THOSE MARVELOUS LABOR-SAVING DEVICES

We’ve come a long way in the last 150 years, haven’t we?  Now we can spend more time doing what we want to do as a result of all the labor-saving devices we’ve invented.

Take the vacuum cleaner.  Of course, we didn’t need vacuum cleaners before the advent of throw rugs and carpeting, but we now have vacuum cleaners to keep these justifications for vacuum cleaners clean… unless, of course, the belt breaks or the canister explodes.  Then we have dust, cat hair (even people with no pets at all end up with cat hair in their rugs.  I’ve never been able to figure this out), and unidentifiable brown crumbly things littering the carpet our forefathers had no use for and no labor-saving devices to clean up the amazing mess that the labor-saving device made.

Then we have dishwashers, to save women everywhere from “dishpan hands.”  That is, until it gets clogged and spews hundreds of gallons of scalding water all over the house, creating an effect similar to the Mississippi delta in the area your labor-saving vacuum cleaner threw up ten minutes ago.  And though you don’t have dishpan hands, you do have washerwoman’s knees!

But wait!  We have WETVACS to clean up the water with which your labor-saving dishwasher so thoughtfully created that sunken living room you’ve always wanted . . . until it shorts out and sends 200 amps through the saturated carpet, electrocuting your Chihuahua.

Moving right along, we have the washing machine.  You just drop in the dirty clothes and some laundry soap and, twenty minutes later, you have clean clothes.  Of course, during those twenty minutes, the plastic blade guard shakes loose and what you are left with is a load of clean, but unrecognizable, rags.  You can dry them automatically, too; then you’ll have DRY unrecognizable rags.

Ah, but we have a labor-saving sewing machine to stitch back together the rags created by your labor-saving washing machine.  The sewing goes well until a strange sound from your labor-saving trash compactor momentarily distracts you and you run the needle through several fingers, calling for a trip in your labor-saving car to your labor-saving hospital, where you will get a tetanus shot.  Unfortunately, your labor-saving car is struck by another labor-saving car on the way, so you arrive at your destination by way of a labor-saving ambulance.

So, people, before you pick up that blow dryer, do yourselves a favor--make sure your insurance is paid up.

Here’s One More Place I Can Never Go Back To!

