One of the tasks that guys are inherently incapable of performing is asking for directions. There seems to be only one reason for this incapacity which is a fear of admitting to being lost. Never mind that they are lost; that is irrelevant.
Why "lost" is such a problem for men is unknown. Even guys don’t know why they can’t admit to being lost.
But the unnatural phenomenon explains why men have such a fascination with Google Earth, GPSs and maps in general. It doesn’t explain why they are occasionally lost, however.
Guys don’t even want a girl who is with them to ask for directions. They will wander in circles. driving both counter- and -clockwise, past the same neighborhood convenience store several times and refuse to stop and let her walk inside to ask for directions.
Maybe they have heard women use that query as a pickup line a few too many times to let their spouse or girlfriend use it for locating an actual destination. I don’t know.
Also, I suspect that sometimes the guy doesn’t actually want to find the spot in question—like when it is the location of Great Aunt Polly’s 80th birthday celebration or the handbag store.
Nevertheless, men tackle the problem of being lost by driving around in circles, while women ask for directions. Of course women will want to know the answer in terms of landmarks, not in terms of GPS coordinates or compass points. Say "over by that Maverik station," not "west on 500 South."
So as I was looking for reasons for the behavior in question, I checked some online references and found the following news story:
BALTIMORE -- Baltimore City police arrested a Virginia couple over the weekend after they asked an officer for directions. WBAL-TV 11 News I-Team reporter David Collins said Joshua Kelly and Llara Brook, of Chantilly, Va., got lost leaving an Orioles game on Saturday. Collins reported a city officer arrested them for trespassing on a public street while they were asking for directions…
Collins said somehow they ended up in the Cherry Hill section of south Baltimore. Hopelessly lost, relief melted away concerns after they spotted a police vehicle.
"I said, ‘Thank goodness, could you please get us to 95?" Kelly said.
"The first thing that she said to us was no -- you just ran that stop sign, pull over," Brook said. "It wasn’t a big deal. We’ll pay the stop sign violation, but can we have directions?"
"What she said was ‘You found your own way in here, you can find your own way out.’" Kelly said.
Collins said the couple spotted another police vehicle and flagged that officer down for directions. But Officer Natalie Preston, a six-year veteran of the force, intervened.
"…the officer screeched up behind us and got out of the car and asked me to step out. I obeyed," Kelly said. "I obeyed everything -- stepped out of the car, put my hands behind my back, and the next thing I know, I was getting arrested for trespassing."
"By this time, I was completely in tears," Brook said. "I said, ‘Ma’am, you know, we just need your help. We are not trying to cause you any trouble. I’m not leaving him here.’ What she did was walk over to my side of the car and said, ‘Ok, we are taking you downtown, too.’"
Okay, alright. Maybe I will have to rethink my strategy for finding places. Maybe the fear men have of asking for directions has a completely sensible underlying rationale: what they really fear is spending a night in jaul, with or without their wives or girlfriends. I can’t fault that.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Cooling heels in the well house
I have a friend who was widowed a year and a half ago. She has always been a pretty capable person. She can sing and dance, act, and play a musical instrument and do several other things that are above and beyond the call of duty. Additionally, she can cook and clean, and pay the bills on time. She is literally a soccer mom and she manages a household of mostly girls.
So since she has started checking a different marital status box on her medical and banking records, she has had to learn to do a little bit different set of chores around the house. Things like hang the Christmas lights, and run the snow blower.
To say the least I am proud of her self-sufficiency. She uses the snow blower to clean the driveway, and the tractor to hang the lights, and not the other way around. In fact she uses that tractor for all kinds of chores. Hey, she could teach tractor classes.
So the other day she went out to change the filter on the pump in her well house. I am impressed. Some of you out there don’t know whether you have a well house, let alone where it is. Well, she does and she has learned to change the filter.
But when her late husband built the well house, he didn’t have his wife’s capabilities in mind.
First, it is a huge stretch of the imagination to call this structure a well house—about the same stretch we use in calling the old outdoor toilet an outhouse. There isn’t much “house” about this well house. I don’t think it even has four walls. It is circular in shape, and I know it doesn’t have a roof.
