I have a growing concern that we, as a civilization, did not pay proper attention to the sage teachings of Grover when we were younger. Specifically, I mean this string of wisdom pearls (although, to be fair, Super Grover rocks, and rocks hard). Bottom line: Not all prepositions are synonymous. Yes, I know, it can be confusing, so I am here to help you distinguish among them.
NEAR is not IN
I can see why you would think that casually placing your dirty dishes near the sink is the same as placing them in the sink, but... wait, no, really, I just can't. A circle of plates, each still containing fully 95% of the food you were served, balanced one on top of another, threatening to fall to the floor and concuss any pet unlucky enough to pass below at precisely the wrong time, is NOT the same as plates placed IN the sink. Let's not even discuss rinsing.
BY is not INTO
Sometimes when we are in a hurry, we may forget the rules of grammar. I am here to remind you that when you pass a fellow commuter en route to the 2 train as it threatens to pull out of the station without you, you want to rush BY that commuter, but not INTO her. Here is a neat way to keep this rule straight: after the experience, you want her (or him) to wave 'bye' to you, not cut you 'in two.'
IN FRONT OF is not BEHIND
Sometimes we go to a store, say Duane Reade, and there is a line. Sometimes (all times) we don't want to wait on that line because we, unlike the people in that line, have places to go and people to see that are much more interesting than where we currently find ourselves (staring at another magazine cover featuring Mason Disick, wondering why we know who Mason Disick is and, even more disturbingly, why we know his middle name is Dash and why is it Dash and please, if there is a god, let it not be because the store is named that - and now we are a bit upset that it's a given that we know the name of the Kardashians' store is, in fact, Dash). In this state of mental weakness, we may convince ourselves that BEHIND means IN FRONT OF, so that when it is time to get in line behind all the other slack-jawed tabloid browsers, we accidentally float ahead of everyone and over to the first available cashier.
The distinction between these two prepositions is especially crucial as in certain cities, this mistake could result in a scolding, often by a 5'6", currently red haired woman, who does remember the meaning of the preposition 'in,' as in 'in your face.'
You know how some people tell you they don't watch tv? In addition to being outright hateful, those people are dangerous to us all. Their lack of tv-watching threatens to disrupt the tv/space continuum and potentially dooms all of mankind. Not to worry, though, I am here to save us all, chiefly by watching enough tv myself to make up for all those villainous creatures.
How do I do it? As you can imagine, it is a challenge, what with a job, a family, a whiney dog and the seemingly insatiable desire to bake and eat batches of chocolate chip cookies with an alarming regularity. With true dedication and lots of technology, however, it can be done and done well. Two DVRs, countless dvd players, cable in the kitchen, iPad apps, hulu, on-demand, netflix (streaming and disc, natch) - saving the world requires that all these components work together, and work together harmoniously. Lately, however, the DVR and cable boxes are refusing to play their part and we are all at risk. It is possible I am being unreasonable in my expectations, though, so I will let you be the judge.
Everything but the audio sync:
My kitchen cable box does not feel the need to sync the audio and video and this disturbs me, but maybe it's just me. Maybe other people enjoy the challenge of lip reading and and anticipating what Zoeey Deschenal will say in .5 seconds. OK, to be honest, I can't always even tell if it's the video or the audio that lags. Perhaps this inablity indicates I should actually spend more time watching this way, not less. You tell me.
Disobedience:
Personally, I enjoy the predictablity of a DVR. I like to know that if I have set up a DVR to record a series, record it will. Lately, my DVR has disobeyed these polite requests of mine. I run in to check that a recording is, in fact, underway, only to find that little red light is conspicously dark. When I go to record manually, the DVR tells me just "cannot record right now." Is it just me, or does this DVR just seem like a petulant teenager, refusing to do his chores and then saying he is going out. Where is he going? "Out! Just out!" Maybe you will tell me that I need to live a bit more on the edge, embrace the seeming capriciousness of these machines with which I share my life. What say you?
Darkness on the Edge of Demand:
The seders have come and gone and left behind a new perspective of the ninth plague, that of darkness. Darkness is what I find more times than not after I have watched something on demand. Darkness on every channel. No explanation. Invariably this occurs when I need to see something urgently, but now I have to wait a full 4 minutes for the reboot. Note that "urgently" should really read "'urgently.'" Or should it be '"urgently"'? Again I ask you, am I wrong to be annoyed? Perhaps I should welcome the black screen as an opportunity to connect with my ancestors more often than only two matzo-filled spring nights in a row. If that is the case, then, I have a whole new perspective on the waterbug I saw down in the basement and the plague of locusts.
