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Showing posts with label household humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label household humor. Show all posts

Saturday, April 7, 2012

RE: MS-WRITE NOW (Humor) Batteries Not Included (Rated AAA)



Batteries Not Included (Rated AAA)
I’m staring at my non-functioning flashlight for the fourth time in as many months, wondering why I never seem able to get ahead on this whole stocking up on batteries deal.

So, how about if we talk about batteries for a few minutes?


Now, I don’t want to lead you astray and make you think this is one of those naughty columns that will get you all hot and bothered. My suppositions are usually bookended between “information” and “How weird is that?” Pretty tame stuff.

I engage in these combination observational/query-ational activities mainly because it beats doing all of the things I should be doing like paying bills, making money to pay bills, or making sure I don’t make more bills.

Now, lest your mind go somewhere a wee bit too kinky we’re just discussing batteries here. That’s all. No double entendres, no hyperlinks to some sort of We-Are-Waiting-To-Turn-You-On dot com website.

I’ve been thinking about the kinds of batteries we need and why do we need more than one size? All right. You know what? I’ll give that one to you.

When I began this piece I knew I would run the risk of turning out a piece of writing that was filled with innuendo, allusion and insinuation, but I can see I had no reason for concern. I think this is going really well so far because we have a great opportunity for discussion and scrutiny. (Hey, is it just me or does that word, “scrutiny” just look nasty, like the word “moist?”)

I know it may seem I’ve wandered off topic, but I think I can get us back on track by addressing the whole size issue.

It seems like the larger they are the more of them you need. We are really going to have to fight the urge to yodel out, “That’s what she said!” at this juncture, aren’t we?

Again, I’m talking about batteries. Help me out. Let’s concentrate, shall we?

Why is it that the whole battery lettering series thing begins with an “A,” followed by “AA,” and an ensuing “AAA?”

Was the first “A” battery so positively received by the masses that a stuttering “A” system was introduced launching into “AA” and “AAA?”

Quite frankly, I don’t get the battery lettering logic at all. I mean, would it have sounded any odder to query with, “Do we have any B’s?” rather than inquiring, “Got a “triple A?” Was the originator of this clever system afraid that we would ask for bees and then we would be chased by them when others misunderstood and presented us with honey bees?

Or maybe there was a first Inventor Type who decided not to mess with a good thing, but then along came Inventor Type Number Two who might have asserted, “Hey, dumb bunny (this is thrown in as a nod to Easter weekend when I’m posting this), you need to move along the alphabet scale! Pick another letter and it doesn’t have to be a vowel.”

That’s when the battery folks must have added the “C” and “D” batteries into the series.



(I'm guessing that, subsequently, Inventor Type Number One began working on the educational grading system of A’s, B’s, C’s, D’s, oops E’s sound weird, we’ll go with “F’s.”)

Couldn’t the bra lettering lady have helped this industry out, assuring them that the consumer really could handle consecutive lettering? Therefore, you can actually begin with the first letter of the alphabet and still experience the fun of double and triple lettering; therefore, preserving your ability to expand into 25 other available letters. (Or if you don’t use all of the other letters, then don't skip any letters.)

And while we’re on this subject, why do we need more of the larger ones which, let’s be honest, are terrible in the endurance department? Uh-oh. Out of context I can certainly see what type of message this might be sending. Not exactly the one I intended.

Boy, is it just me, or is this whole double entendre thing getting worse? Let me try again.

Think functionality. Think weather. Stormy, unpredictable, tempestuous and steamy weather that makes the power go out. Focus! That’s when you require a flashlight in order to see, don't you?

Unfortunately, power outages mean darkness and so you must feel your way toward the desk where you keep the batteries. You then play the drawer version of hide and go seek, searching for those slick, solid, cylindrical cartridges…batteries.

You know, this trying not to be suggestive thing may be a lost cause. We can all agree I was never able to get the whole thing up and running, so I’ll just cut to the chase and be done with it.

Plugging things in is so much better.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

RE: Holiday Column...of sorts...Ode to the Spatula (Humor)


Ode to the Spatula

The holidays are upon us and, thus, I feel it only appropriate that I write a thematic column. Granted, this cannot exactly be classified as standard yuletide fare, but here ‘tis.

‘Tis also the season to eat our weight in carbohydrates which got me thinking about the topic of baking during this year's impending Noël. (Don't be confused, especially you peripatetic cookie eaters, because Noël is also the name of a Colombian cookie manufacturer.)

Though the topic is not about the goodwill of men, it does involve will; the will to bake rivaling my will to sleep past any time I need to get up for work, play or comet watching Here and now I will offer up discourse about my friend, the spatula, without which, in the baking world, there would be no reason to even pre-heat the oven. Don't bother grabbing that oven mitt with the holly-wearing deer on it, either, if you don't have one of these handy kitchen items in rotation.

My love of this miraculous culinary invention has led me to learn more about it and share my findings, free of charge. I'm doing this because we underestimate the happiness inanimate objects of convenience can provide and they're often no more than a drawer away. Also, I just love my nifty multi-colored spatulas and I'm goofy enough to admit that to you all.

Why is the spatula column-worthy, you ask?

In order to respond to this query we must embark upon a quest not unlike a pursuit of the Holy Grail, aptly named because it was a journey taken by the multitudes through the millennia to locate a dish, plate or cup from the Last Supper. In our case, we're looking for the Holy Spatula, as it were, and in present times our seeking looks a bit different. I Googled spatula.

