My Front Porch...

2009-12-31T23:28:00.003-05:00

Low-tech Entertainment for a

Dark Night

Call me crazy, but I enjoy a lengthy power outage now and then. Especially on a warm summer night when you can step outside and experience true, natural darkness…then plummet off the unseen edge of the porch.

In our house, within the first few seconds of an outage, someone will invariably make this astute observation, “uh-oh, power’s out,” then the family sits pinned to their seats or holds themselves mid-step like kids playing statue tag.

Only when it’s certain that this one isn’t just a flicker, do I get up to find a flashlight or start fumbling around in a dark refrigerator for stubby candles. I read once that they burn slower when kept cold. I’ve never forgotten that. I’ve forgotten my longsuffering hubby left standing outside the grocery store, literally holding the bag, on several occasions, but I’ll always remember how to store candles.

The next line uttered comes from my husband, “don’t hold the fridge door open, you’ll let all the cold out!” Ceremoniously, I scoop up the cold that has escaped out onto the kitchen floor and stuff it back into the fridge. No one sees my sarcasm in the dark.

I find the junk drawer and rummage for the weather radio. An incentive gift for opening a bank account. (I had hoped for cash.) My fingers pass over sprung clothespins, a handful of dead batteries waiting for miraculous resurrections, tangles of rubber bands, screwdrivers I’ve hidden from my husband because I’ve used them for stirring paint and fourteen tubes of Super Gloo that have glued themselves together.

There it is--I can tell by the bumpy texture on the front where all the little holes are for the speaker. This pocket-sized radio has always been there in the junk drawer and comes out only for occasions such as these. And it always takes me back.

I’m from the generation that brought you the transistor radio. I had several between the ages of nine and sixteen. They were made of cheap plastic (is there any other kind?) in a variety of pastel colors and had a little loop of cord for a handle. It had a chrome antennae that was completely useless. I pulled it up anyhow and pointed it to the south, to the north, out the window, and wrapped it with twists of tin foil in the hopes of bringing in a clear signal.

This kind of transistor, usually found in my Christmas stockings, didn’t come with earphones. But they were just the right size for slipping under my pillow after my mother had told me, “turn it off and get to sleep and I’m not kidding this time, do you hear me?” So, with one ear pressed into a flat feather pillow (best for OVP, optimum volume penetration), I could listen until Johnny Carson came on out in the living room, or until the batteries went dead, whichever came first.

It was back in those days that I came up with a game that I still enjoy today when we are fortunate enough to have an extended power outage. In the 60’s the rules to the game were simple; all I could bring in were AM stations. As one would fizzle out, I’d tune in to another. Not knowing, in the dark, what station it was or where its signal was coming from, I would try to figure out what town or state I had magically pulled into the little plastic radio under my pillow.

It usually went like this. I hear a commercial to advertise a sale at a department store on Gulf Boulevard and I’d know right away that I was listening to the station just across the bay in St. Pete, in my own home state of Florida. That was an easy one. So now the score would be 1-nothing. My favor.

I would turn the tiny, saw-toothed wheel of the tuner and through the static and squeal I would find another station, the announcer’s accent thick and slow. Ok, deep south, maybe Georgia. Talking about textile factory workers. Now we’re narrowing in. The music is George Jones and then a message from the Mt. Pisgah Baptist Church. There will be a quilting bee this Saturday. Bring your own thread and thimble. Back to the music...Porter Wagoner sings about love gone wrong. Now, the DJ gives it away by

saying the call letters, WWGA in Atlanta. No score.

Turning the dial again with the flat of my thumb, I would find the Grand Ole Opry. Way to easy. I move on. The next one is going to be tough. No accent. This DJ had obviously been to disc jockey school. He had one of those generic “I come from nowhere” kind of voices. But he does give me a clue. He tells his listeners that there’s pike action out on Erie. Now, we’re getting somewhere. I would call out, “Momma, what states border on Lake Erie?”

“New York, Ohio, Michigan and Pennsylvania, now turn that radio off, I’m not going to tell you again!”

It wouldn’t have been fair to take a point for that one. I had help.

Thirty years later, my game is played with head phones and a remote control. But a good outage gives me an excuse to roll through the AM stations again. Mostly it’s talk shows now and they identify themselves about every 15 seconds. Very little music. The game is much easier these days.

But some things remain the same. I can still pull in a farm report from Minnesota. Complete milking herd for sale...see Carl Olafson...first cutting hay...hothouse lambs selling well. I pick up the DEC hunting and fishing news from the county next door. March 16 closes coyote season...hot trout action on Seneca...wooly boogers working well for bait.

This latest outage has lasted a long time. A big storm has brought down wires all over the county. The whistle at the fire hall sounded five times in the last three hours. There’s not a volunteer in ten miles that hasn’t heard it. Moving candlelight can be seen through the windows of our neighbor’s homes like something from a black and white horror movie. I expect Vincent Price to appear at my door any minute now.

We’ve grown tired of Scrabble by candlelight and my husband has gone to bed an hour and a half earlier than he has to. I’ve tried to read holding a flashlight between my teeth until I thought I felt the crown on my back molar prying loose. I've given up and gone back to my old game. I take off my headphones and call out to the bedroom, “Dan, what towns border on Seneca Lake?”

“Geneva, Willard, Watkins Glen...why?”

“Just wondering, thanks.”

I don’t take a point on this one either.

2009-10-23T01:18:00.002-04:00

Bathtub Blues, The Final Chapter

You may be wondering about the next episode in my battle for bathtub supremacy. And then again, you may not, if you’re a person with better things to do, but just in case you are, you’ll be glad to know I have prevailed. Huzzah!

(crowds cheering, trumpet fanfare blowing)

However, this also means this will be the last installment of Bathtub Blues. There there now, let’s not get all weepy. I’m sure, before too long, I’ll have another, even more ridiculous problem to harp on and fill a column with. Ah, free press. You gotta love it.

So will this little tale have a happy ending? Absolutely. When something is driving me crazy, I will ferret around until I find a solution. I will research, I will investigate, and generally worry the subject into submission. Or I’ll just get distracted along the way and wind up with a new passion not even remotely related to my original quest. But hey, at least I’m never bored.

To bring those readers up to date that may not have been tuned in for the previous episodes of Bathtub Blues, I had been having some difficulties due to the fact that my clawfoot tub was an unusually small one, and there was no way to avoid shower curtain adherence to the ankles, which gives me the heebie jeebies and has led to a raging case of vinylhydrophobia.

Also, there was no room to have that leisurely bath that you see people having in the movies. (You know the kind. About three feet of steamy water, bubbles up to the chin. A candle here and there, Debussy’s Clair de Lune playing softly in the background, and an entire family waiting outside the bathroom door. “Ma, are you finished yet?!”)

In the last episode, our heroine (that would be me) cleverly solved the shower curtain dilemma with clothespins, but the tub was still the size of the average kitchen sink. I remember bathing my babies, as do many of you, in the kitchen sink. But this is not practical with adults. You’re sure to bump your head on the cabinets above. And then there’s that little matter of the window that’s usually right behind the sink. But, as usual, I digress.

To summarize for those of you who missed Episodes I & II: small tub, large heroine, something’s gotta give.

Then my good friend Tricia introduced me to one of the neatest places in Rochester. It’s called ReHouse. An architectural salvage store that reclaims cool stuff from old buildings and sells it out of their oddball place on East Main St. Tricia said they had tubs. Lots of tubs.

Music to my ears.

We took a little trip to ReHouse, and there it was. The tub of my dreams.

Because they are a We Buy, We Sell, kind of place, I asked how much they would give me for my tiny clawfoot tub. They were only too happy to take it as a trade-in on the bigger model.

So before I left the store I did what anyone would do when buying a new tub. I took it for a test drive. Well, maybe I ought to say, a dry run.

I got into the driver’s seat, got behind the wheel, checked the instrument panel, and propped my arm up on the edge. Yep, it was a perfect fit. I climbed out for a check of the undercarriage. Nice, no rust.

And of course, the last thing I did, I went around and kicked all the claw feet.

Yes, this was the one. It even had that new car sme…, I mean, that old tub smell. Cast iron and porcelain. Ahhh…

It’s been a few months since I took delivery of the new, old tub and I’ve put quite a few miles on it since then. I hardly ever have an attack of the heebie jeebies anymore, my therapist says my vinylhydrophobia is just about under control, and best of all, there’s plenty of room for leisurely baths.

Yep, it’s just like in the movies. “Alright, already, I'm almost finished!”

image courtesy FCIT

2009-03-20T14:59:00.010-04:00

Put Down The Quarters, And Step Away From The Dryer

For many years, before city water came to my rural community, our well went dry with the regularity of someone on Metamucil, forcing me to undertake the loathsome chore of Laundromat Duty.

This was similar in many ways to military K.P., however, there was no dog-faced drill sergeant pointing out a mountain of spuds waiting to be peeled. Instead, there were several children who had worn the same jeans for so long one could stand them up in a corner for the night (the jeans, not the kids). And maybe, there was a husband with a few tender words. He took my hand, looked into my eyes and said...

“Honey, dinner was great and the candles were a lovely touch, but this is my last pair of clean underwear.”

My options at this point were few.
1. Down to the creek to beat seventeen loads on a flat rock. 2. Hire someone else to do the wash at a rate high enough to buy new wardrobes.
3. Face the music and haul three-week’s-worth of ripe laundry to the local Wash-a-teria.

Great. Saturday morning at the laundromat.

As usual, the bleach spilled in the car and formed yet another pink amoebae-shaped blotch on our otherwise burgundy upholstery.

And upon arrival, like every time before, there was no one around when I needed help schlepping the behemoth baskets through the door. Yet, like magic, as soon as I did, the place filled up while I played doorman for everyone else. I watched my washers get pirated by a sweet, little ninety-year-old who told me she only had a few dainties to do.

Then, there was the question of etiquette. Should one introduce oneself to one’s laundromat mates? Who speaks first? Should one speak at all, given the fact that the guy hypnotically watching his army blanket twirl around in the dryer, is a dead ringer for Charles Manson out on a weekend pass and looking edgy?

I chose to talk to a five year old whose mother (the one smoking two Camels simultaneously and chugging a 32 oz. Red Bull) snapped at her daughter, “Don’t talk to strange people!”

The first order of business (after the lady with my washers was finished with her dainties) was making change in the innocent looking dollar-changing machine where I spent the next thirty minutes in a battle of wills, flattening and re-flattening my bills, in hopes that the evil contraption would accept them and give me my quarters. This can be very hard on those already suffering from low self-esteem. One must try not to take it personally, it’s your money that’s being rejected, not you.

When my wash was finally in, I realized I had left my book at home. How to amuse myself for the next two hours? There was always the complimentary reading material, Newsweek, vintage 1983, pages stuck together with a scary gelatinous substance vaguely resembling FlufferNutter.

Eventually, my attention was diverted (halleluia!) by my machine lurching out of its place from the orderly line against the wall, like a soldier gone berserk--breaking ranks. I pretended I didn’t notice until all my ‘mat-mates had, in turn, mumbled “not mine.”

I stood in front of it, tried to stare it down. There was nothing else to do, of course, since it was one of those washers that, until it's finished, is sealed tighter than the lips of the folks who know which contestant will be kicked off of Idol next week.

Trying to push it back into place could be fatal, so I stared at it a while longer and muttered something astute like “stupid machine.”
(Note to reader: Make sure at least one other person hears you, this absolves you from any further responsibility.)

The final indignation was the THIRTY SECOND WAITING PERIOD AFTER THE WASHER HAS STOPPED BEFORE YOU CAN OPEN THE DOOR rule. What could possibly happen if it’s opened before the little red light goes out? One might be sucked in to some parallel universe, alarms and sirens go off, immediate arrest and hard time?

“Laundromat police, you’ll have to come with us, Mam.”

Maybe, it’s like those little tags on mattresses, simply a passive aggressive method of world domination and humbling of the masses. At any rate, we conform for the most part, and are obedient children.

