Recently, Tim's sister got a sound system. It is a DVD/CD player, radio, and speaker system for the TV all rolled into one. And it only takes three remotes to operate it. Ahh. Progress.
A few weeks ago, Tim and I went over to try and help her hook it up (well, Tim went over to hook it up, I just went along to heckle him...it's my job).
He got it out of the box, and even managed to follow the seemingly idiot-proof picture directions for hooking it up. It wasn't until he turned it on that the trouble began.
Oh, it started out user-friendly enough, encouraging Tim to choose which language he preferred, number one for English, numero dos for espanol. He pressed one for English.
A woman's voice flowed out from the speaker welcoming him, and assuring him that she would guide him through the start-up process.
And then she switched to Spanish.
Perplexed, Tim pushed the buttons to stop, then exit, then restart. And got Spanish again.
He hit some more buttons. And got Spanish again. Caramba!
He said some not very nice words, but surprisingly they had no effect on the senorita and she continued to hable en espanol.
I believe that it was at this point that the dog decided to enter the fray. Somehow, he thought that jumping up and french kissing Tim repeatedly would make everything better. It didn't (some people are just determined to be foul for no reason whatsoever).
Concern for Tim's pressure, her dog and her TV (although not necessarily in that order), prompted Rose to insist that she didn't need the system hooked up that day, but Tim was not giving up yet.
He re-read the directions, fiddled with the connections, the buttons, the knobs and the remotes. Nada.
I heckled (it was my job, after all), the dog barked, Rose soothed, and Tim cursed (some of it in Spanish--the extent of his Spanish language skills-- so the machine could understand). Still nada.
Eventually, dinnertime approached and Tim had to admit temporary defeat. He turned off the system, unplugged it, and with a muttered, "hasta la vista" and final black look, left the apartment.
This past weekend, we finally returned, but brought our twenty-two year old nephew with us. As Tim explained the problem, our nephew nodded once, walked over to the machine, switched one of the cables around and "Termine" Done. No problemo.
So now Rose can listen to her TV programs as though she is a member of the studio audience...if only she could remember how to work the three remotes.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Of Rocks and Strings and Sealing Wax and Other Fancy Stuff
The other night at dinner, my niece and I were discussing the plot of a book which involved a small town museum, and I was reminded of the one my mother and I visited on our Alaskan cruise.
Pulling into port on that fine July morning, we reviewed our options. We could stay aboard ship and relax in the spa, then maybe pop into the casino for an enjoyable hour or so, we could visit the town and spend time exploring the cozy little shops and restaurants, or we could hike up the road to petroglyph beach to view actual prehistoric rock carvings.
Since it was a lovely thirty-five degrees and raining, we, of course, elected to go with option number three.
Shrugging our fleece-lined coats on over every other item of clothing we owned, we set out for the far side of town and the beach.
As we slogged up the mud-drenched road, we encountered a couple of fellow shipmates, and thought to double-check our direction. "Petroglyph beach?" we enquired, peering through the downpour, and pointing up the hill.
Exchanging what they surely thought to be a surreptitious glance, they nodded, "Yes, just keep going up the hill. Oh, and stop at the museum," and hurried past us.
Huh. That didn't seem too encouraging. Had we detected a bit of a smirk?
Gamely, we continued schlepping up the increasingly steep and winding trail, eventually passing a few more poor, drenched souls.
"Petroglyph beach?" we gasped out, feebly raising trembling fingers to point upwards.
"Oh, yes," they responded cheerily (too cheerily), "you're almost there. Be sure and visit the museum on the way too." And they rolled past us back toward civilization.
Okay, they really looked like they were smirking.
But, on we trudged, ever upward (where exactly was this beach, the North Pole?), and, not soon enough, we saw a sign (and by sign, I mean piece of wood nailed to a tree with the word "museum" carved into it) indicating we had arrived at the recommended destination.
Approaching the museum (and by museum, I mean extra-large detached garage buried in the wilderness) we paid our $1 entrance fee and went in.
We were greeted by a chorus line of fifty Barbie dolls in crocheted dresses representing the fifty states. Okay...moving on. There was a dented typewriter from the 1920's, a rusted outboard motor from the 50's and a giant pine cone from the woods.
