Nothing major on my mind this month, just a lot of little things, ranging from annoying to amusing, that I thought I'd share for this month's entry. Treasure or trash as you see fit.
How proud I am to live in New Jersey these days. First the supposed “Real Housewives of New Jersey” airs on television and now the Garden State is the home of the “perp walk” by elected officials (and a few alleged money-laundering rabbis). In a government plot just this side of Abscam, the feds nailed a bus load of New Jersey’s finest, including the 32-year old mayor of Hoboken, in office for just a few weeks, but in time to allegedly accept a bribe from an undercover scofflaw playing himself as a crooked developer. My mother always told me that the motto of Hudson County was “Vote early, vote often,” and that you could continue to vote even in the afterlife. My old boss, Jim Murray, used to say that anyone who seeks office should be prevented from getting one. He might have had something there. Congratulations to my native state for perpetuating the stereotype that all housewives are Carmela Soprano and all elected officials are on the take.
I watched the finale of “The Bachelorette” while my sister debated the merits of watching “The Real Housewives of Atlanta” to follow her addiction to “The Real Housewives of New Jersey.” Those Gordon girls are clearly lovers of highbrow entertainment.
If I ruled the word, the roads would be planned properly, construction crews wouldn’t be out on the highway at the worst possible times or standing around scratching themselves, elevators and escalators would be located where handicapped people could actually access them (and they would be functional at all times), parking lots and decks would be well lit and redesigned, and architecture done for design would be done for function, too. I guess I’ll have to come back as a civil engineer or architect.
I think my hair has a mind of its own. On the day I have a haircut scheduled, it taunts me by looking its best. On days when I see no one, it always looks great, but when I have to go somewhere or look good, my hair may have other ideas. If I wake up and think about not washing it before my water aerobics class, I quickly change my mind when I realize I look like a cross between Kate Gosselin (the back) and Robert Pattinson (the front and top), which, trust me, is only a good look if you star in a hit movie.
If you are waiting for a service person to come to your house and you are given a range of time (say, 9 to noon), the chance of his arrival at the earliest time increases dramatically if you are not there. If you are at home and eagerly awaiting his appearance, he will arrive at the latest possible time.
Here’s a problem I have because I live alone: Making an ice cream cone. With just two hands, how do I hold the cone and put away the container? I buy the flat bottom cones (do I hear the strains of Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls” playing in the background?) and have to stand my finished cone on the counter, hoping it doesn’t drip or fall over while I put away the ice cream. It’s not like I can leave it there and put it away later. Sometimes a spouse would come in very handy. And a tall one to change light bulbs would be particularly useful. Meanwhile, I’ll eat the ice cream in a bowl, thank you.
Speaking of ice cream, have you read the package information lately? The lighter varieties have only 140 calories per serving, which is quite acceptable. However, the package says it contains 14 servings. 14? Are you kidding me? Who gets 14 servings out of what is now less than half a gallon of ice cream? So now I feel guilty and indulgent. That will teach me to read the package!
How does the inside of the soap dispenser get dirty? After all, there’s soap in there, right? Just don’t tell me it is mildew, which defeats the whole point of the soap.
Why does the throw rug next to my bed continue to retreat under it? Was there an earthquake I missed? It is on top of the carpet, so it can’t easily slide under the bed, yet it does. I don’t get it.
Whenever I have a 30% coupon from Kohl’s, I buy 30% more than I need. At least.
Why do we as women always have to justify what we buy? I live alone, and yet I justify to myself what I buy. I’m so bad I caught myself telling the cashier at Kohl’s that I had saved enough during their sale to get the shoes for free! Like she cares. And then, if someone compliments a woman on what she bought when she wears it, she has to explain it: “Oh, you know, my old one was just in tatters, and there was this sale…” “I wouldn’t have bought it, but I know I can wear it with so many things. I’ll get so much use out of it.” Our friends will agree and encourage us, too: “You can even wear that with your fill-in-the-blank.” Men are different. They do less shopping than restocking. The old khakis are old khakis, so they get new khakis. They buy a new tie because the old one had a soup stain, or because they need a new suit for a wedding or a job. Women are recreational shoppers, but we still have a story with every purchase: “You won’t believe how much I saved on this,” we proclaim proudly.
I was diagnosed with osteopenia a few months ago (which I was sure had something to do with paninis at first). Turns out it means I am thisclose to osteoporosis. So now Sally Field and I are both on the once-a-month dose of Boniva. I try to be environmentally friendly, but I am no tree hugger. Still, I can’t help noticing that the box of three – count ‘em, three – Boniva tablets contains individual packages the size of those used for cold relief tablets, except the cold relief tablet package contains 12-18 tablets, while each Boniva package has one. The three individual packages come in a box the size used for the old floppy disks – holding at least 12 disks. As if this incredible waste of packaging isn’t offensive enough, there is the whole process of Boniva liberation. The tablet has to be removed from the box and then extricated from the tight plastic blister pack that protects it from people with osteoporosis who need to take the damn thing and can’t get it out of the package! I think that if you can accomplish this impossible mission easily, maybe you don’t really need the product.
