IPOD PURGATORYLike too many in her generation, my teenage daughter owns an "iPod." Her Aunt Betsey gave it to on her 11th birthday. The music player holds 10,000 songs. How they stuff 10,000 songs into the space of a deck of playing cards is beyond me: I still can't figure out how they get the little man inside my TV. But 10,000 songs are more than I've heard in my lifetime, and far more than my daughter can decide on. She agonizes over which 10,000 songs to put on her iPod. Two choices would be one too many for her to make.
In the twelve months since receiving her iPod, my daughter has never had more than ten songs stored in it. That leaves --let's see, 10,000 songs, subtract 10 -- cross out the 10, make it a 9, la-de-da, 10 minus 1, again -- um, got it --it leaves exactly 9,990 song slots unused. As in EMPTY!
My adolescent child, though, has no patience for downloading songs off CD's and the "iTunes" music store downloads sell for a buck each. She would like to fill up her iPod, but as successful as her baby-sitting business is, $10,000 is not on her budget. So, she has given up ever filling her iPod, preferring to play the same 10 songs over and over again.
Worse still, my daughter's 10 songs don't play on from one to the next, but rather, default to a repeat cycle. So it's mostly one song that plays over and over. I'd tell you what that song is, but I'm trying to get the damn thing out of my head. Silly me had given her a set of speakers so we all could share her music library.
Hypnotism and Immersion Therapy have, so far, failed to purge my daughter's default song from my brain. I'd reprogram the repeat mode, but she lost the instruction booklet and no one born before the Clinton inauguration can intuitively figure out how the minimal controls of an iPod work. So, through no default of my own, I'm going slowly mad. I would have smashed the little player long ago but it was, after all, a gift.
I can tell my daughter is dissatisfied with her iPod, but interestingly, not because of the monotony of hearing the same 10 songs over and over. She's bored with the color. The new "iPod minis" come in cool new colors and she'd like me to plunk down a couple hundred dollars getting her the chartreuse-colored one. Thankfully, the new one she wants holds only 1,000 songs, but she'll forgo the additional capacity for the fashion statement. If I refuse to buy it, she cautioned, she'll never delete the song that is now irreparably lodged in my brain.
So, every time I'm startled, my brain defaults to that sorry song. Worse still, even my daughter is complaining about my humming it.
Now Steve Jobs, the chief executive of Apple and brainchild of iPods, has come up with his latest electronic breakthrough. Our gadget prophet has given us a non-premium, lower-capacity, 120-song player called the "iPod shuffle." He's apparently shuffling backwards. Reverse progress. Will his next player hold one song? I've got it if he needs it. May I suggest to our balding, blue-jeaned, black-turtlenecked guru -- that he come out with a giant supercomputer that would suck up all the excess capacity in our existing iPods?
And finally Jobs, rest assured that I don't have your patience. My life has been even worse than yours, thanks to you. I don't know if you have a teenage daughter, but if you have any decency, would you kindly stop changing the colors?
PRO FORMAWhen some future alien civilization visits Earth and performs archeological digs to figure out if there was ever life on this planet, they will undoubtedly first unearth reams of forms. Just below that layer will be the people whose names appear on those forms. And at the bottom of the heap, there will be the form designers. They, it will be discovered, were killed earlier by the form-filler-outers in the strata above -- due to their crimes to humanity.
I had just completed filling out a loan form the other day when I discovered that all my responses were shifted one line up because the line instruction was above where you write -- not underneath as is customary. Suddenly it was apparent to me that I didn't need such a long line to fill in my sex (it had taken all my art skills to stretch an "M" out over 6 inches). Prior to writing the stretched out "M", I had considered putting in "on my anniversary" just to fill out the space better.
Conversely, I also discovered, belatedly, why there was less than an inch to fill in my address, including the zip code. I had done this with great difficulty by dividing the space into 3 lines, which was not easy since the eighth inch line spacing required me to write 3 pt. letters. I was proud of my effort, though it took a magnifying glass to read it.
I'm a reasonably intelligent man -- if you ask my mother -- but I couldn't for the life of me figure out why the form needed to know the first school I attended. The first school I attended? I can't even remember the last school I attended. And this was the only reference to education on the form. I could have gotten a job at the age of 6 and skipped all those expensive college courses, had I known that the bank was only interested in the first school I attended.
