We all have hobbies. Some people scrapbook. Others spend all day on the river in pursuit of one elusive fish. Still others dress up like cowboys and shoot guns at targets, reenacting the Wild West. Then there’s me. I actually enjoy looking for spelling and grammar errors in the world around me, and apparently, I’m forming a posse.
I love how my friends have taken to sending me snapshots of signs they see that are grammatically incorrect, or so badly formed that they leave you asking, “What the heck?”
A few months ago, my friend Raellen sent me a picture from her cell phone that she took during her trip to Chicago. She passed a store that had a sandwich board sign that read “Check out our amaizing deals in the front window.” Unless these deals are ears of corn, I’m not buying.
Most recently, Dave in Utah sent me a sign from the Adelaide Airport that read “Adelaide Airport uses recycled water for toilet flushing. DO NOT DRINK.”
Whodawa? How many people were drinking from the toilet that made this sign even necessary?
You don’t have to travel far, however, to find these ridiculous, confusing signs.
A few weeks ago, my friend Paul sent me a cell phone picture of a sign in front of the Roseburg Albertson’s store that read, “Cheep Chicken.” I sincerely hope they were trying to be cute.
Drive south out of Roseburg on I-5 and you’ll see a sign that reads “Talent ½ mile.” Of course, we locals know that it means the town of Talent, Ore., is a half mile ahead, but others are wondering what exactly they’ll find a half mile up the road. The next American Idol?
Further down I-5 into California is the town of Weed with its famous sign combination. The top sign says “College” with an arrow pointing left, and the sign below says, “Weed” with an arrow pointing right. It’s a conundrum alright, leading many college students to pose for a picture underneath with a quizzical look on their faces.
Drive east of Roseburg to Crater Lake and you are greeted with a sign that reads, “Danger: Falling will cause injury or death. Stay back from cliff edges.” Fair enough … maybe I need to be reminded to stay back from the edge, but I’m pretty clear that falling into Crater Lake would not end well for me.
Then there are those signs that simply leave you wondering what this world is coming to.
I came across one website with photos from a protest and one rally-goer holding a sign that read “Make English America’s offical language. “ Nearby, a man held another sign that said “Get a brain moran.” Can you say pot … kettle … black?
And I love this one from a zoo: “Please be safe. Do not stand, sit, climb or lean on zoo fences. If you fall, animals could eat you and that might make them sick. Thank you.” Heaven forbid the animals get sick from EATING A ZOO VISITOR. Really?
There are also signs that hide the real warning below a lot of other useless text. Exhibit B: “Caution - This sign has sharp edges. Do not touch the edges of this sign. Also, the bridge is out ahead.” So here’s a thought … maybe just tell me that the bridge is out FIRST and leave me to find out (or not) how sharp the edges of the sign are on my own.
But apparently, the creators of these signs don’t think anyone can figure out anything on his own. One grocery store had a double door entry. On the left door there was a hand-written sign that read “Please use other door.” On the right door, another hand-written sign read, “This is the other door. Pull to open.” Um, yeah, thanks for that.
It’s quite depressing, actually, to think how low we’ve sunk in intellect that these signs are necessary. And just when you think things couldn’t get any worse, someone comes by and steals letters off your sign, leaving you, like one coffee shop, to post “QU!T 5T3AL!N6 OUR LETT3R$”
I’ve got one better. “$T0P MAK!N6 5TUP!D Si6N$.”
Eileen Burmeister lives, works and critiques signs in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Going cold turkey on National Punctuation Day
I know it’s wrong to use it in such a way, and I know that’s it’s become a crutch, but I must admit that I’ve been having an illegitimate love affair with the ellipsis for years now. Surely, I thought, I could find a support group among the many writers who have been similarly led down this particular primrose path of pauses, but alas … none existed.
Not to be dissuaded, I set out and started my own support group called “Ellipsis … Anonymous.” I invited everyone to my house at 2000 W. Maple … a place, I must confess, I bought for the address alone … and I served M&Ms in batches of three.
However the people who showed up tended to trail off midway through their stories, or stopped abruptly before staring off into space, which seemed appropriate but really stymied the healing process. It was … daunting.
I found myself wandering the streets that night, talking to myself, binging on one story after another without end, drinking deep from the nectar of incomplete thoughts until … I hit rock bottom.
