Skip to content

Category: Humor

Published on Leave a comment on Enough Already With The Made Up Words
Nobody does it better

I may have mentioned that I have partaken of the Google Kool-Aid. (BTW part of getting older is the annoyingly ever-present sense of deja vu one feels when bringing up practically any topic. You find yourself prefacing virtually every sentence with 'I may have mentioned' or 'Was it you I was telling' to soften the awkwardness of being told, 'yes, you already told me that'. It's a dementia preemptive strike. The logic goes like this: I can't have dementia if I'm aware that it may seem that I have dementia and forgot I already told you this twenty minutes ago. Flawed Logic Alert: so somehow it is better that you freely admit you can't remember if you already told someone something?)

But I digress.

I am pretty sure I mentioned this Google thing to you earlier, and one of the many reasons I am fond of it/them is the name. 'Google' is, I think, one of the first Internet-related made up words and IMO without doubt the best. It has a carefree air, is easy to spell and remember, and has been joyfully embraced by all. As it caught on, Mad Men everywhere breathed a huge sigh of relief that they could abandon the frustrating search for unique preexisting words and instead turn their ever so creative minds to, well, creating. Never again would we have to put up with half-assed, uninspiring names. Yes, Kia Sportage, I am talking to you.

So how is that working out for you, tech industry? I'll tell you how: not so good. With the explosion of millions of internet-related doohickeys, the fun and cool made-up names evaporated like camel piss on the Sahara. Instead of the Googles and Diggs and Reddits, we are now stuck with a bunch of non-words that not only have no meaning, they do not carry their marketing weight. We couldn't remember them, much less spell them in order to retype their home URL, if our life depended on it.

What brings this to mind is a recent convo I had with my daughter. She was recommending a new fitness app to me. Really liked it, cool GPS features to help you figure out how far your ran or biked that day, etc. What's not to like? I'll tell you what: the name. It's www.strava.com. What exactly is a strava? Is it someone's initials? Some sort of exotic African wildlife? The first, middle and last portions of the names/breeds/colors of the founders' purse pooches? The menu item served when the venture capital deal was clinched? Their favorite bike part/jelly bean flavor/middle school crush? You haters out there are probably thinking, well yeah but what is a 'Google'? I'll tell you what it is: it has grown beyond all doubt and question into its own thing, completely impervious to your haters' hateful hating. Aww, just kidding - spoiler alert - Google haters are right up there with Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and a balanced national budget as one of the greatest myths of the modern age.

photo by Amador Loureiro via Unsplash

Mind you, I am not talking about domains that co-opt an existing word that has little or no relation to the domain content other than someone just liked the word (Yahoo), or those that have cleverly combined words and letters in a new way (Pinterest) or dropped silent or otherwise extraneous letters a la text message (Flickr). No, I am ranting about words that, until somebody paid the fee to GoDaddy, had ABSOLUTELY NO MEANING. AT ALL. Do you think a bunch of Stanford engineering grads sat around brainstorming these, or some former Papa John's employees just followed a two-year-old around and tried to reproduce every sound they made? I'll let the evidence do the talking. In order from bad to worst:

mozilla - I have been fooling about with computers for so long, I actually remember Mozilla from the bad ol' days of cassette tapes and floppy disks. This one gets a pass for sentimental reasons.

squidoo - actually kinda cute, puts me in mind of an adorable sea creature and its not-so-adorable bodily functions.

squurl - this one is included as it perfectly represents my bias against those who cannot be troubled to learn how to spell.

jamendo and jango - these are both music sites. One is semi-catchy. One fails. Which is which? I'll let you decide.

qz - science nerds running amok playing Esoteric Hipster, dangerously close to mystifying their intended audience. Yeah, I had to look it up.

imgur - yeah I get it but they are taking the phonetic thing a little too far, dontcha think? See squurl. And yes by using dontcha I am being ironic.

dord - this one is not a domain name yet, but if you want to use it, it has a cool pedigree.

meebo - the name wasn't bad enough to keep Google from buying it.

Oh yeah this baby will really drive the traffic to your site

erowid - this is a semi-real word but a) no regular person knows wtf it means and b) my brain keeps wanting to translate it to 'earwig' - eewwww!!

tweewoo - another music site. Folks shoulda put down the bong before they registered this one. I refuse to patronize any site that makes me sound like Elmer Fudd while pronouncing it.

fffff.at - these people have clearly just given up on finding a unique domain name. Isn't this the sound you make to approximate air being let out of a balloon?

Apparently there are websites out there that contribute to this debacle. Their clever algorithms will generate scores of unique yet meaningless domain names. Not to be outdone by a few lines of code, I'd like to take a crack at it. How about these? I even have some ideas for target markets.

foozl - perfect as a dating site for dyslexic court jesters

zaxunz - European police siren repair

klaq - speech pathology site for domesticated water fowl

baahrf - I totally see this working for one of those sites that tells college students where the good parties are

Good news: my hypothesis was correct. No pricey algorithms necessary to generate the perfectly unique domain name.  Just grab your Scrabble tiles (the real ones, not the app version), find a human 24 months or younger, and spell out the sounds they make (regardless of orifice). Piece of cake.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this post, I hope you'll take a minute to subscribe to my blog (the subscribe box is near the top of the right sidebar).

4

Published on 4 Comments on It’s Not What You Think – It’s When
Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference

The nice folks at Scientific American are at it again, generously dispensing much-needed wisdom to the 99% of us dolts out here dragging our knuckles. Recently a gentleman from Whoknowswhere, Cyberspace emailed them wondering why it is impossible for the human brain to take a timeout and stop thinking, if only briefly. The short answer was: It's evolution, stupid. Nah, just kidding - they didn't actually say 'evolution'.

Apparently, if our brains had not been designed as eternal thinking machines, we would have ended up on the unpleasant end of the food chain instead of up here at the top with the monkeys and the sharks. That leads me to believe the lower organisms have a sort of OFF switch upstairs, or maybe it is more like a motion detector - their brain lolls about in Energysaver mode, until the shadow of a shark or something else equally toothy passes overhead. Then it bombs on like my grandpa waking himself up from a Sunday afternoon sofa nap with a big snore snort, and said organism gets the heck out of Dodge, all wild-eyed and ziggity-zaggety.