Remember when expiration dates on coupons were years away? Now they expire within weeks. I faithfully cut them out and then end up throwing them away because they expire by the time I am ready to use them. I suppose I could try to manage this task better…
When you live in the suburbs, you can count on hearing one thing about three quarters of the year: Someone is always mowing the lawn. This sound can be annoying (when it happens too early in the day), unsettling (when you have allergies) or wonderful (when it is someone mowing my lawn).
You can’t tell me that my nails don’t grow faster in the summer. I feel like I should be filing them at every red light. I draw the line at toenails, so don’t worry if you see me on the road with a nail file in my hand.
Don’t you hate it when someone pulls out in front of you and then doesn’t drive as fast as the speed limit? It’s even worse when someone pulls out, cuts you off and there’s no one behind you. They couldn’t have waited?
One good sign about driving is the 4-way stop sign. People actually seem to know how to handle themselves at these kinds of intersections, allowing the person on the right to go first or taking turns in relative civility. Perhaps the apocalypse is not with us quite yet.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Can You Dig It? - June, 2009
By Tina Gordon
I know it seems like sacrilege, and I’ll probably suffer the 21st century equivalent of whatever non-Amish people do to shun others, but I just have to admit something: I hate gardening.
Don’t get me wrong. I love flowers. Feel free to send me a dozen roses anytime. Even carnations will do. And I love gardens. I love taking pictures of flowers and gardens. I’ve been to Longwood Gardens and Presby Memorial Iris Garden and the Grounds for Sculpture, where there are flowers and sculpture. I lament the passing of Duke Gardens and the lovely greenhouses there. I truly love all these places, the color, the smell and beauty of nature.
I just don’t like to get dirty.
I’ll admit it, in case you had any doubt, or in case you just don’t know me well enough: I’m not a nature person. I love living things – unless, of course, they get into my pool, my basement or my yard, or if they knock over my garbage cans or crap on my windshield. I love the shade of the trees, though, as an owner of a pool, I now consider the falling leaves Public Enemy #1. I see little bunnies hopping around the yard and I picture them getting caught in the pool filter. OK, maybe saying I love living things is a bit of an overstatement. How about this: I tolerate living things. I do love the beauty of nature. Not that I want to sleep under the stars, pee in the woods, or use any form of manure to grow vegetables. The way I figure it, my people wandered around the desert for 40 years so I could enjoy indoor plumbing, cable TV and 24-hour room service.
Growing plants and flowers is what everyone seems to do, so I make my meager attempt at it. But I hate hauling 40-pound bags of dirt in the back of my Mercedes (you should see the look on Gracie’s face when she is treated like a truck…), I hate kneeling on the ground, digging holes and planting. Now I have switched to container gardening, and even there, I can work up a pretty good whine. I have to remove the old, dead plants from last year and replace them with the new plants, hoping they will survive the neighborhood gangs of deer that look at them as a salad bar. And then there is the guilt. Maybe it will rain, I reason, so I won’t have to water them. If there was a DYFS for plants, I’m sure someone would turn me if for being a bad mother to mine.
The challenge with planting flowers is finding annuals that you like that bloom throughout the season, or perennials that last but don’t take over the entire yard – or anything that the deer will reject. The tiny lamb’s ear plant I kindly gave to my sister a few years ago is now a monstrosity that stands guard over her entire front walkway, and, short of removing it entirely, no amount of cutting it back will reduce its middle aged spread.
At my last house, I had extensive landscaping done, and I took particular joy in growing hollyhocks. Each year they would bloom again – never where they were the year before. When I moved to this house two years ago, I learned that the previous owner was quite the gardener. My neighbor said she would be out manicuring the garden with cuticle scissors (personally, I think she should have done a little more work on the inside of the house, like cleaning the dryer vent so it wouldn’t catch on fire…). For me, just seeing her green plants and rocks with weed block looks dull. I’d like to spice things up with bursts of color – but the lawn guy tells me to forget it. The deer will get whatever you plant, he warns. One of my friends, determined to foil Bambi and her gang, sprayed some sort of natural concoction – garlic and other odious elements – on her plants, only to get herself in the face and end up in the emergency room. So the whole scenario spells danger to me.
Besides, I hate to get dirty. I wear the gloves, the chlorine clothes (why ruin two sets of clothes when I can dedicate one pair of pants, shoes and a top to both the pool and the garden?), the hat, and I give it the old college try. Come to think of it, one of my part time jobs in college was working for the Rutgers Agricultural School, as it was then known. I tell people I was a researcher, but the truth is that I washed glassware, picked asparagus berries and sorted out their seeds for the real scientists. Somehow I knew even then that my career as a migrant worker wouldn’t amount to much.
This year I decided to try to grow tomatoes on the deck in a pot. (I couldn't fathom the upside down hanging kind you see advertised on TV). And I now have a tiny basil plant that I hope will yield enough of a crop to eat with the tomatoes. Minimal yield, but minimal digging.