It had gotten to the point where I couldn’t pause for breath in my prose without automatically hitting dot-dot-dot. I was ravenous … a wild animal on the prowl for a pregnant pause, a thoughtful moment or a half-baked idea so I could swoop in and get my fix. I was putting ellipses where commas would suffice … ellipses when em dashes would do the trick … ellipses when a yadayadayada would convey the same idea. It was all too much and I collapsed under the pressure.
I woke up the next morning in the gutter outside of a Barnes and Nobles, gripping my beat-up copy of “Love is…” poems and staring in the face of one harsh reality … I needed help.
I got up out of the gutter, flipped open my laptop and started writing … hair of the dog and all that jazz. What I was after was a mantra to get me through the tough spots, those times where it’s just so … tempting to use that one, single punctuation, albeit incorrectly. I needed a higher power to see me through, and … amazingly … this little beauty fell out of the sky like a penny … or coin … from Heaven:
God grant me the serenity
To accept the proper uses for the ellipsis;
Courage to use it when I should and deny myself when I shouldn’t;
And the wisdom to know the difference.
Doesn’t it seem appropriate, then, that today, National Punctuation Day, would be my quit day? I have decided to go cold turkey. No more ellipses for me. I’m clean and sober starting now of course that means I can’t use any punctuation for fear that the pause in and of itself would throw me headlong into a full blown relapse from which I might never recover until I could once again use my beloved and reliable ellipsis just saying the word makes this all the more harder until I simply … break … down.
They say that admitting the problem is half the battle, and I’m counting on that to be true. But right now, I have an inexplicable desire to learn Morse code and eat M&Ms. And besides, as my friend Scarlett once said … “Tomorrow is another day.”
Not to be dissuaded, I set out and started my own support group called “Ellipsis … Anonymous.” I invited everyone to my house at 2000 W. Maple … a place, I must confess, I bought for the address alone … and I served M&Ms in batches of three.
However the people who showed up tended to trail off midway through their stories, or stopped abruptly before staring off into space, which seemed appropriate but really stymied the healing process. It was … daunting.
I found myself wandering the streets that night, talking to myself, binging on one story after another without end, drinking deep from the nectar of incomplete thoughts until … I hit rock bottom.
It had gotten to the point where I couldn’t pause for breath in my prose without automatically hitting dot-dot-dot. I was ravenous … a wild animal on the prowl for a pregnant pause, a thoughtful moment or a half-baked idea so I could swoop in and get my fix. I was putting ellipses where commas would suffice … ellipses when em dashes would do the trick … ellipses when a yadayadayada would convey the same idea. It was all too much and I collapsed under the pressure.
I woke up the next morning in the gutter outside of a Barnes and Nobles, gripping my beat-up copy of “Love is…” poems and staring in the face of one harsh reality … I needed help.
I got up out of the gutter, flipped open my laptop and started writing … hair of the dog and all that jazz. What I was after was a mantra to get me through the tough spots, those times where it’s just so … tempting to use that one, single punctuation, albeit incorrectly. I needed a higher power to see me through, and … amazingly … this little beauty fell out of the sky like a penny … or coin … from Heaven:
God grant me the serenity
To accept the proper uses for the ellipsis;
Courage to use it when I should and deny myself when I shouldn’t;
And the wisdom to know the difference.
Doesn’t it seem appropriate, then, that today, National Punctuation Day, would be my quit day? I have decided to go cold turkey. No more ellipses for me. I’m clean and sober starting now of course that means I can’t use any punctuation for fear that the pause in and of itself would throw me headlong into a full blown relapse from which I might never recover until I could once again use my beloved and reliable ellipsis just saying the word makes this all the more harder until I simply … break … down.
They say that admitting the problem is half the battle, and I’m counting on that to be true. But right now, I have an inexplicable desire to learn Morse code and eat M&Ms. And besides, as my friend Scarlett once said … “Tomorrow is another day.”
BFF added to the dictionary? Oh no they didn't!
If you’re a regular reader you know I’m not a big fan of acronyms, or abbreviations, or WYCT (whatever you call them). So you can imagine my dismay when I recently read a headline that said the New Oxford American Dictionary added “BFF” to this year’s edition of the dictionary.
For those of you old-schoolers who actually speak using complete words, BFF stands for “best friend forever.” Kind of feels like the writing staff of “Hannah Montana” just picked up and moved their sparkly markers over to the New Oxford American Dictionary to work if you ask me.
Also on the list of new additions to this year’s edition (confusing, no?) is TTYL, which stands for “talk to you later.” And this is necessary and relevant why? People today are rushing by so quickly that they can’t stop long enough to SAY “talk to you later”? It’s enough to make me crazy, but whatev. (I was starting to type out whatever but frankly ran out of time. Oxford, I’m looking at you. I expect “whatev” to be in your book by next year.)
