Take A Seat

It just made me laugh, so I took a picture of it. 

I don’t even know why I saw it. Who walks down the street with their dog, looks up at a two story house, and thinks, “I wonder if the neighbors put a chair on their roof today? And what does it mean?”

There are so many possibilities.

It’s an empty house, so maybe it’s a foreclosed owner’s way of giving the bank the finger. Or in this case, the rung.

Gotta give them a “thumbs up” for creativity. But how did they get it up there without breaking a single tile—or even a single neck? It’s perfectly balanced on the highest, pointiest eave. Did they wire it up there? If not, will it fall to the east or to the west when the winds kick up today? And when it lands on a pedestrian’s head, will they run home screaming that the sky is falling?

That’s ridiculous. The sky isn’t built out of chairs. Talk about overreacting.

These are the kind of questions that keep me up at night. There’s not a lot to do when you’re waiting for melatonin to kick in. Guess I’m pretty boring when you think about it.

Maybe it’s a metaphor for life. For example, climb to the peak of your dreams and when you arrive, take a seat—you’re the king of the world! Enjoy the view. Don’t get too comfy, though, it’s a precarious spot. One false move, Jack, and you’ll fall down and break your crown.

How depressing.

That can’t be it. Well, the house across the street has a giant fake owl perched in the transom of their second floor gable. It’s supposed to scare off real live pigeons so they won’t roost and poop. I think. Maybe this is something like that.

But this house seems friendlier. A chair on the roof says, “Bring me your tired, your poor and your huddled masses” of string-stealing, patio-pooping, puppy dive-bombing fowl friends. I didn’t see a single tired bird huddling there this morning, though.  Most of them were in my yard eating the rye grass seed we bought them for lunch last week.

I hate birds. But that’s another blog.

This chair is a puzzle. It looks so serene up there all by itself, barely noticed by tired drivers hurrying home for dinner. Is it lonely? An introvert? Or maybe it’s arrogant, and proud to be elevated above its station.

“Fine,” it once thought to itself, “craft me into a common piece of furniture if you must, but I have aspirations! Confidence! An unusually high opinion of myself!  And possibly a little dizziness.”

No, I think I figured it out. It’s not even complicated. Either our neighborhood lost a great comedian when these neighbors left—or that was one Biblical marriage.  Ever read Proverbs 21:9?

“Better to live on a corner of the roof than share a house with a quarrelsome wife.”

Well, one of them was a comedian.

Enough!

Do you like a yappy dog? A happy dog? A snappy dog?

A lonely, barky, ratty dog who yaps so much it makes me blog
A whiny, grumpy monologue?
What makes an owner leave their dog to bark til I am in a fog?

Enough!

If a dog is man’s best friend
Why don’t they bring them in with them?
Why turn them loose to bark until I want to shoot them (which is sin)
And then I must get saved again.

Enough! 

You laugh because you hear them, too, it’s like we both live in a zoo,
A zoo with noisy cockapoos and neighbors with bad attitudes – which I can’t help!
You’d understand if you were me and couldn’t see the sanity
Of people, nice as they can be,Who overlook the symphony that they allow in keys of D …sharp . . . .

Enough!

I’ve had it! Can you hear me yell? At neighbors and their dogs from . . .
HELP me find some inner peace when dogs next door have been released
To do their best to wreck my sleep and shatter morn's tranquility.

Enough!

I guess I’ve carried on so much you now are wishing I’d shut up
Since dogs can’t read it makes no sense for me to vent and vent like this
The only good it’s done today is make me feel I’ve had my say. 

And now I think, as calm surrounds, and dogs next door now make no sound,
In honesty, it seems to me that dogs and their cacophony
Are just the same as you and me - they share opinions eagerly 

And once run out of things to say
Recharging in the sun they lay
They’ll bark and bark another day
Until I’ve had . . .  

Enough.

 

 

Clear As Mud

“It’s the best thing since sliced bread.” 

I don’t know about you, but I don’t remember when bread wasn’t sliced. It’s always been sliced. It’s part of the way it’s grown—sliced, on the vine and from the vine, and then tied up in a plastic bag marked Wonder.   So when my friend used this brand new expression on me, well, forgive me, but I thought she was kind of dumb.

