Monthly Archives: February 2008

When I got the mail today, there was an envelope from the office of the county treasurer. This reminded me of two things: First, my car license stickers expire at the end of February. Second, ever since I mailed in a check for the renewal a couple of weeks ago, I had forgotten all about it.

As a general rule I send in my renewal form and check sometime in January, so I get the new decals in plenty of time. Of course, then I usually procrastinate until the last day before I get around to putting them on. Still, at least I have them in my possession, and sometimes I even know where they are.

This year, what with one thing and another, I didn’t think about renewing the tags until I happened across the reminder postcard well after Groundhog Day. I knew I was pushing my luck when I sent my check on February 11, expecting to get the decals back before the deadline. Thank goodness it’s Leap Year. I’m still legal, thanks to that extra day of grace.

Like a good little procrastinator, I trotted right down to the garage and put the decals on my license plates. I’m renewed, up to date, and on the right side of the law. As will be obvious to any police officers who happen to notice. They won’t even have to check whether my decals are orange (last year’s) or green (this year’s).

It’s obvious that I just put new stickers on, because the lower right-hand corner of each license plate has a little spot that’s been carefully scrubbed. They show up more clearly than the decals do, because they are the only two clean places on the whole car.

I’m going to have to paint two rooms in my house, pull up carpet, refinish a hardwood floor, call in an electrician, and buy new curtains. Oh, and did I mention write a novel? And it’s all my daughter’s fault.

You see, she bought me a picture. It’s a marvelous photograph titled “Solitude,” done by one of her friends who is a professional photographer. It shows a tall, February-bare tree leaning over an empty park bench. Behind it, just above the horizon, the sun shines through mist rising from the surface of Canyon Lake, casting long, soft shadows across the foreground.

The photograph would make a perfect book cover for a bittersweet, slightly eerie novel. If I write that novel, it might start out with the mystery of someone who vanished early one morning 35 years ago and has never been seen since.

Before I think about writing the book, though, I have to find a place to hang the picture.

I want it where I can see it regularly. The logical place, then, would be my office. Except that with the kids’ graduation and wedding pictures, the grandkid’s school pictures, the quilted pinwheel my mother made, the important quotations in calligraphy, the watercolor of the cat, and the calendar and bulletin board that are supposed to keep me organized, I don’t have much wall space left.

The living room? The spaces there are horizontal, and this picture is vertical. The formal living room/dining room? It’s already filled with prints and carpets from the Middle East. Besides, I don’t spend a lot of time in there.

The guest room? Too unused. The bedroom? Well, possibly. Or, an even better idea, I’ll move some of the things on my office walls into the bedroom and the guest room to make room for this photograph. I wouldn’t dare demote the grandchildren, but maybe the cat and some of the calligraphy could go. I’ve been meaning to put some things on the walls in both of the bedrooms, anyway.

But before I do that, I want to paint those rooms. (This involves spackling the holes and cracks in the wall, applying two coats of paint, and then—using the handy-dandy stud finder and laser level I got for Christmas—putting new holes in the wall to hang pictures. I’m sorry if the logic of this escapes you.)

Painting a room isn’t quite as simple as just painting it, of course. There are those busy brown-patterned curtains in the bedroom—it’s long past time they were replaced. And there is the carpet in the guest room, also brown-patterned, that is probably old enough to have voted for Ronald Reagan. I’ve been wanting to pull it up for months, even though I know that will only lead to sanding and refinishing the hardwood floor beneath it.

Then there is the outlet in the guest room that doesn’t work, and the light switch in the bedroom that only works if you give it that extra little tap in just the right place. Hence the electrician.

But it’s okay. I’m certainly not complaining. I’m delighted to have the picture. When Seth wins his first Pulitzer, I can tell people, “Oh, yes, I knew his work before he became famous. I have one of his early photos. It’s marvelous. And it only cost me $1500 and two weeks of hard labor.”

The letter from the cell phone company was tactfully worded. It informed me politely that analog service was being discontinued and I might have “limited signal availability outside of my home service area.”

Or, as the letter might have said, “This is the 21st Century, for crying out loud! Don’t you think it’s about time to drag yourself out of the Dark Ages and get a new phone?”