       I’ve decided that there is no good time to get groceries.
      No matter when you go; weekends, weekdays, early in the morning, mid-afternoon, or evening, it really doesn’t seem to make much difference.  And I’ve tried them all, so I know whereof I speak.
     My latest foray was early in the evening on Sunday.  My husband, Stij, is an avid (read that “foaming at the mouth”) New York Giants fan, and there was an “important” game on that evening, so he wanted to “just do a quick shop.”
       It is to laugh.
      Walking into our local megamarket, we observed the cheery banner of greeting above the door, which read, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”  We pried a shopping cart out of the row that had been spot welded together, and set off.
     Now understand, Stij is the easiest-going person you’ll ever meet, this side of Mahatma Gandhi, but he won’t trust me to drive his truck since I told him I used to participate in Demolition Derbies.  The fact that it took a great deal of skill on my part to come out of one of those things with only a couple of dented fenders left him unimpressed.  All he had to hear was “Demolition Derby,” and the driver’s seat suddenly became an unattainable goal.
     All this by way of saying that we do the grocery shopping together, since I am sans automobile, at the moment.
     But, as I said, he’s an easy guy to be around, so I don’t mind . . .
     . . . except during football season.
     We’d barely stepped over the threshold of the store, and the first thing he did was check his watch.  He did this twelve more times before we even got to the produce aisle, where I like to start my shopping.
     “What do you want to eat this week?” I asked.
     “Food,” came his helpful reply.
     “For veggies, how about some green beans, carrots, and cauliflower?”
     “Fine, fine, fine.  Just get it and let’s get going,” he muttered, checking his watch again.
     By the time we got half way through the store, the whole endeavor became less like shopping and more like fleeing from aisle to aisle.  I was grabbing and tossing blindly, while he shouted at one innocent bystander after another to “move your bovine carcass out of the way!” 
     OK, so we made it to the bread aisle, which is the last one.  Watch-checking had escalated to every other second.  I was wheezing, soaked in sweat, and dangerously dehydrated.  I grabbed what I I hoped wasn’t some frou-frou artisan bread made with twigs, seeds, and gravel and we rounded the bend on two wheels at 90 mph, only to be stopped dead at . . . ta da . . . the checkout lines. 
     The lines were seventeen deep.  At the end, people were getting married, babies were being born, and old people, who were young when they got into line, were dying.  There was even a house being built at the end of the queue at register three.
     “#$#@#%@#$#@#$!” Stij commented.  “Come on.  We’re not waiting in these lines!”
     “Are you proposing we embark on a life of crime?”
     “No!  Just leave it!”
     “Patience is a virtue.”
     “Yeah, and silence is golden.”  This was accompanied by a look that can open coconuts at twenty paces and close mouths instantly.  “Come on.”
     Sighing, I abandoned our loaded card and followed him out to the truck.
     Did I say, “followed?”  It was more like “sprinted.”  By the time I caught up, he was already driving out of the parking lot and was irked to have to slow down to forty or so, so I could jump in.
     Fortunately, we don’t live too far away from the grocery store; and a good thing, too.  The G-force on that short ride rivaled anything NASA could come up with, and pinned my cheeks back to my ears!
     Into the house we dashed – he for the television, I for the phone, where the plastic surgeon is on speed dial.
     After a brief confab with Dr. Karloff, I hung up with an appointment and yet another admonition to stay out of the truck on football nights.
     I expected to hear the TV blaring when I walked out of the bedroom, but there wasn’t a sound.  Fearing for the bric-a-brac, lest his sports lifeline had inexplicably given up the ghost, I ventured cautiously into the living room.
     He was sitting there.
     In the dark.
     This was not good.
     It was 8:02.  “Wasn’t the game supposed to start at 8:00?” I asked.
     “Yes.  8:00.  Tomorrow night.”
     I shook my head.  Nothing is worse for a New York football fan than Giantus interruptus.
     “Do you mean to tell me that I look like I just spent two hours in the front row of an Aerosmith concert for nothing?”
     “Yeah, but look at the bright side.  We can go back to the grocery store now, and . . .”
     “Excuse me?”
     “Never mind.  Forget I said anything.”
     He spent the entire evening sulking and staring into space, but it gave me a great idea for Valentine’s Day.
     I’m going to skip the lingerie.
     This year, I’m really going hard-core.
     I’m going to buy myself an official New York Giants football jersey!

 

 

Books and the U.N.

