Happy Trails
Hello World,
Well, I don't know about where you are, but around here, this week would not have won any awards either, and about the only good thing I can think to say about it is that at least it's over. At this point, I have to believe in better days ahead, because the alternative would be unthinkable. In fact, at work, there were rumors that a local spa was going to take over our cafeteria and use it as a sauna, but I think that may have just been the heat getting to people. Personally, I think it's too hot in there for a sauna.
Of course, as is often the case, things can always be worse, and we have the following illustration from New York Newsday's web site on August 5, with the screaming headline "Jurors For Gotti Trail Picked." From that, you might surmise that people were being chosen to ride out on the lone prairie, just moseying along on the Gotti Trail, which might be something like the Oregon Trail, only with more cement. On the other hand, "trail picked" might refer to how the jurors were selected, in the same way as vine-ripened tomatoes, hand-picked grapes or Grade A eggs. With that headline, you might be surprised that the story goes on to say, "A group of seven women and five men made the final cut Thursday as jurors who will decide the fate of John "Junior" Gotti, the son of the late mob boss whose federal racketeering case begins Monday in Manhattan." Why, that doesn't seem to have anything to do with a trail in any way at all, much less riding off into the sunset. Lest you think this typo is nothing more than an isolated incident, my favorite one happened later in the story, when Sigmund Freud showed up with his slip, in this sentence about the judge in the case: "Scheindlin is scheduled Friday to announce her decision about whether the judy gets to hear excerpts from Gotti's 1991 plea to federal charges." Judy, Judy, Judy!
Bill would never forgive me if I smacked Newsday around and never mentioned his favorite Brainiac moment from earlier in the week. Where Bill works, they make signs, and they do a heck of a job at it, but they're only human. That's why it was a little beyond their abilities when they got a purchase order from Crown Products requesting one each of two different signs, which they specified as "hard plastic sign engraved black with white letters" at a cost of $19.75 for each sign. The purchase order included a lot of helpful information, and some probably not so helpful, but one thing it entirely neglected to include was what the signs were supposed to say. For people making signs, this is considered a serious omission. For myself, I would have sent them two signs that said "ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ" along with a bill for $39.50. Hey, you wanted a sign with letters, that's what you get.
Meanwhile, I get periodic updates of the ELCA Prayer Network, from the fine folks at ELCAPrayingChurchOrg and you're welcome to visit their web page at www.elca.org/prayer and see for yourself. I have to say that Lutherans are about the most boring people in the world (although right now in Florida, they're having their church-wide Assembly, which promises to be about as boring as a nuclear war) and this prayer ministry is no different. I'm sure it's very well meaning, and a great comfort to the people it serves, but even in the face of the most challenging events on the world scene, it maintains a cheerfulness and placidity that is sometimes eerie. Most prayer requests are for health concerns, financial issues or family relationships, and there is also a section of Praise Reports, where people can share their stories of answered prayers, and thank others for praying for them. Naturally, being Lutheran, it's boring, and just goes on and on in the same boring way week after week. So you can imagine my surprise this week, when I read one that started, "You da bomb!" from our friends at Garden of Joy in Pacific Harbour, Fiji Islands. They can't be Lutherans!
Alert readers may remember the leaky pipe over the washing machine, and we eventually rounded up a couple of gentlemen with some plumbing experience who agreed to come over and take care of it. The culprit was a small metal pipe with a small hole that was dripping onto the floor, that either needed to be patched or replaced. Bill showed them around the basement, so they would know where to find the water cut-off, and other various items they would need to find, or what to avoid. The plan was to leave the basement doors open in the back yard, so they could come and do their work and leave again, even if no one was home at the time. Before anyone wonders if Daffy Duck shouldn't have shown up instead, let me just say that I'm sure we can all see the storm clouds brewing on the horizon if this scenario. For one reason or another, they needed to get into the kitchen, and of course, the house was locked because we were both at work. So they ended up breaking the lock on the cellar door in the kitchen, and then proceeded to leave all the doors open throughout the house, as well as pulling out everything from under the sink, and it goes without saying, that was not a pretty sight. When Bill got home from work, he found that they had fixed the original leak, but created two others, in two different places, which in terms of progress, was pretty much the opposite of what we had been hoping for. They left with assurances that all would be set right on their next visit. Of bigger concern to us was tracking down all of our cats, especially the invisible ones that live under the sink, while all the doors had been wide open all the livelong day. We did eventually turn them all up, even the most invisible of all, tucked into their hiding places under the beds, behind the radiators, inside the furniture, on top of the bookshelves and in back of the TV. It made for a very long and trying evening, and included our fearless Bill climbing around spiderwebs and broken drywall in the basement, in case any of them had snuck down there, and we didn't even want to consider the possibility of them getting out through the open doors to the back yard. We considered ourselves lucky when we counted noses and ended up with the right number, and we told Daffy Duck to go peddle his papers elsewhere. Some place far, far away, like maybe along the Gotti Trail.
