I make up for my lack of gardening skills with an amazing ability to annihilate craft projects. You would think the Author of the Universe in his unbounded wisdom would have given me the glue gun talents of a sharpshooter. This is not the case.
One sister tried to teach me to crochet. She said she never saw anybody crochet backwards.
My other sister tried to help me make a banner for Son One’s soccer team. I sewed the thing to the leg of my pants. Gold craft felt stitched into the inseam of extra-large stretchy pants in a series of festive darts and puckers is not a desirable fashion statement.
When I was in high school, my mother took pity on me (GOOD LORD, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!) and finished my home economics project. Who would have thought zippers would be so hard to install? I had more trouble than a presidential candidate trying to get the thing to stay closed.
My niece has a businesses creating hand-painted jewelry that people pay actual money for. I painted the South Carolina crescent and palmetto tree on a pendant. It looked like a banana bush.
My relatives began to meet secretly to have crafting parties. I happened to visit one Friday evening, and at my knock heard muffled voices and the sound of heavy furniture being shoved in front of the door.
“Hello?!”
The blinds shifted slightly. Whispering followed.
“I know you’re in there!”
The door opened a crack. “We can’t come out. We’re quarantined.”
“I’m so sorry. Can I get you anything?”
“Could you leave a pizza by the door?”
“What sort of disease do you have that you’re quarantined but want pizza?”
Silence. Then, “Acrophobia?”
“You’re in quarantine because you’re afraid of heights?”
“Leave the pizza down low.”
“You people are making crafts in there, aren’t you? Let me in or I’m coming back armed with tacky glue and pinking shears!”
Furtive dialing.
“And no calling 9-1-1!”
I went around to the back door, entered through the kitchen and came up behind a group of my closest friends and relatives wielding cotton balls and tiny paintbrushes like they were heavy artillery.
“Can I at least water your plants?”
A mad scramble ensued leading to a tangle of arms, legs, and cotton balls. It looked like an Easter Bunny gangland rumble. A glitter haze filled the air and a paintbrush stuck through my sister's pony tail like a hairpin.
The good news is that the plants are going to be fine. But the crafting group cemented themselves into a freeform sculpture. They’ll be okay once we find an antidote for Gorilla Glue.
Meanwhile I’ve taken up scrapbooking. Has anybody got a nail gun I can borrow?
Laugh
Showing posts with label universe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label universe. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Friday, May 29, 2009
Spell Bound
Now that the National Spelling Bee is in the news again and children younger than my hip replacement are spelling words like Laodicean that we all use in every day conversation (How about a Laodicean? It’s 5:00 somewhere.), I can’t help but think what would have happened if I had won the Great Spelling Bee of ’67.
The bar would be set a lot lower for the kids of today, that’s what.
And I might have been better prepared for the Embarrassing College Incident of ’81, which, as humiliating events go outranks even the Lost Bikini Top Episode of the Summer of '74, mostly because there were no witnesses to that one except family members and they don't count.
In the third grade I was quite confident since, as spellers go, I’ve always been quite adept, whereas I’ve never been as successful at more intricate endeavors, such as walking across the living room without tripping over dust. People always ask me how to spell random bits of language, and more often than not I know the answer without having to locate the bifocals I use for Googling. But even now that I’ve been out of third grade long enough for Webster to publish more editions than I have nervous tics, I’ll stop to check the spelling on the more difficult words, such as grade.
Which is what I spelled g-r-e-a-d in the Great Spelling Bee of '67, which lead to the Stunned Silence of Room 109, and my Wish I Was Dead experience of the same place and time.
Turns out that spelling itself wasn’t the source of my trouble. I can spell anything that’s necessary, which is not the case with Laodicean or with thylacine, which is some kind of doggie dinosaur that doesn’t require shots or a license or cleanup baggies since there haven’t been any for a quadrazillion years, and which put my hometown girl, Keiko, out of the running in the National Spelling Bee this year.
My trouble, as described by academies full of teachers as I wound my way through the public education maze, is that I’m a visual learner. If I could see the word, I could spell it. Now, that doesn’t seem quite fair to the other contestants, but as a listening-impaired speller, that’s a nice way to eliminate guesswork.
But the teachers always explained that I didn’t get to see the words, they only told me that as a study aid, which seemed unfair, if not downright mean of them for harping on it in the first place.
