I have seen the infomercials. I must confess right here and now that I like them. There is one in particular that I love to watch. The two celebrity spokes-people convince me that by using their machine for twenty minutes a day or less, I can get in shape. Really in shape. I visualize. It’s fun to watch. I am inspired. Sometimes fate just takes over your life and the cosmos aligns perfectly. A few days after seeing this infomercial for the hundredth time, I got an opportunity to work out on an actual machine. I loved it. A lot. I decided to look into getting one. This is when kismet reared its beautiful head. Someone wanted to give me a machine. All I had to do was pick it up. Did I want it? I had to keep from jumping up and down and yelling “Ooh! Ooh! Now I can look like a celebrity spokesperson. Ooh! Ooh! Yeah!” I tried to maintain my dignity. As soon as I brought the machine home, I felt my transformation starting. The next morning, I am up at dawn. I am ready to rock, roll and sweat.
I can’t wait to try the leg exercises. This wonderful machine comes with a leg cuff made specifically for leg exercises. I am looking at the picture in the book of the cuff in use. I am holding the cuff in my other hand and. I am confused. I’m not sure that my foot will bend that way. The cuff is winning. After much ado, I get it around my foot. Now there are two metal hoops on the cuff of evil. I hook the pulley up to the hook and start to exercise. I close my eyes, focus on my movement, and visualize myself with well toned legs. At that very same moment, I discover an underlying principle of physics and gym equipment. That is, when your leg is attached to a leg cuff, make sure you hook the correct hook on the pulley because if you don’t you become the projectile in a human catapult. A less obvious lesson, but just as important, is that when you become a human catapult projectile you do not create a pretty picture of self -confidence. Think twisted blob on the floor.
Not being one to give up easily, I released myself from the cuff of evil and determined that I would come back another day to beat the machine. The next morning was a new beginning. Fortunately it was not a leg day. I wouldn’t be using the cuff. The routine went smoothly. I had learned from my mistakes. I went through the book the night before and picked out the exercises and studied the proper technique. I had cut the time of the routine down. I was moving along and feeling just a little bit self confident. Maybe even cocky. Right until another principle of physics hit me. Right in the corner of my face above my eye. A handle under pressure when released springs back and hits you in the face. Ouch. I never saw this on the infomercial. Not once. No one ever got hurt. They worked out. They looked fit and happy. In infomercial land, a big part of working out is looking happy. I try to look happy when I’m working out. I will sometimes catch a glimpse of myself and happy is not the word I would use to describe my facial expression. Now, not only do I not look happy but I am bruised. This is not the look I was hoping for.
The next day will be better. I can feel it. Day three of the workout equipment experience. It has good karma. There will be no injuries today. I put on the cuff of evil and start my routine. I am moving along at a good pace. I am nearly finished. I have come through unscathed. I have met the cuff and it is mine. I have won. It is official. I am now a person who works out. I have the credentials. I can say that in conversation.
One last piece of scientific knowledge and I may have this working out situation down pat. Workout shorts slide off of padded gym equipment. I never saw that in any workout article either. I don’t think of it as one large accident waiting to happen. Instead I try to think of it as a learning experience. No pain no gain!
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Cinderella, Charm School and Jack Bauer
I am a baby boomer. I was born in the fifties, spent my childhood in the sixties and my teenage years in the seventies. I watched a man land on the moon and was not quite a teenager when Sesame Street came on the air. I also went to charm school. Yes, charm school. Hard to believe that Vietnam was going on and I was learning how to cross my legs while wearing a dress so that young men would not get a peek at my underwear.
I hadn’t thought about Charm school in years. I was watching an episode of 24 and started to laugh out loud. Jack Bauer is going to turn himself in for a hostage swap. He was in handcuffs, and talking in his best Jack Bauer, sexy, low whisper, intimidating voice and all I could think of was how he had his shirt buttoned all the way up. Charm school came to mind. I don’t remember how the episode turned out, but I can pretty much guarantee that the wardrobe person did not go to charm school. I am blaming Cinderella for the whole charm school fiasco. She set the standards so high that the rest of us were forced to go to charm school so that we to would be able to find our prince, and of course, help him to dress correctly. This was the thinking of two normally sane people that I like to call Mom and Dad.
I was very young when I learned about Cinderella. She was looking for the prince. Of course she hadn’t gone to college. My folks raised me with the expectation that I would go to college , get married and then have children. Sort of Cinderella light. I would do it in that exact order. A big part this plan is dependent on finding the prince. I never really thought about the prince showing up. Mom and Dad were taking no chances that the prince would be able to find me or worse that the prince would show up and I would not be prepared. I was a bit hyper in my younger days so my parents kept me busy doing sports all year round. I played softball and was on a swim team in summer, cheerleading in the winter and gymnastics all the time. Clearly there was going to have to be some changes made if I was to find the prince. Apparently the prince does not have directions to the ballpark or the pool. Cinderella did not participate in sports. She didn’t own a glove, or cleats. She did however have a pumpkin and a fairy godmother. I didn’t have those. This being the case, the solution seemed so obvious to them. They sent me to “charm school”. I quite sure that charm schools don’t even exist anymore. They are not actual schools. They are places where young ladies got instructions in the proper art of being a young lady. The charm school teacher kept referring to me as a tomboy. She was not using her warm and fuzzy voice when she made that comment.
