Happy New Boars

Hello World,

Happy Chinese New Year! The time has surely come, and not a moment too soon, to wish everyone you know Hong Kong Bok Choy, as we welcome the Year of the Boar, and which I hope will not be, well, "boaring" for anyone. (Ooof!) Our local newspaper has taken great pains to explain that the Asian Lunar New Year is not celebrated by every Asian culture, but the ones that do, I'll tell you, they sure know how to throw a party and you can count on this one to be another doozy. Among those cultures that observe the holiday are the Chinese, Taiwanese, Koreans, Vietnamese, Tibetans and Mongolians, and leave it to those wet blanket Japanese to take a pass on this festive and free-wheeling Asian extravaganza. I say phooey on them, and with an attitude like that, they may as well join in the acrimonious wrangling over at the annual donnybrook known as the St. Patrick's Day parade instead, and good riddance to them. As for the rest of us, release the dragons!

The newspaper goes on to clarify one important point that I had misconstrued previously, in that it is only in Vietnam that the holiday is known as Tet, and not in other Asian countries. They also explain the story behind the legend is that Buddha summoned all animals before he left Earth. He rewarded the 12 animals that came to pay their respects by assigning each of them a year in the Chinese zodiac, which is based on the lunar calendar. Each time their year arose, people born that year would have traits of that particular animal. This system of astrology dates back to as fas as 2700BC. For people born this year (or in 1995, 1983, 1971, 1959, 1947, 1935 or 1923, etc.) you might think that having the traits of a boar (or pig) would be a somewhat less than desirable inheritance. Not so! It turns out that according to Chinese folklore, anyone born in the Year of the Boar can expect to be generous, considerate, trustworthy and materialistic. They don't explain how anyone could be considered generous and materialistic at the same time, but hey, three out of four isn't bad. So cheer up, you Boars out there, stand up tall and enjoy your year to the fullest. How about some mud baths all around?

And while we're on the subject of people who really know how to toss a shindig, and then some, how about that Mardi Gras? That's what you call a whole lotta shakin' going on, and they're not just whistling Dixie, y'all. Nowadays, even an event known as "Fat Tuesday" isn't fat enough for today's revelers, and the celebrating routinely starts a week ahead of schedule, to make sure there's plenty of time for all of the parades, carousing, fistfights, nudity, drunkenness, immorality, crime and carrying on that distinguishes Mardi Gras from other observances, such as Ramadan, for example. (And the part about the nudity quite separates it from St. Patrick's Day, for instance, although I personally think that nudity could only help that yearly mud-slinging slugfest, while livening it up for the onlookers in a way that green beer can only aspire to.) Of course, the downside to Mardi Gras, known as Shrove Tuesday in religious circles, is that Ash Wednesday follows close on its heels, and before you know it, you've landed face-first and smack-down in Lent, and no looking back. And so here we find ourselves on the other side of that divide, and I'm sure I don't have to remind everyone to be on their best behavior, while we pick our way carefully through that perilous minefield of grouchy Christians who have given up chocolate for Lent. Honestly, if the government can't just outlaw this practice, you would think that the least they can do would be to make people wear signs. Something like "CHOCOLATE DEPRIVATION - STAY BACK 500 FEET" should do the trick.

One good thing about this year (and people say there is no God!) compared with other years is that at least Valentine's Day didn't fall in Lent, so even the most conscientious Christian could enjoy all the seasonal confectionery treats to their dear heart's content and with impunity, although I personally think a nice cold drink would be a better accompaniment. Around here, the Valentine's Day elves showed up right on schedule (which was no mean feat, considering the appalling conditions at the time) and brought their "A" game with them, so some of us had no complaints as we unwrapped a variety of items that aimed to please, and their aim was right on the mark. And for all of you nattering nabobs of negativism out there, who think that romance is dead, I'll have you know that I got a Valentine's Day card that plays "Wild Thing" by The Troggs, which I think is all the proof anyone could possibly need to refute those unfounded rumors once and for all. "You make everything ..... groovy ..... Wild Thing!"