As a human, naturally my brain was thinking during the entire time I was reading the article. I was thinking about where I would get my next Twinkie and how much it would cost. Also, I was thinking how often I have wondered the exact opposite of Cyberspace dude's question: not 'why are we thinking all the time?' but 'what was that person thinking?'. In fact, I'm gonna go ahead and call BS on this whole 'can't turn it off' theory. There are plenty of examples where more or less fully evolved humans ARE NOT THINKING ANYTHING AT ALL for considerable stretches of time.

Sometimes said human is me. Like the time I left four London broils luxuriating in a red wine and mushroom marinade defrosting in the kitchen sink when I went to work. Upon my return the steaks had mysteriously disappeared, but the remnants of ziplock bag and my dog's food coma suggested what became of them. My first thought to myself was 'what was I thinking??'. BTW not to worry, no dogs were harmed in this story. A) she's a big dog (60 lb lab) and promptly barfed up every last one of the steaks in near pristine condition; and B) here at Dog Heaven (where all good doggies are fed raw London broils) we subscribe to the philosophy that it makes no sense to discipline the dog hours after the crime has been committed, so she escaped with a stern look, some finger-wagging, and a few choice words not fit for publication here.

But enough about me. What about all those people we see on the Seen at Wal-Mart websites? You know, the ones with photos of customers like the 70 year old dude with the ZZ Top beard, more tufts of white hair on his back than on his head, wearing nothing but a stained banana hammock and dollar flip flops, calmly swiping his debit card and waiting for his receipt like it was the most natural thing in the world? Or the charm school graduate in tube top and cutoffs, exposing so much gravity-defying excess flab that the Jet Propulsion Laboratory is currently studying her pictures for possible use in designing space station attire? Can you honestly tell me they were THINKING ANYTHING before they left the house?

We can look to the world of crime for more examples of disengaged brains. Consider the case of the South Dakota mom in attendance at her son's Boy Scout meeting. Imagine her surprise when the guest-speaking local policeman's drug-sniffing dog discovered the bag of pot she had in her purse. How about the California bank robber who, not in possession of an actual gun, instead tried the time-honored tradition of using his thumb and pointer finger to make the shape of a gun in his pocket. Unfortunately, he could not remember to keep his 'gun' in his pocket during the robbery.

Thanks to the 'entertainment' industry, we have plenty more examples to back my theory. What about the genius who cast Lindsay Lohan as Elizabeth Taylor in the recent made-for-TV biopic? Who green-lighted a sitcom based on the GEICO commercial cavemen? Asked Rosanne to sing the national anthem at a Padres game? Jersey Shore? Honey Boo-Boo?

We haven't even talked about the fertile ground of politics (oh how I long for the days when all I had to worry about was the impolitic choice of Sarah Palin for VP) or YouTube (Redneck Hey Watch This videos prove my point in under thirty seconds). Rather than providing cutesy answers to problems that don't exist, I think Scientific American needs to come up with a fail-safe method to determine when our brains need to be ON. I even have the perfect laboratory environment in mind: the nearest Wal-Mart. It's not sterile, but the experiment subjects are unlimited.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this post, I hope you'll take a minute to subscribe to my blog (the subscribe box is near the top of the right sidebar).

2

Published on 2 Comments on 9 Simple Rules For Showing Some Skin

I need to get something off my chest. 
Unlike the -ahem- gentleman in the
 picture, it is not my shirt. 

It's summertime in the South again, and of course that means it's toasty outside. I am not complaining. In the immortal words of Xander Cage, I Live For This S***.

I grew up in Texas long before every enclosed space was air-conditioned. They say living in a warm climate thins the blood, somehow making us able to tolerate the heat more easily. I don't know if this is true. I hate to think we are that closely related to reptiles. I have been known to bask near a sunny window on a cold winter day, eyes closed, upturned face tracking that glorious orb's path across the sky to receive its comforting warmth, so maybe there is something to that.  But I digress.

As I was saying, I love hot weather like a vegan loves to talk about being vegan. After spending 8 years living in Minnesota, I truly cherish being comfortable in shorts and flip flops March through October. Where clothing is concerned, less is more down here. Even so, we can't get too carried away with that credo. No matter how hot it is, if you spend most of your walking time upright and your knuckles do not drag the ground, you have a responsibility to your fellow humans to a maintain at least an illusion of civility. Gentlemen, we do this by wearing a shirt. 

Now, I know different cultures have different expectations when it comes to attire. Even within our own culture, men and women have different commonly accepted guidelines. The women get the skirts; the men get the ties. Women: bras; men: jocks. Men often go 'skins' (shirtless) to exercise, swim, tan, etc.; women usually stay a little covered up top. Totally fine with that in theory. But in practice, when it devolves into potbellied, swaybacked middle-aged men demonstrating their ability to grow hair everywhere but on top of their head while I am trying to enjoy a meal, this whole shirtless thing has to stop (or at least slow the roll). So I have some handy guidelines here if you are unclear whether you should be strutting around in public without your shirt.

You should probably keep your shirt on if:

1. You are more than 10 pounds overweight.*

2. You are over age 30.*

3. You are not on an Olympic men's swimming, diving, or water polo team.

4. You were not selected as a backup dancer or stunt double in the film Magic Mike.

5. You are in a social situation in which crumbs, ketchup, mustard, or other food debris may easily find their way onto your chest/back hair.

6. You are in a social situation in which your chest/back hair may find its way onto neighboring plates/beverages.

7. You have been asked to volunteer at the local barber school so that students may practice their clipper techniques by carving designs into your chest/back hair.

8. Your armpit hair is long enough to be braided.

9. Nursing infants reach out for your pectoral area and make smacking noises . 

*Exceptions to these first two will be granted on a case-by-case basis if you have been named Sexiest Man Alive within the last 5 years. Close-up visual inspection may be required.

Just so we're clear: this is not like needing a majority to get a bill passed in Congress. If any ONE of these nine is violated, the shirt must stay on.

