Category Humor

Cloudy With a Good Chance

Michael 1 Comment

It’s just a couple days to Christmas and that means children and romantics are asking will there be a White Christmas this year. Today’s weather people can pretty much tell you within one or two percentage points if it will or if it won’t wherever you are. It wasn’t always that way.

I remember many years ago there weren’t weather forecasts on the evening news. There were weather reports. TIROS I became the first weather satellite to watch over the Earth’s climate conditions when it was launched in 1960. Before that the weather segment was what happened, not what to expect. Probably the only weather men willing to take a risk and “predict” tomorrow’s weather were those in San Diego, or perhaps Phoenix, where you could say it’s going to be warm and sunny and get it right almost every day. Where I grew up the weathermen spoke of today’s weather in the East being pretty much what yesterday’s weather was in the MidWest. And if one wasn’t sure, it never hurt to predict “partly cloudy.”

One December back then we were closing in on Christmas Day and it looked like the only White Christmas we were going to see was the movie of the week special presentation. It was all but confirmed when the reigning weather champ said out loud, on TV, for all the world (or at least the local metro area), the next few days before the the holiday would be at best – “partly cloudy.”

I believe that was two days before Christmas and we kids sighed our sighs that even if we got new sleds (which we never did, now that I think about it), we’d not be racing downhill on them. So off to bed we went. And we woke up the following morning to about 6 inches of fresh fallen snow! Woohoo!! (Or Yippee!! as we would have said back then.)

Later that day on the local evening newscast the regular anchorman introduced a fill-in weatherman for the evening weather report. “And tonight we have John Smith filling in at the weather desk. Joe couldn’t make it in today. He’s still at home shoveling the partly cloudy off his driveway.”

So for all of you wishing for a White Christmas this weekend, I wish for you as much partly cloudy as your driveways can hold. Yippee!! in advance.

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you.

It Just Happened

Michael Leave a comment

You wouldn’t think Dr. Seuss would come up when a 60 year old is looking back on the year almost gone by. Being just out of the hospital for but a few days I actually haven’t gotten all the way home yet. Since I live alone and am still a little while away from taking care of myself with a greater chance that I end a day in the emergency room rather than the bedroom, my sisters have opened their house to me so I can be pampered in the style an only son should be pampered…even at 60. But I digress. I think.

I was sitting alone in a corner pondering how I got to this place in space and time while the younger of the two siblings, the one still working the poor dear, was modeling the many holiday themed hats she was planning on bringing to work with her on the next day. You know the kind you see this time of year. The baseball hat with antlers that reads “Oh Deer,” or the one decked out in gingerbread cookies saying “Oh Snap!” As she dug deeper into her bag of headwear I got a greater memory sense of a story about a boy with a never-ending collection of hats.

It didn’t take too much more reflection that I recalled the hats indeed did end. The young man was Bartholomew Cubbins and the tale was Dr. Seuss’s “The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins.” If you don’t remember it, it is the story of a young boy who cannot bare his head to the king. Every time he removes a hat another appears in its place. Finally at the 500th reveal he doffs the yet finest example and presents the highly decorated hat to the king and is rewarded with a bag of gold.

So, how do we get from a child’s story from the 1930s to my consideration of all that happened to me this year? The last line of the story tells the tale. Though they could never explain how it happened, “They could only say is just ‘happened to happen’ and was not very likely to happen again.”

And isn’t that really the tale we are all told?

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you?

Making the Case for Glitter Free Decorating

Michael 1 Comment

You all know I am just out of the hospital a few days now. I was out only a few hours when I discovered that my fingertips shimmered in the dark. No, it wasn’t some reaction to a drug I was given. It wasn’t a remnant of some procedure done. No, it was glitter. Glitter. That shimmery, flaky stuff that adorns cards, bows, wreaths, probably even some brands of toothpaste for all I know. Oh how I hate glitter.

While protected under the blanket of sterility and cleanliness of the hospital I was able to enjoy a couple of weeks knowing my immediate environs were blissfully glitter-free. Then I got better. I was released to the world overrun with those sparkly specks. Oh how I hate glitter.