A couple of weeks ago, the hospital replaced its fleet of 50 copy machines with new ones, although from the same vendor, and the logistics of this transaction, in 50 different departments in 10 different buildings, was not an operation to be undertaken by the faint-hearted, not by any means. I was nominally the point person for the project, which would have been a daunting prospect in terms of keeping all the details straight and making sure that everything went smoothly and correctly, except for the curious fact that I always seemed to be the last person to find out anything about what was going on, and it all seemed to happen without me being involved at any point along the way. You would think that no one knew how to reach me to let me know what was taking place, or how things were going. Interestingly, on the second day when any number of disasters all broke out at once, suddenly everyone had no trouble getting in touch with me then to straighten it all out, while up until then, nobody wanted to know me. When the dust finally settled, everything that was supposed to be on the campus was there, and everything that was supposed to go back to the company went back, with only the merest smattering of altercations, explosions and bloodshed, which is nothing out of the ordinary routine, and might be considered better than usual. At one point in the imbroglio, I noticed that my badge had somehow cracked in half, and I hurried over to Personnel to replace it before it fell off and got lost, and I ran the risk of forgetting who I was. I admit that I had my doubts about this working, because our Personnel department often seems to function as an adversary to the employees, rather than an ally, and getting anything out of them is a sometimes proposition. But they seemed eager to replace my broken badge on the spot, and with a smile, so I guess I needn't have worried. Of course, right now it features a picture of an elderly black man and identifies me as Hector Gonzalez-Rodriguez, Janitor, which falls just short of the pinpoint accuracy that we strive for in our security devices. I've been thinking of complaining, but frankly, this is the first promotion that I've gotten in 18 years of working at the employer of last resort in our fair city, so I figure I may as well just enjoy it for a while.

For anyone who may have been wondering what's new and exciting in the wonderful world of technology, wonder no more. Recently, Bill was taking a survey from our friends at NPDOR (and please feel free to go right ahead and visit their web site at http://survey.npdor.com and see for yourself) where at one point, they asked him to "Please indicate how much you agree or disagree with the following statements about Aramis" and provided these handy categories to choose from:

1. Agree completely
2. Agree somewhat
3. Neither agree nor disagree
4. Disagree somewhat
5. Agree completely

Indeed! Well, either this survey has been slanted just a little bit to ensure more positive responses, or you're just a very agreeable person. Good for you! I guess anyone can tell that you were born in the Year of the Boar, because you are simply generous to a fault. In fact, given a choice, I'd have to say I agree completely, and that's not just the Aramis going to my head. Please remember what I said about Lent and good behavior, and bear in mind that if you can't set a good example, at least you can serve as a horrible warning to others. Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking with it, or my name isn't

Hector Gonzalez-Rodriguez

Ice Age

Hello World,

Brrrrr! I don't know about where you are, but it certainly hasn't warmed up any around here, since the last time you heard from me, and I don't mind saying, I'm plenty sick and tired of it already. We even had a messy pile-up of snow, sleet, slush, freezing rain and ice that snarled traffic and resisted all efforts to clear it from walks and roadways. After that, it stayed so cold that you couldn't budge it with a blowtorch, and I ought to know. (At this point, I'm obligated for legal reasons to say, please don't try this at home.) And don't think I'm taking the fall for it this time, because I'm just washing my hands of the whole business. I didn't give away all my winter clothes and flannel sheets to the homeless, or buy a convertible or a new swimsuit. In fact, if anything, I should have ushered in a new era of global warming when I put the second of the new bird bath heaters in the decorative fountain, so the birds could have some fresh water in the midst of this frozen wasteland, and I frankly expected the temperature to shoot up dozens of degrees while I was doing it. It didn't then, and in fact it still hasn't, and I must say that the bird bath heaters are both hanging in there and doing yeoman service at keeping the ice at bay in their little aquatic bailiwick. Why, bless their little temperature-controlled hearts.