And for that minority of gents who do qualify to go skins (ref Xander Cage link above), I think I can speak for all of us who are filled with gratitude when we see 'shirtless' done properly. Thank you for setting a fine example. A mighty fine example.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this post, I hope you'll take a minute to subscribe to my blog (the subscribe box is near the top of the right sidebar).

2

Published on 2 Comments on Sometimes You’re The Cat; Sometimes The Iron

I don't always play Monopoly, but when I do, I prefer the hat

I was amused by the hubbub over the annointing of a new Monopoly game token. Probably my favorite bit:

@KevinSeccia Monopoly dropped the iron?! Looks like it's your move, billion dollar video game industry

Even though this is the first time Hasbro has involved the great unwashed masses in the selection of a new token, it is hardly the first time they have changed their token lineup. Originally the inventor of the game apparently was smart enough to come up with the concept, but when it came time to decide what to use for game pieces, his genius had been depleted. His great idea was to use buttons. Buttons! His nieces came to the rescue, suggesting tokens based on the charms on their charm bracelets. Thank you, girls! Can't you just see them all hunkered over the claw-footed table in the front parlor, excited to play a new type of game? Then Uncle dumps out some ratty buttons to play with, and they simultaneously push back from the game table and head outside for a rousing game of Mumblety Peg. Buttons? We don't need no stinking buttons!

The buttons were just the first in a long line of tokens that were summarily dismissed from Monopoly. Don't get me wrong - I like the new token. I mean, cats, right? Cats are adorable. And I absolutely despise ironing in all of its forms. But I can't help but feel sorry for Iron, sent to the Island of Misfit Tokens. No doubt Iron was greeted warmly by Lantern, Purse, Rocking Horse, and Cannon. They spent their first half hour together talking about how Racecar was always such a self-important punk, and wondering how on earth Thimble has managed to remain part of the Elite Eight past the 1960s.


We wouldn't want kitty to have to nap on the floor, now, would we??

Meanwhile, Cat must be feeling pretty good. Cats in general are still riding the tsunami of popularity generated by the earthquake of countless adorable online gifs, memes, videos, toys, scratching posts, climbing towers - my goodness! the number of cat-related products out there is impressive. I guess you could say in this case the cat was in the bag. In or out, people do love their cats. It's a great feeling to be asked, chosen, wanted, liked, loved. We humans appreciate it, too. Many of us show our appreciation of this outpouring of affection a little more effectively than most cats, which is why Valentine's Day is a billion dollar industry.

But it's not always dark chocolate truffles and roses. I remember the first time I was the Iron. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming, but as a naive middle-schooler with her first boyfriend, I didn't have a clue.

I was having a pretty good year for a nerd. I tried out for and made what used to be called the 'drill team' (not a metaphor!) which was a cross between marching band and dance team. A drill team is the size of a marching band, but waves pom poms instead of trombones. We wore long-sleeved, short-skirted satin uniforms, top hats, gloves, white boots -  very 70s Texas. We concocted elaborate dance routines choreographed to whatever happening tune the marching band had planned for that week (Oye Como Va, anyone?), and performed them at the football game halftimes.

It had been years since I had set slippered foot inside a dance studio, so I was surprised to be accepted into this group and doubly surprised to be elected as one of the squad captains. Being a squad captain was a big deal because our top hats were a different color (gold, not black) and we got to strut around in front of our squads and basically lord it over the other girls who were not squad captains. Not proud of that, but sometimes it happened.

ANYWAY. Not long after this surprise elevation in my social station, I was approached by a nice enough fellow student who wanted to be my boyfriend. Remember, this was in my hometown, Nerd City, long before sexting and Friends With Benefits. In that day and age, having a boyfriend was little more than phone conversations (land line), hi-and-bye at school, and the occasional awkward date being squired around in the back seat of one's parents' car.

The football season rolled by uneventfully. At last, the final game of the season was played; the final routine performed. And before I had even left the stadium, the boyfriend dashed up to me, said he wanted to break up, and handed me back my boot. Oh, I forgot to tell you about the boot.

Unlike in Monopoly, my top hat was not made of metal; hence the protection from the elements.

As any parent will testify, belonging to any sort of activity group, whether it be soccer team or chess club or drill team, often is accompanied by painful amounts of money spent on things deemed ridiculous by the parents and indispensable by the participant. Letter jackets, class rings, mums to wear to the games, assorted logo clothing items, uniforms, etc. One of these indispensable items for drill team was sold by the local jewelry store. It was a gold boot about the size of a quarter, engraved with the participant's name or initials on the back, usually worn on a gold chain as a necklace. As is still the case, back in Ye Olden Tymes it was the tradition to exchange a personal item as a sign of affection and commitment to one's significant other, so this boy had been wearing my boot throughout the football season. And now here I stood at W. E. Greiner Stadium with my boot handed back to me in front of god and everybody, like Iron's dinghy hoving to at the pier on the Island of Misfit Tokens.

I didn't cry. I didn't care for that boy all that well. I mean, he was okay, but I guess I was always a little mystified by the whole relationship - until he put that boot in my hand after the last halftime performance. Then it all made perfect sense: he only wanted to be my boyfriend because of some perceived exalted status due to my position as Squad Captain on the drill team. Once that was no longer a factor, the attraction evaporated. At least he was man/boy enough to return my boot!

I learned a valuable life lesson by being the Iron that day: when something doesn't seem quite right, it probably isn't. And even though it can be awkward and embarrassing, sometimes a clean break is best for everyone. So Iron, enjoy your retirement. While you are hitting the links with Lantern and Cannon, think about poor Cat. When she is not prowling the Avenues, being manhandled by thousands of grubby fingers, in and out of Jail, she will be stuck in a dark box, rubbing up against the hard corners of cheap hotels, and being hit on in the clumsiest, most unimaginative ways by Racecar and Top Hat. First time she gets a chance, I guarantee you Cat will be opting for early retirement.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this post, I hope you'll take a minute to subscribe to my blog (the subscribe box is near the top of the right sidebar).