I haven’t actually seen this well house. Unlike the visible portion of the outhouse, it is about six feet underground. And it can’t be seen from the road, the sidewalk, or the driveway
Well, in order to keep anyone from accidentally falling into the well house, my friend’s husband made a heavy round lid for the top of it. He made it so heavy that no mischievous child would be able up and edge and put a firecracker under it either. (I am picturing an extra heavy-duty manhole cover here.) Needless to say, it is too heavy for my friend, as well as eighty percent of the rest of the world’s population to lift.
And so a neighborhood handyman modified the lid so that with her tractor and a chain, my friend can lift the lid with the tractor’s bucket and then do whatever it is people do in well houses, in this case, change the filter.
So on the day in question, she got one end of the chain on the tractor and the other end on the lid which she raised with the bucket. Then she climbed the ladder down into the well house. She had barely put one foot on the well house floor when she heard the rattle of the chain slipping followed by the clang of the lid falling right into its appointed place.
That was when my friend departed from her normal self-sufficient character and did what women usually do when there is danger near. First she began to scream. Second she began to hyperventilate and scream which caused her heart rate to be a consideration.
Next she thought “My gosh, what am I doing? I have to quit screaming and hyperventilating, I am using up all of the oxygen. I am going to die down here if I don’t scream, but I am going to die sooner if I do.”
I am glad to say that her self-sufficient nature began to reassert itself in a short time and she was beginning to have a rational thought or two by the time help arrived, which was quickly.
But in the event that you think you might react the same way in this situation, assuming that you have an underground well house and you need to change your filter, just understand that her initial primitive reaction was very helpful.
Her screams woke one daughter and the clang of the “trap door” alerted the other. The one with skills of her own flew out the door, and after upending in a snow bank in her hurry, reattached the chain and raised the bucket in time to narrowly avert the occurrence of death by whatever means imaginable.
So since she has started checking a different marital status box on her medical and banking records, she has had to learn to do a little bit different set of chores around the house. Things like hang the Christmas lights, and run the snow blower.
To say the least I am proud of her self-sufficiency. She uses the snow blower to clean the driveway, and the tractor to hang the lights, and not the other way around. In fact she uses that tractor for all kinds of chores. Hey, she could teach tractor classes.
So the other day she went out to change the filter on the pump in her well house. I am impressed. Some of you out there don’t know whether you have a well house, let alone where it is. Well, she does and she has learned to change the filter.
But when her late husband built the well house, he didn’t have his wife’s capabilities in mind.
First, it is a huge stretch of the imagination to call this structure a well house—about the same stretch we use in calling the old outdoor toilet an outhouse. There isn’t much “house” about this well house. I don’t think it even has four walls. It is circular in shape, and I know it doesn’t have a roof.
I haven’t actually seen this well house. Unlike the visible portion of the outhouse, it is about six feet underground. And it can’t be seen from the road, the sidewalk, or the driveway
Well, in order to keep anyone from accidentally falling into the well house, my friend’s husband made a heavy round lid for the top of it. He made it so heavy that no mischievous child would be able up and edge and put a firecracker under it either. (I am picturing an extra heavy-duty manhole cover here.) Needless to say, it is too heavy for my friend, as well as eighty percent of the rest of the world’s population to lift.
And so a neighborhood handyman modified the lid so that with her tractor and a chain, my friend can lift the lid with the tractor’s bucket and then do whatever it is people do in well houses, in this case, change the filter.
So on the day in question, she got one end of the chain on the tractor and the other end on the lid which she raised with the bucket. Then she climbed the ladder down into the well house. She had barely put one foot on the well house floor when she heard the rattle of the chain slipping followed by the clang of the lid falling right into its appointed place.
That was when my friend departed from her normal self-sufficient character and did what women usually do when there is danger near. First she began to scream. Second she began to hyperventilate and scream which caused her heart rate to be a consideration.
Next she thought “My gosh, what am I doing? I have to quit screaming and hyperventilating, I am using up all of the oxygen. I am going to die down here if I don’t scream, but I am going to die sooner if I do.”
I am glad to say that her self-sufficient nature began to reassert itself in a short time and she was beginning to have a rational thought or two by the time help arrived, which was quickly.
