I am having a terrible horrible no-good very bad day.
First a guy came to discuss remodeling stuff and he found mold at the base of the bay window in the front. He said the house was basically a dam for all the water heading for the creek and we must level the hill in the front yard and build a retaining wall. Then he found termites.
Then I had to go to the dentist, (since we finally found one, and we haven't been since last February.) Before I left home, I remembered to take my antibiotics, so I wouldn't die when they did the cleaning. (I used to ignore that pill-taking instruction until a guy I know who has a prolapsed valve like I do and he spent a year in the hospital trying not to die.) The pills are so big that they stuck in my esophagus and I forgot my water and the only thing I could find in the car as I sped down the freeway was a gold foil-wrapped chocolate coin to eat to try to push the pills on down. Who eats chocolate on their way to the dentist, I'd like to know. It didn't work. The pills were still giving me a lot of grief.
When it was time to turn off the freeway all I could remember of the directions was to take the Park Marina off-ramp. I did so and pulled over to see if I had remembered to bring the map that Richard had so carefully drawn for me. I had forgotten it. He was at school at his Part Time Job even though the school is still closed for Christmas break, but they are working on the bathrooms and God forbid they do something without him to boss them around. I looked for the school phone number.
He has these little business cards that say he's the boss of the world, mayor of Whitmore, president of the Men's General Store Coffee Club, and Superintendent of the three room school district, They are literally all over the place. They are on every surface in our house, garage, and automobiles. Could I find one in my time of need?
I called Rob. He said he'd look up the dentist's address for me and the calm lady could direct me there . Unfortunately I couldn't remember the guy's name. He looked up the school number and gave it to me, I called Richard, who rolled his eyes and shook his head. I did not need to see him to know this. My esophagus is, by now, on fire and I'm feeling a bit nauseated. My anxiety level is such that I am wishing I had taken Xanex instead.
THEN, and here's the good part, the dentist apparently needs a new boat or something because the report on my teeth is so dreadful that they aren't even going to clean them. NOOOO, they are going to rotor rooter them. You know the part where they stab you with that sharp stick all over your gums and say numbers to their nurse? Well, I got a bunch of fours, which isn't good and then I got a NINE on one of my bridges.
This is not fair. I floss. I have one of those Sonicare torture instruments.
I go back there tomorrow for the first of many visits. I'm thinking two Xanexs. I can remember when I wouldn't take any pills that made me dizzy. Now I check the bottle to make sure it has that little picture of the swerving car on it.
OK, Who's driving me?
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Dear Whoever
Dear Shoplifters,
Thank you so much for adding the impossible to open blister packs to our lives.
Really what are these made of, anyway? This material ought to be used by the military, to reinforce tanks or something.
Dear Safeway Musac Makers,
If you must put “Three Times a Lady” in your music feed, you are just going to have to put up with my out of context maniacal laughter.
See, all I hear is “You un, ti, tee time da wady”
Ala Buckwheat. And that’s just how it is.
Dear Dr. Dentist,
When you are getting ready to do your root canal thing, surely there is a better way to test for the correct tooth than poking it with dry-ice-on-a-stick. Why did you take all those x-rays? And how am I going to get down from the ceiling? And what are you going to do now that I cleared your waiting room with my scream?
Dear People who send me “Public Notices” that look like traffic tickets or one’s grades or mid term reports. Putting “Important Documentation, Do not discard” stamped in red will not work any longer. I know it is an advertisement for hearing aids. You are wasting your stamp.
Thank you so much for adding the impossible to open blister packs to our lives.
Really what are these made of, anyway? This material ought to be used by the military, to reinforce tanks or something.
Dear Safeway Musac Makers,
If you must put “Three Times a Lady” in your music feed, you are just going to have to put up with my out of context maniacal laughter.
See, all I hear is “You un, ti, tee time da wady”
Ala Buckwheat. And that’s just how it is.
Dear Dr. Dentist,
When you are getting ready to do your root canal thing, surely there is a better way to test for the correct tooth than poking it with dry-ice-on-a-stick. Why did you take all those x-rays? And how am I going to get down from the ceiling? And what are you going to do now that I cleared your waiting room with my scream?
Dear People who send me “Public Notices” that look like traffic tickets or one’s grades or mid term reports. Putting “Important Documentation, Do not discard” stamped in red will not work any longer. I know it is an advertisement for hearing aids. You are wasting your stamp.
Hunting
Hunting.
It was a necessity once.
Men loved it then, I understand.
