I knew it was coming. Sore throat, body aches, slight fever, coughing fit at three A.M. Yep. I officially have the flu.
Tim, of course is very sympathetic. He rolled over and told me not to worry about waking him in the middle of the night as I held the pillow over my face and coughed up a lung. He only opened the shades three times this morning, put on the TV and switched on the light while I languished in my sickbed. He even called a few minutes ago to see how I was doing... and told me I needed to be over it by tomorrow because we have an invitation to spend the night at someone's house tomorrow night and then go out with them on their boat on Saturday. Yep, he's just brimming over with concern.
Don't get me wrong. The last time I had the stomach flu, he went to the store at six in the morning to get me pretzels, Gatorade and chicken soup. He offered to take me to the hospital/ doctor. He called eighty-two thousand times to check up on me. The regular old flu just doesn't make the cut for getting sympathy. To Tim, it is in the "suck it up and walk it off" category of illnesses. Like breaking your elbow.
Nine years ago (it's true, women forget nothing and can bring anything up at anytime for any reason--deal with it guys), we had just moved into our house and had our first visitors. Of course, the hardwood floors had taken a beating from all the people, boxes, etc., so they needed to be spruced up a bit before company came. Tim offered to go to the store and get something to clean them with. I believe my last words were, "Do not get Endust. It makes the floor slippery." Naurally, he came back with Endust. (I swear he only hears about every fourth word I say on a good day!)
Fortunately, our luck held and our elderly guest who had just had knee surgery did not slip and fall. I, however, was not so lucky.
At around midnight, I went upstairs to get ready for bed and decided not to come back down to watch TV. Instead of yelling down, I thought I would walk down, tell Tim and get another glass of water. Unfortunately, I had made the fateful decision to leave on my socks while I did this (it was winter and I didn't want cold feet, so I opted for the broken elbow instead--a good choice, don't you think?)
Let's just say that Endust, socks and stairs do not mix, but the cheap glass from Target came out without a nick or scratch. Oh, and we have thirteen steps leading to the second floor. I counted each one as my elbow hit it on the way down. (I now drink my water straight from the plastic bottle and have cold feet all winter...and they say you can't teach an old dog new tricks).
Tim, who thought a box had fallen (how come in all the romance novels and chick flicks, the girls are always getting compared to a greek goddess or a delicate flower, and I get compared to a large. square, cardboard object?) came around the corner to find me sitting on the bottom step laughing hysterically and offered to take me to the hospital (or psych ward). I assured him that I was fine (physically, at least) and just needed a good night's sleep. (I was not going to the hospital in my PJ's)
Turns out I was not so fine and I definitely did not get a good night's sleep. My arm throbbed all night long and no amount of Tylenol helped.
First thing in the morning, Tim offered again to take me to the hospital. but we had made an appointment at a furniture store and it was the last day of the big sale (hey, you have to have priorities in life, and you can sit in emergency rooms for hours before they will even have you fill out a form).
Off to the store we went. Two hours later, I was holding my arm, gobbling Tylenol like candy corns at Halloween and rethinking my priorities when he asked me how I liked a particular couch. "Fine." I answered, "Let's get it," not realizing that this was the wrong thing to say to a guy who has been dragged to the furniture store on a Saturday morning.
"Fine! Fine!" he snapped. "I don't want to settle for fine. If you don't like it, let's keep looking."
I am not Irish for nothing. I believe my answer went something like, "Okay, not fine. It is the most beautiful, stupendous couch I have ever seen. I must have it, or I will fling myself from the top of a mountain into the icy, raging waters of a rushing river." And then I burst into tears and gabbed my arm.
Now this is where the sympathy came pouring out of him. He turned to me and, without missing a beat, said, "I offered to take you to the hospital, but you wanted to come furtiture shopping, so suck it up and walk it off ! "
You know how in the movies, someone says something so outrageous that all converstation, movement and even the backgrounnd music stops? Well, it was kind of like that. The saleswoman backed out of there at Mach ten as , slowly, I turned. Step by step, inch by inch I approached Tim, opened my mouth and...nothing.
I can't remember what happend next because I think I had a stroke. When I came to, we were in the car on the way to the ER. But first, we stopped to pick up burgers. I said I was reevaluating my priorities, I never said I put my elbow at the top of the list!
To make a long story short, (too late), we got the couch, I got a cast and Tim had to wash and dry my waist length hair for the next couple weeks. I'm still thinking of a suitable punishment for him for this weekend.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
Furniture
Recently, I ordered some furniture online for our enclosed back porch--two cabinets and a buffet. About a week later, I returned home one afternoon to find three large boxes on my front porch. I was so excited; I couldn't wait to put it in place.
Unfortunately, there were a few obstacles standing between me and my dream. Obstacle one: each box weighed at least eighty pounds (I know this because it was marked on the box along with a picture of a little guy holding his side and mouthing "hernia"), and I was alone. Still, I gave it my best shot; after all, I take yoga which builds strength and muscle. I managed to move the one box about three inches before my strength and muscles were both demanding I get the heating pad and sit on the couch with a nice cup of tea and maybe some cookies.
Perhaps I should just put the furniture out on the front porch instead. It would give it that welcoming touch. It would make a statement: the Clampets live here. Come in and set for a spell. After that, you can go for a dip in the ceement pond. Okay, maybe not.
Fortunately, inspiration struck and I remembered a dolley we had down in the basement. Perfect. This would be easy. And except for the two doorways the flight of steps it was a piece of cake. (Okay, there are actually only three steps. but it felt like more).
