Let’s do something different.
My plummeting readership, if going from four to two is considered a plummet, leads me to believe I need to shake things up a bit for you not-yet-terminally-bored survivors.
How about a quiz? First off let’s make it clear that I am unemployed and broke, so there are no prizes. If you are the sort who likes to reward each of your life’s successes by going shopping, doing well on this test is as good an excuse as any. So consider this my effort to aid the ailing economy.
In my last blog, I made up a Chinese proverb. I did this for two reasons: comic effect; and I don’t know any real Chinese proverbs. Now in my opinion any writer worth his salt can quote Chinese proverbs, although no such writers immediately come to mind.
So I decided to broaden my literary range by Googling a list of Sino-Bromides (I invented this expression because I used Chinese proverb three times in the last paragraph).
Anyway, I found a site that had over 620 of them. So here is the game: From the list of proverbs below, you have to decide which are real and which are made up by little Norwegian-Irish-German-American me. The answers will be provided at the end of my next posting. Bet that’ll bring ya back, huh?
Pencils ready. Here we go:
One more thing, this particular form of humor used to be called Confucius Say jokes and was popularized by Burma Shave road signs in the 1930’s and declared Politically Incorrect during the Carter Administration.
Okay, here we really go:
1. Beat your gong and sell your candles.
2. Never link whole global economy to debt swap derivatives.
3. Do not allow the sheep to die for a half-penny of tar.
4. Cold water makes a limp noodle.
5. An unhappy pig tastes the same as a happy one.
6. The weasel comes to say “Happy New Year” to the chicken.
7. Never fart in silk pajamas.
8. Dead song birds make a sad meal.
9. Put the fat lady in the back of the row boat.
10. Do not use a hatchet to remove a fly from a friend’s forehead.
11. Don’t believe the menu, it ALL contains MSG.
12. Falling hurts least those who fly low.
13. All people are your relatives, therefore expect trouble.
14. Never bet on the eunuch to win the Most Eligible Bachelor contest.
.
Okay. Pencils down. I hope you didn’t cheat by Googling. Confucius say person who cheat on dumb quiz is real lame-o.
By the way, don’t use the comment section to bug me for early answers. If that happens, I may decide to never release them. Remember: one bad apple spoils it for everyone.
That is not a Chinese proverb but the words of Sister Helen Maurice spoken in 1956 when she kept the whole sixth grade in because one misguided youth locked her in the stationery closet.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
The Monitor
My blood pressure has gone up.
I have had hypertension since senior year in college. It has been under control for years but bumped up on my last visit to the doctor. He decided that I should wear a monitor that would track my blood pressure for 24 hours before deciding if a change in medication was called for.
Nurse Phyllis fitted me out. Here’s the deal: a standard blood pressure cuff is installed on my arm and is attached by hose to a controller that hangs from my belt. As soon as she fired the thing up and it inflated, gripping my arm like a boa constrictor on steroids, I started to whimper and cry. She responded: “You have such big arms that we have to use our biggest cuff and it is still a bit too tight.” I quieted down immediately. Nurse Phyllis, a trained professional, knows that stroking a man’s ego is the best way to stop his whimpering.
She explained that the controller would beep several times before the cuff inflated. This would give me time to get my arm in position to get the best reading. It would take a reading every hour. I was to record in a preprinted log what I was doing at the time. The log had three columns labeled time, activity, and position. The position column offered only three options: standing, sitting, and lying. I suppose this would discourage people who were inclined to engage in sex while wearing this contraption from putting down things like “missionary” and “flying monkey”
As I leave, I take stock of my situation. The controller is not exactly an Ipod. It weighs at least 2 pounds and immediately starts pulling my pants south. There has to be at least six feet of hose from the controller to the cuff. Unfortunately, since the distance from the controller to the cuff on my arm is a foot or two at the most, this leaves four feet of hose hanging outside my pants.
Also to the casual observer, it looks like the hose is going down my pants and not up my shirt. I decide to forgo the trip to Shop Rite and Wal-Mart I originally planned. I really wanted to avoid hearing the following conversation on the check-out line:
First woman: “Why does that old man have a hose going into his pants?”
Second woman: “Maybe he's getting his cellar pumped."
Also, beep is an understatement. This thing sounds like a UPS truck backing up and will terrify small children and the elderly when it goes off in public.
This of course, is followed by the sight of my arm blowing up like Bruce Banner’s as he morphs into the Hulk.
I decide that the day, a rainy one anyway, is best spent on quiet activities at home.
As the hours go by I dutifully record my activities. As I read them, I begin to feel self-conscious:
1:00 PM watching TV
2:00 PM watching TV
3:00 PM watching TV
4:00 PM watching TV
Etc., etc.
When the doctor sees this he is going to think I don’t have a life. So I start zipping things up with activities like: “inventing”, “hypothesizing”, “parsing”,"dissecting" and (my favorite) “cogitating.”
Soon it is time for bed. Nurse Phyllis told me that the beeping stops automatically after 11:00, so I don’t have to worry about that. The main problems are that it is going to wake me up as it cuts off circulation to my arm, and where to park the controller and 6 feet of hose. I decide to put the controller under my pillow. I wake up during the night, but I am able to get back to sleep.
