The Oscars were on tonight, and I missed them. My husband was watching a yawner on another station, and I dozed off in the La-Z-Boy and slept right through. He had “Meteorite Men” on and I asked him to change the station, and he said in a minute, because it was getting interesting.
This is one of an assortment of shows that appeal to my husband for reasons I can’t fathom. “Ice Road Truckers,” “Survivor Man,” “Ax Men,” “World’s Dirtiest Jobs,” and “Greatest Catch,” are some of the others. These are shows about people doing their jobs – jobs that my husband would never want to do in a million years – yet he finds their experiences fascinating. I can’t imagine how these shows got started. Can you picture someone pitching this concept to network executives? “Okay, you’re going to love this show!!! It’s about some guys on a crab boat CATCHING CRABS!!!!.”
Or this one, “I’ve got this fantastic idea for a show. We’ll take two guys and have them walk around in the middle of nowhere LOOKING FOR PIECES OF METEORS!!!!!”
Tonight the engaging stars of “Meteorite Men” were walking through the snow in Wyoming with metal detectors that sound like a cow wailing after she stepped on her own udder. They walk along, commenting on the weather, and then the metal detector wails, and they get all excited and bend down and start digging in the dirt with magnetic pick axes. Soon a chunk of meteor the size of a grape attaches to the pick axe and they whoop and holler about their great good fortune. They manage to get 4 or 5 meteor chunks then go to a buyer who examines the pieces thoroughly like a jeweler looking at the Hope Diamond, and then pays the guys a couple of thousand bucks.
When I saw this monetary transaction, I thought, “Who buys this stuff?” Sure, a little piece of outer space must be worth something, but if the guy is paying the Meteorite Men $600 bucks for one of these, how much is the average Joe going to have to pay to get it from him? Would you pay $1,000 or $2,000 or more?
Frankly, I haven’t given it much thought. On my list of “must haves,” I’ve got vacations and handbags and a new house, but I’ve overlooked space debris.
This is why I fell asleep and slept right through the Oscars. Luckily Baba Wawa was having her interviews. I really like her and was sad that this is her last Oscar show. Comedians have had fun with her over the years, but she’s been a gracious professional all things considered. I like the way she asks people if they’re gay or if they pass gas in the bathtub, and if so, does it wake up the neighbors. We’ll miss you, Babs.
Right now as I’m typing I’ve got one eye on the TV – it’s stuck on there and I’m not sure how I’m going to get it loose. They are showing the actresses and their gowns, which is what I watch the Oscars for anyway. I love Kate Winslet’s dress. And Sandra Bullock’s. They’re probably not going to show the ugly dresses – and that’s half the fun. I’ll have to wait for People Magazine to see them. Doggone Meteorite Men!
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Things Aren't Always What They Seem
Tonight at my daughter’s gymnastics competition they handed out coupons to get $15 off of T-shirts or sweatshirts. What a great deal! I stood in the line that snaked through the gym for the better part of my life to take advantage of this great opportunity. When I finally arrived at the order area, I leaned that I would still pay $24 for the long-sleeve t-shirt with the logo and a star by my daughter’s name on the back.
Funny thing was, that’s the same price I paid at the last competition at a different gym, WITHOUT the $15 discount. Could it be that this vendor simply handed out coupons to make us think we were getting a good deal?
Of course that’s what the little weasel did. And we all fell for it because we can’t resist trying to get a good deal. It’s the same reason we hold out when buying a new sofa until the guy sweetens the pot with a couple of cheap throw pillows. Then we’re scrambling to say, “We’ll take it!”
One of the most frustrating things about this is finding out that someone you know also got the same throw pillows. Then it seems like you didn’t really get a good deal after all. You merely got the standard deal. Worse than that is finding out you got the standard deal, and the other guy paid less for the couch than you did.
It’s actually a competition – you try to win with the salesperson, then you try to one-up everyone else. After all, you can’t get a good deal without having something to compare it to.
Another way people try to get you is packaging. Often there will be a really nicely boxed item with cellophane enclosing it like a chastity belt so the would-be purchaser can’t see what’s in there. The label makes the contents seem irresistible. The customer buys it because it’s on the clearance table by the check stand, marked down from $49 to 9.95. I’ve bought this item many a time. When I get home and tear into it, it’s always a tiny, flimsy object that breaks in seconds.
