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LAURA ON LIFE
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Never was convenience so inconvenient than when they invented the drive-thru lanes at banks and restaurants. They were supposed to alleviate the chore of getting out of your car and going into the building to get want you wanted. There are times, though, when I think getting out of my car would be preferable to dealing with the drive-thru lanes.
I go through the drive-thru at the fast food restaurants because if I go into the building, it may be just that amount of time my mind needs to talk me out of it. You see, my waistline knows that it's not good for me, but my mouth thinks it's ambrosia. Since my mouth is closer to my brain, it will win if I don't give my waistline enough time to send the message: "No, you fool!" So I find myself going through the agonizing process of ordering food through a hole in a giant menu more often than I should consider prudent.
Why do they always hire people that sound as though they have marbles in their mouth? "Hello, welcome to masdghruh. May I take your asgjhk?" I have been through enough drive-thrus now that I know that no matter what their first line is or how garbled it comes out, it's usually an invitation to recite my order. So I do. The trouble comes if they need to ask a question. Then I'm lost. "ergo hag;ih argfoij?" If I haven't translated that by the second "What??" then I'm forced to simply say "Yes" and hope that the faceless voice didn't just ask me if I wanted extra hot sauce on my sandwich. If the order comes to me wrong, I have to assume that I asked for it that way.
I've always wanted to mess with them a little, though:
Marble-Mouth: "Hello, welcome to agpiure, may I take your fgiharg?"
Me: "Yes, I'd like a
and an order of
and a
."
Marble-Mouth: "Would you repeat that please?"
Me: "A
., an order of
and a
"
Marble-Mouth: "I'm sorry, I didn't dsflg you."
Me: "What's
. problem? Can't you
me?"
Marble-Mouth: "gfluhrg."
I could take pleasure in imagining the kid smacking himself in the head, trying to get his headset to work. The only thing stopping me from doing this is the knowledge that he doesn't get paid enough to take that kind of mdfghllk.
When I go through the bank drive-thru, I usually try to go to the first window where the drawer slides out to you. Otherwise you have to get your car very close to the air gun thingy that shoots your transactions into the building. I'm afraid I'll scratch my car on those poles they insist on putting there so you won't hit the air gun thingy.
Once, I had to drive my husband's truck through a drive-thru lane at the bank. I was all dressed up in a skirt, on my way to somewhere I don't remember. I learned that when you are in a truck, you can't simply lean out and grab the cylinder because it's about a foot lower than your hand can reach. So I had to unbuckle my seat belt, wiggle up onto my hands and knees, stick my torso out the window and bend way down to reach that darn cylinder. If there had been the slightest breeze, the guy in the lane next to me would have gotten a shockingly intimate view of my nether regions. I snagged the cylinder, whacked my head on the door frame on the way back in, and sat on my haunches to insert my transaction into the cylinder.
There was no reason to get back into driving position until I got the cylinder back so I stayed there on my knees and waited for the air gun to shoot my receipt back. Then I hung my body back out there again, giving the next lane more information about my butt than they needed again, retrieved my cylinder and whacked my head on the way back in
again. Then I repeated this procedure including the whack on the head to put the cylinder back.
Why didn't I just go inside? Because it wasn't convenient, I suppose.
Laura Snyder may be reached at lsnyder@lauraonlife.com
Or check her website www.lauraonlife.com for archived columns
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My husband's doctor is to blame for why I am so miserable and tired this week. He told my husband that he has to lose 30 pounds and that his cholesterol and triglycerides were too high. He recommended a low-carb diet.
When my husband came home and told me this, I inwardly groaned because I knew that there was no way he was going on a diet unless I did too. A diet is a team sport in my house. One of us doesn't do it without the other and the scale is the score-keeper.
To be fair, I probably needed to go on a diet too, but I just wasn't ready to give up my chocolate and sweets, breads and potatoes. From my point of view, there was no reason to. But my husband assures me that somewhere in my marriage vows, I said that when he goes on a diet, I will go on one as well. I must have zoned out during that part.
I would probably be a little more enthusiastic if I actually lost weigh while I was on this diet, though. Each time I step on the scale, it says the same thing. I would start to suspect that it was broken, but each time my husband steps on it, it says he's lost another 2 pounds. My scale hates me.
We eat practically the same things each day, but for some reason he loses weigh and I just wish I did. He explains this phenomenon by saying that the reason for it is that he eats pistachio nuts each evening and I don't. Well, I don't like pistachio nuts. Besides I think that the fact that he used to eat ice cream, chips and dip, and cheese and crackers every night is the reason. Now he's not. He's eating pistachio nuts.
The diet we're on merely makes me tired. Sometimes I'm even too tired to eat (which one would think would help the scale situation).
One of the only things you can eat for breakfast, that is not a carbohydrate, is eggs. We've had eggs just about every way you can cook them for the last week and a half and you know what? They don't taste any better than the first time. In fact, no matter which way they are cooked, they are not enough to even tempt me to get out of bed in the morning.
My husband will be in the kitchen enthusiastically cooking up another batch scrambled with peppers and onions, ham, cheese. Just the smell of them makes me nauseous. It's simply not natural to eat peppers and onions for breakfast. Ugh!
The kids are not helping, either. Every morning they save the best heart marshmallow from their morning cereal just for me. If I don't eat it, they are in despair for the rest of the day. "Mommy doesn't love me anymore." So I have to stay in bed until they leave
not that that's a hardship. They leave tempting half-eaten squares of Pop Tarts on the table when they leave for school. They come home from school and want to share their treats with me. So, just when the sharing gene kicks in, I have to refuse them.
