Spring Ahead
Hello World,
Bill was just remarking the other day that no one ever says "the Ides of March" any more, making this just one more in a long series of expressions that have lost all relevance with people nowadays. (Just go ahead and try "that's the way the cookie crumbles" on some young whipper-snapper and see where that gets you!) But for those of us "of a certain age," I can report that we have indeed passed the legendary Ides of March already, and well on our way to the first day of Spring, and after that, it's anybody's guess. The calendar may say March (although Bill is convinced that he forgot to wind his, which is why it seems to be still stuck in December) but around here, there are still piles of snow in shady areas, and the ground is rock hard. Sunday may get all dolled up and come prancing in as the first day of Spring, but as long as my bird bath is still frozen solid, I'm just not buying it.
Everyone knows that if our anniversary was last week, could my birthday be far behind? If you answered "Absolutely not!" you're right on the money. There's hardly time enough to catch your breath in between our anniversary and my birthday, so it's been some busy times around here lately. The best part about my birthday was having that Friday off from work (HOORAY!!!) although you know what I always say about those short weeks. (For the record, it's nothing good, and requires the use of words that you can't print in a family newspaper.) It also included presents, and dining out, which are about my two favorite things that can happen in any one day. I found myself with even more clothes, more music CDs, more books and more hand-made earrings. You may be wondering if one person could stand any more excitement, or whether they'd just have to go into seclusion. Au contraire! (That's French for "Let me at that cake!") The birthday caravan continued apace, and the very next day, we went to Mom's for more presents and dining out. It was another beautiful day, and a jolly time was had by all, and I have the pictures to prove it.
As long as I was off from work on my birthday (and Daffy Duck was obviously otherwise engaged, so he didn't show up and shout, "Shoot me now! Shoot me now!") I decided to take the train into the city and run a couple of errands. I figured in the middle of the day, this would be a cinch. I thought I gave myself plenty of time to get to the train station and still buy a ticket, but I wasn't counting on long lines at the ticket window when I got there. I decided instead to use the ticket machine on the platform to save time, although I already knew what was going to happen. I told the machine that I wanted a round-trip off-peak ticket plus a $4 MetroCard, for a total of about $15, and gave it a $20 bill. I was already resigned to the idea that it was going to spit a bunch of those screwy Sacajawea dollars at me, but it surprised me this time. What it spit at me instead was two Sacajawea dollars, two Susan B. Anthony dollars, and two of the new State quarters. Talk about Monopoly money, this was really hitting the jackpot in spurious coinage!
When I got to Grand Central, I was disappointed to see that the MTA Transit Museum was still having their Fashion Underground exhibit, so there was nothing to see there. But since I wasn't rushing around like I was when I was in the city on Jury Duty, and I had time to look around and see what was there, I noticed signs for a place downtown called CityStore that seemed to be right up my alley in the way of souvenirs. It was near where I was going, so I stopped in along the way, and was glad I did. Although small, the store had a nice variety of New York-themed souvenirs, from books to T-shirts, key chains to wind-up toys, and lots of other fun, different, interesting or just plain peculiar things. They did have a set of souvenir salt-&-pepper shakers, although they were ones that I already have, but I was surprised that they had no collectible spoons. But I was glad that I went, and picked up some souvenirs anyway, and it certainly beat the pants (or rather, the togas) off the Fashion Underground mannequins at the Transit Museum.
I had one inadvertently funny moment when my hunger got the better of me, and I stopped at a push-cart for a snack. The man ahead of me was having a hot dog with everything on it, and there was a wide-ranging discussion in progress about the merits of various toppings compared to others. I was just waiting patiently until this whole exchange was completed, and I suppose my mind had wandered, as it so often does, when the proprietor of the cart asked me what I wanted. I said, "Pretzel, please" although probably not very vigorously, as I was still following the tail-end of the sauerkraut debate, since the hot dog customer had moved over but had not left. I don't know exactly what I was expecting to happen next, so when the vendor reached inside of his cart, I didn't find it in the slightest way unusual. That is, until he pulled out a can of cold soda and handed it to me, saying "one dollar," and which was the first I realized, along with Cool Hand Luke, that "what we have HE-ah is a FAIL-yuh to co-MYOON-icate!" I'm sure he understood pretty quickly that I didn't want a cold soda, while I was shivering in a 35-degree drizzle, by the way I was eying the can in a hostile manner, and my mouth was opening and closing but no words were coming out. It took me a while to realize that he must have thought I had said, "Pepsi" rather than "pretzel," because that's what he handed me. I apologized through my chattering teeth, and asked him for a hot pretzel instead of a cold soda, and he was quick to oblige. When he asked me for $1.25, I didn't even give him any of my Monopoly money from the ticket machine.
