FeeFiFoto Blog

My Dreams Are Annoying

I don't dream of showing up for school wearing only underwear.  I've never had that dream.  My not-ready-for-whatever-school-was-about-to-throw-at-me dream always involved showing up for the final exam and realizing:

1. I hadn't attended class all semester, or bought the book or learned the material, and
2. All along I'd intended to withdraw from the class but had never managed to do it, so now I was committed to taking an exam for which I was unprepared because, see #1

This dream harassed me many, many times, until finally I got wise to its evil intentions and began to tell myself, in my sleep and while still dreaming, that I was just having a dream.  So I was all: "nyah nyah nyah, so there Dreamo!"

But the dream outsmarted me and began to respond: "All those other times you were dreaming, but this time it's real heh heh heh..."  But I was like: "You can't pull this on me.  I know I'm not in school any more."

But then the dream metamorphosed into another version of not being prepared, and suddenly I'm on a cruise ship or in a large hotel and I'm lost and can't find my room and the trip is ending and I haven't packed to go home and I can't locate any of my travel companions, who are usually my sister, parents, kids, miscellaneous friends I've happened to have lunch with the previous week, and sometimes even Bossy.  I'll fret in concentric circles, hoping to recognize my room and find my key in time to pack and get out of the hotel or off the ship before everyone leaves me stranded in Uzbekistan or Tasmania.  If the dream lasts long enough I'll sometimes find myself marooned on some superhighway overpass, driving too fast in an invisible or nonexistent car, passing over the places I want to be but having no idea how to get there other than throwing myself over the side.

Last night's dream offered a new twist: I couldn't find anyone and when I tried calling their cell phones to point out that I'd been left behind, I discovered not only that they'd left without me, they'd also left all their cell phones in my purse.  To make matters even weirder, one of the forgotten cell phones belonged to Kanye West and had a voice message recorded by my mother.

Are your dreams as annoying as mine?  Prove it.

Weather Disruptions Worked In Lindsay Vonn's Favor...

... but not mine.

Remember the 2010 Winter Olympics, where Lindsay Vonn fell out of bed, cut herself shaving, slipped on a banana peel, took a wrong turn, missed the bus and fell off her bicycle, bloodying both her knees in the process and laying her up in the ski lodge with huge packs of frozen peas and a mug of hot buttered rum?  or something like that? 

And remember how the weather was all wet and cloudy and foggy and misty and drippy and slushy so our regularly scheduled skiing could not take place as planned?  And remember how Lindsay had a couple of days to rest up and actually won one or two medals?

Well, the weather gods used up all their goodwill on Lindsay (like she needed more medals), and therefore had nothing left in their arsenal to favor me and my family, as we packed bags and bags and bags for a family trip to somewhere (have you guessed yet?) over Spring Break.

My trip preparations always include getting the house into better order than it's normally in when we're at home (strangely ironic, isn't it?  Like when you're getting your house ready to put on the market and you have everything painted and repaired and updated that you haven't bothered to paint or repair or update in all the time you've lived there).  As soon as we get up we load every shred of clothing into the washer and manage to squeak it into the dryer before leaving the house.  Sinks are clear, dishes are run through the dishwasher, trash and recycling are emptied, refrigerator is empty, kitchen table and counters are swept clean, furniture is in place, shoes are in closets.  We return to a house that's tidy and welcoming, until we dump our clothes, bags and souvenirs in the laundry room and start the cycle again.  It's a lot of work and I always pine wistfully for one more day to get ready, but that never happens.

Until yesterday.

The flight to Newark was delayed two hours.  Then another two hours.  And another two.  Trees and power lines fell, streets flooded, winds blew at up to 75 miles per hour, which qualified them as Category 1 hurricane strength.  The flight was canceled.  Then the airport closed.

And there we were, ten of us, at the airport for going on six hours, with all our bags and snacks and magazines and iPods and we're all like: "Never mind."

So we did everything in reverse: reclaimed luggage that had been checked and weighed and xrayed; rode home in cabs driving backwards the whole way; turned on the heat and off all the lights we'd left on at home to fool potential burglars into believing there really was someone in the house.

