Clothes Call

Although most of us bathe – and yes, I do know some that don’t – the cleansing process is not done.  Unless you reside in a nudist colony, you wear clothes that need to be cleaned, as well.

Your ability to wash your clothes should be commensurate with your job, hobby, exercise regimen, or dining habits.  Allow me to explain.

Lawn care, sanitation, janitorial, nursing, mechanic, military, fast food, and a variety of other jobs lend themselves to soiling ones clothes with mud, grass clippings, bodily fluids, and grease.  These stains are difficult to remove from clothing which often dictates the use of uniforms that are professionally laundered and maintained.

You may be saying, “What does this have to do with me?”

Plenty.

Many folks like to walk, to jog, to bicycle to their professional jobs or school for their personal physical well-being.  Admirable as it may sound, that exercise should be reserved for after-hours when these folks don’t have to sit in your office or one nearby, unless they have access to a shower upon arrival.  Yes, they may be healthier but, they are smellier, too.

But, before we get to the point of entering the work force, we grow as children.  Many kids play in dirt, with dirt, and eat dirt.  They enjoy games such as baseball, football, tag, hide-and-seek, and dodgeball, all of which is likely to soil them and their clothing.  That is not a news bulletin.

Still, 236 words into this story brings me to the crux of all this – getting clothes clean.

Doing laundry is analogous to riding a bike.  Since I was single for nearly four decades, I developed some real-life skills one cannot learn in school, one of which was cooking, the other was doing my own laundry.

It seems as though the cooking part helps introduce spattered grease to ones shirt hence, the invention of the kitchen apron.  The real danger comes from preparing edible food which then results in staining ones shirt, again, while eating.  In fact, this happens so often, I actually buy my shirts pre-stained.

All my cooking and laundry skills were brought to test when my sainted wife took a recent trip to visit family out of town.

A quick trip to Walmart let me secure some pre-wash stain removers and OxyClean to assist me clean my spotted t-shirts.  As usual, they came out clean and like new.

Now as pointless as this ramble seems, it is important for those post-high grade-12 off-to-schoolers who are heading out to be on their own for the first time in their lives.   It’s likely Mom didn’t devote a Saturday to showing her offspring how use the Whirlpool washer and dryer, sort colors, pre-spot stains, add detergent and bleach, effectively dry them with few wrinkles and shrinkage.

Being thrust into learning to care for those sweat-laced clothes, sour towels, stained shirts and slacks, and well-used bedding, can be intimidating to laundry rookies.  Although I haven’t checked, I’m almost certain you can learn these things from YouTube or even get an app on how to tidy-up your haberdashery and linens.

If you are thinking twice about this, please refer to paragraph six.  I don’t want to sit next to you.

Directory Assistance

It’s an annual event that has gone from exciting to problematic – getting new phone books.  For those readers that don’t know what a vinyl record is, you may not know what a phone book is, either.

Phone books inelegantly arrived on our doorsteps in two different versions, white pages and yellow pages.  Somehow, phone book fairies made their way through thick and thin to diligently get them to their new homes so that we could, er, call people.

In the movie, The Jerk, Steve Martin played a dim-witted farm boy who “finally made it,” because his name was now in the phone book.  I would check the new arrival to ensure my name was spelled correctly and the numbers were not transcribed.  But, why would most people need a phone book?

When phone booths dotted the landscape – well before the advent of cell phones – phone books adorned these booths and provided important information needed to contact whomever you needed and could not remember, or knew, the number.  Phone booths were devices that were invented to provide stunt-minded teenagers a place into which to cram themselves, and afford a canvass for graffiti vandals.

Generally, people we call are friends or family whose numbers are familiar to us.  Should we need a number we can now simply turn toward the internet.  Friend and family numbers are usually written down in a personal book, or on pieces of paper that litter the refrigerator being suspended by magnets.  Thank goodness fridges are made of metal rather than cardboard or my kitchen floor would be covered like snow.  But, I digress.

The white pages contain personal numbers, numbers of government entities, and telephone information such as area codes and rates.  Yellow page books consist of businesses and now contain coupons for select vendors to gauge if people actually use the yellow pages to find businesses.

