Today is primary Election Day in Florida. That means the incessant barrage of political phone calls trying to scare me away from evil candidates will cease. So will the calls from famous people advising me to vote for their candidate of choice. The calls will start again in October. When they do, I would like to leave this message on my answering machine:
“If you are calling on behalf of a candidate, this message is for you. The more you call me and tie up my line, the less likely it is I will vote for your candidate. In fact, I may keep a tally, and the candidate who calls the least is the one for whom I will vote. If I intended to vote for your candidate, I won’t unless your calls cease. If you are saying lies or distorting facts about your opposition, forget about getting my vote. If you keep calling, I will convince others not to vote for you. And, if your voice is that of a famous person, you are not impressing me. I’ll hang up on you, too.”
I would like to leave the message, but there would be no point. The robotic caller doesn’t hear or record. The constant interruptions prove the candidate doesn’t care about me at all. So, if any of you know anyone running for office, give them my message.
Thank you.
I’m Eda Suzanne, and I approve this message.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
What Not to Name the Baby
Many of you have written to ask me if I ever found out the new baby’s name. (See last week’s blog – Color Wise). I did. Her name is Aerin. It’s different. It’s pretty. However, I feel sorry for the child.
There are two divisions in the what-to-name-the-baby camp: those who select unique names and those that select Jacob or Emily. Obviously, because of a lifetime of having to explain my name, as Aerin will probably have to do, I believe parents should select a name from the top 200 “in” names. New situations are not always easy for those of us with monikers that are rarely found in a book of names for a baby.
On the first day of school, my name always drew negative attention to me – usually when I corrected the teacher’s mispronunciation of my name. Today, if it’s not important, I no longer correct people. If I’m listening for my name to be called, I respond to Etta, Ed -a, Edna, Eva, Ida, or Edith. On a rare occasion, a stranger will actually pronounce my name right, with a long e.
Since I’m conditioned to answer anything that remotely resembles my name, yesterday at the doctor’s office, when the nurse called, “Rita,” I stood. Another woman got up at the same time, so I sat down. A minute later, the door opened and this time the nurse called, “Edna.” I went in – without asking the nurse if she sees an “n” on the chart in my first name as I once did.
But, just as having an unusual name can cause adjustment problems, having the “in” name can cause constant confusion, especially in school. My sister once had nine Leslies in one class – 6 boys and 3 girls. In high school, I had five Linda’s in my P.E. class. By the end of the school year, everyone called them by their last name. My gut feeling is that when all those Leslies and Lindas grew up, they gave their children names like Aerin or Eda! And why not. The Edas of the world tend to give our children names such as Charles or Marc.
There are two divisions in the what-to-name-the-baby camp: those who select unique names and those that select Jacob or Emily. Obviously, because of a lifetime of having to explain my name, as Aerin will probably have to do, I believe parents should select a name from the top 200 “in” names. New situations are not always easy for those of us with monikers that are rarely found in a book of names for a baby.
On the first day of school, my name always drew negative attention to me – usually when I corrected the teacher’s mispronunciation of my name. Today, if it’s not important, I no longer correct people. If I’m listening for my name to be called, I respond to Etta, Ed -a, Edna, Eva, Ida, or Edith. On a rare occasion, a stranger will actually pronounce my name right, with a long e.
Since I’m conditioned to answer anything that remotely resembles my name, yesterday at the doctor’s office, when the nurse called, “Rita,” I stood. Another woman got up at the same time, so I sat down. A minute later, the door opened and this time the nurse called, “Edna.” I went in – without asking the nurse if she sees an “n” on the chart in my first name as I once did.
But, just as having an unusual name can cause adjustment problems, having the “in” name can cause constant confusion, especially in school. My sister once had nine Leslies in one class – 6 boys and 3 girls. In high school, I had five Linda’s in my P.E. class. By the end of the school year, everyone called them by their last name. My gut feeling is that when all those Leslies and Lindas grew up, they gave their children names like Aerin or Eda! And why not. The Edas of the world tend to give our children names such as Charles or Marc.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Color Wise
A birth announcement printed in neon colors arrived in the mail from a relative’s relative whom I rarely see. I studied the baby’s name, but could not read it. The curlicues in the calligraphy made the first letter virtually illegible, and the letters I could read didn’t resemble any name I ever heard of.
“Is it a boy or girl?” my husband asked after he looked at the brightly colored design.
“Beats me,” I answered.
