Misquoted

This is a mobile upload. I had to take it. When I read it, I couldn't help but laugh. A lesson in the colloquial quote, if you will.

Translation of the sign above: Please, but not really, refrain from using your fake cell phones (though how you might use a fake cell phone is beyond me) during a transaction. Thank you for following the request we couldn't make because it was an impossible request to extend.

Probable desired translation: We would really appreciate and prefer if you did not use your cell phones when dealing with our tellers.

Rewrite option: Lose the quotes.

The whole message just reminded me of Joey, on "FRIENDS" (quotes are okay here because it is the name of a television show, though I could argue for italics instead), apologizing to Ross. I'm "sorry." Not using them right, Joe.

Message to local Wamu branch: Not using them right, Wamu.

Ode to Sunscreen

I spent this past weekend in Palm Desert. More specifically, I spent it at a pool at a hotel in Palm Desert. And while I was sitting there, liberally applying my SPF 30 Dry-touch sunscreen to my rather pale body and a different oil-free sunscreen to my face, I thought to myself, "Thank God for sunscreen."

It's not said enough. Without sunscreen, I cannot enjoy a good book (or, as was the case this weekend, a good water gun), without serious pain and placing my health in even more serious jeopardy. It's a very under-appreciated product.

Not only does its mere existence increase the pleasure of my existence but take a moment to think about its form. Yes, we often complain that it smells funny and feels slimy on our hands but, in its development, it was not so pristine. In fact, at one point, it was red, and of the consistency of petroleum jelly (not to mention not nearly as effective as today's product). Sunscreen was introduced to the market in the late 30s and early 40s (which explains the athletic fashions of previous times) and the SPF term we so freely throw about today came about approximately 25 years later by the same man, Franz Greiter, who had produced what is considered to be the first effective sunscreen. That is a lifetime dedicated to sunscreen. And, I say, a life well spent!!

Without sunscreen, where would you be? Tied to your house with brief excursions outside? Or worse, venturing out with layers of clothing, covering every morsel of your body including your face? Lovely.

It's been said that coffee makes modern life possible. So be it. Coffee makes the work world possible. But sunscreen, ah sunscreen, sunscreen makes modern leisure time possible.

I Left My Heart in Eastern Europe

Perhaps you've read about it in the news, the story of the father/grandfather who locked his 18-year-old daughter in the cellar for 24 years and fathered 7 children by her in a city outside Vienna. It is by all means revolting and disgusting on a level far exceeding "Chinatown." Eh, forget it, Jake. All allusions/lightheartedness aside, this story makes me miss Eastern Europe. Odd, I know.

I was only there for a summer---well, half a summer really--- between my undergraduate and graduate incarcerations, but I had such a profound experience in that brief time that that region of the world has ingrained itself within me. I think this is especially true of its children. I was there teaching English to preteens and teens and have gained at least one very dear friend whom I think of as a little sister. I taught as a camp counselor. Each week I was assigned students who belonged to me and that is precisely how I looked at them. For that week, they were mine. I was responsible for them in every manner. And who knows what role that may have meant that I played in their lives in the long run? They've very much had an affect on mine.

I miss them and do not doubt, that when the day comes, I will be looking into adoption in the Eastern European region. The countries have such interesting, tumultuous histories, and I just wish I could make everything better. I can't. But maybe I can do something.

Buy me a drink....

If you are as strange as I am and have seen those adorable 1950's wifes on flasks and ID cases and notepads and magnets and so on and so forth, featuring women who say/think coy and sometimes raffish things, and you wondered if those images were actual 1950's images or manufactured for this particular merchandise line, you'd be interested to know they are legit. Those women were actual women who looked like that at some point about 50 years ago. They modeled for Sears and sewing machines, etc. etc..

The women are called Taintorettes, named after the originator of the line, Anne Taintor. Some of the Taintorettes have been identified. Those who have can now be seen and read about in mini-bios on the Anne Taintor website. Take a look and find out exactly whose face you've been laughing at all this time.

Work Place Accidents

The clock. Some of you may remember that I have recently blogged on the woes of changing from Standard Time to Daylight Savings Time and therefore having to "change the clocks." Well, the clocks apparently took offense and decided to gather and construct a silent coup to take me down.

It all happened last Friday, after spending every day of the week in an office where I (and others) work as a temp flipping through pages of marketing reports looking for what amounts to computer and printing errors (and, in my case, discovering what's available in the wonderful world of podcasts to occupy my ears while my hands work). After a tedious week, and this the final Friday of the month, we were rewarded with cake which they tried to tell us was actually in honor of the month's birthdays for those people who actually work at the company and are kept separate from us, the temps. I am not a fan of cake but, like I said, this being Friday and boredom having set in on Monday, I was willing to try any insulin-injection I could. And I did. The result of which was not pretty.

