FeeFiFoto Blog

Just The Kind Of Customer Service I Would Have Expected

When they were so generous as to give me a Soda Stream Soda Maker to give away to one of my readers, I should have guessed that Soda Stream would be generous and accommodating throughout the transaction.

Lauren won the Soda Stream Soda Maker.  Huzzah for Lauren.

She hasn't received it from me yet, though, and here's why:

• The Soda Stream Soda Maker came with a tall, thin bottle filled with compressed carbon dioxide, which, when inserted into the Soda Stream Soda Maker, jolts trillions of bubbles into a water bottle to produce what is known, in technical terminology, as sparkly water.
• The temperature round these parts has been hovering around 100^o with a wind chill heat index climbing to somewhere in the neighborhood of SEVENTY ELEVENTY BAZILLION degrees.
• Leaving a bottle of compressed CO₂ in a car in this weather would lead to explosion, scandal and visits from the FBI, therefore...
• Instead of being left in the back of the car with dry cleaning that needs to be dropped off, spare books on Greek mythology, and a few anoraks in case the movie theater is cold, the Soda Stream Soda Maker had to be conveyed to the shipper as part of a carefully plotted expedition, with the first stop being UPS, since, see above: chaos, bedlam and visits from Navy SEALS, BUT...
• UPS can't ship a filled bottle of CO₂ without certification from the shipper (otherwise known as me) of license to ship hazardous materials.
• Hazardous Materials certification requires training and testing and zzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
• UPS wouldn't even allow me to ship the CO₂ piggybacked on the original HAZMAT paperwork under which the Soda Stream Soda Maker was shipped to me, no matter how many sweet smiles, substantial bribes or veiled threats I might proffer.
• Lauren is getting thirsty.

Try to do something nice... As they say, "No good deed goes unaccompanied by a substantial and demoralizing thrashing," or something like that.

To make a long story even longer...

I shipped the  Soda Stream Soda Maker without the bottle of compressed CO₂, which I then had to carry with me as I ran errands because, see above: explosions, pandemonium and visits from my mother.

I must have looked rather strange holding a wallet in one hand and a bottle of carbon dioxide in the other.

When I got home I called Soda Stream and explained my awkward and embarrassing problem and asked if there was anything they could do to help me out.  They must encounter this issue often because they knew exactly what to do to ease my rattled soul.  They're sending me a shipping label with their HAZMAT authorization information on it, to attach to the box I'll use to ship the CO₂ bottle to poor Lauren, who's probably passing out from the heat in NYC by now, and can hardly wait to receive her Soda Stream Soda Maker.

Lesson learned.  I'm not sure what that lesson was, but I sure as heck learned it.

Antfested

Today I was happy to get a postcard from camp, but by the time I had a chance to read it, the card, and the rest of the mail, was somewhat battered. Why? you may ask (or you may not but I’m going to tell you anyway).

Because ants have taken up residence in our mailbox.  

Now, ants are better than wasps, which have also taken up residence in our mailbox from time to time, but not by much because, let's face it, bugs is bugs and most of the time bugs in the mailbox are just plain alarming.  

Butterflies would be nice, or luna moths, but do we ever get in infestation of butterflies?  NooOOooOOOoo we do not, since that would be way too pleasant and picturesque.

So.  Ants.

The mail person had thoughtfully rubber banded the mail into a package with a thoughtful note that said “Ants in the mailbox,” and then had thoughtfully placed the package in the mailbox on top of the ants and thoughtfully left the door open, which usually encourages the ants to move out, but since the mail had just been delivered the ants were still in a tizzy trying to gather up all the ant infants ("antfants"?) and flee, so when I picked up the mail it was COVERED. With ants.

And then I was covered.

And that’s why anyone who might have driven by at that approximate moment would have witnessed me vigorously shaking the mail and frantically smacking it against the car. I’m sure I looked completely insane but I don’t think anyone was watching and I don’t really care if anyone was because: Ants. Eww.