One word I actually thought deserved an entry was “double dip.” Any “Seinfeld” fan knows that there should be a word to describe what the bozo at the party does when he dips the same chip into the salsa twice without turning the chip so as not to offend the entire party with his germs.
Then I realized that wasn’t the kind of “double dip” they meant. Instead they were referring to an adjective related to the economy, as in “higher food and energy prices could increase the risk of a double-dip recession.”
(Frankly, I’d kind of prefer to talk about tortilla chips than the recession, but okay, I’ll give Oxford that one.)
Also from the economic world, the word “zombie bank” has been added. It’s an informal noun that describes “a financial institution that is insolvent but that continues to operate through government support.” In my day we used to describe those banks as “closed for business,” but apparently adding the word “zombie” softens the realistic blow?
Another word that landed a spot in the “n” section of the dictionary is “nimrod.” Now here’s an example of an old word with a new meaning. The existing literal meaning of the word is “skillful hunter,” and the new definition is used to describe “an inept person.” Say what? I’d say a nimrod came up with that contradictory definition, and I DON’T mean a skillful hunter.
And just when you thought it was safe to read your new dictionary, they went and added “nom nom.” The entry reads: “Nom nom is an expression of delight when eating.” According to Oxford, the origin is the noises Cookie Monster makes when eating a cookie.
Hear that sound? That’s me banging my head on my desk and weeping for the future.
When we are including the Cookie Monster’s guttural utterances to the dictionary what’s next? “Ruh roh” from Scooby Doo? “Wawawawawa” from Charlie Brown’s teacher? “Doh” from Bart Simpson?
Speaking of characters, another addition to this year’s edition is “refudiate,” a non-existent word made popular by Sarah Palin. I’m not even going to touch that one with a ten-foot pole in this county.
The definition of refudiate from the Oxford Dictionary is “verb used loosely to mean ‘reject.’” Which is exactly what I do to these new “words,” Oxford.
We are no longer BFFs. TTYL.
Eileen Burmeister lives, writes and bangs her head in frustration when it’s called for in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com
For those of you old-schoolers who actually speak using complete words, BFF stands for “best friend forever.” Kind of feels like the writing staff of “Hannah Montana” just picked up and moved their sparkly markers over to the New Oxford American Dictionary to work if you ask me.
Also on the list of new additions to this year’s edition (confusing, no?) is TTYL, which stands for “talk to you later.” And this is necessary and relevant why? People today are rushing by so quickly that they can’t stop long enough to SAY “talk to you later”? It’s enough to make me crazy, but whatev. (I was starting to type out whatever but frankly ran out of time. Oxford, I’m looking at you. I expect “whatev” to be in your book by next year.)
One word I actually thought deserved an entry was “double dip.” Any “Seinfeld” fan knows that there should be a word to describe what the bozo at the party does when he dips the same chip into the salsa twice without turning the chip so as not to offend the entire party with his germs.
Then I realized that wasn’t the kind of “double dip” they meant. Instead they were referring to an adjective related to the economy, as in “higher food and energy prices could increase the risk of a double-dip recession.”
(Frankly, I’d kind of prefer to talk about tortilla chips than the recession, but okay, I’ll give Oxford that one.)
Also from the economic world, the word “zombie bank” has been added. It’s an informal noun that describes “a financial institution that is insolvent but that continues to operate through government support.” In my day we used to describe those banks as “closed for business,” but apparently adding the word “zombie” softens the realistic blow?
Another word that landed a spot in the “n” section of the dictionary is “nimrod.” Now here’s an example of an old word with a new meaning. The existing literal meaning of the word is “skillful hunter,” and the new definition is used to describe “an inept person.” Say what? I’d say a nimrod came up with that contradictory definition, and I DON’T mean a skillful hunter.
And just when you thought it was safe to read your new dictionary, they went and added “nom nom.” The entry reads: “Nom nom is an expression of delight when eating.” According to Oxford, the origin is the noises Cookie Monster makes when eating a cookie.
Hear that sound? That’s me banging my head on my desk and weeping for the future.
When we are including the Cookie Monster’s guttural utterances to the dictionary what’s next? “Ruh roh” from Scooby Doo? “Wawawawawa” from Charlie Brown’s teacher? “Doh” from Bart Simpson?
