Published Aug. 27, 2007
Did you ever see that show "House Hunters?"
Homebuyers are shown three homes in their price range with the amenities they are after and they pick one of them to buy. It's as if you are house shopping with some friends - often, some very rich friends.
"House Hunters" is the most popular show on Home & Garden Television - HGTV - and it's addictive.
You get to see a bunch of cool houses in different parts of the country and then you get to play a guessing game - in my case, against my husband - to see if you can figure out which one they will pick.
We're relatively late to the game. The show premiered in October 1999, but we just discovered it about a month ago.
The good news is - between regular "House Hunters" and "House Hunters International," which is the same show except the houses are all over the world instead of all over the country - you can watch the show at least three times a day.
And if you have one of those snazzy DVR or TiVo gizmos like we do, you can stack up so many episodes on your recorder that if you don't like a particular one, you can just delete it and watch another.
I set my DVR to record every instance of the program so that I can switch on the TV and call up an episode of "House Hunters" whenever I want to - usually about 10:30 every night.
This is how it goes: I turn on an episode and get about halfway through. In other words, the couple has looked at one or two of the houses. Then my husband wanders in and sits down and starts asking questions. Instead of answering him, I push the rewind button and we watch the show together.
Despite me getting a second look at most of the show, he still guesses right more times than I do.
A couple of days ago, the first episode I chose began by showing a family - a youngish couple with three small children, all of whom were scurrying around and climbing their parents' legs like they were trees.
The announcer began, "Joe and Mary Smith are looking for a larger home for their growing family ..."
And then he went on to say they didn't have much money.
While I appreciate the fact that Joe and Mary are looking for an inexpensive house for their three darling children, I've been there, done that with two kids of my own.
Oh, no. I want something more exotic, more expensive. I want to dream, not re-live.
So I delete the Smith episode and go back to my list of recorded programs.
The next one I play is about a childless 50-year-old couple, both real estate agents, who live in a swanky Washington, D.C., suburb and are looking to buy a vacation house on the North Carolina coast.
Ah. That's more like it. I want to watch people who are looking for granite countertops, not a place for a swing set.
The real estate agents ended up choosing a waterfront house with a boat slip - and a yard big enough for their two little sweater-wearing dogs - for close to $1 million.
I was looking on the HGTV Web site and found a "casting call" for potential homebuyers and real estate agents. You can be on the show.
There is an application to fill out that asks you things such as "Why do you want to move?" and "What kind of house do you want to buy?"
There is no stipend mentioned and there are lots of warnings about how much time it is likely to take.
So you might wonder, "What's in it for me?"
Well, what was in it for one homebuyer was a huge new house a stone's throw from the beach in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, for $225,000.
Could you get that deal without going on "House Hunters?"
I guess not knowing the answer to that question is the whole appeal of the show.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Whoever said 'thrill of the hunt' should be shot
Published Aug. 20, 2007
We are always on a mission for something.
It seems we never have the right stuff, enough stuff or the stuff we have needs to be replaced.
Our most recent mission was for a new bed.
You may know the drill. One morning you crawl out of your bed and you realize you just had a pretty lousy night's sleep on a pretty lousy mattress.
And before you know it, you are obsessed with a hunt for a new bed. You pore through the pile of glossy ads that spill out of your Sunday newspaper.
And, I don't know how it happens but it seems that those Sunday advertisers always seem to know the object of your hunt-of-the-week.
For every other ad that spills onto your kitchen table includes a page of mattresses on sale.
We studied those ads but after a couple Sundays, brand names and prices all began to run together, sending me into the second stage of the hunt.
The Internet.
There, "customer reviews" offer insight into brand names and prices. Theoretically.
Trying to figure out what bed is best by what customers say online is like trying to find out which bed you want to sleep in based on what Goldilocks has to say.
And so, finally, you are at the third stage of the hunt: Getting in the car and actually going to the store.
And, in our case, once we started lying down on mattresses, brand names, customer reviews and even prices were of little consequence.
We fell onto one particular bed and we knew it was the one we wanted - even if it was a brand I had never considered at a price I had been unwilling to pay.
But we bought it and finally our mission was accomplished.
Momentarily.
You see, we bought a king-size bed to replace a queen-size bed, therefore setting up another series of hunts, starting with sheets.
The drill was the same. Look in the Sunday ads. Look on the Internet. Go to the store and buy some on sale.
And then we needed pillows.
You see, king-size bedding needs king-size pillows.
"Let's go the mall," I said to my husband late Saturday afternoon.