But in the event that you think you might react the same way in this situation, assuming that you have an underground well house and you need to change your filter, just understand that her initial primitive reaction was very helpful.
Her screams woke one daughter and the clang of the “trap door” alerted the other. The one with skills of her own flew out the door, and after upending in a snow bank in her hurry, reattached the chain and raised the bucket in time to narrowly avert the occurrence of death by whatever means imaginable.
Show business and the Butterbeans
As far back as I am able to learn from Butterbean family history, there has never been anyone who was able to make a career of being on stage.
There might have been a few musicians in the amateur sense. Maybe a couple of us could be allowed on the dance floor if the crowd was not too particular. But for the most part, the world is better off if we stay clear away from stages.
No Butterbean has ever been known to break a leg while performing on stage. In fact, those times when we or our offspring got too close to one usually resulted in disasters involving other anatomical members.
Just last week my grandson came home from cub scouts and announced that he had a pretty good time at den meeting because he didn’t get hit in the face with the dodge ball ball. However, he reported that he fell off the stage. Of course the stage would not be an ideal place to hold a dodge ball sporting event, especially if Butterbean kinfolk were involved.
Apparently, the reason that the dodge-ball athlete didn’t sustain a concussion was that he didn’t plunge clear to the floor in one continuous motion. Initially he fell onto the table and from that level he continued his descent to the floor. The table must have kept him from joining the company of family players who have made the trip to the ER for X-rays after making one from the stage to the floor.
One granddaughter took the legendary flying leap off the stage thinking that I had morphed from a graceless grandmother into the ballerina’s opposite—the dancer who catches her before she hits the floor. Only I didn’t. I was holding her shoes. She flew clear over the top of me, maintaining an adequate swan-dive position all the way to the floor. I have suffered from stage fright ever since.
Maybe she should try moving from the stage to the field, performing future high-jumping feats with the benefit of a sand pit to catch her fall.
Another grandson simply tried to overcome the effects of gravity and calmly stepped off the edge of the stage. He probably had watched way too many cartoons during the period of his life that is between taking first steps and developing depth awareness.
Be that as it may though, there is one little family member who has something that might equate to stage presence. He can impersonate the whole star Wars cast, do whole scenes from Harry Potter, imitate Old Man Jenkins with precision, and conscript the graceless grandma into sewing Indiana Jones costumes.
And, he seems to have the knack for holding a stage. In other words, so far he has been able to negotiate a left entrance and a right exit without falling off the platform or otherwise injuring himself while on it.
I think he has a little trouble with his lines from time to time though. During a recent family birthday party, he was doing an impromptu song-and-dance routine that finished with a sprint and a slide toward stage front while singing at the top of his lungs, “C-A-K-E spells snack.”
Being as he was able to hold the stage, we all applauded.
There might have been a few musicians in the amateur sense. Maybe a couple of us could be allowed on the dance floor if the crowd was not too particular. But for the most part, the world is better off if we stay clear away from stages.
No Butterbean has ever been known to break a leg while performing on stage. In fact, those times when we or our offspring got too close to one usually resulted in disasters involving other anatomical members.
Just last week my grandson came home from cub scouts and announced that he had a pretty good time at den meeting because he didn’t get hit in the face with the dodge ball ball. However, he reported that he fell off the stage. Of course the stage would not be an ideal place to hold a dodge ball sporting event, especially if Butterbean kinfolk were involved.
Apparently, the reason that the dodge-ball athlete didn’t sustain a concussion was that he didn’t plunge clear to the floor in one continuous motion. Initially he fell onto the table and from that level he continued his descent to the floor. The table must have kept him from joining the company of family players who have made the trip to the ER for X-rays after making one from the stage to the floor.
One granddaughter took the legendary flying leap off the stage thinking that I had morphed from a graceless grandmother into the ballerina’s opposite—the dancer who catches her before she hits the floor. Only I didn’t. I was holding her shoes. She flew clear over the top of me, maintaining an adequate swan-dive position all the way to the floor. I have suffered from stage fright ever since.
Maybe she should try moving from the stage to the field, performing future high-jumping feats with the benefit of a sand pit to catch her fall.
Another grandson simply tried to overcome the effects of gravity and calmly stepped off the edge of the stage. He probably had watched way too many cartoons during the period of his life that is between taking first steps and developing depth awareness.