Speaking of characters, another addition to this year’s edition is “refudiate,” a non-existent word made popular by Sarah Palin. I’m not even going to touch that one with a ten-foot pole in this county.
The definition of refudiate from the Oxford Dictionary is “verb used loosely to mean ‘reject.’” Which is exactly what I do to these new “words,” Oxford.
We are no longer BFFs. TTYL.
Eileen Burmeister lives, writes and bangs her head in frustration when it’s called for in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com
The cost of Christmas
Before I even knew what was happening, it happened. Lily found the WalMart toy insert in the Sunday newspaper before I had a chance to scoop it up and toss it in the trash.
I hate commercialized holidays, especially Christmas.
Wait, that didn’t come out right. I don’t hate Christmas. That’s crazy…who hates Christmas? (Well, the Grinch does, or did, until Cindy Lou Who got a hold of him.)
No, I hate the commercialization that comes with Christmas.
As a result, we get very few catalogs in the mail, we only use Netflix so we don’t have to deal with commercials on television, and I keep the kids chained to their desks doing homework from the time they get home until bedtime. Okay, that last part is not true.
Yet in spite of my best efforts, Commercialism has a way of weaseling its way into our home. And quicker than you can say “Rudolph with your nose so bright” Commercialism set its sights on Lily.
She came into the kitchen and handed me the catalog. “I circled all the things I wanted for you to make it easier on you, Mom,” she said, smiling sweetly.
Thanks, Lily. She’s a smart one, that girl.
I got to page three of the insert before I had already added up to $424 in my head. After all was said and done, her circled items had totaled $1,250. I showed Craig and we laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
“Hey Lily, remember that calculator you wanted me to buy?” I yelled from the kitchen.
“Yes!” she said excitedly, remembering that I did, indeed, buy her something once that she had asked for.
“Well, bring that in here and sit down to add up all of these things you’ve circled.”
Shoulders slumped, she padded her way to the kitchen table and started punching away. Before she even got halfway through the catalog, she had headed outside to play volleyball with neighbor kids who were not her Grinch of a mother.
Can you say “killjoy?”
But really, why does she need a motorized jeep, a pizzeria for her Zhu Zhu pets (they don’t even have hands, so I’m not seeing how pizza enters the picture), and a special Christmas Barbie doll for $29.99 (which we all know cost $1.23 to make).
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not just the kids who are at fault. Adults are even worse. I was looking through another insert and saw these candles with fake flames that are battery operated AND have a remote control. So let me get this straight, not only are we too lazy to strike a match, but we also don’t want to get up and walk across the room to light the thing?
And really, I need another remote control in my house like I need another WalMart Christmas insert, that is to say not so much. And if your family is anything like my family, that remote control will sprout legs, get up and walk away to a far corner of the house in less than 24 hours of being unwrapped, leaving you with one lifeless and dark candle mocking your ridiculous purchase from the corner bookshelf.
My friend Brenda grew up in Honduras where the tradition was to give each child three gifts since that’s what the three wise men brought the baby Jesus. I liked that idea until I remembered how expensive gold is, and when I Googled frankincense and myrrh I discovered that those little “gifts” will run you $20 for .5 fluid ounces. Of course it’s quite possible I’m missing the point.
I think it will all work out in the end. In fact, Lily came into my bedroom last night with the same WalMart insert and said, “If you can’t afford all of these things, I’ve circled an item on page 12 that I REALLY want.” When I turned to the page, it was an oversized plastic horse with a cowgirl doll, priced at $35.
Yes, Lily, there very well might be a Santa after all.
Eileen Burmeister is a writer who lives and works in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
I hate commercialized holidays, especially Christmas.
Wait, that didn’t come out right. I don’t hate Christmas. That’s crazy…who hates Christmas? (Well, the Grinch does, or did, until Cindy Lou Who got a hold of him.)
No, I hate the commercialization that comes with Christmas.
As a result, we get very few catalogs in the mail, we only use Netflix so we don’t have to deal with commercials on television, and I keep the kids chained to their desks doing homework from the time they get home until bedtime. Okay, that last part is not true.
Yet in spite of my best efforts, Commercialism has a way of weaseling its way into our home. And quicker than you can say “Rudolph with your nose so bright” Commercialism set its sights on Lily.
She came into the kitchen and handed me the catalog. “I circled all the things I wanted for you to make it easier on you, Mom,” she said, smiling sweetly.
Thanks, Lily. She’s a smart one, that girl.
