There are days when everything in my life zips along like waxed skis on new snow. Then there are the days I search aimlessley for my gifts and talents like a doggie dumpster-diving for a lost ham bone.
“Accounts Payable?”
“Trial Balance?”
“Bank Reconciliation?”
None of these terms were on my final exams in English Poets or American Contemporary Literature when I graduated from college. I really didn’t see the use to indulge in them now. Except I was deeply interested in getting paid.
I attended a small Southern university and graduated happily with a degree in English and a cunning little sticker on the corner of my diploma that represented a prestigious honor society whose admiration I welcomed, but whose meetings I never attended. These accomplishments, along with the fact that I knew somebody that knew somebody, and that God mixes miracles and humor like Michaelangelo mixes paints, got me a job as secretary-in-charge-of-everything at a local church. Excited by the opportunity to serve as editor-in-chief (a colorful term meaning entire staff) of the church newsletter and to support my grocery addiction, I accepted the job offer without further exploring the job description.
This zeal for employment accounted for my present distress. Seated at a one-horse computer, I desperately searched my remaining little gray cells for some clue that would translate the foreign language my instructor was speaking into something easier to understand, like Gullah or Swahili.
Motivated by greed laced with liberal splashes of panic and terror, my hand went from adding machine to keyboard as I computed the totals of the numbers he read out to me and then entered them into the database. Back and forth went fingers more accustomed to creating exhilirating expository essays concerning Yoknapatawpha County. Adding machine to keyboard. Keyboard to adding machine. I indulged in the prayer of the selfish. “Please God, at least don’t let me look stupid.”
Suddenly, in a turn of events that provided definitive proof of instantaneous answer to prayer, the computer malfunctioned. None of the numbers I typed showed on the computer screen. I pounded on the keypad. The computer had rebelled! I was free from electronic oppression!
“The computer won’t take this information.” I turned in the chair to see what miracle my mentor would supply. “It won’t accept the numbers.”
“I think,” he said slowly, moving my hand from adding machine to computer, “it will work out better if you’ll use the computer’s keyboard.”
I learned my lesson. Be careful what you ask for. God is the ultimate practical joker.
Laugh
Showing posts with label addiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label addiction. Show all posts
Monday, June 23, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
Quirks and Quandaries
I’ve been tagged by Karen, aka Karen-Bob, over at Write Now. She said I should list six personal quirks. The problem is, there’s nothing about me that isn’t a quirk, so picking only six leaves me in a dilemma, much like having to choose one dessert over another. I mean, are you going to pick the cherry cheesecake and leave the six-layer Chocolate Sin untouched, or are you just going to Do the Right Thing and dive into the whole dessert tray with a decided Joie de Vivre which is a French term meaning "a fork in each hand"?
So as not to court obvious favoritism, I’ll just throw out six random Highly Interesting Fun Facts and you can decide for yourself the nature of their oddity. (One quirk is that I love words like oddity and use them in conversations. Well, whenever anyone will have a conversation with me. Which is usually in the fruits and vegetables section of the grocery store where I trap someone who doesn’t know me well enough to hide behind the clearance bananas into a discussion of the merits of mangos over kiwis.)
1. I will not be wearing a bikini this season. Oh, it’s not just because I’m worried about throwing Kate Moss and that whole “Cheekbones R US” set into a jealous rage. I’m saddened by their despair and lack of double-fudge brownies, but I’m not going to spend my lunch hour fretting about it. No, the thing is, I just don’t see the point in paying $150 for a swimsuit that no one will ever see the bottom half of. I’m to the stage in life where nothing worn above the thighs and below the belly button is visible to random passers by, and I don’t want to spend a week's wages for a triangle of stylishly designed cloth that will be covered by stretch marks.
2. I read children’s books at night to relax. With ADD brain cells hurling themselves against the insides of my skull with the same relaxing regularity of sixteen marbles and a wheat penny stuck in the dryer with a load of delicates, it’s reassuring to know that the ducklings are going to make it to the island in the public garden every single time.
3. I like geeks. They don’t go with anything, are ill-at-ease in every situation, and have no idea that you’ve just relayed the wittiest joke of the season. But if your computer throws out a fatal error, they can have you back on track in six minutes using only their hands and whatever software they have on their belt-holstered flash drive.
4. I am no longer afraid of circus clowns. After viewing them from behind a popcorn and cotton candy barrier as they cavort in their natural habitat, I am pleased and relieved to say that I am completely comfortable with them in a circus setting. But if I see anybody in a costume at the mall, go ahead and phone for Security. And a First Responder team. And the Jaws of Life.
5. I hate melodrama. If you can make me cry honestly, you get to wear the tiara, but if I have to hear the song “Christmas Shoes” one more time, I’ll puke glitter and rainbows. Luckily, I’ve calmed down since the last time I heard the song six months ago. They’ve almost finished the repairs and hope Santa’s castle will be in shape to grace Center Court at the mall again come Christmastime.
