Considering how many words I've eaten in my life, you would think I would learn to avoid sweeping assertions or any phrase that begins with "I will never . . . " You'd think. At least words have no trans fats, bad cholesterol, or calories. They also have no nutritional value. Actually that's not true. The long-term benefit of eating my words is clear: Being utterly wrong so often humbles me pretty much every day. I guess that makes words the new superfood. A few tidbits from my recent diet of the carelessly uttered:
"I will never spoil my grandchildren." Hah. That lasted about, mmmmm, negative six months. Pink items started jumping into my cart within days of my daughter's first ultra-sound. I fooled myself that the novelty would wear off with grandchild number 2 (a boy) and number 3 (boy also.) Nope. Reptile themed playwear and tiny checkered Vans have proven just as hard to resist.
"I will never dye my hair.When I start to turn gray, I'm just letting it go natural." Right. It seemed high-principled in my twenties and thirties. But somewhere in the homestretch of my forties one spot turned gray overnight (well, it seemed like it.) If the gray had popped up discreetly in the back or at my temples in a dignified manner I might have let it go. But no, it had to burst forth front and center over my forehead. Not OK--Cruella DeVille is not really what I'm aiming for. So I lay down good money on a regular basis to have Amber do "partial highlights," a term invented to humour sheepish word-eaters who stated unequivocally in younger days that they would never "dye" their hair.
"Twilight? Never. I don't read vampire books." This one pains me to admit because of the vehemence with which I scoffed. But in the spirit of full disclosure, I read all four. Ouch. I didn't love them, though. Does that redeem me at all? And I feel pretty confident saying this: I will never write a vampire novel. Ever.
That last paragraph puts it all in perspective, doesn't it? Sure, I eat my words pretty regularly, but at least I don't drink blood. It could be worse. So use tasty words, folks, you may have to eat them. On my breakfast menu today? A big bowlful of "I have zero interest in writing a blog . . ."
What words have come back to you on a plate with a fork? I love your comments.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Monday, August 23, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Unlisted
I make lists. Long ones. It started years ago. We had four busy kids at home, a dog or two, nearby grandparents, and my chronic volunteerism all jockeying for position on the calendar or in the carpool. If it didn’t make the list, it didn’t happen. The Sacred Holy List (hereafter referred to as the SHL) quickly became an appendage, like a college-ruled third arm.
You probably envision the SHL like other mundane to-do lists you have seen. No. Think epic—like the Odyssey of checklists. Two parallel columns of neatly written tasks march down the page. Three parts chore chart, one part wish list. The urgent (pay bills) sit side by side with the unlikely (paint banister). Some things (organize garage) take up permanent residence on the SHL and simply get carried over to the next list when I run out of lines. The garage has topped the Sacred Holy List since 2001, at least.
Now that we have no children living at home my schedule has become remarkably flexible. Why can’t I retire the Sacred Holy List? I wake up every day and head straight for the SHL in much the same way that normal Americans head for Starbucks. The morning cobwebs in my head clear as my eyes run down the List. I catch a whiff of purposefulness—the elusive aroma of productivity.
If I were to be honest about the source of the SHL’s mysterious power it boils down to one thing—the crossing-off part. Each item with a line through it gives me the illusion that my life is under control. Confession: I have even stooped so low as to add a task to the Sacred Holy List after I completed it, just so I could feel the triumphant rush of making that thin, blue line. I know. Pathetic, right?
A few weeks ago, in the throes of packing for vacation, the SHL went missing--buried under the junk mail and wedding announcements that overrun my kitchen desk every summer. I was paralyzed, couldn’t move a muscle. How would I know what to do, much less what I had already done? The day’s accomplishments would be joyless, devoid of satisfaction unless I could cross them off!
Somehow I limped along to get the bags packed and the doors locked and the key passed along to the dog-sitter. By the time I boarded the airplane, my list withdrawal pains had started to subside. Calm and cool-headed, I vowed to wean myself from the list when I got home. My unlisted status lasted one day. Day two I got a little shaky and gave in, starting with one modest column of realistic ambitions. No clean the garage or write the great American novel or label the thirty-seven shoeboxes of family photos and put them in scrapbooks. I'm simplifying. But more on that later. I’ve got to go put a line through write blog post.
