The following story is mostly true; the names of the lazy have been changed to protect me, should they ever learn to read.)
I really wish that cats could talk. I could get answers to questions that have bothered me ever since cats became a part of my existence way back when my dear wife decided that having cats around the house was the perfect compliment to our lovely home and idyllic marriage. And while the union remains strong, if a tad tense when the topic of discussion is cats, the home is no longer lovely.
After all, cats are not—contrary to their reputation—neat creatures. Do they put away their toys when they’re down playing with them? Never. Do they clean up the mess they leave around their food and water dishes? Of course not. So does the term “lovely” apply to our home? Not while the feline pests spend their time grooming themselves and expect me to do the tidying up!
But back to talking cats: I would ask the feline trio who infect my home what they think of the very expensive kitty treats my dear wife buys for them. I would ask them point-blank if they have any idea how much money is spent on feeding them. And I would demand that they contribute in some way to their own upkeep.
The latest over-priced tidbits are shaped like itsy-bitsy mice. This is apparently supposed to make the cat feel it has accomplished something when it is handed one of these little treats. I suppose that the shape is designed to create the illusion for the cat that it has stalked and killed a mouse in the long tradition of the species.
But with the three lazy fur balls which depend on the largess of my wife for everything, and on me for keeping their home neat, simply open their fat mouths and wait to be fed, without a thought or care about the cost.
These three are so lazy, I am convinced that should a mouse enter the house they would communicate this fact to my wife in much the same way Lassie used to inform Timmy’s mother and father in that old TV series. You remember: The collie would bark a couple of times and turn around as if chasing her tail, then bark once more and Timmy’s worried parents would say, “Timmy fell down a hole and can’t get out, over by the old Smith farm, even though it’s posted ‘No Trespassing—is that what you’re telling us, girl?” And Lassie would shake her head up and down, which meant, “Yes, you idiot—why didn’t you teach the boy to read so he could have avoided this mess.”
After the same fashion, the cats would race into the kitchen, gather excitedly around my dear wife and meow and howl and whine as only cats can do, and my otherwise unflappable wife would get excited with them and begin to quiz them:
“Monet, are you saying that there’s a mouse downstairs?” (Meow … Mee-ow … ooww) “And it’s bothering you?” (Me-ow!) “And you want me to kill it for you?” (Meow and Meow)
With that, down she would go to the basement, armed only with a broom stick and determination, and within minutes, the offending rodent would be flushed out into the open, cornered and captured.
They do not do a thing. They sit in windows all day long, watching the world go by, without a hint of interest in joining the passing parade. One fine summer morning, all three cats were sitting in the windows of our bedroom, blocking the sunrise—they are quite large cats. Getting up to shoo them away—stopped in my tracks by my dear wife’s comment that they weren’t doing anything, so leave them alone—I was struck by the fact that these fat, furry freeloaders might actually be able to learn, having noted that all three reluctantly learned to crawl through our newly-installed cat door.
And I had the perfect lesson for them. I would teach them to imitate the feeding activities of the birds they watch so intently in the yard. These ambitious and self-sufficient creatures scour our lawn for worms and insects. True, they’ll utilize bird feeders, but that is an option. Hunting for food on the ground is what birds do naturally to feed themselves.
If the cats which clutter my home aren’t fed and watered on a regular and frequent basis, they offer up a chorus of howls, moans, and mews that moves even me to feed them, just to shut them up.
But think of the possibilities if these three freeloaders could be let out into the yard to find their own food. Silence would be the immediate benefit. No howls of hunger. No scratching to get my attention. And such a relief on the household budget. Cat food is not cheap, especially the gourmet treat lavished upon the tubby tabby trio residing in my once-neat home.
The trick here will be getting these three timid beasts out of the house and into the wilds of the neighborhood to hunt.
Supposedly related to the King of the Jungle, there is no evidence of a grander lineage here, however. These aren’t the offspring of the Lion King; I am surrounded by ‘fraidy cats named for artists—Cézanne, Monet, and Vincent Van Gogh. Going outdoors and away from the comforts of home is too much to expect, I am sadly aware.
Still, I’d be willing to teach them how to rustle up their own grub. After all, I learned to feed myself, and quite well, as my girth proves. And since cats, according to my wife, are smarter that humans, just catching a few mice should be no problem. No cooking involved—a simple sushi for kitties in the great outdoors, just as nature intended.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Baby Fat
One of my most tightly held beliefs is that the extra pounds I’ve carried around since childhood is baby fat and that it will eventually burn off. During a physical checkup, I shared this theory with my doctor, a slender, humorless and quiet man who usually conducts his business with a straight face and very short sentences.
When confronted with an even marginally funny line, he tightens his mouth into what must be a painful pursing of the lips and stares at me and the ceiling, alternatively, until I begin to sweat profusely.
It’s usually at this point that the doctor brings my weight into the conversation. “You’re sweating like the fat man you’ve become.”
During this particular visit, he was engaged in poking and prodding and speaking into the tiny tape recorder he now uses for notes. This was brought about by his famously unintelligible handwriting.
(The incident that led to his abandonment of writing and the adoption of recording involving his note to a hospital ordering what looked like pregnancy examination for one of his male patients. The poor, confused gentlemen was already in the stirrups when the technician realized the doctor must have meant prostate examination. A mini tape recorder appeared on the penmanship-challenged doctor’s desk the next morning.)
As he moved around my body with his chilled weapons of medical detection, he spoke softly into the tape recorder: “Need to check BP daily. Need to change meds for hypertension. Patient is fat. Check that—patient is obese.”
Although he was whispering his little notes somewhat incoherently, I heard fat and obese clearly and immediately shared my baby fat theory. Picking up his little tape machine, the doctor said, a bit louder than before: “Patient is deluded. Patient is a hardcore lard bucket unlikely to maintain diet regimen needed for meaningful weight loss.”
“I’ve always considered myself to be ‘pleasingly plump,’ ” using a somewhat dated euphemism.
“Pleasing to whom?” asked the M.D.
“Well, it’s an expression,” was my meek reply. “You know—like ‘husky’ or 'large economy size’ or even ‘big boned.’ ”
The weary expression that darkened the doctor’s face told me that his “Dangers of Obesity” lecture was on its way, and I was correct; the next 10 minutes were consumed by facts, statistics, and opinions about the scourge of obesity and the relativity simple steps that can be taken to reduce the girth of the American people, beginning of course with me. The doctor made it sound as though I was the worst offender in the world, and when I told him I was feeling picked on, he said I should develop thicker skin.
