I don't know whether to walk in shame or in pride for yesterday I took a short ride and parked for some reason by AT&T I caved, don't you see? Came home with a cell phone in my pocket but I'm beginning to think I might have to lock it in the house for safe-keeping For trust me my eyes are leaking it won't fit in my pocket dang thing is so big to carry it would drive me out of my wig Man-purse you say Get out of here go away There is no such thing Ring-a-ding-ding So grab my flip phone and out the door No bad choices today or forevermore. I hope.
Showing posts with label (not so) funny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label (not so) funny. Show all posts
Saturday, January 23, 2021
Thursday, August 23, 2018
Why?
I am a fan of air conditioning. Willis Carrier is my hero. Yet I ask "Why?" is this wonderful convenience so often and so severely abused? This is primarily in reference to public spaces. How you use your unit in your own home or in your automobile is your business. Enjoy. But it is essential, at least in the Midwest where summer temperatures typically hover in the nineties that one carry a jacket or sweat shirt with him if he is planning a foray into a restaurant or public office.
Following a number of wonderful days in Kansas where the temperatures were often in the low nineties we headed homeward. Typical Midwestern day, we stopped in Springfield, Illinois for an evening repast. We were seated eight feet, literally eight feet, from the device pictured here. Observe that it is set calling for 70oF and that the thermometer component records 70oF. I had to get up, go outside in the ninety degree heat, walk to my vehicle and get a jacket so that I could partake of my meal. Hands were still cold, but my heart kept beating.
Following a number of wonderful days in Kansas where the temperatures were often in the low nineties we headed homeward. Typical Midwestern day, we stopped in Springfield, Illinois for an evening repast. We were seated eight feet, literally eight feet, from the device pictured here. Observe that it is set calling for 70oF and that the thermometer component records 70oF. I had to get up, go outside in the ninety degree heat, walk to my vehicle and get a jacket so that I could partake of my meal. Hands were still cold, but my heart kept beating.
Wednesday, July 18, 2018
Weekend Adventures, part 3 #T
3. To the reunion! #T
Saturday, minutes before noon we arrived at the park for the reunion. The temperature could not have been measurably below 100oF, if any at all. But the organizers of the party foresaw this possibility-- I mean it was Southern Illinois, mid-July-- and our assemblage gathered in the reserved and nicely air conditioned meeting hall. Understand that the party included descendants of BBBH's paternal grandparents but also descendants of the sibling of one of the in-laws, a tribe that BBBH went to great pains to convince me that she is no relation to at all. She isn't, but what fun to tease her about some of the people connected, however distantly, to her relatives.
My approach to a houseful of strangers? I'm here, what have I got to lose. There were about 75 people present, fewer than they had at the last one of these we attended, but nevertheless a rather neat cross-section of mid-America. The attendees ranged in age from three to ninety-three, male and female, multiracial and bound to be a fun group to accost individually and require conversation of them. So that is what I did all afternoon, except for the time I was stuffing myself with goodies from the carry-in.
One young man, I'd say 58 to 60, I found as I asked him for his excuse for attending, is single, the result of a divorce, lives in the Florida Panhandle and is a distance runner. He was wearing his club logo and I asked if they had a website. He assured me they did and gave me the address. He and they run half-marathons, marathons, marathon-and-a-half, and hundred mile runs. I don't get it-- any of it-- and frankly admitted to him that while I admire people with such passion and tenacity I cannot run two steps, never could.
One old guy actually seemed to believe he was oldest man present. Absurd. There were at least three other guys older than he, including yours truly. He is 81. He found it hard to believe that brother Glenn is 93, but when I told him I am 84 he looked at me and said, "Yeah, I believe that; you certainly look it." I wandered off.
Visited a bit with a nicely coiffed white haired lady of a certain age. It turns out she lives less than 25 miles from us. She belongs to the clan to which BBBH denies relationship.
Big black man, 42 years old, six-foot three, 350 pounds (that's a guess-- could be more) was an interesting conversationalist. The two youngest of his five children were with him, daughters 13 and 17. He talked with pride of two of the others, including the one who had made him a grandparent. The fifth one, though, was the source of heartache for her father. I tried to give him some encouragement on that front, pointing out that she is still quite young and sometimes people have to pass forty before any good sense soaks in.
This man wore a name tag that read, "William," and he told me I could call him "Fat"; everyone does. I thanked him for including me in his circle, then told him that if I didn't know him I sure as heck would never walk up to him and call him Fat. Here he raised his right hand, back up, to show me the ring he wore. Very large-- really large-- gold ring with the word "FAT" embossed in raised letters and studded with 21 diamonds. Small diamonds it is true, but diamonds nevertheless. Blessings, Fat, live long and prosper.
In a facebook post I told the best story of the day by the man who told his mother-in-law, a life-long smoker and who had Alzheimer's that she did not smoke, and she believed him and never smoked again.
So the final one here, another young man, fifty-something, is a Spanish professor at a small Midwestern university. Serious conversation for the most part, two educators hashing out the problems and outlining the prospects for education in our land.
