Bah-Humbug It’s My Bah-Birthday OR Happy Un-Birthday to Me

I’m not having any more birthdays, but it’s not for the reason you may think; that whole age thing where you have to deal with the fact that you need to purchase two boxes of candles to get the correct number.

It’s because the gifts given to me leave much to be desired.  Let me just walk you through a birthday celebration of mine from days gone by and I’ll let you decide whether it’s worth getting up for, brushing my teeth for and plucking my eyebrows for. (I’ve invoked the three prepositions at the end of three consecutive phrases rule. Kind of like a negative multiplied by a negative equals a positive.)

I am a firm believer in asking for what you want, because it avoids that nasty little miscommunication thing that happens between spouses, so I provide helpful shopping hints to which my soulmate replies sensitively, “Will that get me off the hook this year?”  You can see that he possesses a romantic viewpoint of my birthday.  Try to curb your jealousy. 

Birthdays are never really a great stepping off point for communication anyway. Witness the question some silly folks out there still ask, “How old are you?” This is not a question to ask any female nine years of age or older. These days I find myself querying back with “How old do I look?” which leads nowhere great either. The classic “lose-lose” situation.

Somewhere in my twenties there was a transition from celebration to obligation, as far as commemorating my birthday. I can’t seem to find a copy of that particular memo in my files that informed me of the change.

I remember as a kid I would wake up on my special day of birth to the delectable smell of my favorite birthday breakfast cooking; things like pancakes, waffles and sausage were on the menu. This was all done before six in the morning by a mother who worked full-time no less, so it was an incredibly special reason that had my mom getting up a full hour before she needed to. In fact, on these occasions I figure she must have gotten up some time around 3:00 a.m. to allow for the ingestion of cigarettes and caffeine in order to psych up for the event. Remember: We’re talking about the 1960’s here. 

My plate would usually be piled high with everything I loved to eat and the day was filled with special gifts and greetings coming at me all ding-dong day.  My mother made me feel special while my father made me feel insane by asking me every year, “How old are you?” as though he were a favorite uncle who traveled a great deal and just dropped in for the event on an annual basis. (Now that he’s gone I can’t tell you how much I miss answering that question.)

As I opened the gifts from my parents the family joke became, “What did I get you?” from my dad because he didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on, but that was actually true to form with most everything that went on in our household.

This year’s birthday morning found me having coffee with my husband – for which he ground the beans – and I’m waiting for some sort of cue from someone as to when the whole gift-giving, special breakfast-making process will begin. (Hope springs eternal.)  A half-hour passes and while I’m enjoying my delightfully robust French blend I decide to ask my celebratory partner when the festivities will be launched to which he replies, “When the kids wake up.” 

God forbid that the day should begin when I’m up, not to mention the fact that by the time my merriment begins, based on that criteria, I may be perilously close to the day after my birthday. Coupled with this is the fact that it’s a school/work day and I’m a wee bit concerned about the window of opportunity for frolicking over that new car I’m getting, but I’m hopeful. After all, how long does it take to open up an envelope with keys in it and run down to the garage to check-out the fine European automobile I’ll be driving into work today? Or wait. I wouldn’t be driving into work because my husband probably made arrangements for a day off.  He and I will take a road trip, while the kids enjoy their school day. (Man, what was in that cup of coffee?)

I couldn’t stand not knowing what was going to happen. A birthday doesn’t feel like a birthday when it’s feted after the day comes to a close. Finally, the waiting was over, the kids were awake and I was jacked up on caffeine, ready to squeal like a pig on market day – from sheer agony, as it turns out – just like a pig on market day. 

Here is an actual list of presents I got: a book, flannel pajamas and a shower curtain.  Has the romance mellowed a bit in this relationship? You be the judge. I realize somewhere along the line I had mentioned my desire for a new shower curtain, but I believe I’ve also mentioned that I think baby goats are cute too. One doesn’t wrap one of those up on my birthday and call it a gift, does one?