That’s what happens when you move from the west to the south. You meet new people and learn foreign phrases. Like “toad strangler.”  I don’t touch toads. I don’t mind if other people strangle them since I’m not sure why they survived the Great Dinosaur Extinction unscathed. But, personally, I refuse to touch a toad.

So what is a toad strangler?

Is it against the law to choke toads? Was the Great Toad Strangler a distant cousin of the Boston Strangler? Are the authorities still looking for him?

Okay. It turns out in Florida, whenever there’s a torrential downpour, they call it “a toad strangler.” I think that’s weird. I’ve lived through a lot of serious rainstorms in the south and not once have I seen the roads littered the next morning with drowned toads. See, that’s how they survived the Great Dinosaur Extinction.

Toads.Float.

Enough frog talk. Amphibians are gross.  Back to the kitchen. Here’s another one. In the south, when a cook’s potluck casserole exceeds the recommended daily amount of sodium, someone might comment that she “stubbed her toe on the salt.”

Now let’s think about that.

Do you realize how small a piece of salt is? I know some women who are proud of their tiny feet—don’t get me started on that one—but do they seriously want me to believe that their Princess And The Pea Complex could actually trip them up on a grain of salt?  I saw one of those under the microscope when I was thirteen. I think someone could stub their toe on a microscope, but beyond that . . . And frankly, if someone has their feet anywhere near a casserole they bring to a church potluck, I’m not touching it, sister.  I don’t care how high the sodium content is.

I think the problem is people don’t say what they really mean. If it’s raining cats and dogs outside, then just say that. If there’s a new fangled invention that really flips your switch, that’s all you need to tell me. And if you think I’m a lousy chef whose salty casserole makes you want to drink like a fish, you should keep that opinion to yourself.

See, discretion is the better part of valor, which is a Yankee expression meaning “she has a nasty right hook.”And that little piece of info right there could save your life at a church potluck.

Which might very well make it the best thing since sliced bread.

Waffling

I've never been a breakfast person. 

I don’t wake up hungry—I just wake up sleepy. And even though I enjoy the calm of that hour just before lunch, it takes me a while to snap out of my coma and figure out where I am. My husband, on the other hand, has veins full of sunshine. Do you have any idea how annoying it is for a zombie to be married to the Good Humor Man?

I can’t help being sluggish—it’s like my veins are full of molasses.  But I can’t handle caffeine, and cold cereal is of the devil, so mornings are a challenge. When I was a teenager, I thought leftover pizza and potato salad were the breakfast of champions, and an iced tea chaser was the bomb.

Those days are gone.

Welcome to midlife—land of nutritional guidelines and disapproving doctors. I’ll say this for me, though—I never skip breakfast, no matter how boring it is. I rarely skip any meals, but discussing that could only lead to hurt feelings and grudges, so let’s not go there.

Rob and I drove to Kentucky recently to visit our kids and grandbabies. Our first night on the road we slept well and the next morning went down to the hotel lobby to check out their breakfast bar. I was practically awake at the time, so I did a quick survey of the room and suddenly I saw it. Alone and unclaimed, it called out to me.

The waffle maker.

Waffle makers rock. They are the highlight of a free breakfast and I hardly ever get there first so I hardly ever get a free waffle. But today was different. Today I went directly to the round, flippy machine, poured in a Dixie cup of prepared batter, shut the lid, turned it over and waited for three little beeps to announce the arrival of an epicurean fantasy.

At the far end of the counter, I piled scrambled eggs on my plate, surveyed the sausage—not bad—and took my bounty to the last empty table in the room to listen for those tantalizing beeps.  Like Wile E. Coyote, impatient and drooling, I sat mesmerized by the thought of a buttery, imitation maple syrup-drenched waffle and finally understood his Roadrunner addiction. 

Then I ate a piece of sausage.

After entire minutes of anticipation, I heard them—THREE TRIUMPHANT BEEPS! Grabbing my medium sized paper plate, I scooched the eggs to one side, lifted up the lid of the shiny, steamy appliance and . . .

It was empty.

Cleaned out like a burgled bank vault.  I nearly wept at the shock. And then, as the stages of grief set in, anger welled up in me and blew open my big mouth.

“Somebody took my waffle!” I announced to the entire room.  “I can’t believe it!  Somebody took my waffle!”

Rob rushed to my side.

“Hush,” he said, “everyone’s looking.”

