A Series of Unfortunate-Cookie Events

By Sharie Derrickson

I love fortune cookies – in fact, until recently, I collected them, and sometimes, the little sayings I get in my fortune cookies come true. But, I don’t get just any old fortune cookie – I always get the odd ones that say stuff like, “Confucius say, ‘You only fail by failing, but you know that already,” and “Confucius say, ‘He who smelt it, delt it.” I absolutely love the little pieces of paper and often ponder the great wisdom that went in to writing each tidbit. And, like I said, most of the fortunes do come true – I failed once by failing, and we won’t talk about the smelt it/delt it thing, but I hold on to the little slips of paper, date them, and put them in a pouch I keep in not-only a secret, but an undisclosed location as well.

After one of my fortunes come true, I hold a little ceremony where I remove the little paper from its not-only secret, but undisclosed location, and then throw it in the trash. It’s not much of a ceremony, but I am too pressed for time for anything more substantial. At first, I wadded up the little piece of paper and ate it, but I got afraid I would get an intestinal blockage and an x-ray might reveal a bunch of little wadded pieces of paper in my digestive tract.

Mostly, my fortunes are innocuous. Seldom do they spell out disaster or future peril, like, “Confucius say, ‘Lips stapled to floor not good way to spend day.’” In fact, if I did get a fortune cookie that said something like that, I would probably ban all staplers from my house, and lock myself in my room for a week. But, I did get a fortune cookie a couple of weeks ago that struck me as one of impending doom. It said, “Confusions say, ‘Your toils bring day of spoils.’” One thing I can’t stand about Confucius is he never explains anything in his cookies. There are no warning labels, or toll-free numbers to call with questions. I can’t even send a complaint form anywhere, so I was stuck with this ambiguous fortune cookie that said that toiling would spoil my day. Talk about anxiety producing.

After a couple of days, I forgot about the fortune cookie and life went back to normal, meaning I was no longer curled up on my couch watching the dust collect as the laundry pile got so high, my family planted an American Flag on the top and posed for a photo. I figured that fate would have to take its course and I would have to risk getting my day spoiled by toiling before the health department showed up and cordoned off my house with yellow tape.

I went on a full-on cleaning binge. My daughter and I vacuumed, dusted, waxed, washed, scrubbed, and folded, and soon, my house looked like someone else’s. We were almost done with exception of one last wipe around the kitchen.

“Ha, take that you fortune cookie gods of chaos,” I screamed, waving a dishrag toward the heavens.

My daughter just blinked, hung her head and said, “You are so strange.”

“Look, I just beat fate – right now, the gods are cowered in the corner because, THEY COULDN’T GET ME!” I yelled again at the ceiling. “Now, hand me those wipes in a can and we can finish up and then go celebrate by messing something up.”

My daughter handed me the new-fangled wipes that come in a can – the ones where you take the top off and push the wipes through the hole so you can pull them out of the top. You know, I bash the space program a lot, but many good inventions have come out of space exploration, like the canister cleaning product, the ear thermometer and invisible braces, so I really should back off.

Anyway, my daughter and I went to put the finishing touches on our cleaning marathon.

My daughter handed me the canister of wipes and I popped the top to pull one out, but since it was a new canister, the wipes had not been threaded through the hole yet. It was then that the fortune cookie gods of mayhem reared their ugly heads. I grabbed the wipe, and used my index finger to push the wipe through the hole in the yellow canister top – a hole surrounded by sharp pointed barbs.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH,” I screamed, dancing around the kitchen, wrestling with the yellow top. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHH.”

“WHAT! What is it mom,” my daughter said, dropping the broom and running to my aid.

“THE CANISTER IS EATING MY FINGER!” I cried.

“Hold still, and I’ll pull it off,” my daughter said, trying to pull my finger out from the barbs that were now embedded in my finger.

“GET IT OFF ME. GET IT OFF ME! CURSE YOU FORTUNE COOKIE GODS!” By this time, blood came oozing out of each bite mark, and I was on my knees sobbing. GET A KNIFE!” I yelled.

“What are you going to do, cut your finger off?” my daughter asked, panicked.

“NO, THE DEMON PLASTIC TEETH ARE DOING THAT FOR ME,” I said, still crying. “I AM GOING TO TRY AND CUT ONE OF THE TEETH OFF SO I CAN GET MY FINGER OUT.”

My daughter handed me a paring knife and I stuck it in between my finger and one of the barbs. “Maybe I can wedge it out.”

“Do you want me to call 9-1-1?” my daughter asked.

“YES. NO,” I said. “NO. They might think I’m crazy,” I said.