Published on Leave a comment on I’d Rather Have A Root Canal
I guess things could always be worse

Technology is a beautiful thing. Some of the all-time great inventions that we cannot live without: cell phone, Internet, microwave, corkscrew. But what about some of the little things that just smooth things out as we go along? One in particular I am thinking of is so clever, the great glass-screened opiate of the masses. This would be the placement of televisions in all sorts of places to take your mind off the fact that you are waiting, waiting, waiting, interminably and sometimes uncomfortably. Airports are one. Waiting rooms are another. But my personal fave is the baby TVs perched on the equipment next to the dentist chair.

In the days before Chair TV, you would either wait in the eponymous waiting room or sit in the dentist chair all alone. Neither one of these is optimal especially considering none of us is happy to be anywhere near the dentist office, much less near where you get drilled in the mouth (chair) or in the wallet (waiting room).  In the waiting room, they can't take the chance that a bunch of us would band together and either revolt or leave after having to wait too long. In the chair by yourself, the chances are good that you will start pondering your future fate and decide to high-tail it out of there. With Chair TV, both of these risks are eliminated. If the office is big enough, they can shuttle you right in to the chair and let you cool your heels in isolation. They get you out of the waiting room so you think you might actually be seen on time. You are away from the influences of other riff-raff. And the calming drone of the TV takes your mind off of any unpleasantness that may be coming your way.

At my previous dentist office this usually worked great because, to their credit, I rarely had to wait long, and their Chair TV was easy to change the channel. At my new dentist yesterday, sad to say neither of these things were true. It took me 35 minutes to make it past the waiting room and into solitary. Which wasn't too bad because there was a guilty pleasure on the waiting room TV - the dapper-as-always Anderson Cooper featuring a bunch of prostitutes arguing about how they were providing a much needed service, and a bunch of divorcees who begged to differ. It was juicy. All was going well until I got bumped to solitary with my own Chair TV. Unfortunately it was tuned to a politically themed snooze fest. I tried to change the channel but they were too clever for me - they hide the remote better than the day care staff at La Petite.

So I did what I usually do when trapped in an unpleasant situation - I went to my Happy Place and tried to tune it out. This worked fine until the dentist and his assistant showed up and said, "Open wide". As if this was not unpleasant enough, the assistant perked up when the subject of health care cycled through the news hour. And . . . we're off!

Before I know it, the dentist and the assistant are arguing the health care debate like they are auditioning for Ann Curry's old job, all this while I have about $8,000 of dental equipment and three fingers crammed into my mouth. It was Misinformed Neo-Con vs. Patronizing Know-It-All. We went from unpleasant to annoying in 10 seconds flat. Just ask me how much I wanted to bite down. Hard. But who to bite? I couldn't see which of them had the sharpest instruments in hand.

Next time I go to the dentist I will be better prepared.

1) I will not sit in the chair until someone shows me how to change the channel on Chair TV.

2) I will prepare a list of preferred discussion topics for any staff who may be hovering 4-12 inches above my head as follows.

  • Your children's recent cute activities
  • Your pet's recent cute activities
  • Any professional or college sport (NASCAR excepted)
  • Any recent topic featured on Anderson, Maury, Springer, or any other guilty pleasure talk show

Absolutely banned (with legal protection order if necessary) from coming within ten yards of me are any personnel who

  • Feel compelled to discuss politics
  • Feel compelled to discuss religion
  • Had garlic for lunch

Walking out of that refrigerated torture chamber was the happiest 30 seconds of my day. Man, was I glad to get out of there. You know how people are always saying they'd rather have a root canal? I actually think that applies here. I will take fillin' and drillin' over arguing politics every time.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this post, I hope you'll take a minute to subscribe to my blog (the subscribe box is near the top of the right sidebar).

Published on Leave a comment on Watch Your Step

Spring in Minnesota is much anticipated for obvious reasons. Lawnmowers and fertilizer spreaders replace of snow shovels. Migrating birds return to their favorite backyard feeders. And if you are really lucky, on a warm sunny day, you can witness the emergence of the snakes. Yep, any day where the temperature is 50°F or more, watch your step. See that black caulk between the lines in your sidewalk? That's a snake. How about that broken branch lying in your garden mulch? Nope, snake. The kids left a flat bike tube out in the yard? Guess again. That's the way it is at my house, anyway.

Little did we realize our new home was aka Snake Mecca

I’m originally from Texas, where rattlesnake hunts are as common as ticks on a whitetail. But I had never seen so many snakes in close proximity to human habitation until we moved to Minnesota. They're  'completely harmless', according to my neighbors. Maybe so, but they are as deadly as a pit viper if you are likely, as I am, to have The Big One and keel over every time you see one. Our first spring here, one of our legless friends made himself comfortable in the flower beds near our front porch. We would see him occasionally, basking himself in the spring sun. He was always more or less in the same spot, and pretty shy, so we got used to him and he to us. This is good, I thought. I can handle this.

Until some of his pals started turning up in unexpected places. One afternoon my teenager was mowing the lawn. I heard the mower stop, then the screen door slammed. "Mom,” she called upstairs,  “there's a snake."

Ordinarily I would say, “That’s nice, dear,” and wait until my husband came home to deal with the little fellow. But it was one of those gorgeous Minnesota days and I was feeling up to the challenge.  Most of the lawn was shorn down to fairway level, except for a small rectangle in the center. The culprit held his ground there.

"Just make lots of noise," I said, recalling various programs I had seen on the Animal Planet channel. "They will feel the noise vibrations in the ground and clear out." Folks, I am here to tell you that this is an out-and-out lie. We made all the noise we could think of, not to mention the high decibel roar of the Briggs and Stratton mower motor. No effect. On to Plan B.

"Get a rake," I instructed. "We'll shoo him away.” Let's just say the rake was not a big hit with our friend. Who knew that a 'harmless' snake could rear up and hiss like a King cobra? I dropped the rake and Plan B.