So it’s probably my third grade (which I just spelled quite properly without even a glance at the answer written in permanent ink on my palm) teacher’s fault about the college thing.
I did quite well in higher education, what with selecting English as my major because I had an active, if misdirected crush on William Faulkner, instead of a something that would prove to be profitable in the job market, and ended my collegiate career with honors and an award for the Most Outstanding English Major in the Universe.
(Actually I added the universe part after I read that it was quite common to fudge your qualifications on resumes and job applications. Since my degree was quite extraneous, I wouldn’t need either one so it made me feel one of the gang to fudge some along with the crowd.)
Even though my prize was a book instead of a shiny plaque I could hang on the wall next to my sister’s “I’m a Terrific Kid” certificate, I penned a note to the faculty of the college English Department, expressing my appreciation over the whole Outstanding thing.
And if I had it to do today, I would spell appreciation correctly. Which I didn't back then, as my advisor, the Distinguished Chair of the English Department pointed out the next time he saw me on campus. To his credit, he did not ask for the book back.
So to all those kids in the National Spelling Bee who got voted off the dictionary by words I can’t even pronounce, keep in mind that you did a great job. And long after the shine is gone from the champinship trophy and the winner spends the prize money on Webkins and Hannah Montana merchandise, you’ll still be telling folks about the Maecenas that got away.
The bar would be set a lot lower for the kids of today, that’s what.
And I might have been better prepared for the Embarrassing College Incident of ’81, which, as humiliating events go outranks even the Lost Bikini Top Episode of the Summer of '74, mostly because there were no witnesses to that one except family members and they don't count.
In the third grade I was quite confident since, as spellers go, I’ve always been quite adept, whereas I’ve never been as successful at more intricate endeavors, such as walking across the living room without tripping over dust. People always ask me how to spell random bits of language, and more often than not I know the answer without having to locate the bifocals I use for Googling. But even now that I’ve been out of third grade long enough for Webster to publish more editions than I have nervous tics, I’ll stop to check the spelling on the more difficult words, such as grade.
Which is what I spelled g-r-e-a-d in the Great Spelling Bee of '67, which lead to the Stunned Silence of Room 109, and my Wish I Was Dead experience of the same place and time.
Turns out that spelling itself wasn’t the source of my trouble. I can spell anything that’s necessary, which is not the case with Laodicean or with thylacine, which is some kind of doggie dinosaur that doesn’t require shots or a license or cleanup baggies since there haven’t been any for a quadrazillion years, and which put my hometown girl, Keiko, out of the running in the National Spelling Bee this year.
My trouble, as described by academies full of teachers as I wound my way through the public education maze, is that I’m a visual learner. If I could see the word, I could spell it. Now, that doesn’t seem quite fair to the other contestants, but as a listening-impaired speller, that’s a nice way to eliminate guesswork.
But the teachers always explained that I didn’t get to see the words, they only told me that as a study aid, which seemed unfair, if not downright mean of them for harping on it in the first place.
So it’s probably my third grade (which I just spelled quite properly without even a glance at the answer written in permanent ink on my palm) teacher’s fault about the college thing.
I did quite well in higher education, what with selecting English as my major because I had an active, if misdirected crush on William Faulkner, instead of a something that would prove to be profitable in the job market, and ended my collegiate career with honors and an award for the Most Outstanding English Major in the Universe.
(Actually I added the universe part after I read that it was quite common to fudge your qualifications on resumes and job applications. Since my degree was quite extraneous, I wouldn’t need either one so it made me feel one of the gang to fudge some along with the crowd.)
Even though my prize was a book instead of a shiny plaque I could hang on the wall next to my sister’s “I’m a Terrific Kid” certificate, I penned a note to the faculty of the college English Department, expressing my appreciation over the whole Outstanding thing.
And if I had it to do today, I would spell appreciation correctly. Which I didn't back then, as my advisor, the Distinguished Chair of the English Department pointed out the next time he saw me on campus. To his credit, he did not ask for the book back.
So to all those kids in the National Spelling Bee who got voted off the dictionary by words I can’t even pronounce, keep in mind that you did a great job. And long after the shine is gone from the champinship trophy and the winner spends the prize money on Webkins and Hannah Montana merchandise, you’ll still be telling folks about the Maecenas that got away.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Social Networking for Dummies--Just Kidding
Recently I decided to reach out and embrace the infinite possibilities offered by the information superhighway that gathers the whole world into one unified neighborhood.
