The Delicate Cycle — An Adventure Story

Oh, what a tangled web we weave,

When from the washer we retrieve,

A mass of bra straps we believe,

Will never come undone.

It’s push and pull and in and out,

Your sanity is now in doubt,

From deep inside a mournful shout,

“Why won’t you come undone?!”

The hardest puzzle known to man,

Is this conundrum in your hand,

Of nylon and elastic band,

That just won’t come undone.

There must be half a dozen here,

As segments show then disappear.

Unwinding them it seems quite clear,

It should just come undone.

You stop and then you start again,

It just can’t be that hard—and then—

A knot comes loose and that is when,

It might just come undone.

For help divine you say a prayer,

To part you from this underwear,

Then in the depths of your despair,

“Thank God, it came undone!”

You pump your fist and raise your hand,

Your quarry flutters to the sand,

Sweet victory was right in hand,

But now must be redone.

Insomnia

"Insomnia is God's way of letting you know you've ticked him off."

--- Anonymous ---

I’m not sure why, but for whatever reason I had a really hard time getting to sleep last Monday night.  It’s winter here in northern Michigan.  We’d had a lot of snow and I had worked hard that day.  I was tired.  I got into a bed preheated by an electric blanket about 11:00 P.M.  And there I was.

Blink, blink.  Too hot:  Turn off the blanket.  Blink, blink.  Midnight:  Rotate right and kick off one more cover.  Blink, blink.  Twelve-thirty:  Rotate left and put that cover back on — too cold.  Blink, blink.

At 1:30 A.M. I got up and headed to the bathroom and noticed my neighbor had left his floodlight on.  Now this light doesn’t really shine directly into my bedroom, but when you’re tired and can’t sleep, any light — real or imagined — is like a searchlight from a used car lot.  You convince yourself that light is shining directly into your eyes. 

Back to bed.  Blink, blink.  Damn light !

Three A.M.:  That same light is now coming through a different window.  How does that work?

Blink, blink !

Somewhere around 3:30 A.M. I must have dozed off.  And at 4:00 A.M.:  Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep !  Smoke alarm?  Carbon monoxide detector?  Alarm clock?  What?  Oh, for God’s sake, it’s the snowplows in the restaurant parking lot.

Blink, blink, blink !!

Four-forty A.M.:  Close your eyes.  The snowplows are gone.

Four-fifty A.M.:  Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep !  The snowplows are now plowing snow from the street in front of my house.

Blink, blink, blink, blink !!!

Six A.M.:  Wide awake.  Oh, forget it!  Just get up and get the newspaper.

So I did that.  Right after I dug it out of the driveway the snowplows filled in for me.

Christmas Etiquette — Who Knew?

A couple days ago there was a segment on national television featuring an expert on Christmas etiquette.  Up to that point I was unaware there was a calling for a person in that capacity.  But it was elucidating.  Had I not been watching I may never have learned that it is ostentatious, gauche, and contrary to good breeding to display all of your Christmas cards.  I did not know that.  The last thing I want is to be perceived as pretentious.  So, I immediately took down one of our two cards.

Decorating the Christmas Tree

While decorating the tree today I started my lights at the top.

After string twenty-three,

I could readily see,

There were more than enough.  I could stop.

So I plugged in the lights I had worked on all day to see how they looked just for fun.

I was sure I could quit,

Cause everyone lit.

Except, of course, string number one.

I brought back the ladder and climbed up the steps to test both the fuses

in-line.

I started to think,

That the lights were the link,

Since both of the fuses were fine.

Then I spent three more hours while awkwardly balanced replacing each lamp on the string.

When I got to the end,

I could not comprehend,

That I hadn’t accomplished a thing.

I was tired and perplexed after all of my efforts and frustrated right to the core.

But, I calmed myself down,

And turning around,

Pitched the tree through the sliding glass door.

Copyright © 2010 by David Mertz

Christmas with the Phelons

There are few things more loathsome than those family letters that accompany Christmas cards.  Most often written in the third person by some erstwhile relative with a deluded self-belief in his or her writing and parenting skills, they tell tales ad nauseam of the past 365 days for each individual family member while holding you hostage to things you don’t care about anyway.  Opening an otherwise innocuous card and having one of these paper bombs fall out is like having an uninvited guest that just won’t leave.  Over the years I have learned that receiving mail at home is not that dissimilar to that of a work environment.  To be efficient in any office setting the goal is to “touch paper once.”  And to that end I now stand directly over the crosscut shredder when opening certain cards.