A good day; tired and so to the hotel to kick off the shoes, BBBH and I shared our individual stories of the day.
Saturday, minutes before noon we arrived at the park for the reunion. The temperature could not have been measurably below 100oF, if any at all. But the organizers of the party foresaw this possibility-- I mean it was Southern Illinois, mid-July-- and our assemblage gathered in the reserved and nicely air conditioned meeting hall. Understand that the party included descendants of BBBH's paternal grandparents but also descendants of the sibling of one of the in-laws, a tribe that BBBH went to great pains to convince me that she is no relation to at all. She isn't, but what fun to tease her about some of the people connected, however distantly, to her relatives.
My approach to a houseful of strangers? I'm here, what have I got to lose. There were about 75 people present, fewer than they had at the last one of these we attended, but nevertheless a rather neat cross-section of mid-America. The attendees ranged in age from three to ninety-three, male and female, multiracial and bound to be a fun group to accost individually and require conversation of them. So that is what I did all afternoon, except for the time I was stuffing myself with goodies from the carry-in.
One young man, I'd say 58 to 60, I found as I asked him for his excuse for attending, is single, the result of a divorce, lives in the Florida Panhandle and is a distance runner. He was wearing his club logo and I asked if they had a website. He assured me they did and gave me the address. He and they run half-marathons, marathons, marathon-and-a-half, and hundred mile runs. I don't get it-- any of it-- and frankly admitted to him that while I admire people with such passion and tenacity I cannot run two steps, never could.
One old guy actually seemed to believe he was oldest man present. Absurd. There were at least three other guys older than he, including yours truly. He is 81. He found it hard to believe that brother Glenn is 93, but when I told him I am 84 he looked at me and said, "Yeah, I believe that; you certainly look it." I wandered off.
Visited a bit with a nicely coiffed white haired lady of a certain age. It turns out she lives less than 25 miles from us. She belongs to the clan to which BBBH denies relationship.
Big black man, 42 years old, six-foot three, 350 pounds (that's a guess-- could be more) was an interesting conversationalist. The two youngest of his five children were with him, daughters 13 and 17. He talked with pride of two of the others, including the one who had made him a grandparent. The fifth one, though, was the source of heartache for her father. I tried to give him some encouragement on that front, pointing out that she is still quite young and sometimes people have to pass forty before any good sense soaks in.
This man wore a name tag that read, "William," and he told me I could call him "Fat"; everyone does. I thanked him for including me in his circle, then told him that if I didn't know him I sure as heck would never walk up to him and call him Fat. Here he raised his right hand, back up, to show me the ring he wore. Very large-- really large-- gold ring with the word "FAT" embossed in raised letters and studded with 21 diamonds. Small diamonds it is true, but diamonds nevertheless. Blessings, Fat, live long and prosper.
In a facebook post I told the best story of the day by the man who told his mother-in-law, a life-long smoker and who had Alzheimer's that she did not smoke, and she believed him and never smoked again.
So the final one here, another young man, fifty-something, is a Spanish professor at a small Midwestern university. Serious conversation for the most part, two educators hashing out the problems and outlining the prospects for education in our land.
A good day; tired and so to the hotel to kick off the shoes, BBBH and I shared our individual stories of the day.
Tuesday, July 17, 2018
Weekend Adventures, Part 2
2. Adventures in eating, continued
We checked into our hotel and took a bit of rest before calling the elder brother of BBBH. As usual, his son had to roust him from bed so he could take the call, but see how you do when you are 93. We invited him to have supper with us and we agreed on a pick-up time of 7:30. Glenn was ready when we arrived at his house. We agreed on a location and away we went for the evening adventure! His son drove along in his car, saying then we would not have to make the return trip to their house.
Where did we go? We chose a very popular chain restaurant most often found hard by a major highway, you know, the one with rocking chairs on the front porch. And two hundred thousand kitchy items for sale inside. But again, I digress.
Following the wait in the store-- and we all know the design here: sign in, get suckered into buying stuff you don't need while you wait. We were finally seated, orders placed. After a w h i l e our server returned with the food. BBBH got what she ordered. Glenn's order looked to be essentially what he called for, but the scrambled eggs looked to be a scrambled egg. "I said 'eggs,'" he said. "Well, they gave you one egg." John stated the obvious.
John got what he ordered. I got my turnip greens in a small bowl and my coleslaw in a small bowl and a biscuit on a full-sized dinner plate. We started to eat, I thinking that my meal would arrive presently. Finally after exhibiting entirely too much patience, I signaled the wait person and asked, "Where's my fish?" "Hunh? she replied. "I ordered fried catfish." She turned and walked away. I finished my green stuff, which was good, by the way, and still no fish. I filed this complaint with a manager, young man very apologetic. He soon had my fish delivered. Good thing everyone else had eaten by then, for the aroma nearly sent all my dinner companions into the next room, and I was less than pleased. I looked at the four sorry pieces of "fish" on the plate, managed to eat most of one of them and when the waitress brought the check she asked if I wanted a take-out box. "Yes, please."
