Bertha’s Bakers Dozen ™: Dumb Things People Say When They Find Out I’m a Writer

     One of the first questions an acquaintance will usually ask is, “So what do you do?”  I usually assume they mean, “what do I do for a living” so I answer with, “I’m a writer”.  If I answered with, “I’m a world-renowned brain surgeon” or “I teach disabled children”, the response might be one of awe or admiration.  If I answered with, “I tame lions” or “I’m a candy taster”, the response might be one of extreme interest.  When I answer with, “I’m a writer”, I often wonder if I mistakenly said, “I sit on a park bench and stare at my thumb nail.”  People have no clue what to say, so they start to babble.  I think I’ve heard just about everything.

     Well, Letterman has his ten; Bertha has her Bakers Dozen … and this time, it’s the Dumb Things People Say  When They Find Out I’m a Writer list:

13) “You’re a writer?  Like, at a bookstore?”  No.  I’m a writer, like, at my computer in yoga pants and a Muppets T-shirt.     

12) “Do you have an assistant to write for you?”  What?!  I do my own writing, t hank you very much.  And if I did have an assistant, I think I would have that person clean my house so I could write more.   

11) “I bet you are rich since you’re famous!”  I started this column with nothing and I still have most of it left.  And if I’m famous, I really need to have a talk with the deli manager at Local Grocery for how long they make me wait for a half-pound of corned beef.    

10) “Can you introduce me to famous people?”  Part of me wants to answer with “for a fee”.  Another part of me wants to smack you across the forehead.  Do I look like Truman Capote?

9) “I be you get to travel a lot!”  Uhh, does a jaunt into town to buy dog food count as “travelling”?       

8) “I bet The Yankee is your biggest fan!”  Actually, no.  The Yankee is vaguely aware I have “a column thingy”, as he calls it, but he cannot locate it on the Internet nor is he even remotely interested in its content.       

7) “I bet you have crowds who want your autograph.”  Only when it’s time to sign the credit card receipt.  

6) “You’re a writer?!  Oh my gosh, do you get people sending bottles of wine to your table at restaurants?!”  I don’t think the drive-thru at the Sammich Hut is allowed to sell alcohol.       

5) “How do you come up with your characters?”  I live with these people.  No, I’m serious.      

4) “All this ridiculous stuff happens to you, I bet you laugh a lot!”   Guess again. 

3) “Do you really have an autistic daughter?”  Actually, I have a son named Filbert who’s been locked in his room playing Pogs since 1992.  I just thought an imaginary autistic daughter would make a fun pastime.      

2) “You’re a writer?  I’ve never heard of you.”  I said “writer” ... not Pulitzer Prize winning author.       

1) “I could never be a writer.  Nothing interesting ever happens to me.”  I have news for you.  “Interesting” depends entirely upon your perspective.  If you spend your life down in the dumps, staring at your feet, you will never see the interesting.  If you search for drama in every aspect of life like some redneck with trailer park hair, you run the risk of dramatizing every boring, minute detail of the excruciatingly mundane.  Look up, open your eyes, and don’t read into everything.  You may be shocked by how much “interesting” you really have around you.    

© Bertha Grizzly 2012.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Whispers of Long Ago

     I’ve admitted it before and I’ll say it again: I don’t belong to my own generation.  I was born 40 years old and I’ve only grown older with time.  Trust me: being in the fifth grade and knowing by heart the lyrics to every song Elvis Presley ever belted out is not exactly a stepping stone to popularity.  Half of my class loved Tiffany, the other half loved Debbie Gibson.  My teacher was the only one who pretended to understand my “same but different” love for both Elvis and Johnny Mathis while I visited Boots Randolph and Tchaikovsky on the side .  Being different is not as fun as it sounds.  Nobody gets your jokes.  Nobody likes your music.  Most of your heroes are dead.  It can be a lonely existence. 

      It was on one such lonely day when I “visited” some of my heroes on YouTube.  I marveled at clips of Katharine Hepburn, her confidence as obvious as her Bryn Mawr accent.  I laughed when Foster Brooks, a stone-cold sober gent, portrayed a side-splitting drunk without uttering a single profanity.  I was enraptured by Cary Grant’s love scenes that sizzled with raw magnetism without becoming a biology lesson.  I missed them all and I’ve never met a single one of them.   

      Why couldn’t I have been born in a time that actually fit me?

      What I wouldn’t give to have friends my own age who find modern “rom-coms” droll and pedestrian when compared with classic cinema.  A pal who finds it difficult to choose between Cary Grant and Clark Gable for the prize of “Man of the Century”.  I kept up my YouTube review of the works of my heroes when I happened upon a clip from the fabulous Mr. Don Rickles at his own roast at The Fryer’s Club.  What he said at the end of his spot left me speechless, floored, absolutely spellbound.  I transcribed his exact words so I could read them over and over: 

      “My father said, ‘Don, when you’re different your heart is open to a little ache.  But remember, when you’re different, you might capture all the stars but the whole world will not rally ‘round you, but you have a chance of having them notice you.  So go home at night, put your head on the pillow, and thank God for what you’ve attained.  And maybe God will look down and say, “Hey, I am grateful to you, son, for doing something different."'”

