I talked last year about how I hate Halloween, and about this being the anniversary (59 years now) of the day I got my first pair of glasses, and about all those Halloween-motif birthday parties I had. So I won't go over all that old ground again. But I still don't like Halloween.
We were not bothered by any trick-or-treaters tonight, even though we were home this evening for the first time in a long time. Usually we go out to avoid it all. But, since our porch light wasn't on, nobody came. I like it when the rules are followed.
I am now focusing on my birthday tomorrow. I am anxious to see if 65 is everything it's cracked up to be. I'll let you know.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
I think the Cubs lost that game
A very long time ago when I was in graduate school, a friend of mine named Deb was trying to fix me up with a friend of her husband's, a fellow named Mike. This was back in the days when I didn't know then what I know now, so I didn't discourage her, but when there never seemed to be an opportunity for us to meet, I didn't regret it either.
Nevertheless, once Mike moved into the apartment next to mine, it seemed inevitable, and Deb hounded him about coming over to meet me. Finally, he did. He stopped by one afternoon and found me watching a Cubs game on television. I invited him in, and we sat there and chatted while we watched the game, which provided good conversational fodder -- he said something about how amazing it was that the Cubs had acquired Bill Buckner, and I said that if his knees weren't so bad, the Dodgers would have kept him -- that sort of thing. It was very pleasant and innocuous.
A few days later Deb told me Mike had mentioned his visit with me. She said to him, "So, what do you think?" to which he replied, "She sure knows her baseball!"
So much for feminine allure.
Nevertheless, once Mike moved into the apartment next to mine, it seemed inevitable, and Deb hounded him about coming over to meet me. Finally, he did. He stopped by one afternoon and found me watching a Cubs game on television. I invited him in, and we sat there and chatted while we watched the game, which provided good conversational fodder -- he said something about how amazing it was that the Cubs had acquired Bill Buckner, and I said that if his knees weren't so bad, the Dodgers would have kept him -- that sort of thing. It was very pleasant and innocuous.
A few days later Deb told me Mike had mentioned his visit with me. She said to him, "So, what do you think?" to which he replied, "She sure knows her baseball!"
So much for feminine allure.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Things that go yuck in the night
I was baking this afternoon, having a hell of a time with a recipe that was supposed to make cake batter and made wallpaper paste instead. I got it going eventually, and while batches of mini cupcakes were baking a dozen at a time, I busied myself cleaning up as I went. The whole exercise was so laborious that with only half the batter used, I simply up and quit, throwing the rest out. Then I sat down to rest for 90 minutes.
Just now I went back to the kitchen to continue cleaning up, and I was faced with a sinkful of dirty pans and utensils idling in cold dishwater. God, there is nothing I hate more than putting my hands into cold, greasy dishwater. Yuck.
Something I have long known about myself is that I can deal with just about any icky thing as long as I don't have to touch it with my bare hands. I can handle animal by-products, science experiments found in the back of the refrigerator -- in short, any of the gloppy messy stuff that one comes across in the ordinary course of one's existence.
My partner keeps a pair of Playtex dishwashing-type gloves in the under-sink cabinet. So why didn't I just put them on?
Just now I went back to the kitchen to continue cleaning up, and I was faced with a sinkful of dirty pans and utensils idling in cold dishwater. God, there is nothing I hate more than putting my hands into cold, greasy dishwater. Yuck.
Something I have long known about myself is that I can deal with just about any icky thing as long as I don't have to touch it with my bare hands. I can handle animal by-products, science experiments found in the back of the refrigerator -- in short, any of the gloppy messy stuff that one comes across in the ordinary course of one's existence.
My partner keeps a pair of Playtex dishwashing-type gloves in the under-sink cabinet. So why didn't I just put them on?
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Quite an undertaking
When my mother died (40 years ago) my father and I went to the funeral home to finalize the arrangements she had already made for herself, which called for one evening of what they now call visitation, and that was all. "Private" cremation was to follow the next day, which only the funeral home staff would deal with.
