Calling All Angels
Hello World,
Well, I don't know about where you are, but in the local area, we just suffered through a week of the most relentlessly dreary weather, as every day dawned gray and dismal, with pelting rain and high winds, and even when it wasn't exactly chilly, it was so clammy that it felt chilly anyway. More than anything else, I felt sorry for the poor chestnut trees, who were trying their level best to put on a show of creamy white blooms in profuse clusters all over, but the inclement conditions made it impossible to appreciate the full glory of them. They would have been a sight to behold in full sun, but were never given the chance, alas. Speaking of sights, that reminds me that when we were at the Open Days house tour two weeks ago, we happened to notice that parked near our car in the lot was a white mini-van with a bra, of all things, which not only looked laughably ridiculous, but was actually so appalling that it was impossible even to laugh at. I can tell you that it was an unforgettable sight, and I mean that in the very most horrific sense of the word, believe me.
And while we're on the topic of ridiculous things, one of the special treats that I enjoyed for Mother's Day was that Bill went out early to Dunkin' Donuts, and brought me home a box full of creme-filled goodness, which didn't last long around here, and I ought to know. But he did point out that there was a big label on the box with the screaming announcement: "0 GRAMS TRANS FATS," with the implication that their donuts are some kind of health food that we can include as part of our complete and balanced diet. (AS IF!) That's like saying that arsenic exists naturally in the environment, and is not manufactured by laboratories, so it must be good for you. I will admit the immutable truth that donuts make me stupid, but hey, even I'm not falling for that one, not even pretty-please-with-a-cherry-on-top, by golly.
Meanwhile at the employer of last resort, I fielded a telephone call from the evening Pharmacy supervisor, who became frantic when the printer suddenly ran out of ink and stopped, and there was no spare print cartridge to replace it with. So he called me all in a panic and demanded to know what I was going to do about it, since he apparently held me responsible for it running out in the first place. I explained that we would need a requisition to place an order for a new cartridge, which is nothing new or outlandish, whereupon he snorted in disgust (and even through the phone, I could see his elaborate eye-rolling and hand-wringing gestures for dramatic effect) and obviously of the mind that I was the biggest obstacle to patient care that had ever been discovered in the healthcare industry since the Angel of Death traipsed through the Old Testament. "Well," he countered testily, "couldn't you at least call and see if they have it first?" Normally I would say that first we need the requisition and then we call, but I didn't want to seem even more implacable, so through gritted teeth, I said I would call first, and asked what was the cartridge number that he was looking for. "Oh, I don't know," he replied, without a trace of irony or embarrassment. Of course, everyone already knows that I'm much too polite to laugh, but here is where I hoped that he was aware that it was only my good manners that prevented me from treating him exactly the same way he had treated me, by snorting in derision and making rude comments. I guess it was a lucky thing for him that I wasn't really the Angel of Death after all.
Also at work, it seemed like overnight all the paper dispensers in the bathrooms were removed, from one end of the campus to the other, and everywhere in between, which includes numerous buildings, and countless paper dispensers, for the convenience of our patients, employees, volunteers, visitors, and anyone else who needs to use the facilities. The dispensers for toilet paper were replaced by something from our friends at Georgia-Pacific, called SofPull (and please feel free to go right ahead and visit their web site at http://www.gp.com/ in case you want to register your dissatisfaction with their product, which I would encourage you to do) and which requires a strangely configured proprietary roll of paper, that is complicated to use and prone to malfunction on a regular basis. Of course, everyone complained about them, long and loud, not that it does any good at the hospital, heaven knows, where complaints are more than just expected, they're a way of life. I happened to be in the ladies room with Jean, our irrepressible bookkeeper, who observed that no matter how you fight with the thing, it still doesn't give you any more paper than it's prepared to give you to start with. She shrugged and then added: "I think they're saving money," as if to find at least a silver lining hidden somewhere in the whole situation. Au contraire, I declared derisively. (That's French for "They call me MISTER Angel of Death, buddy!") I said that's only because people have given up on the bathrooms altogether, they just go outside and pee in the bushes. She laughed.
On the other hand, no laughing matter is our local newspaper, whose unwary readers need to have a strong stomach to get through it in one piece, without resorting to violence, or copious amounts of alcohol, or both. This headline speaks for itself, or rather, it would, if only it understood English:
==================
Hope, desire for change
rein as Haiti picks leader
==================
Of course, the spell-checker is not going to help you choose "reign" over "rein," if you don't already know which is the right one in this context, which apparently the headlines writers didn't. Perhaps they had the Kentucky Derby on their minds, and had a mental picture of Haiti's voters taking the reins of change into their own hands, driving their country down the backstretch of opportunity to the finish line of prosperity, and beyond. Personally, I would send that whole headline back to the stable of ineptitude and leave it there, not to mention, locking the barn door behind it. It was another holiday for the spell-checker in this next item about the NBA playoffs from the Sports section:
====================
Marc Gasol and the
eighth-seeded Grizzlies are
verge of sending Tim Duncan
and the top-seeded Spurs
to the golf course.
