Just For Fun

Driving Men to Drink

One of my close friends, a man of mature years, asserts that every woman he has ever met is only interested in one thing: getting men to drink more.

No, this isn’t some sort of gender-reversal seduction plot along the lines of, “Another glass of wine, my dear?” Sorry if any of you got excited there for a minute.

This is about drinking more water.

It’s a scientifically unproven but clearly observable phenomenon that women drink more water than men do. We’re the ones carrying water bottles in our cars and our bags, keeping carafes on our desks, and stopping at the kitchen sink for a quick one before we leave the house. When the server in a restaurant comes by offering “more water?” as a subtle hint (“You’ve been here for two hours, for Pete’s sake; would you just get out of here and let someone else have this table so I might make some decent tips this evening?”), we’re the ones who not only accept the refill but actually drink it.

Every time a man has some sort of health problem, then, whether it’s major or minor, most of the women in his life are likely to ask, “Are you drinking enough water?” And several men of my acquaintance would like to know why.

Well, I know why. And I am about to spill the secret. It’s breaking the women-only code to reveal this, though, so please don’t let anyone know I told you.

Yes, women think drinking more water is good for one’s health. Yes, we want the men in our lives to be healthier. But beneath those genuine concerns, which of course are as pure as bottled water from crystal-clear mountain springs, is a deeper plot.

You’ve noticed, I’m sure, that during intermissions at public events like plays and concerts, the lines at the women’s bathrooms are much longer than those at the men’s bathrooms. This is partly because, for reasons both physiological and fashionable, it takes women longer. It is also because more women, being the heavy drinkers that we are, need to use the facilities more often than men do.

Therefore, if more men drank more water, more men would spend more time standing in line for the men’s room. And fewer men would be leaning against the wall in the lobby, jingling their car keys and looking at their watches, waiting for their wives or dates to get back from the ladies’ room. There would be less eye-rolling and fewer impatient greetings of, “What took you so long?” Having stood in line themselves, they would know exactly what took so long.

There’s nothing like shared experiences to increase understanding and closeness in a relationship. This is the real reason so many women want their men to become heavier drinkers.

Better relationships through equal-opportunity imbibing: now there’s something to celebrate. I think we should all have another drink.

Categories: Food and Drink, Just For Fun | Tags: | 1 Comment

Smart Washing

That Maytag repairman from the old TV ads who never saw anyone because the machines so seldom needed repairs? If he were still around, he’d probably be lonelier than ever.

Not because washers are even more reliable than they used to be (though having just bought a new one, I certainly hope that’s the case). But because repairing today’s washers means knowing as much about electronics and computers as about plumbing and pipe wrenches. And, let’s face it, while the lonely repairman seemed like a really nice guy, he didn’t exactly appear to be a tech wizard.

Our new washer, only one step above the low-end model, is about as basic as washers get these days. Even so, I’m sure it has more computing technology than NASA did when it was sending men to the moon. It’s a very smart washer. And that’s not all. It has opinions. It is strongly committed to preserving the environment, and it is very safety-conscious.

It’s so smart that it doesn’t need me to tell it how big a given load is. In fact, it won’t even allow me to choose “small” or “normal” or “large.” Nope. The machine senses the size of the load and fills itself to the appropriate level and not one teaspoon more, thereby conserving water much more effectively than I, a mere human, could be trusted to do. Presumably, if I put in a load consisting of one washcloth and a pair of socks, the washer would go ahead and run a cycle, using about two and a half cups of water. It would, however, save energy by rinsing them with cold water. Like all new environmentally aware washers, it is not allowed to use warm or hot water in its rinse cycles.

It’s so safety-conscious that it automatically locks the lid as soon as it starts its cycle. According to the salesman at Sears, all washers now are required to do this. Presumably this is to protect me just in case I should start a load of clothes and suddenly realize I left my cell phone in the pocket of my jeans. The washer is afraid I might dash down the stairs, yank open the lid, and plunge both hands into the water before the agitator has stopped spinning, thereby breaking both my arms and leaving myself unable to use my cell phone for six weeks. Which wouldn’t matter all that much, since the phone would have been ruined by then anyway.

