Buying a Laptop Together—Can this Marriage Survive?

Your laptop crashes.  Literally it hits the hard floor with a bang.  You find out that the hard drive can be transferred but, alas, the motherboard is dead.  You need a new laptop.

You go to a store, buy a new laptop, get help transferring your files from the old laptop, take your laptop home, do the quick start up, and go about the business of your life, with a sense of competence and peacefulness. Perhaps you whistle while you work.

I am not you. I am The Nothing Expert, and I never whistle when it comes to technology.

I snarl.

“I want to do this quickly,” I spit at my husband, Jerome the Great and Good. Jerome is an expert on buying anything and getting the most for his money. Unlike me, Jerome would never refer to the broken laptop’s Mother Board as the Mother-F—ker Board.

“I don’t want any hassles with this new laptop, ” I say. “ I want them to set everything up, teach me what I need to know, and let me hit the ground running.  Also, this time, I do not want to cry a lot and throw things.”

And so Jerome and I went forth and shopped; it seemed like forty days and forty nights. We went to Best Buy…to Staples….online …and then back to Staples and so on until we found the Store with the best price.

And finally we bought a laptop, and a service contract package, and a virus package, and a cloud package, and Microsoft Office 365 Package because now we were going to use Windows 8. The Store assured us that we would receive lots of help from them.

We met them. He was Bill, the Tech Guy, whose daily hours were something like 4 p.m. to 4:17 p.m.  For another hundred dollars, Bill was going to transfer all of the stuff from the old laptop to the new laptop and explain all of the new Windows stuff to us.

“Bill, when will I have my laptop loaded up and ready to go?” I asked. I wanted to add the word, “sweetie,” but I refrained.

“In a day or two,” said Bill.

Jerome and I were delighted that Bill could transfer files from our old laptop to our new one.  We left both laptops in Bill’s loving care. Jerry and I might have even left the Store holding hands.

The next day Bill did not come in to work. He was ill.

In the Store where we bought our laptop, there were many, many people who were proficient at selling laptops. There were no people, other than Bill, who were good at fixing laptops. And so, our eager new laptop sat right next to our sad old laptop, on their shelf, in the Store, untouched.

Then Bill had family trouble.

I stopped talking to Jerome, the Great and Good. I started using more bad words whenever the subject of the new laptop came up. Jerome put his head in his hands, and he was sad.

After an eternity, Bill came back. He handed over the new fully loaded laptop, and after spending about 51 seconds explaining its new features to us, he moved on to his other chores.

As Jerome drove me and our new laptop home, I swaddled it in my arms and cooed to it.  I promised to take care of it and not drop it on the floor, like I did to its predecessor.

I didn’t drop my new laptop.  All I did was try to use it.  Will this marriage survive? Is there any connection between motherboards and waterboards? Tune in to my next post.

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On the Sidewalks of New York

As The Nothing Expert, I pride myself on doing nothing well. But sometimes doing nothing may be the wrong solution to life’s ethical dilemmas. This is a true story.

On the corner of East 34th. Street and Park Avenue in New York City, a very tired older lady walks to her bus stop. She worries that she might fall and break her hip, so she is careful where she places her feet. Thusly, just as she reaches her bus stop, she narrowly sidesteps a humungous pile of excrement lying in the middle of the sidewalk. The excrement was definitely deposited there by a very large mammal, perhaps an elephant.

The old lady’s bus always comes late, and, so she stands at her bus stop waiting, and watching. She is the only one standing still on the busy sidewalk, near the pile of excrement.

She can tell the tourists because they are all looking up at the Empire State Building and they wear white sneakers. She can tell the regulars because they are not looking up, nor are they looking at the ground.  Most are doing something with their phones which the old lady has never been able to master while walking, or even sitting. Some of the walkers are students from the nearby high schools, who are having fun, shoving, smacking, and smooching with each other. Some of the walkers are shoppers, laden with shopping bags. Some of the walkers are being helped by caregivers. Some of the walkers look mean and angry.

The older woman watches the walkers approaching the pile in the middle of the sidewalk. They do not see it. What is her duty (ahem) to them? Should she help? Or should she turn away? What would you do? What would you say?

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What Happened to Howdy Doody Foodie?

Dear Readers and Followers,

I am changing the title of my blog. Here’s why.

It all started when I wanted to write about chocolate mashed potatoes.

Nah! That’s a lie.

I really wanted to write about the day when I was the guardian of a gigantic pile of dog excrement on the busy streets of New York City. That is the real truth.

As the Howdy Doody Foodie, I’ve really enjoyed writing about my passion for getting and eating food. I wrote posts on being a deli man’s daughter, visiting farmers’ markets and peeling onions. I was even able to make a food connection between my fear of flying and gnashing peanuts during an in-flight panic attack. With a blog entitled Howdy Doody Foodie, I planned to reminisce with my contemporaries about our 1950’s childhood food experiences.