“But I can’t believe it!” I told him, as he pulled me away from the violated appliance.  “Who would do something like that!  Right here in America—who walks over in broad daylight and just takes somebody else’s waffle?”

“You can make another one,” he said, placating me with an impossible dream.

“I don’t want another one,” I told him, “I wanted that one!”

We sat down across from a man who looked at me and timidly asked, “Did somebody take your waffle?”

Rob shook his head and got up, walking away, but it was too late—everyone knew he was with me. I scanned the room for the perpetrator of this crime, but no one had the decency to make eye contact. 

And no one was eating a waffle.

“Guess they wolfed it down,” I muttered to the empty chair across from me, suddenly vacated by the shrewd stranger. I finished my breakfast alone, pondering the gall it took for someone to whisk away another person’s waffle and never even apologize.

“I don’t think I want to live in a country where no one respects another person’s right to their own waffle,” I muttered bitterly, swallowing the last piece of cold scrambled egg.  “I hate breakfast,” I said and threw my soggy plate in the overflowing trash.

Oddly overcooked smells began wafting throughout the crowded breakfast room and, distracted from my heartache, I tuned in to a loudening clamor behind me brought on by the acrid aroma.

“Where’s that lady who couldn’t find her waffle?” a tall man said to his seated wife.  “The one with the red hair?”

Every eye in the room now focused on me. Sure. Now they care, I thought defensively.

“I found your waffle,” he said. “It was still cooking on the other side of this two-sided appliance,” and he held up a black hockey puck that used to be my coveted breakfast.

Oh.

On the upside, I’m not the only one who hates breakfast now. On the downside, Rob refuses to book us in any more hotels with breakfast rooms. But for the record, my faith in America has been restored. And I’ve sworn off waffles forever.

Who needs breakfast. I’ll just sleep another hour til lunch.




Thanks to Jonathan McIntosh for this mouth-watering breakfast image. I bet they're good for lunch, too. You can see more of Jonathan's amazing photos, as well as view the original of this shot, at
https://www.flickr.com/photos/jonathanmcintosh/3751958052/in/photolist-6HxLpW-5nNXFZ-28ZNVv-9wbg1r-am9fjK-fmKqPK-6BP3Tf-qYMU7d-aymZqg-5HtpGC-SMpawz-bgDuse-5Epqcy-a4yBJR-4SRimY-6KJYsT-99L7aM-4hamp6-98jStC-Guovy-dd9PHS-4srfyQ-8Pf5ci-64gvNr-qGRVoH-bUJre9-52rXk-8RV6wU-p3VaC-96nmP7-agh3VL-gkygN-5Agn5c-moXZq4-a7jKJW-4kjNjx-oh2kGb-5CdDQ4-bzBrDD-dYKRhA-9mT3mT-8NX3jV-7HCkuZ-apjDrb-5iviZ8-bAydXy-fvUiWh-4BPBag-bctNWn-4itmtY

Mistaken Identity

I’m pretty sure they were framed.

I know these two. They can’t even spell “selfish”. Well, okay, one of them can, but with her five-year-old phonetics, it reads more like Sell Fish. She’s so cute. And so’s the little one.

I think it was just an overwhelming case of circumstantial evidence. I know how this works—I was a mother once. You hear a few raised voices in the other room and suddenly your blood pressure shoots up. Then before you can say, “Stop that fighting!” somebody’s in time-out and somebody else is, too.

Meanwhile, the perpetrators of the whole affair go scot free, floating away from the crime scene, their own reputations unbesmirched. It’s a crime, I tell ya. Everybody’s fooled by those happy-go-lucky types.

Everyone except me. I know their MO.  See, I’m kind of like a Grandma MacGyver. And believe you me, I’m qualified. After years of experience raising my own children, I’m both confused and suspicious.

So today my daughter handed over the innocent looking ringleaders of yesterday’s skirmish and told me to take them to my house. Like I could control them. Dreamer.

“The girls were fighting over them,” she alleged, implicating my precious granddaughters without even a cross examination. Well, actually there was an examination and the evidence made her cross. But I had a sneaky feeling the real suspects were the two who couldn’t make eye contact with me.

Reluctantly, I wrestled them out to the truck, tucked them in safely behind my seat, turned on the A/C so we’d all be comfy, and pulled out of the driveway. That’s when the trouble started.