I know it has been a while since I have posted. I also know that because of that fact you are thinking either or both of two things: 1) I have no idea when to use "a while" and when to use "awhile" - or if "awhile" is even a word and 2) During my absence I must not have been annoyed by anything. As for bullet #1, you are totally right, but as for bullet #2, you could not be more wrong. Or, as Ms. Chanandler Bong would say, "You could not be more wrong." Really, there is just not enough of Miss Chanandler Bong, is there? You know, to tell you how gum would be perfection.
So here is my latest concern, for your consideration. We need to loosen up our liquor license laws. Yes, yes, I know people complain that establishments with liquor licenses draw rowdy crowds that make noise and keep the local residents awake until the wee hours and that when those same residents stumble out their front doors the next morning, eyes bleary from lack of sleep, they are immediately greeted with the human excretions the previous evening's imbibers have less than thoughtfully left behind. But that is what happens when liquor licenses are granted to restaurants or clubs. That is not the type of institution of which I speak.
I speak of children's shoe stores. Now, I don't know what the children's shoe stores are like where you live. Perhaps when you enter a children's shoe store, a salesperson approaches you and offers his or her immediate assistance. Perhaps he or she gently suggests a pair of reasonably priced shoes for your child, shoes that don't in fact cost more than those you buy for your own non size-changing feet. Perhaps these shoes don't boast neon lights that flash so aggressively that you are fairly certain they will, at worst, trigger seizures or, at best, cause a loss of between 5 and 10 badly needed IQ points. Perhaps you exit that store in under 3 hours, with neither you nor your children in tears.
I do know what children's shoe stores are like where I live. They put the 'angry' in angryNYCchick. Can you get immediate assistance in a children's shoe store in NYC? Oh, honey, no. You must put your child's name down on a waiting list. To see a children's shoe salesman. To hand over your hard earned money to the store. Write that child's name clearly or you risk its being mangled when it is at long lost shouted across the store. You won't recognize your child's name being announced will be back at the end of the line. And if your kid has one of the more popular names, don't dare write her real name on the list or be prepared to see another parent jump up and steal your spot when they hear "Sophia!" called out. They can't help themselves; like you, they are at the beginning of what they know will be a long and painful odyssey and one that will not end well.
Now, a little wine bar in the corner is really all I ask. Sure, it would be nice if you had several wines to select from, some decent stemware, and maybe some nice cheese and hearty crackers. But really, I am saying that just a card table, a box of no-name wine, and some red solo cups and truly we are good to go. Here's how it works. You walk in, you get your plastic tumbler of whatever is in the box, you take a quick gulp and you head over to the sign-in sheet. Now when you look down and see 7 Jacobs and 6 Avas ahead of your Phoebe, you just shrug and take another swig - and try to stifle the involuntary shudder from that burning sensation you get upon swallowing.
Before you can even begin to look for a reasonably priced pair of shoes you that does not sear your eyes with its shameless gaudiness, a pair that might actually match something in your child's wardrome, she is already running around the store grabbing every blinking, pepto bismol pink, crystal-adorned, chiffon-laced shoe/sneaker/boot/maryjane (I have girls) she can reach and trying to jam her foot in it, while yelling across the store "How about this one? And this one? They fit perfectlyl! I neeeeed them!!" If you think of this experience as similar to a game of the type you may have played at an earlier, child-free stage of your life, you will know how to proceed. Every time your beloved expresses a desire, nay a neeeed for a shoe, take a sip. Hmmm, that after-burn seems to have diminished just a bit.
Keep this up through the shoe sizing, when you are told your child has prodigiously jumped a full size in the last 3 weeks. You get an extra three sips if the salesman also informs you that your child straddles two wholly difference sizes and you will have to buy a full two pair; that's four shoes to shod your child's two feet, and you deserve a sip per shoe.
I think you know how the rest of this trip to the shoe store goes... Your kid turns out to have such narrow feet that she wear only a single brand of French, even more inordinately overpriced shoes than you thought you were going to have to purchase (I'm two for two on this score)? Sip. Your 6-year old is on the floor, arms and legs flailing, screaming that she cannot do the birthday party circuit in anything less than 3 inch heels? Sip. Hmmm... what type of wine is this? Can one purchase a box for home consumption?