When I was a small child, I got a giant chocolate bunny in my Easter basket. You know where this is going, don’t you? I bit into that bunny’s foot and discovered that it was simply a thin layer of chocolate wrapped around nothing but air. In fact, the whole thing broke up into bits and fell to the floor. There wasn’t much more chocolate in that thing than in a Hershey’s kiss. I was heartbroken. Who would do such a thing to a small child? How could the Easter Bunny be so cruel?
Once I bought a beautifully packaged box that touted itself as the best spice cookie mix the civilized world has ever known. When I opened it, there was a ziplock bag full of flour mix that looked like some kid had put together. I followed the directions and made the worst cookies I’ve ever attempted to eat. They scrimped on the sugar and spices and spent the flavor budget on the fancy box.
This has happened to me more times than I care to divulge. For this reason, I’ve been leery of everything in a nice box for a long time. Last Christmas I refused to open a beautifully wrapped present with a pale green ribbon because I knew I’d be disappointed. When I get up my nerve, I’ll let you know what it was. I’m sure my husband got a great deal on it!
Funny thing was, that’s the same price I paid at the last competition at a different gym, WITHOUT the $15 discount. Could it be that this vendor simply handed out coupons to make us think we were getting a good deal?
Of course that’s what the little weasel did. And we all fell for it because we can’t resist trying to get a good deal. It’s the same reason we hold out when buying a new sofa until the guy sweetens the pot with a couple of cheap throw pillows. Then we’re scrambling to say, “We’ll take it!”
One of the most frustrating things about this is finding out that someone you know also got the same throw pillows. Then it seems like you didn’t really get a good deal after all. You merely got the standard deal. Worse than that is finding out you got the standard deal, and the other guy paid less for the couch than you did.
It’s actually a competition – you try to win with the salesperson, then you try to one-up everyone else. After all, you can’t get a good deal without having something to compare it to.
Another way people try to get you is packaging. Often there will be a really nicely boxed item with cellophane enclosing it like a chastity belt so the would-be purchaser can’t see what’s in there. The label makes the contents seem irresistible. The customer buys it because it’s on the clearance table by the check stand, marked down from $49 to 9.95. I’ve bought this item many a time. When I get home and tear into it, it’s always a tiny, flimsy object that breaks in seconds.
When I was a small child, I got a giant chocolate bunny in my Easter basket. You know where this is going, don’t you? I bit into that bunny’s foot and discovered that it was simply a thin layer of chocolate wrapped around nothing but air. In fact, the whole thing broke up into bits and fell to the floor. There wasn’t much more chocolate in that thing than in a Hershey’s kiss. I was heartbroken. Who would do such a thing to a small child? How could the Easter Bunny be so cruel?
Once I bought a beautifully packaged box that touted itself as the best spice cookie mix the civilized world has ever known. When I opened it, there was a ziplock bag full of flour mix that looked like some kid had put together. I followed the directions and made the worst cookies I’ve ever attempted to eat. They scrimped on the sugar and spices and spent the flavor budget on the fancy box.
This has happened to me more times than I care to divulge. For this reason, I’ve been leery of everything in a nice box for a long time. Last Christmas I refused to open a beautifully wrapped present with a pale green ribbon because I knew I’d be disappointed. When I get up my nerve, I’ll let you know what it was. I’m sure my husband got a great deal on it!
Friday, March 5, 2010
Insane Rock-O-Plane
There’s something on TV right now about Ferris Wheels. Have you ever ridden one of those things? I’m terrified of them. I don’t like being so high in the air, and I sure don’t like the way they make you go backwards. But the thing I hate most is those seats rocking back and forth, especially when it’s stopped and you’re at the very top, which seems to be the entire time you’re on the ride.
I’ve never liked carnival rides, and I’ve got good reason. When I was a kid, my mom took me to the carnival that came to town for two weeks every summer. I can see her watching me as I went slowly in a circle on a little motorcycle with a horn that I pressed constantly in different patterns, like beeeeep beep beep beep beep beeeeeeep. Then there were little airplanes that went up in the air about four feet with little guns so we could pretend to shoot at the kid directly in front of you. Each time I went by my mom, I waved frantically at her with one hand, keeping my other hand securely on the trigger of the gun, which fired non-stop.