But wait, there was more. Magazines from the 70's, someones beat-up old shoes and an entire box of assorted buttons and wooden spools that had once held thread.
Yes, those were definitely smirks we had seen.
After picking our way past the displays of moose antlers, rocking chairs without seats and the remains of what used to be aluminum lawn furniture, we decided we had seen enough of the collection (and by collection, I mean stuff they hadn't been able to sell at the community yard sale), and resumed our sojourn to petryoglyph beach.
Upon reaching our final destination and gazing down at the three rocks with fish and circles carved into them (did they say prehistoric or pre-school?) we became nostalgic for the museum's treasures.
Slipping and sliding our way back downhill to the dry comforts of our staterooms, we couldn't resist doing as those before us had done though.
Passing the poor fools straggling up the mountainside, we smiled smug little smiles, nodded encouragingly toward the mountain's peak and suggested they stop by for a visit to the "must-see" town attraction---the museum.
Pulling into port on that fine July morning, we reviewed our options. We could stay aboard ship and relax in the spa, then maybe pop into the casino for an enjoyable hour or so, we could visit the town and spend time exploring the cozy little shops and restaurants, or we could hike up the road to petroglyph beach to view actual prehistoric rock carvings.
Since it was a lovely thirty-five degrees and raining, we, of course, elected to go with option number three.
Shrugging our fleece-lined coats on over every other item of clothing we owned, we set out for the far side of town and the beach.
As we slogged up the mud-drenched road, we encountered a couple of fellow shipmates, and thought to double-check our direction. "Petroglyph beach?" we enquired, peering through the downpour, and pointing up the hill.
Exchanging what they surely thought to be a surreptitious glance, they nodded, "Yes, just keep going up the hill. Oh, and stop at the museum," and hurried past us.
Huh. That didn't seem too encouraging. Had we detected a bit of a smirk?
Gamely, we continued schlepping up the increasingly steep and winding trail, eventually passing a few more poor, drenched souls.
"Petroglyph beach?" we gasped out, feebly raising trembling fingers to point upwards.
"Oh, yes," they responded cheerily (too cheerily), "you're almost there. Be sure and visit the museum on the way too." And they rolled past us back toward civilization.
Okay, they really looked like they were smirking.
But, on we trudged, ever upward (where exactly was this beach, the North Pole?), and, not soon enough, we saw a sign (and by sign, I mean piece of wood nailed to a tree with the word "museum" carved into it) indicating we had arrived at the recommended destination.
Approaching the museum (and by museum, I mean extra-large detached garage buried in the wilderness) we paid our $1 entrance fee and went in.
We were greeted by a chorus line of fifty Barbie dolls in crocheted dresses representing the fifty states. Okay...moving on. There was a dented typewriter from the 1920's, a rusted outboard motor from the 50's and a giant pine cone from the woods.
But wait, there was more. Magazines from the 70's, someones beat-up old shoes and an entire box of assorted buttons and wooden spools that had once held thread.
Yes, those were definitely smirks we had seen.
After picking our way past the displays of moose antlers, rocking chairs without seats and the remains of what used to be aluminum lawn furniture, we decided we had seen enough of the collection (and by collection, I mean stuff they hadn't been able to sell at the community yard sale), and resumed our sojourn to petryoglyph beach.
Upon reaching our final destination and gazing down at the three rocks with fish and circles carved into them (did they say prehistoric or pre-school?) we became nostalgic for the museum's treasures.
Slipping and sliding our way back downhill to the dry comforts of our staterooms, we couldn't resist doing as those before us had done though.
Passing the poor fools straggling up the mountainside, we smiled smug little smiles, nodded encouragingly toward the mountain's peak and suggested they stop by for a visit to the "must-see" town attraction---the museum.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Blah, blah, blah
Recently, a friend and I were talking about our most embarrassing moments (and, believe me, there have been a lot !)
I would have to say, the hands-down winner for me occurred when Tim and I were on vacation (and naturally, it was all his fault. No, really.)
The hotel was fabulous, the room was great, the beach wonderful. Life was bliss. Until day two when I tried to use the hair dryer and Tim tried to use the internet.