By now I was exhausted, frustrated and sweaty and I hadn't even opened the boxes and confronted the real problem. Did I forget to mention obstacle number two (three if you count the two doorways and flight of stairs, which I do): the furniture was unassembled, a little fact they failed to mention when I purchased it. (It actually said, "some assembly required", which I foolishly assumed meant putting the knobs on the doors and maybe sliding the drawers into the cabinet.)
I figured I was in trouble when I saw the flat boxes, but I was really hoping that somehow the furniture might be inflatable, like one of those rafts where you pull the cord and presto! you have seating for eight. I guess I should have taken shop in high school instead of wasting my time on silly things like Math and Science.
Armed with a kitchen knife, I pried open the first box---the buffet--and dragged out all two thousand pieces. Naturally, the directions and hardware were at the very bottom of the box (I should have known better than to trust the "this end up" stamp after the whole "some assembly" fiasco, but my brain was still reeling from the giant jigsaw puzzle lying before me.
Which brings us to obstacle four: many of the parts were not labeled and I was missing several pieces of hardware. I now had two choices. I could call the 800 number and ask for the missing pieces (okay, no so much ask as whine and bitch), meanwhile assembling the buffet as far as I could, or I could try to unring a bell and put the pieces back in the box. (Did I say I needed a shop class? How about an advanced degree in engineering.)
After much debate (all right, not so much debate as ranting and kicking the box and its contents a few dozen times), I went with option one, which brings us to obstacle five: automated menus. The least they could do after so much aggravation is have somebody in India answer the call and pretend to care! But no. You have to listen to a machine offer you credit cards, additional furniture, timeshares in Botswana and an online degree in rocket science (you see, even they know this stuff is impossible to do!)
Finally, I got to speak to a real, live person, who assured me that I would be sent the missing parts---within a week!!!!! No, problem. I'll just leave giant planks of wood spread all over my back porch for the next few days. It will give it that lived in look (did I say Clampets? How about L'il Abner?)
The followimg Monday, a small envelope arrived in the mail with my missing parts...several of which were incorrect. SHop? engineering? rocket science? Maybe what I actually needed was a degree in Physciatry to help me cope with my nervous breakdown!
Unfortunately, there were a few obstacles standing between me and my dream. Obstacle one: each box weighed at least eighty pounds (I know this because it was marked on the box along with a picture of a little guy holding his side and mouthing "hernia"), and I was alone. Still, I gave it my best shot; after all, I take yoga which builds strength and muscle. I managed to move the one box about three inches before my strength and muscles were both demanding I get the heating pad and sit on the couch with a nice cup of tea and maybe some cookies.
Perhaps I should just put the furniture out on the front porch instead. It would give it that welcoming touch. It would make a statement: the Clampets live here. Come in and set for a spell. After that, you can go for a dip in the ceement pond. Okay, maybe not.
Fortunately, inspiration struck and I remembered a dolley we had down in the basement. Perfect. This would be easy. And except for the two doorways the flight of steps it was a piece of cake. (Okay, there are actually only three steps. but it felt like more).
By now I was exhausted, frustrated and sweaty and I hadn't even opened the boxes and confronted the real problem. Did I forget to mention obstacle number two (three if you count the two doorways and flight of stairs, which I do): the furniture was unassembled, a little fact they failed to mention when I purchased it. (It actually said, "some assembly required", which I foolishly assumed meant putting the knobs on the doors and maybe sliding the drawers into the cabinet.)
I figured I was in trouble when I saw the flat boxes, but I was really hoping that somehow the furniture might be inflatable, like one of those rafts where you pull the cord and presto! you have seating for eight. I guess I should have taken shop in high school instead of wasting my time on silly things like Math and Science.
Armed with a kitchen knife, I pried open the first box---the buffet--and dragged out all two thousand pieces. Naturally, the directions and hardware were at the very bottom of the box (I should have known better than to trust the "this end up" stamp after the whole "some assembly" fiasco, but my brain was still reeling from the giant jigsaw puzzle lying before me.
Which brings us to obstacle four: many of the parts were not labeled and I was missing several pieces of hardware. I now had two choices. I could call the 800 number and ask for the missing pieces (okay, no so much ask as whine and bitch), meanwhile assembling the buffet as far as I could, or I could try to unring a bell and put the pieces back in the box. (Did I say I needed a shop class? How about an advanced degree in engineering.)
After much debate (all right, not so much debate as ranting and kicking the box and its contents a few dozen times), I went with option one, which brings us to obstacle five: automated menus. The least they could do after so much aggravation is have somebody in India answer the call and pretend to care! But no. You have to listen to a machine offer you credit cards, additional furniture, timeshares in Botswana and an online degree in rocket science (you see, even they know this stuff is impossible to do!)
Finally, I got to speak to a real, live person, who assured me that I would be sent the missing parts---within a week!!!!! No, problem. I'll just leave giant planks of wood spread all over my back porch for the next few days. It will give it that lived in look (did I say Clampets? How about L'il Abner?)
The followimg Monday, a small envelope arrived in the mail with my missing parts...several of which were incorrect. SHop? engineering? rocket science? Maybe what I actually needed was a degree in Physciatry to help me cope with my nervous breakdown!
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Mistaken Identity
The other day, I took my four year old nephew to Target for a hot dog and video (we are starting him early on a love of shopping. His future wife will thank us for this). There were already two women in line at the snack bar, so we got out drinks and stood behind them.
It was then I realized that the woman directly in front of us resembled a witch. She had shoulder length frizzy, gray hair, two big medalion necklaces, thick rings on just about every finger, a black T-shirt and vest, and, yes, a black, pointy hat! (More a Lord of the Rings, medieval, floppy kind of hat than a Wizard of Oz, Disney, tall, pointy kind of hat, but a witch's hat nonetheless.)