Google is nothing if not a giving search engine, in line with the season, therefore, it assists you without asking by filling in blanks that you didn't know you had. For instance, I merely typed in “spatula” and a veritable feast of facts bubbled over.

The sheer volume of synonyms for this beautifully crafted, seemingly innocuous stick wearing a saucy-shaped rubberized headdress is rather remarkable. It seems every language has its own word for this treasure of a turner; an egg slice, a flipper if its nomenclature is Canadian English, a yiwen or danny in Fiji (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fiji), whereas Americans often call it a bowl scraper.

I did eventually determine that a spatula must have “a broad rounded apex and a narrow base” and is much different than a garden variety turner which I discovered simply possesses the purpose of turning food. That cleared things up dramatically for me. My life is all about gaining knowledge, if not wealth. The problem for me then became focus because I was provided with a bevy of choices that had me following leads on topics that were not REMOTELY related to kitchen utensils.

Here is a non-comprehensive list of items that sprung forward from tapping in “spatula” which turned out to be a root word of sorts; “Ultrasonic Skin Spatula” which touts the ability to put “new waves in your skin care treatment,” “Spatula City,” a parody that Weird Al Yankovic recorded for a fake store, a punk band about which not much is known that goes by the name of “Spatula,” Spatuletail hummingbirds, a species of endangered birds found only in Peru, and Spatulatta, an organization that teaches kids to cook, so there are cookbooks, shows and a juvenile product line of Pepto-Bismol jellybeans. Okay, I'm kidding about that last one, but that could be a product, couldn't it?

A spatula by any other name is just as sweet because it accomplishes everyday miracles, if not turning water into wine, then transforming a little batter into plenty of batter. Have you had this experience? There stand those last two cupcake reservoirs that you need to fill. You whip out your trusty spatula, aerobically work the sides of the bowl and, Wha-la! Then there were two. It's not just a holiday miracle, but an everyday miracle.

Now, granted, it's no “Mary's face on a tortilla,” but it does make for some cheap entertainment, as well as magic-filled baking days.

Diane Dean-Epps is a comedienne and writer. Contact her at www.diane deanepps.com. Diane has written a new book, “I'll Always Be There For You … Unless I'm Somewhere Else?!” Meet the author during a booksigning on Saturday, Dec. 11, 2 to 3:30 p.m., at Tome's Bookstore (Sierra Mountain Coffee Roasters), 671 Maltman Drive #3, Grass Valley.









































Thursday, March 11, 2010

Closet to You...household humor about the Smithsonian that is fashion...


March 11, 2010

Closet to You

My husband is the only person I know who runs his side of the closet like a high-powered corporate executive. He routinely hires, fires, promotes and transfers clothes with gusto.

It’s bad enough that I have to witness the executive approach to clothing management in his one-sixteenth side of the closet, but periodically he has the audacity to attempt a hostile takeover of my fifteen-sixteenths of this same closet. Thus, the garment gauntlet is thrown down and our territorial war commences—coming into the closet, if you will.

My hubby has a system, a business plan, really, truth be known. His closet “company,” begins with the purchase of an item. Dependent upon washability, ironability and sweatability the article may earn front line status, being washed and worn frequently. Sometimes new apparel is immediately demoted to an inferior standing, followed quickly by inactive shelf status. This is usually the case if it’s garb I have purchased for him, whereupon I have commented, “You’re going to love this new style. Everybody has one.”

The only time the shelved pieces are able to regain their previous front line status is when some sort of household project comes along. These are general duties for which I possess absolutely no aptitude and, interestingly enough, no wardrobe. Sadly, this temporary situation still leads to permanent retirement of the garment upon completion of the task at hand.

Hope springs eternal, so my counterpart decides to broach the topic of closet maintenance with me, again, which could result in more room for him. His unfortunate timing occurs as I spent yet another morning as an unofficial zipper tester for the “YKK” company, stretching the limits of the manufacturer’s suggested specifications. This is never a good time to have a conversation with me, regardless of the topic; clothing clean-out, the relationship, nuclear war, location of the shampoo.

My good-intentioned mate enters the room, quite literally, treading lightly. “Honey, why don’t you just get rid of some of that stuff?” he queries helpfully. “You should go by the ‘one year’ rule. You know—if you haven’t worn something in a year, then toss it.”

As I look over at my closet, filled with memories, I am appalled at the mere thought of parting with any member of my clothing family which I regard fondly. The striped Def Leppard shirt I was wearing when I met my husband, the black vintage evening dress I purchased, post-partum, just because it fit, the outfit I wore when I performed my first stand-up routine, and the disco dress with shoulder pads to be reckoned with. These aren’t clothes—they’re an historical timeline representing my own personal Smithsonian, sans red velvet ropes around the entire lot.

I contemplate karate chopping him with a hanger, but realize that to be a vicious thought and, besides, we have those innocuous plastic ones, so it wouldn’t really hurt enough. I know he just wants to help me, so I relent by saying, “Maybe I should get rid of some things.”

My husband perks up and looks as though I’ve given him permission to accompany a supermodel on an all-expenses paid Caribbean getaway trip. As he trots off to gather up the bags that will eventually hold only the two items I will manage to part with, I wonder if this kind, well-intentioned man ever feels as though he’s Charlie Brown and I’m Lucy holding the football for him—again. Or maybe he’s just left holding the bag?

Excerpted from Maternal Meanderings
http://www.amazon.com/Maternal-Meanderings-Diane-Dean-Epps/dp/1932172068/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1268347813&sr=1-1