“You’ve got so much extra skin,” he said, squeezing a roll of fat around my middle. “Toughen it up and my little barbs will just bounce off.”
So I sat uncomfortably and endured the rest of the lecture: “Did you know that 70 percent of heart disease is linked to excess fat? Are you aware that people in your state of obesity are 42 percent more likely to get colon cancer than your more fit brethren? And I’m sure you’ve heard that 80 percent of people with type 2 diabetes are obese.”
I mumbled that I didn’t know all that, and the doctor said quickly, “I told you all that just a few weeks ago when you came in here complaining about how swollen your feet were. Your memory is fading as fast as your girth isn’t. Let’s just do a few memory tests.”
Persuading him that my memory is just fine, I began to argue that some people are just meant to be a tad hefty or a bit bulky or somewhat ample. I left out the baby fat theory but added my belief that I am big boned. My skinny medical advisor let me ramble on in that manner for a while, but the big boned comment woke him up.
“You are fat, sir and if you do not lose weight soon, I will lose a good patient with excellent insurance,” said the doctor sternly. “I can count on you coming to my office every two or three weeks with a complaint that is directly linked to your immense size.”
He paused for a moment, expecting me to jump in with a string of excuses for my portliness, but I refrained. My mind was beginning to wander toward what I could have for supper. A picture of pork chops with gravy and mashed potatoes smothered with butter popped into my head and I smiled broadly. The doctor was reading my mind. He spoke again with increased solemnity.
“Sir, you eat too much fattening food. You are not big boned or hefty or bulky or ample. You are indeed a blimp, a tub of lard, a human hippopotamus—except the hippo takes better care of his tooth.” He reached down for a tongue depressor. “Open wide—let’s get a look at that sparsely populated mouth of yours.”
Then his face grew calm but concerned, and he smiled. “Tom, you’ve got to take care of yourself or you will pass from this world rather soon. I would lose a patient. The only one who would profit handsomely in that event would be a coffin-maker who charges by the board foot. What do you say—can I put you on another diet to save your life?”
“Well, since you put it that way …” He handed me a postcard-sized sheet of paper with the foods I could eat, along with a phonebook-sized list of the foods I must now avoid. Lifting the huge Do Not Eat book strained a muscle in my back, but I left the doctor’s office without telling him, thus avoiding his infamous Dangers of Improper Lifting lecture.
When confronted with an even marginally funny line, he tightens his mouth into what must be a painful pursing of the lips and stares at me and the ceiling, alternatively, until I begin to sweat profusely.
It’s usually at this point that the doctor brings my weight into the conversation. “You’re sweating like the fat man you’ve become.”
During this particular visit, he was engaged in poking and prodding and speaking into the tiny tape recorder he now uses for notes. This was brought about by his famously unintelligible handwriting.
(The incident that led to his abandonment of writing and the adoption of recording involving his note to a hospital ordering what looked like pregnancy examination for one of his male patients. The poor, confused gentlemen was already in the stirrups when the technician realized the doctor must have meant prostate examination. A mini tape recorder appeared on the penmanship-challenged doctor’s desk the next morning.)
As he moved around my body with his chilled weapons of medical detection, he spoke softly into the tape recorder: “Need to check BP daily. Need to change meds for hypertension. Patient is fat. Check that—patient is obese.”
Although he was whispering his little notes somewhat incoherently, I heard fat and obese clearly and immediately shared my baby fat theory. Picking up his little tape machine, the doctor said, a bit louder than before: “Patient is deluded. Patient is a hardcore lard bucket unlikely to maintain diet regimen needed for meaningful weight loss.”
“I’ve always considered myself to be ‘pleasingly plump,’ ” using a somewhat dated euphemism.
“Pleasing to whom?” asked the M.D.
“Well, it’s an expression,” was my meek reply. “You know—like ‘husky’ or 'large economy size’ or even ‘big boned.’ ”
The weary expression that darkened the doctor’s face told me that his “Dangers of Obesity” lecture was on its way, and I was correct; the next 10 minutes were consumed by facts, statistics, and opinions about the scourge of obesity and the relativity simple steps that can be taken to reduce the girth of the American people, beginning of course with me. The doctor made it sound as though I was the worst offender in the world, and when I told him I was feeling picked on, he said I should develop thicker skin.
“You’ve got so much extra skin,” he said, squeezing a roll of fat around my middle. “Toughen it up and my little barbs will just bounce off.”
So I sat uncomfortably and endured the rest of the lecture: “Did you know that 70 percent of heart disease is linked to excess fat? Are you aware that people in your state of obesity are 42 percent more likely to get colon cancer than your more fit brethren? And I’m sure you’ve heard that 80 percent of people with type 2 diabetes are obese.”
I mumbled that I didn’t know all that, and the doctor said quickly, “I told you all that just a few weeks ago when you came in here complaining about how swollen your feet were. Your memory is fading as fast as your girth isn’t. Let’s just do a few memory tests.”
Persuading him that my memory is just fine, I began to argue that some people are just meant to be a tad hefty or a bit bulky or somewhat ample. I left out the baby fat theory but added my belief that I am big boned. My skinny medical advisor let me ramble on in that manner for a while, but the big boned comment woke him up.
“You are fat, sir and if you do not lose weight soon, I will lose a good patient with excellent insurance,” said the doctor sternly. “I can count on you coming to my office every two or three weeks with a complaint that is directly linked to your immense size.”
He paused for a moment, expecting me to jump in with a string of excuses for my portliness, but I refrained. My mind was beginning to wander toward what I could have for supper. A picture of pork chops with gravy and mashed potatoes smothered with butter popped into my head and I smiled broadly. The doctor was reading my mind. He spoke again with increased solemnity.
“Sir, you eat too much fattening food. You are not big boned or hefty or bulky or ample. You are indeed a blimp, a tub of lard, a human hippopotamus—except the hippo takes better care of his tooth.” He reached down for a tongue depressor. “Open wide—let’s get a look at that sparsely populated mouth of yours.”