“Uh, that’s because you are,” my daughter said. “Let me call them – I’m sure it’s not the first time this has happened – well, it probably is, but they’ll understand – they know you!”

“NO,” I snapped. “That might entail a trip to the hospital followed by an x-ray of my intestines, and we can’t have that.”

“Huh?”

“Just help me wedge my finger out as I try and cut this thing off.”

The teeth dug deeper into my finger. “IT WON’T COME OFF!” I yelled. “Get the cooking oil – we can pour some on it and maybe it will slide off,” I said, motioning toward the cupboard.

“Can we use PAM?” she said, holding up the spray can.

“No, use the cooking oil.” We moved to the sink and began pouring cooking oil over my finger as the paring knife and plastic teeth stayed firmly lodged in place.

“Okay, now pull on it,” I said to my daughter.

“But. . .”

“But nothing. I can’t go through life with a plastic wipe canister lid embedded in my finger. What would the neighbors say? There’s that crazy Sharie Derrickson with the plastic lid stuck on her finger!”

“Right,” she said, grabbing the top and tugging with all her might. Finally, the top slipped free, throwing cooking oil and blood all over my nice clean kitchen.

“Darn you fortune cookie gods,” I said, balling my hand and shaking it over my head. “Get me the phone book,” I said.

“For what?”

“I’ve got some phone calls to make – first to the space program who invented this torture device of a cleaning product, and then to the fortune cookie factory. Uh, can you dial for me? My finger hurts.”

Blasted fortune cookies.

Note: The response I got from the plastic canister lid people was, "Lady, you aren't supposed to stick your finger into the canister hole," and "Are you stupid or something?" NASA, I must add, never called me back.

© 2006 Sharie Derrickson. Previously printed in the Thousand Islands Sun.

Digesting Gas Prices

by Sharie Derrickson

Because I am a journalist, I am supposed to know a lot of stuff. By stuff, I mean who is president of the United States, who Alan Greenspan is, where most of the continents are, and my own address. I know these, but often, people approach me and ask me questions that I have no answer to, like, “How many moons does Jupiter have?” or, “What is a cumulous cloud?” or, “What is this checks and balances thing?”

The most recent question posed to me was, “Sharie, why are gas and fuel prices so high?” And, being the investigative journalists that I could be if I really tried, I found out some quite interesting facts regarding rising gas and fuel prices.

First of all, it is important to know that gas and heating oil is made from stuff dinosaurs ate 180 million years ago and is why it is called fossil fuel. But, dinosaurs eventually became extinct because they could no longer afford heating oil or the gas to drive to Florida for the winter. Sad.

Anyway, I set off to try and find out all the factors that could effect how much we pay at the pumps or to heat our homes. I made a list of things I thought would contribute to the rising costs, and I consulted many top websites for information. Then, I was asked to try and understand stuff like consumer price indexes, gross domestic product, and onomatopoeia. I realized that the whole subject might be over my head and that maybe I should tackle the problem from a more basic angle, like, “Do we pay a lot for gas and fuel as compared to other countries?” The answer was not simple either. See, we pay a lot less than other countries, and a lot more than other countries, primarily, I think, because those countries had either more or fewer dinosaurs than we do. I am not sure. I decided that I needed to compare prices around the world. Here is an example:

In the Netherlands, which I think is somewhere near Holland, pays about $6.50 a gallon for gasoline, which has many Netherlanders running through the streets with torches. But, in the Netherlands, people make a bit more money than we do, partially because they have those cool windmills that attract all kinds of tourists, and they save money by wearing wooden shoes, which they could burn to heat their homes if they like. Pretty smart, those Netherlanders.

But the picture was still unclear. Comparing gasoline prices was just to complicate because there were too many variables, so I decided to make a scientific comparison to something we all understand – fast food. It seems there is a direct correlation between gas and fuel prices to Big Macs. Where would one get that kind of information, you might ask? Easy. The Union Bank of Switzerland did a study that showed if Big Macs were buying power, then how long we would have to work to buy a burger.

The Swiss are great number crunchers and did this study with Big Macs representing total buying power worldwide because, well, I have no idea. They may have been bored. You’ll have to ask them. Their phone number is +41 848 848 064. Open a Swiss bank account while you’re at it, if you have an extra suitcase of money laying around if you don’t need it to fill up your car.
Here is an example of Big Mac cost comparisons:

In the Netherlands, it would take working 73.4 minutes of work to earn enough money to buy a Big Mac (if Big Macs represented the cost of living.) In the United States, you would have to work about 75 minutes to buy the same Big Mac. And, since Big Macs and a gallon of gasoline costs almost the same in these two countries, we can safely say that it would take you about 75 minutes of work to buy a gallon of gas. In short, we have a lot in common with people from the Netherlands, except for the windmills and the wooden shoes.