Its format is pretty simple.  Names are listed alphabetically, directory style, with the last name first.  Businesses are listed normally with the entire name of the business written out, and is further broken down into categories, for your convenience.  It is no coincidence that the yellow pages traditionally have ‘AAAAA Towing’ as its first listing. 

However, if you should want to find pizza establishments, you’ll be directed to search under ‘restaurants.’  If you need a new truck window you could check under ‘glass.’  You would then be directed to look under ‘auto parts.’  Once in ‘auto parts,’ you’ll be directed to look under ‘glass.’

Hunting for information in the yellow pages can be arduous, at best.  Unfortunately, only businesses that pay extra money to be listed are contained therein.  So, if you know the name of the business, simply look in the white pages book.

With the dawning of every living creature walking about with a cellular phone apparently glued to their ear – yes, Smokey the cat has one, too – fewer numbers appear in phone books.  It seems as though the listed phones are only land-line or hard-wired phones, which are quickly becoming obsolete.

This is where we need to store these reference books of remarkably thin pages of paper listing literally tens-of-thousands of name and number mentions, some with addresses.  These publications are quite impressive fetes to produce accurately.

But, just try to get rid of these paperback monstrosities and you will begin to despise them.  Most recycling centers refuse to take them, trash companies specifically mention not to place them in the trash, so the only recourse is to toss them into your neighbor’s yard.  I enjoy wrapping them in Christmas gift wrap – complete with ribbon and bows - and leaving them at the mall; thieves will eventually assist with my problem of disposal.

I can’t remember the last time I thumbed through the pages of a phone book as I now heavily rely on the internet for finding names and numbers.  And yes, my cell phone directory is chock full of names and numbers important to me.

So, if see an elegantly wrapped apparently orphaned gift on a bench at the mall, consider it yours.  It’s from me.

Hotter Than That

This past week or so has found me sweating.  No, it’s not because I’m looking over my back for the law, rather it is because the weather has been so hot.  The thermometer currently reads 107 degrees.  A pleasant 107, though.

Our old house was built in the 1800’s without the benefit of insulation, both heating and cooling this wooden tent is quite a challenge.  Two window air-conditioning units are gasping for a reprieve while Smokey the cat is ardently searching for a cool place to situate his fur coat.  It is so hot, the feral cats are lying-in-wait in the shade.

Every store on The Shore employs at least one amateur comedian who feels compelled to offer, “Is it hot enough for you?”

I feel equally compelled to retort with, “Yes, but it is not humid enough.”

Of course, the person doing the inquiring is seated in a well air-conditioned room with an ice cold beverage.

To add insult to injury, local radio and television stations give advisories during such sizzling times to avoid strenuous outdoor activities, drink plenty of fluids, and stay in air-conditioned surroundings.  Perhaps these listeners are seen as too stupid to do so without these inane warnings, akin to turkeys drowning by looking agape into the sky at rain.

Anyone with a brain will gladly stay indoors sans notices from the media and government.  But, there are those who must be outdoors to eke out a living.  Grass cutters - aka. Lawn mowers – do their business outdoors, as do roofers, house painters, and watermen.  Indoors, air conditioning folks climb about attics where the heat is unbearable to enormous levels.

Even Smokey the cat is panting from the excessive heat, most likely because of his furry coat.  And he is indoors reeling with sympathy pains.

Then there are those who feel compelled to drive to the beach and swelter in the hot sun without the benefit of a beach umbrella.  These sun gods and goddesses claim that a dip in the ocean cools them off.  I don’t see how a romp in 90 degree water is refreshing.

This year is no exception to the warm water bringing in the jellyfish and their prey, sharks.

Even golfers are refraining from visiting the links on such hot days, and I believe the mosquitos are slowing down, too.

Standing in line at the Chincoteague Carnival for an oyster fritter caused me to sweat from merely waiting motionless, although everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves.  Rambunctious kids running around like idiots provided the only cooling wind.

Shade has become a premium in which to cool down, if only by five degrees, or so.

The good news is that succulent watermelons are in season, giving one time to subtly chew them with little effort and receive tasty benefits of hydration and a reason to sit.

