In light of my travels to France and Germany from which I just returned, I wanted to make a series of posts about the must-know facts of traveling. I will address what to pack, different strategies for packing, basic etiquette, and general travel tips to make your vacations more enjoyable and your gruesome international flights easier to survive.
First, I will talk about some essential items every traveler needs in their carry on luggage for their plane ride.
1. Ear Plugs. While not every long flight has a screaming infant, it is more likely than not that you will encounter some sort of noise annoyance, which may be an upset child, other passengers bickering, that snoring guy, or being seated ON the engine. One of the seats I was assigned in my most recent trip made me wonder if the plane engine itself was in fact under my seat cushion, instead of the life preserver that the flight attendant had claimed was stowed there. Ear plugs are very cheap insurance of a peaceful flight and a decent chance at a much needed nap. I feel that wearing earplugs also decreases my ear discomfort caused by changes in altitudes and pressure. You can buy them at any drugstore or places like Target. Here is one example of the style I prefer: Here
2. A Light Jacket. This may seem like a no-brainer, but if you are jetting off to Bora-Bora, you may not think that a jacket is a necessity for your trip. Climates inside airplanes are somewhat unpredictable, but just in case you are stuck on a plane with a 60 degree temperature for 7 hours on your way to Hawaii, the jacket will be well worth it, even if you never use it when you get to your destination. Airlines often provide blankets during long flights, but they are small, thin, and made out a fabric that feels like it might have been velcro in a past life. Not fun. Plus, jackets also double as pillows. Airline pillows are about the size of a tic-tac.
3. Something to Keep You Busy. In case the insomnia demon visits you and you are unable to catch some shut eye on your flight, you will need something to keep you from trying to figure out how many origami figurines you can make from your drink napkin. My favorite is the Kindle. While it is a bit of an investment, if you like to read, the Kindle is really great. Books on the Kindle are often cheaper than buying paper copies, and is also kinder to the environment. It is smaller and lighter than packing a book long enough to keep you occupied for many hours. If you have a nine hour flight to Germany, you could need up to 16 hours of reading material round-trip, which is far more than I ever have room for in my bag. Make sure you download plenty of books before you leave home, since you can't access the internet while you're in the air. I recommend packing it in your carry on in a Ziploc bag. Mine fits perfectly in a quart size freezer bag. Then, if one of your carry-on liquids bursts, someone spills a drink on your bag, or in case you are caught in a torrential downpour on your way from the airport to your hotel, it will be protected. In fact, Ziploc bags are one of the best inventions ever for traveling. I will address this in one of my coming posts.
4. Socks. Let's face it. You might have worn flip flops to make it easier to get through security at the airport. Or you may have chosen to wear your biggest, heaviest shoes to lighten your suitcase to get it under the weight limit to avoid fees. Either way, putting an extra pair of socks in your carry on is a fantastic idea. If you wore flip flops, your feet might get cold. Or if you are like me, you will want to take your shoes off and curl up in your seat. If you were wearing big heavy shoes, fresh socks will probably be nice... Especially for your neighbor. Don't subject anyone to unpleasant odors. There have been times on airplanes when I really wished I had also brought nose plugs!!
One last thing to think about is this: if you were trapped in a closet for X hours (insert flight length here), what would you miss? Whatever it is, pack it!! For me, it was lip balm. But honestly, flying is similar to being in a closet. You don't have access to much, you don't have much room to move, and there is nowhere else you can feasibly go.
Next time I will talk about packing strategies. You might not have known there were such things! Packing should not involve you running around the night before your departure throwing things haphazardly into a bag. You will inevitably forget lots of important things and instead be stuck carrying around crap that you just don't need. There is a method! I can make your packing experience less stressful, your suitcase more organized, and your vacation more enjoyable.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Surviving the Festivities
In honor of yesterday's holiday, Independence Day, I'd like to share an anecdote. There are a variety of festivities associated with the fourth of July, such as parades, barbecues with watermelon, and of course, fireworks shows. Children and adults alike flock to these activities and create a battery of memories that will last a lifetime. This is my memory.