"The mall, I don't want to go to the mall. Why do we have to go to the mall? I don't feel like ..."
An hour later we were at the mall standing in front of a wall of pillows. I'm not kidding. As far as the eye could see upward and outward were pillows - down pillows, alternative-down pillows, down-surround pillows, firm pillows, medium pillows, soft pillows.
Some cost $7; some cost $27 and some cost $157.
It was a hunt for a master hunter. I pulled down a pillow and squeezed it. Then I smashed my cheek against its plastic sleeve. My husband was doing the same at the far end of the wall.
Two hours later as we were trudging out of the store laden with bags of pillows (they were buy one, get one free), I lost sight of my husband.
I put down my pillows and looked around.
I could see the top of his head across the furniture department so I made my way over to him.
He was sitting on a sectional sofa.
"You like this?" he asked, brushing his hand across the seat of the sofa.
"I think it would look good in our living room."
And so begins another hunt.
But we should be able to pay for this one with the proceeds from that garage sale we plan to have.
A garage sale sure to include an old sofa and lots of queen-size bedding.
We are always on a mission for something.
It seems we never have the right stuff, enough stuff or the stuff we have needs to be replaced.
Our most recent mission was for a new bed.
You may know the drill. One morning you crawl out of your bed and you realize you just had a pretty lousy night's sleep on a pretty lousy mattress.
And before you know it, you are obsessed with a hunt for a new bed. You pore through the pile of glossy ads that spill out of your Sunday newspaper.
And, I don't know how it happens but it seems that those Sunday advertisers always seem to know the object of your hunt-of-the-week.
For every other ad that spills onto your kitchen table includes a page of mattresses on sale.
We studied those ads but after a couple Sundays, brand names and prices all began to run together, sending me into the second stage of the hunt.
The Internet.
There, "customer reviews" offer insight into brand names and prices. Theoretically.
Trying to figure out what bed is best by what customers say online is like trying to find out which bed you want to sleep in based on what Goldilocks has to say.
And so, finally, you are at the third stage of the hunt: Getting in the car and actually going to the store.
And, in our case, once we started lying down on mattresses, brand names, customer reviews and even prices were of little consequence.
We fell onto one particular bed and we knew it was the one we wanted - even if it was a brand I had never considered at a price I had been unwilling to pay.
But we bought it and finally our mission was accomplished.
Momentarily.
You see, we bought a king-size bed to replace a queen-size bed, therefore setting up another series of hunts, starting with sheets.
The drill was the same. Look in the Sunday ads. Look on the Internet. Go to the store and buy some on sale.
And then we needed pillows.
You see, king-size bedding needs king-size pillows.
"Let's go the mall," I said to my husband late Saturday afternoon.
"The mall, I don't want to go to the mall. Why do we have to go to the mall? I don't feel like ..."
An hour later we were at the mall standing in front of a wall of pillows. I'm not kidding. As far as the eye could see upward and outward were pillows - down pillows, alternative-down pillows, down-surround pillows, firm pillows, medium pillows, soft pillows.
Some cost $7; some cost $27 and some cost $157.
It was a hunt for a master hunter. I pulled down a pillow and squeezed it. Then I smashed my cheek against its plastic sleeve. My husband was doing the same at the far end of the wall.
Two hours later as we were trudging out of the store laden with bags of pillows (they were buy one, get one free), I lost sight of my husband.
I put down my pillows and looked around.
I could see the top of his head across the furniture department so I made my way over to him.
He was sitting on a sectional sofa.
"You like this?" he asked, brushing his hand across the seat of the sofa.
"I think it would look good in our living room."
And so begins another hunt.
But we should be able to pay for this one with the proceeds from that garage sale we plan to have.
A garage sale sure to include an old sofa and lots of queen-size bedding.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Table for two? Yes, a man and his crazed wife
Published Aug. 13, 2007
Summers sure are a lot hotter these days.
It used to be that on a warm summer day, a person would look at the thermometer hanging on the side of his garage and say, “Whew! 90! It’s hot outside!”
Then some weather guy factored the humidity into the temperature, inventing the “heat index” and turning that 90 into 94.
And then another weather guy decided you can’t ignore things like wind speed, sun intensity and elevation, either. And so was born “real feel” temperatures and that 90 was now 96.
We were down in Key West last week.
Who goes to Key West in August? Crazy people, that’s who. My husband and I.
The same two adventure seekers who fly into Fort Myers so they can drive across the Everglades and the Keys.
In a convertible.
