Here’s the real reason every show wants a strong cast

Last weekend, I was headed to Umpqua Actors Community Theater to see “Little Women.” A few of my friends were involved in the production, so I sent them a quick “break a leg” note of encouragement on Facebook.

Then I stopped and thought about what a weird phrase that is. If I’m trying to encourage someone, why would I wish them harm?

There are phrases like this that I say and think I know what they mean. At least I know what they mean in today’s culture, but after a little research, I discovered that they started off meaning something quite different.

For example, in the instance of “break a leg,” it turns out that actors are traditionally superstitious and think that a “good luck” will have the opposite effect. So, by wishing someone bad luck (a broken leg), the hope is that something good will occur.

Speaking of legs, another strange idiom we use is “pulling my leg.” My son has a friend who was raised in a bilingual home, so there were times that messages were lost in translation on Erick, especially when he was young. In fact, one day I was giving him a ride home from pre-school and he was telling me some story about dinosaurs and pterodactyls, and I said, “Are you pulling my leg?”

Silence. He leaned forward from the back seat, craning his neck to see me in the front seat before declaring, “I’m nowhere near your leg!”
The kid had a point.

Turns out that phrase began in the 1800s in London. Criminals would trip someone (by pulling their leg) in order to disorient and confuse them, allowing them to be easily robbed. The idiom is used primarily in English-speaking countries, but in Spanish speaking countries they say “Are you pulling my hair?”

Another phrase that has baffled me over the years is “raining cats and dogs.” Obviously, there has been no record of rainfall where cats and dogs fell from the sky, so what gives? There are many theories on this phrase, but one is the most accepted explanation. In 16th Century Europe, many houses were built with thatched roofs. Animals reportedly sought shelter under the thatched roof in inclement weather to protect themselves from the elements. During heavy rain falls, cats and dogs would literally fall from the rooftops.

There’s one phrase I’ve used to describe my own children when I say they’re “cut from the same cloth” as their father. Of course I realize it means that they are very similar, strikingly so, whether in appearance or manner. But the real meaning goes beyond that. Back in the day when women sewed clothes for their family, it was often more economical to buy a lot of the same fabric, so their clothes were actually “cut from the same cloth.”

When I hear that someone has a “chip on his shoulder” I understand that to mean that he has something to prove. The original meaning was quite literal: In the 19th century, when someone was looking for a fight, he would walk around with a chip of wood on his shoulder, daring others to knock it off. If you were interested in fighting, you would simply walk up and knock the chip off the person’s shoulder and the fight would begin.

Suffice it to say, language is interesting … almost as interesting as the people who speak it. Whether we’re “pouring salt in the wound,” “tying the knot” or “buying the farm” I never tire of the way we use words to paint pictures of life.

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Killer savings prompt ‘Veni, vidi, vilse’ at IKEA

If you’re anything like me, you love a bargain. And sometimes that means getting home, unpacking your bags to brag about how much money you saved, then asking yourself, “Now what was I thinking when I bought that?”

“Oh, yes, it was $64.99 marked down to $4.99! How exciting.” I answer myself.

Begs the question: Will I ever wear it? Chances are I won’t, but I did save myself 60 bucks right there, and to me, that’s better than having a wool jacket from Old Navy that will sit in my closet only to be brought out at opportune times to exclaim “Look what I got for $4.99!”

Periodically, some lucky family members are the recipients of my deals, impulsive decisions made based on the sheer savings. I happily wrap the presents while whistling a merry holiday tune, and I imagine my sister in Ohio opens the present Christmas morning and mumbles to herself, “Now why does Eileen think I need a combination mustache/ear hair trimmer?” Little does she know I saved her 75 percent from the asking price, for which she’ll thank me later, I’m sure.

And that’s what found me walking the aisles that are IKEA in Portland.

If you haven’t been to an IKEA before, it’s a little like entering Alice’s rabbit hole or C.S. Lewis’s Wardrobe. Put simply: Once you enter, it’s tough to return. And you leave something of yourself behind every time.

The maze-like layout is confusing, abruptly dropping you in a corner by yourself, not knowing when or how you got there. In situations like these, our family utilizes the ever-scientific Marco Polo technique: The lost person yells “Marco” while the person-who-was-smart-enough-to-not-wander-off replies “Polo.”

We started off together, one big happy family. But somewhere after looking at light fixtures together and examining the length of window treatments, I found myself looking at toilet scrubbers (two for 99 cents!) alone. Utterly and completely alone. I let out a weak “Marco?” but no one was around to answer “Polo.”