While all this is impressive, even intimidating, what I’d really like is a washer so smart it did everything. I would dump all the dirty clothes in a big pile in the middle of the laundry room. The washer would sort them, load them, wash them, put them in the dryer, take them out, and fold them. It would even remember that I fold towels the long way and that I fold my jeans in thirds rather than fourths so they fit in the dresser.

Wouldn’t it be great to have the machine do all that work? This one, unfortunately, doesn’t.

Come to think of it, maybe this washer is even smarter than I thought.

Categories: Just For Fun | Tags: , , , | 3 Comments

“Would You Like Service With That?”

“That’s an interesting tattoo,” she said. “What is it?”

He smiled, unbuttoned one more shirt button so she could get a better look, and explained the symbolism behind the image decorating his upper chest.

Sorry if you were expecting something a little racier, but this isn’t the beginning of a short story featuring a hookup in a singles bar. It’s just the description of a family dinner out at a nice restaurant.

The tattooed guy was one of our relatives, visiting for a few days. The tattoo fan was our waitress.

This restaurant is considered one of the best ones in town. Its chef is from Europe (or maybe New Orleans, or Omaha. I don’t remember exactly. Anyway, someplace distant enough that he can safely be considered an imported expert.) Its atmosphere is subdued. Its ambiance is sophisticated. Its food is generally excellent. Its prices reflect its high opinion of itself. Its service, however, can be a trifle inconsistent.

On this particular evening, the waitress was attentive, friendly, and immediately responsive—to our guest. She stopped by several times to make sure his entree was prepared to his satisfaction. She refilled his glass. She offered more bread. She made conversation. To be blunt, she flirted. To be fair, he flirted right back.

And the two of us on the other side of the booth from our guest? Our meat might have been undercooked, our salads might have had caterpillars in them, our glasses might have been empty. She didn’t seem to care. She never checked on our entrees or offered us more bread or asked about our tattoos. It was as if we didn’t exist.

At first this was amusing. As the meal progressed, it became less entertaining. In order to get my water glass replenished, I practically had to crawl across the table to grab her sleeve and beg. By the time I got a refill, I felt like one of those cartoons of a parched traveler stranded in the desert.

She was still friendly and flirtatious—to our guest—at the end of the meal when she brought the bill. She laid it beside him. Tactfully, I waited till her back was turned before I reached for it.

As I signed the ticket, I hesitated over the line marked “tip.” I finally decided there wasn’t room to write in the real tip I had for her: “Before you fawn over one guy and ignore the rest of the table, try to make sure he’s the one picking up the check.”

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How High’s The Water?

Random things I learned this week:

1. A washing machine has a valve for the purpose of shutting off the water when the tub has filled to the proper level. This is a mechanical device. It can fail. It sometimes does.

2. There are formulas for determining how much water per second pours out of an overflowing washer and how many gallons of water are required to fill a bathroom floor to a depth of one inch. When you’re busy mopping up water, you don’t care about these formulas.

3. Two flat-sided plastic bowls meant to store leftovers, one in each hand, are surprisingly effective tools for scooping up water from a vinyl floor.

4. A sponge mop and a large hand-held natural sponge, each capable of soaking up a pint or so of water, are useful items no household should be without.

5. Once a bathroom floor fills to a certain level, water will seep through the wall into the adjacent storage room. When there are two boxes of important papers and two boxes of rock samples against that wall, the law of inevitable consequences insures that the boxes of papers will be in the direct path of the water while the boxes of rocks stay high and dry.

6. The roughly 30-inch by 30-inch area of nice carpet just outside the door of a flooded bathroom can hold an astonishing amount of water.

7. Pressing this water out of the carpet can require all the old towels from the rag bag, all the dirty towels that had been intended for the next load of laundry, and several clean towels. (Household hint: use the dark ones first.)