Though I do not remember my exact age at the time this story took place, I do remember that I was under the age of 10. As a kid, I was afraid of loud noises in general, like a balloon popping, for instance. It was not only when I was caught off guard by a noise, but at the occurrence of any such noise I became frightened. If I knew the noise was coming, I had time to prepare, or shall I say freak out, in advance. Do not ask me what kind of trauma I endured to instill this ridiculous phobia, because I don't think I had one. Nope, just some good old fashioned unfounded fear. My family had a tradition of going to the annual fireworks show in Norman, and we always sat in Reeves Park on the same worn comforter. This comforter never saw the light of day except on the fourth of July. "Who keeps a blanket solely for use one day per year?" you may be wondering. Apparently we did.
I always enjoyed the sight of fireworks, but I found the noise to be abhorrent. I always watched from inside the house when my brother and dad would set off fireworks at our house. Black Cats were pretty much the most evil invention ever, since they were all bang and no flash. Anyway, I typically pouted through the entire fireworks display in Norman with my fingers plugging my ears, and when it was over, scuffled back to the car with the rest of the family. Yeah, I was a pretty bratty kid.
One year I was in a particularly irritable mood. I tried to talk my mom into leaving me at home while they went to the park. Of course, leaving a child under the age of 30 was not permissible in my overly sheltered upbringing. (Okay, okay, 30 might be an exaggeration.) Either way, I knew at the ripe old age of 8 or so that I was fully capable of not burning the house down if I were to be left alone for an hour or two. My mother did not consent and I was dragged along to the crowded craziness that included 30 minutes to find parking, a 10 minute walk to find a place to sit, and practically an hour trying to get out of town after the show concluded. Since I was so adamant about my dislike of the family tradition, I was in rare form. I was officially beyond the bratty classification. I whined a lot and asked if I could at least stay in the car while my family went to watch the fireworks. No such luck.
The designated July fourth comforter was spread on the ground in the park, and we were settled, waiting for the show to start. My mom mentioned that the wind was coming from an unusual direction, and that in our regular spot at the park, we were in fact down wind from where the fireworks were going to be set off. My dad said that we should still be fine. The embers would extinguish themselves before they got anywhere near us. So the fireworks began, and I had my fingers in my ears. Sure enough, the embers were coming right at us. They rained down and the mob of people in the area were picking up blankets and hastily retreating. Nothing had landed within ten feet of us, and we stayed put. At this time, I looked up directly above us and saw a flaming piece of cardboard coming straight for me. I skittered backward on the blanket, but my reaction time was inadequate, and the fireball landed on my left arm.
Now, I say fireball. Let me be clear. This monstrous weapon of terror was probably between the size of a quarter and a half dollar coin. By flaming, I mean glowing orange, but with no actual fire. When it landed on my arm, I was relatively sure that I would die, right then and there. Maybe one of the bystanders would know CPR and could resuscitate me, and perhaps someone could amputate my arm before the flames melted the skin off of the rest of my body. I squealed and brushed the blazing inferno off of my arm. To my surprise, not my mom, dad or brother even flinched. I ran under the nearest tree and yelled, "You'd better get under this tree!!!!" with an urgency that only a girl trying to save her family from the threat of death could possible muster. I believe I got a couple of eye-rolls, and a minute or two later, my family moved their blanket under the tree where I was taking refuge.
Of course, all anyone heard from me on the way back to the car that night was "I told you so. I knew I should have stayed home. Next year I am not leaving the car." I believe I had a tiny red spot on my arm. It did not blister or scab over. I have no physical scar to bear witness to the atrocity I survived.
This year I watched a fireworks show and thoroughly enjoyed it. I am not sure at what age my horror dissolved and I began enjoying fireworks shows. It was a gradual transition. There is only one year I can think of that I did not attend any fireworks displays. All I know now is that fireworks are much less terrifying than they used to be. And you know what? If you want to pop a balloon in my presence, I will be just fine.
