Even high mileage vehicles need a tune up

You know how cars get to a certain point where everything starts to fall apart? That’s usually the moment when you start thinking, “I need to replace this car.”

Well, apparently, I’ve reached that certain “mileage” in my own life. The bad news is I’m stuck with the original model for the duration. And it seems to be breaking down quite a bit lately.

It started back in July when I simply reached out to lift something heavy and a muscle pulled in my shoulder. I babied it for a few days, assuming it would go away like most aches and pains.

Little did I know that the It-Will-Go-Away-Like-Most-Aches-and-Pains Ship had left the harbor, never to return again. (Take note: It happens at 44 years and 8 days. Don’t say you weren’t warned.)

What used to take a few days to feel better now requires a physician, massage therapist and physical therapist.

I started with massage therapy. During the first session, the massage therapist asked me “Did you dislocate your shoulder as a child?” I hadn’t, that I could remember, but figured that was something I’d remember. A few minutes later she asked, “Is this shrapnel?” when she saw an odd birthmark I have.

Seriously? What the heck happens when I’m asleep? Am I sleep walking down the street to the park and dangling recklessly from monkey bars by one arm? Am I involved in combat of which I am not aware?

And I know why she asked about the dislocated shoulder. My right shoulder hangs a few inches lower than the other. This situation elicits a fear in me that one day I’ll be known as Monkey Girl when I finally start dragging my knuckles of the right hand along the ground while the left shoulder remains as perky as ever. Believe me, my mind has been taking me places that are the stuff of nightmares lately.

Anyone remember the Sea Hag character from Popeye? She was the one on Goon Island who was hunched over, cackled, and had a hump for a back. (She also had pronounced chin hairs, which haven’t shown up yet, but really, it’s only a matter of days.)

Yep, the Sea Hag is pretty much what I imagine myself become, slowly but surely.
I started physical therapy after the massage therapist suggested I might need a little more than she could provide. The physical therapist thinks I have tendonitis in my rotator cuff and an impingement behind my shoulder. I have no idea what an impingement is, but my husband often tells me I’m tightly wound, so it probably has something to do with that.

The physical therapist also added that I had inherited a dowager’s hump from my mom (see: “hump for a back” in the Sea Hag description above). I told him that “dowager’s hump” is an awful term, and asked him if we could call it something else.

“Well, it’s technically degenerative arthritis. Do you like that better?” he said with a smirk.

I don’t think I like my physical therapist very much.

But he’s only there to help me deal with the physical pain and it’s so much more than that. It’s the lack of independence. I now have to solicit the help of my family members in every little task. I can no longer go to Costco on my own without the help of my husband to lift the 98-pack of Diet Pepsi into the cart. (Okay, I’m exaggerating, but seriously…does Costco think we are feeding entire armies in our homes? Instead of carts they should issue each shopper a forklift. I’m just saying.)

This lack of ability to fend for myself is taking its toll on my psyche and weighing heavily on my dowager’s hump.

In fact, just last weekend during our Costco excursion, while Craig was hoisting another 80-pound item into our cart, our daughter Lily pointed out, “It’s like Dad is Superman and you’re his little sidekick.”

Sigh. As endearing as that is, I’m seriously losing my street cred as an independent woman.

But what else do you expect from a Sea Hag with Monkey Girl tendencies?

Eileen Burmeister lives, writes and drags her knuckles around Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.

History repeats itself, albeit not very accurately

History repeats itself, albeit not very accurately

I hate Virginia. Virginia may be for lovers, but I’m simply not feeling the love. That’s because it took me three guesses to guess the correct capital while my seven-year-old daughter quizzed me over dinner from her “50 State of America” book (which, by the way, has taken the top spot on my “Books I Hate” list).

“What’s the capital of Virginia?” she asked.

“Norfolk?” I guessed.

“No,” she said. “It begins with an ‘R.’”

Well that was sweet of her to toss me a bone, so I thought harder, trying not to waste this act of grace from my kind child.

Suddenly, a light bulb went on in my thick head. “Roanoke!”