The dryer was one of those wall-mounted units, but not the normal kind. This one looked more like a vacuum attachment with its ribbed, (semi) flexible hose and rectangular nozzle. I wasn't sure whether I should dry my hair or hunt for dust bunnies under the bed.
It also had one setting, fry, which not only referred to your hair, but also the skin on your hand holding the dryer. It was enough to make Vidal Sassoon want to shave his head.
Being moderately (okay, okay, obsessively) fond of my hair, not to mention wanting to avoid a trip to the ER for treatment of third degree burns, I made a trip to the drug store where I purchased the only dryer they had. It was about the size of my palm, but sounded like a jet was taking off in the bathroom.
Hmmmm. So my choices were: having a really bad hair day, or going deaf. I started learning sign language.
Tim's internet problem was a much easier fix. He called the front desk and they told him they would send somebody up. Done.
It was when our two solutions collided that my moment occurred.
After a hard day of lounging on the beach and frolicking in the water (well, not so much frolicking as floating and lounging there too -- wouldn't want to expend too much energy), we returned to the room where I hopped into the shower and Tim hopped onto the phone.
As I stood there in my underwear, aiming what amounted to a hand-held police siren or air horn at my head, Tim opened the bathroom door, stuck his head in, and interrupted his call long enough to say, "Blah, blah, blah." He then popped out, shutting the door behind him before I could react.
Now normally, I would just ignore whatever he had to say if it interfered with my beauty regimen. After all, what could possibly be more important than my hair? But, judging from the expression on his face, this had seemed to be a matter of some concern.
Heaving a sigh, I shut off the dryer, flung open the bathroom door and barrelled out into the little hallway snapping, "What did you say?"
And came face to face, or rather face to torso with the tech guy kneeling on the floor who was trying to fix Tim's internet connection problem.
Apparently, "Blah, blah, blah," translated into: "Don't come out of the bathroom unless you want to share way too much personal information with a complete stranger."
The next day, after I was talking to Tim again, we went looking for another hair dryer.
I would have to say, the hands-down winner for me occurred when Tim and I were on vacation (and naturally, it was all his fault. No, really.)
The hotel was fabulous, the room was great, the beach wonderful. Life was bliss. Until day two when I tried to use the hair dryer and Tim tried to use the internet.
The dryer was one of those wall-mounted units, but not the normal kind. This one looked more like a vacuum attachment with its ribbed, (semi) flexible hose and rectangular nozzle. I wasn't sure whether I should dry my hair or hunt for dust bunnies under the bed.
It also had one setting, fry, which not only referred to your hair, but also the skin on your hand holding the dryer. It was enough to make Vidal Sassoon want to shave his head.
Being moderately (okay, okay, obsessively) fond of my hair, not to mention wanting to avoid a trip to the ER for treatment of third degree burns, I made a trip to the drug store where I purchased the only dryer they had. It was about the size of my palm, but sounded like a jet was taking off in the bathroom.
Hmmmm. So my choices were: having a really bad hair day, or going deaf. I started learning sign language.
Tim's internet problem was a much easier fix. He called the front desk and they told him they would send somebody up. Done.
It was when our two solutions collided that my moment occurred.
After a hard day of lounging on the beach and frolicking in the water (well, not so much frolicking as floating and lounging there too -- wouldn't want to expend too much energy), we returned to the room where I hopped into the shower and Tim hopped onto the phone.
As I stood there in my underwear, aiming what amounted to a hand-held police siren or air horn at my head, Tim opened the bathroom door, stuck his head in, and interrupted his call long enough to say, "Blah, blah, blah." He then popped out, shutting the door behind him before I could react.
Now normally, I would just ignore whatever he had to say if it interfered with my beauty regimen. After all, what could possibly be more important than my hair? But, judging from the expression on his face, this had seemed to be a matter of some concern.
Heaving a sigh, I shut off the dryer, flung open the bathroom door and barrelled out into the little hallway snapping, "What did you say?"
And came face to face, or rather face to torso with the tech guy kneeling on the floor who was trying to fix Tim's internet connection problem.
Apparently, "Blah, blah, blah," translated into: "Don't come out of the bathroom unless you want to share way too much personal information with a complete stranger."
The next day, after I was talking to Tim again, we went looking for another hair dryer.
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