The form was not through with me yet. It asked for my previous address, which I squeezed into an unbelievably small space, only to discover the "Town," "State" and "Zip" spaces over to the right -- under, "For Bank Use Only." I tried erasing my entry so that I wouldn't look like an idiot, but somehow in the rubbing, the paper ripped, so I had to fill in the hole with multiple layers of White Out. The form was starting to look more like a painting than a bank document, but I was rapidly losing interest. More significantly, I was beginning to forget why I wanted the loan in the first place.
Next, the form asked me for my mother's maiden name, my wife's mother's maiden name, my ex-wife's mother's maiden name and my favorite pet. I don't have a favorite pet. I have 4 pets and I dislike them all equally. I sensed they wanted this for security purposes, but I was left pondering which pet I would identify as my favorite when the loan officer called. It was a crapshoot. Why didn't they ask me the name of my favorite child? That would have been easy. I only have one. Since any answer to the pet question would have been a lie, and I have trouble remembering lies, I was in a fix -- so I left it blank. The next space asked, "Are you sure you don't have a pet?"
By the time I got to the financial section -- the assets, the income, the liabilities -- I was too exhausted to continue, so I left this part of the form blank as well. I mailed it off and 3 days later I got a call from the bank. The loan had been approved.
THE CHRISTMAS GAMEMy daughter still gets hysterical over Christmas starting the day after Halloween. Last year, during a weak moment, my wife and I bought our Christmas tree early, over the Thanksgiving break. What a mistake that was. The countdown had begun. At first, our daughter couldn't sleep. Then, she couldn't eat. Everyday, she wanted to know if tomorrow was Christmas.
Three weeks out, my kid was literally bouncing off the walls. To make matters worse, her Jewish friends were starting to get their presents well before her. The fundamental unfairness of this had not escaped my daughter.
By the time December 15 rolled around, she had opened every window on her Advent Calendar -- something my parents had told me was a sacrilege -- if not outright illegal. Each window hid a tiny picture of a present, and though they were generic images, my daughter imagined they were real. At first, I Scotch Taped the windows of the Advent Calendar shut, and later, in desperation, I resorted to Crazy Glue.
When December 18 arrived, it was clear something had to be done. We were a whole week away from Jesus' birthday and the Christmas tree limbs were already starting to brush the carpet. My daughter's Advent Calendar was ripped to shreds, and there were concerns from one of us that the Advent calendar police would be coming to arrest us.
Unfortunately, my daughter's nagging only grew worse. She would ruffle my newspaper trying to get me to talk about her Christmas list for the 20th time. I hate having my newspaper ruffled. As my patience weakened, my rhetoric only grew sharper. I told her that her status as my favorite daughter was in serious jeopardy. After she reminded me she was an only child, I countered that if she couldn't get a grip on herself, I would burn down our Christmas tree like Moses' torched bush on the mount. Anyway, this went on until I found myself becoming the father from Hell. My sorry threats only grew in amplitude until I no longer recognized myself.
"You'll be getting no presents for either Christmas or your birthday if you don't cease this nonsense," I warned: a threat that had always worked for my parents. And I didn't stop there. No sooner had, "And furthermore, I will crate up your pets and mail them to Santa" passed from my lips, than I sensed it was I who was starting to lose it now.
I think it was then that my daughter said, "OK Dad, you're at about a NINE, and I need you to be at around a FOUR."
When I think back to my own childhood, I can see that I take after my daughter a bit. As a boy I was badly behaved during the run-up to Christmas. I would throw up on expensive carpets until my parents agreed to play The Christmas Game. The game involved your garden variety cajoling, pleading, and ultimately, deception, all in the form of a fun game. The purpose of the game was to get intelligence on my presents. When those antics wore thin, my father threatened to cement over our chimney until my behavior improved. To this day, I have a fear of my parents' brick and mortar approach to child rearing.
Christmas is very near now and I'm starting to feel a little nauseated. My daughter, meanwhile, has calmed down considerably, leaving me the lone person in the house unable to delay gratification. My wife tells me how pathetic this is, and I'm not proud of my impatience, but I know there are presents earmarked for me and my inquiring mind needs to know what they are.
My Christmas Game skills, honed over many years, are finally being put to the test once again. While I used to play my young daughter against my wife to pry out useful information, now that she's older, this doesn't work any more. Being that it’s Christmas Eve, I’ve suggested that we open a few presents early -- to extend the joy -- but she just shakes her head and leaves the room. Likewise, monetary bribes have been fruitless. Kids have no respect for money any more. I suspect the Christmas game will live on in my grand children as well. Some things never change.