But, not this day! No sir, I wouldn’t be bullied any longer!

As I gave in to temptation and choked back my fear of becoming the next episode of Cops (even though I have all my own teeth, do not own a tank top and to the best of my knowledge, have never kept a python in the garage), I tried the handle, in hopes that it would release my soggy clothing thirty seconds sooner than promised.

Oh, the joy! Thirty seconds stolen from the tyranny of laundry automation…

Imagine the possibilities.

2008-09-08T20:43:00.007-04:00

This is me getting ready for my flight to Florida, one can never be too prepared. Ignore the mustache. It was a really stressful day, I didn't have time to wax.

Of Cognitive Therapy and Barf Bags

Don’t think for one moment that vacationing in Florida is all fun and games. There are real hardships associated with a trip like that. No, really. I had to fly. Not my favorite thing. For me, it ranks right up there with a root canal or an IRS audit.

It had been seventeen years since my last flight, so my anxiety level was running high enough to rupture a major artery. I had to get myself under control. Two trips to the restroom before boarding. Dramamine for motion sickness, Sudafed and Bubblicious for ear pressure (unfortunately, I was in such a state that I swallowed the Bubblicious and chewed the Sudafed), headset playing “Soothing Woodland and River Sounds”, and lots of prayer.

And don’t tell me the airlines are not packing us in tighter than I remember. I was in a section of three seats per row. The cheap seats. All three of us in my row were what you might call portly. This made for some interesting maneuvering to get comfortable.

The guy to my left claimed the armrest between us as soon as he sat down. I could tell because he stuck a little flag with his name on it into the vinyl upholstery and played some sort of National Anthem on a comb and piece of waxed paper. Ha! I commandeered his pillow when he stood up to salute his flag. He had the last laugh, though, he kept his elbow in my ribcage the entire trip.

The woman to my right kept trying to adjust the waistband on her queen-sized panty hose. I could empathize with that, but the sound effects that went along with this gymnastic event were rather disconcerting. Something akin to Darth Vader in an iron lung machine. I gave her a 9.3 for artistic merit, but in all honesty, I couldn’t give her more than an 8.4 for execution. She didn’t stick her landings.

Take-off, for me, was an exercise in Cognitive Therapy Self-Talk. (I knew someday there would be a use for all those mail-order psychology courses.) What follows is the conversation I had with myself. You be the judge.

Taxiing: “Just think of this as a big car, Gloria. Visualize yourself in a big car, a very big car. Or a very big bus.”

Taxiing faster: “A very big bus, Gloria. Big, fast bus. Very fast bus! Fast bus! Fast BUS!”

Even faster: “FASTBUSFASTBUSFASTBUS!”

Take off: “Breathe, Gloria, BREATHE!”

Turbulence: “Think pot holes. Visualize pot holes. Just big pot holes. Big bus hitting big pot holes. Very big pot holes. Breathe, Gloria, BREATHE!”

Landing: Repeat everything in reverse order.

It was tough but I made it. I’m not sure what happened to the King of Armrestovia or Darth Vader in the queen-sized pantyhose. They got up and made for the attendants area sometime around “Fast bus! Fast bus!” What really matters is, I conquered my fears and the “friendly skies”.

And to prove it, I brought home the unused barf bag as a trophy.

2008-06-17T00:51:00.003-04:00

I've always had to have pants with pockets. But, on those rare occasions when I do find myself in pocketless pants, I end up pulling out my old stand-by sweater. The one with deep pockets that can hold a day's worth of collecting all the odd bits of stuff that seems to have found its way to somewhere it ought not be.

My intention is to get these odd bits back to where they belong, before I found them under bed, under sofa, under bookcase, under desk, under tree.

Each day I empty out my pockets, and once in a while, I just have to smile at what I find.

2008-05-25T19:05:00.003-04:00

The Rural Rites of Spring

It’s an emotionally dangerous thing to develop a fondness for squirrels. Because sooner or later, you’re going to run over one. And so begin the rites of Spring.

Around the time the sap starts to rise, these little gray bandits start to fall. In their excitement to be running footloose from branch to limb, they get a little careless, particularly when trying to cross power lines that span the streets and highways.

This is where I come in. I seem to be some sort of tragedy magnet where the animal kingdom is concerned. If squirrels had a post office, my face would be posted on the wall.

They seem to know, somehow, the worst possible moment to lose their usual sure-footedness. As I am about to motor under the wire, they drop like the Flying Wallendas on a bad day. Tiny, furry acrobats without a net. Then, it’s my choice. Usher in Springtime by flattening a squirrel or go head to head with a Peterbuilt. Avoiding the semi appears to be the wiser choice.

Another sign of Spring on our roads is the ever-changing, always-surprising surface conditions of the pavement (or the lack thereof). Before your daily commute to the city, if getting stuck in the mire of your own driveway doesn’t wake you up; the heave in the road around the corner, caused by the last night’s freeze, will likely get your attention. Then, an afternoon thaw will turn the heave into a buckle and catch you on the return trip home.

And, of course, there is the mud-today-dust-tomorrow challenge. This causes seemingly no-nonsense people to believe that writing WASH ME PLEASE on the trunk of someone’s car is the height of intelligent wit.

The streets of Springtime become busy, too, with another kind of traffic. Walkers. Treadmills and aerobics on DVD are abandoned for the call of the open road. My little neighborhood makes a perfect one-mile-around track. Ten stray dogs as escort, no extra charge.

There are the serious, health incentive walkers, easily identified by the eyes; straight ahead, no looking around. Concentrating on even breathing and dreaming, no doubt, about carbohydrates. Then there’s me. Eyes everywhere, looking all over, concentrating on nothing (as usual) and mentally counting the change in my pocket for Ben and Jerry’s Chunkey Monkey at the corner store.

This brings to mind another Springtime amusement. I’m always fascinated by what is revealed along the roads, in the ditches and in the yards after the snow melts. Some things we might prefer to remain snow covered. However, Barbie and G.I. Joe, who went MIA sometime around Thanksgiving, will be found after the meltdown along with your extra car keys, two or three stick-to-the-dash coffee mugs that unfortunately didn’t stick to the roof of the car, a window scraper, forty-seven Wal-Mart circulars no longer stapled, a sneaker, a dish towel that blew off the clothes line and some folding money, if you’re lucky.

Treasures of Spring. Ah, life is grand.

(c)g.Slater

photo courtesy scarysquirrelworld

2008-02-27T16:06:00.007-05:00

Woman vs. Wild

We finally bought a new sofa. And to make sure it doesn't go to waste, I've been watching a lot of TV lately. I might as well, since there just happens to be a television set directly in front of it. In most American homes, the sofa's placement is scientifically determined by the position of the TV. There's a formula and everything.

"The circumference of the sofa is one half the radius of the television, times pie with whipped cream, divided by the amount of time it takes the kids to change the channel to the Cartoon Network."

I've always been good at math.

When I can get the remote away from the children, I've been particularly fascinated by reality shows, especially the ones where some guy with the survival skills of Crocodile Dundee, Jeremiah Johnson and the combined armed forces of the United States, is dropped off in the middle of a barren wasteland or rain forest or some other inhospitable terrain like Buffalo. Then, for our viewing pleasure, he has to spend a week trying to find food, shelter, and water, all while attempting to stay within the proper camera angle so the viewers don't get a peek at the boom mics hanging from tree limbs or the catering table set up just outside the scene's perimeter.

In each episode, our survival heroes find themselves in even more dangerous situations than the week before. Coming closer to a death from exposure, starvation, dehydration, or the worse case of Montezuma's revenge on either side of the border. You'd swear they're competing to see who can eat the most revolting, live and slimy creature, in the most extreme, nausea-inducing, camera close-up.

"Why do you watch this stuff," my husband asks?

"You never know when you'll need these skills," I say.

Learning to turn a hiking boot into a three course meal could come in handy someday, given my culinary expertise. Yes, if anyone is going to have to know how to repel down the face of an Arctic crevasse while filleting a Polar bear with her free hand, it's going to be me. Why just the other day...

* * *

From the safety of my living room, the landscape outside may look like a beautiful winter wonderland, but looks are deceiving. Yes, today I'll be stepping out my front door and going to...the mailbox. (cue dramatic theme music)

I know it sounds crazy, but yes, the mailbox. And I'll be completely and utterly alone. Except for my cameraman.

I'll be making my way across the treacherous, snow-covered expanse with no provisions or equipment, save for the Trusty Swiss Army Knife given to me by my Brownie leader when I was only six.

"Gloria," she said, "never go anywhere without your Trusty Swiss Army Knife, especially to the mailbox."

I've never forgotten those words. How could I? They're tattooed on my left bicep. Don't tell me Brownies aren't tough.

No food, no water. Not even a compass to guide my way across the frigid topography. Yes, without sun, moon, stars, or Patagonian Sherpa to lead me, I could wander for days unable to find my way. (Warning: Outlandish Aside Alert)

Why, just last year, on a day quite like today, a woman foolishly attempted to make it to her mailbox in bathrobe and fuzzy slippers and was (cue suspenseful music)...

Never.

Seen.

Again.

Let's hope I don't meet the same fate as she, but rather, demonstrate how to survive the hostile environs of The Front Yard, despite the fact that I have mysteriously developed a British accent and am talking REALLY LOUD.

WELL, I'VE MADE IT TO, er, I've made it to the porch steps by sheer will and determination. Now I must descend without the aid of climbing gear. As my Brownie leader use to tell us before cookie sale time, "Don't panic. Always take time to assess the situation. In every worst case scenario, there's a solution, if you just keep your wits about you."

And, there it is. The solution. The extension cord on my cameraman's battery adapter (hey, we've got a tight budget here, do you know what those batteries cost these days?). I'll just fashion the cord into a repelling line and tie it to the belt of my bathrobe. There, that's got it. I'll be down these icy steps in no time.

What's this?! Blimey, my line's gone slack!

Me: "What's that you say? You think I should turn back?”

Cameraman: "Yes, there's no mail delivery today. It's a government holiday."

* * *

Ah, it's just as well. The way things usually go for me, I'd probably end up as one of those Outlandish Aside Stories. (cue poignant but catchy music)

I can picture it now, my lifeless body discovered by a very surprised meter reader sometime during spring thaw. Besides, I think I dropped my Trusty Swiss Army Knife down between the sofa cushions.

(cue commercial)

©g.Slater2008

2007-11-27T12:29:00.000-05:00

Got Them Ol’, Clothes-Don’t-Fit-Gotta-Lose-
Fifty-Pounds-Can’t-Refuse-
French-Fries, Low Self-esteem Blues.

Daddy’s frying taters, (da-DAH-da-domp)
Better get on outta town. (da-DAH-da-domp)
Ain’t never seen no tater,
That this poor girl won’t wolf down.

Yeah, I got the blues,
Got them low-down blues,
Got them low-down, pass me that Quarter Pound,
Low self-esteem blues.

Drivin’ by McDonald’s, (da-DAH-da-domp)
What’s that before my eyes? (da-DAH-da-domp)
Get thee behind me Satan,
And your box of Super-sized.

Yeah, I got the blues,
Got them low-down blues,
Got them low-down, make that a hash brown,
Low self-esteem blues.

Went shoppin’ this morning, (da-DAH-da-domp)
Bought a skirt just for fun. (da-DAH-da-domp)
Tried to put my two legs in,
But there’s only room for one.

Yeah, I got the blues
Got them low-down blues,
Got them low-down, I ain’t messin’ ‘round
Low self-esteeeeeem...ba-lu-uuuues.

(c)g.Slater2007

2007-09-23T22:39:00.000-04:00

gloria's nice thing of the day

Thought I'd share this with my faithful readers. If this doesn't brighten your day, well then, just go back to bed, you're unbrightenable.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8b_Uus3A7g

I've never tried to include a music link, so I hope this works. If not, hie thee to ye olde record shoppe and pick up anything by Steve Goodman. I guarantee you will not be disappointed.

RIP, Steve.