      Am I hearing this correctly?  Have the words of one of my heroes come from a time long passed to encourage me?  Is it possible that maybe, just perhaps, my heroes didn’t feel like they belonged either?  It’s just too much to hope for.  If he felt different, then maybe I’m not such an oddball after all. 

      It’s a big deal, find out you aren’t as alone as you once perceived.  Someone else struggled with feeling different.  Someone else sought reassurance that his was not an odd path bound for a nowhere existence.  Someone took words of wisdom to heart, and through the retelling of his experience, reached through the portals of time to encourage a fellow “different”. 

      Since then, I have taken a new approach to life.  I have put my thoughts into the modern equivalent of a “column” and found an audience of “differents” just like me.  I credit Don Rickles for much of my courage.  I hope one day I can shake his hand and say, “Thank you.  I’m grateful to you, sir, for doing something different.”

© Bertha Grizzly 2012.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Virtual Fish Stories

     I’ll come right out and say it: I love Facebook.  It has given me the opportunity to reclaim old friendships, the pleasure of sharing pictures with friends living a thousand miles away, and the ability to catch up with relatives who would otherwise not care if I lived or died.  I enjoy hearing what my friends are doing and seeing their children grow up.  That is, until I start running across what I call “virtual fish stories”. 

      Every person knows someone who isn’t satisfied with saying something like, “Busy day, but accomplished a lot.  Time to relax with a beer!”  No, that wouldn’t do it for Ol’ Fish Tale.  Nope.  This person has to put a dramatic spin on everything: “Got up early. Went to the track and ran 2 miles. Came home, mowed the lawn, cleaned the gutters, planted flowers, repotted Christmas cactus, painted the kitchen, replaced the wax ring under the guest toilet, cooked a week’s worth of dinners so we can eat reheated leftovers for the next 5 days, patched the driveway, brought homemade bread to the old lady next door, helped her sand her feet and worm her cat, cut and stacked 3 cords of firewood, and now I’m going to enjoy a nice glass of wine … but only a tiny one!  No overindulging in this house!” 

      Puh-leez.

      Am I the only one who finds these posts more annoying than creeping underwear?  It’s not enough that the job list they have decided to share with you involves enough work to kill the average high-school jock, it just reeks of exaggeration.  Did you really paint the kitchen?  Or did you just run a dab of paint over an old nail hole?  Did you really plant flowers?  Or did you just fling an envelope of poppy seeds over a section of dirt and hope a few come up?  And if you want to relax with wine, I don’t care if you drink the whole box, so stop trying to justify what you're doing.

      I’ve sat and pondered this phenomenon on many occasion, mainly because I’m smart about how I use my time.  What drives someone to put on such a display?  Are they afraid of their lives being so boring that they have to make a big deal out of chores?  Are they so desperate for approval of a job well done that they have to chronicle their entire lives on the Internet for a few precious, “Wow, you’re amazing!” comments?  The possibilities are endless, but the comments are endlessly irritating. 

      And the same goes for the overly-sappy posts as well.  I’ve had some on my newsfeed that read more like a love letter, and are enough to embarrass a hard wit like me: “Oh, Baby.  You were so wonderful.  I can’t believe you would fall for someone like me.  I swear I must be the luckiest person on earth to have your love.  It makes my heart pound to think of how you look at me …” HOLD IT RIGHT THERE.  If you want to get all mushy-gushy, send a private message.  Still others sound like an entry in a prayer journal from 1644: “O Lord, I thank Thee for the sun that riseth outsideth my windoweth, for its light shineth on my sin and showeth me how truly despicableth I am-eth.”  Really?  A simple, “The sunrise is particularly pretty this morning.  Thanks, God, for sharing it with me” will suffice.  

      I know what some of you are thinking: don’t read it.  Block Ol’ Fish Tale.  Skip over Romantic Rendezvous and Pilgrim Prudence.  Stop being a glutton for punishment.  I get what you are saying and you have a valid point, my friend.  But like the curdled milk we can’t stop ourselves from sniffing before it slithers down the drain, these particular posts are a powerful magnet.  I can’t stop myself.  I can’t help skimming over it, and at the rate I read, I’ve already absorbed the boring details of your bombastic fish story before I can finish scrolling down the page.

      I understand people have different ways of expressing themselves.  Some need reassurance, some are overcome by the depth of their love, some are still trying to talk like King James.  I happen to be a grouch, and I’m sure there are plenty of people who skim over my posts.  “Oh, goody.  Bertha saw another moron at the grocery store.  There goes my Saturday.”    