So, here’s the letter I’m sending with each card this Christmas:

Dear family and friends,

This past year has been an especially good one for the Phelon family.

We got cable TV at our house this year.  Brother Bobby hooked it up all by himself.  I tend to worry too much, but I just couldn’t look when he was all the way up that pole.  Bobby’s proof positive that you can learn something useful from your time in jail.  He’s pretty sure he can save us some money on our telephone and gas bills, too.

Oldest brother Tom got in a bit of a pickle earlier this year.  I feel like I’m partly to blame.  See, I told him I thought he could make good money taking pictures.  But when I saw him come back from that art gallery with his arms full, I was pretty sure he misunderstood.  Of course you know what a kidder our Tommy is.  At his hearing he admitted what he did, but said he was framed.  The judge didn’t think it was funny but only added an extra year to his probation.  So, we’re thankful for that.

Youngest sister Brandy graduated from eighth grade this year after three tries. That’s a record for our family and we’re so proud of her because her counselor told her they figure they’ve taught her everything they could.  She’s definitely going places.

The twins are doing a lot better this year.  Most of their hair has grown back after that freak accident playing “Flamethrower” with the charcoal lighter.  I still think there should be better warning labels on those cans.  Somebody could really get hurt.

Cousin Tracy has come to live with us for a while.  My brother says she’s been hanging around with the wrong crowd and thinks that spending some time with a stable family will do her a lot of good.  We’re just happy to help.

Big news about our daddy, Jim.  After being out of work for the past nine years, Jim took a correspondence course on electronics repair.  He says there’s hardly anyone out there that can fix 8-track players.  Now, he’s just waiting for the phone to ring.

As for me, I just can’t believe how much money I’ve won from lotteries in Nigeria.  Funny thing is, I don’t remember entering any of them.  They just keep sending me checks and I keep cashing them.  Merry Christmas, me!

Wishing you all the blessings that we have,

The Phelons


Copyright © 2010 by David Mertz

Grammarcide — Murdering the King's English

Grammar, pronunciation, and enunciation are like the trifecta of linguistics and phonetics and if anybody is going to make a mess of it, leave it to Americans.  When it comes to English we’re sloppy, careless, and content with the fact there are no consequences for mangling our own language.

November 15 signals the start of firearms deer season in Michigan.  Every hunter buys a license, buys a rifle, buys ammunition, and proceeds to sell his grammatical soul to deerspeak for that period of time.  If you are within earshot of any two people dressed in plaid shirts and orange hats you will inescapably hear one say to the other about his day in the woods “…And then I seen ‘em.  And they was lookin’ and lookin’.”  And if you wonder, “What’s wrong with that?”, you’re obviously a deer hunter.  The remarkable thing is that this exchange is always comprised of that precise wording.  It’s like a pledge of allegiance taken at the time of licensure — ‘…and then I seen ‘em’ — or a secret handshake — ‘…and they was lookin’ and lookin.’  And it transcends genders, socioeconomic groups, and all levels of intelligence.  If William F. Buckley were alive and a deer hunter, for two weeks in Michigan he would succumb and say, 

“…And then I seen em.  And they was lookin’ and lookin’.”  Mercifully for most afflicted — and all the rest of us — this impermanent condition reverses itself on December 1.

I’m pretty sure that anymore to get a job in television news you need a college degree in communication, broadcast journalism, or broadcast news.  And I’m also pretty sure a degree of that kind requires a fair amount of English.  And yet from local news stations all the way to national network news, seemingly no one can properly pronounce February.  It’s not Feb-yoo-airy or Feb-er-airy.  It’s Feb-roo-airy.  And it doesn’t help that some spineless dictionaries now deem the pejorative Feb-yoo-airy an acceptable pronunciation using the rationale, “if you can’t beat em’, join em.’”  Why don’t we just jerk out that second “r” instead or say that the second “r” is actually silent?  To get a degree that allows you to speak on-air in front of thousands of people there ought to be an oral twelve-question final exam requiring a score of 100 percent.  I know eleven out of twelve ordinarily isn’t bad.  That’s 92% and would get you an “A” on almost any exam.  But, tough!  Say all twelve properly or you don’t graduate.  And if somehow someone sneaks through, the onus is on human resources to retest that job applicant.  Can’t say all twelve?  Next!  It’s not Feb-yoo-airy!  Like fingernails on a blackboard.