     Don’t you hate incompetence?
    I had a recent go-round with that purveyor of books named after a river in South America.  I put it this way to avoid being sued; but in thinking about it further, since each staff member makes unsuccessful use of two hands and a flashlight on a minute-by-minute basis, there are obviously no fingers left over for dialing a lawyer—so I probably have no worries in that regard.
     At any rate, I was irritated that an order I placed nearly one month ago had not yet arrived.  Being the thoroughly modern Millie that I am, I hopped on the internet to deal with the problem.
     I’m so silly sometimes.
     The website is a paean to the morass of useless information organized in an idiotic fashion that we in this county call, “marketing.”  The opening page is a downright assault, and according to these people, I now have a “plog” and I don’t even know what the hell a “plog” is!
     Remember those heady days when Amazon used to be just a bookseller and buying reading material from them was efficient and uncomplicated?  Remember when the milkman delivered milk?  Remember when … er, yes, well …those days are gone and they aren’t coming back anytime soon, let me tell you.
     Now you can purchase pretty much anything you can think of at Amazon.   It has become an internet mall, I’m sorry to say.
     And, of course, with huge growth you get huge headaches, and when things go wrong, they go horribly wrong.
     For example:  my book order.  Remember my book order?
     After I pried the home page from by throat, I ran a gimlet eye over the large colorful headings and finally found “Help” off in a corner in a type size usually reserved for disclaimers.
     I clicked on it, optimist that I am.
     BAM!
   Another assault.  There was so much information on this page that the idea of reading War and Peace suddenly gave me a warm fuzzy feeling.
    Doggedly, I slogged on.  I am nothing if not dogged.
    About halfway through this mess, they had the nerve to place the following announcement:
           “You can find help quickly using the self-service tools
             and information in Help.”
    Well no, you can’t, either.  I needed a phone number.  I wanted to talk to a person.  I studied the entire page for contact information, then came across this little gem:
           “If you still have questions, you can contact Customer
            Service from any Help page.”
     I’m ON the fucking “Help” page!  There is NOTHING labeled, “Contact Us.”
     After the paramedics left, I aimlessly clicked on links on that page, just for something to do until the Valium drip kicked in, and lo and behold (I always wanted to write that), I FOUND CUSTOMER SERVICE CONTACT NUMBERS!
     The cloudy skies parted and a beam of pure sunlight came through my window, bathing my computer in a warm, white glow.  Seraphim sang.  A beautiful chord played.  I finally had the information I needed and snatched up my phone.
    This is kind of a neat concept—you type in your phone number and they call you.  I typed in my number.  In less than ten seconds, my cell phone rang.
    “Hello?”
    “Hello, miss madam.  This is Mr. Jagdish Banergee of a small but tiny town in India, you see.  And how my I be of assist … excuse me, please … Karti get that goat out of the living room … now what I can I do for you today, miss?”
    “I’m calling about my book order that I placed one month ago and still have not received.”
    “And how would you describe these books you say you ordered, miss?”
    “Six inches tall, blond hair, blue eyes, and one of them walks with a limp and wears an eye patch.  Are you kidding me?”
    “I still need a description of these alleged books, miss.”
    “Will my order number do?”  I gave him the number and there was a pause while he keyed it into his Radio Shack TRS-80.  Six other children were admonished about various household offenses involving kerosene and two cobras were evicted from the premises before the information he had requested arrived.  But finally, it did.
    “Oh, yes, yes, dear, dear, dear, me, miss.  Those books will not be available until they are available, you must understand.”
    “But the website said that every one of these books was in stock when I ordered.  In stock!”
    “In StockHOLM, perhaps, miss; but not here to be sent to you in your insignificant barbaric village that consumes beef by the bargeload.  No, no, no, miss.  Not until they are available.”
     “Well, why does the website say that they are in stock when they aren’t?”
     “That is only an estimate, my dear miss.”
     “How can it be an estimate?  You either have them or you don’t!”
     “This is not the case, miss, oh my goodness, no.  And … excuse me again, miss … Surresh, the cow does not belong in the kitchen—take it back to its bedroom, please … now, miss, how can I help you through this unfortunate time of trial?”
      “You can send me my books!”
      “Ha ha ha ha ha, miss; you are a very amusing person of the female persuasion.  You will receive your books the minute they are available to you and no sooner.  Now, though this conversation has been most enjoyable, I must now attend to other aspects of survival.  Have a most pleasant whatever time of day it is in your world.”
      Click.
       I called again.  I figured I’d roll the dice once more and maybe I’d be connected with someone who was at least on the same continent to help me.  I punched in my phone number and again, in less than ten seconds, it rang.
     “Hello?”
     “HaRO, hon’able buyer-san!”

           Anyone know where the nearest Barnes & Noble is?

 

 

MY SO-CALLED JOURNALISTIC CAREER

I have often been accused of having more courage than brains; and reliving these experiences on paper, I find I must bow to an observant public.

My editor (a/k/a “Attila”), having assigned me the impossible task of covering Deep River, that thriving metropolis all of one square mile large, was done with me.  I left his office with no names, no addresses, and no leads.  The only thing I knew for sure was the location of this diminutive burg and the telephone number of the Town Hall.

I decided that the first thing I ought to do was to call the Town Clerk and get the schedule of town meetings for the month.  At least it would be something to cover.  Here’s what happened:

“Hello?”

“Hello.  Town Clerk, please.”

“This is the Town Clerk,” the same voice replied.

“Oh, well this is the Provincial Picayune Gazette reporter for Deep River.”

After her hysterical fit of laughter subsided, she asked, “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like the schedule of the town meetings for this month,” I replied.

Following another seemingly endless guffaw, she asked, “Honey, are you kidding?”