She shook her head NO and I think I saw a little smile. She was enjoying watching her trivia-competitive mother squirm like this. Seriously, what was I DOING 25 years ago during my social studies classes?

“Richmond?” I asked more than stated.

“Yes!” yelled Lily overzealously, compensating for the fact that I was close to banging my head repeatedly on the kitchen counter.

She then asked “What is the capital of Canned Turkey?” Turns out she misread “Kentucky.”

She learned this behavior from her father. My husband Craig often passes time on car rides by asking us various trivia questions. One day in particular he asked us to name the presidents of the United States. (Lily made it through three rounds – Bush 1, Bush 2 and Obama - until she incorrectly guessed Martin Luther King Jr.)

Just to show off, Craig started asking additional trivia questions such as “Where was he born?” or “What was his middle name?”

So when it was my turn and I named George Washington he followed up with “Where was he born?”

I immediately answered, “The state of Washington,” but the moment I saw my husband’s face, I quickly backtracked and regretted my answer. His mouth hanging open, he simply whispered, “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Of course I was joking. Kind of. But not really. Okay, I wasn’t joking.

Sure, when I stopped to think it through, I realized that at the time of George Washington’s birth Lewis and Clark hadn’t yet headed west, in their covered wagons along the Mississippi River, on their way to meet Pocahontas. So yeah, I realized the error in my initial answer.

My teenage son started snickering in the back seat, but stopped immediately when I gave him my “mom look.” Yeah, he knows who feeds him.

Instead I attempted to divert everyone’s attention. “Look at the cows,” I tried. “How beautiful is that barn?” I asked. “Look, my arm blew out the window just like my mom always said it would if I stuck it out a fast-moving car.” Nothing.

All the president’s men continued to hold court in our car, much to my chagrin. The children, the same ones I gave birth to after hours of excruciatingly painful labor, egged their dad on to ask more questions, reveling in the fact that their mom doesn’t know everything.

So you can imagine how much I was enjoying the state capital game at dinner that same night.

I realize now that I need a game plan: Next time, I will be the one to name the trivia contest in the first place.

Tonight at dinner, I have a feeling we’ll be playing “In Which Jane Austen Novel Does This Line Appear?” followed up with a rollicking round of “Obscure Grammar Trivia.”

It’s sure to be a blast. Well, at least for one of us.

Good sportsmanship powers the race to bupkis

Have you ever started a day with the best intentions, only to watch those intentions devolve into the reality that is you?

This happened to me a few weekends ago, when I decided to take part in the annual Ramble for Recovery 5K here in Roseburg. This race is held to raise awareness of those individuals in our community who are in recovery, as well as the individuals who work with them throughout that process. Worthy cause, right?

That’s what I thought.

The race was divided into two groups: the 5K walk and the 5K run. The runners went first, and the walkers started five minutes later.

Seeing that my best running occurs when I’m running from the car into the store in the rain, I decided to sign up for the walk.

Now mind you, I’ve done my fair share of races, but I’ve never had any possibility of winning a race … until this one.

I’ve prided myself on not being competitive athletically. (When it comes to board games, card games and intellectual challenges, however, all bets are off. I once drew blood during a rousing hand of Nerts.)

Never too old to surprise even myself, I was taken aback when that same desire to draw blood reared its ugly head at this 5K, directed toward the most unlikely adversary.

Out of the gate, I was in the front, experiencing the heady feeling of actually leading the pack for a change. About a half mile in, I was surprised to see that I was still in the lead. That is, except for one person who was ahead of me. He was a little boy who was walking in front of me and as soon as I got close to passing him he’d start running.

I walked behind him, amused at his gumption and sure he would wear himself out before we hit the duck pond, but when we were passing Fred Meyer he was still running to keep ahead of me.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Eight,” he answered in between gasps for air.

“Oh, I have a nine year old daughter,” I said, trying to connect to him on his level. He didn’t bite. Instead he kept running ahead of me, then walking until I caught up again.

At this point, halfway through the race, I started thinking, “Hey, I could actually win this thing” and that competitive spirit started to rear its ugly head.

“So…” I asked, “Are you signed up for the walk or the run?”

