Sonic toothbrush
I’m a big fan of the battery-operated toothbrush. I think that it does a much better job of cleaning my teeth than a manual, non-battery-operated toothbrush.
Every year for Christmas Santa leaves in my stocking a new toothbrush, toothpaste and (usually) some Crest White Strips. Santa is big on dental hygiene in my house. For the past few years he has left a Crest Spinbrush, a nifty little item that, at around $7, is right in my price range for above average tooth care.
As you may know, the Crest Spinbrush is no more. As of sometime last year it was purchased by Arm & Hammer. So, now it is the Arm & Hammer Spinbrush. As an informed consumer I can say with some certainty that besides the logo atop the packaging, I notice very little difference between the old and the new. Kudos to Arm & Hammer.
For whatever reason, I didn’t open my new toothbrush until today, almost a full month after Christmas. After ripping open the ultra-thick, somewhat dangerous plastic packaging I noticed that my new toothbrush looked a little different. Why? Because, gentle readers, my new toothbrush isn’t just any ordinary battery-operated toothbrush. It is a sonic toothbrush.
I had to laugh. The first thing I thought of was Dr. Who’s sonic screwdriver, and the argument that the Doctor got into with a guy about it: “Of all the things that you can make sonic, why a screwdriver?” Hilarious. But you probably had to be there.
What makes a toothbrush sonic? I’m honestly not sure. But I can tell you one thing: this new toothbrush buzzed so hard in my mouth that I’m still seeing double. It vibrated at a speed unattained by my previous toothbrushes. I have no idea if it’s because of the recent Arm & Hammer acquisition or because of the sonic qualities of this apparently super toothbrush. All I know is that my teeth feel dentist clean.
So, gentle readers, spill: what kind of toothbrush do you use, and does it live up to your standards of proper dental hygiene?
Mozart: Adagio in b minor, K. 540
Since acquiring the Roxio Easy VHS to DVD hookup, I’ve been kind of obsessed with transferring home movies to digital format. I’ve taken all the home movies from my parents’ house with the intention of preserving my childhood memories on the computer and eventually YouTube. I’ve even taken to raiding my friends’ houses for their home movies. I may be going a bit overboard.
Among the videos I unearthed was my senior piano recital from college, almost seven years ago. While I’m the first to admit that it was not one of my best overall performances (read: there were several very noticeable mistakes), I did manage to pull a couple flawless gems from the relative muck. One of those is Mozart’s Adagio in b minor, K. 540.
While not the most technically difficult piece I’ve ever played, the emotional investment in this piece was great. There is a melancholy longing that is felt through almost painfully exquisite exposed simplicity.
Incidentally, I was incredibly fortunate to have the honor of being coached on this piece during a master class earlier in the year by the legendary Richard Goode, who is well known for his interpretation of Beethoven. While everyone else in my studio was prepared with a Beethoven sonata, Mr. Goode seemed delighted at the opportunity to work with me on the Mozart. Definitely one of the highlights of my musical career.
Please excuse the quality of the video; it was transferred from a quickly deteriorating VHS tape, and the person running the camera (which was supposedly set up on a tripod) didn’t have the steadiest hand at times. That said, I’m impressed that the sound quality is as good as it is.
Windowpane Scarf
I have a really bad habit of starting a knitting project and leaving it half finished. Scarves usually feel the brunt of my lack of follow-through. At least with a hat or a sock I know I can finish quickly, so I am more motivated to complete it. But scarves go on forever, especially if the pattern is small and intricate. However, I do actually manage to finish something on the rare occasion. This time around, after months of alternate excitement and near-death boredom, I finished the Windowpane Scarf.
This monolith of a scarf (as modeled by yours truly to the right) is about 12 inches wide and 80 inches long, including the fringe. I used about a skein and a half of Red Heart Super Saver worsted weight yarn (7 oz./198 g.) in Carrot, and a set of size 8 knitting needles.
The pattern, with a couple small tweaks (because I messed up early on and decided I liked it), is easily memorized, so it was the perfect project to work on while vegging in front of the television.
Of course, credit should be given where credit is due. This pattern was not my own. Heavens, no. It came from here.
Tales from the potty
The restaurant was full, but the three-stalled restroom was unoccupied, save for the woman about ten years my senior who had entered just seconds before me. We chose the stalls on opposite sides of the room, leaving the middle stall as a buffer between us. Standard restroom etiquette.
Just after I had gotten myself situated, I heard a voice, loud and resonant:
“Hi, Ruthie, it’s Mrs. Lasky. Is your mom or dad home?”
