So much for thinking you know what you are saying/singing.
January 25, 2014
January 24, 2014
In other words
So as I am wont to do when my mind wanders far from home, I was pondering the strange little quirks in our speech that has us all at a singular disadvantage when what comes out of our mouth wasn't really what we intended at all.
There are times that becomes a serendipitous moment of humor and other times a bizarre embarrassment.
Like the chick who was trying to explain about the medicine you take when you are trying to throw up and mistook Ipanema for Ipecac. One is a delightful Brazilian vacation away from it all and the other... well, not so much. Unless you have ever mistaken bowing before the porcelain god for a good time.
Or how about those misheard lyrics we have all been guilty of shouting out only to find to our horror that not only were they NOT singing what we thought they were, but indeed it was of such vastly different content as to make us appear to be the biggest buffoons in the universe.
ABBA has inspired some doozies in that department.
"You can dance, you can die having the time of your life ooh ooh ooh see that girl watch the screen dig up the dancing queen". Makes that song rather perfect for Halloween when sung that way!
Or how about this one?
"you are the dancing queen, feel the beat of a tangerine" Who knew fruit had rhythm?
And speaking of queens, the group QUEEN has managed a doozy themselves as their fans grapple with the contorted pronunciations and come up with the following:
"Algebra has the devil for a sidekick" (for the record, I'd agree with the statement's sentiment if not its musicality!)
And there is this one: "this is the dawning of the age of Asparagus, the age of Asparagus.... ASPARAGUS!" I'm quite sure the Fifth Dimension was not contemplating Hollandaise sauce when they wrote that song.
Of course, the younger generation who didn't grow up hearing Elvis Presley as a frequent radio staple have some interesting interpretations of what he is singing: "You ain't never pornographic and you ain't no friend of mine!" Clearly, they are looking for a very DIFFERENT kind of friendship that most of us anticipate...
Lyrics aside, the misused words and phrases that creep into our daily life add a sprinkle of seasoning to our otherwise dull palate of conversation.
We sing, say and interpret the spoken word in so much variety it can only be considered a wonderful reminder that we are not created equally. Thank goodness! Plus it can certainly bring some levity to the situation.
Reckon it's about time to settle in for the night and get ready for bed. Time to sing some Credence Clearwater Revival... you know that song that is always so helpful when you are doing all of your last minute chores... "there's a bathroom on the right".
There are times that becomes a serendipitous moment of humor and other times a bizarre embarrassment.
Like the chick who was trying to explain about the medicine you take when you are trying to throw up and mistook Ipanema for Ipecac. One is a delightful Brazilian vacation away from it all and the other... well, not so much. Unless you have ever mistaken bowing before the porcelain god for a good time.
Or how about those misheard lyrics we have all been guilty of shouting out only to find to our horror that not only were they NOT singing what we thought they were, but indeed it was of such vastly different content as to make us appear to be the biggest buffoons in the universe.
ABBA has inspired some doozies in that department.
"You can dance, you can die having the time of your life ooh ooh ooh see that girl watch the screen dig up the dancing queen". Makes that song rather perfect for Halloween when sung that way!
Or how about this one?
"you are the dancing queen, feel the beat of a tangerine" Who knew fruit had rhythm?
And speaking of queens, the group QUEEN has managed a doozy themselves as their fans grapple with the contorted pronunciations and come up with the following:
"Algebra has the devil for a sidekick" (for the record, I'd agree with the statement's sentiment if not its musicality!)
And there is this one: "this is the dawning of the age of Asparagus, the age of Asparagus.... ASPARAGUS!" I'm quite sure the Fifth Dimension was not contemplating Hollandaise sauce when they wrote that song.
Of course, the younger generation who didn't grow up hearing Elvis Presley as a frequent radio staple have some interesting interpretations of what he is singing: "You ain't never pornographic and you ain't no friend of mine!" Clearly, they are looking for a very DIFFERENT kind of friendship that most of us anticipate...
Lyrics aside, the misused words and phrases that creep into our daily life add a sprinkle of seasoning to our otherwise dull palate of conversation.