Once upon a time I had a real vegetable garden. I grew juicy, red tomatoes, which I tried to pick before the rabbits and deer ate them. I had zucchini the size of baseball bats and basil with roots from here to China. Eventually, tired of putting out what amounted to a bunny buffet, I built a fence that could best be described as ramshackle. I even fenced the top of the garden. That discouraged the deer and their friends from snacking on my hard earned produce. But, as you might imagine, picking anything with a fence on top of it became a challenge, so I gave it up in favor of flowers. Besides, I live amid farms, one of which is down the road and sells fresh vegetables. I figure that buying fresh fruits and veggies there – after the farmer has done all of the dirty work – is my way of contributing to the local economy while keeping my hands clean.
And now, despite my somewhat limited love (tolerance) of nature, my need for color amid the greenery and my desire to grow things on my own, I have to face facts: I don’t need bushes that attract butterflies and I’m not going to buy bird feeders so birds can come near my house and crap in my pool. I don’t want to be stung by bees or see those obnoxious bug zappers or bags of beetles hanging in anyone’s yard, especially mine.
OK, now that we have established the fact that I hate gardening, I have to run. I need to water the plants in case it doesn’t rain.
I know it seems like sacrilege, and I’ll probably suffer the 21st century equivalent of whatever non-Amish people do to shun others, but I just have to admit something: I hate gardening.
Don’t get me wrong. I love flowers. Feel free to send me a dozen roses anytime. Even carnations will do. And I love gardens. I love taking pictures of flowers and gardens. I’ve been to Longwood Gardens and Presby Memorial Iris Garden and the Grounds for Sculpture, where there are flowers and sculpture. I lament the passing of Duke Gardens and the lovely greenhouses there. I truly love all these places, the color, the smell and beauty of nature.
I just don’t like to get dirty.
I’ll admit it, in case you had any doubt, or in case you just don’t know me well enough: I’m not a nature person. I love living things – unless, of course, they get into my pool, my basement or my yard, or if they knock over my garbage cans or crap on my windshield. I love the shade of the trees, though, as an owner of a pool, I now consider the falling leaves Public Enemy #1. I see little bunnies hopping around the yard and I picture them getting caught in the pool filter. OK, maybe saying I love living things is a bit of an overstatement. How about this: I tolerate living things. I do love the beauty of nature. Not that I want to sleep under the stars, pee in the woods, or use any form of manure to grow vegetables. The way I figure it, my people wandered around the desert for 40 years so I could enjoy indoor plumbing, cable TV and 24-hour room service.
Growing plants and flowers is what everyone seems to do, so I make my meager attempt at it. But I hate hauling 40-pound bags of dirt in the back of my Mercedes (you should see the look on Gracie’s face when she is treated like a truck…), I hate kneeling on the ground, digging holes and planting. Now I have switched to container gardening, and even there, I can work up a pretty good whine. I have to remove the old, dead plants from last year and replace them with the new plants, hoping they will survive the neighborhood gangs of deer that look at them as a salad bar. And then there is the guilt. Maybe it will rain, I reason, so I won’t have to water them. If there was a DYFS for plants, I’m sure someone would turn me if for being a bad mother to mine.
The challenge with planting flowers is finding annuals that you like that bloom throughout the season, or perennials that last but don’t take over the entire yard – or anything that the deer will reject. The tiny lamb’s ear plant I kindly gave to my sister a few years ago is now a monstrosity that stands guard over her entire front walkway, and, short of removing it entirely, no amount of cutting it back will reduce its middle aged spread.
At my last house, I had extensive landscaping done, and I took particular joy in growing hollyhocks. Each year they would bloom again – never where they were the year before. When I moved to this house two years ago, I learned that the previous owner was quite the gardener. My neighbor said she would be out manicuring the garden with cuticle scissors (personally, I think she should have done a little more work on the inside of the house, like cleaning the dryer vent so it wouldn’t catch on fire…). For me, just seeing her green plants and rocks with weed block looks dull. I’d like to spice things up with bursts of color – but the lawn guy tells me to forget it. The deer will get whatever you plant, he warns. One of my friends, determined to foil Bambi and her gang, sprayed some sort of natural concoction – garlic and other odious elements – on her plants, only to get herself in the face and end up in the emergency room. So the whole scenario spells danger to me.
Besides, I hate to get dirty. I wear the gloves, the chlorine clothes (why ruin two sets of clothes when I can dedicate one pair of pants, shoes and a top to both the pool and the garden?), the hat, and I give it the old college try. Come to think of it, one of my part time jobs in college was working for the Rutgers Agricultural School, as it was then known. I tell people I was a researcher, but the truth is that I washed glassware, picked asparagus berries and sorted out their seeds for the real scientists. Somehow I knew even then that my career as a migrant worker wouldn’t amount to much.
This year I decided to try to grow tomatoes on the deck in a pot. (I couldn't fathom the upside down hanging kind you see advertised on TV). And I now have a tiny basil plant that I hope will yield enough of a crop to eat with the tomatoes. Minimal yield, but minimal digging.