I thought I was doing well in charm school. In charm school I learned many skills that have served me well over the years. I learned the valuable skill of the proper way to cross my legs while wearing a dress. The secret is in the ankles. I also learned the proper way to apply makeup. I learned that you don’t button your top button unless you are wearing a tie. That was Jack Bauer’s fashion faux pas. My favorite skill that I learned in charm school is that I can actually place a book on my head and walk across a room without dropping the book. This skill is so diverse that I have it listed on my resume under other skills.
Sadly, charm school was not the great success that my folks were hoping for. The teacher did not understand my unwillingness to cross my legs at the ankles while wearing cleats. She did not understand wearing cleats at all. I tried, in my nicest proper young lady voice, to explain the art of wearing cleats to her. I tried to explain to her that good posture in a dugout is useless. The whole book on the head thing was so inappropriate for a dugout. I tried to explain that in softball upright is not really a good thing.Her position was that white Keds are what proper young wear for athletic endeavors. Cleats were not in her vocabulary. Needless to say, she was not overwhelmed that title nine passed.
She told my folks in her best proper not so young woman voice that there were just some young women who did not quite fit in charm school and I was one of them. She apologized profusely.My parents were shocked. Cinderella was dying on the vine. After charm school there was only one way to restore the Cinderella dream. It seemed so obvious to the normally sane people that I like to call Mom and Dad. Ballroom dance lessons. I’m not sure what those two were thinking but my brother and I along with two of my cousins were sent to a local dance teacher and forced to learn to ballroom dance. In case the prince had gotten directions and found his way to my house, I would be ready. Not only can I walk with a book on my head, and cross my legs at the ankles, now I could also ballroom dance. What a package. The prince showed up and surprise, surprise he doesn’t dance , doesn’t button the top button , doesn’t wear ties and doesn’t need me to tell him how to dress. Where is my fairy godmother when I need her?
I hadn’t thought about Charm school in years. I was watching an episode of 24 and started to laugh out loud. Jack Bauer is going to turn himself in for a hostage swap. He was in handcuffs, and talking in his best Jack Bauer, sexy, low whisper, intimidating voice and all I could think of was how he had his shirt buttoned all the way up. Charm school came to mind. I don’t remember how the episode turned out, but I can pretty much guarantee that the wardrobe person did not go to charm school. I am blaming Cinderella for the whole charm school fiasco. She set the standards so high that the rest of us were forced to go to charm school so that we to would be able to find our prince, and of course, help him to dress correctly. This was the thinking of two normally sane people that I like to call Mom and Dad.
I was very young when I learned about Cinderella. She was looking for the prince. Of course she hadn’t gone to college. My folks raised me with the expectation that I would go to college , get married and then have children. Sort of Cinderella light. I would do it in that exact order. A big part this plan is dependent on finding the prince. I never really thought about the prince showing up. Mom and Dad were taking no chances that the prince would be able to find me or worse that the prince would show up and I would not be prepared. I was a bit hyper in my younger days so my parents kept me busy doing sports all year round. I played softball and was on a swim team in summer, cheerleading in the winter and gymnastics all the time. Clearly there was going to have to be some changes made if I was to find the prince. Apparently the prince does not have directions to the ballpark or the pool. Cinderella did not participate in sports. She didn’t own a glove, or cleats. She did however have a pumpkin and a fairy godmother. I didn’t have those. This being the case, the solution seemed so obvious to them. They sent me to “charm school”. I quite sure that charm schools don’t even exist anymore. They are not actual schools. They are places where young ladies got instructions in the proper art of being a young lady. The charm school teacher kept referring to me as a tomboy. She was not using her warm and fuzzy voice when she made that comment.
I thought I was doing well in charm school. In charm school I learned many skills that have served me well over the years. I learned the valuable skill of the proper way to cross my legs while wearing a dress. The secret is in the ankles. I also learned the proper way to apply makeup. I learned that you don’t button your top button unless you are wearing a tie. That was Jack Bauer’s fashion faux pas. My favorite skill that I learned in charm school is that I can actually place a book on my head and walk across a room without dropping the book. This skill is so diverse that I have it listed on my resume under other skills.
