Chain emails: Roadkill on the information highway

I love email. I really do. It’s truly amazing to think that I am able to keep up with family and friends all over the world on a daily basis.

But for all the things I love about email, I also have one bone of contention: chain emails. You know the ones I’m talking about…the ones that say “Answer these 40 questions and then forward your answers to 10 of your friends in the next 10 minutes and then something wonderful will happen.”

So I did the first time, painstakingly answering minutiae about my life, my favorite color, and my favorite brand of toothpaste. And when I finally finished I sat back and awaited my prize. An animated girl holding flowers walked out on the screen and blew kisses at me in the form of bubbles.

Whodawa? That’s “something wonderful?”

I don’t know about you, but when I think of “something wonderful” I’m imaging a gift certificate to my favorite restaurant, or a trip to a tropical island, or Ed McMahan showing up at my house with a ridiculously large check. So you can imagine that “bubble kisses on my computer screen” ranks pretty low on my “something wonderful” scale.

At that moment I made a decision: I would no longer take part in this silliness. I banned chain emails. As if chain letters in the mail weren’t obnoxious enough, now friends were filling my inbox with demands to forward to 10 people or all manner of chaos could unleash itself. My technique is terrible and swift: delete, delete, delete. And alas, I’m still here to tell my tale.

So last week, my friend (who will remain nameless because it was her email that spurred this column AND she knows I hate these chain mail things AND I believe she does this just to DRIVE ME AROUND THE BEND) sent me a chain email and I decided to fight back.

1. What is your occupation? Writer.

2. What color are your socks right now? Really? What could you possibly learn about my personality based on the color of my socks? They’re white, by the way.

3. What are you listening to right now? My head banging on my desk in frustration.

4. What was the last thing that you ate? If you must know it was a mixture of Twizzlers and pistachios. Together, they didn’t sit well the first time, but the horrifying truth is, I would eat them together again.

5. Can you drive a stick shift? Yes, and quickly. In fact, the last time I robbed a bank, I drove the getaway car and no one complained. I even nailed the tight corners.

6. Last person you spoke to on the phone? My parole officer and he wasn’t happy with me. (See previous question.)

7. Do you like the person who sent this to you? I used to like her a great deal, but if she insists on continuing to ask what color my socks are I might just change my mind about her.

8. Cherries or Blueberries? Again, I’d really be curious to know how this answer will shed light on the real “me.” If I choose cherries, am I an “upbeat, happy-go-lucky kinda gal?” And if I choose blueberries, am I a “sad-sack Eeyore who doesn’t enjoy life?”

9. Do you want your friends to e-mail you back? No, but because I enjoy KEEPING my friends rather than enraging them, resulting in them gleefully deleting me from their address book.

10. When was the last time you cried? I started around No. 3 and haven’t stopped yet.

11. What inspires you? Inspirational things.

12. What are you afraid of? Another email like this.

13. Favorite dog breed? Any dog that doesn’t have the audacity to ask me if I was a color what color would I be.

14. If you were a color what color would you be? You’ve got to be kidding me.

15. What states have you lived in? The state of confusion over what the goal is of answering these questions.

See? It’s not hard. And it’s incredibly cathartic. The next time your email gets clogged with these silly emails, join me in my fight to return email to its pure original intention.

And when that sweet day arrives, I know I’ll be celebrating with Twizzlers and pistachios.



Eileen Burmeister lives, works and writes in Winchester, Ore. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Advice to first-time mom: Stay away from "Mommy and Me" classes

I recently attended a baby shower for a first-time mom, and the hostess asked us to write down one piece of motherly advice to share with my friend.


Shortly before the baby shower, I had been looking through a photo album and had come across a picture that left me with more questions than memories. In the picture, I’m standing on a diving board at the local community college, dangling my then 10-month-old baby girl over the deep end of the pool.

Sound like a good reason to call child protective services, right? No, it was just me and Lily taking a “Mommy and Me” swim class 10 years ago.

So here I was at the shower, and I couldn’t let my words of advice be “Never take a ‘Mommy and Me’ swim class or you might find yourself in an ill-fitting swimsuit on a diving board dangling your precious baby over the deep end.” Because that just sounds crazy (not unlike me, when I signed up for the class in the first place).