I donned a visor, sunglasses and 30 spf sunscreen for the five-hour voyage. It wasn’t so bad, especially when I turned on the air conditioner when my husband wasn’t looking. Each time, I managed to cool off a bit before he switched it off. (“It wastes gas.”) On. Off. On. Off. It was our little car game on the way to Key West.
One day, we walked 10 blocks or so to have lunch at “Blue Heaven,” a famous Key West restaurant, but it wasn’t until we got there that I realized all the seating was outdoors in a sweltering, er, shaded garden.
When it hit me that my trek was not going to end in an air-conditioned restaurant, I got a little panicked.
“You eat outside?” I asked my husband.
“Yeah, is that OK? Look, it’s nice back here,” he said.
I couldn’t see anything except the half-dozen or so standing fans that were strategically placed around the tables.
Look at a fan. Look to see where it is blowing. Look to see if anyone is sitting there.
Look at another fan. Look to see where it is blowing. Look to see if anyone is sitting there.
As we stood — my husband admiring the place, I taking stock of the fans — a waiter came up. He was carrying menus and two bundles of silverware.
“Hello. Would you like to sit here?” he gestured to the table nearest us.
I was off like a shot. I saw a fanned location.
My husband was right behind. The waiter behind us.
“Here then?” he motioned to the table where I had stopped.
Again, I was off like a shot. I spotted what looked to be a better place. I wriggled around seated diners on the mulch-covered ground. My husband was behind me. The waiter behind him.
“She’s looking for a table with a fan,” I heard my husband try to explain my behavior to the waiter.
“Well, here,” the waiter said. “Why don’t you just take these?” He handed the silverware and the menus to my husband. “Just sit wherever she decides.”
And then I had to make a decision: Yank out of their chairs a rather large couple seated directly in front of the best fan in the place or take an empty table nearby.
I decided I was probably already pushing my luck with my husband, so I took the open table.
Two glasses of ice water and two glasses of iced tea later, I was composed enough to realize that I had just led a chase around the outdoor dining room.
I started laughing and then my husband started laughing, too. We laughed so hard I forgot how hot it was.Now, if I can only figure out a way to factor into that real feel temperature the speed at which a diner scurries around a patio with a husband and a waiter in her wake.
Summers sure are a lot hotter these days.
It used to be that on a warm summer day, a person would look at the thermometer hanging on the side of his garage and say, “Whew! 90! It’s hot outside!”
Then some weather guy factored the humidity into the temperature, inventing the “heat index” and turning that 90 into 94.
And then another weather guy decided you can’t ignore things like wind speed, sun intensity and elevation, either. And so was born “real feel” temperatures and that 90 was now 96.
We were down in Key West last week.
Who goes to Key West in August? Crazy people, that’s who. My husband and I.
The same two adventure seekers who fly into Fort Myers so they can drive across the Everglades and the Keys.
In a convertible.
I donned a visor, sunglasses and 30 spf sunscreen for the five-hour voyage. It wasn’t so bad, especially when I turned on the air conditioner when my husband wasn’t looking. Each time, I managed to cool off a bit before he switched it off. (“It wastes gas.”) On. Off. On. Off. It was our little car game on the way to Key West.
One day, we walked 10 blocks or so to have lunch at “Blue Heaven,” a famous Key West restaurant, but it wasn’t until we got there that I realized all the seating was outdoors in a sweltering, er, shaded garden.
When it hit me that my trek was not going to end in an air-conditioned restaurant, I got a little panicked.
“You eat outside?” I asked my husband.
“Yeah, is that OK? Look, it’s nice back here,” he said.
I couldn’t see anything except the half-dozen or so standing fans that were strategically placed around the tables.
Look at a fan. Look to see where it is blowing. Look to see if anyone is sitting there.
Look at another fan. Look to see where it is blowing. Look to see if anyone is sitting there.
As we stood — my husband admiring the place, I taking stock of the fans — a waiter came up. He was carrying menus and two bundles of silverware.
“Hello. Would you like to sit here?” he gestured to the table nearest us.
I was off like a shot. I saw a fanned location.
My husband was right behind. The waiter behind us.
“Here then?” he motioned to the table where I had stopped.
Again, I was off like a shot. I spotted what looked to be a better place. I wriggled around seated diners on the mulch-covered ground. My husband was behind me. The waiter behind him.
“She’s looking for a table with a fan,” I heard my husband try to explain my behavior to the waiter.
“Well, here,” the waiter said. “Why don’t you just take these?” He handed the silverware and the menus to my husband. “Just sit wherever she decides.”