What I wouldn't give for a nice plump cinnamon roll, fresh from the oven and slathered with butter cream icing on the top! Heck, I would settle for a frosted Mini Wheat. But if I have to look at one more egg, or smell it for that matter, I may do something violent.
If I have to listen to my husband tell me that he's lost another five pounds and "Look, my pants don't fit anymore!", I will definitely do something violent.
For now, though, I think I'll take a nap.
Laura Snyder may be reached at lsnyder@lauraonlife.com
Or check her website www.lauraonlife.com for archived columns
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It is very difficult to have a sunny outlook on life when someone you love is in pain. Sometimes, though, humor may be the only thing that keeps you sane during times of emotional stress. So although, I may sound a bit flippant in this piece, humor is merely my release.
My nine-year old son had an accident (train wreck) on his bicycle yesterday. On the way to the emergency room, I asked him what happened. He said he was just riding his bike.
"I see," I said, "You were riding along on your bike, minding your own business, when the pavement came up and slapped you in the face?"
He tried to smile through his swollen lips and it came out more like a twisted grimace.
"Well, I guess I might have been racing with my friend and I tried to turn too fast."
"That sounds a little more believable", I said.
"Mom, do you think I will need stitches?" I hate questions like those.
I sighed and said, "Yes, honey, I think so."
It turns out, though, that the emergency room doctors have this glue stuff that they can use instead of stitches. When the doctor said, they were going to use a little super glue instead of stitches on that gash, I wanted to stand up and cheer. Wow, can they do that?! I wonder how they came up with that? I can see some ten-year old future medical researcher playing with his model airplanes and practicing gluing his boo-boos shut. Who else would have thought to use super glue to close a cut except a kid? I could hear the wheels turning in my son's head as he thought about the possibility of other uses for super glue.
Anyway, he was lucky with the cut. His teeth, however, are another story. You know those teeth. The ones you thought that ten years worth of orthodontists bills wouldn't straighten out? Well, as it turns out, that is no longer a concern, because two of them are no longer attached to his gums after his attempt to embed them into his lips. So instead of spreading out those orthodontists bills over ten years, we'll get to pay for replacement teeth all at once. That's the kind of news that's right up there with an IRS audit.
His knees and knuckles look like he went through a meat grinder, but the nurse kept saying, "He's lucky not to have any gravel in these cuts."
My son said he didn't feel too lucky. I thought maybe a little gravel would've helped to plug up some of the holes a little. But she assured me that gravel would not have been a good thing.
When we were finally ready to leave the hospital, I said to my son, "You know, if you were really worried about the end of grade tests, we could've found a less extreme way to deal with them other than throwing your face onto the road."
He smiled/grimaced again. After a while, he said, "I can't wait to go back to school!"
I was shocked. He wanted to go to school? "I think you'll be staying home at least one day, but why can't you wait to go to school?"
"Well, when the kids at school ask what happened to me, I can tell them I got attacked by zombies and I won! I always wanted to do that."
Ah, the resilience of youth.
Laura Snyder may be reached at lsnyder@lauraonlife.com
Or check her website www.lauraonlife.com for archived columns
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A married couple has a language that only they will understand. My husband and I can communicate with ease, especially after as much practice as we have had in our twenty-five years together.
The connubial dialect is kind of a mix between Pig Latin and Charades. You're saying one thing but meaning something quite different; and there is volumes being said in seemingly innocuous body language.
A husband comes home from work and says diplomatically, "What are you cooking?" Which, to the wife, means, "What is that smell?"
The wife will reply with a pointed look, "It's Beef Stronganoff." Which means, "I know it's not your favorite, but don't say that in front of the kids."
They sit down to eat and the husband says, "So, how was your day?" (Interpretation: "What did you do all day?")
The wife answers, "It was okay. How was yours?" (Interpretation: "Just peachy. Did you get to clean any toilets today?")
Husband: "Busy. I'm glad I'm home." (I'm tired. All I want to do is veg-out in front of the TV.)
Wife: "Your son is having trouble with division in school." (No TV until you help the kid with his division homework.)
Husband: "I guess he got that gene from you, huh?" (Why can't you help him with his homework?)
Wife with a smile: "Yeah, right." (Oh, you're so funny. But you're still helping him.)
After dinner the wife says: "I need to pick up a few things from the store." (I need to get out of here for a few minutes.)
Husband: "Ok, pick up a bottle of wine while you're out." (I have plans for tonight.)
Wife, without looking at him: "Sure." (Dream on.)
So, the wife does her shopping while the husband helps junior with his division homework. When she comes home, she's exhausted and he's aggravated. The husband helps bring in the groceries and she unpacks them.
Husband: "Thanks for getting the wine. Do you want a glass? (Do I have a shot at getting some action tonight?)
Wife: "No thanks." (Not a chance.)
Husband: "Are you feeling alright?" (Are you sure?)
Wife: "Yeah, I'm just tired." (I'm sure.)
Husband: "I was watching Dawn of the Dead on TV, but I can put on something funny if you want." (Come on, I'm dying, here.)
Wife: "I was going to read and then go to bed, but let's see what else is on first." (Convince me.)
Husband, with a suggestive smile: "Well, we could just go to bed." (Let's get to it!)
Wife: "Not yet. I need to wind down first." (Not so fast, big boy. That's not very convincing!)
Husband, with a sigh: "Why don't you lay down on my lap and I'll rub your back." (This will be pure torture, but I'm willing to make the effort.)
Wife: "Okay." (Now you're talking!)
After the sitcom and some rather skillfully executed back-rubbing:
Husband: "Are you ready for bed, now?" (Are you ready for me now?)
Wife, happy and content now: "Yeah
I think so."
Laura Snyder may be reached at lsnyder@lauraonlife.com
Or check her website www.lauraonlife.com for archived columns
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