And that's why all of today's mail is somewhat ragged.

Oh -- don't forget to take a look at the SodaStream soda maker I'm GIVING AWAY.

Say No To The Dresses

Wanna know why I learned nothing in law school and was consequently an incompetent and fearful lawyer, which is why I now write this blog and drive a lot every day and run a web site instead of flaunting my brilliant lawyerliness?

Let's blame it on this dress:

Here

More precisely, let's blame it on the girl who wore something very similar to this dress.

She wore the lavender muumuu every other day for the entire second semester of my second year of law school.

Every. Other. Day.

It's a pleasant dress.  Soothing, looks comfortable, unpretentious.  Of course it's not exactly the kind of thing you'd expect a law student to wear.  Most of us favored rather somber, serious attire: dark suits, airline stewardess pumps, striped cotton shirts, fussy bow ties, and of course pantyhose, always with the pantyhose even though we were in New Orleans.

I'll just give you a moment to catch your breath while you imagine wearing pantyhose in New Orleans at any time of year.

The problem with the lavender muumuu was that it was hard to ignore.  A black suit or dress can be disguised with shoes, jackets, sweaters and accessories, but the lavender muumuu is the lavender muumuu every day of its life no matter what you do to it.  Unless she owned a closet full of lavender muumuus, this specific dress was her uniform two or three days each week for a solid semester.

Wanna know why the muumuu almost caused me to flunk out of law school?

Because she alternated it with this:

 

Here

This is a lovely dress: feminine, soft, also looks quite comfortable.  I wore a dress very much like this one to a college formal once; I might even have a picture of myself wearing it.

But this dress was also quite memorable, hard to disguise, again not exactly what one might expect to see on a second-year law student in a classroom or work situation.

And she wore this dress whenever she wasn't wearing the lavender muumuu.

So.  Two or three times a week she wore the lavender muumuu and two or three times a week she wore the floral chiffon.

Oh, she tried to disguise them.  She accented with a sweater:

or a crocheted shawl:

Sometimes she wore a black blazer:

Like my mad drawing skills?

She wore different shoes:

 

Ouch -- that looks like it might hurt 

Some days she wore boots :

 

But nothing she did was able to disguise the fact that she wore these same two dresses day after day after day for an entire semester.

So why, you might ask again, did I almost flunk out of law school?  What is it about two dresses that almost derailed my career as an attorney?

Have I mentioned that I tend to be scatterbrained?  That I can be forgetful?  That I often have trouble concentrating?

I spent the entire semester fixating on those dresses.

Were there really only the two of them?  Could she possibly own several similar but not identical dresses?  Did she like them that much or were they all she could afford?  If all she could afford was two dresses why not choose something more generic?  How many different ways could she try to disguise Dress One and Dress Two?  Did anyone else notice the bizarre state of things?  Did anyone care as much as I did?  Did she think nobody noticed?  Did she care if anyone noticed? 

I obsessed so feverishly that I could feel my GPA sliding.  I seriously considered sending her some cash anonymously with a note pleading that she buy herself something else, anything else, to wear so I could go back to doodling paying attention in class.

What classes did we have together?  I have no idea.  What was her name?  Nary a hint.  What did she look like?  Your guess is as good as mine.

I do know that over the summer she must have lost weight or come into some money because the next fall she looked slender and beautiful and had a slew of new clothes, and I never saw the lavender muumuu or the floral chiffon again.

What a relief.

Marlene, do you remember this?

 

 

Visit To The Chiropractor

I visited the chiropractor yesterday.  Now, some of you may think "Huh.  CHIROPRACTOR [making little mocking finger quotes].  They're quacks who take your money and make you come back every week for an [mocking finger quotes] ADJUSTMENT."  Meanwhile, others of you might think "Oh, I love my chiropractor!  I see her every week and I think that if the building caught fire, she'd be on my list of the top five things I'd save before escaping.  Even if she weren't in the building at the time."  Still others might think "I wonder if there's any more of that leftover lasagna in the freezer."  All legitimate thoughts and sentiments.

