Showing posts with label hairbrush. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hairbrush. Show all posts

Saturday, January 18, 2025

A Scattershot Approach to New Year’s Resolutions

Introduction

Well, it’s that time of year again, when you start to wonder whether your neighbors are ever going to take down their holiday lights, your friends start cracking jokes about turning “dry January” into “moist January,” and you find yourself endlessly ignoring articles about New Year’s Resolutions. Well, don’t ignore this one, because, well, just don’t. I worked hard on it. I mean, I’m about to. I will have worked hard on it by the end, unless it comes easily, who knows … wish me luck.


The scattershot approach

If you’re a longtime reader, you may recall that I’ve taken a variety of approaches to the New Year’s Resolution topic, from beating around the bush to a one-size-fits-all blanket Resolution to the highly specific treatment to the “wide net” approach. Well, I’m taking this latter tack again this year: throwing out a bunch of suggestions in case one or two hit home with this or that random reader. It’s like speed-dating. So get ready … many of these won’t apply to you, a few might, and I hope most of them will give you a chuckle if nothing else.

Get out there

I think a lot of people developed bad habits during the COVID-19 pandemic. It became so easy to stay home, spend half the day in pajamas and the other half in sweats, amortize that pandemic-purchased treadmill or Peloton exercise bike, and basically embrace our inner troglodyte. Well, it’s time to unlearn that. Why? Because humans are social creatures. I have been getting out more myself—less indoor training, more errands on foot, and I’m even doing more window shopping—because seeing other people out and about is like a balm to me now after having been cooped up. I’m actually surprised by this, having been a lifelong introvert, but there you have it. Even when I’m stopped at this one endless traffic light in Orinda during my bike rides, I take pleasure in seeing the menagerie of motorists parading by. So resolving to get out there more isn’t just for yourself—it’s for everyone else, too.

Stop floss-shaming

I guess I should say floss-self-shaming, by which I mean feeling like an idiot because you find it such a struggle to throw away a strand of used dental floss. You try to ball it up (it won’t stay balled), maybe you twist it into a snake so it’ll be shorter (pointless), you try everything, but when you go to drop it into the wastebasket it never lands there. For me it’s particularly hard because the bathroom trash can is always sliding into the far corner behind the sink and when I stoop to drag it out I have to watch I don’t bonk my head on the medicine cabinet door, and then the can’s got that pedal-activated lid that’s tough to use when I’m all crouched over because my vision is so crappy that it’s hard to see if my floss made it all the way in, only part of the way, or none of the way. Disposing of floss at day’s end is such a discouraging task, it makes me wonder if life has just gotten too difficult to even stand.

But there’s hope! Last week I stumbled across a New Yorker cartoon on this very subject: a guy meets his gal at an outdoor coffee shop table and says, “Sorry I’m late—I was trying to throw a string of dental floss in the garbage.” So fear not, we are not alone. It’s not just you and me being lame … this floss difficulty is a known thing. So have some self-compassion around this. (And no, self-compassion will not make you a wuss.)

(Now, if you though this Resolution was about not needing to floss, that’s absurd. If you don’t already floss at least once a day, make that your Resolution. We only get one set of teeth, and we’re all living longer … I could write a whole post about dental hygiene. In fact I did.)

Get less takeout/delivery

It seems like we live in the golden era of takeout (unless that  era is still ahead of us, meaning one day nobody will ever cook or go out anymore). This needs to change. There are so many reasons to get less takeout. First of all—and I speak from experience here—it’s so often a capitulation. Not something festive or fun like going out, but an admission that you just don’t have the gumption to cook. Why pay money to indulge a sense of defeat?

Meanwhile, there’s the packaging. Just picture all those plastic and styrofoam containers, yours and everyone else’s, lining our landfills … doesn’t it fly in the face of last year’s Resolution to take better care of the planet? And don’t kid yourself about recycling. My trash company sent us this stern bulletin recently that said something like, “We’ve changed our policy around recyclables. Only cans and bottles will be accepted: no other form of plastic is allowed, and we will be watching your bin. You get only one warning and then we will fine you a gazillion dollars. And don’t even think about sneaking your plastic into a neighbor’s recycling … if you try that, rest assured, we will find you, and we will kill you.” (Yeah, I exaggerated a bit, but it really was a snotty bulletin.)

What’s more, you’re doing your local restaurant a disservice because the lovely food they create is severely compromised by the transportation delay. It’s less than piping hot, and it’s sweaty from being trapped with its steam, plus the presentation is ruined. So the restaurant you think is just-okay is probably actually great but you no longer know it. On top of that, you’re slowing down the restaurant’s kitchen and thus compromising the experience of their dine-in guests, all because you’re too lazy to put on a pair of pants, brush your hair, and go be out in the world. (Didn’t I just tell you, via my first suggested resolution, to get out more?)

