Tag Archives: record players

The Pizza Principle

You know, I often wonder what it’ll be like when I’m old. You know, like, when I’m 35.

Ha! I kid. Thirty-five is now the new 12. You’re not technically old until 44. Everyone knows that.

But seriously, I do often wonder how things will be when I’m in my 70’s and I’m (hopefully) a grandmother to grandkids who are way less messed up than my actual kids. And they all gather around their Ninja Gammy (<—–trademarked) and ask “What was it like when you were young, Ninja Gammy?”

“Well, kids, it was a simpler time, when Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg (now Snoop Sphinx) was blasting from the 800-pound five-CD changer in my car trunk (remember, kids, always keep your mind on your money and your money on your mind) and we communicated via pagers, which were tiny machines that beeped to alert you someone wanted you to find a landline phone (which was a primitive and barbaric form of the cell phone) no matter where you were so that you could call them back immediately so that they could inform you they needed a ride, and we had to walk 30 miles in the snow without shoes to let our best friend know what our status update was, and when we wanted to watch a TV show we had to wait until the actual day and time that the TV network broadcast it, and we were forced to write (by hand!) in the now mythical language of ‘cursive’.”

And as if all that wasn’t embarrassing enough, I still have to figure out how the hell I’m going to explain/justify MySpace and Gangnam Style to them.

“Uh…there were bath salt zombies back then, children. What do you want from me?”

See, the problem is that technology is simply moving too fast. For instance, I remember my grandma playing music on a record player while I was jamming to my cassette tapes (pieces of crap that always had to be fixed with a pencil, kids). But it wasn’t a completely foreign concept to me. As a kid, my cousins had a toy record player that we used to play crappy kid’s albums on. And even though we all had cordless phones (slightly less barbaric versions of cellphones, kids), we could all figure out how to use the rotary phone she had because the generation gap wasn’t wider than the technology gap.

But now…oi vey…

Which brings me to the point of this post. Being the Smart Phone/Facebook/Twitter/Instagram addict that I am, I had an eye-opening experience just the other day that taught me a very valuable lesson about all this runaway technology we’re living with today.

Flashback Wavy Lines…Flashback Wavy Lines…Flashback Wavy Lines…

It was just after New Years. My family was in town. Considering it was January in Boston, it was cold (which was confirmed by the 52 Instagram photos of thermometers in my feed). So we decided to take advantage of home delivery, the culinary technology break-through that made it possible for hot food to be delivered to your door (like in Star Trek: The Next Generation, only slower and without the whimsy).

Considering there were five of us, we decided to go with pizza, the ultimate crowd pleaser and the least likely choice to result in a fist fight.

Or so it would seem at first glance.

Being that this was my territory, I clicked onto Foodler.com, my go-to magical food portal, an absolutely brilliant contribution to humanity that lets you type in your address and then tells you what restaurants deliver to your ‘hood (complete with full menus for each eatery) and then LET’S YOU ORDER DIRECTLY FROM THE WEBSITE. I know I talk up toilet paper a lot as the best invention of all time (with the Snuggie as a close second), but seriously, I’d be willing to go back to leaves and/or our collective left hand in order to keep Foodler.

The problem was, however, that the majority wanted Regina’s pizza, which was not listed on Foodler. So, trying to be a good hostess, I Googled Regina’s delivery. Found out they do deliver. Clicked on link. Was taken to a new Foodler-esque website. Started to order. Discovered I also had to set up an account, complete with username, password, password hint, security questions, personal info, mother’s maiden name and itemized list of everyone I’ve ever had sex with. Decided to scrap that idea. Sooooo then…

Went directly to Regina’s website. Discovered they had a tab for delivery. No menu listed. Had to create own pizza from list of 3,000 ingredients. Twenty minutes (and 42 stitches later) we realized we cannot, as a family unit, create our own pizza unanimously (or at least, not without Thunderdome breaking out). Sooooo then…

More Googling. More half-hearted attempts to create “accounts” on other third-party food delivery websites. More “your food will be delivered in approximately 3 hours and there will be a $652 delivery fee.”

And just when we thought all hope was lost and we’d be forced to eat leftover Christmas food that may or may not have gained consciousness…

Someone suggested, “Uh, why don’t you just call the restaurant and order the pizza?”

Ninety seconds later, the pizza was ordered. Ready in 15. Have a nice day.

Lesson learned: Technology isn’t simplifying our lives. It’s simply making us stupid.

So, just remember that, kids, when 30 years from now it takes you three hours to order a pizza via the Internet.

And that’s only if you can remember your password.

Jackette of all Trades…ish

This may seem an odd pronouncement, but the thing is, I’m proud of the fact that my husband and I have never had a typical cookiecutter married relationship. Gender roles? Pffft. Schmender roles.