Let me tell you what I think.  I think that if I could have someone come to my house three times a week to crack my back and neck I'd think I was in heaven, especially if they brought me dark chocolate and vacuumed my rugs while they were here, but even if they didn't I'd still be happy with the back- and neck-cracking.

The diagnosis this time was some sort of discrepancy with my sacroiliac joint, which is located in that area where the spine meets up with the pelvis.  When she said "sacroiliac" to me, all I could think was "Really?  I thought 'sacroiliac' was one of those old fashioned made-up afflictions that made Granny Clampett funny, like lumbago or rheumatism."

I don't know if chiropractors are quacks.  Maybe mine is legitimate and all the rest are quacks.  I do know that my neck hurts and my back hurts and they feel better once they've been cracked by someone really strong.  I also know that, although I occasionally crash headfirst into a door while ill-advisedly trying to text and walk simultaneously; and although Miss Puppy occasionally launches herself into my face, thereby flinging my neck straight back; and although there was that time at WalMart when a jumbo pack of jumbo diapers flew off a shelf and slammed into my head (man, shopping can be dangerous), I can't rely on random incidents of DIY chiropractic to keep my neck in line, and that's why I visited the chiropractor yesterday.

And today I feel a little bit better.

I may have to go back in a few days.

I'm A Virus Doctor

Cupcake's laptop awoke this morning with a cough, runny nose and high fever and that really bad attitude that comes with a bone-crushing infection on the second consecutive snow day.  It sneezed and coughed and vomited popup after popup warning that "Spyware* Protection" had detected trojans and worms and Steelers fans and ch!ld p0rno0grap4y and Seventh Day Adventists, while helpfully and repeatedly suggesting I pay $60 to run a virus check and all my problems would be eliminated.

Do you really want to know every avenue I explored on Google to try to get rid of Spyware-Protection-That's-Not-Really-Protection?  No, you don't.  I'm not even interested and I'm the one telling the story.

Highlights:

Me: Do I need "Spyware Protection"?

Google: NO.

Me: How can I get rid of it?

Google: Yeah, good luck with that.

Me: No, seriously.

Google: Okay, okay.  Run anti-virus or anti-malware software.

Me: Yeah.  BRB.

...

Hey.  Hellooooo.  The worm keeps turning on me -- it's blocking the new software and demanding $60 ransom.

Google: All right -- don't panic.  Restart the laptop and run the anti-virus software in Safe Mode.

Me: How do I do that?

Google: TSK!  Shut off the laptop, turn it back on, select Safe Mode and then download and run new anti-virus and anti-malware.

...

Me: Excuse me.  I hate to bother you again, but that didn't work either.  It won't let me load any anti-malware even in Safe Mode.

Google: Have you considered a new hard drive?

Me: I don't want a new hard drive!

You know what's coming.  You know I spent an entire morning opening more than 20 windows, all of which encouraged me to hang in there and consider learning enough advanced HTML and DLL and LDL and LOL and LIRR to manually hunt down every last trace of Spyware "Protection."

And guess what.  I finally got it to work.  And guess what.  I have no idea how.  But I did it, and here are my words of wisdom:

If you think you might need "Spyware Protection" -- you don't.  So get rid of it.  And run anti-malware software regularly.  And if you come down with "Spyware Protection", get rid of it.  And if you need to know how ask me and I'll give you all the sympathy I can muster.

Have you ever been infected with "Spyware Protection"?

    *Spellcheck liked Annoyware better.

Does It Count As Passive-Aggression If There's Only Passivity, Hold The Mayo... Er... Aggression?

I blundered.  For a change.

But I have a plan -- a wonderfully evil and diabolical plan.

