As I write this, I am quickly approaching my forty-something-or-other birthday. The more I think about what I want for my birthday, the more I have to be honest and say I’d really just love a nap. That, my friends, is a sure sign you have reached the top of the proverbial “hill” and are rapidly beginning your descent on the other side.
I know I should care, but frankly I’m just too tired.
And where would caring get me anyways? No matter how much I kick and scream, it’s really no use. Age catches up to me whether I like it or not. As the ever-philosophical Dolly Parton once said in “Steel Magnolias:” “Honey, time marches on and eventually you realize it is marchin' across your face.”
Preach it sister.
Sure, there are the physical signs that give away the fact that I’m aging, but they don’t bother me half as much as the other signs.
The following are grim realities that attest to the fact that I am forty-something-or-other:
• I can’t hear anything my kids say from the back seat of the car anymore. When did this happen? What?
• My favorite songs from the ‘80s are now being played on “oldies” stations. These are songs that encapsulated the angst of my teenage years, songs that I played at decibels that only teenagers and dogs could hear. (Now that I think about it, there may be a link between this bullet point and the one preceding it.)
• I can’t see anything more than one foot from me. My friends told me, “Oh, wait until you hit 43 … overnight you’ll lose the ability to focus on anything.” Stupid friends. I need some new friends. The problem is that in a room full of people, I can’t make out if these people are my old friends or potentially new friends because I can’t see them from across the room.
• When deciding between going to a matinee and taking a nap, it’s really no contest.
• I don’t understand Lady Gaga. At all. In fact, she scares me a little bit.
• I find myself needing to reign myself in before blurting out the following phrases at kids these days: (1) Get out of my yard! (2) Pull up your pants! (3) Slow down! (4) Take those things out of your ears!
• I use phrases like “kids these days” (see above).
I have to admit, it’s refreshing to see folks my parents’ age reach a place where they don’t reign themselves in anymore – they just let it fly. My personal theory is that they simply don’t care, which must be freeing to those of us “youngsters” who still put a lot of stock in how we appear to those around us.
Here’s one of my favorite stories that illustrates this point. My friend’s son was flying to Oregon to visit his parents. An older gentleman was sitting next to him on the plane. Her son put his ear buds in and settled back to listen to music for the trip. The older gentleman had questions, however, such as “How do I tilt this chair back?” So instead of tapping the young man on the shoulder, he reached up, yanked the ear buds out and shouted the question at him.
I think it’s safe to say this gentleman’s reigning-himself-in train has left the station.
Okay, so I’m not quite there yet, but I can tell I’m getting closer. Sure, this year’s birthday is sure to include eye exams, hearing tests and a new package of ear plugs, but it also will include (fingers crossed) many blissful naps.
Eileen Burmeister lives, works and listens to oldies ‘80s music (at a much lower volume than before) in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Poor Woman's Wine Tour
I have loads of hoity-toity friends who do some pretty swanky stuff. It’s not uncommon to hear that they’re off to a dinner at the Camas Room, or jetting off to Italy to go to a spa, or taking a wine tour through Napa Valley. And they never ask me to join them.
Not that I’m bitter. I mean, I’m capable of making my own fun wherever I go. In fact, when I was not invited to join a friend’s book club I thought to myself, “To heck with them, I’ll start my own book club and we’ll read books like ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary’ while they read Proust or Hugo or some other totally incomprehensible Frenchman.”
So I started the book club with a friend and we’ve been meeting for over five years now. And we’ve even worked our way up to a few incomprehensible Frenchmen, so there.
So when I wasn’t invited to tag along on a wine tour, I decided to organize my own. One problem, however: I don’t drink wine.
But I am addicted to Diet Pepsi. And I loved the idea of traveling with good friends, drinking our favorite beverage with a tour map in our hands, finding our way to the best places in town for on-tap soda. Once I had reviewed the wine-country movie “Sideways,” I figured I was good to go.
Gas prices being what they are, we decided to stay in the greater Roseburg area, seeing which local fountain offered the best on-tap D.P. (D.P. is the street name – cool people know this).
Next I asked myself “Who should I invite?” So I grabbed my friends Kathi and Julie, two of my favorite drinking buddies, and Julie’s friend Sharon visiting from San Francisco. Sharon doesn’t drink soda or eat sugar (I secretly hate Sharon for this), but she was willing to be the clean, objective palate on board. Plus, she doubled as our designated driver just in case we got carried away during our D.P. bender.
We created an ad hoc rating system. The place of business was rated for ambiance, background music (cause D.P. always tastes better with great ‘80s music), cleanliness and accessibility. We rated the D.P. on carbonation-to-syrup ratio, temperature and full-bodied taste (or lack thereof). Oh, and I had heard that many wine tours offer refreshments along the way, so I picked up a jumbo bag of Twizzlers to offer to my D.P. tour attendees.
Our first stop was a drive-up window on Garden Valley. The first thing we detected was a strong ammonia smell wafting out the window, though the first sip made me forget the smell. Everyone agreed — this soda stop offered the true flavor of D.P.
