Talk Is Cheap
Hello World,
Well, the Ides of March are almost upon us, so you know that March Madness is underway in college basketball, Spring is just around the corner, and the rejuvenating sound of the crack of the bat is heard throughout the South, as we welcome the Boys of Summer back to Spring Training for another season in the sun. These are heady times full of wonder and optimism, which even Lent can't quench, and all the world's possibilities lay directly in our path. Ah, if you could bottle that, you'd make a fortune. At least in the Spring, long before the season's early golden promise has been destroyed in the wreckage of dashed hopes by cruel fates in October. By then, you need something else to believe in, and it's probably just as well that someone decided to stick Christmas in there and help people get their minds off things for a while.
I'm sure everyone knows by now that if February has come and gone, then it must be time for our anniversary, and any week that includes our anniversary must also have my birthday in it, and you'd be right on both counts. The anniversary elves were right on target last week, bringing Bill things to wear, eat, read and listen to, while showering me with handy items of fashion, safety, entertainment, storage, and an answer to the age-old question of what to do with 200-feet of garden hose when it's not in use. We were both pleased as punch, although personally, I happen to think that I can out-please punch any day of the week, and with one hand tied behind my back besides. Anyway, the birthday elves have yet to make their appearance, but I have high hopes for their gift selections. Actually, I've come up with a pretty good system, where I give Bill a list of ideal presents earlier in the year, for various gift-giving events that may occur as time goes by, and by the time these events roll around, I've completely forgotten what was on the list, and so always find myself being pleasantly surprised when I unwrap wonderful things that he assures me I asked for. I always knew that I could come up with some advantage to having a faulty memory.
Speaking of memories, I've been in my new office now for a whole week, and the horrors of my old office are fading into a blur. It's not only so nice and cool in my new office, but it's much brighter, since apparently it's on the sunny side of the building and has two big windows besides. In an ironic twist, this whole week, my old office has been much cooler than I remember it being the whole time I was in it, although still not as cool as my new office, and I finally said to Bill that I'm getting the nagging feeling that all this time, I had been making that office hot, and not the other way around. It was just waiting for me to leave, in order to cool down, and probably just as glad to see the tail-end of me as vice versa. On the other hand, there's been no stampede by disgruntled office seekers to take over my old office, which is just as well, because right now, it has a fully decorated Christmas tree in the closet.
Now here is a perfect example of what happens when people don't say what they mean. I walked out of my new office and bumped into a fellow employee from another building, who I did not know and was standing outside of our conference room, and asked this question like a bolt out of the blue: "Do you know are they having lunch in here?" Since I had no idea why she was asking that question, I could only say that I wasn't expecting anyone to have lunch in our conference room, to which she replied, in a way which must have seemed perfectly reasonable to her, that there was a sign down the hall to the effect that Payroll was handing out paychecks in Room 218. I said they must mean in the Payroll director's office around the corner, but she pointed out with unassailable logic that our conference room was in fact Room 218, according the plate number above the transom. I'm not known for being contrary, but even I had to say that this was the first I was hearing of paychecks being given out of our conference room, so we marched down the hall towards Payroll (past the sign that assured people that they could, indeed, pick up their paychecks in Room 218) in hopes of getting to the bottom of this mystery. Luckily we discovered a couple of ladies from the Payroll department in the local shredding room, merrily shredding documents (let's not go there!) which was apparently where people were supposed to go and pick up their checks. It seems that Ye Olde Shredding Roome was never important enough to have a room number assigned to it, and since it's across the hall from Room 217, the ladies simply decided that it must be Room 218, which is what they put on their sign. I said to the temp that it was lucky we straightened that out, or it could have been a very long day in Purchasing, with a lot of unhappy employees showing up at our conference room.
While we're on the subject of people not saying what they mean, Bill loves this story from the Tax Collector's office in Moffat County, where they were trying to explain that the taxes are paid in arrears, that is, for the previous year and not in advance for the upcoming year, but what they actually said was, "Property taxes in Colorado are paid in the rears by one year." Try as I might, I can't think of any way to improve upon that.
And what about the wonderful world of apparel, you might be asking yourselves? Our friends at Complements by Anthony Richards, Where Value is Always in Style, and who sell nothing but shoes and ought to know better, offered this gushing description of Madeira: "Easy-wearing flat with stylish mesh insets. Cushioned insole and non-skid outsole with 1" heel." Excuse me? What part of "flat" don't you seem to understand? Meanwhile, the nice folks at Haband made every effort to entice me to buy their Men's Fine Tailored Shirts by Botany 500 with the screaming headline: "Luxury Shirts $10" and if that's not a contradiction in terms, well, I just don't know what is. It was in that same mailing that they showed what they referred to as a trench coat, but described this way: "So Fun and Versatile, you'll look for reasons to pop on this perky number! Princess seaming with contrast piping visually cinches waist, no belt needed. Inside you'll find a playful lining of punchy striped fabric, roomy pockets and oversized buttons." All this was true, but I was still trying to discern the "trench" part of this supposed trench coat. Being short, not to mention pink, and also having white piping around the collar, cuffs and pockets, it looked more than anything like a drum majorette's costume than any battle-scarred veteran of trench warfare, and I'm only guessing it's because it was also available in a camel color that they determined that was close enough to qualify it as a trench coat. Call me a linguistic stickler (don't you dare!) but I have the draw the line at that, and I don't mind saying, way before that in fact. The Maginot Line, that is.