Be that as it may though, there is one little family member who has something that might equate to stage presence. He can impersonate the whole star Wars cast, do whole scenes from Harry Potter, imitate Old Man Jenkins with precision, and conscript the graceless grandma into sewing Indiana Jones costumes.
And, he seems to have the knack for holding a stage. In other words, so far he has been able to negotiate a left entrance and a right exit without falling off the platform or otherwise injuring himself while on it.
I think he has a little trouble with his lines from time to time though. During a recent family birthday party, he was doing an impromptu song-and-dance routine that finished with a sprint and a slide toward stage front while singing at the top of his lungs, “C-A-K-E spells snack.”
Being as he was able to hold the stage, we all applauded.
The Butterbeans’ winter weekend
Since everyone who has any kind of media outlet whatsoever is busy reviewing the past year or decade or whatever, I thought I would dredge up an old story and review it. Actually this audience hasn’t read it before, so it is older than a year by a bit. It does hail from sometime in the last century; I have forgotten when.
Here it is just as I remember it:
In case you haven’t realized it by now, Butterbean is synonymous with Griswold—you know, those people in European Vacation, Christmas Vacation and various other screen idiocies.
I can say that and get away with it because it is impossible for the Butterbeans to look down their noses at the Griswolds.
So for your amusement, I thought I would show you a few scenes from the The Butterbeans’ Winter Weekend. (If anyone is interested, I will sign for the movie rights.)
The Winter Weekend is a road trip made by the Butterbeans, or part of them, in the legendary VW Bus, alternately called The Pop Can, The Tylenol, The Peace Wagon and as of late, The Ice Box.
(They announced in church last month that someone with a white VW bus had left their headlights on. In unison, everyone in the congregation turned and looked at us. Would we leave our headlights on? Well okay, but our bus was at home in the driveway with a burned up alternator.)
The bus has two problems. Well, okay again, it has more than that, but these two are the most obvious during a mountain road trip made in January.
One is that you will never get a speeding ticket in it. (I have learned to appreciate problems like that.) In fact, we have been pulled over for obstructing traffic. The good news is that they don’t ticket you for driving too slowly if you can’t help it.
The other problem with the bus is that you will never be warm in it in winter. In fact, without taking precautionary measures, you could become an incident.
The first time we stopped for gas and hot chocolate which was after a long time and a few miles, I was embarrassed to get out of the bus dressed in boots, thermals, polar fleece, gloves, ear warmers and a sleeping bag. I relaxed a little when I noticed another vehicle full of skiers who were dressed a little like us.
Hey we look like we are going skiing! Let’s all talk loudly about lifts, powder, Park City, etc. Before I realized that we could be confused with skiers, I was afraid that we might be identified as transient, homeless or both.
The Bus does have a heater. At least it has levers that you switch to the “on” position, and even one down by your feet that you pull up to turn on the defrosters. I think that the problem is that the engine is in the back of the bus and the heater vents are in the front.
By the time the warm air reaches the outlets, it is no longer warm. But then, it is several degrees centigrade warmer than it is when it reaches the back of the bus again. The air that blows around back there is positively Arctic.
I had the best seat in the house. It was my job to plug up the wind tunnel—the vortex between the two front seats on the x-axis, and between the front and the back of the bus on the y-axis. It felt a little bit like sitting in front of a campfire. The front of me was a little warmer than the back.
The rest of the occupants crawled into sleeping bags and went to sleep, which didn’t really represent comfort but blessed oblivion. When I looked back to check on them, I could count the still-breathing; it looked like a stove full of teakettles back there.
The other option for keeping warm is was to sit very close to the heater vents. When five of us were sitting in two bucket seats, I began to feel less like a skier and more like the dispossessed again.
There were a couple of upsides to the trip. I am proud to say that while going uphill, we passed one other vehicle on our trip. (We all cheered.) It was a three-trailer tractor rig possibly loaded with shotgun shells. Going downhill, we passed two.
At one point we asked the kids to get out and push, but they said it was too cold.
Here it is just as I remember it:
In case you haven’t realized it by now, Butterbean is synonymous with Griswold—you know, those people in European Vacation, Christmas Vacation and various other screen idiocies.