“The walk,” he said matter-of-factly.

“THAT, young man, is not walking,” I said.

Let me point out here I was not proud of myself at this moment.

He smiled sheepishly, stopping to a walk. We walked side by side in silence for a while until he started running again.

“Still not walking” I sang.

“It’s just that I really want to win this race,” he said.

“You and me both,” I said.

Again, not one of my prouder moments.

As we came around the path toward the soccer fields, we continued our competitive dance. Just as I started to pass him he started to run again, looking behind to see how far he could get before walking.

Ah, well, I reasoned, at this point I could do with a second place medal. It was still better than anything I’d ever done before. And it was all for a good cause, right?

Plus imagine the story this kid could tell for the rest of his life … how he beat all the adults at his first 5K. And of course I wouldn’t be around to ruin his story by pointing out that he was cheating, which is a win-win for him.

So I settled in toward the finish line happy with my second-place finish as he ran toward the end. At the very last moment, however, a man came up from behind and passed me. Whodawa? Where did he come from? Did he take a cab to the finish line and jump out a moment ago?

Never mind … tra-la-la … third place medal will have to do, or so I thought.
When all was said and done, I discovered that some woman was WAY ahead of me, so she took the first place medal, the little 8-year-old “walker” took the second-place medal, the cab-riding cheater took third, and I got bupkis.

Thank goodness there wasn’t a Good Sportsmanship Award, or I may have had to wrestle someone to the ground for that one.

Instead I soothed my bruised ego with a banana and a free t-shirt. I’m thinking about using a black Sharpie to write “winner” on the back, but that seems overly competitive, which I am not.

Eileen Burmeister lives, works and loses races to eight year olds in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follower her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Word to the wise: Know when to shut the cell up

My friend Kasia lives in Chicago and uses the public transit system to get to and from work. Sadly, a potentially quiet and relaxing ride can often turn into a technological nightmare the moment a passenger decides to talk on his cell phone.

She recounts a recent cell phone conversation, one way, of course: “I’m on the bus … the bus … THE BUS! I’ll be home in 15 minutes … 15 minutes … 15 MINUTES! We’re at Belmont now … Belmont … BELMONT!”

What is wrong with us that we think our private conversations are now for everyone and his brother to hear? Where is our sense of etiquette?

In the past, we’ve had experts on etiquette: Miss Manners, Emily Post, and pre-jail Martha Stewart, just to name a few.

But with the explosion of technology, I feel like modern society is in sore need of cell phone etiquette.

Ever the servant, I came up with a few basic rules to adhere to:

The Six-Foot Rule: Just because I happen to be in the same row of shoes with you at Ross, this does not mean that I want to be privy to the ins and outs of your recent divorce. Which is why I suggest the six-foot rule: If a very tall person cannot lie down between us while you prattle on about who gets the dishes and who gets the coffee maker, then you’re too close. (Unless, of course, you want to be that person lying down on the floor in Ross, in which case I think I can arrange that.)

The Too Much Information Rule: If your conversation has anything to do with (A) bodily functions, (B) medical test results, or (C) intimate relationships, refrain from talking in public on your cell phone. My friend Colleen was in a changing room at a store in Phoenix recently and overheard the woman in the next changing room on her cell phone recounting her latest gynecological evaluation. Colleen explained, “I heard about how she only has a few eggs left, how in vitro fertilization isn’t really an option, and how she’s just too young to be without a supply of ample viable eggs.” It’s amazing … you go in to try on a shirt for some retail therapy, and you get a whole lot of information that requires another kind of therapy altogether. Lovely.

The Rent the DVD and Stay Home Rule: If I just shelled over a $20 to see a movie with a friend, please don’t be surprised if I give you a dirty look when you pull out your phone and start talking to the babysitter DURING THE MOVIE. It’s a little unnerving to be following Brad Pitt’s dialogue in “Moneyball” with you behind me asking, “Did you try the other diaper ointment?” As a parent myself, not to mention a huge fan of babies, I totally get you. But I also want you to take a few steps out and talk to the sitter in the hallway. That’s all I’m saying.