What now? Aha! My neighbor's teenage son was shooting hoops in his driveway. In my shameless cowardice, I called, "Hey, Kyle! Can you help me get rid of this snake?" Now, Kyle is a brave young man. Snakes fear him. At least, I hoped they did. I proposed that he use the rake and my five gallon plastic bucket to relocate our slithering nemesis to a friendlier locale. By now, my younger son and his friend had heard the commotion and joined the fray. The flesh crawling on the back of my neck became unbearable, and I retreated to the safety of the indoors, barricading myself inside. That I had left my precious children and their friends outside to battle the beast mattered not.

Did I mention that I hate snakes?

Eventually my son came in to report success. We exchanged high-fives and my daughter was able to resume mowing. Of course that wasn’t the end of the snakes, not by a long shot. I wonder if the ones I see now are new snakes, or relocated snakes returning to their version of San Juan Capistrano (my front yard). I think I am going to have to come up with another plan. I am up to C now. I sure hope I don’t have to work my way to Z.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this post, I hope you'll take a minute to subscribe to my blog (the subscribe box is near the top of the right sidebar).

Published on Leave a comment on The Sky Is Falling

Cartoon by Mark Stivers

We have all been forced to sit through a class that we knew in our hearts we would never, ever use again once the final exam hit the teacher's desk about 15 seconds before the door hit our fannies on our way out of the classroom for the last time. Sadly, I have more than one. Currently, Introduction to Logic is the longest reigning king of my list. It has been 30+ years, and I haven't used it once. I must admit I am disappointed, because I am a great fan of logic (lower case l). But this class was upper case L aka Philosophy and that's how they getcha, otherwise no one would ever sign up for this class. Thankfully, there are a couple of others on my list that were pleasant surprises, in that I actually find myself using them occasionally.

Latin, for instance. I took four years of Latin in high school to avoid taking a language class that required much in the way of speaking said language. Work Smarter, Not Harder is my motto. Imagine my surprise when Latin turned out to be a class I use just about every day. It is very handy for sniffing out puzzling word meanings and thrashing opponents in the Words With Friends app. Physics and Geometry - also very useful when playing tennis and shooting pool. Fencing - well, maybe not that useful, but way fun.

The dark horse in my lame class recitation is not only lame, it is beyond obscure: Historiography. Never heard of it? Go ahead and Google or read a few more lines here. The added irony: this is a class I thought would be very useful when I was working on my masters in history and planning a career in academia. I will wait for you to stop laughing at the time and money I wasted on that degree.


Cosmo Kramer, the master of the Stink-Eye

Historiography should be renamed Skeptics 101. Basically it teaches you how to be a credible researcher, how to sort the shine from the Shinola. I wish I could remember the professor's name but alas. In any case he was great - just the right combination of knowledge, credibility, and accessibility. He was friendly, but not so chummy you would mistake him for an equal. Professor X taught us to be skeptical of everything we read. Consider the source! and What is their bias? were our mantras. Extra credit was given for those who perfected the Stink-Eye.

My planned career in academia went off the tracks almost immediately. But Professor X's training to question everything has stuck with me ever since. And, thanks to the Internet, I find myself using it frequently. Sweet Mother of Pearl, has there ever been such an overload of panicked Senders sending piles of pathetic pigswill?

Sadly, the folks at Snopes.com robbed me of the chance to turn my Skeptic Skills into a myth-busting, multi-million-dollar IPO. But they have also saved me a ton of Googling. Now all I have to do is put my Skeptic Skills to work. If anything gets forwarded or posted to me that doesn't pass the Smell Test (in case Stink-Eye is on the blink), off to Snopes we go, and the problem, she is solved.

In case you were standing behind a door when they were handing out Historiography class registrations, I will hook you up with some top takeaways. In emails and Facebook posts, there are a couple of dead giveaways for complete hokum. Anything containing the following phrases should be ignored/deleted immediately without costing you any additional time of clicking over to Snopes.

"Send this to everyone you know . . . "

"If you agree, post this to your profile . . ."

"Curious to see how many will actually read to the end of this post . . ."

"Click here for a free ______" (especially true if the 'free' item is valued at more than $20)

Occasionally the posts are better disguised with an iota of factual content, and there is a reasonable doubt the story may have some validity. Usually not, but when in doubt . . . Snopes! Here are a couple of examples. See if you can choose the one that is 100% authentic.

True, or Complete Nonsense?

1. Credit card users, beware! If you buy your gas at the pump with a credit card, be sure to press the 'CLEAR' button at the end of  your transaction. Otherwise, your credit card is vulnerable to additional purchases.

2. Hard-to-digest materials such as chewing gum and red meat are to be avoided at all costs. They can accumulate, rotting in the gut, leading to weight gain and disease.

3. Hate the dollar coins? This may give you reason to love them. Millions of Sacagawea dollar coins were given away in boxes of Cheerios when the coin debuted in 2000. Their design is slightly different from those put into direct circulation and are now worth thousands each.

Drum roll please . . . .


A pleasant photo to create filler so you can't see the answers right away(Texas bluebonnets, btw)

The Answers:

1. False - the glimmer of true content is that unscrupulous convenience store employees have been known to steal your credit card information by a variety of means. But the CLEAR button on the pump has nothing to do with it, and will not prevent said theft. If the store or pump has been compromised, there is little you can do about it other than file a claim with your credit card company. More details here.

2. False - or, as one website says, complete crap 🙂 Unless a person has a digestive ailment or is taking drugs that slow digestion, the human digestive system is pretty straightforward. What goes in one end, comes out the other. Sometimes fully digested, sometimes not (see Corn and Peanuts), but it comes out. Lots of scientific sites debunk this myth. I will let you take your pick by Googling "digestion myths red meat".

3. True - I bet you thought I was going to trick you and make all three of them urban legends. Apparently the tail feathers of the eagle on the back of the coin have more detail. These coins are worth anywhere from $5000-$25000 each.

So people please, PLEASE (yes I am begging you) do a little research before bombarding (annoying) your friends with random bits of Internet flotsam. Lord knows we all waste enough time staring at the great glass teat. Stop sending garbage, and maybe at least a little bit of that staring will be a little less of a waste.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this post, I hope you'll take a minute to subscribe to my blog (the subscribe box is near the top of the right sidebar).

