neighborhood). While sitting on the front porch, she chanced to look upward. There among the rafters, a few feet above her head and hanging upside down, was a good-sized bat blinking at her.
She jumped up with a prolonged shriek, ran for the door, wrenched it open and immediately went into a skid on the waxed parquet flooring. Running in a blanket is a bit clumsy at best. With her racing slicks on, she lost traction, and her body rapidly got ahead of her feet. She didn’t quit bodysurfing until she hit carpet. I am happy to say that she was called “safe” at home plate.
My daughter had one other fear besides bats. That was of the Batmobile. It had nothing to do with it’s name. That part was coincidental, but the thought of driving it horrified her. I don’t think she would have driven herself to the hospital in it. That would have been a little too much like being caught dead in it. (She didn’t believe that it was a Beamer in disguise like I did.)
For one last Halloween (this one), the Batmobile is still sitting in the backyard. It still has a crumpled fender. It’s paint is far beyond chipped and is more like crumbled. It’s hood-liner is dragging down onto the seats. Every square inch of its interior has become a mouse metropolis. It’s like something out of Frankenstein the Car.
I suspect that under its hood, though, is an engine that has withstood the ravages of time and can still take on the competition—if not scare it, at least worry it a bit.
After this Halloween, I have to say good-bye to the Beamer in disguise. Someone is buying it. At least part of it. “Of course,” you are thinking. “some speed-freak wants to put that 420-something engine into a drag racer.”
Wrong. I’m not kidding; someone wants the body.
Whether they won any money or not, I don’t know, but it would not have been hard to hustle up some unsuspecting competition, because judging the car by the part outside the hood, you would think that it could do no more than limp.
One Halloween, even my shiny, clean, brand-new red 1990 BMW convertible (with only 300 and something under the hood) went out in costume. It was disguised as a paint-chipped, crunch-fendered, khaki-colored 1969 Pontiac Grand Prix. We called it the Batmobile—not because it was smart enough to catch penguins, but because it was so scary.
And sound effects! The Batmobile could furnish backgrounds for the House of Usher. The passenger door sounded like the most Gothic of iron gates when it swung on its hinges.
The mufflers thumped like Sasquatch running through the swamp. When the speedometer cable squealed and the hood-liner flapped, we had giant man-eating bats fleeing some underground cavern.
In more ways than one, bats have become an important part of the spoken and written lore of the Butterbean family. And I’m not referring to bats in the belfry this time.
Most of the bat incidents involve the person in the family who lives in mortal fear of bats. Some people probably go through life and never see one. Not this family member. Of course bats are nocturnal animals, and so is she, which accounts for her running into them more often than the rest of us.
When she worked as a maid cleaning cabins at a mountain resort, hers was always the cabin with bats in it. When she went out to meditate under the stars, bats flew around her head.
I told the following story already, but I should have saved it for Halloween. In case you missed it, here it is again. If you didn’t miss it, skip down a couple of paragraphs.
One summer night our phobic daughter wrapped up in a blanket and went outside to take a breath of fresh air (check on the movements of the neighborhood). While sitting on the front porch, she chanced to look upward. There among the rafters, a few feet above her head and hanging upside down, was a good-sized bat blinking at her.
She jumped up with a prolonged shriek, ran for the door, wrenched it open and immediately went into a skid on the waxed parquet flooring. Running in a blanket is a bit clumsy at best. With her racing slicks on, she lost traction, and her body rapidly got ahead of her feet. She didn’t quit bodysurfing until she hit carpet. I am happy to say that she was called “safe” at home plate.
My daughter had one other fear besides bats. That was of the Batmobile. It had nothing to do with it’s name. That part was coincidental, but the thought of driving it horrified her. I don’t think she would have driven herself to the hospital in it. That would have been a little too much like being caught dead in it. (She didn’t believe that it was a Beamer in disguise like I did.)