Jostling and shoving, bumping into each other and getting in my face, I realized suddenly those two oddballs had pulled out of their restraints. And somehow, there they were, up in the front seat with me!  I pushed them back so I could safely see around them, but I was outnumbered. Bobbing and lurching, they blocked my view of the windows and mirrors and I nearly drove off the road before miraculously I grabbed them both and put them in their place.

“Aha!” I announced to . . . no one in particular. “So it was you two all along!”  Feeling pretty proud of cracking this case, I could hardly wait to tell my daughter. However, I restrained myself—I wasn’t born yesterday, ya know.

Finally at home, I put those two in timeout where they eventually calmed down. I just had to deflate their supersized egos a little. It wasn’t pretty, but I had no choice.

See, I’m soft and tough.

Hand me a couple of miscreant balloons and I can make ‘em regret they ever wished anybody a happy birthday.

Party animals.

Dancing in the Dark

"What are you laughing at?” I asked my son and daughter-in-law while we visited them and the grandbabies in Kentucky.  They passed me a video baby monitor of Tully, their two-year-old, who’d been in bed for an hour or two. The picture was pretty super-spy high tech since it was filming in the dark, but the image was unmistakable. Their pajama clad redhead was on her feet in the crib, dancing and swaying at her own private party.

“And a little child will lead them,” Isaiah said.

I had a hysterectomy three months ago today.  I was asleep when it happened and when I woke up, I was missing quite a few original body parts. It’s scary what can happen to you when you’re not paying attention.

The doctor told me it would take 6-8 weeks for my body to heal. I wasn’t allowed to lift anything heavier than my head off the pillow. My sister-in-law gave me permission to be treated like a princess for two months, which made my husband a bit of a bondservant. Oh.  That’s what it meant when he promised ‘for better or for worse.’

I feel really bad about that.

Every night for the first month I woke him up once or twice to help me get out of bed for pain meds, new ice packs and bathroom visitation.  It was like having a newborn in the house again, only bigger. And whinier. I needed help with everything.  Getting in and out of a chair. Getting in and out of my clothes. Getting in and out of the shower and the car.  Why he doesn’t have a sprained back, I’ll never know.  I guess all that carrying me through life for the last 37 years paid off.

Two weeks after my surgery I finally experienced what most of my friends have been talking about for ages—my very own hot flashes.  Private summers, power surges, no-spring-chicken fevers.  I.Had.No.Idea.  And I apologize to my friend for laughing that day she walked through my front door, straight into the kitchen, and stuck her head in my freezer.  Now I understand.

I found some meds that relieved those personal visits to the tropics, but not everything is hunky dory in EulaLand.  Turns out it was eight weeks for the surgery to heal. It’s taking a bit longer for my soul and body to adjust to the new normal.
 

I feel like a two-year-old again. Every day I need a nap.  But I don't want a nap.  I want to do what I want to do. Most days I don't have a choice about it, though. I need a nap, cuz I can actually stay awake until ten or ten thirty at night if I take a nap.  And if I don’t take a nap? Been around any toddlers when they reach their melting point?

This is so humiliating. 

So there I lay this afternoon, listening to Zen music on the TV, counting elderly sheep who can’t jump a fence, trying to relax and turn off my brain, and after forty-five minutes—nothing.  I knew I needed some sleep but just telling somebody to go to sleep works about as well as telling Congress to balance a budget—no comprendo.

I finally decided laying there for a while was better than nothing and got up. Every day I am better. I wish I was back to normal right now, but I have so much to be thankful for that feeling fatigued for a few months instead of worried about cancer seems like a small price to pay. So while I keep recovering and finding my own unique way back to me, as bewildering as it is sometimes, I'll at least be good and take my naps. And I'll try to keep in mind what my granddaughter does when she can’t make sense out of down time, either.

I’ll dance in the dark. 

Poor Rob. I hope he doesn’t mind another redheaded pajama party.

Redhead

I don’t know what came over me. I could blame it on my red hair, but now my natural color is gray—no blonde roots here.  Maybe Target's to blame for expecting all of us to stand patiently, three carts deep, in two open checkout lines. I’d be happy to blame it on the guy in front of me who made sure he got into the shorter line before I did, but he must have already had a rough day.

Poor baby.

