The Animal Planet aired a show last week about the world's cutest cat, and something about it reminded me of a time when I had taken my exceptionally cute cat to the vet's. While we were waiting our turn, a young couple came in with a furry little kitten. The wife sat down holding the kitty on her lap while her husband went to the receptionist's window to check in.
After getting pertinent info such as name, address, phone number and such like, the receptionist said, "And what's the kitten's name?" The young man muttered something that sounded like "F-vvv." The woman said, "What?" and only slightly louder he said again, "F-vvv." She said, "I'm sorry. I still didn't hear you," to which he responded more loudly and quite distinctly, "Fluffy!"
Can you guess who lost the argument over naming the kitten?
I got my cat ("free to good home") when she was just eight weeks old. She was all black and had beautiful eyes that were mostly blue but ringed with green. I named her Murphy because I was sure nothing could be that stubborn and not be Irish.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Friday, December 14, 2012
Cuz band-aid's stuck on me
Between my thumb and the thing on my leg (or where the thing on my leg used to be before the doctor made it go away on Monday), I've been using a lot of band-aids lately. I have had plenty to choose from. We have boxes and boxes of them, some very old and some just recently purchased, some of all-one-size, and some a mixed up conglomeration of old and older of different sizes and shapes and materials of various brands.
I usually prefer the fabric kind, which are basically light brown. The semi-waterproof ones I bought to use on my leg are a real strange color, sort of a pinky salmon. When I was a kid, band-aids were white. I remember when they came out with the first ones that were supposed to be "flesh colored." I don't know whose flesh they were modeled on. There's not a one of them that's the color of my skin, or anybody else's I've ever seen either.
I use "band-aid" generically, even though it's a brand name. I suppose I think I'm getting away with it by not capitalizing it. There are plenty of brand names that are used generically, usually because they were either the first or the best known. And there are some things that started out as trademarked names that just plain aren't any more -- aspirin, zipper, and cellophane among them.
I used to keep a list of such brand-cum-generic names as they came to me, but I can't find it right now. I do remember that Band-Aid, Kleenex, Coke, Scotch Tape, Thermos Bottle, Saran Wrap, Jell-O, Popsicle, and Visqueen were on it.
I know about Visqueen because I once worked as an order-taker for a company that made the same kind of polyethylene sheeting, but theirs was called VapoFilm. We hated it when someone would call and say they wanted to order some Visqueen.
I should have learned a lesson from that, I guess. Okay. Sorry, Band-Aid.
I usually prefer the fabric kind, which are basically light brown. The semi-waterproof ones I bought to use on my leg are a real strange color, sort of a pinky salmon. When I was a kid, band-aids were white. I remember when they came out with the first ones that were supposed to be "flesh colored." I don't know whose flesh they were modeled on. There's not a one of them that's the color of my skin, or anybody else's I've ever seen either.
I use "band-aid" generically, even though it's a brand name. I suppose I think I'm getting away with it by not capitalizing it. There are plenty of brand names that are used generically, usually because they were either the first or the best known. And there are some things that started out as trademarked names that just plain aren't any more -- aspirin, zipper, and cellophane among them.
I used to keep a list of such brand-cum-generic names as they came to me, but I can't find it right now. I do remember that Band-Aid, Kleenex, Coke, Scotch Tape, Thermos Bottle, Saran Wrap, Jell-O, Popsicle, and Visqueen were on it.
I know about Visqueen because I once worked as an order-taker for a company that made the same kind of polyethylene sheeting, but theirs was called VapoFilm. We hated it when someone would call and say they wanted to order some Visqueen.
I should have learned a lesson from that, I guess. Okay. Sorry, Band-Aid.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Twelve Twelve
It is that day, 12-12-12, and I have nothing further to say about it since everybody should know by now how I am about such dates.
Even though the twelve days of Christmas don't start until Christmas day, I am hearing that song about the twelve fabulous gifts, and it is the 12th day of the 12th month of the (two thousand and) 12th year, so I thought I would take this opportunity to present my own version of that tired old tune. Feel free to sing along.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Twelve Margaritas,
Eleven vodka gimlets,
Ten dry martinis,
Nine Fuzzy Navels,
Eight Bloody Marys,
Seven Whiskey Sours,
Six Rusty Nails,
Five Goldschalg shots,
Four Daiquiris,
Three Mai Tais,
Two Rum and Cokes,
And a great big Long Island Iced Tea.
