Category Humor

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?

Calling 911

Michael Leave a comment

We are very grateful to the many emergency service employees out there.  Without the police, fire fighters, EMTs, and other crisis responders we really would be in a crisis.  But every now and then we have to wonder how they get through a day without being mistaken for normal people just like us.

We started wondering about this a couple days ago when a news report flashed on a police cruiser dangling over a bridge guiderail like the cartoon versions we’ve seen so often waiting for a bird to land on the half of the car hovering over nothing but air.  How did they get that way?  The good news is that even though the police officers had to climb out through a window, a quick stop at a nearby emergency room confirmed nothing was hurt more than their egos.

Speaking of emergency rooms, He of We was at a stop sign ready to pull out into traffic on the main street when an ambulance, without lights but moving quickly enough that one would pause to make sure it passed by without challenge, passed by.  It wasn’t until it was all the way by that it revealed its rear doors open and swinging with every bend in the road.  It eventually rolled its way out of sight so we aren’t sure if somewhere somebody pointed out the unsecured door.  We’re certain it was empty when it started that run.  Yes, certainly certain.

Then there was the fire truck flashing its many red lights yet rolling somewhat slowly down a city side street, a helmeted head sticking out of the passenger side window of the forward cab looking for all the world like he was looking for an address.  The faint wiff of smoke rising from a car in the next block finally got someone’s attention as the engine sped up and moved to task. 

And surely someone would be along shortly to assist the tow truck on the side of the road with its hood up in the universal sign of “somebody call the wife and tell her I’m going to be late for dinner.”

We guess they all really do put their pants on one leg at a time.  Even the uniform pants.

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

 

The Sport the Olympics Didn’t Think of

Michael 2 Comments

We happen to be on vacation this week (we’re sorry if it sounds like we’re bragging, we are) in a Caribbean island paradise.  As we were wandering the grounds we passed what could have been croquet balls.  “But where are the wickets?” She of We asked, surprising herself that she knew what those little wire things are called.   He of We thought perhaps they were bocce balls but were missing the little target ball.  Neither of We were surprised that neither of us knew what that is called.  As we headed down the lane trying to decide if we should lounge on the beach or at the pool we debated if these could become new Olympic sports.  (You debate what you want on vacation, we’ll debate what we want.)

After several false starts, underwater hand standing among them, we settled on bocce.  We were looking for something that had an even playing field and decided that, a la the Winter Olympics’ curling, almost nobody across the globe really knows much about bocce.  You can’t get much more even than that.  Next on our criteria list was a sport, again similar to curling, that the rules don’t help in understanding. Scoring was also a factor.  A quick trip through the Internet revealed scoring to be both complicated and confusing involving measurements, location, and order of play. We also decided that it should be a game that can be played over several days.  Since a single game of bocce can take an entire afternoon to play (we confirmed this by channeling dead Italian relatives), an entire tournament can last the entire 17 days of competition.  This is important since the scoring will be explained on television by commentators who know nothing about it and thus will give them ample opportunity to contradict themselves, once again not unlike those who comment on curling.  And finally, we decided that it was very important to select a new game that can be played rip roaring drunk since it will sprout bocce clubs all over the United States by the guys at the local bars who stayed up all the night before studying it in minute detail so they can be the bar expert on bocce.  These chosen ones may or may not be the same hardy souls who sprouted a curling club two years prior after the winter games.

And thus we present to the International Olympic Committee a sport that will keep television viewers up into the very early hours of the morning all over the world transfixed by the event nobody ever knew existed.  Ladies and gentlemen, we give to you the summer version of the winter signature event curling, Olympic Bocce!

Now, what is that little ball called?  Mario?  Giovanni?  Irving?  We’re going to have to read up on that.

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

 

Decisions, Decisions – and not the easy political kind

Michael Leave a comment

We’re in a quandary.  A friend, a local entertainer, an incredible talent, a vocalist who accompanies himself on the acoustic guitar played his first gig and a nearby lounge a little while ago.  He typically has played in venues that although aren’t far away, are far away enough that you check your gas gauge before you leave home for the evening. So we were quite thrilled when he wrote and told us he’d be no more than 3 miles from He of We’s driveway.