Sadly, charm school was not the great success that my folks were hoping for. The teacher did not understand my unwillingness to cross my legs at the ankles while wearing cleats. She did not understand wearing cleats at all. I tried, in my nicest proper young lady voice, to explain the art of wearing cleats to her. I tried to explain to her that good posture in a dugout is useless. The whole book on the head thing was so inappropriate for a dugout. I tried to explain that in softball upright is not really a good thing.Her position was that white Keds are what proper young wear for athletic endeavors. Cleats were not in her vocabulary. Needless to say, she was not overwhelmed that title nine passed.
She told my folks in her best proper not so young woman voice that there were just some young women who did not quite fit in charm school and I was one of them. She apologized profusely.My parents were shocked. Cinderella was dying on the vine. After charm school there was only one way to restore the Cinderella dream. It seemed so obvious to the normally sane people that I like to call Mom and Dad. Ballroom dance lessons. I’m not sure what those two were thinking but my brother and I along with two of my cousins were sent to a local dance teacher and forced to learn to ballroom dance. In case the prince had gotten directions and found his way to my house, I would be ready. Not only can I walk with a book on my head, and cross my legs at the ankles, now I could also ballroom dance. What a package. The prince showed up and surprise, surprise he doesn’t dance , doesn’t button the top button , doesn’t wear ties and doesn’t need me to tell him how to dress. Where is my fairy godmother when I need her?
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Junior, The Snake and the Vaccuum
I have a snake living in my house. There’s a statement that I never thought I would make. It’s funny how the snake came to live in my house. Junior went to college. He liked college. He decided that he wanted the whole grown up experience and could only get that experience by living off campus so he did. His roommate got a snake. Then roommate had the nerve to leave school to go on tour with a rock band and left the snake behind. Oh goody, Junior inherits a snake. This is a drama waiting to happen.
Graduation day comes and Junior is moving home. With the snake. The snake and I have an agreement. He stays in his aquarium without water and I don’t call animal control. It is the best I can do and I thought it was a very generous offer. I don’t go into Junior’s room simply on principal. I’m not cleaning it. I don’t want to see the snake. I have no reason to go in there. I will give Junior his due because he does take care of the snake. He buys two mice a week to feed him. He put a heater underneath the aquarium without water so the snake is nice and warm. It’s important that the snake stay warm. I am always cold and no one is putting a heating pad under me. Junior also keeps the aquarium without water clean. He changes the stuffing the paper underneath so that the snake doesn’t inhale particles. This is also part of the ritual that I don’t watch. It’s like watching a train wreck.
I read somewhere that bad things happen in threes. I can go with that. Of course some people just go with things happen. It was a day like any other day except that when I turned on my dishwasher it made a grinding noise. I’m not a plumber. In fact I have no plumbing skills or background but I know when you turn on your super duper extra quiet dishwasher that cost a small fortune because it is the super duper extra quiet model, it is not supposed to sound like an engine in distress. That was not critical so I decided to have some coffee and mull it over. I like to mull things over. Except that the milk was not cold. Junior had told me the day before that the milk was not cold when he got his cereal. So I turned the refrigerator to make it colder. It didn’t work. Younger brother informed me that his milk was warm. Besides mulling I believe in signs. This was a sign from God to go out to breakfast but I didn’t pay attention to the sign. I decided to take the more conventional route and call the appliance warranty people who told me they would send someone the following day. At this point my concern is how I am going to keep the food cold enough so that I don’t have to replace a refrigerator full of food that I couldn’t afford the first time I bought it.
There really wasn’t a whole lot to do so I decided to patrol the kitchen. It was my job to stand next to the fridge and open the door as needed to avoid the unnecessary openings and closings of the door. There would be no empty staring into the fridge followed by the exclamation that there is no food in here.
The repairman shows up the next day. He works on the dishwasher first. Unfortunately he forgot his man vacuum. He loaned it to another repairman so he asked hubby if he had one. Hubby gets his man vacuum out of Junior’s room and gives it repair guy. Repair guy says that the super duper extra quite dishwasher needs to be vacuumed out. He says that it has dust in the filter. The problem is that the filter is in the bottom of the dishwasher under the big whirly thing that sprays the water that washes the dishes. How clever of those manufacturers. That’s it. We are good to go. The refrigerator wasn’t quite so easy. It needed a new sensor and the freezer wasn’t working correctly either. It was too cold and had frozen on the inside behind the panels and he took off the panel so he could thaw it out. Naturally it would take several hours and there would be water running out of it into the refrigerator and onto my floor.
I am waiting for the Marx brothers or Allen Funt to pop out but they didn’t. Finally the day of drama has come to and end. Hubby goes to empty out the vacuum. It’s clogged. He forgot that the reason the vacuuming out the snake’s aquarium with out water so that he could give the snake clean chips. Naturally hubby does what everyone who has a clogged vacuum does. He puts his mouth on the vacuum to blow the clog out. He decides to share the triumph of cleaning the clog with us. At that very moment Junior decides to share with us that the snake always carries salmonella and that Dad really shouldn’t worry he probably won’t get salmonella. The snake is still alive. Hubby hasn’t got salmonella, the refrigerator is working and the super duper extra quiet dishwasher still isn’t. Life is back to normal.