Though I do not remember my exact age at the time this story took place, I do remember that I was under the age of 10. As a kid, I was afraid of loud noises in general, like a balloon popping, for instance. It was not only when I was caught off guard by a noise, but at the occurrence of any such noise I became frightened. If I knew the noise was coming, I had time to prepare, or shall I say freak out, in advance. Do not ask me what kind of trauma I endured to instill this ridiculous phobia, because I don't think I had one. Nope, just some good old fashioned unfounded fear. My family had a tradition of going to the annual fireworks show in Norman, and we always sat in Reeves Park on the same worn comforter. This comforter never saw the light of day except on the fourth of July. "Who keeps a blanket solely for use one day per year?" you may be wondering. Apparently we did.
I always enjoyed the sight of fireworks, but I found the noise to be abhorrent. I always watched from inside the house when my brother and dad would set off fireworks at our house. Black Cats were pretty much the most evil invention ever, since they were all bang and no flash. Anyway, I typically pouted through the entire fireworks display in Norman with my fingers plugging my ears, and when it was over, scuffled back to the car with the rest of the family. Yeah, I was a pretty bratty kid.
One year I was in a particularly irritable mood. I tried to talk my mom into leaving me at home while they went to the park. Of course, leaving a child under the age of 30 was not permissible in my overly sheltered upbringing. (Okay, okay, 30 might be an exaggeration.) Either way, I knew at the ripe old age of 8 or so that I was fully capable of not burning the house down if I were to be left alone for an hour or two. My mother did not consent and I was dragged along to the crowded craziness that included 30 minutes to find parking, a 10 minute walk to find a place to sit, and practically an hour trying to get out of town after the show concluded. Since I was so adamant about my dislike of the family tradition, I was in rare form. I was officially beyond the bratty classification. I whined a lot and asked if I could at least stay in the car while my family went to watch the fireworks. No such luck.
The designated July fourth comforter was spread on the ground in the park, and we were settled, waiting for the show to start. My mom mentioned that the wind was coming from an unusual direction, and that in our regular spot at the park, we were in fact down wind from where the fireworks were going to be set off. My dad said that we should still be fine. The embers would extinguish themselves before they got anywhere near us. So the fireworks began, and I had my fingers in my ears. Sure enough, the embers were coming right at us. They rained down and the mob of people in the area were picking up blankets and hastily retreating. Nothing had landed within ten feet of us, and we stayed put. At this time, I looked up directly above us and saw a flaming piece of cardboard coming straight for me. I skittered backward on the blanket, but my reaction time was inadequate, and the fireball landed on my left arm.
Now, I say fireball. Let me be clear. This monstrous weapon of terror was probably between the size of a quarter and a half dollar coin. By flaming, I mean glowing orange, but with no actual fire. When it landed on my arm, I was relatively sure that I would die, right then and there. Maybe one of the bystanders would know CPR and could resuscitate me, and perhaps someone could amputate my arm before the flames melted the skin off of the rest of my body. I squealed and brushed the blazing inferno off of my arm. To my surprise, not my mom, dad or brother even flinched. I ran under the nearest tree and yelled, "You'd better get under this tree!!!!" with an urgency that only a girl trying to save her family from the threat of death could possible muster. I believe I got a couple of eye-rolls, and a minute or two later, my family moved their blanket under the tree where I was taking refuge.
Of course, all anyone heard from me on the way back to the car that night was "I told you so. I knew I should have stayed home. Next year I am not leaving the car." I believe I had a tiny red spot on my arm. It did not blister or scab over. I have no physical scar to bear witness to the atrocity I survived.
This year I watched a fireworks show and thoroughly enjoyed it. I am not sure at what age my horror dissolved and I began enjoying fireworks shows. It was a gradual transition. There is only one year I can think of that I did not attend any fireworks displays. All I know now is that fireworks are much less terrifying than they used to be. And you know what? If you want to pop a balloon in my presence, I will be just fine.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
T-Rex: The Menace of the Afterlife
As you begin to grow older, the idea of mortality looms over your head, creeping up on you when you sleep and of course any time you just aren’t paying attention. We all know how distracting infomercials for the shake weight are… Some ponder the existence of life after death, but just as a basic post-survival-survival issue, I think we should follow the logical algorithm:
It is important that we address the pressing question here: Will there be tyrannosaurus rexes in the afterlife?