Yes, you could call it a wish list.
Even though the twelve days of Christmas don't start until Christmas day, I am hearing that song about the twelve fabulous gifts, and it is the 12th day of the 12th month of the (two thousand and) 12th year, so I thought I would take this opportunity to present my own version of that tired old tune. Feel free to sing along.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Twelve Margaritas,
Eleven vodka gimlets,
Ten dry martinis,
Nine Fuzzy Navels,
Eight Bloody Marys,
Seven Whiskey Sours,
Six Rusty Nails,
Five Goldschalg shots,
Four Daiquiris,
Three Mai Tais,
Two Rum and Cokes,
And a great big Long Island Iced Tea.
Yes, you could call it a wish list.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
True Story
Since I was early for my appointment with the eye doctor this morning, I decided to take another crack at sending a text message from my cell phone, my third one in a week.
It took me a while to remember how to send a message and then another while to figure out how to send it to my intended recipient. Once I got that straightened out, I composed a bare-bones message ("Coming today at 4.30?"), resisting the use of those irritating word-letters (as in, "r u coming today").
It went slowly. I had to use my right index finger to punch most of the keys because the injury to my thumb prevents me from honing my thumb-typing skills. I finally gave up looking for the colon, if there is one, on the tiny keypad and put a period in 4.30.
Finally I finished it and sent it off, successfully. I was so proud. But I was beginning to worry that the other people in the waiting room would think I was one of those nerdy techno-dorks who spend every moment texting and tweeting and playing with phone apps, so I put the phone back into my pocket.
When I looked up, I saw that all four of the other people sitting there in the waiting room were intently focused on the cell phones in their hands, diligently thumbing the buttons and keys.
It took me a while to remember how to send a message and then another while to figure out how to send it to my intended recipient. Once I got that straightened out, I composed a bare-bones message ("Coming today at 4.30?"), resisting the use of those irritating word-letters (as in, "r u coming today").
It went slowly. I had to use my right index finger to punch most of the keys because the injury to my thumb prevents me from honing my thumb-typing skills. I finally gave up looking for the colon, if there is one, on the tiny keypad and put a period in 4.30.
Finally I finished it and sent it off, successfully. I was so proud. But I was beginning to worry that the other people in the waiting room would think I was one of those nerdy techno-dorks who spend every moment texting and tweeting and playing with phone apps, so I put the phone back into my pocket.
When I looked up, I saw that all four of the other people sitting there in the waiting room were intently focused on the cell phones in their hands, diligently thumbing the buttons and keys.
Friday, December 7, 2012
O Little Town of Banana Bread
Wednesday there were three over-ripe bananas on the kitchen counter begging to be put to some purpose, so I obliged them. What with our traditional annual holiday cookie-baking weekend approaching, I thought that an entire loaf of banana nut bread might end up neglected, so I baked four mini-loaves instead, freezing three for future consumption, or maybe even to be given as part of the baked-goods gift giving.
Well, I'm here to tell you that one mini-loaf of banana nut bread does not go very far. There will soon be only two in the freezer.
While I was composing the foregoing, I heard on the radio what was described as a traditional French Christmas carol entitled "Ding Dong Merrily On High." That sounds like three Christmas songs thrown together, doesn't it? Sort of like "I'm Dreaming of a White Chestnut Roasting on a Jingle Bell Rock."
Not only is it not a particularly engaging song, it turns out that only the tune is French, a 16th-century secular ditty. The words are by some English dude, and I admit that they do make more sense if you hear the entire first phrase:
Ding dong! merrily on high
In heav'n the bells are ringing.
Still, I don't think Frosty or Rudolph need to feel threatened.
Well, I'm here to tell you that one mini-loaf of banana nut bread does not go very far. There will soon be only two in the freezer.
While I was composing the foregoing, I heard on the radio what was described as a traditional French Christmas carol entitled "Ding Dong Merrily On High." That sounds like three Christmas songs thrown together, doesn't it? Sort of like "I'm Dreaming of a White Chestnut Roasting on a Jingle Bell Rock."
Not only is it not a particularly engaging song, it turns out that only the tune is French, a 16th-century secular ditty. The words are by some English dude, and I admit that they do make more sense if you hear the entire first phrase:
Ding dong! merrily on high
In heav'n the bells are ringing.