Published on Leave a comment on Man Hunt, 50s Style

It's a gem of an article

One of the bright shining lights of the University of Georgia student population published a very handy how-to on hunting/gathering a husband while at college. Her article includes a wealth of information on how to meet the right kind of men, how to compete with other females for their attention, how to maintain their interest, how to cement the deal, and so forth. Ladies (and gentlemen, I suppose), this is the De Beers Mine of relationship advice.

It occurs to me single women my age could also benefit from this type of advice, but do not often find themselves enrolled in college surrounded by scores of eligible bachelors. One must adapt! Step by step, here are my tweaks to the original.

Step 1. Location, location, location! The author emphasizes the importance of attending college because, after all, that's where the men are. News flash: the female 50+ demographic is woefully underrepresented on campus. I suppose you could take the original advice and enroll in college, but I wouldn't recommend it for two reasons.

  • I don't know about you, but college has become hella expensive in the 30+ years since I last stepped foot in a student union.
  • Even if you do have the dough, colleges are overflowing with nubile female 20-somethings. You will have to spend at least the cost of tuition on nips and tucks to have a prayer of competing with them, even if your surgical end result is the (figurative and hopefully not literal) mother of all cougars.

So here's my suggestion: change the location! The author's advice to go where the eligible men are is sound. Her mistake is in assuming there is only one location to find favorable ratios of acceptable men! I am not telling you anything new by suggesting you change the word 'college' to 'driving range' and many of her tips will still apply, as you will see below. Where else can you find a man-to-woman ratio of 10:1 or better, and the admission fee is a blessedly reasonable $5 for a bucket of balls (2/$8 on Senior Tuesday)? Note I am not guaranteeing 100% of them are prime candidates, but neither are 100% of the guys you meet at college.

Step 2. Locale + attire = success! In other words, know your environment and select the proper plumage to attract your ideal mate. As when hunting live game on the college campus, it is important to appear as if you belong in the golf driving range environment. Select the right outfit, but not too right - you don't want to look like one of those bright red Gummi worms on the end of a fish hook. No! We are going more for a Venus flytrap effect - you want to attract attention, but in a very organic way.


Crocs say you have just given up

The golf world is a strange, alternate fashion universe, as anyone who has ever watched a men's pro tournament on a color TV can attest. Migraine-inducing colors and plaids are just as acceptable as drab solids. Polyester is okay, believe it or not, but absolutely no denim!  At the driving range, there are a few wardrobe Do's and Don'ts that are non-negotiable if you want to sell it, girl! Some tips to ensure you blend seamlessly into the driving range environment: 

  • Footwear - actual golf shoes are most desirable, with athletic sneakers a distant second. Avoid SAS, flip flops, and tatty house slippers. Also, nothing gives away your status as complete golf poser quite like wearing a pair of dingy, faded Crocs. In fact, best not to wear them outside of the house at all, regardless of your destination. 
  • Collared golf style shirt - sleeveless is okay if you still dare to bare your upper arms.
  • Golf skirt or shorts - they should have at least two side pockets and preferably cover a large quantity of your cellulite/varicose veins. Extra points for skorts.

Shoes and clothes are important, but your best quality accessory on the driving range takes a little more effort. That would be your swing. I don't care how much Lady Hagen golf swag you score on clearance at TJ Maxx - like the man said, it don't mean a thing if you ain't got that swing.

Don't despair - you don't have to break the bank on golf lessons unless you are bored and rich, in which case you probably don't need to be reading this article. But if you are not bored and rich, just work on your swing in the privacy of your living room by imagining you have a large bucket full of horse manure which you want to pick up by the handle with both hands and swing in a modified half U-shaped arc so that it cracks that good-for-nothing ex of yours right below the jaw and spews its aromatic contents all over the $300 Ralph Lauren polo shirt his trophy girlfriend gave him on their first trip to Bermuda.

Step 3. The author's next suggestion is actually a combination of high tech and clever staging. She suggests taking plentiful photographs of one's self while out and about with friends, and using a popular photo effect app to create the right mood. One assumes these are to be broadly distributed via social networking sites.

In addition, the content of the photos must be just right - any other friends in the photos must be nearly, but not equally or more attractive than you. We want to send the message that you are indeed the prime selection in your peer group.

With all due respect to the college-age author, I just don't see 50-somethings getting overly excited about using a special effect on perfectly good photographs that make them look like something you found wedged under the cushion of a moth-eaten 60s-era sofa at the local Goodwill. So let's skip the high tech special effects, shall we, and focus on the second half of her advice: staging. 

Assuming you have taken my advice to heart and acquire the appropriate attire and swing, where you place yourself at the driving range is of critical importance. 

  • If the range has artificial turf as an option, I would definitely recommend parking it there. You are taking a risk of appearing amateurish by not selecting the more professional real grass, but chances are your balls will perform better and therefore draw male attention to your swing. Like flies to honey!
  • Go ahead and tee up every freakin' ball, no matter what club you are using. If you have the right swing and a little wiggle, no one is going to notice the tee, believe me. 
  • Try to find a range that has half walls between hitting stations to avoid unfortunate accidents. More than one budding romance has been nipped by a shanked ball to the temple and the accompanying exchange of insurance information and ambulance ride to the emergency room. No half walls available? At least you will know up front how good their insurance is.
  • If you have a decent swing, you can dispense with actually hitting the ball altogether. Go ahead and buy a bucket just for appearances. Set it nearby, tip it over so that a few balls dribble out of the basket and onto the ground. Then ignore them, and swing away! So what if no one sees the flight path of any of your balls? If you have a convincing swing, observers will just assume you hit the bejeezus out of it and they lost it in the glare. 

Strike a pose!

Equally important as the where in this phase is the who - perhaps the most valuable tip offered by the author is whom you are seen with. If you feel you need a wingwoman or three, by all means invite some friends along. But make sure you are the best golfer, or at least have the best golf swing, of the group. Leave Nancy Lopez and Annika Sorenstam at home. In fact, if you have any friends who have never played golf, they are the perfect backdrop for your debut. Next to their frenzied hacking, you will look like Babe Frickin Didrikson. 