It's supposed to snow here tonight and tomorrow -- a lot.  Yet, even though our area boasts a plenitude of snowplows and a copiousness of road salt, we seem to panic at the mere mention of the "S" word.  But me?  I'm not worried; in fact, I'm pleased, for some or all of the following reasons:

1. I went to the store today to stock up on blizzard survival supplies, including but not limited to: crackers, cucumbers, evaporated skim milk, shampoo, frozen strawberries, Ding Dongs, nail polish remover and baking powder.
2. When the snow comes all schools will be canceled, and along with them Cupcake's voice lesson in the north and Robey's clarinet lesson in the south.
3. I'll awwww convincingly when word comes of cancellation of the lessons, while mentally high-fiving myself for not having to reschedule one or the other or both and thus come across as a nincompoop for scheduling two kids for two lessons in two locations at the same time.

Aren't I clever, except for that part where I set up simultaneous lessons for my kids at opposite ends of the city?

Favorites Of 2010

Recapping some of my favorite posts of 2010, because I'm not Allie Brosh* and no one else will do it for me

A List Of My Favorite Posts From 2010
Which Should Carry Exactly As Much Weight As
When The Waitress Confides Her Favorite Menu Items
But It's My Blog So If You Don't Like It Get Your Own Blog

In January, there was the time I bargained for that dress.  Remember when I bargained for the dress?  It's a cute dress.  In fact, I'm wearing it right now.  I'm a bit concerned that if I don't praise the dress while wearing it, it might rise up and throttle me as I doze with my face pressed into the keyboard and unintentionally type hgyhygggggggggggggg: In This Economy, Retailers Are Smart To Bargain.

In February, the car broke down due to an electrical malfunction which had absolutely nothing to do with my leaving the lights on, which I did because the warning dinger didn't ding because there was an electrical malfunction (see above): Is There Ever A Convenient Time For The Car To Break Down? (Hint: there isn't).

In March, the entire airport broke down, which again was not my fault and furthermore had nothing to do with electrical malfunctions or electricity of any kind.  Except maybe lightning: Weather Disruptions Worked In Lindsay Vonn's Favor...

In April, we touched on the colors of travel (hint: there's lots of blue): Blue Is The Color Of Heaven

In May, I had some advice for the varmint population in our yard on how to appear less blockheaded: Letters of Advice.

In June, Robespierre became a Bar Mitzvah.  I wrote a lot about the subject (you try throwing a Bar Mitzvah without raving even while sleeping); here is one of my favorite posts on the subject: Superhero Or Super Villain -- Choose Wisely.

In July, I Shot An Elephant In My Pajamas, which degenerated into an existential discussion of grammar. With this post I received one of my favorite comments of all time from Ivan Toblog: Written, your statement would have to say something like, "Don't use that spoon. I killed a fly with it."

In August, I did some reading: More Of What I've Been Reading Lately.

In September, some of us got stuck in the mud.  Fortunately, we got out and lived to tell the tale: Sorry We Weren't In Touch Last Weekend. We Were Swamped.

In October, I discussed why cell phones rock: Why I LOOOOVE My Cell Phone.

In November, I unveiled my FeeFiFoto Fundraising program: Need To Raise Money For Your Organization? Here's My Proposal.

In December, I remembered that I forgot to have the sprinklers turned off before the first freeze: My Mistake.

*Of Hyperbole and a Half.  Last year I compared myself to Dooce but I don't like Dooce and never have, so I'm happy to be able to compare myself (heh) to someone I admire instead.

Do you have a favorite 2010 post?  Of mine?

Wordless Wednesday: My Mistake

Here's what happens when someone forgets to have the underground sprinklers shut down before the temperature drops to 13^o :

Discussing The Benefits Of Cell Phones Again

Since we were discussing the benefits of cell phones, I thought you might enjoy a story about one of my all time klutzing experiences which never would have happened if anyone besides Gordon Gekko and Donald Trump had had cell phones in the early 80s.

I was in New York, naturally, since New York seems to be the epicenter of much of my most spectacular klutzing, visiting Linda, who actually went to work every day, but I bravely set out to keep myself entertained until we could meet for dinner.  We made plans to meet at the marvelously garish Russian Tea Room and Linda committed to make a reservation.  Since she's one of the World's Most Organized people, I had complete faith in her commitment, which left me free to investigate Bonwit's, Barney's, Bergdorf's, Bloomingdale's, Trump Tower, Tiffany, the Plaza, Saks, and other historic and educational New York City landmarks.