Well, I don't know about where you are, but around here, this week would not have won any awards either, and about the only good thing I can think to say about it is that at least it's over. At this point, I have to believe in better days ahead, because the alternative would be unthinkable. In fact, at work, there were rumors that a local spa was going to take over our cafeteria and use it as a sauna, but I think that may have just been the heat getting to people. Personally, I think it's too hot in there for a sauna.
Of course, as is often the case, things can always be worse, and we have the following illustration from New York Newsday's web site on August 5, with the screaming headline "Jurors For Gotti Trail Picked." From that, you might surmise that people were being chosen to ride out on the lone prairie, just moseying along on the Gotti Trail, which might be something like the Oregon Trail, only with more cement. On the other hand, "trail picked" might refer to how the jurors were selected, in the same way as vine-ripened tomatoes, hand-picked grapes or Grade A eggs. With that headline, you might be surprised that the story goes on to say, "A group of seven women and five men made the final cut Thursday as jurors who will decide the fate of John "Junior" Gotti, the son of the late mob boss whose federal racketeering case begins Monday in Manhattan." Why, that doesn't seem to have anything to do with a trail in any way at all, much less riding off into the sunset. Lest you think this typo is nothing more than an isolated incident, my favorite one happened later in the story, when Sigmund Freud showed up with his slip, in this sentence about the judge in the case: "Scheindlin is scheduled Friday to announce her decision about whether the judy gets to hear excerpts from Gotti's 1991 plea to federal charges." Judy, Judy, Judy!
Bill would never forgive me if I smacked Newsday around and never mentioned his favorite Brainiac moment from earlier in the week. Where Bill works, they make signs, and they do a heck of a job at it, but they're only human. That's why it was a little beyond their abilities when they got a purchase order from Crown Products requesting one each of two different signs, which they specified as "hard plastic sign engraved black with white letters" at a cost of $19.75 for each sign. The purchase order included a lot of helpful information, and some probably not so helpful, but one thing it entirely neglected to include was what the signs were supposed to say. For people making signs, this is considered a serious omission. For myself, I would have sent them two signs that said "ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ" along with a bill for $39.50. Hey, you wanted a sign with letters, that's what you get.
Meanwhile, I get periodic updates of the ELCA Prayer Network, from the fine folks at ELCAPrayingChurchOrg and you're welcome to visit their web page at www.elca.org/prayer and see for yourself. I have to say that Lutherans are about the most boring people in the world (although right now in Florida, they're having their church-wide Assembly, which promises to be about as boring as a nuclear war) and this prayer ministry is no different. I'm sure it's very well meaning, and a great comfort to the people it serves, but even in the face of the most challenging events on the world scene, it maintains a cheerfulness and placidity that is sometimes eerie. Most prayer requests are for health concerns, financial issues or family relationships, and there is also a section of Praise Reports, where people can share their stories of answered prayers, and thank others for praying for them. Naturally, being Lutheran, it's boring, and just goes on and on in the same boring way week after week. So you can imagine my surprise this week, when I read one that started, "You da bomb!" from our friends at Garden of Joy in Pacific Harbour, Fiji Islands. They can't be Lutherans!
Alert readers may remember the leaky pipe over the washing machine, and we eventually rounded up a couple of gentlemen with some plumbing experience who agreed to come over and take care of it. The culprit was a small metal pipe with a small hole that was dripping onto the floor, that either needed to be patched or replaced. Bill showed them around the basement, so they would know where to find the water cut-off, and other various items they would need to find, or what to avoid. The plan was to leave the basement doors open in the back yard, so they could come and do their work and leave again, even if no one was home at the time. Before anyone wonders if Daffy Duck shouldn't have shown up instead, let me just say that I'm sure we can all see the storm clouds brewing on the horizon if this scenario. For one reason or another, they needed to get into the kitchen, and of course, the house was locked because we were both at work. So they ended up breaking the lock on the cellar door in the kitchen, and then proceeded to leave all the doors open throughout the house, as well as pulling out everything from under the sink, and it goes without saying, that was not a pretty sight. When Bill got home from work, he found that they had fixed the original leak, but created two others, in two different places, which in terms of progress, was pretty much the opposite of what we had been hoping for. They left with assurances that all would be set right on their next visit. Of bigger concern to us was tracking down all of our cats, especially the invisible ones that live under the sink, while all the doors had been wide open all the livelong day. We did eventually turn them all up, even the most invisible of all, tucked into their hiding places under the beds, behind the radiators, inside the furniture, on top of the bookshelves and in back of the TV. It made for a very long and trying evening, and included our fearless Bill climbing around spiderwebs and broken drywall in the basement, in case any of them had snuck down there, and we didn't even want to consider the possibility of them getting out through the open doors to the back yard. We considered ourselves lucky when we counted noses and ended up with the right number, and we told Daffy Duck to go peddle his papers elsewhere. Some place far, far away, like maybe along the Gotti Trail.
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 8:16 PM
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