He had three items in his hand. I had about twenty in my cart. Impatiently he kept his options open, standing back from the woman in front of him just far enough so he could sprint to the next checkout counter if the Target gods deemed to open one.

They did. I was invited first. Boy was he ticked off.

But I didn’t know he was upset until all my purchases were bagged and in the cart. I saw him and the barbed wire tattoo he flaunted on his arm, leaning against the wall, with his stuff all paid for as I began to walk away.  "Good for him, that guy got done already," I thought. Then I heard him behind me as I headed for the door.

“Yeah, it happened to me again,” he said to the invisible comforter on his cell phone.  “They opened up a line next to me and some lady behind me jumped into it before I could get there.”

Hmm, I thought, there was a guy in front of me with a tattoo on his arm who seemed really impatient, and I am a lady who was behind him when a clerk motioned me over to the next line—I’ll bet I’m the lady!

All my red hair turned redder.

“People are so selfish these days,” he continued loudly on a call I now realized was directed at me and probably not even connected. “People used to offer their place in line to someone with only three items, but not this lady. I don’t know what this world is coming to,” he complained closely in my ear. 

I stopped and let him pass.

“Really?” I spoke to his back.  “The man motioned me over.  You’re ridiculous.”

All the way out the door, his voice growing louder and louder while he courageously put me in my place on his cell phone, he assaulted my reputation and demeaned my existence.  He probably wasn’t too impressed with the dog food in my cart, either. Finally he “hung up” as we both cleared the automatic doors and I commented on his comments. Loudly. In his direction.

See? Red hair is a curse.

“The world used to be full of gentlemen, too,” I said in the wind which was blowing northwest toward his self-righteous back. Then I headed for my truck. The big giant one with the personalized plates that psychos might be able to somehow look up so they can begin stalking your house. 

“What did you say to me?”  he shouted across the parking lot.  “You only think of yourself, don’t you?” he shouted again, heading now towards me. I missed the rest of his genius monologue because of that northwest breeze that blew his words back at him. But I still began to pray in tongues that God would surround my truck with images of gorillas. I heard stalkers are afraid of gorillas.

Something stopped him as I began loading bags into my truck, and he cut short his attack. I never spoke to him again or looked his direction. But after I pulled out of the parking lot and came to a stop at the next light, I saw a small black car behind me whose driver had the attitude of someone who’d had to stay put in a checkout line.

We both pulled through the light and then he quickly pulled in front of me, slammed on his brakes, and as I moved into the left lane, he swung widely in front of me, stopping abruptly again before turning right and roaring off to nurse his wounds.

Boy. He sure showed me.

If I'd known how hurt the little guy would be by letting a woman go first, I'd have probably done the same thing again.  Even bullies could use some manners. The world is in dire need of a few more gentlemen. And if there really was someone on the other end of that cell phone, I pity them.  There's obviously only one adult in that marriage.

Fine.  I guess red really is my natural hair color.

Red hair courtesy of Michael W. May's photostream at
http://www.flickr.com/photos/14609664@N06/5133365949/in/photolist-8PBQRt-dvFPx2-dssYNC-dssNRF-dssNKc-dssYyA-dssNTx-9R9RvJ-7VhS1o-84tBB1-84cnmr-8yKoBw-95Qjpt-dfNgnR-aDVfTL-8iehuB-8iehuF-8iehux-8A1rtf-cW8X8E-8CkPrg-8A1rqA-aERfmH-c1CwQq-bZPccS-apKMfJ-dwvzt6-7UWBEd-8Cq69b-95o9dr-87sHP6-87vVQW-87vWjf-a9uMos-87sJAt-9o4dte-8A9FWf-9vyswU-apKLYS-apKM61-8mme85-8EgcgP-8Yiivw-7A27zY-87sK8p
 

Agitation



I don't know what to believe anymore.

Won't we save our planet and the landfills and our children’s future if we don't consume so much? I thought less is more and downsizing is better than supersizing.

Are you as confused as I am?

Procter and Gamble have a new commercial which promises that “caring for your clothes just got easier”. All you have to do is buy Tide detergent plus Downey fabric softener plus Bounce softener sheets and use all three for every load of clothes you wash.

