Timely yet Priceless

Have you changed your clock back yet? If you’re somewhere where that happens, of course. If you’re not, then you shouldn’t have, so don’t now. I’m of two minds when it comes to these twice yearly time changes. Now the two minds aren’t I like it but I don’t like it. It’s the rule so I’m going to do it and not let my personal feelings intrude on my appropriate completion of this task. Like coming to a complete stop before making a right turn on red, particularly in the face of oncoming traffic. I might not like it but it’s what we’re supposed to do and not liking it out loud isn’t going to change that.

I don’t understand why Arizona doesn’t follow Daylight Savings Time. Hawaii, Guam, Puerto Rico, Samoa, and the US Virgin Islands don’t either but they’re isolated from the rest of the country so if they want to follow what their closest neighbors do, that makes sense. Arizona doesn’t. Oh sure, Arizonans didn’t have to wonder should I change my clock before I go to bed on Saturday or after I wake up on Sunday, but is that a fair exchange for being out of sync with their border state neighbors all summer long and tuning in for the 6:00 news an hour early for six months?

SlowClock

Anyway, my two minds are when to actually make the change. Nobody in their right mind is going to wake up at 2:00 am just to reset various timepieces. I certainly wouldn’t and I’m not necessarily that right in my mind. Besides, I not only wouldn’t but I couldn’t. I have other things to do when I change my clocks and I need to be alert which I certainly am not in the middle of the night. So that leaves the day before or the day after.

Typically I change my clocks before I go to bed. But not right before. If I waited till then I’d forget. So I change them when I think about it or hear or read a reminder. Usually that’s around 5 in the afternoon. That’s what time I changed them 2 days ago. Then for the next 6 hours I wondered every time I looked at a clock what time it really was. Since the computers and phones magically change themselves in the middle of the night I didn’t touch them. That meant that none of the clocks in the room matched the times on my cell phone and tablet which are my ever present recliner companions. And worse than that, the TV listings didn’t match the clock next to the TV. I’ve been changing my own clocks for over 40 years and I go through this dilemma twice a year every year. Next year I think I might wait until I wake up on Sunday to change them and see what happens.

By the way, tomorrow is a noteworthy if not outright special day for The Real Reality Show Blog. On November 7, 2011, I posted the first of now close to 600 posts. Except for a few months when I was in the intensive care unit at the local get well center, I got a post out every Monday and Thursday for six whole years – with an occasional off schedule day tossed in to keep you on your toes. And during all that, this amazing feat has been brought to you for nothing more than your energy to connect and your desire to read.

I want to thank you for your support and continued readership. It is only with that support that this blog is and always will be free. And worth every penny.

 

Pantsing Around

The last couple of days here have been the cold, rainy, dreary, generally not the kind of weather you want to go outside in unless you have to type of days you find when fall really turns into prep days for winter. So I’ve been practicing sitting around and relaxing since most of my days include “don’t go outside unless you have to” on the to do list.

Mostly I’ll read, write, or puzzle something out to bide my time on those inside days. Every so often I’ll turn on the television and see what I might have missed in prime time over the past few years by watching whatever new has hit the late afternoon/early evening syndication runs. I’ve discovered that I’m much too overdressed to be properly relaxed. Apparently the All-American male cannot relax with pants on. I missed that somewhere along the way.

In every sitcom on television today, there is a male character who barely crosses the threshold of his house before taking his pants off. These males range from youngster at the cusp of teendom, to teenager, to young adult, to middle aged parent, to grandfather. They are from struggling, middle class, well to do, and outright rich families from New York across America to California, of a variety of ethnic backgrounds. Their only common denominators are male-ism and being pantsless at home.

This concerns me. I never ran across this behavior in my personal experiences. I have often been in what I would otherwise consider a relaxing situation and I have always kept my pants on. I have observed other men from my own, older, and younger generations, and have never seen any of them kicked back on the sofa in boxers or briefs. Yet our television role models are dropping trou before they clear the front door. And not just in solitude. They do it and stay that way in front of wives, mothers, siblings, offspring, and on several occasions, delivery persons.

