Stupid is as ...

Something I heard today reminded me that we all do things that are useless from time to time. There are two incidents in my life that I consider prime examples.

One occurred in 1965 when I was in college. I was having trouble with an assignment for my 8:00 o'clock class the next morning and stayed up until nearly 2:00 in the morning getting it done. When my alarm went off at 7:15 in the morning, I turned it off, turned over, and went back to sleep.  I might as well not have bothered.

The other one was about 20 years later. I had finished doing my wash at a coin-operated laundry, except for one item. I pumped at least four more  dimes into a dryer trying to get the bath mat dry when it finally dawned on me that the bath mat spends most of its life damp, hanging over the shower curtain rod. Duh.

Midwest of What?

The Food Network has a new show called "Heartland Table" hosted by one Amy Thielen of whom I have never heard.  She's a native of Minnesota, and, according to their web site, she will be "celebrating all things Midwest" and sharing "rustic recipes from inside her log cabin."

Well, cool.  Today's premier episode was all about making things with butter -- so much butter, in fact, that one wonders if she is channeling Paula Deen. There was a blueberry-lemon pie with a butter crust and new potatoes with grilled onion butter. Well, okay.

The final dish, however, really brought it home.  Nothing spells rustic Minnesota log cabin more than collard greens with traditional Ethiopian spices.

Dangerous Associations

My mother had a job at a manufacturing company for a few years, working in the blue print room. Now and then as she left at the end of the day, she could not restrain herself from saying wistfully as she went out the door, "Good night, sweet prints."

Meanwhile, she was having trouble remembering the name of one of the senior engineers, a man named Basset, who often came there himself to order the printing of the blue prints he required. Since he was an important guy, she wanted to be able to greet him by name.  One day while he waited for his blue prints, they got to chatting, and he mentioned having a dog. That gave her an idea: whenever she saw him, she would remember he had a dog, and that would make her think of a Basset Hound, and that's how she'd remember his name.

It worked great. The next time he came to the print room, she flashed him her biggest smile and said cheerfully and confidently, "Good morning, Mr. Beagle!"

Tennis, anyone?

I’ve been watching a lot of the U. S. Open Tennis tournament on television in the last week or so. While watching yesterday’s women’s semifinal between Azarenka and Pennetta, I got to wondering if it was possible for a tennis fan to identify the player(s) without looking -- just by listening to the tone, pitch, length, and intensity of the grunt or gasp or squeal or, in Azarenka's case, shriek that they emit every time they hit the ball.

When I learned to play tennis in the summer of 1959, nobody mentioned making noise on every shot.

Of course, things were different in those days. Rackets were wood, balls were white, and nobody used more than one hand to swing the racket. Players always took two balls to the service line, since you get two chances to get a good serve in. You held both in your free hand, tossing one up for the first serve. If it went in, you carried the other ball throughout the play of the point.

After the two-handed backhand became popular, players had to have both hands free, and that’s when the men started putting the second ball in their pockets. The women came up with this thing where they tuck the ball up under their little short tennis skirts, which makes them look like they have a tennis-ball-size growth on their hips.

Can’t somebody design a tennis dress with a pocket on the outside?

Where are our manners?

I admit I'm short, but I am also wide, and there's no way you're going to miss me coming.

So, how is it that when I go into a grocery store, I am suddenly invisible? People come within an inch of mowing me down with their shopping carts. They cut me off. They rush around to get in front of me and then come to a screeching halt, blocking my path. When they're standing still talking on their cell phones, it's right in front of the shelf that contains what I'm looking for.

My all-time favorite maneuver, however, is performed by the young mother of two who is carrying one kid in her arms and dragging the other by the hand. When she comes into the store, she pulls a cart from the line and then stands right there, blocking everybody else's access to the carts, while she attempts to put the kid with the flailing rubber legs into the cart's seat and then hoist the other kid into the basket.

She has just carried and dragged those two kids all the way from the parking lot -- can't she take a cart and then walk another ten feet to get out of the way before she loads them into the basket? Well? Can't she?

Grocery shoppers act like they are the only person in the store.  And I always wish I actually was.

Just lucky, and that's all

I hurt my knees -- the right one playing baseball and the left one playing football -- before I was in my teens. My Grandma Knez had arthritis in her knees, and there is a picture burned on my brain of her sitting in a chair rubbing her knees because they hurt her so bad.  Whenever I saw her doing that, I would think, "That's going to be me some day." I'm happy to report that, despite further injuries over the last 55 years or so, my knees are still serviceable, probably more than I might expect considering how many extra pounds they have had to carry around.  The same can be said for my hips (knock wood).  The shoulders are another matter.

And I just spent more than two hours folding paper (origami tchotchkes for my friends), and it occurred to me how lucky I am to be this old and have complete and pain-free use of my hands and fingers.

A while back I was catching up with somebody I went to high school with and hadn't seen since.  When I mentioned that in addition to back surgeries and broken bones, I've survived breast cancer and a heart attack, she responded, "Wow, you're a tough old broad, aren't you?"

Yes, I am.

My recently retired partner, who is today an official 65-year-old senior citizen on social security, has been through a bunch of ringers herself but is in pretty good shape for the shape she's in, and I can guarantee her that never having to go to work ever again has a way of making  little aches and pains quite inconsequential.

I think we're both lucky just to have these golden retirement years; spending them together is a bonus.

Happy birthday, JB, from one tough old broad to another.

The Owl and the Pussycat, or the Chihuahua

This morning my tiny dog was standing in my lap, her body and front legs stretched up against me, and as she looked up at me, and I suddenly wanted to play Owley Eyes with her. It's a game I played as a tot.

It takes two people to play Owley Eyes. (I used play it with my favorite aunt.) Here's how it goes:  you and the other person come face to face, literally -- foreheads and noses touching. Then you both close your eyes, and after a suspenseful second or two, one of you says, "Open," and then you both open your eyes at the exact same instant while also saying, "Hoooo!" like an owl. What you see before you looks for all the world like a cross-eyed owl. No, really. It really does. It did when I was three years old, anyway, so I'm sure it still does.

Anyway, just  at that moment this morning, I wanted to play Owley Eyes with my tiny dog, but her eyes are so close together, owing to how tiny her head is, that it just didn't work.

Boo Hoooo.