Speaking of things that are inadvertently funny, one of the wonderful new gifts that I received for my birthday was a nice jacket with a hood, since the jacket that I had been wearing had become literally nothing but strips of tattered cloth held together with safety pins. This was not only extremely unsightly, but trying to get through any of the myriad security devices encountered in every day life now was becoming more and more of a trial. So I got a beautiful new jacket for my birthday, and couldn't toss out that old ratty thing fast enough. I love the jacket, but I admit that I was not expecting to find this on the label of care instructions --
====================
DO NOT MACHINE WASH
DO NOT MACHINE DRY
DO NOT IRON
DO NOT DRY CLEAN
====================
I said to Bill, "It's a disposable jacket! You wear it, and when it gets dirty, you throw it out!" I mean, usually they tell you that you can wash something, or that you have to have it dry cleaned instead, but they don't usually tell you that you can't do either. I've never seen anything like that before, and I don't mind saying that it gave me pause. For someone that wears out clothing until it's being held together by safety pins, having a jacket that can't be washed is going to present some unique challenges, I can tell you that.
Since there's been too much snow to cut firewood lately, I've been giving my attention instead to clearing out the ivy patch along the rock wall. I've been chopping down over-grown weedy bushes, virulent clumps of wild roses, and dense tangles of rampant porcelain berry vines that had literally climbed all the way up to our electric wires, and without a pole or anything. It's slow going, but I can see some incremental progress. What with all the chopping and dragging, my shoulders and back have really taken the brunt of it, and they let me know it in no uncertain terms. Last week, my lower back was so sore, I couldn't reach my feet to put on my slippers. Fortunately, I've been taking mega-doses of therapeutic junk food, which may not help the pain, but certainly takes my mind off things. I can highly recommend it, and that's not just Daffy Duck talking, mind you.
Bill was just remarking the other day that no one ever says "the Ides of March" any more, making this just one more in a long series of expressions that have lost all relevance with people nowadays. (Just go ahead and try "that's the way the cookie crumbles" on some young whipper-snapper and see where that gets you!) But for those of us "of a certain age," I can report that we have indeed passed the legendary Ides of March already, and well on our way to the first day of Spring, and after that, it's anybody's guess. The calendar may say March (although Bill is convinced that he forgot to wind his, which is why it seems to be still stuck in December) but around here, there are still piles of snow in shady areas, and the ground is rock hard. Sunday may get all dolled up and come prancing in as the first day of Spring, but as long as my bird bath is still frozen solid, I'm just not buying it.
Everyone knows that if our anniversary was last week, could my birthday be far behind? If you answered "Absolutely not!" you're right on the money. There's hardly time enough to catch your breath in between our anniversary and my birthday, so it's been some busy times around here lately. The best part about my birthday was having that Friday off from work (HOORAY!!!) although you know what I always say about those short weeks. (For the record, it's nothing good, and requires the use of words that you can't print in a family newspaper.) It also included presents, and dining out, which are about my two favorite things that can happen in any one day. I found myself with even more clothes, more music CDs, more books and more hand-made earrings. You may be wondering if one person could stand any more excitement, or whether they'd just have to go into seclusion. Au contraire! (That's French for "Let me at that cake!") The birthday caravan continued apace, and the very next day, we went to Mom's for more presents and dining out. It was another beautiful day, and a jolly time was had by all, and I have the pictures to prove it.
As long as I was off from work on my birthday (and Daffy Duck was obviously otherwise engaged, so he didn't show up and shout, "Shoot me now! Shoot me now!") I decided to take the train into the city and run a couple of errands. I figured in the middle of the day, this would be a cinch. I thought I gave myself plenty of time to get to the train station and still buy a ticket, but I wasn't counting on long lines at the ticket window when I got there. I decided instead to use the ticket machine on the platform to save time, although I already knew what was going to happen. I told the machine that I wanted a round-trip off-peak ticket plus a $4 MetroCard, for a total of about $15, and gave it a $20 bill. I was already resigned to the idea that it was going to spit a bunch of those screwy Sacajawea dollars at me, but it surprised me this time. What it spit at me instead was two Sacajawea dollars, two Susan B. Anthony dollars, and two of the new State quarters. Talk about Monopoly money, this was really hitting the jackpot in spurious coinage!