These were fun rides, and I loved the carnival. Then my brother asked me to go with him and I was thrilled. I must have been about 8 and he was 12. I jumped at the chance.
When we passed the kiddy rides, he turned his nose up at them and wouldn’t even wait for me to ride. “Come on, there’s some really cool big kids’ rides over here you’ll love.”
Ooooo! Big kids rides! I skipped along after him, bubbling with anticipation. First we came to the Tilt A Whirl, which I thought was the funnest ride I’d ever been on. Then the Twister, which I also loved because it made me slam into my brother while he pretended he was being squished to death.
Then he took me on the Ferris Wheel, and that thing swooped me up into space like a rocket launch. I was terrified. When we got to the top and stopped, he swung the seat and I knew it was going to tip over and we’d drop forty stories to our deaths. I hit him on the arms and begged him to stop, which he finally did after I started crying like a baby.
He gave me some pink and blue cotton candy to settle my nerves, then took me to where the Rock-O-Plane was. It was very tall just like the Ferris Wheel. “I AIN’T getting on that thing,” I said.
“It’s really fun,” he said. “Look, you’re in a cage so you can’t fall out and you just go round and round a circle. It’s not scary at all.”
“Is too!”
“Is not!”
“Is too!”
“IS NOT”
“IS TOO!”
After much arguing, coaxing, shaming, and bribing, I agreed to get on the ride as long as he PROMISED that it would not spin like some of the ones we’d seen. “There’s a bar in there, and you can control the spinning by pressing down, so you don’t have to worry.” Next thing I knew, I was in a cage. When the ride started, he pressed down on the bar and the cage started to slowly rock as we soared into the sky like we were on the way back up from a bungee jump.
“Let me out of here,” I screamed. He kept pressing until the cage turned completely upside down. Assorted change in our pockets sprayed out and pelted us like a hailstorm. The faster the giant wheel went, the more our gage turned.
I started screaming every obscenity I’d ever heard in my life, which surprisingly was an entire dictionary of cuss words. “Let me out of this effing thing! You son of a __! Let me out of this mother ____!” I was like a wild animal with Tourettes – foaming at the mouth, crying, screaming, cussing, flailing limbs against the cage as coins smacked my arms and legs and face. “I HATE YOU!” I screamed. My brother, dredging up some mercy from his black heart, took his hands off the bar, but the cage didn’t stop spinning. It had too much momentum.
The carnies must have thought my screeching was amusing, because the ride should have been over but it didn’t stop. Round and round we went. I tumbled out of the seat and was rolling around like a towel in a dryer. My brother was even starting to panic. “I can’t get it to stop!” he shouted. “Just hold on!” What was I supposed to hold on to? The bar? So it would spin faster?
Finally, a line must have formed so the carnie had to stop the ride. I flung that cage door open and huffed out of there, bruised from head to toe and fit to be tied. I folded my arms across my chest and took giant strides across the carnival grounds, refusing to look back at my pleading brother who was fervently begging me not to tell our mom.
I’ve haven’t been a rides person since. I still look up to my brother, but I will never forgive him for the Rock-O-Plane. Not in a million years.
I’ve never liked carnival rides, and I’ve got good reason. When I was a kid, my mom took me to the carnival that came to town for two weeks every summer. I can see her watching me as I went slowly in a circle on a little motorcycle with a horn that I pressed constantly in different patterns, like beeeeep beep beep beep beep beeeeeeep. Then there were little airplanes that went up in the air about four feet with little guns so we could pretend to shoot at the kid directly in front of you. Each time I went by my mom, I waved frantically at her with one hand, keeping my other hand securely on the trigger of the gun, which fired non-stop.
These were fun rides, and I loved the carnival. Then my brother asked me to go with him and I was thrilled. I must have been about 8 and he was 12. I jumped at the chance.
When we passed the kiddy rides, he turned his nose up at them and wouldn’t even wait for me to ride. “Come on, there’s some really cool big kids’ rides over here you’ll love.”
Ooooo! Big kids rides! I skipped along after him, bubbling with anticipation. First we came to the Tilt A Whirl, which I thought was the funnest ride I’d ever been on. Then the Twister, which I also loved because it made me slam into my brother while he pretended he was being squished to death.