Then his face grew calm but concerned, and he smiled. “Tom, you’ve got to take care of yourself or you will pass from this world rather soon. I would lose a patient. The only one who would profit handsomely in that event would be a coffin-maker who charges by the board foot. What do you say—can I put you on another diet to save your life?”
“Well, since you put it that way …” He handed me a postcard-sized sheet of paper with the foods I could eat, along with a phonebook-sized list of the foods I must now avoid. Lifting the huge Do Not Eat book strained a muscle in my back, but I left the doctor’s office without telling him, thus avoiding his infamous Dangers of Improper Lifting lecture.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Cell Phone Fadophile
When my cell phone rings, it literally rings. It is not set to vibrate, flash a light, make a squeal or a shriek—it just rings like the Good Lord intended a telephone to do.
What is it with people needing dozens of different rings for their cell phones? What ever happened to the good old-fashioned ringy-dingy of the traditional phone?
Apparently, it’s not enough just to be able to reach out and call someone from any spot on earth—now, the cell phone industry has convinced more than a handful of people that they must go beyond caller ID and have a band or chorus announce just who it is that is calling.
This is an annoying trend in an increasingly competitive and annoying industry, but, to paraphrase a famous movie line: “If you make it, some nut will buy it.” And a whole plantation of nuts seems to be buying phones that can reproduce any sound ever made, from a baby’s cry to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
My dear wife has a friend named Sara who is to trendy what the Sahara is to sandy. Every time I see this fadophile, she has just purchased whatever gadget has been newly foisted upon the world of expensive doodad buyers.
When cell phones makers first advertised the wide variety of rings available on their brands, Silly Sara was the first to buy the phone with the largest repertoire of musical rings. She then set out to assign each of the dozens of people in her personal phone book a very special ring so that when that person called her, she would know in a flash who was calling her. And she did not go about this task in a willy-nilly way—oh, no, not our Silly Sara.
She made a list of the characteristic of each and every person on her endless list. For example, near the top of the list was a lady quite slight of frame and stature. She was assigned the Minute Waltz by Chopin. A friend with a notorious drinking habit was represented by Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. One of Sara’s coworkers is a party girl who stays up and out all night and sleeps through much of her day in the office. When she calls Sara, the phone plays Brahms’ Lullaby.
Some of the rings are a bit obscure; when Sara’s mechanic calls to tell her that her car is ready to be picked up, the phone plays the introduction to The Incredible Flutist—by Walter Piston. One of my favorites is Sara’s tribute to her ex-husband, who divorced her in spite of all of Sara’s impressive efforts to hold the marriage together. She still hopes for a reconciliation, and I think her choice of music to announce his increasingly infrequent calls is touching: the opening bars of Schubert’s magnificent Unfinished Symphony.
One of the truly great comedy acts of today is performed every time Sara’s phone sounds off, for she now has so many people calling her—each with his or her own personalized bit of music—that Sara can no longer remember them all. Watching her try to figure out who might be calling is pure humor at its best.
Picture this: Silly Sara sitting in a restaurant with my dear wife and I; the opening notes of Franz Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 1 spring from Sara’s cell phone. Her eyes narrow to a squint and her brow is furrowed in deep thought. Now she begins to speak: “Is that Harold calling—he has long hair like Liszt. No, he had it cut off—did I change his tune or … maybe it’s …”
My wife grabs the phone, pushes the talk button, and hands the phone to Sara, who is still probing her memory for the one she’d assigned Liszt’s famous piano work to.
“It’s Karen,” said my wife. “Oh, yes, now I remember,” said Sara. “Karen’s a model and is always complaining that she’s hungry.”
Now, that’s funny, or at least clever, but the real humor is watching this poor lady search for clues while the band plays on. “Pick up the phone,” her friends are always telling her, but Sara replies, “No, not yet—I’ve almost got it. Yes! Pomp and Circumstance by Elgar—the graduation march. It’s Sally, who quit high school in her junior year and never got to hear that march in its proper context.”
Sara picks up the phone. She has missed the call; she doesn’t return it, because, as she says, “Sally will call back and when she does, I’ll know who it is.”
Knowing Sara as I do, Sally would be wise to simply send Sara a letter.
What is it with people needing dozens of different rings for their cell phones? What ever happened to the good old-fashioned ringy-dingy of the traditional phone?
Apparently, it’s not enough just to be able to reach out and call someone from any spot on earth—now, the cell phone industry has convinced more than a handful of people that they must go beyond caller ID and have a band or chorus announce just who it is that is calling.
This is an annoying trend in an increasingly competitive and annoying industry, but, to paraphrase a famous movie line: “If you make it, some nut will buy it.” And a whole plantation of nuts seems to be buying phones that can reproduce any sound ever made, from a baby’s cry to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
My dear wife has a friend named Sara who is to trendy what the Sahara is to sandy. Every time I see this fadophile, she has just purchased whatever gadget has been newly foisted upon the world of expensive doodad buyers.
When cell phones makers first advertised the wide variety of rings available on their brands, Silly Sara was the first to buy the phone with the largest repertoire of musical rings. She then set out to assign each of the dozens of people in her personal phone book a very special ring so that when that person called her, she would know in a flash who was calling her. And she did not go about this task in a willy-nilly way—oh, no, not our Silly Sara.
She made a list of the characteristic of each and every person on her endless list. For example, near the top of the list was a lady quite slight of frame and stature. She was assigned the Minute Waltz by Chopin. A friend with a notorious drinking habit was represented by Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. One of Sara’s coworkers is a party girl who stays up and out all night and sleeps through much of her day in the office. When she calls Sara, the phone plays Brahms’ Lullaby.
Some of the rings are a bit obscure; when Sara’s mechanic calls to tell her that her car is ready to be picked up, the phone plays the introduction to The Incredible Flutist—by Walter Piston. One of my favorites is Sara’s tribute to her ex-husband, who divorced her in spite of all of Sara’s impressive efforts to hold the marriage together. She still hopes for a reconciliation, and I think her choice of music to announce his increasingly infrequent calls is touching: the opening bars of Schubert’s magnificent Unfinished Symphony.
One of the truly great comedy acts of today is performed every time Sara’s phone sounds off, for she now has so many people calling her—each with his or her own personalized bit of music—that Sara can no longer remember them all. Watching her try to figure out who might be calling is pure humor at its best.