Next we headed down Garden Valley and turned on Stephens to another mart. This store doesn’t provide a drive-thru window (subtract 5 points), played country music overhead (down another 10 points), and the man in front of me in line had handcuffs hanging out of his back pocket (loss of 15 points). Now I don’t know about you, but when I’m on a mission for D.P. I like to (1) stay in my car, (2) listen to my own music, and (3) not fear for my life. Plus the Diet Pepsi had a little Dr. Pepper added in. This is never good.
We headed down Stephens and took a left at Diamond Lake Boulevard. Again, the store required me to walk in, THEN (adding insult to injury) made me pay for my drink before I could even get a cup and head to the fountain. Sure, they were playing The Cars overhead (add 10 points), but the fried food mingled with the D.P. (and my clothes) and ruined the taste for everyone.
Next, we drove through downtown, crossed the bridge and got on Harvard. This place had a drive-thru window, KISS FM overhead (we asked) and friendly service (add 10 points for each). The ice-to-soda ratio was perfect, the taste was full-bodied, the bouquet was magnificent and we all agreed – hands down — T-Mart reigns as the best on-tap D.P. in town.
Now that that’s been decided I’m trying to figure out what we’re going to do for our poor-woman’s spa week in Italy. Of course, none of us can afford a trip to Italy, so I may call the Holiday Inn. I think they have a hot tub.
When she’s not busy terrorizing the greater Roseburg area on one of her storied Diet Pepsi benders, Eileen Burmeister is a mild-mannered corporate communicator by day, columnist by night, and a D.P. drinker 24/7.
Not that I’m bitter. I mean, I’m capable of making my own fun wherever I go. In fact, when I was not invited to join a friend’s book club I thought to myself, “To heck with them, I’ll start my own book club and we’ll read books like ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary’ while they read Proust or Hugo or some other totally incomprehensible Frenchman.”
So I started the book club with a friend and we’ve been meeting for over five years now. And we’ve even worked our way up to a few incomprehensible Frenchmen, so there.
So when I wasn’t invited to tag along on a wine tour, I decided to organize my own. One problem, however: I don’t drink wine.
But I am addicted to Diet Pepsi. And I loved the idea of traveling with good friends, drinking our favorite beverage with a tour map in our hands, finding our way to the best places in town for on-tap soda. Once I had reviewed the wine-country movie “Sideways,” I figured I was good to go.
Gas prices being what they are, we decided to stay in the greater Roseburg area, seeing which local fountain offered the best on-tap D.P. (D.P. is the street name – cool people know this).
Next I asked myself “Who should I invite?” So I grabbed my friends Kathi and Julie, two of my favorite drinking buddies, and Julie’s friend Sharon visiting from San Francisco. Sharon doesn’t drink soda or eat sugar (I secretly hate Sharon for this), but she was willing to be the clean, objective palate on board. Plus, she doubled as our designated driver just in case we got carried away during our D.P. bender.
We created an ad hoc rating system. The place of business was rated for ambiance, background music (cause D.P. always tastes better with great ‘80s music), cleanliness and accessibility. We rated the D.P. on carbonation-to-syrup ratio, temperature and full-bodied taste (or lack thereof). Oh, and I had heard that many wine tours offer refreshments along the way, so I picked up a jumbo bag of Twizzlers to offer to my D.P. tour attendees.
Our first stop was a drive-up window on Garden Valley. The first thing we detected was a strong ammonia smell wafting out the window, though the first sip made me forget the smell. Everyone agreed — this soda stop offered the true flavor of D.P.
Next we headed down Garden Valley and turned on Stephens to another mart. This store doesn’t provide a drive-thru window (subtract 5 points), played country music overhead (down another 10 points), and the man in front of me in line had handcuffs hanging out of his back pocket (loss of 15 points). Now I don’t know about you, but when I’m on a mission for D.P. I like to (1) stay in my car, (2) listen to my own music, and (3) not fear for my life. Plus the Diet Pepsi had a little Dr. Pepper added in. This is never good.
We headed down Stephens and took a left at Diamond Lake Boulevard. Again, the store required me to walk in, THEN (adding insult to injury) made me pay for my drink before I could even get a cup and head to the fountain. Sure, they were playing The Cars overhead (add 10 points), but the fried food mingled with the D.P. (and my clothes) and ruined the taste for everyone.
Next, we drove through downtown, crossed the bridge and got on Harvard. This place had a drive-thru window, KISS FM overhead (we asked) and friendly service (add 10 points for each). The ice-to-soda ratio was perfect, the taste was full-bodied, the bouquet was magnificent and we all agreed – hands down — T-Mart reigns as the best on-tap D.P. in town.
Now that that’s been decided I’m trying to figure out what we’re going to do for our poor-woman’s spa week in Italy. Of course, none of us can afford a trip to Italy, so I may call the Holiday Inn. I think they have a hot tub.