====================
No, the spell-checker can't supply the missing words to rescue "verge" from, well, the verge, when "on the verge" is called for instead. This is where proofreading once came in so handy, since it would be a simple thing to spot where the words are missing and fill them in. You can go look it up, it's an actual word, although archaic now, but it used to be quite prevalent, one might almost say, inescapable, back in the old days, alas.
They fared no better in the Life & Style section, in a note about exotic cuisine, although I don't blame the newspaper for this one:
=======================
Two of Rockland's best chefs, Doug Nguyen and Peter X. Kelly,
are combining talents in a two-part dinner series called
"The Raw and The Cooked." Dine on raw dishes such as
scallop ceviche and beer tartare at a dinner April 6 at Wasabi
in Nyack, then head to Restaurant X in Congers on April 27 for
cooked dishes such as quail and pork belly.
=======================
Now, I admit that I'm no galloping gourmet, and I don't even play one on television. But could someone please explain to me how this in any way represents what they describe as a "two-part dinner series?" I mean, they're not only in two separate restaurants in two completely different cities, for heaven's sake, but they're three weeks apart besides. This is where the pop commentator Jon Stewart would be asking: "Wha - wha - wha - WHA - ???" and I don't blame him one bit. You may as well say that professional football and major league baseball are teaming up for a two-part sports series called "The Luau and The Gator," where the NFL plays the Pro Bowl in Hawaii in January, and then three weeks later, the baseball players report to their spring training camps in Florida. Heck, by that reasoning, any two events, no matter how dissimilar or disconnected in time or place, could be considered a two-part series, as long as you come up with a snappy name for it. Mother's Day and the Indy 500 could be "The Lady and The Track." Income tax day and the last day of school could be "The Agony and The Ecstasy." Arbor Day and the Pink Panther could be "The Trowel and The Pussycat," while Election Day and both sides of Daylight Saving Time could be "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly," and I leave to you to decide which is which. Oh, I could go on and on like this all day, and be drunk with the power of the pen, or should I say, The High and The Mighty. (Get it?!) Of course, everyone knows that puns can be a double-edged sword, especially in the wrong hands, where an avocado clock could easily be considered The Pit and The Pendulum. And speaking of double-edged swords in the wrong hands, who let the Angel of Death in here?
Elle
Well, I don't know about where you are, but in the local area, we just suffered through a week of the most relentlessly dreary weather, as every day dawned gray and dismal, with pelting rain and high winds, and even when it wasn't exactly chilly, it was so clammy that it felt chilly anyway. More than anything else, I felt sorry for the poor chestnut trees, who were trying their level best to put on a show of creamy white blooms in profuse clusters all over, but the inclement conditions made it impossible to appreciate the full glory of them. They would have been a sight to behold in full sun, but were never given the chance, alas. Speaking of sights, that reminds me that when we were at the Open Days house tour two weeks ago, we happened to notice that parked near our car in the lot was a white mini-van with a bra, of all things, which not only looked laughably ridiculous, but was actually so appalling that it was impossible even to laugh at. I can tell you that it was an unforgettable sight, and I mean that in the very most horrific sense of the word, believe me.
And while we're on the topic of ridiculous things, one of the special treats that I enjoyed for Mother's Day was that Bill went out early to Dunkin' Donuts, and brought me home a box full of creme-filled goodness, which didn't last long around here, and I ought to know. But he did point out that there was a big label on the box with the screaming announcement: "0 GRAMS TRANS FATS," with the implication that their donuts are some kind of health food that we can include as part of our complete and balanced diet. (AS IF!) That's like saying that arsenic exists naturally in the environment, and is not manufactured by laboratories, so it must be good for you. I will admit the immutable truth that donuts make me stupid, but hey, even I'm not falling for that one, not even pretty-please-with-a-cherry-on-top, by golly.
Meanwhile at the employer of last resort, I fielded a telephone call from the evening Pharmacy supervisor, who became frantic when the printer suddenly ran out of ink and stopped, and there was no spare print cartridge to replace it with. So he called me all in a panic and demanded to know what I was going to do about it, since he apparently held me responsible for it running out in the first place. I explained that we would need a requisition to place an order for a new cartridge, which is nothing new or outlandish, whereupon he snorted in disgust (and even through the phone, I could see his elaborate eye-rolling and hand-wringing gestures for dramatic effect) and obviously of the mind that I was the biggest obstacle to patient care that had ever been discovered in the healthcare industry since the Angel of Death traipsed through the Old Testament. "Well," he countered testily, "couldn't you at least call and see if they have it first?" Normally I would say that first we need the requisition and then we call, but I didn't want to seem even more implacable, so through gritted teeth, I said I would call first, and asked what was the cartridge number that he was looking for. "Oh, I don't know," he replied, without a trace of irony or embarrassment. Of course, everyone already knows that I'm much too polite to laugh, but here is where I hoped that he was aware that it was only my good manners that prevented me from treating him exactly the same way he had treated me, by snorting in derision and making rude comments. I guess it was a lucky thing for him that I wasn't really the Angel of Death after all.