2007-09-06T19:36:00.000-04:00

Fry Anxiety

Health care professionals will tell you that fast food joints are hazardous to your health. What they don’t tell you is, there’s another danger that may be even worse than an expanding waistline. I’m talking about FFAD, Fast Food Anxiety Disorder. You’ve probably never heard of it because I just made it up. It helps if I can put a name to my problems.

A typical FFAD scenario goes something like this. For explanation purposes here, I will use myself as an example. That way no one gets sued.

The typical Fast Food Anxiety sufferer (that would be me) walks through the door of the typical fast food joint and immediately begins to do the fast food two-step. This is a little dance wherein I attempt to avoid the maze of railings provided by the FFJ (fast food joint). The railings are suppose to keep the waiting line orderly, kind of like the lines at Disney World only without ‘It’s a Small World After All’ playing non-stop at a decibel level of an F16 fighter jet.

Staying out of the line within the Disney-esque railings for as long as possible is crucial for me. This is because I find it nearly impossible to read the menu while simultaneously marching along in the queue. The menu is posted so high above the counter it requires a deep-space telescope to see it. With each step, I lose my place in the menu and must begin again with the Value Meal section. Anxiety sets in.

Eventually, though, I must take the plunge and join the line. Herded along, I near the counter, but I still cannot locate the drink section of the menu. My steps become slower as I try in vain to stay on task. This leads to muttering from the ranks in the railings behind me. These are the people who know exactly what they want when they walk in, have their debit cards firmly in their grasp, AND are able to carry on a coherent conversation with the customer next to them as well.

It’s a safe bet that now I’m stuck in the Combo Section of the menu where there are way too many choices. With cheese or without. Fries, wedges or baked potato. Chives or sour cream. Regular, SuperSize, or Elastic Waistband.

Ready or not, I’ve made it to the counter where the FFJ cashier asks: “Muh tuhkya uhrrrrr?”
(This is not what he said, actually, but it’s a close facsimile to what I believe I heard, due of course, to my rising anxiety levels.)

“Muh tuhkya uhrrr?” he says again.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not quite ready to order yet,” I stammer, “maybe you should take the next person in line.”

Now I make a really bad move. A really bad move. I step behind the person behind me. This upsets the entire natural order of the Fast Food Waiting Line Ordering System. Everyone is now forced to take a step backward, which elicits more muttering, which causes my anxiety levels to rise yet again, which causes me to function even more slowly, if that’s possible. (Note: The FFADer’s anxiety level is directly proportionate to the amount of discernable muttering in the waiting line.)

Somehow, I finally place an order with no less than two substitutions, one cancellation, and a request for something not even on the menu.

“Can I have the wedges from Combo Number Two instead of the onion rings from Number Five, but without cheese on the burger from Number Forty-seven, and I’ve been reading about all the health benefits of legumes lately, you wouldn’t happen to have any, would you?”

And now it’s time for possibly the most anxiety-ridden part of the whole fast food experience. Money.

Yes, nothing strikes fear into the heart of the hapless person with Fast Food Anxiety more than paying for their order. This is because they (and when I say they, I mean me) find it humanly impossible to make any purchase without rifling through a bulging change purse stuffed with wads of receipts, unused credit cards, and approximately $15 in nickels and pennies, all of which shoots out of the aforementioned bulging change purse and scatters across the counter causing the cashier to exclaim, “Mwuh?!”

There is no way to know the exact number of people afflicted with Fast Food Anxiety Disorder, as very few will come forward for treatment fearing ridicule, shame, and the confiscation of their change purses. That’s why the FFJEFTBOFFJE (Fast Food Joint Employees For The Betterment Of Fast Food Joint Employees) are working tirelessly (well, they’re thinking about it anyway) to find a cure.

So the next time you’re in line at your favorite burger place, and someone with a change purse asks to step behind you, just save everyone a whole lot a trouble and tell the cashier, “she’ll have what I’m having…and put it on my bill.”

©g.Slater2007

image courtesy etc.usf.edu/clipart

2007-06-25T21:53:00.000-04:00

It's Bunkhouse Bob Again!

Well, Ol' Bunkhouse Bob won't be doing much riding for a while. Seems he's been a little careless while outdoors. And just so's all you little buckeroos won't get yourselves into the same sort of pickle, Ol' Bob has written this little ditty for you to keep in mind.

Yep, he's just that kind of pal.

When out in the wilds and the woodlands,

Without the aid of a pot,

To avoid an embarrassing case of the ivy,

Be careful wherefore you squat.

(c)g.Slater

clipart by loti.com

2007-06-15T00:08:00.000-04:00

I've Grown Accustomed To Your Face

I think there must be something about my face.
I keep checking to see if ‘Tell Me All About It’ is stamped on my forehead.

During a recent trip to K-Mart I was deep in thought in the sock department, contemplating the advantages of crew style as opposed to the tube. A woman approached and pulled her cart up next to mine. She randomly pawed through the sport socks with the little pom-poms on the heel. Then all I did, and I’m not lying, is look up and acknowledge her presence. With me, that’s all it takes.

She began.

“Had my cat neutered and declawed this morning.”

No “hello, nice day, these prices are really good”, nothing in a preliminary manner. She just started right in as though we were continuing a conversation we might have begun over coffee a few minutes earlier.

She went on.

“You know, I waited 14 years for my first cat to die so I could buy new furniture, they scratch things up so bad, you know. And now Harvey he brings home this new one, wouldn’t you know it. I’m not waiting another 14 years, oh no, not this time.”

How does one reply to a harangue such as that? Being a common occurrence for me, I decided to go with the moment, I said, “Well, you deserve new furniture after all those years.”

That’s what she was hoping to hear. However, my response is the wrong one if I happen to be in a hurry or don’t feel like having company on my sock expedition. For now she has followed me around to the other side of the sock department, almost into the shoe
department, and I didn’t even want to look at shoes. But I pretended that I did.

“We had the fish fry at the diner last Thursday,” she said. “You know, before bingo, Harvey and me. Do you think that’s strange, having fish on Thursday instead of Friday?”

She wanted an answer. “Do you like fish,” I asked?
“Sure, me and Harvey do,” she replied.
“Then I guess any night’s ok for fish fry,” I said confidently.

That was the answer she was looking for. Instantly I became her new best friend. And as such, my opinion was required, the barn boots for Harvey or the insulated Timberlines?

And on it went until a teenage boy sidled over from the men’s shoe department, another total stranger. He waited for the woman to stop for breath, then asked my advice on the best type of laces for his dress shoes.

“I have to go to my Uncle’s funeral and my mother won’t let me wear my Nikes, couldn’t find the laces for my shoes, think I used them to fix my basketball net, she said go buy some new ones and get the right color, do you think these are oxford, what color is oxford anyway?”

I turned to answer him, which obviously ticked-off the fish fry woman who took this as a snub. She mumbled something to the effect of “buttinsky kid” and said she needed to find the cat food department. She whirled her cart around and didn’t look back. Shoeless Joe and I are left to ponder the myriad color choices of shoestrings.

In the next four and a half minutes he told me that his Uncle died of cirrhosis of the liver and his grandmother is coming in from Pocatello, Idaho for the funeral and that no one knows where his Uncle’s wife is so they can tell her he’s died and that he thinks he’ll get out of school for the services and that’s ok except that he’ll miss his girlfriend and what do I think, should he ask her to the funeral, would that count as a date?

I think I have a new best friend.
Must be something about my face.

(c)g.Slater

2007-06-07T00:06:00.000-04:00

Bathtub Blues

It has occurred to me that I might have left all you Front Porch readers hanging in rapt anticipation, waiting for the next installment of Bathtub Blues. That is, if you haven’t given up on this column altogether, in lieu of some other that doesn’t constantly prattle on about a middle-aged woman’s bathing difficulties. I daresay, there are more important matters in the world, and quite possible I should be editorializing about them, but for the life of me, I just can’t think of a single thing to say about Paris Hilton and whether or not she looks fat in her new orange prison jumpsuit.

So that leaves me with little else than to bend your ear for another four hundred words or so, on how I have managed to take a shower without going into anaphylactic shock due to vinylhydrophobia.*

Believe it or not, one faithful reader actually stopped me recently and asked how the bathtub situation was going. Of course that person and I are kindred spirits, which makes her, by today’s standards, as mentally-tilted as I am--it just makes sense that she’d be interested.

So…

Previously, on Bathtub Blues. We left our heroine (That would be me. Hey, it’s my column; I get to be the heroine.) balancing precariously in a space approximately the size of a Pop Tart, partially blinded by shampoo suds, and desperately trying to keep the shower curtain from sticking to her ankles.

I’d love to say that I made it through that shower without incident, but let’s be realistic, remember who you’re dealing with here. However, to be fair, I have to admit there were a few moments of relative calm when the furnace kicked on, and the warm air blowing into the bathroom somehow caused a reverse suction of the shower curtain making it draw away from me in blissful, but all too brief, phobic relief.

No, there had to be a better way than praying for intermittent blasts from the furnace or only showering on the coldest of days when I’d be assured that the furnace would be running pretty steadily. Yes, to solve this problem I would have to devote my next shower to research. I would sacrifice my ankles for the sake of science. And personal hygiene.

So after considerable cogitation (good word, look it up) and a lengthy, raisin-finger inducing shower, I made my calculations. The results were undeniable. The source of the problem came down to my only having two hands. Yes, even with my mentally-tilted reasoning abilities, I had to see that I couldn’t do what needs to be done in the shower while at the same time keeping the billowing shower curtain off my ankles. The solution was clear. I needed another pair of hands. Ok, I know what you’re thinking, but showering double was out of the question. There simply wasn’t room. Remember the Pop Tart-sized area. What to do, what to do?

Then, like Wylie Coyote dropping an Acme anvil on my head, it came to me. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? How could I have been so blind? (Well, shampoo suds, for one thing.)

The answer was clothespins*, what else?
For me, the solution to almost any problem has always been clothespins.

~Tangent Alert~
Never, never leave home without a few clothespins. You know how hotel drapes always have that one-inch gap? No matter how hard you pull on the cord or yank them together, they will not meet in the middle. The motel industry can give you mints on your pillow, whirlpool bathtubs, that strip of paper across the toilet seat, Continental breakfasts and wake-up calls—but do you think they could measure a window correctly? No, you’re stuck with a ground floor room looking out on the parking lot with lonely truckers walking past your window at all hours of the day and night while that one-inch gap seems to gape even wider.

And, of course, the neon motel sign is positioned just perfectly so you get flashes of red and blue VACANCY! VACANCY! through the gap until it becomes imprinted on your brain and you hope like anything for a migraine to take your mind off it.

Before you spend the whole night in the lobby chatting with the desk clerk about her persistent toenail fungus, I suggest you clothespin those drapes together and get some sleep.

And if my memory serves me correctly, I may even have used clothespins when my children were babies and I misplaced the diaper pins. (Yes, I’m enough of a dinosaur to have used cloth diapers.) My children hopefully were too young to remember their clothing being held together by clothespins or at the very least, have worked through these childhood traumas with a trained counselor.
~End of Tangent~

So simple was the solution to my shower curtain dilemma, that I’m almost ashamed to admit it. All it took was to clothespin the offending, billowing shower curtain to the windowsill and voila; a little wooden springy thing doing the job of an extra pair of hands. Sheesh.

Stay tuned, gentle reader, for the next installment of Bathtub Blues, when our heroine (me again) will attempt to do something about that space approximately the size of a Pop Tart.

*Ok, once more. And really, I must insist that this be the last time I give you this definition. I’m afraid some of you are just not listening. Don’t be ashamed to take notes. It’s how we learn. Vinylhydrophobia (n) the irrational fear of being in the shower and having the force of the water create a suction thereby causing the shower curtain to draw inward toward the bathing subject, resulting in the slimiest portion of the curtain affixing itself to said bather’s ankles and calves further resulting in a wild case of the heebie-jeebies.

*For a gripping article (pun intended) on the history of clothes pins, check out AmericanHeritage.com magazine online, fall 2006, vol. 22, iss. 2.
I was particularly fascinated by the group at www.laundrylist.org. Did you know there are places in this free country of ours where hanging your laundry on a clothes line is prohibited! Nope, I’m not kidding.