I’m no math genius, but it looks to me like that should increase sales revenue for Procter and Gamble by fifty per cent.  And goober up your clothes with one hundred per cent more chemicals than necessary, leaving an oily film on your undies and preventing towels from absorbing water. And won’t all those empty Downey bottles and Bounce boxes make the landfills fill up with . . . less land?

That’s not the worst of it.

My firefighter husband told me loads of laundry ago that I should go easy on the liquid fabric softener because it makes clothes more flammable.  I may or may not have taken his advice. But I did look it up today, and what do you know? He’s a pretty good firefighter.

Using fabric softeners makes our clothes softer by bonding a chemical finish to the fibers, and that makes the fibers work like a wick when they get too close to a flame. Experts recommend using dryer sheets only, and only on every third wash.

On the other hand, Procter and Gamble wants us to double the amount of softeners in every load of laundry. And the kicker to their ad is this—they say if we follow their advice, it will make our clothes last longer. “Tide, Bounce and Downey together keeps our clothes looking newer 50% longer – they’re greater together,” the ad promises. Using both Downey and Bounce will save you money, they gush.

Unless you stand too close to a flame. Or spend twice as much money on fabric softeners as normal.

That’s the way advertising works, though. Remember the directions on shampoo bottles? Honestly, who needs directions to wash their hair? Lather, rinse, repeat.  That last little word doubled the sales of shampoo and secured the need for hair conditioners for all our dried out locks forever.

I wish I could think of one word to write that would double my income.

The whole thing gives me heartburn, to tell you the truth. Thank goodness I’ve got Alka Seltzer in the medicine cabinet.  A little “plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh, what a relief it is!” should take care of all this stomach acid. Except the truth is you only need one tablet, not two. They doubled our pleasure and doubled their fun in the 1960’s with that little jingle and their pre-packaged packets of two tablets.

Maybe they’re just too smart for the rest of us. Every mom on earth knows you’ve got to tell your kids something two or three times before they’ll listen to you. So if a little fabric softener is good, twice as much is better. If one heartburn tablet is good, two is fabulous.  If it says Libby's, Libby's, Libby's, on the label, label, label, I will like it, like it, like it, on the table, table, table. And every time she Meow, meow, meow, meow, Meow, meow, meow, meow, Meow, meow, meow, meow, Meow, meow, meow, meows, it hits me like a ton of bricks—even my cat is a sucker for ads.

Okay, I don’t have a cat. That was just a bunch of baloney, and if my baloney had a first name it’d be O-S-C-A-R. Like my dog. Cuz my dog’s better than your dog, my dog’s better than yours. Okay. Actually my dog’s name is Sydney.

What can I say. Sometimes I feel like a nut.

Sometimes I don’t.

http://shine.yahoo.com/cleaning/doing-laundry-wrong-141000491.html

http://www.komonews.com/news/archive/4014731.html

Profiles

Profiling.

It’s a nasty term today. Racial profiling. Sexual profiling. Religious Profiling. It’s all about prejudging someone. The Duck Dynasty brothers have been the victims of what they term ‘facial profiling’. Just this month, Jase Robertson, a man with a net worth of $10 million dollars, was escorted out of the Trump Plaza Hotel by a security guard who mistook him for a homeless man. Because he wears a beard.

Profiling, prejudging, jumping to conclusions because of someone’s appearance happens to all of us at least once in our lives. It has happened to me a lot. It happens to a lot of women a lot. We’re incapable of competing with airbrushed Hollywood icons and spend our lives hearing and reading in the faces of others that we don’t measure up and it’s all our fault.

Though all of us have weaknesses, some people assume that because I carry my personal struggle around in plain sight via excess pounds that I am ignorant of what to do about my size. I am not. They assume I overeat. I do not. They assume I am unfamiliar with exercise. I am not.

I have read more books on nutrition and diet options than people who are addicted to housewife porn. I can pronounce glucagon, can describe a medium chain fatty acid, have strong opinions about the safety and questions regarding HCG, and know that ketosis is a risk when you follow an Atkins plan. I have counted Weight Watcher points, gone cold turkey from sugar and wheat and caffeine and still kept my mind, and am not addicted to either alcohol or Starbucks, no matter what anyone says about me. I have never smoked or taken illegal drugs.

I am overweight. I struggle with it. I am embarrassed by it. But I do not require the advice or opinion of anyone who has never been in my shoes, nor will I offer unsolicited advice to others when I have not walked in theirs.  Not unless their name is Doctor and I’ve paid them for that opinion.