6. I tend to exaggerate.
I’m supposed to tell the rules and tag six people, but I’m feeling rebellious (free quirk; no purchase necessary). I’m just going to tag KODB over at The Doggerel King. That’s because he’s supposed to be working on a daring pirate novel that I really want to read, but instead he’s whiling away his time with selfish miscellaneous activities such as fixing computers for a living. Therefore, I’ll make him write for his blog, an activity which annoys him in a highly motivational way. So be sure to check him out in a month or two and see if he’s taught his new dog some old tricks.
So as not to court obvious favoritism, I’ll just throw out six random Highly Interesting Fun Facts and you can decide for yourself the nature of their oddity. (One quirk is that I love words like oddity and use them in conversations. Well, whenever anyone will have a conversation with me. Which is usually in the fruits and vegetables section of the grocery store where I trap someone who doesn’t know me well enough to hide behind the clearance bananas into a discussion of the merits of mangos over kiwis.)
1. I will not be wearing a bikini this season. Oh, it’s not just because I’m worried about throwing Kate Moss and that whole “Cheekbones R US” set into a jealous rage. I’m saddened by their despair and lack of double-fudge brownies, but I’m not going to spend my lunch hour fretting about it. No, the thing is, I just don’t see the point in paying $150 for a swimsuit that no one will ever see the bottom half of. I’m to the stage in life where nothing worn above the thighs and below the belly button is visible to random passers by, and I don’t want to spend a week's wages for a triangle of stylishly designed cloth that will be covered by stretch marks.
2. I read children’s books at night to relax. With ADD brain cells hurling themselves against the insides of my skull with the same relaxing regularity of sixteen marbles and a wheat penny stuck in the dryer with a load of delicates, it’s reassuring to know that the ducklings are going to make it to the island in the public garden every single time.
3. I like geeks. They don’t go with anything, are ill-at-ease in every situation, and have no idea that you’ve just relayed the wittiest joke of the season. But if your computer throws out a fatal error, they can have you back on track in six minutes using only their hands and whatever software they have on their belt-holstered flash drive.
4. I am no longer afraid of circus clowns. After viewing them from behind a popcorn and cotton candy barrier as they cavort in their natural habitat, I am pleased and relieved to say that I am completely comfortable with them in a circus setting. But if I see anybody in a costume at the mall, go ahead and phone for Security. And a First Responder team. And the Jaws of Life.
5. I hate melodrama. If you can make me cry honestly, you get to wear the tiara, but if I have to hear the song “Christmas Shoes” one more time, I’ll puke glitter and rainbows. Luckily, I’ve calmed down since the last time I heard the song six months ago. They’ve almost finished the repairs and hope Santa’s castle will be in shape to grace Center Court at the mall again come Christmastime.
6. I tend to exaggerate.
I’m supposed to tell the rules and tag six people, but I’m feeling rebellious (free quirk; no purchase necessary). I’m just going to tag KODB over at The Doggerel King. That’s because he’s supposed to be working on a daring pirate novel that I really want to read, but instead he’s whiling away his time with selfish miscellaneous activities such as fixing computers for a living. Therefore, I’ll make him write for his blog, an activity which annoys him in a highly motivational way. So be sure to check him out in a month or two and see if he’s taught his new dog some old tricks.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Boiling Point
It’s not that my son is a picky eater; it’s just that he’d starve to death before the noon rush at any grocery store in America.
He once perused the morning buffet at a luxury hotel restaurant (We have teenage boys. To us luxury means any hotel that doesn’t make us pay a security deposit when we check in.) for three quarters of an hour before demanding to be taken to McDonald’s. Nothing says Breakfast of Champions like a McBiscuit with the outside crust peeled away.
His specifications are exact. He does not eat ugly food.
Ugly food is defined as any food that is unattractive in appearance or that comes in contact with any other food or food-like item during its processing or preparation. Therefore, my kitchen is under constant supervision. It’s like living with a member of the Board of Health who doesn’t clean his room or brush his teeth until threatened with government action.
“Mom,” Son #2 peered in the pot of steaming, frothing liquid and wrinkled his nose. “Are you boiling chickens again?”
“Sure am.”
“Didn’t you just boil a chicken at aunt KJ’s house this weekend?”
“Yes, I was helping her out in the kitchen.”
Son 2, in disgust, “Do you have some sort of addiction to chicken boiling?”
“I’m going to make chicken salad.”
“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of cult ritual or something?”
“I’m sure. Back away from the chicken. It needs to boil another hour.”
“Do we need to have an intervention?”
“No. This is not a bizarre ceremonial rite. You have to stew it before you can make other things with it.”
“Like what? Some sort of nasty chicken potion to smear on your victims? Does it eat their flesh? You know, like zombie chickens.”