Speaking of temperature control, everyone remembers that I moved out of my old office at work because it was unbearably hot, and moved next door, where it is consistently much cooler for some reason. In fact, sometimes this can go just a little bit too far, until it can only be considered too much of a good thing. It's true that the building I'm in is nothing but a 100-year-old pile of mud and straw, and the whole heating and cooling concept has never really taken hold in a consistent way throughout the structure. So it often happens that one part of the building will be freezing cold, while another will be roasting hot, all at the same time and with no rhyme or reason, since these conditions might easily be reversed the next day, or even later on the same day. Last week, I had someone from upstairs in Finance, where it was hot, come into my office and announce, "My, this is refreshing!" Of course, he said this while his teeth were chattering, and he had a look on his face that said, "Man, it's stone cold in here!" I sympathized with his frost-bitten nose and frozen fingers, and spoke to him out in the hallway where it was warmer than my office. But I had to tell him that after years of suffering from the blistering heat in my old office, at this point I'd rather cut off my arm than close the window in my new office. And I have to remind people that even after 100 years, the climate control in that building is still a work in progress.

Alert readers may be wondering about the Annual Congregational Meeting at church, which has historically taken place on SuperBowl Sunday. Actually, the congregation is over 100 years old, while the so-called SuperBowl is a mere 41 years old, so for at least the first 60 years, the annual meeting could not have been held on anything resembling SuperBowl Sunday in any case. But at least for a while there in recent memory, both the annual meeting and the SuperBowl were both commonly taking place on the last Sunday in January. Moreover, it's been my experience at church through the years that anything which happens more than once is considered historical, and therefore, sacrosanct. However, when the SuperBowl elected to up and move itself into February, and I don't mind saying without consulting any of us regardless of the implications, the congregation felt that it was too long to wait for us to make our vitally important decisions, so our meeting remained at the last weekend in January, and devil take the hindmost. (And he's welcome to them!) Of course, the dinosaurs and I can remember when something had to be actually historic, in terms of standing the test of time, before it could be considered historical, but that is apparently about as obsolete now as, well, the dinosaurs, I guess. In any event, the annual meeting did in fact occur and right on schedule, and was attended by all of the usual suspects, where business was conducted and decisions were reached, and even concluded in a timely manner without incident. I know it seems impossible to believe that you can have a bunch of grouchy Lutherans get together without riots, but this was indeed the case. And people say there is no God!

Also taking place without riots, apparently, was Waitangi Day in New Zealand on February 6, which passed quietly and without any notoriety on the international scene for a change. For a holiday built around acrimony, defiance and violence, this might signal a new era of understanding and cooperation, or at the very least, the delusional among us might wish for it to be so. What this world really needs, instead of reality shows like "Survivor" or "American Idol," is an international competition called "So You Want To Have A National Holiday?" Simon Cowell and Regis Philbin and Rosie O'Donnell could review all the holidays that all of the countries submit for approval, and anything that includes riots, automatic weapons, lawsuits or tanks would get voted right off the show. After that would be the "holidays," and I use that term guardedly, that involve fasting, flag-burning and trampling pilgrims in stampedes, and good riddance. We would get to the point where there would be nothing left except Arbor Day and Cinco de Mayo, and all the rest of the holidays wouldn't be allowed back until they can get their act together. Are you listening, St. Patrick's Day?

Speaking of people who need to get their act together, anyone on the hospital computer over the weekend couldn't help but wonder about this message that appeared on their screens early Saturday morning: "please all users sign off your terminals by 9:25am, you will be able to sign back on at 9:10am." Well, sure, as long as I can hop into my way-back machine and go back in time 15 minutes so I can sign back on before the time I'm supposed to be signing off. Huh??? After about two hours of sending this same message every 15 minutes, they finally corrected it so that the sign off time was BEFORE the time that you could sign back on again. If that's not a miracle of modern technology, I don't know what is. And people say there is no doG!