Every nice, artsy, semi-classy thing we own, for example, was picked out by my husband. And every time we move it is he who jumps into the role of interior decorator (which is an incredibly good thing considering that if I were in charge, our house would still have bean bag chairs and a coffee table composed of pizza boxes, beer cans and duct tape). He’s also the one that remembers we have a dog who likes to be fed fairly regularly and ensures that our fridge contains more than possibly expired ketchup and definitely expired brie.

Meanwhile, I am the one in charge of the finances and various important papers, the heavy duty meat cookin’ (steak, ribs, and on one adventurous yet ill-advised holiday, turducken), most of the in-house alcohol consumption as well as master and commander of the remote control.

But no matter how hard you try to fight it, there will always be times when you slide into those traditional wife/husband roles. For instance, due to my schedule (or lack thereof) I do the bulk of the housecleaning (or at least my version of housecleaning, which is “wipe the crumbs on the floor and let the dog and/or stealthier rodents take care of the rest”). I also make sure we occasionally eat something green in-between our steady diet of cheeseburgers and Twix.  Meanwhile, my husband is the mighty bug hunter in the family, the IT technician and the “Go Check Out That Weird Noise Somewhere In The House At 4 a.m.” person.

And that’s why this past Monday was such a triumphant day for me. Not just because I did not one, not two, but three stereotypical things my husband usually takes of, but also because they were things I never, EVER thought I could accomplish on my own.

ACCOMPLISHMENT #1: I put together a piece of equipment.

For as far back as I can remember this week, it has been my heart’s desire to own a record player. This is despite the fact we have a CD/radio/iPod player in pretty much every room of our house already (two, in fact, currently in the kitchen). But for some reason, I fell in love with the idea of coming home, making a martini (mixed with a splash of something fruity since my taste buds associate the straight up version with what I imagine liquid from your pancreas tastes like) and putting on a record while my husband spontaneously grabs me for an impromptu slow-dance.*

So, we finally broke down and bought one (mainly because the two records we had already bought prematurely reminded us how pathetically faux hipster we were). And then with him off at his real job, it fell to me to set it up.

Now, mind you, this thing is technologically obsolete. I have a key ring that makes fart sounds that is more advanced than this thing. And yet, the five-step instruction manual baffled me (especially the one that said to gently slide off the white thingermajig from the needle but upon closer inspection, the white thingermajig looked to be a vital part of the entire machine’s structural integrity).

After 45 minutes, I was about to call it a day and just let my husband deal with it when he got home. But then I thought “No! I can do this! I will do this! My grandma could operate one of these things and she was confused by modern soup cans with the easy-open lid! I AM NOT PATHETIC!”

And then BOOM. I finally had it working. For the most part. I’m sure the fact that everything sounds off-key is how it’s supposed to sound.

ACCOMPLISHMENT #2: I took down a wasp.

It’s a well-known fact that I am the world’s biggest arach– you know what? I have such a phobia that I can’t even type out the word (due to the totally-definitely-absolutely not irrational fear the very word itself will sprout eight legs and jump straight off the page onto my face where it will proceed to eat my eyeballs off). And due to this totally-definitely-absolutely not irrational fear, Ryan has turned into a master bug warrior, tracking and killing them with a Sparta-like ferocity (most likely to avoid the whole embarrassing “chasing my wife down the street screaming ‘It’s OK, babe! I killed it! Come back!'” scenario that has happened repeatedly during our courtship).

So it was with great surprise (and no shortage of amusement) to discover that my husband has a similar fear of bees. And wasps. And hornets. And bumblebees. If it buzzes, he suddenly turns into a white ninja, moving faster than the naked eye can see (occasionally accompanied by what can only be described as a “girly-man scream”). So when I noticed that one of the wasps who stalks Ryan out on our back porch had somehow weaseled his way into the house, I knew I had to step up.

Thirty minutes later, I had finally managed to trap him between the back door and the screen door and then using an ingenious tactic I came up with myself, I opened the door a crack with one arm and used a Swiffer in the other to coax him back out into the wild.

Fifteen minutes after that, it finally worked. And our world was once again safe.

ACCOMPLISHMENT #3: I fixed the Internet.

OK, technically all I did was unplug the thing-y on the wireless thing-y, wait 30 seconds and plug it back in, but still, it worked and I thought of it myself before resorting to calling Ryan at work, who would have inevitably told me “Did you try unplugging it and plugging it back in?” anyway.

So, tonight, when he comes home, I think I’m going to put on a record, hand him a martini, his slippers and a pipe (wait…do we have a pipe?) whilst wearing an apron and cooking meat. 1. Because he probably deserves it, what with all the actually working as opposed to sitting around pretending to write for eight hours like some people. And 2. Because deep down, I know that I am a mighty Wasp Conqueror/Putter-Together-er of Outdated Technology/Troubleshooter.

Hear me roar!

*This has yet to actually happen.