I carried the remaining three pieces out in the box, paid the bill. The cashier, as they are all instructed to do, asked, "Was everything okay!" I said not a mumbling word as I handed her the cash.
I dumped the fish in a waste receptacle.
Friday had not been a good day for us in the comestibles department.
We checked into our hotel and took a bit of rest before calling the elder brother of BBBH. As usual, his son had to roust him from bed so he could take the call, but see how you do when you are 93. We invited him to have supper with us and we agreed on a pick-up time of 7:30. Glenn was ready when we arrived at his house. We agreed on a location and away we went for the evening adventure! His son drove along in his car, saying then we would not have to make the return trip to their house.
Where did we go? We chose a very popular chain restaurant most often found hard by a major highway, you know, the one with rocking chairs on the front porch. And two hundred thousand kitchy items for sale inside. But again, I digress.
Following the wait in the store-- and we all know the design here: sign in, get suckered into buying stuff you don't need while you wait. We were finally seated, orders placed. After a w h i l e our server returned with the food. BBBH got what she ordered. Glenn's order looked to be essentially what he called for, but the scrambled eggs looked to be a scrambled egg. "I said 'eggs,'" he said. "Well, they gave you one egg." John stated the obvious.
John got what he ordered. I got my turnip greens in a small bowl and my coleslaw in a small bowl and a biscuit on a full-sized dinner plate. We started to eat, I thinking that my meal would arrive presently. Finally after exhibiting entirely too much patience, I signaled the wait person and asked, "Where's my fish?" "Hunh? she replied. "I ordered fried catfish." She turned and walked away. I finished my green stuff, which was good, by the way, and still no fish. I filed this complaint with a manager, young man very apologetic. He soon had my fish delivered. Good thing everyone else had eaten by then, for the aroma nearly sent all my dinner companions into the next room, and I was less than pleased. I looked at the four sorry pieces of "fish" on the plate, managed to eat most of one of them and when the waitress brought the check she asked if I wanted a take-out box. "Yes, please."
I carried the remaining three pieces out in the box, paid the bill. The cashier, as they are all instructed to do, asked, "Was everything okay!" I said not a mumbling word as I handed her the cash.
I dumped the fish in a waste receptacle.
Friday had not been a good day for us in the comestibles department.
The view from our hotel room.
Monday, July 16, 2018
Weekend Adventures, part 1
1. Adventures in eating.
We loaded a few things in the Escape and made our escape from our humdrum existence, on the road and headed out! About an hour down the road we were hungry and we were on the outskirts of a small city which we seldom visit. On our left we spotted an eatery billing itself as a smokehouse. Immediately I thought of Texas barbecue and a hankering for brisket overcame me; we wheeled into the parking lot.
We were greeted inside by pleasant surroundings and a pleasant hostess who showed us immediately to a table. Our cheerful young waitress soon served our water and we placed our orders. The food arrived, we ate. I have little more to say than that it was not the brisket I had in Rockport.
We loaded a few things in the Escape and made our escape from our humdrum existence, on the road and headed out! About an hour down the road we were hungry and we were on the outskirts of a small city which we seldom visit. On our left we spotted an eatery billing itself as a smokehouse. Immediately I thought of Texas barbecue and a hankering for brisket overcame me; we wheeled into the parking lot.
We were greeted inside by pleasant surroundings and a pleasant hostess who showed us immediately to a table. Our cheerful young waitress soon served our water and we placed our orders. The food arrived, we ate. I have little more to say than that it was not the brisket I had in Rockport.
Wall decor
BBBh was not offended but she did think this was, shall we say, not necessary.
Back on the road we soon found ourselves in a neighboring state. Lots of singing and pleasant conversation and a couple hours later I remarked that I had had only two cups of coffee all day. BBBH allowed as how she could stand a cup as well, so at the next exit, which promised only a gas station convenience store, we pulled off. While she looked at trinkets and so on I ordered. "Do you serve coffee here?" "Sure! the high school girl said. She turned, grasped something, and came back to me with three K-cup type gizmos in her hands. "Which would you like?" I looked behind her then and saw the one-cup coffee maker. I picked my poison, told her two cups.
While the first cup was in the making, BBBH returned to the room. "Where's the coffee?" "It's brewing." I will not repeat the remainder of the conversation, for you don't have the time. Two cups were finally delivered at a cost of two bucks per.
BBBH doped hers up, as is her wont, and went to a table. One sip later, *sputter:sputter* "Gag! That is the worst coffee I ever tasted!" She grabbed up the paper cup and headed to the counter. I stayed at table drinking my coffee. (I eventually managed to consume about a third of it.) What went on at the counter I saw from the corner of my left eye. She demanded her money back, asserting what she had already told me. This of course required recourse to a "manager" who turned out to be a year older than the server and and not nearly so bright, but I digress. BBBH did get "her" refund, which she pocketed without regard to the fact that I bought in the first place.
We arrived at our destination an hour later.
Monday, July 9, 2018
Blowback
It has been suggested that the post on Friday contains inappropriate language and supports socially unacceptable behavior. I disagree.