I assured her I was not.

“Lady,” she chuckled, “we haven’t had a town meeting here since the garbage truck broke down back in 1910!”

Seeing that I was getting nowhere with this human cabbage, I asked to be connected with the First Selectman.

“Speaking,” she said.

I rattled off a list of every official position I could think of, asked to speak to each one of them.  She answered to them all, right down to dogcatcher and second-in-command of the local flea circus.

Disheartened, I hung up the phone.  But then, like a thunderclap, an idea boiled up in my brain.  Why not call a resident and do an expose on living inside a small town dictatorship?  Or, better still, the pros and cons of living in a ghost town?  Trembling in anticipation, I located a telephone directory and began flipping pages.  I went through that phone book at least seven times, but Deep River was nowhere to be found.  Somewhat irritated that Ma Bell had seen fit to deny the very existence of the town I was reporting on, I called the telephone company to inquire as to what they had done with Deep River; because, if it’s not listed in the directory, then it surely must no longer exist.  For that matter, things were getting so surreal, that I began to believe that it might never have existed at all.  The telephone company has an ‘in” on these matters, and their word is not to be doubted.  As a matter of fact, if the directory is published and your name is omitted, it might be a wise idea to check your pulse.

When the receiver at the telephone company was lifted, I prostrated myself in a position of submission and asked, “May I speak to the Holy One?”

“Do you have Vatican approval?”

“No,” I answered,” but it is a matter of the utmost urgency.  I’m sure the Benevolent One will understand, if you will please make an exception.”

“The Christian Patriarch understands all.  I shall put you through,” she said softly.  And I was connected with HIM . . . the One in charge of Customer Service.

“Oh, Great Lover of Truth and Light,” I addressed Him, “Will you suffer to answer a question from a humble, unworthy servant?”

“Yes, my child,” He replied.

“Oh, Master of Wisdom and Keeper of Charity, where is Deep River?”

“Page 23,” He said.  “May the Lord bless you and keep you and endow you monthly with wealth and an abundance of long-distance telephone calls.”  Then he hung up with a gentle click.

Awestruck by the religious experience I’d just been through, I quietly replaced the receiver in its cradle.  No church service had ever been like this.  It was like a direct line to the Almighty, who, if He were located on earth would, out of necessity, be the CEO of the telephone company in order to maintain the equivalent measure of power He enjoyed in heaven.

After considering whether or not the current CEO could walk across the Connecticut River unaided by a bridge, I remembered my original purpose and picked up the directory once again.  What had he said?  Page 23?  I turned to the twenties.  No Deep River . . . and what was worse, no page 23 – until I looked closer.  Page 23 was stuck between pages 22 and 24.  I disengaged it and looked upon the Deep River listings . . .a full half page of them.  The first half was comprised of a listing of Town Offices; all, of course, with the same telephone number after each one.

A tear trickled from the corner of my eye as I counted up the population of Deep River . . . on one hand . . . with fingers to spare.

I did find a listing for the Boy Scouts of America, oddly enough.  With that in mind, I phoned and arranged for an interview about scouting in Deep River.  I got a Pulitzer Prize-winning scoop about the town’s negligence in providing the Boy Scouts a place to meet and hold functions. The fellow I spoke with had been the scout leader for the last 35 years, but didn’t have a whole lot to do, since no one had joined his scout troop . . . ever. 

It was my considered opinion that if a meeting place had been erected, he would have moved in there; lock, stock and torn tee shirt.  Anything to escape the rabbit hutch he was presently inhabiting, along with six dogs and twelve cats, which, if the fragrance filling the house was any indication, he never let outside.  And the noise!  The dogs tore at the cats and the cats scratched at the dogs until it was no longer possible to determine which was which, unless you judged by height and amount of blood.

As soon as I was able, I beat a hasty retreat from the premises.  After I dried my tears and blew my nose on my interview, I drove to the town garage, punched quarter-sized holes in every tire on the garbage truck, and poured five pounds of sugar into the gas tank.

There was a town meeting that Friday at 8:00.

