Okay.
I am doing the usual Saturday routine - laundry, sweeping, mopping, etc.
But when it comes time to clean the toilets, I cannot imagine why the creative engineers that brought us the self cleaning oven have managed to skip the most nasty room and job in the world.
We can send men to the moon and to platforms high in space for scientific research, but we lack the scientific skill to make a self cleaning bathroom? Does anybody else see the problem here?
Anyone who has males in the household can share in the odious task required to clean the toilet. They don't mean to miss. They are always sorry. But it does nothing to make the receptical of waste look or smell any better.
And for the record, installing new toilet paper is a task that the women at MENSA are STILL having to perform for the hapless males who, though they know the secrets of quantum physics, lack the simple mechanical ability to slap another roll in place.
All I am asking for is a self cleaning cycle that will turn the bathroom into a crystaline palace of beauty and wonder. No muss, no fuss and most definately no hand into the icky toilet bowl for even a fraction of a second.
Where is science when you need it? How can this portal of disease and filth have escaped their notice and willingness to make the necessary changes to ease the burdens on the people of the world?
We can nuke other nations and then help them tidy up both their nation and their economy but we can't clean the john? Where are our priorities?
Oh, it's a dream. Somewhere in the world is a bathroom that is always clean. An endless roll of t.p. exists and there is never a hard water ring in the toilet bowl.
Whomever reads this with a scientific bent and a willingness to help all of man and woman kind, it's time to make the bathroom as easy to clean as the oven, but without the ash to wipe up at the end.
August 4, 2007
August 2, 2007
Come On Down!
Well, my dream has come to an end.
With the heralded retirement of television icon Bob Barker, no longer will I have the opportunity to race forward to one of the four golden spots to bid my way towards either televised immortality and fame or total and abject public humiliation.
Sure, they have hired the very funny Drew Carey to be the host (notice I did not say 'take the place of Bob') for The Price Is Right, but the show will never be the same. The meter and flow of Bob's delivery and his signature signoff about controlling the pet population will fade into the collective memory of our television past.
While I honestly believe that Mr. Carey will do a fine job of bringing humor and fun to the program, I also believe that the tener and tone of the program will, by force of natural law, be altered to fit the circumstances and personality of it's new host. I wish them nothing but the best since I would love to have the chance to come home the big winner.
One thing though has always bothered me about the program. The prices they indicate are certainly not the prices that are paid by the 'great unwashed' when we go to the store or the automotive dealership.
I can virtually guarantee if the auto dealerships spent a bit of money on some 'eye candy' for the buyers that they would sell more cars to love struck, deer in the headlights consumers who didn't know what hit them until the deal was done and they were on their way home with a care that cost more than their first house. Every man wants to think that Barker's Beauties are smiling some 'special' smile at them alone and that they are somehow rooting for them personally.
What the show failed to provide was some hunky men, all toned and buffed, who could trot out the Kitchenaid mixer set or drive out the sex mobile for the bid winners to try and make their own. Women are interested in thinking about their personal appeal just as much as men do. And some stone cold hunk would certainly make me more willing to scream out my bid as he smiled his come hither smile at my wrinkled, lined and flabby self.
Maybe Mr. Carey will be more receptive to the idea of introducing a more diverse group of models to stand there and show off their assets along with the items for our bids. Certainly since he, himself, belongs to the wrinkled, lined and flabby crowd will understand the manic zeal in our eyes as we truly want to believe that not only are we being called to 'come on down' but that somehow we can become the 'anointed one' who will win not only their own showcase, but BOTH showcases and be within the 100 dollar limit that will grant the winner all of the prizes plus the cash bonus.
Can't you just hear the announcer now?
"Old, tired, saggy, wrinkly mother with bags under her eyes, COME ON DOWN!"
With the heralded retirement of television icon Bob Barker, no longer will I have the opportunity to race forward to one of the four golden spots to bid my way towards either televised immortality and fame or total and abject public humiliation.