©g.Slater2007

clipart courtesy clipsahoy.com

2007-05-06T21:52:00.000-04:00

"We interrupt this regularly scheduled blog to bring you this cool picture taken by

my daughter, Jerah, the photographer."

2007-05-03T23:26:00.000-04:00

Mr. Optimistic and Mrs. Half Empty

I might be wrong about this, but I think there may be an unwritten rule among men concerning the use of chainsaws. I’m not talking about the professional guys you see turning redwoods into chopsticks on those weird sporting event programs on cable TV—you know, the shows where everyone is named either Thor or Gunnar, where they all have biceps the size of Coleman coolers. No, the men to whom I’m referring are the weekend warriors, the ones with names like Bob and Harvey, the guys with normal biceps.

This unwritten rule goes something like this:

If all important body parts are still intact, and there is significantly less than one of those Red Cross drip-bags of blood spilled before noon, then it is now permissible to attempt even riskier chainsaw maneuvers such as teetering atop a six foot ladder and reaching full-stretch into the wreckage of a downed fifty-foot tree.

I came to this conclusion when a storm brought down just such a tree in our backyard. It was obvious that this was not going to be a clean-up job for the faint-hearted. But then, my husband has never been accused of being that. No, not my Dan. I think he comes closer to belonging in the Eternally Optimistic category when it comes to areas of Certain Death or Dismemberment.

“You always see the glass half empty, don’t you?” he asks.

Well, yes. When the glass happens to be fifty feet in the air. And there's spikey, leg-sized tree limbs waiting to impale you below. Yeah, it’s hard to see the glass at all.

This, however, did not deter him from hacking into the wreckage of the tree with all the enthusiasm of a kid with a new plastic Light Saber, while I stood out of harm’s way clutching a phone pre-dialed to 911.

To be honest, Mr. Optimistic has every right to his rosy outlook on high-risk home maintenance endeavors. I remember the time we decided to save big bucks by refinishing the wood floors of our living room without the help of a trained professional. This project required using one of those monster sanders, the kind you always see on sitcoms, where some poor sap is all tangled up in the cord--wrapped like a mummy and spinning out of control from one room to the next while his frantic wife tries to catch him and reach the shut-off switch. Why she never just pulls the plug is beyond me, but I guess that’s what the sitcom reviewers mean by, “and hi-jinks ensues.”

Anyway, our floors turned out great without the aid of an instruction manual, a surprise visit from the Extreme Makeover team, or a trip to the local emergency room.

Chainsaws are another matter altogether, though. But then, maybe I’m only projecting my own ineptitude and klutziness upon my husband. Some repressed, psychological neurosis tucked away in my subconscious perhaps, is causing me to worry needlessly about my husband and sharp implements?

Or could I possibly have, in the back of my mind, that memory of a time during a similar backyard project. I was carrying a hacksaw in my right hand and a glass of ice tea in the left. A bee had landed on my leg and because I am right-handed, I did the only logical thing. I swatted the bee…

with the hacksaw.

Yeah, maybe that's it.

I still have the toothy scar. A reminder that, for me, the glass is always half empty. On second thought, maybe it's half full. I could have been carrying the chainsaw.

photo courtesy freeimages.co.uk

thank ya kindly

2007-04-13T00:40:00.000-04:00

Used Kleenex in the sleeve of my sweater.

It's only a matter of time.

Ok, I am now officially old. I must be, because I’ve started to receive those unsolicited catalogs that carry, what I like to refer to as, Geezer Products. Oh, come on now, if you’re a Baby Boomer like me, you’re getting them, too. Yeah, you know the kind I’m talking about.

Just today I received the one that contains more geezer stuff than any other. These are the enterprising folks that also bring you the special offers you find with your Sunday newspaper coupons. Their advertising slogans alone are enough to put you right off your dinner.

“The Last Pair of Toenail Clippers You’ll Ever Need!”

“Thermal Underwear For Every Occasion!”

“End Bunion Pain Forever!”

Being a geezer, of course, I sent for one of their cleverly-touted products. It was a weak moment, I know, and now, oh help me, I’m on their mailing list. Which means I’m on every mailing list of every other geezer-grabbing company in the free world.

Yes, I made the mistake of ordering the bathing suit that promised to make me look like Pamela Anderson. My suit must be defective. In mine, I look more like an older, bespectacled, pre-Jenny Craig version of you-know-who. Not good. I’m embarrassed to send it back, though, because what would that be saying?

So now, I am inundated with catalogs trying to sell me stuff guaranteed to make my twilight years easier, more comfortable and free of unsightly nose hair.

Take for instance the exciting offer on the front cover of today’s catalog. According to this fine company, now that I’m in my dotage, I will, most assuredly, want to cut bricks in half.

Apparently, younger women do not feel the need to divvy up masonry. But people of the geezer persuasion, of course, will be thrilled by the fact that MIRACLE SAW! “folds up for safe travel” (doesn’t everyone travel with a saw?) and has a “comfy rubber handle for arthritic hands.”

Swell.

According to the ad (which obviously got a two-for-one deal on exclamation points), I will be doubly thrilled to know that I won’t have to worry about cutting myself. Should I miss the brick, due to failing geezer eyesight, and start hacking away on my fingers, MIRACLE SAW! will “glide across them harmlessly”. It must be so, there’s an illustration to prove it.

Well, that’s good enough for me.

Yes, I certainly must be on every geezer-marketing list out there. And all of them are of the opinion that I wear nothing but slippers, or at the very least, those sandals with the Velcro straps. Today’s catalog offers some form of toasty orthopedic foot ware on fifteen of its forty-eight pages. No shoes for geezers, nope, just slippers

These marketing experts have arrived at the theory that everyone over a certain age shuffles around, indoors and out, in a pair of something fluffy and padded to the hilt. And, of course, they want in on the market.

They must also believe that Baby Boomers are obsessed with hair. For these catalogs carry a myriad of products guaranteed to restore, remove, tweeze, tease, cut, curl, color, and rejuvenate. I suppose now that I’m over the hill, they think I have nothing better to do with my golden years than to be on the look-out for rogue hairs and dispatch them with a handy Pluck-Away Hair RemovAll System (9.95 plus tax, comes with discrete carrying case for your privacy).

Yes, thanks to the ingenious products offered in these catalogs, I can be identified most easily to any on-looker, as a geezer. Should I cave again, and purchase their products, you won’t be able to miss me with my magnetic knee brace, wristband, neck wrap, and ankle bracelet, all purporting miracle cures.

What the catalog doesn’t mention is the risk of walking through a hardware store while wearing these magnetic devices. Just watch for the woman with hinges and socket wrenches affixed to various parts of her anatomy. And Heaven forbid I should get too near an open box of thumbtacks. There is an upside, though--with my magnetic gloves (guaranteed to stop age spots), I will rarely lose my car keys.

Evidently, we geezers also have a bigger pest problem than other age groups. I’ve yet to figure out the reasoning behind this one, but it must be true, based on the number of products aimed at ridding my life of vermin.

One catalog advertises an ultrasonic device that will send Unwanted Pests & Rodents (there are pests and rodents that are wanted?) scurrying like rats on the Exxon Valdez. Of course, there’s a drawback to this one, too. You may set your high-frequency pest repellent (before shuffling off to the grocery store in your slippers), only to return home to a houseful of dogs waiting for liver treats and wondering why they’re now in your living room. Ah well, it’s a small price to pay for a rodent-free home.

Well, I think I’ll toddle off to the mailbox now, to see what’s in the latest batch of catalogs. I’m thinking of ordering Dan a pair of Sans-A-Belt trousers.

©g.Slater2007

2007-02-12T23:36:00.000-05:00

"Well howdy, boys and girls!"

Looks like ol' Bunkhouse Bob is here again to share a few tips from

The Department of "Hey, That's Good To Know!"

When the expiration date on your yogurt states February 5th,

it does NOT mean February 6th.

A squirrel dropping a walnut on your roof at midnight sounds exactly like

an insane asylum escapee trying to get the screen off your bedroom window.

The blue liquid in your Lava Lamp

does not taste like Jammin' Berry Kool-Ade.

Hey, good to know.

Be sure and stop by the ol' bunkhouse again sometime--
maybe, if we're lucky, we can catch Bob's tip for drying socks with
a Zippo lighter and a fondue fork.

Happy Trails!

(c)g.Slater
clip art courtesy Hasslefreeclipart.com

2007-02-03T10:52:00.000-05:00

"Yes, it's song time again, readers!"

This one goes out to everyone wearing a patch, chewing Nicorette gum, and eating lots of carrot sticks.

When you get the urge to light up, vocalize instead.

Sing it loud! Sing it proud!

I want you all around for a long, long time.

Jenny's Anthem

sung to the tune of Born Free

http://www.internetbolaget.se/~tradare/mid/mid.html

Smoke-free, as free as the wind blows
There’s new hair in your nose
Smoke-free, just might save your heart

Smoke-free, no blue haze surrounds you
Can’t let the ol’ monkey hound you
Each time you get in your car

Stay free, where no doctors chide you
You’re free as the roaring tide
No need to “step outside”.

Smoke-free, and life is worth living
The commercials weren’t kidding
Now you’re Smoke-free!

(c)g.Slater

clip art courtesy Rewind the Fifties

2007-02-01T01:15:00.000-05:00

Menopause?
There should be laws
To protect the innocent.
One thought comes, another goes.
I don't know where it went.

They say I will get over this.
The experts tell me so.
Now what was I just saying?
Well, shoot, I just don't know.

I've provided the tune thanks to MFiles.co.uk, and of course, Mr. Dvorak, may he rest in peace, and his New World Symphony.
Feel free to repeat the first 5 lines as the chorus. >>
http://www.mfiles.co.uk/midi-files.htm

Your sister in arms,
Gloria

(c)g.Slater
pub.dom. photo

2007-01-08T16:53:00.000-05:00

Buddha In The Bathtub

I don’t know who coined the phrase, “be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it,” but whoever it was, I’ll bet they had a Buddha in the bathtub experience, too. Yeah, I guess that needs a little explanation, doesn’t it?

As many of you know, we recently sold our way-too-big-for-only-two-people house and moved into a much smaller home in a neighboring town. Much, much smaller. Bungalow-size, to be exact. And many of our new home’s details reflect this diminution (admit it, you didn’t think I knew words like that) in size. Such as, the adorable claw foot bathtub.

I am a world-class tub bath taker. My lengthy soaks have produced some pretty impressive raisin fingers, not to mention, fogging up every window in the house and possibly the neighborhood. I can think of nothing I like more on a cold day than a good long bath, the hotter the better. So, when I discovered that the house I was thinking of buying had a deep claw-foot tub, I was more than a little excited, though I played it cool for the real estate agent by doing a modified rendition of the traditional Goody-Goody Dance and singing the Hallelujah Chorus under my breath.

But my excitement fizzled the first time I tried to actually take a bath in it. Sure, it was deep, but not wide. Simply put, I am not a small woman. I’m not even a medium woman. I’m what the cartoonist, Oliver Christianson, calls, a Woman of Substance. I soon found out my adorable claw-foot tub is what people in the claw-foot tub business refer to as a “junior size” and was never meant for substance the likes of mine.

In the online photos of the house, the tub didn’t look that small. And even when I saw it in person, I suppose I was momentarily blinded by the fact that it was, indeed, a claw-foot tub and paid no attention to the minor, but critical, fact that it was about half the length and width of a normal claw-foot tub. The upside, though, is we’ll be prepared if we’re ever visited by a dirty Lilliputian that wants to wash up.

After my first venture into the dubious delights of using our antique bathing fixture, my husband Dan asked, “So, how was it?” “Imagine Buddha in a bathtub,” I replied.

Probably a politically incorrect comparison, but I just couldn’t come up with any other way to describe it.