We sing, say and interpret the spoken word in so much variety it can only be considered a wonderful reminder that we are not created equally. Thank goodness! Plus it can certainly bring some levity to the situation.
Reckon it's about time to settle in for the night and get ready for bed. Time to sing some Credence Clearwater Revival... you know that song that is always so helpful when you are doing all of your last minute chores... "there's a bathroom on the right".
January 21, 2014
Trendy Tops
Loathe as I am to purchase items from those "as seen on TV" commercials due to my fear of giving hackers and Nigerian bank scammers my personal financial information, I have found myself inexplicably drawn to the commercial for the "Trendy Top".
Think of them as the modesty protecting long shirt tails that are as antiquated as running boards and rumble seats for those who are challenged in wearing non-revealing pants.
I do not myself wear low rise jeans because despite my rotund abdomen, I lack actual hips that are required to keep the pants up while I walk. And since I am not employed as a plumber, I am not often called upon to be contorted or bending over to show my butt crack since it is usually more than amply covered by other clothes.
But the "Trendy Top" has a disclaimer that caught my attention.
The woman hawking this spandex wonder belt explained that if I bought one I could perform amazing feats and the trendy top would stay in place.
Okay... go on...
The woman danced, did a complex set of gymnastic maneuvers and was able to squat down and get back up again without so much as a helpful hand grasping onto furniture or shelves to haul her carcass up from the floor.
I am now intrigued... I haven't done a cartwheel since I was a kid and I've not done handsprings since... well, ever.
In the time following my accident, and particularly on really cold days like today, movement has been restricted somewhat. But if I spring for the 20 bucks worth of "Trendy Tops", my troubles may well be over! Wouldn't that be an exciting development? Sliding my choice of three colors over my ample hips and top of my buttocks, I should be able to do those handsprings and cartwheels in no time at all! Sitting in the floor Indian style should no longer cause me to wince in pain when I rise because the huckster announcing the virtues of the heretofore mentioned "Trendy Top" says I can do all of this and keep the top in place which is a hop, skip and a Mother May I jump from the claims that it will allow me freedom of movement without pain.
Wait, I think that line was from another TV commercial wanting my money... either way, I'd like to experience a full nights sleep minus the back spasms and numbness that alters my sleep, or the throbbing that wakes me from what sleep I had previously enjoyed.
Trendy or not I could get used to that kind of help in a hurry. Should they prove as magical as their ad claims or even if they only proved HALF as magical, I should be able to perform physical feats that have only been dreamt of and have bestowed upon me skills that have long since passed.
Might be worth a phone call.
WHAT IN HEAVEN'S NAME AM I SAYING???
I have been seduced - SEDUCED, I TELL YOU - by the cloying pitchman and pitchwomen on TV! Fortunately for everyone concerned, I have come to my senses!
Whew! I could have injured myself counting on that ol' "Trendy Top" to lead me to athletic success and renewed vigor!
Time for a nice lie down, kiddies.
Remember that object in the rear view mirror are closer than they appear, your chewing gum loses it's flavor on the bedpost overnight and everyone knows if you color your hair because last Sunday it was a completely different shade.
"Trendy Tops". Too bad they don't come with a no hassle guarantee to return your brains to you when you discover that you are not completely satisfied.
Think of them as the modesty protecting long shirt tails that are as antiquated as running boards and rumble seats for those who are challenged in wearing non-revealing pants.
I do not myself wear low rise jeans because despite my rotund abdomen, I lack actual hips that are required to keep the pants up while I walk. And since I am not employed as a plumber, I am not often called upon to be contorted or bending over to show my butt crack since it is usually more than amply covered by other clothes.
But the "Trendy Top" has a disclaimer that caught my attention.
The woman hawking this spandex wonder belt explained that if I bought one I could perform amazing feats and the trendy top would stay in place.
Okay... go on...
The woman danced, did a complex set of gymnastic maneuvers and was able to squat down and get back up again without so much as a helpful hand grasping onto furniture or shelves to haul her carcass up from the floor.
I am now intrigued... I haven't done a cartwheel since I was a kid and I've not done handsprings since... well, ever.