And then I had to make a decision: Yank out of their chairs a rather large couple seated directly in front of the best fan in the place or take an empty table nearby.
I decided I was probably already pushing my luck with my husband, so I took the open table.
Two glasses of ice water and two glasses of iced tea later, I was composed enough to realize that I had just led a chase around the outdoor dining room.
I started laughing and then my husband started laughing, too. We laughed so hard I forgot how hot it was.Now, if I can only figure out a way to factor into that real feel temperature the speed at which a diner scurries around a patio with a husband and a waiter in her wake.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Modern-day Gladys Kravitz solves a mystery
Published July 30, 2007
The house down the street looked empty.
I passed it every day on my way home. It always had three or four or more cars in the driveway. Now there was none.
"I wonder if that house got foreclosed on," I said to my husband a couple weeks ago.
I kept meaning to get the house number so I could look it up.
There are a lot of Web sites that list foreclosures, but alas, most of them give only the most basic information - such as the street name - before you have to sign up and pay to get the rest.
One site offered a seven-day free trial.
Shoot, I thought, I only need it for seven minutes. I'll sign up. I had to provide credit card information, which I had no qualms about being the avid online shopper that I am.
And then I read the fine print: If you do not cancel within the seven days, your card automatically will be billed for the following month: $49.95.
I closed out that Web site fast.
I don't know about you but I always, always, always forget to cancel subscriptions that have that caveat after a free come-on.
Anyway, what piqued my interest about the house down the street was that last week after I noticed all the cars gone, I noticed the pool gone. An above-ground pool that had been visible from the street had vanished, perhaps having been drained and folded up and carried off into the night.
"It has to be a foreclosure," my husband said. "Did you check the auditor's Web site?"
The Lorain County Auditor. That's the ticket.
So I went looking.
I tried to figure out the house's house number. It is five houses down, add 10 to my house number and I should have it, right?
No, that would be too easy. My house number plus 10 brought up the next door neighbor's property.
Puzzled again. I ended up - the auditor's site allows this - putting in a range of numbers and looking at all the houses in the range.
I was typing and clicking and studying the computer screen for hours when my husband said, "Hey, Gladys Kravitz, what are you doing?"
For those of you who don't remember - or, gulp, are too young to remember - Gladys Kravitz was the nosy neighbor always threatening to expose Samantha's magical powers on "Bewitched."
"Actually," he said, "you're the modern-day Gladys."
It was true. Gone are the days when neighbor had to spy on neighbor over the back fence or between the slits in the drapes.
Now, with enough time and ingenuity, anyone can get information on just about anyone by using the Internet. It's kind of scary.
I found out the names of the people living on my short street. I found out, in many cases, what they had paid for their house and when they bought it.
I found out how many square feet each house has and how many bedrooms and baths. I compared our square footage with the other houses on the street. I was lost in my research.
And then I remembered what I was looking for.
Did the house down the street get foreclosed on?
I figured out what house number it was and clicked on the address for property information.
Sure enough. The words "sheriff sale" came up on one of the categories on the page.
Hmm. Wonder what the people who lived there did for a living? Wonder how they lost their house? Did something bad happen?
OK, so, I guess the Internet can't tell a person everything about her neighbors.
Maybe Gladys Kravitz was onto something with those binoculars of hers.
(By the way, you have to pay to look on the auditor's Web site, too, but it is a fraction of the cost of the others.)
The house down the street looked empty.
I passed it every day on my way home. It always had three or four or more cars in the driveway. Now there was none.
"I wonder if that house got foreclosed on," I said to my husband a couple weeks ago.
I kept meaning to get the house number so I could look it up.
There are a lot of Web sites that list foreclosures, but alas, most of them give only the most basic information - such as the street name - before you have to sign up and pay to get the rest.
One site offered a seven-day free trial.
Shoot, I thought, I only need it for seven minutes. I'll sign up. I had to provide credit card information, which I had no qualms about being the avid online shopper that I am.
And then I read the fine print: If you do not cancel within the seven days, your card automatically will be billed for the following month: $49.95.
I closed out that Web site fast.
I don't know about you but I always, always, always forget to cancel subscriptions that have that caveat after a free come-on.
Anyway, what piqued my interest about the house down the street was that last week after I noticed all the cars gone, I noticed the pool gone. An above-ground pool that had been visible from the street had vanished, perhaps having been drained and folded up and carried off into the night.
"It has to be a foreclosure," my husband said. "Did you check the auditor's Web site?"
The Lorain County Auditor. That's the ticket.
So I went looking.
I tried to figure out the house's house number. It is five houses down, add 10 to my house number and I should have it, right?