Cozy, yes, but not particularly comfy. I did find that if I scooted down and propped my feet up on the wall behind the faucet I could affect a more supine position (admit it, you didn’t think I knew this one either), however this led to very cold feet very quickly which meant I had to scoot back up and bring them, along with the subsequent legs, into the tub again, allowing for very little room for the rest of me. It was something of a trade-off with lots of scooting and propping going on, which led to much unwanted sloshing due to my having filled the tub to it’s recommended depth, and then some, by stuffing a plastic bag in the overflow holes.

Then there was the whole shower fiasco. Warning: This paragraph contains graphic images not suitable for persons suffering from vinylhydrophobia!

Imagine if you will, standing in an area about the size of a Pop Tart. Correction: exactly the size of a Pop Tart. Now, imagine that you are in your birthday suit and surrounded by a clear vinyl shower curtain. Add the fact that claw-foot tubs are free-standing, so this makes it imperative that you use a circular shower curtain system (you know, the kind your grandmother had or you might see in a Martha Stewart magazine accessorized with home made grapevine wreaths and bars of oatmeal soap in the shape of hearts and flowers). All of this makes for the stuff from whence come nightmares of the slimiest, stick-to-your-ankles kind.

If you’ve ever used this type of shower, with this kind of 360, wrap-around curtain, you’ll know what I’m talking about. And if you’re a vinylhydrophobic, like I am (see previous post of July 8th, Vinylhydrophobia? No Problem!), then you’ll also know what contortions it takes to keep wet vinyl from touching any part of the body while at the same time trying to keep shampoo out of your eyes without losing your footing. And in this case, your very limited footing.

After my first attempt at showering in this manner, Dan (a man of few words) asked again, “So, how was it?”
“Imagine showering in a Zip-loc bag,” I replied.

A bit of a tight squeeze, but I think I’m getting the hang of it. A few more showers and I may even be able to stay in long enough to cream rinse before I begin to hyperventilate.

And just think, our new downsized bed will be delivered this weekend. I can only imagine the adventures of getting use to a smaller sleeping surface. Our mornings will probably go something like this:
Dan: hanging on for dear life to the edge of the mattress, trying desperately not to fall off and roll into dust bunny territory.
Me: the queen of blanket-stealing sprawl asking, “So, how was it?”

©g.Slater2006
clip art courtesy discoveryschools.com

2006-12-22T23:20:00.000-05:00

Twas The Night Before Deadline,
A Writer’s Tale of Woe

‘Twas the night before deadline, finally quiet in the house.
I had just settled down with my Microsoft mouse.
A shiny pink disk I popped into its slot.
In the hopes that a few more words I could jot.

Then what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a paragraph gone and a line quite unclear.
The words I had written were all boxes and squares.
And weird squiggley marks looking oddly like hairs.

I sat there transfixed knowing not what to do.
My hands became clammy, my mind turned to goo.
Should I call Tech Support or go it alone?
Do I have fourteen days to hold on the phone?

“Be bold,” said my muse, “it’s not courage you lack,
But merely a friend at Radio Shack.”

So I clicked all the buttons—the ones that made sense.
Hoping to feel just a little less dense.
But all I accomplished (besides this great poem)
Was a bad case of Repetitive Movement Syndroem.

And I read on my screen as it blinked out of sight,

“Your file is deleted, now have a good night!”

© g.Slater2006

2006-11-29T00:12:00.000-05:00

Packrattage
We’ve moved. After almost twenty-five years in the same house, collecting stuff at a speed rivaling that of a packrat on steroids, we decided to downsize. More accurately, we were forced to downsize and move--there was simply no more room in the old ramshackle, five-bedroom house. Unless you count that tiny spot in the spice cabinet where I finally threw out the tin of paprika, circa 1986. I horded that empty space for weeks, agonizing over what to stick back in there; new cheesy Florida souvenir I picked up at Goodwill or my high blood pressure medication. Decisions, decisions.

It had gotten so bad that, virtually, every nook was filled, every cranny was...what is a cranny anyway? The barn was stuffed to the cob-webbed rafters with Dan’s tools and his own brand of packrattery. Most of which is stuff unrecognizable to me. Maybe that’s the key to the sanctity of men’s collections. If women can’t decipher what the heck it is, they are less likely to use it as a trivet, stir paint with it, or craft it into a throw pillow.

And is it built in to their DNA or something, this obsession men have with saving tiny screws in baby food jars? Ok, ok I can understand that one, after all, I still have most of my children’s baby teeth lovingly wrapped in Kleenex and tucked into my jewelry boxes. Three kids, times twenty-eight teeth each, you do the math.

Dan, bless his organized heart, was also responsible for the huge collection of boxes taking up the entire attic. Empty boxes. Whenever we bought anything new, toaster, computer, refrigerator, Dan made a point of keeping the “original” box. We might need to pack that item up someday, he reasoned. Unfortunately, the box always outlived its contents leaving us with enough “original” boxes to build a small original corrugated nation.

My packrattery is much worse than Dan’s, however. Much, much worse. While his stuff is generally relegated to the barn and attic and ocassionally the trunk of the car, mine stretched the length and breadth of the entire house and the yards as well. Collections of old View Master viewers, piles of National Geographic magazines spanning the ages with such arcane articles as “Kuala Lumpur, Jewel of the Wooden Ruler Industry” or “Pork Rinds, Not Just Bubba’s Snack Anymore”, mayonnaise jars full of buttons, four typewriters, bags of pine cones, cookie canisters exploding with wads of rubber bands (instead of cookies--my kids gave up hoping years ago), hundreds of antiquated peg-style clothes pins, oh I could go on, but let’s just say, I may have a teensy problem when it comes to collecting stuff, or letting it go.

Now that we’ve finally decided (read: were forced) to downsize and move to a smaller home, I’ve gotten through the initial withdrawal period by telling myself I’ll be much better off without all the extraneous trappings of materialism--as long as I can keep a few beloved pieces. The lava lamp came with us, the Don Mattingly photo and Carrom game (baseball fans will understand), most of the books, all of the record albums (except maybe the Time-Life series of Slim Whitman’s Greatest Hits), the garden gargoyles, the toad house, the bee skep, my pirated rattan porch furniture, somebody stop me...maybe I’d better review those extraneous trappings.

So, how does one relieve oneself of extra stuff, you might ask. The first step to getting rid of excess packrattage is of course, your children. No, I don’t mean get rid of the kids themselves (though some days...) no, I mean make your kids come home and take the stuff you’ve been storing for them in the attic (along with your husband's collection of "original" boxes) since they went off to college—sixteen years ago. There are only so many stuffed animals that the average chipmunk can chew into nesting material.

Next, push as much stuff as possible off on your neighbors. Remember, you’re moving. As long as you don’t give them a forwarding address, they can’t drop it back in your yard after dark or while you’re at the grocery store.

After that, start filling the pick-up truck with all the stuff you haven’t used in the last year and cart it off to the recycling center. This includes all exercise equipment, every low fat cookbook, the vacuum cleaner, and that can’t-live-without-it kitchen aid you bought from the QVC channel one night when you couldn’t sleep.

Or, one of the best ways I’ve found is (Warning: Testimonial Alert) something called Freecycle.com. An internet give-away site that challenges its members to “change the world, one landfill at a time.” No, really. To date, I’ve unloaded, er, given away an old movie projector, a baby gate, a garden bench, a do-it-yourself tire balancer set, headboards, tables and chairs, crafting items, and a stack of Pennsylvania Game News magazines from the early 1980’s (I reeeally hated to part with them). And I’ve met some very nice people in the process.

The house we’ve moved into is roughly half the size of the old one. The closets are small enough to be called imperfections in the drywall and there is no barn. But I’m not worried. I’ve already got a plan for future collections.

As long as Dan sticks to the tiniest of screws in the smallest of jars, there's sure to be room for the grandkid’s baby teeth.

©g.Slater2006

2006-09-30T13:52:00.000-04:00

Stink In The Dark
There was a time when a person could have recognized their best friend’s home, even if blindfolded, by smell alone. Same goes for your grandparent’s house, your piano teacher’s and the nice, but wacky, lady down the street that always made you “step inside” when she paid her newspaper bill (then offered you unwrapped candy that had been around since the Roosevelt years, but that’s another story).
Once, everyone’s home had a distinct aroma. A trademark smell unlike any other’s. Believe me, I know, because these smells are imprinted upon my memory.
Best friend’s house:
Bakery pastries. I loved grocery day at her house.
Grandparent’s house:
Motor oil, cigarettes. Poppy was a truck driver with a bad habit.
Piano teacher:
Wet dog. Self-explanatory.
Nice but Wacky lady:
A cross between Brussel sprouts and Raid.
We should feel sorry for kids today. When they grow up and leave home they’ll have no smell memories to take with them. And why is this? I’ll tell you. America has become a country of odorphobes. The thought of sniffing something identifiable is now more abhorrent to the average citizen than a cockroach in the butter dish.
And what is my evidence for this fact? Coupons. I use to be a coupon clipper, cheap…er, thrifty person that I am. But, lately I’ve only been able to find perhaps one coupon for something my family really needs, like Pudding Pops, in the sizable stack that comes in my Sunday paper—the rest of the coupons are for products intent on deodorizing the universe by way of sprays, candles, mists, foggers, electrical outlet gizmos, and now even perfumy, psychadelic light show thingies determined to turn your toddler into a Deadhead.
Yes, America is afraid of stink. And particularly, stink in the dark. Why else would there be so many products that combine deodorization and illumination? Every department store now has at least one full aisle devoted to candles alone with a special team of carefully trained sales associates in Haz-Mat suits to assist you. (see illustration above of carefully trained sales associate who has obviously found the store's dumping grounds where he will determine whether this large candle--a lovely, lime-scented aromatherapy selection for the coffee table--can be put back onto the stocking shelves or must be turned over to the officials at Homeland Security)
The candle aisle is easy to find, just listen for the sounds of apoplectic sneezing or simply walk in the opposite direction of the asthmatic shoppers who are making haste away from that area.
Once you have donned your Area 51-tested gas mask (available at the Lay-away counter), taken a mega dose of allergy pills, and secured your safety goggles, you’re ready to make your selection from the olfactory-dazzling array.
My personal favorite is the one that sends little smelly puffs up into the air at regular intervals. I could see this coming in very handy if I’m ever out west and need to get word to a neighboring tribe. Not only will I be able to signal them that John Wayne and the U.S. Cavalry are just over the next ridge, but I can do it with the aroma of White Linen.
And what about our children? We’ve protected them from head injuries by making them wear helmets when they ride their bikes. A good thing. We’ve taken the cyanide out of their wooden playground equipment. Ok. And there’s now real fruit juice in their fruit juice. Very nice. So the next step, logically, is remove all natural smells from their homes and bedrooms and replace them with glowing nightlights emitting the soothing odor of
Mountain-Fresh Polystyrene.
And when they think back on the house where they grew up, the smell that will instantly come to mind is…uh, wait…um, no, that’s not it…ooh, I almost had it…
©g.Slater2006

2006-09-12T16:56:00.001-04:00

Everybody Sing!

There's nothing quite so engaging as a bunch of people sitting around on a front porch singing. So in that time-honored tradition I offer a couple songs of my own composition that we all might sing together. I've even brought Harriet, the happy housewife, out of retirement to lead us.

In order that we all sing the same tune to these songs, as say, six of you singing to the tune of Happy Birthday and twelve of you singing to the tune of We Are The Champions would just be too confusing, I have thoughtfully parodied two familiar songs, They Call The Wind Mariah and Somewhere Over the Rainbow. I'm sure you're all familiar with these old standards and if you're not, well, just listen, you'll probably catch on by the second verse.

Right then, let's sing. All together now...

