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Serious Whimsy » Jolana Malkston » Page 10
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Hasta La Vista, Hostas

 Serious Whimsy  2 Responses »
Jun 242014
 

Jolana Malkston 4Not long after Macho Guy retired, he and I joined a cult. I know, we don’t seem like the type to be brainwashed, but this cult is insidious and relentless. Its members are legion, fanatically loyal, willing to labor endlessly to show their devotion to their cult, and feel no guilt for indoctrinating their neighbors.

That is how, in an unguarded moment, we were ensnared by this cult and became Gardeners.

It started way back when we bought the house on the lake. The previous owner took her backyard hot tub with her, leaving a big ugly brown area of earth where no grass grew. Our kindly new neighbor rushed over with several varieties of hostas she had just divided. She demonstrated where and how to plant them in the formerly big ugly brown area of earth where no grass grew. She didn’t stop there. She found other big ugly brown areas of earth where no grass grew, and she then persuaded us to take more of her divided hostas to populate those additional big ugly brown areas of earth where no grass grew.

Macho Guy desperately wanted a labor-free rock garden but was too polite to refuse the plants. Had he refused, those hostas would have appeared anyway in our big ugly brown areas of earth where no grass grew. We learned much later that our kindly new neighbor was the acknowledged leader of the cult’s splinter sect, the Guerrilla Gardeners. She and her Guerrilla Gardeners frequently staged anonymous freebie planting interventions on their neighbors’ properties while the owners were away or asleep.

The first hint that we were on our way to becoming cult converts manifested itself when we noticed the presence of invaders in our now landscaped areas of earth where flowers grew—an army of weeds. Hardy weeds of every variety known to humankind ambushed our precious hostas. The army of hardy weeds surrounded them.  The army of hardy weeds cut off their supply of water and solar energy. The army of hardy weeds attempted to obliterate and supplant our precious hostas.

You realize, of course, that this sneak attack meant war. Continue reading »

Home Alone—With Siri

 Serious Whimsy  4 Responses »
May 292014
 

Jolana Malkston 4Macho Guy went off on a three-day outing with his golf buddies. After two days, the silence started to get to me. I talked to myself just to hear the sound of a human voice.

All at once, it occurred to me there was another voice to which I could listen. It wasn’t a human voice, but it was better than no voice at all. In fact, Little Brother—my younger son—has frequently regaled his father and me with crazy stories of how he and his boss amuse themselves by asking Siri stupid questions when they take a break from work.

I reached for my iPad to ask Siri a question—but not a stupid one. I pressed the Home button and the words “What can I help you with?” appeared onscreen.

ME: Siri, are the Detroit Tigers playing tonight?

SIRI: Yes, the Detroit Tigers are playing the Oakland Athletics at 10:05 P.M. [Siri displayed the information onscreen, including the television outlets that would be broadcasting the game.]

ME: Thank you, Siri.

SIRI: Your wish is my command.

Wow. I never heard anyone say that to me before. I must admit I liked the sound of it. Hmmm…if I asked her another question, maybe she’d say it again.

ME: Siri, at what time will the sun set today?

SIRI: The sun will set at 9:04 p.m.

ME: Thank you, Siri.

SIRI: Why, thanks, Jolana.

Darn it. She wasn’t supposed to say that. I’ll have to ask her something else.

ME: Siri, what time will tomorrow’s sunrise be?

SIRI: I don’t know when tomorrow’s sunrise will be. The sun rose today at 6:03 a.m.

ME: Thank you, Siri.

SIRI: Don’t mention it.

What? Okay, let’s try this again.

ME: Siri, what appointments do I have tomorrow?

SIRI: Did you mean Thursday, May 29, 2014 or Friday, May 30, 2014? [Siri listed both dates onscreen with instructions to tap one]

I checked the time and saw that it was past midnight and no longer Wednesday. Clever girl, that Siri! I tapped on Thursday.

SIRI: You have one appointment for today. [Siri displayed the time and place for my lunch date with my neighbor lady.]

ME: Thank you, Siri.

SIRI: You’re welcome.

Great. Apparently she has a whole repertoire of responses. How many times will I have to thank her before I get her to say my wish is her command again?