Delivery is even worse … you have to pay extra, plus tip the driver, and you’re not even leaving the house. I was shocked to learn that people are now using DoorDash to get McDonald’s. As if a non-piping-hot French fry were even edible. And McDonald’s is actually calling this McDelivery®. Did you just throw up in your mouth? I did, too! The center cannot hold. The falcon cannot hear the falconer.

I know what you’re thinking right now: “Yeah, but who has the time to cook?” Well now wait a second. Haven’t you been going on and on, like everybody else, about how useful A.I. is, and how much time you’re saving using ChatGPT? For example, when your daughter needed help with her homework for art class, and instead of spending an hour or more counseling her you just outsourced it and got a finished artwork in under two minutes?


Think of all the time A.I. has freed up for you to cook! And hey, here is a link to some easy recipes even a time-strapped college kid could make. (No, they’re not perfectly salubrious but neither is the stuff restaurants produce.)

Get control of your dog

I am not a dog person, which gives me special insight into what’s it like to not be enthralled by dogs. If you are a dog person, it might come as a real surprise to you that what you consider either adorable or at least lovably rambunctious misbehavior is actually a drag for grouches like me. For example, I’m out for a walk and your dog comes bounding over to me and tries to run up my body, his front paws raking my legs and groin, and you call out, “Don’t worry, he’s friendly!” And I’m thinking, fine, you’re probably friendly too, but would you windmill me like this? Or, your dog terrorizes me with aggressive barking and instead of apologizing to me, you only bawl out the dog, as though I could get satisfaction from that. Look, I can enjoy dogs, if they politely come sniff me and wait patiently to be adored. Maybe you could, like, train your beloved pet better so that everyone can love her?

Stop using my hairbrush

This one really only applies to my younger daughter when she’s home from college. So, L—, to be clear, it’s actually okay if you use my hairbrush on the sly such that I don’t even know about it. But when I have to look for it, I get nervous … what if you took it to a slumber party and lost it? As you know, it’s my oldest possession so I’m inordinately fond of it. And to my other readers: if you routinely borrow a hairbrush (or anything else) that is somebody’s oldest possession, please stop, or at least be more discreet.

When in Rome, wear a mask

I am not suggesting that there is an outbreak of COVID or any other disease in Rome. I mean this figuratively, and what I’m saying is, if you enter a business where the staff are wearing COVID masks, maybe you should, too, just out of respect. It’s no real hardship, after all, and isn’t it nice getting sick less often than we used to? After those pandemic years it seems like every jacket I own has a mask in its pocket, along with every bag and backpack. So just put that mask on as you go through the door … don’t cost nothin’.

Stop wearing a mask alone in your car

Look, in the early days of the COVID lockdown when nobody know what was going on, we did all kinds of silly stuff, like forensic-grade wipe-downs of shopping cart handles and wearing a mask in the car. But it never made sense to wear a mask when driving alone, did it? Are you worried you’ll give your car COVID? This behavior makes even less sense now than at the height of the pandemic, but I still see people doing it. If that’s you, just stop. You’re making mask-wearers look like lunatics. Let’s not re-kindle that whole mask-ideology war, okay?

Entertain more

Remember when people hosted dinner parties, or cocktail parties, or birthday parties? Well, at least in my community, it seems like entertaining guests has become a lost art. Is it just me or are fewer people hosting than in years past? (That you can’t reply “It’s just you” is why albertnet is a blog, not a panel discussion.)

I think people have either gotten lazy, or out of practice, or they’ve just forgotten entertaining is a thing. Look, if you have social anxiety, don’t worry about it … blow this Resolution off. But if you used to host parties or dinners, how about reflecting on how fun that was, and getting back into it?

Lose the motion-activated stadium lights

Most nights, my wife and I take a walk after dinner (we call it our Post-Prandial Promenade) and it’s all very pleasant except the half-dozen or so houses that have installed motion-sensor-activated lights that are blindingly bright, like we’re suddenly being interrogated. What the hell? What ever happened to the 40-watt porch light? Trust me, that was enough to deter burglars, who a) can be spotted in very low light, and b) don’t tend to do their thing at 8 p.m. anyway. If you have one of these crazy-bright lights, you’re basically blinding your neighbors on a regular basis. What for? Are you worried we’ll veer off the sidewalk, trip on your lawn gnome, get injured, and sue? With this thoughtless technology you are being antisocial, and giving me—a conscientious, law-abiding citizen—a serious temptation to commit vandalism (e.g., bringing a slingshot on my walks to take out your light bulbs).