When I wake up at 7:00 AM the hose is wrapped around my neck. Kathie, all too familiar with my nightly contortions, says she is surprised I didn’t manage to get the cuff wound around my neck.
I am done. I find the off switch and shut the thing down.
As I am packing things up, I see a list of do’s and don’ts on the back of the log. It is my modus operandi to always read the directions after things have gone haywire. Sure enough, Don’t Numero Uno is “NEVER TURN THE CONTROLLER OFF UNLESS THERE IS AN EXTREME EMERGENCY.”
Oh well, I hope it is idiot proof. I have been hoping that a lot lately. I don't think I will tell Fearsome Phyllis.
I have had hypertension since senior year in college. It has been under control for years but bumped up on my last visit to the doctor. He decided that I should wear a monitor that would track my blood pressure for 24 hours before deciding if a change in medication was called for.
Nurse Phyllis fitted me out. Here’s the deal: a standard blood pressure cuff is installed on my arm and is attached by hose to a controller that hangs from my belt. As soon as she fired the thing up and it inflated, gripping my arm like a boa constrictor on steroids, I started to whimper and cry. She responded: “You have such big arms that we have to use our biggest cuff and it is still a bit too tight.” I quieted down immediately. Nurse Phyllis, a trained professional, knows that stroking a man’s ego is the best way to stop his whimpering.
She explained that the controller would beep several times before the cuff inflated. This would give me time to get my arm in position to get the best reading. It would take a reading every hour. I was to record in a preprinted log what I was doing at the time. The log had three columns labeled time, activity, and position. The position column offered only three options: standing, sitting, and lying. I suppose this would discourage people who were inclined to engage in sex while wearing this contraption from putting down things like “missionary” and “flying monkey”
As I leave, I take stock of my situation. The controller is not exactly an Ipod. It weighs at least 2 pounds and immediately starts pulling my pants south. There has to be at least six feet of hose from the controller to the cuff. Unfortunately, since the distance from the controller to the cuff on my arm is a foot or two at the most, this leaves four feet of hose hanging outside my pants.
Also to the casual observer, it looks like the hose is going down my pants and not up my shirt. I decide to forgo the trip to Shop Rite and Wal-Mart I originally planned. I really wanted to avoid hearing the following conversation on the check-out line:
First woman: “Why does that old man have a hose going into his pants?”
Second woman: “Maybe he's getting his cellar pumped."
Also, beep is an understatement. This thing sounds like a UPS truck backing up and will terrify small children and the elderly when it goes off in public.
This of course, is followed by the sight of my arm blowing up like Bruce Banner’s as he morphs into the Hulk.
I decide that the day, a rainy one anyway, is best spent on quiet activities at home.
As the hours go by I dutifully record my activities. As I read them, I begin to feel self-conscious:
1:00 PM watching TV
2:00 PM watching TV
3:00 PM watching TV
4:00 PM watching TV
Etc., etc.
When the doctor sees this he is going to think I don’t have a life. So I start zipping things up with activities like: “inventing”, “hypothesizing”, “parsing”,"dissecting" and (my favorite) “cogitating.”
Soon it is time for bed. Nurse Phyllis told me that the beeping stops automatically after 11:00, so I don’t have to worry about that. The main problems are that it is going to wake me up as it cuts off circulation to my arm, and where to park the controller and 6 feet of hose. I decide to put the controller under my pillow. I wake up during the night, but I am able to get back to sleep.
When I wake up at 7:00 AM the hose is wrapped around my neck. Kathie, all too familiar with my nightly contortions, says she is surprised I didn’t manage to get the cuff wound around my neck.
I am done. I find the off switch and shut the thing down.
As I am packing things up, I see a list of do’s and don’ts on the back of the log. It is my modus operandi to always read the directions after things have gone haywire. Sure enough, Don’t Numero Uno is “NEVER TURN THE CONTROLLER OFF UNLESS THERE IS AN EXTREME EMERGENCY.”
Oh well, I hope it is idiot proof. I have been hoping that a lot lately. I don't think I will tell Fearsome Phyllis.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
I Almost Voted. I Think.
Well it has happened again.
Faced with a new device that performs a well-established function, I again went into Consternation Mode. This is happening so frequently that I suspect yet another of my brain functions has wandered off. Last week it was my run in with the McCormick salt grinder (see Salt Shaker Blues). This week it was the voting booth that bamboozled me.
Like putting salt on my food, I really thought I had this one down. Califon is a small town so every vote counts. That’s why I try to vote in every election. It’s not like it’s something new to me.
And I really wanted to weigh in on this the most important Presidential election in years.
This being so important and all, you might think I would have troubled myself to read the voting instructions on the sample ballot that was mailed before the election. You would be wrong. In the first place, I don’t usually read directions unless I break something that I am operating without having read the directions. In the second place, the ballot went out with the recycling on Monday.
As I enter the electronic voting booth I am faced with the ballot. What I do not see is any obvious box or button that I can push to place my vote. Immediately I am in Consternation Mode. I resort to reading the directions. It says to push the button to the right of the candidate's name to record your vote. Still not seeing a box, I push next to the candidate of my choice’s name. A green light goes on at the top of the column, but I see no indication next to the name that I have placed my vote for him. If I push again, the green light goes off. Now I hear the impatient shuffling of feet outside the booth. I fear I am seconds away from hearing the booming voice of the chief election lady cry out “WHAT IS HE DOING IN THERE!!!.
