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.
So agree with the cleaning lady moving the stuff around to ensure you know that she really cleaned, most annoying. I also agree that baseball is quite boring compared to basketball (like watching paint dry) and I absolutely have to move whenever I'm getting an MRI or body scan - it's just a thing that happens when I'm supposed to sit still (also when the eye doctor does that horrible puff machine thing and says "don't close your eye" -- there goes my eye closing! Love your monthly posts, they make me smile. I agree w/your FB friend, you must be a relative of Andy Rooney.
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