I can say that and get away with it because it is impossible for the Butterbeans to look down their noses at the Griswolds.
So for your amusement, I thought I would show you a few scenes from the The Butterbeans’ Winter Weekend. (If anyone is interested, I will sign for the movie rights.)
The Winter Weekend is a road trip made by the Butterbeans, or part of them, in the legendary VW Bus, alternately called The Pop Can, The Tylenol, The Peace Wagon and as of late, The Ice Box.
(They announced in church last month that someone with a white VW bus had left their headlights on. In unison, everyone in the congregation turned and looked at us. Would we leave our headlights on? Well okay, but our bus was at home in the driveway with a burned up alternator.)
The bus has two problems. Well, okay again, it has more than that, but these two are the most obvious during a mountain road trip made in January.
One is that you will never get a speeding ticket in it. (I have learned to appreciate problems like that.) In fact, we have been pulled over for obstructing traffic. The good news is that they don’t ticket you for driving too slowly if you can’t help it.
The other problem with the bus is that you will never be warm in it in winter. In fact, without taking precautionary measures, you could become an incident.
The first time we stopped for gas and hot chocolate which was after a long time and a few miles, I was embarrassed to get out of the bus dressed in boots, thermals, polar fleece, gloves, ear warmers and a sleeping bag. I relaxed a little when I noticed another vehicle full of skiers who were dressed a little like us.
Hey we look like we are going skiing! Let’s all talk loudly about lifts, powder, Park City, etc. Before I realized that we could be confused with skiers, I was afraid that we might be identified as transient, homeless or both.
The Bus does have a heater. At least it has levers that you switch to the “on” position, and even one down by your feet that you pull up to turn on the defrosters. I think that the problem is that the engine is in the back of the bus and the heater vents are in the front.
By the time the warm air reaches the outlets, it is no longer warm. But then, it is several degrees centigrade warmer than it is when it reaches the back of the bus again. The air that blows around back there is positively Arctic.
I had the best seat in the house. It was my job to plug up the wind tunnel—the vortex between the two front seats on the x-axis, and between the front and the back of the bus on the y-axis. It felt a little bit like sitting in front of a campfire. The front of me was a little warmer than the back.
The rest of the occupants crawled into sleeping bags and went to sleep, which didn’t really represent comfort but blessed oblivion. When I looked back to check on them, I could count the still-breathing; it looked like a stove full of teakettles back there.
The other option for keeping warm is was to sit very close to the heater vents. When five of us were sitting in two bucket seats, I began to feel less like a skier and more like the dispossessed again.
There were a couple of upsides to the trip. I am proud to say that while going uphill, we passed one other vehicle on our trip. (We all cheered.) It was a three-trailer tractor rig possibly loaded with shotgun shells. Going downhill, we passed two.
At one point we asked the kids to get out and push, but they said it was too cold.
Phone number
I can’t tell you how handicapped I have been this week. The problem is that I jammed my finger while playing my sport. Not the Wii or the internet game, or watching a sport on television, but an actual physical exercise sport with a real ball with real air in it that I play with sometimes.
It, the ball, felt real when it bounced off the end of the large finger of my right hand. I have a real bruise, a real ache and a real splint. Too bad it wasn’t a virtual sprain—“you have been sidelined with an injury. Try again.”
Unfortunately it is all of my virtual (electronic) devices that I am unable to use very well with an injury to my finger. Like any of those keyboard, button or touch devices that require the use of the fingertips to operate them.
I am not at the moment dictating this article to someone. There isn’t anyone. Mr. B. can’t type with or without a keyboard and/or fingertips. He can text a little better than I can, though, since he is all thumbs. When typing, however, he is all index fingers.
Yes, I know I have nine other fingers, but the ones on my left hand are practically useless. Their main purpose it to help the other hand perform actions such as holding a sandwich, putting on a sock, or contributing to body balance—activities which don’t require a high degree of dexterity and so can be performed by a set of digits that are only loosely connected to a brain.
So that leaves me four other useful fingers, and one of those is a thumb. Not a whole lot left to work with.
For want of a finger, these are some of the activities that have been considerably curtailed during the past few days.
