Man vs Woman

What is it about a man that makes him so contrary? Men and women are like the Ying and Yang – yup and nope – single-celled organism and multi cellular organism – toilet seat up and toilet seat down in life. It’s a miracle a man and woman are even able to coexist under the same roof.

The woman is the decorator – the nest builder. She wants the abode to be a queen’s castle – the envy of Better Homes and Gardens – a stage for Martha Stewart. All the man wants is a place to sit his butt down, and a shelf for his 659 caps.

Our new bathroom is color coordinated with chocolate brown and mocha with a hint of gold. The wastebasket, lotion pump, and tissue holder all match the shower curtain. The soft rug is placed where one steps after enjoying a nice hot shower. The oversized brown towels are soft and fluffy, eager to engulf one in luxury.

The husband has destroyed all this beauty. He has replaced his luxurious brown towels with thread-bare green ones that are 25 years old and have been in the travel trailer for the last 8. “Don’t you like the new brown towels?” “No, they’re too soft.” Say…wha..? Too soft? This makes no sense. And the soft toe-tingling rug has been replaced with a blue scratchy towel circa 1993. Martha has just called for reinforcements.

Husband had to buy a new medicine cabinet – “Need more storage room.” He spent the better part of the afternoon measuring, tapping, drilling, leveling, and securing this HUMONGOUS gun-medal grey box in our new bathroom.

The pictures tell the story better than I.

Man’s Side of the Sink Medicine Cabinet Woman’s Side of the Sink

There are two solutions to this dilemma. Designate one bathroom as a “his” bathroom – preferably in the basement where the Better Homes and Gardens’ camera crew have no chance of finding - or just throw the damn green and blue towels away.

IT'S TIME TO RETIRE WHEN...

The principal doesn’t know your room number…or your phone number.

You haven’t been evaluated for 2 years.

You haven’t gotten a pay increase in 3 years.

They paint your room mustard yellow.

The average classroom temperature is either 84 or 67 degrees.

The air conditioner stops running…in August…in Phoenix.

The students chase the cockroaches around the room…or is it the cockroaches chase the students around the room.

The cockroach takes up permenant residence in the teachers’ bathroom.

They lock the closest bathroom because of the water main leak on the street.

The sidewalk from your building to the cafeteria is gone and you have to walk across a plank.

Your class discussion is interrupted because of the car crashes at the intersection outside your room.

There are more mothers in your classroom than at the maternity ward.

A student’s mom has placed a restraining order on another student, so they can’t be in the classroom at the same time.

At my age, I could be my students’ great-great-grandmother.

Your students have nicer cell phones than you do.

UPS delivers a ticking box to the front office and the entire school is evacuated.

Administration wants all the teachers to park in the same parking lot instead of the lot that is closest to my room. This is a half-mile walk.

The gates are locked during a fire drill.

Our new schedule gives the CTE teachers less time in the classroom and more time to sub in other teachers’ classrooms.

The dean of students is booked for financial exploitation of her elderly neighbor.

An English teacher goes on “administrative leave” for drawing penises on the board.

And the number 1 reason you know it’s time to retire is when…

Your colleagues in your department have had

Rotator cup surgery

A neurological disorder

A pacemaker

Breast cancer

Brain surgery

The Washing Machine

We are all pretty set in our ways when it comes to washing clothes. Some wash whites first, then darks. Some add bleach and softener at various times during a cycle. Yes, we all have our little quirks when it comes to laundry day.

You don’t? Well, I may have a little more OCD in me than most of you. I like to put the detergent and Oxi Clean in first, then the clothes, then as the machine is filling I feel the water to ensure the proper temperature and make sure there aren’t too many clothes in the machine for the amount of water. That way I can use my own judgment and make any changes before the machine does its miracle of washing my soiled duds.

We bought a new washing machine and dryer recently, and I thought we had made the biggest mistake of our lives. You know how it is when you bring something new home – excitement, anticipation, the new smell – I experienced all of the above, until I started the maiden wash.

First of all, husband and I admired the brand new cleaning machine after it was installed. So, we decided to initiate it with a load of whites – basically because we were all out of underwear. We poured in the detergent, loaded the clothes, and lowered the lid. We placed the dials in the correct mode – cool wash, large load, medium agitation – then we pushed the button and stared at this new marvel – and waited.

This new washing machine certainly had its own way of communicating. First it went through a series of clicking and humming sounds. Back and forth – click, click, humm, humm, click, click, click, hummm. What I was really anticipating was a water sound – as in filling up the tub with water. Nope. We stared at the thing for a good 4 – 5 minutes while it clicked and hummed. Then we heard it starting to fill. Thank God. I had phone in hand to have someone come and pick this washing disaster up.

I started to open the lid to check the water temperature and level, but I’ll be damned – the stupid lid was locked – hence the clicking sound. A locking lid – go figure. Probably because somewhere a toddler climbed up and drowned by opening the lid of an agitating washing machine (where’s the mother???) and a pro-bono lawyer won a million dollar settlement, took his $250,000, and so now every manufacturer has to build locking washing machines so they can charge more for the “new and improved” appliances. But I digress. Now I have no idea if there is enough water or if it is the right temperature.