Picture this: Silly Sara sitting in a restaurant with my dear wife and I; the opening notes of Franz Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 1 spring from Sara’s cell phone. Her eyes narrow to a squint and her brow is furrowed in deep thought. Now she begins to speak: “Is that Harold calling—he has long hair like Liszt. No, he had it cut off—did I change his tune or … maybe it’s …”
My wife grabs the phone, pushes the talk button, and hands the phone to Sara, who is still probing her memory for the one she’d assigned Liszt’s famous piano work to.
“It’s Karen,” said my wife. “Oh, yes, now I remember,” said Sara. “Karen’s a model and is always complaining that she’s hungry.”
Now, that’s funny, or at least clever, but the real humor is watching this poor lady search for clues while the band plays on. “Pick up the phone,” her friends are always telling her, but Sara replies, “No, not yet—I’ve almost got it. Yes! Pomp and Circumstance by Elgar—the graduation march. It’s Sally, who quit high school in her junior year and never got to hear that march in its proper context.”
Sara picks up the phone. She has missed the call; she doesn’t return it, because, as she says, “Sally will call back and when she does, I’ll know who it is.”
Knowing Sara as I do, Sally would be wise to simply send Sara a letter.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
What Does Victory Smell Like?
Shouldn’t buying men’s deodorant be one of life’s simplest tasks? I thought so until that awful day when I left the supermarket frustrated and smelly. All I wanted was a stick of unscented antiperspirant/deodorant, a product I’d had no previous problem finding. But apparently, smelling like something wonderful has become more important than smelling like nothing at all.
There was a time when men had about six choices in the deodorant department, and half of them were various sizes of Old Spice. But on that recent morning when I went innocently and needfully to the men’s products isle, the shelves held nothing I would remotely consider applying to any part of my body.
Isn’t the purpose of an antiperspirant/deodorant to prevent sweating as much as possible, and to mask any odor that might slip through? I realize things have changed since I claimed the title “geezer,” but the reason we use these products couldn’t have changed from masking odor to enhancing it without some major announcement or TV special, could it?
“Tonight at eight on Fox—the revolution in the world of male scents! So bellows the oh-so-masculine announcer. “American men no longer want to hide behind a wall of neutral aromas. The virility of millions of men is a stake—and the ingenuity of our inventors has produced mighty weapons to fight fragrance blandness. Gentlemen, learn how to emerge from decades of smelling beige—now you can become all the brilliant colors of the rainbow. Watch and learn tonight at eight on Fox!”
Here is a sample of things some men must want to smell like, for I found each of these scents on the shelves: Phoenix, Kilo, Arctic Force, Extreme Blast, Cool Fusion. (odd combination—fusion is “causing material to melt with intense heat.” I guess there are no physicists in the deodorant-naming department.
Frankly, some of these new scents are a bit randy, in my opinion. But these are real names of real deodorants for apparently real men: Lucky Day, First Move, Midnight Touch, Showtime. There are others, but they truly cross the line. Any more explicit, and they’d have to be stored behind the counter in plain brown wrappers. If those are my only choices, I’ll just stink, thank you very much.
Speaking of stinking, do these names make you think of a sweet smell: Intense Sport, Sport Fever, Team Force—isn’t that what a locker room smells like?
The shelves held a few choices I suppose I could live with, like Irish Spring, Ultra Fresh, Clean Slate, Ultra Clean. There was one I nearly bought, called Original Scent. But I hesitated, trying to conjure up my own original scent. Thoughts of diapers and burps after a bottle flooded my mind and I quickly put Original Scent back among its brother scents.
Six shelves high and 30 feet long—that’s a lot of products to consider, especially for something as small as a stick of anti-stink. But I forged ahead, hoping that my time would reward me with just the right thing. After all, I’d bought Unscented here before. My old eyes are dimming, I thought. It’s here somewhere, I just have to keep looking.
Silly me. The next shelf offered such things as Energy, Power Rush, Storm Force, Unlimited, Tsunami: I don’t want to storm the castle—I only want to blend into the background, smelling not like a rose, but like nothing at all!
Moving down another shelf, I found a few promising items, if Unscented wasn’t available: Cool, Fresh, Clean, Chill. But then I noticed the prices; each one was over $5 for a smaller stick than my trusty old Unscented at $2.79. Again, I thought to myself, I’ll just let myself stink. Maybe the men around me will be wearing some of these exotic essences, and they’ll think, “Gee—that guy must be wearing Locker Room, or Sauna. I’ll have to ask him where he got it.”
The final shelf—my last chance. If there’s nothing here, I really will just stink. But there was more of the same: Ocean Surf, Wild Rain, Natural, Victory. All right, I know the smells of the ocean, I’ve enjoyed the clean smell after a hard rain, and nature itself does have a nice, pure scent. But what does Victory smell like? When someone wins a race, or a football game, or a tennis match, that’s victory. Who wants to smell like that, really? I’d appreciate getting the trophy, but let me take a shower first.
But I wouldn’t have an unscented deodorant to put on. Maybe I could use baby powder. Moving over to the baby department, I was revolted to discover the available scents: Forever Fresh with Time Release Fragrance, Comforting with Vanilla and Jasmine, Calming with Lavender and Chamomile.
Now that I am walking the world without deodorant, it is a truly good thing that I spend most of my time far from the presence of others. Unfortunately, I have to rub myself with catnip to get my five formerly friendly kitties to come near me.
There was a time when men had about six choices in the deodorant department, and half of them were various sizes of Old Spice. But on that recent morning when I went innocently and needfully to the men’s products isle, the shelves held nothing I would remotely consider applying to any part of my body.
Isn’t the purpose of an antiperspirant/deodorant to prevent sweating as much as possible, and to mask any odor that might slip through? I realize things have changed since I claimed the title “geezer,” but the reason we use these products couldn’t have changed from masking odor to enhancing it without some major announcement or TV special, could it?
“Tonight at eight on Fox—the revolution in the world of male scents! So bellows the oh-so-masculine announcer. “American men no longer want to hide behind a wall of neutral aromas. The virility of millions of men is a stake—and the ingenuity of our inventors has produced mighty weapons to fight fragrance blandness. Gentlemen, learn how to emerge from decades of smelling beige—now you can become all the brilliant colors of the rainbow. Watch and learn tonight at eight on Fox!”