In the time following my accident, and particularly on really cold days like today, movement has been restricted somewhat. But if I spring for the 20 bucks worth of "Trendy Tops", my troubles may well be over! Wouldn't that be an exciting development? Sliding my choice of three colors over my ample hips and top of my buttocks, I should be able to do those handsprings and cartwheels in no time at all! Sitting in the floor Indian style should no longer cause me to wince in pain when I rise because the huckster announcing the virtues of the heretofore mentioned "Trendy Top" says I can do all of this and keep the top in place which is a hop, skip and a Mother May I jump from the claims that it will allow me freedom of movement without pain.
Wait, I think that line was from another TV commercial wanting my money... either way, I'd like to experience a full nights sleep minus the back spasms and numbness that alters my sleep, or the throbbing that wakes me from what sleep I had previously enjoyed.
Trendy or not I could get used to that kind of help in a hurry. Should they prove as magical as their ad claims or even if they only proved HALF as magical, I should be able to perform physical feats that have only been dreamt of and have bestowed upon me skills that have long since passed.
Might be worth a phone call.
WHAT IN HEAVEN'S NAME AM I SAYING???
I have been seduced - SEDUCED, I TELL YOU - by the cloying pitchman and pitchwomen on TV! Fortunately for everyone concerned, I have come to my senses!
Whew! I could have injured myself counting on that ol' "Trendy Top" to lead me to athletic success and renewed vigor!
Time for a nice lie down, kiddies.
Remember that object in the rear view mirror are closer than they appear, your chewing gum loses it's flavor on the bedpost overnight and everyone knows if you color your hair because last Sunday it was a completely different shade.
"Trendy Tops". Too bad they don't come with a no hassle guarantee to return your brains to you when you discover that you are not completely satisfied.
January 14, 2014
Housecleaning Olympics
The fanfare plays, the flag of my nation unfurls and the event begins!
The fanfare is apparently "Agony of the Common Housewife".
The flag of my nation is a roll of paper towels.
The event is the marathon of toilet bowl cleansing.
The challenge in this field of endeavor will be getting the toilet back to the pristine condition it once bore when it was newly installed. Hope springs eternal.
The competition in this primitive arena is nothing less than the accumulated layers of filth, grime, sludge and a plethora of unmentionable, unbreathable, untouchable gunk that permeates the toileting area.
The starting gun is raised. Muscles are poised. Gloves are snapped into place and fingers flexed. Mask is firmly in place. WHY, YES, I AM WEARING A HOSPITAL SURGICAL MASK!!!
I'm going into battle for the GOLD, people!! I dare not show up unprepared for this Herculean task before me!
Reaching into my well prepared arsenal of products, I spin a bottle of Scrubbing Bubbles like a gunslinger across my hand. NO kidding. I really can pull that maneuver. As the back up to the advertised might of the bubbles, I also have a whacking great can of Comet at the ready!
Toilet bowl brush raised and BANG!
LET THE GAMES BEGIN!!
Or, if it looks too bad, let the FLAMES begin. I'm not above arson as ALL of my siblings and a few close friends can testify to in court, if need be.
At this point, I feel I must warn you that the graphic nature of the scene prevents me from sharing photographic evidence of the carnage before me. And no amount of technology has produced reliable "smell-o-vision" that can share my masked horror.
The foamy spray coats everything in a deceptively white flocking that belies the danger lurking beneath. Suffice it to say that when the deflating bubbles turned a decidedly darker shade, I knew that it was time to start the scrubbing process with my own might as my little soldiers of chemical warfare were succumbing in the heat of battle.
Elbow grease time people, I'm down in the floor contorted with my face uncomfortably near the throne to which I am NOT currently bowing in abdominal agony. I am possessed with a zeal and fervor upon me to see the original whited porcelain surface once again.
I scrub.
I scrub again.
I get out a toothbrush and power scrub. Then I put on a dusting of Comet that were it to fall over Athens would cancel school for a week. My handy spray bottle of water tosses a fine mist over the Comet and I begin the second half of the marathon.
Any long distance runner will tell you there is a marked difference between your first half of the race and your second half before your final kick to the finish. Pacing yourself is all important in the battle against the enemy! Being well acquainted with a runner, I know that endurance becomes essential and when your first wave of strength begins to flag, you must call upon that deep down well of energy that you have trained to have for just such a time as this!
