Weigh Your Head; Lose Weight

Here’s an e-mail conversation between my sister and me regarding a scientific theory that I postulated and subsequently neglected.

Hypothesis: Full Body Weight minus Weight of Head = True Body Weight

Original Message -----
From: Jennifer
To: Gail
Sent: Friday, August 18, 2006 9:53 AM
Subject: WEIGHING YOUR HEAD

Did you ever find out how much your head weighs? Didn't you try to weigh it on your scale? One of the guys at work says you can't do that!

-----Original Message-----
From: Gail
Sent: Friday, August 18, 2006 10:58 AM
To: Jennifer
Subject: Re: WEIGHING YOUR HEAD

I've been talking to Mom on the phone so I haven't been able to respond to this very important issue.

Well, I started thinking about this when the kid on Jerry MaGuire said that the average human head weighs eight pounds. I don't think mine weighs that much. I wanted to find this out because I think that I (and other people as well) should be able to subtract the weight of our heads from our total body weight. Jack and I got into a discussion about this, because I also wanted to subtract the weight of the hands and feet. My argument is that the hands and feet aren't typically fat unless you are morbidly obese. He thought that was going too far. Anyway, I think I did try to weigh my head by lying on the floor and resting it on the scales. I can't remember how much it weighed, but it probably weighs a bit more now. The weight was probably pretty accurate, at least approximate, so I disagree with your friend that this can't be done.

Granted, you have to put yourself in a compromising position because someone has to stand over you to look at the scales, giving them the opportunity to stomp your head like a bean pot. Sure, you have to try and relax like you're putting your head on a pillow so that you don’t add weight by putting pressure on the scale and a more accurate reading could be obtained by beheading yourself, but then you wouldn't have to worry about your weight ever again, so what's the point? That's my story and I'm sticking to it.


From: Jennifer
To: Gail
Sent: Friday, August 18, 2006 11:14 AM
Subject: RE: WEIGHING YOUR HEAD

That cracks me up. I never thought about the fact that you can't see the weight. That means there have to be at least two people who are twisted enough to pursue this topic. How sad is that?

-----Original Message-----
From: Gail
Sent: Friday, August 18, 2006 11:18 AM
To: Jennifer
Subject: Re: WEIGHING YOUR HEAD

And Jack and I are just the two people to be twisted enough to do it. I can usually talk him into these kinds of strange things for some reason. Did you give your friend this info? Is he convinced?

----- Original Message -----
From: Jennifer
To: Gail
Sent: Friday, August 18, 2006 11:51 AM
Subject: RE: WEIGHING YOUR HEAD

I did. He enjoyed it. He's the one I got into a debate with about how to say Tootsie Roll. His whole life he pronounced it as "toot-see." He actually ended up writing the Tootsie Roll Company to get a ruling on it. I won that debate.

From: Gail
Sent: Friday, August 18, 2006 12:07 PM
To: JenniferSubject:
Re: WEIGHING YOUR HEAD

Funny! I'll have to hear the pronunciation. I imagine he's saying it like toot a horn and you are saying it's like the "u" in "put," right?

----- Original Message -----
From: Jennifer
To: Gail
Sent: Friday, August 18, 2006 12:56 PM
Subject: RE: WEIGHING YOUR HEAD

Right! He can't stand being wrong. I think it's hilarious that he actually wrote the company...even funnier that they wrote back. You can see that we're really making great strides here today.

-----Original Message-----
From: Gail
Sent: Friday, August 18, 2006 3:05 PM
To: Jennifer
Subject : RE: WEIGHING YOUR HEAD

I wrote angry, and I mean ANGRY e-mails to the people at Dow about changing the scrubbing bubbles dispenser. Then I called the number on the can and ranted, literally ranted about how I would never use their product again. They sent me lots of free coupons but I persisted until one day, I went to the grocery and they had reverted to the old spray nozzle. I can't say that I did this single handedly, but they may have done it out of fear.

I also called the Kraft Macaroni & Cheese people and told them that I was onto them for taking the microwave instructions off the boxes to force us to buy their microwaveable stuff which is more expensive and not as good. Then I demanded that they give me the microwave instructions for the box. They did.


----- Original Message -----
From: Jennifer
To: Gail
Sent: Friday, August 18, 2006 3:45 PM
Subject: RE: WEIGHING YOUR HEAD

Oh my gosh. I didn't know you did that. Remember me calling the Dannon Yogurt people because I couldn't find the expiration date on the cartons?! Right after I hung up, I found them. Also, I think I was pretty mean to a Comcast operator because my HBO wasn't working for an important episode of the “Sopranos.” I actually tried to call him back to apologize and couldn't get back to him. So, I told the operator at Comcast what I did and that if she found Joe or (whatever his name was) to tell him I was sorry. Ugh.

