Christmas 2009
Dear Family and Friends,
Well, it’s that time of year again and I know you all look forward to my yearly Christmas letter. And it is a Christmas letter. Hear that? Christmas! That holiday this and that crap is going a little too far to suit me.
Like always, I’ll start with the good news.
Now I don’t mean to brag, but our little grandson Everett is doing great in school this year. Even the teacher’s amazed at his work. These are her exact words. “Looks like Ev will be out of junior high before he’s driving.” We couldn’t be prouder.
His older sister Mary Lula is going great guns too. She started at the local college this past fall. I can hardly believe she’s almost grown up. Mary Lula’s right at home in the cafeteria, and her boss is impressed how she’s taken to working that deep fryer. He drove her home the other night and asked how much she’d like to be head cashier. Our Mary Lula has a bright future ahead of her.
The best news of all is that Marvin, Jr. is coming home. Lord, it’s been so hard this past year. Marvin, Sr. and I worried ourselves sick over that boy. Not a day went by when I didn’t wake up wondering if he was okay. That’s if I slept at all. I lost many a night’s sleep fretting over him. That state budget shortage was a lifesaver. The prison’s budget got cut and they issued some early paroles. Marvin, Jr. was one of the lucky ones. Plus, he had no prior convictions before that convenient store misunderstanding. I know all you Slangby family members will be happy to see him at the reunion on New Year’s Day.
And that’s not all! Albert will be there too. Can you believe it? Both my boys at the reunion! I am a blessed woman. On the 30th that ankle bracelet comes off, so he can cross the state line to Ethel’s place this year. Albert’s real sensitive about his leg. I told him the hair will grow back. But please don’t mention it to him. His medication seems to be working, but I’d rather not push our luck.
Marvin and I are getting a new son-in-law. We’re happy to report our Karen Sue has herself a new beau. She met this really nice guy doing community service. It was love at first sight. They’re getting married in the park where they met. Karen Sue and Johnny Ray are asking that the guests don’t wear stripes. The invitation will remind you all. I don’t think they’ll serve any alcohol, but I’m sure they’ll mention that too.
Marvin, Sr. and I had our own little miracle. Now, don’t you go thinking we’re having a baby! We’re too old for that. No, Marvin and I called in sick last Monday. We needed a mental health day, like they say. Marvin and I took off for the boats and hit it big. How big? Well, I’ll be wearing my new genuine imitation mink to the party and Marvin will be getting that much needed hemorrhoid surgery now that he’s got the co-pay.
Remember how bad Marvin, Sr. felt about not knowing where his hunting buddy Hubert had taken off to? Marvin didn’t know whether Hubert was dead or alive. They’d lost contact years and years ago. Like Hubert walked into the forest and never came out. We were watching that show American’s Most Wanted and there Hubert was, the top story. Marvin, Sr. is so relieved to know he’s alive and kicking. Looked like he’d put on a little weight.
Not everything has been roses and lollipops though. Like every family, we’ve had our down times. That reminds me; don’t you go buying anything for Marvin III. That paternity test didn’t turn out so good.
The police around here are cracking down on adult entertainment, so Sissy’s out of work this Christmas. It’ll be rough on those five youngins of hers. They’re growing like weeds and no two have the same body build so it makes handing down clothes real hard. If you know anyone needing some holiday entertainment, give our Sissy a call.
Thank you all for asking about my mother. With helping Sissy and her kids out, we don’t have enough money left to pay for Grandma’s elder care every day. We had to come up with something to do with her while we work. The airport’s real busy on Mondays and Fridays, so we drop her off at airport security in the morning and most times she’s still in line when we get back. We feel good knowing she’s in a safe place.
That’s all the news from the Marvin Slangby family. We’ll see you all at the reunion.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
Elvira Slangby
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Christmas Questions
I’ve read the story of the first Christmas at least a zillion times. I know it’s not proper to critique the writing style of the apostles, but I dare say in this instance it’s sketchy at best.
It’s probably a guy thing. Women are by nature more interested in birthing tales, while men are more likely to be intrigued by how many miles to the bale of hay Joseph’s donkey got. Or what was going on at the Coliseum.
Had a woman written the account, we’d know more of the inside story. To make my point about men and their lack of attention to detail, I submit the following questions that given the opportunity any woman would have answered.
Was Mary’s mother upset she didn’t marry a guy with roots in Galilee? And when Caesar Augustus ordered the census, did she say I told you so?
Just curious. What’s it like riding a donkey when you’re nine months pregnant?
Just how many potholes were there on that road from Nazareth to Bethlehem?
How many rest stops did they make? Were the facilities clean? Was there paper in the Ladies' Room? How often did Joseph ask if Mary could hold it for just another mile or so?
When Joseph told her there were no rooms in Bethlehem, did it ever cross Mary’s mind he might just be trying to save a few bucks?
How much did Jesus weigh and how large was his head? And, Ouch! Did he come with the halo?
Did those angels and their trumpets keep baby Jesus awake all night? Was Mary ticked those shepherds dropped by unannounced?
Did the Wise Men hang around until Mary fed them?
I understand the gold, but whatever did Mary do with that frankincense and myrrh?
Did Mary and Joseph have Christmas every year? Or did Joseph’s family take a turn?
It’s probably a guy thing. Women are by nature more interested in birthing tales, while men are more likely to be intrigued by how many miles to the bale of hay Joseph’s donkey got. Or what was going on at the Coliseum.
Had a woman written the account, we’d know more of the inside story. To make my point about men and their lack of attention to detail, I submit the following questions that given the opportunity any woman would have answered.
Was Mary’s mother upset she didn’t marry a guy with roots in Galilee? And when Caesar Augustus ordered the census, did she say I told you so?
Just curious. What’s it like riding a donkey when you’re nine months pregnant?
Just how many potholes were there on that road from Nazareth to Bethlehem?
How many rest stops did they make? Were the facilities clean? Was there paper in the Ladies' Room? How often did Joseph ask if Mary could hold it for just another mile or so?
When Joseph told her there were no rooms in Bethlehem, did it ever cross Mary’s mind he might just be trying to save a few bucks?
How much did Jesus weigh and how large was his head? And, Ouch! Did he come with the halo?
Did those angels and their trumpets keep baby Jesus awake all night? Was Mary ticked those shepherds dropped by unannounced?
Did the Wise Men hang around until Mary fed them?
I understand the gold, but whatever did Mary do with that frankincense and myrrh?
Did Mary and Joseph have Christmas every year? Or did Joseph’s family take a turn?
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Tis the season
Black Friday has come and gone.
As has Cyber Monday.
I have shopped.
Until I've dropped
A bundle and a half.
Now I’m singing
The IOU Christmas Blues
Dashing through WalMart
With a three-wheeled shopping cart
Midst the checkout throngs
I charge with all my heart.
Bells on registers ring
Making shoppers crass
Oh what fun it is to be
In debt up to my…credit limit.
Master Card! Visa, too!
Discover’s the way to buy.
Oh, what fun it is to pay
For Christmas in July.
As has Cyber Monday.
I have shopped.
Until I've dropped
A bundle and a half.