After conscientiously absorbing New York culture and history all day, my feet and legs could stand it no more and I made my way to the Russian Tea Room half an hour early so I could sit down and pretend to be famous.  I announced that I was there for a reservation under the name of Linda, whereupon they checked their reservation book and led me upstairs, away from the celebrities.

And I waited.

And the waiter asked if I wanted anything and I cheerfully chirped: No thanks!  I'm waiting for a Friend!

And I w-a-i-t-e-d.

And the waiter asked if I wanted anything and I asked for water.

And I waaaaaaited.

And the waiter asked if I wanted to see a menu and I said I'd wait for my friend.

And the waiter sneered.

And I waaa-aaa-hay-hay-haaaaaited.

And the waiter asked if I wanted to order and I asked to use their phone.

And I called Linda's apartment and nobody answered.  So I left a message.

And I called Linda's apartment and nobody answered.  So I left a message.

And I called Linda's apartment and nobody answered.  So I left a message.

And I looked like a complete nincompoop who'd been stood up by a friend, no less, not even a date, although as far as the wait staff at the Russian Tea room knew, I'd been stood up by a date and refused to admit it, insisting repeatedly that we were just friends and she was sure to arrive at any moment.  I could tell they all felt kind of sorry for me, in that superior New York way of "Look at the tourist who's been dumped by her date.  How pathetic are out-of-towners.  Let's invite the entire kitchen staff out to gawk."

Finally I ordered something.

And I called Linda's apartment and left another message.

And I began to eat veeeerrry s-l-o-w-l-y.  And I didn't even have anything to read so I could pretend I'd fully intended to dine alone at the Russian Tea Room.  I think I might have spread out and sorted my receipts from the day, you know, from all the museum admissions, pretending I'd later be called upon to enter them into an expense report.

And I called Linda's apartment and her roommate answered and said Linda had left a message that she couldn't get a reservation at the Russian Tea Room so she'd made a reservation at another restaurant around the corner and I should meet her there.

But, you see:

• I'd run out of steam sooner than I'd expected to, so
• I'd headed for the restaurant early than we'd agreed, and
• The staff at the Russian Tea Room apparently were embarrassed to admit that they didn't have a reservation under the name of Linda, and
• It was early enough that they'd offered to seat me at one of their empty tables upstairs
• (Away from the celebrities), and 
• Linda had been unable to reach me because, see above, only Gordon Gekko and Donald Trump had cell phones in those days, and Gordon Gekko was, in fact, imaginary, so
• She'd waited outside the Russian Tea Room for half an hour hoping to catch me, but
• I'd already gone inside, and
• It hadn't occurred to her that maybe I'd gotten tired and gone inside already (why should it?), so
• She hadn't thought to ask if I was already there and possibly sitting at a table upstairs, away from the celebrities, so
• She'd left a message at home hoping her roommate would be able to forward it to me and had gone on the the place where she'd actually managed to make a reservation and waited for me there, but
• When I hadn't arrived she'd taken a table and waited for me there and finally ordered her own dinner.

So.  I ate borscht and cabbage rolls at one place, and she ate something else at a restaurant around the corner, and we met up at her apartment after our delicious but embarrassing meals.

EPILOGUE

Four years later I was back in New York with Linda to attend the Barry Manilow New Year's Eve concert at Radio City Music Hall (Don't judge.  I'm sure you have Barry Manilow or the equivalent in your past) and we planned to eat at the Russan Tea Room again but the show didn't begin until midnight and we couldn't get a 10:00 pm reservation so we made a reservation for 6:30 and ate reeeeeeeallly s-l-o-w-l-y.  Then I nearly left a 200% tip but Linda caught my mistake and that's why I love her.