 

DIARY OF A MAD COPYWRITER

     I left the field of advertising (I was a copywriter) when I determined that wracking my brain to come up with catchy names for lard and tampons was one of the most ridiculous things a grown-up person can do for a living. 

 

Here’s a small vignette, by way of demonstration:

HE:  How was work today, dear?  What did you do?

SHE:  Oh, I spent two hours of my finite existence naming toilet bowl cleaner.  How does “Flushy Brushy” grab you?

HE:  I don’t really understand it.  I think it needs revision. (“HE” peels off his human facemask revealing . . . gasp . . . the client!)

SHE:  You!

HE:  Yes!  Yes, it’s me!  And I’ll keep on throwing this copy back in your teeth until I get what I want!  I don’t know what I want, but this isn’t it!  “Flushy Brushy” is way too cerebral!  The average consumer will never understand it.

SHE:  What about “Potty Clean”?

HE:  Where do you get your ideas, anyway?  The city dump?  That stinks!  (HE pauses)  Hey!  I’ve got it!  “Stink-Away”!  Whaddya think?

SHE:  Yeah, boy.  That sure has class-A mass-market appeal.

 

The product is released and consumers go wild, snatching up every tin of Stink-Away they can find.  Then they all run, en masse, to sprinkle it all over their local advertising agency.

That’s pretty much the way things go.  The real payoff was that I was continually subjected to copy direction from a man who thought “comma” was spelled “coma.” (a state into which he would have fallen, had idle wishing proved productive).

The funniest thing that ever occurred during my tenure was the company picnic, attended by two dozen advertising executives standing around, trying to figure out how to have a good time at a function that they couldn’t bill to the clients. 

Should any of you still be considering a career in the field of advertising, even after reading this far, I shall now include the first six lessons from The Ad Man’s Primer (which I just made up).

LESSON #1 – The Ad Man

See the Ad Man

See him thinking.

Think, Ad Man, think,

See him get nervous.

He chews his nails.

He tears his hair.

He gulps Maalox.

And it’s only 8:00 in the morning!

 

LESSON #2 – New Employees

See the New Employee.

See her smiling face.

She is happy.

This will not last.

She does not chew her nails.

She does not tear her hair.

She does not gulp Maalox.

The other employees are not sure

Whether she is dead

Or on drugs.

 

LESSON #3 – The Art Director

See the Art Director

He flits from here to there.

He worries about color

And amount of copy.

He talks funny.

He adores antiques.

He wears tight silk pants.

He works part time

For the Tooth Fairy.

 

LESSON #4 – The Account Executive

See the man panic.

Panic, man, panic.

This is the Account Executive.

He is called “A.E.” for short

Though others have four-letter names for him, too.

He browbeats The Copywriter.

He makes The Art Director cry.

He “suggests” changes

While he holds a stick

With a nail in it.

He “points things out.”

He “asks for clarification.”

He never comes right out

And says, “Change this!”

He doesn’t want to stifle

Your creativity!

 

 

LESSON #5 – The Client and The Agency

The Client is who

The Agency depends on to survive.

The Agency is the parasite.

The Client is the host.

Or vice-versa.

The Agency does everything

To please The Client

No matter what!

Want to be the smartest person in the world?

Become The Client.

The Agency will treat you just like Einstein,

Even if you can’t add, write, or tie your shoes.

Think of all the money you’ll save.

Now you don’t have to go to college

        Or even finish high school!

 

 

LESSON #6 --THE CLIENT

 

        See The Client.

        Demand, Client, demand!

        He is unreasonable.

        He makes Donald Trump

        Look like Tinkerbelle.

        He will draw all over original artwork.

        The Art Director will hang himself in the Ladies Room.

        He will rewrite award-winning copy.

        The Copywriter will be taken away in restraints.

        He will tell The Account Executive how to do his job.

        The Account Executive will toss him out the nearest open window.

        The Client learns a hard lesson as he hurtles toward the ground.

        You don’t screw with salesmen on commission.

LOOSELY TRANSLATED

I am so excited!  I recently returned from Europe after a two-month stay, only to discover that someone I had met in Paris had dropped me a line.