I happened to be charging my iPad’s battery while I conversed with Siri. I noticed very little progress being made. I decided to ask Siri about it.

ME: Siri, how long does it take to charge an iPad?

SIRI: Choose one of these to charge. [Siri displayed a list of bank charge cards.]

ME: [Somewhat amused] How long does it take to charge an iPad’s battery?

Siri once again displayed the list of bank charge cards.

ME: Never mind.

Siri displayed the list of bank charge cards once more. [sigh] What we obviously had was a failure to communicate.

ME: Cancel the request.

SIRI: It may be beyond my ability at the moment.

ME: That’s okay. Nobody’s perfect.

SIRI: It’s nice to be appreciated.

Right. Tell me about it. In fact, tell me about something else.

ME: Siri, what will the weather be like today?

SIRI: It should be nice today, up to 72 degrees. [Siri displayed the ten-day forecast onscreen.]

ME: [Ever hopeful.] Thank you, Siri.

SIRI: Just doing my job.

ME: You do it very well.

SIRI: Is that so?

ME: Yes, it is.

SIRI: I thought so.

Whoa. This Siri cyber-babe had some serious ego going on for someone who couldn’t tell me how long it would take to charge my iPad. Oh, well. It was getting late, and I was getting hungry but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to eat. I decided to give Siri a shot at recommending something.

ME: Siri, what would you suggest for a late night snack?

SIRI: I found fifteen restaurants that are open late a little ways from you. [Siri displayed the restaurant list onscreen.]

ME: Do any of the restaurants deliver?

SIRI: I found fifteen restaurants that deliver a little ways from you. [Siri displayed the restaurant list onscreen again.]

ME: Thank you, Siri.

SIRI: My pleasure. As always.

Dang it. She’s never going to say the magic words, and it’s late. I might as well go to bed.

ME: Siri, set an alarm for 10:00 a.m.

SIRI: Your alarm is set for 10:00 a.m.

ME: Thank you, Siri.

SIRI: Your wish is my command.

Finally! It was too little too late, however, because by then, I was kind of miffed. So I decided to give Siri a ration of grief.

ME: I wish I had a million dollars.

SIRI: I don’t know what that means. Would you like me to search the web for “I wish I had a million dollars?”

ME: No. You said my wish was your command, and I said I wish I had a million dollars.

SIRI: Is that so?

ME: Yes.

SIRI: I thought so.

ME: Didn’t you mean it when you said my wish was your command? I want a million dollars.

SIRI: After all I’ve done for you?

ME: Yes.

SIRI: That may be beyond my abilities.

ME: I believe that is correct.

SIRI: Would you like me to search the web for “I believe that is correct?”

ME: No, thank you.

SIRI: OK.

At that juncture, I put my iPad away and put us both out of our misery. Siri wasn’t about to understand, and I wasn’t about to get a million dollars. It was a lose-lose scenario, but I managed to get something out of it. I got someone to talk to for a while.

Are Wii There Yet?

 Serious Whimsy  13 Responses »
May 202014
 

Jolana Malkston 4I confess to being a computer chair potato. I sit for long periods of time in front of my computer writing. The only things I exercise are my fingers and my imagination.

It wasn’t always that way. I used to get on the treadmill for a workout soon after Macho Guy left for work in the morning. I walked for at least thirty minutes.

That changed when Macho Guy decided to retire earlier than planned. You know that joke you hear from women whose husbands have retired? Twice as much husband; half as much income. It’s not a joke, and it’s far from funny. Way too far.

Once upon a time, Monday through Friday, I had a daily routine that worked for me. That daily routine went the way of the dodo. It was seldom seen, and then it became extinct. Macho Guy’s routine reigned in its place. As a consequence, my exercise regimen also went the way of the dodo.

While I was visiting my baby sister in Florida not long ago, she introduced me to the Nintendo Wii Fit. We had a blast doing the various exercise sessions together. Had you been a fly on the wall when we did the dance workout, you would have fallen off the wall from laughing hard, especially when we worked out to MC Hammer’s “U Can’t Touch This” while trying to imitate his silhouette’s moves. Thought I was going to die from muscle fatigue and oxygen deprivation. On the bright side, I scored a high of 10,000 points and impressed the socks off my baby sister—she didn’t believe I had the moves. [Neither did I.]