When she’s not busy terrorizing the greater Roseburg area on one of her storied Diet Pepsi benders, Eileen Burmeister is a mild-mannered corporate communicator by day, columnist by night, and a D.P. drinker 24/7.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be drivers
Life used to be so easy as a parent. The days were pretty much the same: Wake up, feed the baby oatmeal, give the baby a bottle, and put him in the playpen to play for 30 minutes to play. Contained. Surrounded on four sides by protective netting.
Today, the playpen is long gone, and in its place, some misguided government employee at the DMV decided to give my six-foot “baby” a learner’s permit. To drive. Uncontained. Without protective netting.
Actually, Nathaniel is a very good driver, and always has been. By that, I mean he used to navigate his battery-operated Jeep around the ‘hood with both hands on the wheel. And when his little friend Chase got behind the wheel and started driving all crazy-like, five-year-old Nathaniel yelled, “Both hands on the wheel and look forward!”
But there’s always the unexpected situation waiting around the corner. And these are the situations that make me a tad uneasy when I see my baby/toddler/teenager get behind a hunk of steel with the madcap intention of propelling it forward upward 65 miles per hour. Seriously, whose idea was this?
Someone remind me: What exactly was so bad with the whole horse and buggy mode of transportation?
There was one thing my mom did growing up that I swore I would never do - the protective straight-arm-into-the-chest maneuver. You know the one … you’re driving down the road, the light turns yellow and your mom decides to stop suddenly but not before throwing her iron fist of mother-bear strength into your chest, as if she, not the industrial-strength seatbelt, is the only thing that’s going to keep you out of harm’s way.
Yeah, I promised I would never do that, and broke that promise in the passenger seat with Nathaniel driving. He wasn’t slowing down quickly enough for my comfort level, rapidly approaching the stopped car in front of us, so I reached out and did what mothers have been doing for decades – I straight armed him in the chest. In retrospect, there is probably a better method of communicating STOP NOW, but I fell back on instinct in that second, and he was left rubbing the bruised area of his torso and looking at me as if my hair was on fire. Bottom line: He stopped.
Maybe my mom did know what she was doing after all.
A few days later, Nathaniel was at the wheel while we drove his sister to soccer practice. As we passed our neighbor Gretchen, Nathaniel decided to wave, and simultaneously drove up on the curb of the sidewalk next to the road. When I screamed, he reasoned, “Well it would be rude not to wave at our neighbor, right?”
Nicely played, young man. Throwing the good manners card was masterful.
I enjoy our times in the car, winding our way through the Umpqua Valley’s country roads. We talk and I heap my driving wisdom on him (they’re brief conversations, mostly). Here’s one such conversation:
Nathaniel: Mom, did you ever hit a bird when you were driving?
Me: No, I don’t think I did, but I think I may have hit a squirrel once. Or maybe that was your dad.
Nathaniel: You hit DAD?!?
Good thing comprehension isn’t on his maneuverability test.
So now he starts driver’s education for the summer, and someone else gets to take over the role of training my child to become a safe and responsible driver.
I just hope that person has a strong arm and instincts like this mama bear.
Today, the playpen is long gone, and in its place, some misguided government employee at the DMV decided to give my six-foot “baby” a learner’s permit. To drive. Uncontained. Without protective netting.
Actually, Nathaniel is a very good driver, and always has been. By that, I mean he used to navigate his battery-operated Jeep around the ‘hood with both hands on the wheel. And when his little friend Chase got behind the wheel and started driving all crazy-like, five-year-old Nathaniel yelled, “Both hands on the wheel and look forward!”
But there’s always the unexpected situation waiting around the corner. And these are the situations that make me a tad uneasy when I see my baby/toddler/teenager get behind a hunk of steel with the madcap intention of propelling it forward upward 65 miles per hour. Seriously, whose idea was this?
Someone remind me: What exactly was so bad with the whole horse and buggy mode of transportation?
There was one thing my mom did growing up that I swore I would never do - the protective straight-arm-into-the-chest maneuver. You know the one … you’re driving down the road, the light turns yellow and your mom decides to stop suddenly but not before throwing her iron fist of mother-bear strength into your chest, as if she, not the industrial-strength seatbelt, is the only thing that’s going to keep you out of harm’s way.
Yeah, I promised I would never do that, and broke that promise in the passenger seat with Nathaniel driving. He wasn’t slowing down quickly enough for my comfort level, rapidly approaching the stopped car in front of us, so I reached out and did what mothers have been doing for decades – I straight armed him in the chest. In retrospect, there is probably a better method of communicating STOP NOW, but I fell back on instinct in that second, and he was left rubbing the bruised area of his torso and looking at me as if my hair was on fire. Bottom line: He stopped.
Maybe my mom did know what she was doing after all.
A few days later, Nathaniel was at the wheel while we drove his sister to soccer practice. As we passed our neighbor Gretchen, Nathaniel decided to wave, and simultaneously drove up on the curb of the sidewalk next to the road. When I screamed, he reasoned, “Well it would be rude not to wave at our neighbor, right?”
Nicely played, young man. Throwing the good manners card was masterful.
I enjoy our times in the car, winding our way through the Umpqua Valley’s country roads. We talk and I heap my driving wisdom on him (they’re brief conversations, mostly). Here’s one such conversation:
Nathaniel: Mom, did you ever hit a bird when you were driving?