Rubbish you may say! But I pose this argument to you. The name tyrannosaurus rex arises from kingly origins. Tyrannosaurus comes from the Greek words for tyrant and lizard. Rex means king in Latin. Tell me, have you known of any tyrannous king who was not evil? Does not the word tyrant convey a meaning of evil incarnate? One who oppresses and rules unjustly certainly would be evil in my perception. To speak of a tyrannous lizard king, how can the phrase itself not elicit thoughts of an animal with a soul? Something cannot commit evil acts if it has no soul. Evil without a soul is just an unfortunate mishap with no meaning. Envision a t-rex chasing down a pre-historic person or an innocent vegetarian dinosaur. To prey on such innocence is no unfortunate mishap!
So how does one prepare for encounters with t-rexes in the afterlife? Very carefully. Be sure to explicitly instruct your loved ones on how to prepare you after you have died. I have drawn up a rough list of what needs to be buried in your casket with you:
2. A lasso. Another good way to evade being eaten to death by an enormous lizard is to hitch a ride on his tail. With limited flexibility and agility, he will never be able to remove you from his tail without harming himself. I submit that a lasso is the best ride hitching equipment available.
3. A helicopter. Quick escape is an essential survival tactic, and the helicopter can take you far away from the reach of a t-rex’s tyrannous jaws. Since a helicopter obviously won’t fit into the casket with you, there are two ways to arrange its arrival to the afterlife with you. First, have your family bury you in an Egyptian pyramid. A helicopter will obviously fit in there. Or, you could substitute the traditional casket for a helicopter. It would at least make for a very interesting funeral.
4. Last but not least, an Indiana Jones hat. I mean really, what harm can it do to at least look like a BAMF while you’re evading enormous lizards?
Although there is really no way to know whether or not there is life or lizards after death, all we can do is diligently prepare and hope for the best.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Misadventures of the Humorous Type
There are some moments in life during which you can’t help but think, “Is this seriously happening to me?” I had one of those moments yesterday. I had just gotten home from work and I had a productive evening all lined up: house cleaning, exercising, other menial yet necessary tasks… Anyway, Lady, our Labrador, had her Husky friends over to play in the back yard while I was at work yesterday. In the usual fashion, the dogs managed to remove one of their collars, and this time, it was Lady’s turn to be nude. So after AJ picked up the Huskies, I let Lady into the house and I went to the backyard to retrieve her collar.
Much like an idiot, I closed the door behind me, completely forgetting that we did not yet have door knobs on our newly installed French doors. Now, usually we utilize a little ghetto-ingenuity to open the door by sticking a flat head screwdriver into the internal door hardware, and rotating the screwdriver, using it as a door handle. I didn’t take a screwdriver with me into the back yard (I mean really, why would I need a screwdriver for that task?). So with collar in hand and no screwdriver to reenter the house, I began my resourceful thinking.
First, I looked for any sort of tool that might have been accidentally left in the backyard. No such luck. Then I searched for a small piece of wood I could use in the same manner I had been using the screwdriver. I found one and carefully poked it into the square hole and turned. This caused the wood to disintegrate in my hand. Okay… next idea… Maybe the side door was accidentally left unlocked. I walked over and turned the door knob. Dang it! No.
It is imperative for you to understand that we currently have no working gate to our back yard. One was broken and made Lady a flight risk, so Nathan screwed it shut. The other side is a brand new fence, and the addition of a gate is on the to-do list, but has not been installed yet.
At this point I was running out of options. As somewhat of a last resort, I decided to climb our 6 foot wooden fence. Barefooted. I was teetering at the top, trying to position one of our city issued garbage collection blue plastic dumpsters on the other side of the fence so I could step on it to get down without overturning it and necessitating an emergency trip to the hospital—impaling the back of my neck with untreated pine dog-eared fence picket did not seem like an enjoyable outcome to me. I couldn’t just jump down because I feared the rocks and sticks on the ground 6 feet below would not have been kind to my bare feet, and the concrete sidewalk didn’t look any more inviting.
