Read 'Em and Weep

One of the byproducts of being a writer is that you get very good at reading.

As a careful reader, I am often spared the embarrassment of the casual reader. I see these casual readers in stores on big sale days. They stand, looking disappointed as the smirking sales clerk insists that their selected items are excluded from the great advertised deal.

“But I thought that meant…” the causal reader will offer as the clerk shakes her head. On the other hand, I am confident that when I bring my selected items to the register that they all qualify. I know because I thoroughly read the ad.

And if the clerk doesn’t see it my way, I’ve been known to whip the advertisement out of my handbag and begin reading it out loud. If the clerk doesn’t immediately give in, I repeat reading the ad, slower and with more emphasis each time, until they either give up and give me the deal or call their supervisor who gives me the deal.

I only want what I’m promised. If you want to exclude Tumi from your 25 Percent Off All Luggage sale, then all you have to do is say so in your ad. I wouldn’t dream of giving you a hard time. But don’t tell me after I’ve driven across town that Tumi’s not included because it’s “never” on sale. Give me the 25 percent off or I can justifiably report you for false advertising.

And I hate signs that say, “We cannot be responsible…” Of course, you CAN be responsible. What’s stopping you? Are you under alien control? The proper phrasing is you WILL not be responsible.

Being so literal is not without its downsides. Earlier this month, Taylor and I were buying a “baker’s dozen” bagels at Einstein’s Bagels. The college-aged clerk stopped bagging after 12 bagels. “Don’t we get 13?” I asked.

“No,” he said cheerfully. “You only get 13 bagels with the Tub Deal. The Baker’s Dozen bagels is only 12.”

I was taken aback. “You are aware, of course, that the definition of a baker’s dozen is 13?” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he said, a little less cheerfully. “But you only get 12.”

Taylor muttered to me, “Do you always have to be right about everything?”

With great self-control, I swallowed my response that I generally WAS right about everything. Instead, I conceded defeat, took my 12 bagels, pleasantly paid the clerk, and left. Being right was less important than further embarrassing my son at the college bagel store.

On our way to the car, Taylor said, “You know, Mom, not every clerk is familiar with the history of idoms like baker’s dozen.

This younger generation definitely needs to read more.

Back in Time

Time is moving backwards for me–literally. A few weeks ago, I realized my Movada watch was running in reverse.

I didn’t understand why my watch was suddenly giving me problems. It had worked just fine for the past 15 years.

I took it to the jewelry store and explained the situation to a sales guy. “Your watch is running backward?” he asked. “I’ve never heard of anything like that happening before.”

Watches didn’t run backwards? My imagination went into overdrive. Maybe my watch was accurate, and time around me was distorted. The theme music from the “Twighlight Zone” started playing in my head. Perhaps time WAS going backwards. Was I growing younger? I wouldn’t mind that. At least, not until I hit adolecence. I barely survived that the first time.

While I pondered the meaning of time, the sales guy took my watch to the store’s repairman. The repair guy came back with a less metaphysical cause. Because I’d never had my watch’s gaskets resealed, water had eventually seeped in and fried my motherboard. I think he something like that. I didn’t really catch all the details as I am not fluent in Technicaleese.

I am fluent in Bottom Line, though. It was going to cost me $200 to fix my watch, plus another $100 or so if I wanted to replace the scratched crystal and smooth out some of the scratches on the stainless steel band. And then, I still needed to replace those pesky gaskets.

So what time is it when your watch begins to run backwards? Time to buy a new watch.

The Haves and the Have Nots

While the boys disagreed on the size of my house, they were united on the size of my new Mazda MX5. Neither of them thought it was any too big. In fact, Alec referred to it as a "Shriner car" like the kiddy cars Shriners drive in parades. But at this point in my life, I am no longer having to haul around baby car seats or ice hockey equipment. So it's big enough for me.

On the housing front, I’ve sorted out most of the stuff that was in storage. It’s a strange mixture.

While I do not own a can opener, I have three coffee bean grinders. Maybe they were reproducing in storage. And they weren’t the only ones. I have 16 remote controls. NONE of these are being used. I turn my one TV on and off with the new cable remote.

My new oven is so complicated I had to download the owner’s manual in order to program the temperature. At least the instructions were in English. In China, my appliances were Italian and the owner’s manuals were in Italian and Chinese.

After figuring out how to cook in my convection/conventional oven, I thought I was set for my dinner party. The food was prepared, the flowers were arranged and I had a couple of bottles of wine cooling in my new refrigerator. It was only after my guests had accepted my offer of wine that I realized I had no corkscrew. Champagne, anyone? Or could I, perhaps, interest you in a free remote control?

Call Me Bwana

The boys each came over to see my new home. "This place is so small," Taylor said.

“Don’t you think this place is too big for you?” asked Alec.

Actually, I think it’s just the right size. Or at least it will be once I get rid of all the stuff I don’t want. This week the movers delivered all the items I had hurriedly put in storage three years ago. There were a lot of surprises–like a ping-pong table. And I was astounded when they kept unwrapping still more large Chinese cabinets. I distinctly remembered getting rid of one, but I had four more in storage.

Worst of all, was all the junk I should have thrown out years ago. This included a monogrammed bowling ball and an archery bow that hadn’t been used in 30 years.

I was happy to see a wireless router box. Unfortunately, I only saved the box. The actual router was missing.

I'm still sorting things out but my first houseguests have already arrived. Scorpions are making themselves at home. (This is not surprising as the house backs a nature preserve. ) I made a frantic call to the exterminator, who is coming Wednesday. In the meantime, he sent me to Home Depot to buy a black light. I thought black lights went out with posters in the 70s but they are used to track down scorpions at night.

I had hoped to avoid the scorpions. Instead, I am thrust into the role of the Great White Scorpion Hunter. You may call me Bwana. And tonight, armed with her black light and broom handle, Bwana is going on patrol.

Photo: Alec explores the back yard.