Ignoring the possibly oxymoron "skinny broad" we head straight for the jugular. Name-calling, and PC violations. Name-calling can be demeaning and much has been said about it, including this little verse which I quoted Friday evening to BBBH during our cruise about.
Ignoring the possibly oxymoron "skinny broad" we head straight for the jugular. Name-calling, and PC violations. Name-calling can be demeaning and much has been said about it, including this little verse which I quoted Friday evening to BBBH during our cruise about.
Sticks and stones may break my bones
but words can never hurt me.
Being all PC herself, in that moment, she disagreed with me, asserting that words can and do hurt. She is in good company, for psychologists have written treatises on the topic. Anyway, for the record when she calls me "a big baby" I let it roll off and move on.
In this instance we find that "broad" is unacceptable language. It was her word, not mine and I merely quoted what she said. The term has fallen into disuse if not into disrepute, but anyone who grew up during the Forties knows full well that in certain strata of society the appellation was broadly used, so to speak.
Then there was "skinny." It seems that might under some circumstances qualify as a pejorative, e.g., when applied as a descriptor of an individual as it was in this case. When I was a child I was called "Skinny;" "String Bean;" during several school years, "Four Eyes;" as I reached puberty, "High Pockets;" and on occasion, "Red." Umbrage might have been taken but I don't recall that that was the case. More likely I was delighted that anyone paid attention to me.
Many of my acquaintances carried monikers which would possibly be considered inappropriate or demeaning in this day and age, and heaven forbid that anyone should have to suffer the indignity.
We called him "Stinky" because we were not creative enough, as Charles Schulz was, to come up with "Pigpen." "Gimpy" was arguably cruel, as was "Popeye." But then, kids are cruel. Walt Disney did not own "Dopey;" we had him, too. "Peewee," "Tiny," "Hulk," and "Tubby" are self-explanatory. Golden Roll seemingly had unlimited funds.*
Obviously we all ran to our secluded "safe places" and pined away the rest of our lives. We did not; we grew spines, stood tall and faced the cruel world.
*There were a couple of others that truly were inappropriate. I refrained from sharing them.
Friday, June 8, 2018
Can't Make This Stuff Up
Went into my local BMV office this morning to renew my driver's license. Pleasant lady tapped a few computer keys. We waited. And waited. "This is taking a long time," she said. "Not a problem. I'm in no hurry, " I replied.
"Oh, did you mail in your renewals for your license tags?'
"I did. About a week ago."
"That's the problem. I see it on the screen. Someone is using your information to process your tag order, so I can't get in."
"Well, I thought it would make life easier for my local personnel if I mailed it in. Do you suppose they'll be done messing around if I come back in a couple hours?"
"I surely hope so."
Another trip to the other side of town required.
And do you know about "Real ID"?
Thus I need my passport OR birth certificate, two pieces of mail addressed to me.
"Wait. I get my mail at a P. O. box."
"Then you will need utility bills or something that has your name and physical address."
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho it's off to Big Brother's we go!
UPDATE
I went back to BMV a couple hours after posting this tale. I found a utility bill, okay. A second piece of mail? I found an item from the alumni association of a former college. Nope, we don't accept that sort of thing. I had my property tax receipt. Nope, it does indeed have a legal description of your property but there is no "physical address."
So the helpful lady said, "Do you have a vehicle registration?" Of course. Went to vehicle, got its papers, noting as I returned the office that it did indeed have my name on it, but of course it did not have my physical address, only a P.O. box number. Lady accepted it anyway. What is up with that? She could have looked on her computer and got that info. But wait. When she did finally get to the computer after copying my stuff, she found she was still locked out because my info was "still in use." She walked across the store, picked up a phone and called the office where my "other" business was being conducted. Seems they were through with me but some one forgot to turn me off. No problem; by this time I'm turned off, pretty much.
But it is all good. Passed the eye exam (with help and nudging and encouragement from the nice Lady) had my photo taken, paid the eleven bucks, restored papers to my possession and I am good to go for three more years!
And here is what the officer is going to have to look at if he pulls me over:
Lady said I could smile but don't show any teeth. So I did.
"Oh, did you mail in your renewals for your license tags?'
"I did. About a week ago."
"That's the problem. I see it on the screen. Someone is using your information to process your tag order, so I can't get in."
"Well, I thought it would make life easier for my local personnel if I mailed it in. Do you suppose they'll be done messing around if I come back in a couple hours?"
"I surely hope so."
Another trip to the other side of town required.
And do you know about "Real ID"?
Thus I need my passport OR birth certificate, two pieces of mail addressed to me.
"Wait. I get my mail at a P. O. box."
"Then you will need utility bills or something that has your name and physical address."
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho it's off to Big Brother's we go!
UPDATE
I went back to BMV a couple hours after posting this tale. I found a utility bill, okay. A second piece of mail? I found an item from the alumni association of a former college. Nope, we don't accept that sort of thing. I had my property tax receipt. Nope, it does indeed have a legal description of your property but there is no "physical address."