Don’t say that they’re only sitcom males and I shouldn’t be taking them seriously. Sitcoms are America. We may want to think that the hour long dramas are where Americans are really at but they aren’t. The dramas may be what we want to believe us to be. We want to be that deep, that inclusive, that concerned with the environment, current causes, and family. But we aren’t. As much as we want to be the Pearsons, deep down we know we’re really the Hecks.

Clearly I’ve been doing it wrong for a lifetime. And I’m afraid that as I’ve gotten this far in my life I’m too old to change and will continue relaxing with all of my clothes on. I know, I’m bucking convention here but I can’t see myself any other way. And I sincerely hope it doesn’t offend any of you to know that as I’m typing this, I’m wearing pants.

 

It’s Beginning To…

I was out shopping yesterday. Shopping is probably overstating it. I went out to pick up a prescription so it wasn’t like I was planning a spree complete with breakfast out, a break somewhere around mid-day, and tea and scones before wrapping things up and heading home with my packages. My plan was to pour the rest of the morning coffee into a travel mug, shoot down the road to the pharmacy while sucking down the leftover sludge, run past the drive up window to retrieve aforementioned prescription, then head for home where fresh, follow up coffee should be ready for the next cup.

That was the plan. And it would have worked if there hadn’t been a 3 car line in the drive through. Blame it on the rain. So I pulled into one of the every spot open in the lot spots, reinforced myself with an extra glug of caffeinated dregs, and headed inside.

I could have still stayed close to my original plan and been home before the car heater had a chance to actually heat except for the aisle that I had to walk through to get to the prescription counter. The seasonal merchandise. And the season of the hour is …… Christmas.

I can’t help it but I am a Christmas Junk Junky. If it sparkles, I will stare at it. If it blinks and flashes, my eyes will follow it. And if it has a “Try Me!” button, I’ll try it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a multicolor LED light set, a winter scene in motion snow globe, or a plush flamingo singing “Santa Baby.”

SantaBabyI must have bought the last one of those 6 or 7 years ago because I haven’t seen one since. Yes, I’m the one who’s one aisle over pushing all the buttons and laughing like I’ve just seen A Charlie Brown Christmas for the first time. (That reminds me, It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown will be on ABC this Sunday at 8.) (In case you were wondering.)

I know, for the last 6 years I’ve harped on how stores rush every season, unveiling this Christmas’s hottest toy before last Easter’s leftover remote control hopping bunny can make it to the clearance bin, but all is forgiven (temporarily) while I read the cards’ inside inscriptions or check out the dancing Santa and elves. If Christmas brings out the kid in us, it does doubly so on me. In me?

Then I realized I hadn’t even bought Halloween candy and came to my senses. As long as I was inside the store I picked up a little supply of candy for next week’s treats. I rarely get trick or treaters where I am but just in case I wanted to have something on hand. Besides, the Halloween stuff is such a great size for when you want just a bite. But it will never beat red and green M&M candies in a motorized nutcracker dispenser. Um, yeah. I got one of those, too.

 

When A Door Closes

This past weekend I was getting out of the car when I realized car doors don’t close right, the kind of light bulbs that last ten years don’t last ten years, and computers ask questions they have no intention of doing anything with about. I also realized these are all first world problems but, well frankly, those are the kinds of problem I most encounter.

Let’s look at those cars doors. Every other door in the (first) world either opens or closes. Most exterior and interior house doors have latches or knobs and you push them open and they stay open or fasten them closed and then stay closed. Some even have pneumatic or motorized closers that close them for you, and thus a name that has nothing to do with baseball. Refrigerator doors have those magnetic strips that run the complete inner rim of the door with the expressed purpose of making certain the door, when not opened, is indeed closed. An entire industry has been created around the process of opening and closing garage doors. The point is that most all doors in most all buildings are mostly always open or always closed unless you take steps to leave them partially opened (or, for the half empty types, partially closed).