Then we felt steam coming out of the seams of the lid – steam means hot water, and I selected “cool.” I turned the dial to hot, and the steam stopped. Hmmm, cold must mean hot and hot must mean cold. Another feature not mentioned in the instruction booklet.

After clicking and humming for 5 minutes, it started the wash cycle. The only way to describe this noise is to imagine a goose trying to give birth to several eggs at one time. This poor goose moaned and groaned for a good 30 minutes. I closed the door, I went into the kitchen, I went outside - I could still hear the goose struggling. I prayed the neighbors didn’t come over.

I went back to the store to complain and get a new washer, but after reading the mixed reviews online, all the new washing machines have these locking lids and adjusting tubs. I guess I’ll just have to live with the goose who is locked in jail. On the flip side, the spin cycle is the quietest I’ve ever not heard.

Rude Bike

Husband and I purchased a stationary bike for Christmas. Now, isn’t that romantic? A Christmas present that is right up there with a two-bag vacuum cleaner or abs flattener. Personally, I like to walk because the butt bones don’t get bruised; however, we must work our heart in a variety of ways. Since husband is the more fit of the family, he of course assembled the bike and started riding right away.

As a side note, the assembly process was interesting because there were no written directions on how to put the bike together – only diagrams and drawings. I think that’s a statement on the current state of education in our country. Kids don’t know how to read, so the only way they are going to survive in this world is to look at pictures.

Yesterday, husband asked me if I had been on the bike yet. When I answered “no,” he gave me that look that said, “I knew it, you’ll never ride it.” To prove him wrong, today was my inaugural ride on our new exercise vehicle, fresh still with the new bike smell. I adjusted the seat and sat upon the fine vinyl. The bike immediately knew there was a new user on its throne, probably because my butt is a lot larger than husband’s skinny ass. I couldn’t just press “Start,” no, it started asking all these personal questions:

Name
Age
Weight
Target Weight
Height
Blood Type
Mother’s Maiden Name
Last time I had an enema

After about 5 minutes of this crap, I unplugged the nosey bitch and held down the “reset” button. I finally fooled it and started my ride. After all, I am human, I can out wit a hunk of metal.

I had a nice journey, imagining myself by the river and through the woods, pedaling to the beat of Billy Joel. Thirty minutes and 7 miles later, I had only burned 150 calories. That’s only half a glass of chocolate milk. Damn. When I dismounted, I walked like I had just given birth, and my legs weren’t even sore. At least when I walk the treadmill I work up a little sweat.

Guess I’ll have to answer all those rude questions to make sure I get my money’s worth out of this digital ride.

It's Christmas Time in the City

I love shopping at Christmas time – the lights, the trees, the ornaments, the shoppers - all are decked out for the season. If you like to people watch, the mall at Christmas time is the perfect venue. All sizes, shapes, ages, and types have emerged from their caves and congregated at the mall. It’s like a Star Trek reunion. Let me give you some examples.

There are the middle-aged women who wear their excitement of the season. They are wearing the red sweatshirt (it’s 80 degrees outside) with a huge Christmas tree on the front that is adorned with lights that blink on and off, gold bells around their necks and ornaments dangling from their ears, and a Santa hat. I look around for the reindeer.

Then there’s the woman pushing her baby in the stroller. She has painted Capri pants on her hips down to her calves, strutting along in 3-inch heels, a scooped-neck tank top that pushes her peaches up to her neck, and chains of silver beads hanging around her bare skin, off her ears, and down her arms. Is she really on her way to Toys-R-Us?

The following woman takes the trophy, however. She had tattoos up and down her arms and legs – even a dagger or something on the small of her back. I could see the one on her back because she was wearing a white corset, which was 2 sizes too small. Tattooed across her chest was “God Bless Me.” Her skirt was a pink layered chiffon ballet skirt – even if it is December in the desert, I think the fashion police would arrest her for that one. For shoes she wore tan mukluks furry boots. I can’t make this up, folks. If I had been a little bolder, I would have taken a picture with my camera phone.

Women do not have a monopoly on weird. Enter a man in a muscle shirt, showing off his kaleidoscope of tattoos all over his body. The colors are actually quite lovely – for a bedspread, and the nose ring makes me wonder what he does when he has a cold.

Scottsdale is a city that breeds a different style of man. Three of them were in the Tommy Bahama store goggle-eyed over the stripe button-down collared slightly wrinkled shirts. You’ve seen them, the preppy types. Brown leather tasseled beach loafers with no socks, white Dockers ironed so the crease shows, pink golf shirt with a green palm tree and the words “Scottsdale Country Club” embroidered on the sleeve, and short hair that has been faux sun bleached spiked up with hair glue. “Let’s go get that appletini now, boys.”

Then there is the guy in plaid shorts and a blue T-shirt that says, “Spaced Out” with a picture of a Smurf. He also has Mohawk hair. Wait a minute…that’s my son…

And that’s Christmas time in the city…Merry Christmas, Trekkies, and to all a good night.