This was not a good thing. My nephew is at the age where he notices everything and questions it. I could hear it now: "Are you a good witch or a bad witch? Can I have your hat? Where is your broom? Do you know Harry Potter?"
Desperately, I looked around for something to distract him. Aha! A fire extinguisher was hanging on the wall by the counter. Since his current life ambition is to be either a firefighter or a policeman, I figured this would do the trick.
Success! His eyes grew wide, his little mouth formed a perfect circle, he leaned forward...and practically trampled the woman in front of us trying to touch the giant extinguisher. Like a guided missile locked on a target, he saw nothing or no one else. He pushed and shoved his way to the front of the line. One thought only occupied his brain-- must get to extinguisher...must touch.
Okay, so this was not a good thing either. Maybe I should have risked having a spell cast upon us after all. Would it really be so bad to get a good night's sleep for the next hundred years or so?
Bump. The witchy woman steadied herself on the counter and looked at us over her shoulder. "Apologize to the nice lady," I admonished, and got a raised eyebrow and definite attitude ( from her!). Thump. "Sorry ma'am." (Me). Glare. (Her again).
Before he could launch a third offensive, I got him in a hold that would make Hulk Hogan proud and expained to him that he was disturbing the lady in front of us and that he should behave like a gentleman. "What would the firefighter's say if they could see you pushing ladies around?" I asked, throwing in a little psychology.
At this, the woman turned around completely and, with both hands on her hips, gave us the evil eye. Uh oh. Were we about to be turned into toads? Would she lock us in a tower and feel us poisoned apples?
Bravely, we faced her, waiting for the wand to be pulled out from her sleeve or from under her hat, or whereever it is that suburban witches who shop at Target keep them. Maybe we could throw our lemonades on her and she would melt.
It was then that I realized why she was giving us "the look". Our witch wasn't a witch after all. He was a warlock!
And I was afraid of what my nephew would say?!!?
B
It was then I realized that the woman directly in front of us resembled a witch. She had shoulder length frizzy, gray hair, two big medalion necklaces, thick rings on just about every finger, a black T-shirt and vest, and, yes, a black, pointy hat! (More a Lord of the Rings, medieval, floppy kind of hat than a Wizard of Oz, Disney, tall, pointy kind of hat, but a witch's hat nonetheless.)
This was not a good thing. My nephew is at the age where he notices everything and questions it. I could hear it now: "Are you a good witch or a bad witch? Can I have your hat? Where is your broom? Do you know Harry Potter?"
Desperately, I looked around for something to distract him. Aha! A fire extinguisher was hanging on the wall by the counter. Since his current life ambition is to be either a firefighter or a policeman, I figured this would do the trick.
Success! His eyes grew wide, his little mouth formed a perfect circle, he leaned forward...and practically trampled the woman in front of us trying to touch the giant extinguisher. Like a guided missile locked on a target, he saw nothing or no one else. He pushed and shoved his way to the front of the line. One thought only occupied his brain-- must get to extinguisher...must touch.
Okay, so this was not a good thing either. Maybe I should have risked having a spell cast upon us after all. Would it really be so bad to get a good night's sleep for the next hundred years or so?
Bump. The witchy woman steadied herself on the counter and looked at us over her shoulder. "Apologize to the nice lady," I admonished, and got a raised eyebrow and definite attitude ( from her!). Thump. "Sorry ma'am." (Me). Glare. (Her again).
Before he could launch a third offensive, I got him in a hold that would make Hulk Hogan proud and expained to him that he was disturbing the lady in front of us and that he should behave like a gentleman. "What would the firefighter's say if they could see you pushing ladies around?" I asked, throwing in a little psychology.
At this, the woman turned around completely and, with both hands on her hips, gave us the evil eye. Uh oh. Were we about to be turned into toads? Would she lock us in a tower and feel us poisoned apples?
Bravely, we faced her, waiting for the wand to be pulled out from her sleeve or from under her hat, or whereever it is that suburban witches who shop at Target keep them. Maybe we could throw our lemonades on her and she would melt.
It was then that I realized why she was giving us "the look". Our witch wasn't a witch after all. He was a warlock!
And I was afraid of what my nephew would say?!!?
B
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
The Tan
I will admit it. I make Casper look like he's spent the last two weeks sitting on a tropical beach somewhere getting a savage tan.
It's not that I haven't tried to tan. I have. I have tried every lotion, potion, mousse, spray and gel that has been invented in the last thirty years. I have oiled myself up and burned to a crisp. I have turned my skin various shades of orange ranging from neon to harvest gold (as in the shade of kitchen appliances that were popular during the seventies--an attractive look--not). I have walked around with streaks and spots and swiirls of fake tan product gracing my legs and arms (another very attractive look---for a zebra or leopard maybe).
I had just about given up when I saw it advertised....the professional spray-on tan. Surely, this had to work. There were professionals involved, right?
And so, after exhaustive research(okay, I read one article in Cosmo and picked up a brochure at a salon), and detailed interviews ( I asked everyone I know, and although they have never tried it themselves, they all thought I should give it a whirl), I decided to take the plunge. Besides, the tanning salon was near a giant Pottery Barn. Need I say more?
But first...I had to shower, exfoliate and moisturize. Hmm, this was already cutting into shopping time. Bravely, I forged ahead though. No pain, no gain. Right? Minus one layer of skin and greased up like a body builder, I entered the salon, eager to join the ranks of people with actual pigment in their skin.