With 15 minutes left in the day and therefore the week, 15 minutes left until a weekend of relaxation and freedom, 15 minutes!!!, the clocks saw their opportunity for revenge. And they took it. Working alongside the clocks, my coworkers begged me to do something to make the time go faster. Now you, being of sound mind and less cake than I was at the moment I had to react, may consider some form of entertainment as a way to make the time pass by quickly-- a little song or, say, a jig. I, instead, decided to go up to the 16"-diametered clock that reigns over our little, separate, temp office space, and pretend to hang on the minute hand.....a concept I'm not sure was transferred clearly to my audience. So I did and as I pulled away, my pinky on my right hand began to throb slightly. I thought nothing of it other than that I had accidentally made contact with the clock. But nooooooo. The clock had made contact with me! Somehow, somewhere, the clock held a tiny, but very sharp, dagger!! And it took its chance while I was near to it and sliced my finger (though, my theory is that it was going for my entire hand to disable me from writing any future anti-clock-changing blogs).

After playing it that nothing had happened, I finally glanced down at my finger and saw a strong streak of liquid red. I'm bleeeeeeding! It got me. <<>> It got me.

You're probably thinking it did not get me that well but the wound this the Tuesday after still bleeds often enough to necessitate bandage.

I'm going to call my surgeon. And I'm going to purchase a hammer. Many hammers. And share them with you. So that together we can pound on all the clocks, for they are out to get us. DEFEND YOURSELVES!!!

***This is not an April Fools Day joke.***

The Cookie Monster

I am a big fan of the cookie. I consume more than my fair share every week (an amount I might consider disclosing here if I did not think you would be disgusted.....or rather that I would be disgusted and attempt, unsuccessfully, to remedy my sweet-toothed ways). I'm not incredibly picky about cookies but I obviously have my favorites. And I have to admit, as it is season to admit, amidst that top tier is the lovely, purple-adorning, coconut-coated, Samoa from our friends, the Girl Scouts.

Let me let you in on a little known secret about the rest of the Girl Scout Cookies. They're not that good. Oh, I dare say some can hold on to a fight but, on the whole, there's nothing to talk about. Perhaps (I say perhaps because I haven't done the proper research and instead invite you to do my homework) the most popular of the Girl Scout Cookie Flavors is the Thin Mint--the green box, thin, chocolate coated, mint-flavored wafer-like cookies that are a great size for whole-cookie-mouth-popping. But, let's be honest here. Anyone who appreciates the stellar combination of mint with chocolate will run over the Thin Mint box to get to a box of the York cookies. Hellllo!! They're infinitely more minty and infinitely more chocolatey and infinitely more mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. And yet, each year, at that certain time, we flock to our neighborhood Wal-Mart or Target or ........ to get a box of this and a box of that from the somewhat oddly dressed little girls with overpriced goodies. We're more than willing! We're eager. We look forward to it!

((Quick anecdote: this year, my mother was in charge of ordering the cookies. We are a Samoa family. We don't mess around. We want lots and lots of purple, a couple green, a couple red, and who cares what else? But something went wrong with our order (yes, we are pre-orderers). Instead of having lots and lots of purple, we ended up with lots and lots of orange (orange?) and only one purple. It was a travesty! We timed our grocery store runs hoping to hit little Girl Scouts on our way out of the store for their supply of purples.))

It's marketing genius! You always want what you cannot have. And so much of the year, you CANNOT have these cookies. In their paucity....increase craving, increase craving, increase craving.....then supply and increase crazy! Go bezerk! Eat them all! And, remember, they're not very good. If Girl Scout cookies were on the market year round, most of them would never survive (I say most in respect for the Samoa). There are much better cookies in the grocery store aisle. Need I say SoftBatch?? Plus the potential for homemade cookies. Ooooooooooh. But we want the Girl Scout cookies because those cute, little girls have gotten into our minds, and messed with our desires, and manipulated our taste buds so that come the annual release, we stampede them like a massive group of Girl-Scout-cookie-deprived Americans.

Yikes.

Why Are You Making Me Wear Green???

I am not Irish, in any microscopic percentage of being (despite the name that has plagued me since birth). I've never been to Ireland. And although I do generally enjoy the color green (how could you not? leaves, grass, grasshoppers), I resent the need to wear it on St. Patrick's Day. In fact, if I were a St. Patrick purist, I'd insist on blue, which was the actual color of St. Patrick before the day became synonymous with Irish folklore and the green of Ireland. Guess what. I'm not Roman Catholic either, the religion which is supposed to celebrate St. Patrick's Day.

I am an American Christian who is not wearing green but is, coincidentally, wearing blue, and who, when I walk outside today, stands the risk of getting pinched. Pinched! As in, a method often used to discover if one is dreaming or not, an action designed for immediate, significant, though short-lasted pain. Transitively, I am risking pain by going outside and not wearing green today because today is the day that American Christians honor their patron saint by wearing a color unconnected to that saint......ohhhh wait.......that's not right......


So, anyway. Beer, anyone?



Reasons to like St. Patrick's Day:
1) Green. It's my color. I look stunning in it.
2) Beer. You can drink so much beer you think you're Irish and then enjoy St. Patrick's Day because you're Irish.
3) Four-leaf clovers---they're so abundant that you delude yourself (see reason 2) into thinking they're easy to find in reality and that, therefore, good luck is easy to find in reality.
4) Brotherly love (again references to reason 2)
5) Not American. Since you are Irish for the day (or if you actually have some Irish blood in you), you can claim to be un/non-American, which is a very cool American thing to do.