If we could just put all this angry, bitter energy into something that made money, we'd be millionaires.

Summary: Yes we would be; oh yes we would.

Petting the Frog

It’s an odd relationship that Husband Jack and I have established, maintained, and somehow sustained over 25 years: he the practical, micromanager; me, the sarcastic, authority-challenging rebel. These dynamics have become especially exaggerated since I lost my job, but petting the frog serves as a metaphor for our entire relationship:

Jack built a beautiful waterfall in our backyard. Every stone, boulder, fern, and plant attests to his skilled attention to detail. I am sometimes his project critic, but most often his cheerleader. The falls run year round, occasionally partially freezing into a magnificent living sculpture. Every spring, Jack meticulously cleans the pond part of the waterfall of debris and muck that collected during the winter.

This spring as he is doing so, he digs out a massive frog hibernating in the mud at the bottom of the pond. “Is he alright?” I ask. “He’s fine,” he states and places the inert frog on a stone next to the pond. Jack’s hands are covered with black muddy goo from removing the frog and he’s headed toward the spigot to wash.

“Don’t pet the frog!” he tells me forcefully.

“Okay.”

“I mean it. Don’t pet the frog!” he repeats. “I don’t want to have to dig him out again.”

“Okay, I’m just looking at him.”

“I’m serious.”

“Okay, commandant. I’ve got the idea! Geez!”

He walks away. I watch as Jack disappears from view. A voice tells me to pet the frog; pet the frog. Do it! Pet that damn frog if you want to. He’s not the boss of you! PET THE FROG!!”

I take one more glance Jack’s way, reach out, and pet the frog.

The seemingly lifeless frog jumps about a foot in the air and plops deeply into the glop at the bottom of the pond.

Jack returns. “Where’s the frog?”

“He jumped back in.” I point to his whereabouts.

“Damn it! Did you pet the frog?!”

“No, I didn’t.” I lie.

I watch from the kitchen window as Jack digs into the pond and once again removes the frog from the muck, cleans the pond and sends the frog on its merry way.

Jack walks back into the kitchen. Filled with Irish guilt, I say, “Jack, I did pet the frog!” Then I crack up laughing.

“I KNEW IT!” he yells triumphant, then goes to take a shower.

I enjoyed that.

Not Working on the Railroad

Our humorless society:
One administrative assistant, using a list of questions that she had obviously copied from the Internet, asked me during an interview what type of animal I would choose to be. Well, a variety of thoughts rushed through my head, being in the third hour of interviewing time. Oh the opportunities, but I yielded to political correctness. My first thought was a wolf, but then there is the lone-wolf stigma. So, I answered that I would be a dog. “Dogs generally like people and work well with others,” I said. “And I also drink out of a bowl whenever possible.” She didn’t smile.

(I didn’t get the job.)

@@@@@@@@@@@@*****!!!!!

There they were, groups of teenagers standing on the road holding signs that said “Carwash for Jesus!” Now he’s into the carwash business. I’ve gotta say, “What an entrepreneur!”

@@@@@@@@@@@@*****!!!!!

An ad on osteoporosis warns of the dowager’s hump. The warning states that if you can’t stand or sit for more than 30 minutes at a time, you might not want to take the medication.

If you can’t stand or sit for half an hour at a time, don’t you have bigger problems than a dowager’s hump?

@@@@@@@@@@@@*****!!!!!

I go to get my hair cut using money from a freelance job. The airhead in the chair across from me says, “Well, I just never watch the news. I don’t have the time what with building our new house and decorating my lake home. Plus, it’s all so depressing.”

Shut up, shut up. Or I’m coming over there!!

@@@@@@@@@@@@*****!!!!!

Bitter? BITTER? You’re damn right I’m bitter.

@@@@@@@@@@***********!!

The Way We Are

Following is my conversation/wannabe argument? with Husband Jack:

Me: I don’t know how much longer I can stand this financial pressure. I think I might just drop dead of a heart attack!

Husband: Do you think that I don’t worry?!

Me: No, I don’t think that you don’t worry.

Husband: How can you say that?!

Me: I just said, "No, I don’t think that you don’t worry."

Husband: Okay. (He leaves the room, then returns.) Let me get this straight; are you saying that you think I worry or that you think I don’t worry?

Me: I’m saying that I know you worry.

Husband: Then wouldn’t it have been easier to say so?

Me: But you asked the question, so I had to answer it in the way it was asked or it wouldn’t have made sense or my answer would have been grammatically incorrect.

Husband: None of this makes sense.

Me: I agree.