What the heck brought me to that place, you might ask? I think the deeper question is who is the bozo that came up with the idea of a “Mommy and Me” swim class?

My theory? It was the brainchild of a single, childless man.

Here’s how I imagine the brainstorming session went when the class was created …

Single, Childless Man (henceforth known as SCM): “I think we should have a swim class that targets new moms.”

Reasonable Woman (RW): “Hang on there, Spanky. Have you ever seen someone make a pizza? You know how they pull and tug that pizza dough until it can’t stretch any further? That’s pretty much how these women have felt for nine months. Now, let me ask you, have you ever seen pizza dough snap back into a little ball again? Yeah, me neither. Now, let’s take this one step further … you are going to ask these stretched-pizza-dough-new-mommies to put on a swimsuit and go out in public?”

SCM: “Well, yes. I suppose they would need to, seeing that it’s called ‘Mommy and Me.’”

RW: “Tell me, have you ever been swimsuit shopping with a new mom? Because it is not pretty. You can almost hear the crying and weeping clear out in the parking lot. That, my friend, is the sound of the realization that your body will never be the same. Are you sure you want to continue down this path?”

SCM: “Yes. I feel that it’s critical that these babies learn how to swim, and who better to teach them than their mommies?”

RW: “But isn’t that why we have swim instructors in the first place?”

SCM: “Well, I think it’s safer for the babies to have their own moms teach them while the instructor leads the class.”

RW: “Safer? These women have not slept more than three hours at a stretch in a year and THEY are the people you’re building your safety argument on? They can barely finish brushing their teeth at this point in life. I knew one new mom, a respectable, professional woman, who was so strung out from lack of sleep that she left an entire grocery cart full of food in the parking lot and didn’t realize it until she got home. You still want to play your safety card, my friend?”

SCM: “Yes.”

At this point in my imaginary story, I believe the reasonable woman threw up her hands and left the room.

The moral of the story: When the reasonable woman leaves the building, terrible ideas come to roost, e.g. “Mommy and Me” swim class.

I have pictures to prove it.

In my defense, I wasn’t thinking straight back in those sleep-deprived days. In fact, just a few days prior to the point where I had willingly dangled my baby from a diving board, I had left my entire cart of groceries in the parking lot and driven home.

What? You think I make this stuff up?

Eileen Burmeister lives in Winchester, Ore. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Warning: Reactions to this column may include fear of ever opening another bottle

As I age, I must admit that my reliance on medications has grown as well. It used to be I was living footloose and fancy-free, periodically taking a Tylenol for a headache.


Today, however, I have a few meds I take for things like … you know … breathing, walking and calcium depletion (which I didn’t even know was a thing until I started shrinking). Oy vey!

See? I’m already talking like an old woman.

So I broke down and bought a plastic organizer for my medication drawer. Yes, I have a drawer dedicated to medication. In days gone by I used to have a drawer for all my Barbie doll clothes, and in college I had a drawer for all of my pens and highlighters. But nowhere in the brochure of my life did I see a medication drawer advertised, so you can imagine my surprise.

Let me be clear: I am not at the point where I’m going to enlist the multi-colored, days-of-the-week pillboxes, making my transformation into my mother complete, but I’m one antihistamine away from going there.

So when my doctor suggests yet another medication, everything in me wants to say, “Sorry, my pill organizer is full. You’ll have to get on the waiting list.”

Besides, have you seen those commercials for medications on TV? The side effects are enough to make me cancel cable.

You see, one of the curses of being a “creative type” is that when I hear a list of side effects, I actually start to HAVE the side effects. It’s gotten to the point where my husband has taken the side-effect information sheet from my hands and shredded it before my eyes. At one point, I even started thinking I was experiencing prostate issues, signaling that I had nearly rounded the bend.

It’s crazy, really: A commercial comes on with a beautiful older woman riding her bike in slow motion. Cue the soft piano music. A narrator starts to talk about how her medication has halted her osteoporosis. Lovely, right?

Then that same soothing voice launches into, “Side effects may include insomnia, nausea, weakness, yawning…”

And I start talking to the narrator, “I’m wondering why you’d be yawning if you can’t fall asleep, but whatever.”