No, that would be too easy. My house number plus 10 brought up the next door neighbor's property.
Puzzled again. I ended up - the auditor's site allows this - putting in a range of numbers and looking at all the houses in the range.
I was typing and clicking and studying the computer screen for hours when my husband said, "Hey, Gladys Kravitz, what are you doing?"
For those of you who don't remember - or, gulp, are too young to remember - Gladys Kravitz was the nosy neighbor always threatening to expose Samantha's magical powers on "Bewitched."
"Actually," he said, "you're the modern-day Gladys."
It was true. Gone are the days when neighbor had to spy on neighbor over the back fence or between the slits in the drapes.
Now, with enough time and ingenuity, anyone can get information on just about anyone by using the Internet. It's kind of scary.
I found out the names of the people living on my short street. I found out, in many cases, what they had paid for their house and when they bought it.
I found out how many square feet each house has and how many bedrooms and baths. I compared our square footage with the other houses on the street. I was lost in my research.
And then I remembered what I was looking for.
Did the house down the street get foreclosed on?
I figured out what house number it was and clicked on the address for property information.
Sure enough. The words "sheriff sale" came up on one of the categories on the page.
Hmm. Wonder what the people who lived there did for a living? Wonder how they lost their house? Did something bad happen?
OK, so, I guess the Internet can't tell a person everything about her neighbors.
Maybe Gladys Kravitz was onto something with those binoculars of hers.
(By the way, you have to pay to look on the auditor's Web site, too, but it is a fraction of the cost of the others.)
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Attack of the cicada killer wasps
Published July 23, 2007
What makes grown men flail their arms and run around the backyard shrieking like girls?
Dive-bombing flying insects as big as your thumb, that's what.
There's been a lot of flailing and running and shrieking around here lately.
Actually, the above scene could be juxtaposed with a magnified version of the scene I am about to describe, and a filmmaker would have himself quite a horrifying Grade B science fiction movie.
A huge striped wasp - the same bug (or its cousin) that has been terrifying swimmers in my backyard - was dragging a big, fat dead cicada into the crevice between the concrete walkway and the pool.
The wasp squirmed down in the hole and tried to pull the fat cicada in after it.
The cicada was clearly twice the size of the hole and its predator.
But the wasp didn't give up.
The dead cicada seemed to move of its own accord like those metal filings in those board games in which you put a beard on a man with a magnet.
But it wasn't a magnet that was levitating the bug; it was another insect.
You could see the wasp's furry little insect legs sticking up through the hole trying to get some leverage as it twisted and turned and tugged at its prey to get it into the hole.
The hard-working bug - according to Shelly Hill, program assistant for horticulture at Lorain County's Ohio State Extension office - is actually called a cicada killer wasp or, scientifically, sphecius speciosus.
Hill convinced me, and now I'm trying to convince you, to please stop swatting and bug-poisoning these annoying dive-bombing bugs that are almost as big as hummingbirds.
"They are beneficial," Hill told me in that sweet bug-loving entomologist way, "and very interesting."
Cicadas - not the 17-year locusts we are all familiar with but the ones called "dog day cicadas" that come around annually - will eat trees and eat the roots of trees.
"The cicada killer wasps go after them," she said.
And although they will dive-bomb you - that is the aggressive male, by the way - they don't sting.
The males don't even have stingers and the females will only sting if cornered or trapped - like in laundry brought in from the clothesline, she said.
I told her about watching a cicada killer fly back and forth over the same small area of grass day after day.
She told me that what I was seeing was probably the same male guarding his brood of eggs or larvae in the ground below.
"The male is real aggressive toward its young," Hill said. "He doesn't have a stinger, but he will head-bang you if you get in his way."
The wasps' life cycle parallels that of the cicada, spanning 60-75 days from mid-July to mid-September. They are solitary insects. They don't live in colonies. There is no queen. Just a bunch of little cicada-killer families. The female lays eggs in the ground, and in one or two days larvae hatch from them. The insects spend about two weeks as larvae before becoming fearsome cicada killers.
Boy, am I glad I didn't kill that diligent dad. I considered it. I wanted to. But, I couldn't find a flyswatter.
So anyway, the next time I walked past that crevice into which the wasp had been trying to pull its levitating prey, the cicada was gone. Either the wasp managed to wedge it into the hole or he swallowed it whole.
"That's kind of surprising that it was trying to take it underground," Hill said. "They usually fly up into the trees with them."
Oh, now that's a comforting thought.