But first....I had to fill out a health form. Any skin diseases, heart conditions, breathing difficulties, recent surgeries? I've seen shorter forms when applying for life insurance! Then there were the waivers. You know, the ones absolving them from all responsibility in case of injury or death. Death? I'm pretty sure Cosmo didn't mention that little gem of a possibility. Exactly what did this procedure entail?
Nonetheless, I persisted. I was going to be bronzed and beautiful even if it killed me (which apparently, it might). I gave them my credit card, my license, my fingerprint. Fingerprint? I wanted spray-on tan, not a coating of gold from Fort Knox! Were there that many people so desperate foir a fake tan that they were going to steal mine? What was next, a security checkpoint and a cavity search? Had I come to the airport instead of the tanning salon?
At this point, I was wanted the tan if for no other reason than to satisfy my curiosity. Eagerly, I followed the woman back behind the curtain to the sacred inner sanctum, the tanning booth. I was mere minutes away from my dream.
But first......I had to cover my hair with a showercap, apply a special lotion to the palms of my hands and nailbeds, don protective eyewear and noseplugs. Was I getting a tan or entering a radioactive site? Then came the lesson on how to stand and what to expect from the machine. I was also advised to try and hold my breath for the length of the procedure, since it wasn't recommended that I breath in the spray (another little gem they failed to mention in the article).
Gamely, I stepped into the booth, closed the door, pressed the button and assumed the position. Beep, beep, beep. The machine counted down, and I drew in a huge breath of clean air. Which I promptly let out in one big gush as the freezing cold spray hit me from head to toe!
Desperately, I tried not to inhale as the spray nozzles passed over me again and again. Fifteen seconds, she had said, then five to turn around and another fifteen on the back. Not a chance in the world I was going to make it. Should I try to stop and start over? Would that produce a really dark tan one side and a lighter one on the other? Should I step out, draw a breath and then reenter, hoping for an even amount on both sides? Would I have to give my fingerprints again, or have a DNA test to get back in the booth again?
Just as I was sure I was going to pass out (so death really was a possibility), the machine paused to give me time to turn around. As spots danced behind my eyelids and I mentally drafted my last will and testament, I turned and, hoping for the best, covered my mouth with my hands and drew in a breath...of spray.
Before I could even think what to do about this latest hitch in my otherwise perfect plan, the icy cold jets hit me in the back. So now I was choking, gasping for breath and being flash frozen all at the same time! Could it get any worse?
Apparently so. After I stumbled out of the chamber of death, I toweled off, and headed for the nearest oxygen tank I could find, wondering if I was to be the first documented case of brown lung in the medical journals. But at least I'd look good at the funeral.
Several hours later, the payoff came. A deep, golden, even tan (inside as well as out). Unfortunatly, two days later, I had streaks, swirls and spots and I was looking suspiciously orange under certain lighting, like natural, flourescent, and candle.
So much for tanning. Maybe alabaster isn't such a bad look after all.
It's not that I haven't tried to tan. I have. I have tried every lotion, potion, mousse, spray and gel that has been invented in the last thirty years. I have oiled myself up and burned to a crisp. I have turned my skin various shades of orange ranging from neon to harvest gold (as in the shade of kitchen appliances that were popular during the seventies--an attractive look--not). I have walked around with streaks and spots and swiirls of fake tan product gracing my legs and arms (another very attractive look---for a zebra or leopard maybe).
I had just about given up when I saw it advertised....the professional spray-on tan. Surely, this had to work. There were professionals involved, right?
And so, after exhaustive research(okay, I read one article in Cosmo and picked up a brochure at a salon), and detailed interviews ( I asked everyone I know, and although they have never tried it themselves, they all thought I should give it a whirl), I decided to take the plunge. Besides, the tanning salon was near a giant Pottery Barn. Need I say more?
But first...I had to shower, exfoliate and moisturize. Hmm, this was already cutting into shopping time. Bravely, I forged ahead though. No pain, no gain. Right? Minus one layer of skin and greased up like a body builder, I entered the salon, eager to join the ranks of people with actual pigment in their skin.
But first....I had to fill out a health form. Any skin diseases, heart conditions, breathing difficulties, recent surgeries? I've seen shorter forms when applying for life insurance! Then there were the waivers. You know, the ones absolving them from all responsibility in case of injury or death. Death? I'm pretty sure Cosmo didn't mention that little gem of a possibility. Exactly what did this procedure entail?
Nonetheless, I persisted. I was going to be bronzed and beautiful even if it killed me (which apparently, it might). I gave them my credit card, my license, my fingerprint. Fingerprint? I wanted spray-on tan, not a coating of gold from Fort Knox! Were there that many people so desperate foir a fake tan that they were going to steal mine? What was next, a security checkpoint and a cavity search? Had I come to the airport instead of the tanning salon?
At this point, I was wanted the tan if for no other reason than to satisfy my curiosity. Eagerly, I followed the woman back behind the curtain to the sacred inner sanctum, the tanning booth. I was mere minutes away from my dream.
But first......I had to cover my hair with a showercap, apply a special lotion to the palms of my hands and nailbeds, don protective eyewear and noseplugs. Was I getting a tan or entering a radioactive site? Then came the lesson on how to stand and what to expect from the machine. I was also advised to try and hold my breath for the length of the procedure, since it wasn't recommended that I breath in the spray (another little gem they failed to mention in the article).
Gamely, I stepped into the booth, closed the door, pressed the button and assumed the position. Beep, beep, beep. The machine counted down, and I drew in a huge breath of clean air. Which I promptly let out in one big gush as the freezing cold spray hit me from head to toe!