Now I’m singing
The IOU Christmas Blues
Dashing through WalMart
With a three-wheeled shopping cart
Midst the checkout throngs
I charge with all my heart.
Bells on registers ring
Making shoppers crass
Oh what fun it is to be
In debt up to my…credit limit.
Master Card! Visa, too!
Discover’s the way to buy.
Oh, what fun it is to pay
For Christmas in July.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Thanksgiving - The Real Deal
Thanksgiving is coming and I’m concerned that my grandchildren are not aware of the true meaning of holiday. When I picked them up from school, I was greatly relieved when they bounced into my car wearing Pilgrim hats. They even had made turkeys in the shape of their own precious hands that I could display on my refrigerator.
On our drive home, they talked about the books their teachers read to them about the first Thanksgiving. Having had some time for the stories to perk in their little kindergarten and first grade heads, they had a Mayflower load of questions. I answered them as best I could.
No, I was not at the first Thanksgiving even though it took place a long, long time ago.
No, my feelings weren’t hurt. I wasn’t born yet.
No, Grandpa wasn’t there either.
Yes, he is older than me. But not that much.
No, he wasn’t born yet either.
I’m really not sure where we were.
No, I do not forget everything like your Daddy says. I suppose we were in heaven waiting to be born.
No, Sponge Bob wasn’t invited either.
He was in cartoon heaven waiting to be drawn.
No, Cinderella wasn’t invited.
No, the Pilgrims weren’t being mean. They didn’t want her to get her ball gown dirty. Or her feet. She only had the one shoe. And that’s because she didn’t keep an eye on the time.
After this conversation, I decided that reenacting that first turkey feast was the only way for them to truly understand. Some things have to be experienced to be understood. As I found out during childbirth, reading and experiencing are totally different.
When we got home, the children and I planted a row of vegetables. Due to time constraints, we buried two cans of green beans and a bag of frozen corn in the sandbox. The neighbor’s cat strolled though and fertilized our garden.
I want the children to appreciate the courage and fortitude of the first settlers, so while our crops grew, we played a game I called long cold winter. I told them we’d make believe we were early settlers dealing with days and days of snow and wind. I pretended to pull on a coat, hats, boots, and a scarf. Much to my dismay, they jumped up and down cheering No school! No School! I didn’t want to bring on nightmares, so I didn’t get graphically specific, but touched lightly on the scarcity of food. They told me they understood. Just the night before they had run out of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and had to eat plain vanilla. This was going nowhere. I thought long and hard, and then decided to get tough. I whispered to them that in the day of the Pilgrims, there was no such thing cable TV. They wailed inconsolably.
When they calmed down, there was the matter of hunting a turkey. None run wild in our subdivision, but my Butterball was in the freezer. I pulled a handful of feathers from my duster, which was clean as a whistle, so there was no fear of contamination. I plastered those feathers to the frozen bird and rolled it down the hill in the back yard to simulate a running target. Lest I expose the youngsters to yet one more incident of gun violence as they encounter on the nightly news, I encouraged the children to pummel the turkey with corn hole bags. When it rolled into the house, I declared it dead. My granddaughter cried until I explained that this turkey came from a turkey bush and had never been a real live gobble-gobble one.
This was a lot of work. We’d been at if for hours. The sun would be setting soon. I began to panic.
We hadn’t finished pounding popcorn into cornmeal. The stones were cumbersome and I was running out of band aids, so I used my food processor and told the children only a few people knew Monsieur Jacques Cuisinart came from France to celebrate the First Thanksgiving. I suggested they keep his visit a secret. A bag of M&M’s sealed the deal.
The children and I harvested our vegetables in the wagon, and pretended to roast our turkey in the fire pit. We joined hands and gave thanks for the blessings he’d given us. After our dinner, my grandson asked about pumpkin pie. I told him that the chief’s wife was Princess Sara Lee.
On our drive home, they talked about the books their teachers read to them about the first Thanksgiving. Having had some time for the stories to perk in their little kindergarten and first grade heads, they had a Mayflower load of questions. I answered them as best I could.
No, I was not at the first Thanksgiving even though it took place a long, long time ago.
No, my feelings weren’t hurt. I wasn’t born yet.
No, Grandpa wasn’t there either.
Yes, he is older than me. But not that much.
No, he wasn’t born yet either.
I’m really not sure where we were.
No, I do not forget everything like your Daddy says. I suppose we were in heaven waiting to be born.
No, Sponge Bob wasn’t invited either.
He was in cartoon heaven waiting to be drawn.
No, Cinderella wasn’t invited.
No, the Pilgrims weren’t being mean. They didn’t want her to get her ball gown dirty. Or her feet. She only had the one shoe. And that’s because she didn’t keep an eye on the time.
After this conversation, I decided that reenacting that first turkey feast was the only way for them to truly understand. Some things have to be experienced to be understood. As I found out during childbirth, reading and experiencing are totally different.
When we got home, the children and I planted a row of vegetables. Due to time constraints, we buried two cans of green beans and a bag of frozen corn in the sandbox. The neighbor’s cat strolled though and fertilized our garden.
I want the children to appreciate the courage and fortitude of the first settlers, so while our crops grew, we played a game I called long cold winter. I told them we’d make believe we were early settlers dealing with days and days of snow and wind. I pretended to pull on a coat, hats, boots, and a scarf. Much to my dismay, they jumped up and down cheering No school! No School! I didn’t want to bring on nightmares, so I didn’t get graphically specific, but touched lightly on the scarcity of food. They told me they understood. Just the night before they had run out of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and had to eat plain vanilla. This was going nowhere. I thought long and hard, and then decided to get tough. I whispered to them that in the day of the Pilgrims, there was no such thing cable TV. They wailed inconsolably.
When they calmed down, there was the matter of hunting a turkey. None run wild in our subdivision, but my Butterball was in the freezer. I pulled a handful of feathers from my duster, which was clean as a whistle, so there was no fear of contamination. I plastered those feathers to the frozen bird and rolled it down the hill in the back yard to simulate a running target. Lest I expose the youngsters to yet one more incident of gun violence as they encounter on the nightly news, I encouraged the children to pummel the turkey with corn hole bags. When it rolled into the house, I declared it dead. My granddaughter cried until I explained that this turkey came from a turkey bush and had never been a real live gobble-gobble one.
This was a lot of work. We’d been at if for hours. The sun would be setting soon. I began to panic.
We hadn’t finished pounding popcorn into cornmeal. The stones were cumbersome and I was running out of band aids, so I used my food processor and told the children only a few people knew Monsieur Jacques Cuisinart came from France to celebrate the First Thanksgiving. I suggested they keep his visit a secret. A bag of M&M’s sealed the deal.
The children and I harvested our vegetables in the wagon, and pretended to roast our turkey in the fire pit. We joined hands and gave thanks for the blessings he’d given us. After our dinner, my grandson asked about pumpkin pie. I told him that the chief’s wife was Princess Sara Lee.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Everything New Is Old Again
I’ve never expected to find our home on the cover of House Beautiful. There was a time I might have thought it worthy of honorable mention in House Comfortable or House Pleasantly Habitable. Today, however, I’d nominate it to be the centerfold for House Demanding.
