Last week I was working in the kitchen and said to my husband, “I am one of the craziest people on earth.” He was reading the paper at the time and mildly commented, “Well, not really, but you’re certainly in the group.”
It was so mildly said that I almost missed the fact that he was agreeing with me!
While I’d like to take umbrage, in all honesty, he has had ample reasons to form this opinion. There was the day I called him from a parking lot in a panic, telling him (tearfully), that I had lost my phone. Yeah, the phone that I was using to call him.
More routinely, I find myself wandering around large parking lots, trying to hear my car beep when I press “lock.” Because of my hearing loss on one side, I find it difficult to localize sound. So I just walk around aisles, punching the button and turning in the direction I think I hear the beeps coming from. Let me digress to say that it would be more helpful if car builders made a button for “finding car” and made the beep rather loud. In fact, having a flag extend out of your roof would be useful, too.
But at any rate, I never see anyone else strolling around, pushing their remote buttons repeatedly, so I’m thinking this is a “me” issue. And before you say it, yes, I could try to remember where I’ve parked. In my defense, not every parking lot has cart corrals or big lettered signs as airports do.
I’ve made the mistake of relating these adventures to my husband, so he does have those examples to ponder.
He’s actually witnessed first-hand my response to GPS – both in the car and on my phone. I have a tendency – actually I do it all the time – to talk to the GPS voice. I know it’s just a computer, but when the voice starts telling me “turn in 1 mile, turn in ½ a mile, turn in 1000 feet,” I respond back. Sometimes it’s just “Ok, ok, I know,” but other times it’s more colorful. I get especially talkative when GPS tells me I’ve “reached my destination,” but it’s an empty lot.
The craziest thing I do is when I prepare eggs. Doesn’t matter if they are scrambled, fried, or going into a cake, I always remove the white stringy thing from the yolk. Over the years, I’ve used two forks, strawberry stem pinchers, and knives, but I will get those things out of my eggs and toss them away.
I only know one other person on the planet who does this and (in my opinion), he’s totally sane. However, that person is not my husband, so he may not understand this behavior. The fact is, there’s a name for that stringy thing – it’s called “chalaza.”
My logic is this: If they named it, it means it’s not a normal, acceptable part of the yolk to which it is attached. And it’s disgusting, so I’m getting it out of there.
I may be crazy, but I’m chalaza free!
You are NOT crazy= just a normal person trying to survive the new culture of helpful media and sounds! I do this walk out to the car and hit the button that flashes my lights – so I do NOT have to worry about sounds that may not be of MY car! Also, I very much, NOW, talk to Alexa or (in my case the Australian voice I call Reeves) He often leads me the “shortest” route to get somewhere, but not always the best! Several stories on that note could be told – but, this does not make me crazy, just confused as to why I cannot just read a map like in the old days!! Getting older in the electronic era is NO fun! But, beware, it si only going to get somewhat worse with what and how many others would like us to live! Stay you !
Crazy! Are we really? Let’s admit it Sus, that chalaza thing looks like snot, and I’m not eating it! I saw my sister picking that out years and years ago. She said it was the embryo that makes the baby chick, so I also started picking out the slimy, gross thing. Not easy. I have settled for two serrated grapefruit spoons as the tools. It seems grocery stores do not sell fertile eggs, so I don’t have to worry about eating a baby chick. I always learn something from Susie’s Snippets. The fact is the chalaza is two twisted membranous strips joining the yolk to the lining of the egg shell.
I also learned this: Did you know that you can buy a hen saddle? Yep. It protects hen’s backs from an amorous rooster who picks a favorite hen or two. He really enjoys the mating game! The saddle prevents feather loss, cuts, and gashes which lead to picking, cannibalism and death. Now I think if I was the owner of that rooster he would wind up in a pot with dumplings!
I’ve never called my husband about a lost phone that I’m using, but I have asked him if he’s seen my glasses when I’m wearing them! I also talk back to the GPS, saying, “Shut up or enough already!”
When we eat out for breakfast, I just pretend the eggs are chalaza free.
It’s okay to be a little crazy, Sue. You keep writing so I can keep learning
as usual Bets has some great thoughts there – you two keep me hoping the world will wake up and spend more time with snippets and such than all the other goofiness we get to hear nonstop! Keep up the great work!
Indeed! They could learn things from snippets! Getting goofier every day!