@@@@@@@@@@@@*****!!!!!

“The lack of money is the root off all evil.”
--George Bernard Shaw

Think about it; it’s true.

Writers on the Block

My friend Kimberly invited me to attend a free seminar about creative ways to overcome writer’s block. The seminar was on a Saturday, held in a local public library. When we first arrived only a few people were in the room which was set up for about 30 attendees. We chose chairs, in the back of course, and one woman (there’s always at least one of these) went directly to the front and chose the seat square in the middle of the front table. “Oh boy, it’s all about her,” I muttered. Kimberly nodded in agreement.

A sizzling, humid summer day in Georgia makes even air-conditioned rooms stuffy, so we just sat there gazing about when a large wasp glided to rest on the table next to a man sitting in front of us. He jumped up and shouted, “What is it?! What is it?!”

We look at each other. “It’s a wasp,” we intone together.

“Will it sting? Will it bite?”

“Yes, yes it will.”

The wasp flies off and the agitated man sits down. We share another knowing look. It’s a little too quiet in the room to talk. Maybe he should be in the Just Arrived on Earth Seminar.

The room becomes gradually populated with the various semi-normal to odd to downright eccentric folk that attend these types of things on a weekend. As the room fills and people are fanning themselves with the notepaper they brought along, in comes Wacky Writer Guy. Anyone that lives in or near a city can spot the types of people that may have just wandered in off the streets for the AC or who monopolize the meeting then stalk the presenters of such fare afterward. He had that jerky kind of amphetamine gait and his arms were flying about seemingly on their own accord. He immediately began talking loudly to Wasp Man (the only other male in the room) something about hugging children and bad mothers. Kimberly and I eyed the exit for future reference.

We sat and we sat. A distraught young librarian walked in and explained that the published author who would present the seminar should arrive any minute, but so far the librarian hadn’t heard from her. “She’s probably drunk,” I whisper to Kimberly. “You know how unreliable those damn writers are.” We snicker. Then we wait some more. One woman is becoming indignant. I lean over and suggest that we ask for our money back. She doesn’t find that humorous.

Re-enter the apologetic young librarian. She explains that the presenter is stuck in traffic and has to pick up her two toddlers from daycare. “Daycare on Saturday?” Kimberly asks under her breath. Not only that, the writer thought the seminar was on the following day, a Sunday, and would have to bring her toddlers with her to the seminar. “I’m outta here,” I tell Kimberly. In addition to all of these woes, there has been a sudden illness in the writer’s family. I lean over to Kimberly, “Man did the dog eat her seminar presentation and her grandmother die? For a writer, she’s not very original.”

Up-front lady decides to do a Judy Garland/Mickey Rooney rally round the flag act, “Who can come here tomorrow? Let’s see a show of hands.”

Hell no.

Now Wacky Writer Man is really fired up. “You tell her to get her ass down here. We’ll wait all day if that’s what it takes!” Now he’s yelling, “I want to talk about writing. Who else wants to talk about writing?” His arms are flailing and he walks menacingly toward the librarian while reaching into his pockets.

“Does he have a weapon?” Kimberly asks.

He pulls out his wallet, removes a card and throws it down on the table in front of the horrified young lady of the library. “There, what do you think about that? I’ll watch those kids! What do you think about that?”

The librarian says, “Sir this really isn’t necessary.” Now everybody is eyeing the exit. I bet up-front lady is rethinking her chair choice now.

“Time to get the heck out of here,” I say to Kimberly. She agrees.

As we climb into my Jeep, she asks, “What do you think that card said?”

“Oh, maybe Certifiably Insane; possibly Registered Child Molester.”

Actually, it was one of the better seminars I’ve attended.

Hello, Rug Doctor?

We rented a do-it-yourself rug shampooer from the grocery. The first one didn’t work so I had to lug it back for an exchange. I noticed that the following message was printed in large black letters on the side: Reward for recovery and conviction if this device is stolen. Call 1-800-Rug-Doctor.

I couldn’t imagine a realistic scenario for this event to take place. Suppose I see a neighbor taking the shampooer into his home. Then I keep the house under surveillance for days waiting to see this same neighbor load the big red machine back into his vehicle. Do I follow the guy to ensure that he returns the machine? What if he takes it to a second location? (This is something that the victim should never allow, but the Rug Doctor depends on good neighbors and citizens for its well-being.)

What if the neighbor never emerges from the house? Do I call 911 or 1-800-Rug-Doctor? The second choice is obviously the most logical. “Hello, Rug Doctor? I’d like to report a suspected stolen shampoo device, but I prefer to remain anonymous until its recovery and my payment in full. For now, just call me Deep Clean."