Mariah
(sung to the tune of They Call The Wind Mariah, with ethereal echoes)
When I was young I named my parts,
My nose was Jeremiah.
One leg was Tess, an elbow Joe
And I called my chin Mariah.
Mariah was my favorite part, of this there’s no denyin’.
My other parts could not compete, I tell you I’m not lyin’.
Mariah (Mariah)
Mariah (Mariah)
I called my chin Mariah.
After many years of therapy--
The best that cash could buy ya’,
And now I’m grown, Mariah says,
“It won’t be long til they untie ya’.”
“Untie ya.” (Untie ya)
“Untie ya.” (Untie ya)
“The shrinks they will untie ya.”
So now they say that I am cured--
No more an odd pariah.
If you don’t think that this is true,
Just ask my friend Mariah.
Mariah (Mariah)
Mariah (Mariah)
I call my chin Mariah.
Mar-iii-ah!
Mariah (Mariah)
I call---my chin---Mariah.
There now, wasn't that fun? Ready for another? Good. Only this time, Harriet would like to hear a little more from the tenor section, you're a bit weak. And sopranos, watch your pitch please, you tend to be sharp on the high notes.
Somewhere Overembellish
(sung to the tune of Somewhere Over the Rainbow)
Somewhere overembellish
Adverbs fly.
Adjectives that you dare to write
Really clarify.
Someday I’ll write the perfect line
That editors cannot malign,
They’ll loove me.
They’ll offer me a big advance.
My agent she will do a dance
Because they looooove me.
Somewhere overembellish
Adverbs fly.
Adjectives that you dare to write
Really clarify.
If happy little adverbs fly
Upon the pages,
Whyyyyy, oh, whyyyyy cannnnnnn’t I?
I don't know about you, but I got a little misty on that last one. I guess I'm just an old softy. Well, this has been swell, hasn't it? We'll have to do it again sometime. You bring the comb and waxed paper, Harriet will make iced tea.

2006-09-05T18:19:00.000-04:00

A Perfectly Plausible Explanation
Summer time finds most winter-weary folks thinking about picnics, baseball, and sunny days at the lake. However, someone has to consider the serious topics of life. And who better suited for serious thought than I? Yes, lately I’ve been pondering the question that has perplexed the greatest minds for centuries.
Can a person actually make a living selling socks at the flea market?
I don’t get to visit as often as I would like, but every time I do I notice there’s always one merchant set up to meet the hosiery needs of a small, barefoot nation. Boxes of gray thermals with the red toes. Ladies’ crew tops. That dressy men’s type made of that scary material you see being set aflame in those fire prevention films from the 1950‘s--you know the kind, decorated with a scattering of stunningly embroidered fleur-de-lis designs and made to adhere to even the most active man’s shins. And bin after bin after bin of white tube socks, which if laid top to toe, would reach to the new Wal-Mart in Kuala Lumpur, which interestingly enough, is where most Lumpurians buy their tube socks.
My experience has been this; you step within some unseen perimeter of the sock booth and the pitch begins:
“May I help you, sweetie? Highest quality. Full year’s guarantee.”
Guarantee? I want to ask, where would one send the defective socks if one were unfortunate enough to purchase a less than perfect pair? (No doubt, this merchant will be in another state, at another flea market, by 4:00 pm.) Is there a 1-800 number? Or better yet, a website, www.gotsox.com.
So how does one make a decision like that; to sell socks at the flea market? It’s an honest living, I suppose, but why socks? Antiques sure, comic books, crocheted covers for your extra rolls of toilet paper, socket wrenches, Ginsu knives and jewelry, yes, but socks? Maybe it’s the no-competition factor. It’s possible, but it still doesn’t answer my question.
This phenomenon is nothing new, these flea market sock-hawkers. Way back, someone had to be the first. I’ve been going to flea markets for over thirty years, from Florida to New York (not all in the same day, mind you, that would just be exhausting) and there have always been socks.
Did the idea originate when the whole flea market thing began? Was it an example of tandem thinking? Could it have been two brilliant ideas at the same time?
Perhaps one morning in a medieval hovel somewhere in the Baltic's, Yorgi and his lovely wife are having their breakfast bowl of gruel, when Yorgi turns to his wife and says,
“You know, I thinketh it be a wise and prudent thing if many merchants come together in our cow field and bringeth hewn log tables and wares from their own hovels that no longer be serviceable and taggeth thy wares perchance to peddle them. And, oh yes, let us peddleth socks.”
At which point his lovely wife turns to him and asks,
“Whateth are socks?”
Of course, I could be all wrong about this, but it‘s a possibility.
Or perhaps the sock thing may have come up at a later date, after the flea market had become an established American event. It could have been that some frustrated entrepreneur had plenty of time to kill due to the fact that his liverwurst waffle stand was not the booming business the guy on the info-mercial said it would be. And so, downcast, he spent his time watching the throngs of flea marketers strolling by. And maybe he began to notice that the socks going by on the feet of the eager bargain hunters were becoming unsightly from the dusty walkways. And yes, I can believe that the proverbial light bulb went off above his head and in an instant of life-changing clarity, BANG! He knew. Socks! The world needed socks and plenty of them. Tube, crew, thermals and those dressy, fleur-di-lis-embellished calf-highs. Thus, the liverwurst waffle went (mercifully) the way of the Edsel and was replaced with socks. A perfectly plausible explanation.
I could be all wrong about this, but it could have happened that way. It’s good to have these questions sorted out, don’t you think?
©g.Slater 2006

2006-08-25T00:01:00.000-04:00

No News Is Good News

Just as I’m about to get a handle on my creeping mold paranoia, someone sends me one of those phobia-producing email forwards reporting that two super black holes are on a collision course with one another, each with the capability of sucking up several universes, the latest model Hummer, and a bunch of new Wal-Marts.

I don’t have time to worry about such things, I have plenty to keep me busy, like squelching the dust bunny uprising that threatened to get completely out of control this past winter. It was touch and go there for a while. But I think I’ve rounded up the ringleader. He’s being detained for questioning.

No, I have lots to do besides pondering eventual doom. Why do scientists (and my well-meaning friends) think I need to know this stuff anyway? The experts report that such a cataclysmic event is not likely to happen for another bazillion years, so why get everyone all worked up?

They keep telling us scary stuff that we can’t do anything about and, personally, I’m tired of it. Here’s another one sure to keep me up nights. Seems the earth isn’t spinning as fast as it use to. Must be that extra 40 billion pounds of people it put on during the population explosion in the medieval era—you know, the Middle Ages spread. So the experts have decided to insert a leap second into the official atomic-based time standard every few years. Will there be a public notification of this, so we can change our clocks? Will the fashionably late finally be on time? Will my VCR stop flashing 8:08? See, information like this could make you crazy.
(See illustration above for atomic clock schematic courtesty Acme Atomics, LLC.)

Yes, I have more important things to do than fret about a stray second or two. Like obsessing over the tarantula living in my zucchini plants. Well, it certainly looks like a tarantula. Yes, I know tarantulas aren’t native to western New York, but we’ve all heard the banana stories. (I read about it in an email.) Some lazy customs worker didn’t inspect a couple crates of bananas from Honduras, Columbia or Dansville, one of those hot places, and let a family of hairy-legged arachnids slip into the country. I bet they wouldn’t have made it in if they’d had cream rinse or Nair in their luggage. But that’s another story.

So, unbeknownst, Boris the Spider and his familial unit get shipped to some local grocer and, naturally, take up residence, where else, in my garden. I have to admit there’s been a significant decrease in the number of Japanese beetles, small mammals, and neighborhood pets since he took up residence. But that doesn’t change the fact harvesting my vegetables has become an angst-ridden experiment in fear. These days you will find me literally beating the bushes before sticking my hand into the plants to pluck out the zukes.

And if that weren’t enough, I receive another email forward with the disturbing news that the next time I’m traveling down 390, the sound of the truck behind me may not be a Dodge Ram after all. It very likely could be an elephant. That’s right, according to a new study, it’s been determined that elephants are imitating the sounds of trucks. I don’t need to know this.

Yes, I have more important things to do.
So the next time I get an email forward, no matter how tempting the subject line may be (Lint Poisoning, Undetectable Killer),
I’m not opening it.

©g.Slater2006

2006-08-17T11:29:00.000-04:00

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©g.Slater 2006
graphic courtesy Rewind the Fifties

2006-07-28T15:48:00.000-04:00

Inherit the Wind

I learned to boil water somewhere between my first steps and the multiplication tables. The reason being, I grew up in Tampa, which naturally makes me an authority on hurricanes and proper emergency protocol. Florida is, of course, a peninsula and according to my third grade teacher who liked visual aids, a hand, if you will. Thus, Tampa becomes the thumb and my little neighborhood of Ballast Point was, for lack of a better anatomical example and no reflection on its good citizenry, the wart on the thumb.

In essence, I lived on a peninsula on a peninsula on a peninsula. Water, water everywhere. And during hurricane times, “not a drop to drink”, unless you liked your water on the robust side, infected with E-coli, churning with camo-clad, Uzi-toting microorganisms, gearing up for a junta regime. As a toddler, I never had to be scolded for drinking my own bath water. Florida children seem to have an innate sense of what is and what is not potable.

During my childhood and young adult years, I rode out more than my share of full-blown hurricanes not to mention a goodly number of tropical depressions, though my community was always the vanguard of the evacuation route. With so much water on three sides, whichever way the storm came in, we were the first to be flooded out. As soon as the power died on our old black and white Philco, we tuned into WFLA on my pink, plastic transistor radio for the latest reports. “The Ballast Point area is strongly advised to evacuate and seek higher ground.” That was us.

Yet we merely boarded up our windows with plywood and enough duct tape to encircle the globe, then watched our neighbors as they packed up their panel wagons and headed for motels in the center of the state or to the National Guard armory for a couple nights of relative safety on rickety army cots.

My family never budged. Why such a foolhardy lot, you ask? In a word, Doozy. A frizzle-haired mixed breed of a dog with a predilection for the thigh portion of anyone in a uniform. She, like all other pets, was not allowed in the emergency shelters. And on my father’s meager G.I. salary, we couldn’t have afforded a motel in the eye of the storm let alone safe in the middle of the state. Doozy was an outstanding swimmer, even so, turning her out to fend for herself in a hurricane was simply unacceptable to one very hysterical ten-year-old girl, me.

This was one of those epiphany moments in my life. When I realized I had within my tears the power to get my father to do anything I wanted. Even ride out a level 4 hurricane for the sake of a mongrel dog.

Fortunately, for the civilized universe, I rarely used this power for evil. Unless you consider causing my entire family and our reclusive neighbor, plus her yappy little dog to be blown to smithereens by 120mph winds and washed away in snake-infested waters, and end up floating somewhere along the coast of Belize a bad thing.

Fast forward about ten years. In 1972, during Hurricane Agnes, I was vacationing with my parents on Madeira Beach, a tiny strip of land attached to Florida by bridges on either end. After surviving the many previous hurricanes, safe in our own home even when strongly encouraged to evacuate, we felt a certain smug sense of immortality, something akin to the Clinton administration just prior to the Monica debacle. We refused to have our holiday interrupted. After all, once the baby was born, who knew how long it would be before I would get another vacation? Oh, did I forget to mention I was nine months pregnant at the time?

Our rented cottage, in good weather, was a quick one hundred yards from the briny gulf. When the first advisories hit the airwaves, the water had run the ball up to the fifty-yard line and the emergency broadcast people (you know, the ones with the loud, annoying test that always comes on during the last 30 seconds of a good movie) were telling everyone on Madeira Beach to make their way to one of the bridges, ASAP.

My mother, who hated doctors anyway, began to prepare for a home delivery, just in case. She started talking about what an adventure this would be to tell my children someday. My father began scouring the island for a two-story building.

The EBS folks came on with an update.
“Anyone still on Madeira (that would be us), seek higher ground. The bridges are out, we repeat, the bridges are out.”
I could hear in his voice that he wanted to add, “and may God have mercy upon your idiot souls.” Mother cheerfully began to tear the bed sheets into strips.

The shoreline was now about to meet up with the goal line. Our cottage, built like most beach houses, stood high on wooden pilings. Still we watched as the waves rose to the level of the windowsills. Debris of every kind crashed around under the cottage. I was practicing my hoo-hoo, hee-hee breathing and trying to envision this technique somehow working together with treading water.