Why do I so hate glitter? First consider that I too recognize the prettiness of light twinkling from multiple surfaces. I just wish one of those surfaces wasn’t me! Once I come into contact with glitter it is with me forever. I can’t wipe it off. I can’t blow it off. It doesn’t wash off, scrape off, or soak off. It doesn’t even loofah off. Glitter on me is like iron filings on a magnet.

I think we need to establish some glitter rules. First, no surprise glitter. If I see a glitter gilded wreath on a door I will gladly climb through a window to get into that house. But if you send me a glittery card in a plain, white envelope – that’s just not fair. Second, manufacturers of shiny objects must identify the presence and level of glitter used in the making of said sheen. And third, stores, particularly card and home good shops, must provide a glitter free zone for glitter magnetic consumers.

I’m sure working together we can have a glitter free society where sparkly prettiness and good mental health can coexist.

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you.

Shower Power

Michael Leave a comment

Yesterday I had more fun naked than I’ve had in years. I took a shower. Talk about good, clean fun!

To many of us, pretending to be the recipient of an automatic car wash might not seem to be epitome of carnal satisfaction. But I had just been released from an 8 day stay at one of the cleanest places on Earth, a hospital. And boy did I feel grungy.

I am not at all unfamiliar with America’s health care system. For almost 40 years it provided me my pocket change as I toiled on the provider side and for almost 4 years it provided me a place to hang out and spend said hard-earn pockrt change on the patient side. I am very aware, and very appreciated of the advances it has made. Technically, that is. Humanly, maybe not so much. Consider the following.

With modern imaging they can see tiny slivers of our insides down to the 32nd of an inch in detail almost better than lifelike. They can see with sound. My surgeon worked to delicately open my abdominal cavity, clean and repair the offending parts, and then put me back together using a camera through a couple of holes not much bigger than one made by a flu shot needle. Yet when all of that was done I was left to recover in a room with a TV the quality almost as good as a 1960 portable set with rabbit ears wrapped in aluminum foil. (Ask your granfather. He’ll explain.)

I was attached with the necessary wiring so my pulse, heart beat, breathing, and temperature could be monitored from a station 80 feet away. But the aforementioned television was controlled by a remote that contained only Power, Volume Up/Down, and Channel Up/Down buttons. This in a housing that also held the Nurse Call button and, for some reason, a button to set the room lights to three different brightness levels. All that looked much too alike.

And of course, unlike even the smallest movement towards improvement the silly remote has provided to the patient since I started my career those years ago, the one thing that hasn’t changed at all is the hospital gown. The famous see-through garment with non-sleeves that nobody can get their arms into, a neck fastener reminiscent of a backward bow tie, and all in an indecent package that only makes it 80% of the way around your body. And of course the remaining 20% is not on the side.

Yet given all this, on my return I was not overcome with the urge to finger my high tech remote, triggering the high def TV and the surround sound, grateful for work done to keep me going for another 4 to 40 years. It was to strip off those clothes that completely covered me and bask in joy of hundreds of gallon of hot water pouring over me, drenching every pore, soaking every personal nook and cranny. Thank all that is holy that one imorovement we’ve never had to endure is the restorative power of water.

It was enough to make me want a cigarette.

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you?

The Pause That’s Necessary

Michael Leave a comment

Think about these three sentences please. My father, Tim is dead. My, Father Tim is dead. My father Tim is dead. Changing the pause between the words makes for three quite different scenarios from the speaker’s perspective. Not to mention Tim’s. Sometimes that pause needs to be stronger than just some well meaning punctuation.

I get to come to you today from a hospital bed. Ahh, the miracles of the ever shrinking electronics platform. I’m fine by the way. Just a scheduled tune-up. But because my body is the way (mostly reconstructed from spare parts) I’ve been here longer than anyone should expect. My daughter had been here every day until the one when she woke up doing a really good audition for an over the counter cough, cold and flu medicine. That day, she stayed home – to the rousing cheers of pent up germs everywhere.

One of my doctors noticed her absence and asked where adult child was. Oh, she’s home sick. It wasn’t until hours later that I realized how less a perplexing response I would have gotten had I instead said, “Oh, she  is at home and sick.