When I got to Grand Central, I was disappointed to see that the MTA Transit Museum was still having their Fashion Underground exhibit, so there was nothing to see there. But since I wasn't rushing around like I was when I was in the city on Jury Duty, and I had time to look around and see what was there, I noticed signs for a place downtown called CityStore that seemed to be right up my alley in the way of souvenirs. It was near where I was going, so I stopped in along the way, and was glad I did. Although small, the store had a nice variety of New York-themed souvenirs, from books to T-shirts, key chains to wind-up toys, and lots of other fun, different, interesting or just plain peculiar things. They did have a set of souvenir salt-&-pepper shakers, although they were ones that I already have, but I was surprised that they had no collectible spoons. But I was glad that I went, and picked up some souvenirs anyway, and it certainly beat the pants (or rather, the togas) off the Fashion Underground mannequins at the Transit Museum.
I had one inadvertently funny moment when my hunger got the better of me, and I stopped at a push-cart for a snack. The man ahead of me was having a hot dog with everything on it, and there was a wide-ranging discussion in progress about the merits of various toppings compared to others. I was just waiting patiently until this whole exchange was completed, and I suppose my mind had wandered, as it so often does, when the proprietor of the cart asked me what I wanted. I said, "Pretzel, please" although probably not very vigorously, as I was still following the tail-end of the sauerkraut debate, since the hot dog customer had moved over but had not left. I don't know exactly what I was expecting to happen next, so when the vendor reached inside of his cart, I didn't find it in the slightest way unusual. That is, until he pulled out a can of cold soda and handed it to me, saying "one dollar," and which was the first I realized, along with Cool Hand Luke, that "what we have HE-ah is a FAIL-yuh to co-MYOON-icate!" I'm sure he understood pretty quickly that I didn't want a cold soda, while I was shivering in a 35-degree drizzle, by the way I was eying the can in a hostile manner, and my mouth was opening and closing but no words were coming out. It took me a while to realize that he must have thought I had said, "Pepsi" rather than "pretzel," because that's what he handed me. I apologized through my chattering teeth, and asked him for a hot pretzel instead of a cold soda, and he was quick to oblige. When he asked me for $1.25, I didn't even give him any of my Monopoly money from the ticket machine.
Speaking of things that are inadvertently funny, one of the wonderful new gifts that I received for my birthday was a nice jacket with a hood, since the jacket that I had been wearing had become literally nothing but strips of tattered cloth held together with safety pins. This was not only extremely unsightly, but trying to get through any of the myriad security devices encountered in every day life now was becoming more and more of a trial. So I got a beautiful new jacket for my birthday, and couldn't toss out that old ratty thing fast enough. I love the jacket, but I admit that I was not expecting to find this on the label of care instructions --
====================
DO NOT MACHINE WASH
DO NOT MACHINE DRY
DO NOT IRON
DO NOT DRY CLEAN
====================
I said to Bill, "It's a disposable jacket! You wear it, and when it gets dirty, you throw it out!" I mean, usually they tell you that you can wash something, or that you have to have it dry cleaned instead, but they don't usually tell you that you can't do either. I've never seen anything like that before, and I don't mind saying that it gave me pause. For someone that wears out clothing until it's being held together by safety pins, having a jacket that can't be washed is going to present some unique challenges, I can tell you that.
Since there's been too much snow to cut firewood lately, I've been giving my attention instead to clearing out the ivy patch along the rock wall. I've been chopping down over-grown weedy bushes, virulent clumps of wild roses, and dense tangles of rampant porcelain berry vines that had literally climbed all the way up to our electric wires, and without a pole or anything. It's slow going, but I can see some incremental progress. What with all the chopping and dragging, my shoulders and back have really taken the brunt of it, and they let me know it in no uncertain terms. Last week, my lower back was so sore, I couldn't reach my feet to put on my slippers. Fortunately, I've been taking mega-doses of therapeutic junk food, which may not help the pain, but certainly takes my mind off things. I can highly recommend it, and that's not just Daffy Duck talking, mind you.
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 7:37 PM
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