AAaargh!

I can watch television for about five minutes tops before something bugs me. The news this morning reported that a serial rapist was breaking into homes in an Arizona neighborhood and assaulting teenaged girls who were home alone after school while the parents were at work. So far three rapes have happened in the general vicinity of the same suburb. Now, hmm, let’s see. I have a teenaged daughter. I’m at work. She’s at home alone after school. A rapist who is targeting that profile is loose near my home. What to do? What to do? Maybe I could arrange for her to come to my workplace, or go home with a friend whose parents are present. Nah! I’ll just take my chances and see if she’s raped when I get home.

Then the newscaster asked people with any information to call the Silent Witness hotline. Who came up with that brilliant oxymoron of a name?

“Hello, this is the Silent Witness Hotline. Hello? Is anybody there? Helloooo?”

Next comes the commercial. Two pre-weighed UPS boxes (or one of those services) are sitting on a counter. The whole idea is that people can send the boxes without having them weighed at the post office, but here’s the problem. A sandwich on the counter is taunting them that the post person won’t pick them up. (Of course, she does, to the astonishment of the sandwich.)

I look at Jack and make what I think is a perfectly legitimate argument: “Why would a sandwich be talking to the boxes? Why wouldn’t it be an envelope without postage or a box from a competing service that has to be weighed before shipping? What does a sandwich care about boxes being shipped or not? Why is the sandwich competing with a box instead of another sandwich? That makes no sense!”

“I don’t know hon,” he answered.

Once again, I can tell he’s just not listening.

Whatever Happened to . . . My Memory?

Speaking of theme songs and songs in general . . . weren’t we? I can remember the details of the most inane songs and ditties, but have no recall of more important things, like where are my glasses? For example, I remember all the words to the song that Betty Davis sang in the movie “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane” — you know the film where the aging, insane former child star tortures her crippled sister. “I’ve written a letter to daddy. . .” Very creepy. I don’t know if remembering those words will ever do me a bit of good, but possibly when they finally put me away, it will be of some use. I can smear lipstick all over my face and sing it until the nurses end up in straight jackets, for example. I missed an opportunity to sing it when I brought my sister home from outpatient surgery on her foot. I got her something to drink and pulled it away a few times when she reached for it until she yelled, “Stop it Baby Jane!” Well, I did get her home from the hospital which was no small feat [notice the sly pun here] because the assistant and I had to help her into my Jeep Wrangler with her big old shoe. I deserved to have a bit of fun, don’t you think?

The Age of Aquarius

I guess the title of my last blog was still imbedded in my head because I was sitting here in my office staring blankly out the window and singing the theme song to Mr. Ed when Jack called and said his flight out of Washington, D. C. had been cancelled. Hopefully he’ll get a later flight today because I don’t want to have to deal with the waterworks, and I’m not talking about crying. For some reason whenever he leaves town, something goes wrong in terms of agua. The main water line has snapped in half twice while he was gone and this is no small thing, because it runs about 1/8th of a mile from the house down to the road. Of course, while I was trying to find someone who would come out over the weekend, we were having torrential downpours and no one wanted to bother. It ended in having the entire acreage dug up while I negotiated between Jack and the water guy about prices and materials. About two years later, it happened again.

This Monday, since I hate Mondays, I gave myself this affirmation: I’m going to get a lot of work done today. I sat down with my little red editing pen. Then I heard the popping sound in the kitchen. Something had snapped in the dishwasher and the kitchen was rapidly becoming a wading pool. I called Jack to find out the best course of action. I had turned off the water under the sink, but apparently missed one valve leading to the dishwasher. In my panic, I couldn’t locate it, possibly because two geriatric dogs were slipping around on the floor behind me. I ran down our nearly vertical, sink-holed drive with my Brittany bristle hair cut [Read “Hair Horrors”] wearing sparkly flip-flops and wielding a humongous pair of pliers—the only pair I could find under pressure in Jack’s scientific garage of horrors.

Kneeling at the street with my hand thrust shoulder deep in the water meter attempting to turn off our water supply, with the wind whistling through the pointy little spears that used to be my hair, I could just hear the neighbors, “What is that nutcase doing now?” I managed to cut the water off, found the mystery valve to the dishwasher, and spent the rest of the morning sopping and mopping. Water did flow through the ceiling to the downstairs bathroom as well, but after getting it all dried up, except a really bad section of damaged carpet in the dining room, I turned the water back on down at the street. Now I have no dishwasher and I’m really starting to appreciate that invention more every day. As I looked around, I realized that when I found the flood, I should have just taken the dogs out and quietly left the house so that insurance could have paid for the subsequently necessary massive remodeling. Oh well, hindsight is 20/20. At least the kitchen floor is for the time being, very clean.