8. Once the water is soaked up, what do you do with a pile of waterlogged towels? Why, toss them into the washing machine, of course. Um—never mind.

9. When someone has had a skin cancer removed from his forehead, he is sent home with a list of care instructions. Oddly enough, mopping up water and moving heavy boxes of stuff to drier ground are not on that list as recommended activities.

10. When the writer of a weekly blog post is scrounging for a topic, she may hope something out of the ordinary will happen. The writer should be careful what she wishes for.

Categories: Just For Fun, Odds and Ends | Tags: , | 2 Comments

Questions to Ponder While Weeding the Garden

Questions that only occur to curious minds during the summer:

1. If scientists ever discovered a significant use for dandelions and thistles–biofuel, maybe, or a cure for cancer–which turned them into valuable commercial crops, would they suddenly become hard to grow?

2. Why is it that, no matter when you schedule a summer trip, that week turns out to be the precise time that the tomatoes ripen?

3. Do all those other people in the produce department thumping the melons really know how to tell when a watermelon is ripe, or are they just faking it the same way you are?

4. Isn’t it useful that corn on the cob comes with those little threads of silk? It’s so convenient, while you munch your way down the rows of kernels, to be able to floss your teeth at the same time.

5. And perhaps the most troubling question: Where do fruit flies come from? You have some peaches or plums or bananas on the counter, ripening quickly in the summer heat. Then one day you walk into the kitchen and see a cloud of tiny flies, darting in erratic circles like drunken ultralight pilots, spending their brief lives buzzed on overdoses of fructose.

Obviously, the flies hatched out of eggs. But the question that’s almost as annoying as the flies is, “Where did the eggs come from?” Were they inside the window frames? Had they been hidden for months in miniscule crevices and crannies of your apparently clean counter, until they were awakened by the seductive scent of overripe fruit?

Or, even worse, did they come with the fruit? Maybe they were right there all along, on the skins of the peaches or the peels of the bananas. It’s possible that, over the years, thousands of unknowing vegetarians have been supplementing their diets with secret insect protein they never knew they were eating.

Eeeew.

Excuse me for a minute; I need to go wash some plums and peaches. With bleach.

Categories: Food and Drink, Just For Fun | Tags: , , , | 2 Comments

Why Did the Chicken Cross . . .

. . . spurs with the city council?

Well, actually, I don’t think most of the council members are all that cross with chickens. I bet they’re tired of hearing about them, though. Rapid City is having another debate about whether to allow people to keep a few chickens in their back yards.

Speaking as someone who is not a fan of chickens until they are safely beheaded, plucked, processed, and cooked (all of the aforementioned, preferably, done by someone else), you’d think I would be on the anti-chicken side of this argument.

Not so. If my neighbors want to have a handful of chickens in a coop in their yard, I don’t care. My objection to chickens wanes considerably when I’m not the one who has to feed them, gather their eggs, or help pluck them.

Besides, if the neighbors have chickens, the neighbors will have eggs. Possibly, even, extra eggs. I’m not proud. I’m willing to be a hypocrite if it gets me fresh-laid eggs now and then.

However, amid all the clucking and squawking about chickens, pro and con, I do agree with those who insist that chicken coops need to be well-constructed and secure. I don’t want a bunch of stray chickens attracting stray skunks, coyotes, and mountain lions who might be tired of venison.

I especially agree with the person who pointed out in our local paper that all the chicken coops need to be built with two doors.

Because if they had four doors, they wouldn’t be chicken coupes. They would be chicken sedans.

(Sorry. Sometimes when you scrape the very bottom of the idea barrel, all you come up with is chicken manure.)

Categories: Just For Fun, Wild Things | Tags: , | 2 Comments

House Guests, Mutant Mushrooms, and the Prime Directive

Warning: If there is a possibility that you may be an overnight guest in my house in the near future, it might be a good idea to skip this.

Okay, I tried. You’ve been warned. It’s not my fault if you’re still here.

At least it’s you, and not the intergalactic police force from the United Federation of Planets. Before they show up to arrest me and haul me off to some remote prison planet, I might as well confess and get it over with.