Okay, okay. I’d been intending to get a new cell phone anyway. Even if my old one was only six or seven years old. Yes, I do understand that, in technology years, seven is ancient. But the phone still worked. I had only dropped it maybe a couple of dozen times, so the surface didn’t have that many dings and cracks. True, jostling around against all the other stuff in my purse for several years had left scratches on the screen, but it was still readable, more or less. Besides, I still hadn’t gotten around to figuring out how to use the speed dial feature. It was always my intention to read the directions someday—assuming that, after all this time, I could remember where I put the manual.

Anyway, I finally bowed to the inevitable and got a new phone. And that’s all it is—a phone. I can’t take pictures with it. I can’t play games on it. It doesn’t flip open to a miniature keyboard so I can send text messages. (I think I could do text messaging on it; I just can’t imagine why I would want to.) I can’t check email on it. I can’t even download umpteen cute ring tones with which to annoy my fellow patrons at the public library.

Much as I hate to admit it, this is a phone for mature adults. The numbers show up on the screen in print large enough for me to see without my reading glasses. The “quick start” manual that came with it is written in a chatty, condescending tone intended for the technologically challenged.

All right, I’ll acknowledge being a mature adult. I’ll even admit that the large print is helpful. But I resent the implication that, because I want a plain and simple phone with which to make old-fashioned phone calls, I am a Luddite. I’m not.

A Luddite is someone who is anti-technology. The term (after a man named Ned Ludd) grew out of the industrial revolution in England in the early 1800’s. Textile workers, their livelihood threatened by new looms and other machines, rioted, attacked factories, and destroyed machinery. As they discovered the hard way (some of them were executed), when it comes to technology, resistance is futile.

I’m certainly no Luddite. True, I did write the first draft of this article with a pen on old-fashioned lined paper. On the other hand, I used to build computers, “with my bare hands,” as a friend puts it. I would give up my laptop and my email only if someone pried my cold, dead fingers off the keyboard. Besides, I just used the Internet to look up “Luddite.”

I’m not anti-technology; I’m just too stubborn to read the directions. But there’s hope—I’ve only had my new cell phone for a week, and I’ve already figured out how to use the speed dial.

Valentine’s Day, apparently, is no longer just for lovers. It isn’t enough merely to get roses or chocolate for your sweetheart. There are so many other “Valentine’s Day Specials” to choose from: the standbys of candy and jewelry, of course, but also heart-shaped pizzas, heart-ornamented boxer shorts, and an overwhelming variety of toys–in any color you like as long as it’s pink. And let’s not forget the plastic frog prince that sings a romantic tune (batteries not included).

One of the ads that caught my eye this week showed a variety of cute little Valentine’s dresses—pink with ruffles, red with white dots, red with cute sayings, and white lace with pink bows. A model, wearing one of the outfits, was posed gazing back over one shoulder at the camera.

The model looked embarrassed. The model was a dog. A little terrier, it was certainly cute enough, although its whiskery little face and jaunty moustache didn’t quite go with the pink ruffles it was wearing.

The doggie dresses—excuse me, the non-gender-or-species-specific items of “pet apparel”—were priced at $6.97 and available in sizes extra-extra small to medium. No large or extra large. At least the manufacturers must have realized that putting a pink ruffled dress on a German Shepherd or a Doberman would be a really, really bad idea.

I don’t know why the idea of special Valentine’s Day clothes for pets should have taken me by surprise. After all, I must admit to having personally forced innocent animals into clothes—and hand-me-down clothes, at that. When we were little, my sisters and I tried from time to time to dress various hapless kittens in our doll clothes.

Some of the more patient kittens would tolerate this fancy-dress indignity for a few minutes, though I don’t remember any of them staying in the doll bed or the wagon where we tried to put them. Some of them—the skinnier or quicker ones—would crawl out of the clothes at the neck faster than we could manage to get their sharp-clawed little feet through the sleeves.

Sometimes one of these reluctant fashion felines would escape and flee into the space under the front porch. Then we would have to either try to coax it out with a scrap of food or just wait around until it decided to come out on its own—and hope it was still wearing the clothes. I’m sure the remains of several decades-old doll dresses could still be found under that porch.