I read something about that when I was in college getting my degree in English Literature. Back when I had to read what I was told. It was about the phenomenon called, “deer fever.”
Some men love it yet today. Why? We have grocery stores. There is an abundance of meat there. It’s less expensive. Waaay less.
I went round and round with my brother-in-law, Ches; may God rest his deer killing soul.
He lectured me on, Thinning Out the Herd. He told me there wasn’t enough food for them all and they’d die anyway. He ate his kills and tried to convince everyone that it tasted delicious, when the smell of it cooking told me otherwise.
He asked me where I thought those steaks and hamburgers that I ate came from. He loved to remind me that I was eating dead chickens.
He didn’t stop with deer. He murdered rabbits, turkeys, and any other animal that had the misfortune to wander into his sites. I loved Ches, but we disagreed on this subject. I told him once, long before he got sick, that when he died, he was going to meet up with all of those animals, standing there in the “Tunnel” with their arms folded and tapping their feet, impatiently.
I’m not opposed to killing animals for food. I love hamburgers. I just don’t want to kill them myself. I don’t want to think about it. My children used to take great pleasure in asking me questions that would make me stop eating. “Mom, what did they do with the veins in this chicken?”
I could not eat an animal that I had known on the hoof, so to speak. One time I had a student, whose sister was in the 4-H program at the local high school. She was raising two pigs to sell. Richard thought it might be a good idea to invest in a pork belly. We went over to put our claim on one half of one of her pigs. I met them. Their names were Martini and Rossi. I couldn’t eat a bite of that pork. My family enjoyed it.
Once, when we were living in Tulsa, a neighbor brought us two steaks when she came back from a weekend at her father’s farm. Seems he had just slaughtered a cow and…
Richard enjoyed both of the steaks. I realize I’m unreasonable in this area. But. Still.
Ches was never able to explain it to me properly.
Can someone tell me how an otherwise sensitive, good person can derive pleasure from watching a magnificent animal drop in his sight?
Incidentally, I finally found a way to stop my children from grossing me out at the table. I told them that I had washed the potato skins they were eating with the same brush that I had used to clean the hamster cage.
It was a necessity once.
Men loved it then, I understand.
I read something about that when I was in college getting my degree in English Literature. Back when I had to read what I was told. It was about the phenomenon called, “deer fever.”
Some men love it yet today. Why? We have grocery stores. There is an abundance of meat there. It’s less expensive. Waaay less.
I went round and round with my brother-in-law, Ches; may God rest his deer killing soul.
He lectured me on, Thinning Out the Herd. He told me there wasn’t enough food for them all and they’d die anyway. He ate his kills and tried to convince everyone that it tasted delicious, when the smell of it cooking told me otherwise.
He asked me where I thought those steaks and hamburgers that I ate came from. He loved to remind me that I was eating dead chickens.
He didn’t stop with deer. He murdered rabbits, turkeys, and any other animal that had the misfortune to wander into his sites. I loved Ches, but we disagreed on this subject. I told him once, long before he got sick, that when he died, he was going to meet up with all of those animals, standing there in the “Tunnel” with their arms folded and tapping their feet, impatiently.
I’m not opposed to killing animals for food. I love hamburgers. I just don’t want to kill them myself. I don’t want to think about it. My children used to take great pleasure in asking me questions that would make me stop eating. “Mom, what did they do with the veins in this chicken?”
I could not eat an animal that I had known on the hoof, so to speak. One time I had a student, whose sister was in the 4-H program at the local high school. She was raising two pigs to sell. Richard thought it might be a good idea to invest in a pork belly. We went over to put our claim on one half of one of her pigs. I met them. Their names were Martini and Rossi. I couldn’t eat a bite of that pork. My family enjoyed it.
Once, when we were living in Tulsa, a neighbor brought us two steaks when she came back from a weekend at her father’s farm. Seems he had just slaughtered a cow and…
Richard enjoyed both of the steaks. I realize I’m unreasonable in this area. But. Still.
Ches was never able to explain it to me properly.
Can someone tell me how an otherwise sensitive, good person can derive pleasure from watching a magnificent animal drop in his sight?
Incidentally, I finally found a way to stop my children from grossing me out at the table. I told them that I had washed the potato skins they were eating with the same brush that I had used to clean the hamster cage.
Letter From Scarlet
To Rob Love, Love, Love, Kiss, Kiss:
I loved you from the minute I saw you. Remember that day when Mom brought me home from her school? She was a real nice lady and I am sure glad she took me from those people who were going to take me to the pound, but it was you I loved the most. I wanted to be by you all of the time.