Eventually this torrid weather will break and cooler temperatures will prevail, at which time I will pen another story about how cold it is and warmer days are needed.  Until then, I’ll write and complain about today.

Olympic Fever

Not Michael Phelps

Every four years we are deluged by the Olympics.  This year, the summer Olympics are being held in London  and things there are going well for nearly every country except Uzbekistan who, as of this writing, has one bronze medal.

Most folks are into the Olympics, even if they don’t watch other sports such as football, baseball, or other decisive, competitive sports.  I believe this is because people can cheer for their home country which builds nationality, or a as Leftists call it, jingoism.

Patriotism is a good thing.  Feeling part of a winning team, thought, or lifestyle, can be satisfying and can enrapt the viewers while encouraging a sense of belonging.

There are several Eastern Shore area participants in this 2012 Olympics, two of whom are sailors.  Another local participant could be a gymnast but, I’m not sure.  There’s probably a runner in this mix, too.

Running, jumping, swimming, and even basketball, are all sports events that test one’s mettle.  Finishing first requires great skill which comes with practice, coaching, training, and determination, coupled with individual proficiency culminating in a win by finishing first, second, or third, thereby winning a medal.

But, there are those events that are subjective such as diving, balancing on that wooden beam thing, apoplexic tumbling, and that stuff women do with a stick and ribbon.  Judges watch such events and give their best guess as to who the winner is.  What I feel is good, they do not.  Some of these athletes appear to have just arrived from that television show, “You Call That Dancing?”  In no way does doing summersaults to music on a mat reflect a real sport any more than bass fishing does.  Sure, it requires talent and skill, but…

And dressage events seem to require more talent from the horse than the rider, unless the roles are reversed.  Badminton and beach volleyball?  Really?  Where does someone in land-locked countries learn to play beach volleyball?  Golfing is making its debut in 2016.  I’m waiting for beer drinking to be introduced.  Can fruit carving be next?

Gold medals for first, silver for second, and bronze for third place adorn the winners.  It must suck to be fourth.  Still, second place is merely the first loser.

Michael Phelps, the golden boy of the pool, has won a record number of gold medals.  In fact, he has so much gold around his neck, he resembles Mr. T.  Forget his scandal a few years back with that bong in his mouth.  He’s America’s hero. 

Another irritant is the woman who is appearing in her fourth Olympics.  Some quick ciphering makes her roughly 40-years old.  I would think that a country with 350,000,000 people could find another participant who is at least as good to compete in their first event instead of wheeling this woman out on a gurney.

People train from early youth with special coaches in first-rate facilities, for hours on end, year after year.  They are fit, both mentally and physically, and should be the absolute best a country has to offer.  I wish the Americans well and hope the best-of-the-best win their events.  And, so does the federal government.

It seems as though each medal winner gets money from the government.  Gold, silver, and bronze medal recipients get $25,000, $15,000, and $10,000, respectively.  They also get tax bills for the medals themselves, upward of $5,000 each.  That’s a nice way of saying “thanks” from Uncle Sam.

So, I’m not sure what irritates me more:  The fact that “amateur” competitors receive a stipend from the government, or that the powers-that-be tax these athletes who encourage patriotism.

A Long Way

A recent road trip to Florida provided me with tons of fodder for a new story. 

I’ve complained about left lane-challenged people before.  This one is for those truckers that like to ride in any lane without a purpose, and often cruise side-by-side for miles.  They surely know they are bottle-necking traffic and creating a dangerous log jam, seemingly oblivious to anyone else on the roadway.  Why?

OPEC is another target.  This group of greedy clowns charged me anywhere from $2.99 to $3.39 per gallon of gasoline.  My return trip a week later saw prices rise fifteen cents a gallon because some rowboat in the Middle East approached a U.S. Navy ship.  Sure.  How about America raising the price of a bushel of wheat or corn we sell them by $30 because it didn’t rain in Iowa on Wednesday?

Rest areas along I-95 are also pretty glum.  Although I cannot speak for the women’s rooms, the men’s rooms are deplorable.  I needed waders to make my way through puddles of urine to pee at these ‘convenience stops’.  Here’s a free tip for the guys:  Stand closer; it’s shorter than you think

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People driving 72 MPH in a 70 MPH zone, who see a state trooper dealing with a customer on the other side of the road, don’t need to slam on their brakes.  The trooper is NOT going to run back to his cruiser, squeal the tires, and drive across the median to chase you down for your 2 MPH infraction!