Graduation day comes and Junior is moving home. With the snake. The snake and I have an agreement. He stays in his aquarium without water and I don’t call animal control. It is the best I can do and I thought it was a very generous offer. I don’t go into Junior’s room simply on principal. I’m not cleaning it. I don’t want to see the snake. I have no reason to go in there. I will give Junior his due because he does take care of the snake. He buys two mice a week to feed him. He put a heater underneath the aquarium without water so the snake is nice and warm. It’s important that the snake stay warm. I am always cold and no one is putting a heating pad under me. Junior also keeps the aquarium without water clean. He changes the stuffing the paper underneath so that the snake doesn’t inhale particles. This is also part of the ritual that I don’t watch. It’s like watching a train wreck.
I read somewhere that bad things happen in threes. I can go with that. Of course some people just go with things happen. It was a day like any other day except that when I turned on my dishwasher it made a grinding noise. I’m not a plumber. In fact I have no plumbing skills or background but I know when you turn on your super duper extra quiet dishwasher that cost a small fortune because it is the super duper extra quiet model, it is not supposed to sound like an engine in distress. That was not critical so I decided to have some coffee and mull it over. I like to mull things over. Except that the milk was not cold. Junior had told me the day before that the milk was not cold when he got his cereal. So I turned the refrigerator to make it colder. It didn’t work. Younger brother informed me that his milk was warm. Besides mulling I believe in signs. This was a sign from God to go out to breakfast but I didn’t pay attention to the sign. I decided to take the more conventional route and call the appliance warranty people who told me they would send someone the following day. At this point my concern is how I am going to keep the food cold enough so that I don’t have to replace a refrigerator full of food that I couldn’t afford the first time I bought it.
There really wasn’t a whole lot to do so I decided to patrol the kitchen. It was my job to stand next to the fridge and open the door as needed to avoid the unnecessary openings and closings of the door. There would be no empty staring into the fridge followed by the exclamation that there is no food in here.
The repairman shows up the next day. He works on the dishwasher first. Unfortunately he forgot his man vacuum. He loaned it to another repairman so he asked hubby if he had one. Hubby gets his man vacuum out of Junior’s room and gives it repair guy. Repair guy says that the super duper extra quite dishwasher needs to be vacuumed out. He says that it has dust in the filter. The problem is that the filter is in the bottom of the dishwasher under the big whirly thing that sprays the water that washes the dishes. How clever of those manufacturers. That’s it. We are good to go. The refrigerator wasn’t quite so easy. It needed a new sensor and the freezer wasn’t working correctly either. It was too cold and had frozen on the inside behind the panels and he took off the panel so he could thaw it out. Naturally it would take several hours and there would be water running out of it into the refrigerator and onto my floor.
I am waiting for the Marx brothers or Allen Funt to pop out but they didn’t. Finally the day of drama has come to and end. Hubby goes to empty out the vacuum. It’s clogged. He forgot that the reason the vacuuming out the snake’s aquarium with out water so that he could give the snake clean chips. Naturally hubby does what everyone who has a clogged vacuum does. He puts his mouth on the vacuum to blow the clog out. He decides to share the triumph of cleaning the clog with us. At that very moment Junior decides to share with us that the snake always carries salmonella and that Dad really shouldn’t worry he probably won’t get salmonella. The snake is still alive. Hubby hasn’t got salmonella, the refrigerator is working and the super duper extra quiet dishwasher still isn’t. Life is back to normal.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Things I Don’t Need to Know
As a parent I wondered what the long -term effects that television viewing would have on my children. My children are almost grown and I am concerned about what effect television will have on me. I am sitting here watching television and there is a commercial on for E-D, which is also known as erectile dysfunction. Someone, somewhere has decided that the entire population needs to know about erectile dysfunction. How does the person who writes these commercials come up with them? What is the thought process when writing about erectile dysfunction? And the big question is how do you tell your Mom that you wrote that commercial? The bigger question is why exactly do I need to know about this condition and the medicines that are used to treat it?
I would imagine that if I had erectile dysfunction my doctor would already know what medicines are available to treat it. If I hadn’t gone to the doctor about my erectile dysfunction knowing the name of the medicine that can treat it would be useless.
According to the commercial, it is imperative that I know that there are two types of medicines that are now available to treat this condition? One is for having sex immediately and one is a long-term slow acting in case you want to have sex within a thirty-six hour time frame. Oh good. I feel so empowered having this information.