However, let’s look at Venezuela where they pay less than 25 cents a gallon. Yes, that’s right – less than a quarter for a gallon of gasoline. You may be saying to yourself right now, “Hold the lettuce. Why are we in such a pickle? I don’t relish the idea of paying so much more for gas than the Venezuelans. I don’t even now where Venezuela is.” (Funny Big Mac references, huh.)

Let me explain. Venezuelans have not only more dead dinosaurs, but also more refineries – probably because they have fewer caribou and spotted owls. In fact, their refineries are tourist attractions, and I understand they are thinking about opening a theme park later this year. And, I heard a rumor that they may put, “Come to Venezuela – we’ve got gas,” on their promotional brochure.

But, don’t be too envious of the Venezuelans. They have their fair share of problems, such as having a name that is hard to spell, and the fact that, in comparison, they pay way more for a Big Mac than we do. Here’s what it “broils” down to. (That’s another funny Big Mac reference, by the way.)

While the Venezuelans pay less than a quarter for a gallon of gasoline, they pay a whopping $1.83 for a Big Mac, and that dollar adjusted for stuff like cost of living, would make it cost like way more. So to a Venezuelan, gas is cheap, and a Big Mac is expensive. But, in all fairness, it would only take a Venezuelan about 20 minutes of work to earn enough money to buy a Big Mac, so I guess they get paid pretty well.

This takes me back to the Swiss, who have to work the hardest to buy a Big Mac – more than 100 minutes – AND they pay almost $5 a gallon for gasoline, and close to the same for a Big Mac. Man, I do feel sorry for them since that would be a little hard for me to swallow (another funny Big Mac reference, although in retrospect, it wasn’t that funny.)
Now you know that we don’t pay as much as some for gas as others, and we can conclude that Big Macs taste good, no matter how much they cost. We can also conclude that although Swiss people have good banks, but they pay too much for gas and burgers, and that I think Venezuela should rethink its travel brochure theme.

So, why are gas prices so high? I have no clue. It has something to do with dependence of foreign oil, output, oil demand in Asia, and a bunch of hubbidy-bub on charts and graphs that I didn’t really understand because I am a journalist and not an economist. This I do know – I’m now hungry – and I’m cold. I’m going to Micky D’s. They, unlike me, can afford heat.

Note: This story has a margin of error of +/- 75 percent because I am not good with numbers like the Swiss.

© 2006 Sharie Derrickson. Previously printed in the Thousand Islands Sun.

Stuck Again

By Sharie Derrickson

Last week, I had what is now referred to as “The Incident.” I have more incidences than most people, I think. I attended a meeting in Cape Vincent and on my way home, I remembered that I had promised to call my sister early that evening, so, being the law-abiding citizen that I am, I pulled my car over to make a call on my cellular phone. First, I pulled the car over to the side of the road but thought to myself that it would be my luck that someone’s car would hit a patch of ice and ram into my car because, if it could happen, it would happen to me.

I decided not to tempt fate and instead, pulled my car into a little parking area near the river in the Cape and made my phone call. That part went all right – I mean, I didn’t get electrocuted by my cell phone or explode my gas tank because of the electro-magnetic emission from the phone or anything like that, because if it could happen, it would happen to me.

After a short conversation with my sister, I turned my car around and proceeded to drive out of the parking area when I got stuck. Now, getting stuck in the snow is no new phenomenon for me – hence the reason my husband forces me to carry the cellular phone with me, because if it could happen, it would happen to me – and it did.

At first, I didn’t panic. I had all the survival items that experts recommend you carry with you in case you get stuck in the snow – pork rinds, crossword puzzles, a role of aluminum foil (to wrap yourself in and keep warm with), a yoyo, and of course, a cellular phone because pretty soon, pork rinds and yoyos get boring.

I figured I could just throw the Jeep into four-wheel whatever (I don’t quite get that four-wheel high, four-wheel low, and that gear ratio thing) and I would be able to get myself out of the situation – like I did the week before, and if not, I would just call my husband who can then go borrow a big truck and pull me out – like he did last week. But then, I heard it – a sound so terrifying, Alfred Hitchcock would make a movie using it if he were still alive. “CRRAAACCCKKKK.” It sounded like a giant sheet of ice was cracking. I had heard about this sound and saw it in the movie Titanic, and a couple of National Geographic shows, but it sounded even more ominous when heard in person. I thought to my self, “Hmmm. The ice on the river must be beginning to break up.”