You try rescheduling travel arrangements for 10 people over Spring Break, flying through the East Coast when the entire eastern seaboard is inundated with rain and winds and flying tree limbs and falling houses.  Go ahead -- just try.  I guarantee you'll still be on the phone 24 hours later (thanks Dad).  As it is, we're flying out (maybe) Monday morning at 6:20 am, which means getting to the airport by 4:30 am, which means getting up at some time with a 3 in it, which I usually do only if I have to go to the bathroom.  Meanwhile, there are dishes on the sink and clothes in the hampers, that will all still be there when we return home.

So -- that extra day to make sure everything's ready?  So not worth it.

Is There Ever A Convenient Time For The Car To Break Down?

The car.  Is four years old.  It's been hit more than once ::coughsistercough::.  The windshield has two dings.  One headlight bulb was replaced a month ago and the other was replaced last week.  The seats and floor mats have endured the insults of snow, slush, salt, and Pepsi. 

The car is not a Porsche.

Someday, Porsche.  Someday you will be mine mine mine -- and no one under the age of 30 will be allowed inside.  Nor will pretzels, chips, granola, raisins, wet shoes, wet dogs, or wet beverages.  Someday, if it survives, the car will be passed on to a Boy Who Has Received His Driver's License.  That will be the day my license goes into the shredder, except for when I feel like taking my tomato-red Porsche out for a drive.

Until then, I'll take good care of this car.  Its gas tank will be filled.  It will receive the occasional wash.  The oil will be changed within 500 miles of the date or distance scribbled on the little Colorform in the windshield's upper left corner.

And I'll continue to schlep the jumper cables.

______________________________________________________________

Cupcake and I went to the supermarket Thursday after school and before choir practice, along with everyone in our metropolitan area since snow had been predicted within 500 miles of us sometime in the next decade and that's how we roll around here.  We picked up our Super Bowl supplies (go Saints!), Cupcake had a hot chocolate and a gelato (which canceled each other out and neither of which she offered to share with me), and we left the store with plenty of snackage and ample time to make it to her rehearsal.

At this point please imagine the screeching sound of a needle being drawn across a vinyl record.  Thank you.

The battery was as dead as a coffin-nail.

Triage!Triage!Triage!  Whom to call first?  Sister at work -- can't leave.  Brother-in-law?  Office too far away.  Father, playing chess at a friend's house -- not easily reachable.  Mother at home?  Probably available; almost certainly grumpy. Car dealership?  Roadside assistance?  Gas station on the next corner?  No guarantee that any of them can arrive in less than an hour. 

In accordance with the ancient law that Anything for a Grandchild, I handed the phone to Cupcake so she could call Mawmaw.    As predicted, Mawmaw skittered to the rescue so her little darling wouldn't miss choir practice, setting in motion the following tribute to Rube Goldberg:

• Car slams into the garage door that's opening way too slowly for a grandmother in a hurry...
• Causing the door to freeze in the limbo between closed and open...
• Necessitating a 50-point turn to get the car out of the adjoining garage door...
• Requiring a new garage door which has to be ordered and will be installed within a month.

Cupcake Punctuality Issue: under control.  Sort of.

Car Not Starting Issue: not so under control.

Call roadside assistance, step out of the car (cold!) to locate the 166,143.72 digit Vehicle Identification Number, count backwards to identify the last four digits for Mr. Automatic Voice Man; when that's not acceptable, step back out of the car (cold!) to identify the final eight digits.  Finally, when a Real Person picks up the line, step out of the car one more time (COLD!) to repeat the last four digits, then the last eight digits, then the entire VIN, at which point Mr. Real Boy announces that this car isn't on the list for Roadside Assistance but they'll send a truck anyway for the low, low one-time fee of $61.

I tell him to forget it.

So. Here I am in a parking lot full of cars, adjacent to a grocery store full of people stocking up on milk, eggs, bread, vegetable peelers, batteries, donuts, snow shovels, mangoes, socks, light ammunition, fake firewood, capers, matches, roadside flares and anything else one might need to survive a blizzard predicted to dump one whole inch of snow throughout the metropolitan area. If I can match up one of the cars to one of the people, preferably a young guy who likes to show off for women, I'll be in bidniz.

Do I stalk the supermarket in pursuit of a potential victim Good Deed Doer...

and follow him to his car, or choose my subject from among the people manning the various stores lining the parking lot?  Manicure place?  No.  Yoga studio?  Definitely not.  UPS store or athletic shoe store?  Either one a possibility.