The shower curtain was the birthday gift equivalent of a blender as a wedding gift. I suspect I would have gotten a blender as a gift, but I had actually gone out and purchased one for myself the month before because I had been desperately concerned it would be my birthday present. Ironic, isn’t it?

That evening my husband did redeem himself by presenting me with a jamoca almond fudge pie sporting a candle in double digit numbers I could live with. Coincidentally, that digit represents the exact number of years he’ll have to hear about getting me a shower curtain for my birthday. 

If It Please the Court

Jury Duty. Doesn’t just seeing those two words in front of you provide a good case of the heebie-jeebies? Along with tax audit, test results, and license renewal.  When I received my jury duty notice I felt like an accused defendant, instead of a prospective juror, but I was eager to report for duty…because I had to.  

The entire process began with my attempt at securing a parking space that didn’t sport spray painted words like, “County Employee Only” or “Not for You.” At one point I procured what I thought was an extraordinary parking space -- under a tree, lots of room on either side, walking distance to the courthouse. 

As I utilized my handy automatic door lock I happened to glance over and notice some writing on the cement block to which I had nicely lined up my front bumper. I’m slightly nearsighted so some minor details escape my attention now and again. As I sashayed on over to take a closer look I noticed “Jury Commissioner” emblazoned on the marker. I moved my car. Immediately. Because I had to.

As I approached the courtroom I was faced with a line longer than the one for tickets to the “Kiss” Farewell Tour (XXIV). Usually, I don’t even wait in line for things I want, let alone jury duty, but I waited…because I had to. As the earth spun on its axis one more entire revolution I stood there. 

As luck would have it, I was sandwiched between a woman who had stopped by just to let everyone know she wasn’t able to perform her civic duty because she was sick with an extremely contagious case of something and a gentleman who was just darned excited to be there, even though his digestive problems usually kept him from such outings. Then the clock struck anticlimactic as I checked in with a woman who even pronounced my name correctly.

As I settled in for the wait with my trusty Kindle I applauded myself for my foresight in packing such a wonderful time passer; however, while reading is a good idea in theory, the clerk’s nasty habit of calling out names every ten seconds put a damper on my enjoyment.

Then it was time for a twenty-minute break when I scored a rich, frothy latté, the only problem being it took me nineteen minutes to get it. The bailiff took one look at my cup of latté goodness, shook his head “no,” and I gulped down the entire contents in seconds, killing twenty thousand screaming taste buds in the process. Because I had to. 

Next, was the incredibly tedious task of watching the jury selection process. The mostly washed masses sat attentively as the judge attempted to determine who was best suited for the job. Now the dance really began, commencing with the most painful question and answer sequence I had witnessed since the one that occurred when my father quizzed my first date about his intentions. 

This segment might have gone quicker, if not for the judge’s contentious question he asked of a woman with a philosophy degree:  “Do you feel you can be a fair and impartial juror?” Hello, and break out the bedrolls.  Not so simple when broken down and parsed out by a thinker. 

This was one complex little situation, at least when viewed from her perspective apparently, and we were forced to live that perspective for a good twenty minutes.  I was starting to sweat, my jeans felt tight, and the plot of my book was uninspired.

Finally, the judge put the woman out of our misery, telling her that it probably would be best if she took a pass on this particular proceeding. She was dismissed. I heard a collective sigh of relief waft through the courtroom and the air began to circulate again.

The next hour was even more excruciating as one juror after another was excused. I fantasized about hitting one of the attorneys in the back of the head with the wadded up gum wrappers I was accumulating.

The real estate lady who everybody in town knew and respected was asked to step down.

The overzealous older man with whom I had shared line time got to stay.

The woman who had proudly proclaimed her marriage to the sheriff barely got the chance to put her purse down when she was excused. 

As the process dragged on, I began to think that 12 jurors really were too many. I remembered that high school staple of a play, Twelve Angry Men, and I felt I would really fit into the mix being one moderately irritated, impatient, woman. Oh, no, had I jinxed myself with that thought? Couldn’t we be just as efficient with another even number, like, eight? 