As I was putting my right foot on the top of a Big Blue, I heard from the neighbor’s front yard, “Uhhhh, do you need some help?” I then proceeded to tell him the story about the door and the screwdriver and the tragic lack of gates. Then, I climbed down from my perch and in a pitiful and slightly embarrassed voice, I said, “Do you have a flathead screwdriver I can borrow?”
The end.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Papers for the Bees!
Clementines. Seedless. These two words should be paired by all reasonable deduction. However there are instances when upon opening a cute little clementine, expecting to experience a delightful citrusy taste fiesta, I have found something less than delightful. Seeds. That’s right, this citrus fruit which is marketed as being seedless often contains seeds. So instead of eating my fruit effortlessly, it becomes a battle of trying to remove the seeds without annihilating the little fruit wedges. Unless I am fully committed and use a knife and a plate to remove said seeds, it usually doesn’t end well: sticky, orangey hands, smushed up clementine pieces, and frustration to boot.
“How does such an atrocity occur?” you may be asking yourself. Well, I have the answer.
Rogue Bees.
That’s right, I said it. As each year passes and more generations of clementine trees come to be, the cross-pollination with other fruit trees, such as tangerines, causes the seeds to sneak into clementines. It is not the farmers who are at fault here. These bees go where they want and do what they want. It is my opinion that the bees are trying to get back at us. There has been a buzz for the last several years about the waning bee population, and there are a few theories as to why this is. Some say it is habitat destruction. With more and more of the natural landscape being taken over by shopping centers and parking lots, there are fewer places that bees are able nest. (Do bees nest? What is the proper verb here?) Another theory states that the radio waves emanating from our cell phone towers and other such devices are causing the bees to be confused. Confused? I think not. That is what the bees want you to think. However, they are dangerous, scheming little guys who dress in yellow and black. They are so bold that they don’t even try to camouflage themselves. They say “I’m a bad ass bee, and I don’t care who knows it.”
So apart from the swarms of angry bees driving anyone who dares to pester them into the nearest body of water, they have limited avenues through which they are able to seek their revenge. They are sticking it to us where we least expect it: in the clementines. So next time you open your clementine to find some rogue bee is trying to destroy your delicious care-free snacking experience, remember. They are out to get us. I believe the best way to ensure our national security against the bees is to make them carry papers. Bee papers. Then we will be able to track them and monitor their activities. No more sneaky bees I say! The road to civilian safety is paved with the monitoring and controlling of the unknown. Just ask Arizona.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Warning: This post contains an obscene amount of cliches. The majority of which I wouldn't be caught dead using in my writing. (Bwhahaha, #1) Anyway, you've been warned. Proceed with caution.
Yesterday my coworkers were talking about being down on your luck, and one lady said "When it rains, it pours." Then the other said "All you can do is find a big bucket." So in honor of that mediocre twist on an idiom, I am going to devote an entire post to taking a more real life approach to each and every one of the idioms we all know and love. Also, I am going to interject as many cliches as possible. The person to find them all and tell me how many there are gets a prize. But let's be forthright, even though idioms are a dime a dozen, an original coherent thought in the hand is worth two in the proverbial bush, and any single written word is just a drop in the bucket when compared to the meaning words in groups can convey.
Let's not get ahead of ourselves. So, back to square one. It's no piece of cake trying to apply practicality to the sayings which make us want to pull our hair out. Let's take the phrase "at the drop of a hat," to begin with. When we say "He was ready to sell the house at the drop of a hat," we mean that he was eager to do it and did so immediately. But in reality, what sort of hat dropping would make someone eager to do something? If someone wanted a favor from me, and started dropping hats, I'm afraid they'd be barking up the wrong tree. There's no point in beating around the bush. If you want to motivate me, drop a twenty dollar bill, or you could even try dropping a hint. A hat however, isn't going to get you anywhere in my book.