TAKING ADVICESurfing the web a while back, I came across a distance-learning annex that offered classes for those wanting to make $1000 an hour in consulting. $1000 an hour sounded good to me. I tried to think of what consultants do. I was pretty sure consultants gave advice. I am good at that, I thought. As long as I don't have to take advice, I'm fine with giving it.
I started to wonder what I might give advice in. But, for a thousand bucks an hour, who cares? I'll give advice on anything they want. If they want to know how to properly dispose of Hungarian bat guano, and have a thousand bucks, grab a shovel and let's go. Google would save me -- I was sure. Google knows everything. I'll be heading for Easy Street, I was certain. Just point me to that low-hanging fruit, or fruit bat, as the case may be!
Before 9/11, I had done well, though I never billed $1000 an hour. But those good old days were long gone now. So, wanting to get my groove back, I decided to go to a career counselor. Career counselors can be full of platitudes, but the good ones groove off their clients' platitudes and then make them feel smart for following their own idiotic fantasies. That way, when you fail, it wasn't their idea.
I told my counselor all the things I wanted out of my life, like the hours that work for me (8:00 am to 9:00 am, weekdays), the locations that work for me (home), the money that works for me (1000 bucks an hour) and the free time that I need to keep myself centered. After my 7th visit, my counselor asked me if I was married. I had meant to tell her I had a wife and 12-year old child, but it must have slipped my mind.
It was around this time that my counselor blurted out, "It's all about you isn't it? You, you, you. You this. You that." Looking behind me to make sure she wasn't talking to someone else, I told her she could pay me $125 an hour and we could talk about her if she preferred. She seemed puzzled.
Of course it's all about me, I told her. Me, me, me. Me is what we're here for. Me need. Me, myself and I have 3 distinct, individual needs, I informed her. If it wasn't about me, I don't know whom I would complain about. Can we work with me? I asked. Jeez, what is this world coming to? OK, so it wasn't one of my prouder moments.
It never occurred to me that the "me' thing was self-centered. A tad selfish maybe, but self-centered? That hurt. Her admonition did have the ring of truth, however, and I did feel badly about quitting our get-togethers after that.
It was unfortunate that it took me 7 sessions just to learn I was selfish. But then I got to thinking, if I graduate from the learning annex, with just one billable hour of consulting, I could have all my career counseling paid for, and still have enough left over for an astrologist.
AIRPORT 2006: BABES IN ARMSOn my return from New Orleans recently, I was going through airport security ahead of a young mother with a baby on one arm and a diaper bag on the other. The baby was crying, probably because the security personnel were looking so intimidating and unfriendly in barking their orders and herding people along. I tried making funny faces at the baby, but this just made it cry more. Only when I put my chewing gum on the end of my nose, did the baby calm down.
With some difficulty, I lifted my overstuffed carryon bags onto the conveyor belt to be scanned. We had been instructed to put all metal objects into our bags, so I had slipped in the 10-pound, 150 foot tape measure I had on my belt, my phone, my 35 mm camera, my watch, a quart-sized can of Louisiana Hot Chili Powder, and about $14 in quarters and nickels. At this point, my bags had more metal in them than a Sherman tank. I was a little nervous the chili powder would come up on the screen looking like a mortar round, but both pieces of luggage and my shoes sailed through the scanners without so much as a beep.
Safely on the other side with my bags, I was putting my shoes back on when, suddenly, all the sirens and whistles went off behind me. The woman with the now hysterical baby was rushed to the side of the room and wanded, while security people from other stations abandoned their posts and swarmed around the diaper bag.
Dozens of passengers behind the woman, resigned to the inevitable delay, sat down on their luggage and began playing video games to pass the time. One even lit up a suspicious looking cigarette.
Piece by piece, a security agent removed the Q-tips, the Huggies, the Desenex, and many products by Johnson and Johnson from the diaper bag. I was struck by the baby's lack of shoes. After looking around, sure enough, there they were on the conveyor belt.
By now, both mother and baby were crying. Security instructed the mother that they would have to further analyze the diaper bag with another piece of equipment. At this, even the baby stopped bawling long enough to look puzzled. A mass spectrometer was brought in and, low and behold, it picked up some fumes seeping out from one end of the bag. Immediately, more agents came out of nowhere and huddled around the bag. A palpable tension filled the air as one security professional peeled back a Velcro tab and peered in. There, hidden in a side pocket, was a nasty-looking soiled diaper.
A security professional, armed with tongs, then gently carried out the offending diaper at arms length, as the crowds cheered. For sure, at least one plane in Concourse C was going to smell better now.