Sure, they have hired the very funny Drew Carey to be the host (notice I did not say 'take the place of Bob') for The Price Is Right, but the show will never be the same. The meter and flow of Bob's delivery and his signature signoff about controlling the pet population will fade into the collective memory of our television past.
While I honestly believe that Mr. Carey will do a fine job of bringing humor and fun to the program, I also believe that the tener and tone of the program will, by force of natural law, be altered to fit the circumstances and personality of it's new host. I wish them nothing but the best since I would love to have the chance to come home the big winner.
One thing though has always bothered me about the program. The prices they indicate are certainly not the prices that are paid by the 'great unwashed' when we go to the store or the automotive dealership.
I can virtually guarantee if the auto dealerships spent a bit of money on some 'eye candy' for the buyers that they would sell more cars to love struck, deer in the headlights consumers who didn't know what hit them until the deal was done and they were on their way home with a care that cost more than their first house. Every man wants to think that Barker's Beauties are smiling some 'special' smile at them alone and that they are somehow rooting for them personally.
What the show failed to provide was some hunky men, all toned and buffed, who could trot out the Kitchenaid mixer set or drive out the sex mobile for the bid winners to try and make their own. Women are interested in thinking about their personal appeal just as much as men do. And some stone cold hunk would certainly make me more willing to scream out my bid as he smiled his come hither smile at my wrinkled, lined and flabby self.
Maybe Mr. Carey will be more receptive to the idea of introducing a more diverse group of models to stand there and show off their assets along with the items for our bids. Certainly since he, himself, belongs to the wrinkled, lined and flabby crowd will understand the manic zeal in our eyes as we truly want to believe that not only are we being called to 'come on down' but that somehow we can become the 'anointed one' who will win not only their own showcase, but BOTH showcases and be within the 100 dollar limit that will grant the winner all of the prizes plus the cash bonus.
Can't you just hear the announcer now?
"Old, tired, saggy, wrinkly mother with bags under her eyes, COME ON DOWN!"
August 1, 2007
Humid ain't the word
While many areas of the contiguous U.S. have have a visit from me over the years, the mystery of climates and microclimates never ceases to amaze me.
During a particularly long time in the Rockies, I remember the snowfall accumulation being so deep that my sports car disappeared overnight. Of course, we dug it out . . . eventually. There were other things to do that were infinitely more entertaining than digging out a car.
One trip through the Louisiana bayou country, we stopped to camp at a promising location that boasted a lake that was a fisherman's paradise according to the sign. We later learned that WE were the fish to some mosquitos who were large enough to carry away small children and drive their own Buick.
I came to realize that location was the secret testing ground for bug sprays and repellants of every stripe and that we had become welcome victims who brought fresh blood to the mix.
Other places have been so very dry and forbidding in the desert places of the Southwest that you can feel the water being siphoned out of your body as surely as a vacuum cleaner sucking up lint from the sofa cushions.
Tonight was an exercise in how to take a complete bath while wearing all of your clothes and walking the dog. I speak not in a metaphor, but in actual truth. With temperatures hovering in the mid 90's and the humidity being equal to the temperature, the 'feels like' measurement they offered at lunch is no indication of the sauna like environment I stepped out into this evening.
The dog KNOWS when it is time for our nightly session of PT.
For those of you who are not in the know, PT stands for a multitude of things that can be a blessing or a curse, depending upon circumstances.
PT - physical therapy, because everyone needs some movement in their joints.
PT - physical torture, because there are days and then there are days. If you are a bit out of shape (or a lot out of shape), then this is an apt description indeed.
PT - practically trotting, because to a dog who feels like you aren't moving at sufficient speed, it becomes a game of who can set the pace and who becomes the victim.
PT - painfully tender, because when you are finally able to see the promised land of home in your view, you realize that phantom pain that was just niggling along at the back of your conscience has metamorphosed into a full blown suffering, complete with huffing and puffing toward the pain killers.