Me: No, I don’t think I did, but I think I may have hit a squirrel once. Or maybe that was your dad.
Nathaniel: You hit DAD?!?
Good thing comprehension isn’t on his maneuverability test.
So now he starts driver’s education for the summer, and someone else gets to take over the role of training my child to become a safe and responsible driver.
I just hope that person has a strong arm and instincts like this mama bear.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Annual spring cleaning offers up a lesson in futility
I’m not a big fan of spring cleaning. In fact, until we moved into our current house in 1998, I had a very simple approach to spring cleaning … it was called “moving.” In the first six years of our marriage, we lived in seven different apartments, and each of them had a one-year lease. The choice was either signing a new lease or moving entirely. My choice was clear.
If you’re doing the math, you’ll notice that we lived in seven apartments in six years. One of those moves occurred as a result of a rodent who crawled between the wall boards of our apartment and decided to curl up and meet his furry maker. This, of course, was when I was pregnant; a time when a woman’s olfactory senses are sharper than a hound dog’s, which is lovely. The end result is that we had to rent a van and move our belongings across downtown Denver on the day … wait for it … that I went into labor. True story.
Fast forward to 1998 when we bought our home in Roseburg: We lived in it for a good three years or so before the thought even occurred that I might want to give it a good once-over, from ceilings to floors. I believe it was the crusty sippy cup still partially filled with milk that I discovered under a chair that pushed me over the edge (see dead rodent smell above for an idea of what that smelled like).
I approached spring cleaning with an overwhelming sense of dread, but was surprised to find how exhilarating cleaning out closets, cabinets and cupboards can be, especially when it comes to re-organizing everything. Have you ever noticed how much control you can experience through organization?
Well I’m here to burst that bubble of illusion, because as long as I share my newly-organized living space with others, namely my husband and children, I have very little control.
Sure we like to defend ourselves by saying that we are busy LIVING life and not wasting our time making sure everything has its place and all corners are clean.
But really, who are we kidding? We’re a mess.
Exhibit A: The hall closet: Last year at spring cleaning time I bought those plastic drawer organizers and neatly labeled each drawer with the following stickers “ponytails,” “headbands,” “hair clips,” “sewing stuff” and “first aid.” It was beautiful, marvelous, and even my husband was wowed by my organizational prowess. One year later, I was horrified to find spools of thread in the ponytail drawer, Band-Aids with one sticker on and one sticker off in the sewing drawer, and a used paper towel shoved willy-nilly in the first aid drawer. Only one of the following statements can be true: (1) my organizational plan was flawed, (2) aliens had invaded our closet, or (3) my beloved family members had suddenly become illiterate and unable to locate a trash basket. Each of these possibilities were troubling in and of themselves.
Exhibit B: The “extras” drawer in the bathroom. This is the area where I keep all of the freebies from hotels and gift bag purchases from makeup counters. The freebies from hotels are becoming ridiculous, making me wonder if I’ll be one of those women they feature on the reality show “Hoarders” who lives with 33 cats and has a living room filled floor to ceiling miniature-sized shampoo bottles. The makeup extras are equally absurd. I ask you, when will I wear coral lipstick? Better question: Why don’t I just throw it away? And before you encourage me to recycle it by giving it away, I say “NO ONE should ever wear coral lipstick and out of solidarity for women everywhere I will throw it away.” Marketing representatives at Elizabeth Arden, do you hear me?
Exhibit C: Front hall closet. I have coats shoved toward the back that haven’t seen the light of day for quite some time. Just last week I grabbed one of my older raincoats from the back of the closet and threw it on. As I reached inside the pocket of the coat I felt something soft and fluffy only to discover it was an unused diaper. An important point of reference here is that our youngest child is now NINE.
As I re-read these exhibits in the harsh light of day, I find that I have one of three choices: (1) burn the house down and start over with a new set of organizational drawers, (2) get rid of my family, and visit them at their own hovels, or (3) get over it and control what I can.
Insurance could get messy with No. 1, I kind of like my family so No. 2 is out, which means I’m left with No. 3: get over it and control what I can.
This, I’m finding, is less than I ever imagined.
Eileen Burmeister lives, works and futilely organizes her house in Roseburg each spring. At print time, she still only has one cat, but would be happy to share her mini shampoo bottles, which are innumerable. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
If you’re doing the math, you’ll notice that we lived in seven apartments in six years. One of those moves occurred as a result of a rodent who crawled between the wall boards of our apartment and decided to curl up and meet his furry maker. This, of course, was when I was pregnant; a time when a woman’s olfactory senses are sharper than a hound dog’s, which is lovely. The end result is that we had to rent a van and move our belongings across downtown Denver on the day … wait for it … that I went into labor. True story.
Fast forward to 1998 when we bought our home in Roseburg: We lived in it for a good three years or so before the thought even occurred that I might want to give it a good once-over, from ceilings to floors. I believe it was the crusty sippy cup still partially filled with milk that I discovered under a chair that pushed me over the edge (see dead rodent smell above for an idea of what that smelled like).
