The other day I was meandering through the local hardware store hoping to meet the rich hunky guy o' my dreams when I saw some toilet repair kits, so I stopped. Yes, I did. My house has a constantly gurgling toilet. If it burbled something intelligent, like "Paris is ugly" or "Bosox stink", I'd consider keeping the gurgler, or at least selling it to a good home on eBay, but it babbled nonsense constantly, like the Stepford wife next door.
To me, paying a plumber the equivalent of a pair of Dolce & Gabbana pumps just to mess with my pipes makes no sense at all. He's only going to waste my money on beer, and not even the imported stuff. Like many women, I don't enjoy handing over my paycheck to a guy who can't even keep his pants up properly. That's why I'm divorced.
Anyway - I saw hardware at the Do-it Center, whipped out my credit card, and brought home a lovely 10 inch ballcock. The packaging flaunted '3 easy steps.' The inside was another story - weird nuts, a washer, and an odd metallic thingy. I sighed. Yet another deceptive ballcock.
But unlike in my marriage, this time I would persevere. I shut off the feed line, swapped out the flush valve, screwed on the hex nut, hooked up the tube mahoozit and whammo, I was flush with excitement. Sorry, Mr. Plumber, but you needed to cut back on the Bud anyway. I'm going shoe shopping.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Thursday, July 6, 2006
A California Yankee in King George’s Sport
As a nation, we love underdogs. We cheer the eternal losers, the have-nots. We honor those who rise above their expected lot in life, who toss tea in the harbor and thumb their noses at royalty. Conversely, we sneer at the topcats, the aristocracy, the Trumps. Look how evil he is, with his arrogant smirk and his emperor’s new combover. A pox, or something, anything on his head!
"Hello, my name is Joe, and I’m a Cubs fan." That’ll get you a commiserating pat on the back and perhaps a free beer. Poor clueless Joe – doomed to a life of losing, somehow managing to survive on the kindness and kegs of sympathetic strangers.
Heaven forbid you prefer a team that wins, owned by a guy who has the audacity to announce that he (gasp!) wants to win! And then -holy gold bullion- backs that statement with his checkbook. The sheer nerve! How dare he be rich and successful. This is America, dammit! Be a humble failure and wait for a movie to be made about you.
I’d like you to meet the uber-underdog. "Hello, my name is Annie, and I’m a Yankee’s fan." Think the Cubs fans have it rough? Sure, their team hasn’t won since Moses threw out the first pitch, but just once, shut the heck up and walk a mile in my Guccis.
First of all, I’m in alien territory – California. New York has not forgiven California since O’Malley (aka – the ‘Devil’) shipped the Dodgers westward like so many mad cows. New Yorkers never forget- they can be living in Saskatchewan for 46 years and still retain that fragrant Brooklyn accent as they curse out Walter "Scum ‘o da Earth" O’Malley. New Yorkers also don’t like being told in the middle of winter that it’s "a bit chilly out here in LA, almost down to 60 degrees." That really frosts their pumpkins. (I have a whole list of ways to tweak New Yorkers, but my mom’s a union boss, and if I shared the list, she’d have me whacked.)
Second, I’m in LA, where the local team is owned by a guy who looks and acts like Snidely Whiplash with a decent tailor. He promises a pennant while he’s busy measuring the stadium land for condos. You can almost hear him waxing his handlebar mustache while he auditions "new talent" (aka losers) to sing the National Anthem at games for free. Next he’ll probably auction off to the highest bidder the chance to play 3rd base. So when a sugar daddy like Steinbrenner opens his wallet, these LA fans get a bad case of checkbook envy.
Fourth (I stole third, so sue me), when the Yankees lose, people rejoice like Britney got her tubes tied. What’s that all about? How healthy is it to cheer against somebody? I guess it’s better than taking it out on your cat, but really – find a therapist and get that chip on your shoulder surgically removed. Then have it bronzed, because that’s the closest you’re gonna come to a World Series trophy.
So the next time you run into a Yankees fan, whether it’s at the Ivy or Harry Winston’s, or even down in Newport Beach, try to remember the struggle they’ve gone through, the sneers they’ve endured, the crude verbal tauntings they’ve had to sue over. Have a little consideration for what their angst and buy them a nice chardonnay. It’s lonely at the top, but the view is spectacular. You may not be able to live up there, but if you’re nice to us, we may let you visit.
"Hello, my name is Joe, and I’m a Cubs fan." That’ll get you a commiserating pat on the back and perhaps a free beer. Poor clueless Joe – doomed to a life of losing, somehow managing to survive on the kindness and kegs of sympathetic strangers.
Heaven forbid you prefer a team that wins, owned by a guy who has the audacity to announce that he (gasp!) wants to win! And then -holy gold bullion- backs that statement with his checkbook. The sheer nerve! How dare he be rich and successful. This is America, dammit! Be a humble failure and wait for a movie to be made about you.
I’d like you to meet the uber-underdog. "Hello, my name is Annie, and I’m a Yankee’s fan." Think the Cubs fans have it rough? Sure, their team hasn’t won since Moses threw out the first pitch, but just once, shut the heck up and walk a mile in my Guccis.
First of all, I’m in alien territory – California. New York has not forgiven California since O’Malley (aka – the ‘Devil’) shipped the Dodgers westward like so many mad cows. New Yorkers never forget- they can be living in Saskatchewan for 46 years and still retain that fragrant Brooklyn accent as they curse out Walter "Scum ‘o da Earth" O’Malley. New Yorkers also don’t like being told in the middle of winter that it’s "a bit chilly out here in LA, almost down to 60 degrees." That really frosts their pumpkins. (I have a whole list of ways to tweak New Yorkers, but my mom’s a union boss, and if I shared the list, she’d have me whacked.)
Second, I’m in LA, where the local team is owned by a guy who looks and acts like Snidely Whiplash with a decent tailor. He promises a pennant while he’s busy measuring the stadium land for condos. You can almost hear him waxing his handlebar mustache while he auditions "new talent" (aka losers) to sing the National Anthem at games for free. Next he’ll probably auction off to the highest bidder the chance to play 3rd base. So when a sugar daddy like Steinbrenner opens his wallet, these LA fans get a bad case of checkbook envy.
Fourth (I stole third, so sue me), when the Yankees lose, people rejoice like Britney got her tubes tied. What’s that all about? How healthy is it to cheer against somebody? I guess it’s better than taking it out on your cat, but really – find a therapist and get that chip on your shoulder surgically removed. Then have it bronzed, because that’s the closest you’re gonna come to a World Series trophy.
So the next time you run into a Yankees fan, whether it’s at the Ivy or Harry Winston’s, or even down in Newport Beach, try to remember the struggle they’ve gone through, the sneers they’ve endured, the crude verbal tauntings they’ve had to sue over. Have a little consideration for what their angst and buy them a nice chardonnay. It’s lonely at the top, but the view is spectacular. You may not be able to live up there, but if you’re nice to us, we may let you visit.
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