Arms quivering like Jell-O in a San Fransisco earthquake, legs straining to keep me tucked into proper position for optimal contact WITHOUT kissing the throne (literally, I'm afraid!), and my back has long since spasmed and begun to freeze into a position that I am certain I never studied once in Anatomy and Physiology, I begin to let my mind wander which is pretty dangerous since it just might not come back!
Who are these maniacal demons that design the toilets with all of their undulating curves, cracks, crevices and crannies? Why do they shove them into these tiny alcoves and closets? And upon further reflection, is there a special place in Hell for them who think a galley style bathroom can just deal with a toilet crammed into an afterthought corner with the toilet paper holder right where your left knee can smack it and create numbness and tingling? Finally, how on earth have we allowed the construction of bathrooms that are not specifically designed to come equipped with a hot water power hose so you could clean it all from 10 feet away?
GRRRR!!!!
Like a marathoner, I know there is victory out there ahead of me. I can sense it. I won't say I can SMELL it, because right now, what I am smelling doesn't smell like any finish line I'd care to cross. Frankly, most races would end about a good hundred yards from the tape if this malodorous scent was the "reward".
I reach in for the final wipe down and scrub, then like the champion I am, I rip open the plastic cover of the little disc that will tell the world that this toilet has been officially conquered and sanitized for your protection.
THE WATER TURNS BLUE!!! VICTORY! VICTORY! VICTORY!
I have done it!
The toilet and surrounding area is now clean! It sparkles! It is now odor free!
Panting and sweating like the finisher at Aqueduct, I realize that I have tears in my eyes!
DANG! DANG! Dang it! I forgot I still had cleanser on my gloves and stupidly tried to wipe the sweat from around my eyes and instead got the cleanser (and who knows what else!!) INTO my eye instead.
Can you die from getting bathroom germs in your eye?
Should I Google it? Apply for a government grant to study the subject? Take a trip to Jamaica to ponder it in a junket of some type. And does this petty accident count against my perfect 10 in scoring?
I sure hope not.
I DESERVE to win!! I truly feel like I deserve to feel the Olympic ribbon being placed around my neck with my gold medal bearing the image of a scrub brush.
The crowd at Spyros Louis in Athens, Greece is on their feet demanding that I be granted the crown of laurel leaves! The cheers are deafening! The shouts of my name are humbling!
SOMEBODY!! OPEN A WINDOW AND AIR OUT THE FUMES!!!
WOW! Now I know why that little disclaimer is on the packaging about not mixing bathroom cleansers because of the reaction of the chemicals. Reckon I must have blacked out there for a minute... WHEW!! It's all good! I can breathe again and I think my little mask melted.
Oxygen now fills my lungs and the crisis is averted (for the time being).
Rest assured, my job is now done.
Whomever sits on the throne next will at least have a clean place - if not an honored place - to sit.
The fanfare is apparently "Agony of the Common Housewife".
The flag of my nation is a roll of paper towels.
The event is the marathon of toilet bowl cleansing.
The challenge in this field of endeavor will be getting the toilet back to the pristine condition it once bore when it was newly installed. Hope springs eternal.
The competition in this primitive arena is nothing less than the accumulated layers of filth, grime, sludge and a plethora of unmentionable, unbreathable, untouchable gunk that permeates the toileting area.
The starting gun is raised. Muscles are poised. Gloves are snapped into place and fingers flexed. Mask is firmly in place. WHY, YES, I AM WEARING A HOSPITAL SURGICAL MASK!!!
I'm going into battle for the GOLD, people!! I dare not show up unprepared for this Herculean task before me!
Reaching into my well prepared arsenal of products, I spin a bottle of Scrubbing Bubbles like a gunslinger across my hand. NO kidding. I really can pull that maneuver. As the back up to the advertised might of the bubbles, I also have a whacking great can of Comet at the ready!
Toilet bowl brush raised and BANG!
LET THE GAMES BEGIN!!
Or, if it looks too bad, let the FLAMES begin. I'm not above arson as ALL of my siblings and a few close friends can testify to in court, if need be.
