Last Night About Pegged My Strange-o-Meter
So I went to the Moisture Festival Grande Varietè in Seattle with Bevy last night. Ohmygoodnness!
The program started with a sci-fi silent movie that morphed into a magic show that morphed into gymnastics when the movie actors came out of the screen. Some guy -- who's got a Guinness World Record in this -- made a bologna sandwich with his feet. A diva sang in some incomprehensible language while a "translation" of the aria's lyrics was beamed to the screen above her. She had the audience rolling in the isles. A guy blew bubbles. A pair of twins did a mirror-image gymnastics routine about 20' above the stage. The Bobs covered Cream's "White Room."
I think the highlight of the night were the dancing bears. Four short people came out on stage, costumed like little bears wearing bonnets and low-cut dresses. Lots of more or less bulging cleavage. Took a closer look and realized that these people weren't short. They were bent over. Facing away from the audience. And while there was cleavage, it was definitely non-mammarial.
I won't be able to look at a refrigerator repair man in the same way again.
It's June and Marrying is in the Air
So it's the month of June. A month of long days, warm evenings, and romance. Tradition has it that here in the US of A, this is the time of year when most folks marry. I can't argue with that, being that it's the month I was married -- way back when. Oh yes, in Toronto, Canada. Close enough.
I remember well the night my beloved finally said yes to my proposal. I can still feel my heart beating wildly in my chest and hear the blood rushing in my ears. I can still see the amazed look on her face. And there was the moonlight…romantic…and glinting off the barrel of her Daddy's shotgun.
Our wedding itself was a traditional western ceremony, with a couple of ethnic twists no one saw fit to warn me about. Like our wedding cake. It was a beautiful three layers, with lovely white frosting. When it came time to cut the confection though, the frosting turned out to be as hard as rock candy. My wife is Jamaican, and it seems to me that encrusted fruitcake and a dull knife is what they offer unsuspecting bridegrooms. I ended up using that knife like a chisel.
There are all kinds of similar wedding traditions around the world. I understand that the Irish also "enjoy" fruitcake at their weddings. One big difference though, is that at least they generously lace theirs with brandy or bourbon; neither of which would ever…ever…pass the lips of my wife's conservative religious family, and either of which I would have very much appreciated at the time. Oh yes: the Irish bride and groom are often presented with a lucky horseshoe to hang in their home. We got one of those, too, even though her parents aren't Irish. Her father "tossed" it at me to catch just as we were leaving the reception. The old guy could at least have waited until I was facing him, and not walking out the door.
In Egypt, I'm told that women pinch the bride on her wedding day for good luck. Then the bride's family traditionally does all the cooking for a week after the wedding, so the newlywed couple can relax. Now there's a custom I could enjoy following. (I refer here of course to the eating, not to the pinching. Ahem.)
In parts of India as the wedding ceremony comes to an end, the groom's brother sprinkles flower petals on the bridal couple. Also, a coconut may be held over the couple's heads, as they are circled three times. These customs are thought to banish evil spirits. At our wedding -- urged on by my new Father-in-Law -- one of my wife's cousins picked up a coconut from a table decoration while for some reason giving me a hard look. I think he wanted to hold it over my head…but probably not for luck. I was about to duck behind what was left of the wedding cake, but then he got distracted.Geese, which mate for life, are often a part of the Korean wedding procession. Tradition has it that the groom would travel to the bride's house on a white pony. The pony would carry a gray goose and gander as a symbol of his fidelity. In my own marriage the symbol of my fidelity is my face and the fact that my wife can read me like a book. If ever I would stray (Note to wife: no, my darling-snooky-poo, I'm not even thinking about it, I'm just writing about something that could never, ever happen, merely as an illustration in this blog, and for no other purpose whatsoever, please please please believe me), my wife would immediately know about it. And she would shoot me, reload the weapon, and then shoot me some more.
Five Second Rule
Did this ever happen to you? It happened to me. You drop some food you’re eating to the floor, look around to see if anybody noticed. Depending on the circumstances – like, say, the floor isn’t completely dirty and it isn’t a spoonful of jello – you mumble to yourself, “five second rule,” and then pick it up and eat it.
For those of you who may be more cultured than I and may therefore not know what I’m talking about, “The Five Second Rule” states that if you drop something edible on the ground and then pick it up before five seconds are up, it’s still safe to eat. Its origins – and I’m not making this up -- date back to the Genghis Khan. Turns out his time scale was something more than our customary five seconds: it was actually more like 18-24 hours. Those Mongols must have built up some monster antibodies to be able to deal with exposure like that.