When you hear another person’s voice in a public restroom, the first thought is usually that someone is addressing you personally. It wasn’t until she finished her question and waited for Ruthie (whoever she was) to fetch the person to whom she wanted to speak that I realized she wasn’t actually talking to me. A minute later she continued:
“Hi Carol, it’s me. Yeah, I’m out with Allison and her friends after some Girl Scout thing…”
Why is this lady talking on the phone in a public restroom? It’s not as if she was standing in line by the sinks, killing time while waiting her turn. She was actually on the toilet. And it wasn’t as if she was making some urgent call about work or some personal emergency involving forgetting to turn off the stove. She was chatting. Just chewing the fat with a bud. While sitting on the toilet. In a public restroom.
After careful thought and the eventual realization that I wasn’t going to overhear the plotting of a mob hit (and the completion of my own personal business), I decided to go on my merry way. I got myself together and reached around to flush the toilet. Just then, the woman, who had until that moment completely ignored my presence, turned on me.
Now would probably be a good time to add that, being a restroom, the woman two stalls over who was carrying on an innocuous conversation with an apparent friend was making some noises that belonged in a men’s restroom in a bean eating factory. I have never before heard so much or such loud gas being passed within such a small timeframe, especially when the person knows of my presence. So, it’s not as if this woman wanted to conceal the fact that she was in the restroom from her friend. She wasn’t even trying, and she certainly didn’t apologize. Surely the person on the other end of the connection had heard the sounds of this woman’s terrifying flatulence long before the flushing of my toilet. Perhaps that is why I was so surprised at what came next.
“Do you MIND?? I am on the PHONE!!!“
She yelled at me. She actually yelled at me because the sound of a flushing toilet in a public restroom interrupted her phone conversation. Stunned, I rushed out of the stall and over to the sink, secretly hoping I could get out of there before she could raise her voice at me again.
As I left the restroom, I heard her say, “Sorry about that. Some people…”
Haiku 22
Christmas shopping done,
wrapping commencing today.
Where is my Scotch tape?
Megan Dancing
Back in 1985 or so, when I was about four years old, I took “dance” lessons. I put “dance” in quotation marks because while we wore dance shoes and tights, we didn’t exactly dance. It was more of a coordination class. Well, apparently, our dance teacher thought we were so fabulous that she volunteered us to perform on live television, for the Delaware Special Olympics Telethon.
While my parents drove me to the television studio, which they tell me was many, many miles away, a neighbor offered to record the telethon so that my television debut would be forever saved for posterity. It was saved on a simple black VHS labeled “Megan Dancing,” which I have just transferred to the computer using my brand new Roxio Easy VHS to DVD.
A few notes about the performance, which may be more clear after you watch it:
- The quality is a little wonky, but that should be expected considering the tape is almost 25 years old.
- I was the line leader.
- We were supposed to stop in the middle of the stage, not at the far side.
- We did actually have a routine prepared.
- Despite what happened, we were not part of the Special Olympics.
Recent reviews of our performance raved:
So cute and a little scary!
Don’t quit your day job!
Even after all these years, it makes me laugh til tears are in my eyes.
And so, gentle readers, without further ado I present “Megan Dancing.” Enjoy!
Roxio Easy VHS to DVD
I don’t remember having a lot of home movies made when I was a kid. Some parents toted the video camera everywhere with them, recording each inconsequential moment of their precious little snowflakes’ lives. The result was usually stacks of VHS tapes in a box or a closet, gathering dust for years because everyone was too embarrassed to watch them.
Because my parents were much more selective about what they captured with the camcorder (that, and the fact that I don’t remember even having a camcorder until I was almost in high school), our selection of home movies is rather limited. Most of them, in fact, are still on the teeny little tapes that came with the new technology of our camcorder – no more lugging around full-sized VHS tapes! – which also means that we probably can’t even watch them anymore, since I don’t think my parents even know where the camcorder is.
Speaking of watching home movies, and other VHS tapes, does anyone even own a VCR anymore? My parents do, but I doubt that it’s hooked up. My grandparents do, but they still don’t really know how to work it. I was talking to a student of mine about VHS tapes and VCRs a while back, and she looked at me like I was making the concept up.
In any case, about the same time that I was rooting through a box of VHS tapes of my own, a friend of mine decided to hook up his VCR. I found a few “home” tapes that had only my name on the label to indicate that something I did had been recorded. We decided to see what was on the tapes.
Lo an behold, two of the tapes held my senior and graduate piano recitals! I would have completely forgotten about them, had it not been for a sudden urge to hook up the VCR. Of course, it’s not like I can show them to anyone, due to the previously stated disappearing VCR phenomenon.
Enter Roxio Easy VHS to DVD. This is the best $80 I have spent all year. The hookup is really quite foolproof: you just connect the video and audio output cords from your VCR into the plugs provided in the box, which connect to a USB plug that hooks into your computer. The image and sound then plays through your computer via the newly installed program, and you can record as much or as little as you like. You can then edit the movie like you would any other in a program like iMovie and either burn the memories to DVD or publish embarrassing childhood moments to YouTube.