1.Shopping. The internet has more stores than Vernal has, however you need a keyboard or a smart phone to access them, both of which require a set of fingers to help run it . I could accidentally buy twelve of something with a right hand like this.
2.Sleeping. My number-one sleep aid is my Ipod. By the time I try to navigate to the right tune or chapter from a prone position and with earbuds cords wrapped around my neck, I have rejammed the finger and am fully awake.
3.Working. Like a lot of you, I work at the computer where I get paid for performing tasks that require me to interface with that computer via something besides my just my index fingers.
4.Communicating. I have a hard time dialing the right phone number with a set of fully functioning fingers and thumbs.
5.Thinking. I have been accused of having a brain that resides in other body parts than my head. I suppose that may be true, but until this week I thought those other parts were not my finger. I have had to reevaluate that assumptions however since my injury induced a condition of being unable to think at all. ll.
6.Procuring food and water and eating and drinking it are more difficult.
7.Driving.
By now, you have either determined that I am a whiner of monumental proportions, or that I am truly handicapped by just one more little disadvantage I promise, it doesn’t take much.
At this point, my son’s new Droid phone is looking pretty useful. I watched him speak the name of a restaurant chain into it and up came a list of choices. You may call this store, find the nearest location…
I am sorry, Yellow Pages, but we are on the verge of not even having to have our fingers do the walking.
It, the ball, felt real when it bounced off the end of the large finger of my right hand. I have a real bruise, a real ache and a real splint. Too bad it wasn’t a virtual sprain—“you have been sidelined with an injury. Try again.”
Unfortunately it is all of my virtual (electronic) devices that I am unable to use very well with an injury to my finger. Like any of those keyboard, button or touch devices that require the use of the fingertips to operate them.
I am not at the moment dictating this article to someone. There isn’t anyone. Mr. B. can’t type with or without a keyboard and/or fingertips. He can text a little better than I can, though, since he is all thumbs. When typing, however, he is all index fingers.
Yes, I know I have nine other fingers, but the ones on my left hand are practically useless. Their main purpose it to help the other hand perform actions such as holding a sandwich, putting on a sock, or contributing to body balance—activities which don’t require a high degree of dexterity and so can be performed by a set of digits that are only loosely connected to a brain.
So that leaves me four other useful fingers, and one of those is a thumb. Not a whole lot left to work with.
For want of a finger, these are some of the activities that have been considerably curtailed during the past few days.
1.Shopping. The internet has more stores than Vernal has, however you need a keyboard or a smart phone to access them, both of which require a set of fingers to help run it . I could accidentally buy twelve of something with a right hand like this.
2.Sleeping. My number-one sleep aid is my Ipod. By the time I try to navigate to the right tune or chapter from a prone position and with earbuds cords wrapped around my neck, I have rejammed the finger and am fully awake.
3.Working. Like a lot of you, I work at the computer where I get paid for performing tasks that require me to interface with that computer via something besides my just my index fingers.
4.Communicating. I have a hard time dialing the right phone number with a set of fully functioning fingers and thumbs.
5.Thinking. I have been accused of having a brain that resides in other body parts than my head. I suppose that may be true, but until this week I thought those other parts were not my finger. I have had to reevaluate that assumptions however since my injury induced a condition of being unable to think at all. ll.
6.Procuring food and water and eating and drinking it are more difficult.
7.Driving.
By now, you have either determined that I am a whiner of monumental proportions, or that I am truly handicapped by just one more little disadvantage I promise, it doesn’t take much.
At this point, my son’s new Droid phone is looking pretty useful. I watched him speak the name of a restaurant chain into it and up came a list of choices. You may call this store, find the nearest location…
I am sorry, Yellow Pages, but we are on the verge of not even having to have our fingers do the walking.
Time out! What year is it?
I read once that an optimist is someone who stays up until midnight to see the new year in. A pessimist, on the other hand, stays up to make sure the old year leaves. That sounds about right. Think of the people you know. You can probably peg most of them right off.
There may be a few people crossing the aisles this year though. “Optimistic” might have to be reserved for those who think they will not be consigning most of their assets to someone else this year.