I approached spring cleaning with an overwhelming sense of dread, but was surprised to find how exhilarating cleaning out closets, cabinets and cupboards can be, especially when it comes to re-organizing everything. Have you ever noticed how much control you can experience through organization?
Well I’m here to burst that bubble of illusion, because as long as I share my newly-organized living space with others, namely my husband and children, I have very little control.
Sure we like to defend ourselves by saying that we are busy LIVING life and not wasting our time making sure everything has its place and all corners are clean.
But really, who are we kidding? We’re a mess.
Exhibit A: The hall closet: Last year at spring cleaning time I bought those plastic drawer organizers and neatly labeled each drawer with the following stickers “ponytails,” “headbands,” “hair clips,” “sewing stuff” and “first aid.” It was beautiful, marvelous, and even my husband was wowed by my organizational prowess. One year later, I was horrified to find spools of thread in the ponytail drawer, Band-Aids with one sticker on and one sticker off in the sewing drawer, and a used paper towel shoved willy-nilly in the first aid drawer. Only one of the following statements can be true: (1) my organizational plan was flawed, (2) aliens had invaded our closet, or (3) my beloved family members had suddenly become illiterate and unable to locate a trash basket. Each of these possibilities were troubling in and of themselves.
Exhibit B: The “extras” drawer in the bathroom. This is the area where I keep all of the freebies from hotels and gift bag purchases from makeup counters. The freebies from hotels are becoming ridiculous, making me wonder if I’ll be one of those women they feature on the reality show “Hoarders” who lives with 33 cats and has a living room filled floor to ceiling miniature-sized shampoo bottles. The makeup extras are equally absurd. I ask you, when will I wear coral lipstick? Better question: Why don’t I just throw it away? And before you encourage me to recycle it by giving it away, I say “NO ONE should ever wear coral lipstick and out of solidarity for women everywhere I will throw it away.” Marketing representatives at Elizabeth Arden, do you hear me?
Exhibit C: Front hall closet. I have coats shoved toward the back that haven’t seen the light of day for quite some time. Just last week I grabbed one of my older raincoats from the back of the closet and threw it on. As I reached inside the pocket of the coat I felt something soft and fluffy only to discover it was an unused diaper. An important point of reference here is that our youngest child is now NINE.
As I re-read these exhibits in the harsh light of day, I find that I have one of three choices: (1) burn the house down and start over with a new set of organizational drawers, (2) get rid of my family, and visit them at their own hovels, or (3) get over it and control what I can.
Insurance could get messy with No. 1, I kind of like my family so No. 2 is out, which means I’m left with No. 3: get over it and control what I can.
This, I’m finding, is less than I ever imagined.
Eileen Burmeister lives, works and futilely organizes her house in Roseburg each spring. At print time, she still only has one cat, but would be happy to share her mini shampoo bottles, which are innumerable. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Successful travel packing may require leaving your husband at home
I know I’m not alone when I say that the most stressful part of traveling is the packing. And if I’m alone, please don’t tell me. Denial loves company.
I lose more sleep over whether or not I’ve packed the toothpaste than I do over (1) potential terrorist activity, (2) getting through TSA checks with my dignity intact, or (3) an accidental re-route to San Quentin when my desired destination was San Diego.
My husband simply does not get this. His philosophy is “Everything will be fine. And if you forget something you can just pick one up where at our destination.”
Our recent trip to Arizona was nothing new. As we woke up at 3 a.m. in order to catch our 5:20 a.m. flight out of Eugene, I had already been awake for an hour, wide-eyed with worry over whether or not I had actually packed my flat iron for my hair, contact solution, conditioner and dental floss.
Craig on the other hand had thrown a few things in his suitcase, zipped it up and called it good.
Men.
But once I had ticked off every last-minute item on my “Check these off before you leave” list, I was ready to go. And after a must-go-to-my-happy-place “scan” through the full-body scanner with the friendly TSA agent (don’t ask … entire article altogether) we were on our way to Phoenix.
But of course I can’t stop with one travel idiosyncrasy when there are so many more to choose from. No, the other lovely habit I have is to unpack everything once I reach the hotel before I can officially relax. By so doing, I can assure myself that all of the items I had checked off my list did indeed make it to the destination instead of being spirited away by a baggage handler. (It could happen … I have very fancy designer conditioner.)
But bully for me I had everything I started with, and nothing was missing. With that, I grabbed a book and parked myself poolside for the duration.
That night, I went to take my contact out and realized I had forgotten to bring the contact holder in which I keep my contact soaking in solution overnight. (Yes, I only wear one contact. Think of me as the Colonel Klink of the contact world.)
Before panic set in I breathed deeply and said, “Okay, Eileen. Improvise. Everything will be fine.” I grabbed a hotel cup, filled the bottom with solution and plopped the contact in there. I then took a ponytail holder and wrapped it around the cup as a way of setting it apart.