My favorite part of the commercial is the part that tells us that if you have an erection lasting for more than four hours you should call a doctor. No kidding. If you need a doctor or a commercial to tell you that I would guess that erectile dysfunction is not your worst problem. The part about that statement is not even the statement itself; rather it is the visual that I just don’t need to have floating in my head. Have you ever seen anyone with a four-hour erection? Me either. Where are those men?
I also like the part where the man and the lady are sitting in these two separate old-fashioned bathtubs that are on the beach overlooking the ocean. I am not a doctor. I do not play one on television but I am a woman who can state categorically that if your spouse is spending long periods of time in a tub it will affect his erection. I have the urge to scream at the television “Get out of the tub!!” Again, I am not a doctor but perhaps if they were in the same tub the condition would be helped. It may be kind of difficult to get an erection if your partner is in the next room and all you have to look at is an ocean, or maybe not. Sex may be difficult when in separate locations.
Perhaps the man hurt himself dragging the tubs to the beach. Maybe the dragging of the tubs or the lifting of the tubs has contributed to the erectile dysfunction. At the end of the commercial the narrator goes thru a very long list of possible side effects from using the medicine and under which conditions you should not take the medicine. Perhaps they should include the possibility that dragging large heavy tubs to a beach may cause e-d.
The next commercial for E-D comes on and this time the couple is at home. Again they are outside in their yard in separate tubs. I am prompted to ask how the tubs got from the beach to their yard. I may have tub issues because I keep focusing on the problems that could be created by the damn tubs. Do these people perhaps own a tub company? I have been to many beaches and have never seen a set of matching tubs overlooking any of them. There is no one I know that has a set of matching tubs in their back yard. I know a few folks that have hot tubs in their yards but no one with the matching tubs. Clearly, I am hanging around with the wrong people. If they indeed own the tub company that would explain why separate tubs keeping popping up at the places they frequent. If they do indeed own the tub company then shouldn’t they know that being in separate locations really isn’t good for erection problems? Maybe not. Maybe the folks that are hawking medicine for erectile dysfunction should rethink the whole tubs in the commercial thing. Maybe they should just have an actual sit down and talk for thirty seconds about erectile dysfunction and their medicine because every time I see this commercial I start to laugh. I just can’t get passed the tubs. Or the four hour erection.
I would imagine that if I had erectile dysfunction my doctor would already know what medicines are available to treat it. If I hadn’t gone to the doctor about my erectile dysfunction knowing the name of the medicine that can treat it would be useless.
According to the commercial, it is imperative that I know that there are two types of medicines that are now available to treat this condition? One is for having sex immediately and one is a long-term slow acting in case you want to have sex within a thirty-six hour time frame. Oh good. I feel so empowered having this information.
My favorite part of the commercial is the part that tells us that if you have an erection lasting for more than four hours you should call a doctor. No kidding. If you need a doctor or a commercial to tell you that I would guess that erectile dysfunction is not your worst problem. The part about that statement is not even the statement itself; rather it is the visual that I just don’t need to have floating in my head. Have you ever seen anyone with a four-hour erection? Me either. Where are those men?
I also like the part where the man and the lady are sitting in these two separate old-fashioned bathtubs that are on the beach overlooking the ocean. I am not a doctor. I do not play one on television but I am a woman who can state categorically that if your spouse is spending long periods of time in a tub it will affect his erection. I have the urge to scream at the television “Get out of the tub!!” Again, I am not a doctor but perhaps if they were in the same tub the condition would be helped. It may be kind of difficult to get an erection if your partner is in the next room and all you have to look at is an ocean, or maybe not. Sex may be difficult when in separate locations.
Perhaps the man hurt himself dragging the tubs to the beach. Maybe the dragging of the tubs or the lifting of the tubs has contributed to the erectile dysfunction. At the end of the commercial the narrator goes thru a very long list of possible side effects from using the medicine and under which conditions you should not take the medicine. Perhaps they should include the possibility that dragging large heavy tubs to a beach may cause e-d.
The next commercial for E-D comes on and this time the couple is at home. Again they are outside in their yard in separate tubs. I am prompted to ask how the tubs got from the beach to their yard. I may have tub issues because I keep focusing on the problems that could be created by the damn tubs. Do these people perhaps own a tub company? I have been to many beaches and have never seen a set of matching tubs overlooking any of them. There is no one I know that has a set of matching tubs in their back yard. I know a few folks that have hot tubs in their yards but no one with the matching tubs. Clearly, I am hanging around with the wrong people. If they indeed own the tub company that would explain why separate tubs keeping popping up at the places they frequent. If they do indeed own the tub company then shouldn’t they know that being in separate locations really isn’t good for erection problems? Maybe not. Maybe the folks that are hawking medicine for erectile dysfunction should rethink the whole tubs in the commercial thing. Maybe they should just have an actual sit down and talk for thirty seconds about erectile dysfunction and their medicine because every time I see this commercial I start to laugh. I just can’t get passed the tubs. Or the four hour erection.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
I Win
Today was not a particularly good day. We all have crappy days. Sis and I have a little game called I WIN. It’s the dark cloud that follows each of us at some point in time. Who had the worst day? You win! My boss was not happy with my work and held nothing back in letting me know. I win! You get the idea. I got home looking forward to spending the night quietly. I was walking in the house with my lunch box and a car pulled up. I live at the end of a dead end street and cars frequently use the street as a turn around.