Long Story Less Long

In the shoe store I sense a good omen: two male employees, no customers, because anyone who might normally be shopping for athletic shoes is at the grocery store stocking up on sardines and Jello in anticipation of the approaching one inch blizzard.

• The first guy declines to help me on the grounds that his car dealership told him not to use his car to jump anyone else's.
• I'm like Huh?
• The second guy, the younger one, offers to try.
• The car starts, the day is saved, and Cupcake calls Mawmaw to tell her we don't need her any more, just as she arrives in the supermarket parking lot.
• A new battery is installed in the car before the end of the day.

Meanwhile, I'll continue to carry the jumper cables.

Just One More Piece Of Technology For Me To Learn How To Turn On and Off

I finally joined the 21^st century.

Hold on.

Okay, I finally joined the 20^th century.

I bought a flat screen TV.

My kids watch TV.  I don't.  Not that I wouldn't like to.  I used to.  But there used to be stuff to watch and I used to not have kids in front of whom I'd be embarrassed to watch some of the stuff I watched when I used to watch.  Now, although I relish a touch of Schadenfreude (spelling bee word!) as much as the next guy, I feel as if I might burn in hell if I watch parents of sextuplets, or Guidos, or LA tarts, or low ranking celebrities make fools of themselves.  Therefore, to set a good example, and because everything on television stinks, and because I fear burning in hell, I don't watch TV.

Except for the occasional rerun of Monty Python and the Holy Grail or Saturday Night Live.

So why did I buy a flat screen TV? 

Because it will make me cool.  Because it will make my kids cool.  Because we just finished a renovation and the 22" tv-in-a-box that's been hanging on the wall for the past 12 years looks dorky.  Because the Super Bowl is imminent, and apparently the best time to buy televisions is right before the Super Bowl because the Super Bowl's a guy thing and TVs are a guy thing so there you go.

Do you know how hard it is to buy a television?  You used to go to a furniture store and pick up a TV, plug it in at home, set up the TV trays and then spend the rest of the television's lifespan twisting vertical hold knobs and horizontal hold knobs and rabbit ears.

If all else failed you might resort to putting your foot through the picture tube:

 

You know what it's like to buy a TV now?  Here are some of the specifications for the one I just ordered; I've highlighted the specs I understand:

Display Area: 42" (big)
Display Type: LCD
Contrast Ratio: 1000000:1
Dynamic Resolution: 1920 x 1080
Signal Compatibility: 1080p
Input Video Signal: ATSC QAM
NTSC Compatibility: VESA (200 mm X 400 mm)
Screen Refresh Rate: 240Hz
Condition: New (free of fingerprints or bad karma from previous owners)
Features: PC Input
Speakers: 2 (I have 2 ears so this makes sense to me)
Inputs: USB S-Video PC Composite HDMI In Component SD Memory Card Slot IR
Outputs: Analog Audio Digital Audio Out
HDMI Ports: 4
Height (inches): 26.2 (this tall)
Height with Stand (inches): 28.5 (a little bit taller)
Width (inches): 41.7 (this wide)
Depth (inches): 3.7 (this deep)
Depth with Stand (inches): 13 (a little deeper)
Unit Weight: 59.4 lbs. (too heavy for me to lift)

Now, before any of the men in the audience start micromanaging my choice to prove that I made the exact wrong decision, save your ire and allow me to describe my scientific, analytical method for choosing this television:

• Consult Consumer Reports to learn the four highest rated brands in the exact size the contractor told me I'd be able to see from anywhere in the house
• Consult Upromise to determine which registered retailers carry the selected brands and offer the largest rebate
• Narrow down choice to the single brand that's highly rated and sold by more than one Upromise retailer
• Choose the retailer with the lowest price and free shipping (yay Super Bowl season!)
• Buy
• Anticipate delivery and hope that Robespierre can install and connect the television with minimal assistance from me

What would have been your advice for choosing a new television?  Not that I'll listen, but feel free to tell me anyway.

When I Was In School, Field Trips Seemed A Lot Less Strenuous

Field trips seemed to be a bit more fun when I was in school.