      At least I warned you first.

 © Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Reflection

     Every year since I was 10, I have written a reflection on my birthday.  What I’ve learned throughout the year, what I hope to accomplish in the coming year, what I hope to improve about myself.  (To answer what you are thinking: Yes, I was a nerdy bookworm.  No, I didn’t have many friends.)  It’s a tradition I have kept up for many years, and this year is no different … except that I’m going to let you read it.

      Today is my birthday.  As I look around me, I realize the world looks no different than it did yesterday.  The leaves are changing colors, the construction guys are still patching that same stretch of road, Local Grocery still has chickens on sale.  Nothing is really any different, except for me.  I am a year older and, Lord willing, a year wiser.  This past year has been a learning experience.  After waking up one morning and realizing that I am the only one who can make me a writer, I finally took these thoughts I have been writing down and posted them on a blog.  I have built up a few loyal readers who faithfully sign in every Tuesday and Friday to see what odd take I have on the trite, the mundane, and the just plain stupid.  I have married couples, parents of autistic children, and fellow curmudgeons finding solace that they are not alone.  Funny how strangers on the Internet can feel more like a community than the people living next door to you, fighting the same weather, and paying the same taxes.  I don’t know their names, most of them, and I don’t know what they look like, but they connect with me.  They tell me their stories, encourage me in my writing, and send messages to my e-mail box that would otherwise be a haven for spammers.

      My international friends are from various parts of the world.  The United States, Russia, Netherlands, Iraq, Germany, the United Kingdom … the list goes on.  I find it interesting that someone in a country thousands of miles from my own would find the observations of a grouchy writer worthy of their time.  I have found myself thinking more and more about the people around me.  What are their stories, their takes on the trite, the mundane, the stupid?  It’s a fun mental exercise and a constant reminder that we are all connected in one way or another. 

      Throughout this year, I have solidified my belief that sometimes the best way to end a fight is with a shocking, unexpected bear hug.  It has become more real in my mind that some things are worth fighting for no matter how long it takes, while some things are best to let go.  I have learned that no one is going to take care of me but me and there’s no time like the present.  I have realized how deeply connected I am to my family, how unwaveringly loyal my friends are, and how very intensely I hate liver and leftovers.  I am becoming more sure of who I am and more sure of who I want to be.

      For this new year in my life, I will continue to carry myself as a writer.  I have been described as “Erma Bombeck having a drink with Archie Bunker and R. Lee Ermey”, and I realize what an awesome compliment that is.  I will continue to view the world through the “Bertha lenses” of my variety show brain.  I will give sincere, heartfelt compliments and encouragement to those around me and work on this seething intolerance for idiots that causes my heart to race and my teeth to itch.  I will stop worrying what other people think of me and start worrying about what mark I will leave on society.  I will take every opportunity to make someone laugh when they feel like crying and think when they are certain they have all the answers.  I will take the admiring eyes of my daughter as a challenge to do better every day of my life; the wisdom of my girlfriends as a reminder that sisterhood transcends age and genetics; and the teasing of my male friends as proof that God gave me awesomely insane brothers for preparatory reasons.

      I will no longer wish to be something I am not, but will strive for health and strength.  I will relish my curves and stop wishing for straight lines.  I will bask in the light of my friends’ accomplishments and thank them for allowing me to share in their joy.  I will give with gentle generosity and receive with humble thanksgiving.  I will think more deeply, laugh more freely, and love when it pains me.  And I will never, never give up.  

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Hippity-Hop, Your Product's a Flop

Dear Sirs of Acme Good Luck Gifts and Gags:

     Please find enclosed one of your “Hippity-Hop Lucky Rabbit’s Foot” key ring charms, listed on the tag as “Lot 351 Tahitian Purple”.  I recently purchased this item in the sincere hopes of turning around what has come to be a life of misfortune, accidents, and sincere bad luck.  You see, I was born under an unlucky moon, in an unlucky hospital ward, on an unlucky morning.  I am certain you hear that quite often considering the nature of your business, but I must assure you that my particular bad luck is unique:

     It.  Never.  Ends. 

     When my husband proposed to me, I said, “I need to get this out in the open before we go any further.  You ARE marrying a bad luck charm.  I bring a pox to every household I enter, every project I touch, every person I meet.”  He sweetly patted my arm and said, “I don’t believe in luck.”  I snorted in hysterical laughter and retorted with, “You will.”  After a particularly unlucky stretch, I happened into a gift shop and noticed your “Hippity-Hop Lucky Rabbit’s Foot” display rack.  The sign promised to “offer good fortune and protection to anyone” and “turn bad luck into good fortune”.  With my history of jinxed automobiles, mysteriously exploding appliances and illnesses whose diagnoses can be summated by a doctor scratching his head and pouring over medical books with beads of sweat running down his face, I was skeptical that any rabbit’s foot could turn that kind of luck around, but I decided to give it a try. 