Now I am in Panic Mode. I cannot believe that I am screwing up voting. I push a bunch of buttons, record my vote, and leave the booth. The only vote I am absolutely positive I registered was for a public question that “provides that method of selection and appointment of certain municipal judges be set by statute rather than by the constitution.” This is a very important issue I am sure, but not why I shaved and put on a clean shirt to come out and voice my opinion.
Later in the day, I am telling Elisabeth about my difficulties executing my democratic privilege. She tells me not to worry because Oprah had problems with the voting booth as well.
I wondered if her problems were similar to mine. That evening I saw an interview with her and she said she was so excited about the prospect of Obama becoming President that she was “throbbing” and “pulsating.” Well I was for Obama as well (now it can be revealed), but I was not suffering from this condition. I was in the booth long enough that I think the chief election lady suspected I was throbbing and pulsating in there, but I was not. In some situations I do throb and pulsate, like when I am thinking about my supper, but I voted in mid-morning so this was not a factor. Being familiar with the condition, I could sympathize with Oprah if she was afflicted while in the voting booth.
In any case, the election was a rout so it didn’t matter. As the old Chinese proverb says: “All leaves fly before a strong wind.” Actually, this is not a Chinese proverb. I just made it up as I am sitting here watching my neighbors strategically placed pile of leaves blow into my yard.
I am beginning to throb and pulsate.
Faced with a new device that performs a well-established function, I again went into Consternation Mode. This is happening so frequently that I suspect yet another of my brain functions has wandered off. Last week it was my run in with the McCormick salt grinder (see Salt Shaker Blues). This week it was the voting booth that bamboozled me.
Like putting salt on my food, I really thought I had this one down. Califon is a small town so every vote counts. That’s why I try to vote in every election. It’s not like it’s something new to me.
And I really wanted to weigh in on this the most important Presidential election in years.
This being so important and all, you might think I would have troubled myself to read the voting instructions on the sample ballot that was mailed before the election. You would be wrong. In the first place, I don’t usually read directions unless I break something that I am operating without having read the directions. In the second place, the ballot went out with the recycling on Monday.
As I enter the electronic voting booth I am faced with the ballot. What I do not see is any obvious box or button that I can push to place my vote. Immediately I am in Consternation Mode. I resort to reading the directions. It says to push the button to the right of the candidate's name to record your vote. Still not seeing a box, I push next to the candidate of my choice’s name. A green light goes on at the top of the column, but I see no indication next to the name that I have placed my vote for him. If I push again, the green light goes off. Now I hear the impatient shuffling of feet outside the booth. I fear I am seconds away from hearing the booming voice of the chief election lady cry out “WHAT IS HE DOING IN THERE!!!.
Now I am in Panic Mode. I cannot believe that I am screwing up voting. I push a bunch of buttons, record my vote, and leave the booth. The only vote I am absolutely positive I registered was for a public question that “provides that method of selection and appointment of certain municipal judges be set by statute rather than by the constitution.” This is a very important issue I am sure, but not why I shaved and put on a clean shirt to come out and voice my opinion.
Later in the day, I am telling Elisabeth about my difficulties executing my democratic privilege. She tells me not to worry because Oprah had problems with the voting booth as well.
I wondered if her problems were similar to mine. That evening I saw an interview with her and she said she was so excited about the prospect of Obama becoming President that she was “throbbing” and “pulsating.” Well I was for Obama as well (now it can be revealed), but I was not suffering from this condition. I was in the booth long enough that I think the chief election lady suspected I was throbbing and pulsating in there, but I was not. In some situations I do throb and pulsate, like when I am thinking about my supper, but I voted in mid-morning so this was not a factor. Being familiar with the condition, I could sympathize with Oprah if she was afflicted while in the voting booth.
In any case, the election was a rout so it didn’t matter. As the old Chinese proverb says: “All leaves fly before a strong wind.” Actually, this is not a Chinese proverb. I just made it up as I am sitting here watching my neighbors strategically placed pile of leaves blow into my yard.
I am beginning to throb and pulsate.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Salt Shaker Blues
Charlie, Ray and I, the tres retired amigos, took a road trip the other day out to Famous Cigars in Easton, Pa.
After loading up on enough stogies to smoke out an anti-Bush rally, we headed for lunch at a local burger joint.
When our food arrived, my first move, as usual, was to reach for the salt shaker. Don’t tell my doctor, but I put salt on everything. I would even salt my ice cream if it wasn’t for that whole melting thing.
Now in my 63 years, one thing I thought I had mastered was the use of a salt shaker.
As is my wont, I inverted the shaker and shook. Nothing came out. I realized that this was a salt grinder, not a shaker. This was something new to me. I also noticed that it had a McCormick label on it. I turned it right side up and twisted the top as one would a pepper mill. No salt was forth coming for the simple reason that there were no holes in the bottom. So, I turned it upside down and vigorously twisted the top. In the dim light, I thought I could see salt landing on my burger. Satisfied, I dug in.
Soon after, Ray, who apparently had some experience with this sort of contrivance, picked up the shaker. He turned it upside down and removed the cap. Approximately a teaspoon of freshly ground salt landed in a pile on his potato chips. “Well”, he said, “There’s all the salt Jerry ground into the cap.” This was not said in a critical or reproachful tone, but just as a statement of fact. Chagrined, all I could say was “What do you expect? I was an English major in college?”