Gained some unanticipated Fun Mom points this morning by going on a combo fourth grade / first grade field trip to the pumpkin farm, which had been rescheduled from Monday because it's been raining nonstop here since, oh, September.  2007.  Or at least it feels that way.

Cupcake is in the fourth grade and each fourth grader partners up with a first grader as writing buddies.  One of the first grade classes is taught by my sister, so I had the opportunity to collect double points for going on a dual field trip.

Did I mention it's been raining since, oh, April?  2004?

Today was the one day this week predicted to be rain free (not cloud free or gloom free, but at least rain free), so the field trip was rescheduled.  I put on my schlucking-through-the-mud boots and drove and drove across the river and into another state (what, we don't have any pumpkin farms in our own state?) and got to the pumpkin farm before anyone else, and in fact before they were even open.  While I stood in a less muddy spot waiting for the buses to arrive, I saw farmhands scattering mulch and other organic stuff that I didn't have the courage to examine any closer over some of the many goopy spots (remember?  raining since July, 1997?) near the entrance to the farm.  I waited as one yellow school bus arrived.  And then another.  And then about fifty more, all piloted by extremely hefty women with tattoos on their ankles, cigarettes in their hands and curses on their lips.

When I got cold I considered getting back in my car and retreating home, but knowing that Fun Mom points don't kick in until the children actually arrive at the field trip destination, I put on another sweatshirt (I travel very heavy in the winter, schlepping coats and jackets of every size and weight in the trunk of the car just in case), and returned to the parking lot to await the little darlings.

Once they arrived, unloaded lunches and water bottles and split into groups, I trailed along after Cupcake and her little friend as they sampled the corn maze and another corn maze, paused briefly to compose the obligatory haiku paeans to pumpkins and corn mazes, and then queued up for the scenic hayride through the pumpkin fields.

The hay was fresh, golden and cozy.  The kids cuddled up to make room for everyone.  Cupcake and I ended up at the front of the wagon where we could see every bolt, gear and fleck of mud on the tractor.

Have I mentioned that it's been raining since, oh, 1492?

The tractor took off, its eight foot diameter wheels churning through the mud at the perimeter of fields filled with crackling weeds and rotting pumpkins.  We could see the tracks gouged in the glop by the enormous wheels, unless we were driving through standing water, in which case we saw waves and maybe even tides.  Thank goodness tractors can drive through anything without becoming mired.

The tractor became mired. 

The wheels spun, lurching the vehicle to one side.  The driver turned, gave us a grin that would have been toothy if he'd had any teeth, and announced that we were stuck and everyone would have to get out and walk.  After noting the horrified expressions on the faces of fifty city slickers wearing Uggs, he grinned, winked and started up the tractor with a gigantic lurch.

Remember?  Rain since the beginning of time?

Let me give you some valuable advice.

1. Don't wear nice clothes to the pumpkin farm.
2. Leave the nice shoes at home if you're going to the pumpkin farm.
3. Find a coat that's not white if you're visiting the pumpkin farm.
4. Don't sit in the front of the hay wagon on the pumpkin farm hayride.
5. If you're going to the pumpkin farm and you're riding a tractor and the tractor gets stuck in the mud and has to be lurched free, keep your mouth shut so that once the lurching is finished and you have mud on your coat and face, you don't also have a generous serving of mud in your mouth.
6. Bring lots of wet wipes to the pumpkin farm.

Fun Mom Points: well earned and well deserved.

What's your advice on traveling to the pumpkin farm?

I Think I Might Be A Genius: Teaching Bike Riding Without Tears

I figured out an unbelievably painless way to teach my daughter to ride a bike.

I didn't learn to ride a bike until I was 12. You can't blame me; my father tried to teach me when I was six: he dropped me, tried to pick me up, dropped me again, and fell on me. I gave up; he never pursued it; and I sheepishly pedaled a tricycle for six more years. Finally my crazy aunt (doesn't everyone have a crazy aunt?) discovered I still couldn't ride a bike, and forced me to learn.

When I was preparing to teach Robespierre how to ride a bike (how did someone as unathletic as me get stuck with this job? I certainly wasn't going to pawn it off on my father), a guy in the bike store advised me to remove the pedals so Robey could get the feel of pushing himself along and gliding. Once he got the hang of gliding, we could replace the pedals and he’d be in business. We called it the Fred Flintstone system.