For one last Halloween (this one), the Batmobile is still sitting in the backyard. It still has a crumpled fender. It’s paint is far beyond chipped and is more like crumbled. It’s hood-liner is dragging down onto the seats. Every square inch of its interior has become a mouse metropolis. It’s like something out of Frankenstein the Car.
I suspect that under its hood, though, is an engine that has withstood the ravages of time and can still take on the competition—if not scare it, at least worry it a bit.
After this Halloween, I have to say good-bye to the Beamer in disguise. Someone is buying it. At least part of it. “Of course,” you are thinking. “some speed-freak wants to put that 420-something engine into a drag racer.”
Wrong. I’m not kidding; someone wants the body.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Bertha's Byword explains things
Murphy’s Law is most often stated this way: “If something can go wrong, it will.” Some people take their Murphy’s seriously. There are studies which have tried to prove whether Murphy’s has basis in fact. Well, duh. This is the way Bertha states Murphy’s. There are at least 50 ways to get something wrong and only one way to get it right. So mathematically it’s a wonder anything ever comes out right. Maybe it doesn’t, and we just don’t know it.
When you stop to think about it, Murphy has just about got life explained. Every law governing or trying to unravel life as we know it pretty much falls into a sub-category of Murphy’s.
I want to propose a variation on Murphy’s. We can call it Bertha’s Byword. If someone already has a patent on it, I didn’t know, okay?
It goes like this: If you had two choices, you will invariably wish you had made the other one.
For example—say you have a Saturday afternoon in the late fall when the chores are done and you have some money. (That in and of itself is a set of circumstances that ought to make you extremely wary.)
You also have some friends going skiing and some more friends going to catch the college football game. Don’t mess it up now. These are two pretty good choices.
So if you choose skiing, the chair lift will be broken (best-case scenario,) and additionally, your team will pass for 300 yards and win by 35 points.
Conversely, if you choose football…the scenario could get really bad here. Just how many ways are there for a football game to go wrong?
Turning to the business arena, I was one of those investors who put money into Putnam Group instead of Wal-Mart. You can already guess how that turned out. If I had done it the other way around, I probably could have averted the global economic crisis.
Which brings me to my other real-life story. My daughter and her husband own a reception center in Logan. It has a really nice audio system which sounds great, but it doesn’t have a piano. After three brides in a row had asked about a piano and someone else had wanted to book the facilities for an upscale piano recital, they started looking for a piano. A friend helped them find just the right instrument. It was a gloss black Steinway baby grand which was going for a good price. The good price was $26,000.
So they thought long and hard about that purchase. (My son-in-law as well lives by Bertha’s Byword. He didn’t patent it though.) Would they really book that many more receptions with the piano in the big room? Their friend assured them that they could rent it out for rehearsals at $150 an hour to piano students from the university. So that helped tip the scale. They bought the piano last week. The piano dealer would arrange the financing.
And so the Baby was delivered. They couldn’t wait for the next walk-through. The bride would probably book on the spot.
The next three brides to walk through the facility glowered when they saw the piano.
“Is that piano going to be there? It takes up too much room. I have 18 people in my line. Is there a place to move it to?” From then on, my daughter who weighs 121 pounds, began trying to stand in front of the piano in an effort to hide it.
Well, just like the masked rider on the white horse, the global economic crisis (which I was a little bit glad I didn’t avert) comes to the rescue. Who would have thought? The piano dealer called this week to say that he would have to come and get the piano because he couldn’t get financing for it.
On a Saturday afternoon when I have a choice, I sometimes have a seat to watch a few downs of football on TV (which is about as close to a college game as I ever get) instead of doing the other thing which probably involves some kind of housework. Every time I sit down, my team fumbles the ball. I never get to watch them win until the reruns, and even then I worry.
When you stop to think about it, Murphy has just about got life explained. Every law governing or trying to unravel life as we know it pretty much falls into a sub-category of Murphy’s.