I’m smarter than I look, better read than some think, invested in my health, and tired of being profiled for my size.

I’m fat.  I’m not stupid. And I will conquer this eventually. But just for the record, shaming people so they will try again to fit our profile preference is never effective, regardless of the motives we insist are behind our words of ‘concern.’

You have your struggle, I have mine. Can we change the subject now?

Dictionary Fail

It’s a rainy day and my funny bone is acting up again.

I had a mile long list of errands to run, and chores screaming my name, but hey—it’s not my fault the sky clouded up and I landed in my favorite chair instead of my favorite Lube Shop. Wait. I don’t have a favorite Lube Shop.  And that’s why I’m sitting in my favorite chair.

I’ve been so critical of misspellings and mispronunciations lately, I’ve decided it’s easier to join them than beat them. Even though it’s very very tempting to beat them. Especially if some of them are from New Jersey.

Now, wait. Don’t send your cousin Vinny over to teach me a lesson. I got nothin’ against New Jersey. Except maybe a little mispronunciation.  And grammatical mis-cues.

Remember “The Situation” from TV’s Jersey Shore? Some of his best lines included, “You’re the worst argument person ever.”  And, “I’m like, a pretty deep dude.”

Or from his buddy, Ronnie, “I’ve drunken a lot more than I’ve drunken tonight.” 

I’d have given you a few more quotes, but these were the only ones that weren’t profane or full of innuendos. And anyway, who on earth nicknames himself, “The Situation”?  You don’t put a “The” in front of a noun and call it your name. That’s just The Stupid.

Sheesh. I wasn’t even watching Jersey Shore today.

I was watching I Found The Gown—from my favorite chair—when a confident bride from New Jersey burst onto my sense of humor.  She and her whole entourage lit up the screen with great dialects and accents and not a little bit of overconfidence.

“This is sooo meeee!” the bride radiated. “Ooh, I cain’t even haindle it!”  Then she discreetly spoke into the camera, “I consider myself to be a bit of a fastoneesha on the budget.”  That one sent my Spell Check into heart failure while Grammar Check just rolled over and died.

“The most . . . impinionate person today would be Christina,” she said of a bridesmaid. “She’s just always opinionated.”  I had to guess how to even spell impinionate. I have so much more respect now for court reporters.

It’s not all wedding gowns and gym, tan, laundry on cable today, though. I watch classy shows, too, ya know. Stuff like Storage Wars, where a respectable bid was dehydrated into the phrase, “Yuuup!”  

I’m tellin’ ya, the English language is evaporating Right.Before.Our.Ears.

Hostile rivalry between Dave Hester and Darryl Sheets is what keeps this show on the air. Well, that and Darryl’s grasp of his own importance.  The other night I heard him say, “That old lady looks like she’s gonna keel over!  I don’t know PCR!”

Yeah, there’s a lot you don’t know, Darryl.

I guess I could blame the downfall of America’s spelling and grammar empire on the media, but I’m beginning to think the evil genius behind it all is sitting on the table right next to me—my Smart Phone. With that text guessing thing it has, I’ve sent more ridiculous comments out than Snookie has ever even dreamed of saying.  (“That's why I don't eat freaking lobster or anything like that, because they’re alive when you kill it. That's disgusting.”).

It’s always trying to read my mind and get me into trouble. And since I hardly ever wear my glasses when I’m writing a text, that makes me a pretty easy target.  My daughter responded to a text once by telling me to put on my spectacles and read what I sent her.  I couldn’t.  It was written in Chinese.

Just now I tried to tell my husband to have a great day. Instead, I encouraged him to “have a good frau, baby.”  If he’s smart, he’ll tell me to put on my spectacles and confirm that message.

Oh, it doesn’t matter anymore. Our communication skills today are like a runaway train wreck. It’s all downhill from up there, if you ask me. And if you ask The Situation, he’ll just tell you,

“They have defied the law of intelligence.”

Yeah.  What he said.

Photo courtesy of ellajphillips' photostream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/25752111@N08/3794248248

Control

I don't know how it happened. I just . . . lost control.

Maybe I should have seen it coming, but it was like that time I got t-boned while I was driving—one minute I’m minding my own business looking for a Wendy’s and the next thing you know I’m shopping for a new car. Who knew somebody else’s agenda could wreak such havoc on mine?