I got to page three of the insert before I had already added up to $424 in my head. After all was said and done, her circled items had totaled $1,250. I showed Craig and we laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
“Hey Lily, remember that calculator you wanted me to buy?” I yelled from the kitchen.
“Yes!” she said excitedly, remembering that I did, indeed, buy her something once that she had asked for.
“Well, bring that in here and sit down to add up all of these things you’ve circled.”
Shoulders slumped, she padded her way to the kitchen table and started punching away. Before she even got halfway through the catalog, she had headed outside to play volleyball with neighbor kids who were not her Grinch of a mother.
Can you say “killjoy?”
But really, why does she need a motorized jeep, a pizzeria for her Zhu Zhu pets (they don’t even have hands, so I’m not seeing how pizza enters the picture), and a special Christmas Barbie doll for $29.99 (which we all know cost $1.23 to make).
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not just the kids who are at fault. Adults are even worse. I was looking through another insert and saw these candles with fake flames that are battery operated AND have a remote control. So let me get this straight, not only are we too lazy to strike a match, but we also don’t want to get up and walk across the room to light the thing?
And really, I need another remote control in my house like I need another WalMart Christmas insert, that is to say not so much. And if your family is anything like my family, that remote control will sprout legs, get up and walk away to a far corner of the house in less than 24 hours of being unwrapped, leaving you with one lifeless and dark candle mocking your ridiculous purchase from the corner bookshelf.
My friend Brenda grew up in Honduras where the tradition was to give each child three gifts since that’s what the three wise men brought the baby Jesus. I liked that idea until I remembered how expensive gold is, and when I Googled frankincense and myrrh I discovered that those little “gifts” will run you $20 for .5 fluid ounces. Of course it’s quite possible I’m missing the point.
I think it will all work out in the end. In fact, Lily came into my bedroom last night with the same WalMart insert and said, “If you can’t afford all of these things, I’ve circled an item on page 12 that I REALLY want.” When I turned to the page, it was an oversized plastic horse with a cowgirl doll, priced at $35.
Yes, Lily, there very well might be a Santa after all.
Eileen Burmeister is a writer who lives and works in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Does purse-sized protection work in public privies?
As a mom there are certain locations that I’ve gotten to know, shall I say, “intimately,” since having children.
For instance, the diaper aisle of the local WalMart at 11:48 p.m. I found myself there one night, dressed in something akin to pajamas I’m sad to admit, navigating my way through a group of 20 other bleary-eyed parents who were desperately trying to figure out if they needed extra leak protection or the regular protection diapers with the cool Buzz Lightyear logo.
I’ve also climbed inside the slide at McDonald’s PlayPlace (a misnomer that should really be called McDonald’s House of Screams). My son once got to the top of the contraption, parked himself firmly like an emperor overlooking his fiefdom, and refused to come down, forcing me to shimmy my way into a claustrophobic oblivion.
Another place where I’ve spent far too much time over the years is the public restroom. Through potty training alone, I’ve put in hours waiting, coaching, and (being the writer that I am) reading: the signs on the diaper changing stations, the notes scribbled on the stall walls … anything to pass the time.
But today’s reading material made me laugh out loud. This particular public restroom had those handy toilet seat covers that are supposed to keep us safe from E. coli, strep virus, fleas, ticks and weapons of mass destruction (I’m not entirely sure of that list). And the dispenser in which they are stored is made by a company called REST ASSURED.
Now I don’t know about you, but the last thing I want to do when I am using a public restroom is REST. Seriously, who’s going to take some leisure time, kick back, put her feet up and take a breather in a public restroom? Come to think of it, why is it even called a restroom? It’s not like we’re heading in there for a nap.
And as far as being ASSURED of anything, I think that’s a bit much to claim when it comes to a public restroom. Have you ever experienced those automatic flushing toilets? They’re terrifying. Nothing assuring about that. Make one wrong move and you’re ready for takeoff.
My friend’s daughter used to sit on the auto-flushing toilets in a crouching position, looking over her shoulder frantically, staring at the red sensor light. When it would start to blink she’d yell, “See? It’s gonna blow!”
Preach it sister.
I dug a little deeper into my toilet seat cover research on the Internet (you’d be surprised) and found one product called Charmin-to-Go. These disposable seat covers are conveniently packaged so they fit in your purse, backpack or pocket so you are always prepared in any bathroom situation.
Seriously? I can barely remember my keys or the names of my two children, so the chances of me planning ahead to pack my own toilet seat covers are slim to none.