So whatever you do out there, to make yourself as clear as can be, keep your pause clean.

That’s what I thimk. How ’bout you?

Visions of Fall

Michael 1 Comment

Each season has its own personality, its own identity, its own character. Fall is inexorably marked by the colors of the leaves, the aroma of burning logs in backyards and fireplaces, the promise of family gatherings, and the growing piles of laundry that threaten to lay ruin to your detergent budget.

It’s almost cruel that a single autumnal wash load comes close to equally all of summer’s dirty clothes. Think about it. Summer’s wardrobe is all the same fabric, all the same color, and in smaller pieces. Whites, pastels, t-shirts, shorts. If it wasn’t for sheets and towels I could probably go through an entire summer month on a single large load.

But fall, fall starts out ok. You trade in the shorts for khaki slacks, t-shirts for golf shirts, and you add socks to the mix. But in a couple of weeks you’re in to long sleeve shirts, polos, and jeans. Another week goes by and now you start layering. In one day between undershirt, shirt, sweatshirt, and hoodie you’ve worn – and dirtied – what would take almost a full week just 3 months ago. And all the different fabrics and colors. Everyone has to be checked for what can be washed with what at what temperatures in which cycles. It’s enough to make you breathe a sigh of relief when you find a care tag suggesting not to be machine washed.

And it’s not just the volume of laundry that torments your sanity. It’s the additional danger the fall wardrobe poses to your health and safety. Long sleeves and trouser legs get wrapped around the agitator causing you to wrench your back or possibly dislocate your shoulder trying to extract them from the machine. (And you wonder why they named that part an agitator!) Socks that are optional equipment in the summertime become entangled in other laundry pieces from the time you toss them into the hamper until you’re returning to the dresser. The only thing lost more regularly in laundry rooms is your temper when you realize you missed the beginning of the rinse cycle and your last opportunity to add fabric softener to the mix (an essential component to minimizing the chafing you’ll certainly encounter when untreated broadcloth rubs across the back of your neck).

But I digress. I was talking about the visions of fall and breathing in the sweet smell of burning logs while walking along the lane wrapped up in a warm, snuggly sweater. I hope it’s Dry Clean Only.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

 

I’ll See That

Michael Leave a comment

Now that the airspace during our favorite television shows have been returned to consumer advertisers I can return to hating to see a commercial come on simply because it’s annoying. Given that I spent a fair amount of money on my daughter’s degree in advertising and that hopefully it will be remembered fondly when she someday selects my nursing home, I should probably be more grateful that businesses are still advertising. But that hasn’t yet stopped me from uploading a couple dozen posts that rant on about ads.

My favorite ad annoyances are fine print on television commercials and pictures of things that don’t quite look like what is being sold. Apparently in an effort to make my annoyance easier to manage, advertisers combine the two topics onto one image allowing me to create a multi-tasked rant. Yes, small print that actually says the picture is not quite what is being sold.

In a TV commercial for a mattress sale I noticed the disclaimer in small white font that said, “Mattress photographs are for illustration purposes only.” What does that mean? I hope it’s not their way of saying look at this pretty mattress and look at this great price, and if you just come into the store we will be happy to show you what mattress you really get for this price.

matressad

Car makers have been good about adding fine print to their ads for years. It’s often only a half a shade darker than the background making it effectively illegible even if it wasn’t sized smaller than a well-proportioned dust mite. In addition to disclaimers that models shown may be of a different model year than the current, that some equipment is optional, and that dealers set the actual prices, I spotted one that actually said the one pictured is nice but is roughly $13,000 more than the big numbers that you can read.

carad

I suppose those who are responsible for the fine print (aka corporate lawyers) can argue that we should be happy that they are encouraging their clients to be forthright and truthful in their advertising. But I’m willing to bet that when they submit their bills to their clients that they make sure the total due is in a pretty good sized font.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

What I Did On Election Day

Michael 1 Comment

I don’t know about you but I had a very full day this past Tuesday. And the high point was not the 105 minutes that I stood in line outside the polls waiting for my turn to spend 35 seconds in the voting booth. It sort of reminded me of having an EKG done. But that’s a different story.

