Category House and Home

Buttons, Buttons, They Have Too Many Buttons

Michael 1 Comment

He of We never thought of them as too many until She of We brought it up.  After all, there were only three of them.  But to be honest about it, one was confusing, one didn’t make any changes, and one nobody really knew what it did.  But still, how confusing could it be.  After all, it’s only a toaster.

She of We has been on an anti-button quest for as long as He of We has known her. “All you need is power, volume, and channel,” she often says of the TV remote.  He of We secretly agrees with her but sometimes really just wishes for one remote. The one for the cable that’s suppsoed to run everything never does and the one for the DVD is never there when you need it.  But fewer remotes mean more buttons.  Or does it.  Even if one remote is running three or even four entertainment devices, the commands are as universal as the remotes are supposed to be.  Power, volume, channel, and for the DVD, play and stop.  Throw a “menu” button in for the DVD and the cable and that’s still only 10 buttons.

The point of too many buttons was hammered home the day She of We counted them.  Fifty-three buttons on the cable remote, 32 on the TV remote, 19 on the microwave, and 10 on the coffee maker. Do they all have to be so complicated.  It’s like all of the appliances were designerd by committee.  Perhaps they were.  Hopefully they won’t revolt.

As we’re typing this, we’re counting buttons.  Excluding those for the letters and numbers, this computer has 27 additional buttons.  That’s 27 more buttons than a classic Underwood typewriter of 85 years ago.  And it gets us to the Internet and around the world.  Yet the cable remote has twice as many buttons and it barely gets us around the channel guide.  Like that third mystery button on the toaster, we aren’t actually even certain that they all do anything.

Se here’s our advice for the electrical engineer who is charged with designing people friendly accessories.  Power.  Channel.  Volume.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Leaf Me Alone

Michael Leave a comment

“I remember raking leaves and then getting hot cocoa,” She of We said.  “I remember raking leaves and getting chest pains,” He of We countered.  They were discussing why leaf clearing had become such an ordeal around here.

Here is the Northeast where the fall foliage can be quite striking.  It is the thing that sometimes makes one yearn for days of real SLR cameras and big panoramic prints on the wall over the sofa stretching from end to end.  But as leaves turn color, so do they fall. 

He or We’s mini-estate holds 3 fifty-foot maples, a half-dozen somewhat larger oaks, a red-bud, a crab apple, a locust, and a couple of “just trees” on a space smaller than most fast food restaurants’ parking lots.  There are lots of leaves that fall into that tiny space.  But over the course of a few weeks they get raked or blown or sucked up into the lawn tractor’s grass catchers and tossed over the hill waiting to become the next generation’s compost.  She of We’s lands boast a similar variety of foliage droppers on another parking lot.  Her tree droppings are likewise dealt with and before the first snow falls to put the grass to bed, the grass is freed of the trees’ former dressings and able to breathe through the winter.

As Norman Rockwell like as we’d seem to be doing our job, we’ve noticed that for many, leaf-clearing is not the pleasant pastime it once was.  Just over the past few days we’ve seen neighbors blowing leaves into the streets we suppose in the hopes that the wind of the passing cars will pull the offensive vegetation to the corner where it will board the local bus into town and perhaps get lost and never find its way back.  We’ve also noticed another routinely blowing his leaves into the neighbor’s yard.  You almost could hear him thinking “they came off your trees, they’re your leaves!”

There was once a time when raking leaves into a big pile for the kids to jump into was a passing rite of fall.  Then we would drag them to the burn barrel (the leaves, not the kids) where the sweet smell of burning maple leaves would compete with the warming scent of that hot cocoa and maybe of a toasted marshmallow or a hot dog on a stick.  We remember those crisp autumn afternoons pulling the rakes through the yards, the bright sunshine never seen any other time of year dappling through the remains of the trees’ summer wear.  There may not be any cocoa each time some leaf clearing is done, and thanks to either asthmatic bleeding hearts or safety-conscious volunteer fire companies, leaf burning is a thing of the past.  Still, Both of We get our lawns free of the former colorful flora without much whining.