We’ve tried to be good to our house. We’ve given it some of the best years of our lives, but somehow it’s never enough. When we first saw it nearly 25 years ago, the place was empty and lonely. My husband, three children, and I took the house as our own and moved our furniture into its barren space. We hung pictures on the wall. We painted a room or two. And the house felt better, but it wanted more.
Its closets were vacant and abandoned. They had no purpose. We moved in clothes, shoes, and hundreds of boxes holding our precious stuff. The house swallowed it all in just one gulp, but still was not satisfied. With time and perseverance we filled each and every one of its nooks and crannies. It was full and remained that way. For a while, the house was happy, but that was short-lived.
A few short years later, the house grew tired of its appliances of harvest gold, avocado green, and coppertone. It moaned those colors were no longer fashionable causing it embarrassment beyond belief. We responded by telling the house those appliances were perfectly functional and much nicer than the ones our childhood houses had been happy with. The house rolled its shades at that one. We stood our ground, but the house was determined. It taunted the appliances until the refrigerator melted our ice cream and froze our lettuce; the stove didn’t clean up after itself; the dishwasher regressed to wetting the floor.
It didn’t end there. The house demanded almond appliances. After all, our fibbing two-story promised, almond would never become passé and teased us with the prospect of increasing its resale value. It also wanted and got new wallpaper since the old didn’t go with the new color scheme. It sulked until we agreed the countertops were shabby and installed butcher block the house swore would last till Armageddon.
The house wore us down until we felt it was easier to cave than fight. We told the house we would give in this time, but this time only. And it darn well better enjoy and appreciate this because after this kitchen remodel, we were finished. Did it understand? The house dutifully agreed. I think it crossed its downspouts behind its back.
The house was content for a few years before it had issues again. Small ones at first. A room painted here. Some wallpaper stripped there. We thought this reasonable. What house can be expected to wear the same coats year after year? It pushed the limit at faux painting, but we managed to accommodate even that.
All was quiet on the home front for a time. Suddenly the house hinted that its sump pump had seen better days. We turned a deaf ear until six inches of rain proved us wrong. The house got its way yet again.
Our house was not immune from the lure of botox and facelifts. We installed triple-paned windows, replaced its sagging shutters, and hung a new front door. These things appeased it. For a time.
The house has discovered HGTV. I know it’s our fault. We should have monitored the programs it views more carefully, but we thought the house was sleeping. We were so wrapped up in our own lives we didn’t even notice. Once again the house has a list of demands. Granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and a hot tub. At this writing we’ve reached a stalemate. The house sees itself in need of an extreme makeover and we’re thinking it’s designed to sell.
We’ve tried to be good to our house. We’ve given it some of the best years of our lives, but somehow it’s never enough. When we first saw it nearly 25 years ago, the place was empty and lonely. My husband, three children, and I took the house as our own and moved our furniture into its barren space. We hung pictures on the wall. We painted a room or two. And the house felt better, but it wanted more.
Its closets were vacant and abandoned. They had no purpose. We moved in clothes, shoes, and hundreds of boxes holding our precious stuff. The house swallowed it all in just one gulp, but still was not satisfied. With time and perseverance we filled each and every one of its nooks and crannies. It was full and remained that way. For a while, the house was happy, but that was short-lived.
A few short years later, the house grew tired of its appliances of harvest gold, avocado green, and coppertone. It moaned those colors were no longer fashionable causing it embarrassment beyond belief. We responded by telling the house those appliances were perfectly functional and much nicer than the ones our childhood houses had been happy with. The house rolled its shades at that one. We stood our ground, but the house was determined. It taunted the appliances until the refrigerator melted our ice cream and froze our lettuce; the stove didn’t clean up after itself; the dishwasher regressed to wetting the floor.
It didn’t end there. The house demanded almond appliances. After all, our fibbing two-story promised, almond would never become passé and teased us with the prospect of increasing its resale value. It also wanted and got new wallpaper since the old didn’t go with the new color scheme. It sulked until we agreed the countertops were shabby and installed butcher block the house swore would last till Armageddon.
The house wore us down until we felt it was easier to cave than fight. We told the house we would give in this time, but this time only. And it darn well better enjoy and appreciate this because after this kitchen remodel, we were finished. Did it understand? The house dutifully agreed. I think it crossed its downspouts behind its back.
The house was content for a few years before it had issues again. Small ones at first. A room painted here. Some wallpaper stripped there. We thought this reasonable. What house can be expected to wear the same coats year after year? It pushed the limit at faux painting, but we managed to accommodate even that.
All was quiet on the home front for a time. Suddenly the house hinted that its sump pump had seen better days. We turned a deaf ear until six inches of rain proved us wrong. The house got its way yet again.
Our house was not immune from the lure of botox and facelifts. We installed triple-paned windows, replaced its sagging shutters, and hung a new front door. These things appeased it. For a time.
The house has discovered HGTV. I know it’s our fault. We should have monitored the programs it views more carefully, but we thought the house was sleeping. We were so wrapped up in our own lives we didn’t even notice. Once again the house has a list of demands. Granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and a hot tub. At this writing we’ve reached a stalemate. The house sees itself in need of an extreme makeover and we’re thinking it’s designed to sell.
Monday, September 21, 2009
On The Road With The Other Woman
My husband Bill and I returned Wednesday evening from a vacation in Ireland. Witness the shot I have downloaded from my digital camera. I have done this both to share our visit to the Emerald Isle and to prove that I am now adept at the process of downloading. Adept may be too strong a word as this was actually a picture of Bill and me at Giant's Causeway. Alas, I've experiened a glitch. Just visualize us in front of the rock.
We chose to design our own trip rather than join a tour and be held to scheduled stops and time constraints. We would be masters of our own vacation. We would answer to no one. For two solid weeks it would be just the two of us roaming the Irish countryside; the two of us taking in the forty shades of green first hand; and at the end of the day, the two of us retiring to a guest room at a quaint B&B alone.
All of that changed a week or so prior to our leaving when a friend suggested we take Rhonda along with us. Let me add, this suggestion was made to Bill, not to me. On the occasion of said suggestion, Bill and I were with a group of people I previously thought to be of high moral character when Joe took Bill aside. At that very moment I noticed a button was missing from my favorite jacket. Since the light was better where Bill and Joe stood talking, I chose a nearby spot to search look for my button. I overheard Joe make this Rhonda suggestion to Bill. It worked so well for Kathy and him, Joe thought we might like to try it too. I had always thought Joe a pretty straight-laced family guy and was shocked at the visions this brought to mind. Joe went on to tell Bill that having Rhonda along took a lot of the pressure off Kathy as they traveled. Joe was evidently friskier than I gave him credit for and Kathy more open-minded than I had perceived. Bill told Joe he’d think about it. I assured myself my faithful husband did so only to spare making an ugly scene. Joe added he’d drop Rhonda off at our house, if we liked. Not in this lifetime, I vowed silently.
The next morning, Bill mentioned Rhonda and how it might be a good idea to take her along on vacation. After I poured the hot coffee into his cup, but before I poured it into his lap, he mentioned Rhonda was a GPS as if that gave her a license for perversity. I told him I didn’t care if she was an MBA, CEO, or CPA. There was no place for her in our life.