I know, I thought, I’ll use my cell phone to call Craig and see where he is. Now this is a technique I usually abhor, especially when I’m in Roseburg, at Ross, and someone calls their spouse/friend/child to shout “I’M IN THE SHOE SECTION. WHERE ARE YOU?” And I want to yell back, “Seriously? That’s worth making a cell phone call? You can’t walk around this store, which isn’t huge by the way, and see if you can locate this person?”

But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I was lost in a Swedish labyrinth of rock-bottom prices, surrounded by signs with unpronounceable Swedish words, and a sea of unfamiliar faces. So I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Craig. And immediately after pressing send the message came back: “Call failed.”

I was not getting reception in this wonderland of savings. I was vilse, vilse, vilse (that’s Swedish for “lost”) and I couldn’t find my way to the entrance if I tried, making me feel like a trapped Swedish prisoner-of-war (are there such things?) who would never again find her homeland, let alone her husband.

The only thing I was sure of was that the terry cloth bath towel I was gripping was a steal at $1.99, but everything else was a blur. I may have even signed up to become a Swedish citizen at one point, but I’m not certain.

So I did the only thing I knew that would eventually lead me to my family – I went to the in-store cafeteria. And there we met, and we reunited over a plate of Swedish meatballs, potatoes and ligonberries ($4.99 with drink!)

Crisis averted, we headed home, only $60 poorer. And IF I ever go back, WHEN I get lost again (this is a certainty) I will keep a few useful Swedish phrases in my pocket. First and foremost is “Var finns toalett?” There’s nothing worse than being lost in a maze and finding yourself in dire need of a toilet.

But one phrase that I hope I never have to use is “Jag har faktiskt blivit svensk medborgare.” This translates to “I've actually become a Swedish citizen.” I’m telling you, it’s times like this that make Craig shake his head and say, “I can’t take you anywhere.”

But as I wait, checking the mail to see if a letter from the Swedish Embassy arrives, I must find something to do with my four toilet brushes that were simply too cheap to pass up. Maybe I’ll hang them in the closet next to the coat from Old Navy, you know, the one I got for $4.99.

Dog owners' annual review: Angus turns one

Our puppy turned one last week, and celebrated by ingesting the stuffing out of our daughter’s volleyball kneepad.

Had it been my birthday, I would have gone with a cheesecake, but that is just one of the differences between me and Angus.

This little Scottish terrier stole our hearts the moment we met him seven months ago, and he’s been digging his way into our hearts ever since (not unlike the way he’s digging his way through our newly planted flowerbed).

When it comes to Angus and his many misdeeds, I realize he’s an active illustration of grace. In fact, I can’t believe how much grace we give him, solely on the fact that he’s cute, cuddly and kisses us every time he sees us.

So we continue to forgive him when he shreds the mail, masticates the ear buds, and piddles on the carpet based solely on the fact that he sure is cute.
He does have a tendency to eat some things that make no sense whatsoever. I’ll be the first to admit that there are times I find myself eating something and have to stop and ask, “What am I thinking? This is disgusting!” (I’m talking to you Flaming Hot Cheetos.) But I hopefully learn from my mistake and avoid that food from there on in.

But Angus loves pencils. And cotton balls. And Post-It notepads. And he keeps going back for seconds.

In the last few months I have found the following items chewed into pieces and stuck in the carpet:
• An electric thermometer
• A piece from the board game SORRY (A cry for mercy, perhaps?)
• A newspaper section (It may have been the one with Putin on the cover)
• A sock monkey doll whose button eyeball was dangling from a string (which is a creepy sight to wake up to in the morning)
• A crayon
• A pack of spearmint gum (although our son pointed out that his breath was “minty fresh”)

We had a friend tell us that they once spent $5,000 to have an object removed from their dog’s intestine. Craig heard that and gave me the look. That look says, “I love this dog, but if we’re looking at dropping $5,000 to dislodge a SORRY game piece, he’s on his own.”

And before you start sending hate emails to me regarding my husband’s hard heart toward Angus, rest assured he’s joking. I think.

For me, I’ve learned to love Angus in spite of his penchant for eating items throughout the house. That is, until last week.

I was carrying groceries from the garage into the house and left the door open. Angus wandered out in the garage, which he typically doesn’t do. Next thing I knew, our daughter was out in the garage yelling, “No! No! He’s eating the cat poop out of the litter box!”

At that point I started chanting, “Just go to your happy place. Just go to your happy place.” As I walked out in the garage, scooped him up and brought him back in.

We sat and stared at one another, him and me. I tried to rationalize it, but was unable to make any sense of it. I mean, there are Flaming Hot Cheetos and then there’s THIS. In comparison, Flaming Hot Cheetos is clearly winning that competition. And Flaming Hot Cheetos are disgusting.