I want to propose a variation on Murphy’s. We can call it Bertha’s Byword. If someone already has a patent on it, I didn’t know, okay?
It goes like this: If you had two choices, you will invariably wish you had made the other one.
For example—say you have a Saturday afternoon in the late fall when the chores are done and you have some money. (That in and of itself is a set of circumstances that ought to make you extremely wary.)
You also have some friends going skiing and some more friends going to catch the college football game. Don’t mess it up now. These are two pretty good choices.
So if you choose skiing, the chair lift will be broken (best-case scenario,) and additionally, your team will pass for 300 yards and win by 35 points.
Conversely, if you choose football…the scenario could get really bad here. Just how many ways are there for a football game to go wrong?
Turning to the business arena, I was one of those investors who put money into Putnam Group instead of Wal-Mart. You can already guess how that turned out. If I had done it the other way around, I probably could have averted the global economic crisis.
Which brings me to my other real-life story. My daughter and her husband own a reception center in Logan. It has a really nice audio system which sounds great, but it doesn’t have a piano. After three brides in a row had asked about a piano and someone else had wanted to book the facilities for an upscale piano recital, they started looking for a piano. A friend helped them find just the right instrument. It was a gloss black Steinway baby grand which was going for a good price. The good price was $26,000.
So they thought long and hard about that purchase. (My son-in-law as well lives by Bertha’s Byword. He didn’t patent it though.) Would they really book that many more receptions with the piano in the big room? Their friend assured them that they could rent it out for rehearsals at $150 an hour to piano students from the university. So that helped tip the scale. They bought the piano last week. The piano dealer would arrange the financing.
And so the Baby was delivered. They couldn’t wait for the next walk-through. The bride would probably book on the spot.
The next three brides to walk through the facility glowered when they saw the piano.
“Is that piano going to be there? It takes up too much room. I have 18 people in my line. Is there a place to move it to?” From then on, my daughter who weighs 121 pounds, began trying to stand in front of the piano in an effort to hide it.
Well, just like the masked rider on the white horse, the global economic crisis (which I was a little bit glad I didn’t avert) comes to the rescue. Who would have thought? The piano dealer called this week to say that he would have to come and get the piano because he couldn’t get financing for it.
On a Saturday afternoon when I have a choice, I sometimes have a seat to watch a few downs of football on TV (which is about as close to a college game as I ever get) instead of doing the other thing which probably involves some kind of housework. Every time I sit down, my team fumbles the ball. I never get to watch them win until the reruns, and even then I worry.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Double Bubble in the money bin
I guess if I don’t write something about the economic crisis the country is going through I will be the only person anywhere to remain silent on the subject. However, I doubt this will be my only chance. The subject might be relevant for quite a while.
The stock market is “roller-coastering” and who knows when it will settle. Credit has gone somewhere, don’t ask me where. Congress is too busy passing bucks to be passing bills. And the “00s will likely be remembered most for the “great government bail-out.”
All in all, the horizon looks a little bleak. To lighten the mood, and since the whole crisis is about the “flow of cash,” I want to tell you about how my kids learned their first lessons in economics.
The legal tender among our children was chewing gum. If you had it you were rich. If you didn’t you were always trying to get “the government” you give you some.
In our house, the war-to-end-all-wars was fought over chewing gum. We had staff meetings to legislate rules for the proper use and control of the substance.
The components of the modern-day tragedy were two children and one stick of gum. Taking a piece without asking carried penalties usually reserved for horse thieves.
Each child had a well-secured money bin, not for money, but for chewing gum which was traded on the market something like this:
“Will you go upstairs and get my book bag?”
“How much will you pay me?”
“I’ll give you a stick of gum.”
“Only one piece? No way.” (Don’t try to get something for nothing.)
“Then I’ll give you a whole pack on Friday.” (Paying later makes things cost more.)
“Okay, then, I want a ten-pack of strawberry bubble gum.” (Everything has it’s price.)