When bus tours are visiting fast food restaurants, those buses should, by law, be parked in front of the restaurant.  This way, it would serve as a warning for other potential patrons that there are 63 screaming, obnoxious kids running around the place, or there are 63 undecided seniors trying to negotiate the price of coffee with their AARP discounts.

My sainted wife loves peaches.  A series of giant, billboard-sized signs proudly advertised peaches, peach preserves, peach juice, and peach jelly, for sale.  Strategically placed along the interstate every eight-or-so miles, those signs were visible for about an hour’s journey.  I decided I would buy a basket or two and took the designated exit.  This exit led me to a fork in the road and no indication which direction to take.  It seems as though I didn’t need that extra space for some peach passengers after all.

And, it must be the law in Georgia that every front seat passenger in a van or SUV must put their feet on the dashboard or out the side window.  (It’s no wonder folks from the other 49 states make fun of Georgians.)  Just how well do seatbelts work when one is lying down rather than sitting erectly?

The big thing in decorating large passenger vehicles these days is to replace that stupid 1990’s “Baby on Board” window sign with decals of Dad, Mom, the kids, and family pets.  Why?  Who really cares?  And, what about unconventional (read: gay) families?  Do those decal packages come with two daddies or two mommies?  There’s your free marketing idea.

After finding a fast-food restaurant without 63 drama cases, I stopped for coffee.  The coffee needed to be made fresh requiring a 20-minute wait so, I did without the caffeine.

Tuning the radio gave me an altogether different tour of The South.  In any given length of roadway resided a minimum of 11 religious stations with screaming preachers, 7 rap/urban stations, 9 that carry both kinds – country and western, and 2 easy listening stations.  Let’s not forget to mention the 4 NPR stations with droning, monotone news readers to whom no one listens.  This is why CDs are so popular.

Spending 14-hours in your car was actually out-lawed by the Geneva Conventions under their “torture” statute.  Still, traveling without having to spend a night in a motel room with chalk body outlines is incentive enough to make a trip in one shot.

I’m just glad I don’t drive an electric car because I don’t own 869 miles of extension cords.

Open sezme

Smokey the cat, the official feline of www.EasternShoreFishAndGame.com is a pretty amazing animal, much like your own kids whose bumper stickers adorn your mini vans and SUVs with messages like ‘My son is an honor student at WASSAMATA  U.’  As such, he receives a treat in the form of specially formulated cat nibbles that contain salmon, liver, and beef shards.  Still, he seems to enjoy them.

These bonuses are given as a reward for many things to include putting his toys away, catching errant critters, and denoting bed time.  The problem begins with trying to get those treats out of the bag.

It seems as though there is a law that cat treats need to be packed in foil bags that are impossible for humans to open.  These bags are dutifully labeled at the factory with arrows pointing to that special spot on the pouch where the master of the cat should place his fingers to tear it horizontally.  Once torn, the instructions indicate, the pouch is ready to dispense these delights.  Wrong.

Invariably, that “special spot” is either a fraction of an inch too low or too high to be effective.  If it is too high, the bag remains sealed; if it is too low, the bag cannot be resealed.  Quite a conundrum indeed, as Smokey likes his treats fresh.  But, he, too, get frustrated and he simply gnaws on the bag until he rips a hole in the side.  Problem solved.

Bags and pouches like these are called ‘zip-lock’ for a reason.  As the name would imply, you should be able to zip the bag shut to lock in the freshness, hence the term ‘zip-lock.’

Recently, I decided to skirt the instructions that are printed thereon to tear the bag open.  Now, I merely use scissors to cut the bag at a point where it might be useful after breaking in.  Wrong, again.

In the way of some free, handy advice, a scissors cut makes the bag slice too smooth to separate which now requires the application of Plan B.  Plan B involves summoning my sainted wife who senses my quickly approaching stroke.  Of course, her advice is always, “You should have torn it rather than use scissors.”  Of course.  And, thanks for the help.