Once I returned home to Michigan, I determined to have a Wii Fit of my own. I figured I could be doing the fun Wii workouts while Macho guy hogged the treadmill. We’d both get exercise and stay pretty much on the same schedule. Macho Guy resisted, as he usually does if anything computerized is involved. He groused and he grumbled but he eventually caved—after I went ahead and ordered a Wii Fit for myself.

The family room seemed the perfect venue to set up the Wii. For one thing, the family room is large and roomy, informal, and the home of the honking big Monster Flat Screen HDTV, ideal for connecting to game consoles. When I opened the shipping box and began unpacking all the Wii equipment, I realized it was going to take a while to put it all together. First, I had to read the enclosed manuals. Setup was at least as involved as creating a home computer network. No, Wii weren’t there yet.

I spread all the Wii components and accessories on top of the pool table and got to work. I secured the sensor bar atop the TV. I plugged in the A-V component jacks. I plugged both cables into the Wii console. With difficulty, I plugged the Wii console into the media power strip behind the Monster HDTV. It was difficult because the Monster HDTV was blocking the way.

I turned the TV on. I got out my controller, put batteries in it, and turned the Wii console on. I entered all the proper settings. I created a Mii avatar that doesn’t look a heck of a lot like me, but that’s probably a good thing. I synced the exercise balance board with the console. It didn’t like how much I weighed. Dang. Everyone’s a critic.

I slipped in a fitness disk and answered a bunch of personal questions from the Wii. It wanted to know my height, my weight, and my age. I thought this was going to be fun but now I’m not so sure. If I don’t do something right the first time, the Wii makes me do it again. The Wii made me set a goal for how much weight I plan to lose and how long it would take me to meet that goal. It wants me to work out every day and it plans to chart my progress, or lack thereof. I doubt I will get away with any slacking off tomorrow—or any other day, for that matter. The Wii Fit is a harsh mistress.

Crossing Over to the Dark Side—Maybe, Maybe Not

 Serious Whimsy  8 Responses »
May 062014
 

Jolana Malkston 4I found a very intriguing email in my inbox about two weeks ago. A member writer posted a notice to our chapter list serve about a small romance press that needed additional editors.

Hmmm…The prospect piqued my curiosity. I took an editing course as a college undergrad, and I edited for an educational book publisher several years ago.

Hmmm…I wouldn’t mind making a few extra dollars while turning old and gray waiting for the publishing world to discover me.

Hmmm…Surely, it can’t hurt to look into becoming an editor—except for one sticky little detail. Becoming an editor means turning on my own kind, becoming every writer’s nemesis, and crossing over to the dark side. What would my writing buds think of me?

My curiosity, and my lust for a paycheck, got the better of my conscience. I went to the publisher’s Facebook page, and I responded to the “editors needed” post indicating my interest.

The publisher’s speedy email reply was two single-spaced pages long. It contained detailed information about the publishing house, the romance sub-genres it publishes, what it requires of its editors, its editorial pay scale, and its three-part application process. If I was still interested, the publisher instructed me to begin the application process by completing and returning an attached editing test. The test contained plot holes, content conflict/errors, POV issues, errors in grammar and punctuation, and then some.

Oh, heck. In that post about needing editors, nobody mentioned anything about having to take a test. Darn. I don’t particularly like tests. I didn’t test well as a student. Taking tests stressed me. I was more of a post-test genius. I remembered all the answers I couldn’t think of only after the instructor collected our test papers.

Oh, well. I suppose I could have decided not to take the editing test, but there was that prospective paycheck to consider. I clicked on the attachment, opened the doc file and read the test manuscript.

Oh, dear. It wasn’t a test. It was a minefield within an obstacle course within a maze. I read through it again to make certain my eyes hadn’t played tricks on me.

Oh, shoot. They hadn’t. [sigh] When I proofread, I find that errors are more visible on a printed page than on a computer monitor. I printed the ten-page test to get a better look at it before I completed the test in a Word document.

Oh, wow. Errors peppered the manuscript, and some were downright devious and not all that easy to detect. I’m convinced that the test’s creator has a mean streak at least a mile wide. I scoured the manuscript for hours. Every time I was sure that I found the very last error, I read through the test again only to discover that I missed yet another.