In the meantime my mother was boiling water, when my father came in looking like a cross between the Gorton fisherman and Charlton Heston in the Ten Commandments scene where he parts the Red Sea. “ I’ve got good news—I found a doctor. The local veterinarian has agreed to stay on the island!”

However, as if to carry on the family tradition of stubbornness, my unborn daughter didn’t budge either, but remained in her cozy, prenatal world for another three weeks. The waves subsided just as the waters began to spill over our window ledges, and the tide receded leaving the shell-littered shoreline a beach combers paradise.

Once again, my family had dodged the bullet—gone against the better judgement of those who know best and lived to tell the tale. Mom and I packed our vacation gear and readied to go home. Dad thanked the vet profusely and promised to bring our aged Doozy in for rabies shots.

All that was left to do, now, was explain to the cottage owner why every set of sheets was in shreds.

© G.Slater 2006

2006-07-16T16:28:00.000-04:00

"Rello, Reorge!"

If you don’t own a dog, you may not be aware that when someone from the country buys a vehicle, especially a truck, dogs are part of the accessory package? Like undercoating. It’s true.

Salesman: “Would you like us to install a black lab or a golden retriever?
Truck Customer: “I think I’d rather have the shepherd mix, and what the heck, throw in a bed liner.”

I lived in the city for five years and can’t remember dogs as passengers in too many trucks, or cars either, for that matter. Well, occasionally, you’d see a little old man driving with the Chihuahua on his lap or the elderly lady with some froofy white animal curled up on the back window ledge of her Monte Carlo--could have been a dog, but then again, it may have been a pillow.

I don’t remember seeing many city dogs riding shotgun, looking for all the world like they knew exactly where they were going. No, this is a country thing. And we should claim it proudly.

You will see this rural phenomenon played out best at the county’s landfills and recycling centers. Don’t ask me why. I’ve never taken a wet-nose count but I’ve noticed, as I’m heaving my Hefty Bags into the dumpster or parceling out my plastics and my cardboards, that a large percentage of vehicles coming through the gate each Saturday has a canine companion along for the ride. The friendly volunteer that punches my “dump card” as I arrive even has a stash of doggie treats on hand for each Fido occupying the shotgun seat. That’s got to tell you something.

I have no doubt these dogs were at the front door, waiting to go, the moment the trash bags were brought out to the truck, similar to when a dog is shown his leash--let the joyous wagging and leaping commence. They just seem to know.

And did you ever notice, when the driver gets out of the vehicle, the dog will move over behind the wheel as though he’s ready, in case there’s an emergency, to move the car for his owner?

Sheriff’s deputy: “You’ll have to move this truck. This is a no parking zone.”
Rex: “Ressir, right array, Reputy.”

In the life of a country dog, the “ride-along” is a rite of passage, not a given. It’s something that has to be earned. Proper passenger-seat behavior calls for sitting up straight, no upholstery chewing, no flea scratching, no hanging of the head out the window no matter how intoxicating the air might smell, no matter how much road kill you might drive past, and under no circumstances will there be any slobbering on the gear shifter.

After proving himself, the experienced, well behaved, ride-along-dog might even earn the coveted red bandana, his very own Frisbee, and the privilege of accompanying his owner to the dump each Saturday morning. Besides a reprieve from the neutering clinic, what more could a dog ask for?

City dwellers own about as many dogs as those of us here in the country. I’m sure they are just as fond of their pets as we are. So why don’t they take them to the bank, to the pharmacy, to the post office? We do. How do we account for the high number of rural folk bringing Ol’ Shep along for the ride?

Maybe I just haven’t lived the rural life long enough yet to answer this puzzling question. Perhaps I should consult The Dog Whisperer. Or, then again, maybe it’s just a country thing.

©g.Slater 2006

2006-07-08T19:33:00.000-04:00

Vinylhydrophobia? No Problem.

This is the year I finally do something for humanity. Sorry, pulling the plug on my column is not an option. I’m not quite ready to give up the fast-paced, high-powered, three-figure-income world of journalism just yet, so you can put that thought out of your head right now. No, what I have in mind is long overdue and even more philanthropic than the act of me packing up my Hewlett-Packard and its Cheetos-encrusted keyboard.

Oh, I had my chance once, back in the seventies, to do some real good but someone beat me to it when they invented the flip-top toothpaste cap, patented it, and got it on the market before me. No, really. And, the other day my husband called me into the gadget aisle of the grocery store to take a look at something I had thought of years ago. A little scrub brush attachment for the spray hose on your sink. But did I patent it back then? Did I get it on the market? Did I ease the suffering of housewives all those years ago when the thought first occurred to me as I scraped week-old tuna casserole off dinner plates with the heel of my shoe? No, I didn’t. Oh, for shame.

Now, thanks to another of my brilliant ideas, I have a chance to redeem myself. Let me give you a little background.

vinylhydrophobia -n. the fear of being in the shower and having the force of the water create a suction action thereby causing the shower curtain to draw inward toward the unsuspecting bathing subject resulting in the slimiest portion of the curtain affixing itself to said bathing subject’s ankles and calves further resulting in a wild case of naked heebie-jeebies.

Yes, I’m not too proud to admit it. I’m a vinylhydrophobic. After all, talking about it is the first step to getting healthy.

I suffered for years with this debilitating fear until I summoned enough courage to do something about it. Now, not only have I invented a product that will bring relief to millions of tortured bathers around the world, but I have also discovered a new phobia, named it, and begun a foundation: the National Vinylhydrophobia Association which promotes awareness, research, wristbands (in an appropriate bath-water gray), and pot-luck suppers.

My prototype is a simple apparatus, but sure to take the heebie-jeebies out of the phobic’s next shower. I call it the “Slime-B-Gone, Bather’s Little Helper, Curtain Control Device”. (Yeah, maybe I need to tweak the name just a bit.) A plastic expandable, belt fits around the waist. A handy plastic “arm” attaches to the belt and folds out to hold the shower curtain away from the bather, thus leaving the bather with both hands free for washing instead of pushing the slimy curtain off of the legs. An added “swivel” feature allows the “arm” to move around the belt, thus the bather may turn from front to back while still holding curtain away from body. I’ve thought this through, folks.

However, the only problem now is getting into the patent office before that naked guy in the parking lot, the one wearing a shower cap and having the really bad case of the heebie-jeebies.

©g.Slater 2006

2006-06-27T15:20:00.000-04:00

I Only Have Isotopes For You,
Or How to Lower Your Self Esteem In One Afternoon

I had one of those nuclear isotope stress tests recently. The test that employs a trained professional with a disturbing glint in his eye, who shoots you full of plutonium or FlufferNutter, I'm not sure which, but the result is that now the blood pumping through your heart is visible from outer space.

You are then denied your clothing from the waist up and plastered with electrodes arranged upon your chest in the traditional 'Cross Your Heart Hope To Die Stick A Needle In Your Eye' design.
At this point, I sense my Generation X nurse suppressing a laugh as she connects wires to the electrodes and catches sight of my mid-life figure now on display like so much mackerel at the fish market. But I could have imagined it.
Now that I'm wired, I can have the one-size-fits-an-Olson-twin-gown, the faded blue one with that weird little pattern on it that you can never quite identify. Are these stars? Paisleys? A fleur-de-lis pattern? Or merely something to make you crazy and feel worse than you already do?

Upsy-daisy, onto the treadmill, which another perky nurse sets on high speed and at a nice little incline (think Everest). "We want to get your heart rate up to 143," she chirps, "for five minutes--the target for someone your age." (Yes, someone my age who gets up before noon, believes exercise is more than swiveling her chair around to change the CD in the stereo behind her, and doesn’t determine her diet by whether the snack bag makes crinkly sounds or not.)
Huzzah! I make my five minutes. Time for another injection of FlufferNutter or is it that liquid that collects at the bottom of the refrigerator that no one wants to clean.

And off we go to the heart photographer. I’m asked to balance on a narrow reclining chair, still in my charming fleur-de-lis gown, my arms above my head in what I hope is not an alluring manner. A camera contraption rotates above my chest for the next twenty minutes taking pictures of the radioactive blood swooshing around in my heart. I am told I must not move during this time. All the while Jimmy Buffett music is wafting into the room through speakers in the ceiling. The photographer wears a Hawaiian shirt. I find this oddly comforting and yet, a trifle unsettling.

So, I balance and Dr. Parrothead hums along to Margaritaville, adjusts dials and records data about my dubious heart. Around the time my arms lose all feeling, a bell dings, signifying either I am free to recompose myself and learn to drive with my feet, or perhaps the doctor’s burritos are ready.Apparently, I'm finished. I'm told I can get dressed and as a parting gift I may pay the receptionist a tidy sum on my way out.
And just think, Thursday, I get to have a colonoscopy.

©g.Slater 2006

2006-06-12T12:12:00.000-04:00

Real Women Don’t Do Egg Cartons

There was no test for it back when I was born. Had there been, the doctors would have informed my parents that their little bundle in the pink blankie was lacking a crucial piece of DNA. That’s right, I was born without the scrapbooking gene.

You may be saying to yourself, I didn’t know there was a scrapbooking gene, Gloria. Oh my, yes, any geneticist worth his Salk (sorry, couldn’t resist) will tell you it’s right there in the mix, as surely as the “let’s stop and ask for directions” gene or the “irresistible urge to spit on your thumb and rub shmutz off strangers’ faces” gene.

As a rule, most women afflicted with SDS (scrapbooking deficiency syndrome) are unaware of their impairment until it’s too late. Though I should have suspected something in grade school when I used my sticky bottle of brown mucilage for repairing a hole in my bicycle tire instead of gluing construction paper leaves onto construction paper trees. Note to parents: it’s difficult to display a tire on a refrigerator door, but not impossible.

And it never occurred to me as a teen-ager I might be heading for creative heartbreak. Each year I started yet another five-year diary (a perennial Christmas gift from my well-meaning but forgetful grandmother) with this entry on New Year’s Day:

“Dear Diary,
Not much going on here. Will write more tomorrow.
Your pal, Gloria”

And that was pretty much it until next year, the heady excitement of journaling snuffed out again in one day.

There was, however, no doubting my sad condition the day I showed up at my first scrapping party equipped with the pair of blunt-end scissors my children had used twenty years ago in kindergarten, a container of Elmer’s with a permanently plugged tip, notebook paper with the bits still attached from the spiral binding, a ball point pen I acquired from Motel 6 on my last vacation, and a collection of cardboard toilet paper tubes, a handy item for any craft project, or so I thought.

When I saw the array of gadgetry the other women had brought--the punches, the die cutters, the colorful stickers and journaling pens, not to mention the archival paper guaranteed to outlive cockroaches--suddenly, I knew. I didn’t have it. I mean I literally didn’t have it. The gene or the supplies.

I made it through the evening (after hiding my pitiful supplies in a potted plant) by feigning dizziness from the acid-free adhesive fumes and hanging out in the kitchen next to the chips and dip.

But on the way home, too much guacamole gurgling in my gut, I vowed to compensate for my deficiency by doing some research. If I couldn’t be a “natural” scrapbooker, then by golly, I’d fake it. I might not be able to walk the walk, but surely, I could learn to talk the talk.

With the aid of the Internet, I brushed up on the lingo. I learned that “lightfast” is not something I hope my charcoal will do when cooking out, but rather, refers to anything capable of retaining its color, even when subjected to an atomic blast. I found that “die-cut” was not something a hair stylist could do for you, but instead was a quick and easy way to put a hole in your finger in the shape of a shamrock. Or that “out-gassing” (not kidding) was not the result of feeding Benny, the dog, burritos. I didn’t read any further on that one—I don’t want to know.

Now, I felt confident to tackle the subject of scrapbooking history. Did you know that it was actually men, Aristotle and his peers, that were the first to keep notebooks? There’s no archeological evidence of puffy stickers or scalloped edges, but clearly, modern day journaling has its roots in their writings.

