Doesn't it kill you when you are sure you will remember something and you don't? I used to buy chicken, use some, freeze the rest and I was certain I would remember when I bought it. Now I'm not so sure, so little notes go into the plastic bag before the chicken goes into the freezer. And as for the folder I must remember to take with me to a meeting, that has to go into the bag the night before, and the bag has to be sitting in front of the door, so I have to move it to get out. Whatever works, right?
I was writing a note (probably about the chicken) and looked down at the pen and found it was labeled "University of Kentucky Bookstore." What? I have never been to Kentucky, the RU Women's basketball team hasn't played Kentucky, so I have no idea how that pen found its way into my collection, alongside pens from law firms I don't use, financial planners I have never met, drugs I have never taken and an organization called "Help You Pay for College.com." Strange.
I just read a book called “What Alice Forgot.” Ironically, I kept forgetting the name in the title. I think the sequel should be called, “What Tina Forgot.”
There are so many potholes on Willow Road near my house that I feel like a moguls skier when I drive down that road, moving from side to side and getting bounced around. I’m afraid a cop will pull me over for driving erratically as I bob and weave down the road.
Just wondering: When did World War I become World War I? I’m guessing it was when World War II came along. After all, it would have been foreboding to have it named World War I, implying that there would be a second one, when the first was complete. And who decided to number global conflicts instead of naming them? Was there a committee of some sort formed to tackle this issue? Or was there a groundswell of support via Facebook or Twitter to go for the WW I and WW II names? Wait, I'm time traveling.
If there is ever a movie made of my life (and the odds on that happening are not good), I think it should be titled, “The Long, Hot Shower.” I do love a long, hot shower to loosen the muscles and rid my body of that nasty chemical odor from aqua aerobics.
Doesn’t it seem like only yesterday we were fretting over Y2K? A kid turning 13 this year wasn’t even born when Y2K occurred. I was on the planning committee for my department at J&J, and people were in a panic that we might not be able to send out a press release if there were no power. Relax, I told them, no one will be able to get it anyway. The next time we change centuries, this will be someone else’s problem.
I wish I had a dime for every time I have noticed the record light on the DVR and thought, “I wonder what I am recording now.” With all of the TV I watch and movies I see, there is always something being saved for future viewing.
Do you realize that no child growing up today will have ever licked a stamp? And what market is there for those little spongy things we had in the office? For that matter, kids today may grow up wondering what actual mail looks like since most of it consists of bills (declining due to electronic distribution), birthday cards (declining due to Facebook and e-mail) and those annoying ads you get reminding you to get your chimney cleaned or encouraging you to replace your windows. The post office will probably be out of business anyway.
I’ll admit it: I can’t bring myself to use just one space at the end of a sentence. I was taught to use two spaces, and I will go to my grave using two spaces. However, that sometimes means that the beginning of a line doesn’t appear flush left with the rest of the paragraph. Either of those two choices is enough to drive me crazy. So please, on the tombstone, TWO SPACES! Thanks.
People, people, people: I ask your help in eradicating the incorrect use of the word “unique.” Something is unique if it is different, if it stands out in some way. There are no qualifiers for the word unique. Something is either unique or it isn’t. It cannot be “very” unique. Someone can be uniquely qualified, but not highly unique. This is the stuff that drives me crazy, along with the use of single quotes where double quotes are needed. For example, grammar expert Tina Gordon said, “I feel uniquely qualified to point out that ‘highly unique’ is a phrase that is incorrect.” The single quote is used within the larger quoted sentence. I realize that these pet peeves may be unique to me, but let’s work together to stamp them out!
I guess if I want the electric razor to actually shave my legs, changing the batteries more than once a decade helps. The shaver I was about to throw away now works like a buzz saw, powered by those new AAs.
Just when I think my mind is as sharp as ever, “Jeopardy” throws in “Famous Mathematicians” or “Peninsulas” to remind me of how much I don’t know.
I took four years of French in high school (to go along with four years of Spanish) and never once heard any of the language used by people who swear and then say, “Pardon my French.” I must have been absent the day they went over those words, which, by the way, don’t sound French at all.
And speaking of Spanish, I cannot remember why I am standing in front of the pantry, but I can remember all those Spanish dialogs we had to memorize as kids: “Carumba, se me olvido mi cuaderno.” “No importa. Yo tengo papel.” Come on, you know them, too!