Finally, the last seat sat vacant. We all sat stock still, breathing became labored, if not non-existent. One of us would have to fill that seat and it felt as though it was the electric chair, rather than an opportunity for public service.

I heard a name called. Not a female name. Not me. It was a male name. They didn’t object to him, the way he dressed, what he had for breakfast, or his career choice. I stepped out into the sunshine a free woman. Unlike high school basketball, I was happy not to be chosen. As I made my way out of the courthouse, I expressed my exhilaration by doing the touchdown dance in front of the bailiff. Because I had to.     

DO YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN?!

I don’t know if people were saying “Do you know what I mean?” much before Lee Michaels made the song by the same name famous back in the 70’s. What I do know is there’s a veritable epidemic raging in the occurrence of that phrase.

The song, “Do you know what I mean?” talks about a guy who’s trying to get over his girlfriend who’s now stepping out with his best friend, Bobby. The wronged gentleman is trying to comprehend the situation, even as he asks for understanding, rather plaintively inquiring, “Do you know what I mean?” I’m guessing he’s looking to establish a connection with us over a shared experience. I just thought it was a catchy hook.

There’s no doubt that “establishing connection” business is the intent of the phrase’s usage today. It acts almost as an “I’m okay, you’re okay” check-in. It got me to thinking about the whole “chicken or the egg” that is pop culture. (Hang with me. I’ll get there.)

What gives a good – or bad – saying cultural hang time? Is a phrase repeated so much that it just weaves itself into our language lexicon, or is there an important pop culture that meets in, say, Iceland, and decides what’s a go?

The expression, “Do you know what I mean?” is the equivalent of signal drop-out because it holds space, but no meaning. It’s similar to: “So?” “Huh.” “How about that?” or any number of transitional phrases that are none too specific. The conversational gambit that is, “Do you know what I mean?” punctuates folks’ discussions, seeming to be just a rhetorical question, though it can be packed with intent.

When “Do you know what I mean?” comes my way I bob and weave like a seasoned verbiage fighter, trying to dodge the phrase’s ability to put me on the spot. The question makes me feel as though I need to bob my head up and down in understanding, complicit in knowing what “it” means. The truth is I often have no idea what I ever mean, let alone what the person who is asking me, “Do you know what I mean?” means.

I have a friend who places “Do you know what I mean?” as an interrogative at the end of every sentence. It’s as much a part of her cute persona as her blonde hair and perky personality. Fortunately her “Do you know what I mean?” is purely rhetorical, lacking intent, or a need for confirmation, so she doesn’t wait for me to nod acquiescence that I’m getting it. I appreciate that about her, and so much more.

Along about a few months ago I found myself getting on my own nerves because I was using, “Do you know what I mean?” so much. Let’s face it. When you’re having a conversation with someone and you hear yourself say, up to and including, three times, “Do you know what I mean?” they don’t. It’s time to hand off the conversational baton to someone else.

I noted in a few situations I was aggressively pursuing empathy, and any time you attempt to marry aggressiveness with empathy you know you’ve tra-la-la-ed off the correct path that will ultimately lead to satisfying communication. I self-corrected, deciding to memorize the lyrics to “Do you know what I mean?” for some reason.

What I discovered when I looked up the lyrics is I’ve been massacring the words for years, wrongly bravely belting out several, what turns out to be wrong, lines in front of captive audiences in my home version of Carpool Karaoke.

Ah, well, it’s not the first time I’ve embarrassed myself, and we can lay money on the sure bet that is it won’t be the last. “Do you know what I mean?”

The Ultimate Coffee Klatch

 As someone who is always looking at the healthful potential of any given product, recently I read an article that really made my tail wag.  The headline boldly and pungently announced, "Wake Up and Smell Health Benefits of Fresh Coffee."  May I say, as an avid consumer of strongly brewed, robust coffee products, I was truly excited to learn I’d been contributing positively to my own health. 