Car doors are a different breed. Yes car doors have a latching mechanism that ensures the door remains in the closed position until you take steps to open it (a perfectly reasonable expectation of a car door when travelling down the highway at 15 miles over the posted speed limit), but only the car door has taken pains to provide the user with a position not open yet not quite closed (and a quite unreasonable position on that same highway). So often are these doors in this position that car manufacturers have taken steps to alert the driver that a door is not completely closed by means of a warning light on the dash panel. Would it not be a more reasonable resolution to take steps to make a door that closes completely? Perhaps the car makers should get together with the refrigerator makers.

Now, speaking of lights, I have this pole lamp in the corner of my living that has graced the corner of this living room, the previous living room, a family room, and a room that once had aspirations of being a den but became a nursery instead. As you can see, it’s a versatile and, at least in my opinion, an attractive light. I bought it about 15 years ago. I almost didn’t buy it. It was pricey for the time and for its type and that, I was told, was due to the light’s lamp. Lamp’s light? It has (had) a most usual bulb that looks like a miniature fluorescent tube that had the added bonus of a built in dimming mechanism. I questioned this arrangement, not to mention the price, before making the purchase. I was assured that the dimmer worked as well in the home as in the showroom, that indeed it was expensive and when it comes time to replace the bulb it too will be expensive, but that its bulb would last at least 10 years if not longer.

Well indeed it was expensive but it worked as advertised and its bulb lasted more than the claimed 10 years. I use the past tense here because after those ten and half again more years the bulb has given its all. I never found out if the replacement bulb is expensive because when I went to buy said replacement bulb I was told that “they haven’t made those for at least ten years now, but, who knows, maybe you can find something on the Internet.”

So to home I went, in my car with the now fully closed doors, fired up the old desktop computer and thought I’d check my email before beginning my what would probably be fruitless search for a miniature, dimmable, fluorescent light bulb. A message from my doctor’s hospital organization was there telling me I had a message on their server. (If they can send me a message that says I have a message why can’t they just send me the message? That may be Thursday’s post.) So I signed on to their server with my user name and super secret password and was immediately presented with a pop up window asking me if I want my browser to remember my super secret password. I suppose so I was not confused by this question I was presented with multiple choice answers. — Yes — Not Now — Never —  And as I do every time I am asked that same question entering that same site I select “Never.”

And then I wonder…we can’t even make doors that close all the way and I expect a computer to understand the concept of never.

 

Sunday Funday

Now that football season has started I must be more selective about shopping days. The local college fans aren’t so bad, but I have to remember, don’t go to the store on Sunday before a football game. Those people are nuts!

The closer to kick off the more desperate the die-hard fans are to get their share of the game goodies home to the buffet before the rest of the tailgaters get there. Buffet might be a bit ambitious.

These folks have carts with nothing but nuts, chips, salsa, pretzels, those pre-arranged shrimp rings, football shaped chocolate chip cookies, cupcakes decorated in team colors icing, pre-cubed cheese, and sausage. Lots and lots of sausage.

And they don’t wear clothes. Not real clothes. The women are wearing halter tops, and short shorts, and things that wouldn’t pass as cover ups at the pool. Men have shorts, team logo baseball caps, flip flops, and replica jerseys. Everything is color coordinated to the home team and everybody wears sunglasses.  It is October isn’t it? Now, to be fair about it and so you don’t think that I live in a town filled with chauvinistic stereotypes, I did see one couple that she was the one dressed in a jersey and he in a muscle shirt which could be the male version of the halter.

If I had shopped with a list on Friday I wouldn’t have even been in the store on a weekend. But I didn’t and if I wanted breakfast this morning I had to run in for eggs. I thought I was going to be in trouble when I got inside the door and there were no shopping carts. Just needing a dozen eggs meant I didn’t have to have a cart but it was significant that there were none to be had because the parking lot wasn’t particularly full. That meant that each couple in the store had two carts. One for the aforementioned munchies and one for the beer.