How was I to know that Kathy and Joe felt the need to name their Global Navigation System? I cited this as proof positive that humans are interacting entirely too much with machines. Nonetheless I consented to allow Rhonda to join us. What harm could a little electronic device do?
We first engaged Rhonda at the airport in Shannon, Ireland. Before I could hum the verse to Danny Boy, she had miraculously locked in our location and directed us to our first destination, The Cliffs of Moher. Ronda got us there with no problem. Bill was quite smitten by her. He was oblivious to her lack of manners. He didn’t take offense as she constantly interrupted my attempts to read aloud from our travel guide. She thought nothing of butting in with Turn right here. Turn left there. Watch for a roundabout in two miles.
Our next stop was Galway and Rhonda took us there as well. My replacement’s cute little screen beamed as she hung from the windshield showing the road we traveled and supplying information such as what direction we were headed and how long it would take to get there. Bill was impressed. This man who takes directions from no one complied with Rhonda’s every command. He even shushed me to listen to her. I tossed the guidebook into the backseat acknowledging my defeat. He didn’t care that our backseat driver never said Please turn right or please turn left preferring instead to order us here and there. Rhonda was definitely on the bossy side.
From Galway, we drove to Dingle—a site I knew to be voted the most beautiful place on earth by National Geographic. I waited for smarty-pants Rhonda to mention that, but she was all about herself as she once again commandeered our drive and my husband’s attention along with it.
Along the way, we missed a turn and Rhonda did not appreciate it. In my opinion, Rhonda had not given us ample warning. But did Bill raise his voice at her? No way. And did Rhonda apologize to us? Did she say Oops, my bad. or I should have given you more warning? I’ll have you know she barked at us to Turn around as soon as possible. She assumed no responsibility for the incident. We turned around and I swear she snickered as we resumed our route.
As we drew closer to Dingle we encountered some narrow rural roads, many of them unnamed. Miss Rhonda must be a city slicker, as she didn’t like this one bit. Her screen showed us driving amuck in green spaces and sometimes floating on a body of water. She recalculated our route more times than the government does the national debt. She directed us to turn left in one hundred feet and followed that with turn right in twenty-five feet. Rhonda was lost, but not willing to admit it as I always did—sometimes before Bill started the car. Bill was not upset with Rhonda and asked me to check on her to see how she was faring.
When we finally reached Dingle, Rhonda had caught up with us and acted as if nothing had happened. Bill excused her behavior saying the roads were too small for the satellite to pick up though he would expect me to identify a back alley in downtown New York.
When we pulled into the drive of our B&B, Rhonda finally went too far. She announced You’ve reach your destination. We continued down the drive and again she said, as if we were too stupid to know it, You’ve reached your destination. Bill turned the car around in the lot. A third time Rhonda lost her cool and all but screamed You’ve reached your destination. Bill finally saw Rhonda for the electronic dictator she really was and pulled her plug. Then I shoved her into the glove compartment. It was the end of the road for Rhonda.
We chose to design our own trip rather than join a tour and be held to scheduled stops and time constraints. We would be masters of our own vacation. We would answer to no one. For two solid weeks it would be just the two of us roaming the Irish countryside; the two of us taking in the forty shades of green first hand; and at the end of the day, the two of us retiring to a guest room at a quaint B&B alone.
All of that changed a week or so prior to our leaving when a friend suggested we take Rhonda along with us. Let me add, this suggestion was made to Bill, not to me. On the occasion of said suggestion, Bill and I were with a group of people I previously thought to be of high moral character when Joe took Bill aside. At that very moment I noticed a button was missing from my favorite jacket. Since the light was better where Bill and Joe stood talking, I chose a nearby spot to search look for my button. I overheard Joe make this Rhonda suggestion to Bill. It worked so well for Kathy and him, Joe thought we might like to try it too. I had always thought Joe a pretty straight-laced family guy and was shocked at the visions this brought to mind. Joe went on to tell Bill that having Rhonda along took a lot of the pressure off Kathy as they traveled. Joe was evidently friskier than I gave him credit for and Kathy more open-minded than I had perceived. Bill told Joe he’d think about it. I assured myself my faithful husband did so only to spare making an ugly scene. Joe added he’d drop Rhonda off at our house, if we liked. Not in this lifetime, I vowed silently.
The next morning, Bill mentioned Rhonda and how it might be a good idea to take her along on vacation. After I poured the hot coffee into his cup, but before I poured it into his lap, he mentioned Rhonda was a GPS as if that gave her a license for perversity. I told him I didn’t care if she was an MBA, CEO, or CPA. There was no place for her in our life.
How was I to know that Kathy and Joe felt the need to name their Global Navigation System? I cited this as proof positive that humans are interacting entirely too much with machines. Nonetheless I consented to allow Rhonda to join us. What harm could a little electronic device do?
We first engaged Rhonda at the airport in Shannon, Ireland. Before I could hum the verse to Danny Boy, she had miraculously locked in our location and directed us to our first destination, The Cliffs of Moher. Ronda got us there with no problem. Bill was quite smitten by her. He was oblivious to her lack of manners. He didn’t take offense as she constantly interrupted my attempts to read aloud from our travel guide. She thought nothing of butting in with Turn right here. Turn left there. Watch for a roundabout in two miles.
Our next stop was Galway and Rhonda took us there as well. My replacement’s cute little screen beamed as she hung from the windshield showing the road we traveled and supplying information such as what direction we were headed and how long it would take to get there. Bill was impressed. This man who takes directions from no one complied with Rhonda’s every command. He even shushed me to listen to her. I tossed the guidebook into the backseat acknowledging my defeat. He didn’t care that our backseat driver never said Please turn right or please turn left preferring instead to order us here and there. Rhonda was definitely on the bossy side.
From Galway, we drove to Dingle—a site I knew to be voted the most beautiful place on earth by National Geographic. I waited for smarty-pants Rhonda to mention that, but she was all about herself as she once again commandeered our drive and my husband’s attention along with it.
Along the way, we missed a turn and Rhonda did not appreciate it. In my opinion, Rhonda had not given us ample warning. But did Bill raise his voice at her? No way. And did Rhonda apologize to us? Did she say Oops, my bad. or I should have given you more warning? I’ll have you know she barked at us to Turn around as soon as possible. She assumed no responsibility for the incident. We turned around and I swear she snickered as we resumed our route.
As we drew closer to Dingle we encountered some narrow rural roads, many of them unnamed. Miss Rhonda must be a city slicker, as she didn’t like this one bit. Her screen showed us driving amuck in green spaces and sometimes floating on a body of water. She recalculated our route more times than the government does the national debt. She directed us to turn left in one hundred feet and followed that with turn right in twenty-five feet. Rhonda was lost, but not willing to admit it as I always did—sometimes before Bill started the car. Bill was not upset with Rhonda and asked me to check on her to see how she was faring.
When we finally reached Dingle, Rhonda had caught up with us and acted as if nothing had happened. Bill excused her behavior saying the roads were too small for the satellite to pick up though he would expect me to identify a back alley in downtown New York.