“Son, if you don’t like chicken salad, you don’t have to eat it.”
“You’re trying to trick me. You’re going to feed me some kind of boiled chicken serum to make me do your will.”
“That’s ridiculous. I create the potion for making you do my will out of the parts I take out of the chicken.”
“Like what?”
“Like the heart.”
“At least I'd have a heart. Are you lying?”
“Yes, I am. I’m not going to waste a perfectly good bird just to make you obey me. Besides, it doesn’t work.”
He pondered this tidbit. “That’s because I’m not eating it. I shouldn’t even be breathing in the fumes. They’re probably poisonous. Or hallucinogenic.”
I didn’t know words with that many syllables until I was in college. “There are pizzas in the freezer. I don’t care if you eat chicken salad or not.”
Where’s the feet? Are you wearing a chicken claw around your neck?”
“For goodness sakes. That’s the Mother’s Day necklace you and your brother gave me. The pictures are a little fuzzy, that’s all.”
“Sure, Mom, if that’s your real name. I’ll be wanting to see some identification at dinner.”
“Get out of the kitchen.”
“Oh, now you’re worried, aren’t you? You’ll probably try and disguise the chicken in my food.”
All the boy eats is frozen pizza and Captain Crunch. It’s hard to disguise chicken parts as rogue Crunch Berries.
“That’s right. Beware of anything you eat or drink. It may be contaminated with chicken broth.”
“That’s it. I’m making a pizza.”
It’s amazing how people who won’t eat freshly thawed meat by-products will roast a frozen, artificially colored and flavored disc to a golden brown and slam it down like filet mignon just because it says pizza on the box.
Come to think of it, I'm going to make some chicken soup. They say it cures what ails you. And in this case what ails me is a free-range teenager who’s chicken to try new food.
He once perused the morning buffet at a luxury hotel restaurant (We have teenage boys. To us luxury means any hotel that doesn’t make us pay a security deposit when we check in.) for three quarters of an hour before demanding to be taken to McDonald’s. Nothing says Breakfast of Champions like a McBiscuit with the outside crust peeled away.
His specifications are exact. He does not eat ugly food.
Ugly food is defined as any food that is unattractive in appearance or that comes in contact with any other food or food-like item during its processing or preparation. Therefore, my kitchen is under constant supervision. It’s like living with a member of the Board of Health who doesn’t clean his room or brush his teeth until threatened with government action.
“Mom,” Son #2 peered in the pot of steaming, frothing liquid and wrinkled his nose. “Are you boiling chickens again?”
“Sure am.”
“Didn’t you just boil a chicken at aunt KJ’s house this weekend?”
“Yes, I was helping her out in the kitchen.”
Son 2, in disgust, “Do you have some sort of addiction to chicken boiling?”
“I’m going to make chicken salad.”
“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of cult ritual or something?”
“I’m sure. Back away from the chicken. It needs to boil another hour.”
“Do we need to have an intervention?”
“No. This is not a bizarre ceremonial rite. You have to stew it before you can make other things with it.”
“Like what? Some sort of nasty chicken potion to smear on your victims? Does it eat their flesh? You know, like zombie chickens.”
“Son, if you don’t like chicken salad, you don’t have to eat it.”
“You’re trying to trick me. You’re going to feed me some kind of boiled chicken serum to make me do your will.”
“That’s ridiculous. I create the potion for making you do my will out of the parts I take out of the chicken.”
“Like what?”
“Like the heart.”
“At least I'd have a heart. Are you lying?”
“Yes, I am. I’m not going to waste a perfectly good bird just to make you obey me. Besides, it doesn’t work.”
He pondered this tidbit. “That’s because I’m not eating it. I shouldn’t even be breathing in the fumes. They’re probably poisonous. Or hallucinogenic.”
I didn’t know words with that many syllables until I was in college. “There are pizzas in the freezer. I don’t care if you eat chicken salad or not.”
Where’s the feet? Are you wearing a chicken claw around your neck?”
“For goodness sakes. That’s the Mother’s Day necklace you and your brother gave me. The pictures are a little fuzzy, that’s all.”
“Sure, Mom, if that’s your real name. I’ll be wanting to see some identification at dinner.”
“Get out of the kitchen.”
“Oh, now you’re worried, aren’t you? You’ll probably try and disguise the chicken in my food.”
All the boy eats is frozen pizza and Captain Crunch. It’s hard to disguise chicken parts as rogue Crunch Berries.
“That’s right. Beware of anything you eat or drink. It may be contaminated with chicken broth.”
“That’s it. I’m making a pizza.”
It’s amazing how people who won’t eat freshly thawed meat by-products will roast a frozen, artificially colored and flavored disc to a golden brown and slam it down like filet mignon just because it says pizza on the box.
Come to think of it, I'm going to make some chicken soup. They say it cures what ails you. And in this case what ails me is a free-range teenager who’s chicken to try new food.
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