We were required to pick out a casket. Even the half-way decent looking ones were expensive, and since it was only going to be used one night for the wake and then burned, my father asked if we could just rent one. The man said no -- it was against state health laws, because, after all, the person might have had a disease or something.
To which my father replied, "The next guy layin' in it wouldn't care much, would he?"
Nevertheless, we bought a casket.
A number of years later I got to thinking about having no muss or fuss when I die, so I called a local funeral home to inquire about possibilities. I found that the exact thing I want is known in the trade as "immediate cremation" -- no wake, no funeral, no nothing, they just take the body away and burn it. Remembering the bit about the casket, I asked, "Can you get a pine box for a coffin, or something cheap like that?"
The woman I was talking to said, "Yes, there is an inexpensive corrugated model that can be used."
"Oh, wow!" I cried. "A cardboard box! How cool is that?"
Although I couldn't see her, I could tell the woman on the other end of the line was sitting up very straight in her chair and stiffening her upper lip as she said in a very dignified tone, "It is a corrugated casket."
Yeah, yeah -- call it want you want. I want to go out in a cardboard box.
P.S. On the instruction sheet for the arrangements, my mother had checked the box for organ music at the wake, but there was a hand-written note in the margin that said, "Do not play 'In the Garden,' or I will get up and walk out." She meant it too.
We were required to pick out a casket. Even the half-way decent looking ones were expensive, and since it was only going to be used one night for the wake and then burned, my father asked if we could just rent one. The man said no -- it was against state health laws, because, after all, the person might have had a disease or something.
To which my father replied, "The next guy layin' in it wouldn't care much, would he?"
Nevertheless, we bought a casket.
A number of years later I got to thinking about having no muss or fuss when I die, so I called a local funeral home to inquire about possibilities. I found that the exact thing I want is known in the trade as "immediate cremation" -- no wake, no funeral, no nothing, they just take the body away and burn it. Remembering the bit about the casket, I asked, "Can you get a pine box for a coffin, or something cheap like that?"
The woman I was talking to said, "Yes, there is an inexpensive corrugated model that can be used."
"Oh, wow!" I cried. "A cardboard box! How cool is that?"
Although I couldn't see her, I could tell the woman on the other end of the line was sitting up very straight in her chair and stiffening her upper lip as she said in a very dignified tone, "It is a corrugated casket."
Yeah, yeah -- call it want you want. I want to go out in a cardboard box.
P.S. On the instruction sheet for the arrangements, my mother had checked the box for organ music at the wake, but there was a hand-written note in the margin that said, "Do not play 'In the Garden,' or I will get up and walk out." She meant it too.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Just Between Everybody
Remember the mouse and the box? Some teacher used it to illustrate prepositions, showing what the mouse could do -- he could go in the box, or on the box, or before the box, or over the box, or around the box, and a whole bunch more.
The mouse can also be between two boxes. What the mouse cannot do is be between three or four boxes. It is not possible. He can be among three or four or more boxes, but not between them. He can only be between two things.
And yet at least 10 times a day I hear people saying that someone will divide something between four people, is standing between three trees, or is having to decide between five things. Can't be done. The word to use is among.
I know that languages evolve constantly and that changes are inevitable. I'm just trying to hold off the worst of it as long as I can.
The mouse can also be between two boxes. What the mouse cannot do is be between three or four boxes. It is not possible. He can be among three or four or more boxes, but not between them. He can only be between two things.
And yet at least 10 times a day I hear people saying that someone will divide something between four people, is standing between three trees, or is having to decide between five things. Can't be done. The word to use is among.
I know that languages evolve constantly and that changes are inevitable. I'm just trying to hold off the worst of it as long as I can.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
U Pick
A friend of mine has frequently mentioned two elderly aunts of hers. They are twins, named Verna and Vera, and are apparently very much alike.
One evening when several of us were out to dinner, my friend began, "Did I tell you what my Aunt Verna did last week?"
Another friend interrupted her, saying, "Now, wait -- which one is Verna? Is she the one who's crazy, or the one who eats paper?"
Yes.
One evening when several of us were out to dinner, my friend began, "Did I tell you what my Aunt Verna did last week?"
