They May Have Lost the War...

I survived Hurricane Sandy with no property damage and a power outage that lasted a little over a day.  The worst that happened to me was that I had to throw out a container of Friendly’s vanilla ice cream. I have much to be thankful for.

God Bless all those wonderful electrical workers who put their own lives on hold while they came up here from states like Georgia, South Carolina and Alabama and worked tirelessly to give us all back the gift of power and light.

But then I got to thinking.  Doesn't it worry anyone that so many southerners were so quick to help us out?  I’m thinking that maybe all of those guys from the south got together, formed a plan and then rushed up here and rigged something throughout the state so that one day in the not too distant future, we’ll all hear a big CLICK and the entire state will be thrust back into darkness. 

And then fireworks will illuminate the night sky with a message that says “Lights Out, Yankee.”

Number Please

As technology becomes more and more sophisticated, I’m going to have to re-examine my approach to a variety of conveniences.  Because as it stands right now, it appears I’m not I’m lady-like enough to use automated phone systems.

I recently called the 800 number for American Express to check my credit card balance.  Their automated system is voice activated, meaning I was at liberty to either ‘enter’ or ‘say’ my account number.  Being too lazy to press numbers, I opted to read it off the card. 

Before she began to regale me with choices, the computerized goddess told me that I could interrupt her at any time by either pressing the key on the telephone keypad or simply ‘telling’ her which department I wanted to access.  As she began her litany of options, I accidentally burped into the earpiece.  There was silence on the other end of the line until I heard the polite voice say to me “I’m sorry, I didn’t get that.”  I laughed so hard I had to hang up.

My only hope is that this particular call didn’t fall into the category of ‘This phone call may be taped or monitored for training purposes.’  I would hate to be responsible for a host of potential employees opting for unemployment.

Go Ahead, Make My Day

It seems to me that if we can send pictures from one cell phone to another by simply clicking them together, someone should be able to invent a device that assesses a person’s age when they enter a supermarket, and if they are determined to be over the age of 85, opens up a portal in the floorboards and drops them in a holding room where someone under the age of 25 takes their pocketbook and list and does their shopping for them.  Because with the way it is now, I’m not sure why the homicide rate in the checkout lane isn’t off the charts. 

The other day I was waiting in line to pay.  The old bat in front of me had an enormous amount of food she was unloading from her cart.  When she was finished she politely put the divider on the conveyor belt.  But before I could unload my stuff she put down a jar of mayonnaise.  Really?  A second transaction for a jar of mayonnaise?  I wanted to bludgeon her with her canned ham. 

And can someone please tell me why old people insist on waiting until their entire order is rung up before they start rooting around in their purses for their checkbook?  Is there some law I don’t know about that prohibits them from filling in some of the information while the cashier is still tallying it up?  I actually cursed at one old lady when she asked what store she was in.  And if they’re using cash, can’t stores post a sign somewhere that says “No pennies?”

A few weeks ago the fossil in front of me, with her 39 items in the 20 items or less lane, turned, walked past me, away from the register and started trudging aimlessly towards the foot care aisle.  I looked imploringly at the cashier who shrugged her shoulders and told me that the old broad had forgotten something and that she was just going to run back and grab it.  Run?  That old bat hadn’t run since she tried to get a look at Calvin Coolidge at his inauguration.  She should have been yelled at in her good ear.  And the cashier should have been run over with a cart, just for good measure.

The next Governor that puts ‘Public Hangings at Noon For Supermarket Infractions’ on his platform gets my vote.   

You Name It

My life is one continuous debate over crucial events, one after the other.  It's cumbersome to be me.

When I adopt a new greyhound, I agonize for days over just the right name for them.  Truthfully, it didn’t take me this long to name my daughter, old what’s her face.  I think I picked her name out of a hat.   

My female greyhounds are named Kira and Sabrina; we lost Miranda two years ago.  Aren’t they magnificent names, perfect for magnificent animals?  I think so too.  I had to be sure I picked lovely little names for lovely little girls. 

We wanted manly football names for our boys.  Ben, who we also lost two years ago, was named for the Quarterback of the Steelers, burly Ben Rothlesberger.  My boy Cooper was named after the elder Manning brother of the same name.  My husband, the Giants fan, wanted to name him Eli but I refused so we compromised and went with the least offensive of the Manning boys’ names.  I mean let’s face it; Eli and Peyton would be ridiculous names for dogs.  Hell, they're ridiculous names for humans.

Our newest addition is Gunnar.  Could anything possibly be any manlier?  We got the idea from former NY Jets QB Boomer Esiason who has a son who goes by the same name.

Then there’s my boy Tiger.  Since Tiger was born on Christmas day we decided to stray from the sports arena and go with something that would convey the Holiday spirit.  When we couldn’t think of anything, we picked Tiger. 

I just tell people he was the 4^th and lesser-known Wise Man.