It was also significant in that grocery stores always site the dairy section in the complete opposite corner of the store from the entrance. In order to get to those eggs I was going to have to do my impression of a running back picking his way through the line looking for that opening that will lead me to my goal. Once I made it to the egg case I had to tuck that carton in like I was protecting the ball as I turned for open field and bolted for the checkout lines.

Ah the checkout lines. Never get behind people wearing replica football jerseys in the self-service checkout line. Picture the conversation between the referee and a head coach who did not get the call go his way after a lengthy replay timeout. That would be mild compared to the discussion between pseudo-quarterback and the electronic cashier’s disembodied (and dispassionate) voice. In fact, I should remove those parentheses because I think it was the repetitive “please remove all items from the belt and try again” in the calm, dispassionate tone that had him really riled.

Eventually I got myself home with my dozen chicken eggs and a proper breakfast will be had. I have a feeling that a lot of my fellow shoppers will be having aspirin and lots of black coffee for their morning meals today.

Boy am I glad that we hockey fans aren’t like that.

 

Ahead Of My Time

I have 3 clocks that are battery powered. Well I guess technically I have 5 of them if you count the 2 in the cars. Six if you count the clock radio in the bedroom that is corded but it has a battery backup since it used to be an alarm clock.  Actually it still is an alarm clock but I don’t use the alarm function any more. In fact I hadn’t even used its alarm feature when I was working and needed to get up early on a regular basis. I still kept the battery in it even though it didn’t need to consistently keep accurate time, and I still do because I like it to keep consistent time because it’s really a pain to reset the time if it should stop in a power failure.

Now where was I?

Oh right. I have 3 clocks that are battery powered. Four actually but one uses a really weird size that nobody carries. It hasn’t kept time for about 14 years but it looks good on my desk.

Oh. Sorry.

I have 3 clocks that are battery powered. To keep them running and to not have to open them up at odd and unexpected times of the year, I change their batteries every fall when we change from daylight saving time back to standard time. I figure as long as I have them opened up I might as well change the batteries whether they need them or not. And that’s worked pretty well for the last 40 years when I bought my first battery powered clock. Well, there was 1986 when I actually moved over the weekend that the time changed and we packed the clocks with their batteries in place and still running. (Not intentionally, it just worked that way) (That was probably dangerous.) (But nothing bad happened.) When we unpacked them they were hung on their walls and the batteries weren’t given a thought. Not until they started running slow 8 months later. Then I remembered what I forgot.

SlowClock

So slow it’s running backwards!

Sorry. I digressed again.

I have 3 clocks that are battery powered. I usually change the batteries when we change the time in the fall but they are all running slow. I think I forgot last year.

Did I tell you about the 3 battery powered clocks I have?

 

In Labor

If you are reading this from outside the United States, boy, are you lucky! Here it is Labor Day. Oh, there’s nothing wrong with the holiday. I just hate its placement in the calendar. It’s so close to the actual end of summer that everybody wants to make it the end of the season. When they started doing that a month ago I expressed my displeasure at rushing through summer. (See “Strike Up the Grill,” Aug. 27, 2017.) Well, they’re at it again!

Yesterday, a whole day before this fictitious end of summer, I received 7 e-mails, 4 tweets, and a text message touting extra special, lowest prices of the year, super savings packed “End of Summer Sales!” But, as much as I want to criticize the marketing world for keeping us 4 to 6 weeks ahead of any actual event you can think of, I have to admit that this weekend, even I was doing some preparation for the arrival of autumn.

Although I would never think of putting it into storage this early, I did some fall prep work on the little convertible. I conditioned its top and got a good wax to cover its paint, taking advantage of the coolish weekend weather knowing neither conditioner nor wax would dry prematurely in blazing sun and heat making me work less enthusiastically on an already heartbreaking time when the garage door will be closed for good. Or at least for 4 or 5 months.