Contrary to clearly stated opinions by members of my own family as they’ve seen me and my sons eating dropped food -- there seems to be generally a question on the matter. A question important enough to be worth research grants resulting in peer reviewed papers, no less.
God Bless America and here are your tax dollars hard at work: there really is research on the matter. Using government funding and an environmental scanning electron microscope (ESEM), students at Clemson University and the University of Illinois have tested the question of once dropped, how long does it really take for an item of food to become too disgusting to pickup and eat?
The answer? “It depends”…on the kind of food and the state of the floor. Turns out that dry floors are surprisingly clean; especially in high traffic areas.
So if the food is hard like candy, and the floor “clean and dry,” you can go more than the customary five seconds. A donut, sandwich, or whole fruit: no problem. On the other hand, you drop cheese: forget it. If you drop bologna: also forget it...unless you’ve dropped it on carpet, in which case – and again, I’m not making this up -- you can go as long as a minute.
Okay...I gotta get back to work...
Did this ever happen to you? It happened to me. You drop some food you’re eating to the floor, look around to see if anybody noticed. Depending on the circumstances – like, say, the floor isn’t completely dirty and it isn’t a spoonful of jello – you mumble to yourself, “five second rule,” and then pick it up and eat it.
For those of you who may be more cultured than I and may therefore not know what I’m talking about, “The Five Second Rule” states that if you drop something edible on the ground and then pick it up before five seconds are up, it’s still safe to eat. Its origins – and I’m not making this up -- date back to the Genghis Khan. Turns out his time scale was something more than our customary five seconds: it was actually more like 18-24 hours. Those Mongols must have built up some monster antibodies to be able to deal with exposure like that.
Contrary to clearly stated opinions by members of my own family as they’ve seen me and my sons eating dropped food -- there seems to be generally a question on the matter. A question important enough to be worth research grants resulting in peer reviewed papers, no less.
God Bless America and here are your tax dollars hard at work: there really is research on the matter. Using government funding and an environmental scanning electron microscope (ESEM), students at Clemson University and the University of Illinois have tested the question of once dropped, how long does it really take for an item of food to become too disgusting to pickup and eat?
The answer? “It depends”…on the kind of food and the state of the floor. Turns out that dry floors are surprisingly clean; especially in high traffic areas.
So if the food is hard like candy, and the floor “clean and dry,” you can go more than the customary five seconds. A donut, sandwich, or whole fruit: no problem. On the other hand, you drop cheese: forget it. If you drop bologna: also forget it...unless you’ve dropped it on carpet, in which case – and again, I’m not making this up -- you can go as long as a minute.
Okay...I gotta get back to work...
Emperor Ricardo
I went to China a little while ago; first to Shanghai and then to Beijing. I was in town only a little over a week when they asked me to be Emperor. Sounded like a pretty good job, with a great benefits package. Lots of money, really fancy clothes, all the tea I could drink. Oh yeah: they said I could have many eunuchs and concubines to cater to my every whim. (I may have glossed over the concubines part when I told my wife Bevy about the job offer. )
Feeling flattered, I gave me being emperor some thought. Even tried out a few titles that my minions could call out as they bowed in awe before me (“Ricardo the First?” “Ricardo the Great?” “Ricardo the Wise?”) but none of them seemed to really fit.
Also, I don’t know much about concubines. From what I hear, a concubine is kind of like a girlfriend who does everything a wife does, except talk back. I'm pretty sure that Bevy wouldn’t go for me having even just one of those. I don’t think she’d mind the eunuchs though.
In the end I had to turn down the job. Politely, of course. They did hide their disappointment quite well, I must say. And so I did a little sightseeing instead.
I found that there's nothing subtle about Shanghai. It's a city of incredible contrasts: the most elegant beauty and grace, as well as buildings and streets once beautiful and one graceful, but no longer. People who are either incredibly friendly and welcoming, curious about where you come from...and old folks dressed in Mao jackets, frowning as they walked past apparently uninvited, unwanted visitors.
Within five minutes I saw two doting parents strolling hand-in-hand with their three year old between them, gaily chattering; and nearby a hard-eyed lady of the night, her hair dyed an improbable reddish brown and teased into a mane surrounding her globose face, looking over her shoulder with teeth exposed behind half snarling, half smiling lips.
Beijing, on the other hand, is more laid back; less in-your-face. The people there know it’s a capitol city of worldwide influence. And they have a reverence for the history embodied in its one- and two-thousand year old buildings. Not to mention a wall that is long enough to see from space. Even the traffic is less jumbled.