A Horse is a Horse, of Course, of Course

Many studies have been completed regarding the effects that a name has on one’s life. Being too lazy to look up the research for citation purposes, I’ll just summarize by saying that some parents (and their parents afore them) must be sadists. As an adult, I attended a college class at night with a woman, a concert pianist, who told me all about the fact that she had finally found the love of her life. He was her dream, but there was a problem. She felt silly and without depth to be troubled by her particular dilemma, but I guess that since I was a perfect stranger, she thought I could be used as a sounding board. She mentioned over coffee that she had a profound obstacle to marriage because of a family name (also the name of her otherwise flawless fiancé) that was meant to be carried on into perpetuity. She had even balked at the name when she first met him.

“How bad can it be?” I encouraged, thinking that she must be unbelievably immature.

“Promise you won’t laugh?” she asked. I promised.

“Hardin Long the third, or more correctly Hardin Long III.”

I spit out my coffee. How many times in three generations had these men been slapped, had drinks thrown upon them, been walked away from, only to have the idiocy to continue this tradition? “Hello, I’m Hardin Long and I’d like to make your acquaintance.”

My husband was named after an uncle, Jack Daniel and I think it’s great, but he adamantly refused on a junior for our son due to his lifetime experiences with the name. But the ones that annoy me most are those WASPY, I’ve been rich all my life nicknames, like Tipper Gore. How the hell does a mature woman keep a name like that all of her life? I watched a talk show where the husband and wife constantly argued. His name was Cricket. First of all, I would never marry or even date a man with such a Jiminy name because if he didn’t make way to the courthouse at the age of 18 to change it, he must be a chirping idiot. This whole diatribe was set off for me when watching the news and seeing a fortyish female newscaster in a turtleneck by the name of Duffie Dixon. Duffy, Duffy, Duffy, I don’t care if you were jumping your pretty pet pony in shows paid for by your daddy when you were ten. Now you’re still introducing yourself as Duffy.

I find it highly irritating.

007

I sat here all weekend piddling about and even (part Irish that I am) spent St. Patrick's alone, both son and husband out of town. I went up to rent Casino Royale with the lovely Daniel Craig. I like him for his intellect. No one will every replace Sean Connery whom I first saw in the sixth grade in Goldfinger at a local theater. (At the time, I forgot to eat my popcorn.) However, Craig is the next best alternative. The local Blockbuster was out of the movie, but knowing that my son, David, almost 20, liked the film, I went ahead and bought it. He and his girlfriend see all the movies at the theater; I wait until they emerge on video.

I watched it with a glass of wine or two and when he came home the next day gave it to him as a house warming gift (one of many I'm sure) for his new apartment. He graciously asked me if I wanted to watch it with him, but I declined having watched it the night before.

"Do call me on those pivotal scenes where 007 isn't wearing a shirt though," I said.

He gave me a pitying look and closed the door. Oh well.

Hair Horrors

I told the woman who cuts my hair that it grows really fast, so to cut it a bit shorter . . . but I didn't mean THAT short! I looked like Brittany Spears without the umbrella, GI Jane without the great bod. I called Jack to warn him. My next door neighbor Gary, the master of understatement and quiet aplomb, saw me and yelled, "Jesus Christ!"

"No, it's only me with a really short haircut."

Jack walked in the door, took one look at me and said, "We're not going out anywhere this weekend."

"Well, at least it's good to know that you're not shallow," I replied. "By the way, do you happen to remember that you're BALD!" (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

Reference Number: 4843118

In a blog, far, far away, I shared several stories about my rabid complaints to manufacturers of different products, many of those complaints made over the phone. The whole Kraft Macaroni & Cheese encounter became a bit sordid, but I must say that I think I played a major role in getting the Scrubbing Bubbles nozzle returned to its original grandeur. I also distribute well-earned kudos as I did in my e-mail to the Clorox folks about their wonderful product Clorox Clean-up: Cleaner with Bleach—and its incredible spray bottle—the dispenser is KEY people; it’s KEY!! Give me a few minutes to calm myself.