What makes grown men flail their arms and run around the backyard shrieking like girls?
Dive-bombing flying insects as big as your thumb, that's what.
There's been a lot of flailing and running and shrieking around here lately.
Actually, the above scene could be juxtaposed with a magnified version of the scene I am about to describe, and a filmmaker would have himself quite a horrifying Grade B science fiction movie.
A huge striped wasp - the same bug (or its cousin) that has been terrifying swimmers in my backyard - was dragging a big, fat dead cicada into the crevice between the concrete walkway and the pool.
The wasp squirmed down in the hole and tried to pull the fat cicada in after it.
The cicada was clearly twice the size of the hole and its predator.
But the wasp didn't give up.
The dead cicada seemed to move of its own accord like those metal filings in those board games in which you put a beard on a man with a magnet.
But it wasn't a magnet that was levitating the bug; it was another insect.
You could see the wasp's furry little insect legs sticking up through the hole trying to get some leverage as it twisted and turned and tugged at its prey to get it into the hole.
The hard-working bug - according to Shelly Hill, program assistant for horticulture at Lorain County's Ohio State Extension office - is actually called a cicada killer wasp or, scientifically, sphecius speciosus.
Hill convinced me, and now I'm trying to convince you, to please stop swatting and bug-poisoning these annoying dive-bombing bugs that are almost as big as hummingbirds.
"They are beneficial," Hill told me in that sweet bug-loving entomologist way, "and very interesting."
Cicadas - not the 17-year locusts we are all familiar with but the ones called "dog day cicadas" that come around annually - will eat trees and eat the roots of trees.
"The cicada killer wasps go after them," she said.
And although they will dive-bomb you - that is the aggressive male, by the way - they don't sting.
The males don't even have stingers and the females will only sting if cornered or trapped - like in laundry brought in from the clothesline, she said.
I told her about watching a cicada killer fly back and forth over the same small area of grass day after day.
She told me that what I was seeing was probably the same male guarding his brood of eggs or larvae in the ground below.
"The male is real aggressive toward its young," Hill said. "He doesn't have a stinger, but he will head-bang you if you get in his way."
The wasps' life cycle parallels that of the cicada, spanning 60-75 days from mid-July to mid-September. They are solitary insects. They don't live in colonies. There is no queen. Just a bunch of little cicada-killer families. The female lays eggs in the ground, and in one or two days larvae hatch from them. The insects spend about two weeks as larvae before becoming fearsome cicada killers.
Boy, am I glad I didn't kill that diligent dad. I considered it. I wanted to. But, I couldn't find a flyswatter.
So anyway, the next time I walked past that crevice into which the wasp had been trying to pull its levitating prey, the cicada was gone. Either the wasp managed to wedge it into the hole or he swallowed it whole.
"That's kind of surprising that it was trying to take it underground," Hill said. "They usually fly up into the trees with them."
Oh, now that's a comforting thought.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Everything's good -- except my flipping age
Published July 16, 2007
“Have any of you guys ever played ‘Flip Cup’?” I asked a group of 20-somethings in the newsroom.
“Yeah,” said one, nodding vigorously.
“Oh, yeah,” added another.
“Yeah, we used to play it in college,” a third chimed in.
“Well,” I told them, “I played it last week when my sons were home. It was boys versus girls, and we won.”
“Cool (or some other words expressing that sentiment),” they all said.
Flip Cup is a popular drinking game on college campuses. Teams line up on opposite sides of a long table. Each player has a plastic cup into which a couple fingers of beer — the $6-a-case variety — is poured.
The game starts with two players standing opposite each other drinking their beer and then placing the empty cups on the edge of the table with about half of them hanging off.
Then they have to flip the cup over so that it lands on its top. That could take a few tries for the uncoordinated.
As soon as it is done, the next player goes. It’s like a drinking relay race. The first team that finishes wins a point. The game goes to seven or 10 or whatever number is arbitrarily chosen.
It’s loud and it’s wild with team members egging on each flipper in turn.
It’s also a game we never played long ago at Ohio State. Back then, the only energy we expended was what it took to haul our meat off the sofa and walk up to High Street where we found a bar in which to again park ourselves.
I guess the game is just another example of “today’s more active lifestyle” that everyone talks about.
Anyway, I was feeling pretty good about having something in common with my much-younger charges in the newsroom. I was hip to their party games.
That was until one of them came over to my desk a little while later.
“Did I hear you say you were playing Flip Cup?” he asked.
“Yeah. My sons and their girlfriends stayed at our house last week, and they talked my husband and me into playing.”