I now have no friends on five different social networking sites.
I find that if you’re socially inept on one site, it’s not a stretch to frighten away potential buddies on all the others. Sort of an example in the “learn by doing” school of thought. I’m a Twit on Twitter and I’m more of a Plucker than a Plurker.
One problem could be that the Help functions are written for people that understand, well, written instructions. I’m more of a seek and destroy kind of gal.
With diligence and great effort, I managed to create five different passwords known only in a foreign country by someone named Achmed, and post an e-mail to a foreign government stating my intentions to become their comrade. That one could explain the unmarked helicopter that’s been circling my house for the past few days.
Since no one sporting a uniform and badge showed up at my door to halt my efforts, I decided to try again.
I was slaving away over a hot FaceBook, trying to figure out whether I could import and export without seeking permission from the Federal Trade Commission when my son, resplendent with all the wisdom that twenty years of free meals my kitchen can offer, strolled past the computer.
“You’re not going to put that picture up, are you?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because you’ll never get any friends. And if MY friends see it, I’ll have to sell the computer and take up weasel wrestling in Wyoming.”
“Very funny. How’s this one?” I admired a lovely shot of me squinting into the sun and pointing to a mountain in the standard “Here I am by a landmark” pose. I’m not sure what I’m wearing, but it was probably very stylish at the time.
“Fine if you want to attract every loser in the universe.”
I brightened. “I haven’t already?”
“Mom. You want to be careful about the image you project to the world.”
“What image should I project?”
“One that says “Not Ryan’s Mom.”
“Okay, how about this one?” I clicked on a thumbnail picture that sprang into a full-screen image. The picture showed me grinning happily cheek-to-cheek with a handsomely decorated papier mache goat. We were both wearing pink clothes and bemused expressions.
“That’s good. Cut out the one on the left.”
“But that’s me.”
“Well, you don’t want to embarrass the goat.”
I studied the picture. The goat smiled slyly.
With sudden decisiveness I punched the button that would display the picture for all the world to see.
Son One glanced at the screen. “You might want to change the caption.”
“Why?” I asked, trying to find a spot on my trifocals that would read the nanoprint onscreen.
“You left the caption from the old picture. It says, “My high school reunion was a big hit. Here I am standing with my old math teacher.”
I grinned and admired the photo again. “I think I'll leave it. I look like a cool kid standing next to that old goat.”
I now have no friends on five different social networking sites.
I find that if you’re socially inept on one site, it’s not a stretch to frighten away potential buddies on all the others. Sort of an example in the “learn by doing” school of thought. I’m a Twit on Twitter and I’m more of a Plucker than a Plurker.
One problem could be that the Help functions are written for people that understand, well, written instructions. I’m more of a seek and destroy kind of gal.
With diligence and great effort, I managed to create five different passwords known only in a foreign country by someone named Achmed, and post an e-mail to a foreign government stating my intentions to become their comrade. That one could explain the unmarked helicopter that’s been circling my house for the past few days.
Since no one sporting a uniform and badge showed up at my door to halt my efforts, I decided to try again.
I was slaving away over a hot FaceBook, trying to figure out whether I could import and export without seeking permission from the Federal Trade Commission when my son, resplendent with all the wisdom that twenty years of free meals my kitchen can offer, strolled past the computer.
“You’re not going to put that picture up, are you?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because you’ll never get any friends. And if MY friends see it, I’ll have to sell the computer and take up weasel wrestling in Wyoming.”
“Very funny. How’s this one?” I admired a lovely shot of me squinting into the sun and pointing to a mountain in the standard “Here I am by a landmark” pose. I’m not sure what I’m wearing, but it was probably very stylish at the time.
“Fine if you want to attract every loser in the universe.”
I brightened. “I haven’t already?”
“Mom. You want to be careful about the image you project to the world.”
“What image should I project?”
“One that says “Not Ryan’s Mom.”
“Okay, how about this one?” I clicked on a thumbnail picture that sprang into a full-screen image. The picture showed me grinning happily cheek-to-cheek with a handsomely decorated papier mache goat. We were both wearing pink clothes and bemused expressions.
“That’s good. Cut out the one on the left.”
“But that’s me.”
“Well, you don’t want to embarrass the goat.”
I studied the picture. The goat smiled slyly.
With sudden decisiveness I punched the button that would display the picture for all the world to see.
Son One glanced at the screen. “You might want to change the caption.”