Next morning, Craig was already up and out the door before I woke up. As I started to get ready for the day I realized in horror that my contact cup was missing and there was a carton of orange juice suspiciously close to the missing cup. Which meant one of two things: Either (1) Craig had drank my contact with his O.J. (serves him right), or (2) he had seen the cup, tossed the contents down the drain, and poured himself a cup of O.J.
Never mind that there were three other perfectly clean and usable cups nearby. And I believe I already mentioned that my cup had a ponytail holder around it, which is the universal sign for “This is a special cup – stay out!”
Men.
So there I was, unable to see, and unable to “…just pick one up at our destination.” Somehow “Make sure Craig doesn’t drink my contact” never made it onto any of my checklists, but you can bet your sweet bippy it is now.
While I’m thankful for the opportunity to spend five glorious days in the sunshine after suffering through the deluge we call “spring” here in Roseburg, I am not quite clear on what happened on the trip past day 1.
I do know that we toured Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin House in Scottsdale on day 2. At least I think it was his house.
Then again it could have been a Waffle House.
Either way it was warm, and that was all that mattered to this blind bat.
Eileen Burmeister lives, works and makes lists in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
I lose more sleep over whether or not I’ve packed the toothpaste than I do over (1) potential terrorist activity, (2) getting through TSA checks with my dignity intact, or (3) an accidental re-route to San Quentin when my desired destination was San Diego.
My husband simply does not get this. His philosophy is “Everything will be fine. And if you forget something you can just pick one up where at our destination.”
Our recent trip to Arizona was nothing new. As we woke up at 3 a.m. in order to catch our 5:20 a.m. flight out of Eugene, I had already been awake for an hour, wide-eyed with worry over whether or not I had actually packed my flat iron for my hair, contact solution, conditioner and dental floss.
Craig on the other hand had thrown a few things in his suitcase, zipped it up and called it good.
Men.
But once I had ticked off every last-minute item on my “Check these off before you leave” list, I was ready to go. And after a must-go-to-my-happy-place “scan” through the full-body scanner with the friendly TSA agent (don’t ask … entire article altogether) we were on our way to Phoenix.
But of course I can’t stop with one travel idiosyncrasy when there are so many more to choose from. No, the other lovely habit I have is to unpack everything once I reach the hotel before I can officially relax. By so doing, I can assure myself that all of the items I had checked off my list did indeed make it to the destination instead of being spirited away by a baggage handler. (It could happen … I have very fancy designer conditioner.)
But bully for me I had everything I started with, and nothing was missing. With that, I grabbed a book and parked myself poolside for the duration.
That night, I went to take my contact out and realized I had forgotten to bring the contact holder in which I keep my contact soaking in solution overnight. (Yes, I only wear one contact. Think of me as the Colonel Klink of the contact world.)
Before panic set in I breathed deeply and said, “Okay, Eileen. Improvise. Everything will be fine.” I grabbed a hotel cup, filled the bottom with solution and plopped the contact in there. I then took a ponytail holder and wrapped it around the cup as a way of setting it apart.
Next morning, Craig was already up and out the door before I woke up. As I started to get ready for the day I realized in horror that my contact cup was missing and there was a carton of orange juice suspiciously close to the missing cup. Which meant one of two things: Either (1) Craig had drank my contact with his O.J. (serves him right), or (2) he had seen the cup, tossed the contents down the drain, and poured himself a cup of O.J.
Never mind that there were three other perfectly clean and usable cups nearby. And I believe I already mentioned that my cup had a ponytail holder around it, which is the universal sign for “This is a special cup – stay out!”
Men.
So there I was, unable to see, and unable to “…just pick one up at our destination.” Somehow “Make sure Craig doesn’t drink my contact” never made it onto any of my checklists, but you can bet your sweet bippy it is now.
While I’m thankful for the opportunity to spend five glorious days in the sunshine after suffering through the deluge we call “spring” here in Roseburg, I am not quite clear on what happened on the trip past day 1.
I do know that we toured Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin House in Scottsdale on day 2. At least I think it was his house.
Then again it could have been a Waffle House.
Either way it was warm, and that was all that mattered to this blind bat.
Eileen Burmeister lives, works and makes lists in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
Just keep that nylon dress away from the candelabra
When I was a child, my mother used to utter a phrase that always left me speechless - “…in this damn age.”
She’d say it at the oddest times - instances where, in my opinion, swearing wasn’t called for at all. For example, she’d drop this bomb: “You’d think that in this damn age we could cook a turkey and rolls in the oven simultaneously.”
See what I mean? I was confused. Why all the cussing over a turkey and rolls? Shouldn’t you reserve cussing for truly enraging instances, like dropping the cooked turkey on the floor?
Years later, as a college English major, I was reading a book that included the phrase “in this day and age” and I got it. In the middle of class I started laughing out loud because of the relief of discovering that my mom didn’t have the mouth of a sailor after all.
There’s actually a term for these mishearings or misinterpretations of a phrase. That word is “mondegreen,” and it’s most commonly used in reference to a line in a poem or a lyric in a song.
Sadly for me, my mondegreens didn’t end that day on the college campus. They have followed me into adulthood, and sadly, I seemed to have passed that particular gene down to my children as well.