So the helpful lady said, "Do you have a vehicle registration?" Of course. Went to vehicle, got its papers, noting as I returned the office that it did indeed have my name on it, but of course it did not have my physical address, only a P.O. box number. Lady accepted it anyway. What is up with that? She could have looked on her computer and got that info. But wait. When she did finally get to the computer after copying my stuff, she found she was still locked out because my info was "still in use." She walked across the store, picked up a phone and called the office where my "other" business was being conducted. Seems they were through with me but some one forgot to turn me off. No problem; by this time I'm turned off, pretty much.
But it is all good. Passed the eye exam (with help and nudging and encouragement from the nice Lady) had my photo taken, paid the eleven bucks, restored papers to my possession and I am good to go for three more years!
And here is what the officer is going to have to look at if he pulls me over:
Lady said I could smile but don't show any teeth. So I did.
Thursday, March 9, 2017
Tale of the Three A.M. Blog Post
A marvelous idea for a blog post slapped me upside my mind at three o'clock in the morning. This happens. All too frequently. I lay abed and composed it. This is good stuff. So l edited and polished it, refined it, perfected it. Four-fifteen I make a trip to the little room next door, return to bed. Shiver a bit to get warm again, run the post through my head one more time. It is perfect!
I slept.
After I showered and dressed, eight o'clock, I went to the computer and logged on. Brought up blogger to write my post.
I could not remember. One. Single. Word. Of that perfect gem.
I wrestled with this throughout the day, convinced that ere nightfall I would recover my work. Not so. Not one inkling. But I do remember that it was an absolutely wisdom-of-the-ages, polished and perfected, ready for the world
One-liner!
I slept.
After I showered and dressed, eight o'clock, I went to the computer and logged on. Brought up blogger to write my post.
I could not remember. One. Single. Word. Of that perfect gem.
I wrestled with this throughout the day, convinced that ere nightfall I would recover my work. Not so. Not one inkling. But I do remember that it was an absolutely wisdom-of-the-ages, polished and perfected, ready for the world
One-liner!
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Love Lifted Me
I have a computer the keyboard of which is laid out in such fashion that the "Delete" button is directly above the "Backspace" key.
I had (I thought) a beautiful Sunday morning post prepared and thought to remove an unnecessary space in the text. You know what happened.
I cried. (Well, almost.)
I did a web search in an attempt to learn how to recover a lost draft. (Wasted the hour in which I might have rewritten the post.)
I offer you this instead of spiritual guidance or inspiration. (Because a laugh at my expense is all I can offer you today. Enjoy.)
The title is the title of the original long-gone and forever-missing article. Sing the song; it will give you a lift.
I had (I thought) a beautiful Sunday morning post prepared and thought to remove an unnecessary space in the text. You know what happened.
I cried. (Well, almost.)
I did a web search in an attempt to learn how to recover a lost draft. (Wasted the hour in which I might have rewritten the post.)
I offer you this instead of spiritual guidance or inspiration. (Because a laugh at my expense is all I can offer you today. Enjoy.)
The title is the title of the original long-gone and forever-missing article. Sing the song; it will give you a lift.
Saturday, October 29, 2016
Now What?
"So I need an operation?"
"Just a procedure I do right here in the office."
"Operation."
"Okay, it is an operation, but there is nothing to it."
"Do it."
My too-frequent visits to medical professionals this year taught me, and that early on, that "procedure" is the professional euphemism for "operation." Dr. G stuck my toe with his needle while our banter continued a bit. He left the room for a few minutes while my toe died.
The doctor returned, jabbed the toe in a few places, asked his assistant for his thingamabob. Less than six minutes later the assistant was placing this beautiful bandage on the offended digit.
My sixth operation in 2016 encompassing the Me from head to foot!
Now. We shall see.*
*a/o Friday night, toe looks good, pain-free. Color me happy!
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Yeah, It's a Riot
On January 18 [click] this year I introduced you to our poltergeist. On January 22 I entered the hospital for surgery. Forty days later I walked into our home again. My best camera which I am certain I left in the house when I left has not showed up since. Poltergeist.
But the little dickens hasn't had enough fun simply disappearing things we really want, it has recently added a new trick in its arsenal of annoyances. Here's how it works.
I leave my address book on the dining room table, admittedly amongst a stack of papers, checkbooks and whatnots. The whole arrangement annoys BBBH, perhaps justifiably so, who knows; so she will sort the material into stacks and advise me that I need to "take care" of those papers and so on.
Now understand that when I say I will do something, I will do it. This does not mean I will do it instantaneously, or in some cases, even today.
Thus it is that two days after I have been "advised," I have need of my address book. I riffle through the stack in which I last saw it. Nope. I go through the other two stacks. Unh-uh. Now, having not been born yesterday, before asking BBBH concerning the whereabouts of my address book, I go through all three stacks again. To no avail.
I bite the bullet, find Beautiful in another room and pose the question. "In the stack on the dining room table," she tells me. "I went through them all three times," I tell her.
With a sigh of resignation, she drops what she is doing, goes into the dining room, and almost instantly plucks the book from the first stack and hands it to me. Poltergeist's new trick.