Another friend interrupted her, saying, "Now, wait -- which one is Verna? Is she the one who's crazy, or the one who eats paper?"
Yes.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Where's the Colgate Invisible Gardol Shield when you need it?
There's a TV commercial that talks about doggie dentures, and it's too bad it's a joke, because my tiny dog, now 10 (or 70 in human years) is having trouble with her tiny teeth. She has trouble chewing the dry kibble, and for the last couple weeks she has been eating only once every 36 hours. I haven't switched to wet dog food because it always gives her the runs. Her system might adapt after a while, but I'm not up to a week or two of doggie diarrhea until it does.
The solution, then, was to soften her food by adding something, but what? Water? Boring. Canned dog food? Maybe, but I don't happen to have any just now, and my dog is not eating. So -- I went with something I do have on hand and that I know she loves: potted meat.
Just a teaspoon of it, mixed with her 1/4 cup of kibble, and she ate it up. But after about three days of that I got to worrying about the fat content of the potted meat -- might be too much for every meal. So I yesterday I moistened her dry food with diluted peanut butter. Also worked like a charm. This morning I was wondering what else I could try when I opened the pantry door and saw a jar of Heinz beef gravy. I've just fixed up her dish of kibble in gravy, and my tiny dog is chowing it down so fast and with such enthusiasm that she is snorting like a pig.
We are going to have to work on her table -- uh, floor manners.
The solution, then, was to soften her food by adding something, but what? Water? Boring. Canned dog food? Maybe, but I don't happen to have any just now, and my dog is not eating. So -- I went with something I do have on hand and that I know she loves: potted meat.
Just a teaspoon of it, mixed with her 1/4 cup of kibble, and she ate it up. But after about three days of that I got to worrying about the fat content of the potted meat -- might be too much for every meal. So I yesterday I moistened her dry food with diluted peanut butter. Also worked like a charm. This morning I was wondering what else I could try when I opened the pantry door and saw a jar of Heinz beef gravy. I've just fixed up her dish of kibble in gravy, and my tiny dog is chowing it down so fast and with such enthusiasm that she is snorting like a pig.
We are going to have to work on her table -- uh, floor manners.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The Box (Part 2)
When I was a kid, my mother purchased a file box in which she intended to keep important papers. I remember it because she always made such a big deal out of it. It was made of medium-gauge metal, a sort of mottled maroon color, large enough to hold letter-size file folders upright, four inches worth of them. It had a lock and a thin metal handle on its lid. Although not fireproof, its metal-ness gave a sense of security.
Mother referred to it always as ... "The Box." When she said it, you knew those letters were capitalized. If a birth certificate was needed, or a car title, or last year's income tax return, or an insurance policy, she would say, "Look in The Box."
After she died, my father took charge of The Box. When he died, The Box came to me. I have added to its contents things like death certificates and passports and wills and every one of my report cards from Kindergarten through graduate school. I have discarded many things over the years, too -- old income tax returns and papers dealing with cars or dwellings or money matters that are no longer part of my life.
One thing that has been in The Box as long as I can remember is a small file wallet that contains my father's World War II draft notice (with the medical rejection on the back dated June 8, 1942), a copy of his birth certificate (issued March 22, 1943), and a Valentine card he sent to my mother. According to the back of the colorful card ("To a Sweetheart of a Wife, Happy Valentine's!"), it cost 25 cents. The two-cent stamp on the envelope is upside down, and it is postmarked February 11, 1944, thirteen days after they were married.
That little collection will always stay with The Box.
Mother referred to it always as ... "The Box." When she said it, you knew those letters were capitalized. If a birth certificate was needed, or a car title, or last year's income tax return, or an insurance policy, she would say, "Look in The Box."
After she died, my father took charge of The Box. When he died, The Box came to me. I have added to its contents things like death certificates and passports and wills and every one of my report cards from Kindergarten through graduate school. I have discarded many things over the years, too -- old income tax returns and papers dealing with cars or dwellings or money matters that are no longer part of my life.