While we're on the topic of modern technology, Bill and I like to watch a program on The History Channel called "Modern Marvels," and it usually spotlights some interesting mechanical wonder, like massive tunnel diggers, nuclear submarines or spy satellites. Often, even when it's an object that we wouldn't find interesting in and of itself, the show is so well done that we enjoy seeing it in spite of the subject. Thanks to the program grid in the TV listings of our local newspaper, there isn't enough room to identify more than the title of the show and perhaps one other word. This occasionally has the effect of creating some inadvertent comedy when, instead of listing a program about ice breakers or snow plows, it simply reads, "Modern Marvels: Ice" or "Modern Marvels: Snow" and leaving people to shake their heads and wonder. I said to Bill that there's very little that's less modern than ice and snow, and while they may well be marvels, they are practically the definition of ancient. Yesterday, the listings outdid themselves with this classic of the genre, which promised "Modern Marvels: Water." Well, apart from dirt, I don't think you can get any more elemental than water, and if that's the newspaper's idea of a modern marvel, then I can tell you that the dinosaurs and I would be very surprised indeed.

Meanwhile, our friends at Haband are up to their old tricks, and offering all of us value-conscious shoppers a pack of assorted Ergo-Grip Comfo-Pens in a variety of colors. They claim that these pens are scientifically constructed to fit perfectly and comfortably in your hand, so you can write at length without aches, fatigue or discomfort. They assure me that the pens feature a sleek, modern design with high-quality black ink and a rubberized comfort grip. Then, flying in the face of reason, or linguistic comprehension, a blaring sticker screams: BRAND NEW! IMPROVED! Well, this is where Haband and I part company on these pens. Something that's brand new can't also be improved, by its very definition, since it hasn't been around before to be improved upon. It's all well and good to take something and improve it, but then you can't claim that it's "brand new," since it obviously already existed before you started tinkering with it. No, I'm afraid that this hyperbole simply doesn't pass the test of logic, or truth in advertising, and I simply cannot countenance it. All of you "brand new and improved" sorts will just have to take your countenances elsewhere, and your lack of standards along with you.

That reminds me of a funny thing that happened at church recently, when I was packing up the invoices, bank statements and canceled checks for 2005 out of the file cabinet to make room for 2006 and 2007, since we only keep two years at a time in the files. I very carefully collected everything in order, and I don't mind saying nice and neat, and packed it all up in a bag securely and clearly marked with the year and contents. I was sure that there would be a handy space in the storage closet in the balcony where I could file this precious package of financial records for safekeeping, so our transactions would be protected for the benefit of future generations. But at the moment, I felt that I didn't really have the time to do that, so I thought I would leave it somewhere temporarily until I had more time to put it away for good. "I know," I said to myself extemporaneously as a sudden thought popped unbidden into my head, "I'll leave it on top of the coat closet in the Narthex by the stairs to the balcony. It will be out of the way, no one will see it, and it will be nice and safe until I move it, and already halfway up the stairs besides." Thinking this was a brilliant inspiration, I carried the bundle over to the closet in a jaunty manner, and climbed up the stairs to position it on top of the closet in an unobtrusive spot. I nestled it in the corner, between a box of plastic numbers for the hymnal board, and another parcel that seemed oddly familiar. Sure enough, when I took a closer look at the other parcel, it was marked very clearly: "2004 invoices, bank statements, canceled checks." Well, I suppose there's something to be said for consistency, if nothing else, although I will admit that the dinosaurs had a good laugh over that one. In fact, it might even be considered historic, except of course, we have our standards.

Going Flat Out

Hello World,

And so here we find ourselves on the other side of The Big Event, cast adrift and scouting about for something else to look forward to in these dark days. Yes, it's really true that Waitangi Day has come and gone, and more's the pity, I'm sure. No, no, no, that can't be right. There must have been some other Big Event that took place recently that I'm thinking of. Oh yes, of course, it was the SuperBowl, and how quickly they forget. Apparently, The Whammy in Miami did indeed take place, and during a torrential downpour, from which the horses galloped off to victory, while for their more ursine counterparts and long-winded fans, there is no joy in Mudville, and that's putting it mildly. So now even the SuperBowl has come and gone, and even the most wildly optimistic among us would admit that there's pretty slim pickings out there to put a smile on anyone's face at this time of year, and that's a plain fact.

In other sports news, they tell me that it's only a week now to Pitchers and Catchers, and I can't think of anything that would be better than that. Although Bill is quick to point out that we are moving into that transitional season when it's possible for him to watch two of his teams lose on the same day, which is a misfortune that no amount of mood-enhancing chemicals can overcome. Garcon, more Rocky Road if you please, and keep it coming!