     I got up this morning and was in the bathroom trying to get ready for work.  I flushed the toilet and noticed a really weird gurgling sound and the shower was barely a trickle.  I called out to my husband, The Yankee, "Be careful when you flush the toilet; we have no water."  I could hear him say, "Great".  He goes under the house to find out what's wrong with the well pump, but can't find any problems.  I got my daughter, Buttercup, up, dressed, and on the school bus while The Yankee is getting madder and madder and blaming me for everything.  "I wanted you to call the warranty company MONTHS ago but NOOOOOOOOO you forgot AGAIN."  (Like if I called the home warranty company and said, "Do you cover well pumps?", then our water wouldn't have been acting up today ... whatever.)  So I go in the house and read the fine print on the policy.  No, they don't cover wells, pumps, pressure tanks, bladders, underground or outside plumbing, or anything else that isn't a bathtub elbow pipe.  Period.  Well, this gets him even madder, "We're getting another warranty company!" he bellows.  I tried to calm him, "They all have limits on what they cover."  "NO THEY DON'T!!!" he screams.  I don't argue with children so I went back in the house to call my dad.  I tried not to be angry with The Yankee.  I told myself he's upset about yet ANOTHER thing going wrong (which brings our grand total to about 452,581,898,747,852,541,599,985,264,653,115,022 over the last 10 years.  I could kinda understand his irritation.)  So he's going on and on about, "Now we gotta hire a backhoe to come dig up the well pump."  I said, "You don't need a backhoe.  You can pull it out from the top with a winch."  Well, that got him on his "Me-The-Man-You-The-Woman-What-The-Fricken-Fracken-Mother-Father-Firetruck-Do-You-Know-About-Squat" soapbox again, so I just made my phone call. 

     The Yankee is barking at me in one ear and my dad is asking me these technical questions in the other ear like, "So when you pull the top off the shazzmafrazz and look down the glocken-morley, what color is the tape-orfen-jollynot that is attached to the wire coming from the horlen-fritzy-jay?  And if there isn't a wire coming from the horlen-fritzy-jay, then there's probably a switchboard hossen-feeler that's on the opposite wall of the schmarlen rickta-frazz, so tell me which way the hortzen is pointing." 

     I finally said, "Dad wants to talk to you." 

     Long story short, we finally got water at 12:15.  I took a shower and made myself half-way presentable and left for work.  I get on the Interstate and called my assistant to tell her when I would be there and she says, "I hope you're not taking the Interstate because a tractor-trailer accident has both lanes blocked and traffic is backed up for 12 miles."  So I get off on the very next exit and take the back roads in.  The traffic was nuts but I made it.  I stopped at the hardware store and picked up some spare parts for the well pump and when I was leaving the parking lot, the power steering stopped working on the car.  So, I get some fast food, have to work the crap out of my biceps to turn the steering wheel, and finally get to my office.  Running for the front door, I twist my ankle and my food goes flying across the parking lot, dirty little chicken nuggets bouncing down the hill in a mocking tango that fairly screamed, “Take that.”   

      So, here I am, ankle throbbing, stomach growling, and dreading having to tell The Yankee that the power steering is gone and, thanks to a free diagnosis from the mechanic next door to my office, we need a $4,000 engine block. With my fabulous luck, the house will probably be a smoldering pile of rubble by the time I get home.  I would have thrown the “Hippity-Hop Lucky Rabbit’s Foot” in the trash, but I’m afraid it might come back from beyond the beyond and twist my other ankle.  If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be hobbling my way to the break room in hopes of finding some salt to throw over my shoulder, and hope I don’t slip in it on the way back.

With fingers crossed,

Bertha

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Rom-Com Bomb

     I recently had a day off from my day job.  One of those rare, jewel-encrusted, splendiferous days that makes living seem worth while again.  I sent Buttercup off to school, shuffled The Yankee out the door to work, and surveyed my surroundings.  My house was reasonably clean, the laundry was basically done thanks to a laundry marathon over the weekend, and there were no real errands to run.  I had the day all to myself and I was so thrilled, I did a happy dance in the kitchen.  After creating a gourmet 6-cheese and pancetta macaroni and cheese for a late breakfast/early lunch, I was off to watch some of those romantic comedies I’d been saving up for a time when I was alone.  Most rom-coms take place on Planet Earth so that assures me The Yankee will never be caught dead watching one.  I’ve seen my share, but this was going to be a marathon of all the ones my girlfriends keep telling me I just have to see.  I settle down with my killer macaroni and get on with my marathon and day of relaxation. 

      Boy, oh boy, did I learn a lot about relationships.

      First of all, rom-coms are fairy tales for adults.  The characters are the envy of the audience: their problems are light, their relatives are endearingly nutty, their friends are enduringly loyal, and their “messy hair” still manages to look sexy.  Somehow, even single secretaries make enough money to afford a swanky apartment and trips to the local pub every weekend.  The “chubby” friends are a size 10 and that annoying guy who just can’t get the hint would be the envy of most average women. 