Tell me I'm not alone! How psychotic is this? Maybe I don't want to know. Anyone out there share this compulsion?
You probably envision the SHL like other mundane to-do lists you have seen. No. Think epic—like the Odyssey of checklists. Two parallel columns of neatly written tasks march down the page. Three parts chore chart, one part wish list. The urgent (pay bills) sit side by side with the unlikely (paint banister). Some things (organize garage) take up permanent residence on the SHL and simply get carried over to the next list when I run out of lines. The garage has topped the Sacred Holy List since 2001, at least.
Now that we have no children living at home my schedule has become remarkably flexible. Why can’t I retire the Sacred Holy List? I wake up every day and head straight for the SHL in much the same way that normal Americans head for Starbucks. The morning cobwebs in my head clear as my eyes run down the List. I catch a whiff of purposefulness—the elusive aroma of productivity.
If I were to be honest about the source of the SHL’s mysterious power it boils down to one thing—the crossing-off part. Each item with a line through it gives me the illusion that my life is under control. Confession: I have even stooped so low as to add a task to the Sacred Holy List after I completed it, just so I could feel the triumphant rush of making that thin, blue line. I know. Pathetic, right?
A few weeks ago, in the throes of packing for vacation, the SHL went missing--buried under the junk mail and wedding announcements that overrun my kitchen desk every summer. I was paralyzed, couldn’t move a muscle. How would I know what to do, much less what I had already done? The day’s accomplishments would be joyless, devoid of satisfaction unless I could cross them off!
Somehow I limped along to get the bags packed and the doors locked and the key passed along to the dog-sitter. By the time I boarded the airplane, my list withdrawal pains had started to subside. Calm and cool-headed, I vowed to wean myself from the list when I got home. My unlisted status lasted one day. Day two I got a little shaky and gave in, starting with one modest column of realistic ambitions. No clean the garage or write the great American novel or label the thirty-seven shoeboxes of family photos and put them in scrapbooks. I'm simplifying. But more on that later. I’ve got to go put a line through write blog post.
Tell me I'm not alone! How psychotic is this? Maybe I don't want to know. Anyone out there share this compulsion?
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Seek and ye shall find . . . on Amazon
Am I permitted an epilogue to yesterday's discussion of the "seek or shop" dichotomy? (Sorry A., for the gratuitous vocab slinging, just go get a dictionary) Oh wait, it's my blog. I can blab about whatever I want. Your witty and honest comments to yesterday's post and a handful of pithy Facebook messages convinced me that the "Can't find it? Buy ten more!" mentality is not, after all, a guy thing. It crosses gender lines and manifests in a host of harmless fetishes ranging from flashlights in every drawer to scissors in every room. (But do you have eighty-one of them? I didn't think so. Amateurs.) The saga continues, and raises another vital question "How many is too many?"
 |
| I came, I saw, I clicked. |
I noticed some time ago that Bob had declared war on our Tupperware cupboard. The two of them engaged in almost daily battles of wit and stamina. Bob would dig into the darkest recesses of the cabinet in search of a lid for whatever plastic storage dish he had in hand. The evil cupboard/lid cartel had no intention of coming forward with the needed tops. The skirmishes grew more and more heated over time. And frankly, Bob seldom emerged victorious. Until today.
The doorbell rang and I opened the door to find three large boxes on my porch. They came from Amazon and were addressed to me. Christmas in August. I couldn't imagine what wondrous surprise awaited. Vaguely I recalled that my usually open and forthcoming husband had dropped a couple of smug, cryptic hints over the weekend. "I have good news . . . you can find anything on Amazon."
And find he did, no rummaging required--plastic refrigerator storage dishes made by Rubbermaid. One hundred and thirty-two pieces. The "Easy Find" line. It says it right on the box, along with this brilliant slogan: "Right lid. Right now." The lids and dishes snap together and nest to boot. No losing these lids, no sir. Those folks at Rubbermaid have my husband pegged.
"132 pieces?"
Now I have a hundred and thirty-two pieces of storage ware. Bob triumphs. The epic hunt for lids that fit is a thing of the past. Looks like it's my turn to seek--for a little more cupboard space.
What do you hoard? And how many IS too many?