I love you for putting all those papers all over your floor when I was a puppy. I love you for letting me sleep with you on your soft sheets with all those sheep on them.
I love you for coming to get me from the park down the street all of those times I got a little bit lost while I was trying to find you.
I love you for taking me to the beach so I could find my ball in the surf. The water there didn’t scare me but that water in that big hole in the back yard did. It tried to get me one time, remember?
I love you for making those little kissy sounds that I could hear from anywhere. I love you for taking me on walks so I could find special sticks to carry home when we were living in that tall house with those kitties.
I liked the kitties ok, but I loved when we found Leigh.
Thank you for getting that little boat for me and for giving me rides to the shore so I could have a little rest from the big boat.
I love you for letting me play with your socks.
I loved that you called me “Puppy” even when I wasn’t a puppy any more.
I love you for taking me with you, always.
I love you for loving me. I can feel your heart.
If you sit really still and think about me, you will feel me beside you, and some times I will visit you when you sleep.
You might have a dream that I happen to be in, but sometimes I will come to visit you.
You will be able to tell the difference.
You and me---we are special.
Love, Scarlet
I loved you from the minute I saw you. Remember that day when Mom brought me home from her school? She was a real nice lady and I am sure glad she took me from those people who were going to take me to the pound, but it was you I loved the most. I wanted to be by you all of the time.
I love you for putting all those papers all over your floor when I was a puppy. I love you for letting me sleep with you on your soft sheets with all those sheep on them.
I love you for coming to get me from the park down the street all of those times I got a little bit lost while I was trying to find you.
I love you for taking me to the beach so I could find my ball in the surf. The water there didn’t scare me but that water in that big hole in the back yard did. It tried to get me one time, remember?
I love you for making those little kissy sounds that I could hear from anywhere. I love you for taking me on walks so I could find special sticks to carry home when we were living in that tall house with those kitties.
I liked the kitties ok, but I loved when we found Leigh.
Thank you for getting that little boat for me and for giving me rides to the shore so I could have a little rest from the big boat.
I love you for letting me play with your socks.
I loved that you called me “Puppy” even when I wasn’t a puppy any more.
I love you for taking me with you, always.
I love you for loving me. I can feel your heart.
If you sit really still and think about me, you will feel me beside you, and some times I will visit you when you sleep.
You might have a dream that I happen to be in, but sometimes I will come to visit you.
You will be able to tell the difference.
You and me---we are special.
Love, Scarlet
Scummy Las Vegas
Journal Entry: Feb. 15, 2005
We just returned from a trip to Las Vegas. There was a purpose to this trip. My brother, Johnny, (forever, he will be Johnny to me) got married at noon on Valentines Day.
Las Vegas is not my favorite place, and it has to be something important to drag my cookies across the desert to that smoky, noisy place, full of obnoxious tacky people, not counting me or anyone else I care about.
Remember, I live on Planet Lynn.
This wedding was important.
I was in charge of room accommodations for Rich, Barbie, John, Whitney, and me.
For the last time. They will never let me do it again.
History.
One time when we passed through Vegas on our way to another destination, we stayed at a Days Inn that was right behind the MGM Grand. It cost $80.00 per night because we’re old. It was clean. It was fine.
Another time we stayed at the Mandalay Bay and Richard hasn’t gotten over it to this day, as the night cost almost $1,000 after tickets to Mama Mia and dinner and the room. I personally thought it was worth it because I stayed in the big Jacuzzi bathtub for over an hour, and later I LOVED Mama Mia. Some people just don’t know how to enjoy life.
So. Anyway, after hearing from Barb that they didn’t care where we stayed, I went on line and made reservations at Days Inn.
As it turned out I inadvertently chose the downtown Days Inn.
Big Mistake.
Obviously, I am not a hotel snob. However, I should have known when the parking lot was gooey and gross looking, that it was bad. When the elevator smelled a bit like pee-pee, we made futile plans to leave. In our adjoining rooms, there were barf(?) stains on the carpet, chairs were ripped and had cotton showing, the air conditioning was off and we could only heat our already warm rooms, so we had to sleep with our window open, thus risking our lives.
There was no iron, (like I would have used one anyway), and no remote for the TV. We had to actually get up and Walk Across the Room and push buttons on the television to CHANGE the Channel! Can you believe it?
THEN Richard decided that there was DNA on the blanket. Gross.