When we pulled into the drive of our B&B, Rhonda finally went too far. She announced You’ve reach your destination. We continued down the drive and again she said, as if we were too stupid to know it, You’ve reached your destination. Bill turned the car around in the lot. A third time Rhonda lost her cool and all but screamed You’ve reached your destination. Bill finally saw Rhonda for the electronic dictator she really was and pulled her plug. Then I shoved her into the glove compartment. It was the end of the road for Rhonda.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Too Clogged to Blog
I’ve been sick, under the weather, not my usual self. Any of these apply. But to sum it up, I’ve been too clogged to blog.
My doctor blamed my grandchildren for my condition. In his medical opinion, those two adorable kids came back from Disney World and all I got was this nasty virus. Granted, they did have bouts of strep throat while away and returned with a cough and fever he diagnosed as croup, but I have no doubt I got this virus from my computer.
Computer viruses are different from people virus and never the twain shall meet; or so the good doctor claims. Eons ago they made the same claim about birds and swine. We know how that turned out.
What my medical expert doesn’t realize is that my computer and I are extremely close. I spend more waking hours with it than any other person or devise in my life. I’ve even named it Wordsworth. Words for short. They say that after living together for years, married people begin to act alike, talk alike and even look alike. Well, Words and I experience a similar phenomenon. I download a Spanish file into Wordsworth by mistake and mysteriously he’s no longer backed up. I eat tacos; the same goes for me.
So you see, it’s not only possible that Wordsworth gave me this affliction; it’s the most logical explanation. How did he become infected, you ask? I’ve done my own medical investigation by carefully backtracking his whereabouts for the past two weeks. Approximately ten days ago, I received a new friend request from facebook. Ever eager to increase my number of friends, I accepted her quickly. Too quickly. Had I examined this photo more closely, I would have noticed the crumpled tissue in her hand. Wordsworth’s immune system was undoubtedly compromised by this encounter.
Two days later I received a tweet about the upcoming flu season. Come to think of it, has anyone researched the link between bird flu and twitter? To calm my fears, I went to the CDC (Centers for Disease Control) website. I should have known better. People looking for disease control are probably diseased. Duh. Typing away at their germ-infested keyboards. And who knows where their hands have been.
By the way, if you’re looking for reading material the gang at the CDC suggest Morbidity and Mortality. When you finish that one , try Prevention of Chronic Diseases. Personally I'll wait for the Dummies edition.
A word of caution to you bloggees. I’m new to this blog thing and am not certain that this is the correct term and mean no offense by it. I assume if I’m the blogger, anyone reading would be the bloggee. Please feel free to correct me. Back to the CDC…
Do not, I repeat, do not (even though it’s quite tempting)
DO NOT CLICK ON Emerging Infectious Diseases.
I did. Within seconds Wordsworth became sluggish. He could barely open a file. He was out of sorts. Ten days later, that’s exactly how I feel now. Coincidence? I think not.
With lots of rest for us both and plenty of fluids, for me, not Wordsworth, we’re both getting stronger by the day. I’m down to a half box of tissues per day and Wordsworth is no longer creating pointless Power Point presentations. Soon we will be back to our normal selves. I plan to keep us that way. I make Wordsworth stop at the Lysol website before and after going online and I’m wearing rubber gloves.
My doctor blamed my grandchildren for my condition. In his medical opinion, those two adorable kids came back from Disney World and all I got was this nasty virus. Granted, they did have bouts of strep throat while away and returned with a cough and fever he diagnosed as croup, but I have no doubt I got this virus from my computer.
Computer viruses are different from people virus and never the twain shall meet; or so the good doctor claims. Eons ago they made the same claim about birds and swine. We know how that turned out.
What my medical expert doesn’t realize is that my computer and I are extremely close. I spend more waking hours with it than any other person or devise in my life. I’ve even named it Wordsworth. Words for short. They say that after living together for years, married people begin to act alike, talk alike and even look alike. Well, Words and I experience a similar phenomenon. I download a Spanish file into Wordsworth by mistake and mysteriously he’s no longer backed up. I eat tacos; the same goes for me.
So you see, it’s not only possible that Wordsworth gave me this affliction; it’s the most logical explanation. How did he become infected, you ask? I’ve done my own medical investigation by carefully backtracking his whereabouts for the past two weeks. Approximately ten days ago, I received a new friend request from facebook. Ever eager to increase my number of friends, I accepted her quickly. Too quickly. Had I examined this photo more closely, I would have noticed the crumpled tissue in her hand. Wordsworth’s immune system was undoubtedly compromised by this encounter.
Two days later I received a tweet about the upcoming flu season. Come to think of it, has anyone researched the link between bird flu and twitter? To calm my fears, I went to the CDC (Centers for Disease Control) website. I should have known better. People looking for disease control are probably diseased. Duh. Typing away at their germ-infested keyboards. And who knows where their hands have been.
By the way, if you’re looking for reading material the gang at the CDC suggest Morbidity and Mortality. When you finish that one , try Prevention of Chronic Diseases. Personally I'll wait for the Dummies edition.
A word of caution to you bloggees. I’m new to this blog thing and am not certain that this is the correct term and mean no offense by it. I assume if I’m the blogger, anyone reading would be the bloggee. Please feel free to correct me. Back to the CDC…
Do not, I repeat, do not (even though it’s quite tempting)
DO NOT CLICK ON Emerging Infectious Diseases.
With lots of rest for us both and plenty of fluids, for me, not Wordsworth, we’re both getting stronger by the day. I’m down to a half box of tissues per day and Wordsworth is no longer creating pointless Power Point presentations. Soon we will be back to our normal selves. I plan to keep us that way. I make Wordsworth stop at the Lysol website before and after going online and I’m wearing rubber gloves.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Twitter Dee - Twitter Dum
Not to brag, but I now email, blog and have a faceless page on facebook. I’m still thinking about which picture to post. A very nice one came with my new wallet and I’m considering that one.
Mastering, well that may be a stretch, let me rephrase that. Learning the basics of these new telecommunication networks may seem like no major accomplishment to the average six year-old, but to a this boomer now eligible to file for Social Security, it’s something to crow about. Which brings me to Twitter—my new frontier.
I have friends who twitter. Oops! Twitter, they tell me, is not a verb. My friends tweet. I assume this word choice comes from the days when we found out things that others didn’t particularly want us to know and claimed a little birdie told us. Another thought is that this network was intended to send love letters setting hearts atwitter. I’ll use my search engine to find out the real story and report back.
A good friend of mine assured me that Twitter was a snap. Her 88-year-old mother was tweeting and would be happy to walk me through the process. No offense, to her mother, but if she could do it, so could I.
On August 6th, I decided the time was right. Twitter.com, ready or not, here I come. I entered my name. Choosing a user name is always fun. Cher was already taken as it always is, so I chose something easier to remember—my own name. Passwords are always difficult for me. I have more of them than the U. S. government has clunkers. I opted for my techno one. Twitter told me it was weak. I chose another. Twitter said that was weak too. I went through six more weak ones until Twitter was finally happy. Note: MuscleboundSr is now taken.