Desperately, I tried not to inhale as the spray nozzles passed over me again and again. Fifteen seconds, she had said, then five to turn around and another fifteen on the back. Not a chance in the world I was going to make it. Should I try to stop and start over? Would that produce a really dark tan one side and a lighter one on the other? Should I step out, draw a breath and then reenter, hoping for an even amount on both sides? Would I have to give my fingerprints again, or have a DNA test to get back in the booth again?
Just as I was sure I was going to pass out (so death really was a possibility), the machine paused to give me time to turn around. As spots danced behind my eyelids and I mentally drafted my last will and testament, I turned and, hoping for the best, covered my mouth with my hands and drew in a breath...of spray.
Before I could even think what to do about this latest hitch in my otherwise perfect plan, the icy cold jets hit me in the back. So now I was choking, gasping for breath and being flash frozen all at the same time! Could it get any worse?
Apparently so. After I stumbled out of the chamber of death, I toweled off, and headed for the nearest oxygen tank I could find, wondering if I was to be the first documented case of brown lung in the medical journals. But at least I'd look good at the funeral.
Several hours later, the payoff came. A deep, golden, even tan (inside as well as out). Unfortunatly, two days later, I had streaks, swirls and spots and I was looking suspiciously orange under certain lighting, like natural, flourescent, and candle.
So much for tanning. Maybe alabaster isn't such a bad look after all.
Friday, May 11, 2007
The Lawn, Part 2
As all the neighbors know, I hate yard work. I mean, really hate it. I would rather have a root canal then putter around in the garden. The first sign of spring on our block is not the robin, swooping down to gobble up a fat, juicy worm for breakfast, it is a truck pulling up to our house and dropping off men with power equipment.
Unfortunately, this year spring was delayed due to the fact that I fired the lawn company from last year and couldn't find a replacement right away. Also unfortunate was the fact that the grass and bushes did not cooperate with this schedule. They began to grow. And grow. And grow.
I was quite happy to ignore "the jungle" as our yard was affectionately becoming known in the neighborhood, but Tim cracked under the pressure and was threatening to buy a mower and actually use it. Apparently, the last straw was when he had to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find his way from the house to the car. Wimp.
Even more unfortunate (for me) is that Tim has a bad back and, for the past week, the flu. (Okay, it was no party for him either, but let's focus on what is important here---me breaking a sweat and getting dirty). There was no hope for it. He was not falling for "let's worry about it tomorrow" ----again. (Hey, it worked for Scarlet, and we do live in the south.) I would have to mow the lawn.
I tried to be brave. Really, I did. I picked out a cute little red push mower and convinced myself that it would be good exercise. It might even be fun. I'd put on my ipod and be like one of those people you see in the commercials who are so happy to be working in their yard that they cannot stop themselves from breaking into song and dance.
I even had a guy flirt with me while I was checking out. He asked me if I was a former model (former? A swing and a miss). He also apparently missed the sarcasm dripping from my voice when I told him how clever he was to have noticed. I, however, did not miss the look of incredulity on his face or the amazement in his voice when he said, "Really?" (I might have been less insulted if he had been a buff twenty-something, but since it looked like many long, hard years had passed since this man could even spell buff.....strike two!)
Okay, so this was turning out to be more like one of those commercials where the people have constipation or hemorroids and are not quite as happy or inclined to dance.
I shook it off though, determined to get back to my "happy place". The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day to be outdoors, and it would take me no time at all to zip around the yard with my little mower since I didn't have to worry about filling it with gas or plugging it in or whatever else one does with those big he-man mowers. Maybe I could work up a small jig after all.
Then again, maybe not. Eagerly, I removed the mower from the car and set it on the nearest patch of grass. I pushed. It pushed back. Hmm. Maybe the grass was too high here. I moved it to a less dense spot where the grass was only up to my knees. I pushed again, really putting my back into it...and got about six inches before it refused to budge. Okay...maybe it needed some WD-40 to get it moving. After all, it was new and hadn't been broken in yet.
Half an hour and half a can later, I had mowed a grand total of about one square foot of lawn. Ten minutes and ten or more curses after that, I was eying the hedge clippers and wondering if it wouldn't be less painful to just cut the grass by hand.
Needless to say, the neighbors were enjoying all this immensly. I think they were taking bets on exactly when I was going to snap and go after the mower with the clippers, sort of like a Friday the Thirteenth sequel, only with Ray-bans instead of a hockey mask.
Finally, in total desperation, I pulled the mower instead of pushing it. And (can you hear the chorus of angels singing "Halleluia"?) it actually cut the grass! Perhaps someone might have shared that pertinent jewel of information a wee bit sooner? Say, before I had my stroke?
Two hours and many, many blisters later, I was passing the mower over the last patch of grass/demon weeds from the very bowels of the underworld that refuse to bend, break or die no matter how many times you cut/ slash/ rip out or stomp on when it happened....Spring arrived in our neighborhood, or at least an estimate of spring with the promise to return three days later.
Needless to say, the mower has been retired and we signed a contract that very day to make sure I never have to repeat the whole horrible experience ever again. I have already made the appointment for the root canal instead.
Unfortunately, this year spring was delayed due to the fact that I fired the lawn company from last year and couldn't find a replacement right away. Also unfortunate was the fact that the grass and bushes did not cooperate with this schedule. They began to grow. And grow. And grow.
I was quite happy to ignore "the jungle" as our yard was affectionately becoming known in the neighborhood, but Tim cracked under the pressure and was threatening to buy a mower and actually use it. Apparently, the last straw was when he had to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find his way from the house to the car. Wimp.