The Get off your Phone and Drive Rule: If most human beings are unable to rub their stomachs and pat their heads simultaneously, chances are pretty good they can’t drive and talk on the phone very well either. Oh, and it’s ILLEGAL in some states to do so, so there’s that.

The Time-Out Rule: I understand … we often have our cell phones in our pockets when we enter a public restroom, but if it rings you do have the option to – you know – ignore it. Unless you’ve left your curling iron turned on and wrapped in a newspaper, and the incoming call reads FIRE STATION, I’m pretty sure any phone call can wait until you finish your business. (By the way, WHAT are you doing wrapping a hot curling iron in newspaper for? That’s just asking for trouble.)

The Polite Rule: My friend Joanne shared that people in China cover their mouths when they speak on their cell phones. “This makes it so much more pleasant for those around them,” she said. I say, “Brilliant idea, China!”

Now I’m sure I’ve forgotten some critical points of cell phone etiquette, but I’ll leave you with one over-arching thought: Just because modern technology makes it possible to talk wherever we want, whenever we want, does that mean we should abandon all propriety in what and when we “share?”

Say it isn’t so.

Eileen Burmeister lives and works in Southern Oregon. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter @EBurmeister.

If they left the light on for you, it would probably ignite

When I stay at hotels, I typically like to stay at a 3-star establishment or better. But I’m cheap, so I like to get the best possible deal. These two facts don’t always mix well, resulting in a less than stellar hotel stay.

Take my recent trip to Portland for my daughter’s soccer tournament. Refusing to spend the equivalent of a round-trip ticket to Paris for a three-night hotel stay in Portland, I decided to use Priceline and get the most bang for my buck.

The problem with Priceline is you never know WHICH 3-star hotel you’re going to get, and I got a dud. Thanks for nothing, William Shatner.

As a result, I decided to give the hotel some feedback, giving them every opportunity to improve their hovel, er, I mean hotel.

I took the liberty of copying the categories off another hotel review site and using that format to offer my thoughts. (I’m sure they’ll thank me later.)

Value for money: Initially I was charmed by your low price, but the proverbial “you get what you pay for” became a reality as I drove up your drive and discovered that I would now be charged $12 a night just to park in your lot. A nice lot? Perhaps to some, but not to my friend who backed up into the cement post directly behind her parking space. Just saying.

Room quality: Ah, the room. When I entered the room, I nearly tripped over the piece of “furniture” that held our coffee maker. This trolley-like “cupboard” was not unlike something my in-laws owned for their tea service in, oh, 1982. Charming in Amish country, yes, but not so much in a metropolitan hotel. The coffee pot itself went untouched since I saw that Dateline NBC episode where they showed people using hotel room coffee makers to cook crystal meth. In fact, the hotel on Dateline NBC’s story looked an awful lot like the room I stayed in. I’m hoping that’s just an eerie coincidence. The fact that our room was positioned right across from the elevator seemed convenient at first. I changed my tune at 2 a.m. when the elevator was on its 55th DING (something it does each time it opens, by the way) before opening and dumping out its drunken travelers who then stood outside our door to issue their lengthy, tearful goodnights.Oh, and before I forget, thank you so much for placing the ice maker RIGHT NEXT TO THE ELEVATOR. It was an audial win-win. Not to mention the fact that the aforementioned drunk patrons liked to get buckets of ice at 4 a.m. before slamming their doors once again.

Cleanliness: I am nothing if not a fan of mysteries, but stepping in a wet puddle on the carpet took my mind to possibilities that were the stuff of nightmares. I still don’t want to know what it was (and, fingers crossed, with some good therapy, I might be able to stop obsessing about it) but I have to tell you that the idea of setting the room on fire did cross my mind. Then I realized that I might have to go down the elevator once the fire was started and I seriously could not take another DING.

Bed comfort: Once I examined the bed for bed bugs (courtesy of Dateline NBC – again) I was able to safely go to bed. But I came to find out that a very angry marine sergeant had made the bed before I arrived. So tightly were the sheets tucked in that my ankles cramped within 10 minutes, requiring me to get up and yank the sheets out. Of course now I was certain that the bed bugs that were squashed by the marine were now free falling all over the room. Suffice it to say, it was a long night.