And drive away we did.  We had been to the venue twice before.  Once for a Sunday brunch they no longer do (which was very good), and once for dinner (which was beyond their capabilities).  In neither case was the service anything even approaching average.  It had been at least a year since we had been there so we were anxious to see what changes they had made.

They hadn’t.  But the evening was not a loss.  The food was bad, the service worse, but the entertainment was as first rate as we had anticipated.  We even introduced He of We’s daughter to the acoustic troubadour expanding his influence into the next generation.  The crowd was into his performance and applauded each offering (yes, we’ll say it) wildly.  But the food was so bad.  And the service was so worse.

What we will do if the restaurant brings him back on a regular basis? We don’t want to hurt his feelings not showing up when it’s not even a 15 minute drive, including lights, when we’ve driven over an hour to hear him.  But we don’t want to risk gastro-intestinal distress, possibly irreparable damage, if we have to subject ourselves to their idea of cooking once a month.  We can’t even feign enjoyment and pick our way through the one or two items nobody can screw up because those were the ones they ran out of early in the evening.  Even if they didn’t, we still have to subject ourselves to the worst service we’d seen since the Sixth Grade Washington DC Field Trip Spaghetti Dinner Fundraiser.

We suppose we’re going to have to arrange to be out of town whenever he plays there (“Oh, we wish we knew you were there this week.  We had these airline vouchers we had to use before Monday and thought this would be a good time to see Guam.”), or car trouble (“What bad luck, we were on our way when of all things we couldn’t get the hood to go down.  We thought we could have backed all the way there but the nice police officer didn’t.”), or illness (“Hack hack cough cough sneeze wheeze sneeze.  We’ll make it.  We missed your last 7 sets there.  Well, if you really think you really don’t mind”). 

We don’t know.  Maybe gastrointestinal distress once a month might be good for us.  

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

 

How Would You Like Your Toast?

Michael 1 Comment

It’s probably us.  We seem to bring out the stories in the most harmless of activities.  Not long ago, Both of We and Child of He were out to a diner for a Sunday breakfast.  A real, honest to gosh diner.  The kind where the food is going to be fabulous if you order nothing more than tea and toast.  Well, let us tell you about this toast.

We have to begin at the beginning as we were seated at a table and asked the ritualistic “what would you like to drink?”  Coffee and tea and ice water for three please.  And yes, we’ll need some time to peruse the menu.  It wasn’t that it was too big like some, but it took a little reading because it had things we aren’t used to in the twenty-first century.  Things like sausage gravy and other offerings whose calorie counts were in triple digits.  Among the choices were several four egg omelets. 

After a couple of false starts of “are you ready?” by Waitress #1 we somehow were advanced to Waiter #2.  A pleasant enough young man at home from college for the summer.  On his first trip we figured we’re ready enough if those who know what they want order first and slowly and let those still deciding decide for a few more moments.  He of We went first with a decisive blow to the cholesterol watchers, the aforementioned sausage gravy with biscuits plus two eggs and a side of hash browns.  Two or three swipes with the pen and young Waiter had the order.  Then Child of He is up.  Both of We have seen her eat the equivalent of a lunch intended for a full firehouse but even Child draws the line at four eggs.  That’s nearly a week’s work of one chicken for just one meal.  “Can I have a smaller omelet?” was the innocent enough question.  “Of course, here it is on the smaller plates menu,” pointed out the Boy Waiter.  And there it was, a two egg cheese omelet.  But, Child didn’t want just cheese.  “Instead of just cheese can I have a veggie please,” and Young Waiter Man made a few more marks with his pen and we moved on to She of We.  A straightforward eggs, toast, hash brown, pancake combination order. 