The traditional form of lending with interest was practiced too.
“Do you have a piece of gum?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I have one?”
“Only if you pay me two back, or three if it takes too long.” (Interest never sleeps.)
Just to show you the regard our kids had for gum, I’ll tell you a story my daughter told me. She said that her best friend had walked all the way to town—about 12 blocks—to buy a pack of gum.
“Ha, ha, ha; she could have walked to the convenience store, but she walked all the way to town. She could have saved four blocks.” (If you work hard enough, you’ll get rich.)
“Yuk, yuk, yuk. That was so dumb.”
I’ll tell you about dumb. Only a gum-greedy capitalist would walk beyond the next room for a stick of the stuff. My daughter didn’t think that it was strange to walk a long way for a pack of gum. She only thought it was strange to walk farther than necessary.
Like the medium of exchange that most people use, gum tends to be unpredictable, and it has a destructive side. (Keep your legal tender in a safe place.)
The similarities end there because it doesn’t slip through your fingers. In fact, once used, it is non-biodegradable and indestructible, and you can’t get rid of it.
If gum gets where it doesn’t belong, you will have to live with it. And so will your children and your children’s children. (Be careful what you want, you may get it.)
Your children will inherit the piece that is stuck to the brass bedpost. Your nephew might end up with the gob that’s under the dining room table, which by the way will be free.
Real money, once you use it just sort of moves around the marketplace and isn’t really used up. This past week would be the exception. But no matter which kind of green you value—neither the most conscientious environmentalist nor the greediest capitalist wants to recycle chewing gum.
The stock market is “roller-coastering” and who knows when it will settle. Credit has gone somewhere, don’t ask me where. Congress is too busy passing bucks to be passing bills. And the “00s will likely be remembered most for the “great government bail-out.”
All in all, the horizon looks a little bleak. To lighten the mood, and since the whole crisis is about the “flow of cash,” I want to tell you about how my kids learned their first lessons in economics.
The legal tender among our children was chewing gum. If you had it you were rich. If you didn’t you were always trying to get “the government” you give you some.
In our house, the war-to-end-all-wars was fought over chewing gum. We had staff meetings to legislate rules for the proper use and control of the substance.
The components of the modern-day tragedy were two children and one stick of gum. Taking a piece without asking carried penalties usually reserved for horse thieves.
Each child had a well-secured money bin, not for money, but for chewing gum which was traded on the market something like this:
“Will you go upstairs and get my book bag?”
“How much will you pay me?”
“I’ll give you a stick of gum.”
“Only one piece? No way.” (Don’t try to get something for nothing.)
“Then I’ll give you a whole pack on Friday.” (Paying later makes things cost more.)
“Okay, then, I want a ten-pack of strawberry bubble gum.” (Everything has it’s price.)
The traditional form of lending with interest was practiced too.
“Do you have a piece of gum?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I have one?”
“Only if you pay me two back, or three if it takes too long.” (Interest never sleeps.)
Just to show you the regard our kids had for gum, I’ll tell you a story my daughter told me. She said that her best friend had walked all the way to town—about 12 blocks—to buy a pack of gum.
“Ha, ha, ha; she could have walked to the convenience store, but she walked all the way to town. She could have saved four blocks.” (If you work hard enough, you’ll get rich.)
“Yuk, yuk, yuk. That was so dumb.”
I’ll tell you about dumb. Only a gum-greedy capitalist would walk beyond the next room for a stick of the stuff. My daughter didn’t think that it was strange to walk a long way for a pack of gum. She only thought it was strange to walk farther than necessary.
Like the medium of exchange that most people use, gum tends to be unpredictable, and it has a destructive side. (Keep your legal tender in a safe place.)
The similarities end there because it doesn’t slip through your fingers. In fact, once used, it is non-biodegradable and indestructible, and you can’t get rid of it.
If gum gets where it doesn’t belong, you will have to live with it. And so will your children and your children’s children. (Be careful what you want, you may get it.)