Is there a time when a cell phone might have saved you from trouble and embarrassment?  Explain.

 

Wordless-ish Wednesday

Like this?  I made it.  Took me TWO. YEARS.

Hey, don't look so gobsmacked*.  I can make stuff.

I started it and then put it down to work on Robey's tallis.  Then I ripped apart the tallis and knitted it again because the first attempt had turned out curly.

Then I returned to the sweater and had to start all over because I'd forgotten where I was and my gauge was off.  Then I had to rip apart the back piece because I'd neglected to mark where the sleeves should be attached.

Now I just have to wait for some cold weather.

*Honestly, Spell Check?  You have no problem with the word gobsmacked?

Burnt Up Dead

Sorry if this post is a bit disjointed, but I've been burnt up dead and it's hard to type when you're burnt up dead.

Yesterday was my day to work the middle school bookstore with my friend Marla (Hi Marla!  How are you enjoying being burnt up dead?), where we sell snacks and energy drinks to kids who don't need an energy boost, and pretend not to be related to our actual children so as not to embarrass them.

To be precise, Marla doesn't have to pretend not to be related to her daughter, who genuinely seems to like her (Hi Marla!  How's that not being despised by your kid thing working out for you?).  It's just me (I?) who have to pretend not to be related to Robespierre so he won't be scarred for life.

I've worked out the perfect diversionary strategy, because I'm thoughtful and caring that way.  I just tell people I'm related to some other kid, preferably someone Robey doesn't like.

Anyway, yesterday was our day for running the bookstore.  When we got to school we noticed that the driveway was lined with fire trucks and ambulances, because Marla and I, we're reasonably talented at noticing stuff like fire trucks at our kids' school, possibly indicating some kind of fire or similar emergency, such as a student stuck in a tree.  Once I'd determined to my satisfaction that the emergency vehicles were there for a fire drill and not for any incident involving Robespierre (since, while they say "you never know," when it comes to Robey, I frequently suspect), Marla and I nodded and smiled and pretended to listen to instructions about where we should present ourselves for roll call once the fire alarms rang, when really all we wanted was to get into the bookstore where we could spend the next two hours dispensing energy drinks and snarking about how the mom who runs the bookstore always uses so! many!! exclamation points!!! in her emails!!!!!!!

Half an hour into our snarking session, one of the school secretaries popped in to interrogate us: "Where were you?  Were you the decoys?"  Marla and I were like, "Pardon?"

Evidently, we missed the entire fire drill.  We heard nothing: no bells, no whistles, no sirens.  We saw nothing: no teachers with clipboards, no firefighters with stopwatches.  Nobody came to look for us: no offspring, no school development directors.

Marla and I were burnt up dead.

The good news is that now the school knows they need to install a fire alarm in the bookstore.

Have you ever been burnt up dead?  Explain, with diagrams.

Sorry We Weren't In Touch Last Weekend. We Were Swamped.

My son announced he was joining the school yearbook. Trying not to show my delight out of fear of scaring him away, I mentally congratulated myself: Yay!  Yearbook is safer than wrestling or running, and the uniform is way more affordable.

After the first meeting he declared that he'd signed up to photograph cross country meets and the first was somewhere less than 1100 miles away and he had to get there right after school tomorrow, and I'm like: Okay, Bud, let's have a little talk about after school activities. It appears that, at least until you can drive, it'll be mainly my responsibility to get you to and from your extra-curriculars, so let's set some ground rules, shall we? How about some advance notice when an event is coming up; for example, instead of announcing that the meet is this afternoon and you need me to drive you nearly half the length of the Oregon Trail by 4 pm, can you let me know at least a day in advance? How's that work for you, Pal?

Grudgingly he agreed that, since I control the car keys, I might be making some sense, so Saturday morning we got up early and headed out with ample time to make it to the first race of the weekend.