Then he took me on the Ferris Wheel, and that thing swooped me up into space like a rocket launch. I was terrified. When we got to the top and stopped, he swung the seat and I knew it was going to tip over and we’d drop forty stories to our deaths. I hit him on the arms and begged him to stop, which he finally did after I started crying like a baby.
He gave me some pink and blue cotton candy to settle my nerves, then took me to where the Rock-O-Plane was. It was very tall just like the Ferris Wheel. “I AIN’T getting on that thing,” I said.
“It’s really fun,” he said. “Look, you’re in a cage so you can’t fall out and you just go round and round a circle. It’s not scary at all.”
“Is too!”
“Is not!”
“Is too!”
“IS NOT”
“IS TOO!”
After much arguing, coaxing, shaming, and bribing, I agreed to get on the ride as long as he PROMISED that it would not spin like some of the ones we’d seen. “There’s a bar in there, and you can control the spinning by pressing down, so you don’t have to worry.” Next thing I knew, I was in a cage. When the ride started, he pressed down on the bar and the cage started to slowly rock as we soared into the sky like we were on the way back up from a bungee jump.
“Let me out of here,” I screamed. He kept pressing until the cage turned completely upside down. Assorted change in our pockets sprayed out and pelted us like a hailstorm. The faster the giant wheel went, the more our gage turned.
I started screaming every obscenity I’d ever heard in my life, which surprisingly was an entire dictionary of cuss words. “Let me out of this effing thing! You son of a __! Let me out of this mother ____!” I was like a wild animal with Tourettes – foaming at the mouth, crying, screaming, cussing, flailing limbs against the cage as coins smacked my arms and legs and face. “I HATE YOU!” I screamed. My brother, dredging up some mercy from his black heart, took his hands off the bar, but the cage didn’t stop spinning. It had too much momentum.
The carnies must have thought my screeching was amusing, because the ride should have been over but it didn’t stop. Round and round we went. I tumbled out of the seat and was rolling around like a towel in a dryer. My brother was even starting to panic. “I can’t get it to stop!” he shouted. “Just hold on!” What was I supposed to hold on to? The bar? So it would spin faster?
Finally, a line must have formed so the carnie had to stop the ride. I flung that cage door open and huffed out of there, bruised from head to toe and fit to be tied. I folded my arms across my chest and took giant strides across the carnival grounds, refusing to look back at my pleading brother who was fervently begging me not to tell our mom.
I’ve haven’t been a rides person since. I still look up to my brother, but I will never forgive him for the Rock-O-Plane. Not in a million years.
Creating the Aha Moment
Creativity is an odd thing. A lot of people think you have to wait around until that Aha moment strikes and then you paint your masterpiece or write your opus. I have news for you. I’m not even sure what the word opus means, and it’s too late to look it up. Oh, all right if you insist. Be right back.
According to my dear friend Google who knows these things, an opus is a miniature octopus – so small, in fact that the cto had to be left out. A million of these creatures together can fit in a teaspoon and be fed to unsuspecting children with a smile and assurance that, “It’s good for you and will build strong bones and teeth.”
Okay, Google didn’t say this after all. Like I said, I don’t have time to go on a wild goose chase hunting down opuses at this time of night, but I’m pretty sure that an opus is some huge literary endeavor like the Bible that has many, many chapters full of adventures.
You think we’ve got a world full of sin and vice now, and you’re right, but it wasn’t much better back in Biblical times. People were “laying with” (wink wink) their daughters, lusting after a married women and killing the husband to get to her, killing their brothers, almost killing their only sons, worshipping golden calves when they weren’t busy entertaining themselves with drunkenness and women of loosely defined morals. The Bible is pretty good reading, especially the Old Testament, and especially if you get one of those versions without the thees and thous.
My favorite story is about these two women fighting over a baby (I told you this stuff was good). They went before Solomon who was the wisest man in all of history. Each woman called the other one a bee-och. Not really, I just think that word’s funny. But there was a verbal cat fight going on that even Solomon could no longer stand to listen to, so he said, “For crying out loud, just cut the baby in half and each take an equal share and be done with it, then everybody’s happy, especially me.” Well, one woman said, “Okay, sounds good to me.” The other one said, “No way. I’d rather let that bee-och have the baby rather than have it cut in half.” So Solomon says, “Aha! The one who wants the baby to live is the true mother, and you – bee-och – you are a conniving imposter.”