So I took matters into my own hands this morning—I cleaned out the pantry. 

I have control over the pantry.

I threw out things from the pantry. That felt good. Taking out my aggressions on innocent potato chip bags feels good.

“See that?” I announced to the stale crackers.  “Don’t cross me or you’ll be next!”

Then I turned down the air conditioner one degree. I could have turned it down two degrees, but I chose only one degree because I am in control of the air conditioner. It doesn’t manipulate me with creative ways to cool me off unless the power company gets involved with stupid summer savings plans. And, so far, Obama hasn’t been able to force me to buy electricity his way so that ain’t gonna happen.

I.Control.The.Air.Conditioning.

Rob said I could.

And when hot flashes hit and the air conditioner is too slow, I have my own back-up plan—the ceiling fan. With the speed of a deadly gunfighter, I can whip out that remote lying nonchalantly next to me, aim it at the ceiling fan faster than you can say, “Take that, menopause!”, and turn my circle of influence into a category three hurricane in under three seconds.

I.Control.The.Ceiling.Fan.

Rob said I could.

So I don’t care that someone else tried to sabotage my genius. I can roll with the punches. Ride out the storm. Roll over and play dead.  The pantry is mine. The air conditioner is mine. The fan remote is mine. Rob is mine.

I still have some control.

Rob said I could.

Photo of warp speed ceiling fan courtesy of . . . me. I took this picture. With my camera phone. 'Cause I was in control. Ta-dah.

Siri-ously

What a gal.

Her birthday is October 4, 2011, and already she speaks nine languages. Her name is Norwegian and means “beautiful woman who leads you to victory.”  Not only is she the most intelligent two-year-old I’ve ever met, she’s got a great sense of humor.

I think I hate her. Can husbands have an affair with a phone app?

Rob traded in his old flip cell phone for a fancy new iPhone. Now he has his own “personal assistant and knowledge navigator.” I thought I was his personal assistant and navigator. I did a pretty good job in Chicago that one time. I bet Siri wouldn’t have gotten us lost in Battle Creek, Michigan, though.

Oh. So that’s why he bought Siri.

If you’re not an Apple connoisseur, you may never have met Siri. Allow me to introduce you. She’s a voice module in the iPhone which responds to verbal commands and eliminates your need to type. She can search the web, read your text messages to you, set and remind you of appointments, make phone calls and find you a good place to eat.

And crack jokes.

We may never be bored on a road trip again.

Siri, will you marry me?

My End User License Agreement does not cover marriage.

Do you believe in God?

My policy is the separation of spirit and silicon.

Where do babies come from?

Let me check on that. Okay. Here goes.  From their mothers.

What are you wearing?

You have the wrong personal assistant.

What’s the best computer?

If it’s made by Apple, then it’s the best computer.

What’s the best phone?

You’re kidding, right?

I love you, Siri.

That’s nice. Can we get back to work now?

She’s definitely a wise guy, but when we accused her of that, she told us “we were talking about you, not me.” Just like a woman, I thought.  She changed the subject.

Are you male or female?

I wasn’t assigned a gender.

If she doesn’t claim to be a girl, then why does she have a woman’s voice and a woman’s name?  I learned that if I try to use this app in the UK, it takes on a male voice and calls itself “Daniel.”  Of course, that raises a whole bunch of new questions—like why Britains prefer a male voice—but I’m afraid to ask Siri about this.

Apple says the software adapts to the user's individual preferences over time and personalizes results. She’s supposed to learn the nuances of your own voice so you don’t have to repeat yourself so often. In his Florida accent—which I’ve always said sounds like a Southern accent turned sideways—Rob mispronounced her name the first time and commanded,

“Sari, tell me a joke.”

“It’s okay,” she answered.

Not everybody’s as easy going as my best beloved, who took her response in stride. Some Bostonians and Scotsmen and sensitive Southerners aren’t talking to her anymore. If it were me, that would hurt my feelings. But I was pretty sure Siri is above that. So we asked her.

Siri, do you hold a grudge? 

“There’s a good question,” she replied. “Now, where were we?”

I knew it. She is a woman.





Photo courtesy of Porter Palmer's photostream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/92558721@N00/6768648855