One thing that has been in The Box as long as I can remember is a small file wallet that contains my father's World War II draft notice (with the medical rejection on the back dated June 8, 1942), a copy of his birth certificate (issued March 22, 1943), and a Valentine card he sent to my mother. According to the back of the colorful card ("To a Sweetheart of a Wife, Happy Valentine's!"), it cost 25 cents. The two-cent stamp on the envelope is upside down, and it is postmarked February 11, 1944, thirteen days after they were married.
That little collection will always stay with The Box.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
The Box (Part 1)
When I was about 11 years old, I got my mother a recipe box for Christmas. I’m not sure how I got the idea, but I knew exactly what I wanted: a metal file box to hold three-by-five index cards.
Most such boxes in those days were a dark army green, but at our local Ben Franklin five-and-dime I found the perfect one -- red plaid with white trim. In addition, I was able to get a packet of dividers with food categories already printed on the tabs, along with a pack of blank cards to make the package complete.
My mother loved it and used that recipe box for the rest of her life. I still have it, of course. The outside is a bit yellowed, but it is not dented or rusted, and the lid's hinge still works smoothly. Most of the tabs on the dividers are dog-eared. One card has a bit of cake batter on it, a couple show splashes of liquid, and one is splattered with grease.
A few of the cards were provided by others, but most of them are in my mother's own hand, or typed by her (I recognize the type face of that old Remington portable). She put a notation in the upper right corner of every card indicating the source of the recipe: a person's name, a product, a newspaper. On several, the notation in the upper right corner is "My Own," underlined.
I keep my recipes in Word documents in a file called “Cookbook” on my computer. I copied all the recipes from her file box into my computer documents long ago, but I still can't bring myself to get rid of that box or its contents. I probably never will.
Most such boxes in those days were a dark army green, but at our local Ben Franklin five-and-dime I found the perfect one -- red plaid with white trim. In addition, I was able to get a packet of dividers with food categories already printed on the tabs, along with a pack of blank cards to make the package complete.
My mother loved it and used that recipe box for the rest of her life. I still have it, of course. The outside is a bit yellowed, but it is not dented or rusted, and the lid's hinge still works smoothly. Most of the tabs on the dividers are dog-eared. One card has a bit of cake batter on it, a couple show splashes of liquid, and one is splattered with grease.
A few of the cards were provided by others, but most of them are in my mother's own hand, or typed by her (I recognize the type face of that old Remington portable). She put a notation in the upper right corner of every card indicating the source of the recipe: a person's name, a product, a newspaper. On several, the notation in the upper right corner is "My Own," underlined.
I keep my recipes in Word documents in a file called “Cookbook” on my computer. I copied all the recipes from her file box into my computer documents long ago, but I still can't bring myself to get rid of that box or its contents. I probably never will.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Another date in history
Today's date rang a faint bell with me, and I looked it up. It is a date from my family tree, the birthday of my maternal grandmother, Blanche Alberta Hefley, born in 1899 in Hillsboro, Illinois. She married Ralph Bayless Weatherford -- ran off and eloped with him, as a matter of fact -- on November 1, 1920. She died on November 6, 1985.
I never liked the old lady myself. I've been trying to think of one fun incident, one nice memory, one endearing thing she might have done or said that I could relate about her, and I can't. She was selfish and greedy and bossy and treated my mother badly. She was so avaricious that she verged on being a hoarder, saving anything she might get more use from. That extended to her kitchen also. We called her refrigerator The Ptomaine Box.
It is revealing that my mild-mannered father -- who never called people names, thought it was boorish to say bad things about anybody, and considered it especially unchivalrous to malign a woman -- referred to her as "that old battle axe."
I'd say there is no point celebrating.
I never liked the old lady myself. I've been trying to think of one fun incident, one nice memory, one endearing thing she might have done or said that I could relate about her, and I can't. She was selfish and greedy and bossy and treated my mother badly. She was so avaricious that she verged on being a hoarder, saving anything she might get more use from. That extended to her kitchen also. We called her refrigerator The Ptomaine Box.