At this point, I feel I must warn you that the graphic nature of the scene prevents me from sharing photographic evidence of the carnage before me. And no amount of technology has produced reliable "smell-o-vision" that can share my masked horror.
The foamy spray coats everything in a deceptively white flocking that belies the danger lurking beneath. Suffice it to say that when the deflating bubbles turned a decidedly darker shade, I knew that it was time to start the scrubbing process with my own might as my little soldiers of chemical warfare were succumbing in the heat of battle.
Elbow grease time people, I'm down in the floor contorted with my face uncomfortably near the throne to which I am NOT currently bowing in abdominal agony. I am possessed with a zeal and fervor upon me to see the original whited porcelain surface once again.
I scrub.
I scrub again.
I get out a toothbrush and power scrub. Then I put on a dusting of Comet that were it to fall over Athens would cancel school for a week. My handy spray bottle of water tosses a fine mist over the Comet and I begin the second half of the marathon.
Any long distance runner will tell you there is a marked difference between your first half of the race and your second half before your final kick to the finish. Pacing yourself is all important in the battle against the enemy! Being well acquainted with a runner, I know that endurance becomes essential and when your first wave of strength begins to flag, you must call upon that deep down well of energy that you have trained to have for just such a time as this!
Arms quivering like Jell-O in a San Fransisco earthquake, legs straining to keep me tucked into proper position for optimal contact WITHOUT kissing the throne (literally, I'm afraid!), and my back has long since spasmed and begun to freeze into a position that I am certain I never studied once in Anatomy and Physiology, I begin to let my mind wander which is pretty dangerous since it just might not come back!
Who are these maniacal demons that design the toilets with all of their undulating curves, cracks, crevices and crannies? Why do they shove them into these tiny alcoves and closets? And upon further reflection, is there a special place in Hell for them who think a galley style bathroom can just deal with a toilet crammed into an afterthought corner with the toilet paper holder right where your left knee can smack it and create numbness and tingling? Finally, how on earth have we allowed the construction of bathrooms that are not specifically designed to come equipped with a hot water power hose so you could clean it all from 10 feet away?
GRRRR!!!!
Like a marathoner, I know there is victory out there ahead of me. I can sense it. I won't say I can SMELL it, because right now, what I am smelling doesn't smell like any finish line I'd care to cross. Frankly, most races would end about a good hundred yards from the tape if this malodorous scent was the "reward".
I reach in for the final wipe down and scrub, then like the champion I am, I rip open the plastic cover of the little disc that will tell the world that this toilet has been officially conquered and sanitized for your protection.
THE WATER TURNS BLUE!!! VICTORY! VICTORY! VICTORY!
I have done it!
The toilet and surrounding area is now clean! It sparkles! It is now odor free!
Panting and sweating like the finisher at Aqueduct, I realize that I have tears in my eyes!
DANG! DANG! Dang it! I forgot I still had cleanser on my gloves and stupidly tried to wipe the sweat from around my eyes and instead got the cleanser (and who knows what else!!) INTO my eye instead.
Can you die from getting bathroom germs in your eye?
Should I Google it? Apply for a government grant to study the subject? Take a trip to Jamaica to ponder it in a junket of some type. And does this petty accident count against my perfect 10 in scoring?
I sure hope not.
I DESERVE to win!! I truly feel like I deserve to feel the Olympic ribbon being placed around my neck with my gold medal bearing the image of a scrub brush.
The crowd at Spyros Louis in Athens, Greece is on their feet demanding that I be granted the crown of laurel leaves! The cheers are deafening! The shouts of my name are humbling!
SOMEBODY!! OPEN A WINDOW AND AIR OUT THE FUMES!!!
WOW! Now I know why that little disclaimer is on the packaging about not mixing bathroom cleansers because of the reaction of the chemicals. Reckon I must have blacked out there for a minute... WHEW!! It's all good! I can breathe again and I think my little mask melted.
Oxygen now fills my lungs and the crisis is averted (for the time being).
Rest assured, my job is now done.
Whomever sits on the throne next will at least have a clean place - if not an honored place - to sit.
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