Later, the more I thought about this the angrier I got. The old system worked for me: a couple of holes in the top of a container. No password, no PIN, no technological ability required. What is the advantage of freshly ground salt? It’s laid in the ground for a few million years. How fresh can it be? What I don’t need in my life is more opportunities to embarrass myself.
I decided, because I was mad and because I have too much time on my hands, to take this up with the folks at McCormick.
Here is a summary of the e-mail I sent them:
Dear Sirs/Madams,
I recently had an unfortunate experience with one of your products while lunching at a restaurant with my friends, Ray and Charlie. (Here follows a description of the tragic events) The teaspoon or so of salt I had ground into the cap landed on his burger rendering it inedible. Charlie was so traumatized by this that he could not finish his lunch. I, mortified by my failure to realize there was a top and for being the cause of ruining Ray’s meal, was similarly indisposed.
Now I am not seeking compensation or a free supply of McCormick products for my friends, but I would like you to explain why you would unnecessarily complicate what had always been a very simple task: salting one’s food. Do we not all face enough complications in life without adding new ones?
I would appreciate a quotable response as I would like to include in my widely read blog.
Thank you for your prompt reply.
Regards,
Jerry Andersen
Editor
Wry Bother
Now let’s examine this letter which I think is a masterpiece. Ray’s meal was not rendered inedible. The salt landed on some chips which he shook off and consumed. Charlie was not traumatized, unless mild amusement is traumatic. And nothing puts me off my feed, certainly not embarrassment. This is what I call Strategic Misrepresentation, because contrary to the next paragraph, I am, in fact, seeking compensation and/or freebies. Hey, I just priced out some McCormick’s dill and they want four bucks for a jar of dead weeds. Who’s conning who?
If I had said I was seeking compensation or free stuff, the letter would land on the desk of some lawyer who would do what all lawyers do….nothing.
By sounding like a journalist seeking the truth, they might decide to schmooze me by sending a few crate loads of over-priced herbs and spices. Pretty slick, huh?
The reference to my “widely read blog”,however, is not a Strategic Misrepresentation, but a big, fat lie.
It has been two hours since I sent this and I have still not had a reply.
Since you are probably as anxious as I to drop this subject and move on, here is what I imagine their response might be.
“Dear Mr. Andersen,
We regret your difficulties with our new Saline Delivery System. This device was extensively tested on animals in our lab before it was released into the market. Our standard is that if a chicken can operate it, the average consumer should have no problem.
In this case, we did not feel that chicken had the manual dexterity to operate the grinder so we sought out the dumbest primate we could find, in this case, the Malayan Lemur.
After one demonstration, the lemur successfully salted his nuts ten times.
While we cannot offer you free products at this time, we can offer you a position in our test lab as the lemur succumbed to hypertension.
Here is a step by step explanation of how to operate the devise (if there is a big word you don’t understand, let us know and we will send you a simpler one.)
. Remove cap by pulling upward (^)
. Turn bottle upside down (The M in McCormick should now resemble a W)
. Twist bottle neck in any direction you prefer.
. The appearance of white flakes on your food indicates salt is being dispensed.
. Reverse the procedure and replace bottle next to the pepper.”
That’s what I would write if I was their PR guy, but they may not be as snotty as I. Anyway, I have to sign off now and see if I can figure out my new talcum powder grinder.
After loading up on enough stogies to smoke out an anti-Bush rally, we headed for lunch at a local burger joint.
When our food arrived, my first move, as usual, was to reach for the salt shaker. Don’t tell my doctor, but I put salt on everything. I would even salt my ice cream if it wasn’t for that whole melting thing.
Now in my 63 years, one thing I thought I had mastered was the use of a salt shaker.
As is my wont, I inverted the shaker and shook. Nothing came out. I realized that this was a salt grinder, not a shaker. This was something new to me. I also noticed that it had a McCormick label on it. I turned it right side up and twisted the top as one would a pepper mill. No salt was forth coming for the simple reason that there were no holes in the bottom. So, I turned it upside down and vigorously twisted the top. In the dim light, I thought I could see salt landing on my burger. Satisfied, I dug in.
Soon after, Ray, who apparently had some experience with this sort of contrivance, picked up the shaker. He turned it upside down and removed the cap. Approximately a teaspoon of freshly ground salt landed in a pile on his potato chips. “Well”, he said, “There’s all the salt Jerry ground into the cap.” This was not said in a critical or reproachful tone, but just as a statement of fact. Chagrined, all I could say was “What do you expect? I was an English major in college?”
Later, the more I thought about this the angrier I got. The old system worked for me: a couple of holes in the top of a container. No password, no PIN, no technological ability required. What is the advantage of freshly ground salt? It’s laid in the ground for a few million years. How fresh can it be? What I don’t need in my life is more opportunities to embarrass myself.
I decided, because I was mad and because I have too much time on my hands, to take this up with the folks at McCormick.