Here is a sample of things some men must want to smell like, for I found each of these scents on the shelves: Phoenix, Kilo, Arctic Force, Extreme Blast, Cool Fusion. (odd combination—fusion is “causing material to melt with intense heat.” I guess there are no physicists in the deodorant-naming department.
Frankly, some of these new scents are a bit randy, in my opinion. But these are real names of real deodorants for apparently real men: Lucky Day, First Move, Midnight Touch, Showtime. There are others, but they truly cross the line. Any more explicit, and they’d have to be stored behind the counter in plain brown wrappers. If those are my only choices, I’ll just stink, thank you very much.
Speaking of stinking, do these names make you think of a sweet smell: Intense Sport, Sport Fever, Team Force—isn’t that what a locker room smells like?
The shelves held a few choices I suppose I could live with, like Irish Spring, Ultra Fresh, Clean Slate, Ultra Clean. There was one I nearly bought, called Original Scent. But I hesitated, trying to conjure up my own original scent. Thoughts of diapers and burps after a bottle flooded my mind and I quickly put Original Scent back among its brother scents.
Six shelves high and 30 feet long—that’s a lot of products to consider, especially for something as small as a stick of anti-stink. But I forged ahead, hoping that my time would reward me with just the right thing. After all, I’d bought Unscented here before. My old eyes are dimming, I thought. It’s here somewhere, I just have to keep looking.
Silly me. The next shelf offered such things as Energy, Power Rush, Storm Force, Unlimited, Tsunami: I don’t want to storm the castle—I only want to blend into the background, smelling not like a rose, but like nothing at all!
Moving down another shelf, I found a few promising items, if Unscented wasn’t available: Cool, Fresh, Clean, Chill. But then I noticed the prices; each one was over $5 for a smaller stick than my trusty old Unscented at $2.79. Again, I thought to myself, I’ll just let myself stink. Maybe the men around me will be wearing some of these exotic essences, and they’ll think, “Gee—that guy must be wearing Locker Room, or Sauna. I’ll have to ask him where he got it.”
The final shelf—my last chance. If there’s nothing here, I really will just stink. But there was more of the same: Ocean Surf, Wild Rain, Natural, Victory. All right, I know the smells of the ocean, I’ve enjoyed the clean smell after a hard rain, and nature itself does have a nice, pure scent. But what does Victory smell like? When someone wins a race, or a football game, or a tennis match, that’s victory. Who wants to smell like that, really? I’d appreciate getting the trophy, but let me take a shower first.
But I wouldn’t have an unscented deodorant to put on. Maybe I could use baby powder. Moving over to the baby department, I was revolted to discover the available scents: Forever Fresh with Time Release Fragrance, Comforting with Vanilla and Jasmine, Calming with Lavender and Chamomile.
Now that I am walking the world without deodorant, it is a truly good thing that I spend most of my time far from the presence of others. Unfortunately, I have to rub myself with catnip to get my five formerly friendly kitties to come near me.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
But the computer says ...
While geezers in particular, and those who came of age before the Age of Computers in general, tend to be skeptical of the younger generation’s absolute trust in every byte and bit spewed from their mighty Macs and Windows wonders, I lean toward adapting at least the more useful pieces of the technology, although without the pure reverence of the gullible generation of pre-geezers.
The following account is true in every detail, and the incident, which occurred a decade ago, fixed in my mind that one must be wary of those who worship in the church of the computer.
After waiting in the checkout line at my local public library for quite some time as an obviously novice librarian ploddingly worked to send patrons home with their books, my turn finally came and I place my selections on the counter, where a young lady of perhaps 16 or 17 years of age began the computerized checkout process with my library card. But something on the screen terribly and visibly upset the young lady. Turning to me with a sad but strangely triumphant look on her face, the girl spoke.
“You have four books way, way overdue—and you own a really big fine! You can’t check any more books until you’ve returned them and paid the fine.” She spoke these words with what I considered an inappropriate degree of disgust. But she was done with me and called out, “I can help the next in line.”
But I was not done with her. “Young lady, I returned those books last week and paid the fine.”
Looking past me, she repeated, a bit louder this time, “I can help the next in line.”
I must explain that the fine I paid was close to $20—and one does not forget a $20 library fine. Firmly yet gently, I told this well-meaning guardian of the stacks that I had definitely returned the books and paid the fine.
“Sir, the computer shows that you definitely did not bring them back,” she said. “Furthermore, the computer indicates that there is still an unpaid fine on those unreturned books.”
I suggested a shelf check, a simple procedure that involves nothing more complex than walking to the spot in the library where the books would be, if properly returned according to their Dewey decimal classification. But this fledgling librarian was so trusting of the information displayed by the computer that she rejected my request instantly.
Indeed, one would have thought I’d asked her to play in traffic blindfolded, so great was her indignation. “That will not be necessary,” she spat at me. “The computer clearly shows that those books were checked out in your name and have never been returned!”
Taking the matter into my own hands, I marched off to the stacks, found the four books precisely where I knew they would be and returned to the checkout desk with the “missing” books.
Setting them down ceremoniously, I said, “Young lady, here are the books you say I did not return.” I stepped back and waited for her apology, and was quite ready to offer my forgiveness.
But I was stunned when she stated with absolute confidence that these books could not be there.
“Sir,” she stated slowly, assuming that I must be quite dim, “the computer says that you have not returned certain titles and may not check out books until the overdue books have been returned and the fine has been paid.” She dismissed me with a satisfied toss of her head and turned to serve the next person in line.
Now I’m not by nature a mean man, but this was too much. “Young lady,” I said slowly, assuming that she must be quite dim, “sitting before you are four books that you say I have not returned. If I had not returned them, how was I able to bring them to you so quickly. Are you going to believe that computer—or your own two eyes?”
She looked at the books, then at the computer screen, then back to the neat stack of books that proved her beloved computer was wrong. With a look of disbelief and the beginning of panic, she began to sob, then started to shake all over and finally, she burst into tears.
It was hard to hear her, so racked with sobs was she, but four words were discernable: “… but the computer says …”
Almost instantly, she was surrounded by her fellow librarians embracing her and glaring at me with looks reserved for murderers and pet abusers. I wanted to explain what had just happened but realized that to open my mouth again would likely result in my being pummeled by a herd of protective librarians and a mob of indignant library patrons.