           

It seems that this group’s findings confirmed that not only is the aroma of freshly brewed coffee pleasant, but when exuding those “yummy, your fix is on its way” fumes, it’s also exuding those precious antioxidants that we are all running around, attempting to corral for our greater good.   I can finally put together that antioxidant breakfast of champions:  blueberries, dark chocolate and coffee.

           

Apparently you not only need to smell the stuff to get the full benefit, but drink it too.  May I tell you the excitement that this caffeine addict feels over this particular finding?  As I read on I learned that antioxidants work by helping to block some of the undesirable effects of oxygen on living tissue. Good thing.  I’m so out of the loop I was still under the impression that oxygen was always good for living tissue. 

Fortunately, I knew intrinsically that I needed to counteract the bad effects of oxygen with the good effects of caffeine ingestion.  I'm now thinking that maybe I should spread coffee all over my face because I've certainly got some undesirable things going on with that living tissue as it ages. 

           

And while this study certainly garnered a great deal of attention from me, it got me thinking about how these folks get the money to fund these studies. I mean, talk about your dream job.  Granted, the gentleman who put together the study and surveyed its participants had some pretty impressive credentials, he being a Professor of Environmental Toxicology at UC Davis. While that title represents a fair amount of schooling, how the heck did it translate into Java Maven? Can you imagine how this pre-research scenario played out?

Picture two science guys, Lab Partner and Professor Guy, sitting around in white lab coats, trying to come up with next year's research project and the attendant funding.  

Professor Guy might say, "No, no.  Saving the earth's resources has been done to death.  We need something new, something exciting."  (Slurping sounds heard, as he lifts his University of California Davis monogrammed mug full of steaming coffee to his lips, contemplating a profitable project.)

Lab Partner:    "Well, how about the consequences of the diminishing ozone layer on infants in their open air strollers and the skin's inability to manufacture ample melatonin to combat the possibility of skin cancer by the time the child reaches adulthood?"  (Insert sound of liquid being poured as he completes his walk across the room to pour himself another cup of hot joe after which he begins his long journey back across the room, pot in hand.)

Professor Guy:  "Good gawd, man, no!  We need something special," he exclaims, accepting the proffered second cup of French Roast from his research buddy. 

"Wait a minute, I've got it!" he shouts as he stares at his coffee cup, only just now noticing that it's not an appendage, but a receptacle that can be successfully balanced on any flat surface. 

Lab Partner:   "What did you get?  The chipped cup again?  Sorry.   I thought I'd thrown that danged thing away."

Professor Guy:  "No, you idiot!  We'll study caffeine as it relates to antioxidants which will combat the negative effects of oxygen on living tissue."

They both laugh uproariously for a full five minutes at the absurdity of it all and then Professor Guy and the Lab Partner exchange meaningful looks. They simultaneously drain the last few drops of the pungent, slightly sweetened offering from the bottom of their respective cups.  The room is still.  Professor Guy picks up a pen. 

"Dear Starbucks..."

Venus is Her Name, Baby

It’s no coincidence that she's named after the goddess of love and beauty. All I know is she's the best thing to hit the women’s beauty market since the razor; the original razor. A goddess among many; a rarity in and of herself. She changes lives with a stroke -- or two -- of shearing genius, leaving behind smooth perfection in her wake. A gift from the heavens. The chosen one amongst all razors. Her name? Venus. (Cue celestial music.)

When I first met Venus she was only available in a cool, serene blue. Naysayers thought she was a fad, but I knew better. I had an underarm feeling, if you will.

Never mind that the razor blades for Venus cost more than a small grocery store run for my family of four, she was worth it, providing me with a non-bumpy close shave the likes of which I’d never seen, not having appeared in a single porn movie. The importance of this device and the technology that created it cannot be overstated. Just mentioning her name to another woman brings up an opportunity for bonding like no other.