Here is a summary of the e-mail I sent them:
Dear Sirs/Madams,
I recently had an unfortunate experience with one of your products while lunching at a restaurant with my friends, Ray and Charlie. (Here follows a description of the tragic events) The teaspoon or so of salt I had ground into the cap landed on his burger rendering it inedible. Charlie was so traumatized by this that he could not finish his lunch. I, mortified by my failure to realize there was a top and for being the cause of ruining Ray’s meal, was similarly indisposed.
Now I am not seeking compensation or a free supply of McCormick products for my friends, but I would like you to explain why you would unnecessarily complicate what had always been a very simple task: salting one’s food. Do we not all face enough complications in life without adding new ones?
I would appreciate a quotable response as I would like to include in my widely read blog.
Thank you for your prompt reply.
Regards,
Jerry Andersen
Editor
Wry Bother
Now let’s examine this letter which I think is a masterpiece. Ray’s meal was not rendered inedible. The salt landed on some chips which he shook off and consumed. Charlie was not traumatized, unless mild amusement is traumatic. And nothing puts me off my feed, certainly not embarrassment. This is what I call Strategic Misrepresentation, because contrary to the next paragraph, I am, in fact, seeking compensation and/or freebies. Hey, I just priced out some McCormick’s dill and they want four bucks for a jar of dead weeds. Who’s conning who?
If I had said I was seeking compensation or free stuff, the letter would land on the desk of some lawyer who would do what all lawyers do….nothing.
By sounding like a journalist seeking the truth, they might decide to schmooze me by sending a few crate loads of over-priced herbs and spices. Pretty slick, huh?
The reference to my “widely read blog”,however, is not a Strategic Misrepresentation, but a big, fat lie.
It has been two hours since I sent this and I have still not had a reply.
Since you are probably as anxious as I to drop this subject and move on, here is what I imagine their response might be.
“Dear Mr. Andersen,
We regret your difficulties with our new Saline Delivery System. This device was extensively tested on animals in our lab before it was released into the market. Our standard is that if a chicken can operate it, the average consumer should have no problem.
In this case, we did not feel that chicken had the manual dexterity to operate the grinder so we sought out the dumbest primate we could find, in this case, the Malayan Lemur.
After one demonstration, the lemur successfully salted his nuts ten times.
While we cannot offer you free products at this time, we can offer you a position in our test lab as the lemur succumbed to hypertension.
Here is a step by step explanation of how to operate the devise (if there is a big word you don’t understand, let us know and we will send you a simpler one.)
. Remove cap by pulling upward (^)
. Turn bottle upside down (The M in McCormick should now resemble a W)
. Twist bottle neck in any direction you prefer.
. The appearance of white flakes on your food indicates salt is being dispensed.
. Reverse the procedure and replace bottle next to the pepper.”
That’s what I would write if I was their PR guy, but they may not be as snotty as I. Anyway, I have to sign off now and see if I can figure out my new talcum powder grinder.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
What Howie Said
The other day I learned from Howie Mandel that I have Adult Attention Deficit Disorder.
I was channel surfing when I stumbled upon Howie talking about how he was diagnosed with AADD. At least I think it was Howie. Maybe it wasn’t. Anyway he was that bald guy with an earring who hosts a quiz show that I have channel surfed through a number of times.
In any event, my attention wandered before he was finished, so I moved on. However, his discussion of the symptoms got me thinking: that’s me!
My chronic lack of organization and procrastination may stem from a certifiable disorder rather than poor potty training as I have always thought.
It also excited me to think that I may now have both a disorder and a syndrome; since Kathie insists I already suffer from Irritable Male Syndrome. Handicap license plates seem like a real possibility. No more trudging a half mile across the parking lot to get to the liquor store.
Before I let myself get too excited though, I reflected on the fact that I have been down this road many times before. It goes back to my college days in psychology 101. Each time a new neurosis or psychosis was discussed, I was sure they were talking about me. I was convinced I was a lobotomy candidate by the end of the semester and even affected a black watch cap like Jack Nicholson in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest".
My first and last step in self-diagnosis was Wikipedia. We AADD types like Wikipedia because it gives us a great deal of superficial information before we lose interest in what we are doing.
The discussion of AADD lists the 21 signs that you might have the disorder. Here are a few highlights of my self evaluation:
. Sense of underachievement. This blog sucks!
. Difficulty getting organized. My sock drawer speaks for itself.
. Chronic procrastination. Like waiting until your 63 to find out you have AADD.
. Many projects going simultaneously…poor follow-up. This is hard because I don’t have many projects going simultaneously. In fact, I don’t have any. But if I did, I know I wouldn’t be following up on them.
. Easy distractibility…..tendency to tune out in mid conversation. Kathie is nodding her head and giggling.
. Inaccurate self-evaluation. Does this mean maybe I don’t have AADD because I think I do? I’m getting a headache..
Of the 21 signs, I have myself down for 20. The only reason I don’t think I have #9, “creative, intuitive, highly intelligent”, is because I do have #19, “low self-esteem.”
Now I know what you are thinking: most everyone has these symptoms. However, you are missing the point: this is about me. If you care so much about everyone else, read their damn blogs. Sorry, please excuse my Irritable Male Syndrome.
The depressing thing is that, according to the Wikipedia article, AADD results in a loss of $77 billion in income. Even if I had been able to hang on to a just a couple billion of it, my pension would be in a lot better shape today.