This nifty little gadget is available for both PC and Mac, though for some reason, the Mac version costs $20 more.
The only problem I have found is that the new digital files often take up quite a bit of room on one’s computer, especially if they are long clips. However, if you have an external hard drive with an insane amount of space, this really shouldn’t be an issue.
Tune in tomorrow, when I post the real reason why I purchased this product.
Bitch
Bitch. The name called to me from across the aisle. Scribbled in the haphazardly angular curls of handwritten cursive, a combination of the hastiness of today and the delicate detail of yesteryear, upon a subtle pink label edged with alternating tiny black hearts and daggers, I laughed out loud. This would be an awesome wine.
When I buy wine, two criteria guide me: the price and the label.
Call me cheap, but the price tag is the first thing I look at when I buy wine. I refuse to buy a bottle of wine that costs more than $15, so if the bottle costs more than that, I won’t give it a second glance. Some of the best wines I have ever tasted have cost me only $9. Perhaps I am not as cultured enough as some of the wine snobs who won’t drink anything but the finest wine made from grapes crushed by the dainty feet of a perfectly proportioned Italian beauty, but the fact is that my tongue cannot tell the difference between relatively cheap and more expensive wines. Since that is the case, why spend the money on one ridiculously expensive wine when you can spend the same amount of money for two or even three bottles of a perfectly good, less costly vintage?
That said, the price was definitely right when I stumbled across Bitch. At about $10 a bottle (not including the discount I would get if I paid in cash), Bitch was on the right track.
In addition to price, the label is an incredibly important factor in my wine purchasing escapades. I’m not talking about the information on the label; I don’t care what year it is, or from what vineyard it came, or any of the garbage that usually guides cultured wine buyers. No, gentle readers, I buy my wine by the artistic design of the label. The physical label itself has to entertain me, tickle my funny bone, make my inner (almost non-existent) graphic designer jealous. I’m certainly not picky. After all, I did buy a bottle of wine once because it had a picture of a giant rooster on it. (Incidentally, that happens to be one of my favorite wines. But that’s another story for another time.)
After laughing aloud at the front label (and drawing a few odd stares from the other patrons around me in the liquor store) I turned it over to find out more: what kind of wine is it? What kind of grape? Where is it from? With what kind of expertly-prepared dinner should I pair it?
Instead of the usual fluff about the fullness of body and hints of random fruits and berries and flowers like a high-end perfume, I was greeted with a repetition of the word “bitch.” Sixty seven times, in fact, followed by “and bitch some more.” Surely you must have guessed that that won me over immediately, and I bought the bottle without further hesitation.
To me, a wine is acceptable if: 1) The flavor is pleasing to the palate upon first contact with said wine, and 2) the aftertaste, if there is one at all, is minimal and inoffensive.
I’m sad to say that Bitch met neither of these rather simple criteria. The first drops on my tongue tasted like grapey acid, a sour and heinous gulp of liquid evil. As for the aftertaste… You know that feeling in your mouth when you forget to brush your teeth before you go to bed at night and you wake up with that sticky dragon breath? That feeling is the closest I can come to describing it. It’s a shame, really. My mind had prepared my tongue for a smooth, fruity trip down tasty lane. Not so, gentle readers.
Oftentimes, if a wine fits only one of the aforementioned criteria for acceptability, I still deem it drinkable, although usually following a bottle of a delightful gift from the gods that has gotten me shnookered enough that I don’t notice the foulness of the second bottle that passes my lips. It’s a shame that Bitch couldn’t even be considered as a last resort, it was so awful. So, you can understand why I was seriously disappointed by the result of my first taste of this devil’s drink.
I can’t help but be surprised at some of the online “professional” reviews of this wine:
Supple, sweet, and tasty, this wine totally over-delivers for its humble price and is an exceptional value.
Riiiiiiiiight.
This red is on the money for what it’s trying to be, and is arguably more effective than a box of Godiva chocolates at 1/3 the price.
Sorry, pal. Having worked at Godiva for a couple years, I can say with all certainty that this sludge comes nowhere near the heavenly taste and effectiveness of Godiva chocolates.
Let’s have a look at what other, perhaps more amateur online reviewers had to say:
Amazing wine. Smoothe and light leaves a beautiful flavor.
Whatever inspired it, thank goodness it arrived, because it is better than a box of chocolates.
I guarantee you that if you try this wine, you will LOVE it.
Seriously, people? What wine were you drinking? It certainly wasn’t the bottle of evil that charmed its way into my house like Count Dracula at his most suave. I only found one review I could agree with:
Tastes like ass but looks good with the BITCH label.
I think that about sums it up: this wine tastes like ass. Ass that is past its prime. Would I recommend it? Hell no. Would I bring it as a gift to a party hosted by some snarky nemesis of mine? You bet. In any case, I want my $10 and my taste buds back.