Monday, August 9, 2010
Hide and Seek
My husband owns 81 screwdrivers. That is not a typo. Eighty-one. Actually, the count stood at 81 in 1998 when we moved. More have accumulated in the intervening twelve years, I'd wager. Best guess? Right around a hundred--every size and shape you can imagine. No, he doesn't have a particular passion for screwdrivers . . . he just hates to hunt for things. Forgive the not-PC-gender-stereotyping, but is this a guy thing?
Bob breaks into a cold sweat at the prospect of seeking for necessaries in the Black Hole we call a garage or in the laundry room or kitchen cupboards. He has honed a brilliant, if expensive, strategy for dealing with his rummage-phobia.
If you can't find your drill bits or the high pressure nozzle for the hose or your navy blue socks forget the scavenger hunt at home. Why would you spend seven minutes looking calmly through your house when you could put your shoes on, hop in the car, drive to Home Depot or Kohl's, park, shop around, fill a cart with "bargain" items you don't need, stand in line, check out, shove a buck in the metal lock box of the homeless vet sitting outside the store, load your purchases in the trunk, return the cart to the little cart-corral, drive home, unload your purchases, and search through the heap of not-eco-friendly shopping bags for the item you so urgently needed two hours ago? Trouble is, by now you've completely forgotten what you went to the store for in the first place. But at least you've got a half dozen new nozzles on hand, and four bonus packs of navy blue socks.
Score!
(So, would you rather hunt for the one you have, or just buy a couple more? Does this break down along gender lines? I know you're reading, I see the stats. Comment already!)
Bob breaks into a cold sweat at the prospect of seeking for necessaries in the Black Hole we call a garage or in the laundry room or kitchen cupboards. He has honed a brilliant, if expensive, strategy for dealing with his rummage-phobia.
If you can't find your drill bits or the high pressure nozzle for the hose or your navy blue socks forget the scavenger hunt at home. Why would you spend seven minutes looking calmly through your house when you could put your shoes on, hop in the car, drive to Home Depot or Kohl's, park, shop around, fill a cart with "bargain" items you don't need, stand in line, check out, shove a buck in the metal lock box of the homeless vet sitting outside the store, load your purchases in the trunk, return the cart to the little cart-corral, drive home, unload your purchases, and search through the heap of not-eco-friendly shopping bags for the item you so urgently needed two hours ago? Trouble is, by now you've completely forgotten what you went to the store for in the first place. But at least you've got a half dozen new nozzles on hand, and four bonus packs of navy blue socks.
Score!
(So, would you rather hunt for the one you have, or just buy a couple more? Does this break down along gender lines? I know you're reading, I see the stats. Comment already!)
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
No more Mr. Nice Guy
I'm not one of those squeamish, squealy girls who faints at the sight of of spiders. Living things deserve respect. You know,"All God's creatures got a place in the choir . . ." Even ants and spiders and various six-legged animals have a place. Outside. Venture into my bathtub, Charlotte, and you're toast. And if you think you can escape your fate by writing an uplifting little message in your web--I have news for you. THAT STORY IS FICTION!
Has anyone else noticed the sudden spider population explosion? I have patiently flushed dozens of them down the toilet over the past few weeks. But Saturday I grabbed my towel in preparation for a nice bath and the Queen Mother of spiders dropped down and scurried across my toes.
A line had been crossed. If that wasn't enough, when I went to the bathtub four of her little offspring were huddled around the drain. I have no doubt they were planning how to take over my entire home. Today the neighborhood, tomorrow the world. This demanded drastic action.
Confession: I called the pest control guys. The ones who come to your house and spray who-knows-what everywhere. My earth-loving side insisted that I ask the right questions before I signed the 12 month contract. How toxic? Would it kill my dog? The pest guy was good--incredibly reassuring. He kept using words like "organic" and "safe" and I think he even threw "pre-school" in there somewhere. I don't know, my impression was that I could use his bug-killing formula as a nightly facial cleanser or put it in my grandson's bottle with no ill effects.
It wouldn't have mattered, frankly. If he'd told me my dog would sprout tusks and my leg hair would grow a yard per day, I still would have said, "Great, when can you spray?" So, critters beware. The ugly bug ball is over. And friends, if you notice an extra ear protruding from my chin next week, just look the other way. I may have a few spare appendages, but my house is spider free!
Has anyone else noticed the sudden spider population explosion? I have patiently flushed dozens of them down the toilet over the past few weeks. But Saturday I grabbed my towel in preparation for a nice bath and the Queen Mother of spiders dropped down and scurried across my toes.