      Secondly, I learned that there are three different types of romantic movies: the ones that have a happy, albeit predictable, ending; the ones that have a surprise twist at the end but it works out anyway; and the ones that really have no ending at all.  This last category is the one I hate the most.  I came to watch a story.  A story has a beginning, a middle, and an end.  Running out of ideas does not qualify as an ending.  Forgetting to turn in the last few pages of the script does not immediately qualify it as a “cutting-edge drama”.  You were paid to write a story and you are making me do half the work by writing my own ending?  Shoddy writing, my friend, shoddy writing. 

      Thirdly, the men in these movies are not from this planet, I am sure of it.  The instant I heard a man say, “I was insensitive to your feelings.  I didn’t consider you in my reaction.  You are the most amazing woman on earth and I don’t deserve you”, I would be looking around for a hidden camera or a space pod.  I think I would just speak quietly through my teeth and a fake smile, “Ih ve are veing vatched, just vlink your eyes a hew tines.”  (Admit it.  You said that through your teeth with a pasted-on, toothy grin.) 

      The last thing I learned is that no one, and I mean no one, ever eats.  Even in restaurants they order a bottle of champagne, barely get the glass to their lips with something “unexpected” happens and they have to leave.  I realize it is difficult to allow for chewing, swallowing, and savoring when under a movie’s strict time constraints, but come on!  Real people eat.  I know that would come as a shock to most of Hollywood, given the requisite “Three C’s” diet of coconut water, cardio, and colonics, but someone really should send these directors a picture of normal people seated around a dinner table with food they cooked for themselves. 

      I finished my movie marathon, washed the 6-cheese pancetta macaroni and cheese pan and started working on a dinner devoid of champagne, coconut water, or drama.  The Yankee would be home before too long, Buttercup bouncing at his heels, and they would be looking for food.  I set out the ingredients for mushroom smothered steak and sautéed collard greens, knowing it’s a family favorite.  I look around my house, my kitchen, my decidedly non-sexy bedroom and smile.  I guess in a way my life is a rom-com.  My hair never looks sexy when I wake up, I never have enough money for trips to the pub every weekend, I am the chubby friend.  On the other hand, my relatives are endearingly nutty, my friends are enduringly loyal, and whether or not The Yankee is from planet earth is still undecided. 

      I hear the car in the driveway as I set the table and light a few candles.  My life is a romantic comedy.  And this is one ending I don’t mind writing.

 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

A Penny Saved Is Still Worth One Cent

     I was browsing the Internet one boring afternoon when I stumbled across an article entitled, “Five Ways to $ave Big Money!”  My interest was piqued, partly out of irritation at the use of the dollar sign in a flagrant attempt at being cute.  I was further irritated when I saw the article was written by someone named “Penny”.  I know the poor woman can’t help what her parents named her, but I couldn’t help but have a distinctive feeling that this entire article was staged.  After scolding myself for being pessimistic, I clicked on the article and decided I would read with an open mind and a firm resolve to do whatever the article suggested.  After all, “Penny’s” bio indicated she was a successful stock trader and author.

      Tip #1: $ave money on your water bill by showering at the gym.  My shoulders shook with an acerbic, snide chuckle as I read this first tip, but I had determined that I would follow these tips as penance for pessimism at the outset, so I got on the phone.  I called the gym with the reputation for being the largest, most state-of-the-art facility in the city: “Hi, I was wondering if you could tell me if you have showers at your facility?  You do?  Wonderful.  Also, do you have early morning, late evening, and weekend hours?  Yes?  Fantastic.  Now, do I have to call and make an appointment for a shower or do I just show up whenever I feel dirty?  No, not that kind of dirty.  What? … I assure you, madam, I am not a prank caller.  I just read an article on how to save money and … I see.  No, no you don’t need to call the police.  I was just looking at this website and … hello?  Hello?”  So much for my water bill. 

      Tip #2:  $ave money by reusing your sandwich bags.  This one sounded more optimistic than that last fiasco, so I decided to take a serious look.  I quickly estimated how many sandwich bags I use in a year.  I then figured that at least half of them were filled with greasy, messy, mayonnaise-y, peanut-buttery messes so those would have to be discarded.  Of the other half, at least half of those were split down the side by The Yankee’s firm belief that sandwiches need to be filled to the point that they cannot fit into the average human mouth in one bite.  That leaves us with one-fourth of the sandwich bags in our household that might possibly be reusable.  If I washed those sandwich bags, taking out money for soap and my water bill (which is now higher than I was hoping, thanks to the skittish receptionist at the gym), I would save approximately $2.44 per year!  Oh my gosh!  Thank you, Penny, thank you!  If I put that money in a high-yield account and promise not to touch the principle, at the end of the decade I can treat myself to a small cola at the movies.  And all because I took Penny’s insightful advice.  Oh, Penny, you are a marvel.