Once upon a time I had a real vegetable garden. I grew juicy, red tomatoes, which I tried to pick before the rabbits and deer ate them. I had zucchini the size of baseball bats and basil with roots from here to China. Eventually, tired of putting out what amounted to a bunny buffet, I built a fence that could best be described as ramshackle. I even fenced the top of the garden. That discouraged the deer and their friends from snacking on my hard earned produce. But, as you might imagine, picking anything with a fence on top of it became a challenge, so I gave it up in favor of flowers. Besides, I live amid farms, one of which is down the road and sells fresh vegetables. I figure that buying fresh fruits and veggies there – after the farmer has done all of the dirty work – is my way of contributing to the local economy while keeping my hands clean.
And now, despite my somewhat limited love (tolerance) of nature, my need for color amid the greenery and my desire to grow things on my own, I have to face facts: I don’t need bushes that attract butterflies and I’m not going to buy bird feeders so birds can come near my house and crap in my pool. I don’t want to be stung by bees or see those obnoxious bug zappers or bags of beetles hanging in anyone’s yard, especially mine.
OK, now that we have established the fact that I hate gardening, I have to run. I need to water the plants in case it doesn’t rain.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Something's Fishy - May, 2009
With too much time on my hands and too small pouches of tuna in my cart, I felt obliged to write to Bumble Bee Tuna to express my views. Here is my letter:
Something’s fishy with Bumble Bee Tuna.
Or is this just a corporate downsizing?
I was surprised and disappointed when I went to my local supermarket yesterday and found that the “Individual Size” 3 ounce pouch of Premium Albacore Tuna in Water had morphed into what you are now calling the “Single Serve” 2.5 ounce pouch. Was the “Individual Size” supposed to be more than a single serving? Were people complaining because the 3 ounce size was too large?
Though the amount of tuna in the pouch has diminished, the total fat and the calories from fat have actually increased, from 1.5 grams to 2 grams and from 10 calories to 20 calories, respectively. Naturally, with the decrease in size, the amount of protein has also gone down, from 19 grams to 16 grams. None of this is good news from a nutritional standpoint.
One thing that has not gone down is the cost of the product. Yesterday it was on sale at Stop & Shop for $1.67 a pouch, which is more than I have paid in the past for the larger size. I also couldn’t help but notice the absence of any text on the package trumpeting this new size. Nothing that said, “New, smaller size, same price” appeared anywhere. I was smart enough to immediately spot the difference, and, being a tuna lover and devoted Bumble Bee user, I bought it anyway. But my favorite brand has let me down.
Some background on my 55+ years of brand loyalty is in order (I’m not counting the first 3-4 years of my life, when I can’t say definitively that I ate BBT).
Growing up, I ate Bumble Bee Tuna almost every day for lunch. Back in those days kids walked home from school for lunch, and each day my Bumble Bee Tuna sandwich awaited me. BBT on white bread, no mayo – ever. God forbid my mother ran out of Bumble Bee. She would canvas the neighborhood, begging for a can. Sometimes she was desperate and had to commit the unforgivable sin of borrowing a can of Chicken of the Sea or even – dare I say it ? – Starkist. Blasphemy, I declared (though not with that word; I was too young to know that word at the time). I could tell immediately that the tuna was not Bumble Bee, and before Mom could appeal for mercy, I was checking the garbage can, looking for the miscreant can. I ate Bumble Bee Tuna every day for two years before even I got sick of it and asked for a baloney sandwich one day. The next day I was back to Bumble Bee, and I continued to eat my BBT sandwiches throughout my school days. Maybe that’s why the kids called me Tina Tuna. Not that I minded.
When I went to college, Mom stopped buying so much Bumble Bee. Even the supermarket cashier noticed and asked her about it one day. She explained that I was away at school. Whenever I’d be coming home, she’d restock, and the cashier would always say to her, “Oh, your daughter must be home from college.” And yes, we lived in a small town, with one supermarket.
During my working career, I often brought a can with me and made my own lunch. I couldn’t be sure the tuna our company cafeteria served was Bumble Bee, and I wouldn’t eat any other brand, or – God forbid – tuna salad. Bumble Bee is the only tuna for me. Now I am retired, and when I am around the house for lunch, only one thing pops into my mind: A Bumble Bee Tuna sandwich. Old habits die hard.
So you can see that my lifetime of brand loyalty would lead me to an even greater letdown than the casual Bumble Bee user, knowing that the diminished size of the product means less of it to enjoy. Two packets would definitely be too much for a sandwich, as would the 7 ounce size. (I never like leftover tuna, so opening the larger size and using it twice would be out of the question for me.) I suppose I could scour the local grocery stores and try to corner the market on the 3 ounce size, but I shouldn’t have to resort to that. In the back of my mind, I can’t help feeling disheartened by this diminution. The least you could have done was call me to let me know…
Finally, through my tears and disappointment, I have to ask: Did you really think you were fooling the consumer by calling this the “Single-Serve” size instead of the “Individual Size?” Oh, Bumble Bee, to turn on me after 55 years! I may have to drown my sorrows in a grilled cheese sandwich.
Something’s fishy with Bumble Bee Tuna.
Or is this just a corporate downsizing?
I was surprised and disappointed when I went to my local supermarket yesterday and found that the “Individual Size” 3 ounce pouch of Premium Albacore Tuna in Water had morphed into what you are now calling the “Single Serve” 2.5 ounce pouch. Was the “Individual Size” supposed to be more than a single serving? Were people complaining because the 3 ounce size was too large?