One Christmas Lily asked if we could go see the vegetable of light. It took me a few minutes to realize she was referring to the annual Festival of Lights holiday drive-through here in Roseburg. So, yeah, she had inherited the old mondegreen from yours truly.
When Nathaniel was in 5th grade, I was driving him to school and we were singing along to the radio. I listened as he sang the following lyrics to “Miss American Pie:"
So Bye, bye Miss American pie
Drove a machete through Neddy
But Neddy was dry.
I’m fairly certain that Don McLean never meant that song to be so violent.
Sadly, I have a history of getting lyrics wrong as well, going back to the late ‘80s when I thought Bruce Hornsby was singing “Listen to the metal in the rain” when it was actually “Listen to the mandolin rain.” My soon-to-be husband at the time ever-so-gently pointed out my error by pointing at me and laughing uncontrollably when he heard me singing “my” lyrics to the song. Yeah, he’s sweet that way.
In one second, a song that used to be about acid rain was suddenly a lilting melody about musical rain. So do I believe that one word wrong can make a difference? Yes. Yes I do.
But I’m not alone.
Take my friend Allison. She loved Billy Squier in the ‘80s and no song more than “My Kinda Lover,” but the accompanying lyrics made little sense to her, especially because she thought the song was called “My Candelabra.” Maybe a tribute to Liberace? It could have happened, right?
Allison’s husband Paul was no better. Madonna’s smash hit “Dress You Up in My Love” was playing on the radio waves and poor confused Paul was singing “Dress You Up in Nylon.” Big mistake.
And perhaps my favorite example is my friend Laura’s mom, who misunderstood Billy Joel, but sang along nonetheless:
You made the rice
I made the gravy
Of course, it was “You may be right, I may be crazy,” which makes a lot more sense when the following lyric is “and it just may be a lunatic you’re looking for.” Somehow I don’t think of making rice and gravy as a madcap adventure, but who am I to judge?
After all, in this damn age you may be right … I may be crazy.
She’d say it at the oddest times - instances where, in my opinion, swearing wasn’t called for at all. For example, she’d drop this bomb: “You’d think that in this damn age we could cook a turkey and rolls in the oven simultaneously.”
See what I mean? I was confused. Why all the cussing over a turkey and rolls? Shouldn’t you reserve cussing for truly enraging instances, like dropping the cooked turkey on the floor?
Years later, as a college English major, I was reading a book that included the phrase “in this day and age” and I got it. In the middle of class I started laughing out loud because of the relief of discovering that my mom didn’t have the mouth of a sailor after all.
There’s actually a term for these mishearings or misinterpretations of a phrase. That word is “mondegreen,” and it’s most commonly used in reference to a line in a poem or a lyric in a song.
Sadly for me, my mondegreens didn’t end that day on the college campus. They have followed me into adulthood, and sadly, I seemed to have passed that particular gene down to my children as well.
One Christmas Lily asked if we could go see the vegetable of light. It took me a few minutes to realize she was referring to the annual Festival of Lights holiday drive-through here in Roseburg. So, yeah, she had inherited the old mondegreen from yours truly.
When Nathaniel was in 5th grade, I was driving him to school and we were singing along to the radio. I listened as he sang the following lyrics to “Miss American Pie:"
So Bye, bye Miss American pie
Drove a machete through Neddy
But Neddy was dry.
I’m fairly certain that Don McLean never meant that song to be so violent.
Sadly, I have a history of getting lyrics wrong as well, going back to the late ‘80s when I thought Bruce Hornsby was singing “Listen to the metal in the rain” when it was actually “Listen to the mandolin rain.” My soon-to-be husband at the time ever-so-gently pointed out my error by pointing at me and laughing uncontrollably when he heard me singing “my” lyrics to the song. Yeah, he’s sweet that way.
In one second, a song that used to be about acid rain was suddenly a lilting melody about musical rain. So do I believe that one word wrong can make a difference? Yes. Yes I do.
But I’m not alone.
Take my friend Allison. She loved Billy Squier in the ‘80s and no song more than “My Kinda Lover,” but the accompanying lyrics made little sense to her, especially because she thought the song was called “My Candelabra.” Maybe a tribute to Liberace? It could have happened, right?
Allison’s husband Paul was no better. Madonna’s smash hit “Dress You Up in My Love” was playing on the radio waves and poor confused Paul was singing “Dress You Up in Nylon.” Big mistake.
And perhaps my favorite example is my friend Laura’s mom, who misunderstood Billy Joel, but sang along nonetheless:
You made the rice
I made the gravy
Of course, it was “You may be right, I may be crazy,” which makes a lot more sense when the following lyric is “and it just may be a lunatic you’re looking for.” Somehow I don’t think of making rice and gravy as a madcap adventure, but who am I to judge?
After all, in this damn age you may be right … I may be crazy.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Oxford English Dictionary, OMG! Wassup with these new entries?
The venerable lexicon has betrayed word-lovers everywhere, as well as its hallowed heritage, IMHO.