It is revealing that my mild-mannered father -- who never called people names, thought it was boorish to say bad things about anybody, and considered it especially unchivalrous to malign a woman -- referred to her as "that old battle axe."
I'd say there is no point celebrating.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
A couple questions about today's game
Michigan State 28, Michigan 14 -- yeah, that game.
Question 1: How does a football player take a punch at another player and not get thrown out of the game?
Question 2: What injury do you expect to inflict by throwing a punch with your bare fist at the head of a guy wearing a football helmet with a face mask? To him, I mean -- I already know what could happen to your hand.
I enjoyed the game, though. Go Green.
Question 1: How does a football player take a punch at another player and not get thrown out of the game?
Question 2: What injury do you expect to inflict by throwing a punch with your bare fist at the head of a guy wearing a football helmet with a face mask? To him, I mean -- I already know what could happen to your hand.
I enjoyed the game, though. Go Green.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
On This Date in 1912
My father, Albert James Knez, was born 99 years ago today, in Chicago. The name on his birth certificate is Vojtěch Václav Kněz. Vojtěch is always Anglicized as Albert and Václav as James, based on the names given to corresponding saints.
Although he preferred to be called Al, a lot of his friends and family called him Alfie when he was young. Because of that, my mother had assumed that his name was Alfred. She said she didn't learn otherwise until the minister said, "Do you, Albert, take this woman..." and she said, "Albert? Who's Albert?"
No -- I don't think that's exactly how it happened either, but it's a fun story that she liked to tell.
Happy birthday, Alfie.
Although he preferred to be called Al, a lot of his friends and family called him Alfie when he was young. Because of that, my mother had assumed that his name was Alfred. She said she didn't learn otherwise until the minister said, "Do you, Albert, take this woman..." and she said, "Albert? Who's Albert?"
No -- I don't think that's exactly how it happened either, but it's a fun story that she liked to tell.
Happy birthday, Alfie.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Wednesday
I used to always look forward to checking the New York Times on Wednesdays because that's the day they print the week's new recipes in the "Dining and Wine" section. But they have been going downhill, and lately they have gotten a lot worse. Here's a sample from today:
Mixed Bean and Winter Squash Stew with Fresh Basil
Roasted Beets With Chiles, Ginger, Yogurt and Indian Spices
Bulgur and Kale Casserole with Yogurt Topping
Are you kidding me? These sound like dishes the contestants on Chopped would come up with from the items in their mystery baskets.
What's wrong with pot roast? How about a recipe for really good lasagna? And it's not just that newspaper. All the magazines and web sites where I have found recipes over the years seem to be trying to outdo each other with outrageous recipes calling for combinations of weird things I wouldn't eat separately, much less mixed together.
Well, here's what I'm going to whip up for supper tonight: corn-cob-and-wheat-germ-crusted turtle dove brains in eggplant and grape jelly sauce on a bed of pencil shavings and Siberian lettuce with banana and tunafish vinaigrette.
I mean, really.
Mixed Bean and Winter Squash Stew with Fresh Basil
Roasted Beets With Chiles, Ginger, Yogurt and Indian Spices
Bulgur and Kale Casserole with Yogurt Topping
Are you kidding me? These sound like dishes the contestants on Chopped would come up with from the items in their mystery baskets.
What's wrong with pot roast? How about a recipe for really good lasagna? And it's not just that newspaper. All the magazines and web sites where I have found recipes over the years seem to be trying to outdo each other with outrageous recipes calling for combinations of weird things I wouldn't eat separately, much less mixed together.
Well, here's what I'm going to whip up for supper tonight: corn-cob-and-wheat-germ-crusted turtle dove brains in eggplant and grape jelly sauce on a bed of pencil shavings and Siberian lettuce with banana and tunafish vinaigrette.
I mean, really.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Nomenclature Befitting
In April of 1994, my partner and I took a weekend jaunt to Toronto. On Saturday night we went to the Old Spaghetti Factory for dinner, and the place was packed. Every piece of furniture, antique or otherwise, in their lobby was occupied, and even room to stand wasn't plentiful. I noticed a lot of people had drinks, which seemed to me a good way to pass the time, so I made my way to the bar to fetch us each a cocktail.