And now I’m happy to say I have just proved my point about creativity. Oh, wait, I forgot to make the point. Here it is, and it is certainly worth the wait. Creativity doesn’t come from an Aha moment. You create the Aha moment by parking yourself in front of whatever medium you use to create something and then just start doing it. If it’s paint or a computer or a kitchen counter where you want to whip up a culinary delight but don’t know what to make – a cake, cookies, or a pie, and what kind of pie – fruit or chiffon. I like chocolate pie myself – chocolate pecan is even better. If I waited for inspiration I’d never write this blog. I sit here and start typing because I’ve thought all day long about a topic and none has popped in my head (as usual) and it’s late (like I said before), and if I want to go to bed I’ve got to write something. With any luck, my fingers will start pecking out some senseless foolishness that I can drag out to about 600 words and call it good. Aha! I think I’ve done it yet again. Goodnight. And apologies for my loose Bible translations – I was just trying to be creative.
According to my dear friend Google who knows these things, an opus is a miniature octopus – so small, in fact that the cto had to be left out. A million of these creatures together can fit in a teaspoon and be fed to unsuspecting children with a smile and assurance that, “It’s good for you and will build strong bones and teeth.”
Okay, Google didn’t say this after all. Like I said, I don’t have time to go on a wild goose chase hunting down opuses at this time of night, but I’m pretty sure that an opus is some huge literary endeavor like the Bible that has many, many chapters full of adventures.
You think we’ve got a world full of sin and vice now, and you’re right, but it wasn’t much better back in Biblical times. People were “laying with” (wink wink) their daughters, lusting after a married women and killing the husband to get to her, killing their brothers, almost killing their only sons, worshipping golden calves when they weren’t busy entertaining themselves with drunkenness and women of loosely defined morals. The Bible is pretty good reading, especially the Old Testament, and especially if you get one of those versions without the thees and thous.
My favorite story is about these two women fighting over a baby (I told you this stuff was good). They went before Solomon who was the wisest man in all of history. Each woman called the other one a bee-och. Not really, I just think that word’s funny. But there was a verbal cat fight going on that even Solomon could no longer stand to listen to, so he said, “For crying out loud, just cut the baby in half and each take an equal share and be done with it, then everybody’s happy, especially me.” Well, one woman said, “Okay, sounds good to me.” The other one said, “No way. I’d rather let that bee-och have the baby rather than have it cut in half.” So Solomon says, “Aha! The one who wants the baby to live is the true mother, and you – bee-och – you are a conniving imposter.”
And now I’m happy to say I have just proved my point about creativity. Oh, wait, I forgot to make the point. Here it is, and it is certainly worth the wait. Creativity doesn’t come from an Aha moment. You create the Aha moment by parking yourself in front of whatever medium you use to create something and then just start doing it. If it’s paint or a computer or a kitchen counter where you want to whip up a culinary delight but don’t know what to make – a cake, cookies, or a pie, and what kind of pie – fruit or chiffon. I like chocolate pie myself – chocolate pecan is even better. If I waited for inspiration I’d never write this blog. I sit here and start typing because I’ve thought all day long about a topic and none has popped in my head (as usual) and it’s late (like I said before), and if I want to go to bed I’ve got to write something. With any luck, my fingers will start pecking out some senseless foolishness that I can drag out to about 600 words and call it good. Aha! I think I’ve done it yet again. Goodnight. And apologies for my loose Bible translations – I was just trying to be creative.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Money Madness
It’s been raining money around here lately, or so it appears because there are coins on the floor in every room I of my house. A lot of pennies, but a surprising number of quarters are sprinkled over the carpets like confetti. Where the heck are they coming from?
I know the men in the house keep coins in their pockets, and when the pants come off, the coins come out, so I understand the coins in the bedrooms. But they are everywhere – living room, dining room. No one is taking their pants off in these rooms for the most part, that I know of.
My husband has a coin basket that he puts all his change into. When we were just starting out and money was tight, I’d fish in there for quarters to do just about everything – pay for movie tickets or buy ice cream cones. I even paid for lunches with my friends with quarters. I got a reputation – I wasn’t the bag lady, I was the quarter queen. At restaurants I’d dig out a fistful of quarters and start making little one-dollar stacks on the table to pay my part of the bill.