Though the amount of tuna in the pouch has diminished, the total fat and the calories from fat have actually increased, from 1.5 grams to 2 grams and from 10 calories to 20 calories, respectively. Naturally, with the decrease in size, the amount of protein has also gone down, from 19 grams to 16 grams. None of this is good news from a nutritional standpoint.
One thing that has not gone down is the cost of the product. Yesterday it was on sale at Stop & Shop for $1.67 a pouch, which is more than I have paid in the past for the larger size. I also couldn’t help but notice the absence of any text on the package trumpeting this new size. Nothing that said, “New, smaller size, same price” appeared anywhere. I was smart enough to immediately spot the difference, and, being a tuna lover and devoted Bumble Bee user, I bought it anyway. But my favorite brand has let me down.
Some background on my 55+ years of brand loyalty is in order (I’m not counting the first 3-4 years of my life, when I can’t say definitively that I ate BBT).
Growing up, I ate Bumble Bee Tuna almost every day for lunch. Back in those days kids walked home from school for lunch, and each day my Bumble Bee Tuna sandwich awaited me. BBT on white bread, no mayo – ever. God forbid my mother ran out of Bumble Bee. She would canvas the neighborhood, begging for a can. Sometimes she was desperate and had to commit the unforgivable sin of borrowing a can of Chicken of the Sea or even – dare I say it ? – Starkist. Blasphemy, I declared (though not with that word; I was too young to know that word at the time). I could tell immediately that the tuna was not Bumble Bee, and before Mom could appeal for mercy, I was checking the garbage can, looking for the miscreant can. I ate Bumble Bee Tuna every day for two years before even I got sick of it and asked for a baloney sandwich one day. The next day I was back to Bumble Bee, and I continued to eat my BBT sandwiches throughout my school days. Maybe that’s why the kids called me Tina Tuna. Not that I minded.
When I went to college, Mom stopped buying so much Bumble Bee. Even the supermarket cashier noticed and asked her about it one day. She explained that I was away at school. Whenever I’d be coming home, she’d restock, and the cashier would always say to her, “Oh, your daughter must be home from college.” And yes, we lived in a small town, with one supermarket.
During my working career, I often brought a can with me and made my own lunch. I couldn’t be sure the tuna our company cafeteria served was Bumble Bee, and I wouldn’t eat any other brand, or – God forbid – tuna salad. Bumble Bee is the only tuna for me. Now I am retired, and when I am around the house for lunch, only one thing pops into my mind: A Bumble Bee Tuna sandwich. Old habits die hard.
So you can see that my lifetime of brand loyalty would lead me to an even greater letdown than the casual Bumble Bee user, knowing that the diminished size of the product means less of it to enjoy. Two packets would definitely be too much for a sandwich, as would the 7 ounce size. (I never like leftover tuna, so opening the larger size and using it twice would be out of the question for me.) I suppose I could scour the local grocery stores and try to corner the market on the 3 ounce size, but I shouldn’t have to resort to that. In the back of my mind, I can’t help feeling disheartened by this diminution. The least you could have done was call me to let me know…
Finally, through my tears and disappointment, I have to ask: Did you really think you were fooling the consumer by calling this the “Single-Serve” size instead of the “Individual Size?” Oh, Bumble Bee, to turn on me after 55 years! I may have to drown my sorrows in a grilled cheese sandwich.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Driving Miss Daisy Crazy - April, 2009
I am going to say this with as much love, diplomacy and political correctness as I can muster:
Run for your life! Head for the hills! Stay off the roads!
Brandon Tillman has just gotten his driving permit.
Brandon, my favorite 16-year old nephew (OK, he’s my only official nephew, but he is a favorite person in my life), is now driving the streets of Hillsborough, “permitted” to drive with a licensed adult until he takes and passes his driving test at age 17 next March. Meanwhile, the rolling hills and broad thoroughfares feel just a tad less safe these days.
But why, you ask. As a veteran video gamer, he has superb eye-hand coordination. I drive, and I can’t get through even one song on Guitar Hero, while he goes to the advanced level. His powers of concentration are beyond reproach. When he is watching something on TV or playing a video game, you can talk to him, yell, stomp or whistle a happy tune in the same room with him, within five feet of his perch on the couch, and he won’t even notice you are there (though he can hear a package of cookies open in the next room without even turning down the volume on the TV). So why the worry?
Like most members of his generation, he grew up thinking that if you run the car off the road and crash into a brick wall, you just start the game over. No mention of insurance, no less bodily harm, in video games. Filled with the braggadocio of most 16-year olds, he fears nothing and is always certain he is right. Except that now he’ll be driving in a car owned by Mom or Dad, both of whom will be instructing him where to turn and what to do. Finally, Brandon and his best friends are all just getting their permits, which means a lot of 16-year olds are out for a drive these days. I know them all, and I sense trouble here.
I went to see him after his return from mandatory lesson one with the local driving school. “How did it go?” I inquired breezily, resisting the urge to ask if he had hit anything or anyone. “Fine,” he assured me, adding, “I wasn’t so great with K-turns.” K-turns, I thought. Who cares about K-turns? Make that turn as often as you want, but just don’t try it on the highway, I said to myself.