My Election Day activities actually began Monday evening when a knock came upon my door. About the only people who knock on my door are relatives and the UPS driver. I knew it wasn’t UPS because when he comes a-knockin’ I’ll hear the truck rumbling outside my window then the THUD of the package and the single rap that follows. And it wasn’t a relative because any of them won’t wait to be received but will knock and then enter on their own. Since this was a “knock, knock” without an accompanying THUD or a subsequent “Hello!” it meant I was going to have to climb out of the recliner where I had just settled in with a much read 38 year old Lawrence Sanders novel.

Upon making my way across the room and opening the door I saw there the rather confused looking yet still earnest looking young man who asked if he might speak to Rosemary. I was tempted to fetch him my terra cotta bound woody herb but even with just those few moments to rush to judgement I decided he wouldn’t get it. So I said, “I’m sorry, there is no Rosemary here,” resisting the temptation to slam the door shut as I returned to Mr. Todd’s ongoing investigation.

Tuesday morning I was up early, showered, shaved, breakfasted on eggs, sausage, muffin, juice and coffee, and set off to do my patriotic duty. The large breakfast was because I figured it was going to be a bit of a wait so I wanted to be properly fortified; the shower and shave was because you never know who you might meet wherever crowds gather. I had gotten as far as the outside of my front door when I was met with my first head-scratcher. A note. A sticky note. A sticky note stuck to the outside of my front door that read, “Rosemary, Stopped by to remind you to get out and vote!” I was certain the young chap meant to conclude with “XOXO” but ran out of crayon.

With those thoughts pushed deep into the darkest corner of my mind I drove the few miles down the road to where two of my municipality’s 12 districts share a building. The building’s south entrance, where residents of District 7 go to vote, had about 12 people waiting visible through the glass doors. I could tell because I saw them after I found the end of the line of District 9 voters stretching from the building’s north entrance, across a portico, though a tree-lined courtyard with some tenaciously holding onto quite a few leaves (trees, not voters), and along the overflowing parking lot. And there I joined the mini-throng where people wondered out loud how far they would have to move in order to get to vote with District 7.voted

To make a long story short I should have stopped about 350 words ago. But since I’ve gotten you to read this far, let me continue.

While there in line I got to hear how to mark fabric for cutting out a pattern when you have no tailor’s chalk, the shortcomings of Candy Crush versus Bejeweled, why 12 year olds can’t vote, that yes this is the same polling place for District 9 as it has been for at least 12 years, why if banks can take your money at any branch you can’t go to vote at any poll, and who are all these other people (that one by the obviously clueless but much too old looking to be a first time voter upon seeing the complete sample ballot indicating all of the candidates in all of the day’s races at the building entrance).

From there it was only another 15 minutes or so until I was through the rest of the line and being ushered to a machine where I was left to make my selections. In all of the day’s races. I was on my way to the exit doors when a poll worker stopped me and said he had run out of “I VOTED!” stickers but if I’d wait he would only be a few minutes while he went to get more from his supply across the room. “No thank you,” I told him. “If I really need to prove I voted I’m sure my new nervous twitch due to the muscle memory of trying to fight the urge not to push the “Cast Your Vote” button will convince just about anybody that I did what I had to do to get my free cup of coffee.”

And then I went home and had some coffee. With just a wee bit of bourbon to sweeten the brew!

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Truth in Advertising

Michael 1 Comment

One more day and it’s Election Day across America. And this post has NOTHING to do with the election. Yippee!!!

But it is about something that I discovered during the crazed advertising season that this crazed election season has turned into. And it’s something that the consumer advertisers can learn from those abhorrent televised political ads. (But the politicos can learn a thing or two from consumer advertisers so don’t think they’re going to get off without a talking to (or about).)

Did you know that there are actually specific regulations to which political ads are expected to adhere? For one thing, any small print on a political ad can’t be small. Actually it can’t be any smaller, nor in any font/background combination less contrasting, than the smallest font in the body of the ad. Can you imagine what this would mean to the legal, insurance, and new car advertising industry? No more teeny print containing the printed equivalent of a 12 page disclaimer packed into the bottom 2% of the screen, that’s what it would mean!