Though the incident had been defused, none of this was making me feel very safe -- which brings us to the question of "profiling." As a believer in civil liberties, I don't think the authorities should "profile" airline passengers -- except maybe those wearing long beards, turbans and smoldering sneakers.
But I do believe they should "profile" security personnel. They should group them into two categories, and any trainee found wanding soiled baby diapers should be categorically denied employment.
GETTING BACK AT YOUR PETSAs I do every spring, I moved the aging Adirondack chairs from the patio out onto the lawn and slopped some white paint on their rotting timbers to get one more season out of them. When I went back to the kitchen to wash the brush, I accidentally left the door open. By the time I made it back out to admire my work, my Westie terrier was lying under one of the wet chairs, and my Yorkie-type dog was crouching under the other.
With the Westie, it didn't matter that much because he was already white. But the Yorkie now looked like a Jackson Pollack painting with legs. Immediately I roared at them, and they dashed into the house, scurried across the antique oriental carpets and hid under couch in the living room.
Now a significant portion of the patio chair paint was on my wife's antique rugs and the dogs, still wet and trembling, refused to be caught. Meanwhile, my 2 parrots, having witnessed the event, grew excited and started their pathetic habit of screeching and cajoling to be let out of their cages. Remembering that they love to poop when I first take them out, and in no mood to have more white stuff on the floor, I made threatening gestures at their cages to quiet the birds down.
This only made them more agitated and one of parrots even had words with me. Being that it was the same bird, an Alexandrine parrot named Kiwi, who sometimes bites me when I feed her, I was less tolerant than I should have been when took away all her perches.
Feeling pleased with myself, I then turned my attention back to the dogs who were now nowhere to be found. Regrettably, they were quite easy to track. Following their prints up the stairs, I surprised the dogs on the bed with the previously flawless quilt and locked them in the bathroom.
While I was cleaning up the house, I tried to think of a way to get back at my pets. Knowing full well that this was not the mature me, I still needed to lash out.
Just then, a friend called and quickly sensed I needed help. I asked him if he knew of any way one could get back at one's pets. He asked if I had any Chinese restaurants in town. Then, figuring my daughter would notice it if the pets turned up missing, he suggested I merely wallpaper the birdcages and dog beds with Chinese menus.
Chinese Menus! Why not? I get them every day in my mailbox. "Kiwi with Cashews" might be a good way of sending her a hint, I thought. And, "Yorkie Pudding" did have a nice ring to it. I wasn't sure the dogs would get it though. They can't read.
Snapping back to reality, I asked my friend if he thought the Chinese menu concept could actually work. He said, "No, but it will make you feel better."
ONCE UPON RECEIPTWhether or not this qualifies as OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), it should. I'm talking about receipt keeping. I am unable to decommission old receipts. They build up in my pants pocket until the churning motion of walking forms them into a ball. As the ball grows the outer layer erodes, providing protection for the earlier receipts that lie beneath. This is why I never have the receipts for the things I bought recently.
Every morning I transfer the receipt ball to my new pair of pants because I am unable to revisit old receipts. I have a phobia about looking at old receipts. I don't know if this is because I can't stand to be reminded of all the stupid things I've bought, or whether I am unwilling to peel back the layers of my past. So, in my fresh pair of pants they go. I can't put them in a drawer -- I'm afraid I'd lose track of them.
Venders didn't always list everything you bought on your sales slip. In the olden days the receipt just gave the store number and the tally. Now your receipts read like an unauthorized biography. I would like to be able to winnow out the meaningless receipts, like the one's for shoe laces, or the incriminating receipts like the ones for ice cream cones at Ben and Jerry's, or the ones from Hooters, but I can't. So the ball keeps growing.
Thankfully, there is a certain amount of attrition. When my balled-up receipts, on occasion, miss the morning transfer to a new pair of pants, and are accidentally run through the washing machine, the outermost ones have all the ink washed off them and some may be lost. But generally, the receipt ball grows over time.
Back when I weighed 200 lbs., the receipt ball in my pocket was somewhat disguised by my "easy-fit" slacks. Now that I've lost 25 lbs. on Atkins, and wearing "slim-fits," I get stares from people thinking I'm over-stimulated.
My wife, unlike me, never keeps receipts for anything. She has a nice big pocketbook to put her receipts in, but she feels no need to do so. She'll buy a car and not keep the receipt. I've gotten upset with her over this, but she points out that, with all my receipt keeping, I've never actually been able to produce one when I've needed to. While this may be true, at least it's not because I was so careless as to throw it out.