And another thing … which marketing executive had the brilliant idea to call it Charmin-to-Go? I don’t know about you, but any time I buy anything with the words “to go” in it, I expect a large fry and Diet Pepsi to accompany it. So I’m not seeing how an individually-wrapped sterilized toilet seat cover is an upgrade. Talk about false advertising.
Who comes up with this stuff?
But then, my friend Ann reminded me that the creator of the flushing mechanism on the toilet was named Thomas Crapper.
And another piece of the potty puzzle falls into place.
Eileen Burmeister lives and works in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
For instance, the diaper aisle of the local WalMart at 11:48 p.m. I found myself there one night, dressed in something akin to pajamas I’m sad to admit, navigating my way through a group of 20 other bleary-eyed parents who were desperately trying to figure out if they needed extra leak protection or the regular protection diapers with the cool Buzz Lightyear logo.
I’ve also climbed inside the slide at McDonald’s PlayPlace (a misnomer that should really be called McDonald’s House of Screams). My son once got to the top of the contraption, parked himself firmly like an emperor overlooking his fiefdom, and refused to come down, forcing me to shimmy my way into a claustrophobic oblivion.
Another place where I’ve spent far too much time over the years is the public restroom. Through potty training alone, I’ve put in hours waiting, coaching, and (being the writer that I am) reading: the signs on the diaper changing stations, the notes scribbled on the stall walls … anything to pass the time.
But today’s reading material made me laugh out loud. This particular public restroom had those handy toilet seat covers that are supposed to keep us safe from E. coli, strep virus, fleas, ticks and weapons of mass destruction (I’m not entirely sure of that list). And the dispenser in which they are stored is made by a company called REST ASSURED.
Now I don’t know about you, but the last thing I want to do when I am using a public restroom is REST. Seriously, who’s going to take some leisure time, kick back, put her feet up and take a breather in a public restroom? Come to think of it, why is it even called a restroom? It’s not like we’re heading in there for a nap.
And as far as being ASSURED of anything, I think that’s a bit much to claim when it comes to a public restroom. Have you ever experienced those automatic flushing toilets? They’re terrifying. Nothing assuring about that. Make one wrong move and you’re ready for takeoff.
My friend’s daughter used to sit on the auto-flushing toilets in a crouching position, looking over her shoulder frantically, staring at the red sensor light. When it would start to blink she’d yell, “See? It’s gonna blow!”
Preach it sister.
I dug a little deeper into my toilet seat cover research on the Internet (you’d be surprised) and found one product called Charmin-to-Go. These disposable seat covers are conveniently packaged so they fit in your purse, backpack or pocket so you are always prepared in any bathroom situation.
Seriously? I can barely remember my keys or the names of my two children, so the chances of me planning ahead to pack my own toilet seat covers are slim to none.
And another thing … which marketing executive had the brilliant idea to call it Charmin-to-Go? I don’t know about you, but any time I buy anything with the words “to go” in it, I expect a large fry and Diet Pepsi to accompany it. So I’m not seeing how an individually-wrapped sterilized toilet seat cover is an upgrade. Talk about false advertising.
Who comes up with this stuff?
But then, my friend Ann reminded me that the creator of the flushing mechanism on the toilet was named Thomas Crapper.
And another piece of the potty puzzle falls into place.
Eileen Burmeister lives and works in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
When the VCR strikes midnight on tech efficiency
It’s official: We’ve become our parents. As of last night, 8:46 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, Craig and I came face-to-face with the harsh reality that our oldest child has surpassed our abilities in the technological realm.
A few weeks ago, back when we were still comfortably ensconced in denial, Craig and I bought a Wii game console. Our 14-year-old son Nathaniel was so eager to play that he set it up for us before we even had it out of the box. We could have set it up ourselves, mind you, but we decided to toss him a bone and let him do it for us.
Then last night, my husband bought a Wii Resort game and confidently told our 8-year-old daughter that they could play it when they got home. But when he went to set up the game with the new remote he couldn’t figure out how to hook up the remote to the console.
An hour into the exercise I heard Lily say, “Dad, are you ready to play Wii with me?”
“No honey,” he called. “To be honest, I’m just killing time until your brother gets home from practice to set it up.”
That one statement took me back to a time in 1991 at Craig’s parents’ house in Ohio. Once again, Craig and I were going over the basics of how to re-set the VCR clock when it blinks 12:00. As we went through the sequence of buttons, his parents looked at us as if we were speaking Greek to them.
“How long has it been blinking?” I asked.