My younger friends and family, (under the age of 50), however, did not get the Howdy Doody Foodie title from the get-go. Accordingly, they said things to me like, “How can you put the word “doody” into a blog about a foodie?”

Which brings me back to the chocolate mashed potatoes on the sidewalks of New York City. Somehow, a post connecting a gigantic pile of dog excrement with chocolate mashed potatoes, is a trifle unseemly. That’s why I’m changing the title of my blog.

The great thing about being The Nothing Expert is, now, when I come into intimate contact with a huge pile of “you-know-what” sitting on a busy sidewalk, I can write about the experience without being forced to make it fit in with my beloved food tales.

I hope that many of my new readers, as well as my loyal followers will continue to enjoy my blog. I look forward to hearing your stories about the “chocolate mashed potatoes” we all encounter in our lives.

In my next post, I will explain that experience on the sidewalks of New York, and ask you for your insight.

Deepest regards and thanks to all of you, especially those true Foodies who are moving on. I wish you well.

Regards,

Rose, The Nothing Expert

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Nuts on a Plane

Photo Credit: faungg's photo via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: faungg’s photo via Compfight cc

Nuts are soothing to eat, especially on a plane, during turbulence. Next time you fly through turbulence, look around. If you see a passenger resembling a deranged beaver gnashing savagely on her peanuts,  share your own measly pack of peanuts with her. Chomping those nuts with ferocity might just calm her enough to keep her in her seat and save all of you from the sight of her running through the plane, ripping off her clothes, and screaming, “I wanna get out.”

Gnashing nuts is definitely better than being nuts. As I am quite capable of both gnashing and being nuts on a plane, I read lots of stuff about my fear of flying. Once I even spoke to a pilot about my fears of turbulence. He suggested that I think of the plane (with me in it) as a grape sitting on a bed of Jell-O (the air).

“The grape,” he said,  “might get jostled but it will never fall through the Jell-O.”

I embraced this grape comparison as a compliment because in the past, I had always been likened to a pear, particularly when buying clothes.  If given a choice of being a grape and sitting on a bed of Jell-O, or being a pear and sitting in the middle seat on an airplane, while playing the “keep my thigh from rubbing your  thigh” game with the window and aisle passengers, I’d definitely opt to be the grape.

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Photo Credit: Mez Love via Compfight cc

Let’s go back to the nuts. I used to buy a whole bag of them at the airport concession stands before I got on my flights. It was worth paying a price almost as high as my plane ticket to have my little crunchy comforts in my seat pocket. Then, hurrah!  I flew Southwest! The peanuts and snacks at Southwest are freeeeeeeeeeeee! Yippee! On my last flight, the flight attendants came through the cabin on their first pass  and they tried very hard to make eye contact when they handed us our snacks. On their second pass, however, our keepers, oops, flight attendants  tossed our snack packs at us, and some of us, so happy to be fed for free, were leaping in the air to catch our little feed packs.

It’s all good, however. Gnashing nuts is a much better way to reduce flying anxiety than being tackled by six burly passengers, and then being restrained in my seat by their neckties, belts and shoe laces.  And, remember! On Southwest, the nuts are free!

Photo Credit: N00/4775842363/”>faungg’s photo via Compfight cc

HDF’s Reality Cooking Show: Chopping Onions and Garlic

Chopping the Onion

  1. Start peeling the onion’s skin.
  2. Accidentally drop a piece of the onion skin on the kitchen floor.
  3. Pick up the onion skin with a paper towel, and put it in the garbage can under the counter.
  4. After touching the floor with the paper towel and sliding out your garbage can from under the counter, wash your hands with soap. Then dry your hands.
  5. Pick up the knife to resume peeling.
  6. Notice that your hands are still a bit soapy, and soap is not an ingredient in meatloaf. Wash and dry your hands again.
  7. Continue peeling and drop another piece of onion skin on the floor. Decide that you cannot stop  peeling to pick up every little thing that lands on the floor
  8. Start cutting the peeled onion by slicing it and then chopping it.
  9. Do that rocking thing with the knife that makes you feel like a real foodie.
  10. As you rock your knife, note that at least four or five pieces of onion fly off the cutting board, deposit schmutz on your clean shirt, and then land on the floor.
  11. Worry about the pieces of onion lying on the floor. If you step on them, you might fall, and have to go to the hospital, and who would be left to feed your starving family?
  12. Decide to write a letter to the cooking shows demanding that they televise what falls on the floor, behind the counter.
  13. Hear your phone ring, and worry  Continue reading