I am also quite proud of my ability to translate it.  I didn’t know any French at all before visiting Paris, but within a day or two, I was jabbering away like a native!  As a matter of fact, here is the letter, with my expert translation capitalized and in parentheses.

 

Mars 2012  (MAILED FROM MARS IN 2012)

Bonjour!  (WASSUP?)

Comment vas tu?  (I TRUST YOU HAVE RECOVERED FROM THE DYSENTERY). J’ai tres bien (THE PEN OF MY AUNT IS IN THE GARDEN OF MY UNCLE).  Quelle heur est t’il?  (DID YOU SPEND HOURS EXPRESSING DISGUST AT THE SMALLNESS OF THE MONA LISA?)  Moi, aussi  (MY BUTT IS THE VICTIM OF PAINFUL CONSTIPATION).  C’est vrai, il ne pas chocolate  (COULD YOU PLEASE SEND SOME EX-LAX?)  Madonna aussi  (I UNDERSTAND THAT MADONNA HAS THE SAME PROBLEM).  L plume de ma tante est en le jardin de mon oncle  (WHILE IN PARIS, DID YOU EAT MUCH SPOILED FOOD COVERED IN RICH CREAM SAUCES?)  Oui  (ALSO, SEND ME SOME NAUGHTY MAGAZINES).  Comment s’appelle t’il?  (IS IT TRUE THAT THE TERM “FRENCH KISSING” IS DERIVED FROM WHAT U.S. GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS ARE COMPELLED TO DO TO FRENCH HEADS OF STATE’S NETHER REGIONS IN ORDER TO SECURE ANY SORT OF EVEN THE REMOTEST COOPERATION?)  Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?  (HAVE YOU PURCHASED A NEW COUCH?)  Present-nous, veux tu?  (GIVE ME THE NEWSPAPER BEFORE I BECOME VEXED).  Des saucises, sans doubt  (THE SPAGHETTI SAUCE IS FULL OF SAND).

Au revoir  (LATER, DUDETTE)

Jean Paul  (GEORGE RINGO)

 

If you have anything you need translated, be sure to send it my way.  I’m always glad to help.

CAT-ASTROPHE!

              I made the grave error last night of running out of my cat’s (a/k/a “Her Imperial Majesty’s”) favorite flavor of tinned cat food.

 For those of you who aren’t owned by a cat, this doesn’t sound like a big deal.  You think (erroneously) that, like a dog, if a cat is hungry, it will eat whatever you give it.

 To quote my cat (if I’m interpreting her dirty looks correctly), “I don’t THINK so, Bitch!”

Tango has this thing for Fancy Feast Salmon.  It’s all she eats.  After three days in a row of the stuff, I’d be gnawing the bark off trees instead, but she’s perfectly happy with it, day after day.

 Stopping at the grocery store on the way home, I remembered that she needed more Fancy Feast Salmon, so I went to the appropriate aisle and (fade in ominous chord) THEY WERE OUT OF IT!  Tiny beads of perspiration formed on my brow, and I began to hyperventilate.  Desperately, I searched through the tins at the back, hoping against hope that there would be just one dusty little tin that someone had overlooked.

 Nada.

 So, I tried to think like a cat, and picked out a couple of tins of the most disgusting-sounding and stinkiest types of food I could locate.  I finally settled on a tin of mouse knuckles, goat lips, and fish heads, all chopped up in a gay combination; and a tin of pureed filter organs from, I think, six different varieties of wildebeest.

Though cats can’t read, they have unequalled comparison skills, and she was immediately onto my game.  Deciding to ignore the fact that, where Tango spits, grass never grows, I dished up the mouse knuckles.

I’m here to tell you that I have never smelled anything remotely like that cat food this side of Elizabeth, New Jersey.  My eyes watered.  I broke out in a strange rash.  All my hair fell out at once.

 I scraped the ghastly stuff into her dish, and threw away the melted spoon.  She glared at the disgraceful mess, then at me, then at her dish again.  The last time I looked, she had dragged it to her litter box and was in the process of burying it.

After that, she went to the phone and speed-dialed her lawyer.

I think she’s going to sue me. 

 Any defense lawyers out there willing to take on a cat in court?