Meanwhile at church, on Sunday I woke up long enough during the sermon ... er, I mean, I couldn't help but sit up and take notice when the Pastor was explaining about someone being part of a certain environment by saying, "He's in that m'loo" and meaning "milieu" but instead sounding as if Tex Ritter had just stopped by to sing, "Skip to m'Lou, my darlin'." It always makes me wonder why people try to use words they obviously don't know and can't pronounce, in place of more familiar words that would suffice just as well. On the other hand, I'm not in that m'loo, so I should probably skip the whole thing, my darlin'.
Here's something we can file under "Why the Terrorists Hate Us," and courtesy of our friends at USA Weekend Magazine from last week, in a story about the return of glamour in general and false eyelashes in particular: "For those who want to lash out longer than a day, big-city salons offer eyelash extensions glued to the lash line that last for up to two months and cost between $300 and $500." Eyelash extensions??? Seriously, folks, if this isn't the height, or rather depth, of some appalling travesty in modern civilization, then I'll eat my hat. Can there honestly be so many shallow people in this place, who not only have way too much money, but obviously way too much time on their hands as well, and they can't think of anything better to do than this, so that there's actually a market for this tomfoolery? I mean, I appreciate glamour as much as the next fellow, but this whole nonsense just takes Tom and all of his Fools to a brand new level. On an extension ladder, of course.
Yesterday at work, I was having one of those days where all of the wheels just come off completely, or rather, never seemed to get put on in the first place. I was complaining in the ladies room to the bookkeeper down the hall, and she said, "You feel like shooting someone, right?" I said no, there's way too many of them, I may as well just go ahead and shoot myself instead and get it over with. She laughed and said I would need to have them back up the truck and deliver the giant economy size "Box o' Bullets" in order to do it the other way around, and while it sounded like a tempting idea, we both agreed that it was probably unworkable on a number of levels. Here's where it really pays not to be one of those grouchy Christians who have given up chocolate for Lent, and while I'm not suggesting that this is one possible explanation for serial killers, I will say that if the m'loo fits, you may as well skip it, my darlin'.
Well, the Ides of March are almost upon us, so you know that March Madness is underway in college basketball, Spring is just around the corner, and the rejuvenating sound of the crack of the bat is heard throughout the South, as we welcome the Boys of Summer back to Spring Training for another season in the sun. These are heady times full of wonder and optimism, which even Lent can't quench, and all the world's possibilities lay directly in our path. Ah, if you could bottle that, you'd make a fortune. At least in the Spring, long before the season's early golden promise has been destroyed in the wreckage of dashed hopes by cruel fates in October. By then, you need something else to believe in, and it's probably just as well that someone decided to stick Christmas in there and help people get their minds off things for a while.
I'm sure everyone knows by now that if February has come and gone, then it must be time for our anniversary, and any week that includes our anniversary must also have my birthday in it, and you'd be right on both counts. The anniversary elves were right on target last week, bringing Bill things to wear, eat, read and listen to, while showering me with handy items of fashion, safety, entertainment, storage, and an answer to the age-old question of what to do with 200-feet of garden hose when it's not in use. We were both pleased as punch, although personally, I happen to think that I can out-please punch any day of the week, and with one hand tied behind my back besides. Anyway, the birthday elves have yet to make their appearance, but I have high hopes for their gift selections. Actually, I've come up with a pretty good system, where I give Bill a list of ideal presents earlier in the year, for various gift-giving events that may occur as time goes by, and by the time these events roll around, I've completely forgotten what was on the list, and so always find myself being pleasantly surprised when I unwrap wonderful things that he assures me I asked for. I always knew that I could come up with some advantage to having a faulty memory.
Speaking of memories, I've been in my new office now for a whole week, and the horrors of my old office are fading into a blur. It's not only so nice and cool in my new office, but it's much brighter, since apparently it's on the sunny side of the building and has two big windows besides. In an ironic twist, this whole week, my old office has been much cooler than I remember it being the whole time I was in it, although still not as cool as my new office, and I finally said to Bill that I'm getting the nagging feeling that all this time, I had been making that office hot, and not the other way around. It was just waiting for me to leave, in order to cool down, and probably just as glad to see the tail-end of me as vice versa. On the other hand, there's been no stampede by disgruntled office seekers to take over my old office, which is just as well, because right now, it has a fully decorated Christmas tree in the closet.