“…anxiety, nervousness, tremors…”

“You’re doing a pretty good job of making me feel all three of those with this list, honey.”

“…flushing, constipation, abnormal dreams…”

“You mean, in addition to the nightmare you’re painting for me right now?”

“…hearing voices of narrators in your head, gremlins, talking back to the narrators in your head…”

See “creative type” above...

Yes, I understand that for legal reasons, the FDA requires pharmaceuticals to trot all of these side effects out to us, the unsuspecting buyers, but there are some things I’d rather not know.

I did discover that the mass marketing of pharmaceuticals to users is banned in over 30 industrialized nations, except the United States and New Zealand, where we are all certain our hearts will explode after taking an aspirin, thank you very much.

Or maybe that’s just me.

I say ban away. And until then I am content with the fact that I will continue to shrink in stature. After all, the alternatives are too terrifying to even contemplate.

Eileen Burmeister lives, works and continues to lose vertical inches in Winchester, Ore. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Let’s not be careless about caring less, grammatically

It is a truth universally acknowledged that grammar is important. By me, at least. And if by “universally acknowledged” you mean that all of the voices in my head are in agreement, then yes, grammar is important.

Of course there are those of who are reading this and saying, “Correct grammar? Important? Why, I could care less.”

Ah, but you’re wrong. And that’s why it’s important. Are you saying “I could care less” or “I couldn’t care less”? The answer makes a big difference.

As one popular Facebook meme reminds us, correct grammar saves lives. It’s as important as the distinction between “Let’s eat, Grandma” and “Let’s eat Grandma.” What started as a call to a meal could end up as a cannibalistic Thanksgiving dinner. This is important stuff here people!

But I couldn’t care less about Grandma (see what I did there?), so let’s get back to the matter at hand.

“I could care less” is a creepy little phrase that has not only slithered its way into our lexicon, it is actually fluffing up pillows and settling in for good unless we do something about it.

Of course, I’m up for the challenge, and my first line of attack is always my family.

My poor daughter Lily was in the passenger seat of the car discussing how someone received something at school that she didn’t get. When I asked her if it bothered her she said, “No, I could care less.”

I actually gasped.

“What?” she asked.

“You mean you couldn’t care less, right? Because the way you said it means you have more care to give. There is a level of care, and you could go lower, but for now, you’re just a bit ambivalent.”

At this point her eyes have glazed over and she’s staring out the car window and dreading that she ever said a word when I asked her how her day was.

I get that look a lot from all three family members.

But apparently the mini in-the-car grammar lesson stuck because a few days later she was sharing another story over dinner and started to say, “I could care … wait … no, I mean I couldn’t care less.”

She smiled sweetly at me across the table while I beamed. Craig rolled his eyes.

I get that look a lot too.

Michael Quinion, a British etymologist, writer, and linguistics devotee (what’s not to love?) says this on his blog World Wide Words: “The form I could care less has provoked a vast amount of comment and criticism in the past thirty years or so. Few people have had a kind word for it, and many have been vehemently opposed to it (William and Mary Morris, for example, in the Harper Dictionary of Contemporary Usage, back in 1975, called it “an ignorant debasement of language”, which seems much too powerful a condemnation). Writers are less inclined to abuse it these days, perhaps because Americans have had time to get used to it.”

Americans, I beg of you, don’t get used to it.

It’s simple: The only time you would EVER say “I could care less” is if something that is happening is tolerable and only mildly irritating, and you have more care to give.

But if you’re fed up, and simply not going to take it anymore, then you want to use “I couldn’t care less.”

Go ahead. Say it out loud a few times and practice it.

See, my goal is to make you over-aware of the right phrase so that the wrong phrase will sound like nails on a chalkboard from now on. (Kids, go ask your parents what a chalk board is.)

I’m so excited for my next article, where we’ll tackle the difference between there, their and they’re. And if you don’t want to hear it, well, I couldn’t care less.

Eileen Burmeister lives, writes and corrects grammar in Winchester, Ore. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Urgent care prompts Rx for maternal fervor

This past Mother’s Day, our youngest child was one little sick puppy.