Stop holding your smartphone up to your mouth

I’ve seen this for years: an otherwise normal-looking person is using his or her smartphone in speakerphone mode, but has determined that the person on the other end of the call may be having trouble hearing, and thus holds the phone directly ahead of his or her mouth as if about to take a bite out of it:


This might seem like a victimless crime, but it’s really not. Not only does it look ridiculous, but it reminds the onlooker that this person is so lost in his phone call he’s lost awareness of being out in public—which is unnerving. Earbuds with microphones are so cheap and unobtrusive, not to mention they protect your caller’s privacy. Why not just use them? As a bonus, you might be mistaken for a crazy person talking to himself, which is amusing.

But seriously…

If you earnestly want some help with your Resolutions and are disappointed with the above suggestions, here are some less flippant ones:

 Further reading 

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Tuesday, January 15, 2019

Object Permanence


Introduction

This post is not about the stage of child development in which objects that are not perceivable are still understood to exist. Rather, I’m examining the peculiar phenomenon of physical objects that last far longer than anybody could expect them to. I’ve selected half a dozen surprisingly enduring items to display and discuss.

Fork, ca. 1900


This fork is ancient, obviously. Sure, you could find older stuff in a museum, but this object saw regular use until only 15 years ago. It belonged to my wife’s grandma, and her parents before her. I once watched her use it while making her famous (and delicious) fried chicken, which had only one ingredient—chicken—which she cooked over very low heat in only its own fat. The only other kitchen tool she used for this dish was a skillet. Her kitchen was exceedingly spare, lacking not only a dishwasher but even a dish drying rack. She used this fork pretty much until she died. From there it transitioned from tool to family heirloom.

Paperweight, ca. 1960

This paperweight has been around since I can remember; as a little kid I would peer into it during brief snatches of time before my brothers would forcefully take it away. All four of us sons were forbidden to touch it. It was one of my dad’s treasures. He never told us where he got it or why. When I moved away it vanished for 30-some years until I inherited it following my dad’s death.

It’s weird inheriting property. Whenever I pick up and inspect this paperweight, I still half-expect that one of my brothers, as a proxy for my dad, will come out of nowhere to seize it and admonish me again. This paperweight still seems like it’s my dad’s property, as if—looking down from some spirit world—he might still have a problem with my touching it. I never got his blessing to take possession; it’s merely one of the spoils of having outlived him.

The little cat drawing in the background is only a year or two old. I included it because my younger daughter (featured in the framed picture, ca. 2004, to the right) has already expressed astonishment that I kept it. She tossed off the picture very hastily and it was on its way to the recycling bin when I intercepted it to use as a desktop tchotchke. I’m going to see how long I can hang onto it.

Thimble, ca. 1965


This thimble must have been my mom’s, and since it appears to be sterling silver, she probably acquired it before taking on the expense of children. Though not as old as the fork and the paperweight, it has the added distinction of having been in my possession for quite a while—since about 1990 when my brother Geoff gave it to me. I’d loaned him a sew-up tire patch kit, and he returned the kit with the thimble added. The (partial) history of this thimble is given in a letter I wrote to Geoff on April 14, 1996:
[The need to mend a shoe with needle and thread] called for the Velox sew-up patch kit I use from time to time. Every time I need it I hope, almost desperately, that I still have it around somewhere. It’s one I bought from Square Wheel (the price tag is still on it, $7.95) more than five years ago to give to you so that you could repair a bunch of my tires. Inside the patch kit tin is this really groovy thimble, with engravings of birds and ivy and stuff all over it. Accompanying the thimble is your Post-it note: “Dana, I found this v. cool thimble in the basement-kine [of our childhood home]. Please don’t lose it. Hugs & kisses, GA.” I always get a kick out of that. The patch kit itself is great; the thick, curved needle is industrial-grade, and punched through the thick rubber of my shoe just splendidly, without puncturing my finger thanks to the thimble. But the note is more impressive yet, due to its staying power. I mean, it had to be more than five years ago you wrote it. The Post-it is written in faded fountain pen and is on the verge of falling into four pieces, as it’s been folded and refolded so many times. But it’s still around. Amazing for a product with the intended lifespan of perhaps just a few days or weeks.
I still have the patch kit somewhere in the garage—it pops up occasionally before going missing again—but the last time I used it, the curved needle and Post-it were gone. The thimble now lives in my desk as one of my treasures. And as often happens, a chance photo of the note still survives ... not nearly as cool as the curling-up, faded note itself, but better than nothing.


(Does it bother me that this thimble could still technically be my mom’s property? Nope. I think to her it was always just a thimble, and it wasn’t off-limits to us. Mom didn’t really do treasures so much; perhaps we kids were enough.)

