I Don't Smell Very Good

I enjoy saying that I don't smell good.

What I should say is that I don't smell well. Of course, there are definitely times when I get all hot and sweaty and really stink, but in general it's my sense of smell that stinks.

As far as I can remember, it's always been this way. I remember one Monday morning when I was in high school people were practically vomiting from the stench of something in the home-ec room that had been left out of the refrigerator all weekend. To me it was just a faint odor.

One Christmas -- I was in my mid-thirties by then -- my sister-in-law was saying how nice it was to have a real tree in the house, and I asked her why. She said it was because of the needles, and I said, "Yeah, you have to vacuum them up." She said, "No, for the smell." To which I replied in genuine wonder, "Do pine needles smell?"

Epiphany! That's why my college roommate had brought a small pine bough into our room and propped it in a corner. When asked what she planned to do with it, she had said "Nothing. It's just nice to have." Definitely strange, I had thought, but harmless. And now suddenly after all these years I figured out she had brought it in to perfume our room.

Meanwhile, my sister-in-law (looking like she would weep at the sadness of it) said, "You mean you've never smelled a pine tree?"

Nope. Never have. But then, I've never smelled a skunk either.

Bug Your Bundies

I keep saying, often with the slightest hint of wonder, that you can find anything on the internet. And that's a good thing when you want a .wav file of Andy Devine saying "Plunk your magic twanger, Froggy!" But if you want to validate your own self-perceived uniqueness, forget it.

Lately I've taken to Googling expressions that I have always suspected were unique to me and my friends and my family. What a disappointment.

As an example, when I was in college in the mid-60's in mid-Wisconsin, we moved the interjectory "hey" from the beginning to the end of a sentence: "Hey, wait for me!" became "Wait for me, hey!" Actually, I still do that sometimes. But unique? No. Apparently people in parts of the U.K. do it all the time. Darn.

Another oddball locution from those days was "Bug your bundies." That meant to hurry up. So far I can find no reference to that anywhere, so I get one point.

My grandfather liked to say that supper would consist of "slumgullion and essence of squadrops." I've heard slumgullion used a lot, and there are even recipes for it on line -- sounds kind of like do-it-yourself Hamburger Helper. Google returns nothing for squadrops, however, so Grampie gets half a point.

Imagine my disappointment, however, when I Googled something my mother used to say. When she'd see me exerting myself at some task or other, she'd say "Don't strain your milk!" Since I never heard anybody else ever say that, I assumed it was something of her own. No. The Urban Dictionary is all over it. But what really blew my mind was that I never even got the whole thing typed in the box -- I only got as far as don't stra:

Oh, well. Don't strain your milk. But bug your bundies.

O The Technology of it All!

I went to the library one night this week. I hadn’t been there in a long time.

I won’t discuss using a computer instead of a card catalogue to locate the book I wanted. I got over that some time ago. And I’m used to having the woman at the circulation desk zap the barcode on my library card and the barcode on the book with a hand-held barcode zapper.

It’s what happened next that got me. A little machine belched out a little piece of paper similar to a cash-register receipt, which the woman tucked between the pages of the book before handing it back to me. This receipt shows the name of the library, the title of the book, a bunch of code numbers (including one for me, preserving my privacy), and the date the book is due back.

I never saw this one coming.

I am trying to envision a world in which no library book will ever again feel the impact of a rubber stamp upon that slip of paper glued to its flyleaf that, back in the good old days, showed the due date. What have we come to?

Of course, the receipt can double as a bookmark.

Since I’m on the subject, what about that technology that we did see coming? Not so many decades ago they (you know, they) said that someday there would be a computer that would fit into one room. Now we have computers that fit on your lap.

Also not all that long ago they said that some day you wouldn’t need money, everything would be handled electronically. Well, we’re there. Direct deposit, direct bill payments, PayPal, debit cards. Even McDonald’s takes debit cards now.

And yet…and yet…50 years ago they also told me that by the year 2000 we’d all be flying around the sky with jet packs on our backs.

Still waiting for that one.