“Oh, since Craig went back to school last semester,” his mom said.
He had gone back to school three months earlier. I wondered, “Are these people incapable of handling a VCR without their son around?”
And now here we were, anxiously awaiting the arrival of our teenage son to get us out of our own technological jam.
When Nathaniel got home from band practice Craig explained the situation, and before he could even finish explaining the situation, Nathaniel was already working his magic. In TWO MINUTES (we timed him) he had it up and running. He fixed us with a long stare and said “What is WRONG with you guys?”
The problem, it appeared, was that Craig hadn’t turned the console ON.
“Don’t look at me,” I said, trying to save face. “It was your dad trying to do it. I just married him.”
Nathaniel gave me a withering look, quite possibly because he had recently gotten me out of a similar bind when I couldn’t figure out how to make a smiley face when sending a text.
I tell you, that kid continues to increase in value when it comes to helping us navigate our way through these newfangled technologies. He’s like an in-house tech support 24/7. He is going to be on my speed dial forever.
That is, just as soon as he shows me how to set up a speed dial on my cell phone.
Eileen Burmeister lives, works and fixes the blinking 12:00 on her microwave in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
A few weeks ago, back when we were still comfortably ensconced in denial, Craig and I bought a Wii game console. Our 14-year-old son Nathaniel was so eager to play that he set it up for us before we even had it out of the box. We could have set it up ourselves, mind you, but we decided to toss him a bone and let him do it for us.
Then last night, my husband bought a Wii Resort game and confidently told our 8-year-old daughter that they could play it when they got home. But when he went to set up the game with the new remote he couldn’t figure out how to hook up the remote to the console.
An hour into the exercise I heard Lily say, “Dad, are you ready to play Wii with me?”
“No honey,” he called. “To be honest, I’m just killing time until your brother gets home from practice to set it up.”
That one statement took me back to a time in 1991 at Craig’s parents’ house in Ohio. Once again, Craig and I were going over the basics of how to re-set the VCR clock when it blinks 12:00. As we went through the sequence of buttons, his parents looked at us as if we were speaking Greek to them.
“How long has it been blinking?” I asked.
“Oh, since Craig went back to school last semester,” his mom said.
He had gone back to school three months earlier. I wondered, “Are these people incapable of handling a VCR without their son around?”
And now here we were, anxiously awaiting the arrival of our teenage son to get us out of our own technological jam.
When Nathaniel got home from band practice Craig explained the situation, and before he could even finish explaining the situation, Nathaniel was already working his magic. In TWO MINUTES (we timed him) he had it up and running. He fixed us with a long stare and said “What is WRONG with you guys?”
The problem, it appeared, was that Craig hadn’t turned the console ON.
“Don’t look at me,” I said, trying to save face. “It was your dad trying to do it. I just married him.”
Nathaniel gave me a withering look, quite possibly because he had recently gotten me out of a similar bind when I couldn’t figure out how to make a smiley face when sending a text.
I tell you, that kid continues to increase in value when it comes to helping us navigate our way through these newfangled technologies. He’s like an in-house tech support 24/7. He is going to be on my speed dial forever.
That is, just as soon as he shows me how to set up a speed dial on my cell phone.
Eileen Burmeister lives, works and fixes the blinking 12:00 on her microwave in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Put these questions on the "do not ask" registry
It’s not often that I am speechless. I usually have more than enough to say about everything under the sun, but there are a few instances that leave me scrambling to figure out what the appropriate response could possibly be.
For example, I had to have blood drawn a few weeks ago, and the nurse drawing my blood kept tapping my veins and saying, “You have really bad veins.” Now mind you, this is not the first nurse that’s disparaged my circulatory system. I get this all the time and I always sit by silently, allowing my veins to be slandered so, because really … what is the appropriate response? Do I say, “I’ll try harder?” How about, “Oh, you want the GOOD veins? Well, why didn’t you say so to begin with? Give me a minute … I was just giving you my mediocre veins but I know I can do better.”
Instead I sit by silently because there is no good response.
Here are a few other comments and questions that leave me speechless.
“Are these your children?”
This one always gives me pause because I’m not sure what behavior immediately preceded the question. Now, if my child has just played Beethoven on the piano without missing a beat, or been listed on the High Honor Roll, then yes, he is my child. But if my child has just finished burping the entire alphabet and followed it up with an arm fart, than no, I have no idea who that horrible child is. And any family resemblance is merely a coincidence.