We’re just about through the ordering phase of our breakfast when the waiter asked the question that in our combined whole lot of years we’ve never heard before.  “How would you like your toast?”  She of We was so taken aback that even she, the unflappable She of We, the unquestionable clearest of all clear order givers, was left speechless.  And so, he actually repeated, “How would you like your toast?”  He of We was just about ready to answer over-easy when She of We and Waiter of Three finally got their telepathy going and She of We suggested “umm, do you mean what kind of toast?”

To make a long story short, and after some light hearted kidding of Young Waiter, we settled in and waited for our meals to be prepared and presented.  And not much later an entourage marched down the aisle with several plates that could only be ours.  And as they were all settled in front of us, having finally gotten over “How would you like your toast?” the last dish to be dropped was the omelet for Child of He.  And when it hit the table we all were again rendered as thoroughly speechless as She of We was with the now infamous toast question.  For there, before Child of He sat a plate with a two egg, cheese omelet, her selection of toast, and nuzzled between them, a serving of . . . corn.  Child of He was the first to find her voice.  “Corn?”  “Yes,” young Waiter Man said,” that’s your cheese omelet with a veggie.”  Clearly, the vegetable of the day was . . . corn.

Eventually all was sorted out.  Child of He got her veggie omelet.  She of We enjoyed her toast.  He of We got to hear his arteries clog.  And a fine meal was had by all.

So our advice to you, if you should ever be questioned with “How would you like your toast?” is to answer poached and then mentally review the rest of the order for verbal land mines.

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

 

Three Little Words

Michael Leave a comment

We’ve been thinking about this for a while and have come to a conclusion.  There is only one instruction in the English language that people actually pay attention to.  It is not:

Speed Limit = (XX) MPH.  Speed limits are barely suggestions anymore.

Not dishwasher safe.  Everything is safe in the top rack.

Capacity = 20 People, particularly in an elevator, particularly at 9am

Cook at 350 degrees for 45 minutes which really means cook at 450 for 20.  We’re hungry!

No Turn on Red and other traffic suggestions that control movement at intersections. 

Allow to stand for 20 minutes.  Nothing good happens after the first 5 minutes.

Inflate to 23 PSI Front, 21 PSI Rear.  Tires, right?  Just blow them up till the pump stops.

Coupon Expires January 31, 2012.  If you tear it at just the right angle across the top…

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.  Really?

Tools required: Adjustable Wrench, Allen Wrench, Sultry Wrench.  What, no hammer?

Do Not Use After: xx/xx/xxxx.  Come on.  Yogurt is already milk gone bad.

Hand Wash.  Then why do they put a delicate setting on the washer?

Do not mix batteries.  Does anybody even know what this is supposed to mean?

Bulb max = 40 Watt.  For what?  Night blindness?

No, it’s none of these.  Yet there is a rule, a law, a regulation, an instruction that puts fear in Americans.  The one instruction the American public actually follows is:

Dry Clean Only.

It’s on the only clothes that people actually sort on laundry day.  It’s the only instruction that parents pass on to their children when they move out into the world on their own.  In fact, we know people who have actually not purchased clothes because of this instruction.  Although we hesitate to admit it, She of We has actual personal experience that Dry Clean Only means Dry Clean Only.  (In fairness though, she does prefer to send out white blouses and shirts to a Dry Cleaner because they always come back so nice and crisp.)  

Yes, these are the most powerful three words in the English language.  Dry.  Clean.  Only. 

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

 

Hell’s Chopped Kitchen Star

Michael Leave a comment

“I learned how to cook at my grandmother’s house who took us in after Mom and Pop died in the car wreck when the telephone pole fell on the car that first smashed them, then electrocuted them.  Grandma went to the community college to learn English so she could raise me and my 14 sisters and one brother who wore dresses a lot but could make the fluffiest soufflé.  And if I win today’s competition I’m going to take the $300,000 prize and buy her the stove she’s always wanted assuming I can still find a 1965 Amana and let her teach my children all that she taught me.  Even the autistic ones.”