A line had been crossed. If that wasn't enough, when I went to the bathtub four of her little offspring were huddled around the drain. I have no doubt they were planning how to take over my entire home. Today the neighborhood, tomorrow the world. This demanded drastic action.
Confession: I called the pest control guys. The ones who come to your house and spray who-knows-what everywhere. My earth-loving side insisted that I ask the right questions before I signed the 12 month contract. How toxic? Would it kill my dog? The pest guy was good--incredibly reassuring. He kept using words like "organic" and "safe" and I think he even threw "pre-school" in there somewhere. I don't know, my impression was that I could use his bug-killing formula as a nightly facial cleanser or put it in my grandson's bottle with no ill effects.
It wouldn't have mattered, frankly. If he'd told me my dog would sprout tusks and my leg hair would grow a yard per day, I still would have said, "Great, when can you spray?" So, critters beware. The ugly bug ball is over. And friends, if you notice an extra ear protruding from my chin next week, just look the other way. I may have a few spare appendages, but my house is spider free!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Yes, there are stupid questions
Did you ever have a college professor affirm to the class early in the semester that, "There are no stupid questions . . ." I appreciate the intent of such a statement--the desire to encourage open discussion, the willingness to clarify and explain. But it's simply not true. There are stupid questions. Lots of them.
Medical personnel do stupid questions really well. They are professionals, after all. With the right tone of patronizing superiority they can make YOU feel stupid for not knowing how to respond. For instance:
"How would you rate your pain, on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being no pain and 10 being the most severe pain possible.?" What does that even mean? Like anyone knows what the most severe pain possible is? I certainly don't want to test the limits so I can give an accurate answer. And if I had no pain at all, would I voluntarily spend a summer afternoon in a backless blue gown in the emergency room? Mmmm, no. I hurt, OK? Just start the painkiller.
The stresses of parenthood seem to spawn a particularly idiotic strain of questions. I cringe to think of the ludicrous queries I've put to my children. Some classics:
1. "Do you want a spanking?" Right. What kid WANTS a spanking? Like they harbor a secret wish that we'll swat their little bummies and they've been hoping we'd ask. Do we sincerely want their input on the matter? Doubtful.
2. "How many times have I told you (fill in the blank)?" Oh, wait Mom, while little Johnny runs to his dresser drawer and pulls out the tally sheet. He has kept precise records of everything you've ever said to him and is so happy that you asked. He'll do the math and get back to you asap.
3. "Why did you do that?" This question assumes that there is a logical reason that Susie shoved a bean up her nostril and that she can articulate it in twenty-five words or less before you cut her off with question #2 above.
4. Do I look like a dictionary? Wow. If my kids can't tell me from Webster's at a glance then I've got bigger problems than why the bean went up the nose. Either it's time to drill them with some family-photo flashcards (Mommy. No, not dictionary. Try it again M-O-M-M-Y.)or I need an extreme make-over.
Kids on the other hand, ask really cool questions. They put us grown-ups to shame. But that's a discussion for another day. So what all-purpose stupid questions do you ask your kids? Come on, I can't be the only one! Dish. Or what absurd questions did your parents keep in their arsenal? Make me laugh.
Medical personnel do stupid questions really well. They are professionals, after all. With the right tone of patronizing superiority they can make YOU feel stupid for not knowing how to respond. For instance:
"How would you rate your pain, on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being no pain and 10 being the most severe pain possible.?" What does that even mean? Like anyone knows what the most severe pain possible is? I certainly don't want to test the limits so I can give an accurate answer. And if I had no pain at all, would I voluntarily spend a summer afternoon in a backless blue gown in the emergency room? Mmmm, no. I hurt, OK? Just start the painkiller.
The stresses of parenthood seem to spawn a particularly idiotic strain of questions. I cringe to think of the ludicrous queries I've put to my children. Some classics:
1. "Do you want a spanking?" Right. What kid WANTS a spanking? Like they harbor a secret wish that we'll swat their little bummies and they've been hoping we'd ask. Do we sincerely want their input on the matter? Doubtful.
2. "How many times have I told you (fill in the blank)?" Oh, wait Mom, while little Johnny runs to his dresser drawer and pulls out the tally sheet. He has kept precise records of everything you've ever said to him and is so happy that you asked. He'll do the math and get back to you asap.