Now we wait for the news article about two neighbors coming to blows over one blowing his leaves into the other’s yard.  And there will be some story about someone receiving a ticket for raking debris into a city street in violation of some or another ordinance while the offender stands at the curb in front of the TV camera asking where he was supposed to rake them.  Somebody at work will question why he even bothered to plant any trees and will be looking up numbers for tree removal services so he won’t have to go through “that” any more. 

We don’t know.  The leaves aren’t that hard to deal with.  And after the whining we’ll have a glass of wine and a plate of fresh fruit and cheese.  Cocoa and marshmallows?  Next you’ll be expecting us to use the leaves to fill a plastic bag that looks like a pumpkin.  Sheesh!  Make that a bottle of wine.  Each.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

 

Do You Smell What I Smell

Michael Leave a comment

It all started innocently enough.  All we did was go shopping.  It was then that we wandered into the fragrance aisle.  Not fragrances as in perfumes and colognes but fragrances as in room deodorizers and air fresheners.

Do you know what they’ve done with air fresheners lately?  They look like rocks, they have cunning sniffer inlets, they take oils and liquids, and they’ve turned some into mini-sprayers that plug in or work on batteries.  Electric powered air fresheners, imagine that.

We made our choices and continued our shopping, barely able to contain our anticipation over our new air fresheners.  Well, perhaps not that unable to contain it, but we were looking forward to them.  She of We selected a battery operated one that promised to neutralize bad smells whenever they were detected.  He of We went for esthetics over utility and chose a unit that would go with the décor of his bathroom.  Unfortunately the scent was not the one he really wanted.  He wanted the scent that came with the aforementioned “rock” but looks won out.  Besides, he figured he could correct that when it came time to purchase the refill.

Ah, the refills.  We were so intent on exploring these crafty little units that we didn’t start looking for refills until we had made our selections.  We searched the shelves but couldn’t locate refills for either of our units.  He of We recalled that Child of He had a plug in unit and a refill for that style also eluded them.  There seemed to be no refills at all; that could be why Child’s unit was sitting on her bathroom counter, empty and unplugged.  She of We remembered seeing lots of them in another store and there would be plenty of time to worry about refills.  First we had to get them home and get them freshening! 

And eventually home is where we got them.  First to She of We’s where we finally extricated her new bad smell controller from the hermetically sealed plastic packaging.  Why is everything is now packaged in those devious plastic boxes that only open with the aid of a very sharp pair of scissors?   It wasn’t too many years ago that manufacturers were taken to task because they had too many layers of packaging.  Cellophane wrappers inside cardboard boxes inside plastic over-wraps.  We can see where packaging like that was the absolute antithesis of being green.  But is this new wave of sealed from all evil really the way to go?  Are there that many people wanting to steal a $4.00 air freshener out of its box off a store’s shelf that the shopkeepers have put up the challenge to the manufacturers to make it impossible to get to without first stealing a pocket knife?

But we digress.  Eventually we got them home and eventually we got them out of their packages.  She of We read through the 12 page user guide to her unit while He of We fiddled with the battery case cover and slipped in the required 3 AAA cells.  Within minutes it was perched on the table waiting for a bad smell to counter.  That might not have been when we first thought of it but it was when She of We first put it out there in spoken words.  How does it tell?

Equally eventually He of We got his new freshener unpackaged, loaded with his not so favorite fragrance and settled it onto a bathroom shelf, looking quite like it belong there, part of the ensemble in black.  And not smelling at all like the printed description.  But that was ok since He of We liked that better than what it was supposed to smell like.