Recently, I went to return a bathroom scale because it read 10 lbs. under what I weighed at the doctor's office. The saleslady asked for the receipt, so I proudly put my receipt ball on the counter. All her peeling failed to produce the correct receipt, and she refused to take the scale back. It had been a recent purchase, I explained to her -- the receipt must have eroded. I wasn't getting through to her.
Trying another approach, I told the clerk she could charge a premium to some customers for a bathroom scale that read 10 lbs. under. Unmoved, she gave me a lecture on the importance of keeping receipts. Talk about preaching to the choir.
Then, with more than a hint of contempt, the clerk handed me my tattered ball and said, "Next."
SHAMPOOSLet's see. It's the middle of January. The last time my shampoo went missing, back in August 2005, I headed straight for the garbage can in the garage. Sure enough, there it was under the coffee grinds. My wife had thrown out my Head and Shoulders with dozens of shampoos left inside the bottle. Why would she throw out my good, medicated hair soap?
When confronted with the crime, my wife explained she had thought it was empty, and anyway, she was just clearing out the shower stall of clutter. I explained to her that I like my Head and Shoulders; it keeps the little white specs off my black shirts and makes my armpits smell nice. Besides, I told her, she had more bottles of shampoos, body soaps and conditioners than I could count; so many I had to stand on one leg when I soaped up. How could my one lousy little bottle of Head and Shoulders have caught her attention?
To think, my sole bottle of Head and Shoulders was cluttering up our stall! There in my shower stood peach shampoos, ginger shampoos, coconut exfoliates, apricot conditioners, mint rinses, ginger foams, shampoos with conditioner, shampoos without conditioner, shampoos in French and German, shampoos with pictures of Buddha promising long life, and (this one's my favorite), "Licorice Colorfast Emollients," all presumably to make my wife into an Aromatic-American Zen Goddess. Certainly my one little bottle of Head and Shoulders could not have taken up too much real estate in our shower stall.
My rescued bottle of Head and Shoulders lasted me another month before finally running out.
The other morning it happened again. Standing in the shower I looked down at the dozens of bottles of shampoos, body soaps and conditioners -- and nowhere was my bottle of Head and Shoulders. I came running down the stairs, dripping wet in my birthday suit, and headed straight for the garbage pail in the garage. Unfortunately my feet stuck to the cement floor before I realized it was two degrees below zero. Naturally, I didn't have my keys on me either.
Now, as the skin peels from both my feet and head, I'm thinking of giving up my beloved Head and Shoulders and trying one of those new, fruity shampoos.
MUTINY ON THE BOUNTYWhat is it about paper towels that draws me so? I am constantly reaching for a paper towel. It's true; I don't like having wet hands. But I just like ripping sheets off the roll. I like holding them. I like knowing I'm ready for all the thrills and spills that life has to offer. Am I alone in this?
I not only use paper towels to wipe my hands or to wipe the counter. I use balled-up paper towels preemptively, to counter any future spills or messes I may experience. I like being ready. I like being proactive. It's almost as if "Mr. Spill," seeing that I'm armed with my "super-absorbent-quicker-picker-upper," will go elsewhere to do his dirty deeds.
For example, my parrots won't poop on me if they see I'm holding a paper towel. They wait for that rare, vulnerable moment, when I'm between towels, before dropping. The power of the paper towel is such that when you have one, you won't need it. But be without it, and you're at the mercy of those who would despoil you.
Even unused ball-ups become moist over time, simply from being palmed for hours on end. Then I need another paper towel to dry up that moisture. Eventually, the growing ball ends up in my right-hand pants pocket, which acts as a holster. There it waits, patiently, for emergencies that never happen -- eventually ending up in the washing machine.
My wife has given up trying to understand my thing for paper towels. I think she figures that, at the very least, the paper towel ball-up stored in my right pants pocket balances out the receipt ball-up I have in my left pocket. She did start buying the half-sheet, perforated rolls of paper towels, but I just used twice as many.
I feel somehow incomplete without my paper towel. I wonder sometimes what people did before there were paper towels. What did Julius Caesar do when he had schmutz on his hands? What did the Pirates of the Caribbean use when their hands got clammy or bloodied? I would have mutinied without my Bounty.
This paper towel habit has gotten expensive too. We go through a twelve-pack every 4 days. To make matters worse, I've become a target of the "Greens." My daughter told her teacher that I was solely responsible for the decline of the Brazilian rainforest. What do they teach these kids in school? OK, there may be a tree or two with my name on it, but the whole rainforest?