After a solid week of temperatures in single digits around here, I said to Bill that if it ever warmed up to 30 degrees, people would break out their shorts and tank tops. I was really surprised that it stayed so frigid as long as it did, especially after I did the unthinkable. I broke out the smaller of our two new birdbath heaters and put it in the little plastic birdbath by the front door. I've never put a heater in that one before, since it's plastic as well as being so top-heavy, and I just gave it up as a lost cause. But I knew that I couldn't replace the broken heater in the big decorative fountain, because right now, it's underneath about 200 pounds of gravel and frozen solid. So I figured that I would take a chance on using the smaller heater in the other birdbath and hope for the best. I straightened up the birdbath as much as I could, then plugged in the heater and put a brick on top of it. I was surprised that it actually took the raccoons three days to knock it over, and after I picked it up and re-assembled it, so far they haven't knocked it over again. Of course, I realize it's on borrowed time, because for entertainment value, this birdbath is like a rerun of "Seinfeld" (perhaps the Soup Nazi episode) which they just can't ignore. But at least we could provide our local wildlife some fresh water during the recent deep freeze, and I'm sure a grateful furry nation thanks us.

Meanwhile, here's a news flash for all of you scoffers out there, and don't think I don't know who you are, oh yes I do. This week at work, I actually took down the Christmas tree and packed away all of the ornaments and put everything back in the closet, so there. Weren't expecting that, were you? Oh, ye of little faith! People may call me delusional (don't you dare!) but I honestly believed that this year, the time would come (unlike last year, when I knew it didn't have a snowball's chance in Miami) when I could actually squeeze some un-decorating moments into my schedule and get that thing put away at long last. So earlier in the week, that's exactly what I did, and all of the trimmings went back into their boxes and bags and cartons in a perfectly holly jolly way. Although what all the rest of the hospital employees are going to do for entertainment, now that the Christmas tree in Purchasing is gone, I have no idea. I guess that's what you call an occupational hazard. I work in health care, so I ought to know.

Speaking of hazards, for about a week I watched one of the rear tires on the Escort go slowly flat, or rather, even more flat than radials usually are, which is a look that I have never gotten used to. Why, I remember back in the day when the dinosaurs and I first started using these new-fangled wheels (I waited until the beta version, because I figure there's no sense in being an experimental victim of unproven technology) and way back then, wheels were round. Nowadays, you can pump up radials as much as you like, but they still have that signature bulge where they flatten out underneath. It's hard for me to tell by looking at a radial if it's really flat or just normal, so I was keeping my eye on this tire and hoping that it wasn't really going flat, because I thought it was just much too cold to deal with having to pump it back up again. Pumping up tires is something that I would do regularly with the Gremlin, which had a matched set of decorative purple rims, all of which had the same inclination to leak air on a routine basis year round and right from the very beginning. (I remember when I used to complain to my father that the tires were flat, he would shrug and say, "Only on the bottom.") For years, people kept telling me that I should get new rims, as if I would consider spoiling the splendiferous decorative effect by driving a purple car with non-purple rims, just for the negligible advantage of having tires that didn't leak. I think not! So pumping up tires is something that I have a lot of experience with, and it holds no dread for me. In fact, I found it somewhat unnerving in the beginning with the Tempo, because those tires never went flat, and I worried that having the same air in there all the time, rather than replacing it with new air every so often, would make it go rancid or unstable. When the tire on the Escort finally went as flat as a tire can possibly go and still be attached to the rim, I grabbed the pump from the Gremlin and pumped it back up, and it seemed fine after that, although Bill said it should go back to our mechanic for a check-up just to be on the safe side. While there, it had some other deficiencies corrected, and I'm now the proud owner of a car with courtesy lights that work when you open the driver's door. (What won't they think of next?!) This is a brand new day in automotive innovations for me, and I am forging ahead with wild abandon to a future bright with promise, and leaving the dinosaurs far behind with their dashed hopes and outmoded round wheels. Tempus fugit, you know.