After a time we found seats, and settled down to wait. My partner nudged me with an elbow and discreetly indicated a man and woman sitting directly opposite. He was sitting in the seat of a large hall tree, and she was sitting on its wide arm. I had already noticed them. I think everybody had already noticed them. They were furious with each other. They both sat still, not talking, not looking around, not even lifting their glasses to their lips, just sitting completely immobile and staring straight ahead with looks of barely suppressed rage on their faces. It must have been one hell of a row they had on the way to the restaurant.
We found the situation amusing, of course, but not nearly as funny as when those two got up in response to the hostess calling, "Smiley -- party of two."
After a time we found seats, and settled down to wait. My partner nudged me with an elbow and discreetly indicated a man and woman sitting directly opposite. He was sitting in the seat of a large hall tree, and she was sitting on its wide arm. I had already noticed them. I think everybody had already noticed them. They were furious with each other. They both sat still, not talking, not looking around, not even lifting their glasses to their lips, just sitting completely immobile and staring straight ahead with looks of barely suppressed rage on their faces. It must have been one hell of a row they had on the way to the restaurant.
We found the situation amusing, of course, but not nearly as funny as when those two got up in response to the hostess calling, "Smiley -- party of two."
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Absolutely True
This is another story that involves a joke, although this joke is a tad raunchy. I hope I have presented it in a way that does not offend. It goes like this:
A young man was so in love with his girlfriend Wendy that he had her name tattooed on his, um … you know -- private part. When this part was, well -- relaxed -- all you could see was the W and the Y, but he thought that was fine since Wendy was the only one who should ever see it when it was … um, shall we say … expanded to the point where one could see her whole name.
They went to Jamaica for a vacation, and while there they visited a nude beach. The young man saw a Jamaican life guard at the beach who had a W and a Y tattooed on his … that same part … also, and he pointed to his own and then to the life guard’s, and said, ‘Hey! Look at us! Do you have a girlfriend named Wendy too?”
To which the lifeguard replied (supply your own Jamaican accent here), “No -- mine says, ‘Welcome to Jamaica, mon, have a nice day!’”
Okay, that’s the joke. Several years ago my partner and I were planning a trip to Jamaica, and we kept telling that joke -- or at least its punch line -- to each other. Whenever we got to talking about our impending trip, one or the other of us would say, “Welcome to Jamaica, mon, have a nice day!” If one of us said “Welcome to Jamaica, Mon!” the other would chime in on “Have a nice day!” This went on for a couple months. We couldn’t seem to stop ourselves.
So, there we were on the beach at Negril. A Jamaican native came walking along the beach to where we were vegetating under an almond tree, and the woman we were staying with introduced this dude to us as Mr. Black, although he called himself The Beach Master. He asked us if it was our first trip to Jamaica, and we admitted that it was. He said, “Well, let me say -- welcome to Jamaica, mon!” To which we both immediately replied in unison, “Have a nice day!”
His eyes lit up and he grinned from ear to ear and said “Ah! You know Wendy!”
I guess everybody in Jamaica does.
A young man was so in love with his girlfriend Wendy that he had her name tattooed on his, um … you know -- private part. When this part was, well -- relaxed -- all you could see was the W and the Y, but he thought that was fine since Wendy was the only one who should ever see it when it was … um, shall we say … expanded to the point where one could see her whole name.
They went to Jamaica for a vacation, and while there they visited a nude beach. The young man saw a Jamaican life guard at the beach who had a W and a Y tattooed on his … that same part … also, and he pointed to his own and then to the life guard’s, and said, ‘Hey! Look at us! Do you have a girlfriend named Wendy too?”
To which the lifeguard replied (supply your own Jamaican accent here), “No -- mine says, ‘Welcome to Jamaica, mon, have a nice day!’”