We’ve been watching a lot of cooking competition shows lately.  But not the cupcake people.  We hate the cupcake people.  What they do to cupcakes you shouldn’t be allowed to put on TV.  Anyway, we’ve been watching a lot of cooking competitions and swearing off as many as we watch.  Why?  Because the competitions are becoming less of a challenge among those who can cook as they are now a contest of who has the bigger sob story.

We’ve always liked the Food Network show Chopped.  The premise of real chefs being dealt real but unusual ingredients fascinates us.  Most of these people are real working chefs and know exactly what to do when given chicken feet, dragon fruit, clove candy, and 20 minutes to make a scrumptious appetizer.  But now it’s not good enough to see 4 chefs, then 3, then 2 turn the bizarre into the palatable.  Now we have to ask what will you do with the money if you win.  Who would have ever thought that cooks had so many physically challenged children?  Or how many have an elderly parent yearning to see the homeland one last time?  Or how many are supporting their nieces and nephews?  We know what we’d say if someone asked us how we would spend a prize.  It’s found money.  We’ll blow it all on us.

Gordon Ramsey has to be the king of shock cooking.  We’ve come to if not love, appreciate Hell’s Kitchen because he’s not going to hold anything back. If you’re not cooking, you’re not contributing.  Leave now.  The little snippet interviews with the contestants are the best part of that show.  It gives each contestant a little face time with the camera and by extension, the viewer.  We hear how this person is a dolt, that person can’t boil water.  Petty gripes and foul mouths.  But then after the service they go to their sleeping areas and talk to the pictures or their kids, and parents, and partners and how much they love them, and love (sniff) being here, and really (sniff, sniff) want this (boo hoo).

Another of our favorite cooking contests also has Gordon at the forefront.  Master Chef.  This competition among home cooks has us wondering if the professionals on Hell’s Kitchen shouldn’t stop by the studio next door and get some pointers on, well, on cooking.  These non-professionals are very good at their limited challenges and usually work without complaining.  But even here we have the boo-hoo crowd sneaking in and has us wondering how far a blind cook can go in a kitchen competition with real knives, hot stoves, and open flames.

Not long ago we were watching one of the previous winners of Food Network Star whose show came on right after another previous winner.  And at that we were stuck. Both of the former winners with real shows who have now been on for what seems like years and have books and CDs and probably hats and T-shirts were winners when food was the competition and they left making a good promo up to the PR department.  This year’s finalists seem (emphasis on seem) to know their difference between a whisk and a dutch oven.  Could it be that after all the tears a cooking competition might actually be decided on cooking?  It could happen.

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

 

Just Stuff

Michael Leave a comment

We’ve made no secret that we like to do a little joy riding when we feel the need for a little joy in a weekend.  He of We has a little 2 seat roadster and She of We keeps a bottle of sun screen in her door pocket.  It works.  Usually.  Sometimes we find ourselves scratching our heads over something somebody – sometimes us – has done.  Let us explain.

Once on an afternoon drive through the park we stopped at a “little bit of everything” store.  They have tools, hunting and fishing gear, canned goods, sports memorabilia, boxed candy, various needle-works supplies, furniture, plumbing fixtures, wheelbarrows, doll houses, and trees.  How can you pass up a deal on trees.  We couldn’t.  Just because the tree was about 20 miles from where it was going to be planted might make mere people say “let’s think about this.”  Not us.  We’re Reality People.  And we did not want to drive back and forth a few times to get the right vehicle with the right storage capacity in the right parking lot to transport a tree.  It’s just a tree.  To make a long story short, in order not to damage the trunk or the trunk, it ended up between She of We’s legs in the front seat, extending about 3 feet above the windshield.  We drove slow.  Which made eating the ice cream we stopped for easier.