I stared at him a little longer. He gave me the head cock that says, “Aren’t I cute?” but I just shook my head no. He tucked his tale, sunk to the floor and slept, full belly and all.

Of course all was forgiven by the day’s end and we were one big happy family again. I even went out and bought some Nylabones which a friend recommended. He chewed on those happily and I thought our problems were solved.

Then, a few days later, I came in the room and discovered our new Ohio State Buckeyes baseball cap on the floor with the brim half eaten. Mind you, the cap was RIGHT NEXT TO THE NYLABONE, which was right next to Angus, who was giving me his best puppy eyes.

Did I mention he’s cute?

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer. You can reach her at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Ode to the ellipsis

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.”

I think it may be time to marry Ben Dover

It’s official. I’m off-kilter.

I’ve had a hunch for some time that things didn’t measure up, but I have never had absolute, medical, scientific proof until now.

It started a few years ago on a visit to see my sister Kate in Phoenix. The first morning of my visit she woke me up early and surprised me with a gift: a trip to her gym and a free session with her personal trainer.

Some people give flowers as a gift. Others give a gift card to Starbucks. Not my sister. Could it be I did something wrong in our childhood that I am paying for now?

Regardless, she shuffled me half-awake into her car, dropped the kids off in the play area at the gym, and grabbed a towel.
I was abruptly introduced to Mark-the-Trainer, a drill sergeant in running shoes who critiques, contorts and wreaks havoc on people’s bodies for a living.

Mark-the-Trainer started by asking me to lift free weights above my head, an act that has always struck me as somewhat dangerous, resulting in me never doing it (for safety reasons, of course). But here I was, being told to pull in my abdominal muscles and bend my knees. Then the worst part was when he came up and touched my stomach, UNANNOUNCED, to make sure I was holding my abs in. Now, I’m thinking if I need someone to touch and see if my abs are in, I’m already behind the eight ball in the abdominal department. I thought long and hard about kicking him, and I would have, had I the balance at that moment to actually lift my leg.

After the weights, Mark-the-Trainer asked me to stand still with my arms hanging down at my sides. He stood behind me and said “hmmmm” over and over, as if trying to work out a puzzle. Not exactly the reaction you want, am I right?

Once he broke the silence he said, “Here’s the problem, you’re crooked.” He showed me that my right hand hangs lower than my left hand, pointing out that I am just begging for a slipped disc any day now. Encouraging, eh? I’m beginning to feel like Cro-Magnon Monkey Girl, and I can almost feel my right knuckles scraping the gym mats as I walk.

Ever since that trip, I have noticed how much my right shoulder droops down in comparison to my left. It’s not like a landslide, but it’s obvious to me. And, not surprisingly, I’ve had continual back and shoulder issues as well.

I’ve had my share of visits to orthopedic doctors, chiropractors, massage therapists and physical therapists. And no matter how well seem things seem to be aligned, everything seems to slip back into Cro-Magnon Monkey Girl mode within a few weeks.

Finally, I had a doctor suggest an x-ray that measures both leg bones and compares the measurements against one another. His theory? That the right leg is not as long as the left leg, resulting in back, hip and shoulder pain, a medical condition now officially termed “Monkey Girl” in the medical books. (You can look it up, however, I don’t remember the actual title of the medical book.)

And the results came back yesterday. I have one leg shorter than the other.

The best part out of all of this? I can finally fully live up to my first name, Eileen.

Think about it. I’ve become a joke unto myself.

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Time to shave ties with big-hair bands

I have to admit, there are times that I do something simply so I can write a column about it. Trust me; it makes for an interesting existence.


Last year, I agreed to ride the Ferris wheel at the fairgrounds with my daughter – something I hadn’t done before because of my fear of carnivals/clowns/rides and everything else that can be found in Stephen King’s horror novel “It.” But I did it, and I loved it, and we built a memory together that we’ll share forever.

This year some co-workers invited me to the Whitesnake concert at the fair. I immediately said no, seeing that my proclivity toward ‘80s music is more towards Thompson Twins and The Bangles rather than hard rock. But then I thought about it and said, “Wait … As long as I can write about it I’ll go.”

My 11-year-old daughter asked, “What kind of band is Whitesnake?”

“It’s an ‘80s hair band,” I explained.

“What does that mean,” she asked, understandably.

“It means they all had big hair and played really loud music.” Then I Googled a picture of the band from the ‘80s and showed her.

“Oh,” was all she said. She was underwhelmed to say the least, a foreshadowing of things to come.