I mentioned to hubby that there was a car out front. He is the official car checker person in our household. He accepts this responsibility and does it with enthusiasm. He looks out and sees the car, stopped next to our van. The person is out of the car. He watches to see exactly what they are doing. Hubby is beside himself. They appear to be pooping. He starts yelling that there is a guy pooping on our lot. A few seconds pass and he is still yelling about how much nerve it takes to poop in someone’s yard before he runs out of the front door and yells at the pooper telling them to stop pooping in our yard. Then he realizes that the pooper is a lady. She is wearing pink bedroom slippers. And holding a napkin or toilet paper so that she can wipe herself. I’m not feeling gratitude that she brought proper paper. She is pooping on my lawn. She starts yelling back at him to call the police. She must have been a little nervous. Here she is trying to poop in peace and there comes an irate guy yelling at her. He tells her that he did call the police. Then she starts yelling at him that she isn’t pooping. She’s peeing. Whatever she does she is showing her private parts. Parts that quite frankly don’t need to be in my front yard. She’s yelling back at him that she’s peeing. This was her badge of honor. Hubby is yelling back that she is peeing on our land. Now I understand that this is not the Ponderosa but I am in shock. This woman is peeing on my yard and yelling at hubby. She was miffed.
When did it become okay to pee on someone else’s yard? I missed the announcement. Hey, I went to charm school and I am quite sure that peeing in someone else’s yard was not in approval column. She knew we were home. I looked straight at her while walking up the ramp leading into my house. In order to get to my house she had to pull off a major highway, go a few blocks and turn again down my street. This is not a home you stumble upon. I understand having to pee urgently. We have all had that urge. Some of us have even peed in places that were not completely appropriate. I myself have peed in a men’s room or two. The ladies rooms were full and the men’s rooms were not. I always announced myself and had a lookout posted at the door to warn any unsuspecting guy who might have to go. Most guys are very understanding having girlfriends or wives who have been in my predicament. Concert halls are famous for having a lack of facilities for women. I have never peed on someone’s lawn, someone’s property, or next to their house. I prefer bathrooms. It’s sort of a rule that I have. The pooper/peeer finished her business while hubby was yelling at her to take her parts and go home and pee in front of her own house if she had such a thirst for the outdoors experience. This was a picture in itself. He is yelling at her and she is yelling back while bearing herself in pink bedroom slippers and wiping herself. She brought her own paper. Why didn’t she put that much thought into finding a bathroom that was not in the great outdoors. Hubby finally came back in the house when she got in her car. She pulled backwards, turned her wheel and starting blowing her horn which she did for several minutes in front of my house. She was highly annoyed.
I wondered if the lawn lady would return at night. If she was that miffed she knows were I live. Maybe she has a hubby who also enjoys the outdoor experience. Maybe there are children as well. This whole family could come and just pee intermittently on my yard. What if their real thrill is the after dark outdoor experience. I decided that the whole experience was overwhelming so I went to bed. Done. Go into denial. It’s amazing how television numbs the mind when you need it to. I got up this morning and went to get the paper, and there was a large wet spot on the porch. I looked at my son and he at me. I have seen that same spot every morning that there is dew for 20 years but today was a day of possibilities. I win!
I mentioned to hubby that there was a car out front. He is the official car checker person in our household. He accepts this responsibility and does it with enthusiasm. He looks out and sees the car, stopped next to our van. The person is out of the car. He watches to see exactly what they are doing. Hubby is beside himself. They appear to be pooping. He starts yelling that there is a guy pooping on our lot. A few seconds pass and he is still yelling about how much nerve it takes to poop in someone’s yard before he runs out of the front door and yells at the pooper telling them to stop pooping in our yard. Then he realizes that the pooper is a lady. She is wearing pink bedroom slippers. And holding a napkin or toilet paper so that she can wipe herself. I’m not feeling gratitude that she brought proper paper. She is pooping on my lawn. She starts yelling back at him to call the police. She must have been a little nervous. Here she is trying to poop in peace and there comes an irate guy yelling at her. He tells her that he did call the police. Then she starts yelling at him that she isn’t pooping. She’s peeing. Whatever she does she is showing her private parts. Parts that quite frankly don’t need to be in my front yard. She’s yelling back at him that she’s peeing. This was her badge of honor. Hubby is yelling back that she is peeing on our land. Now I understand that this is not the Ponderosa but I am in shock. This woman is peeing on my yard and yelling at hubby. She was miffed.