It was the weekend of our move to a new home, and to be honest, I didn’t realize just how sick she was amidst all of the packing, unpacking, lifting and cleaning. Then Saturday afternoon, after a houseful of friends had helped us unload and unpack boxes, I noticed a little bundle of blankets on the couch. I assumed it was just that – a pile of blankets – but upon further investigation, I discovered our 10-year-old daughter under the blanket, fast asleep, the same girl who hasn’t willingly taken a nap in over 7 years.

Something was up.

Let me state here that I’m not proud of the fact that it took me over 36 hours to realize my child was sick. And yes, I did realize that my position in line for Mother of the Year was seriously in question, as usual.

The week earlier she had a high fever for two days straight without any other symptoms. We kept her home from school and sent her back to school Friday after her fever broke. Apparently the fever was just a precursor to the REAL illness which was now manifesting itself in our little girl.

I feel a total lack of control when my kids are sick. I can give them Tylenol, treat their sniffles, but ultimately it’s a waiting game until they regain health and strength. For someone who thrives on control (not naming any names here) this utter loss of control over the outcome is a tough pill to swallow.

I gave her another day to see if she could bounce back, but after another lethargic 24 hours I decided it was time to visit the doctor. Of course it was Sunday, because (little known fact) all children wait until the doctor’s office is closed to get really and truly sick. It’s uncanny how that works.

So we headed to urgent care to get her checked out, and it was then that I remembered that it was Mother’s Day.

What a great Mother’s Day, I thought sarcastically, as I filled out the paperwork and wrote a check for the co-pay.

And so we sat, and waited. After a few minutes Lily cuddled up next to me on the couch as we watched some mindless show on the television in the waiting area. This little girl who rarely if ever sits still, put her head on my lap and let me stroke her hair to take away a little bit of the pain she was experiencing. And it worked. I had a part in helping her relax and get her mind off the fact that her throat felt like broken glass at that moment.

It also got me thinking back on the last 10 years with her: Rocking her to sleep, pushing her in a swing, taking her to her first day of pre-school, watching her first dance recital, walking hand-in-hand.

At that moment I started chuckling because I realized, finally, that there was no better way to spend Mother’s Day than caring for one of my children. I mean, this right here is why I signed up for motherhood in the first place. It’s better than any other role I play in life. What a privilege.

The diagnosis was tonsillitis, which of course, can only feel better with frozen yogurt, right? And you can bet we partook of that remedy together.

What a great Mother’s Day, I thought.

But this time I truly meant it.

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

If you can read this headline, that means it didn’t fit in the box

I think my family may be plotting my death, so I wanted to publicly say something here in case anything weird happens. Wait, let me clarify: weirder than usual.

Why are they angry? Well, now that we’re moving, it’s been brought to my attention that I may have gone a little bit overboard on the packing. As you’re home reading this Sunday morning over coffee and a donut, my family will be unpacking box after box of items that we moved yesterday into our new home.

Now re-wind to last weekend. In an effort to help with the move, I took advantage of a full day home alone to pack everything that wasn’t moving, currently being eaten, or presently being worn by a family member. This resulted in a quite a bit of confusion when the other three members of the family returned home.

It was late, and Lily was getting ready for bed when she called from her room upstairs, “Mom, where are my pajamas?”

“Um,” I stalled. “I think they’re in your bottom drawer.”

“Nothing’s in my bottom drawer,” she replied.

Of course she was right. I had packed all but one drawer of her things, leaving her just enough to get her through the week of school before moving day. But did I take into account the need for sleeping attire for the upcoming week? Notsomuch.

Then my son, who has medication that he needs on a daily basis, woke me up Sunday morning and asked me if I packed his medication because the cupboard where it’s usually kept was bare. Before I could even answer in the affirmative, I was out in the garage searching through boxes in the bright morning sun.

A little later that morning while getting ready for church my husband yells, “Has anyone seen my cologne?”

“I may have packed it?” I said weakly, more a question than a statement. When he looked at me accusingly I said, “Okay, I did pack it.”

“Seriously?” he asked. Sadly, yes. But in all fairness, I packed my perfume too, so I tried to cheer him up by telling him we could be smelly together. He wasn’t buying it.