      Tip #3: $ave money on parking meters by having your driver circle the block while you pick up your Egyptian cotton sheets from the laundry service.  I think milk came out of my nose when I read this one.  Driver?  My experiences with “drivers” are limited to: 1) my bus driver in elementary school who blew a whistle whenever the whippersnappers was a-gettin’ too loud, 2) the guy with the gold tooth who swerved his taxi so hard, I grabbed his dreadlocks and screamed, “Here’s 20 bucks!  Pull over!  For the love of mike, PULL OVER!!”, and 3) riding with The Yankee through inner-city traffic and praying I would make it home alive.  When he looked over at me and said, “Why are you so limp with your eyes closed?”  I said, “I’m totally relaxed because I heard that’s how the drunks survive crashes.”  Seriously, does “Penny” really think the average Joe has a “driver”?!  And “laundry service”?  This woman is funnier than most of the comedians on TV!

      Tip #4:  $ave money on vacations - consider flying coach.  I’m definitely sure milk came out of my nose when I read this one.  After I looked up the word “vacation” in my dictionary to be sure I knew what that actually was, I flipped back to the letter “F” and looked up “flying” … wasn’t sure what that was either.  The last time I went on a real, honest-to-goodness vacation, my dad said good old American pay phones would always trump something as faddish and fly-by-night as a “car phone”.  Then he picked up his folded map, mockingly held it to his ear, and pretended to talk to the president.  My brother, Wolverine, who was sitting in the back window cutting his teeth on that belt thing bolted to the seat, laughed along with the rest of us.   

      Tip #5: $ave money on lunches by having your waiter put half of your dinner in a box for tomorrow’s lunch.  This time, I laughed so hard, I fell down and hit my head.  Concussion or not, I had promised myself I would follow through with each tip, so I decided that since we eat dinner out about 4 times a year, I would have to commit this tip to memory.  Sure enough, 3 months later, we were having our special night out and I remembered this valuable tip.  I asked to have half of my meal in a box for tomorrow’s lunch.  Tonya, my favorite drive-thru manager at the “Sammich Hut”, drummed her six-inch fuchsia fingernails on her wireless headset and said, “You want yo sammich cut in half, you take it home and cut it all by yo bad self.” 

      Well, Penny, I tried.

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Language of Friendship

     I have attempted to write this one piece for the last hour.  I write one, single, solitary word and Buttercup comes in the room.  “Mama, need help.”  So far, she’s asked for permission to eat the snack I personally made and handed to her, a refill on her drink, praise for her art, and help with putting her box of modeling clay back on the shelf, edges parallel.  I’ve retied a shoe, stitched a button back on a shirt, and cleaned a doll’s face to remove an offending smudge that will resign her to a garbage dump fate if not immediately and completely removed right this very second.  I wonder how on earth I’ll ever get anything written.  I wonder how well Twain, Fitzgerald, and Dickens would have fared in their masterful writing careers had they been mothers.  I wonder if Pocahontas is home. 

      Pocahontas is my best friend, but she lives a thousand miles away.  We’ve designated Alexander Graham Bell as our patron saint since our friendship has been cultivated through countless telephone conversations and commiserations.  We understand each other and have developed a sort of “language” over the years.  If I try to explain, I will probably lose your interest, so I present to you a short transcription of a typical conversation:

      (phone rings)

      Bertha: “Grizzly Residence.’

      Pocahontas: “Girl, if my kid keeps this up …”

      B: “I hear ya!  Mine’s the same today.  Buttercup!  Stop that! Are you trying to die young?”

      P: “I’m so glad somebody else is having the same … Blondie!  I don’t care if he is cute.  We do not bring reptiles in the house!  Are you getting this, Bertha?  I need a vacation in the worst kind of way.”

      B: “What part of ‘sharp knife’ is confusing?  Put it down!  I know what you mean … Maui is calling and I’ve never even been there.  I think it’s time for you to take a nap, little miss.”

      P: “I’ve never been to Maui either and if you don’t put that disgusting animal back out side, the consequences may have something to do with boarding school but I’m sure it’s a nice place with adult beverages and ocean sounds.”

      B: “Maui or boarding school?  Haha, just kidding, I know what you meant.  Do you think insurance will cover a trip for mental health?  Because I think I’m starting to repeat myself are you trying to die young?”

      P: “Boarding school.  That’s all I’m going to say is boarding school it’s a stretch but they might be willing to cover it if we explain the situation.”

      B: “Or if we just drop Blondie and Buttercup off for a few days, they’ll be paying us to come back home and take that sharp knife in your eye if you start running and trip don’t you know that?!  Put it down!”