Now, my wife is threatening to stop buying paper towels altogether and put me on a strict dishtowel regimen. While I'm hoping she's not serious, I've already begun storing bales of 500-sheet rolls in the attic.
REAR VIEW MIRRORThe other day I was easing into the car (tendonitis) after having a crown glued back into my mouth when I looked into the rear view mirror and noticed another tooth had chipped on the way from the dentist's chair to the driver's seat and I'm thinking; this aging thing is getting a little old.
Adjusting the mirror to get a better look, it broke off in my hand (the mirror, not the tooth), which upset me at first but I soon found I enjoyed not seeing the tailgaters with cell phones glued to their ears rushing everywhere 3 inches off my front and rear bumpers. I always seem to be going where they want to go -- and vice versa.
There was no time to dwell on this, though, because I had to rush to the apothecary, three inches behind some slowpoke on a cell phone, to pick up the cholesterol medicine, the blood pressure medicine, the homeopathetic remedies, the megadose vitamins and the first aid materials. While I'm there, I also pick up the over-the-counter cold and cough stuff, the dry skin creams and the orange-flavored powders that keep everything moving through the system. I'm also there to return the manual, rotary nose hair trimmer because of its poor functionality and the clerk asks me if I kept the packaging. I told her I would forgo the $5.75 if she would not try to resell it.
My 10-year old daughter won't swallow pills yet, nor will she use non-designer Band-Aids, so I have to double-up on many of the above items. Most pill remedies I also get in liquid form in flavors like bubble gum, watermelon, and cotton candy and for my daughter I get the cherry or the grape. Her vitamins have to be shaped like little bears and be chewy. She insists on getting the large jars of assorted flavors though she will only eat the red-flavored ones. So I give the rest to the dogs who, thankfully, are color-blind.
To fill out the limit on my credit card, I also buy 5 different kinds of shampoos, 4 different cream rinses and two different kinds of razors including a deluxe one that has 3 pivoting blades, 2 gel strips and shaves off 2 minutes of bathroom time.
Now I'm using my handheld, rear view mirror to look back at a time when life was simpler -- when shampoo was soap and the sick got either aspirin or antibiotics.
LOCKED OUTWhile waiting for the locksmith to come, for the second time in as many days, I'm writing this PNN from my laptop in my Land Rover.
Let's see, what's happening in the world? Troops in Iraq are scavenging sheet metal and bullet proof windows from Iraqi junk yards to strap to their Humvees for what they call, "hillbilly armor." Apparently, instead of the troop armor promised during the campaign, Rumsfeld is now telling the soldiers, "You go to war with the army you have." The army they have still has no armor on their trucks.
On another front, my wife borrowed my un-armored truck to pick my daughter up at a play date and had the ignition lock jam up on the return leg, stranding her. After rescuing her, I called the Nationwide 1 800 Land Rover Roadside Assistance number and started to explain to someone in Alaska that my car wouldn't start because the ignition lock had jammed, when the voice on the other end abruptly interrupted me:
"You didn't lend the truck to your wife did you?" the Alaskan Roadside Service Associate asked, rhetorically.
"Why...yes, but how did you..." I started to ask when he said, "Women don't know trucks. Can't help you bud. Your Rover's 10 years old and out of warranty," and he hung up.
Next, I called my local Land Rover dealer and told him my ignition key wouldn't turn, and he asked me if my wife was still with the car. I was wondering how he knew this when he said, "I can't tell you how many times I get this call." Then he informed me that I should try some WD-40 lubricating spray to try unfreezing the ignition lock. Otherwise, they'd have to disconnect my drive shaft in order to tow the car, since the wheels wouldn't turn if the key didn't turn enough to get the car out of PARK, and into NEUTRAL. The tow would cost $125. Now, I'm getting depressed.
So I hung up and got some WD-40 for $2.99, but the ignition key still wouldn't turn. Then I got the brilliant idea to cut the male chauvinist Republican pigs at Land Rover out of the deal altogether and call a locksmith.
Minutes later, the biggest, fattest, ugliest locksmith you ever saw showed up. The first words out of his mouth were, "Your wife was driving the car, right?" Stunned, I -- as a sensitive, new age, politically-correct guy-- started to question the locksmith when he blurted, "Women don't know from locks."
