Cuff Shooting Gallery

My oldest needed dress clothes for work this Christmas, so a concerted effort was made by all gift-givers to get him items he can really use. My Mr. Speech and Debate has never been very interested in attire, partly because it is so difficult to don apparel while holding an open book. His dad and stepmom got him a sport coat and shoes. His brother, Danger Baby, and I took him shopping for khakis, a pair of wool slacks, a dress shirt, and socks at Jos. A. Bank. His Woolly Mammoth brother brought him a handsome neck scarf from Italy for Ohio's winter weather.

On his last day in Texas, Speech and Debate dressed up in his new duds for his flight. He struck poses for the camera, clearly enjoying himself. As I look at my photos*, I see the only thing forgotten was "shooting his cuffs". His shirt cuffs need to project a bit beyond his coat cuffs.

What a strange expression, "shooting his cuffs"! When we see it in print, we understand the meaning. Unlike "shooting oneself in the foot," or "shooting off your mouth," it doesn't involve ammunition. It's closer to "shooting the rapids", sending a whitewater raft full of cuff through the narrow canyon chute of the suitcoat sleeve.

Wisegeek.com explains cuff-shooting is "the male preening gesture that aligns jacket sleeves and shirt sleeves". Not being a guy, I can't pretend to accomplish this action, but it must make the arms and shoulders more comfortable. Nothing feels worse than having a sweater blobbed up at my elbow inside my winter coat.

Answers.com has help for the guy who doesn't have the moves of, say, Robert Redford, Sean Connery, or George Clooney:

One who is unable to throw his wrists gracefully may try another way to shoot cuffs: with the thumb and forefinger of one hand pull sharply on the sleeve of the other arm, to expose the cuff, and then switch hands and repeat.

The idiom also conveys a dandy suddenly showing off an unnecessary amount of cuff or a flashy cufflink.

About 1963 my brother received a "shooting gallery" for Christmas. It was a cardboard replica of the carnival midway game, intended for kiddie pop-guns. During cold winters we played in the basement, galloping around on stick horses, taking target practice, and writing on slates in the schoolmarm's classroom. Upstairs, we built with LEGO bricks. I don't think we ever made a LEGO shooting gallery, though. I'm trying to imagine a LEGO casino with guys shooting their cuffs and setting up the big Sting!

*My kids let me blog as long as I don't post their photos or otherwise blow their covers as 007 operatives.

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

On Beyond Swiffer

Last January my sister did her best to brainwash me into joining the cult of Swiffervangelism to which she belongs. Like the causes and creeds of many who have try to bring me into their chosen fold, Swiffervangelism sort of grazed me and bounced off. It's been almost six months, and already I'm on my second package of Wet Swiffer amazing disposable mop cloths. I'll have to buy my second Dry Swiffer on my next trip to the store. At twelve Swiffs per package... six months... I'm up to cleaning the kitchen floor twice a month. Bet that wasn't what either my sister or HomeMadeSimple had in mind.


You could say I just go to church for the music. This is the
Top Three Dry Swiffer Countdown:


This Week's Newcomer to the Charts
Dry Swiffer Hit Number Three

Got a good reason for taking the easy way out
Got a good reason for taking the easy way out now

She was a Dry Swiffer, a one way ticket yea
It took me so long to find out, and I found out

She’s a degreaser, she took me half the way there
She’s a degreaser, she took me half the way there now...

Dry Swiffer, yea
Dry Swiffer, yea



Dry Swiffer Hit Number Two

I told you ’bout living in the u.s. of a.
Don’t you know that I’m a Swiffer of rooms
Let me tell you people that I found a new way
And I’m tired of all this talk about brooms
And the same old story with a new set of words
About the dirt and the lint on the floor
And the times keep on changin’
So I’m keepin’ on top
Of every cat who tracks dirt through my door

I'm a DrySwiffer
Bet you weren't ready for that
I'm a DrySwiffer
I'm sure you know where it's at
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah



Dry Swiffer Top Tune of All Time


DrySwiffer, he's the mop, the mop with the Midas touch
A spider's touch
Such a SlySwiffer beckons you to enter his web of dust
But don't you trust

Golden words he will pour in your ear
The white glove test you needn't fear,
But a mother-in-law proves that she's the SpySwiffer
It's the swiff of death for Mister DrySwiffer


[Having a cleaner kitchen floor still hasn't earned me a ride in 007's Aston Martin.]



So far, Wet Swiffering only has one song, and it is kind of a downer:


WetSwiffer, WetSwiffer,
Mop up that splash,
Dissolve that old chunk
Of congealed goulash.
WetSwiffer, WetSwiffer
Erase that ew-yuk,
And make me a perfect cook (while you're at it)


WetSwiffer, WetSwiffer,
You won't need a pail
To get rid of black heel marks
And sticky spilled ale.
Shine up my floor for I'm longing to be,
The envy of all I see.