Another expectation of those political ads is the famous equal time provision. Whatever time is bought by Candidate A must be made available to Candidate B. And there would be no question about a broadcaster not airing either because the law states that television and radio stations must provide commercial time to presidential candidates. (These provisions address time bought by the candidates or their own campaign committees, not to the time purchased by third parties “not affiliated with any candidate.”)  Imagine how easy it would be to truly evaluate the benefits of the Chevy you’re contemplating buying if you were able to see the Ford commercial right after it.

Of course that’s all assuming that the information presented in those competing ads actually addressed factual information regarding the advertised product. And we know they do because of the truth in advertising laws out there. You would never hear a commercial for a Ford say “Don’t buy a Chevy. They can start all by themselves and run you over in your own driveway.” You’d never hear it because nobody would ever produce or air such a statement. But that’s where the politicians can take a cue from the consumer advertiseronadvertisings. Did you know that there is a regulation that a broadcaster cannot vet, edit, or refuse to air a political ad? What they get from the campaign is what they put on the air.

David Ogilvy was a wizard in advertising. In fact in 1962, Time Magazine called him “the most sought-after wizard in today’s advertising industry.” He has been called the Father of Advertising and is known for his attention to reality and his ability to persuade by carrying on a conversation with his audience. He was a pioneer in creating ads that didn’t insult the intelligence of the consumer. Unfortunately his children haven’t been following his life’s lessons whether pushing car makers or candidates.

Now that I think of it, the politicians could stand to learn that lesson also. Perhaps it’s a lesson at least one of them can sign up for on Wednesday.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

PS – Don’t forgot to vote – assuming you have some idea what you are voting for. Yes, I said “what,” not “who.” If you can’t articulate at least one cogent reason for casting your ballot other than “at least it’s not a vote for him/her/it/them” then, um, maybe it would be better if you did forget to vote.

Getting Even

Michael Leave a comment

It’s time to do it again. This Saturday we go through the twice yearly resetting of the clocks returning from Daylight Saving Time to Standard Time, reclaiming the hour lost six months ago. Almost 3/4 of the world move their clocks back and forth each spring and fall so there’s little I can say to add to people’s already well-rehearsed feat. That didn’t stop me from chipping my 17 cents (inflation) into the pot a handful of times already but I was certain it would be enough to stop me from a sixth time. And it would have been but for an article I saw in yesterday’s paper. (Now that I think about it, quite a few of my most recent posts have been prompted by something I saw in the paper. I wonder what that says about me, other than that I still get my news from the paper?)

changeclockAlthough I’ve poked fun at our semi-annual temporal shifts, this particular article that I read was quite serious about the effects of, and tips to adapt to, the change in time, comparing it to the effects of jet lag. Uh, hello. We’re talking about an hour, not having to deal with the effects of not sleeping through a flight from New York to Brussels. Is it really necessary to go to bed 15 minutes earlier each night for 4 nights so that by Saturday we’ll not subject ourselves to the drama of shifting an entire hour as a single event? I seem to recall quite a few nights in my life when I went to bed an hour earlier or later, or mornings when I arose an hour after or before I intended and life still went on. I can tell because my life went on.

The author suggested that a consequence of the fall time change is a greater number of accidents because people stay up later, sometimes drinking, and end up driving sleepier or more intoxicated. Again, we’re talking an extra hour, not an extra evening, and I’m certain there are many, many more people spending this extra hour at home in bed rather than imbibing in an extra fall cocktail. As far as those who are out and about guzzling pumpkin ales at 2 o’clock this Sunday morning, I really don’t think this Sunday morning is going to be unique among Sunday mornings for them and we should be thankful that we’re one of the many, many more who spent that extra hour in bed.

I may be all wrong about this but I think that the greatest consequence to the time change is that some people will forget to re-set their clocks and will end up an hour early for church this Sunday. Perhaps those folks can spend that extra time there praying for the roustabouts who spent an extra hour socializing the night before.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?