I may as well say right up front that I have no patience with people who buy something at the store and take it home only to realize that it was not what they wanted, even though it says in plain English on the label what it is, and then they complain about how bad the labeling is, rather than their poor label-reading skills. This is why they put labels on things, and if people are not going to read them, then there's no point in complaining later. I'm sure we all remember the Label Nazi episode from "Seinfeld." So you know I wouldn't begin to complain when I bought what I thought was a small yellow box of Lorna Doones at CVS last week, and discovered later at work, and I don't mind saying to my horror, that it was instead a small yellow box of Fig Newtons. (The handy thing about Fig Newtons is that they make them pre-stale for you, so you don't have to wait around for them to get all dry and tasteless.) The boxes are exactly the same shape and the same color, and except for the fact that one says L-O-R-N-A-D-O-O-N-E-S and the other says F-I-G-N-E-W-T-O-N-S, they would be identical. (Where is the Label Nazi when you need him?) Of course, everyone knows that I have a Calvinist streak in me a mile wide, and there's nothing like suffering to build character, so I ate the Fig Newtons anyway, and right now I have so much character, I can't hardly bend. So the next time we were at CVS, I made sure to get a box of Lorna Doones, and very carefully checked the label to be extra sure of them, and was surprised to see a garish decal attached to the box that promised "Now Better Tasting!" To be honest, there's not much that you can do with shortbread cookies in the way of taste, before they stop being shortbread altogether, so I wondered at this supposed "improvement" that they were touting. I suppose I needn't have worried because, as much as I hate to hurt their feelings at the Little Lorna Bakery of Doones, there seemed to be absolutely no difference between these cookies and the previous unimproved variety. Whether their new decal constitutes false advertising, well, that's a job for the Label Nazi and not rank amateurs like the rest of us.

Rock, Paper, Scissors

Hello World,

Happy Groundhog Day! I hope that you observed the holiday in an appropriate manner, perhaps wearing the customary marmot garb of a furry woodland creature, having the family over to feast on the usual woodchuck delicacies, or traversing the local area to regale your neighbors with your favorite groundhog carols. Ah, some of these timeless traditions just never go out of style, do they? Of course, there's nothing all of us hide-bound traditionalists love more than an old-fashioned holiday cloaked in all of the storied trappings of yesteryear, so let's all get out there and enjoy this one to the fullest. Don't forget to save me some ground-nog!

The recent and much maligned cold snap in the local region has continued to generate a media frenzy, to the extent that if space aliens happened to land here from another solar system, they would assume that there was no other news to report. Our friends at The Onion web site took this one step further, showing a picture of a man with two kids on a sled, dragging them across a patch of green grass with a little snow at the fringes, along with this frosty headline --

===============================
Northeast Stunned By Freak January Snowfall
SYRACUSE, NY—"I've seen some freak weather, but this definitely tops them all," said area resident Mary Baloh, whose garden was slightly set back by the 1.5-inch snowfall.
===============================

Now, that's the kind of news story that we can all rally around, I'm sure. Speaking of news, earlier in the week, I happened to run across just the opposite, when I grabbed a paper to use as a place-mat under a cat dish, and was startled by this arresting headline:

Pirates' Late Win Delays Mets' Celebration Again

Since the Mets haven't played the Pirates in at least six months, I'm thinking this newspaper is a lot older than I expect it to be. I mean, even in our recycling, I would figure the papers to be somewhat more recent than September, but apparently not. In other news, and this of a more contemporary vintage, I couldn't help but notice this front page story in Monday's paper, which announced in large type:

Motorist Found Shot In SUV Dies
Mt. Vernon cops say driver hit pole,
call death 'suspicious'

I tell you, you have to get up pretty early in the morning to put anything over on the police around here. The story states that police responded to an accident of a vehicle hitting a pole, and instead found that the driver had been shot in the chest. The police commissioner said, "We are treating this as a very suspicious death, but it's too early to make a determination as to the cause of death." I realize that the police commissioner doesn't want to go out on a limb or anything, but I believe I could save everybody a lot of time and bother, because even from this distance, I have a pretty darned good idea of the cause of death in this case. Of course, we can't rule out the possibility that the driver suffered from an allergy to bullets.