You see the little devil takes the object from the spot where I know it is, hides it elsewhere until I need it, I can't find it, go to ask for help, Poltergeist returns the object to its rightful place.
I am convinced It does these tricks to make me look like an idiot.
Grrrr! ROAR!
But the little dickens hasn't had enough fun simply disappearing things we really want, it has recently added a new trick in its arsenal of annoyances. Here's how it works.
I leave my address book on the dining room table, admittedly amongst a stack of papers, checkbooks and whatnots. The whole arrangement annoys BBBH, perhaps justifiably so, who knows; so she will sort the material into stacks and advise me that I need to "take care" of those papers and so on.
Now understand that when I say I will do something, I will do it. This does not mean I will do it instantaneously, or in some cases, even today.
Thus it is that two days after I have been "advised," I have need of my address book. I riffle through the stack in which I last saw it. Nope. I go through the other two stacks. Unh-uh. Now, having not been born yesterday, before asking BBBH concerning the whereabouts of my address book, I go through all three stacks again. To no avail.
I bite the bullet, find Beautiful in another room and pose the question. "In the stack on the dining room table," she tells me. "I went through them all three times," I tell her.
With a sigh of resignation, she drops what she is doing, goes into the dining room, and almost instantly plucks the book from the first stack and hands it to me. Poltergeist's new trick.
You see the little devil takes the object from the spot where I know it is, hides it elsewhere until I need it, I can't find it, go to ask for help, Poltergeist returns the object to its rightful place.
I am convinced It does these tricks to make me look like an idiot.
Grrrr! ROAR!
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Tuesday, March 22, 2016
Tomorrow Will be Better
Finished therapy session. Stopped by the doctor's office to talk with the nurse. As I entered the building I took off the sunglasses, went ahead and took care of my business.
As I left the building I reached for my sunglasses. Not hanging on my shirt; not in any of my jacket pockets. Perhaps I left them in the car. Nope.
Started car anyway. Oh, well. No! Not gonna happen. Spun around the lot and parked again, got out and went into the office. No glasses on the receptionist's counter. "I thought maybe I left my sunglasses lying here. Guess not."
(This is what she saw.)
"I feel like crying."
*slinks out the door*
Monday, January 18, 2016
Just the Tip of the Iceberg #T
We have a poltergeist living in our house. We cannot catch him in
the act of performing his nefarious tricks, but he is busy. Worse, he
seems to strike with increasing frequency as the weeks
and months go by. It is no longer amusing.
In November while BBBH was away vanilla laid a hearing aid on the table next his work station. The next morning he noted that it was still just where he put it. No need to wear it, he thought, there is no one here and certainly there is nothing worth watching on the tube. So he left it. The day passed and vanilla retired for the night.
The next morning vanilla decided that since he was going to the library that he might utilize the equipment, so going to the table, what? The hearing aid was not there. In a certain degree of frustration, looked the house over, wracked his brain for a clue as to whether or not he had moved it and forgotten about it. After about the third day, vanilla decided that when BBBH returned she would easily locate the lost item.
She came home. She did not find it.
Then last week vanilla filled out a ten-page admissions questionnaire for the hospital. There was a line requiring the spouse's signature. He had her sign it. She remembers signing it. A few days later he went to the folder where it should be and it was not there. It was not on any table, bookshelf, desk, or anyplace else that vanilla and BBBH looked, which was essentially everywhere. Numerous times over the course of many days.
Both items are still missing.
But if I get my hands on the poltergeist, well, mayhem may ensue.
and months go by. It is no longer amusing.
In November while BBBH was away vanilla laid a hearing aid on the table next his work station. The next morning he noted that it was still just where he put it. No need to wear it, he thought, there is no one here and certainly there is nothing worth watching on the tube. So he left it. The day passed and vanilla retired for the night.
The next morning vanilla decided that since he was going to the library that he might utilize the equipment, so going to the table, what? The hearing aid was not there. In a certain degree of frustration, looked the house over, wracked his brain for a clue as to whether or not he had moved it and forgotten about it. After about the third day, vanilla decided that when BBBH returned she would easily locate the lost item.
She came home. She did not find it.
Then last week vanilla filled out a ten-page admissions questionnaire for the hospital. There was a line requiring the spouse's signature. He had her sign it. She remembers signing it. A few days later he went to the folder where it should be and it was not there. It was not on any table, bookshelf, desk, or anyplace else that vanilla and BBBH looked, which was essentially everywhere. Numerous times over the course of many days.
Both items are still missing.
But if I get my hands on the poltergeist, well, mayhem may ensue.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Whiplash
I went from an elementary student myself on Tuesday to principal of an elementary school on Wednesday. That is a time warp that will give you whiplash. So where today?
August 20, 2050. My great-great-great grandson will start school today. Of course brick-and-mortar, steel-and-glass schools exist only in the memories of a very few and dwindling number of people alive today. Books are remembered primarily as resource-wasting cumbersome items that required more storage space than the archaic and now useless knowledge contained in them merited. Of course, too, people had functional limbs called "legs" which enabled them to move from place to place. Imagine that. Well, how silly, and again wasteful of resources when all sustenance can so easily be piped into the cell in which this youngster lives; all waste and detritus piped out. Knowledge, learning, lore: piped in through the ether.