And so, Both of We are battling bad smells with the new high tech gadgetry that has become room air fresheners.  And to them we say bring back the Lysol in a spray can.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

Look Here

Michael Leave a comment

Last week She of We was in an accident.  A car accident.  She’s fine.  You can’t really say she had an accident because her car was the innocent bystander. So we guess you have to say she was in an accident.  Nothing terrible.  Not even hardly bad.  But an accident none the less.  An accident caused by . . . distracted driving.

No, she wasn’t hit by anybody writing or reader a text message.  And there was no building involved.  Regular readers know we have been chronicling the ongoing incidents of vehicular buildingcide.  See Drive Through Service, Drive Through Part Two, and Drive Around Please while we continue to gather information for our fourth installment.  But we digress.

She of We was in an accident caused by distracted driving.  She was at a stop at the end of an exit ramp from one of the interstates leading into town when a lady rammed her SUV into the back of She’s SUV.  How did she not notice a two ton black vehicle in broad daylight at a complete stop in front of her?  She (the rammer) was rooting about for loose change to give to the homeless chap panhandling at the end of the ramp.

It seems the rammer lives not far from that exit and may see the vagabond on a regular basis.  Knowing he would be at his post with his cardboard sign, she wanted to be ready to toss him some change.  We said She of We wasn’t hit by anybody driving while texting but looking for change is just as distracted.

The next time you are in your driveway, with your car turned off, time yourself to see how long it takes to look toward your cupholder and determine if there is any change in it.  One second?  Two?  Three?  Let’s say 2 seconds.  At 60 miles per hour your car would have traveled 176 feet in two seconds.  That’s 11 times the length of a Chevy Impala, 12 times that of a Toyota Camry, almost 15 times the length of a Mini Cooper.  In two seconds you would have driven over half the length of a football field and never seen any of it.

There are some pretty good public service announcements out there about not texting while driving but you have to remember that’s not the only way you can become distracted.  Remember that the next time you are dialing your phone because you haven’t set up your voice dial yet, checking the display on your satellite radio, or reading the bumper sticker on the car in the lane next to you.

She of We wasn’t hurt when the distracted driver drove into her rear bumper.  Don’t you become the next distracted driver to get to say “thank goodness you’re not hurt.”

That’s not a bad public service announcement.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Bon Appetite

Michael Leave a comment

We’re used to being a day late.  We’re usually much more than a dollar short.  But we still like our food and one of the best foodies hit her milestone yesterday, even if she wasn’t around to celebrate it. 

Julia turned 100.

For many, Julia Child never died.  Neither did Lucille Ball, John Wayne, Marilyn Monroe, or Dean Martin.  As long as television reruns and movies on demand, DVDs and U-Tube, video archives and PBS are around, so will be our favorite chefs, singers, actors, and whats have you.

How often have you held this conversation in your house when you heard of the death and/or the upcoming concert of a celebrity?  “I thought he was dead already.”  We aren’t sure if it’s a good thing or not.  We go on watching cooking shows every Saturday morning never even considering how old the show might be.  It doesn’t matter if it was taped in 1967, 1987, or 2007.  Cooking doesn’t change much.  With cooking shows because the hosts are usually wearing aprons, you don’t even have the cues of fashion to narrow things down to a decade.  (Now in the real, real old ones the hair can still give it away and that rarely leaves you muttering “they don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”)  (The hair, that is.)

But they still make a few like our girl Julia.  You can probably still catch the shows with Julia and Jacques Pepin (who is a very youthful and quite alive 76) and would wonder who will out-compliment the other.  Now there are two people on television who you wish could come out of that box and make us dinner.  But we think we’d like them to do it one at a time.  We can double our pleasure that way.  

John Folse (a veritable television child at 66) could make us dinner also.   His choice of protein might be a bit unusual.  Not often do you see a television chef make goose cacciatore or squirrel with pan gravy but he does and does it in a manner that leaves you wondering “I bet that’s even good with plain old chicken.” 