Your children will inherit the piece that is stuck to the brass bedpost. Your nephew might end up with the gob that’s under the dining room table, which by the way will be free.
Real money, once you use it just sort of moves around the marketplace and isn’t really used up. This past week would be the exception. But no matter which kind of green you value—neither the most conscientious environmentalist nor the greediest capitalist wants to recycle chewing gum.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Think before you ground
Whoever invented “grounding” as a form of behavior modification for children was probably not the mother, the nanny or the primary caregiver, whichever the case may be. In the case of my family, it was me, the mother.
The errant inventor was probably a behaviorist who had no kids and who sat in a soundproof, air-conditioned, child-free, dust-free environment and postulated that if a kid were cooped up in the house with his mother for a week, it would certainly change someone’s behavior. He was right.
I began to change into a really irrational person. After only a day or two I started wondering just who was being punished and tried thinking of ways to get out of the grounding.
After all, I was not the one who messed up. In one instance, short of grounding, I threatened to change the kid’s last name and let him move in with the neighbors. When that didn’t work, I threatened to change mine. It would be easier than changing the kid’s behavior.
When I ran out of threats, I grounded him. A little alarm went off somewhere in the back of my mind. But it didn’t ring soon enough or loud enough.
This kid should have grown up to be an arbitrator. When it came to dealing and compromising, he made Benjamin Franklin look like a rookie.
This is how it goes on Day One:
He shows up after school with a couple of friends in tow and says, “Mom, we are going outside and ride bikes, okay? I made my bed this morning.”
His reference to his voluntary act of pulling up the covers by yanking on one corner and then foul-shooting the pillow towards the head of the bed was all it took for me to temporarily forget that it is Day One. So I say something useful like, “Okay, be careful.”
An hour later I remember what day it is, but by then the kid is riding in the next county.
If I want to maintain a sense of control and an absence of guilt, I have to go find him which takes a while.
Then the arbitration procedures begin.
“I don’t have anything to do. I can’t play games because it is boring to play by myself, and I can’t watch TV because no good shows are on.”
“Go read your book.”
“I can’t. I left it at school”
“Go play with your trucks.”
“That’s no fun.”
“You go find something to do. Being grounded is not supposed to be fun.”
(Time passes—two whole minutes.)
“I’ll just go sit on the back porch and play with the dog.”
“Okay, but you can’t play with any friends.”
He won that point, so he assumes a new stance:
“Mom this isn’t any fun. I’m going to play in the back yard.” (The back yard is full of kids.)
“Do you know what it means to be grounded?”
“It means I can’t play with my friends.”
“Right.”
“I’m not going to play with my friends; I’m going to play with someone else’s friends.”
“What? No.”
“Well, if I can be ungrounded today, I will be grounded for two more days next week.”
“No.”
“Three more days?”
“Absolutely not.”
Now I can’t fit the rest of Day One’s dialogue into a single column, but you get the point. I do remember saying that grounding wasn’t supposed to be any fun. Believe me, it was not. But I never learned.
The errant inventor was probably a behaviorist who had no kids and who sat in a soundproof, air-conditioned, child-free, dust-free environment and postulated that if a kid were cooped up in the house with his mother for a week, it would certainly change someone’s behavior. He was right.
I began to change into a really irrational person. After only a day or two I started wondering just who was being punished and tried thinking of ways to get out of the grounding.
After all, I was not the one who messed up. In one instance, short of grounding, I threatened to change the kid’s last name and let him move in with the neighbors. When that didn’t work, I threatened to change mine. It would be easier than changing the kid’s behavior.
When I ran out of threats, I grounded him. A little alarm went off somewhere in the back of my mind. But it didn’t ring soon enough or loud enough.
This kid should have grown up to be an arbitrator. When it came to dealing and compromising, he made Benjamin Franklin look like a rookie.