Now imagine the first day of school. It cannot be done. Our history and understanding will not allow us to comprehend the world in which our progeny will live a mere three decades down the road. Doubt me? Think back three decades. Do you have 1985 fixed in your mind? Now how does today look compared to that time? Recognition through memory only and today's children cannot conceive of the primitive lifestyles we practiced a mere thirty and forty years ago, nor can we imagine the world of the really quite near future.
Of course, blessedly I won't be here to see 2050.
Ciao.
Word of the day: progeny.
August 20, 2050. My great-great-great grandson will start school today. Of course brick-and-mortar, steel-and-glass schools exist only in the memories of a very few and dwindling number of people alive today. Books are remembered primarily as resource-wasting cumbersome items that required more storage space than the archaic and now useless knowledge contained in them merited. Of course, too, people had functional limbs called "legs" which enabled them to move from place to place. Imagine that. Well, how silly, and again wasteful of resources when all sustenance can so easily be piped into the cell in which this youngster lives; all waste and detritus piped out. Knowledge, learning, lore: piped in through the ether.
Now imagine the first day of school. It cannot be done. Our history and understanding will not allow us to comprehend the world in which our progeny will live a mere three decades down the road. Doubt me? Think back three decades. Do you have 1985 fixed in your mind? Now how does today look compared to that time? Recognition through memory only and today's children cannot conceive of the primitive lifestyles we practiced a mere thirty and forty years ago, nor can we imagine the world of the really quite near future.
Of course, blessedly I won't be here to see 2050.
Ciao.
Word of the day: progeny.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Like a Hog on
Typical February morning, workday. I am shaved and groomed, tie knotted and the topcoat snugged over my ensemble (I am laughing out loud, hope you are too).
Stepping off the back porch I carefully set one foot before the other, for a slick of solid ice covers the ground, a thin slick, to be sure, but slippery as, well, you know. I arrive at the garage and throw up the overhead door. That's right. It had no "garage door opener" other than the driver of the vehicle.
Now I call your attention to the drawing above. The street is quite narrow but does accommodate parking along the curb and a lane for moving traffic. I must back my car down the drive, and "down" has some meaning here, crank the wheel as the rear of the vehicle enters the street, then
But "then" did not occur this morning as planned. The neighbor across the street has a penchant for parking his wheels directly in front of his house, which as you see is also directly opposite the debouchment of my driveway. Remember the ice. I did, and I was ever, oh so careful. And yet although I turned the steering wheel, the wheels of the two-and-one-quarter ton behemoth did naught but slide on backward. I hit the brake, and the car continued to ski. Into the neighbor's vehicle.
My car sustained damage to the extent that there was a smudge of red paint on the bumper which was easily scoured off with rubbing compound. Jon's car did not fare so well.
After arriving at work and getting the day started, I had to call my insurance agent to report this incident. Now here is the fun part of the story. The crunched vehicle belongs to my insurance agent's son. You may smile now; after all, this all happened nearly forty years ago.
Word of the day: debouchment
Saturday, June 6, 2015
To Everything There is a Reason
I renewed my driver’s license a few days ago. I learned some things, too, not the least of which is that there exists a camera made especially for the BMV, or the DMV, depending upon your place of residence. The camera is the Insta Nage 5+. It is designed to age the subject five years so that the picture is current at the time of the expiration of the license!
There. I have accounted for the reason you don't like to show your license photo. You are welcome.
Today is D-Day. Never forget!
Each year on June 6, this anniversary has been noted here. Last year
on the Seventieth Anniversary, I wrote a brief memorial piece here.
Today is D-Day. Never forget!
Each year on June 6, this anniversary has been noted here. Last year
on the Seventieth Anniversary, I wrote a brief memorial piece here.
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Inspiration
You have doubtless witnessed me whining about my lack of "inspiration" for my blogging experiences. I need to pay closer attention to what is going on in the neighborhood, and of course by neighborhood I mean all places inhabited by people.
In our neighborhood, Muncie where I once lived, a backyard picnic turned violent over the holiday weekend when a woman stabbed another woman in the eye with a barbecue fork in a disagreement over who got the last chunk of ribs. We take our BBQ seriously in Indiana.
We do, however, take our legislature as a joke. A recently passed law soon takes effect in Indiana. It requires a vehicle traveling in the left lane of a four-lane highway to move over when another vehicle approaches from the rear. Yes, this means that if you are traveling 70 mph in a seventy-mile zone and an idiot going ninety comes up on you, you must move over. Failure to do so could cause you to incur a fine of up to $500. More to the point, if the idiot is going 90, protect yourself at all costs.
Anyway, the idiocy ratio (IR) in our legislature is 100% in the house (97 - 0) and 59% in the senate (29 - 20) for an overall legislative IR of 86%. Seems about right.