“Why?” I asked, trying to find a spot on my trifocals that would read the nanoprint onscreen.
“You left the caption from the old picture. It says, “My high school reunion was a big hit. Here I am standing with my old math teacher.”
I grinned and admired the photo again. “I think I'll leave it. I look like a cool kid standing next to that old goat.”
Thursday, June 19, 2008
IMPortant Turn of Events
I’m pretty sure there’s an imp inside the dryer that turns all the shirts inside out. While everyone is spending their time looking for nonexistent sock snitchers, the real culprits are scurrying around like hamsters on a wheel saying “Quick, grab the washing label and run toward the neck!” and slipping down my new washable silk like sand down a sliding board. By the time they’ve whirled through the spin cycle and survived the “fluff and puff” stage of the dryer, the little imps have had ample time to make sure they’ve left no tag unturned. And a few extra seconds to pry a button loose on my new blouse.
Sometimes to fool them I’ll turn the shirts inside out myself before I launch them into the agitating vortex of the washer. I can just imagine their impish anguish when they find out the job’s done. Or perhaps it’s more a case of The Elves and The Shoemaker, and they’re gleefully performing a Playtime Polka in the washwater while I’m clinging to the machine during the presoak cycle, straining to see if there’s any action below the bubbles.
It’s not just shirts. Underwear invariably dives label-outward from the dryer into the hamper, and I have to execute the “arms through the legholes reverse maneuver” before I tuck them safely into the dresser drawer. I was perfectly aware of the tedium of housework when I signed up for this tour of duty, but if I had checked out the job description for Underwear Reversal Technician, I’m not sure I would have accepted the position. It’s not that I don’t have the qualifications or experience, but that’s a chore that ranks right up there with Shore Patrol for the Tidy Bowl Man.
Now when it comes to socks, I’m afraid I have the opposite problem from the rest of the population. I grow extras. Odd socks appear randomly and with abandon in my laundry room like I’m Matchmaker.com for lonely footwear. Once, after the children were grown, a bootie climbed carefully out of the lint trap and nestled in the palm of my hand. I didn’t have the heart to turn it away. It’s still curled into a tiny ball in the sock drawer where every now and then, Bill Dear will run across it and snort “Why do we keep this thing?” and tuck it carefully back under the argyles. I’m afraid that one day I’ll run across a single-socked baby at the Super Wal-mart and he’ll wiggle one set of bare toes meaningfully in my direction and demand the return of his fuzzy footwear. But I can’t help it if my home is a clearinghouse for every stray item in the universe.
I won’t even touch on my track record for acquiring lost kittens. They show up in the laundry room, too. But at least they use the door.
Sometimes to fool them I’ll turn the shirts inside out myself before I launch them into the agitating vortex of the washer. I can just imagine their impish anguish when they find out the job’s done. Or perhaps it’s more a case of The Elves and The Shoemaker, and they’re gleefully performing a Playtime Polka in the washwater while I’m clinging to the machine during the presoak cycle, straining to see if there’s any action below the bubbles.
It’s not just shirts. Underwear invariably dives label-outward from the dryer into the hamper, and I have to execute the “arms through the legholes reverse maneuver” before I tuck them safely into the dresser drawer. I was perfectly aware of the tedium of housework when I signed up for this tour of duty, but if I had checked out the job description for Underwear Reversal Technician, I’m not sure I would have accepted the position. It’s not that I don’t have the qualifications or experience, but that’s a chore that ranks right up there with Shore Patrol for the Tidy Bowl Man.
Now when it comes to socks, I’m afraid I have the opposite problem from the rest of the population. I grow extras. Odd socks appear randomly and with abandon in my laundry room like I’m Matchmaker.com for lonely footwear. Once, after the children were grown, a bootie climbed carefully out of the lint trap and nestled in the palm of my hand. I didn’t have the heart to turn it away. It’s still curled into a tiny ball in the sock drawer where every now and then, Bill Dear will run across it and snort “Why do we keep this thing?” and tuck it carefully back under the argyles. I’m afraid that one day I’ll run across a single-socked baby at the Super Wal-mart and he’ll wiggle one set of bare toes meaningfully in my direction and demand the return of his fuzzy footwear. But I can’t help it if my home is a clearinghouse for every stray item in the universe.
I won’t even touch on my track record for acquiring lost kittens. They show up in the laundry room, too. But at least they use the door.
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