“Dear Diary,
You should have seen the nerdy toga Plato had on in study hall today. Will write more tomorrow. Your pal, Ari”

But most importantly, thanks to cable networks like Home and Garden, Discovery and DIY, I learned how to make our family photos (the ones where we resemble the Griswolds at Wally World) look like an outing at the park with the Cleavers. And with nothing more than a bit of ribbon and a pneumatic drill.

In spite of my newfound knowledge, I discovered I couldn’t deny my genes, or the lack thereof. I showed up at the next scrapping party with the proper scissors, the correct glue, and an empty Styrofoam egg carton, a handy item for any craft project, or so I thought.

The evening wasn’t a complete loss, though, despite the egg carton faux pas. I explained how I had stopped for directions on my way to the party. And for good measure, I rubbed a bit of shmutz off the hostess’ face.

©g.Slater 2006

Catch up on column’s you might have missed at, gloriaslater.blogspot.com

2006-05-07T00:21:00.000-04:00

WOO-HOO!! I'M NUMBER TWO!!

That doesn't sound quite right, does it. Let me explain. Seems my editor at the Livingston County News thought enough of my column to enter me in the NY Press Association's yearly contest. I was awarded second place in our circulation division. That's where the WOO-HOO! comes in. Go ahead, try it, it's fun.

WARNING! SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION ALERT!

If you'd care to see what the judges had to say, you can go to www.nynewspapers.com pg. 14, I think.
(preview: zany, wry and clever)

I apologize in advance for the NYPA's tiny print on the Adobe Reader thingie. You may send your ophthalmologist's bill directly to my editor.

2006-05-01T15:46:00.000-04:00

Blame It On The Paint

A can of paint should come with a warning. Something like this:

Caution. This product may be hazardous to your health. The painting of any room in your house may lead to unwanted fits of spring cleaning, which everyone knows will kill you, so put it back on the shelf right now, I don’t care if a salesperson named Carl has already mixed the colors and put it in the machine that shakes the lumps out of it and has given you those big Popsicle sticks for stirring. I’m the Surgeon General for crying out loud, if I don’t know what I’m talking about, who does? And you can just forget about blaming me if your marriage breaks up when you use your husband’s favorite bowling shirt for a tack rag. I think there’s a clause about this somewhere, probably on the other side of the can.

I bought it anyway. And the Surgeon General was right. It did lead to spring cleaning. In order to paint the walls, we had to find them first. Voila! Spring cleaning.

We decided to start in the kitchen. Big mistake. One of the problems of painting the walls of any room, is now, by comparison, everything in the room looks like it was delivered by the Mayflower folks, the ones with the funny hats and a thing for buckles, not the guys in the overalls with the big truck. Everything looks old, dingy, in need of a good wash with one of those high-power hoses.

We made a second big mistake. The paint can didn’t warn us about this one either, but it should have. We got it into our heads that we should paint the cabinets, too. This came from watching one too many makeover programs on the Home & Garden channel, which ought to come with a warning of its own. Something like this:

Caution. The viewing of this channel may be hazardous to your health. Excessive exposure to home makeover programs has been linked to delusions of grandeur. Face it pal, Bob Villa you ain’t. Remember the spackling compound incident? You thought your hair would never grow back, am I right? Of course I am, I’m the Surgeon General, for Pete’s sake.

Painting the cabinets meant taking the doors off. Which meant exposing the contents within. Which meant I am a slob.

Big mistake number three. I looked behind the front row of items in the cabinets--back there in the dark, the no-man’s land of condiments, the elephant’s graveyard of spices. I made a gruesome discovery. My paprika had died. I’d better explain before you start sending sympathy cards. (Hallmark has a nice selection; “Our thoughts are with you in the loss of your nutmeg”)

I had read in one of those housekeeping magazines, you know, the ones intended to make every homemaker, with the possible exception of Martha Stewart and Heloise, feel like a complete and utter failure, that my paprika had a shelf life of only four months. Who uses paprika more than once a year anyway? Everyone knows that paprika was invented for one purpose only; to raise the self esteem of deviled eggs. The expiration date on my container of paprika was written in Roman numerals. I’m pretty sure it was an heirloom wedding gift from my grandmother. I plan on passing it down to my children when I go, I don’t care what Martha says.

Back there, where no woman has ever dared to go, in the darkest recesses of my cabinets--I found they were full of deceased spices. But their packages and containers were still so colorful, so... lifelike. After coming to terms with the undeniable, that I was indeed a condiment killer, I did the only fitting thing and gave them a proper send-off to the compost pile.

If the cabinets had been any indication of the carnage that I was capable of, what horrors would the refrigerator hold? I’ve heard that the latest in plastic storage ware is the see-through kind. Makes sense. You can know what you have in there. This is not my philosophy, however, when it comes to leftovers. I’m more of the “I didn’t like it the first time, I don’t want to see it again“ camp. Old non-dairy whipped topping bowls are the answer. They’re opaque and have the added feature of making me think I always have topping on hand for those rare occasions when I make dessert.

The down side (or in my way of thinking, the upside) of the non-dairy whipped topping container is, food left inside too long goes bad--unnoticed. As I write this, we are well into the first weeks of spring. After many months of jockeying for position on the shelves of my fridge, a bowl of turkey gravy from Thanksgiving has worked its way to the front. And how do I know that it’s gravy, do you ask, if it’s in a no-see opaque Cool Whip bowl? Because we had dessert last night, that’s how. But at least I found the gravy and put it out of its misery at last.

The ultimate redeeming quality of the non-dairy whipped topping bowl is that they are disposable. I know, I know. This is very bad form for one who extols the virtues of recycling. But we all have our limits, our moments of weakness. Mine happens to be when a foamy, green ooze begins to appear around the lid of the bowl. I’d be a fool to open that one. Admit it, you wouldn’t either.

So, thanks to the irresponsible paint industry I have begun a spring cleaning project comparable in scope and size to the building of the Panama Canal, only without all that water and the pith helmets.

Tomorrow, mistake number four; I take on the junk drawer. I wonder what the Surgeon General would say about that.

©g.Slater2006

2006-04-13T00:15:00.000-04:00
Just When You Thought It Was Safe
To Go Back Into The Diner…

(A tribute to author, Peter Benchley, 1940-2006)

What is it about the words “All You Can Eat” painted on
plate glass that causes a normal, rational human being with a normal, rational appetite, to turn a Sunday morning breakfast into a feeding frenzy?

Suddenly the happy chords of “You Are the Sunshine of My Life” on the restaurant’s Muzak tape are replaced by…
dunt-Dunt, dunt-Dunt…dunt-Dunt-dunt-Dunt And those of us ordering the traditional $3.95 breakfast special, brought to our table by a waitress named Ida Mae, watch in awesome wonder.

The creatures move in eerie unison toward the buffet bar. Toward steaming mounds of sausage links. Teetering piles of patties. Crusty heaps of hash browns, an over-abundance of bacon, and a mountainous ecstasy of scrambled eggs.

They advance, zombie-like, eyes glazing over, turning steely. They circle, in this ungodly diner’s dance, surveying their prey while, at the same time, sizing up the competition.

They seem to come from everywhere now as though on cue from some silent signal. And then…it begins. Mothers pushing past their own children. Old ones with a renewed sense of vigor, elbowing in. Big ones, that obviously never miss a meal or the snack in between, vie for dominance as they hold off the rest by lingering over the hotcakes. The impatient group forming behind them begins to get edgy--a scene that could get ugly. And we, the civilized, in our comfortable booth with our paper napkins placed neatly on our laps, a lazy Susan of “Syrups of the World” spinning slowly before us…look away, on the pretense of buttering our English muffins.

But morbid curiosity pulls our attention back to the frenzy, something akin to being tempted to order those “Savage Predator” videos from National Geographic (oh admit it, you’ve almost dialed that number). And as we feared, it’s not a pretty sight. Teen-aged busboys risking life and limb to clear away the empty bowls and swearing profusely under their breath at the “friend” who got them the job. Waitresses afraid of getting an arm caught in between while re-supplying the biscuits and sausage gravy and vowing to go back to cosmetology school just as soon as payday comes around.

And then, as though by yet another mysterious signal, all is calm. It’s over. Peace reigns supreme once again. The buffet tables bear little evidence of the morning’s carnage. A few withered sprigs of parsley, shriveled orange slices and gory splashes of tomato juice cocktail on the sneeze-guard are the only telltale signs of the fight that was waged only moments ago. Even the loathsome oatmeal is but a memory now.

The creatures, their voracious appetites now sated, return to their peaceful coexistence, pay the cashier, and pick up their complimentary toothpicks (“individually wrapped for your convenience”). While we, smug in our booths, confident in our higher rank of civility and self control, watch them leave…
as Ida Mae brings our second order of hotcakes, bacon and hash browns.
Oh, and may I have just a little more butter, please?

©g.Slater2006

2006-04-12T23:18:00.000-04:00

The Best Part of Aaaccking Up

Unlike Marjorie Morris of Ainsworth, Iowa, I’m fairly certain I’d be giving up my caffeine habit if I had found a dead turtle in my package of freeze-dried coffee. In a recent news article, Ms. Morris told Iowa City reporters that even though she didn’t find the turtle until the package was half empty, she would continue to have her morning beverage, only “now she’d be a more mindful consumer.”

Ok readers, let’s think about this carefully--“until the package was HALF EMPTY!” According to my calculations, that’s approximately sixty-four cups of dead turtle-flavored coffee. I have but one response to that. Aaackkk!! Personally, I think this is just the kind of thing that might bring my coffee consumption to an abrupt halt, mindfully or otherwise.

When I read this story, I thought immediately (well, after the initial Ack! wore off) of those tiny weevil bugs, sitophilus granarius to be exact, that get into bags of flour and other grain foods. You know, the kind of insect that can disguise himself as the crumbs of any breakfast cereal, and you don’t find him until you’ve made your way to the bottom of the bowl. Oh admit it, you’ve started your day like this a time or two.

You pour yourself a hearty bowl of Fruity Tryglyceride-e-Os, innocent of the fact that as you eat your cereal, several granarians, as they prefer to be called, are re-hydrating themselves in the milk along with it. A fact that will become nauseatingly obvious with your last spoonful. And then…there they are, bobbing to the surface like so much flotsam and jetsam, their little invertebrate bodies all plumped up and ready for bug business. And now, you’re ready for business, too, but of a decidedly different nature. It happened just like that, didn’t it?

Now readers, let me ask you. Wouldn’t that have been the perfect time to start a new diet? After all, our Mr. S. Granarius has seen to it that you won’t be touching carbohydrates for at least the next millennium. This will, no doubt, give our Basic Food Groups’ Pyramid a new architectural look. It’s not so much a pyramid any longer, but rather more like an experimental Frank Lloyd Wright that never really caught on.

I see the possibility of a whole new diet industry emerging thanks to Ms. Morris’ fortuitous discovery. Just imagine the impact that a well-placed chicken foot could have when packaged in your favorite butter brickle ice cream. And imagine the look of happy surprise on the face of your cardiologist when he reads the results of your latest cholesterol check.

Dr. Rube N. Rubberclogs: “Why, Mr. Flabbasket, I’m happily surprised by the results of your latest cholesterol check! Let me guess, you’ve been enjoying, “New! Rhode Island Red brand, butter brickle ice cream?”

Mr. Flabbasket: “Say Doc, good guess! But, then, I suppose that’s why you get the big bucks, ha, ha! Can I put my clothes back on now?”

These “New! Weight-loss Enhancing--Sabotaged for Your Convenience” products will have to be labeled clearly, of course, to avoid consumer confusion. A catchy logo perhaps, to alert the buying public that a particular product contains a little “dieter’s surprise.” How about a picture of a turtle peeking out of a coffee cup, in honor of Ms. Morris?

So, until this new marketing strategy takes off (FDA approval pending), let’s not look at these “oops episodes” in our nation’s food processing industry as cause for alarm, suspicion, or long, drawn-out law suits that end up as Emmy nominations for Boston Legal. No, let’s just look at them for what they really are.
The first step to a healthier you.

Disclaimer: No animals were harmed in the writing of this column.
©g.Slater2006