We found these things out after we had a delicious dinner at Olives at the Bellagio, and went back to our rooms to watch the rest of the Grammys. I cannot recommend Olives HIGHLY enough, here. Outstanding.
--Aside--
(On the corner by our motel, there was a guy begging. He put his hands in pleading mode and then made the sign of the cross like this:
Head,
Left shoulder,
Belt buckle,
Right shoulder.
One would think that if a person wanted to appear religious, one would learn the correct motions, wouldn’t one?
Our TV did not receive but three channels and none was the Grammy channel. We spent the rest of the night finding new accommodations for the next night.
By the time we went to sleep, thanks to John, we had a reservation at the Palace and would not have to sleep with the cooties again. The next morning, as I dressed for the wedding, I found that the intake end of the hair dryer was full of lint and schmegma. I almost hurled. There is nothing worse than schmegma in the morning. (Schmegma is synonymous with grah-doo.)
Richard and John reported that a guy with a long ponytail came into the lobby while they were getting coffee, exclaiming about the wonderful accommodations. He was especially excited over the fact that they provided a snooze alarm! I just couldn’t agree less. But then we didn’t use all of the amenities.
Like the snooze alarm.
We just got up.
I have more to say about this visit.
We just returned from a trip to Las Vegas. There was a purpose to this trip. My brother, Johnny, (forever, he will be Johnny to me) got married at noon on Valentines Day.
Las Vegas is not my favorite place, and it has to be something important to drag my cookies across the desert to that smoky, noisy place, full of obnoxious tacky people, not counting me or anyone else I care about.
Remember, I live on Planet Lynn.
This wedding was important.
I was in charge of room accommodations for Rich, Barbie, John, Whitney, and me.
For the last time. They will never let me do it again.
History.
One time when we passed through Vegas on our way to another destination, we stayed at a Days Inn that was right behind the MGM Grand. It cost $80.00 per night because we’re old. It was clean. It was fine.
Another time we stayed at the Mandalay Bay and Richard hasn’t gotten over it to this day, as the night cost almost $1,000 after tickets to Mama Mia and dinner and the room. I personally thought it was worth it because I stayed in the big Jacuzzi bathtub for over an hour, and later I LOVED Mama Mia. Some people just don’t know how to enjoy life.
So. Anyway, after hearing from Barb that they didn’t care where we stayed, I went on line and made reservations at Days Inn.
As it turned out I inadvertently chose the downtown Days Inn.
Big Mistake.
Obviously, I am not a hotel snob. However, I should have known when the parking lot was gooey and gross looking, that it was bad. When the elevator smelled a bit like pee-pee, we made futile plans to leave. In our adjoining rooms, there were barf(?) stains on the carpet, chairs were ripped and had cotton showing, the air conditioning was off and we could only heat our already warm rooms, so we had to sleep with our window open, thus risking our lives.
There was no iron, (like I would have used one anyway), and no remote for the TV. We had to actually get up and Walk Across the Room and push buttons on the television to CHANGE the Channel! Can you believe it?
THEN Richard decided that there was DNA on the blanket. Gross.
We found these things out after we had a delicious dinner at Olives at the Bellagio, and went back to our rooms to watch the rest of the Grammys. I cannot recommend Olives HIGHLY enough, here. Outstanding.
--Aside--
(On the corner by our motel, there was a guy begging. He put his hands in pleading mode and then made the sign of the cross like this:
Head,
Left shoulder,
Belt buckle,
Right shoulder.
One would think that if a person wanted to appear religious, one would learn the correct motions, wouldn’t one?
Our TV did not receive but three channels and none was the Grammy channel. We spent the rest of the night finding new accommodations for the next night.
By the time we went to sleep, thanks to John, we had a reservation at the Palace and would not have to sleep with the cooties again. The next morning, as I dressed for the wedding, I found that the intake end of the hair dryer was full of lint and schmegma. I almost hurled. There is nothing worse than schmegma in the morning. (Schmegma is synonymous with grah-doo.)
Richard and John reported that a guy with a long ponytail came into the lobby while they were getting coffee, exclaiming about the wonderful accommodations. He was especially excited over the fact that they provided a snooze alarm! I just couldn’t agree less. But then we didn’t use all of the amenities.
Like the snooze alarm.
We just got up.
I have more to say about this visit.
Moving Bubble Wrap and Letters
When we were in the process of moving from Orange County to Shasta County, we found there was more to do besides sell the house and buy a new one, oh, and pack stuff up into boxes.