Okay, that’s the joke. Several years ago my partner and I were planning a trip to Jamaica, and we kept telling that joke -- or at least its punch line -- to each other. Whenever we got to talking about our impending trip, one or the other of us would say, “Welcome to Jamaica, mon, have a nice day!” If one of us said “Welcome to Jamaica, Mon!” the other would chime in on “Have a nice day!” This went on for a couple months. We couldn’t seem to stop ourselves.
So, there we were on the beach at Negril. A Jamaican native came walking along the beach to where we were vegetating under an almond tree, and the woman we were staying with introduced this dude to us as Mr. Black, although he called himself The Beach Master. He asked us if it was our first trip to Jamaica, and we admitted that it was. He said, “Well, let me say -- welcome to Jamaica, mon!” To which we both immediately replied in unison, “Have a nice day!”
His eyes lit up and he grinned from ear to ear and said “Ah! You know Wendy!”
I guess everybody in Jamaica does.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Thou shalt not witness false bears
I'm going to tell a joke. It's an old joke, and a local joke, so I'll have to provide some background. It was inspired by one of my high school teachers, a dude named Richard Gavigan who taught history and also coached football. He was famous for three things: his temper, his almost completely bald head, and his pop quizzes. I had him for world history my sophomore year, so I know all about those.
At least once a week, Coach Gavigan would throw a pop quiz. On those days, as soon as the bell rang for class to start, he would stand up in front of the room and say, "Take out a piece of paper and a pencil and number from one to ten. We're gonna have a little quiz."
He would then read us ten questions, and for each one we were to write T or F. Always true-or-false questions, always ten of them, and always with the same instructions. It never varied. "Take out a piece of paper and a pencil and number from one to ten. Were gonna have a little quiz."
And that inspired this joke, which we all thought was hilarious, at least the first time we heard it, and which I think must have been passed down from one class of students to the next at Palatine High School for all the decades that Coach Gavigan taught there. It goes like this:
What did God say to Moses on Mt. Sinai? "Take out a tablet and a chisel and number from one to ten. We're gonna have a little quiz."
At least once a week, Coach Gavigan would throw a pop quiz. On those days, as soon as the bell rang for class to start, he would stand up in front of the room and say, "Take out a piece of paper and a pencil and number from one to ten. We're gonna have a little quiz."
He would then read us ten questions, and for each one we were to write T or F. Always true-or-false questions, always ten of them, and always with the same instructions. It never varied. "Take out a piece of paper and a pencil and number from one to ten. Were gonna have a little quiz."
And that inspired this joke, which we all thought was hilarious, at least the first time we heard it, and which I think must have been passed down from one class of students to the next at Palatine High School for all the decades that Coach Gavigan taught there. It goes like this:
What did God say to Moses on Mt. Sinai? "Take out a tablet and a chisel and number from one to ten. We're gonna have a little quiz."
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Food of the Dog
When I was in the first grade, there was a get-together for some reason at the house of one of my classmates. It was a girl, and she lived near the school, and there were a lot of kids from our class there, but I don't remember anything more about it or why I was there. Maybe it was a birthday party or something. It's all very hazy, except for one magical moment.
They had a dog. Some of us kids were in the kitchen and the dog's food somehow came to our attention, and some kid dared me to eat the dog food. And I did. It was dry kibble, very small pieces. I reached into the bag and came out with one or two little morsels which I popped into my mouth, bit down on, and swallowed. It was very much like Grape Nuts cereal. I have no recollection what it tasted like, although I don't remember that it tasted bad.
The kid who dared me was unimpressed, and some other kid predicted, in the sage and authoritative tone that only a six-year-old can achieve, that I was going to turn into a dog. I knew that was ridiculous, but I did suddenly suspect something bad might happen, that I might get sick or something. I was in a panic about it for a day or so, although I never said a word about it to anyone.
As it turns out, I did not turn into a dog.
They had a dog. Some of us kids were in the kitchen and the dog's food somehow came to our attention, and some kid dared me to eat the dog food. And I did. It was dry kibble, very small pieces. I reached into the bag and came out with one or two little morsels which I popped into my mouth, bit down on, and swallowed. It was very much like Grape Nuts cereal. I have no recollection what it tasted like, although I don't remember that it tasted bad.
