"Do you mind?"

I can't count the number of times I've heard the following exchange on TV:  "Do you mind if I ...(insert any action - "use the phone," "come inside," etc.)," and the prompt response from the asked party is "sure!"  Yet the asker ALWAYS goes on to execute said action despite having essentially just been told "yes, I do mind."  What gives?

It fair boggles the mind how so many different writers on so many different shows manage to screw up the English language as they write this exchange into their scripts.  I'm a freakin' engineer and I know it's incorrect.  It would comfort me if I could conclude that those Hollywood types are hacks, but it sneaks its way into NY shows as well.  Very creepy.  E.B. White would not be happy and neither am I, let me tell you.

Do you mind if I sign off now?  No?  Then I will.

Busy Bees

What is it with people who have to be busy all the time?  Let me be clear:  I spent my career looking busy and now, in my retirement, and with the tips that are included in the Curmudgeon Handbook, I can focus on the much more relaxing, enjoyable - yet challenging - task of finding fault in others' activities whilst remaining above the fray.  After all, there is an art to doing as little as possible as well as pride in a job avoided.  

These Busy Bees even have some misguided illusion that I would be happier if I were to join them in said wholesome activity.  They clearly don't understand that as a curmudgeon, I already have my hands full, what with trying to ignore the vast amounts of stupidity that accost me daily.

As a wise man - I believe it was me - once said: "don't do today what you can put off 'till tomorrow."  Why, my ability to put off tasks is the stuff legends are made of.  Not to appear immodest, but some of my theories in this area have been accepted by the Handbook editorial staff.  For example, there is an art to writing down a task with great fanfare, appearing enthused about it, and all the while furiously creating the perfect plan to never quite DO it.

So, Busy Bees - stop and smell the roses.  Stop and smell SOMETHING.  Or turn on the Hallmark Channel - there could be a Rockford marathon afoot.

Appropriate Exercise

My father brought me up believing that sailing was a proper form of exercise.  This critical lesson was lost on my brother - he plays tennis, squash and all manner of sweat-producing things.

I, like my father before me and his father before him, do not engage in sweat-producing endeavors willingly.  This applied to our professional lives as well as our recreation.  Even golf is on the edge, as without the breeze of a sail, the sun can get overbearingly hot, and anyway, all that country club joining and socializing can be quite tedious.

So, as I pointed out in December, when the concept of the couch potato was revealed to me, I embraced it with enthusiasm.  I like to believe that I've furthered the cause by bringing so much of my life to the safety of the couch.  And what do you know - just in time for Matlock!

But, the Doc's onto me.

The Pop-In

I suffered one of these recently.  Suddenly there is somebody - or, more terrifyingly, somebodies - at your door.  "We were in the neighborhood - thought we would drop by just to say hi!"   And then the BIG LIE:  "We won't be but a minute!"

Coats come off, people seat themselves.  Now what?  Put the tea on?  Turn off the Barnaby Jones marathon?  Where the hell did I hide that hideous vase they gave me for "that empty spot on your shelf?"  The blood races, the sphincter clamps.  The pop-in is on.  

Apparently, this is normal in various neighborhoods in America.  Apparently, I have never lived in one of them, which is pretty much why I am innocently unprepared for these diabolical events.  Heck, when I moved 3 whole miles away from my folks to my first apartment, they would never visit without first calling.  You can do the dishes in the time it takes to drive three New Jersey miles.

I think there should be little signs, like "Feel Free to Pop" for the front lawns in those "various neighborhoods"  and wherever else this practice wishes to be observed.  

My front lawn?  Grass.

Gluten-Free

I'm not sure I follow all this blather about "eating healthy."  First of all, the specifics of healthy eating are astonishingly fluid - first butter is bad, then not; eggs'll kill you, then eggs are a perfect nutritional choice; oil is bad (except for good oil); bacon is bad and yet the Two Fat Ladies Who Cooked started each recipe with "line your baking dish with bacon."  It goes on and on.

I am a student of the "everything is OK in proper portions" school.  Just because my portion of whipped cream is way larger than yours or I feel I'm getting my vegetables simply by letting them sit on my plate - not through actual ingestion - my portions are proper as far as I'm concerned.

Then there are the fads - gluten-free is a current one.  As the name implies, gluten is the glue that holds baked products together.  Ever eaten a gluten-free cookie?  One bite and the rest of the cookie is a pile of crumbs in your lap.  Heck, the Chinese even make fried gluten balls - mmm.  And who hasn't eaten glue in kindergarten?  I know it held me together.

One wonders how mankind has made it thus far in our evolution, what with - until now - being blissfully ignorant of the evils of gluten and its ilk.

Aunt Peg

Since the fraternity of Curmudgeons is teeming with old coots, the topic of how one properly prepares for the hereafter often crops up.  Since this is a decidedly personal issue, the Handbook steers clear of committing us to specifics.  