I cannot stand that sticky stuff they use to attach coupons to cardboard. Kohl’s and Macy's use it a lot. It is tough to get off and it has the texture of snot. Yuck!
Whenever I have to get an X-ray or some diagnostic test done and the technician says, “Don’t move,” my body feels like it goes into involuntary spasms, making me sure that the image will be nothing but a blur.
I think when the cleaning service comes to the house, they walk around the house and make all of the pictures on the wall crooked so I’ll think they dusted them. I think that trick is in the cleaner’s manual.
You know you’re a “fan”atic when you find yourself watching a 2009 women’s basketball game and you’re still thrilled with the ending.
Speaking of basketball, I was one of the lucky Cagers Club “Road Warriors” who used trains, planes and automobiles to follow the Rutgers Women’s Basketball Team as they captured the Women’s National Invitational Tournament Championship Trophy this month. I calculated that those of us who went to all 3 road games (at Bowling Green, Ohio; the University of South Florida in Tampa and UTEP in El Paso, following 3 games at home), logged nearly 1,200 driving miles and more than 7,000 in the air, with flights from Newark or JFK to Tampa and Albuquerque, stopping and changing planes in Nashville, Chicago and Atlanta. Eight days, 8 flights, 7 states and 3 victories: Priceless. Until the credit card bill arrives, that is.
After watching so much basketball, the slow pace of baseball is, well, kind of boring, I have to admit.
You may remember I recently wrote an essay on my sleeping problems. After recently falling asleep on my flights on the way to all those basketball games – once before we even had taxied to the runway (but it was a really EARLY flight) – I have decided to buy myself a seatbelt, strap myself into the recliner, sit in an upright position (and with my tray table up), put the neck pillow under my chin and get a good night’s sleep. I realize that it might not work if no one is there to wake me and ask if I want a beverage.
I have been watching “Revenge” since it started a few years ago on ABC, so I cannot abandon it now. But I wish Emily Thorne would get her revenge already. This influx of former wives, kids no one knew they had and other secondary characters makes for that “jump the shark” moment that spells doom for most TV shows when they abandon the original premise and cast and expand beyond recognition. Also, I can’t take the whispering. In real life, when people fight, we SHOUT. We do not whisper. Unintelligibly, at that.
Remember when coupons had expiration dates of two years? Now I don’t even bother cutting some out because they expire in three weeks. There goes 50 cents I could have saved.
I fear that in generations to come the name Paul Newman will only be associated with salad dressing and spaghetti sauce and not with the handsome and talented actor who made so many movies I love (“Butch Cassidy,” “The Sting,” “The Young Philadelphians,” “Cool Hand Luke,” among so many others).
I was recently sick, which means I had to take medicine. In my weakened state, it was almost impossible to extricate the pills from their stronger-than-steel blister packs. And have you ever had a pounding headache, only to have to wrestle with the top of the medicine bottle to get it open? I know these things are supposed to be “childproof,” but I’m telling you, that packaging works all too well on adults.
And speaking of being sick, this is yet another time when I am happy I live alone. I was making all kinds of disgusting noises, things that woke me up. I cannot imagine how someone else could have gotten a decent night’s sleep in this house with that racket going on.
Here’s how to tell that I am really, really sick: My bed isn’t made. I faithfully make my bed every day, but, on the rare occasions that I am sick enough to know I’ll be spending the day in it, why bother to make it? Of course, you could ponder the need to make it every day since you’ll be getting in it again that night, but I make mine anyway.
Don’t you hate it when you open the washing machine lid and see remnants of a tissue all over the dark load? I live alone, so there is no one to blame for this transgression but me.
Does anyone actually read those inserts that come with the water bill or the PSE&G bill? It’s not like anyone has ever said to me, “You know, I read a great tip on the insert that came with my sewer bill the other day.”
And who orders all that stuff the Bradford Exchange is always advertising with those annoying magazine inserts (I’m talking to you, TV Guide)? OK, once I ordered a pair of B&W “I Love Lucy” sneakers – which I actually wear from time to time – but isn’t like I am going to order porcelain figurines of Lucy and Desi any time soon. Does anyone?
A well-planned escape was thwarted today when I discovered my missing blue sock hiding in the sleeve of my sweatshirt. Nice try.
YOU may think that blooming daffodils are the sure sign of spring, but when the Dairy Delite soft ice cream place on Hamilton Street in Somerset takes down the plywood covering its windows and puts out the OPEN sign, I KNOW spring has sprung.