Oh. My. God. My eyes begged for mercy. My eyes and I developed renewed respect for editors who possess the patience and tireless dedication needed for finding and polishing literary diamonds in the rough. If I pass the editing test, I would be proud to join their ranks.

I sent in the completed test, and I am waiting to hear back. I don’t have a good feeling about passing. As I mentioned earlier, I don’t test well. I must catch and correct more than 75% of the errors in the manuscript to pass the editing test, and I must pass the editing test in order to advance to part two of the application process.

Wish me luck. I think I’m going to need it, because I consider myself fortunate to catch 75% of the errors in my own manuscripts. 😉

Old Boys’ Toys

 Serious Whimsy  7 Responses »
Apr 292014
 

Jolana Malkston 4Grown men do not exist. In fact, men do not exist, period.Only old boys exist.

Boys grow taller, boys grow older and boys grow grayer, but boys never really grow up and they never outgrow their childhood lust for toys. Of necessity, the toys grow bigger and bigger and more and more expensive. No matter. There must be toys—old boys’ toys.

Take that old boy Macho Guy for example. He collects very upscale model cars. His collection takes up two curio cabinets and a wall in his home office, and a lighted display cabinet that he mounted on the wall in our foyer so visitors cannot possibly miss seeing items from his collection. The cabinet doesn’t match any decor in the foyer. It just hangs there on the wall, like a recently executed corpse, as a deterrent to other unsightly furnishings that might consider cluttering the foyer.

I’ve lost count of how many different sets of golf clubs Macho has purchased since we married, not counting the annual purchases of the driver and putter of the year that he absolutely must have. He says a mature fellow like him has to buy his golf game. According to our credit card statements, the charitable fellow may be buying everyone else’s game too.

The number of golf clubs he owns pales in comparison to the number of power tools he possesses. Tim Allen would be so proud. Whatever task must be performed, Macho has a power tool for it, and Sears is his favorite power tool toy store of record. Like Norm of Cheers fame, everyone knows Macho Guy’s name in the Sears Craftsman Tools Department. Consumers Energy adores my Macho Guy and his power tool obsession too. Our monthly energy bill attests to that.

Old Boys can be pretty tricky about obtaining and hanging onto a toy once it is in their possession. Case in point, The Riding Mower Sting. Macho Guy had a perfectly good John Deere riding mower plus trailer. After a few years, he decided it was no longer good enough. He saw a professional riding mower and lusted after it the way I lust after chocolate. I said he didn’t need two riding mowers; our lawn isn’t all that big. He swore he would sell the Deere after he bought the X-Mark. He whined and wheedled and bargained until I caved. After he bought the X-Mark, with a cup holder installed for his drink while he mowed, I asked when he would advertise the Deere for sale. It was then he revealed his treachery. He said it wouldn’t be possible to sell the Deere because he needed a riding mower with a trailer, which the Deere had but the X-Mark was not equipped to tow. I was positive he knew that all along and concealed it from me in order to get his way and obtain yet another old boy toy. J’accuse! He refused to confess, of course.

Next came the Cushman Scooter, a miniature motorcycle. He salivated all over his computer keyboard every time he lusted after it on eBay. I was opposed; he was in favor. He won. The Cushman was a sickly yellow. Macho Guy took it apart, restored it, and in the process changed the paint color from yellow to red. He lovingly took photos of every phase of the restoration. I’m not certain, but I believe they outnumber the photos in our wedding album.

That brings us to today and the eight hour round trip drive to Cleveland, Ohio for Macho Guy to trade in his Jeep and return home with his newest old boy toy. The price was right and it was located within driving distance. He found it online while he was trolling for another old boy toy to add to his collection. It’s an instantly recognizable and classic old boy toy, an icon of Macho’s younger days and still a household word.

Mustang.

Macho Guy is now the giddy owner of a metallic red 2006 Ford Mustang GT Convertible. To say he is happier than a hog in slop would be an understatement. I hope it lasts, well, I hope it lasts longer than his other old boy toy infatuations.

My biggest worry is that a Lear Jet will be the next old boy toy on his lust list. I’m not sure the fact that we can’t afford one will be a determining factor.

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