If you slur your words, run words together, or routinely invoke relaxed pronunciation you may find a promising career as an on-air weather forecaster.  In fact meteorologist actually means mumbler.  If you can’t enunciate the word meteorologist, you are well on your way to being one.  Again, it seems to me that you have to be a graduate from an accredited university and, as part of the curriculum, been required to have above average public speaking skills.  So, at what point do the wheels fall off?  Because they do.  What should be information clearly articulated and easily understood ends up essentially unintelligible.  Case in point:  “Looking at the six-uh-ten-day forecast, purr-ee normal.  Tem-uh-churz will problee be in the high thur-eez tuh low for-eez from Cal-ak to 

Buh-doz-ghee with a buh-den-shul for skah-urd shars on Sah-ur-day.”  Which in English means, “Looking at the six-to-ten-day forecast, pretty normal.  Temperatures will probably be in the high thirties to low forties from Cadillac to Petoskey with a potential for scattered showers on Saturday.”  Perfect.  Like hair on soap.

Handyman Tales — Volume 1

I have a talent for fixing things — a wide variety of things — that many others don’t.  I don’t know how you come by some of this knowledge.  All of a sudden it’s just there sometimes.  My neighbors know that about me.  These folks are intelligent people, but occasionally everybody needs a hand.  Either they don’t know how to fix something, don’t want to be bothered fixing something, or they have spent so much time trying to fix something it just makes sense to let someone else have a whack at it.  That’s where I come in — the neighborhood handyman.  I love being a handyman.  And the ultimate goal of any handyman worth his salt is to fix the unfixable.

And so, I got a call from one of my neighbors who had just returned from a trip to find that he had an issue with his refrigerator.  Not wanting to admit defeat, and not wanting to spend the big bucks on a service call, he had tried for hours to find the cure.  Finally in an act of concession (and under a whole lot of spousal pressure) he asked for my expertise.  Again, he’s not stupid.  I’m a whole lot cheaper than the appliance repairperson.

When I got there he explained each step he had taken to resolve his issue and I listened carefully.  All logical actions.  Some fixes are simple and some are complicated.  I like the ones that check my abilities — test my mettle.  So, upon completion of this task beyond normal intelligence, I wrote the following Limerick:

I once got a call from a client,

Whose Sub-Zero wasn’t compliant.

It wasn’t before.

But inside the door,

He found that his light was defiant.

The tester I took from my pocket,

Confirmed there was power to the socket.

This "puzzle obscure,"

Was for no amateur.

It was my job to finally unlock it.

I said that I might have a clue.

At least one that I thought I’d pursue.

A twist to the right,

And on came the light.

Problem solved without further ado.

The "Older Driver" — A Primer

“If you can’t turn your head in the direction you want to travel, don’t travel in that direction.”

---Anonymous--- 

It seems to me when you gather with friends or enter a room filled with scintillating conversation, you can’t swing a dead cat around without hitting on an exchange of thoughts about the older driver.  So, having studied the subject for a number of years, I thought it would be helpful to provide a guidebook based on my best-selling publication, The Older Driver for Dummies.

First we have to provide a definition of the “Older Driver.”  The answer is surprisingly simple.  An “Older Driver” is anyone who operates a vehicle that is older than you are.

Now that we have an “Older Driver,” we have to provide a framework to determine what constitutes an “Older Driver Vehicle.”  Qualifying vehicles tend to change over time, gaining or losing status.   Fortunately there are national standards that are updated regularly and available free of charge on the Internet.  Therefore it is recommended that the official standings be consulted prior to branding a vehicle as an “Older Driver Vehicle.”  Those meeting the criteria are listed in direct proportion to the number of points accumulated.  Currently the overwhelming frontrunner is the Buick LeSabre.  Other vehicles making the cut are the Ford Crown Victoria, Mercury Grand Marquis, and Cadillac Coupe DeVille, along with the LeSabre’s brethren, the Park Avenue, LaCrosse, Lucerne, and the ever-popular Roadmaster.  Grandfathered into the list are vehicles such as the Chrysler Imperial, Studebaker Lark, and any Cadillac with fins.  So, based on this analysis, the mere presence of a Buick LeSabre would clearly predict an “Older Driver” is within striking distance. 