As soon as we arrived at the park and parked in one of the park parking lots, Robey bolted with the camera, leaving Cupcake to carry the case because he's a good delegator that way. Cupcake and I and Miss Puppy set out for the field at a more leisurely pace. After circumnavigating a significant portion of park acreage trying to find the designated field, then tracing the drenched and muddy perimeter of the field in search of the white tent marking home base for Robey's school, we found: a couple of trainers, a few students, some parents -- but no Robespierre.

Just as it was dawning on me that I might have lost my kid, who probably didn’t have his cell phone because that would be too logical, my phone rang with a vaguely familiar caller id. It was Robey, calling from the zoo, and I was like: Robespierre, my darling, how in H.E.Double Toothpicks did you end up at the zoo?!

  

So Cupcake and I and Miss Puppy got back in the car and picked up Robey, who was waiting sheepishly outside the zoo, and we drove back to the meet, this time parking in a more suitable lot, and everything was pleasant and perfect from then on.

Game over, right? Happily ever after, right?

You don’t know us very well, do you?

While Robey was snapping photos of muddy high school students, Cupcake entertained herself by schlucking back and forth across an out-of-use ball field. She’d trudge to the middle, leaving gigantic, goopy footprints in the mud, and then slog back to the edge, where I’d pretend not to know her; then she’d start all over again.

Eventually Cupcake called out that she was stuck and I told her she was funny and then pretended not to know her some more.

She repeated that she was stuck and I told her to stop kidding around.

Then she pulled her foot out of her shoe and the shoe stayed where it was and I wasn’t laughing any more.

 

So, here’s where things stood:

• Cupcake is stuck in the mud thirty yards away
• She can’t gain leverage to bend down and dislodge her shoe
• If she abandons the shoe, she’ll have to wade through mud up to her eyeballs to get to the edge of the field, at which point I’ll have to shoot her, not to mention that she’ll be sacrificing approximately half of a pair of fairly new sneakers
• I’m standing on the edge of the muddy field, holding the leash of a dog who is, to say the least, excitable and unpredictable
• I could abandon Cupcake as an example to those foolish enough to consider following her lead, but then I’d be stuck with all of her clothes and an unused bedroom

Heaving a sigh of resignation, I plodded through the mud, praying for the mercy of the slapstick gods.

Miss Puppy and I slipped and slid out to the center of the field. Cupcake pulled her foot out of the mud-logged shoe, balancing on the other foot while leaning on my back. I bent over and pulled the loop on the heel of her shoe and… nothing happened. I mean, nothing. That sneaker was sunk in the mud like it was rooted there. Meanwhile, any moment some Labradoodle was sure to catch Miss Puppy’s attention and she’d be dragging us through the mud like a couple of stuntmen.

At times we looked like this: 

 

Cirque

For a moment we looked like this:

de

And there was a moment when we looked like this:

Soleil

I pulled some more. I put my hand inside that shoe and yanked and wiggled it. Finally, with a huge sucking sound, the shoe splorked free of the nasty red glop, Cupcake slid her foot back inside it, and the three of us scrambled back to the edge of the field.

In the end, one of us looked like this:

Who won the races? Who cares?  What is it with me and mud?

All My Tee Shirts Have Holes

I noticed that my tee shirts had tiny holes in the area of the abdomen; not the floppy shirts I steal borrow from my son for sleeping, but the long sleeved and short sleeved and sleeveless tees I wear under everything and over everything.  Once I noticed the first holes, I began finding pinholes in every tee shirt I wore.  Even more aggravating, I'd wear a brand new shirt for the first time and before the end of the day, presto!  at least one pinhole.  The first couple of times it happened, I took the shirts back to the store and complained loudly; once I found holes in a few more shirts I began to hang my head with humiliation, wondering whether my skin had suddenly become highly acidic but only around my stomach.

I thought maybe it had something to do with wearing my shirts out instead of tucked in, as I used to do.  Or maybe it was the result of shoddy manufacturing practices in China or Teeshirtistan, or wherever cotton tee shirts are made these days.  Or maybe global warming was affecting the quality of cotton.  No matter what the cause, there was one thing I knew: all my shirts had holes and the duct tape was beginning to embarrass my kids.