Step 4. Assuming steps 1-3 have gone swimmingly, your Oscar-worthy driving range performance has attracted your prey and the mating dance begins. The author advises some restraint here, but at our age, who are we kidding? Of course there will be sex - isn't that the point of this whole charade? -  so don't quibble over the 'when'. Instead, focus on the quality of the act. Classy not skanky, to paraphrase the author. Your golf swing may be suspect, but there's no need for your postgame to fail.

At last, we come to the portion of our show where we should have an advantage over the 20-something college crowd. After 30+ years of being sexually active and the advent of cable TV, there's no excuse! Prepare ahead of time with some personal grooming and common sense protection, people. The stuff that could happen when you were in your 20s can still happen, and worse (with one notable exception - thank you, menopause!!). At age 50+, who wants to be bothered with penicillin shots and bottles of RID??

Step 5. Assuming steps 1-4 have been well executed, step 5 is when the trap slams shut. Once your prey has expressed interest, do what must be done to prevent his escape, including eliminating his desire to escape. Become the PGM - Perfect Golf Mate.

  • Appear content to watch any and every men's professional golf tournament on television, from start to finish. All. Four. Days. 
  • Be able to discuss the advantages of stiff shafts without giggling uncontrollably. 
  • Learn how to regrip clubs without passing out from the glue fumes. 
  • Never, ever buy him anything but plain white golf balls. 
  • Never, ever buy him cutesy cartoon character head covers. If you think the topic of head covers belongs in the Step 4 discussion, FAIL. 

The little blue box

Step 6. The author's final step is formal engagement, including but not limited to: the little blue box, residential gated community, late model German auto, country club membership and full time nanny. Step 6 definitely needs some tweaking for our purposes.

  • Think outside the little blue box. It's fine for the never-been-married, Desperately Seeking Status demographic. Your new man will be more impressed if you prefer a vacay to Pebble Beach or the British Open.
  • Hang on tight to the country club membership, insisting on one with other amenities to amuse yourself while your new beau hits the links. 
  • Trade the auto for a tricked out golf cart instead - cheaper insurance, better mileage, and maintains the PGM illusion. 
  • For the 50+ set, it's safe to say we can eliminate the nanny - unless your prey - I mean, partner -  is 20+ years your junior. 

Now isn't that all better?  Sometimes advice is like a vintage suit - it's not one-size-fits-all, but a few quality alterations can make all the difference. So hit the range and bag your man. Let me know if you need a wingwoman. My spastic Charlene Barkley golf swing will make you look like Arnold Frickin Palmer.I

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this post, I hope you'll take a minute and subscribe to my email list.

8

Published on 8 Comments on To Bore Or Not To Bore

Innate weirdness, indeed

Surfing the web the other day and ran across a nifty article about how to avoid being boring by Jessica Hagy for Forbes. Although I have to admit it is a little disheartening to realize I am not one of those lucky few who are organically interesting, like the guy on the Dos Equis commercials. I have to resort to Plan B, reading advice columns for the Terminally Boring and dig deep for something of interest as my Plan A is pretty bland. Anyway - of the ten recommendations she made, #4 stands out for me:

 'Embrace your innate weirdness'

Simple advice (or stupid-simple, as the article claims), seems, well, innate, but it's really pretty much the opposite of what we usually do, isn't it? Everyone trying so hard to fit in, follow the latest trend, wear the right jeans, eat at the most popular restaurants, read the hippest book/blog, drive the coolest car, etc.  Talk about BORING. It got me thinking about my favorite people and their quirky habits, bless their hearts.

  • A coworker years ago who refused to close the bathroom stall door all the way when she was using it. I thought this quite weird and a little offensive until she sheepishly apologized to me one day when I happened to be in the restroom at the same time, and confessed she was trapped in a bathroom stall as a child and it really freaked her out. Instantly went from weird to endearing once I knew the whole story.
  • A friend who absolutely, positively would not divulge her birth year, upon pain of death. Still can't figure that one out, because she looks great regardless of her age. I can understand it if you haven't taken care of yourself, but not this gal. At first I thought she was just being coy like most of us do when asked our age. You know how it goes - we act all insulted that anyone would be so rude as to ask, then 'fess up fairly quickly, fishing for the expected compliment that we certainly don't look our age. But my friend - she would never 'fess up! We have known each other for more than ten years, and it is still a mystery. Gotta hand it to her - she sticks to her guns!
  • Another friend owned a massive doll collection. She was probably in her 50s when we first met. She had no children of her own, but man she had the dolls. All kinds, very pricey, rooms full of them. All those lifeless eyes, staring, staring . . . Never having been a fan of dolls myself, I found this a little weird for a grown woman. But she and I guess other collectors out there thrive on their hobbies. They probably think there is something a little weird about those of us who don't collect anything!
  • The cousin who was completely obsessed with Elvis Presley. I believe the tipping point came when it was revealed (ahem) she owned Elvis Presley underwear. Not sure if it was his actual underwear, or was adorned with a picture of The King, or what. But still.
  • The complete stranger at my husband's company Christmas party who blended into the background - until someone fired up the karoake machine. Put a microphone in his hands and he turns into Frank Freakin Sinatra (without the voice). He roamed the banquet area, schmoozing tables, serenading the middle aged couples like Mel Torme (without the voice). I believe he had to be wrestled to the ground before he surrendered the microphone to the next person.
  • Another relative who is uber freaky about perceived threats to personal health. Refuses to take a shower during a thunderstorm for fear of electrocution. 
  • A tennis friend who often shouted a lusty Al Pacino-like 'Hoo-Ahhhh!' after a particularly satisfying shot. Very un-tennis-like, but bless her heart, I loved her more every time she did it.
  • Any list like this would be incomplete without mentioning my dad, whose innate weirdness is quite minimal. He's a pretty normal, average guy, highly entertaining and non-boring in his own right - except he has a long abiding, borderline irrational fear of rodents. Rats, specifically. Now you have to know my dad to know why this is weird. He's a big guy, 6'-3", 200 pounds, gregarious life-of-the-party kinda guy. But don't even mention mice or he's the first one up on the chair, screaming like a girl. 