Each “Older Driver Vehicle” is equipped with all the safety equipment afforded a conventional vehicle even though the “Older Driver” does not use some of them, such as turn signals and seat belts.  The significant mechanical difference is the ODV must be specially fitted with a governor restricting its speed to no more than ten miles per hour less than the existing speed limit.  Acceptable after-market accessories are baseball style caps clearly visible in the rear window depicting any police agency or naval vessel.

Recognizing “Older Drivers” can be based in part on physical attributes.  From the front, they often cannot be seen above the steering wheel.  From the rear, they often cannot be seen above the headrest.  From the side…Well, you get the idea.  Observation of enormous wrap-around horse blinder sunglasses incongruent to the size of the face is a strong indicator of an OD.  And finally, as with any gang, the “flying of colors” should peak your interest.  Any male dressed completely in beige should be suspect.

Driving abilities — or lack thereof — is also helpful in the identification process.  For instance:

• The OD only uses his turn signal when it accidently catches on the sleeve of his Barracuda jacket.
•  “Older Drivers” always stop at traffic signals, — whether red or green — and remain there unfettered for one or more cycles.
•  Whether parallel parking or parking between lines, the OD is secure in his belief that wherever the wheels stop is close enough.
• For better or worse the "Older Driver" takes comfort in the fact that he has a 50/50 chance of stepping on the correct pedal.

 Inevitably during the course of these conversations mentioned at the beginning, the question always arises, “When should an older driver lose his driving privileges?”  Since the wisdom of the Driver Licensing Bureaus of the collective fifty states has failed to address this very point, it would appear this is far too difficult to answer.  But, I’d like to try.

The first time an undersized, beiged-up man older than you with large sunglasses and a Barracuda jacket drives his Buick LeSabre at least half way through the local Wal-Mart, jerk his license.

Full-Contact Grocery Shopping

As an adult male I’m somewhat of an anomaly in that I really like to shop.  I even like to grocery shop.  But earlier this week at the supermarket something went horribly wrong.  I had the list ready.  It was a beautiful autumn day.  And I was in a fine mood.

When I shop I like to park as far away from other vehicles as possible.  Not only do you risk having your doors dinged and bumpers bruised but you are at the mercy of those discourteous souls who wouldn’t dream of leaving their pet untethered, but for some inexplicable reason release their shopping carts to the powers of the wind and gravity rather than take the extra twenty steps to the cart coral.  These carts can’t find their own way home but they know exactly where to find my car — every time.  It’s why they sell rubbing compound at grocery stores.

Feeling secure with my spot half a town away, I got out of my car carrying my returnable bottles and at my feet was a shiny dime.  My lucky day!

Meijer, the largest supermarket in town, was recently remodeled with outdoor access to a dedicated bottle return facility.  Multiple state-of-the-art receptacles line the walls just waiting to accept your empties on their kelly green conveyors while scanning the barcode, all without human intervention.  It was all going swimmingly until I came to the final six bottles.  As the belt returned the first bottle of Bell’s Third Coast Beer, the screen alerted me “This Brand Not Sold Here.”  Since I had just purchased the beer at this store the previous week I tried two different machines.  “This Brand Not Sold Here.”  With no attendant present and a firm grasp of Albert Einstein’s definition of insanity, I decided to take it in stride, grab my bottle return receipt for $4.30 and get on with my grocery shopping.  Besides, with my lucky dime, I was really out only fifty cents.  Shake it off.  Onward to the main entrance.

I absolutely detest those large shopping carts.  Nothing can be worse.  I never need that many groceries and I always feel like I’m maneuvering a motor home through Smallville.  When I grocery shop I always look for the small shopping carts.  It’s a bit like a mushroom hunt though.  Seemingly everybody’s looking for one and there aren’t that many to be had.  And this is where my happy thoughts began to fade.  Out of one eye I spied a single small cart in a herd of dozens of monster carts.  Out of the other eye, an elderly woman similarly focused on me and said same cart.  No contest, right?  OK, in my defense she was deceptively quick.  Something made me think about that old Seinfeld episode with the last marble rye but I pushed that out of my mind.  Perspective.  Still without a cart and none to be found inside at either entrance, I returned to the parking lot and found a whole cart coral of them.  It must be great sport.