I have violated Star Trek’s Prime Directive. I have broken this crucial law which forbids interference with alien civilizations.

What I interfered with was alien, all right, though I’m not sure it could accurately be described as “civilization.” The word “culture” certainly fit, though. That’s culture as in “stuff growing in a Petri dish,” rather than culture as in “going to the opera.”

It all started with house guests. Not, let me hasten to add, that I have ever had house guests that could be described as “alien.” Well, there was that one guy. . . . He wasn’t a relative, though.

One of my most recent house guests happened to be at the sink in the downstairs bathroom while I was in the shower in the upstairs bathroom. When we met at the breakfast table a short time later, he told me he had been dripped on.

Yep, there was a leak, all right. The plumber came two days later, took apart the faucet in the upstairs shower, and discovered that it had been leaking inside the wall for a long time. The two-by-fours were spotted with yucky black stuff, and the whole thing smelled like the kind of basement you don’t want to go into even with the lights on.

After he fixed the leak, the plumber recommended bleach. Use a fan to dry out the wet area, he said, then apply generous amounts of one part chlorine bleach to three parts water and dry it out again.

The first time I did this, I thought the odd clumps of tannish stuff on the two-by-fours were bits of wood and sawdust left inside the wall by various plumbers and carpenters.

The second time I bleached it, I was wearing my reading glasses. Big mistake. It allowed me to see that those clumps were something living that had grown there. They were some sort of fungi or mutant mushroom. Alien life forms, for sure.

Did I call in a mycologist to identify them? Did I apply for a National Science Foundation grant to study them? Did I at least scrape some of them into a baggie for possible drying and smoking?

Nope. I doused the little critters with bleach. Not only did I interfere with that particular alien culture, I did my best to destroy it.

Maybe, by not eating or smoking them, I missed an opportunity for enlightenment. Never mind. Breathing the bleach fumes is hallucinogenic enough. If you were planning on visiting any time soon, I’d recommend waiting till the aura of chlorine has dissipated.

Besides, by the time I bleach the afflicted area, dry it out, and pay the plumber, I will have gained valuable insight and wisdom anyway. To wit: A little plumbing leak, ignored long enough, will grow into a bigger plumbing leak. That’s quite enough enlightenment for one week.

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Mother’s Day for the Practical Woman

Anybody who thinks women are more romantic and sentimental than men has never been a woman. Or at least has never been a woman in my family.

Oh, we like getting flowers, and we definitely like getting chocolate. Some of us, I’m sure, have shed a tear at the end of Lord of the Rings or Charlotte’s Web. But all in all, we approach life in a practical way. I suspect there are plenty of others out there just like us. You might be a Practical-Minded Woman yourself if:

• You have ever served leftovers to invited dinner guests.

• You have ever worn snow boots with an evening dress.

• There is at least one tissue in the pocket of every jacket you own.

• You own a pair of insulated coveralls. (Extra points if you’ve ever been whistled at while wearing them.)

• You have a frequent-shopper card at the hardware store.

• You have never owned a pair of shoes with heels higher than two inches.

• You have a multi-purpose tool in the glove compartment of your car, and you’ve actually used it.

• You see an attractive guy in a Corvette and think, “Hmm. . . I wonder where he puts the groceries.”

• The only silk underwear you own is long and came from a sporting goods store.

• You have ever worn long underwear on a date.

• You think the pretty scented candle on your nightstand would be handy in case of a power outage.

• Your favorite poet is Dr. Seuss.

• You’ve ever wrapped a gift with newspaper or duct tape. (Extra points if you’ve used them together.)

Happy Practical Mother’s Day.

Categories: Just For Fun | 3 Comments

Paying Attention to What’s Behind the Curtain

In the interest of furthering the study of human behavior, here’s a scientific survey question for you:

Suppose you were traveling and had stopped in a small town for lunch. The restaurant was a pizza place/coffee shop/sandwich shop with knickknacks for sale in one corner, obviously doing its best to stay in business. Its home was an old building that had clearly seen various enterprises come and go in its lifetime.