And even though I didn’t put the walking shorts and the tropical print shirts away, they got shuffled to the back of the closet and the more cool weather practical khakis and polos took their spots on the lower closet bar. Save for one pair that I hope to use later today during the pool’s last operating hours of the year, the swimwear has been laundered and folded and stowed in their bin, hoisted onto the top shelf where room was made in the space formerly occupied by [shudder] sweaters.

In the dining room, the baby blue and yellow and white napery was swapped for navy and orange and ivory linens. The tablescape now sports sunflowers instead of pansies.

So there you have it. A share of my shame. As much as I decry hastening the loss of the season, I too was swept up in the American fixation of making Labor Day the end of summer. Now I don’t know what I’ll do in three weeks when fall actually makes its entrance.

Sept2017

Three on a Match

I just finished rereading a Phillip Marlowe mystery. Philip Marlowe is the hard boiled detective invented by Raymond Chandler in 1939 in the novel The Big Sleep. You might have seen Humphrey Bogart play Marlowe in the movie version. If you did, you saw a man do some serious detecting. And some serious smoking. Well, it was the time. Between the wars. A manly man. In a manly field. Doing a manly job. Smoking like a man.

Last week one of the movie channels replayed the 1985 film, St. Elmo’s Fire. A bunch of kids just out of college, working their entry level jobs, drinking their every level cocktails, loving and hating their entry level lives. And smoking. Wow, they smoked a lot in that picture. When they drank they smoked. When they partied, they smoked. When they drove, they smoked. When they danced, they smoked. When they attempted suicide, they smoked. When they thwarted suicide, they smoked. When they broke up they smoked. When they made up, they smoked. I don’t remember if they ever ate.

I mentioned a couple of posts ago that I had been watching Bond, James Bond movies during a month long marathon of the classic spy stories. One of the things about the early 1960s offerings that you might notice is how much they smoked. Everybody smoked. The spy, the counter spy, the henchmen, the femme fatale. Bond, James Bond. Everybody smoked. Some of Bond, James Bond’s best secret weapons were built into cigarette lighters. Others into cigarette cases. Some even into cigarettes.

NoSmokingFrom the 40s through the 60s to the 80s, everybody smoked. By the time we got to the 2000s people just stopped smoking. Movies today even have disclaimers at the end of the credits stating nobody, but nobody involved in the production of the just viewed movie got any financial, moral, or athletic support knowingly, unknowingly, or even accidentally from anybody, any corporation, or any organization supporting or even involved with the tobacco industry. Often the disclaimer is more prominent than the notice of what type of camera used to shoot the film and the union local responsible for driving the caterer from location site to location site.  In the most recent Bond, James Bond volumes nobody smokes. Not in the bars, not in the casinos, not on the stakeouts. Not just the spy and the supporting spy people. No body. No where. No Smoking. They must have all gone cold turkey.

Amazing the strides they made in 20 years. The Surgeon General would be proud of Mr. Bond, James Bond. Now if we could just get him to drive a little safer.

 

Conserving Matter

As a scientist, one of my personal commandments was thou shalt not deny the conservation of matter. What we have we always had and always will. Never more. Never less. Always was, is, and will be. It can change, but it won’t disappear. It might look new, but it’s only rearranged. Ice melts into water, water vaporizes into steam, steam condenses into water, water freezes into ice. Always there, always the same, even when different.

Sociologists have their own sort of conservation of matter. Everybody we have is every body we will have. Old people move from the cold of New York to the warmth of Ft. Lauderdale. Immigrants from Caribbean refuges move from south Florida to Chicago to open diners specializing in arroz con gandules. Bright eyed 20 year olds move from Naperville to the seek fame and fortune in Manhattan.