When did it become okay to pee on someone else’s yard? I missed the announcement. Hey, I went to charm school and I am quite sure that peeing in someone else’s yard was not in approval column. She knew we were home. I looked straight at her while walking up the ramp leading into my house. In order to get to my house she had to pull off a major highway, go a few blocks and turn again down my street. This is not a home you stumble upon. I understand having to pee urgently. We have all had that urge. Some of us have even peed in places that were not completely appropriate. I myself have peed in a men’s room or two. The ladies rooms were full and the men’s rooms were not. I always announced myself and had a lookout posted at the door to warn any unsuspecting guy who might have to go. Most guys are very understanding having girlfriends or wives who have been in my predicament. Concert halls are famous for having a lack of facilities for women. I have never peed on someone’s lawn, someone’s property, or next to their house. I prefer bathrooms. It’s sort of a rule that I have. The pooper/peeer finished her business while hubby was yelling at her to take her parts and go home and pee in front of her own house if she had such a thirst for the outdoors experience. This was a picture in itself. He is yelling at her and she is yelling back while bearing herself in pink bedroom slippers and wiping herself. She brought her own paper. Why didn’t she put that much thought into finding a bathroom that was not in the great outdoors. Hubby finally came back in the house when she got in her car. She pulled backwards, turned her wheel and starting blowing her horn which she did for several minutes in front of my house. She was highly annoyed.
I wondered if the lawn lady would return at night. If she was that miffed she knows were I live. Maybe she has a hubby who also enjoys the outdoor experience. Maybe there are children as well. This whole family could come and just pee intermittently on my yard. What if their real thrill is the after dark outdoor experience. I decided that the whole experience was overwhelming so I went to bed. Done. Go into denial. It’s amazing how television numbs the mind when you need it to. I got up this morning and went to get the paper, and there was a large wet spot on the porch. I looked at my son and he at me. I have seen that same spot every morning that there is dew for 20 years but today was a day of possibilities. I win!
Toxic Bread
There are people in this world that like to bake bread. They are good and kind people. There are people in the world who get paid to bake bread. They are called bakers. Use these people wisely. I am not a baker. I like to go to a store, and buy my bread already made. They are so nice at the store, they even wrap the bread for me.
It is all Martha Stewart’s fault. I need to blame someone, so I might as well blame Martha. She started this whole movement. It has invaded my house. It has trampled on my domain. It started out with the best of intentions but then it went horribly wrong. Hubby thought he was doing something kind when he got me a bread making machine.
I put the bread maker, still in its’ box, underneath a chair in the kitchen. I dusted the box lovingly every day. A few days later I opened the box and took out the directions. They were written by people who know how to bake. I thought I should take my time and read them over and over again. I was trying to pace myself. I estimated that it would take me at least two weeks to really understand them. It took me three.
I knew the day would come when I would have to use the machine. I would have to make the attempt. There are only so many times a grown woman can dust a box off without feeling really guilty. Well, today the jig was up. Today was my day of reckoning.
I opened the box and removed the machine. Then I dusted off the machine. It was easier than the dusting off the box. I carefully followed the directions for cleaning it before using it. I measured out all of the ingredients and placed them in the machine, in the exact order specified in the recipe. The yeast is not allowed to touch the liquid ingredients or something horrible will happen. I don’t know what the horrible thing is, but I figure that the people that know how to bake know what the horrible thing is, and that is good enough for me.
Then comes the test. You are supposed to close the lid and plug it in. Then press the MENU and punch in all the right numbers telling the machine what size loaf to make, what kind of bread it is, and how long you want to bake it. Then you push start, it goes beep and starts.
My machine did not read the instructions. The second the plug hit the socket it started to beep. The little digital area was flashing. I couldn’t get it to stop. I pressed the stop button. I pushed the MENU button. I pushed every button. It wouldn’t stop beeping. It wouldn’t take my instructions and it was making a noise. It sounded like thumpwak, thumpwak, thumpwak. I don’t know much about mechanical things but I know it’s not supposed to sound like that. This machine has a mind of it’s own. In desperation, I finally grabbed a chair, and a flashlight. I stood over the machine with the mind of it’s own, pressing on the MENU button with the force of a weight lifter. It finally responded with the correct screen. Success at last! I punched in the selected items and the machine with a mind of it’s own started doing something that resembled what the instructions said it would do. I set it for an ultra fast cycle. In 58 minutes I would have fresh baked bread. Maybe I should not be mad at Martha.
About half way through the baking process a smell started wafting through the house. It was not the smell of bread baking. It was the smell of burning rubber. The children kept popping into the house. One whiff of the burning rubber brought “What’s that SMELL?” and grasping their noses as they ran back outside.