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
My mom was the queen of this particular question. It made me re-think every style decision I had made leading up to my entry into the kitchen for breakfast. I’d ask myself, “What is it exactly that she has a problem with?” (Because there was no doubt in my mind … she had a problem with something in my ensemble, hence the question.) Was it the 4-inch dangly earrings? The bleached-out jeans which were all the rage in 1984? Or the rolled-up bandana wrapped in a jaunty fashion around my head? I thought I was styling, but with one simple question, she left me wondering if I had indeed made a mistake. (For the record, I now use this technique on my own children.)
“Are you feeling sick?”
Whodawa? I WAS feeling right as rain until you came along. But now? No, I’m not feeling so hot because I’m wondering … Do I look ill? Do I have something hanging from my nose? Have I broken out in spots of which I am unaware? Has my skin taken on a hue that is not human? (A close relative of the awful “Are you feeling sick?” is “You look tired.” If you do come across me looking sick and/or tired, your best bet is to keep moving along and save yourself an (1) illness or (2) bad attitude.
“When are you due?”
Let me be absolutely clear here – this is NEVER a good question to ask a woman. If a woman looks like she might be pregnant, just stop right there. You need not ask anything further. If she is indeed pregnant, let her announce that joyful bit of news herself. You know what they say about assuming? NEVER ASSUME.
The ironic thing in all of this is that I’m usually the worst offender with these kinds of things. I tend to think verbally, then edit later, which, let me tell you, is not a good plan. Sadly, I came by my column name of “Did I Say That Out Loud?” honestly.
So let this be a reminder to all of us to be careful out there. And just let it go once in a while … we don’t really need to know “Is that your real hair color?” Next time you have the impulse to ask, just take a deep breath, smile and walk on by.
Eileen Burmeister lives and works in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
For example, I had to have blood drawn a few weeks ago, and the nurse drawing my blood kept tapping my veins and saying, “You have really bad veins.” Now mind you, this is not the first nurse that’s disparaged my circulatory system. I get this all the time and I always sit by silently, allowing my veins to be slandered so, because really … what is the appropriate response? Do I say, “I’ll try harder?” How about, “Oh, you want the GOOD veins? Well, why didn’t you say so to begin with? Give me a minute … I was just giving you my mediocre veins but I know I can do better.”
Instead I sit by silently because there is no good response.
Here are a few other comments and questions that leave me speechless.
“Are these your children?”
This one always gives me pause because I’m not sure what behavior immediately preceded the question. Now, if my child has just played Beethoven on the piano without missing a beat, or been listed on the High Honor Roll, then yes, he is my child. But if my child has just finished burping the entire alphabet and followed it up with an arm fart, than no, I have no idea who that horrible child is. And any family resemblance is merely a coincidence.
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
My mom was the queen of this particular question. It made me re-think every style decision I had made leading up to my entry into the kitchen for breakfast. I’d ask myself, “What is it exactly that she has a problem with?” (Because there was no doubt in my mind … she had a problem with something in my ensemble, hence the question.) Was it the 4-inch dangly earrings? The bleached-out jeans which were all the rage in 1984? Or the rolled-up bandana wrapped in a jaunty fashion around my head? I thought I was styling, but with one simple question, she left me wondering if I had indeed made a mistake. (For the record, I now use this technique on my own children.)
“Are you feeling sick?”
Whodawa? I WAS feeling right as rain until you came along. But now? No, I’m not feeling so hot because I’m wondering … Do I look ill? Do I have something hanging from my nose? Have I broken out in spots of which I am unaware? Has my skin taken on a hue that is not human? (A close relative of the awful “Are you feeling sick?” is “You look tired.” If you do come across me looking sick and/or tired, your best bet is to keep moving along and save yourself an (1) illness or (2) bad attitude.
“When are you due?”
Let me be absolutely clear here – this is NEVER a good question to ask a woman. If a woman looks like she might be pregnant, just stop right there. You need not ask anything further. If she is indeed pregnant, let her announce that joyful bit of news herself. You know what they say about assuming? NEVER ASSUME.
The ironic thing in all of this is that I’m usually the worst offender with these kinds of things. I tend to think verbally, then edit later, which, let me tell you, is not a good plan. Sadly, I came by my column name of “Did I Say That Out Loud?” honestly.
So let this be a reminder to all of us to be careful out there. And just let it go once in a while … we don’t really need to know “Is that your real hair color?” Next time you have the impulse to ask, just take a deep breath, smile and walk on by.
Eileen Burmeister lives and works in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
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