Stapler, ca. 1955


Zoom in and look closely at the engraving on the base of this stapler: “MADE IN SWEDEN.” That’s how you know it’s old. Now look even closer: there’s a bit of tape just to the right of that which is almost all gone but still clearly says “LEY” and most likely says “ELEY.” That’s my dad’s handwriting and I’m 99% sure the tape, when intact, had my dad’s address, ending in “BERKELEY”—i.e., this is a stapler my dad had in college, at least 60 years ago.

Not only is this stapler likely older than the thimble, but it’s been in my possession, in continual use, since 1984. My dad didn’t give it to me—I took it. Every time I look at it I have a queer feeling, just this side of guilt. I know he didn’t intend for me to have it, but I didn’t care at the time. I pilfered this stapler out of spite, probably relating to my parents’ divorce for which I held my dad primarily responsible. I felt he wouldn’t miss the stapler because he never used it. (He was never home.)

It’s an odd concept, “stealing” a household object from a parent. I simply took the stapler with me from my family home to the condo I moved into with my mom after the divorce. Since then this stapler has traveled with me to San Luis Obispo, Santa Barbara, Oakland, Berkeley, San Francisco, and Albany. It did cross my mind, during college, how neat it was that this stapler, having been used by a Berkeley student in the 1950s, found its way back there to be used by another student in the 1990s. That satisfaction was of course tinged with the not-quite-guilt feeling I described earlier. I wish I’d had the rapport with my dad to show it to him and say, “Hey, Pop, if you ever wondered where your kickass Swedish stapler went, it’s right here. I stole it off you back in ‘84. And no, you can’t have it back.”

Mug , ca. 1994



I was given this mug in 1995 when I landed a new job (at a company whose logo you can’t see in this photo as it’s around the other side of the mug). Obviously this is the youngest object featured in this collection, but it’s also one of the most fragile. That chip on the rim is recent. I don’t know what’s more amazing: that this mug is still unbroken, or that I’m still at the same job. I would not have predicted either scenario back in ‘95. When my kids begrudgingly do the dishes, they’re very slapdash and clumsy and I fear for this mug’s life. I’m tempted to say, “Be careful! You’re gonna get me fired!”

Hairbrush, ca. 1977


Okay, so this hairbrush isn’t exactly an antique, but it carries the distinction of being the only hairbrush I’ve ever had. (Before my mom bought me this brush, my hair was so fine and limp it didn’t need brushing.) I have used this hairbrush after virtually every shower I’ve taken in the last 40-plus years. It’s been with me through a dozen households, and untold vacations and business trips. The opportunities for its loss have been countless.

Now that I’m a homeowner and don’t see any need to ever move again, it’s tempting to think I’ll have this hairbrush for the rest of my life. But the greatest risk of its loss comes from my kids. It’s almost comical how many hairbrushes they’ve gone through. A day doesn’t go by without them hunting around frantically for a missing hairbrush on their way out the door. It’s also surprising how many brushes they’ve broken; one brush lasted just a few days. And despite my telling these girls repeatedly that this is my hairbrush, they borrow it a lot. I’ll find it in the shower, or their bedroom, or the living room. My younger daughter even brought it to a slumber party once—that was a close call.

Once my kids reach escape velocity, this hairbrush’s status as a lifelong possession will be virtually assured. After all, I won’t be using it that much as my hair steadily retreats toward the back of my head. Eventually there won’t be enough hair left to brush, and sometime after that I’ll die.

This is the recently alarming thing I’ve come to ponder about my possessions: surely some of these will outlast me, such as the boots I bought awhile back that have an unconditional lifetime guarantee. I don’t have a problem with my house carrying on without me—after all, it was built long before I was born, and houses and land aren’t our possessions, not really—but to think of quotidian objects outlasting me … it’s a little scary. When we buy something, we expect it to serve us for a time, and then wear out or become obsolete. Not the other way around.

Only a few years back, during my Everest Challenge days, I’d go through several pairs of road bike tires a year. I’d order a bunch at the beginning of the season and have to re-order halfway through the summer. Since then I’ve been disheartened at how long a single pair of tires will last. It’s becoming progressively easier to imagine that, one day, without realizing it, I’ll mount my last pair, not because I’ll quit cycling but because cycling, and everything else, will quit me.

If all goes well, by the end I’ll have used up most of my possessions. My survivors will get my wristwatch, the dandelion paperweight, the silver thimble, and the blue plastic hairbrush (and hopefully not too many papers with Post-it notes reading, “FILE LATER”). My daughters will of course have those fancy wooden brushes with the fabric-backed bristles that make the brush go “whoosh” across your head, so the hairbrush will have to go to someone’s cat. And that’ll be that.

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