Suppose, in this old building, the restroom was in the back. Way in the back. To use the facilities, you walked down a dim hallway, reassured that you were on the right track by a paper sign with a hand-drawn arrow. You turned right, crossed a corner of the kitchen, and found your destination.

It certainly didn’t look like a public facility, except for the “Restroom” sign on the door. Inside, it was much like the bathroom in someone’s home, with not only the basics of stool and sink but also a bathtub covered with a shower curtain.

With that necessary background, here’s the survey question:

Did you look behind the shower curtain?

I did. Of course. How could anyone not peek?

I was surprised then, when my traveling companion’s response to this query was, “What shower curtain?” In defense of his lack of curiosity—a failure to observe that was really quite shocking in a man who has devoted his career to science—he said, “I was a man on a mission.”

Obviously more research was and is required. So far I’ve asked one other person, who happens to be female. She said, “Of course I’d look.” She didn’t think her husband would look, though he wasn’t available to ask.

So all this did was raise another question: Is peeking or not peeking gender-related?

If it is, then is that due to psychological factors? Maybe women are more hyper-vigilant in unfamiliar surroundings and hence more likely to check potential hiding places. Maybe women are more observant, or more curious.

Or maybe the difference—if there is one—is physical. A man who is “on a mission” might be preoccupied with necessary details like aiming and accuracy. A woman who is sitting may have more chance to observe her surroundings and more time to look behind any curtains that happen to be at hand.

It’s also possible, I suppose, that a writer is just inherently nosier than a geologist.

But these are merely suppositions and can’t possibly be validated or disproven without much more data. So I need some input. Would you have looked behind the curtain?

Oh, you want to know what was back there? Sorry, no naked lady. No lurking criminal. No dead body. Just a bunch of paint cans and cleaning supplies.

But if I hadn’t looked, I would have never known.

Categories: Just For Fun, Travel | 4 Comments

Going for the Goal

For those of you who care about the significant international issues of the day, here is an update from my source in Istanbul and Amsterdam. Today’s report concerns an issue of great importance to the traveling public—the latest in sanitation technology.

In other words, they’ve been upgrading the urinals at the airports again.

We reported previously on the “imbedded fly” strategy that, by providing a target for precision aiming, supposedly increased the cleanliness of men’s rooms at Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport by 80%.

Now, according to my source, flies are being replaced by golf holes. Not literal holes, just strategically placed images in the porcelain. The picture of the golf cup, complete with little flag, provides what presumably is a more appealing target than a fly. At least for certain users. It seems to me that the younger ones—from about age eight to, say, 35—might find the fly more fun.

In Turkey, however, the technology has been taken one step further. My source did not experience this personally. However, he saw it on Turkish television, where it was a featured news story for several days.

It’s the “soccer goal” strategy. This features a moving target—a little red soccer ball that a precisely-directed stream of, er, ammunition can actually push toward a fixed image of a goal so the shooter scores a point. Presumably the real goal is improved restroom sanitation. This could backfire, I suppose, if the scoring player throws both arms into the air and shouts “Goal!”

Not only is this a major technological breakthrough, but it could be a hit all over the world, especially in bars. “I need another beer—I haven’t scored a goal yet, and I’m out of ammunition.” Just imagine the impact on beer sales. There are even possibilities for competitions to supplement games of darts and pool. A reality show is just waiting to happen here, folks.

There is even a benefit here for women. For years we’ve been complaining about the inequities in public restrooms. Women always have to wait longer. At a concert, for example, when the lights come up for intermission she’d better be out of her seat and making a mad dash or she’s going to spend the whole interval waiting in line. Meanwhile, he has ample time to stroll about the lobby, get a drink, chat to friends, or lounge in his seat reading the fine print in the program.

If the whole soccer-ball thing catches on, that could be reversed. She might be the one waiting for him. “Sorry to take so long, honey. I just had to finish the game.”

 

Categories: Just For Fun, Travel | 1 Comment

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