I introduced Venus to both of my daughters at an early age. Why should they suffer needlessly, like their mother did, through years of torturous shaving leaving rivers of bright red blood coursing down still partially hirsute legs? And how about razor burn?

(For those of you who may not have experienced underarm razor burn it’s somewhat like a paper cut times a thousand with a splash of hydrogen peroxide thrown into the mix.)

It’s a searing, stinging, ever-present pain insistently reminding you all the livelong day, that your skin is a living, breathing organ. Every time you sweat, bend, or initiate a conversation those bumps radiate “owie” messages like you can’t believe. And just about the time the excruciating discomfort relents, it’s time to shave again.

Razor burn makes me think of that line from the eponymously named song, Venus, by the band, Shocking Blue: “Was burning like a silver flame.” What an apt descriptor of those nasty little bumps and Venus, as a “Goddess on the mountain top” saves the day by preventing that kind of thing. Needless to say, shaving is serious business.

If only I were able to embrace the freeing natural state that is the whole Sasquatch look. The main reason why I don’t isn’t really cosmetic, but related to my health. My abundance of body growth impedes my whole sweating process. I like the sweat to appear and then move on, gliding downward, effortlessly, sort of like my bank balance effortlessly glides in a downward motion. For another, excess hair can lead to whole different sizes of clothing and jewelry if there’s too much of it. I like sleek. I like how it feels when I slide under my sheets at night and they smoothly settle on my silky skin rather than stubbing on leg stubble.

Venus and I have been in a monogamous relationship for several years now. I try not to judge, but some of you are living a double life, seeing a variety of razors, hurting yourself and your shave-enslaved parts in the process. But there are choices; like the available colors and accessorized models Venus offers. Don’t be taken in by the knock-offs. It just leads to unsightly toilet-paper festooned legs. And discomfort. And regret.

All things are possible with Venus at my side. I can begin shaving with my right calf, go up to the right thigh, and finish in reverse order on the back of my leg, all with a brightly hued helpmate; the adult, female version of racing a Tonka toy across my gams.

Throughout this relationship I’ve extolled the many virtues of Venus, not daring to dream it could get any better. And then it did. Venue rolled out in Barbie pink. I felt playful, just holding a fuchsia toy in my hand again. I didn’t even need Ken to complete this picture. I’m not even doing this for Ken. It’s all about me-me-me.

Or I could while away my free moments, performing any number of mathematical configurations that suited me because with the first stroke of the razor my body wasn’t sending out painful messages like, “For the love of God, is it time to shave again?” or, “Why don’t we move to Paris and sip cappuccinos while we watch our hair grow?” or even, “Losing consciousness from blood loss…must hurry,” and, finally, “Oh, dear gawd. That was just the left armpit. I’ve got ANOTHER one!”

I actually look forward to my alone time with my Venus razor. It’s “she and me” time. Venus and Diane. Together with a can of bargain shaving cream, adding to the adventure of it all. And the sensory experience aspect. The sound the shaver makes as I’m restored to the smoothness that is my birth right is much like the shooshing sound of a downhill skier. Rhythmic. Athletic. Clarifying. Built for speed. It’s beautiful really.

I can’t imagine what could ever make the experience better. Unless they came up with a waterless version, or something.

Hey, wait a minute. What’s that you have in your hand? Is that a drugstore flyer? Is that an ad for a new waterless model? What are the chances. It’s not even my birthday.

TOO MUCH SAVING TIME

(FYI: It’s Daylight Saving Time, sans the “s” at the end.) 

Because I live up in them thar northern California hills I wasn’t so sure this blessed event had occurred as of yet due to the fact that it was still snowing here two weeks ago.   

One week ago it was raining so hard that the windshield wipers for my car, which I fondly call the Hydroplane, valiantly stuttered out their end-of-season-buy-replacement-blades swan song.

Ergo, I only JUST noticed that there was more light in my dayparts.

(Does that sound naughty, or is it just me?)