This one's for you, Dad!

I guess this is the confession portion of our program, where I should divulge my own innate weirdness. According to Ms. Hagy's logic, if I have some innate weirdness and I embrace it, that will help me fend off the Boring label. I am on board with this. (You have no idea how hard it was for me not to say 'bored' there. Yuk. Yuk.) I will gladly embrace and advertise it. But I am ashamed to say I am struggling to think of anything. My greatest inner fear is likely true: not only am I Boring in general, I don't have any innate weirdness to fall back on! I am reaching, but here's what I can come up with so far:

  • I don't like different foods touching on my plate, but I won't go nuts if it happens. 
  • I also like to eat the various foods in order - all the potatoes, then all the meat, then the veg, etc. Is that weird, or just organized?
  • I like to plan trips/errands so that all the stops are in some kind of logical order (preferably closest first, leaving an uninterrupted return leg home) rather than zigzagging all over town. Also prefer multiple stops on a single trip rather than a trip here, a trip there. 
  • Prefer working tasks sequentially rather than multi-tasking. Also prefer one task to be finished before starting another although my definition of 'finished' can be somewhat hazy. 
  • Will not tolerate even-numbered golf clubs in my golf bag, making an exception for my 4i hybrid which technically is a fairway wood, not an iron, so special exemption. Okay, maybe that is a little weird.
  • Floss daily without fail but only in the morning, never at night.
  • Organize clothes in closet by color. Doesn't everyone do that? Maybe that doesn't count.

Ugh, I give up - I am Boring! But Ms. Hagy's article has several more remedies. I'm off to try #9.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this post, I hope you'll take a minute and subscribe to my email list.

4

Published on 4 Comments on Someone Else’s Bucket

Cartoon from here

Once again Ricky Gervais displays his comedic genius. The star and creator of the original British version of The Office has a show called An Idiot Abroad on, of all places, the Science Channel.

When I saw the promo for the show, I did a Shoulda Had A V8. What a brilliant concept: Mr. Gervais has an fellow by the name of Karl Pilkington forcibly fulfilling a loooooong list of OTHER PEOPLE's life goals, the proverbial 'bucket list' of things they want to try or do or accomplish before they 'kick the bucket' (die). The comedy aspect comes in when the chosen task is something not exactly up Mr. Pilkington's alley.

Naturally this got me thinking: is there anything on my personal bucket list that others would find distasteful? Surely not. My list is dominated by travel destinations. Nothing unusual about that, unless you hate to travel. Or hate beautiful destinations featuring warm weather and sandy beaches.

What about other peoples' lists - what might they want to do that I consider more appropriate for the 1000 Ways To Die show? Like most people, I assume most people think the way I think, like the stuff I like. And like most people, of course I am dead wrong. I know this because I Googled 'bucket list' and found some pretty crazy sh**.

To wit:

The standard-issue crazy daredevil stuff people put on their bucket lists to avoid looking dull, of course never intending to actually follow through:

  • Bungee jumping
  • Dive with sharks
  • Skydive
  • Cliff dive
  • Platform dive off highest diving board there is head first into a swimming pool

Do you see a pattern here? Safe bet you will not find anything that says 'dive' or 'jump' on my bucket list.

Ummm, about that last one . . . Keep in mind these are actual items I found while Googling. Assume this person meant a full swimming pool? Otherwise, guessing they will arrive at the diving board via Crazy Train. Better save that one for last.

That's the run-of-the-mill lists. Moving on:

The Why??? Category
(Note to reader: remember, this is actual stuff turning up in my Google search results. You cannot make this stuff up.)



  • superglue a coin to the pavement and watch someone try to pick it up - maybe this one should be in the Clearly A Teenager category
  • be in the Polar Bear Club - two problems with this one: 1) cold water, and 2) the only people I have ever seen doing this are shriveled up old men
  • sing the Star Spangled Banner before a game - this is not on my list but if I add it, I will be sure to specify that I will sing it WELL
  • catch my own game kill and eat it - ugh check NO unless we are talking Risk or Monopoly
  • photograph lightning again - it's the 'again' that concerns me here - if you have already done it, shouldn't you mark it OFF your bucket list? and aren't you out of chances if you have already survived this once?
  • bare all on a nude beach - why is it the people who want to bare all are always the people that really, really shouldn't? and why do I have a sneaking suspicion they are also in the Polar Bear Club?
  • survive an accident I shouldn't - I think I get what they are saying - that they want a lucky escape from something awful, but I can think of so many ways this can go wrong, like when you ask those tricky bottle genies for wishes and they always find a way to make you regret it
  • swim in the Amazon River - not sure which would be worse: the piranhas or those tiny crazy fish that get all up in your tiny orifices. In any case, you guessed it: check NO.
  • bathe in the Ganges - not after hearing this on NPR
  • spend 24 hours alone in the jungle - one word: ANACONDA
  • go gator hunting with Swamp People - okay I get wanting to hang with the Swamp People, but have you seen an alligator up close? Like, right-next-to-you-in-the-water close? Many, many long, pointy teeth.

and, finally,

The WTF Category
Note to reader: see above Note To Reader

  • explore an insane asylum - maybe if it was empty? and was converted from a beautiful multi-million dollar mansion?
  • party with porn stars - envisioning cheap ugly stripper heels, slippery dance poles, avoidance of all eye contact, lots of plastic upholstery and silicone. Makes me a little sad and a little ill.
  • riot tourism - apparently this is for real - you can Google places where a riot may occur and try to get in on the action. Hm. Remember, the police also have Google.
  • extreme ironing - OMG still LMAO - if there is a hell, it consists of cold weather, light beer, and extreme ironing. And yes, that is an ironing board in the picture above.
  • Dig up the Godfather of Soul's coffin and use him as a puppet in my YouTube version of Say It Loud (I swear I am not making this up)

After all that Googling, I fear my bucket list is a little predictable, a little provincial. I did find a couple of items that did appeal to me and make me look like less of a granny. They do not require jumping, diving, or grave robbing. Whether I ever actually do them remains to be seen.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this post, I hope you'll take a minute and subscribe to my email list.