PT - pretty tennies, because I just bought a new pair and hit the road with them tonight. They are so light, it's like not really having on much shoe at all.
But I digress.
On days like this when cheerful weathermen and women bask in the glow of their meteorological skill while in a climate controlled studio, I want to remind them that it isn't so much the heat that the average Southerner is interested in at all.
It's the humidity that pulls the curl out of your up-do and the liquid feel to the air when rain is only a tease in the forecast. It's the water vapor that par-boils you as you try to accomplish anything without retreating for a shady spot and a cold glass of lemonade.
On days that defy natural science to explain why the humidity is so high that you are literally soaked just by virtue of going outside the four walls of the home, I remind everyone that the time worn statement about living amongst the magnolias and mint juleps is oh so true.
It ain't the heat that gets you in Dixie, it's the humidity.
I think I'll take a cool shower and make some lemon ice pops.
During a particularly long time in the Rockies, I remember the snowfall accumulation being so deep that my sports car disappeared overnight. Of course, we dug it out . . . eventually. There were other things to do that were infinitely more entertaining than digging out a car.
One trip through the Louisiana bayou country, we stopped to camp at a promising location that boasted a lake that was a fisherman's paradise according to the sign. We later learned that WE were the fish to some mosquitos who were large enough to carry away small children and drive their own Buick.
I came to realize that location was the secret testing ground for bug sprays and repellants of every stripe and that we had become welcome victims who brought fresh blood to the mix.
Other places have been so very dry and forbidding in the desert places of the Southwest that you can feel the water being siphoned out of your body as surely as a vacuum cleaner sucking up lint from the sofa cushions.
Tonight was an exercise in how to take a complete bath while wearing all of your clothes and walking the dog. I speak not in a metaphor, but in actual truth. With temperatures hovering in the mid 90's and the humidity being equal to the temperature, the 'feels like' measurement they offered at lunch is no indication of the sauna like environment I stepped out into this evening.
The dog KNOWS when it is time for our nightly session of PT.
For those of you who are not in the know, PT stands for a multitude of things that can be a blessing or a curse, depending upon circumstances.
PT - physical therapy, because everyone needs some movement in their joints.
PT - physical torture, because there are days and then there are days. If you are a bit out of shape (or a lot out of shape), then this is an apt description indeed.
PT - practically trotting, because to a dog who feels like you aren't moving at sufficient speed, it becomes a game of who can set the pace and who becomes the victim.
PT - painfully tender, because when you are finally able to see the promised land of home in your view, you realize that phantom pain that was just niggling along at the back of your conscience has metamorphosed into a full blown suffering, complete with huffing and puffing toward the pain killers.
PT - pretty tennies, because I just bought a new pair and hit the road with them tonight. They are so light, it's like not really having on much shoe at all.
But I digress.
On days like this when cheerful weathermen and women bask in the glow of their meteorological skill while in a climate controlled studio, I want to remind them that it isn't so much the heat that the average Southerner is interested in at all.
It's the humidity that pulls the curl out of your up-do and the liquid feel to the air when rain is only a tease in the forecast. It's the water vapor that par-boils you as you try to accomplish anything without retreating for a shady spot and a cold glass of lemonade.
On days that defy natural science to explain why the humidity is so high that you are literally soaked just by virtue of going outside the four walls of the home, I remind everyone that the time worn statement about living amongst the magnolias and mint juleps is oh so true.
It ain't the heat that gets you in Dixie, it's the humidity.
I think I'll take a cool shower and make some lemon ice pops.
July 31, 2007
Yep
Charlie Brown had it right when he said there was nothing like the clobbering of a cherished belief.
We all want to believe in something. And most of the time, we do a pretty good job of pinning our hopes on the right bright star that will be our goal for that time and place. But other times, our personal ambition or our own desires scream so loudly that the choices before us are narrowed to one and it turns out to be the wrong one.
Most women want to believe their cooking rivals the Betty Crocker cookbooks and that their baking puts the kind people at Duncan Heinz into fits of tears and tantrums. Some of those women would be right and their food is delicious beyond belief with presentations that rival the competitions held for money and prizes and fame.