Even more unfortunate (for me) is that Tim has a bad back and, for the past week, the flu. (Okay, it was no party for him either, but let's focus on what is important here---me breaking a sweat and getting dirty). There was no hope for it. He was not falling for "let's worry about it tomorrow" ----again. (Hey, it worked for Scarlet, and we do live in the south.) I would have to mow the lawn.
I tried to be brave. Really, I did. I picked out a cute little red push mower and convinced myself that it would be good exercise. It might even be fun. I'd put on my ipod and be like one of those people you see in the commercials who are so happy to be working in their yard that they cannot stop themselves from breaking into song and dance.
I even had a guy flirt with me while I was checking out. He asked me if I was a former model (former? A swing and a miss). He also apparently missed the sarcasm dripping from my voice when I told him how clever he was to have noticed. I, however, did not miss the look of incredulity on his face or the amazement in his voice when he said, "Really?" (I might have been less insulted if he had been a buff twenty-something, but since it looked like many long, hard years had passed since this man could even spell buff.....strike two!)
Okay, so this was turning out to be more like one of those commercials where the people have constipation or hemorroids and are not quite as happy or inclined to dance.
I shook it off though, determined to get back to my "happy place". The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day to be outdoors, and it would take me no time at all to zip around the yard with my little mower since I didn't have to worry about filling it with gas or plugging it in or whatever else one does with those big he-man mowers. Maybe I could work up a small jig after all.
Then again, maybe not. Eagerly, I removed the mower from the car and set it on the nearest patch of grass. I pushed. It pushed back. Hmm. Maybe the grass was too high here. I moved it to a less dense spot where the grass was only up to my knees. I pushed again, really putting my back into it...and got about six inches before it refused to budge. Okay...maybe it needed some WD-40 to get it moving. After all, it was new and hadn't been broken in yet.
Half an hour and half a can later, I had mowed a grand total of about one square foot of lawn. Ten minutes and ten or more curses after that, I was eying the hedge clippers and wondering if it wouldn't be less painful to just cut the grass by hand.
Needless to say, the neighbors were enjoying all this immensly. I think they were taking bets on exactly when I was going to snap and go after the mower with the clippers, sort of like a Friday the Thirteenth sequel, only with Ray-bans instead of a hockey mask.
Finally, in total desperation, I pulled the mower instead of pushing it. And (can you hear the chorus of angels singing "Halleluia"?) it actually cut the grass! Perhaps someone might have shared that pertinent jewel of information a wee bit sooner? Say, before I had my stroke?
Two hours and many, many blisters later, I was passing the mower over the last patch of grass/demon weeds from the very bowels of the underworld that refuse to bend, break or die no matter how many times you cut/ slash/ rip out or stomp on when it happened....Spring arrived in our neighborhood, or at least an estimate of spring with the promise to return three days later.
Needless to say, the mower has been retired and we signed a contract that very day to make sure I never have to repeat the whole horrible experience ever again. I have already made the appointment for the root canal instead.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
The Lawn
Getting someone to mow your lawn is like applying for a job. You scour the paper and the internet for some leads, you make a dozen or so phone calls (leaving increasingly desperate voicemails as your grass begins to obscure the second story windows), and then you sit by the phone and wait for someone, anyone, to please return your call.
Finally, the phone rings. You look at the caller ID. It is a lawn service. Your heart rate speeds up, your palms begin to sweat. Could this be your lucky day? Is it actually one of the companies calling you back, or have you begun to hallucinate, high on the smell of uncut grass and dandelion fluff? With bated breath, you answer the phone. Today is your lucky day! They agree to come out...and give you an estimate.
Before you get too excited though, there is the small matter of references.....yours, not theirs. How did you hear about them? Do you personally know any of their other clients? Who was doing your lawn before? What is your shoe size, your mother's maiden name, your first childhood pet?
Crossing your fingers, you try to bluff your way through. Was this the first place you called or the tenth? Were they the ones from your internet search that had they dancing grubs on their site, or were they the company with the biggest ad in the phone book? Maybe they are the ones whose truck you chased through the neighborhood trying to get the number off the side, causing pedestrians to leap into nearby hedges for safety. Who cares. You just need someone, anyone to cut your grass before the county puts up a condemned sign in your front yard and the neighbors show up at your door with torches and pitchforks.
Good news. They agree to come out... and give you an estimate...within the next five to seven days. Having successfully passing the initial job interview, you heave a sigh of relief, which quickly turns to a groan of trepidation. Like choosing an outfit for the callback interview (Blouse or knit top? Skirt or pants?), you begin to critically assess your yard. Do the bushes need trimming? Do the flowers need plant food? Do the beds need weeding? Should you try to impress them with your high standards of a well-manicured yard, or make them pity you for having to hack your way through a jungle each night to reach your front door?
Meanwhile, the grass continues to grow at an alarming rate. Small children and animals are in danger of being lost forever if they stray too far off the path. National Geographic camera crews show up scouting locations for their next prime time special.
Just when you are seriously considering either buying a goat or blacktopping the entire yard and calling it a day, someone finally shows up to give you an estimate. Of course, this is all done under the veil of secrecy. God forbid they would knock on your door and introduce themselves. You might actually want to talk to them. No, they park across the street, don caouflage gear and, with the stealth and skill of a Green Beret, they infiltrate the backyard, recording their findings in a top secret code with invisible ink, which they will promptly eat if discovered.
Ahh, but they haven't counted on our determination to hire them. We spot them as they sprint back to the safety of their truck. With escape mere seconds away, we apprehend them and force them to reveal their "eyes only" plans for our yard.