 

Image here

It worked, although it took quite a while for him to get the hang of gliding on a bike and translating that to balancing while pedaling. After a lot of timorous practice (hey, we're not daredevils around here. We're Jewish – we fear pain) one day he pedaled in circles inside the garage, and from then on he had it.

Cupcake never was interested in riding a bike, and I wasn't interested in teaching her, what with my laziness and her propensity for over dramatizing everything from hair brushing to loose teeth.

Think I'm exaggerating? On the last day of our recent cruise, Cupcake fell and banged her foot. As a precaution, since the next day was a travel day, I limped her down to the medical center to make sure her foot wasn't broken. The nurse assured us that it was just bruised, but she gave us an Ace bandage anyway. Cupcake worshipped her Ace bandage, wrapping and rewrapping her tiny foot all day. The next day, as we were preparing to confront airport security, Cupcake apprehensively inquired whether the security people were going to have a problem with her "chubby foot." I assured her that, no, just because her foot was wrapped in elastic did not necessarily mean she'd spend the next ten years in a foreign prison for attempted shoe terrorism.

Satisfied?

I'd accepted that she was going to be one of those people who doesn't know how to ride a bike, when her camp director assured us that she could learn to ride at camp, and suddenly I was free: she'd come home knowing how to ride and I wouldn't have to be involved. The down side was that I wouldn't collect any Fun Mom points for teaching her, but I was willing to make that tradeoff.

A week before leaving for camp, Cupcake confided that maybe she might like to know how to ride a bike before she left. I could see the wheels rotating in her brain: she didn't want to be the only one there who, at nine years old, couldn't ride a bicycle.

Drat. See above: Lazy. Unathletic. Overdramatizing.

With fake optimism, I hunted up Robey's bike and rooted in the tool box for the pliers so I could remove the pedals.

And then: I glimpsed Salvation.

The. Scooter.

“Cupcake,” I asked hopefully, “have you ever tried the scooter?” Nope, she replied.

Bingo.

“Well,” I proclaimed enthusiastically, “now’s your chance!”

I showed her how to how to push off and raise her foot so she could glide on two wheels.

She didn’t fall.

She practiced for a few days. When she spent the night at my parents’, she brought the scooter and practiced there. Stretch coached her on braking and gliding with both feet resting on the bar.

Three days later, she got on the bike and RODE. She balanced. She glided. She pedaled. She steered.

I never laid a hand on her.

Was learning to ride a bike easy for you, or traumatic?

My Ankle's A Little Bit Sprainy: Klutzing

But this time it's not my fault.  I was in the yard, talking on the phone and pulling weeds, while the dogs played playfully and picturesquely at my feet.  The chase commenced, and they leaped for each other but instead of catching each other, they crashed into me simultaneously and, moreover, at the same time.  Now, I know they're small dogs, but their combined weight is more than 50 pounds; meanwhile their velocity was like this:

Do I have to tell you what happened?  Do I have to explain the laws of physics?  Do I have to illustrate the result of the chance encounter of immovable objects and irresistible forces?  please don't make me please don't make me please don't make me

 

The LOOK harmless, don't they?

Public Service Announcement: How (Or Why) To Clean Your Refrigerator

Fame Contest.  Enter here to win fame, and a gift certificate!

STEP ONE
Prepare Jello in a large bowl according to package directions.

STEP TWO
Place bowl on a shelf in the refrigerator.

STEP THREE
Slam refrigerator door, causing Jello to slosh liberally.

STEP FOUR
Discover Jello puddles in refrigerator drawers.

STEP FIVE
Spend the next hour removing, washing, drying and replacing refrigerator drawers and shelves.

More Travel Excitement

Fame Contest.  Enter here to win fame, and a gift certificate!

Let's see -- where were we?  Something about traveling, Italy, noses...

Ah yes -- nosebleeds on parade.

Cupcake's nose can erupt like Mount Etna if you just look at it; it's a special power she has that we try to devote only to good.  So when my father hugged her and inadvertently touched her nose, the gushing recommenced. 

Now That I Think About It, The Nonstop Coughing Wasn't So Bad: Travel Crises

Some kids are chess masters.  Some excel at skateboarding, music, basketball or writing.

My kids are World Class Nosebleeders.