Still, I don't think Frosty or Rudolph need to feel threatened.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Tweetle Dee Dee
My grandmother (whose 123rd birthday is tomorrow) used to go around unplugging lamps and radios and appliances because she thought that when things were plugged into a wall socket but not turned on, the electricity leaked out into the room causing some grave if unspecified danger.
When it comes to modern technology, I feel a lot like my Grandma. Although I embraced personal computing when it became affordable in the 1990's and became somewhat knowledgeable and proficient at certain aspects, I seem somehow to have been left completely behind. I do not have a laptop or a tablet or an iAnything. I use a dumb phone. My desktop computer has been obsolete since the day after I bought it five years ago.
Yesterday, for the first time in over a year, I sent a text message from my cell phone to somebody else's cell phone. The delight I took in this success was quickly quashed by the news that Pope Benedict XVI now has his own Twitter account.
I barely know what Twitter is, have absolutely no idea how it works, what it's for, how to use it, or even how to join, and yet the Pope, who is almost 123 years old himself, is all signed up and ready to tweet.
What is to become of me?
When it comes to modern technology, I feel a lot like my Grandma. Although I embraced personal computing when it became affordable in the 1990's and became somewhat knowledgeable and proficient at certain aspects, I seem somehow to have been left completely behind. I do not have a laptop or a tablet or an iAnything. I use a dumb phone. My desktop computer has been obsolete since the day after I bought it five years ago.
Yesterday, for the first time in over a year, I sent a text message from my cell phone to somebody else's cell phone. The delight I took in this success was quickly quashed by the news that Pope Benedict XVI now has his own Twitter account.
I barely know what Twitter is, have absolutely no idea how it works, what it's for, how to use it, or even how to join, and yet the Pope, who is almost 123 years old himself, is all signed up and ready to tweet.
What is to become of me?
Monday, December 3, 2012
Choo Choo
On this date in 1967, the New York Central Railroad's Twentieth Century Limited trains completed their last runs between New York and Chicago. What had been a gloriously luxurious form of transportation for 65 years faded into history, victim of the interstate highway system and air travel.
I recall several trips by rail with my mother when I was small, from Chicago to downstate Illinois to visit my grandparents, and once to Kansas City. There was also a year of my life when I worked down in the Loop in Chicago and took the commuter train to and from every day. My last train trip was in 1983 when I took the train from Macomb, Illinois, to Chicago and from there on to Kalamazoo. It was fun.
Whenever I think about riding trains, however, I cannot help but recall the absolute terror I experienced as a tiny child whenever we had to pass from one car to another while the train was moving. It made going to the dining car a trauma.
As soon as Mother slid open the door at the back of the car, my little ears were filled with the roar of the train as it hurtled down the track, accompanied by the peripheral perception of the ground and countryside thundering past. The normal rocking and jolting of the train seemed to intensify as we moved through the door contributing to my sense of unsteadiness and impending calamity. The two cars' platforms were moving, but not in unison, and there was a terrifying gap between them. It was probably no more than a couple inches, but to a toddler it seemed like a yawning chasm. Mother would hold my hand and help me to jump over the fissure onto the next platform.
Scared the living daylights out of me every time.
I recall several trips by rail with my mother when I was small, from Chicago to downstate Illinois to visit my grandparents, and once to Kansas City. There was also a year of my life when I worked down in the Loop in Chicago and took the commuter train to and from every day. My last train trip was in 1983 when I took the train from Macomb, Illinois, to Chicago and from there on to Kalamazoo. It was fun.
Whenever I think about riding trains, however, I cannot help but recall the absolute terror I experienced as a tiny child whenever we had to pass from one car to another while the train was moving. It made going to the dining car a trauma.
As soon as Mother slid open the door at the back of the car, my little ears were filled with the roar of the train as it hurtled down the track, accompanied by the peripheral perception of the ground and countryside thundering past. The normal rocking and jolting of the train seemed to intensify as we moved through the door contributing to my sense of unsteadiness and impending calamity. The two cars' platforms were moving, but not in unison, and there was a terrifying gap between them. It was probably no more than a couple inches, but to a toddler it seemed like a yawning chasm. Mother would hold my hand and help me to jump over the fissure onto the next platform.
Scared the living daylights out of me every time.
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