A few months ago I went on a little rant about how silly it was that the New Oxford American Dictionary was adding words like “BFF,” “zombie bank” and “nom nom” to its definitions. But really, it was the American version, the same country that produced the all-you-can-eat buffet, ’80s hair band Poison and Charlie Sheen, so it’s not as though I had high expectations from the start.
But England? I expect way more from the country that was home to my beloved Jane Austen and still has the Queen Mum and residents with the loveliest accents ever. (Admit it Americans: They could be speaking utter rubbish and still sound smarter than we do.)
So when the Oxford English Dictionary, the most authoritative lexicon anywhere, recently announced the new additions to its good book, I was a bit gobsmacked.
The first new entry that caught my attention: OMG! the abbreviated phrase for “Oh, my God!” They explain the addition by writing that online “initialisms” are quicker to type, giving those texters and tweeters even more time to text and tweet meaningless things to one another.
Keep in mind that the exclamation point is part of the package…so OMG alone didn’t make the cut, but OMG! pressed its way to the head of the line.
Another new initialism added to the hallowed book is IMHO, which stands for “in my humble opinion.” Problem is the same generation that uses these words is anything but humble. These are the kids who have been told by everyone from their mother to Cookie Monster that they are the most special person out there (do the math—not possible). This makes them deluded enough to think it’s important for their “audience” to keep up with their earth-shattering tweets, which consist of “I am at the vet with FuFu,” “Sad day for me ” or “Stomach flu—never good.”
Really, it’s not a matter of humility as much as it is just TMI. (TMI= “too much information,” incidentally; it’s also been added to the dictionary. Don’t get me started.)
Another new word? “Ego-surfing,” defined as the practice of searching for your own name on the Internet. (Please see section on “humility,” above.)
Perhaps the epitome of sloth (or brevity, depending on how you look at it) is the inclusion of the symbol ♥ to the dictionary. It’s a verb, by the way. The last time I checked, I thought each entry had to be a word, but now even Prince has a shot at getting his symbol in, the one that stands for “The artist formerly known as Prince.” All bets are off at this point.
This rant would not be complete without the most cringe-inducing entry: wassup, a corruption of the phrase “What’s up?”
I have no words…
I’m just certain that somewhere in England, Jane Austen is weeping in her grave (whilst playing the pianoforte, of course).
Hey, England! Wassup with this new edition of the Oxford English Dictionary? Let’s cut a deal: You can have Charlie Sheen. We want our dictionary back.
Eileen Burmeister lives, works and rants about language in Roseburg, Ore. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
A few months ago I went on a little rant about how silly it was that the New Oxford American Dictionary was adding words like “BFF,” “zombie bank” and “nom nom” to its definitions. But really, it was the American version, the same country that produced the all-you-can-eat buffet, ’80s hair band Poison and Charlie Sheen, so it’s not as though I had high expectations from the start.
But England? I expect way more from the country that was home to my beloved Jane Austen and still has the Queen Mum and residents with the loveliest accents ever. (Admit it Americans: They could be speaking utter rubbish and still sound smarter than we do.)
So when the Oxford English Dictionary, the most authoritative lexicon anywhere, recently announced the new additions to its good book, I was a bit gobsmacked.
The first new entry that caught my attention: OMG! the abbreviated phrase for “Oh, my God!” They explain the addition by writing that online “initialisms” are quicker to type, giving those texters and tweeters even more time to text and tweet meaningless things to one another.
Keep in mind that the exclamation point is part of the package…so OMG alone didn’t make the cut, but OMG! pressed its way to the head of the line.
Another new initialism added to the hallowed book is IMHO, which stands for “in my humble opinion.” Problem is the same generation that uses these words is anything but humble. These are the kids who have been told by everyone from their mother to Cookie Monster that they are the most special person out there (do the math—not possible). This makes them deluded enough to think it’s important for their “audience” to keep up with their earth-shattering tweets, which consist of “I am at the vet with FuFu,” “Sad day for me ” or “Stomach flu—never good.”
Really, it’s not a matter of humility as much as it is just TMI. (TMI= “too much information,” incidentally; it’s also been added to the dictionary. Don’t get me started.)
Another new word? “Ego-surfing,” defined as the practice of searching for your own name on the Internet. (Please see section on “humility,” above.)
Perhaps the epitome of sloth (or brevity, depending on how you look at it) is the inclusion of the symbol ♥ to the dictionary. It’s a verb, by the way. The last time I checked, I thought each entry had to be a word, but now even Prince has a shot at getting his symbol in, the one that stands for “The artist formerly known as Prince.” All bets are off at this point.
This rant would not be complete without the most cringe-inducing entry: wassup, a corruption of the phrase “What’s up?”
I have no words…
I’m just certain that somewhere in England, Jane Austen is weeping in her grave (whilst playing the pianoforte, of course).
Hey, England! Wassup with this new edition of the Oxford English Dictionary? Let’s cut a deal: You can have Charlie Sheen. We want our dictionary back.
Eileen Burmeister lives, works and rants about language in Roseburg, Ore. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.
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