John’s twists on the prizes of Louisiana leave us thinking a bit of Justin Wilson but with a more understandable accent.  There wasn’t a crawfish that Justin Wilson didn’t like and even though we aren’t sure if we like them, how could you turn down dinner and a show when the show comes in the form of the stories that made Chef Wilson the “Louisiana Original.”  You’ll still see Justin on U-Tube and hear him on radio and he would be closing in on 99 if he was still around to close in on anything.

There are some younger television chefs – yep, even younger than 60! – who we wouldn’t mind if they pulled into our driveways, knocked on the front doors, and greeted us with “Dinner’s on me tonight.”  But we’ll wait a few years before we reveal them.  There’s not as much fun in it if you can’t ask, “isn’t he dead yet?”

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Scared Skinny

Michael Leave a comment

Recently we had the opportunity to be in a Sears store.  Sears is one of the last places where you can buy just about anything.  After we had wandered past the lawn tractors, fountains, kitchen utensils, refrigerators, bedding, fine jewelry, cameras, vacuum cleaners (got a good deal in that department) linens, furniture, and cookware, we strolled by the exercise equipment.  We’re pretty certain we heard a voice from the acoustic tile say, “Be afraid.”

We aren’t completely unaware of exercise.  We run errands.  We climb the ladder to success.  We dive into dinner and we jump to conclusions.  But we hadn’t been introduced to these person trainers.

The first items we noticed were the stair climbers.  He of We had an immediate thought. He would need a step stool to climb onto one of these climbers.  She of We confirmed that with her thought, this one spoken.  “Do they have to be that large?”  Large they were.  The pad that we assumed one placed one’s foot would be sufficient to accept the Incredible Hulk’s foot, or perhaps King Kong.  Kong probably doesn’t need a piece of equipment to help with his climbing.

The treadmills loomed next.  He of We found his voice and recalled the simple rotating track and three position switch (Off, Slow, Fast) of the model his father used some fifteen or so years ago.  These machines had displays on them that looked like the main display in the NASA control room as portrayed in “Apollo 13.”  In output and in size.  The tread itself looked to be able to hold a small family, a couple vowed to exercise together, or a man and his large, well-trained dog.  Checking out the display a little closer we discovered that one could make the treadmill go uphill, downhill, fast, slow, moderate, level, uneven, or any combination, or a programmed course encompassing the entire variety.  Just like walking outside.  (Be afraid.)

We also saw weight machines, dumbbells, kettle bells, exercise balls, and those new dumbbells that have the weights inside them that shift back and forth when you shake them.  There were exercise bikes, all larger than either of our own bicycles and all with places to put water bottles which neither of our own has.  The stationary skiers were longer than your average cross county ski that they are supposed to mimic.  And in the corner of the display, a boxer’s heavy bag.  Probably laughing at us.

We suppose running laps around a football field, riding bikes along a trail, and doing aerobics in front of the television are just maintenance.  If you really want to be in shape you’ve got to get one of these.  Otherwise, where will you hang your laundry?

 Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Food Rules!

Michael Leave a comment

“It was some sort of curry but it needed something,” She of We was telling He of We of her supper a little earlier that evening.  It seemed to be not very memorable, but then, “but then I thought ‘I bet it will be better if I add some parmesan cheese to it’ so I did and it did.  You’re probably not supposed to add parmesan to curry.”  And that started us down the path lined with food rules.

Food should be fun to make, to serve, and to eat.  There shouldn’t be any rules.  But there are rules all over food.  Don’t add cheese to fish.  Serve red wine with red meat.  Add oil to vinegar.  Parmesan and curry don’t go together.  As far as we’re concerned there is only one food rule.  Enjoy what you eat.

Recipes are just rules lined up in numerical order.  Sometimes, recipes are so daunting and the ingredients so obscure that it’s impossible to satisfy We’s Rule of Food: Enjoy What You Eat.  The way we figure, unless you’re a restaurant and you want every crab cake to taste exactly the same or the enchilada on Tuesday to taste just like the enchilada on Saturday you don’t really need a recipe.  A guide, yes.  A formula, no. 