This is how it goes on Day One:
He shows up after school with a couple of friends in tow and says, “Mom, we are going outside and ride bikes, okay? I made my bed this morning.”
His reference to his voluntary act of pulling up the covers by yanking on one corner and then foul-shooting the pillow towards the head of the bed was all it took for me to temporarily forget that it is Day One. So I say something useful like, “Okay, be careful.”
An hour later I remember what day it is, but by then the kid is riding in the next county.
If I want to maintain a sense of control and an absence of guilt, I have to go find him which takes a while.
Then the arbitration procedures begin.
“I don’t have anything to do. I can’t play games because it is boring to play by myself, and I can’t watch TV because no good shows are on.”
“Go read your book.”
“I can’t. I left it at school”
“Go play with your trucks.”
“That’s no fun.”
“You go find something to do. Being grounded is not supposed to be fun.”
(Time passes—two whole minutes.)
“I’ll just go sit on the back porch and play with the dog.”
“Okay, but you can’t play with any friends.”
He won that point, so he assumes a new stance:
“Mom this isn’t any fun. I’m going to play in the back yard.” (The back yard is full of kids.)
“Do you know what it means to be grounded?”
“It means I can’t play with my friends.”
“Right.”
“I’m not going to play with my friends; I’m going to play with someone else’s friends.”
“What? No.”
“Well, if I can be ungrounded today, I will be grounded for two more days next week.”
“No.”
“Three more days?”
“Absolutely not.”
Now I can’t fit the rest of Day One’s dialogue into a single column, but you get the point. I do remember saying that grounding wasn’t supposed to be any fun. Believe me, it was not. But I never learned.
Smart old wives' tales
As I was wondering about some of the good old superstitious notions (sometimes called old wives’ tales) that have prevailed through the centuries, and pondering how anyone could ever really believe them, I hit upon this breakthrough:
I don’t know about the rest of the population, but the old wives didn’t really believe such things. It was merely advantageous to promote them.
So here are some old wives’ tales, invented, quoted or perpetuated by “smart” old wives.
Just so you know, I have recited the occasional O.W.T. myself and at this point in my life I have enough years on me to have earned the privilege.
1. It’s bad luck to open an umbrella in the house. What the old wife really had in mind: put that umbrella away unless or until it rains.
2. Handling toads will give you warts. What she means: don’t you bring that creepy thing anywhere near me.
3. Breaking a mirror will bring seven years of bad luck: quit dragging that thing around and put it where it belongs.
4. Never walk under a ladder: let’s put that thing away and not leave it out where the neighbors can see it or I can trip on it.
5. Find a penny, pick it up; all the day you’ll have good luck: maybe someone will gather up all the pennies lying around the house.
6. Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise (I am sure that the really smart old wives change the indirect object from “man” to “kid” and leave out the part about early to rise.): you kids go to bed and give me some peace.
7. Children should be seen and not heard: you kids pipe down; I’m getting a headache.
8. An apple a day keeps the doctor away: somebody eat these things up so I won’t have to make something out of them.
9. Eating dough makes you sick to your stomach: I made this dough and either I am going to eat it, or I am going to bake it.
10. Putting shoes on a table brings bad luck: I really don’t want to eat on this table after your shoes have been there.
Hang in there, wives. I know kids are pretty sophisticated and probably not very superstitious these days, but don’t give up control because of it.
If kids are rejecting these old wives’ tales, you just have to be a step ahead of them. You can probably think of something on the spot. How about “toads could carry West Nile virus” or “these sharp things on umbrellas could poke your eye out”? (Now that’s a new one.)
I actually did a little bit of research while writing this. I hadn’t hit my usual 500 words yet and thought I needed a little more material. So I came across this dandy old wives’ tale (maybe someone can explain it to me.)
“If you have chills up and down your back, it means someone is walking on your grave.” Last time I checked I didn’t have a grave for anyone to walk upon, and if I did, I wouldn’t be having chills; however the person doing the walking might.