Yes, I know it is idiotic to drive the speed limit in the left lane if the right lane is clear. But how dumb is it to pass a law that could impose a fine on an otherwise law-abiding driver in favor of a fool.
It is sufficient to treat the left lane as a passing lane only.
Credit, if any, where credit is due: It is my understanding that our fair state was not the first to endorse this legislation.
Headline: School destroyed by tomato plants now garden.
My fault. This is a case of faulty eyesight, not faulty writing or weird occurrences. It actually reads: School destroyed by tornado plants new garden.
The story is from Lafayette, also in the neighborhood, approximately as far west of us as Muncie is to the east.
In our neighborhood, Muncie where I once lived, a backyard picnic turned violent over the holiday weekend when a woman stabbed another woman in the eye with a barbecue fork in a disagreement over who got the last chunk of ribs. We take our BBQ seriously in Indiana.
We do, however, take our legislature as a joke. A recently passed law soon takes effect in Indiana. It requires a vehicle traveling in the left lane of a four-lane highway to move over when another vehicle approaches from the rear. Yes, this means that if you are traveling 70 mph in a seventy-mile zone and an idiot going ninety comes up on you, you must move over. Failure to do so could cause you to incur a fine of up to $500. More to the point, if the idiot is going 90, protect yourself at all costs.
Anyway, the idiocy ratio (IR) in our legislature is 100% in the house (97 - 0) and 59% in the senate (29 - 20) for an overall legislative IR of 86%. Seems about right.
Yes, I know it is idiotic to drive the speed limit in the left lane if the right lane is clear. But how dumb is it to pass a law that could impose a fine on an otherwise law-abiding driver in favor of a fool.
It is sufficient to treat the left lane as a passing lane only.
Credit, if any, where credit is due: It is my understanding that our fair state was not the first to endorse this legislation.
Headline: School destroyed by tomato plants now garden.
My fault. This is a case of faulty eyesight, not faulty writing or weird occurrences. It actually reads: School destroyed by tornado plants new garden.
The story is from Lafayette, also in the neighborhood, approximately as far west of us as Muncie is to the east.
Monday, April 20, 2015
What Was I Thinking?
From October until a couple weeks ago I was thinking, "C'mon, Spring! Where's the Green?"
Well, the lawn has been mowed now. Twice. In one week.
And.
And knowing it would have to be done Saturday in spite of the fact that it was done the previous Monday, I went to the barn mid-morning and started the chore of prepping the tractor. Drained the oil, involving several trips to the garage, to the tool shelves, to... Looking for the right tools, you see. Finally got the oil drained-- now what to do with the plastic sack full of used oil? Then I had to go to town to get oil because I'd only half-quart on the shelf. Installed new oil, pumped up a low tire, straightened a tie-rod. Oh, boy! Here we go.
No. We do not.
Go anywhere, I mean; because when I tried to start the engine, rr-klunk. Battery charged. rr-klunk snick, snick.
I wound up mowing the fenced enclosure with the walk behind mower, and I am not going to describe what that walking means to my aching bones. You really do not want to know.
Had lunch, rested, went to look at new $$$$ lawn mowers. I know, I know. It has been thirteen years since we bought one, but what the?
So we came home and I mowed the front yard, and I am not going to describe. Oh, wait. I am perseverating.
So the mowing is done. Well, except for the one-third of the lawn that is behind the barn. To heck with it.
Is there an emoji that would represent vanilla boxing himself severely about the ears?
Well, the lawn has been mowed now. Twice. In one week.
And.
And knowing it would have to be done Saturday in spite of the fact that it was done the previous Monday, I went to the barn mid-morning and started the chore of prepping the tractor. Drained the oil, involving several trips to the garage, to the tool shelves, to... Looking for the right tools, you see. Finally got the oil drained-- now what to do with the plastic sack full of used oil? Then I had to go to town to get oil because I'd only half-quart on the shelf. Installed new oil, pumped up a low tire, straightened a tie-rod. Oh, boy! Here we go.
No. We do not.
Go anywhere, I mean; because when I tried to start the engine, rr-klunk. Battery charged. rr-klunk snick, snick.
I wound up mowing the fenced enclosure with the walk behind mower, and I am not going to describe what that walking means to my aching bones. You really do not want to know.
Had lunch, rested, went to look at new $$$$ lawn mowers. I know, I know. It has been thirteen years since we bought one, but what the?
So we came home and I mowed the front yard, and I am not going to describe. Oh, wait. I am perseverating.
So the mowing is done. Well, except for the one-third of the lawn that is behind the barn. To heck with it.
Is there an emoji that would represent vanilla boxing himself severely about the ears?
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
Little about Nothing
To paraphrase a character in "Pogo" from many years ago, "If I could only write, I'd send a nasty letter to the mayor, if he could only read."
What you should take away from this is that the post today is vacant (vacuous? empty? bereft of sense?) or nearly so, because while I do have things on my mind, I am less than sanguine of the possibility that any of them would be edifying.
Stay warm, stay alert, and stay out of trouble.
Sincerely,
vanilla
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