My personal preferences leaned towards cremation and ash scattering on the coast of Maine until a disturbing incident occurred.  It turns out the family member(s) to whom you entrust this ash scattering responsibility may not enthusiastically embrace the sacred moment exactly as you had imagined.

Such was the fate of Aunt Peg, who had specified this very scattering-of-the-ashes-at-sea thing.  Her, err, remains came to us here in NJ in a metal can, neatly welded shut.  After her hanging around the house for a couple years, we finally remembered to take her to Maine, and proceeded to set sail for the sacred moment.  Out at sea, as we prepared to scatter her (downwind of course), we realized we had forgotten the can opener.  This wasn't shaping up well.

Undaunted, we scrounged around and came up with a tool to pierce the can so that Aunt Peg could gracefully succumb to the sea.  After a few solemn words, overboard she went.  Who knew the can would float?  We couldn't have her washing ashore, so we came about...and prepared to ram.  

We meant well.

Driving in New Jersey

I think I've made it pretty clear that I live in New Jersey.  For those not familiar with this special place, the act of getting behind the wheel and driving is no trivial walk in the park. It requires skills and grit that few out-of-staters (Massachusetts drivers excepted) possess.  Here are just a few examples:

Want to turn left on certain highways?  Better be in the right-hand lane - but only on those certain highways.  You won't know which ones until you've driven them before.

Enjoying that 4-lane road?  You'd better do it quick, because it could revert to a 2-laner at any moment.  You won't be sure when unless you've driven it before.

Approaching a traffic circle?  Which one - they each have their own right-of-way rules.  You better have driven that circle before.

Want to make a left turn onto a busy road but have no traffic light?  Better be prepared to use your vehicle as a mobile stop traffic signal as you nose across traffic because it only gets worse at rush hour.  Assume the oncoming traffic knows about this necessity, having driven this route before.

Solid white lines separating you from the next lane?  No problem - they're only for out-of-staters and other people who haven't driven this stretch before.

The common road design principle applied here, as you may have observed, is "drive it once before you drive it for the first time."  I just don't understand why so many drivers appear confused.  

Travel and Laundry

Being able to do laundry at my destination isn't that high on my travel checklist.  Clean clothes, dressing correctly for the trip, tickets, cash, ID, gas in the tank, air in the tires and the sort tend to take priority.  Happily, the Curmudgeon Handbook is quite helpful for packing smartly for travel, the overall guiding principle being making for a comfortable, enjoyable and carefree trip (a curmudgeon doesn't need to be set up for more things to annoy him - plenty abound).  Doing laundry on a trip is therefore understandably not considered, it being neither "enjoyable" nor "carefree."

So it came as rather a surprise to me when recent house guests announced they had to do a laundry the morning after they arrived.  I was floored - it was incomprehensible - could they actually have brought dirty clothes along?  Was this some insidious, twisted scheme to play with my ordered world?

I took it as my cue to go to Home Depot for a few hours to try to forget.

Engineering vs. Marketing

The curmudgeon is hosting a gaggle of women this week, and the drive home from the airport somehow sparked a conversation on the color of automobile dashboard illumination.

This is the sort of decision that is best left to engineers, not designers.  It turns out that orange/red illumination permits the eye to adjust to the darkness outside more quickly than any other color, so there is a logical argument for illuminating dashboard instruments with orange/red light.  

However, the lively conversation centered around what colors LOOKED nicer, not worked better.  Such is the state of automotive safety at night.

Paying Money for Gardening

Gardening is, simply put, an endeavor that a curmudgeon has absolutely no interest in.  Zip.  Get one's hands dirty on purpose?  I don't think so.  The Curmudgeon Handbook makes it clear that occupations that actually soil you are frowned upon (changing your own motor oil is also a prime example).

But gardening deserves special mention.  When we first moved into our little cape, greenery abounded.  Great! thought I, the gardening is done!  Hah.  Not being remotely engaged in foliage-related matters, I totally missed that gardening was apparently desperately required.

Thus began a 30-year slog of gardening, re-gardening and gardening again.  That shrub has been there for two years?  Time to move it.  Doesn't a "perfumed pocket garden" sound right for that spot over there?  Of course!  I am helpless to argue because "that spot" is currently green and therefore falls under my "the gardening's done" umbrella.

When I do projects, there is something called "done."  Not so with gardening.

3rd Vice Presidents

My sainted wife is quite the busy bee, belonging to a number of charitable organizations.  One, a venerable local group, engages in a variety of good-hearted activities - I am told - although most of them seem centered around raising money (50-50 raffles, putting the squeeze on local businesses, the works).

In support of these activities, they have evolved one of the most bizarre organizational structures yet invented by humans.  Rather than the more traditional functional structure we're all familiar with in business, theirs is more "make my friend feel important" - based.  Hence such positions as "1st Vice President," "2nd Vice President" and "3rd Vice President."  What differentiates these offices is completely beyond my ken, but I suspect the incumbents generally do whatever the President wants despite the fact that none are a stepping-stone to the Presidency.

Astonishingly, this apparently works.