The rest of us stave off starvation with occasional zenith like flashes of brilliance in an otherwise nutritional, albeit dimly lit, diet. It isn't intentional. But family cooking isn't exactly an opportunity to show off your best culinary skills. It's more like a feeding frenzy at the zoo.
Money, time and willingness certainly come into play. But more important is the fact that within any family comprised of more than one person, there are multiple taste buds to consider. And within those taste buds are well defined definitions of what is considered 'good food'.
I have a friend who is worried that her child's current addiction to peanut butter and jelly 3 times a day will ruin him for life. I have tried to reassure her that he is not starving and that he will outgrow his desire for a PBJ three times a day every single day of his life. But, the truth is that if he NEVER outgrows his affectation, there are certainly worse things that you can be addicted to with much worse side effects than peanut butter breath.
Every year our church sponsors a chili cook off during the winter. I generally enter one of the several varieties of chili that I routinely cook at home. Although I have never won the cook off, I have ribboned several times. But though I have not won yet, I have never felt too awful about it since I know that I am not a professional chef skilled in the myriad arts and sciences necessary to "create a culinary cabaret", to lift a few lyrics from Disney's "Beauty and the Beast".
What I do know is that my family is well fed if not entertained by their meals. I can't guarantee a visual feast, but the tummy is filled and the wolf within is fed so that the growling is at a dull roar. And even if the presentation isn't Better Homes and Gardens beautiful, no one will have to leave the table without seconds or thirds of whatever they want to eat.
On the whole, maybe the object of merely filling the tummy IS the job description of the household chef. Make sure the ravenous beasts who show up to eat are fed decently enough to prevent a complete breakdown. Or to prevent whining.
We all want to believe in something. And most of the time, we do a pretty good job of pinning our hopes on the right bright star that will be our goal for that time and place. But other times, our personal ambition or our own desires scream so loudly that the choices before us are narrowed to one and it turns out to be the wrong one.
Most women want to believe their cooking rivals the Betty Crocker cookbooks and that their baking puts the kind people at Duncan Heinz into fits of tears and tantrums. Some of those women would be right and their food is delicious beyond belief with presentations that rival the competitions held for money and prizes and fame.
The rest of us stave off starvation with occasional zenith like flashes of brilliance in an otherwise nutritional, albeit dimly lit, diet. It isn't intentional. But family cooking isn't exactly an opportunity to show off your best culinary skills. It's more like a feeding frenzy at the zoo.
Money, time and willingness certainly come into play. But more important is the fact that within any family comprised of more than one person, there are multiple taste buds to consider. And within those taste buds are well defined definitions of what is considered 'good food'.
I have a friend who is worried that her child's current addiction to peanut butter and jelly 3 times a day will ruin him for life. I have tried to reassure her that he is not starving and that he will outgrow his desire for a PBJ three times a day every single day of his life. But, the truth is that if he NEVER outgrows his affectation, there are certainly worse things that you can be addicted to with much worse side effects than peanut butter breath.
Every year our church sponsors a chili cook off during the winter. I generally enter one of the several varieties of chili that I routinely cook at home. Although I have never won the cook off, I have ribboned several times. But though I have not won yet, I have never felt too awful about it since I know that I am not a professional chef skilled in the myriad arts and sciences necessary to "create a culinary cabaret", to lift a few lyrics from Disney's "Beauty and the Beast".
What I do know is that my family is well fed if not entertained by their meals. I can't guarantee a visual feast, but the tummy is filled and the wolf within is fed so that the growling is at a dull roar. And even if the presentation isn't Better Homes and Gardens beautiful, no one will have to leave the table without seconds or thirds of whatever they want to eat.
On the whole, maybe the object of merely filling the tummy IS the job description of the household chef. Make sure the ravenous beasts who show up to eat are fed decently enough to prevent a complete breakdown. Or to prevent whining.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)