My fear worsened when I learned that his question to his mother (my favorite sister) after lesson two involved whether the wind can cause the car to drift to the right. Wind? On a street in town? It’s not like he’s on the autobahn. Why is he drifting to the right?
My sister has let him drive locally, carefully steering him through safe routes, avoiding problematic left-hand turns and narrow streets. She provides me with detailed accounts of their outings and I listen eagerly, agreeing on the selections she has made and praising her for her patience and planning. “Let’s just say,” she recounted after one such session, “that if a car had been in the other lane when we turned, we probably would have hit it. In fact, if a bike had been in the bike lane, he would have hit that.” Still, just taking him out driving is a big step for my sister, who kept him in a car seat for so long that I wondered if he’d still be in the backseat during driver’s ed class. The first time he got into the front seat of my car I thought he was pulling a fast one on me. “Are you sure Mom said you can ride in the front now?” I inquired. “I talk to her every day and she never announced this new policy to me,” I added dubiously. I think he was 13 at the time. My sister to this day insists that the regulation for keeping him in a car seat or at least in the back seat was based on height and weight, not age. In that case, she should still be in the backseat.
The other day my sister foolishly suggested they go to Friendly’s for dinner, forgetting momentarily that the trip requires an eight-mile drive down busy Route 206 – at rush hour, no less. (For those not from the area, let me just say that if you live in Hillsborough, your main goal in life is to avoid 206 as much as possible.) Despite her error in judgment, she allowed Brandon to drive. You’d have to know my sister to understand that letting him drive is tantamount to agreeing to jump out of an airplane – parachute or no parachute. She tried to conceal her anxiety, but a permanently clenched jaw and one simple but audible gasp gave it away. He didn’t wreck the car, but their relationship is now on a pretty rocky road, and I don’t mean 206.
His father’s approach is somewhat different from Mom’s. When she asked him how Brandon did, he summed it up succinctly, with no accounting of the route, how the turns went, the adherence to a plan or the speed limit. “Fine,” he declared.
I’m guessing Brandon prefers Dad’s approach, particularly since he pleaded with me, “T, don’t let Mom drive with me anymore.” You’ll be down to one parent then, I reminded him, asserting in a non-stated way that I wasn’t planning to substitute for either parent as a driving instructor any time soon. So far I have remained above the fray, my Mercedes conveniently resting in sick bay until I can get it to the dealership for repairs. My other car, my Sebring convertible – otherwise referred to by my sister as “the deathtrap” – probably will be deemed unacceptable for driver’s ed. So at least for now, I won’t be found clenching my fists and slamming on imaginary brakes while Brandon drives with me.
Nonetheless, it will all be over next year at this time, when he will be 17 and licensed to drive on his own. Venture out at your own risk.
Tina Gordon, April, 2009
Run for your life! Head for the hills! Stay off the roads!
Brandon Tillman has just gotten his driving permit.
Brandon, my favorite 16-year old nephew (OK, he’s my only official nephew, but he is a favorite person in my life), is now driving the streets of Hillsborough, “permitted” to drive with a licensed adult until he takes and passes his driving test at age 17 next March. Meanwhile, the rolling hills and broad thoroughfares feel just a tad less safe these days.
But why, you ask. As a veteran video gamer, he has superb eye-hand coordination. I drive, and I can’t get through even one song on Guitar Hero, while he goes to the advanced level. His powers of concentration are beyond reproach. When he is watching something on TV or playing a video game, you can talk to him, yell, stomp or whistle a happy tune in the same room with him, within five feet of his perch on the couch, and he won’t even notice you are there (though he can hear a package of cookies open in the next room without even turning down the volume on the TV). So why the worry?
Like most members of his generation, he grew up thinking that if you run the car off the road and crash into a brick wall, you just start the game over. No mention of insurance, no less bodily harm, in video games. Filled with the braggadocio of most 16-year olds, he fears nothing and is always certain he is right. Except that now he’ll be driving in a car owned by Mom or Dad, both of whom will be instructing him where to turn and what to do. Finally, Brandon and his best friends are all just getting their permits, which means a lot of 16-year olds are out for a drive these days. I know them all, and I sense trouble here.
I went to see him after his return from mandatory lesson one with the local driving school. “How did it go?” I inquired breezily, resisting the urge to ask if he had hit anything or anyone. “Fine,” he assured me, adding, “I wasn’t so great with K-turns.” K-turns, I thought. Who cares about K-turns? Make that turn as often as you want, but just don’t try it on the highway, I said to myself.
My fear worsened when I learned that his question to his mother (my favorite sister) after lesson two involved whether the wind can cause the car to drift to the right. Wind? On a street in town? It’s not like he’s on the autobahn. Why is he drifting to the right?