If you are still reading, I have to point out that curiosity kills the cat. If you aren't already groaning, what is coming may drive you up the wall, or even push you over the edge. At this point, the cliches are so terrible that my readers are probably dropping like flies, and the ones who are left are drinking like fish. I've said about everything but the kitchen sink. Bear with me though as I take on another one: flipping the bird. If you mention those words to a small child, he might envision some circus parrot doing awesome trapeze work, which is a far cry from the reality of the situation. It usually involves at least two very angry people who are at each others' throats, typically over a petty matter. In fact, the situation may deteriorate so quickly that you could say they are going to hell in a handbasket. A phrase that would hit the nail on the head might be "in your face." No bones about it though, if you liquor someone up, he or she will be more likely to let bygones be bygones, and let sleeping dogs lie. Unless, that is, the person is a loose cannon, in which case you will be walking on eggshells, especially if you got off on the wrong foot.
Before you pull the plug on my blog, I'll wrap it up and make a long story short. It's almost time for me to hit the hay anyway. After all, it does take two to tango in a reader/writer relationship. This is where I'll wrap it up; I'm going for broke. In fact, let's eighty six the idioms. I just want to point out there are some people who seem to only speak in idioms. Why is it that those people are always complaining while smiling and dropping cliches like it's 1999 (sorry, I couldn't help myself). Maybe they think the smiling will make up for the lack of originality and general negativity they bring to the table (Okay, now it's getting out of control. I wasn't even trying on that one). The conversation goes something like this.
"My friend is excited about her new job, but I told her not to count her chickens before they hatch."
"But that really is a lucky break. She'll be making double what she did at her last job."
"You need to bite your tongue. You know she'll never be able to cut the mustard."
Aggh! The person who talks like this works down the hall from me!!!
Anyway, here's one more for the road. Come hell or high water, the idioms will survive, even if we cannot survive them.
Yesterday my coworkers were talking about being down on your luck, and one lady said "When it rains, it pours." Then the other said "All you can do is find a big bucket." So in honor of that mediocre twist on an idiom, I am going to devote an entire post to taking a more real life approach to each and every one of the idioms we all know and love. Also, I am going to interject as many cliches as possible. The person to find them all and tell me how many there are gets a prize. But let's be forthright, even though idioms are a dime a dozen, an original coherent thought in the hand is worth two in the proverbial bush, and any single written word is just a drop in the bucket when compared to the meaning words in groups can convey.
Let's not get ahead of ourselves. So, back to square one. It's no piece of cake trying to apply practicality to the sayings which make us want to pull our hair out. Let's take the phrase "at the drop of a hat," to begin with. When we say "He was ready to sell the house at the drop of a hat," we mean that he was eager to do it and did so immediately. But in reality, what sort of hat dropping would make someone eager to do something? If someone wanted a favor from me, and started dropping hats, I'm afraid they'd be barking up the wrong tree. There's no point in beating around the bush. If you want to motivate me, drop a twenty dollar bill, or you could even try dropping a hint. A hat however, isn't going to get you anywhere in my book.
If you are still reading, I have to point out that curiosity kills the cat. If you aren't already groaning, what is coming may drive you up the wall, or even push you over the edge. At this point, the cliches are so terrible that my readers are probably dropping like flies, and the ones who are left are drinking like fish. I've said about everything but the kitchen sink. Bear with me though as I take on another one: flipping the bird. If you mention those words to a small child, he might envision some circus parrot doing awesome trapeze work, which is a far cry from the reality of the situation. It usually involves at least two very angry people who are at each others' throats, typically over a petty matter. In fact, the situation may deteriorate so quickly that you could say they are going to hell in a handbasket. A phrase that would hit the nail on the head might be "in your face." No bones about it though, if you liquor someone up, he or she will be more likely to let bygones be bygones, and let sleeping dogs lie. Unless, that is, the person is a loose cannon, in which case you will be walking on eggshells, especially if you got off on the wrong foot.