On another excursion we passed a row of simply beautiful houses.  It’s easy when you seek out a high end housing plan where somebody is turning out mansion after mansion just like a suburban factory project.  Often we find the people in the million dollar homes have the same things in their driveways and side yards we have in ours and we smile happily.  This one afternoon in this one neighborhood we weren’t in a plan.  We were among bona fide multiple million dollar manors rivaling anything Hollywood so to be exes would fight over.  Just beautiful.  And we weren’t but 100 feet from their front doors.  We wanted to walk up each rolling expanse of lawn and ring the bell just to say hello.  And among them, among the carefully landscaped, fenced, fountained, and paved portraits of residential indulgence, lay a deflated 24 foot round, 4 foot tall inflatable portable swimming pool.  Complete with knocked over steps.

Then there was the time we stopped at a farm market.  We’ve stopped at several and usually find the freshest bargains for the evening’s dinner.  If they have a good gift shop we could pick up birthday, anniversary, and Christmas gifts for several occasions.  But this stop took the cake.  Or rather, took the pie.  Not to say it wasn’t home-made but on this display case sat several absolutely identical looking $14 pies.  Right next to the $10 peaches, $6 blueberries, and $16 skirt steaks from “local” beef.  Trust us.  We’re local and there’s no beef where we are.  A little checking and we found that their corn might be theirs.  The rest was bought from the same purveyors that the mega-mart on the hill goes to.  Shame on them!

Not on a weekend drive, He of We recently was at that mart.  He did his shopping (New York Strip, $8 for a 12 ounce cut) and moved over the giant home supply store that shares the hill.  There he found a guy tying a set of mini-blinds to the back of his motorcycle.  “Let me tell you about this tree,” He of We said to him.

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?

 

Union Made

Michael 1 Comment

The news is such a great source of comedic anecdotes.  Here’s one we couldn’t resist.  The adjunct faculty of a local college has asked for a mail ballot to determine if they should be represented by a union.  An adjunct faculty member is one who is not on a tenure track and is usually part time.  He or she often applies to a college to instruct in a specific class based on his or her life experience rather than based on his or her academic research that tests the tenets of the material.  These are the teachers that have other “real jobs” on the outside.

This particular college is a Catholic institution and petitioned the National Labor Relations Board for an exemption to the regulation that allows faculty to organize.  The union says the faculty needs them “to improve job security, pay levels and working conditions” and that the college’s attempt to block them from organizing is “legally and ethically offensive.” 

Oh yes, we can see the arguments from both sides.  Certainly someone has to look out for the faculty.  Teaching one, or possibly two classes a week, in air conditioned discomfort, having to share offices with other part time faculty members while still getting free sporting event tickets, free parking, free lunch.  Yes, those are terrible working conditions.  And of course the college has to look out for itself.  Its average tuition brings them a mere $10,000 a year for each student.  Not much revenue at all. 

Indeed, both sides need specialized representation.  We’re certain that the college has an attorney well versed in arguing exemptions for private institutions.  You’d not want to go before a federal agency with an attorney who specializes in copyright infringement to argue labor issues.  And the teachers will have their experts when the union presents its argument that the professors of higher education deserve to have their interests looked after by . . . the United Steelworkers of America?

Yes, the USW wants “to improve job security, pay levels and working conditions” for these college teachers.  After all, they have a lot of experience making certain that no teacher is forced to work more than 40 hours a week wielding a cutting torch while smoothing the cut end of seamless steel pipe or that any teacher is coerced into accepting a lower paid laborer position in the sheet mill when there are open inspector positions in the wire mill. 

Come on guys, the real story here is that the steelworkers union is losing membership.  All those steelworkers who lost their jobs in the 80’s but have still been paying their dues because the union was working hard to get them their jobs back have either retired from their mall security guard jobs or have moved on to the great blast furnace in the sky.  The union’s revenue stream is drying up and their office employees are at risk of having to find gainful employment while actually doing something for their 40 hours every week.

Maybe if the USW wants to find new members they should look at the workers who are employed by labor union offices.  They should be able to find unfair labor practices there.  Nepotism, favoritism, and a few other -isms are probably common place in a business that’s basically all executive, and no laborers.  But they better be careful.  If they win the election to represent themselves the only benefit they might end up providing is the right to pay dues.

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