It reminds me of the quote by the great baseball player and philosopher, Yogi Berra, who is neither an old wife nor dead, “Always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise they won’t go to yours,” and smart old wife that I am, I’m not sure what he meant.
I don’t know about the rest of the population, but the old wives didn’t really believe such things. It was merely advantageous to promote them.
So here are some old wives’ tales, invented, quoted or perpetuated by “smart” old wives.
Just so you know, I have recited the occasional O.W.T. myself and at this point in my life I have enough years on me to have earned the privilege.
1. It’s bad luck to open an umbrella in the house. What the old wife really had in mind: put that umbrella away unless or until it rains.
2. Handling toads will give you warts. What she means: don’t you bring that creepy thing anywhere near me.
3. Breaking a mirror will bring seven years of bad luck: quit dragging that thing around and put it where it belongs.
4. Never walk under a ladder: let’s put that thing away and not leave it out where the neighbors can see it or I can trip on it.
5. Find a penny, pick it up; all the day you’ll have good luck: maybe someone will gather up all the pennies lying around the house.
6. Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise (I am sure that the really smart old wives change the indirect object from “man” to “kid” and leave out the part about early to rise.): you kids go to bed and give me some peace.
7. Children should be seen and not heard: you kids pipe down; I’m getting a headache.
8. An apple a day keeps the doctor away: somebody eat these things up so I won’t have to make something out of them.
9. Eating dough makes you sick to your stomach: I made this dough and either I am going to eat it, or I am going to bake it.
10. Putting shoes on a table brings bad luck: I really don’t want to eat on this table after your shoes have been there.
Hang in there, wives. I know kids are pretty sophisticated and probably not very superstitious these days, but don’t give up control because of it.
If kids are rejecting these old wives’ tales, you just have to be a step ahead of them. You can probably think of something on the spot. How about “toads could carry West Nile virus” or “these sharp things on umbrellas could poke your eye out”? (Now that’s a new one.)
I actually did a little bit of research while writing this. I hadn’t hit my usual 500 words yet and thought I needed a little more material. So I came across this dandy old wives’ tale (maybe someone can explain it to me.)
“If you have chills up and down your back, it means someone is walking on your grave.” Last time I checked I didn’t have a grave for anyone to walk upon, and if I did, I wouldn’t be having chills; however the person doing the walking might.
It reminds me of the quote by the great baseball player and philosopher, Yogi Berra, who is neither an old wife nor dead, “Always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise they won’t go to yours,” and smart old wife that I am, I’m not sure what he meant.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
I was conned by the best
At the risk of sounding dusty and nostalgic by writing about the old days, I am going to reach back into the dim past to the years when all of my kids were still at home and I was trying to keep the family functioning and the household solvent.
But with my kids, I didn’t have a chance. They were con artists. I don’t know how they got to be con persons. (Back then it was okay to call all of them “con men” regardless of their gender.) They didn’t learn it from me. I can’t even spin about what time we are having dinner. But they could talk a golf pro out of his clubs.
This is how they ran the trip-to-the-water-slide scam:
“Mom, can we go to the water slide today? Okay, hey you guys (loud enough for the neighbors to hear), we’re going to the water slide! Everybody get ready. I get the blue beach towel. We’re leaving at one o’clock. Mom, I’m inviting three friends.”
In case you didn’t notice, this was a one-sided conversation. It took only one set of quotation marks to repeat it. There aren’t any other sets because I wasn’t allowed to participate. I barely collected my senses in time to grab the phone out of the kid’s hand and say, “No you’re not. You’re only inviting two friends.”
Here is how I remember that the get-a-new-toy swindle worked:
“Mom, if I get all of my work done can we go to the store and look at baseball cards? I have my own money.”
“All right then, get your work done, and I’m going to check it.”
The mistake I made was in picking up on the “work” part of the proposal. I felt pretty safe because there was a ninety-to-one chance that he wouldn’t get his work done until after the stores were closed three days later. And the part about his having his own money didn’t escape me either.