There are clear advantages to being the parent of an experienced nosebleeder.  Such as...

for example...

ummm...

Wait!  I know!

If someone you're with has a nosebleed, you'll know exactly what to do. 

Ta da!

A few years ago I had their noses cauterized.  I had to; our carpets gave the impression that our hobby was axe murdering.  Both have had to have the procedure repeated, and Cupcake more than once.  I try to remember to have them slosh Vaseline in their noses, with "try" being the operative word.

So we're on a plane to Rome two weeks ago. The flight is long, the plane cramped and inhospitable.  Five hours into the flight, Cupcake sneezes.

I Had A Point But I Forgot It: I Think It Was That I Hate Being Forgetful

Don't forget: we're still out of town. This post originally appeared in April, 2008

I feel like I forget everything.

I'm tired of being forgetful.  It's bad enough that I forget where I put things, or where I'm supposed to be, or to bring my purse when I need to buy groceries.  Sometimes I remember what I'm supposed to be doing, write it down, enter it into my computer, and then don't believe my notation because I'm convinced I must be missing something.

Then What Happened? Klutziness And Mudpies Don't Mix

Clues, Round I

• It's been raining here for two days.
• Our new puppy weighs about 18 pounds, on her way to a maximum of about 30.
• Little Miss is more attached to me so far than to either of the kids.
• The bars of our fence are set approximately six inches apart.
• Our yard is trying to revert to its natural state; clover, moss, ferns, hostas and liriope are gradually filling in some of the mud patches.
• The house is well lit, but the yard is not.
• Miss Puppy's hobby is digging for moles.
• Robespierre sometimes frequently usually lets his impulses get the better of him.
• Robey never wants to go to bed.
• I write a blog.

Have you figured out what happened yet?  Anyone?  No?

Shlepping Kids

Originally published October 21, 2007

Jane at BabySquared writes about intentionally dehydrating herself before a long drive with her twin pre-toddlers so she wouldn't have to stop for a bathroom break on the way:

"This was the first time I've attempted a road trip of any length alone with the girls... I was careful not to drink too much water before I left, and though I would have liked a cup of coffee for the road, it was just too risky. I didn't bring a stroller, which meant that there was pretty much no way I could have stopped to go to the bathroom... I tried to imagine what I would do if things got really, really desperate. I decided that I could:

1.) Pull up close to a gas station with a convenience store, look inside to see if there was a sane-looking woman working there and, if there was, run in and beg her to go out and keep an eye on the girls while I peed. (No offense, guys, but it just wouldn't be cool to ask some random man to watch my children. Probably not so cool to ask a random woman either, but if I had no other choice....)

Just A Splash Of Teriyaki, Please: My Kids Are As Klutzy As I Am

Scene 1: Robespierre, he of the Hollow Leg, enters the kitchen in search of many carbohydrates.  Snatching open the pantry door, he spies...

a brand new bottle of Teriyaki sauce hurtling inexorably to its doom at the hands of Evil Gravity, abetted by Tile Floor, Gravity's henchman.

Scene 2 (post apocalypse): Robespierre, he of the Short Attention Span, picks up most of the large pieces of glass and uses the Swiffer to sop up spread around the entire contents of the now defunct bottle of Teriyaki sauce.

Scene 3:  Robespierre's mother, she of the Eagle Eyes Assisted By Bifocals, enters the kitchen and instructs that Robespierre clean the floor again, this time with a damp towel.

Hello? Tech Support?

On one hand...

It took a week, plus three hours on the phone today, to cajole my All-In-One printer/scanner to communicate with my laptop.  The process included:

• Half a dozen online chat sessions with various HP customer service representatives
• No fewer than 4 (four) software download/uninstall/reinstall sessions
• The disabling of all firewalls and defenses
• Being hung up on (accidentally, but still annoyingly) twice, and
• Two 1.5 hour phone conversations with today's tech support rep (Rusty?  Rudy?  Whozie Poozie?) who took control of the laptop and fixed everything step by step

On the other hand...

I have this nifty cordless headset that allows me to wander around the house and yard unencumbered while carrying on a telephone conversation, thus while Rusty/Rudy/Whozie Poozie was lurking around my computer I:

• made and ate lunch
• tidied my office
• did some dishes, and
• took out the recycling

If he hadn't been in control of my computer I probably would have dropped 300 Entrecards too.