My son used to dig out quarters out to pay for gas or Subway sandwiches. I’ve given both kids lunch money out of that basket. Quarters have always been a big thing around here – semi-precious almost. So now I can’t understand why I walk through my house barefoot and end up with a buck fifty in change stuck to my feet.
I can’t just leave it on the floor. It’s unsightly, plus it makes so much noise when sucked up in the vacuum cleaner. And, I’m embarrassed to admit, I compulsively pick up coins because it’s supposed to bring good luck. Popeye the Sailor said, Finds a coin and picks it up and all the day you’ll have good luck.” If this is indeed true, and I have no doubt that it is, then failing to pick up a coin could only mean one thing – all the day you’ll have bad luck.
Because of Popeye, I’ve picked up dirty money since I was a child. It pains me not to pick up a coin. Seriously, I get stomach cramps, and warts start popping up on my body in odd places overnight. This is not true, but I’m positive beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would be true if I didn’t pick up every coin I pass. I’ve been in evening gowns in swank lobbies and bent down to snatch a fusty penny off the plush carpet.
I walk through my house and feel like I’m at the gym bending down, standing up, bending down, standing up as I try to get the fresh coins off the floor each day. They’re like rabbits; they’re multiplying faster than I can get to them. I’ll pick the whole house up and turn my back for a minute, and when I look around, there they are again, millions of them. It’s like something out of the Twilight Zone.
The thing I can’t figure out is why no one else wants all this money? I tell you, the whole world has just turned upside down around here. And apparently its pockets are full of change.
I know the men in the house keep coins in their pockets, and when the pants come off, the coins come out, so I understand the coins in the bedrooms. But they are everywhere – living room, dining room. No one is taking their pants off in these rooms for the most part, that I know of.
My husband has a coin basket that he puts all his change into. When we were just starting out and money was tight, I’d fish in there for quarters to do just about everything – pay for movie tickets or buy ice cream cones. I even paid for lunches with my friends with quarters. I got a reputation – I wasn’t the bag lady, I was the quarter queen. At restaurants I’d dig out a fistful of quarters and start making little one-dollar stacks on the table to pay my part of the bill.
My son used to dig out quarters out to pay for gas or Subway sandwiches. I’ve given both kids lunch money out of that basket. Quarters have always been a big thing around here – semi-precious almost. So now I can’t understand why I walk through my house barefoot and end up with a buck fifty in change stuck to my feet.
I can’t just leave it on the floor. It’s unsightly, plus it makes so much noise when sucked up in the vacuum cleaner. And, I’m embarrassed to admit, I compulsively pick up coins because it’s supposed to bring good luck. Popeye the Sailor said, Finds a coin and picks it up and all the day you’ll have good luck.” If this is indeed true, and I have no doubt that it is, then failing to pick up a coin could only mean one thing – all the day you’ll have bad luck.
Because of Popeye, I’ve picked up dirty money since I was a child. It pains me not to pick up a coin. Seriously, I get stomach cramps, and warts start popping up on my body in odd places overnight. This is not true, but I’m positive beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would be true if I didn’t pick up every coin I pass. I’ve been in evening gowns in swank lobbies and bent down to snatch a fusty penny off the plush carpet.
I walk through my house and feel like I’m at the gym bending down, standing up, bending down, standing up as I try to get the fresh coins off the floor each day. They’re like rabbits; they’re multiplying faster than I can get to them. I’ll pick the whole house up and turn my back for a minute, and when I look around, there they are again, millions of them. It’s like something out of the Twilight Zone.
The thing I can’t figure out is why no one else wants all this money? I tell you, the whole world has just turned upside down around here. And apparently its pockets are full of change.
College Barage
My daughter got a decent score on a practice SAT test, and now we’re being bombarded by colleges wanting her to attend.
I always thought it was so competitive to get into a college. Everyone says to fill out the applications early and write an excellent essay. Yet the Ivy League schools and some of the most prestigious universities in the country are sending very colorful spreads trying to lure her to come to their college.
One private Catholic school in California that I’ve never even heard of offered her $20,000 to sign up at their school.