Now here is a perfect example of what happens when people don't say what they mean. I walked out of my new office and bumped into a fellow employee from another building, who I did not know and was standing outside of our conference room, and asked this question like a bolt out of the blue: "Do you know are they having lunch in here?" Since I had no idea why she was asking that question, I could only say that I wasn't expecting anyone to have lunch in our conference room, to which she replied, in a way which must have seemed perfectly reasonable to her, that there was a sign down the hall to the effect that Payroll was handing out paychecks in Room 218. I said they must mean in the Payroll director's office around the corner, but she pointed out with unassailable logic that our conference room was in fact Room 218, according the plate number above the transom. I'm not known for being contrary, but even I had to say that this was the first I was hearing of paychecks being given out of our conference room, so we marched down the hall towards Payroll (past the sign that assured people that they could, indeed, pick up their paychecks in Room 218) in hopes of getting to the bottom of this mystery. Luckily we discovered a couple of ladies from the Payroll department in the local shredding room, merrily shredding documents (let's not go there!) which was apparently where people were supposed to go and pick up their checks. It seems that Ye Olde Shredding Roome was never important enough to have a room number assigned to it, and since it's across the hall from Room 217, the ladies simply decided that it must be Room 218, which is what they put on their sign. I said to the temp that it was lucky we straightened that out, or it could have been a very long day in Purchasing, with a lot of unhappy employees showing up at our conference room.
While we're on the subject of people not saying what they mean, Bill loves this story from the Tax Collector's office in Moffat County, where they were trying to explain that the taxes are paid in arrears, that is, for the previous year and not in advance for the upcoming year, but what they actually said was, "Property taxes in Colorado are paid in the rears by one year." Try as I might, I can't think of any way to improve upon that.
And what about the wonderful world of apparel, you might be asking yourselves? Our friends at Complements by Anthony Richards, Where Value is Always in Style, and who sell nothing but shoes and ought to know better, offered this gushing description of Madeira: "Easy-wearing flat with stylish mesh insets. Cushioned insole and non-skid outsole with 1" heel." Excuse me? What part of "flat" don't you seem to understand? Meanwhile, the nice folks at Haband made every effort to entice me to buy their Men's Fine Tailored Shirts by Botany 500 with the screaming headline: "Luxury Shirts $10" and if that's not a contradiction in terms, well, I just don't know what is. It was in that same mailing that they showed what they referred to as a trench coat, but described this way: "So Fun and Versatile, you'll look for reasons to pop on this perky number! Princess seaming with contrast piping visually cinches waist, no belt needed. Inside you'll find a playful lining of punchy striped fabric, roomy pockets and oversized buttons." All this was true, but I was still trying to discern the "trench" part of this supposed trench coat. Being short, not to mention pink, and also having white piping around the collar, cuffs and pockets, it looked more than anything like a drum majorette's costume than any battle-scarred veteran of trench warfare, and I'm only guessing it's because it was also available in a camel color that they determined that was close enough to qualify it as a trench coat. Call me a linguistic stickler (don't you dare!) but I have the draw the line at that, and I don't mind saying, way before that in fact. The Maginot Line, that is.
Meanwhile at church, on Sunday I woke up long enough during the sermon ... er, I mean, I couldn't help but sit up and take notice when the Pastor was explaining about someone being part of a certain environment by saying, "He's in that m'loo" and meaning "milieu" but instead sounding as if Tex Ritter had just stopped by to sing, "Skip to m'Lou, my darlin'." It always makes me wonder why people try to use words they obviously don't know and can't pronounce, in place of more familiar words that would suffice just as well. On the other hand, I'm not in that m'loo, so I should probably skip the whole thing, my darlin'.
Here's something we can file under "Why the Terrorists Hate Us," and courtesy of our friends at USA Weekend Magazine from last week, in a story about the return of glamour in general and false eyelashes in particular: "For those who want to lash out longer than a day, big-city salons offer eyelash extensions glued to the lash line that last for up to two months and cost between $300 and $500." Eyelash extensions??? Seriously, folks, if this isn't the height, or rather depth, of some appalling travesty in modern civilization, then I'll eat my hat. Can there honestly be so many shallow people in this place, who not only have way too much money, but obviously way too much time on their hands as well, and they can't think of anything better to do than this, so that there's actually a market for this tomfoolery? I mean, I appreciate glamour as much as the next fellow, but this whole nonsense just takes Tom and all of his Fools to a brand new level. On an extension ladder, of course.
Yesterday at work, I was having one of those days where all of the wheels just come off completely, or rather, never seemed to get put on in the first place. I was complaining in the ladies room to the bookkeeper down the hall, and she said, "You feel like shooting someone, right?" I said no, there's way too many of them, I may as well just go ahead and shoot myself instead and get it over with. She laughed and said I would need to have them back up the truck and deliver the giant economy size "Box o' Bullets" in order to do it the other way around, and while it sounded like a tempting idea, we both agreed that it was probably unworkable on a number of levels. Here's where it really pays not to be one of those grouchy Christians who have given up chocolate for Lent, and while I'm not suggesting that this is one possible explanation for serial killers, I will say that if the m'loo fits, you may as well skip it, my darlin'.
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 9:41 PM
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