The buzzer went off exactly 58 minutes later. I lifted the lid and stared into my bread machine. The pan that holds the freshly baked bread was half empty. It was supposed to hold a pound and a half loaf of freshly baked bread. I lifted it gingerly out of the machine hoping against all odds that the rest of my one and a half pound loaf was hanging out the other end of the pan. It wasn’t. I am the proud baker of a 3 inch cube of bread. The bread is still sitting on the counter. I am not sure what I am supposed to do with a 3 inch cube of bread. I’m afraid to let the children eat it. There is obviously something genetically wrong with my bread cube. This 3 inch cube has enough yeast and ingredients for a pound and a half loaf. It is one large chemical imbalance. I have visions of trying to explain to the doctor in the emergency room why I let my children eat a super concentrated, chemically imbalanced, 3 inch cube of bread, as the child protection people come and haul me away.
The machine with a mind of it’s own is back in it’s box. Out of respect to Martha, I have given the box a new place. It is not under the chair. The box is now covered with cute shelf paper. It is my own personal step stool. This is the true calling of the machine with a mind of it’s own. It looks cute, helps me when I need it and no longer beckons me to bake toxic 3inch cubes of bread. I sent a letter of thanks to my bakery.
It is all Martha Stewart’s fault. I need to blame someone, so I might as well blame Martha. She started this whole movement. It has invaded my house. It has trampled on my domain. It started out with the best of intentions but then it went horribly wrong. Hubby thought he was doing something kind when he got me a bread making machine.
I put the bread maker, still in its’ box, underneath a chair in the kitchen. I dusted the box lovingly every day. A few days later I opened the box and took out the directions. They were written by people who know how to bake. I thought I should take my time and read them over and over again. I was trying to pace myself. I estimated that it would take me at least two weeks to really understand them. It took me three.
I knew the day would come when I would have to use the machine. I would have to make the attempt. There are only so many times a grown woman can dust a box off without feeling really guilty. Well, today the jig was up. Today was my day of reckoning.
I opened the box and removed the machine. Then I dusted off the machine. It was easier than the dusting off the box. I carefully followed the directions for cleaning it before using it. I measured out all of the ingredients and placed them in the machine, in the exact order specified in the recipe. The yeast is not allowed to touch the liquid ingredients or something horrible will happen. I don’t know what the horrible thing is, but I figure that the people that know how to bake know what the horrible thing is, and that is good enough for me.
Then comes the test. You are supposed to close the lid and plug it in. Then press the MENU and punch in all the right numbers telling the machine what size loaf to make, what kind of bread it is, and how long you want to bake it. Then you push start, it goes beep and starts.
My machine did not read the instructions. The second the plug hit the socket it started to beep. The little digital area was flashing. I couldn’t get it to stop. I pressed the stop button. I pushed the MENU button. I pushed every button. It wouldn’t stop beeping. It wouldn’t take my instructions and it was making a noise. It sounded like thumpwak, thumpwak, thumpwak. I don’t know much about mechanical things but I know it’s not supposed to sound like that. This machine has a mind of it’s own. In desperation, I finally grabbed a chair, and a flashlight. I stood over the machine with the mind of it’s own, pressing on the MENU button with the force of a weight lifter. It finally responded with the correct screen. Success at last! I punched in the selected items and the machine with a mind of it’s own started doing something that resembled what the instructions said it would do. I set it for an ultra fast cycle. In 58 minutes I would have fresh baked bread. Maybe I should not be mad at Martha.
About half way through the baking process a smell started wafting through the house. It was not the smell of bread baking. It was the smell of burning rubber. The children kept popping into the house. One whiff of the burning rubber brought “What’s that SMELL?” and grasping their noses as they ran back outside.
The buzzer went off exactly 58 minutes later. I lifted the lid and stared into my bread machine. The pan that holds the freshly baked bread was half empty. It was supposed to hold a pound and a half loaf of freshly baked bread. I lifted it gingerly out of the machine hoping against all odds that the rest of my one and a half pound loaf was hanging out the other end of the pan. It wasn’t. I am the proud baker of a 3 inch cube of bread. The bread is still sitting on the counter. I am not sure what I am supposed to do with a 3 inch cube of bread. I’m afraid to let the children eat it. There is obviously something genetically wrong with my bread cube. This 3 inch cube has enough yeast and ingredients for a pound and a half loaf. It is one large chemical imbalance. I have visions of trying to explain to the doctor in the emergency room why I let my children eat a super concentrated, chemically imbalanced, 3 inch cube of bread, as the child protection people come and haul me away.
The machine with a mind of it’s own is back in it’s box. Out of respect to Martha, I have given the box a new place. It is not under the chair. The box is now covered with cute shelf paper. It is my own personal step stool. This is the true calling of the machine with a mind of it’s own. It looks cute, helps me when I need it and no longer beckons me to bake toxic 3inch cubes of bread. I sent a letter of thanks to my bakery.
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