I’m quite proud of her good test score, of course, but I think this is ridiculous. If they are sending these things to her, they’re sending them to thousands of other kids in the country – kids who take the tests when they’re sophomores and the only thing they’re thinking about is being a junior next year and getting to park their beater in the school’s parking lot instead of miles away on the street.
One college called me a couple of days ago. A bright young student tried to tell me what a great place it would be for my daughter to attend. I said, “She hasn’t given any thought at all to college.”
“Well, when she does, would you please tell her that we have a great school?”
All I keep thinking is no wonder college tuition is so high all over the country. Those brochures they’re sending us cost a fortune to design, another fortune to mail, and still another fortune to keep revising each year. They also send us emails that have to be designed. I used to forward them on, but now I just hit the delete button. They sound so desperate: “We’ve sent you three emails already. We’re beginning to wonder if we have the correct address. Please let us know at your earliest convenience. And by the way, we are a great school.” And now there are people calling. I’m certain as taxes that these students aren’t volunteering to call high school kids.
My daughter hasn’t responded to any of these lavish attempts to get her attention. She likes opening the envelopes and looking at the pretty pictures, then she tosses them into a grocery sack. Sometimes her friends go through them, so they’re all tossed together like a jigsaw puzzle.
If any of you colleges are listening right now, I’ve got some words of advice to you: SHOW ME THE MONEY! You could send checks and money orders in those envelopes and it will make a much better impression on me personally. If you decide you don’t want to do that, then please quit sending us these expensive fold-out brochures the size of posters and glossy flyers that cost as much as a textbook. Because I know that they’re driving up your tuition, and trust me, sophomores aren’t going to make up their minds about college yet. Not in this house, anyway.
I always thought it was so competitive to get into a college. Everyone says to fill out the applications early and write an excellent essay. Yet the Ivy League schools and some of the most prestigious universities in the country are sending very colorful spreads trying to lure her to come to their college.
One private Catholic school in California that I’ve never even heard of offered her $20,000 to sign up at their school.
I’m quite proud of her good test score, of course, but I think this is ridiculous. If they are sending these things to her, they’re sending them to thousands of other kids in the country – kids who take the tests when they’re sophomores and the only thing they’re thinking about is being a junior next year and getting to park their beater in the school’s parking lot instead of miles away on the street.
One college called me a couple of days ago. A bright young student tried to tell me what a great place it would be for my daughter to attend. I said, “She hasn’t given any thought at all to college.”
“Well, when she does, would you please tell her that we have a great school?”
All I keep thinking is no wonder college tuition is so high all over the country. Those brochures they’re sending us cost a fortune to design, another fortune to mail, and still another fortune to keep revising each year. They also send us emails that have to be designed. I used to forward them on, but now I just hit the delete button. They sound so desperate: “We’ve sent you three emails already. We’re beginning to wonder if we have the correct address. Please let us know at your earliest convenience. And by the way, we are a great school.” And now there are people calling. I’m certain as taxes that these students aren’t volunteering to call high school kids.
My daughter hasn’t responded to any of these lavish attempts to get her attention. She likes opening the envelopes and looking at the pretty pictures, then she tosses them into a grocery sack. Sometimes her friends go through them, so they’re all tossed together like a jigsaw puzzle.
If any of you colleges are listening right now, I’ve got some words of advice to you: SHOW ME THE MONEY! You could send checks and money orders in those envelopes and it will make a much better impression on me personally. If you decide you don’t want to do that, then please quit sending us these expensive fold-out brochures the size of posters and glossy flyers that cost as much as a textbook. Because I know that they’re driving up your tuition, and trust me, sophomores aren’t going to make up their minds about college yet. Not in this house, anyway.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Cell Phone Secrets
I have procrastinated until the last minute writing my blog and turning in homework for a class I’m taking. But I’m not worried about it because I discovered something very cool that will save me a lot of time so maybe I won’t be behind in the future.
My daughter showed me how to text without having to type each letter. What a revelation! I’ve avoided texting except to my kids when they refused to answer their phones because it took so darned long to do it. My phone just has the numbers and letters together so #2 is ABC. It was such a nuisance because I had to think all the time about whether to hit the number once or twice or three times so it took two hours to type one sentence.