Then, I heard it again, and I got out of my car to investigate, because that’s what reporters do – they investigate stuff. As I got out of my car and stepped into the three-foot snow bank my car sat in, I heard the noise again, but it was coming near my car. I began to dig around my tires with my hands hoping that digging out some of the snow would help me get out and I wouldn’t have to call my husband, when I saw that under my right, front tire was nothing but ice. Then I heard it again – CRRRAAACCCKKK.

“OH NO,” I screamed. “I AM ON THE &$@*& RIVER. I DROVE MY CAR ONTO THE %#)^$ RIVER. I’M DEAD,” I thought to myself, knowing my husband was not going to be too pleased. I remember sitting on a pair of his sunglasses and breaking them once and he was pretty mad about that. How was he going to feel when he finds out that I put his car into the bottom of the St. Lawrence?”

I began to dig even more furiously, hoping that somehow, some way, I could figure the whole mess out and I wouldn’t have to call him so that he would have to go borrow a crane. After my hands were frozen, I decided I should get back into the car and think things through. “Let’s see, if I were McGyver, what would I do?” I asked myself.

“McGyver isn’t stupid enough to drive his car onto the river,” I answered.

“Oh, shut up,” I said.

“Alright then, what can I use to get some traction?” I said. “You don’t have much in here except a bag of pork rinds, some foil, a puzzle book, and a yoyo. Can you somehow devise a pulley system?”

“No – that’s a pretty stupid idea,” I said. “But, you could sprinkle the pork rinds around the front tire and see if they give you some traction,” I said to myself.

“That’s a great idea,” I said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You did, you dope. Now go start spreading those pork rinds around.”

So, I got out of the car, packed pork rinds around my two front tires, then gave the car some gas. Nothing happened. I got out and saw pork rinds scattered everywhere, but my car was still in the same place. “Think, Sharie, think.”

I got back into the car to get warm and to munch on some of the scattered pork rinds I had picked up when panic struck. “What if the tail-pipe is buried and I die of carbon monoxide poisoning as I sit here and eat these pork rinds and play with my yoyo. “I HAVE TO GET OUT OF THIS CAR,” I screamed. “GET OUT NOW – YOU WILL EITHER GO THROUGH THE ICE OR GET POISONED. Uh, and don’t forget the yoyo because they are pretty fun and will keep you occupied as your car sinks to the bottom of the river, and you have to wait for your husband to come get you.”

After about ten minutes of freezing outside the car, and my hands becoming too numb to play with my yoyo, I decided I had to call my husband. I dialed his number on the cellular phone.

“Hey. Hi honey? How are things going at home?” I asked.

“Pretty good. What are you doing?” he asked.

“Well, not too much really. I’m playing with my yoyo and hoping you could come pull me out again.”

“AGAIN?” he said.

“Yeah, again – but see, there’s a hitch – uh, well I pulled the car over to call my sister on the cellular phone, which I did and we had a nice conversation, by the way, and then, when I went to turn around, I got stuck.”

“So where’s the hitch?”

“Well, see, I got my car stuck on the river and now I hear cracking sounds, and I tried to use pork rinds for traction, but that didn’t work, and well, I’m cold, hungry, and my yoyo is frozen to the palm of my hand so could you come get me?”

“CRACKING SOUNDS – ON THE RIVER!”

“Yeah, sorry about that – but can you come get me and possibly the car if it is still here?”

“I’ll be right there,” he said, and hung up.

Just then, a “Good Samaritan” pulled up in his truck. “Hey lady, did you know you pulled your car into the boat ramp?” he asked, smirking. “It’s a little late in the year to be launching a boat don’t you think?” he said, smirking even more

“Yeah, my husband is coming. He’s bringing a truck and his scuba equipment.”

“Okay then” he said, waving goodbye.

Just then, my husband and cousin showed, and just shook their heads as they hooked up chains and stuff to my car and pulled me out of the boat ramp.

“I was so scared,” I said, hugging my husband. “I could have died?”

“You’re okay now,” he said, kissing the top of my head.

“Honey,” I said.

“What?”

“I’m hungry.”

“You didn’t eat dinner?” he said.

“No, the car ate my pork rinds.”

He looked at the crushed pork rinds scattered in the snow. “You want to tell me what that is all about or should we just go home.”

“Let’s go home.”

“Okay, but I’ll say one thing for you – if it can happen, it will happen to you.”

I hate it when he’s right.


© 2006 Sharie Derrickson. Previously printed in the Thousand Islands Sun.