Now, economists want to horn in on the fame afforded to our anything but fortuitous conservation of matter. You’ll recall the landmark post uploaded to this very blog not even some 30 months ago about the ever increasing sizes of American sizes. (If you don’t, you can read it here. If you do but don’t recall it as “landmark,” then you must have a pretty low opinion of yourself reading such drivel. If you do and you do recall it as “landmark,” have I got a bridge to sell you!) To refresh your memory, there is no more small or medium in American. It’s all large, extra large, and full size. This would seem to contradict the natural order of the conservation of matter. Where are the extras going into the larges coming from? In a word, coffee.

Coffee? Yes, coffee. For some time coffee package sizes have been dwindling before our very eyes every time we bring them (our eyes, not the coffee packages) into a grocery store. Years and years and years and years ago, and a few more before that, the standard coffee sizes were one pound cans or bags (for single coffee drinker households), two pound cans (for those teetering on the brink of narcolepsy), and three pound mega-cans (for households with small children). (If you ever had small children you understand that.)  The three pound cans disappears years ago replaced by 36 ounce canisters and the one pound varieties lost 4 ounces to become sleek 12 ounce bags. Now the largest single size container of coffee you can buy is a 30 ounce plastic jug, the small choice is a mere 11 ounces (8.4 to 10 ounces for designer brands and flavors), and medium has disappeared altogether.

So you’re going to say that you don’t drink coffee so your matter is indeed growing every time you order a large sweet tea or test drive an extended cab pickup. No, no, no. You might not drink coffee but if you’re partaking of the classic American coffee break you’re part of the proof of the hypothesis, eating one (or maybe two) out of a pack of 21 prepackaged cookies that used to come in cartons of 24, or one of a new baker’s dozen of donuts that now total a mere ten. Crackers that used to be sold in 12 ounce boxes are now 11, and cream cheese for your bagel is in a 6.5 ounce container when once it was 8.

So there you have it. The modern iteration of that most ancient of all absolutes. Everything indeed is as it once was, merely changed.

 

Strike Up the Grill

I saw an article on one of my magazines’ weekly emails that there are only 3 weeks left to grilling season. Obviously that’s a bit of marketing hype for this month’s hard copy edition’s cover story. Three weeks from now is just a week into September and for here, and I would think most of the U. S. except perhaps some ZIP codes in Maine and Alaska, there’s a lot of good grilling weeks well beyond that. For some parts, it never stops being grilling time. (Sometimes I think this country is just too big for its own good which messes with magazine headline writers’ best intentions.) Now as far as I’m concerned, and being just north of the 40th parallel and having a covered patio, I’ll grill pretty deep into winter as long as the grill isn’t frozen shut. When we get those deep freezes and harsh winds that facilitate snow accumulating under the patio cover, I’ll put away the grill spatula.

WintergrillI think the point they wanted to make with that 3 week warning is that Labor Day is only 3 weeks away. Pools will close, fall decorations will come out of garages, wardrobes will be swapped for darker colors, and pumpkin spice everything will greet us at the entrance to every store, even Pep Boys.

I think the point that they are actually making is that just like the stores that already have their pumpkin spice everythings starting to sneak close to the entrances, the magaziners enjoy rushing the seasons. If they didn’t publish their fall cooking guides, turning leaf travel guides, or autumn splendor festivals guides by July they think some other magaziner (or horrors! an e-ziner) will beat them to it and there will go their credibility with the masses. With that there goes their summer advertising revenue projections hopefully earned from the ads for fall fashions and vacations by the sellers certain that you’ll book you flight home for Thanksgiving weekend with somebody who advertised cheap winter holiday fares in June. Arrrggghhh!!!

What I was hoping I’d find in my inbox would be a recipe on how to use up all those summer vegetables perhaps in a grilled medley since we apparently have 3 weeks of grilling season left. Unfortunately, all I found were some interesting ways to use those soon to be ripe pumpkins. I guess all the zucchini recipes were in the April editions.