Anyone can tell you that allergies are nothing to sneeze at, and there's certainly nothing funny about them. Or is there? We get the following from Bill, who knows first-hand about allergies, and also has a nose for sniffing out the inadvertent humor all around us --

=========================================
In the CVS last Friday, I found a (plastic) jar of CVS-brand ("CVS Gold Premium", no less!) dry roasted unsalted peanuts. I like their cashews, so I thought I'd give the peanuts a try and they are, in fact, much better than the last package of dry-roasted nuts I had (which was probably 30 years ago), but that's irrelevant to this situation. What I thought was funny was the ingredient label -- no, not the Nutrition Facts for once.

My jar of CVS Gold Premium Dry Roasted Peanuts says: "INGREDIENTS: Dry Roasted Peanuts." So far, I'm kinda catching their drift. But then the label goes on to say:

"ALLERGEN STATEMENT: CONTAINS PEANUTS. MAY CONTAIN CASHEWS, ALMONDS, BRAZIL NUTS, FILBERTS, PECANS, PISTACHIOS, MACADAMIA NUTS, WALNUTS, SOY (SOYBEANS), MILK, WHEAT."

Well, I admit I started fishing around in the jar to see if there were any pistachios sitting at the bottom. I didn't find any, and I feel kinda gypped -- where are the Brazil Nuts? They're a lot more expensive than peanuts and I could go for one every now and then.
=========================================

While we're taking pot-shots at people who should know better, I have my own to toss around. Last week after church, the pastor complained to me that no one seemed to appreciate or comment about how he had cut his sermon so drastically short, in order to save time for the meeting to follow. Everyone knows that I'm much too polite to laugh, especially at the pastor and right in church besides, but I felt that people could be forgiven for not recognizing this sacrifice on his part, since I actually read another 60 pages in my Escort owners manual during this supposedly pared-down sermon. I find it impossible to climb on board with the idea that a "60-pager" could be considered "short" in any way, and it occurred to me that it's lucky we don't have to pay him by the word, or we'd be out of business. I still like my idea of the "pastor cut-off switch," which I'm suggesting as a safety feature, although an even better idea would be where you pull a string to make them talk, and when the string runs out, they stop. I call it "Pastor Chatty-Not."

Mind you, I'm not complaining, because it's given me the opportunity to learn a lot of things about the Escort that were hitherto a mystery to me. It's true that one day entirely on my own, I happened to discover the "trap door" that covers a hidden storage area in the back deck, and which I supposed was for those more valuable items that people might not want to leave out in plain sight, where anyone could see them through the hatchback window. However, I was disabused of this notion by the owners manual, which explained that the "trap door" was supposed to stay attached to the hatchback with cords, so it would lift up to expose the storage area whenever the hatchback was opened. Apparently, the ever wary engineers at Ford (there's a picture of them wearing belts AND suspenders) considered it the height of prudent design to provide a nice large, flat and handy cargo area in the back (behind the rear seats, which also have the useful feature of folding down flat to make an even larger space for carrying paraphernalia) and then they further supposed that it would be perfectly logical to tell people not to put anything back there. As Dave Barry always says, "I'm not making this up," and it's right there in black and white on page 136 of the owners manual. They refer to the "trap door" as a Cargo Area Cover, which they describe thusly: "This removable cover hides cargo in the luggage compartment. The cover lifts automatically when you open the hatchback." For wanton daredevils like me, they follow this up with a blaring warning that screams: "Do not place any items on the cargo area cover. They may make it difficult to see out the window, or they could be dangerous if they strike any occupants of the car in the case of a sudden stop or collision." I said to Bill that it must take a special kind of advanced engineering education to design a car with a substantial cargo area and then expect people not to put any cargo in it. A rational person might think that would pretty much defeat the whole purpose of having a "cargo" area in the first place. I've been calling it mine a "carno-no" area instead, although I admit that the ideas that it suggests, apart from cargo, are of a prurient nature that a respectable person would shun. After all, they don't call it an Escort for nothing!