Even our cat seems mad at me, since I refuse to change her cat box until we move to the new house. Why open a new box of litter when we only have days to go, right? Instead she gives me a harsher-than-usual glare; something I didn’t think was possible.

I overheard my husband say to the kids, “Hold on to your pillows or your mom might pack them before Saturday.” Everyone’s a comedian around here.

Okay, I’ll admit it … I’m an over-eager packer. On the upside, I did uncover some items in a basement closet that hadn’t seen the light of day in over a decade. My favorite find was our Y2K stash (kids, go ask your parents what Y2K means). Thankfully, nothing came from the Y2K threat, or we wouldn’t have survived for long on our two, one-gallon jugs of water and one can of peaches. Apparently, my house packing is way better than my apocalyptic packing, which may have kept us alive through Jan. 3 of that year. Maybe.

So as it stands today, I may or may not be allowed to stay home on my own from here on in. I’m still waiting to hear the final word from the jury (my family). Yeah, I’m not holding out much hope either. They’re a tough crowd.

Eileen Burmeister works, packs and now lives in Winchester, Ore. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Sometimes, parental supervision is not enough

You know, for as much training as Craig and I have received in parenting over the years, we have not always used sound judgment in choosing movies appropriate for children.

Now, I’m not talking about overly violent or sexual movies, which are clearly inappropriate for children. Instead, I’m talking about those movies that we adults would categorize as “classics,” but turn out to be the stuff of nightmares for our poor kids.

Exhibit A: “E.T.”

Now “E.T.” is a great movie and should be viewed by everyone OF A CERTAIN AGE. Five is not that age. Craig and I once showed this movie to a friend’s five-year-old son while we were babysitting (we were, of course, obliviously childless at the time). The boy sat there rapturous for the first half. But once things turned south and E.T. was dying in a glass tomb, poked and prodded by scientists, the little boy started to cry and shouted “My heart hurts!” I think that roughly translated to, “I’m five, this is way too adult for me, and why did my parents leave me with the two of you?”

Great question.

Exhibit B: “The Wizard of Oz”

Now this one was all Craig’s fault, simply because I flat-out refused to watch it after my first viewing 35 years ago. Seriously, those flying monkeys nearly did me in. Truth is, I can barely stand to look at the monkeys at the zoo, half expecting them to turn into maniacal winged instruments of death. I know, Curious George is cute, but inside he’s on the Wicked Witch of the West’s side. You can see it in his eyes.

After Craig had him watch “The Wizard of Oz” at age six, our son had nightmares about tornados for months AND he’s never once asked for a monkey as a pet.

See what I mean?

Exhibit C: “Signs”

I’ll take credit for this total lack in parental judgment. Craig was out of town, and I thought it would be fun for Nathaniel and me to watch something once I put his baby sister down for bed.

I had read about M. Night Shyamalan’s movie and was intrigued, especially by this blurb: “In Bucks County, Pennsylvania, a five-hundred-foot crop circle is found on the farm of Graham Hess, the town's reverend. The circles cause a media frenzy and test Hess's faith as he journeys to find out the truth behind the crop circles.”

I checked the rating and it was PG-13 for some frightening elements. Our son, age nine at the time, had already seen “Star Wars,” so I figured we were good to go.

But by the time the aliens started creeping around the reverend’s house, forcing the young son to walk around with a baseball bat in order to protect his siblings, Nathaniel stared in horror and yelled, “WHY ARE YOU LETTING ME WATCH THIS?”

Recently, as we laughed about this horrible display of judgment, Nathaniel said, “You’re just lucky I didn’t wear a tin foil helmet to school after that to protect myself from aliens.”

Yeah, not my best parenting move.

Which brings us to present day, with “The Hunger Games.” Nathaniel had read all the books in middle school, and insisted I read them as well. I finally sat down to read them a year ago and blew through the entire trilogy in a week’s time.

So of course I couldn’t wait to see the movies, and I was not disappointed.

But as I sat there in the dark theater and watched the story unfold, I caught myself thinking, “Yeah, this isn’t appropriate for our 10-year-old to see.”

Could it be that I’m finally growing up as a parent?

Fingers crossed, by the time our kids leave for college, I’ll have this parenting this down.

Eileen Burmeister lives, works and attempts to parent well in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on twitter @EBurmeister.