3. "Why did you do that?" This question assumes that there is a logical reason that Susie shoved a bean up her nostril and that she can articulate it in twenty-five words or less before you cut her off with question #2 above.
4. Do I look like a dictionary? Wow. If my kids can't tell me from Webster's at a glance then I've got bigger problems than why the bean went up the nose. Either it's time to drill them with some family-photo flashcards (Mommy. No, not dictionary. Try it again M-O-M-M-Y.)or I need an extreme make-over.
Kids on the other hand, ask really cool questions. They put us grown-ups to shame. But that's a discussion for another day. So what all-purpose stupid questions do you ask your kids? Come on, I can't be the only one! Dish. Or what absurd questions did your parents keep in their arsenal? Make me laugh.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Be careful what you wish for . . .
Wishes come true in odd ways.(Cue violins) On Thursday I jokingly told a friend that I needed a brief hospital stay so that I could rest up a bit. I was kidding!(Enter umbrella-toting cricket in top hat) That night Bob and I sighed that we would do anything for some uninterrupted hours together. I guess that makes this my lucky weekend. (Orchestra swells, cricket sings in tremulous tenor.)
"When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires will come to you.
If your heart is in your dream, no request is too extreme
When you wish upon a star, as dreamers do."
Some wishes are granted by the Blue Fairy. Genies from magic lamps deliver others--not to mention an army of assorted fairy godmothers, elves, and wizards. The delivery mechanism for my dream-come-true? A kidney stone. Why did the Brothers Grimm never think of this plot twist? Oh right, because prolonged excruciating pain and nausea don't make for a fun summer read. Don't tell JK Rowling.(Cue singing cricket)
"Fate is kind, she brings to those who love
the sweet fulfillment of their secret longing . . ."
Yes, my dream hospital stay materialized. I got a six hour nap at Kaiser Walnut Creek, with a complimentary CT scan. Bob held my hand and talked to me whenever I came to. Everything was filtered and soft around the edges (morphine induced fuzziness, quite romantic.) That made me two for two on my wishes. But the fairy tale doesn't end there. The happily ever after continued with a take-out order of vicodin on the side.
Who needs Mary Poppins or Glinda the Good? I've got Sly. (Of course I had to name my kidney stone if he's going to be the magical granter of wishes in an upcoming Disney film.) Do you think a jagged two millimeter chunk of minerals would look cute in a top hat with an umbrella? Been done, I guess. How about a zoot suit and Fedora? Costuming decisions can wait. Sly needs to finish his painful journey and exit downstage. I just hope the rest of the Family Stone doesn't follow. At least not until I need another good nap.
"When you wish upon a star your dreams come true . . ."
"When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires will come to you.
If your heart is in your dream, no request is too extreme
When you wish upon a star, as dreamers do."
Some wishes are granted by the Blue Fairy. Genies from magic lamps deliver others--not to mention an army of assorted fairy godmothers, elves, and wizards. The delivery mechanism for my dream-come-true? A kidney stone. Why did the Brothers Grimm never think of this plot twist? Oh right, because prolonged excruciating pain and nausea don't make for a fun summer read. Don't tell JK Rowling.(Cue singing cricket)
"Fate is kind, she brings to those who love
the sweet fulfillment of their secret longing . . ."
Yes, my dream hospital stay materialized. I got a six hour nap at Kaiser Walnut Creek, with a complimentary CT scan. Bob held my hand and talked to me whenever I came to. Everything was filtered and soft around the edges (morphine induced fuzziness, quite romantic.) That made me two for two on my wishes. But the fairy tale doesn't end there. The happily ever after continued with a take-out order of vicodin on the side.
Who needs Mary Poppins or Glinda the Good? I've got Sly. (Of course I had to name my kidney stone if he's going to be the magical granter of wishes in an upcoming Disney film.) Do you think a jagged two millimeter chunk of minerals would look cute in a top hat with an umbrella? Been done, I guess. How about a zoot suit and Fedora? Costuming decisions can wait. Sly needs to finish his painful journey and exit downstage. I just hope the rest of the Family Stone doesn't follow. At least not until I need another good nap.
"When you wish upon a star your dreams come true . . ."
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