My next step was to Create Account. I was feeling pretty cocky until a series of twisted letters appeared on the screen. Twitter said this was for security purposes, so I couldn’t ignore it. I haven’t seen letters so squiggly since I renewed my driver’s license. I closed one, squinted with the other duplicated them perfectly. Just as I finished, Twitter crashed. It went twud.
Now I’d done it. I’d silenced Twitter. Tweets were no doubt circling in cyberspace bumping into one another and interfering with weather satellites. Had I toppled Doppler? Would those tweets interfere with airplanes like geese do? Would we have cable?
I didn’t know what the penalty for crashing Twitter would be. I imagined the Twitter police marching to our door. Chances are they’d have blue birds on their shoulders. They’d slap handcuffs around my wrists and cage me. Just in case, I ran upstairs and wiped my keyboard clean. If need be, I’d ask my husband to check our bank balance online.
And where in the world did I stand with Twitter? Did this crash mean I was a half-twit?
The news of Twitter’s demise made national, and though I didn’t check the BBC, most likely international news. Officials and conspiracy theorists have called it a cyber attack and blamed it on a group of politically motivated hackers. I know better.
But I ain’t singing.
Mastering, well that may be a stretch, let me rephrase that. Learning the basics of these new telecommunication networks may seem like no major accomplishment to the average six year-old, but to a this boomer now eligible to file for Social Security, it’s something to crow about. Which brings me to Twitter—my new frontier.
I have friends who twitter. Oops! Twitter, they tell me, is not a verb. My friends tweet. I assume this word choice comes from the days when we found out things that others didn’t particularly want us to know and claimed a little birdie told us. Another thought is that this network was intended to send love letters setting hearts atwitter. I’ll use my search engine to find out the real story and report back.
A good friend of mine assured me that Twitter was a snap. Her 88-year-old mother was tweeting and would be happy to walk me through the process. No offense, to her mother, but if she could do it, so could I.
On August 6th, I decided the time was right. Twitter.com, ready or not, here I come. I entered my name. Choosing a user name is always fun. Cher was already taken as it always is, so I chose something easier to remember—my own name. Passwords are always difficult for me. I have more of them than the U. S. government has clunkers. I opted for my techno one. Twitter told me it was weak. I chose another. Twitter said that was weak too. I went through six more weak ones until Twitter was finally happy. Note: MuscleboundSr is now taken.
My next step was to Create Account. I was feeling pretty cocky until a series of twisted letters appeared on the screen. Twitter said this was for security purposes, so I couldn’t ignore it. I haven’t seen letters so squiggly since I renewed my driver’s license. I closed one, squinted with the other duplicated them perfectly. Just as I finished, Twitter crashed. It went twud.
Now I’d done it. I’d silenced Twitter. Tweets were no doubt circling in cyberspace bumping into one another and interfering with weather satellites. Had I toppled Doppler? Would those tweets interfere with airplanes like geese do? Would we have cable?
I didn’t know what the penalty for crashing Twitter would be. I imagined the Twitter police marching to our door. Chances are they’d have blue birds on their shoulders. They’d slap handcuffs around my wrists and cage me. Just in case, I ran upstairs and wiped my keyboard clean. If need be, I’d ask my husband to check our bank balance online.
And where in the world did I stand with Twitter? Did this crash mean I was a half-twit?
The news of Twitter’s demise made national, and though I didn’t check the BBC, most likely international news. Officials and conspiracy theorists have called it a cyber attack and blamed it on a group of politically motivated hackers. I know better.
But I ain’t singing.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Julie & Julia & Jane
Yesterday I saw Julie & Julia—the movie, not the people. I wasn’t sure it would be my cup of tea. Julie was a cute young woman worried about turning 30. 30! Need I say more? And I always considered Julia somewhat of a food snob. I based this notion on her insistence to use real butter and spices I’d never heard of.
I doubted I’d connect with Julia, as I do not claim to be a French chef. Or a French chef in the making. I don’t claim to be related to Chef Boyardee. As a cook I’ve had more years experience in the food preparation department than I care to admit—opening boxes, cans and the like. I can dip a spoon into a pot, take a sip, close my eyes, and smack my lips with the best of them, but my experience with cuisine, I must admit is nearly nonexistent.
I’ve seen clips of Julia on TV, but that as close as Julia and I have come. I don’t own her cookbook nor have never glanced through its pages at the bookstore. I feel much more comfortable with Betty Crocker. I’ve never seen a box with Julia’s name on the label in the Hamburger Helper section of the grocery. My limited encounters with Julia make me hungry, but have never, ever make me want to cook.
For these reasons, I was hesitant to attend this movie. I imagined the theater filled with chefs from area restaurants. Or worse yet, those dreadful food snobs who claim real Parmesan cheese does not come in a round green container.
I considered buying one of those fluffy white hats to wear, but thought better of it fearing it might block the view of a devoted Julia fan. I did, however, stop at the Dollar Store to pick up a whisk to tuck into my purse in case anyone questioned my right to be there. The whisk and I are no longer friends, as it became tangled with my keys and caused me to miss most of the previews.
I settled into my seat observing my fellow moviegoers. Comparing the audience to the boef bourguignon (stew) Julie prepared, the women were the meat. The few gentlemen were the parsley flakes she sprinkled on top. It may not have been parsley, but you get the idea. Take it from me, it’s very difficult to take notes in the dark; add to that the saliva dropping onto the paper and it’s nearly impossible. Rest assured, I saw no white coats or puffy hats so I felt safe.
For nearly two hours, I watched Julia dice mounds and mounds of onions (it’s such a shame they didn’t have those little frozen packs in those days), create culinary masterpiece after culinary masterpiece, and slather butter on anything that didn’t move. She used so much butter and it looked so good, at one point I considered storming the popcorn station just to get a butter fix.
I left the theater with an entirely new impression of Julia. She was no food snob. She was the goddess of the kitchen. I’d follow her anywhere. I’d learn to cook like her even if it meant doubling my husband’s cholesterol medication.
When I got home I decided to turn my kitchen into Julia’s. I hung my pots and pans on the wall. They fell to the floor as the 41-year-old handles dislodged themselves from the cookware. I’d go a gourmet shop to buy new.
I searched E-Bay for cookbooks with Julia’s name on it. I pledged ten dollars more than the current bids. I offered to pay for next-day shipping. No price was too high.
Until I could get my hands on those books, I’d have to settle for what I could find online. My googling efforts netted me some of Julia’s favorites. Vichyssoise! I’d heard of that dish. It sounded so, so French. And delicious. Then I read the English translation—Chilled Leek and Potato Soup.
Maybe I’d try her Deluxe Chicken Salad. If Kroger sells chicken salad in the deli, how difficult could Julia’s be? Dear Julia’s called for eleven (11!) ingredients, one of them being excellent light olive oil. I thought the stuff I had on hand was pretty good, but would Julia really rate it as excellent? Especially since the expiration date had passed two years ago. Besides, I had long ago instituted a 5-ingredient limit in my kitchen. I wasn’t ready to break it yet, not even for Julia.