Whoever made that observation, however, forgot to categorize the rest of us—the ones who go to bed at 10 p.m. as usual. Something like the nonplayers or the bed-is-better-yet set.
I’m usually one of those people. I might have a drink of sparkling apple juice before retiring, but watching the ball fall down on Time Square is overrated. By the way, I do not get the significance of dropping a ball to bring in the new year. If anyone does, let me know. I guess they can’t drop a baby, but why drop anything?
I pay a price for not staying up to witness the last calendar page of the old year come off the wall though. I apparently need that and any other assistance I can get to help my mind register the fact that we have crossed the great time divide and that it is time to switch years..
Getting my time-warped brain to leave the old year behind is a struggle. Not only will I write “2009” on every date line I fill out for at least six months, but I will write “December” or “12” on everything for at least two weeks. Getting the month switched over is easier. It was only December for a month, and I only used “December” for half of it anyway.
I will spend a while longer trying to figure out “2010.” When a person makes a mistake in writing numbers, he can sometimes save all by altering them—a three to an eight, a one to a seven or a four, maybe even a five to an eight, but it is pretty difficult to change “09” to “10.” You end up with hieroglyphics.
Last year I could start out writing “08” on my check, and if I came to before I got the second digit written or even if it were half done, it could still be changed into a respectable “09.”
But this January, I will have to wake up before I start writing or I will be stuck with something like calligraphy for “dum-dum” instead of “2010.” The term “Chinese New Year” could take on a whole new meaning.
And typing the new year, “10” instead of” 09”, will probably be quite a stumbler. I was typing “09” for a whole year, too (well, not strictly.) Typing the new year is going to require using both hands instead of one. That will take some getting used to and will probably reduce the wpm considerably, especially if I have to think what year it is and then think how to type it right after I think what month it is. Three thoughts in a row without a pause could constitute a total breakdown
Maybe this New Year’s Eve I should try to wait up, bang a few pans, tear off the calendar page, and make sure the old year leaves and takes all of his symbols with him.
There may be a few people crossing the aisles this year though. “Optimistic” might have to be reserved for those who think they will not be consigning most of their assets to someone else this year.
Whoever made that observation, however, forgot to categorize the rest of us—the ones who go to bed at 10 p.m. as usual. Something like the nonplayers or the bed-is-better-yet set.
I’m usually one of those people. I might have a drink of sparkling apple juice before retiring, but watching the ball fall down on Time Square is overrated. By the way, I do not get the significance of dropping a ball to bring in the new year. If anyone does, let me know. I guess they can’t drop a baby, but why drop anything?
I pay a price for not staying up to witness the last calendar page of the old year come off the wall though. I apparently need that and any other assistance I can get to help my mind register the fact that we have crossed the great time divide and that it is time to switch years..
Getting my time-warped brain to leave the old year behind is a struggle. Not only will I write “2009” on every date line I fill out for at least six months, but I will write “December” or “12” on everything for at least two weeks. Getting the month switched over is easier. It was only December for a month, and I only used “December” for half of it anyway.
I will spend a while longer trying to figure out “2010.” When a person makes a mistake in writing numbers, he can sometimes save all by altering them—a three to an eight, a one to a seven or a four, maybe even a five to an eight, but it is pretty difficult to change “09” to “10.” You end up with hieroglyphics.
Last year I could start out writing “08” on my check, and if I came to before I got the second digit written or even if it were half done, it could still be changed into a respectable “09.”
But this January, I will have to wake up before I start writing or I will be stuck with something like calligraphy for “dum-dum” instead of “2010.” The term “Chinese New Year” could take on a whole new meaning.
And typing the new year, “10” instead of” 09”, will probably be quite a stumbler. I was typing “09” for a whole year, too (well, not strictly.) Typing the new year is going to require using both hands instead of one. That will take some getting used to and will probably reduce the wpm considerably, especially if I have to think what year it is and then think how to type it right after I think what month it is. Three thoughts in a row without a pause could constitute a total breakdown
Maybe this New Year’s Eve I should try to wait up, bang a few pans, tear off the calendar page, and make sure the old year leaves and takes all of his symbols with him.
What’s wrong with plastic gifting?