I was channel surfing when I stumbled upon Howie talking about how he was diagnosed with AADD. At least I think it was Howie. Maybe it wasn’t. Anyway he was that bald guy with an earring who hosts a quiz show that I have channel surfed through a number of times.
In any event, my attention wandered before he was finished, so I moved on. However, his discussion of the symptoms got me thinking: that’s me!
My chronic lack of organization and procrastination may stem from a certifiable disorder rather than poor potty training as I have always thought.
It also excited me to think that I may now have both a disorder and a syndrome; since Kathie insists I already suffer from Irritable Male Syndrome. Handicap license plates seem like a real possibility. No more trudging a half mile across the parking lot to get to the liquor store.
Before I let myself get too excited though, I reflected on the fact that I have been down this road many times before. It goes back to my college days in psychology 101. Each time a new neurosis or psychosis was discussed, I was sure they were talking about me. I was convinced I was a lobotomy candidate by the end of the semester and even affected a black watch cap like Jack Nicholson in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest".
My first and last step in self-diagnosis was Wikipedia. We AADD types like Wikipedia because it gives us a great deal of superficial information before we lose interest in what we are doing.
The discussion of AADD lists the 21 signs that you might have the disorder. Here are a few highlights of my self evaluation:
. Sense of underachievement. This blog sucks!
. Difficulty getting organized. My sock drawer speaks for itself.
. Chronic procrastination. Like waiting until your 63 to find out you have AADD.
. Many projects going simultaneously…poor follow-up. This is hard because I don’t have many projects going simultaneously. In fact, I don’t have any. But if I did, I know I wouldn’t be following up on them.
. Easy distractibility…..tendency to tune out in mid conversation. Kathie is nodding her head and giggling.
. Inaccurate self-evaluation. Does this mean maybe I don’t have AADD because I think I do? I’m getting a headache..
Of the 21 signs, I have myself down for 20. The only reason I don’t think I have #9, “creative, intuitive, highly intelligent”, is because I do have #19, “low self-esteem.”
Now I know what you are thinking: most everyone has these symptoms. However, you are missing the point: this is about me. If you care so much about everyone else, read their damn blogs. Sorry, please excuse my Irritable Male Syndrome.
The depressing thing is that, according to the Wikipedia article, AADD results in a loss of $77 billion in income. Even if I had been able to hang on to a just a couple billion of it, my pension would be in a lot better shape today.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Leaf Me Alone
Here they come.
First they waft down in twos and threes in mid-October like scouts or pickets probing for the enemy’s weakness. Later in the month the main body arrives in their thousands, their legions, their hordes.
Falling leaves. Frank Sinatra can break your heart singing about them, and you can break your back cleaning them up. They are the price one pays for a shady yard and the magnificent display of fiery color we have been enjoying these past few weeks.
Well, the price some people pay. It seems I am the only homeowner in the area who does not have an illegal immigrant to clear up Mother Nature’s litter. I have always done my own leaves. We looked into hiring a yard service, but found they would charge $500 to clean up our modest little yard. Kathie, my wife and Finance Minister, said it would be better if I did it again. “You have nothing else to do and it would save us a lot,” she said. “It would be like working again and earning money.”
Yes, I remember those days, but frankly, I would rather have a paper route. But she is right in a way; it would be like working again: slaving away and not actually seeing the money.
Although we have a small yard, we have four large trees that spew a staggering amount of leaves into a very small space. When our kids were little, they enjoyed making huge piles and jumping off the porch roof into them. No kidding.
There are three maples, a horse chestnut, and an almost dead cherry tree. The horse chestnut is the worst. It not only puts forth leaves, but not surprisingly, chestnuts. When these fire out of the discharge port on my mower they become deadly missiles that can fell a grown man like a…..well, like a tree. I have often considered donning the kids’ old soccer shin guards to fend off the bruising chestnut wounds. I have to admit that I enjoy firing a few in the direction of our neighbor’s cat as she sashays through our yard on her way to wreak slaughter at my bird feeder. She can really levitate her fat feline ass as she dives for the trenches.
Since I know what these leaves look like, it really burns me up when I find alien species amid my native domestic crop. This means the ill winds of fortune are delivering the neighbors' output to my turf. I would like to sort each and every one out and return them with a sharply worded note. Now I am sure it works the other way as well, since I have been known to use the Prevailing Wind Direction approach to leaf cleanup. Still, it is human nature to assume one is getting the short end of the leafy stick.
We have to bag our leaves in Califon and leave them at the curb for pickup. In a typical season, I put out 50 bags of mulched leaves. Without mulching, I would probably put out more like 150 bags. This takes hours of work.
Here are the tools of my trade: leaf blower with vacuum attachment, several rakes, lawn mower and plastic garbage barrel. My modus is to blow the leaves into a pile, run the mulching mower over them, and vacuum the mulch into the bag lined barrel.
A word here about leaf blowers: I hate them. In October and November the drone of leaf blowers is the background music of our lives. My neighbor runs his 24/7. In bed at 11:00 clock we are lulled to sleep by the whine of his blower. I have to admire him though. He is a true warrior and engages each and every individual leaf in hand-to-hand combat. A leaf appears, and he is on it before it hits the ground. I prefer to let things pile up a bit before starting the mass destruction.
When people approaching the house are only visible by their hats, it is time to start leaf clean up.