We hadn’t moved in almost twenty years. One can amass a lot of cherished treasures in that time.
I had completely forgotten the magnitude of the project.
I went to Home Depot to purchase some bubble wrap. A helpful employee directed me right to it. It was sitting there on the shelf, folded and then rolled into tidy rolls with a paper band/label around each one, displaying the handy bar code. I picked up two, and headed for the checkout stand. No time for looking around at all the wonderful Home Depot stuff today! I was on a mission.
I opted for the self-checkout. Isn’t technology wonderful? I scanned one of my rolls of bubble wrap. The machine genie told me it cost $6.49 and for me to place it in the bagging area. I did so.
Silence.
Then the computer genie got a bit perturbed with me. She said for me to place my purchase in the bagging area.
“I did!” I said.
Suddenly, she declared that there were unauthorized objects in the bagging area.
I took the bubble wrap off of the bagging area. By now the bubble wrap was not looking so tidy.
“Please place purchase in the bagging area.”
“FINE!” I placed the now unraveling bubble wrap in the bagging area.
“There are unauthorized objects in the bagging area!” she declared.
I removed the unauthorized bubble wrap, which now started to completely explode out of the neat little package it was in. The guy behind me was having trouble suppressing his laughter. I picked up the other roll of bubble wrap from the floor where I had placed it while I tried to figure out what was up. It exploded from its neat little roll, too. I decided to go to a regular checkout stand, so I shuffled over dragging eight feet of bubble wrap behind me.
As the human checkout person stuffed my merchandise into a very big bag, she told me laughingly that the scales find it difficult to register something as light as bubble wrap.
This was the beginning of a moving adventure that started out with,
“Do you want to take this?”
“Duh, YES! I want to take that!”
…and moved on to, “I don’t think we’ll be needing anything in this whole room.”
There were a lot of other chores to do that didn’t involve boxes, bubble wrap and tape.
Richard called the club where he played tennis to end his membership. After learning that one must submit a letter if you aren’t going to be a member anymore, he asked me to write a letter for him explaining what is going on.
I have no idea what they’d do if you didn’t write them a letter. Would they not let you quit? Would they keep sending you calendars and newsletters? Would they force you to come play tennis and golf? I don’t know. It could get sticky.
On the way upstairs to my computer, I got an impish feeling that always seems to overtake me when I am called upon to write a serious letter. These urges must be connected to the same gene that makes me laugh inappropriately.
My teaching partners and I used have occasion to write letters to parents, and we would often write a completely unacceptable letter first. We would laugh ourselves senseless and wet our pants while writing the bogus one. “Your child is being placed in this reading group because he is dumber than a box of rocks and after meeting you, we can see why.” (Hey, don’t judge me. We needed a little diversion now and then.)
Then we would write the one that was diplomatic and correct. “We feel that this plan will be a wonderful opportunity for your child to have more one-on-one time with his teacher.”
So, I wrote this letter for Richard and took it to him to sign.
“Dear Seacliff Country Club,
I am quitting your stupid pretentious country club due to the fact that all the people there are pompous blowhards, who don’t know which end of a tennis racquet to hold. I am sick of looking at all of the spastic moves you make on the tennis court. You are all old and ugly and look like cotton-pickers from spending too much time in the sun.
I will not play any longer with cheaters like you who call my serves out when they are clearly in.
Good Riddance,
I wrote a proper letter too, but took him the one above.
It was lots of fun.
There is more to this moving story. I might just tell it.
Lynn Guinn
Visit my blog at:
http://itsajulything.blogspot.com/
We hadn’t moved in almost twenty years. One can amass a lot of cherished treasures in that time.
I had completely forgotten the magnitude of the project.
I went to Home Depot to purchase some bubble wrap. A helpful employee directed me right to it. It was sitting there on the shelf, folded and then rolled into tidy rolls with a paper band/label around each one, displaying the handy bar code. I picked up two, and headed for the checkout stand. No time for looking around at all the wonderful Home Depot stuff today! I was on a mission.
I opted for the self-checkout. Isn’t technology wonderful? I scanned one of my rolls of bubble wrap. The machine genie told me it cost $6.49 and for me to place it in the bagging area. I did so.
Silence.
Then the computer genie got a bit perturbed with me. She said for me to place my purchase in the bagging area.
“I did!” I said.
Suddenly, she declared that there were unauthorized objects in the bagging area.
I took the bubble wrap off of the bagging area. By now the bubble wrap was not looking so tidy.