They offer, we counter. Schedules are consulted, numbers fly back and forth. Future plans for flowers, bushes, and shrubs are discussed. Dental, retirement and medical plans can not be far behind. Will they want childcare, reimbursement for travel expenses, a fully equipped gym and spa?
At last, a contract is agreed upon, and they make good with their escape, but not before we extract a promise that they will return to cut our grass....within the next five to seven days!
Finally, the phone rings. You look at the caller ID. It is a lawn service. Your heart rate speeds up, your palms begin to sweat. Could this be your lucky day? Is it actually one of the companies calling you back, or have you begun to hallucinate, high on the smell of uncut grass and dandelion fluff? With bated breath, you answer the phone. Today is your lucky day! They agree to come out...and give you an estimate.
Before you get too excited though, there is the small matter of references.....yours, not theirs. How did you hear about them? Do you personally know any of their other clients? Who was doing your lawn before? What is your shoe size, your mother's maiden name, your first childhood pet?
Crossing your fingers, you try to bluff your way through. Was this the first place you called or the tenth? Were they the ones from your internet search that had they dancing grubs on their site, or were they the company with the biggest ad in the phone book? Maybe they are the ones whose truck you chased through the neighborhood trying to get the number off the side, causing pedestrians to leap into nearby hedges for safety. Who cares. You just need someone, anyone to cut your grass before the county puts up a condemned sign in your front yard and the neighbors show up at your door with torches and pitchforks.
Good news. They agree to come out... and give you an estimate...within the next five to seven days. Having successfully passing the initial job interview, you heave a sigh of relief, which quickly turns to a groan of trepidation. Like choosing an outfit for the callback interview (Blouse or knit top? Skirt or pants?), you begin to critically assess your yard. Do the bushes need trimming? Do the flowers need plant food? Do the beds need weeding? Should you try to impress them with your high standards of a well-manicured yard, or make them pity you for having to hack your way through a jungle each night to reach your front door?
Meanwhile, the grass continues to grow at an alarming rate. Small children and animals are in danger of being lost forever if they stray too far off the path. National Geographic camera crews show up scouting locations for their next prime time special.
Just when you are seriously considering either buying a goat or blacktopping the entire yard and calling it a day, someone finally shows up to give you an estimate. Of course, this is all done under the veil of secrecy. God forbid they would knock on your door and introduce themselves. You might actually want to talk to them. No, they park across the street, don caouflage gear and, with the stealth and skill of a Green Beret, they infiltrate the backyard, recording their findings in a top secret code with invisible ink, which they will promptly eat if discovered.
Ahh, but they haven't counted on our determination to hire them. We spot them as they sprint back to the safety of their truck. With escape mere seconds away, we apprehend them and force them to reveal their "eyes only" plans for our yard.
They offer, we counter. Schedules are consulted, numbers fly back and forth. Future plans for flowers, bushes, and shrubs are discussed. Dental, retirement and medical plans can not be far behind. Will they want childcare, reimbursement for travel expenses, a fully equipped gym and spa?
At last, a contract is agreed upon, and they make good with their escape, but not before we extract a promise that they will return to cut our grass....within the next five to seven days!
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Train Ride
Last weekend, my sister-in-law and I took the train to New York. Unfortunately, so did half the population of the east coast, and they all showed up at the same time.
Friday, 4:30...the departure gate is not even listed, so I go out to the front of the station to meet her. Friday 4:40...we return to the deparature area to find a line that would rival the Great Wall in length. This was even worse than the lines at Disneyland because there were no colorful cartoon characters to entertain us. In all fairness though, there was a man in back of us who had a lot of colorful words to say about the length of the line. Not quite the same thing, but close, and we did learn some new words, although I think a few of his suggestions may have been anatomically impossible.
Naturally, by the time we got onto the train, all of the cars were filled except the quiet car. We snagged two seats together at a table for four near the back of the car, and took out our stack of magazines and ipods. Maybe this quiet car thing wouldn't be so bad after all. Without being able to chat nonstop (Whispered conversations only? Please, we're irish. We don't even know how to spell whisper.) , we couild devote ourselves to learning which bathing suit is best for our body type and the top ten things guys really want to do in bed ( okay, so there weren't a lot of surprises here). Two minutes later, a man sat in one of the other seats, and we pulled out of the station.
First came the general announcements: Where the train was headed, the first stop we would make, the fact that the train was sold out, etc. Then came the special announcements for the quiet car: no cell phones or other noisemaking devices, no conversations above a whisper. Of course, they repeated this at top volume several times, just to make sure we understood what it meant to be in the quiet car. They then repeated it again at our first stop ten minutes later and once more at the stop after that. Add to that the fact that the conductor came marching down the aisle at every stop demending tickets at the top of his voice and, well, they call this the quiet car? Can you say "irony" boys and girls?
Despite the fact that most of the people probably didn't want to even be in the quiet car (I'm guessing this wasn't the first choice for the family with four children) We tried to be good little do-bees and set our phones on vibrate, not to mention texting everyone telling them of our unfortunate circumstance. Of course, by the time we figured out how to do this, we had both received several calls. We were making friends already!
About thirty minutes into the trip, the guy across from us did decide that he wanted to be our friend. He turned off his computer and pulled out a bag of chocolate cookies, which he offered us. We politely declined and returned to our magazines and ipods. He went to the cafe car and returned with plates, cups and cartons of milk, which he distributed among the three of us. Apparently it was snack time. I wondered if nap time was next or perhaps show and tell.