No matter.  I’m now reveling in the bounty that is this Congressionally-sanctioned time switching which provides me with the added bonus of several “able to do it all” hours of light in my day.

The concept of Daylight Saving Time (DST) goes so far back it was first mentioned by that perpetually productive guy, Benjamin Franklin. 

Implementation didn’t occur until World War I and during World War II DST was actually dubbed “War Time,” subsequently re-packaged as the “Daylight Saving Time Energy Act” right around the time The Watergate Hotel became known for its great acoustics.  

As a practice, DST was not known to be consistently applied.  At one point it was discovered that “…on the 35-mile stretch of…Route 2 between Moundsville, W.V., and Steubenville, Ohio, every bus driver and his passengers had to endure seven time changes.”   It took both The Uniform Time Act of 1966 and The Energy Policy Act of 2005 to create a sensible plan of uniformity. 

And you know what?  It still seems to confuse us all.  Be that as it may, I adore Daylight Saving Time.  I view it somewhat as a lovable, though absent too frequently favorite uncle.

While I delight in the fact that I never seem to have a “to do” list for long during Daylight Saving Time there is one thing about it I don’t love; resetting every clock and watch (last count 52) I own.  Fifty-two.  Fifty-two?  Is that insane or what?

It’s not that I’m someone who is completely enamored of all things time zone.  I don’t even have those fancy-schmancy clocks that provide a helpful chronometer profiling countries and states to which I’ve never traveled.

Nor do I have a cuckoo clock, grandfather clock, or a clock that shows the phases of the moon.

(In the interest of full disclosure I must tell you that, once upon a time, I did own a wristwatch which showed the phases of the moon.  I loved that thing too, not so much because I could tell folks what lunar phase we were in, but rather because I think moon images are soothing.)

So, my husband is a doer and extremely helpful. 

(Hang on for two minutes.  I’ll connect all of this up, so set your timer.)    

The other day I drove like it was Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride when I was running a wee bit late for my exercise class.  I was practically standing on my accelerator, cursing the luck that would have me commuting on a day when a convoy was evidently delivering ALL of the food for northern California at the same time that I needed to be somewhere pronto.  (Harrumph!)

As I screeched up to my class I turned to throw my keys to the valet, only there wasn’t one.  Dang it!

See, this is what happens when you ingest a steady diet of smutty romance novels as a teenager, believing plots that highlight poor girls marrying rich boys.  You start believing you will marry wealth leaving a trail of valets, chefs, and trainers in your wake.

Consequently, I had to get back into my car and park the blasted thing.

As it was, I figured I was at least 15 minutes late to my class.  At this rate I would be practically starting with the cool down.

I rushed in, out of breath, clutching my half-garbed body, my heart and my checkbook.

The owner of the studio smiled at me kindly as she always does as I shakily scribbled my name onto the sign-in sheet.  Phew!  I made it. 

As I turned to launch myself into the class I espied an unfamiliar instructor.  Oh, what now?

My bewildered look must have been hysterical.  Let’s face it, when you spend an inordinate amount of time in life plying the humor trade there’s always a story behind your actions and I’m sure Mary figured this would be a doozy.

Mary’s question, “You know you’re early…really early?  Do you have some errands you can do?” was met with my look that said it all.  Whaaatttt???!!!

As I glanced at the clock I noted I was not just a skosh early, but an entire hour early.  I mumbled something about going next door to the bakery which is my version of an important errand.   

As the heady aroma of naughty, illicit, yummy baked goods hit my hypothalamus it dawned on me what had happened.     

My husband had helpfully re-set my car clock for me, so it was now reflecting the new time.  Because I had blown out of my office paying more attention to the fact that my work-out pants didn’t look so hot with my tank top, I had neglected to note timepiece synchronization.

It just goes to show you, time flies when someone else sets your clock.

###

Articles I read in my continuing quest to provide my readers with helpful, bite-sized knowledge morsels they can disseminate at their next barbecue.

Sources:

http://www.webexhibits.org/daylightsaving/e.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daylight_saving_time