But about an hour later I was confronted with a clean room and a deal I made. So we went to the card store, and the kid looked at the cards and picked out a few packs, all the while reminding me that he had brushed his teeth three times the day before, didn’t get any Legos for his birthday the year before, and that he got a couple of “As” on his first-grade report card.
When we got to the checkout counter, after the cards were rung up, the trap was sprung. “That will be $6.79, please.”
“Okay, where’s your money?”
“All my money’s in the bank. You know that, Mom; you made me put it there. Remember?”
(I don’t think, to this day, that I have been paid back.)
Then there was the get-a-ride-home-from-anywhere hijack which went like this:
I got a phone call, usually after my bedtime.
“Mom, can you come and get us?’
“I thought you were getting a ride home with your cousin.”
“He had to go to work.”
“Well, you will have to walk home then.” (We didn’t live twenty miles from town then.)
“Mom, we can’t walk home in the dark. Somebody might kidnap us. What are you going to tell Suzie’s mom if we get kidnapped?”
I know—it was tempting.)
At least I didn’t say that those were the good old days.
Okay, I know what you are thinking—that I deserved what I got. I should have been smarter or at least tougher than the kids. In my own defense, I can say none of them grew up to be actual con men. I think that they are all dumber than their own kids though.
But with my kids, I didn’t have a chance. They were con artists. I don’t know how they got to be con persons. (Back then it was okay to call all of them “con men” regardless of their gender.) They didn’t learn it from me. I can’t even spin about what time we are having dinner. But they could talk a golf pro out of his clubs.
This is how they ran the trip-to-the-water-slide scam:
“Mom, can we go to the water slide today? Okay, hey you guys (loud enough for the neighbors to hear), we’re going to the water slide! Everybody get ready. I get the blue beach towel. We’re leaving at one o’clock. Mom, I’m inviting three friends.”
In case you didn’t notice, this was a one-sided conversation. It took only one set of quotation marks to repeat it. There aren’t any other sets because I wasn’t allowed to participate. I barely collected my senses in time to grab the phone out of the kid’s hand and say, “No you’re not. You’re only inviting two friends.”
Here is how I remember that the get-a-new-toy swindle worked:
“Mom, if I get all of my work done can we go to the store and look at baseball cards? I have my own money.”
“All right then, get your work done, and I’m going to check it.”
The mistake I made was in picking up on the “work” part of the proposal. I felt pretty safe because there was a ninety-to-one chance that he wouldn’t get his work done until after the stores were closed three days later. And the part about his having his own money didn’t escape me either.
But about an hour later I was confronted with a clean room and a deal I made. So we went to the card store, and the kid looked at the cards and picked out a few packs, all the while reminding me that he had brushed his teeth three times the day before, didn’t get any Legos for his birthday the year before, and that he got a couple of “As” on his first-grade report card.
When we got to the checkout counter, after the cards were rung up, the trap was sprung. “That will be $6.79, please.”
“Okay, where’s your money?”
“All my money’s in the bank. You know that, Mom; you made me put it there. Remember?”
(I don’t think, to this day, that I have been paid back.)
Then there was the get-a-ride-home-from-anywhere hijack which went like this:
I got a phone call, usually after my bedtime.
“Mom, can you come and get us?’
“I thought you were getting a ride home with your cousin.”
“He had to go to work.”
“Well, you will have to walk home then.” (We didn’t live twenty miles from town then.)
“Mom, we can’t walk home in the dark. Somebody might kidnap us. What are you going to tell Suzie’s mom if we get kidnapped?”
I know—it was tempting.)
At least I didn’t say that those were the good old days.
Okay, I know what you are thinking—that I deserved what I got. I should have been smarter or at least tougher than the kids. In my own defense, I can say none of them grew up to be actual con men. I think that they are all dumber than their own kids though.
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