Staff and service: Lovely. Not a single complaint. They were friendly, relaxed, and a bit relieved I must say. In retrospect I think that was because they were thrilled that they were at the front desk and not being forced to stay in your guest rooms.

Will you recommend this hotel to your friends? If by friends you mean enemies, then by all means yes. And I’ll tell them to be sure and try the coffee.

Eileen Burmeister lives and works in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.

Old Navy lets go of its grammatical sense

Just in time for National Punctuation Day on Sept. 24 (please celebrate responsibly) Old Navy has unleashed one doozy of a grammatical blunder. I would love to say that they were attempting to be ironic, but sadly, I’d be wrong.

Now we all make mistakes. In fact, I, self-proclaimed grammar vigilante that I am, just spelled umbrage incorrectly last week (umberage: wrong, umbrage: right). The difference is that I didn’t spell umbrage incorrectly on thousands of T-shirts that went out to stores all over the United States. Which brings me back to Old Navy.

Here’s the story. Old Navy printed sports t-shirts with the saying “Lets go” across the top.

What’s wrong with that, you ask? Stare at the phrase “Lets go” long and hard. There should be an apostrophe after the “t” because it’s a contraction of” let us go,” right?

Right. (See? You did pay close attention in Sister Clare’s English class. Oh, wait, that was me.)

But it gets better. This grammar goof was on T-shirts for … wait for it … colleges throughout the United States. Resulting in a green and yellow T-shirt that reads “Lets go Ducks” for the University of Oregon, or a scarlet and grey T-shirt that reads “Lets go Buckeyes” for The Ohio State University.

As an Ohio native, that last one particularly stings.

(Never mind that there should also be a comma after go, because "Ducks and Buckeyes" are being addressed, just as "Gerald" is in the sentence, "Go get 'em, Gerald." So, it should be "Let's go, Buckeyes"- instead of "Let's go rowing.")

Yes, Old Navy, let’s celebrate colleges by misspelling words on T-shirts promoting those bastions of higher learning.

I get the random mistake here and there, and I’ve even been guilty of them on a fairly regular basis (see umbrage above). But how did this error get all through the ranks of editors to finally reach the print shop and slip by unnoticed?

Have we completely abandoned our apostrophe rules?

Sadly, this error isn’t limited to Old Navy. Over the last few weeks, I’ve driven by a sign in front of a credit union that advertises “Low APR rates for boats, ATV’s and RV’s.”

Boats is a plural noun, therefore no apostrophe is needed, so well done there.
But then someone went all crazy with apostrophes for the ATVs and RVs when they don’t need one at all. The only time an apostrophe is necessary is if you’re talking about RV as a possessive noun, as in “I particularly like the RV’s fuchsia shag carpet.”

When I point out these errors to the people responsible (um, yes, I do that – overly obnoxious?), the response is often the same: “It just looks better that way.”

Sigh.

Back in the ‘80s someone thought leg warmers with high heels looked good. A misguided interior designer once made the grave mistake of assuming a mechanical singing fish hanging on a living room wall looked good. And the entire band of Flock of Seagulls once believed mullets were the way to go. But just because you think it, does not make it so.

Thank the Lord.

Geography has hard and fast rules. Topeka is in Kansas – period. Math also has rules. The square root of 64 is 8 – period. (Says the woman who ordered four sodas today when there were only three of us because … well, that’s how I count.)

And yes, English has rules built in, for better or for worse. Are they easy and straightforward? No. Is it easy to decide when to use “lay” versus “lie?” No. But I’m nerdy enough to have a cheat sheet on those two words tacked to the wall next to my computer because let’s face it … when you can’t count accurately and don’t know where Topeka is without looking, you have to capitalize on your strengths.

So let’s go kids (notice the apostrophe there?) and get this new school year started off well. Capitalize on your strengths, pay close attention to your teachers, and for Pete’s sake, please follow the rules.

And if you bought one of those Old Navy shirts, PLEASE return it immediately or get a red marker and insert the apostrophe. You’ll sleep better at night knowing that all is right in the grammar world once again.