Hobie's on the Horizon

A birthday is looming on the horizon. The number 62 lingers with the sun, taunting me with age spots and freeway lines on my face. Even though I am in the twilight of my life, I’m not going to fade away with the dust. Recently I went to San Diego to visit a friend at their cozy condo on Mission Bay. They just bought two Hobie’s, a cross between a kayak and a paddle boat. Richard gave me the Reader’s Digest version of how to raise and lower the rudder, how to ensure the paddles don’t get lodged in the sand, and how to operate the steering mechanism (turn it to the right, and the boat goes to the right; turn it to the left, and the boat goes to the left). Sounds pretty simple for a senior citizen. Mary Anne and I ventured out into the bay, cruising along, passing the sailboats and paddle boards, sharing the sunshine. We followed a harbor seal into an inlet and discovered he was on his way to greet his young family, jumping and diving, playing tag with each other. There was a point where we were a little fearful one of the seals would not see us and tip our Hobies over. It was a great show, and to think we were in their backyard enjoying the water as much as they were. Then we were off, heading under a bridge and steered our vessels along the shoreline of Sea World. Let's go a little further. We watched the buff surfer types play with their dogs on the beach, the rented fishing boats, and the dads giving their daughters lessons on how to drive wave runners. It was an hour and a half since we left the condo and were about four miles away from home. I realized my bloated bladder would not make it back to the cozy condo. I searched the horizon for a blue structure, otherwise known as a J John, but alas, alack, did not spy one. There was only one thing to do - crawl out of the boat and into the water to warm up the San Diego Bay. Once that little deed was done, we decided we had better head for home. We quickly discovered why we had been cruising along so leisurely - the wind was at our backs. As we headed home, the wind all of a sudden seemed to be gale force. I looked to my right at the horizon, and it appeared that we were sitting still. I paddled harder, faster. Under the bridge. Past the resort. Just beyond the sailboats. My legs were getting tired, and my tailbone screamed its presence. I hugged a buoy for a few minutes just to give my knees a rest, then continued on, cursing the young ones racing in their kayaks. Finally, we spied the shoreline in front of the condo and fell out of the little boat two and a half hours later. Total time on cruise - 4 hours. The sixties will be a great ride with many more Hobie's on the horizon for this old fart.

I'm trying to blog my way to the AARP Orlando@50 conference. This blog post is an entry in their competition to find the official blogger to travel to and cover the event.

ON DIETING

The first step is to admit that you have a problem - so, I confess. I love to eat. I love all kinds of food, chocolate, and drink, so I have declared myself a food-oholic - but not yet an alcoholic. I have also dubbed myself the queen of yo-yo dieting. I have lost and gained the same 30 pounds for the last 40 years - each decade depositing an extra 10 pounds that never seem to go away. My niece says that I like to “eat, drink, and be merry.” Damn straight!!

My dieting schemes are a variety of what really works, the latest fad, and the down-right dangerous.

Weight Watchers is one that really works. I started WW in the dark ages when I had to make my own ketchup and eat liver once a week. My family has never forgiven me for that, and may have been one of the reasons my daughter declared herself a vegetarian. Another drawback of WW is husband - who has weighed the same 145 pounds for the past 50 years (jerk) and who loses more weight than I do when I am dieting (asshole).

I’m sure if I turned vegetarian I could lose the pounds and keep them off. Remember, however, I am a food-oholic. I really love to sink my teeth into a nice-juicy medium rare steak. I live for good Mexican food - carne arsada and shredded cheese - olé. And there’s nothing like a freshly roasted turkey with giblet gravy. Besides, soy gives me the farts - which can be pretty embarrassing when walking between desks leaning over to help students.

Then there are the fad diets. I’ve tried the protein shakes, the Atkins, and the low fat.

To show my dedication, I sold Slender Now - a popular protein shake regimen in the 70‘s. I have discovered, however, that I need to experience the chewing process - the crunchier and saltier the better, actually.

Loved the Atkins - I got to eat all the bacon and eggs I wanted, not to mention cheese and beef. Can’t understand why the weight loss was not that great...

Then there was the low fat diet. My daily intake went something like this:

Breakfast: High fiber cereal made with little squares of cardboard, tree twigs, and wheat stalks and 1/4 cup skim milk (water with white food coloring).

Snack: A very small apple.

Lunch: 1/4 cup tuna packed in water on top of a whole bunch of lettuce, no dressing, and as many carrots and celery that can fit in the bowl.

Snack: 1/2 of a banana

Dinner: A grilled piece of skinless, boneless, tasteless chicken that fits in the palm of a four-year old’s hand. 1/2 cup green beans.

Starvation set in and that is what added the extra 10 pounds to my thighs.

When I reached the all-time high for my bone frame and height (a size 8 screaming to escape my size 14 body), my doctor prescribed Fen-Phen pills. These were amazing. They really curbed my appetite, I ate less without chomping on carrots all day, and I actually did lose 30 pounds. Too bad people had to die.

So husband says to me, “Why don’t you just eat less and exercise more.” What? These words came out of the mouth of a man who can eat and drink anything he wants and doesn’t gain an ounce? I almost slapped him up side the head with my turkey drumstick. And so the yo-yo rolls on - I’m unwinding on the low carbohydrate diet - until Christmas.