Thursday Thirteen: Don't Do Any Of These Things

• Flush "flushable" wipes.  Yeah -- they say they are, but they're not, not really.  They don't decompose and they clog up the pipes and then the plumber has to come out and snake out the pipes and it's costly and ugly, and just don't.

• Throw chunks of meat down the garbage disposal.  Remember not throwing in celery because the strings will tangle the disposer?  Meat works the same way, and this type of clog always seems to happen at 10:30 pm when you're just about ready to go to bed but you decide to finish up the last of those dishes so you can wake up in the morning to a tidy kitchen so you throw the last questionable leftover food down the sink and run the disposer and then spend the next two hours cranking that little unclogging thing under the machine and sticking your hand down the sink hoping the disposal doesn't spontaneously turn itself on and induct you into the "Sound of One Hand Clapping Society", and then bailing out as much water as you can get and squishing it into a bucket and finally going to bed and lying awake for another hour seething with the frustration of having tried something you knew had no possibility of turning out well, so just don't.

Maybe It Would Be Easier Just To Use Flashlights

I love shopping online. Comparison shopping without having to leave the house is fun. Opening packages is fun. Finding bargains and unique items is fun. Shopping online is like being in a candy store but better because you're not face to face with the Candy Man, who frankly is creepy.

Photo thanks to Answers.com

It's all fun, fun, fun until ...

Prospecting for light bulbs online is not fun. It's not interesting. It's not fulfilling. Opening boxes of light bulbs isn't fun or interesting either. It's not at all like being in a candy store. Shopping for light bulbs online involves a lot of trudging and climbing to measure bulbs to see if they'll fit inside the fixtures, trying to figure out what wattage will give the least eyestrain, which is good, and which will blow up the house, which could be bad. Looking for light bulbs online means trying to distinguish between different brands that seem to have no distinguishing characteristics other than subtly different brand names.

Turns out shopping for light bulbs is kind of like shopping for mattresses. Each store has its own brand names and descriptions that mean nothing to the consumer. The products change at will, so even though you think you know exactly what you need you never really know, because this year the same product has a new package and a new name. I now have a Texan Light Bulb Consultant named Tommy, who helps me flounder around his web site and my house as I struggle to identify the precise combination of wattage and voltage and fluorescence versus incandescence and lumens and frostiness and base size. Tommy also laughs at my jokes and encourages me to call back any time just to talk, which makes the fact that he lives in Texas comforting, although he does have easy access to my address so I'm probably doomed if Tommy goes postal someday.

For more on my lighting odyssey, click here and here.

Making The Transition From Incandescent To Fluorescent

When we last saw our hero she was explaining the fundamental differences between incandescent lighting and fluorescent lighting.  Let's continue our discussion, already in progress.

I started buying compact fluorescent bulbs about a year ago.  When I first saw compact fluorescents in the 1990s they were tall and square and didn't fit most lamps or fixtures; now you can even get floodlights with the twisty stuff inside the globe, as well as chandelier flame bulbs.  They take a moment to warm up after they're switched on; as soon as they're running at full force they give off as much light as incandescent bulbs but with much less generation of heat and usage of electricity.  They're way more expensive than comparable incandescent bulbs but they're supposed to last up to seven years, as opposed to the approximately 1000 hours alloted to typical incandescent bulbs, except for the Centennial Light.

Am I Starting To Have One Of Those Days?

 

Do you ever absentmindedly reach for the freezer door and wonder what you were looking for and then remember it was the stapler that lives in the drawer and not the freezer?

Yeah, me neither.

Jet Lag + Muscle Relaxers = ZZZZZ

Vacations -- rarely restful.

We're back and I fully intend to relate some of our travel stories (sorry -- no passport hijinks this time) as soon as I recover from ... zzz ...

Oops - sorry.  Must have dozed off for a moment.

Anyway, there's lots to tell, involving Rolls Royces, the Rosetta Stone, Her Dead Father, Neil Diamond, Princess Diana, Nelson Mandela, security for the Magna Carta, Oprah Winfrey, treacle and Hugh Grant.

Were you aware that, among the alternatives to hijinks suggested by  spell check are: methinks, Nijinsky, and blinks's?  Were you also aware that I didn't know blinks's was even a legitimate word?