One last thought. Don't leave that red solo cup behind when you exit the store. Don't make the rookie mistake of thinking that because you have completed your purchase the fun is over. If your child was given a balloon during his visit, it is a certainty that in the next ten minutes that balloon will 1) hit a pedestrian(s) in the face 2) be released into the wild blue yonder as soon as the store is out of view 3) both. You'll want to have that wine at the ready. I am all but certain this is what those stroller cup holders are made for. Or flasks. Your call, really.
Lately there has been a big to-do about eating on the NYC subway. Admittedly this may be a to-do manufactured by the media. The to-do (you knew I would say 'to-do' at least one more time right?) involves video of a woman eating spaghetti with a fork out of a to-go (not 'to-do') container on the subway. To hear the newscasters tell it, the entire population of all five boroughs is just horrified. This may surprise you, but I couldn't care less about people eating on the subway. If you would like to eat your lunch while sitting next to a man whom your nose tells you hasn't showered in 6 months, while your eyes peg that shower at more like 8 months ago, that's your choice. You may need to fight the rats for each delicious bite of fried chicken, but bon appetit.
I can't focus my annoyance on subway dining because there are so many other subway behaviors more repugnant. Starting with.... body maintenance. It never fails - at least once a week I will be traveling on the 2/3 train and will hear the staccato "CLIP CLIP CLIP," the sound of someone clipping their nails. Even just recounting it I am getting chills. I just don't get it - did you pack this nail clipper as you got ready for work this morning thinking, "it's about time I take care of these nails, once and for all. What better time to do it than on the subway!" Let me assure you, though, there are many better times to undertake this maintenance and those are all times that take place in your home. I would even specify in your bathroom, but seriously, as long as you remove this activity to behind the closed doors of your residence, I'll be happy. Happier, at any rate.
Yes, we are all used to people putting on a fresh coat of lipstick or even a mascara touch up. I can live with both of those maintenance activities. I can even accept the person who starts with liquid foundation and works her way through an entire makeup bag, mostly because it is amusing to see the face she (and this is usually a she) makes in her mirror during each step. The lipstick lip-pucker. The mascara o-mouth. The eyeliner side-eye. What I cannot abide, what even the dude could not abide, is eyebrow plucking. Under no circumstances may a commuter pull out a tweezer and a hand mirror and go to town yanking out strays. First of all, have you no shame? Is there no maintenance you believe should be reserved for the privacy of your bath or boudoir? Second of all, when the train or your fellow passenger lurches, and that sharp tweezer lodges itself somewhere in your face, how embarrassed are you going to be when you have to explain the cause of your wound to the emergency room personnel? And I assure you that is multiple personnel. The nurse at triage, the doctor, and the residents the doctor pulls in, ostensibly to teach them, but really to mock you.
There are many more behaviors that get me going, and I will no doubt address them in more detail at some later date. Let me just list them here so that if you are engaging in any of them, you cease and desist within the hour: entering before others exist, hugging the pole, sitting on the outside seat, sitting with your legs 2 yards apart, slapping people in the head. That last one especially, please stop immediately.
I am forever grateful to my family for their constant efforts to ensure that I never face a single moment of boredom, or what other people might call "leisure time." Sometimes my 50-hour a week job and all my household responsibilities (cooking, cleaning, social planning - lately I identify with each and every servant on Downton Abbey) just don't fill my time sufficiently.
Laundry Dispersal
Laundry is a key piece of their strategy. As soon as these people enter our home, they remove their shoes and discard their socks. I don't mean that they place their socks in the hamper, or even crunch them up inside their shoes, I mean they must toss them high into the air, based on where I later discover these socks - adorning the living room rug, jammed between couch cushions, lying actually inside the printer tray (otherwise known as the source for all paper, so much so that on a recent vacation when I told my daughter to write something on paper, she said, "but there is no printer tray in this hotel room"). This action enables me to spend fully 10 minutes a day gathering and matching up socks. I am also proud to report these clever people know that leaving the socks in that balled up, half-in/half-out state that preserves foot sweat so effectively consumes extra seconds as I turn them right side out, even if it does cause me to gag just a little bit.
Needless to say that when any member of my family disrobes, the worn clothing is allowed to drop to the floor right there. Dirty clothes never make it to the hamper without my assistance. The only time a piece of apparel is placed in the hamper by the actual wearer is when the item of clothing is not actually in need of laundering; should one of my family members try on and reject an item of clothing, it is never replaced in the drawer. It is instead dropped in the hamper, allowing me to spend significant time washing, drying and folding that item, unworn as it is.