Suddenly and miraculously, the librarian to whom I had paid my fine returned from a coffee break, and when she’d been told of the cause of the uproar, settled the issue instantly. I wish I could report she saved me in a dramatic manner:
Leaping atop the checkout desk, holding aloft a laminated copy of The Dewey Decimal System, shouting to the infuriated mob, “Away with you all! This man is innocent, and we do not hang the innocent—not in my library!”
The reality was decidedly calmer than my imagination. “He paid his fine last week. I must have forgotten to clear his record. Sorry.”
And so I survived, but I did not check out any books that day. In fact, I didn’t return to the library for several years; I took to heart the words of English writer John Ruskin, who said, “A book worth reading is worth buying.”
Since that unpleasant encounter in the library, my own gathering of books has exceeded 2,000 widely varied volumes. I have books on American history beginning with the experiences of Native Americans, world history, baseball (my deepest passion), literature from Adams to Wolfe, volumes on art and music, and a wealth of biography.
I do not own a single book about computers.
The following account is true in every detail, and the incident, which occurred a decade ago, fixed in my mind that one must be wary of those who worship in the church of the computer.
After waiting in the checkout line at my local public library for quite some time as an obviously novice librarian ploddingly worked to send patrons home with their books, my turn finally came and I place my selections on the counter, where a young lady of perhaps 16 or 17 years of age began the computerized checkout process with my library card. But something on the screen terribly and visibly upset the young lady. Turning to me with a sad but strangely triumphant look on her face, the girl spoke.
“You have four books way, way overdue—and you own a really big fine! You can’t check any more books until you’ve returned them and paid the fine.” She spoke these words with what I considered an inappropriate degree of disgust. But she was done with me and called out, “I can help the next in line.”
But I was not done with her. “Young lady, I returned those books last week and paid the fine.”
Looking past me, she repeated, a bit louder this time, “I can help the next in line.”
I must explain that the fine I paid was close to $20—and one does not forget a $20 library fine. Firmly yet gently, I told this well-meaning guardian of the stacks that I had definitely returned the books and paid the fine.
“Sir, the computer shows that you definitely did not bring them back,” she said. “Furthermore, the computer indicates that there is still an unpaid fine on those unreturned books.”
I suggested a shelf check, a simple procedure that involves nothing more complex than walking to the spot in the library where the books would be, if properly returned according to their Dewey decimal classification. But this fledgling librarian was so trusting of the information displayed by the computer that she rejected my request instantly.
Indeed, one would have thought I’d asked her to play in traffic blindfolded, so great was her indignation. “That will not be necessary,” she spat at me. “The computer clearly shows that those books were checked out in your name and have never been returned!”
Taking the matter into my own hands, I marched off to the stacks, found the four books precisely where I knew they would be and returned to the checkout desk with the “missing” books.
Setting them down ceremoniously, I said, “Young lady, here are the books you say I did not return.” I stepped back and waited for her apology, and was quite ready to offer my forgiveness.
But I was stunned when she stated with absolute confidence that these books could not be there.
“Sir,” she stated slowly, assuming that I must be quite dim, “the computer says that you have not returned certain titles and may not check out books until the overdue books have been returned and the fine has been paid.” She dismissed me with a satisfied toss of her head and turned to serve the next person in line.
Now I’m not by nature a mean man, but this was too much. “Young lady,” I said slowly, assuming that she must be quite dim, “sitting before you are four books that you say I have not returned. If I had not returned them, how was I able to bring them to you so quickly. Are you going to believe that computer—or your own two eyes?”
She looked at the books, then at the computer screen, then back to the neat stack of books that proved her beloved computer was wrong. With a look of disbelief and the beginning of panic, she began to sob, then started to shake all over and finally, she burst into tears.
It was hard to hear her, so racked with sobs was she, but four words were discernable: “… but the computer says …”
Almost instantly, she was surrounded by her fellow librarians embracing her and glaring at me with looks reserved for murderers and pet abusers. I wanted to explain what had just happened but realized that to open my mouth again would likely result in my being pummeled by a herd of protective librarians and a mob of indignant library patrons.
Suddenly and miraculously, the librarian to whom I had paid my fine returned from a coffee break, and when she’d been told of the cause of the uproar, settled the issue instantly. I wish I could report she saved me in a dramatic manner:
Leaping atop the checkout desk, holding aloft a laminated copy of The Dewey Decimal System, shouting to the infuriated mob, “Away with you all! This man is innocent, and we do not hang the innocent—not in my library!”
The reality was decidedly calmer than my imagination. “He paid his fine last week. I must have forgotten to clear his record. Sorry.”
And so I survived, but I did not check out any books that day. In fact, I didn’t return to the library for several years; I took to heart the words of English writer John Ruskin, who said, “A book worth reading is worth buying.”
Since that unpleasant encounter in the library, my own gathering of books has exceeded 2,000 widely varied volumes. I have books on American history beginning with the experiences of Native Americans, world history, baseball (my deepest passion), literature from Adams to Wolfe, volumes on art and music, and a wealth of biography.
I do not own a single book about computers.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
“Fixed—or set?”
An automatic coffee maker is such a simple and apparently innocuous device—something quite unlikely to cause an argument between a devoted married couple, one would suppose. But it was indeed an automatic coffee maker in our happy home that started a rather loud but thankfully brief exchange. Rarely do my dear wife and I have cross words with one another, but on those occasional flare-ups, the cause is almost always words. Actually, the cause is my insistence on the proper use of words as opposed to my wife’s often haphazard employment of language.
To tell the whole story, I must take you back to the beginning of our relationship: Not long before we were married, some 30-odd years ago, I mentioned to this sweet young lady who had accepted my proposal of marriage that words were important to me. She said that words were important to her as well: “How’d we know what’s what and who’s who and what’s coming down, without words?”
My memory has begun to fail at times; some events have begun to fade like Samson’s post-hair cut strength, but that comment and my reply will never be erased from my mind. I must explain that my bride-to-be was a recent college graduate on her way to an advanced degree and thus a well-educated person. Further, you need to know that I am a bit older than this woman with whom I have spent the better and best part of my life, and even back in the infancy of our love,
I had little tolerance for the younger generation.
“ ‘Words have the power to both destroy and heal. When words are both true and kind, they can change our world,’ ” I said, quoting Buddha. “ ‘Handle them carefully, for words have more power than atom bombs,’ was Pearl Strachan’s advice,” I said. “And Shakespeare wrote, “I will be free, even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.”