“Please place purchase in the bagging area.”
“FINE!” I placed the now unraveling bubble wrap in the bagging area.
“There are unauthorized objects in the bagging area!” she declared.
I removed the unauthorized bubble wrap, which now started to completely explode out of the neat little package it was in. The guy behind me was having trouble suppressing his laughter. I picked up the other roll of bubble wrap from the floor where I had placed it while I tried to figure out what was up. It exploded from its neat little roll, too. I decided to go to a regular checkout stand, so I shuffled over dragging eight feet of bubble wrap behind me.
As the human checkout person stuffed my merchandise into a very big bag, she told me laughingly that the scales find it difficult to register something as light as bubble wrap.
This was the beginning of a moving adventure that started out with,
“Do you want to take this?”
“Duh, YES! I want to take that!”
…and moved on to, “I don’t think we’ll be needing anything in this whole room.”
There were a lot of other chores to do that didn’t involve boxes, bubble wrap and tape.
Richard called the club where he played tennis to end his membership. After learning that one must submit a letter if you aren’t going to be a member anymore, he asked me to write a letter for him explaining what is going on.
I have no idea what they’d do if you didn’t write them a letter. Would they not let you quit? Would they keep sending you calendars and newsletters? Would they force you to come play tennis and golf? I don’t know. It could get sticky.
On the way upstairs to my computer, I got an impish feeling that always seems to overtake me when I am called upon to write a serious letter. These urges must be connected to the same gene that makes me laugh inappropriately.
My teaching partners and I used have occasion to write letters to parents, and we would often write a completely unacceptable letter first. We would laugh ourselves senseless and wet our pants while writing the bogus one. “Your child is being placed in this reading group because he is dumber than a box of rocks and after meeting you, we can see why.” (Hey, don’t judge me. We needed a little diversion now and then.)
Then we would write the one that was diplomatic and correct. “We feel that this plan will be a wonderful opportunity for your child to have more one-on-one time with his teacher.”
So, I wrote this letter for Richard and took it to him to sign.
“Dear Seacliff Country Club,
I am quitting your stupid pretentious country club due to the fact that all the people there are pompous blowhards, who don’t know which end of a tennis racquet to hold. I am sick of looking at all of the spastic moves you make on the tennis court. You are all old and ugly and look like cotton-pickers from spending too much time in the sun.
I will not play any longer with cheaters like you who call my serves out when they are clearly in.
Good Riddance,
I wrote a proper letter too, but took him the one above.
It was lots of fun.
There is more to this moving story. I might just tell it.
Lynn Guinn
Visit my blog at:
http://itsajulything.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Trouble with Bubble Wrap
OK, so, I went to Home Depot to purchase some bubble wrap.
A helpful employee directed me right to it. It was sitting there on the shelf, folded and then rolled into tidy rolls with a paper band (slash) label around each one, displaying the handy bar code. I picked up two, and headed for the checkout stand. No time for looking around at all the wonderful Home Depot stuff today! I was on a mission.
I opted for the self-checkout. Isn’t technology wonderful? I scanned one of my rolls of bubble wrap. The machine genie told me it cost $6.49 and for me to place it in the bagging area. I did so.
Silence.
Then the computer genie got a bit perturbed with me. She said for me to place my purchase in the bagging area.
“I did!” I said.
Suddenly, she declared that there were unauthorized objects in the bagging area.
I took the bubble wrap off of the bagging area. By now the bubble wrap is not looking so tidy.
“Please place purchase in the bagging area.”
“FINE!” I placed the now unraveling bubble wrap in the bagging area.
“There are unauthorized objects in the bagging area!” she declared.
I removed the stuff, which has now decided to completely explode out of the neat little package it was in. The guy behind me is having trouble suppressing his laughter. I pick up the other roll of bubble wrap from the floor where I placed it while I tried to figure out what was up. It explodes from its neat little roll. I now decide to go to a person operated checkout stand so I shuffle over dragging eight feet of bubble wrap behind me.
The human checkout person tells me laughingly that the scales find it difficult to register something as light as the bubble wrap as she stuffs it into a bag.
Isn’t technology wonderful!?
A helpful employee directed me right to it. It was sitting there on the shelf, folded and then rolled into tidy rolls with a paper band (slash) label around each one, displaying the handy bar code. I picked up two, and headed for the checkout stand. No time for looking around at all the wonderful Home Depot stuff today! I was on a mission.