As sad and disturbing as it may be, my sisters and I exchange reviews on cleaning items. There I’ve said it; it’s out there so Shut Up! Lynn, my OCD ever cleaning, type-triple-A-with-a-shot-of-adrenaline sister, strongly endorsed Clorox Anywhere Hard Surface. [She’d be angry that I said she’s OCD, so let’s pretend that I didn’t. Got that Aunt Frances and Cousin Diana? Love you.] Sister Jennifer also endorsed said product because it doesn’t take the color out of your clothes if you spray it on yourself. How she is going about willy-nilly spraying herself, like she’s got a high-pressure fire hose in her hands, I just don’t know. So, I buy it and to make a long story even more pointless, I like it. However, once the bottle is a little less than half full it won’t spray. Believe me I bought several bottles and they’re all the same—DEFECTIVE! I tell you.

So I access the Web address on the bottle and inform the Clorox people of my displeasure. I give them distinct instructions to reassess the spray bottle design. The following is their reply.


March 12, 2007
Mrs. Gail Snyder
Reference Number: 4843118

Dear Mrs. Snyder,
Thank you for contacting us about the sprayer for Clorox® Anywhere Hard SurfaceTM Daily Sanitizing Spray. Your feedback will help us improve the quality of our products.
I am sending a new sprayer for your current bottle and a postcard for any feedback you may have on the replacement sprayer after a week of use.
We apologize for any inconvenience. We are also sending a complimentary coupon for another bottle and hope you continue enjoying Clorox® Anywhere Hard SurfaceTM Daily Sanitizing Spray. You should receive this information via postal mail within 7 to 10 business days.

Sincerely,
(I lost the name in the transition somehow, but I’ll find it you better believe it.)
Ah, here it is:
Natasha Stevens
Consumer Response Representative

Wow, how'd you like that job!

NO, NO, NO will they never learn? I don’t want another defective sprayer or a coupon for same. I did receive it posthaste however—thank you very much. This isn’t the end of this story, not until my new, free bottle becomes a little less than half full that is.

Those Family Memories

My sister Lynn must look like a mark because she's been robbed twice and kidnapped at gunpoint (but only once). She's only five feet tall but can be mean as a badger in a basket, so the guy that kidnapped her at gunpoint made the wrong decision. This was years ago when she and a friend were at a little town celebration called the Honeybee Festival--I kid you not. They were getting into the car to leave,when the guy stuck a gun in her friend's back and ordered Lynn to drive as he put her friend in the back seat. Didn't look good. When he ordered my sister to head toward the expressway, (God only knows what would have happened then), she started ramming into cars parked on the side of the road. Since a fair was taking place, there were a lot of targets. The nutcase was waving the gun, threatening to shoot her. She kept apologizing and saying she was really nervous.

She had pulverized about ten cars when the police rounded her off just before she got on the interstate. One old geezer was so irate about the damage she had done to his cadillac that he stuck his head in the window and continued to yell even as the felon brandished the gun about. Anyway, she was rescued, my parent's insurance was cancelled (can you believe it?), and the guy got a light sentence in a mental rehab. He's probably killed somebody by now.

Supreme or SUBLIMINAL!

I just saw a commercial on television with Diana Ross singing "Downtown." It occurred to me that if you sang those words in a creepy Hannibal Lechter kind of voice, it could take on a whole different meaning. Try it!

You can always go downtown
Somebody's waiting for you . . . downtown

(I've been spending a lot of time alone, lately.)

Writer's Burnout

A writer's world is one of feast, famine, and desperation. Knowing full well that I was overburdened this month, I continued to take on project after project, because I might be wearing a Will Write for Food sign next month. This is no way to live. Everyone wants everything now, but I can't turn down the work! As a result, I've been working from morning until 2 a.m. One sad result is that yesterday I answered my own e-mail.

I don't know (being highly technologically impaired) how I did it, but writer friend Kimberly, by the way the most generous person I've ever met, asked if I could meet her for coffee on Wednesday. I replied that I couldn't but I could make it on Thursday or Friday. Then somehow, I sent the message to myself and replied to MYSELF that Thursday or Friday would be just fine.

I need more sleep . . . and somebody, please! . . . a Bahamavention!

Trivial Pursuits

My theory is that we all have some interesting factoids about our lives. I may get braver and share more later, but here are a few of my tidbits.

I was found floating face-down in my aunt’s pool when I was three-years-old. All I remember distinctly is seeing seaweed and beautiful fish, hearing wonderful music, and swimming with a sea turtle.

I was once bitten by a horse.

I’ve accumulated about 50 stitches over a lifetime.

I’ve been knocked out cold three times, once by a German Shepherd.

I almost drowned when I fell into a washout while jogging on the beach at night.