I was just warming up: “And Confucius …”
“…is dead!” She cut me off sharply. “Can you quote any living geniuses?”
Ignoring this absurd remark, I used my favorite quotation about words: “Mark Twain said that ‘the difference between the right word and the almost-right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.”
“Well, ain’t that just silly,” said this charming lady who I suddenly realized I did not know as deeply as I’d previously thought. Of course I know now that this was her idea of “fun;” she has always enjoyed bursting the bubble of pretension she has noticed about me from the very beginning of our relationship.
“Let me share a couple of my favorite word quotes,” she said with a toss of her lovely head and a sneer on her pretty lips. “ ‘Many wise words are spoken in jest, but they don't compare with the number of stupid words spoken in earnest.’ That’s Sam Levenson. Dennis Roth said, ‘If it takes a lot of words to say what you have in mind—give it more thought.’” She was on a roll. “I don’t know who said this, but I like it: ‘The Gettysburg Address has 272 words. A bag of Lay's potato chips has 401 words.’”
Jumping ahead to our kitchen and the new coffeemaker: “I fixed the coffeemaker so I can make a nice pot for tomorrow morning,” said my dear wife.
This disturbed me a bit because I had just bought a brand new automatic coffeemaker for her, to replace a worn-out machine that lacked a timer.
Let me explain: my wife has a routine that involves, among other things, getting up at a certain time every morning. Before my semi-retirement, I used to get up before her and it was never a problem for me to turn on the coffeemaker she had filled with water and ground coffee before she went to bed. Daily for decades, she was greeted with fresh coffee and a kiss.
Now, however, I’ve slacked off my early-rising habit and my dear wife must be fed coffee instantly upon arising or her day—and mine—begin poorly. Only our five cats do not suffer when caffeine fails to enter my wife’s bloodstream soon after rising. And that is why I bought a very nice automatic coffeemaker—a quite expensive one that should not have had to be fixed so early in its career.
“Fix? You had to fix that brand new coffeemaker a week after I bought it?” I was already planning a trip to the Mall when I realized that the thing wasn’t broken—my wife had just used the wrong word. Again.
“Oh—you meant to say that you set the coffeemaker,” I explained to her. “You didn’t fix it—you set it. To fix means to repair. To set means to …”
“Drop it, or I’ll fix you,” she said firmly. Remembering what happened to the cats when she used the word “fix,” I dropped the subject quicker than instantly and have never—and will never—use that word again.
To tell the whole story, I must take you back to the beginning of our relationship: Not long before we were married, some 30-odd years ago, I mentioned to this sweet young lady who had accepted my proposal of marriage that words were important to me. She said that words were important to her as well: “How’d we know what’s what and who’s who and what’s coming down, without words?”
My memory has begun to fail at times; some events have begun to fade like Samson’s post-hair cut strength, but that comment and my reply will never be erased from my mind. I must explain that my bride-to-be was a recent college graduate on her way to an advanced degree and thus a well-educated person. Further, you need to know that I am a bit older than this woman with whom I have spent the better and best part of my life, and even back in the infancy of our love,
I had little tolerance for the younger generation.
“ ‘Words have the power to both destroy and heal. When words are both true and kind, they can change our world,’ ” I said, quoting Buddha. “ ‘Handle them carefully, for words have more power than atom bombs,’ was Pearl Strachan’s advice,” I said. “And Shakespeare wrote, “I will be free, even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.”
I was just warming up: “And Confucius …”
“…is dead!” She cut me off sharply. “Can you quote any living geniuses?”
Ignoring this absurd remark, I used my favorite quotation about words: “Mark Twain said that ‘the difference between the right word and the almost-right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.”
“Well, ain’t that just silly,” said this charming lady who I suddenly realized I did not know as deeply as I’d previously thought. Of course I know now that this was her idea of “fun;” she has always enjoyed bursting the bubble of pretension she has noticed about me from the very beginning of our relationship.
“Let me share a couple of my favorite word quotes,” she said with a toss of her lovely head and a sneer on her pretty lips. “ ‘Many wise words are spoken in jest, but they don't compare with the number of stupid words spoken in earnest.’ That’s Sam Levenson. Dennis Roth said, ‘If it takes a lot of words to say what you have in mind—give it more thought.’” She was on a roll. “I don’t know who said this, but I like it: ‘The Gettysburg Address has 272 words. A bag of Lay's potato chips has 401 words.’”
Jumping ahead to our kitchen and the new coffeemaker: “I fixed the coffeemaker so I can make a nice pot for tomorrow morning,” said my dear wife.
This disturbed me a bit because I had just bought a brand new automatic coffeemaker for her, to replace a worn-out machine that lacked a timer.
Let me explain: my wife has a routine that involves, among other things, getting up at a certain time every morning. Before my semi-retirement, I used to get up before her and it was never a problem for me to turn on the coffeemaker she had filled with water and ground coffee before she went to bed. Daily for decades, she was greeted with fresh coffee and a kiss.
Now, however, I’ve slacked off my early-rising habit and my dear wife must be fed coffee instantly upon arising or her day—and mine—begin poorly. Only our five cats do not suffer when caffeine fails to enter my wife’s bloodstream soon after rising. And that is why I bought a very nice automatic coffeemaker—a quite expensive one that should not have had to be fixed so early in its career.
“Fix? You had to fix that brand new coffeemaker a week after I bought it?” I was already planning a trip to the Mall when I realized that the thing wasn’t broken—my wife had just used the wrong word. Again.
“Oh—you meant to say that you set the coffeemaker,” I explained to her. “You didn’t fix it—you set it. To fix means to repair. To set means to …”
“Drop it, or I’ll fix you,” she said firmly. Remembering what happened to the cats when she used the word “fix,” I dropped the subject quicker than instantly and have never—and will never—use that word again.
I am not a Boomer – I’m a Geezer
The modern meaning of geezer is “an eccentric (unconventional and slightly strange) or irritable (easily annoyed) old man.” That’s me in a nutshell—pun intended. The original meaning is quite a bit different: “a masquerader, someone who wears a mask or is otherwise disguised.”