I keep trading up my leaf blower. They all stink, as far as I can tell. My current model says it blows air at 230 mph. A 230 mph wind will flatten a city, but this thing can barely move you’re shoelaces, much less a leaf clinging for its survival to the grass.
I have tool envy for the commercial guys who wear these backpack blowers that look like the flame throwers the Marines used on Iwo Jima.
The powers-that-be keep making the job more difficult as well. You used to be able to burn your leaves and the fall air was filled with the pungent aroma. Plus, burning leaves was fun; at least if you were a guy for whom burning things is always fun. Now we have leaf blower gas fumes.
This year someone has decided that plastic bags are a no-no. We now must use paper bags. I bought some at the hardware store yesterday and they are more expensive than plastic, hold less, are more difficult to work with, and when filled must be stored indoors until pick-up day. So now anyone who lives close enough to the river to blow their leaves into will do so, or hire a yard service.
I will soldier on paper bags and all.
Although I sometimes wonder what would happen if I just left the leaves to their own devises. Let nature take its course. What could be more environmentally correct?
Plus I wouldn’t have to mow the damn grass in the spring.
First they waft down in twos and threes in mid-October like scouts or pickets probing for the enemy’s weakness. Later in the month the main body arrives in their thousands, their legions, their hordes.
Falling leaves. Frank Sinatra can break your heart singing about them, and you can break your back cleaning them up. They are the price one pays for a shady yard and the magnificent display of fiery color we have been enjoying these past few weeks.
Well, the price some people pay. It seems I am the only homeowner in the area who does not have an illegal immigrant to clear up Mother Nature’s litter. I have always done my own leaves. We looked into hiring a yard service, but found they would charge $500 to clean up our modest little yard. Kathie, my wife and Finance Minister, said it would be better if I did it again. “You have nothing else to do and it would save us a lot,” she said. “It would be like working again and earning money.”
Yes, I remember those days, but frankly, I would rather have a paper route. But she is right in a way; it would be like working again: slaving away and not actually seeing the money.
Although we have a small yard, we have four large trees that spew a staggering amount of leaves into a very small space. When our kids were little, they enjoyed making huge piles and jumping off the porch roof into them. No kidding.
There are three maples, a horse chestnut, and an almost dead cherry tree. The horse chestnut is the worst. It not only puts forth leaves, but not surprisingly, chestnuts. When these fire out of the discharge port on my mower they become deadly missiles that can fell a grown man like a…..well, like a tree. I have often considered donning the kids’ old soccer shin guards to fend off the bruising chestnut wounds. I have to admit that I enjoy firing a few in the direction of our neighbor’s cat as she sashays through our yard on her way to wreak slaughter at my bird feeder. She can really levitate her fat feline ass as she dives for the trenches.
Since I know what these leaves look like, it really burns me up when I find alien species amid my native domestic crop. This means the ill winds of fortune are delivering the neighbors' output to my turf. I would like to sort each and every one out and return them with a sharply worded note. Now I am sure it works the other way as well, since I have been known to use the Prevailing Wind Direction approach to leaf cleanup. Still, it is human nature to assume one is getting the short end of the leafy stick.
We have to bag our leaves in Califon and leave them at the curb for pickup. In a typical season, I put out 50 bags of mulched leaves. Without mulching, I would probably put out more like 150 bags. This takes hours of work.
Here are the tools of my trade: leaf blower with vacuum attachment, several rakes, lawn mower and plastic garbage barrel. My modus is to blow the leaves into a pile, run the mulching mower over them, and vacuum the mulch into the bag lined barrel.
A word here about leaf blowers: I hate them. In October and November the drone of leaf blowers is the background music of our lives. My neighbor runs his 24/7. In bed at 11:00 clock we are lulled to sleep by the whine of his blower. I have to admire him though. He is a true warrior and engages each and every individual leaf in hand-to-hand combat. A leaf appears, and he is on it before it hits the ground. I prefer to let things pile up a bit before starting the mass destruction.
When people approaching the house are only visible by their hats, it is time to start leaf clean up.
I keep trading up my leaf blower. They all stink, as far as I can tell. My current model says it blows air at 230 mph. A 230 mph wind will flatten a city, but this thing can barely move you’re shoelaces, much less a leaf clinging for its survival to the grass.
I have tool envy for the commercial guys who wear these backpack blowers that look like the flame throwers the Marines used on Iwo Jima.
The powers-that-be keep making the job more difficult as well. You used to be able to burn your leaves and the fall air was filled with the pungent aroma. Plus, burning leaves was fun; at least if you were a guy for whom burning things is always fun. Now we have leaf blower gas fumes.
This year someone has decided that plastic bags are a no-no. We now must use paper bags. I bought some at the hardware store yesterday and they are more expensive than plastic, hold less, are more difficult to work with, and when filled must be stored indoors until pick-up day. So now anyone who lives close enough to the river to blow their leaves into will do so, or hire a yard service.
I will soldier on paper bags and all.
Although I sometimes wonder what would happen if I just left the leaves to their own devises. Let nature take its course. What could be more environmentally correct?
Plus I wouldn’t have to mow the damn grass in the spring.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Hung Up
It was a beautiful Indian summer day in Califon. After some internal debate, I decided to go fishing. I have not been retired long enough not to feel guilt about doing recreational things during the workday. I rationalized that there would only be a few more days like this before we settle into another cold and drab winter.