Murituri te salutamus

When I was in the second grade, I was officially enrolled at Oak Street School, but I actually attended class in the high school, which was across the street. I was among the first wave of baby-boomers to hit the local school district, and they were scrambling to accommodate us. While a new grammar school was being built, they rented two rooms in the high school.

One day some of us were in the hallway outside our classroom when a group of high school girls came by. They were all dressed in gym suits and walking in single file down the hall from the boys' (new, big) gymnasium to the girls' (old, small) gym. For some reason -- maybe to impress the little kids -- they all put one hand on the shoulder of the girl in front of them as they marched down the hall. The last girl in the line turned to me as she went by and said, "Just wait 'til you're in high school, kid."

"Oh Gosh!" thought I. "High school! I'll never be in high school!"

Well, a mere six years later, I was, in the fall of 1960. My first class at 8:00 a.m. on that first day of my high school career was none other than Latin 1. It was taught by Mrs. Anderson, who I thought was probably old enough to have known Caesar personally. She probably had his sense of humor too.

Some of the first words she spoke that morning included a threat. "Most of you will forget almost everything you ever learn in this class. But I promise you, you will NEVER forget sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt."

And as you see, even 50 years later -- I haven't.

Sploring

Sploring is an activity that has probably been invented and reinvented ever since there have been people with no place to go who wanted to go somewhere. No doubt it was originally conducted on foot. Our version involves an automobile.

It's a simple concept, but there are some rules:

There is no destination. You just pick a direction and drive, taking back roads as much as possible. Dirt roads are optional, depending on how recently you've had your car washed.

You may not consult a map or ask for directions until you are so completely lost you cannot figure out how to get anywhere.

Whenever the opportunity to change direction arises, the occupants of the car may take turns deciding whether to turn right or left or not at all. The driver always has the final say (see rule above about dirt roads).

Advanced Sploring involves wending your way from one small town to another and stopping in each to buy instant lottery tickets at the local mom-and-pop convenience store. Everyone scratches the tickets immediately but they are not redeemed for cash prizes (if any) until you reach the next such store in the next such town. The game ends when somebody loses a bunch of money or when everybody is covered in nubbly little scratch-off crumbs, whichever comes first.

Although optimum conditions for Sploring include sunshine and moderate temperatures, it may be practiced at any time of the year as long as the roads are clear of ice and snow. If Sploring in winter, however, it is important to remember that what looks like a wide shoulder with plenty of room to pull over preparatory to doing a U-ie in the road might actually be a snow-covered ditch, and it will then require a farmer who lives nearby to just happen to be passing by who will be nice enough to go home and get his tractor to pull you out.

If Sploring in certain parts of Michigan, you should also be wary of dirt roads through dense woods where men in para-military outfits carrying assault rifles are playing games. Should you encounter such an area, it is strongly recommended you get the hell out of there as fast as you can.

Popularity (not the song by George M. Cohan)

When I was in high school, there were the popular kids and the not popular kids. I was in the drama club, sang in the choir, and averaged mostly average grades, which pretty much put the kibosh on any pretensions I might have had about being in with the in crowd.

We not popular kids referred to the popular ones as "rah-rahs" -- or just "rahs" for short -- as in rah-rah-sis-boom-bah, because the popular kids as a group comprised the cheerleaders and their football- and basketball-playing boyfriends, the student council, the honor society, and the hall monitors. There was also a small but equally popular coterie of hangers-on.

In general, and with only a very few exceptions, the rah-rahs did not like non-rahs, and vice-versa. The question that occupies me today is, what made us call that clique of students popular in the first place? The popular kids were actually only popular with each other, not with any of the rest of us.

I suspect that having persons from my past pop up on Facebook wanting to be my friend is what propels me into these nostalgic funks.

And here I am, back again

A long time between this blog and the last, but it's easily explained. About ten days of it was our vacation. The rest was recovery.

We were on our way home -- it was our last night on the road, so the vacation was great up until the middle-of-the-night trip to the bathroom.

If you ever break your arm in Iowa City, I recommend the University of Iowa Medical Center. They were wonderful.