The locksmith then put a stethoscope to the ignition switch, listened for a pregnant moment, and announced that a "wafer" had dropped. He sprayed some of his own WD-40 into the lock, preferring not to use mine, and then unceremoniously took out a pair of vice grips. Parenthetically, I was hoping to see a sophisticated set of burglar tools but no, all he seemed to have was the pair of vice grips. Disappointed, I was still thinking he would deftly remove the lock and fix it, when he suddenly cocked his huge, fat arm back and starting mercilessly banging on the ignition switch with the vice grips.
Don't ask me why, but somehow, it worked. He turned the key and it started. Then he charged me $145 and left.
When I told the little lady I was thinking of doing a PNN about the whole sorry incident, she told me she'd change the locks on the house if I even considered it.
CRITICAL BIOMASSWhat is there about gardeners? Why is it they can never cut back the creations they bring into the world? Around my house, plants and vines are running amok and my wife refuses to trim any of them. Our fences, arbors, and walkways are completely buried under tons of herbage and any attempts on my part at controlling the threat are rebuffed by the gardener of the house -- as if snipping a plant was a form of disfigurement, dismemberment, or mutilation.
I've always maintained that plants can defend for themselves. Some are poisonous and can make red bumps all over your body. Others have armor and some even have thorns. All I have is a brain and a few gas-powered trimming instruments. Under "The Rules of Engagement," it's a fair fight and not the massacre my wife makes it out to be. Last week the biomass around my house reached critical mass and, with my gardener/ wife vacationing in Alaska, I decided I had to make my move. I got out my weed whacker I trimmed everything on the property, revealing lost walkways, picket fences, stone walls, Frisbees and the southeast portion of my home. On a roll, I even trimmed the dogs.
When my wife returned, she was in shock. How could I have done it? I was worse than Hannibal Lector. She asked me what happened to all the buds, accusing me of trimming from the ends of the plants. Where was I supposed to trim from?
Next time I'm leaving no prisoners. I'm trimming from the other end of the plant --the dirt end. Dead plants tell no tales. As for the dogs, they're in recovery at the dog groomer’s. Foolish me thought they looked good as topiaries.
Except for a touch of poison ivy -- just where you don't want it -- my brief career in gardening is a memory.
THE ITCH TO ITCHScientists have turned their attention to that incredible sensation exactly halfway between torture and ecstasy; that divine intervention -- a scratched itch. When I was young I was never sure whether you itch a scratch, or scratch an itch. Or is it scratch a scratch, or itch an itch? My mother didn't even want to advance me into the first grade until I got it right. I'm still not sure which is which.
Everyone itches. Surgeons itch right in the middle of stitching. Astronauts itch on spacewalks. This is why I was never chosen by NASA. I'd take my suit right off to get to an itch. Movie stars itch. Marilyn Monroe had one for seven years. The Pope itches. Imagine itching under all those robes? George Bush got an itch inside his nose during his debate with Gore. I thought he had snorted something before coming on stage.
For some reason, baseball players all itch in the same place and have no problem doing it on national TV. Ballplayers aside, the basic difference between modern man and Neanderthals, is that we have learned how to scratch our itches while no one is looking.
We all itch in the same regions and it's too early in the morning to go into all the places where people can itch. Suffice it to say that the early Romans invented the toga for a reason.
What's always bothered me is not so much that we itch at all, but why we always have an itch an inch beyond where our scratchers can scratch. Where in the divine plan does it say that we must itch between our shoulder blades? Whoever designed this phenomenon had a wicked sense of humor. Clearly our arms evolved too short. Apes had that part right.
Apes got another thing right as well. They have no problem scratching each other in public and they even do group scratches. Imagine Congress having a group scratch.
And why does it feel so good when an itch is scratched? I know of nothing that feels as good. George Castanza, on Seinfeld, could not imagine anything better than making love, eating pizza and watching football, all at the same time. If that is so, imagine scratching an itch, eating pizza and watching football simultaneously! People have been known to scrape the skin right off their ankles to extend the bliss of nailing an itch.
The other day I saw a photo of a prisoners, squatting on the floor with their hands strapped behind their backs. Can you imagine how they must feel when they get an itch? Talk about cruel and unusual punishment. I would tell my captors, straight away, just to shoot me. Pull my nails out, pluck out my eyes, but don't tie up my scratchers.
I'll never forget the New Yorker cartoon where the condemned prisoner, standing before the firing squad, is being offered his last cigarette. The caption read, "No thanks, I'm trying to quit." I would add one more line. "But could you kindly scratch the small of my back?"