Total boredom time eliminated: 1 hour
Assignment Amnesia
First, in case you don't have homework-aged kids, I need to tell you that these days homework is a family activity - and not in the way that getting ice cream or visiting Disney is a family activity, more in the way that serving time is a family activity for the members Manson clan. I can't go into the whys and wherefores, just know that no, that's not how it was when you were a child, and yes, that is how it is now. Hours of family time are spent nightly scolding, wheedling, and quizzing, all in the name of education. And that is when your child actually remembers to bring home the assignment!
I am thrilled to report that my children recognize homework for what it truly is, a very valuable opportunity to reduce my downtime. Some nights the workload is minimal and I am in danger of being able to watch Khloe and Lamar (judge me as you must), so in those instances my daughters make sure to leave a book behind, forget a math sheet or entirely misunderstand an assignment. O, the phone calls that follow! O, the faxing! O, the emails! O, the cabs rides back to school! O, the weeping.
Total boredom time eliminated: 2 hours
Sisterly Love
Sometimes a couple of free minutes pop up and my family is quick to fill them, lest that aforementioned boredom overtake me. Both the laundry and homework approaches outlined above require planning, but you can get a rise out of your sister with almost no forethought whatsoever. All it takes is a quick eye roll and 10 minutes are gone. Or tell your sister to stop breathing that way and 30 minutes are accounted for. You can squeeze a full hour out of claiming that your sister is not holding up her end of a complicated trade that involved a book, a DS game, the choice of which iCarly show would be viewed the night before, and three jelly munchkins.
Total boredom time eliminated: 10 minutes to 7 hours
I know I have a glamorous and important job, and I know you are secretly jealous. I get to use fancy phrases like "value added," fly to exotic cities like Cleveland, and generally save the world with my synergistic approach to work plan execution. Also, I use pivot tables! But at times the responsibilities of this career can weigh heavily on my shoulders and it is at those times that I consider making a career change. It is hard to imagine a career as value added as this one (see!), but one I have been quietly pondering is a career in the field of chocolate chip cookie tasting.
I only learned of this option when my friend Alisa, a Harvard-educated corporate litigator, told me she aspires to be a member of this profession. I know, on the surface it doesn't sound like a job that adds value to society, but let's give this some thought. Chocolate chip cookies play a very important role in modern society. Unappreciated day at work running down unexpected charges to your budget code, which entails contacting people you don't know to ask them with whom they went to lunch and what they discussed over that lunch? Fix it with a chocolate chip cookie. Unappreciated night at home reteaching yourself 9th grade algebra, only to find there was a typo in the math problem you worked hard on and even pestered both your neighbor and your cousin for help? Break out the Nestle's Tollhouse. Unappreciated late evening trying unsuccessfully to tell the American Airlines award desk AGAIN how to spell your daughter's name correctly so that she can actually redeem her lifetime of frequent flyer miles, 17,000 of which have mysteriously disappeared already? Crunch down on a chocolate chipper. Suddenly the frustration of your day melts away - the cookie almost literally is patting you soothingly (on the inside your mouth, of course) whispering, "Don't listen to these unappreciative clods! You are smart, pretty, hardworking and truly deserved to get the lead role in the 8th grade play that went to that smug Reagan, although of course you have moved beyond that crushing disappointment as you are a fully actualized and secure woman."
Imagine, instead, if in any of these instances when you bite down, you get a sub par cookie! A cookie with the wrong ratio of cookie to chip. A chip that is too sweet - or worse, too bitter! A cookie that is rock hard. Far from helping you cope with your difficult situation, such a cookie only adds to the frustration and anger you are already feeling, and the world is a worse place for it. Perhaps it is just such an experience that let the woman behind me on the train the other morning to karate chop me in the back of the head when the only offense I may have committed was swinging my hair. (Note I did not actually condemn the assault - in fact I actually feel some respect for it and am just trying to understand how the woman reached the decision to take that particular action against me so that I may employ that same rationale to a similar situation myself, should one arise. Which it will.)
Is it really that much of a stretch to say that many of the world's worst conflicts might never have happened if there had been some really good chocolate chip cookies around to soothe the opponents as the issues escalated? Ok, it is completely a huge stretch, but it would still be the most awesomely delicious job ever.