My sister has let him drive locally, carefully steering him through safe routes, avoiding problematic left-hand turns and narrow streets. She provides me with detailed accounts of their outings and I listen eagerly, agreeing on the selections she has made and praising her for her patience and planning. “Let’s just say,” she recounted after one such session, “that if a car had been in the other lane when we turned, we probably would have hit it. In fact, if a bike had been in the bike lane, he would have hit that.” Still, just taking him out driving is a big step for my sister, who kept him in a car seat for so long that I wondered if he’d still be in the backseat during driver’s ed class. The first time he got into the front seat of my car I thought he was pulling a fast one on me. “Are you sure Mom said you can ride in the front now?” I inquired. “I talk to her every day and she never announced this new policy to me,” I added dubiously. I think he was 13 at the time. My sister to this day insists that the regulation for keeping him in a car seat or at least in the back seat was based on height and weight, not age. In that case, she should still be in the backseat.
The other day my sister foolishly suggested they go to Friendly’s for dinner, forgetting momentarily that the trip requires an eight-mile drive down busy Route 206 – at rush hour, no less. (For those not from the area, let me just say that if you live in Hillsborough, your main goal in life is to avoid 206 as much as possible.) Despite her error in judgment, she allowed Brandon to drive. You’d have to know my sister to understand that letting him drive is tantamount to agreeing to jump out of an airplane – parachute or no parachute. She tried to conceal her anxiety, but a permanently clenched jaw and one simple but audible gasp gave it away. He didn’t wreck the car, but their relationship is now on a pretty rocky road, and I don’t mean 206.
His father’s approach is somewhat different from Mom’s. When she asked him how Brandon did, he summed it up succinctly, with no accounting of the route, how the turns went, the adherence to a plan or the speed limit. “Fine,” he declared.
I’m guessing Brandon prefers Dad’s approach, particularly since he pleaded with me, “T, don’t let Mom drive with me anymore.” You’ll be down to one parent then, I reminded him, asserting in a non-stated way that I wasn’t planning to substitute for either parent as a driving instructor any time soon. So far I have remained above the fray, my Mercedes conveniently resting in sick bay until I can get it to the dealership for repairs. My other car, my Sebring convertible – otherwise referred to by my sister as “the deathtrap” – probably will be deemed unacceptable for driver’s ed. So at least for now, I won’t be found clenching my fists and slamming on imaginary brakes while Brandon drives with me.
Nonetheless, it will all be over next year at this time, when he will be 17 and licensed to drive on his own. Venture out at your own risk.
Tina Gordon, April, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Cat Tales - March, 2009
Marlin Perkins I'm not. I don't enjoy animals and, as you may have heard me say before, the only pets I have are peeves. I find the adoration of Mickey Mouse repugnant; the only mouse I like is the tiny one connected to my mini-laptop. Nonetheless, when one of my dear friends (MDF) travels, I am the back-up cat caretaker who pinch hits for the primary caretaker who fills in when MDF is gone. I think of it as Kitty Meals on Wheels for MDF's cherished feline friends. Though it is not something I relish doing – after all, who enjoys cleaning the kitty litter? – it's one of those things we do for our friends, knowing that they would do something of equal value for us.
I'm not sure her cats think of it in quite that way.
MDF has two cats, or at least that's what she tells me. I've only seen one cat, and not often at that. I consider the second cat the "concept cat." Initially I was afraid that the cats would escape when I opened the front door. How would I explain to the authorities that two cats got out but I could only describe one? And are there authorities to whom to report a missing cat, or would I have to fabricate a description on a flier to be placed on telephone poles around the neighborhood? "Missing cat. Four legs, two ears, two eyes, you figure out the rest."
Apparently, cats have a keen sense about people and can tell if you like them. MDF's cats' senses kick in when I park the car outside her house. When I first started going, Cat #1 got a glimpse of me and took off like a cat out of hell, somehow dematerializing herself through the balusters and down the stairs to hightail it to the basement. After my subsequent visits, she wised up, figuring out that I was like the pizza delivery guy: My showing up meant dinner was being served. She gradually grew less fearful but no less full of disdain. I'd come in and she might take a quick look. Once she even approached me, rolling over on her back. My cat fan friends explained that was a good sign, one of rapprochement: She wanted me to pet her and establish a rapport. But I'm not interested in heavy petting, I explained to them. "For God's sake, just pet her. She's probably lonely," someone exhorted. So, the next time, I approached her as a sign of good faith, but she pulled away, just teasing me with what I had taken as a friendly overture. So much for rapprochement.
Even though I barely or rarely see the cats, I know that they know I am there. They like to leave me little messages in the form of deposits on the carpet that should have been made in the litter box. To be sure that I don't miss these messages, they ever so considerately deposit them right in front of the door. I can almost hear them saying, "When's our real mommy coming home?"
I have my little routine. I come in and loudly announce, "Aunt Tina's here. Are there any cats here today?" I figure that ought to be enough of a warning to get them out of sight, so I don't frighten them and they don't startle me.
Then I go into the kitchen, where MDF has left the cans of cat food on the counter. I put out two cans for each cat and a final can, sort of an appetizer, I assume, that they share (or at least I hope so; it's not like I have actually observed them eating). I dutifully serve the delectable offerings – seafood medley, turkey with giblet gravy (always on Thanksgiving), chicken medley, salmon medley and the other varieties. My sensory abilities apparently are lacking; they all look and smell the same to me. My theory is that the factory packs exactly the same stuff in each can, changing only the label. Can't fool me, but the cats clearly don't agree. Once they barely touched their food. I wasn't sure whether they were on a hunger strike to protest MDF's absence or if they had finally rejected the canned stuff. At least I'm not required to serve specially cooked meals or eat there myself and let them feed off the table scraps. Now that I am retired, I can do my kitty Meals on Wheels duty during the afternoon. I guess having their main meal at 3ish seems early, but they can think of it as tea and crumpets, only in this case the crumpets are salmon medley.