I grumbled sheepishly but nobody had any answers; some of my friends admitted to having the same problem.

What was it?  Bedbugs?  Mice?  Moths?  Inferior materials or manufacturing?  Malicious, nocturnal elves?

Finally I inquired of the internet: O, omniscient Internet, why are there tiny holes in my shirts?  And I got an answer.  Specifically, I got torrents of answers, including:

You're overloading your washer

• Not likely because many loads were only half full

You're using too much bleach

• I don't like your tone, Mister!
• Plus, I only bleach whites and there were holes in all my shirts, and
• I was finding holes in brand new shirts and I'm not maniacal enough to wash clothes before wearing them

You need a new washer because something in your current one is reacting negatively with your clothes:

• Are you implying my laundry needs a therapist or an intervention?
• In any case, I'd rather stockpile new shirts and discard them after one wearing

It's your belt:

• What about my belt?  There's nothing wrong with my belt.  My belt is fine! Besides, I'm not wearing one most of the time because when the shirt's not tucked in I can't stand the feel of the cold belt buckle*

It's your pants:

• What, my pants harbor hidden razors?

It's tiny microscopic bugs:

• eww
• And again -- in brand new shirts?

Your shirts are cheap:

• Then why does it happen with all my shirts regardless of cost or store of origin?

Your dog is chewing up your clothes:

• First, how did they find out about my dog?!  Is someone at Y@hoo Answers spying on me using cameras hidden in my smoke alarms?
• And second, why would she choose just to chew tee shirts and not everything else, as she usually does?

Naturally, most suggestions from these pompous know-it-alls were summarily rejected by me, and I was no better off than before -- my shirts still had holes and I was still frustrated.

Did I ever find a solution?  Did I have to stick with the duct tape?  Did I have to build an entirely new and impenetrable wardrobe using plastic wrap?

Wouldn't you like to know...

*I never claimed to be low maintenance

Yes We Read The Instructions -- Why?

Reading the recipe carefully can sometimes be helpful.

Cupcake loves to cook and bake.  She's made cakes and pies from scratch, and she especially loves to make cookies.  She's skilled at it and has even developed her own twists on some recipes.  Both kids have gotten good enough that I don't really have to supervise them much, other than offering advice when requested and keeping after them to clean up when they've finished.  

Last week she decided to make chocolate chip cookies, while I was concentrating on this very blog that you're enjoying right now.  She called out to me for occasional guidance: do I sift the dry ingredients first?  What do I substitute if we don't have enough butter?  The recipe calls for 16 ounces of chocolate chips -- the bag is 12 ounces.  Should I add some of the milk chocolate ones?  And I'm listening to her with half an ear and responding mechanically, like:

After adding a teaspoon of cinnamon (which is delicious in chocolate chip cookies, by the way), Cupcake fussed that she still didn't think she had enough chocolate chips, and asked me to take a look at the batter.  This is what I saw:

 

And I'm like, umm, Cupcake, let's take another look at that recipe.  And sure enough, the recipe that she interpreted as calling for 16 ounces of chocolate chips actually specified: 1 (one) 6 oz (six ounce) bag of chocolate chips.  And just as Cupcake began to rend her garment I said, whoa little lady -- sure, if I'd been paying closer attention this never would have happened, so it's definitely got Mom's Fault written all over it, but let's recall our family motto: One Can Never Have Too Much Chocolate.  Remember this?  And this? 

We added a handful of oatmeal and popped those babies in the oven and you'd better believe they are the best chocolate chip cookies ever.

She comes by it honestly.  When I was about her age I mistakenly added a teaspoon of pepper instead of a teaspoon of salt to a casserole of baked macaroni and cheese, which would have been delicious if it hadn't blown our brains out.  And speaking of salt, there was the time my nephew, Sweet Talker, added a cup of salt to a bowl of muffin batter.

Have you ever screwed up a recipe?  Come clean.

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?