Before you pull the plug on my blog, I'll wrap it up and make a long story short. It's almost time for me to hit the hay anyway. After all, it does take two to tango in a reader/writer relationship. This is where I'll wrap it up; I'm going for broke. In fact, let's eighty six the idioms. I just want to point out there are some people who seem to only speak in idioms. Why is it that those people are always complaining while smiling and dropping cliches like it's 1999 (sorry, I couldn't help myself). Maybe they think the smiling will make up for the lack of originality and general negativity they bring to the table (Okay, now it's getting out of control. I wasn't even trying on that one). The conversation goes something like this.
"My friend is excited about her new job, but I told her not to count her chickens before they hatch."
"But that really is a lucky break. She'll be making double what she did at her last job."
"You need to bite your tongue. You know she'll never be able to cut the mustard."
Aggh! The person who talks like this works down the hall from me!!!
Anyway, here's one more for the road. Come hell or high water, the idioms will survive, even if we cannot survive them.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Death by Discourse
Have you ever felt that the words were out to get you? "Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me!" Oh, but they will. They will hunt you down and wreak their vengeance upon you.
Yesterday, during my "clean all the things!" phase, I was opening the stack of junk mail one by one and running it through the shredder. I came to one not so special envelope from Chase Bank, poked my left index finger into the side of the adhesive flap, and ran my finger along it to open the envelope, and GASH! I'm not talking about a little wimpy annoying paper cut. Oh, no. I am talking about the paper cut to end all paper cuts. It bordered on the line of being life threatening. It bled and bled. Instead of cutting perpendicular to the surface of the skin, it cut parallel, leaving a lovely piece of skin that I now cannot live with, but cannot live without. I washed it, put ointment on it, and applied a band-aid. Threat neutralized. Right?
Wrong! Just when I thought I had escaped the wrath of the written word, the spoken word came after me. Today, I was standing in my boss's office explaining the logistics of transferring a reappointment application from Crystal Reports to a PDF, then to Word to sidestep the mysterious text box picture issue, it happened. "As you can see, I printed the sample form on the back of some scrap Paepaeurrr since we're just going to edit it anyway..." The word "paper" decided to be pronounced with a terrible fake French accent. The word had a life of its own, and an animosity toward my sense of confidence and composure. I certainly didn't choose to say it that way. I'm pretty sure my boss thought I had lost my mind, or at least my control of it. I got a funny look, and I dredged along through the rest of my explanation. Sabotage.
Maybe words are seeking to settle the score, since they are all too often mauled and misused by the average person. Who can know for sure? At this point, I am going to avoid alphabet soup, since I do not want to choke to death. All this time, I thought we were friends, Mr. English Language. I feel so betrayed. So deceived. At least now I know where I really stand.
Yesterday, during my "clean all the things!" phase, I was opening the stack of junk mail one by one and running it through the shredder. I came to one not so special envelope from Chase Bank, poked my left index finger into the side of the adhesive flap, and ran my finger along it to open the envelope, and GASH! I'm not talking about a little wimpy annoying paper cut. Oh, no. I am talking about the paper cut to end all paper cuts. It bordered on the line of being life threatening. It bled and bled. Instead of cutting perpendicular to the surface of the skin, it cut parallel, leaving a lovely piece of skin that I now cannot live with, but cannot live without. I washed it, put ointment on it, and applied a band-aid. Threat neutralized. Right?
Wrong! Just when I thought I had escaped the wrath of the written word, the spoken word came after me. Today, I was standing in my boss's office explaining the logistics of transferring a reappointment application from Crystal Reports to a PDF, then to Word to sidestep the mysterious text box picture issue, it happened. "As you can see, I printed the sample form on the back of some scrap Paepaeurrr since we're just going to edit it anyway..." The word "paper" decided to be pronounced with a terrible fake French accent. The word had a life of its own, and an animosity toward my sense of confidence and composure. I certainly didn't choose to say it that way. I'm pretty sure my boss thought I had lost my mind, or at least my control of it. I got a funny look, and I dredged along through the rest of my explanation. Sabotage.
Maybe words are seeking to settle the score, since they are all too often mauled and misused by the average person. Who can know for sure? At this point, I am going to avoid alphabet soup, since I do not want to choke to death. All this time, I thought we were friends, Mr. English Language. I feel so betrayed. So deceived. At least now I know where I really stand.
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