“Aren’t you a little old for that?” he asked.
Whoa. I felt as if I had been sucker-punched.
Old? Moi?
“No!” I blurted out. “I mean we still act like we’re 22. We still do wild things,” I told him, my voice trailing off.
I spent a few minutes thinking about the way I act, the way I see myself, the way others see me but then my brain blew a fuse and I went back to my work.
I didn’t think about my age — real or perceived — again until my new “Shape” magazine came in the mail. Now, my age I have a problem getting a handle on, but my shape I’m well aware of. I know I’m not the demographic targeted by that magazine but, hey, won’t hurt to try to get some pointers, right?
This month’s cover touted: “Your best body at 20, 30, 40.”
I turned to the story inside. The first pages were about looking good in your 20s; the next, 30s; and then 40s. I turned the page again and it was a different story, so I flipped back and flipped forward again, rubbing the glossy page between my thumb and forefinger to find the pages I was skipping.
Nope. That was it. I don’t know what I was looking for anyway. The cover said it: “Look great at any age (as long as it’s under 50).”
Hmmm. What to make of that?
So maybe I don’t look so good when standing at the Flip Cup table. But, hey, what I lack in youth and beauty, I make up for in wisdom and determination.
And my record as a winning flipper proves it.
“Have any of you guys ever played ‘Flip Cup’?” I asked a group of 20-somethings in the newsroom.
“Yeah,” said one, nodding vigorously.
“Oh, yeah,” added another.
“Yeah, we used to play it in college,” a third chimed in.
“Well,” I told them, “I played it last week when my sons were home. It was boys versus girls, and we won.”
“Cool (or some other words expressing that sentiment),” they all said.
Flip Cup is a popular drinking game on college campuses. Teams line up on opposite sides of a long table. Each player has a plastic cup into which a couple fingers of beer — the $6-a-case variety — is poured.
The game starts with two players standing opposite each other drinking their beer and then placing the empty cups on the edge of the table with about half of them hanging off.
Then they have to flip the cup over so that it lands on its top. That could take a few tries for the uncoordinated.
As soon as it is done, the next player goes. It’s like a drinking relay race. The first team that finishes wins a point. The game goes to seven or 10 or whatever number is arbitrarily chosen.
It’s loud and it’s wild with team members egging on each flipper in turn.
It’s also a game we never played long ago at Ohio State. Back then, the only energy we expended was what it took to haul our meat off the sofa and walk up to High Street where we found a bar in which to again park ourselves.
I guess the game is just another example of “today’s more active lifestyle” that everyone talks about.
Anyway, I was feeling pretty good about having something in common with my much-younger charges in the newsroom. I was hip to their party games.
That was until one of them came over to my desk a little while later.
“Did I hear you say you were playing Flip Cup?” he asked.
“Yeah. My sons and their girlfriends stayed at our house last week, and they talked my husband and me into playing.”
“Aren’t you a little old for that?” he asked.
Whoa. I felt as if I had been sucker-punched.
Old? Moi?
“No!” I blurted out. “I mean we still act like we’re 22. We still do wild things,” I told him, my voice trailing off.
I spent a few minutes thinking about the way I act, the way I see myself, the way others see me but then my brain blew a fuse and I went back to my work.
I didn’t think about my age — real or perceived — again until my new “Shape” magazine came in the mail. Now, my age I have a problem getting a handle on, but my shape I’m well aware of. I know I’m not the demographic targeted by that magazine but, hey, won’t hurt to try to get some pointers, right?
This month’s cover touted: “Your best body at 20, 30, 40.”
I turned to the story inside. The first pages were about looking good in your 20s; the next, 30s; and then 40s. I turned the page again and it was a different story, so I flipped back and flipped forward again, rubbing the glossy page between my thumb and forefinger to find the pages I was skipping.
Nope. That was it. I don’t know what I was looking for anyway. The cover said it: “Look great at any age (as long as it’s under 50).”
Hmmm. What to make of that?
So maybe I don’t look so good when standing at the Flip Cup table. But, hey, what I lack in youth and beauty, I make up for in wisdom and determination.
And my record as a winning flipper proves it.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Some people (not us) just can't let go
Published July 2, 2007
When people buy a new house and fix it up, they want everyone to come over and see what they have done.
Everyone except the old owners, that is.
Well, it's not that we don't want them to see it, it's just that we are afraid they will be offended that their way isn't exactly our way.
I know my husband and I have been worried about the things we have done to our new house.
"What do you think they would think of that wallpaper?" I asked my husband one day.