So I packed my guilt and my gear and went fishing. I decided to select a spot along the river where I haven’t fished before. The area I chose was along a bend about a mile from my house. There is enough room to park one car. A trail leads through the woods to the river.
To access the trail you can either go around the guardrail through a thick undergrowth of flora bunda and poison ivy, or you can go over the rail.
The top rail is made of wood, maybe a 6x6, and is several feet off the ground. There is a drop off of a foot or so on the trail side.
I donned my chest high waders and put on my vest. During warmer months I wear shorts underneath, but today I was wearing jeans.
Since I really didn’t feel like plowing trough poison ivy, I chose to go over the rail. I often wish my body and mind would get on the same page when faced with these situations. My brain looks at things from the perspective of a thirty year old: “Leap that ditch? Sure no prob.” While my aching body is like “you gotta be kidding.”
I managed to get my left leg over the rail. I hate to admit it, but I actually had to partially lift it up to get it started. Now I was astraddle the rail with several inches between my feet and the ground.
The problem is immediately apparent. I cannot get my right leg over the rail, and, because of the drop off on the trail side, I can’t get my left leg in contact with the ground.
A touch of arthritis in my right hip is partly to blame, but my waders are the major issue.
There is no doubt that I have chubbed up a bit since I retired and because I am wearing jeans, there is little slack to be had in my waders. They are too tight for me to move either leg upward. Michelin Man, meet the guardrail.
I am hung up. Beached. Stranded.
I consider my options. I can call Kathie. She, however, is hard at work while I have gone fishing. My male pride removes this from the table.
I can flag down a passing motorist. There is little traffic on this rural road and what there is consists mainly of stay-at-home moms running errands. What woman is going to stop and check out an overweight man in the missionary position atop a guardrail? I wouldn’t want the woman to stop who would stop in such a situation.
I could fish out my cell phone and call the fire company. They could rescue me like I was a large stranded cat. With one burly lad grabbing me under the arms and one on each leg, I would be out in a flash. However, I have lived in this town many years and know most of these guys. It would be chuckled about for generations.
Also, the incident would surely make the police blotter section of the local paper.
I could see the story: The Califon fire department was called out to rescue Jerry Andersen who was stranded astride a guardrail. He was treated for acute humiliation at the scene and released.
No. I was going to have to get out of this on my own. I could just throw myself off to the right and land head first, or gimpy shoulder first, in the parking lot. A last resort.
I undid the suspenders on my waders and managed to shove them down far enough to get some slack in the legs. I was then able to lift and drag my right leg over the rail.
Free at last, free at last………
I went fishing, but I didn’t catch anything.
So I packed my guilt and my gear and went fishing. I decided to select a spot along the river where I haven’t fished before. The area I chose was along a bend about a mile from my house. There is enough room to park one car. A trail leads through the woods to the river.
To access the trail you can either go around the guardrail through a thick undergrowth of flora bunda and poison ivy, or you can go over the rail.
The top rail is made of wood, maybe a 6x6, and is several feet off the ground. There is a drop off of a foot or so on the trail side.
I donned my chest high waders and put on my vest. During warmer months I wear shorts underneath, but today I was wearing jeans.
Since I really didn’t feel like plowing trough poison ivy, I chose to go over the rail. I often wish my body and mind would get on the same page when faced with these situations. My brain looks at things from the perspective of a thirty year old: “Leap that ditch? Sure no prob.” While my aching body is like “you gotta be kidding.”
I managed to get my left leg over the rail. I hate to admit it, but I actually had to partially lift it up to get it started. Now I was astraddle the rail with several inches between my feet and the ground.
The problem is immediately apparent. I cannot get my right leg over the rail, and, because of the drop off on the trail side, I can’t get my left leg in contact with the ground.
A touch of arthritis in my right hip is partly to blame, but my waders are the major issue.
There is no doubt that I have chubbed up a bit since I retired and because I am wearing jeans, there is little slack to be had in my waders. They are too tight for me to move either leg upward. Michelin Man, meet the guardrail.
I am hung up. Beached. Stranded.
I consider my options. I can call Kathie. She, however, is hard at work while I have gone fishing. My male pride removes this from the table.
I can flag down a passing motorist. There is little traffic on this rural road and what there is consists mainly of stay-at-home moms running errands. What woman is going to stop and check out an overweight man in the missionary position atop a guardrail? I wouldn’t want the woman to stop who would stop in such a situation.
I could fish out my cell phone and call the fire company. They could rescue me like I was a large stranded cat. With one burly lad grabbing me under the arms and one on each leg, I would be out in a flash. However, I have lived in this town many years and know most of these guys. It would be chuckled about for generations.
Also, the incident would surely make the police blotter section of the local paper.
I could see the story: The Califon fire department was called out to rescue Jerry Andersen who was stranded astride a guardrail. He was treated for acute humiliation at the scene and released.
No. I was going to have to get out of this on my own. I could just throw myself off to the right and land head first, or gimpy shoulder first, in the parking lot. A last resort.
I undid the suspenders on my waders and managed to shove them down far enough to get some slack in the legs. I was then able to lift and drag my right leg over the rail.
Free at last, free at last………
I went fishing, but I didn’t catch anything.
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