I couldn’t call my relative to see if she could decipher the name because she was away on vacation. I put the announcement next to my computer as a reminder to order a gift. For the next several days I studied the name but it still left me baffled. Finally, I decided the safest gift would be to send books, so I ordered them on line. Instead of addressing the gift card to the new baby, I addressed it to the parents.
I usually keep announcements until I receive a thank you note. When I went to put it in my correspondence basket, I laughed aloud.
“What’s so funny?” my husband wanted to know.
“Well, I still don’t know the name, but I figured out the sex.”
“How?”
“The name is printed in hot pink.”
“Is it a boy or girl?” my husband asked after he looked at the brightly colored design.
“Beats me,” I answered.
I couldn’t call my relative to see if she could decipher the name because she was away on vacation. I put the announcement next to my computer as a reminder to order a gift. For the next several days I studied the name but it still left me baffled. Finally, I decided the safest gift would be to send books, so I ordered them on line. Instead of addressing the gift card to the new baby, I addressed it to the parents.
I usually keep announcements until I receive a thank you note. When I went to put it in my correspondence basket, I laughed aloud.
“What’s so funny?” my husband wanted to know.
“Well, I still don’t know the name, but I figured out the sex.”
“How?”
“The name is printed in hot pink.”
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Blame It on the Ringtone
I didn't win one Mah Jongg game yesterday because every one of the players received too many phone calls. Each interruption was necessary and more than acceptable, but -
The different ringtones of everyone’s cell phones had my mind on anything but the game. Sometimes I wonder if advertisers pay cell phone companies to do subliminal advertising via the selection of songs everyone seems to use for ringtones. Each unique signal of incoming calls yesterday forced my mind off of my game.
When we started to play a few years ago, a few of us used the conventional ringtones offered by our cell phone carriers. This created minor confusion when our phones rang since our purses were usually near each other’s, so we all switched to unique ringtones. Yesterday, the blast of "When the Saints Come Marching In" signaled pictures of an adorable grandchild that all the grandmas at the table enjoy seeing. The only problem with that ringtone is it makes me hungry for a beignet – the fried donut-like cake they sell in New Orleans.
Another friend’s ring is reminiscent of the songs played by the Caribbean bands as passengers board the cruise ships headed for the islands. Instead of thinking about the hand I was playing in Mah Jongg, I had the urge to do the Conga around the table with a Pina Colada in my hand.
"Rocky Mountain High" had me remembering some of the most beautiful sites I’ve ever seen. Instead of concentrating on what tiles the other players were discarding, I was thinking of the fun my family had when we went water rafting down the Snake River.
The second time the phone with a song about New York rang, I decided that instead of making Tilapia for dinner, I would stop by the deli after the game and buy some corned beef and fresh rye bread.
Perhaps if my phone rang, I would have won a game or two. If my "Lullaby and Good Night" ringtone had the same effect on my friends as their ringtones were having on me, perchance they would have dozed off during the game. The way I played yesterday, that would have been the only way I could have won a game.
The different ringtones of everyone’s cell phones had my mind on anything but the game. Sometimes I wonder if advertisers pay cell phone companies to do subliminal advertising via the selection of songs everyone seems to use for ringtones. Each unique signal of incoming calls yesterday forced my mind off of my game.
When we started to play a few years ago, a few of us used the conventional ringtones offered by our cell phone carriers. This created minor confusion when our phones rang since our purses were usually near each other’s, so we all switched to unique ringtones. Yesterday, the blast of "When the Saints Come Marching In" signaled pictures of an adorable grandchild that all the grandmas at the table enjoy seeing. The only problem with that ringtone is it makes me hungry for a beignet – the fried donut-like cake they sell in New Orleans.
Another friend’s ring is reminiscent of the songs played by the Caribbean bands as passengers board the cruise ships headed for the islands. Instead of thinking about the hand I was playing in Mah Jongg, I had the urge to do the Conga around the table with a Pina Colada in my hand.
"Rocky Mountain High" had me remembering some of the most beautiful sites I’ve ever seen. Instead of concentrating on what tiles the other players were discarding, I was thinking of the fun my family had when we went water rafting down the Snake River.
The second time the phone with a song about New York rang, I decided that instead of making Tilapia for dinner, I would stop by the deli after the game and buy some corned beef and fresh rye bread.