"Don't you think they would be proud at how clean the pool is?" my husband asked me another day.
But, I have to admit, we haven't made a lot of drastic changes here.
However, at the old house, trees are coming down, rolls of carpet are out for the garbage man and red geraniums have been planted out front.
I think it's great.
When we first moved in that house that was built in 1890, we did the same thing. We ripped out and remodeled like crazy.
Back then, the questions my husband and I exchanged about our work and the new owners started with, "Wouldn't they die," not with "What would they think."
But either way, I think we all do a lot of worrying for nothing.
No one expects new owners not to make changes.
I left a note for the new owners of our house explaining some things and leaving my e-mail address in case they needed to get a hold of us for anything.
A couple weeks later, I got a note: "The house is loved. I am the new owner at your former very lovely old girl as you say. She is quite the lady, I do agree."
And then she went on to tell me about how they both fell in love with the house and were happy to get it.
She ended with "We are making transitions and changes, naturally. Some are from the recommendations of the building inspector. Other changes are just personal."
Hmm. Bracing me.
But I didn't need bracing and I wanted her to know. I wanted her to know that she had my blessing to do whatever she wanted to do with the house.
I told her so.
"I'm sure the changes you make will be great."
An old neighbor came to visit last week.
"They cut down a big tree in your yard," she told me.
I finally figured out it was the hemlock we planted right against the house to hide the electric meter. It seemed like a good idea at the time (when the tree was 5 feet tall) but it grew and grew. I can understand why they cut it down.
But now, the electric meter will show.
OK, I'm beginning to understand why people are afraid to tell former owners what they have done to a house.
I got another e-mail from her the other day.
"Everyone is watching what we do," she wrote. "People in the neighborhood who walk by comment on it and us and what we are doing. I know we are watched but I am not concerned. We only have the best intentions for the house."
And I'm sure they do.
I'm also sure I'll find out about how those intentions look. I don't go through the old neighborhood very much any more, but I know a lot of people who do.
And come to think of it, I wonder what carpet they ripped out.
All the carpet in the house was in pretty good shape - and it was expensive, too.
What could they have been thinking?
When people buy a new house and fix it up, they want everyone to come over and see what they have done.
Everyone except the old owners, that is.
Well, it's not that we don't want them to see it, it's just that we are afraid they will be offended that their way isn't exactly our way.
I know my husband and I have been worried about the things we have done to our new house.
"What do you think they would think of that wallpaper?" I asked my husband one day.
"Don't you think they would be proud at how clean the pool is?" my husband asked me another day.
But, I have to admit, we haven't made a lot of drastic changes here.
However, at the old house, trees are coming down, rolls of carpet are out for the garbage man and red geraniums have been planted out front.
I think it's great.
When we first moved in that house that was built in 1890, we did the same thing. We ripped out and remodeled like crazy.
Back then, the questions my husband and I exchanged about our work and the new owners started with, "Wouldn't they die," not with "What would they think."
But either way, I think we all do a lot of worrying for nothing.
No one expects new owners not to make changes.
I left a note for the new owners of our house explaining some things and leaving my e-mail address in case they needed to get a hold of us for anything.
A couple weeks later, I got a note: "The house is loved. I am the new owner at your former very lovely old girl as you say. She is quite the lady, I do agree."
And then she went on to tell me about how they both fell in love with the house and were happy to get it.
She ended with "We are making transitions and changes, naturally. Some are from the recommendations of the building inspector. Other changes are just personal."
Hmm. Bracing me.
But I didn't need bracing and I wanted her to know. I wanted her to know that she had my blessing to do whatever she wanted to do with the house.
I told her so.
"I'm sure the changes you make will be great."
An old neighbor came to visit last week.
"They cut down a big tree in your yard," she told me.
I finally figured out it was the hemlock we planted right against the house to hide the electric meter. It seemed like a good idea at the time (when the tree was 5 feet tall) but it grew and grew. I can understand why they cut it down.
But now, the electric meter will show.
OK, I'm beginning to understand why people are afraid to tell former owners what they have done to a house.
I got another e-mail from her the other day.
"Everyone is watching what we do," she wrote. "People in the neighborhood who walk by comment on it and us and what we are doing. I know we are watched but I am not concerned. We only have the best intentions for the house."
And I'm sure they do.
I'm also sure I'll find out about how those intentions look. I don't go through the old neighborhood very much any more, but I know a lot of people who do.
And come to think of it, I wonder what carpet they ripped out.
All the carpet in the house was in pretty good shape - and it was expensive, too.
What could they have been thinking?
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