Once again, we tried to decline. I, personally, have not had a glass of milk since I was about ten, and I was not about to make an exception to my "no milk" rule now. (And adding chocolate to it does nothing but ruin a perfectly good food--the chocolate, not the milk).
He put a cookie on our plate and insisted we at least try it, attempting to entice us by regaling us with the history of this cookie and how it is beloved by people the world over. Finally, we tasted the thing, out of consideration for our ears, which were beginning to bleed. In retrosect, we should have held out longer, as in forever, because the only thing that will ruin chocolate more than milk is raw coconut mixed in with it and huge salt granuals sprinkled on top of it. Yuck!!!
Somehow, he was able to divine that we did not care for his cookie (maybe it was the gagging noises, or it could have been the razors we pulled out to shave our tongues -- and they say guys aren't intuitive!). Did that stop him though? Nope, it didn't even slow him down. Chocolate cookies not working for you? How about a box of Belgian chocolates? No? Let me show you a picture of my cute little dog. (I'm thinking the quiet car was not his first choice either.)
Apparently, ipods, magazines and insulting the man's cookie wasn't enough to convince him we were not interested in bonding with him. It was time for a more direct line of approach. We pulled out the cellphones and blackberries and began texting like crazy. We got up and went to the restroom, threw away the garbage(a.k.a. the cookie), and we encouraged the glare of the man across the aisle. Still no effect. He was determined to share his life with us if not his chocolates.
Just when we began to truly despair, we arrived at our destination. When last seen, our friend had found a new victim (I think it was it was the man from the line, and I'll bet he had a few more colorful words to say after about five minutes), and was happily hounding him as he took the stairs up into the station.
We made sure we found only two seats together on the way back, and not in the quiet car.
Friday, 4:30...the departure gate is not even listed, so I go out to the front of the station to meet her. Friday 4:40...we return to the deparature area to find a line that would rival the Great Wall in length. This was even worse than the lines at Disneyland because there were no colorful cartoon characters to entertain us. In all fairness though, there was a man in back of us who had a lot of colorful words to say about the length of the line. Not quite the same thing, but close, and we did learn some new words, although I think a few of his suggestions may have been anatomically impossible.
Naturally, by the time we got onto the train, all of the cars were filled except the quiet car. We snagged two seats together at a table for four near the back of the car, and took out our stack of magazines and ipods. Maybe this quiet car thing wouldn't be so bad after all. Without being able to chat nonstop (Whispered conversations only? Please, we're irish. We don't even know how to spell whisper.) , we couild devote ourselves to learning which bathing suit is best for our body type and the top ten things guys really want to do in bed ( okay, so there weren't a lot of surprises here). Two minutes later, a man sat in one of the other seats, and we pulled out of the station.
First came the general announcements: Where the train was headed, the first stop we would make, the fact that the train was sold out, etc. Then came the special announcements for the quiet car: no cell phones or other noisemaking devices, no conversations above a whisper. Of course, they repeated this at top volume several times, just to make sure we understood what it meant to be in the quiet car. They then repeated it again at our first stop ten minutes later and once more at the stop after that. Add to that the fact that the conductor came marching down the aisle at every stop demending tickets at the top of his voice and, well, they call this the quiet car? Can you say "irony" boys and girls?
Despite the fact that most of the people probably didn't want to even be in the quiet car (I'm guessing this wasn't the first choice for the family with four children) We tried to be good little do-bees and set our phones on vibrate, not to mention texting everyone telling them of our unfortunate circumstance. Of course, by the time we figured out how to do this, we had both received several calls. We were making friends already!
About thirty minutes into the trip, the guy across from us did decide that he wanted to be our friend. He turned off his computer and pulled out a bag of chocolate cookies, which he offered us. We politely declined and returned to our magazines and ipods. He went to the cafe car and returned with plates, cups and cartons of milk, which he distributed among the three of us. Apparently it was snack time. I wondered if nap time was next or perhaps show and tell.
Once again, we tried to decline. I, personally, have not had a glass of milk since I was about ten, and I was not about to make an exception to my "no milk" rule now. (And adding chocolate to it does nothing but ruin a perfectly good food--the chocolate, not the milk).
He put a cookie on our plate and insisted we at least try it, attempting to entice us by regaling us with the history of this cookie and how it is beloved by people the world over. Finally, we tasted the thing, out of consideration for our ears, which were beginning to bleed. In retrosect, we should have held out longer, as in forever, because the only thing that will ruin chocolate more than milk is raw coconut mixed in with it and huge salt granuals sprinkled on top of it. Yuck!!!
Somehow, he was able to divine that we did not care for his cookie (maybe it was the gagging noises, or it could have been the razors we pulled out to shave our tongues -- and they say guys aren't intuitive!). Did that stop him though? Nope, it didn't even slow him down. Chocolate cookies not working for you? How about a box of Belgian chocolates? No? Let me show you a picture of my cute little dog. (I'm thinking the quiet car was not his first choice either.)
Apparently, ipods, magazines and insulting the man's cookie wasn't enough to convince him we were not interested in bonding with him. It was time for a more direct line of approach. We pulled out the cellphones and blackberries and began texting like crazy. We got up and went to the restroom, threw away the garbage(a.k.a. the cookie), and we encouraged the glare of the man across the aisle. Still no effect. He was determined to share his life with us if not his chocolates.
Just when we began to truly despair, we arrived at our destination. When last seen, our friend had found a new victim (I think it was it was the man from the line, and I'll bet he had a few more colorful words to say after about five minutes), and was happily hounding him as he took the stairs up into the station.
We made sure we found only two seats together on the way back, and not in the quiet car.
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