FINDING COOKIESIn a world where people are more worried about the partially hydrogenated fats lurking in their cookies than the partially hidden cookies lurking inside their computers, I am one of the last holdouts. I still think of cookies as a heroin addict thinks of heroin. Running out is unthinkable. I would rob a Seven-Eleven to prevent that from happening. And, though I am far too mature go out and buy them, when cookies are present in my house, I am drawn to them like a Republican to tax breaks.
The only time I can resist cookies is when there are none. But my daughter likes to have a cookie now and then, so my wife will get them for her. When the cookies are gone in a couple of days, it's no mystery who ate them. Since my wife eats none, and my daughter has one every other day, the cone of suspicion quickly narrows to me. Comparing belt sizes is also a dead giveaway.
Because of my problem, my wife hides the cookies. But there are only so many hiding places and, over the years, I've found them all. I've even reached up inside the chimney to retrieve the missing Oreos. Of course, I had to put the fire out first.
In the hopes of curing my addiction once and for all, my wife went out and bought cookies that no one over teething age would like. That didn't work. My daughter didn't like them, so there were more for me.
Then she bought unsweetened cookies made with weird grains from southern Patagonia. I didn't love them, but I was drawn towards the word "cookie" in Spanish on the box, and ate them anyway.
Finally she bought some generic, no brand, out-of-date cookies that even our dogs refused to eat, only to find them gone in three days. And speaking of dogs, the other day I inadvertently ate a couple of their cookies. Deeply engrossed in my TV show, I failed to notice they were bone-shaped. I do like a crunchy cookie.
Of course there have been times when my cookie search has come up dry. On more than one occasion, I’ve had to butter up some Graham Crackers to tide me over until I could unearth the real thing. It’s amazing how the mind can make anything taste cookie-like when no alternative is in the offing. But usually within three or four hours, I can locate the real thing.
My wife says she's stopped buying cookies altogether now, but I sense they're around here somewhere. She's said this before and, low and behold, there they were, in the furnace filter -- or the crawl space -- or behind the toilet float. In my experience, if there's a will, there's a way. And when it comes to cookies, I can almost will them into being.
Incidentally, if any of you share my problem, for a cut I can even find hidden cookies in other people's houses.
ONE MAN'S WORKBENCHDeep in the bowels of my basement, behind the furnace and the 100 lb. bags of parrot seed, is my workbench. I haven't cleaned my workbench in the 18 years I've lived in my house. Anything left on it soon disappears into the amorphous pile.
If I need something, like say, a few drops of 3-IN-ONE oil, I just do what I always do. Rather than trying to locate one the last 6 cans I bought this year, I simply go to the hardware store and buy a new can. The hour it would take me to find an existing one is worth more than $3.99 replacement cost. And I do this with all hardware items.
Consequently I have multiples of everything. By conservative estimate, I have: Elmer’s Glue-All, 20 bottles. Liquid Wrench, 10 cans. Mouse Traps, 15 six packs. Spark Plug Wrenches, 10. 3/4 inch drill bits, 30. Phillips Head Screw Drivers, 50. Tape Measures, 10. Levels: 5: the list goes on and on. At any given moment, I couldn't find any one of them.
But I'm seriously caught in a Catch 22: I can't find anything because I have so many of everything. My wife tells me that if I forced myself to throw out all the multiples, I would be able the find things, thus eliminating the need to buy new ones. She thinks I should throw out 90% of the stuff on my workbench!
But I just can't bring myself to throw out items so that I won't have to buy them. This doesn't make sense to me. Are we telling me I should discard five cans of 3-IN-ONE oil so I won't have to buy one? This is lunacy. Only my wife could think this way. Besides, I'd have to find them before I could throw them out. If women only knew how hard it was to be a man.
So, year after year, my workbench heap gets higher and higher. I'm resigned to being one of those Mr. Fix-its condemned to buying hardware items I don't need and have no room for. (Parenthetically, I have no room on my workbench to do any work anyway).
Thankfully, I do like to go to the hardware store. Everything there is hanging nicely on hooks, and if I need a tape measure in a hurry, I know exactly where in the store to find one. I could find it blindfolded. The person who owns the store likes me a lot and gives me free doughnuts when I come in. He greets me with, "Need another tape measure this week, Mr. Reynolds?" I like that sense of familiarity.
My wife, also familiar with me, went out and bought me the tool hanging hooks like the kind the hardware store uses to display its items. After thanking her, I threw them on my workbench and haven't seen them since.