Just so you know, I think that the gift card, when used to replace real Christmas gifts, is an abomination. Well, maybe not quite as bad as that, but close. I have been known to give them myself when I was pressured into it by the men in my life or by the constraints of time, but I didn’t like it.
Mainly, gift cards are boring. I don’t care if they come in a singing card holder, there is only one thing you can do with a gift card after you listen to it, and that is look at it. I am of the opinion that gifts, especially when they are given to children and just about everyone else should be able to be used, worn, played, driven, ridden, of played with the instant they are opened.
If it is new clothes, let’s put them on all at once. If it’s a new bike or four-wheeler, let’s ride it now. If it s a drum set, start drumming. What are we saving these games for? Christmas is supposed to be exciting and fun and have absolutely nothing to do with delayed gratification.
I am simply and mortally afraid that someone I am related to will be having a Christmas like this when he calls his friends on Christmas day:
“Hey James. What are you doing?”
“I just came in from riding my new bike in the snow. It is so awesome. It has front brakes and ten gears. What are you doing?
“Well, I am looking at my gift cards right now. I have taken them out of the box and put them back in a few times, but that’s about it. I think that next I will organize them from most money to least, and then I suppose I could do the opposite. After that I will arrange them by color. That should take a little while.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I could let you ride my bike if you are careful with it. Maybe we could clothespin your cards to the spokes.”
Well, at least they could be generating some instant fun.
So the whole gift-giving process has degenerated into doing the easiest possible thing—ordering a gift card online and having it drop-shipped to the recipient. Couldn’t be more efficient or more impersonal.
So true story: my son called last week and told us to watch for our Christmas gift cards. They were coming by mail from the internet clearing house. One for me and one for Mr. B., each for $50. Well, happily, all in the same phone call we were able to instruct him to watch for his gift cards, one for him and one for his wife, each in the amount of $50. Our sets of cards will be singing to each other as they pass in the mail.
Now what is the point of that? We should just have a conference call with the whole family and decide on what amount we will all want to keep in our bank accounts. Then we could all sing a couple of verses of “Jingle Bells” and call it Christmas.
There is one more reason to choose goods over gift cards. With the value of the dollar deteriorating at its present rate, your gift card will likely be worth a good deal less by the time you are able to get it spent.
.
Mainly, gift cards are boring. I don’t care if they come in a singing card holder, there is only one thing you can do with a gift card after you listen to it, and that is look at it. I am of the opinion that gifts, especially when they are given to children and just about everyone else should be able to be used, worn, played, driven, ridden, of played with the instant they are opened.
If it is new clothes, let’s put them on all at once. If it’s a new bike or four-wheeler, let’s ride it now. If it s a drum set, start drumming. What are we saving these games for? Christmas is supposed to be exciting and fun and have absolutely nothing to do with delayed gratification.
I am simply and mortally afraid that someone I am related to will be having a Christmas like this when he calls his friends on Christmas day:
“Hey James. What are you doing?”
“I just came in from riding my new bike in the snow. It is so awesome. It has front brakes and ten gears. What are you doing?
“Well, I am looking at my gift cards right now. I have taken them out of the box and put them back in a few times, but that’s about it. I think that next I will organize them from most money to least, and then I suppose I could do the opposite. After that I will arrange them by color. That should take a little while.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I could let you ride my bike if you are careful with it. Maybe we could clothespin your cards to the spokes.”
Well, at least they could be generating some instant fun.
So the whole gift-giving process has degenerated into doing the easiest possible thing—ordering a gift card online and having it drop-shipped to the recipient. Couldn’t be more efficient or more impersonal.
So true story: my son called last week and told us to watch for our Christmas gift cards. They were coming by mail from the internet clearing house. One for me and one for Mr. B., each for $50. Well, happily, all in the same phone call we were able to instruct him to watch for his gift cards, one for him and one for his wife, each in the amount of $50. Our sets of cards will be singing to each other as they pass in the mail.
Now what is the point of that? We should just have a conference call with the whole family and decide on what amount we will all want to keep in our bank accounts. Then we could all sing a couple of verses of “Jingle Bells” and call it Christmas.
There is one more reason to choose goods over gift cards. With the value of the dollar deteriorating at its present rate, your gift card will likely be worth a good deal less by the time you are able to get it spent.
.
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