First on my list was yogurt.  Unbeknownst to me yogurt was on sale and turning the corner I thought, “Holy Mother of God!”  A Yoplait feeding frenzy was taking place right before my eyes.  Oh, the humanity.  I have since learned that the only thing that rivals a yogurt scrum is a sale on canned soup.  There was blood in the water and Harvest Peach on the floor.  Having long arms is particularly handy at times like these and I decided to wade into the fray desperately hoping no one would steal my small cart.  I had just clenched my hand around three possible candidates when an aggressive senior in a souped-up power chair plowed in – running over my foot .  Once going forward and once backing up.  Now in serious pain and having dropped one of my three conquests, I ran to daylight.  The two yogurts were not what I wanted, but they’d have to do.  Lick your wounds and move on.

Making my next turn I ran smack dab into a major case of aisle rage.  Vendors had half the aisle closed restocking.  A combination of small and large carts were tangled together and unable to get past.  And it was then that I realized I was wrong that nothing could be worse than a large cart.  Because in the middle of this traffic jamb was a super cart.  The basket is the same size as a large cart, but directly behind are living quarters for the four-or-so kids that were hanging off the sides.  It’s the double-bottom trailer of shopping carts.  The language that was flying prompted me to search for what was within reach in case I had to defend myself.  I finally settled on canned tuna.  They’re small, can inflict a fair amount of pain, and my rotator cuff isn’t what it used to be.  Luckily I was able to slip out unnoticed but I had lost my enthusiasm for shopping and headed to the checkout.  Not much longer.

I did not learn my lesson and waited in line for the self-checkout with my two containers of yogurt.  I watched as items failed to scan correctly, customers suffered from pilot error and attendants were called over for liquor purchases.  Finally my turn arrived and I scanned my two items sending them down the conveyor belt.  I paid little attention to the final tally and fed cash into the machine.  Grabbing my receipt I finally realized my items had obviously rung up incorrectly and I summoned a nearby attendant much to the chagrin of the dozen or so people who were waiting for my checkout.  I said, “I thought yogurt was on sale.”  She said, “It is sir, but not the Thick and Creamy.  Would you like to wait here while I get someone to exchange it for you?”  I didn’t even have to look.  I felt every pair of eyes boring holes in the back of my head and I knew I would never make it out of the store alive.  “No, thank you.”  Get the hell out of here!

The walk back to the car gave me a chance to cool off until I realized, out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, someone had parked right next to me.  I mean a pregnant squirrel couldn’t make it between the cars.  My driver’s door was right even with the passenger door of the close-parker.  With no chance to get in the driver’s door I got in the passenger side and slithered over the console.  Behind the wheel I took a deep breath and placed my purchase on the passenger seat only to find I had dragged someone’s fresh Bazooka along with me.  What else could possibly go wrong?  And as I reached into my pocket for the ignition key, I pulled out the returnable bottle receipt.

Testing the Depth of the Water with Both Feet

Jeff Daniels, a fellow Michiganian, is a well-known and very talented actor having been in dozens of movies including Terms of Endearment.  What many people don’t know is that he is an accomplished guitarist, songwriter and singer who performs a terrific one-man show.  He plays and sings his own compositions while entertaining the crowd with humorous personal anecdotes.  A few years ago I attended An Evening with Jeff Daniels during which he explained to the audience what encouraged him and gave him the confidence to play the guitar and sing in front of a crowd.  He wrote a song about that — If William Shatner Can Do It, I Can Too.

Back in 2003 Charles Barkley published a book titled I May Be Wrong But I Doubt It.  I have my own doubts whether Sir Charles actually wrote any of it and, in all honesty, I never read the book.  I thought it was pretty much a given that the title predicted the content and what I liked was the title and the confidence that it took to believe that anybody would even care about what he had to say.

So starting up this blog, what on God’s green earth makes me think that anybody might pay attention to anything I have to say?  And then I think, If Charles Barkley Can Do It, I Can Too. 

Besides that, CBS desperately needs to give Andy Rooney the soft boot and I'm available.  But we may visit that later.