Walking along after work there one day, I saw two little old people, white haired, wizened skin, walking hand in hand and smiling at each other. She was no more than a bit over four feet; he was only slightly taller. They were dressed warmly against the cold. He had a little perch in his hand. On that perch, was a parakeet flitting back and forth, chirping little chirps. And that, for some reason, said “China” to me more than anything else I saw there.
I went to China a little while ago; first to Shanghai and then to Beijing. I was in town only a little over a week when they asked me to be Emperor. Sounded like a pretty good job, with a great benefits package. Lots of money, really fancy clothes, all the tea I could drink. Oh yeah: they said I could have many eunuchs and concubines to cater to my every whim. (I may have glossed over the concubines part when I told my wife Bevy about the job offer. )
Feeling flattered, I gave me being emperor some thought. Even tried out a few titles that my minions could call out as they bowed in awe before me (“Ricardo the First?” “Ricardo the Great?” “Ricardo the Wise?”) but none of them seemed to really fit.
Also, I don’t know much about concubines. From what I hear, a concubine is kind of like a girlfriend who does everything a wife does, except talk back. I'm pretty sure that Bevy wouldn’t go for me having even just one of those. I don’t think she’d mind the eunuchs though.
In the end I had to turn down the job. Politely, of course. They did hide their disappointment quite well, I must say. And so I did a little sightseeing instead.
I found that there's nothing subtle about Shanghai. It's a city of incredible contrasts: the most elegant beauty and grace, as well as buildings and streets once beautiful and one graceful, but no longer. People who are either incredibly friendly and welcoming, curious about where you come from...and old folks dressed in Mao jackets, frowning as they walked past apparently uninvited, unwanted visitors.
Within five minutes I saw two doting parents strolling hand-in-hand with their three year old between them, gaily chattering; and nearby a hard-eyed lady of the night, her hair dyed an improbable reddish brown and teased into a mane surrounding her globose face, looking over her shoulder with teeth exposed behind half snarling, half smiling lips.
Beijing, on the other hand, is more laid back; less in-your-face. The people there know it’s a capitol city of worldwide influence. And they have a reverence for the history embodied in its one- and two-thousand year old buildings. Not to mention a wall that is long enough to see from space. Even the traffic is less jumbled.
Walking along after work there one day, I saw two little old people, white haired, wizened skin, walking hand in hand and smiling at each other. She was no more than a bit over four feet; he was only slightly taller. They were dressed warmly against the cold. He had a little perch in his hand. On that perch, was a parakeet flitting back and forth, chirping little chirps. And that, for some reason, said “China” to me more than anything else I saw there.
A History of Gift Giving
I’m told that the custom of giving gifts at year’s end (or year’s beginning, depending if you’re an optimist or a pessimist) started way back with a King named Titus Tatius. About 2,800 years ago he ruled the Sabines, reigning with Rome’s co-founder Romulus. He started the custom by offering to his Queen some branches. Told her that they were special branches because they’d been cut from a patch of trees dedicated to the one and only Goddess Strenia. He was so smooth, Titius even named the armful of Wood “strenae” to make them seem even more special.
Once they heard about this, hopeful men all over the kingdom told each other, “quis est bonus pro Titius…” which loosely translated meant that they’d try the same thing on their wives and/or girlfriends. Whole forests were denuded. Strenea abounded. For about a week.
Then those men found out that their significant others were about as unimpressed with the sticks as had been the Queen. History relates that the Queen’s retort to Tatius went along the lines of “Quis abyssus erant vos reputo?” (loose translation: “Darling husband: what do you mean by this?”) implying that in future there would have to be shiny pieces of metal given along with any subsequent gifts of sticks. Or said sticks would be flailed.
And so Titius, adaptable King that he was, quickly changed the custom. He included in his next special bunch of branches a small silver coin. “Pro amor quod pro fortuna,” as he put it. Continuing the custom to this very day, each year we too often give our significant others shiny rocks and/or pieces of fashioned shiny metal as gifts.
This is really how it all got started. I’m not making it up!
Okay...I've got to get back to work.
I’m told that the custom of giving gifts at year’s end (or year’s beginning, depending if you’re an optimist or a pessimist) started way back with a King named Titus Tatius. About 2,800 years ago he ruled the Sabines, reigning with Rome’s co-founder Romulus. He started the custom by offering to his Queen some branches. Told her that they were special branches because they’d been cut from a patch of trees dedicated to the one and only Goddess Strenia. He was so smooth, Titius even named the armful of Wood “strenae” to make them seem even more special.
Once they heard about this, hopeful men all over the kingdom told each other, “quis est bonus pro Titius…” which loosely translated meant that they’d try the same thing on their wives and/or girlfriends. Whole forests were denuded. Strenea abounded. For about a week.