I moved on to Julia's Braised Whole Fillet of Salmon. A good healthy dish. High in those fish oils Dr. Oz raves about. The instructions covered my computer screen three times.
I rethought this French cooking thing. Surely I missed the warning posted at the start of the movie: Do not try this at home. If it hadn’t been there, I’d contact Nora Ephron and suggest it. Meanwhile, I made reservations at the little French Restaurant in Cincinnati and prayed that someone would outbid me on E-Bay.
Dinner was tres fantastique.
As Julia would say, “Bon Apetit!”
I doubted I’d connect with Julia, as I do not claim to be a French chef. Or a French chef in the making. I don’t claim to be related to Chef Boyardee. As a cook I’ve had more years experience in the food preparation department than I care to admit—opening boxes, cans and the like. I can dip a spoon into a pot, take a sip, close my eyes, and smack my lips with the best of them, but my experience with cuisine, I must admit is nearly nonexistent.
I’ve seen clips of Julia on TV, but that as close as Julia and I have come. I don’t own her cookbook nor have never glanced through its pages at the bookstore. I feel much more comfortable with Betty Crocker. I’ve never seen a box with Julia’s name on the label in the Hamburger Helper section of the grocery. My limited encounters with Julia make me hungry, but have never, ever make me want to cook.
For these reasons, I was hesitant to attend this movie. I imagined the theater filled with chefs from area restaurants. Or worse yet, those dreadful food snobs who claim real Parmesan cheese does not come in a round green container.
I considered buying one of those fluffy white hats to wear, but thought better of it fearing it might block the view of a devoted Julia fan. I did, however, stop at the Dollar Store to pick up a whisk to tuck into my purse in case anyone questioned my right to be there. The whisk and I are no longer friends, as it became tangled with my keys and caused me to miss most of the previews.
I settled into my seat observing my fellow moviegoers. Comparing the audience to the boef bourguignon (stew) Julie prepared, the women were the meat. The few gentlemen were the parsley flakes she sprinkled on top. It may not have been parsley, but you get the idea. Take it from me, it’s very difficult to take notes in the dark; add to that the saliva dropping onto the paper and it’s nearly impossible. Rest assured, I saw no white coats or puffy hats so I felt safe.
For nearly two hours, I watched Julia dice mounds and mounds of onions (it’s such a shame they didn’t have those little frozen packs in those days), create culinary masterpiece after culinary masterpiece, and slather butter on anything that didn’t move. She used so much butter and it looked so good, at one point I considered storming the popcorn station just to get a butter fix.
I left the theater with an entirely new impression of Julia. She was no food snob. She was the goddess of the kitchen. I’d follow her anywhere. I’d learn to cook like her even if it meant doubling my husband’s cholesterol medication.
When I got home I decided to turn my kitchen into Julia’s. I hung my pots and pans on the wall. They fell to the floor as the 41-year-old handles dislodged themselves from the cookware. I’d go a gourmet shop to buy new.
I searched E-Bay for cookbooks with Julia’s name on it. I pledged ten dollars more than the current bids. I offered to pay for next-day shipping. No price was too high.
Until I could get my hands on those books, I’d have to settle for what I could find online. My googling efforts netted me some of Julia’s favorites. Vichyssoise! I’d heard of that dish. It sounded so, so French. And delicious. Then I read the English translation—Chilled Leek and Potato Soup.
Maybe I’d try her Deluxe Chicken Salad. If Kroger sells chicken salad in the deli, how difficult could Julia’s be? Dear Julia’s called for eleven (11!) ingredients, one of them being excellent light olive oil. I thought the stuff I had on hand was pretty good, but would Julia really rate it as excellent? Especially since the expiration date had passed two years ago. Besides, I had long ago instituted a 5-ingredient limit in my kitchen. I wasn’t ready to break it yet, not even for Julia.
I moved on to Julia's Braised Whole Fillet of Salmon. A good healthy dish. High in those fish oils Dr. Oz raves about. The instructions covered my computer screen three times.
I rethought this French cooking thing. Surely I missed the warning posted at the start of the movie: Do not try this at home. If it hadn’t been there, I’d contact Nora Ephron and suggest it. Meanwhile, I made reservations at the little French Restaurant in Cincinnati and prayed that someone would outbid me on E-Bay.
Dinner was tres fantastique.
As Julia would say, “Bon Apetit!”
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
New Technology & An Old Friend
In my never-ending effort to keep up with the latest in technological communication, I have created my very own Facebook page. Actually, it’s better described as my faceless book page, as I’ve as yet to decide on a photograph to post.
I’d heard my kids (one just turned 40, but they’re still kids to me) talk about Facebook and figured it was some newfangled distraction for young people. Nothing I’d be interest in. Then a few of my friends signed on saying it was they only contact they had with their children outside of Friday evenings when they dropped the grandkids off for the weekend. I still wasn’t interested. One by one my friends succumbed to the lure of Facebook and I realized not unlike the lava lamp in the attic, that I hadn’t realized I needed Facebook until my friends had it and I did not.
I attempted to look at my friends’ Facebook pages, but found them available to other Facebook people only, reminiscent of the fifth grade club that met in our garage and admitted no unless they could recite the secret password. I gave in and signed up for Facebook and could access my friends’ pages. The Facebook police informed me that my friends only allow certain people to view their information. I was the new kid on the Facebook block and must ask my real-world friends if they would be my Facebook friends. I experienced some of the anxiety I had in the second grade when we moved to a different neighborhood.
After some begging and arm-twisting I had friends. I had friends of friends who then became our mutual friends. But best of all I was in the loop. I checked my page daily limiting myself to 10 minutes per day as some of my friends warned of the danger of addiction. After a month or so of knowing whose grandkids had diarrhea, who had an OB-GYN appointment scheduled, and how effective a home remedy for hot flashes actually was, I questioned the value of Facebook.
I enjoyed pictures of grandchildren, puppies, and bald husbands. But after opening a colonoscopy shot that I considered beyond the boundaries of good taste, I thought about dropping out of the Facebook world. I was on the verge of termination when I a message I received changed my mind. It seems a friend of mine had a friend who was the brother of an old friend of mine. We were close friends in high school, but hadn’t been in contact for several decades. This gentleman directed me to the Facebook page of my friend’s husband. I contacted her and we’ve renewed our friendship. We live in different parts of Ohio and we’re catching up on the lost years by email. Oh, the joys of Facebook. Once again, technology is my friend.
I’d heard my kids (one just turned 40, but they’re still kids to me) talk about Facebook and figured it was some newfangled distraction for young people. Nothing I’d be interest in. Then a few of my friends signed on saying it was they only contact they had with their children outside of Friday evenings when they dropped the grandkids off for the weekend. I still wasn’t interested. One by one my friends succumbed to the lure of Facebook and I realized not unlike the lava lamp in the attic, that I hadn’t realized I needed Facebook until my friends had it and I did not.
I attempted to look at my friends’ Facebook pages, but found them available to other Facebook people only, reminiscent of the fifth grade club that met in our garage and admitted no unless they could recite the secret password. I gave in and signed up for Facebook and could access my friends’ pages. The Facebook police informed me that my friends only allow certain people to view their information. I was the new kid on the Facebook block and must ask my real-world friends if they would be my Facebook friends. I experienced some of the anxiety I had in the second grade when we moved to a different neighborhood.