When we look for recipe books we look for the ones with the stories about the food and the cooks.  What was the author/chef thinking, or doing, or remembering when he or she first put those ingredients together.  How many times did the middle child serve as tester before it came out right?  What are the stories behind the food?  How your grandmother taught you to spot the freshest chicken is a much more interesting tale than how much chicken to bone for the lemon chicken salad.  If we like the story, we’ll try the food.  And if we don’t like the food, we’ll at least have read a good story.

Food rules (the noun) have no place in your kitchen.  Food rules (the verb) is what makes a kitchen. 

Food Rules!  We like that.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

No, They Aren’t People Too

Michael Leave a comment

“We love our pets too,” the sign began.  After that there were a half-dozen examples of how much the authors of the sign loved their and others’ pets.  It finished with, “so please understand us when we say, no pets allowed.”  It was, and presumably still is a fair warning.  That sign is sharing space with the doorway to a used construction emporium.  An indoor junkyard if you will.

All throughout the building are stacks of windows, doors slid into stands, boxes of hinges and door pulls and faucet handles, rows of bath tubs, racks of counter tops, mountains of marble slabs, and hangers of hanging lamps.  Everywhere there are things made of wood, metal, glass, and porcelain.  All covered in the same dust the previous owners left and many with rusty connectors, sharp corners, and other things that hurt.  And right over there picking his way through the used kitchen counter tops on his way to the door frames is a middle-aged man attached by a leash to a forbidden dog.

He had to have seen the sign.  You couldn’t get in without seeing it.  And a sign that large means that something once happened and there should be no chance of letting it happen again.  He had to have seen it.  But he probably said to himself as his breezed on by, that was meant for people with animals.  His dog is a people.  His buddy.  His pal.  He wasn’t going to leave his best friend in a car while he perused the once heat producing radiators.  And he certainly wasn’t going to leave his only friend at home while he enjoyed his day of exploration among the once water-filled toilets.  Nope, he didn’t get to be his age and survive all alone without the help of his furry friend.  He certainly wasn’t going to turn his back on him on his only day away from the office just because he couldn’t find the right color lavatory sink at the home remodeling center.

Both of We love animals.  Together we span over 100 pet years.  At some point our houses have been home to dogs, cats, hamsters, rabbits, fish, crabs, and for a very brief time even a snake although technically he was a runaway.  Our pets have always held that special place in our hearts and our homes that are special to our pets also.  They’ve shared our spaces and our affections.  Our pet affections.  And pet spaces.  They didn’t go on vacations with us, and they don’t go to work with us.  When we see a sign that says “no dogs allowed” we don’t take that to mean no regular, aka other people’s dogs allowed.

Pets are pets.  They aren’t surrogate children.  They aren’t surrogate spouses.  They aren’t the exception to the rule.  If a tower of ceramic tiles is going to fall and the “special” dog happens to be standing there when they do, they aren’t going to stop in midair and wait for “special” to make his way clear of the danger aisle.

We don’t feel sorry for the person who can’t manage long term human relationships and has to settle for the four legged variety.   We feel sorry for the four legged variety stuck with the human who thinks “living a dog’s life” is a bad thing.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Game On!

Michael Leave a comment

Many people who are just acquainted with us are often shocked to ultimately find out that He and She of We are not married, or at the very least for the 21st century, not even living together.  We spend a lot of time together but we each have our own houses and spend more time in our own houses than we do at either’s others’ houses.  Of course there are evenings we’ll be found on one or another’s sofas usually in the glow of a televised sporting event or a demanded, if not on-demanded movie. 

Last weekend we were on He of We’s furniture, about 4 feet apart, rapturously engaged in a game of words.  No, not the grand-daddy of all games of words Scrabble, not the second cousin of word games without words, Charades.  No, we were sitting next to each other, letting our fingers do the walking through Words with Friends on our cell phones.  In the same house.  In the same room.  On the same couch.