Also at work, it seemed like overnight all the paper dispensers in the bathrooms were removed, from one end of the campus to the other, and everywhere in between, which includes numerous buildings, and countless paper dispensers, for the convenience of our patients, employees, volunteers, visitors, and anyone else who needs to use the facilities. The dispensers for toilet paper were replaced by something from our friends at Georgia-Pacific, called SofPull (and please feel free to go right ahead and visit their web site at http://www.gp.com/ in case you want to register your dissatisfaction with their product, which I would encourage you to do) and which requires a strangely configured proprietary roll of paper, that is complicated to use and prone to malfunction on a regular basis. Of course, everyone complained about them, long and loud, not that it does any good at the hospital, heaven knows, where complaints are more than just expected, they're a way of life. I happened to be in the ladies room with Jean, our irrepressible bookkeeper, who observed that no matter how you fight with the thing, it still doesn't give you any more paper than it's prepared to give you to start with. She shrugged and then added: "I think they're saving money," as if to find at least a silver lining hidden somewhere in the whole situation. Au contraire, I declared derisively. (That's French for "They call me MISTER Angel of Death, buddy!") I said that's only because people have given up on the bathrooms altogether, they just go outside and pee in the bushes. She laughed.
On the other hand, no laughing matter is our local newspaper, whose unwary readers need to have a strong stomach to get through it in one piece, without resorting to violence, or copious amounts of alcohol, or both. This headline speaks for itself, or rather, it would, if only it understood English:
==================
Hope, desire for change
rein as Haiti picks leader
==================
Of course, the spell-checker is not going to help you choose "reign" over "rein," if you don't already know which is the right one in this context, which apparently the headlines writers didn't. Perhaps they had the Kentucky Derby on their minds, and had a mental picture of Haiti's voters taking the reins of change into their own hands, driving their country down the backstretch of opportunity to the finish line of prosperity, and beyond. Personally, I would send that whole headline back to the stable of ineptitude and leave it there, not to mention, locking the barn door behind it. It was another holiday for the spell-checker in this next item about the NBA playoffs from the Sports section:
====================
Marc Gasol and the
eighth-seeded Grizzlies are
verge of sending Tim Duncan
and the top-seeded Spurs
to the golf course.
====================
No, the spell-checker can't supply the missing words to rescue "verge" from, well, the verge, when "on the verge" is called for instead. This is where proofreading once came in so handy, since it would be a simple thing to spot where the words are missing and fill them in. You can go look it up, it's an actual word, although archaic now, but it used to be quite prevalent, one might almost say, inescapable, back in the old days, alas.
They fared no better in the Life & Style section, in a note about exotic cuisine, although I don't blame the newspaper for this one:
=======================
Two of Rockland's best chefs, Doug Nguyen and Peter X. Kelly,
are combining talents in a two-part dinner series called
"The Raw and The Cooked." Dine on raw dishes such as
scallop ceviche and beer tartare at a dinner April 6 at Wasabi
in Nyack, then head to Restaurant X in Congers on April 27 for
cooked dishes such as quail and pork belly.
=======================
Now, I admit that I'm no galloping gourmet, and I don't even play one on television. But could someone please explain to me how this in any way represents what they describe as a "two-part dinner series?" I mean, they're not only in two separate restaurants in two completely different cities, for heaven's sake, but they're three weeks apart besides. This is where the pop commentator Jon Stewart would be asking: "Wha - wha - wha - WHA - ???" and I don't blame him one bit. You may as well say that professional football and major league baseball are teaming up for a two-part sports series called "The Luau and The Gator," where the NFL plays the Pro Bowl in Hawaii in January, and then three weeks later, the baseball players report to their spring training camps in Florida. Heck, by that reasoning, any two events, no matter how dissimilar or disconnected in time or place, could be considered a two-part series, as long as you come up with a snappy name for it. Mother's Day and the Indy 500 could be "The Lady and The Track." Income tax day and the last day of school could be "The Agony and The Ecstasy." Arbor Day and the Pink Panther could be "The Trowel and The Pussycat," while Election Day and both sides of Daylight Saving Time could be "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly," and I leave to you to decide which is which. Oh, I could go on and on like this all day, and be drunk with the power of the pen, or should I say, The High and The Mighty. (Get it?!) Of course, everyone knows that puns can be a double-edged sword, especially in the wrong hands, where an avocado clock could easily be considered The Pit and The Pendulum. And speaking of double-edged swords in the wrong hands, who let the Angel of Death in here?
Elle
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 7:16 PM
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