After the food and beverages have been served, I get to tackle the litter box (though I’d rather litter a tackle box). I feel like I am panning for gold as I sift through the sandy substance, looking for waste products. Cats, I am told, are very clean creatures, so they want their toilet facilities swept clear of waste products. As much as I hope I find little or nothing in the box, when I don't, I worry. Are they OK? Their little bodies (I imagine) are small, and they should process waste daily. Should I be concerned about cat constipation? After all, that could prove to be catastrophic. I was glad to learn after a few days of finding nothing that an auxiliary litter box is in the basement, beyond my jurisdiction. Thank God they are taking care of business somewhere else.
The feeding done, the kitty litter unlittered, the water bowls refreshed, the mail and newspapers retrieved and sorted neatly on the dining room table and my work is done. No heavy petting required – thank God.
I had goldfish once when I was about 6 or 7. I forgot to feed them, so they died. And someone trusts me to care for her pets? She must be catatonic!
I'm not sure her cats think of it in quite that way.
MDF has two cats, or at least that's what she tells me. I've only seen one cat, and not often at that. I consider the second cat the "concept cat." Initially I was afraid that the cats would escape when I opened the front door. How would I explain to the authorities that two cats got out but I could only describe one? And are there authorities to whom to report a missing cat, or would I have to fabricate a description on a flier to be placed on telephone poles around the neighborhood? "Missing cat. Four legs, two ears, two eyes, you figure out the rest."
Apparently, cats have a keen sense about people and can tell if you like them. MDF's cats' senses kick in when I park the car outside her house. When I first started going, Cat #1 got a glimpse of me and took off like a cat out of hell, somehow dematerializing herself through the balusters and down the stairs to hightail it to the basement. After my subsequent visits, she wised up, figuring out that I was like the pizza delivery guy: My showing up meant dinner was being served. She gradually grew less fearful but no less full of disdain. I'd come in and she might take a quick look. Once she even approached me, rolling over on her back. My cat fan friends explained that was a good sign, one of rapprochement: She wanted me to pet her and establish a rapport. But I'm not interested in heavy petting, I explained to them. "For God's sake, just pet her. She's probably lonely," someone exhorted. So, the next time, I approached her as a sign of good faith, but she pulled away, just teasing me with what I had taken as a friendly overture. So much for rapprochement.
Even though I barely or rarely see the cats, I know that they know I am there. They like to leave me little messages in the form of deposits on the carpet that should have been made in the litter box. To be sure that I don't miss these messages, they ever so considerately deposit them right in front of the door. I can almost hear them saying, "When's our real mommy coming home?"
I have my little routine. I come in and loudly announce, "Aunt Tina's here. Are there any cats here today?" I figure that ought to be enough of a warning to get them out of sight, so I don't frighten them and they don't startle me.
Then I go into the kitchen, where MDF has left the cans of cat food on the counter. I put out two cans for each cat and a final can, sort of an appetizer, I assume, that they share (or at least I hope so; it's not like I have actually observed them eating). I dutifully serve the delectable offerings – seafood medley, turkey with giblet gravy (always on Thanksgiving), chicken medley, salmon medley and the other varieties. My sensory abilities apparently are lacking; they all look and smell the same to me. My theory is that the factory packs exactly the same stuff in each can, changing only the label. Can't fool me, but the cats clearly don't agree. Once they barely touched their food. I wasn't sure whether they were on a hunger strike to protest MDF's absence or if they had finally rejected the canned stuff. At least I'm not required to serve specially cooked meals or eat there myself and let them feed off the table scraps. Now that I am retired, I can do my kitty Meals on Wheels duty during the afternoon. I guess having their main meal at 3ish seems early, but they can think of it as tea and crumpets, only in this case the crumpets are salmon medley.
After the food and beverages have been served, I get to tackle the litter box (though I’d rather litter a tackle box). I feel like I am panning for gold as I sift through the sandy substance, looking for waste products. Cats, I am told, are very clean creatures, so they want their toilet facilities swept clear of waste products. As much as I hope I find little or nothing in the box, when I don't, I worry. Are they OK? Their little bodies (I imagine) are small, and they should process waste daily. Should I be concerned about cat constipation? After all, that could prove to be catastrophic. I was glad to learn after a few days of finding nothing that an auxiliary litter box is in the basement, beyond my jurisdiction. Thank God they are taking care of business somewhere else.
The feeding done, the kitty litter unlittered, the water bowls refreshed, the mail and newspapers retrieved and sorted neatly on the dining room table and my work is done. No heavy petting required – thank God.
I had goldfish once when I was about 6 or 7. I forgot to feed them, so they died. And someone trusts me to care for her pets? She must be catatonic!
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