After some begging and arm-twisting I had friends. I had friends of friends who then became our mutual friends. But best of all I was in the loop. I checked my page daily limiting myself to 10 minutes per day as some of my friends warned of the danger of addiction. After a month or so of knowing whose grandkids had diarrhea, who had an OB-GYN appointment scheduled, and how effective a home remedy for hot flashes actually was, I questioned the value of Facebook.
I enjoyed pictures of grandchildren, puppies, and bald husbands. But after opening a colonoscopy shot that I considered beyond the boundaries of good taste, I thought about dropping out of the Facebook world. I was on the verge of termination when I a message I received changed my mind. It seems a friend of mine had a friend who was the brother of an old friend of mine. We were close friends in high school, but hadn’t been in contact for several decades. This gentleman directed me to the Facebook page of my friend’s husband. I contacted her and we’ve renewed our friendship. We live in different parts of Ohio and we’re catching up on the lost years by email. Oh, the joys of Facebook. Once again, technology is my friend.
Friday, July 31, 2009
The Proverbial Paper Bag
I am directionally challenged. Just recently a very reliable source whose name I’ve forgotten, told me that her sister read somewhere that a condition such as mine is caused by the way my brain is wired. Normally I wouldn't be happy to hear news like this. But I'm delighted to know it’s not my fault! I’m thinking of starting a support group, but I doubt anyone could find it, so maybe it’s not such a great idea.
For those of you who suspect you might share my disorder, I’ve devised the following diagnostic test: Answers are limited to Yes and No
1. You become dizzy and break out in sweat when you hear words such as It’s easy to find. Just take I702 to Rt. 87 and that becomes Hamilton Avenue.
2. You assume every route in this part of the country becomes Hamilton Avenue at some point.
3. As you plan your vacation trip, your husband reviews the map with your ten-year-old son suggesting you sit in the back and entertain the other children.
4. You live in Fairfield and are meeting some friends at Tri-County. The friend living in Kenwood offers to pick you up saying it’s not out of her way. Bonus point if you believe her.
5. You drive to Cincinnati for a meeting. You use the directions your husband wrote—directions that include exits to I211 and Rt. 62 which then turns into Hamilton Avenue. You make it there in under an hour. After the conference you realize said husband has not reversed the directions to get you home. You turn the Cincinnati notes upside down, drive with your head at a neck breaking angle. You arrive three stress filled hours and two fill-ups later with grease spots on your windows from station attendant who told you to try Hamilton Avenue. Said husband is waiting for dinner.
6. You write Alex Trebek demanding they eliminate Jeopardy’s Geography category.
7. You buckle your 5 year-old grandson into his seat and he asks if you’re going to get lost again today.
Tally your score. 1 Point for Yes. 0 Points for No. Remember #3 bonus point.
0 - Get a job with Mc-Nally Rand or Rand-McNally, whoever those guys are.
1 - Wander at will.
2 - Find a good map of Hamilton Avenue.
3 - Make right turns only. Find your way back making left turns.
4 - Travel with a friend.
5 - Add a GPS to your Christmas list. Embrace technology!
6 - Allow your license lapse.
7 - Join my support group. I live just off Hamilton Avenue.
8 - Become a cloistered nun/monk.
Disclaimer: These are all hypothetical situations used for diagnostic purposes only. I am in no way suggesting or admitting that these things have happened to me.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Blog Land - Here I Come!
In the days of saddle shoes and sock hops, I made a promise to myself. I vowed I’d never ever become one of those old fogies who is so far behind the times that to them history reads like a diary.
Assuming the Beatles would live forever, I saw myself aging gracefully with the titles of the top 40 hits on the tip of my tongue. Off the record, don’t you just hate that racket that shakes your car and puts a buzz in your hubby’s hearing aid when you hit a red light on the way to Bob Evans? Okay, I’ve got a way to go with the music thing.
In my world, the Oscar for best picture went to The Sound of Music. I saw the world of cinema as family friendly and viewed in a theater and had no doubt it would always be that way. I would never have imagined watching films in the privacy of my own home. Where, I must say, a fair number of the current day ones should be viewed. Without your children I might add. I have adjusted to having a VCR and am proud to admit that unlike a number of my friends, I know how to program it. My next conquest will be the DRQXR or whatever it’s called. Anything that goes by initials puts me off. I’m still adjusting to viewing a TV hanging on the wall. Time was, that was reserved for hospitals.
In my youth, I watched my parents’ generation mutter about the numerous colors of the new fangled touch-tone phones, arguing that the old black rotaries were good enough. They struggled to remember 7 digit phone numbers instead of the 5 digit ones they had memorized. This, I swore, would never happen to me. But, alas, it has. I’ve renewed my oath to keep up with technology.
Many moons ago, I tossed my carbon paper and I now have two (count them, two) computers. One is a laptop and one is not. The exact term escapes me now. I email. I google. I have a facebook page. I also have friends. Some of whom I even know.
The land of blog remains foreign to me, but I’m determined to overcome my fear of words that aren’t listed in my copy of the dictionary and that provoke my computer to underline them in red. Thus, this blog. There’s that annoying red line again. I thought about a number of names and finally decided on Janie Jabbers—the name of the column I wrote for my high school paper when I thought I knew it all.
Assuming the Beatles would live forever, I saw myself aging gracefully with the titles of the top 40 hits on the tip of my tongue. Off the record, don’t you just hate that racket that shakes your car and puts a buzz in your hubby’s hearing aid when you hit a red light on the way to Bob Evans? Okay, I’ve got a way to go with the music thing.
In my world, the Oscar for best picture went to The Sound of Music. I saw the world of cinema as family friendly and viewed in a theater and had no doubt it would always be that way. I would never have imagined watching films in the privacy of my own home. Where, I must say, a fair number of the current day ones should be viewed. Without your children I might add. I have adjusted to having a VCR and am proud to admit that unlike a number of my friends, I know how to program it. My next conquest will be the DRQXR or whatever it’s called. Anything that goes by initials puts me off. I’m still adjusting to viewing a TV hanging on the wall. Time was, that was reserved for hospitals.
In my youth, I watched my parents’ generation mutter about the numerous colors of the new fangled touch-tone phones, arguing that the old black rotaries were good enough. They struggled to remember 7 digit phone numbers instead of the 5 digit ones they had memorized. This, I swore, would never happen to me. But, alas, it has. I’ve renewed my oath to keep up with technology.
Many moons ago, I tossed my carbon paper and I now have two (count them, two) computers. One is a laptop and one is not. The exact term escapes me now. I email. I google. I have a facebook page. I also have friends. Some of whom I even know.
The land of blog remains foreign to me, but I’m determined to overcome my fear of words that aren’t listed in my copy of the dictionary and that provoke my computer to underline them in red. Thus, this blog. There’s that annoying red line again. I thought about a number of names and finally decided on Janie Jabbers—the name of the column I wrote for my high school paper when I thought I knew it all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)