My daughter, in stark contrast, has thumbs that dance over the keyboard like somebody doing an Irish jig. She was sitting beside me on the sofa texting and said, “Wanna see how fast I am?” Before I could say, “Yes,” my phone was beeping with the text message, “I already sent you this message before you could even answer, that’s how fast I am – just like a lightning bolt!”
“How did you do that?” I said in complete awe. I don’t know if I would have been any more amazed if she’d jumped on the ceiling and started walking upside down like that pig in the Simpson’s movie while Homer Simpson sang (to the tune of Spiderman) “Spider Pig, Spider Pig, does whatever a Spider Pig does.” I love that scene.
At first my daughter claimed she was just extremely agile when it came to thumbs, but she finally confessed that the phone had a button that, if selected, allowed you to type each letter on the phone only once and it would automatically figure out what word you wanted and put it in your text. I am not explaining this well, but the gist of it is, instead of having to hit the #2 button three times to get the letter C, I only had to hit it once, then hit my next letter once, and the little genius inside the cell phone would read my mind and know what word I was trying to peck out.
“But what if it doesn’t know or gives me the wrong word?” I asked worriedly. “Then hit Zero and it will give you options,” she said with a sigh, already bored and wanting to continue texting without being interrupted. She texts continuously, but if I ask who she’s on the phone with, she won’t say. “It’s a bunch of people, mom.”
“Like who?”
“Like a bunch of people I know.”
“Can you text them all at one time?”
And then she lets me know how utterly awful it is to have to explain these extremely simple things to a blunder head like me. “YES, mom, now leave me alone.”
I don’t know how she got so impatient. I can remember answering the same questions over and over when she was a kid. Just the simple, “Is it done yet?” must have been asked 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 times. But did I ever tell her to leave me alone? Maybe – I wouldn’t put it past me. Still, I hardly bug her because she does get so impatient, and I know I was the queen of patience when she was little so I certainly don’t deserve this.
However, I’m not going to say anything because she might get another sweet streak and show me some more secrets of cell phones, so I want to stay on her good side.
My daughter showed me how to text without having to type each letter. What a revelation! I’ve avoided texting except to my kids when they refused to answer their phones because it took so darned long to do it. My phone just has the numbers and letters together so #2 is ABC. It was such a nuisance because I had to think all the time about whether to hit the number once or twice or three times so it took two hours to type one sentence.
My daughter, in stark contrast, has thumbs that dance over the keyboard like somebody doing an Irish jig. She was sitting beside me on the sofa texting and said, “Wanna see how fast I am?” Before I could say, “Yes,” my phone was beeping with the text message, “I already sent you this message before you could even answer, that’s how fast I am – just like a lightning bolt!”
“How did you do that?” I said in complete awe. I don’t know if I would have been any more amazed if she’d jumped on the ceiling and started walking upside down like that pig in the Simpson’s movie while Homer Simpson sang (to the tune of Spiderman) “Spider Pig, Spider Pig, does whatever a Spider Pig does.” I love that scene.
At first my daughter claimed she was just extremely agile when it came to thumbs, but she finally confessed that the phone had a button that, if selected, allowed you to type each letter on the phone only once and it would automatically figure out what word you wanted and put it in your text. I am not explaining this well, but the gist of it is, instead of having to hit the #2 button three times to get the letter C, I only had to hit it once, then hit my next letter once, and the little genius inside the cell phone would read my mind and know what word I was trying to peck out.
“But what if it doesn’t know or gives me the wrong word?” I asked worriedly. “Then hit Zero and it will give you options,” she said with a sigh, already bored and wanting to continue texting without being interrupted. She texts continuously, but if I ask who she’s on the phone with, she won’t say. “It’s a bunch of people, mom.”
“Like who?”
“Like a bunch of people I know.”
“Can you text them all at one time?”
And then she lets me know how utterly awful it is to have to explain these extremely simple things to a blunder head like me. “YES, mom, now leave me alone.”
I don’t know how she got so impatient. I can remember answering the same questions over and over when she was a kid. Just the simple, “Is it done yet?” must have been asked 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 times. But did I ever tell her to leave me alone? Maybe – I wouldn’t put it past me. Still, I hardly bug her because she does get so impatient, and I know I was the queen of patience when she was little so I certainly don’t deserve this.
However, I’m not going to say anything because she might get another sweet streak and show me some more secrets of cell phones, so I want to stay on her good side.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)