I opted for the self-checkout. Isn’t technology wonderful? I scanned one of my rolls of bubble wrap. The machine genie told me it cost $6.49 and for me to place it in the bagging area. I did so.
Silence.
Then the computer genie got a bit perturbed with me. She said for me to place my purchase in the bagging area.
“I did!” I said.
Suddenly, she declared that there were unauthorized objects in the bagging area.
I took the bubble wrap off of the bagging area. By now the bubble wrap is not looking so tidy.
“Please place purchase in the bagging area.”
“FINE!” I placed the now unraveling bubble wrap in the bagging area.
“There are unauthorized objects in the bagging area!” she declared.
I removed the stuff, which has now decided to completely explode out of the neat little package it was in. The guy behind me is having trouble suppressing his laughter. I pick up the other roll of bubble wrap from the floor where I placed it while I tried to figure out what was up. It explodes from its neat little roll. I now decide to go to a person operated checkout stand so I shuffle over dragging eight feet of bubble wrap behind me.
The human checkout person tells me laughingly that the scales find it difficult to register something as light as the bubble wrap as she stuffs it into a bag.
Isn’t technology wonderful!?
Sydney Harbor Bridge Climb
Bridge Climb
There is a monumental bridge in Sydney, Australia, that spans the harbor. While cruising under it one day we noticed these little “ant people” crawling over the upper girders. This looked like something we should investigate! We discovered that for a price we could climb up there also.
Being members of the lunatic fringe, my sister and brother-in-law, (Barbie and John), and I took a taxi to the bridge.
Rancher Richie, not being a member of the lunatic fringe, decided he’d rather take a nap.
Oh, I am starting to get nervous just writing these words. We entered the office and signed waivers that said we promised not to sue them if we should happen to fall off and manage, somehow, to live through it. While waiting to don the required attire, (ugly gray jumpsuits), I looked at the wall of celebrities who have participated in this activity and lived. Bruce Springsteen and the Olsen twins were pictured, but I didn’t get to notice others because I had to go put everything on my person into a locker because even something as small as a quarter could kill a person underneath, should the coin happen to escape out of one’s pocket. If any of us needed to wear glasses, they had to be strapped on. Then we had to hook this belt contraption around our waists that included a thin little chain that was attached to a little ball. This little ball was supposed to keep us attached to the bridge.
“There’s your boyfriend.” My ever-alert sister whispered in my ear. We always play the “There’s Your Boyfriend” game.
He was a doozey! He had several missing teeth and didn’t look too “with it” if you know what I mean. His ugly gray jump suit was twisted around him so he looked like a two year old who had dressed himself for the first time. I decided he should be my new best friend.
I couldn’t leave Barbie without a boyfriend, so I found her one. He had a carpet of hair growing out of his ears. I would have found John a girlfriend, but Barb and I were the only good candidates for that honor.
Then we took off to climb the bridge.
Our intuitive guide Jason positioned Barbie and I, (along with my boyfriend) in front of the line. We got the feeling he always kept the Goonies close to him so he could watch out for them. We were the Goonies.
We began our three-and-a-half-hour adventure. When we were still on step one, I looked down. We were already so high up that the people below looked like dollhouse people. I felt as if I might barf, and I wondered if the little people underneath me would appreciate that.
Let me say here, that I am not afraid of heights. I am just afraid of falling off high places, and I constantly picture of myself plummeting from them. With that said you would understand why I spent the first one hundred steps with my eyes closed while humming a light little dirge. Since I couldn’t see, I had to feel my way with each step, which took a little longer but I felt it was worth it.
As I became a bit braver, I opened my eyes but I kept them looking upward, sort of like Bernadette Peters did when Steve Martin told her not to look at her plate because there were snails on it, in the movie, “The Jerk.”
I still had to feel my way with my feet, and test for solid iron works before adding my weight. We were about a zillion feet high.
Our patient guide kept asking me if I was all right, as if I were a 58 year old pregnant woman. I began to get slightly more embarrassed than scared, so I decided to “watch where I was going” like my mother always said just after I stepped on a baby’s fingers or ran into an unsuspecting old lady.
Just as I was starting to get used to walking a mile up in the air on erector set walkways we came to several flights of, well, ladders, actually. They were arranged like a staircase in a building except that when we went from one staircase (or ladder-case?) to another, there was nothing beneath us.
Nothing. But. Air.
(And quite a bit if it.)
So, when we got to the top of one ladder, we had to hover out over Nothing and turn to get to the bottom of the next ladder.