Then those men found out that their significant others were about as unimpressed with the sticks as had been the Queen. History relates that the Queen’s retort to Tatius went along the lines of “Quis abyssus erant vos reputo?” (loose translation: “Darling husband: what do you mean by this?”) implying that in future there would have to be shiny pieces of metal given along with any subsequent gifts of sticks. Or said sticks would be flailed.
And so Titius, adaptable King that he was, quickly changed the custom. He included in his next special bunch of branches a small silver coin. “Pro amor quod pro fortuna,” as he put it. Continuing the custom to this very day, each year we too often give our significant others shiny rocks and/or pieces of fashioned shiny metal as gifts.
This is really how it all got started. I’m not making it up!
Okay...I've got to get back to work.
It's Valentine's, I'm in Trouble, and I Don't Know Why
I was thinking about February the other day. Things were slow, I was off work, and my wife wasn’t speaking to me. So I was thinking about February. February trivia. February holidays. Like Valentine’s day. Just random, disconnected, lonely thoughts.
Did you know…that although February normally has 28 days (and 29 days every four years) that it has also been a 30-day month on several calendars? True story. It was a long time ago, when countries were moving from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar; but 30 days nonetheless. And back then, they didn’t have a Valentine’s day for a guy to forget.
Did you know…that Mary, Queen of Scots was beheaded in a February? During 1587, actually. After she’d been in jail for 19 years for being part of a plot to overthrow her cousin, Queen Elizabeth. And also because – according to historical sources – that Mary forgot to get flowers for Elizabeth that year.
Did you know…that Saint Valentine’s day – the most romantic holiday of the year here in the US -- is celebrated on the 14th of February? And that it commemorates a Catholic priest who was clubbed to death on that date in 269? (Which is something that wives/girlfriends/significant others are occasionally known to do to their husbands/boyfriends/no-longer-significant others who forgot to get them flowers on that day.)
Did you know…according to research done by the Society of American Florists, that while 61% of men would like to receive flowers on Valentine’s day, only 40% of them ever have? And that none of the disappointed 21% ever got into a hissy fit because their wives forgot to get them something on that day. Not even one of them forgotten fellas.
I’m not drawing any conclusions here…I’m just saying…I mean: I’ve never gotten flowers on Valentine’s day. Have I been hurt? Have I sulked? Have I thrown things, scaring the cats so that it jumped up on the armoire and knocked down the rare dishes, which made it run and hide behind the sofa, accidentally tearing down a window shade while I was in an open bathrobe with my hair in curlers...making the dog across the street bark frantically, so that his owner to ran out and see what was causing all the commotion?
No! I’ve never done that. Not once.
Harumphhhh...
I was thinking about February the other day. Things were slow, I was off work, and my wife wasn’t speaking to me. So I was thinking about February. February trivia. February holidays. Like Valentine’s day. Just random, disconnected, lonely thoughts.
Did you know…that although February normally has 28 days (and 29 days every four years) that it has also been a 30-day month on several calendars? True story. It was a long time ago, when countries were moving from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar; but 30 days nonetheless. And back then, they didn’t have a Valentine’s day for a guy to forget.
Did you know…that Mary, Queen of Scots was beheaded in a February? During 1587, actually. After she’d been in jail for 19 years for being part of a plot to overthrow her cousin, Queen Elizabeth. And also because – according to historical sources – that Mary forgot to get flowers for Elizabeth that year.
Did you know…that Saint Valentine’s day – the most romantic holiday of the year here in the US -- is celebrated on the 14th of February? And that it commemorates a Catholic priest who was clubbed to death on that date in 269? (Which is something that wives/girlfriends/significant others are occasionally known to do to their husbands/boyfriends/no-longer-significant others who forgot to get them flowers on that day.)
Did you know…according to research done by the Society of American Florists, that while 61% of men would like to receive flowers on Valentine’s day, only 40% of them ever have? And that none of the disappointed 21% ever got into a hissy fit because their wives forgot to get them something on that day. Not even one of them forgotten fellas.
I’m not drawing any conclusions here…I’m just saying…I mean: I’ve never gotten flowers on Valentine’s day. Have I been hurt? Have I sulked? Have I thrown things, scaring the cats so that it jumped up on the armoire and knocked down the rare dishes, which made it run and hide behind the sofa, accidentally tearing down a window shade while I was in an open bathrobe with my hair in curlers...making the dog across the street bark frantically, so that his owner to ran out and see what was causing all the commotion?
No! I’ve never done that. Not once.
Harumphhhh...
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