My group of friends parked at the courthouse and took the bus over to the fairgrounds. One fella sitting next to me was clearly excited about Whitesnake, as opposed to me, who was going as a lark. He also seemed to have attended every single concert the fair offered over the last decade, offering a running commentary on every show he had attended to anyone who would listen. “Eddie Money was great! He jammed some Hendrix, dude, like sickly.”

It took everything in me not to correct his grammar, but I miraculously kept my mouth shut.

Saturday at the fair was rainy, which totally dampened my attempt at big hair for the event, dude. Apparently the boys in Whitesnake had sprayed their hair within an inch of its life. Their big hair remained amazingly buoyant throughout the set.

The crowd, made up of mostly 40-somethings like myself, who listened to these bands in high school, had varying degrees of hair. And the guys wearing mullet wigs got points for creativity. (At least I hope they were wigs.)

When the band came out, I couldn’t see them very well because we were way back near the bleachers, but I could hear them. My ears were ringing for hours afterwards. I couldn’t make out a single word they were saying, and all of the songs sounded the same. In that instant I recalled my mother saying the same thing to me when I listened to this music in 1985.

I leaned over to a friend and said, “I’m too old for this. And I’m really okay with that.”

Finally at the end they played the one song I remembered from my youth and I stood with the others to dance and do some head banging.

As a result of that head banging, I’m writing this in between applications of heat and ice to my back and neck. That’s right, the following morning my back and neck muscles went into spasms, relegating me to the couch for the next 48 hours.

I’m sooooo glad I went.

That’s what I get for going to see a band I don’t care for in the first place. I call it “Whitesnake Karma,” which sounds like a Stephen King novel. I’ll bet there are clowns with big hair in it too. Shudder.

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Mickey, hand over the two extra buns and no one gets hurt

Have you ever had one of those days where you clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and anyone who gets in your way is in big trouble? Me too. But sometimes the person you want to give a piece of your mind to is not immediately accessible. That’s where a letter comes into play.

(Kids, if you aren’t clear on what a letter is, go find a parent or grandparent, and ask them to tell you the “Fable of the Handwritten Letter.”)

Sometimes I write letters in my head in lieu of screaming these thoughts at the top of my lungs to no one in particular. And some day, if I could just remember where I put our stamps, I just may mail them.

Here are just a few letters I’ve composed in my head:

Dear Unsubscribe Button Makers:

When I click on you it means I no longer want to receive emails from you. That being said, I’m not sure how sending me ANOTHER email to let me know that I’ve been unsubscribed would result in anything but hostility on my part toward you and your organization. Perhaps changing the button from “unsubscribe” to “obliterate from my inbox” would make it clearer?

Think about it.

Dear Disney Channel:

Consider testing every stupid product you advertise on your station before airing the commercials. You realize that my 10-year-old child is unsophisticated in the way of advertising and believes that she can simply “add water, salt and milk to a cup and shake it to make ice cream.” Oh, and if you need an ice cream maker to test before you re-air the commercial, you can have ours for free BECAUSE IT DOESN’T WORK.

P.S. As a result of the Disney Channel’s advertising hijinks, I’m starting to hate Mickey Mouse, something I never thought possible.

Dear Credit Card Machines Everywhere:

How about if you all sit down and make a universal credit card swiping machine so that all grocery stores/gas stations/retail stores have the same machine. That way we don’t have to re-learn the unique 15-step process at each and every store. My favorite: (1) Swipe your card, (2) enter your four-digit code, (3) Is this total correct? (4) Would you like a receipt? (5) Are you SURE that total is correct.

I’m not sure what steps six through 15 are because I’m too busy banging my head against the store counter at this point.

Dear Grocery Store Cash Register Makers:

When I come in for a gallon of milk, why do I leave with enough receipt to TP someone’s front yard? The milk is $2.50, and yet you’ve used enough paper and ink to discount that price to $2.25. And no, my rage is not subdued by the fact that I now have coupons for Sara Lee strudel, Gala paper towels, Chex Mix and Meow Mix. Seriously, people, I just want my gallon of milk.

Dear Hot Dog Bun Packagers:

Why? You know what I’m going to ask, because it’s been asked for years, and yet you continue to give us eight buns when hotdogs are sold in groups of 10. You are seriously messing with the balance of the outdoor barbecue universe, and you don’t even seem to care. You and your shenanigans leave two perfectly good hotdogs naked EVERY SINGLE TIME.

Honestly, I don’t know how you sleep at night.

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer who lives, writes and rants at no one in particular in Winchester, Ore. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.