Did I mention there was Nothing beneath us?
I was completely traumatized by this part, and just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, a commuter train rumbled across the bridge causing the ladders to shake like a seven-point-oh earthquake. I could see post-traumatic stress syndrome in my future.
I remember poking my head up through a trap door in the floor of the bridge and seeing cars and trucks whizzing by, but that’s about all I recall until we were standing at the apex, looking down on the majestic Sydney Opera House. The view was spectacular, and I was happily congratulating myself for finishing the adventure. Ta-Da! I was on top of the world!
Then I realized we had to get back down to the ground.
And those ladders were still there.
There is a monumental bridge in Sydney, Australia, that spans the harbor. While cruising under it one day we noticed these little “ant people” crawling over the upper girders. This looked like something we should investigate! We discovered that for a price we could climb up there also.
Being members of the lunatic fringe, my sister and brother-in-law, (Barbie and John), and I took a taxi to the bridge.
Rancher Richie, not being a member of the lunatic fringe, decided he’d rather take a nap.
Oh, I am starting to get nervous just writing these words. We entered the office and signed waivers that said we promised not to sue them if we should happen to fall off and manage, somehow, to live through it. While waiting to don the required attire, (ugly gray jumpsuits), I looked at the wall of celebrities who have participated in this activity and lived. Bruce Springsteen and the Olsen twins were pictured, but I didn’t get to notice others because I had to go put everything on my person into a locker because even something as small as a quarter could kill a person underneath, should the coin happen to escape out of one’s pocket. If any of us needed to wear glasses, they had to be strapped on. Then we had to hook this belt contraption around our waists that included a thin little chain that was attached to a little ball. This little ball was supposed to keep us attached to the bridge.
“There’s your boyfriend.” My ever-alert sister whispered in my ear. We always play the “There’s Your Boyfriend” game.
He was a doozey! He had several missing teeth and didn’t look too “with it” if you know what I mean. His ugly gray jump suit was twisted around him so he looked like a two year old who had dressed himself for the first time. I decided he should be my new best friend.
I couldn’t leave Barbie without a boyfriend, so I found her one. He had a carpet of hair growing out of his ears. I would have found John a girlfriend, but Barb and I were the only good candidates for that honor.
Then we took off to climb the bridge.
Our intuitive guide Jason positioned Barbie and I, (along with my boyfriend) in front of the line. We got the feeling he always kept the Goonies close to him so he could watch out for them. We were the Goonies.
We began our three-and-a-half-hour adventure. When we were still on step one, I looked down. We were already so high up that the people below looked like dollhouse people. I felt as if I might barf, and I wondered if the little people underneath me would appreciate that.
Let me say here, that I am not afraid of heights. I am just afraid of falling off high places, and I constantly picture of myself plummeting from them. With that said you would understand why I spent the first one hundred steps with my eyes closed while humming a light little dirge. Since I couldn’t see, I had to feel my way with each step, which took a little longer but I felt it was worth it.
As I became a bit braver, I opened my eyes but I kept them looking upward, sort of like Bernadette Peters did when Steve Martin told her not to look at her plate because there were snails on it, in the movie, “The Jerk.”
I still had to feel my way with my feet, and test for solid iron works before adding my weight. We were about a zillion feet high.
Our patient guide kept asking me if I was all right, as if I were a 58 year old pregnant woman. I began to get slightly more embarrassed than scared, so I decided to “watch where I was going” like my mother always said just after I stepped on a baby’s fingers or ran into an unsuspecting old lady.
Just as I was starting to get used to walking a mile up in the air on erector set walkways we came to several flights of, well, ladders, actually. They were arranged like a staircase in a building except that when we went from one staircase (or ladder-case?) to another, there was nothing beneath us.
Nothing. But. Air.
(And quite a bit if it.)
So, when we got to the top of one ladder, we had to hover out over Nothing and turn to get to the bottom of the next ladder.
Did I mention there was Nothing beneath us?
I was completely traumatized by this part, and just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, a commuter train rumbled across the bridge causing the ladders to shake like a seven-point-oh earthquake. I could see post-traumatic stress syndrome in my future.
I remember poking my head up through a trap door in the floor of the bridge and seeing cars and trucks whizzing by, but that’s about all I recall until we were standing at the apex, looking down on the majestic Sydney Opera House. The view was spectacular, and I was happily congratulating myself for finishing the adventure. Ta-Da! I was on top of the world!
Then I realized we had to get back down to the ground.
And those ladders were still there.
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