The kid who dared me was unimpressed, and some other kid predicted, in the sage and authoritative tone that only a six-year-old can achieve, that I was going to turn into a dog. I knew that was ridiculous, but I did suddenly suspect something bad might happen, that I might get sick or something. I was in a panic about it for a day or so, although I never said a word about it to anyone.
As it turns out, I did not turn into a dog.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Fear Part II
In yesterday's episode I was talking about things I'm afraid of, having presented four possibilities of which three were true.
We’ve already established that the correct answer is not No. 3 since the idea of ingesting aluminum foil causes me to hyperventilate.
What about heights? Yes, I am acrophobic, but it has more to do with falling from a high place than being in a high place. If I feel like I could fall, a chair is too high for me.
Moving right along, I am also psychotic about slipping in the bathtub. This might be an off-shoot of the fear of falling I seem to have just diagnosed.
But -- and this is what started this whole discussion in the first place -- I have finally had a dream come true. Over the weekend we had a safety bar installed in our bathroom that I can hang on to when stepping into or out of the tub. It's one of those heavy-duty things like they put in hotel bathrooms and handicap toilet stalls.
So, by process of elimination it can be deduced that the correct answer to the question is No. 1. Spiders don't bother me.
We’ve already established that the correct answer is not No. 3 since the idea of ingesting aluminum foil causes me to hyperventilate.
What about heights? Yes, I am acrophobic, but it has more to do with falling from a high place than being in a high place. If I feel like I could fall, a chair is too high for me.
Moving right along, I am also psychotic about slipping in the bathtub. This might be an off-shoot of the fear of falling I seem to have just diagnosed.
But -- and this is what started this whole discussion in the first place -- I have finally had a dream come true. Over the weekend we had a safety bar installed in our bathroom that I can hang on to when stepping into or out of the tub. It's one of those heavy-duty things like they put in hotel bathrooms and handicap toilet stalls.
So, by process of elimination it can be deduced that the correct answer to the question is No. 1. Spiders don't bother me.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
We are nothing to fear but itself
Facebook had this thing once where you could make up a quiz about yourself for your friends to take, to see how well they know you. I did one, and most people did pretty well. Almost everybody, however, got one question wrong, which went something like this:
Jan is pathologically afraid of all these things except:
1. Spiders
2. Heights
3. Eating aluminum foil
4. Slipping in the bathtub/shower
Except for my beloved partner, everybody chose No. 3, probably because it sounds so absurd. But really, it's true. I am deathly afraid of ingesting aluminum foil.
When they bring me a baked (or, really, steamed) potato wrapped in foil in a restaurant, I am diligent in removing every trace of the aluminum and making sure there is none anywhere on, in or near my plate. If they have cut the potato down the middle with the foil still on it, I must then also perform a microscopic inspection to be certain there are no metallic particles embedded in the potato pulp before I will venture to eat any of it.
When I was a kid, you see, my uncle's sister-in-law swallowed a little piece of aluminum foil. It tore up her insides and resulted in septicemia that about killed her. And I have been scared spitless of having it happen to me ever since.
As to my other fears, I think I will leave that for tomorrow.
Jan is pathologically afraid of all these things except:
1. Spiders
2. Heights
3. Eating aluminum foil
4. Slipping in the bathtub/shower
Except for my beloved partner, everybody chose No. 3, probably because it sounds so absurd. But really, it's true. I am deathly afraid of ingesting aluminum foil.
When they bring me a baked (or, really, steamed) potato wrapped in foil in a restaurant, I am diligent in removing every trace of the aluminum and making sure there is none anywhere on, in or near my plate. If they have cut the potato down the middle with the foil still on it, I must then also perform a microscopic inspection to be certain there are no metallic particles embedded in the potato pulp before I will venture to eat any of it.
When I was a kid, you see, my uncle's sister-in-law swallowed a little piece of aluminum foil. It tore up her insides and resulted in septicemia that about killed her. And I have been scared spitless of having it happen to me ever since.
As to my other fears, I think I will leave that for tomorrow.
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