At least, due to my hands-on experience, I understand why the photo in the ad was of a dog and not a cat. My experience also tells me it’s doubtful that the average pet would fully appreciate receiving its own special Valentine’s Day dress.

Of course, if you really wanted to get your pet something special for Valentine’s Day, you could take advantage of the offer that’s been advertised for the last two weeks in front of a local veterinarian’s office. The sign reads: “Special for Lovers—spay or neuter one pet, the second is half price.”

Is it just me, or is this something of a mixed message? Still, you must admit it would be a Valentine’s present of the most personal and intimate kind. And after all, nothing says "I love you" quite like a gift that will last a lifetime.

In my “odd things to write about someday” file, I recently came across an article I had clipped out of the newspaper last year. It described a rock band whose members had been arrested after a concert during which they set their underwear on fire.

You have to admit it’s a change from smashing guitars. I suspect the reason may be economic as much as creative—after all, it’s a lot cheaper to buy a new pair of briefs than to replace a guitar. My favorite part of the item, though, was the indignant quote from one of the band members who was upset about being arrested: “We know what we’re doing—we’re professionals!”

I’m not quite sure just how one becomes a professional at setting one’s underwear on fire. Maybe you have to take a class in order to get your brief-blazing certification. “Undergarment Incineration 105. Prerequisites: Sock Scorching 102 or Tee Shirt Torching 103. Additional fee for protective lab clothing must be paid at business office upon enrollment.”

If there were such a class, just think of the possibilities for the final test. Essay questions, probably, since this would obviously be a liberal arts course.

In 750 to 1000 words, compare and contrast the relative merits of setting one’s underwear on fire before or after removing it. Salient points to consider may include: possible crowd response, the presence or absence of working fire extinguishers, the quantity and distribution of body hair, and any desire on the part of the performer for future procreation.

In 500 to 750 words, discuss the historical role of alcohol and other drugs in underwear-burning rituals. Extra credit will be given to any student who, in an appropriate context and with grammatical correctness, uses “Fruit of the Loom” and “fruit of the vine” in the same sentence.

For extra credit, in 250 words, compare the flammability of nylon, cotton, and Spandex or discuss the advantages and disadvantages of boxers vs. briefs.

Students must cite at least three sources in each answer. AP style required. Full coverage of the topic is expected.

At our house, we shovel snow the old-fashioned way—with shovels. That is, when we shovel at all. We don’t really have any sidewalks, just a short path of flat slate rocks from the front steps to the driveway. Tossing snow off the path is easy enough, though the unevenness of the stones tends to be frustrating for an obsessive, edge-to-edge sidewalk shoveler like myself. I’m never quite sure where to stop.

The driveway is a different matter. It’s long, sloping, and gravel. Clearing snow off a gravel driveway, while wonderful exercise, is a challenging endeavor. Dig too deep, and you’re tossing gravel off to the side along with the snow. Don’t dig deep enough, and you might as well not bother.

As a result, our primary method of snow removal for the driveway is even more old-fashioned: solar energy. This is also known as the “just wait till it melts” approach. It works best when combined with the "we have four-wheel-drive vehicles" technique.

This is all well and good for us, but it can present problems for visitors. My parents and one of my sisters were here recently, in my parents’ car. It has front wheel drive and is small and light—great for fuel economy, but not so great for driving up a snow-packed driveway, as we discovered when it came time for them to leave.

My sister—with years of experience driving in snow—tried first, with no success. My father—with even more years of experience driving in snow—tried several more times but still didn’t quite make it. Then my spouse took his turn. He was the resident expert, after all—he’s coped with this driveway for over 25 years. Finally, with my father in the car with him to add just a bit more weight, they made it nearly to the top.

My sister and I dug out loose gravel (with our bare hands, I must point out) to put under the wheels. Then, with the two men in the front seat, and with my sister and me pushing, we persuaded the car up and forward, inch by inch, until the front wheels finally crept up over the last little ridge of gravel and onto the street.

Which proves, once again, that behind every successful man is a good woman. And sometimes, she has to do a lot of pushing.