What would Dr. Seuss think about Swiffer?
After all, Mr. Sneelock is one of my friends. He'll probably help out doing small odds and ends. Little odd jobs he can do with such ease. Would he do the darn Swiffering if I say, "Please"?

The fine print:

Goldfinger - Artist: Shirley Bassey - peak Billboard position # 8 in 1965 - title song from the James Bond movie starring Sean Connery, Gert Frobe as Goldfinger, Honor Blackman as Pussy Galore, and Harold Sakata as Odd Job - Words and Music by Lesley Bricusse, Anthony Newley and John Barry.

"Space Cowboy" from Brave New World, Steve Miller Band, released June 1969 by Capital Records.

1965 1971

Gums to die for

I had an appointment with 2 at 4 today. "Two" is the name of my dental hygienist, although that isn't how you spell it. I always feel like my tartar is being attacked by a secret agent from James Bond's M16 or by Get Smart's Barbara Feldon.

Agent 2 is always pleasantly efficient, and doesn't overdo it during the Floss More Often oration. I bet she whips out of her undercover job at the end of the tooth-polishing day, jumps into her Q-designed car, and speeds off to Istanbul, the Alps, or Hong Kong.
Listerine shaken, not stirred.

My dentist pops in for thirty-four seconds of quality time, and pronounces, "People would kill for your gums!" I'm betting these so-called "people" are the hired muscle of powerful international cartels.

Nobody "kills for" my beauty, my wit, my cooking, or my money. Shirley Bassey only sings about my gums.

Behind the wheel, behind the scenes

Steven and I arrive at Opening Night of Carmen

We wish! Actually, it was a memory-making evening, even if we did drive the '96 Buick down to the Music Hall. The Dallas Opera production more than met my expections. Steven didn't moan about wearing his suit, didn't get Quiznos crumbs all over it, and looked very handsome (Every mom's crazy 'bout her sharp-dressed son.)

At the intermission after Act I we wandered outside for some air, and walked over to check out the luxury auto on display. Steven immediately knew, with his seventeen-year-old male cosmic connection to All Things Automotive, that the mysterious hood ornament was the mark of a Maybach. The back doors were open, and after a couple circuits of the car, we were invited to sit inside next to the champagne cooler to admire the burled Indonesian wood carried out of the jungles by elephants just to grace this vehicle's interior. I peeked my head in for a look-see. Steven asked if he could sit in the driver's seat instead. "But of course, sir, but please remember the motor is running."

Maybach's don't have dealerships. They have studios--one here in Plano, and another in Dallas. I don't know what to call the sales representative for an automotive studio. He and Steven engaged in a discussion of the V12 gas engine that takes it from zero to six million mph in fifteen seconds even though the vehicle weighs over 6000 pounds, and the B-4 level security features that deflect .44 caliber bullets at point blank range and galactic death rays from further out. I was impressed with the way the man treated Steven as though he would be buying his own Maybach 62 as soon as he signs his celebrity endorsement contract next week. "Could you get used to driving this?" he asked. "Oh, yes, in an instant. I felt just like James Bond." Perhaps I could ride in the back with the champagne and be M for mom.

Price was not discussed, except that if you have to ask about fuel economy you can't afford the Maybach. According to Luxury Nation the MSRP is $359500. I believe Steven is looking forward to Opening Night of "Jenufa" just to see what luxury vehicle will be on display!

After the incredible arias of Latonia Moore as Micaela, and the breath-taking conclusion in front of the terrific arena set, we got to go backstage for a personal tour. Our guide knew how much I would groove on seeing the prop goat the butcher hauls over his shoulder through the crowd scene, and the weathering effect on the bullfight posters on the arena walls. We even got to shake hands with the supernumerary peasant who pushes the wheelbarrow of steaming offul past the lounging soldiers in Act I. I forgot to get his autograph, though!

The good, the bad, and the ugly

Working on the Monday after the Fourth had one advantage. My commute took twelve minutes instead of forty or more. I owned the expressway. I was the queen of all I surveyed. You may kiss my ring. My students love their castle days art projects. They feel like knights in shining armor. Powerful preschoolers. Invincible.

My son did not have to work at the bank, of course. He got up around noon. My condo was a mecca for teen guys all day, due to the cupcakes I baked last night. Now it is night, and they have left the bat cave like other insectivores.

The teen guys have been lounging around the living room channel surfing between the 007 Bond-a-thon, and the poker cable channel. They imagine themselves as Sean Connerys PLUS ready to beat all odds. Testosterone. Invincible. Heaven please protect their chariots.