Perhaps if my phone rang, I would have won a game or two. If my "Lullaby and Good Night" ringtone had the same effect on my friends as their ringtones were having on me, perchance they would have dozed off during the game. The way I played yesterday, that would have been the only way I could have won a game.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tight Squeeze
Several medical tests confirmed my doctor’s original suspicion about my swollen toe: my sneakers were too tight and irritating my toe.
“If I lose 10 pounds, will they fit?” I asked the doctor.
He was unimpressed by my humor, but I’m not one to give up easily.
“I really hate to get rid of all of my sneakers. I have them in five different colors. Can I stretch them?”
Dr. Stone Face ignored this question too. He was busy writing. When he finished, he handed me a prescription for new arches and special sneakers to help my newly diagnosed arthritic toe.
I wasn’t upset when I left his office. After all, as illnesses go, this will not alter my life style
I headed straight for one of the orthopedic shoe stores the doctor recommended. A very nice man measured my feet. “Size 9.”
I paled. Every closed shoe in my closet was an 8 and my sandals ranged from 7 ½ to 8.
“Please measure again.” Surely I knew my own shoe size!
He did. The results were unchanged.
I was bummed. If he was right, my life style was about to change, and not from the arthritic bump on my toe but from a dent in my bank account - I would need to replace all my closed-toed shoes.
He brought out a pair of size 9 sneakers. I winced when I saw the price on the box. The cost was triple what I normally spend. I slipped my feet into them. He tied the laces. “Walk around the store,” he instructed.
I stood up, fully expecting to clip-clop up and down the aisles with sneakers way too big for my foot. To my dismay, each step convinced me that my feet and the sneakers were a match made in heaven. I looked at the salesman. “I don’t understand. All my other shoes fit.” I pointed to the ones I wore into the store.
“Ma’am, you’re pointing to sandals. Nothing’s rubbing on your toes – but they barely cover the soles of your feet.” He proved his point by showing me that my toe imprints reached the end of the shoe.
When did my feet grow?
He went into his storage room and returned with a pair of sandals. “Here,” he said and showed me the almost identical orthopedic sandals my mother wore all the time when she retired and moved to Florida. “These will really help your feet.”
Last week not only cost me a small fortune, but it also moved me up one more rung on my Morph to Mama Ladder.
“If I lose 10 pounds, will they fit?” I asked the doctor.
He was unimpressed by my humor, but I’m not one to give up easily.
“I really hate to get rid of all of my sneakers. I have them in five different colors. Can I stretch them?”
Dr. Stone Face ignored this question too. He was busy writing. When he finished, he handed me a prescription for new arches and special sneakers to help my newly diagnosed arthritic toe.
I wasn’t upset when I left his office. After all, as illnesses go, this will not alter my life style
I headed straight for one of the orthopedic shoe stores the doctor recommended. A very nice man measured my feet. “Size 9.”
I paled. Every closed shoe in my closet was an 8 and my sandals ranged from 7 ½ to 8.
“Please measure again.” Surely I knew my own shoe size!
He did. The results were unchanged.
I was bummed. If he was right, my life style was about to change, and not from the arthritic bump on my toe but from a dent in my bank account - I would need to replace all my closed-toed shoes.
He brought out a pair of size 9 sneakers. I winced when I saw the price on the box. The cost was triple what I normally spend. I slipped my feet into them. He tied the laces. “Walk around the store,” he instructed.
I stood up, fully expecting to clip-clop up and down the aisles with sneakers way too big for my foot. To my dismay, each step convinced me that my feet and the sneakers were a match made in heaven. I looked at the salesman. “I don’t understand. All my other shoes fit.” I pointed to the ones I wore into the store.
“Ma’am, you’re pointing to sandals. Nothing’s rubbing on your toes – but they barely cover the soles of your feet.” He proved his point by showing me that my toe imprints reached the end of the shoe.
When did my feet grow?
He went into his storage room and returned with a pair of sandals. “Here,” he said and showed me the almost identical orthopedic sandals my mother wore all the time when she retired and moved to Florida. “These will really help your feet.”
Last week not only cost me a small fortune, but it also moved me up one more rung on my Morph to Mama Ladder.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Treasure Hunting Without Leaving Home
The big discussion between my husband and me these past few weeks is should we move from our home of 35 years to what I call a seniorville. To both of us, retirement communities are sleep away camps for active seniors who are looking for a large menu of activities to keep them busy. We concluded several years ago that this kind of lifestyle was not for my husband as long as he was working full time. But his needs and work hours have changed, therefore we are making lists of all the reasons to move or stay.