Although both of our children are either young enough, or old enough depending on your point of view, to have discovered and to have played with PlayStation, Nintendo, and Wii, none of them became one of the electronic game junkies who walk around with fingers flailing over tiny controllers of hand-held versions of the gaming consoles that hold so many in mental hostage situations.   And all of them are familiar with games that involve fold-out boards, dice, tiles, poppers, timers, and a pad and pencil to keep score.  We’re pretty proud parents that our children made it into adulthood with having hand-held electronic games listed as dependents on their income tax forms.

So where did we go wrong for ourselves?  How did we manage to find ourselves phoning in our own recreation?  Don’t tell the children this but it is darned convenient having a game at your fingertips.  No boards to pull off shelves, no tables to clear.  No looking for the pieces that fall under the chairs, no pencil sharpeners to wonder if we even still have to look for.  No shaking up bags of tiles to pick from randomly, no wondering if that really is a word and will I look foolish if I challenge it.

So yes, we’ve succumbed to the dark side.  This time.  We’re willing to let a microprocessor randomly select letters and accurately add up scores.  We still get to use the best game piece – our minds.  Yep, of all the things we’ve lost – tile holders, letters, box tops, score cards – we’ve not yet lost our minds.  We’re pretty sure of that.  Yeah, pretty sure.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Self Storage Wars

Michael Leave a comment

As spring progresses we’ve been finding ourselves in our garages and basements digging out the rakes,  shovels, hoses, and other outdoor implements that have worked their ways behind last winter’s accumulations of “stuff.”   Every season some items move closer to the doors, less used items are packed closer to the walls.  The things that haven’t been used in a couple of years are grouped by the spring three-way sort of “trash, donate, sell.”   At least in our houses.  Maybe not in the 10.8 million households that rent storage units.

There is a pretty big chunk of people who are renting a pretty big chunk of real estate for a pretty big chunk of money to hold a pretty big chunk of junk.  According to the trade group the Self Storage Association, over 50,000 storage facilities house over 2.2 billion square feet of storage space.  The average unit goes for about $120 per month and holds…we’re not sure.

It’s not like we are running out of space at home.  In the last forty years, new home construction in the US went from an average of about 1,400 square feet to about 2,400 square feet.  In those same forty years self-storage units went from almost none (the first units starting cropping up in the late 1960’s), to enough to fill up Manhattan three times over.  Again, what’s in those spaces?

Does anybody hand anything down any more?  We all grew up on our older siblings’ cribs and high chairs, their tricycles and bikes.  When families ran out of younger children those items got passed on to cousins, neighbors, and co-workers.  What we couldn’t sell ourselves at garage sales we brought to church for rummage sales.  Without the stuff we don’t use anymore, thrift stores would be out of business.  But people do hand things down and there are still rummage sales, and thrift stores are booming.  So what is in all those storage units? 

Maybe what gets handed down the “handed to” group doesn’t want to use but are too embarrassed to tell the “handed from” group.  Maybe they keep the extra dining room set in their storage unit and tell Mom that as soon as they paint the dining room those old table and chairs will look great in there.  Maybe people are getting married so late in life they already have everything they need.  But it’s a wedding.  They still have to register somewhere and get newer stuff.  Then when the gifts are opened they can’t discard the old toaster because it’s been so good to one (or both) of them for so long it gets a special place in mini-storage. 

Or maybe it’s just junk in those garage-looking units and once it is there for a couple years the owners stop paying rent and someone can bid $5 on Door Number 3.  Then they can figure out what to do with an Atari 64 game system.

We don’t know what’s behind Door Number 113,433 but whatever it is it better be pretty important.  The average American family is spending about $1500 a year to store it.  That’s about $500 more than the average American family gives to charity.  We’re not sure if there’s a connection there but we thought we’d mention it.   

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?