Each and every one of us carries the burden of any number of labels. Many are handed to us in childhood and we often wear them into old age. For example, being an awkward, often tongue-tied, heavy-set boy, I was labeled a loser. Picked last—if even chosen—for teams, ignored in the classroom and the playground, I accepted the label and became angry and bitter.
And you, dear reader, are wearing a few labels as well, probably as unkind and unjustified as mine. I hope that you had wise people in your life, as I did, who showed you the folly of allowing others to choose a label for you.
Of all the classifications and pigeonholes used to label me and everyone born between 1946 and 1964 over the years, none is more ridiculous than “Baby Boomer.” Call me a geek, as many have. Say I’m a fuddy-duddy, as my mother did. Even call me an old fogey, as my wife does, or weird, a term my father thought fitting for me. To a certain degree, I am truly all of those things.
But to call me a “Boomer” just because I was born during an 18-year period of national fertility is silly. My eldest son was born in 1978, the year of the first test-tube baby. Shall I call him a “Test-tuber?” Is he part of the “Test-tube Baby Generation? Since my second son was born in 1981, the year of the very first portable computer—the Osbourne I—must I call him an “Osbourner?” I have a third son, born in 1983, the year the Cabbage Patch kids were introduced—but we’ll go no further along that line.
No, if a label must be affixed to me to satisfy some odd American penchant to give everything a title, let mine be a genuine reflection of who and what I am. And I won’t let anyone chose it for me. Just because I’m teetering on the edge of old age, don’t call me a senior citizen, a Golden Ager, or any of the dozens of cutesy little labels worn to erase the pain of piled-up decades of time—or to dismiss us from the workplace and the world.
No, my friends—I am a Geezer, and proud to be one! There’s a touch of each part of the definition at the top of this column in me. But even though I’m from an earlier time, I don’t long for “the good old days.” Actually, in many very important ways, back then wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as here and now.
A few years back, after a particularly frenetic and discouraging day, I said to my mother, “You were lucky to grow up on a farm in the good old days—life was better back then.” She smiled at me in a way that told me a lesson in the art of living was about to be taught.
“The good old days on the farm, you say,” she said. “You mean when, if you wanted bread, you had to bake it yourself, because the closest store was 10 miles down the dirt road—and they didn’t even sell bread? The good old days when, if you wanted milk to go with the cookies you baked from scratch, you had to milk a cow? Or do you mean the days when, if you needed to visit the bathroom in the middle of the night, you got dressed and ran through the snow to the outhouse—are those the good old days you say were so much better than today?”
Silly me. I ignored her wisdom and replied, “Yes, I’d go back then in a heartbeat. Life was so much simpler in those days!” (Statements like that added to my father’s opinion that, “You are a weird boy, Tommy.”)
I admit that I tend toward weirdness at times, and that fuddy-duddy (old-fashioned, narrow-minded and pompous) and fogey (a person behind the times) are labels I deserve and wear with pride.
But never call me a Baby Boomer! I am a Geezer—an elderly, balding, feeble-bodied man with a gray scraggly beard and a cane—with a heart and mind full of fun and tricks. I may wear the disguise of a shuffling and stooped old man, but inside, I’m a real hoot. I am a Geezer, and proud to be one.
Each and every one of us carries the burden of any number of labels. Many are handed to us in childhood and we often wear them into old age. For example, being an awkward, often tongue-tied, heavy-set boy, I was labeled a loser. Picked last—if even chosen—for teams, ignored in the classroom and the playground, I accepted the label and became angry and bitter.
And you, dear reader, are wearing a few labels as well, probably as unkind and unjustified as mine. I hope that you had wise people in your life, as I did, who showed you the folly of allowing others to choose a label for you.
Of all the classifications and pigeonholes used to label me and everyone born between 1946 and 1964 over the years, none is more ridiculous than “Baby Boomer.” Call me a geek, as many have. Say I’m a fuddy-duddy, as my mother did. Even call me an old fogey, as my wife does, or weird, a term my father thought fitting for me. To a certain degree, I am truly all of those things.
But to call me a “Boomer” just because I was born during an 18-year period of national fertility is silly. My eldest son was born in 1978, the year of the first test-tube baby. Shall I call him a “Test-tuber?” Is he part of the “Test-tube Baby Generation? Since my second son was born in 1981, the year of the very first portable computer—the Osbourne I—must I call him an “Osbourner?” I have a third son, born in 1983, the year the Cabbage Patch kids were introduced—but we’ll go no further along that line.
No, if a label must be affixed to me to satisfy some odd American penchant to give everything a title, let mine be a genuine reflection of who and what I am. And I won’t let anyone chose it for me. Just because I’m teetering on the edge of old age, don’t call me a senior citizen, a Golden Ager, or any of the dozens of cutesy little labels worn to erase the pain of piled-up decades of time—or to dismiss us from the workplace and the world.
No, my friends—I am a Geezer, and proud to be one! There’s a touch of each part of the definition at the top of this column in me. But even though I’m from an earlier time, I don’t long for “the good old days.” Actually, in many very important ways, back then wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as here and now.
A few years back, after a particularly frenetic and discouraging day, I said to my mother, “You were lucky to grow up on a farm in the good old days—life was better back then.” She smiled at me in a way that told me a lesson in the art of living was about to be taught.
“The good old days on the farm, you say,” she said. “You mean when, if you wanted bread, you had to bake it yourself, because the closest store was 10 miles down the dirt road—and they didn’t even sell bread? The good old days when, if you wanted milk to go with the cookies you baked from scratch, you had to milk a cow? Or do you mean the days when, if you needed to visit the bathroom in the middle of the night, you got dressed and ran through the snow to the outhouse—are those the good old days you say were so much better than today?”
Silly me. I ignored her wisdom and replied, “Yes, I’d go back then in a heartbeat. Life was so much simpler in those days!” (Statements like that added to my father’s opinion that, “You are a weird boy, Tommy.”)
I admit that I tend toward weirdness at times, and that fuddy-duddy (old-fashioned, narrow-minded and pompous) and fogey (a person behind the times) are labels I deserve and wear with pride.
But never call me a Baby Boomer! I am a Geezer—an elderly, balding, feeble-bodied man with a gray scraggly beard and a cane—with a heart and mind full of fun and tricks. I may wear the disguise of a shuffling and stooped old man, but inside, I’m a real hoot. I am a Geezer, and proud to be one.
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