      P: “I said take it outside, not feed it to the cat!  Boarding school, Blondie-boo, I really think we should check on the price of tickets to someplace exotic.  I don’t know, maybe Hoboken?  That’s exotic to me at this point don’t let that cat in this house!  Do they have nice hotels in Hoboken?  Or maybe a sleeping bag in a church basement.  That’s fine with me at this point shut the door Blondie!”

      B: “I don’t know how exotic the church basements are in Hoboken, but I’m willing to try Buttercup NO!”

      P: “Blondie!  Shut the door!  Hoboken it is.”

      At this point, you are either suffering a headache or laughing because you understand.  It is impossible to do anything with children.  Again, I think of Twain, Fitzgerald, and Dickens … and I start to get irritated.  How dare they wave their successes in my face!  How dare they make their mark on society while I’m still trying to find the time to scrub marks off my wallpaper.  They know nothing of the struggle to finish a conversation with a friend while saving children from destruction, let alone trying to write anything.  Show me a mother publishing a coherent sentence, and I’ll show you a multi-tasking marvel in desperate need of a vacation.

      Later that night, I called Pocahontas for a short, adult conversation before exhaustion took over.  We decided that we did, indeed, need a vacation but that a church basement in Hoboken probably wasn’t the best idea.  She agreed that Twain, Fitzgerald, and Dickens were definitely not mothers, but their contributions to the literary world were pavers for frazzled types like me.  I thanked her for her gentle chastisement and for bringing me back to reality.  We laughed, we talked about our love for our daughters, and we agreed to face tomorrow with the same determination we faced today.  We watched a little TV over the phone together (our trademark) and said goodnight.  In my exhaustion, I said something about using a protractor with the modeling clay on the shelf, and she just laughed.  What I said made no sense whatsoever, but it didn’t have to.

      We speak the same language.

Up and Down

              English is a wonderful language.  One word can have a dozen different meanings and spellings, depending on the context in which it is used, and every state, county, neighborhood, and household can have its own dialect making conversation into a serious guessing game.  Confused yet?  Let me enlighten you.

              Let’s talk about direction for a moment.  Down is down; up is up; and off is the opposite of on, right?  Wrong.  “Down”, apparently, is a place.  Not just any place either.  It’s a place where we can go to take care of any business matter under the sun.  Wanna change your name? turn yourself in? open a savings account? Down is the place to go.  You’ve heard it before: “She went “down” and had her name changed.”  “He went “down” and turned himself in.”  “She went “down” and opened a savings account.”  Evidently, “down” is quite an important part of our lives.  This takes us to “up”.  The opposite of “down” perhaps?  Hardly.  “You owe me 20 bucks so “pay up”.”  “This kitchen is a disaster so “clean up”.”  “I know you stole the “I Shot J.R.” T-shirt out of my closet so “‘fess up”.”  Other terms of considerable interest also include “on” and “off”.  Spouting zingers to an offender is “telling off” while divulging a misdeed is “telling on”.  If one is “ticked off” might one alternately be “ticked on”?

          As if direction isn’t befuddling enough, there is also the matter of time.  Nobody agrees on what to call the recent past or the near future.  If today is Thursday the 10^th, then “last Tuesday” was the 1^st.  The 8^th should be referred to as “this past Tuesday”.  “Next Tuesday will happen on the 15th.  If you can’t remember the exact day something occurred, simply refer to it as “the other day” and no one will question you.  The same theory applies to quantity as well.  Not everyone is convinced that a “couple” consists of two and a “few” consists of three.  We Southerners have our own vocabulary of quantitative words including “passel”, “mess”, and “heap”.  Amazingly, we can accurately determine exactly how many fish are in a “mess” and much trouble constitutes a “heap”.  It can become most confusing, indeed, when one starts trying to describe time in quantitative terms.  “I caught a mess of fish the other day so we’ll have y’all over for supper next Tuesday.”  Now I’m starting to confuse myself.  Moving on.

           I am increasingly appalled by our country’s lack of knowledge about the English language.  When did English become a disposable subject like Music and Drama?  When was it emphasized that the grotesque abuse of the exclamation point is appropriate?  I received an e-mail that went something like this: “Hi!  How are you?!  I’m OK!  My car broke down!!!!  I ran off the road when the engine stalled but everyone is OK!!  I found out the next day that I am getting a small raise so that will help with the repair bill!!”  Is anyone dizzy but me?  How in the world could someone rationalize the necessity for such egregious enthusiasm?  Would I not have been equally as happy for the pay raise if the exclamation point(s) were absent?

Along similar lines is the ridiculous spelling mistakes that even manage to make it into literature from Corporate America.  My best friend, Pocahontas, called me one day and laughed while she read a headline from a newsletter.  It ready, simply, “CONGRADULATIONS!”  (In case you missed it, there is supposed to be a “t”, not a “d” in this word.)  It seems that emphasis on science and mathematics has turned my generation into illiterate computer geeks.  We refuse to learn our own language then misuse antonyms and have the effrontery to invent words to communicate our thoughts.  A sign in the office of Mom’s insurance agency reads: “Premiums do on the 15^th of each month.  No acceptions.”  It has been hanging in full view of the general public for quite some time and no one seems to care.  Does anyone else find this as annoying as creeping underwear? 