Over the course of a lifetime I’ve had 50 white mice, three hamsters, four rabbits, several gerbils, one bird, ten dogs, and one ferret as pets. I’ve always wanted a pig.

I was in a motorcycle accident in which I landed on my head in a cornfield. The corn took all the skin off my back from the neck down to my ribcage.

A crab clamped onto my toe until it bled when I was standing in the ocean.

I had a job where I wore a hard hat and climbed steep ladders between stories of office buildings under construction, checking materials. The guys called me Site Woman.

A drunk woman punched me in the mouth, busting my lip and loosening my teeth at my first high school reunion. She was very confused . . . and very drunk.

I’ve been assaulted three times, escaping serious harm (not counting the many drubbings from my sister and cousin Norman.) Once a guy hit me over the head repeatedly with some Indian corn he had torn off a dorm door around Halloween. He was angry because when I saw him pushing a friend of mine, his date, I intervened. Kernels flew everywhere.

I’m claustrophobic and have social anxiety (I wonder why?). I also don’t like Indian corn.

My sister once slammed my head in the car door. Are you noticing the head injuries here?

I have been skinny dipping several times. Hasn’t everyone?

I once had to hitchhike to get myself to the emergency room of a hospital.

I’m a night owl and often an insomniac.

People (guys and girls) used to wake me up in the middle of night to get them in their dorm rooms when they lost their keys. It was a trick with the doorknob. I tried to teach them so I could get some sleep, but nobody could learn it.

My roommate’s father was in the Mafia. After he died, a man came to the door and gave her “Ma” an envelope full of money once a month—the Mafioso death benefit plan. She let her brother stay in our room one night while she stayed with her boyfriend. I was horrified.

My sister and I camped out across Canada and the United States for three months when I was 19 years-old.

I was in labor for 40 hours and still said please and thank you to the nurses.

I took a dare in the second grade to jump off a balcony, barefoot onto cement. I damaged my feet quite a bit, but recovered.

I’ve had bronchial pneumonia more times than I can count.

I played fast pitch softball for 10 years as a pitcher. I pitched quite a few no hitters.

I was once stalked by a violent lesbian. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

I’ve seen dead people off and on for most of my life. Only one of them was scary.

I once had a man randomly threaten to blow my head off with a shotgun when I was working at an amusement park. (What’s this infatuation with dispensing of my head?! Maybe I was Marie Antoinette in another lifetime.)

I was the rear end of a horse in a grammar school play—shades of things to come.

I once volunteered to do course work reading for a blind student. Sometimes when I was reading I made funny faces to make sure he wasn't pulling my leg. He had some really big Playboy magazines which he told me were in braille, but I never looked at them. To this day I could kick myself for not doing so. He may have really only read them for the articles!

Well, that’s all, and more than enough for now. I think everyone should give this a try. Maybe I’ll do my family next. Yah, ah, ha!

Monk Needed

I’ve always thought that truth was much funnier than fiction, but news organizations must by tradition report even the most ridiculous stories with a straight typeface. Such is the story I read in this Sunday’s Atlanta Journal Constitution, a.k.a. the most liberal paper published in America that would opt to put Bobby Brown and Whitney’s visit to a fish restaurant as front cover news surpassing that of a U. S. Presidential assassination.

Anyway . . . it seems that a Vietnamese monk of a Buddhist temple here in GEORGIA—isn’t that funny enough?—has had an affair with the wife of a congregation member. The monk’s name is Monk Nam Van Nguyen, who claims he was seduced. The article quotes the indignation of another congregation member Duac Nguyen, “no relation to the monk.” Later in the article, another church member states her concern. The AJC describes her as “Minh Chau Nguyen, no relation to the monk or Duac Nguyen.” At this point, I’m cracking up.

Here’s my favorite quote from someone who is finally not a part of the prolific Nguyens, Mai Le: “He’s a bad monk.”

Bad monk! Bad, bad monk!

Well, the bad monk has been deposed and we soon learn that, and I quote, “He’s living with another monk in the meantime.” Where the hell did he find another monk? Then the astute and fascinated reader learns that Buddhist monks are in short supply here in the South. Who knew or even suspected?! “You need to have a monk to function as a temple,” says another non-relative, Pham. (How about Nguyen’s roommate?)

Well, heck! Since the recent unpleasantness—what I call being unceremoniously fired from my job of 18 years, five years ago—I’ve looked for work wherever I can get it. This sounds like a possible gig. Nope, once again, foiled by that gender thing! Hmm, what if I changed my name to Nguyen N. Nguyen?