Today, while I unsuccessfully searched for my gold hoop earrings that I wore last week, I thought of a unique new reason to make the move. Think of all the misplaced jewelry I could find -and the treasure hunt won’t be limited to that alone. Last week when I cleaned out our hall closet, I found a long- forgotten-about tablecloth hanging underneath a blazer I haven’t worn in years. By the time I finished that one closet, I had also recovered almost six dollars in change and one long lost gift card!
As of now, we still are wavering on our decision to take the big step, but one thing is certain - I’m going to continue to act as if we’re moving until I find my gold hoop earrings!
Today, while I unsuccessfully searched for my gold hoop earrings that I wore last week, I thought of a unique new reason to make the move. Think of all the misplaced jewelry I could find -and the treasure hunt won’t be limited to that alone. Last week when I cleaned out our hall closet, I found a long- forgotten-about tablecloth hanging underneath a blazer I haven’t worn in years. By the time I finished that one closet, I had also recovered almost six dollars in change and one long lost gift card!
As of now, we still are wavering on our decision to take the big step, but one thing is certain - I’m going to continue to act as if we’re moving until I find my gold hoop earrings!
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Irregardless - Ouch!
Could my ears have deceived me or did I actually hear a popular talk show host on a cable news network use the word “irregardless?” I’m tempted to send off an email and correct this man who interviews presidential candidates and an infinite number of dignitaries – tempted, but not sure I want to do so. I was stunned he obviously didn’t know there is no such word as “irregardless.” The pedestal I held him on tilted a little when I heard him utter the word. However, I would like to prevent him from further mortification since I still like him – regardless of his error.
I learned years ago that not all adults appreciate when you correct their grammar. When a young neighbor, who was once a friend, told me, “Me and my sister love all the flowers in front of your house,” I made the mistake of correcting her grammar. She turned red, snapped that she was no longer in school, and insisted she didn’t have to impress anyone.
My mother ranked proper speech next to cleanliness when it came to making first impressions. Mom was forever correcting her own three children and continued the practice with her eight grandkids. Once she corrected a letter one granddaughter sent from camp and then sent it back to her. Like my neighbor, my niece was anything but grateful. “You’re not my teacher, you’re my Nana,” she told her. “You’re supposed to love everything I do.”
Guilt worked. My mother stopped correcting letters from her grandkids, but it didn’t stop her if they spoke to her incorrectly. “Smart people should know the difference between ‘can’ and ‘may’” she would tell them.
When the principal of my son’s high school spoke during open house for the freshmen’s parents, he used the word “irregardless.” Half the people in the room cringed. My husband warned me not to correct the principal when the evening was over. “You can tell him after our son graduates, but not before.”
I listened to my husband, but it was frustrating – ‘irregardless” was one of the man’s pet words. According to one of my friends on his faculty, he was finally corrected by one of the English teachers – at her retirement party.
So, now to my dilemma: should I email the blond-haired, rapid-speaking talk show host or continue the policy I have followed ever since I offended my neighbor? On the other hand, I could write him and tell him to read my blog!
I learned years ago that not all adults appreciate when you correct their grammar. When a young neighbor, who was once a friend, told me, “Me and my sister love all the flowers in front of your house,” I made the mistake of correcting her grammar. She turned red, snapped that she was no longer in school, and insisted she didn’t have to impress anyone.
My mother ranked proper speech next to cleanliness when it came to making first impressions. Mom was forever correcting her own three children and continued the practice with her eight grandkids. Once she corrected a letter one granddaughter sent from camp and then sent it back to her. Like my neighbor, my niece was anything but grateful. “You’re not my teacher, you’re my Nana,” she told her. “You’re supposed to love everything I do.”
Guilt worked. My mother stopped correcting letters from her grandkids, but it didn’t stop her if they spoke to her incorrectly. “Smart people should know the difference between ‘can’ and ‘may’” she would tell them.
When the principal of my son’s high school spoke during open house for the freshmen’s parents, he used the word “irregardless.” Half the people in the room cringed. My husband warned me not to correct the principal when the evening was over. “You can tell him after our son graduates, but not before.”
I listened to my husband, but it was frustrating – ‘irregardless” was one of the man’s pet words. According to one of my friends on his faculty, he was finally corrected by one of the English teachers – at her retirement party.
So, now to my dilemma: should I email the blond-haired, rapid-speaking talk show host or continue the policy I have followed ever since I offended my neighbor? On the other hand, I could write him and tell him to read my blog!
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