There are a number of things that I’ve discovered I cannot do.
For instance, I cannot do percentages. Honestly, I think I was sick that day. If something is priced at 40% off retail, I am compelled to take 10% off the price four times. If it’s 45%, that’s four ten-percents and then half a ten percent…
This is the reason you often see me in stores sitting on the floor with my socks and shoes off, working out the end price of something.
I cannot listen to – or tell – the same story more than three times. I am terribly interested the first time, compassionate the second, polite the third, and looking for an exit on the fourth telling. This goes for Timmy Jr.’s first words, the time that guy followed you all the way to the parking lot, and that freaky dream from last week. I’ve only got so much time on the planet and then it’s The Great Hereafter – do we really have time for repetition?
And I cannot bake.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I can bake.
I just shouldn’t.
And when I say I shouldn’t, I’m not talking about what it does to my pants or the seam impressions it causes said pants to leave on my hips and thighs.
I’m talking about the burns. Because oven mitt or no oven mitt, I am going to burn some part of my hand (usually the left hand, on the top) at some point.
Each time, of course, I vow to be more careful; and each time, this careful-ness lasts the first ten minutes and then is relegated to the degree of attention I give the other things I have vowed to be more careful about, things like my savings account, getting birthday presents to people on time, staying on my side of the road whilst driving...
I am looking at my hands today, having made lasagna last night, and am contemplating what the carnie judging my age would tell me.
They look at your hands, you know, the carnies. The hands speak, as they say, giving away your age. And mine? Well, while my right hand remains a model of pink and slightly dimpled competence, my left hand speaks of the great pyramids, of the first domesticated dog.
I wasn't there for the building of the great pyramids, of course, but judging by my puckered yet blistered hand, I may have been invited to the grand opening.
I should totally go to the carnival today.
Alas, the carnies are all in Florida or some other southern state, plotting their penny-toss strategies and perfecting the casual leer.
And me? Oh, I’m sure I’ll have baked something again by the time the carnivals roll back into town.
And I’m gonna win me that giant stuffed poodle yet.
For instance, I cannot do percentages. Honestly, I think I was sick that day. If something is priced at 40% off retail, I am compelled to take 10% off the price four times. If it’s 45%, that’s four ten-percents and then half a ten percent…
This is the reason you often see me in stores sitting on the floor with my socks and shoes off, working out the end price of something.
I cannot listen to – or tell – the same story more than three times. I am terribly interested the first time, compassionate the second, polite the third, and looking for an exit on the fourth telling. This goes for Timmy Jr.’s first words, the time that guy followed you all the way to the parking lot, and that freaky dream from last week. I’ve only got so much time on the planet and then it’s The Great Hereafter – do we really have time for repetition?
And I cannot bake.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I can bake.
I just shouldn’t.
And when I say I shouldn’t, I’m not talking about what it does to my pants or the seam impressions it causes said pants to leave on my hips and thighs.
I’m talking about the burns. Because oven mitt or no oven mitt, I am going to burn some part of my hand (usually the left hand, on the top) at some point.
Each time, of course, I vow to be more careful; and each time, this careful-ness lasts the first ten minutes and then is relegated to the degree of attention I give the other things I have vowed to be more careful about, things like my savings account, getting birthday presents to people on time, staying on my side of the road whilst driving...
I am looking at my hands today, having made lasagna last night, and am contemplating what the carnie judging my age would tell me.
They look at your hands, you know, the carnies. The hands speak, as they say, giving away your age. And mine? Well, while my right hand remains a model of pink and slightly dimpled competence, my left hand speaks of the great pyramids, of the first domesticated dog.
I wasn't there for the building of the great pyramids, of course, but judging by my puckered yet blistered hand, I may have been invited to the grand opening.
I should totally go to the carnival today.
Alas, the carnies are all in Florida or some other southern state, plotting their penny-toss strategies and perfecting the casual leer.
And me? Oh, I’m sure I’ll have baked something again by the time the carnivals roll back into town.
And I’m gonna win me that giant stuffed poodle yet.
.jpg)
17 comments:
"10% off the price four times" Ahahaha! :D
That was the same day I was absent- home with the mumps. And part of wisdom is also discovering what we just shouldn't be doing. I've found several things that fit in that category.
I just know I could teach you to calculate the discounted price, in your head, no toes, and in a trice.
This is what they taught the day you were sick.
To get 40%, just take 10% and multiply it by 4, or if you were sick the day they taught multiplication, add it 4 times.
If you are not left handed, you should be.
The same story the same dream, the same joke--AGAIN? Just shoot me first. Percentages and math in general--that's why god invented pocket calculators. As for the burns--yup. The stove sees me coming and chuckles. I have the blisters to prove it. Oh, did I already tell you about them? Sorry I was trying to focus on staying on my side of the road.
I, too, am math challenged. Why do they torture us? Can't they just write out the new cheaper price?
And there is no reason anyone other than a professional should ever have to bake. :)
Maybe someone should warn you about microwave ovens, then.
Not long ago my microwaved hot beverage bubbled up and over my hand when I started to stir it. As I was still in transit across my kitchen, I couldn't even let go or my toes would've gotten it too.
I feel for your poor left hand. Oven mitts are A Good Thing for those of us prone to oven burns.
What percentage of your hands do you feel you have burned over the years?
Hari OM
Oh Jenny - ovenmitts? I have burned my way through a fair percentage of those in my days... YAM xx
There are things you cannot do? For some reason this has made me sad. And if I believed you it would make me sadder. There are no doubt things you do in the Pearl way, and some things you choose not to do, but neither of these are fails. At all.
I've been told I have no depth perception and that's the reason for all the burn marks from the oven on my right arm!
Pearl, this post is delightful.
I used to work with a girl who couldn't do percentages and she was in billing. It was scary. But they thought she was the best thing ever.
I wonder if they ever found out?
Obviously, your strength is in manipulating the English language to entertain us. Who cares about the math deficits??? A fun read, but sorry about the burn marks.
I would figure out the discounts the same way until my best friend pointed out that there is a calculator on my cell phone and all I have to do is enter the original price and subtract 40% to get sale price (or whatever the discount is). Easy peasy!
I thought that was the normal way to find out the price when something is reduced by say 40% I know that is how I do it
I thought the same thing as Jo-Anne...you mean there's another way? Mind blown. My feet were at the grand opening of the pyramids. I'm assuming they were walking the first domesticated dog.
Post a Comment