Some of my favorite invented words include “irregardless”, “snuck” as the past tense of “sneak” (which has recently been added to the dictionary, but you’ll never catch me using it), and the possessive pronoun, “I’s” as in “There’s nothing but dust in David and I’s wallets”.  I’m also perplexed by the number of people who seem to think that just because a word ends in an “s” that an apostrophe is automatically mandated.  The Yankee and I were driving to church one Sunday and saw a sign on the lawn of a convenience store that said, “Pizza’s by the slice”.  Pizza’s?  What exactly do these “pizza’s” own?

Along with words frequently misspelled come words frequently mispronounced.  For the record, nuclear is pronounced “noo-clee-er” not “nook-you-ler”.  A public building full of books is a “lie-brar-ee” not “lie-berry”.  “Pamphlet”, the informational paper published on various topics, is pronounced “pam-flit” not “pam-plit”.

 

For me, English and the Americans who speak it will always be a paradoxical source of irritation and comic relief.  I know my English and writing style can be very casual, and that is fine!  I don’t begrudge anyone a few minor mistakes or even intentional grammar misuse in casual conversation.  I do, however, find it alternately amusing and embarrassing when egregious flaws are ignored on professionally published materials.

Eye wander how long this will go on B4 sum won gits up an putts a stop two it.

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Tattle-Tale

     By now, you know that I take the time to write these little stories about things that have happened in my life, weird people I see in public, experiences, lessons, so on and so forth, etc. etc. blah blah.  It’s what I do.  I’ve told stories about my husband (The Yankee), my daughter (Buttercup), my best friend (Pocahontas), my cousin (Fran), and a plethora of strangers whose names I’ve never heard.   I’ve reported the good, the bad, and the indiscriminately stupid.  I’ve reported on everything and everyone … except myself.   

      I realized the other day that I haven’t told you about some of my own “weirdnesses”, and trust me there are plenty.  So, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, here are some of the things I have caught myself doing that I would have already turned into a blog post if it were anyone else.

      I talk to inanimate objects like they can actually respond to me.  Vacuum cleaner clogged?  No worries.  A well-placed insult will do the trick.  Television not behaving?  Leave it to me.  We’ve had this talk before.  I was reading my e-mail one day and received a particularly snarky (and wholly unwarranted) response from someone named Terry.  “What?!”, I shouted at the screen.  “Are you kidding me?!?  What made you think you could talk to me like that and call yourself being helpful, huh?”  Just then, The Yankee walks in the room and said, “Who are you yelling at?”  I snarled my lip as I grumbled, “I’m not yelling.  I’m having a productive, cathartic conversation with Terry.”  Without batting an eye he said, “Oh, is that what you’ve named our computer screen now?”  He patted the screen, “Hang in there, Terry.”  Jerk. 

      My cell phone has a voice activation feature that allows me to yell a name into the speaker and have the number dialed for me.  Not a bad idea for someone like me who is always on the move AND has fat fingers that hit 2 buttons at a time.  The only problem with this marvel of modern technology is that it is more sensitive than a henpecked florist.  So, a few weeks ago, I threw my purse in the passenger seat of my car and started the engine.  That’s when I heard it: “Please say a command”.  I was slightly taken aback by this computerized voice coming from somewhere inside my car when I heard it again, “Please say a command.”  I realized in my haste to throw my purse to the other side, the force of the mild impact had triggered the voice activation mode.  I pulled the phone out and hit “cancel”.  I threw the purse to the passenger seat so I could back out of my parking space when I heard it again, “Please say a command”.  Irritated, I picked up my purse, opened the top, poked my head in, and screamed “CANCEL!  CANCEL YOU IDIOT!”  Relieved my purse had finally stopped talking to me, I looked up just in time to catch my own reflection in the store window. 

       I.  Looked.  Stupid. 

      What other woman on earth would have her head crammed in her purse, screaming at it?  No one, and that’s just it.  It’s one of my “weirdnesses” I mentioned earlier.  You might have had a conversation or two with your appliances, but I dare say you haven’t had your screaming head buried in your purse. 

     We all do ridiculous things when no one is looking.  Have you ever cranked some song you’re embarrassed to admit you like, boogied with the vacuum cleaner, and hoped upon hope no one could see in your windows?  Have you ever “walked like an Egyptian” in front of the mirror after you get out of the shower?  Have you ever picked your nose because you were too lazy to get up for a tissue?  Have you ever tried out a new accent on strangers at the gas station?  Of course you have.  And if I see you do it, I’m going to write about it. 

 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.