After being chastised for demonstrating my mechanical shortcomings to my sainted wife, I glanced down at Smokey who is giggling and pointing at me from beneath the kitchen table.  No treats for you!

Moving on to people food, is decide to prepare a bologna and cheese sandwich for myself.  This simple task quickly becomes another adventure when I try to open a package of baby Swiss cheese which was clearly packaged by the cat treat folks.  Instead of being wrapped in foil, this cheese is embalmed in clear plastic but, the results are the same – impossible to get at.

After ingesting my blood pressure medication instead of a sandwich, I decided to head off to the grocery store in search of some mangos, and plastic baggies with which to keep my cheese and Smokey’s treats fresh.

This simple task nearly involved a stranger calling 911 as after locating some nicely ripe mangos, I was found by a grocery store produce department assistant manager rolling on the floor, in tears, attempting to open one of those flimsy, clear plastic sleeves into which one places fruits and vegetables.  Although I was trying to open the wrong end, I still contend the “open” end should have been marked with at least an arrow or a line printed on the bag.

Other products present challenges to opening, too.  Salad dressings, mayo, and a variety of other condiments have seals with tiny tabs that merely tear off leaving the seal secure.  How the elderly and those with arthritis break in to these products is amazing to me.

From today on, I’ll simply give these products to Smokey so that he can gnaw on them until open since he has proven his dexterity in making these products useable.

The Best

It should come as no surprise that everyone wants “the best.”  I don’t recall anyone bragging about buying “almost the best” of anything.  That would be akin to bragging about coming in second which is being the first loser.

Having traveled around the entire country and Europe, I have witnessed both “the best,” and “the worst,” in so many things.

Last week, I was maneuvering The Shore when I realized I needed fuel.  Pulling in to a filling station, I couldn’t help but notice the blue and white banner declaring this establishment sold “the world’s best coffee.”

Forget the lottery tickets – I was flush with enough good luck to enjoy a truly heavenly cup of Joe.  It was that blue and white sign that convinced me to make my purchase an extra-large one to savor all the way back up the peninsula. 

The first half mile home was way too hot to sample but, after about a five-mile gap, I was able to relish the aroma and flavor.  This was easy to do since I drink my coffee black - unadulterated by sweeteners and cream and artificial flavors.

At this point I nearly shorted out the dashboard of my truck when I spat out a warm mouthful of “the world’s best coffee.” 

Keep in mind that “the best” is a subjective term relative to the taste tester.  It is not like a NASCAR event where the fastest wins.  Amen. 

On The Shore, we have seafood available all around us hence, the name.  Seafood doesn’t get any fresher than when the fish, clams, oysters, and crustaceans are off-loaded for preparation at local restaurants or docks.  Nearly everyone with a pulse will attest to owning “the best” recipe for crab cakes and, to avoid any future conflicts, they’re all the best.  Crusty, on the other hand, would walk barefoot over a mile of broken glass to dine at Red Lobster, which he considers “the best” seafood.  As I said, it’s about subjectiveness…  But, I digress.

At this point in the trip I was too far away to empty my freshly filled gas tank to hang a u-turn to issue a complaint to an uncaring coffee peddler.  But, I did recall that in my younger years – when pterodactyls roamed the skies – a Maxwell House coffee ad that stated in its jingle that is was, “The best coffee money could buy.”  It was abundantly clear that my pit stop brew was not contrived from Maxwell House coffee.

I distinctly remember A&P’s Eight-O’Clock coffee being superior to all others; I now believe Dunkin Donuts serves “the best.”  Again, it is subjective.

Still, there are other brands of goods that tout being “the best.”  TCBY claims their yogurt is second to none, and it seems as though all motor oils are “the best.”  Thus the name The Country's Best Yogurt.

Today, though, we hear words such as better, safer, warmer, more durable, and longest-lasting, trying to act as substitutes for “the best.”  They do not.

How about a little truth in advertising?  If something is “the best,” it should be judged and noted as being judged by a panel, contest, group of three-hundred first uncles, or whatever.  We should not have to take the word of a gas station manager who merely had a spare banner lying on the floor in the stockroom.

Maybe I will take my complaint back to that filling station, along with a cup of really good coffee that is better than “the best.”