Are You a Fake Foodie Like Me? Five Ways to Tell


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  1. You cook a gigantic meatloaf on Sunday so you don’t have to cook on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and if you really push it, Thursday.
  2. You make an antipasto by emptying many jars and cans and throwing the stuff on a plate with some salami, all artfully arranged.
  3. You are still planning to learn what to do with a real artichoke, not the ones from the jar.
  4. You buy arugula and tender baby lettuce  at the Farmers’ Market and then put it in your “show off” recyclable bag, Then you strut around the food stalls screwing  up your nose at other people’s plastic bags.  At the end of the week, you throw out your Farmer’s Market stuff  because it’s much easier to prepare and eat a washed bag of salad mix.
  5. You go to a Farmer’s Market and bring your big dog on a long leash. You wait for people to pet your dog and talk to it, if you haven’t already tripped them with the damn leash.  You don’t buy anything. What is it with you dog people at the Farmers’ Market? PS. I don’t have a dog.

Do you know any fake foodies?

Attention: Short Supermarket Shoppers! We Must Unite!

Yesterday, another short woman and I rescued one of our own.  She was trying to step on the frame of her shopping cart so she could reach up to the top shelf in the pickle and olive jar aisle. She wanted a super large jar of green stuffed olives, the economical jar the stores always put on the stratosphere shelf.  Short people, like us, can never get, let alone see items like that.

Uh oh! Her cart was slipping as she stepped on it!

I screamed, “Wait!”  Then, bracing her shopping cart against the shelves with my body, I held it in place while she tried again. No success. She did not want to drop the olive jar on my head, and she needed her two arms for her ascent and grab.

Time to reconnoiter.  Where are the tall people when you need them? We needed reinforcements.

Another short woman was meandering down the aisle, blissfully unaware of the situation.

Pressing  her into service, I commanded, “I’ll hold the cart. You grab her stuff!”

I held the cart. The olive lady climbed with one hand, got her jar of olives with  other hand,  and handed it  off to the short receiver waiting for the catch.

Victory! We embraced.

Sisters of Shortness, We Must Unite! (Short men are welcome too. Ha Ha. Fat Chance!)

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A Nor’easter Valentine’s Day

Written from my cozy kitchen while drinking coffee, this Valentine is for:

  • You, the ones we make fun of with your hairnets, making and dishing out food to anybody who needs to be fed.
  • You, who scrambled to get your kids somewhere, so that you could go to school and take care of my kids.  I’m a grandma, but I’ve been there as a teacher and a parent.
  • You, food workers who are probably making minimum wage, but you showed up at work. Maybe I went in and had a hot coffee before my shift. Maybe I went in and bought truffle oil for my snow day recipe.
  • You, the ones, who care for the rest of us, and risk your own lives to get to work and do your job. How did you get to work? Who cleared the roads or rails for you? Did you leave your family alone during the storm while you slept at your hospital, firehouse or precinct? Maybe you spent the night up in the icy trees in a forklift, fixing wires.

Some of you probably “caught heat” from the complainers among us for not being “on the spot” with perfection. I am grateful that you were there.

Happy Valentine’s Day to You All!

Mindful Eating of An Egg Salad Sandwich

rooster and hen

By Sergei Dmitriev (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/

Experts say, “Join the Mindful Eating Movement, and you will eat less and never be fat.”

I started with an egg salad sandwich. Before I bit in, I sat quietly, looking at my sandwich, and  thinking about  the eggs that made the egg salad.

Just how did those eggs come to be? I continued my serious meditation. Well, there had to be a boy chicken and a girl chicken, I think.

Then  I started thinking about chickens mating. Hmm. I visualized the chickens in my mind.

I was so busy thinking about chickens going “all the way” that I absent-mindedly bit into the egg salad sandwich and continued eating it all up.

I don’t think this is how mindful eating is supposed to work. I will need to learn more.

My Imaginary Friends

Hello My New Friends,     rose perlmutter

As I get to know you, let me introduce my old friends. They’re imaginary. The first one is Grim Streaker and the second one is Overthinker. They sit in my head and make me crazy.

Grim says, “Elderly girl, start the darn blog! The clock is ticking.”

Overthinker says, “No, Rose, you’re not ready to start. Do another draft, and another, and another. You can’t write a blog! You’re not an expert on anything!”

Grim says, “That’s not true, Rose. You are indeed an expert …on Nothing. Just write about what you love. That’s all that counts.”

“Well, Grim,” I say, “I sure do love food. I love getting it and eating it!”

“Ta da!” Grim says.”Now start the darn blog!”

I say, “I’m writing about food, and then I’m hitting publish. Yikes! Up yours, Overthinker! Whoo-hoo Grim Streaker!”

Welcome everyone to Howdy Doody Foodie!

Rose, The Nothing Expert