Eileen Burmeister lives and works in Roseburg. When she is not out fighting grammar crimes, she can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.

On becoming the team manager from H-E-double goal posts

Somewhere between filling out the medical release form and measuring my nine year old for her jersey I was elected to be team manager of her traveling soccer team.

First order of business was to get Lily’s team to Portland in late August for a three-day, 400-team soccer tournament. I was told it meant finding an affordable hotel for the team to stay at. Piece of cake.

Or so I thought.

The first email from the tournament organizer (we’ll call her “Attila the Hun” for reasons which will become clear) was benign enough: “Please send us your payment for the tournament.” I forwarded it on to the appropriate person and focused on looking for hotel deals.

But wait.

That afternoon another email popped up from dear Attila, informing all team managers that this tournament is what they call a “stay to play” tournament. What does THAT mean, you might ask, and you’d be asking the very same question I was mumbling to my computer screen.

I read through the 5,000-word email to discover that it means if you’re traveling from out of town, you MUST stay at one of the hotels from the list attached in order to take part in the tournament. Whodawa?

Yep, sure enough, they had our check in hand and were telling us in no uncertain terms (5,000 characters worth of terms, no less) that we had to stay at one of the seven hotels listed or we couldn’t play in the tournament.

So my plan of finding us a screaming deal on Priceline went down the drain, and three nights in Portland was going to cost me at least double what it would have had I arranged it on my own. Let’s just say I was not very happy.

But the worst was yet to come the following day: “Fill out this form with all of your families’ names, numbers, emails, and accommodations plans. If they are not staying at a hotel, please provide us with the reason for going elsewhere.”

Are…you…serious, Attila? ‘Cause, Hun, this here is crazy talk.

The smart aleck in me wanted to put the following reasons down under the families who are staying with family or friends: “The Jones family has been on the run from the law for some time now and prefers to stay ‘mobile’ if you know what I mean.” Or “Mr. Davis has ties to a mob family in Portland and is staying at an undisclosed location. I could tell you where, but then I’d have to … well, you know.” Or “Our families will be moving from hotel to hotel and invite you to try and find us.”

Seriously, at this point I started feeling like I needed to (1) quit my job, (2) ignore my children, and (3) feed my family Tender Vittles so I could devote my time to this paperwork for the tournament.

But wait! The next day a newsletter from Attila plopped in my inbox with the hopeful title “What you don’t need to bring.”

Finally! A respite for the weary. They’re going to actually do their job and take care of stuff for us, you know, like most tournament ORGANIZERS do.

Sadly, that was not the case. I print it here verbatim (parenthesis mine). I promise you I’m not making this up.

What you don’t need to bring, from Attila:

• Bribes for the tournament director. (As if. Unless a punch in the nose is considered a “bribe” in Portland, you’re getting a whole lotta nothing from me.)
• Notarized medical releases. I think every team should have these, but that is up to you. (Of COURSE you think we should have these. And while we’re at it, I vote for blood draws and urine samples. Would you like a copy of each of our mortgages while we’re rifling through the file drawers in our basement anyways?)
• Birth certificates for your players. We pretty much go with the birth date on the player cards. It’s not our job to double check state association’s work. (One question Attila: What is YOUR job? I have yet to figure this out.)
• A bad attitude.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure my Good Attitude Ship sailed somewhere around email No. 2. If a bad attitude needs to stay at home, I fear that this team is in need of a brand spanking new team manager who is not mumbling to herself and finding twigs in her unwashed hair as she sleeps over her keyboard filling out the 145th form required to play in this tournament.

In looking for a nugget of optimism, I came across this quote from Friedrich Nietzsche: “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.” Mind you, Nietzsche is DEAD, however, so that didn’t do the trick.

And then I catch a glimpse of those adorable little nine-year-old girls with pigtails and soccer cleats and remember why I’m doing this and decide to just take one for the team and stop whining. We’ll see how it goes.

If I don’t write another column, you’ll know it didn’t go well.

Eileen Burmeister lives, works and manages a soccer team very poorly in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.