Dry Ice

Hello World, Happy (slightly belated) Presidents Day! Of course, Monday was the day set aside by virtue of federal fiat, to honor the memory and legacy of all the American presidents through the ages - good and bad, uniquely distinctive or completely forgettable, fulsomely long-serving or fleetingly brief, revered for generations or hounded out of office in disgrace - and there's nothing like a three-day weekend to make anything more popular, even if it's a majority of presidents that nobody likes. Not so fast! It turns out this was another one of those occasions that was not considered a holiday where I'm working as a temp now, and not just Martin Luther King, so when it comes to disrespecting celebrated figures by ignoring their very own federal holidays, these people cast a pretty wide net, I must say. In retrospect, it's a wonder that they gave us the day off for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's, and I probably should have quit then while I was ahead, and not stuck working on the next two holidays, as if these were some random and arbitrary non-events like National Potato Chip Day, or Talk Like A Pirate Day, for heaven's sake. I doubt that the legendary civil rights leader, much less the Chief Executives, would like to consider their very own days to be optional, but apparently things are different in the real world, where as the saying goes, it's not personal, it's just business. Speaking of work, I don't mind saying that it's been a challenge getting there in this ridiculous weather, between the ongoing snow and the ice, so that you take your life in your hands on the roads, and some days, we take the coward's way out and just stay home instead. It's also true that this relentlessly frigid weather wreaks havoc on my skin, especially on my poor hard-working hands, which seem to be in and out of water all day long, and each time just getting more and more dried out until they just start to crack and bleed, thanks not. When I worked at the hospital, as you went around the campus there were always tiny bottles of Keri Lotion everywhere that were given out to the patients, so people could get a moisturizing hit whenever they needed one, no matter where they were. At my temp job (which coincidentally is run by a licensed nurse) they helpfully provide hand lotion dispensers in the restrooms, which is very thoughtful and much appreciated, I'm sure. One bitterly cold day last week, when my hands were so bad that I was actually bleeding on the file folders in the storage room, I decided to give their lotion a try, rather than resorting to wearing gloves on the job so I could better keep my bodily fluids to myself, as it were. Most likely, their particular lotion of choice was popular and cost-effective, but I couldn't help but notice that it seemed to smell like weed-killer, which in no way would encourage me to use it more often, that's for sure. I didn't notice that it did much for my skin, but it certainly kept the dandelions at bay, by golly. In fact, I'm thinking of bringing some home and trying it on my rampant alien mutant poison ivy in the spring, and see if it would either eradicate it completely, or make it nicely smooth and supple instead. Of course, the previous Saturday was Valentine's Day, a special time long beloved by florists, jewelers, confectioners, and lingerie peddlers, as well as restaurateurs who can charge whatever they like, to create just the right romantic atmosphere for happy couples out on the town. Cynics among us (and you know who you are) or simply those with an implacably practical outlook, can hold off until the day after, and snap up all the fragrant roses, sparkly baubles, skimpy underthings, and heart-shaped sweets that anyone could possibly want, and all at rock-bottom discounted prices, once the calendar says that the time for darling Cupid and his arrows has come and gone. This year, in an interesting juxtaposition, the festival day of St. Valentine coincided with our neighbors' famous Mardi Gras party, a rollicking shindig which they always toss on the Saturday before Shrove Tuesday, and for which the whole neighborhood turns out in force - past, present, and a few perhaps from the future that nobody even knows. They begin the elaborate decorations weeks ahead of time, and the copious menu is days in preparation, so that you can smell the tantalizing aroma of gumbo, jambalaya, risotto, ratatouille, baguettes, and souffles for blocks in every direction. Almost everyone shows up with an extravagant mask, or a costume, and I'm sure it will come as a surprise to nobody that the gallant Christopher Columbus, in all his velvety glory and plumed hat, set sail from our household shores and arrived at his party destination with no trouble along the way. The intrepid explorer was certainly popular, although I was called Shakespeare once, and Michelangelo as well, in spite of carrying a brass telescope with me at all times. Alas, costume appreciation is a lost art, as I know only too well after years of trick-or-treating around the employer of last resort. But a good time was had by all, the company was congenial, and everything was delicious - or perhaps it just seemed that way after enough Hurricane Punch, I shouldn't wonder. Luckily, Columbus made it home again in one piece and lived to tell the tale, complete with telescope and not even a dent in his plumed hat. There was no talk of recognizing this accomplishment with a holiday, which was probably just as well. Now, everyone except the godless Communists and KGB agents monitoring my email (whose name is legion, heaven knows) understands that once Mardi Gras is in the books, as sure as night follows day, Ash Wednesday crops up hard on its heels, and no escaping Lent in all of its gloomy trappings. Taken objectively, Lent would have to be considered a public relations nightmare, as stalwart Christians everywhere give up their favorite vices for the duration, and don't even get me started on mandatory warning signs to protect unwary bystanders. (That reminds me of a church in Dobbs Ferry that was performing drive-thru imposition of ashes in their parking lot as a service to the time-starved community, where the minister would make the sign of the cross in ashes on the motorists' foreheads through the windows of their cars, and which I can't help but feel brings new meaning to the phrase "sign and drive," that is, if you think about it for a minute or two.) I personally think the season would be much improved with vast quantities of tequila, green beer, fireworks and party hats, and that's not just the confetti talking, believe me. We had our Ash Wednesday service at church in the evening, and a pretty good turnout in spite of the weather, which it must be said, at least fit right in with the spirit of suffering embodied by the occasion, if nothing else. And while we're on the subject of church, it was a few weeks ago on the church calendar that we observed the baptism of Jesus, as described in the Scriptures, and took advantage of the opportunity to include the Affirmation of Baptism ritual as part of the regular Sunday worship. As a result of our initiative to keep the participants from juggling different hymnals, bulletins, inserts and assorted whatnot during the service, we have the liturgy displayed on a projector screen in the front of the church, so people can follow along with their hands free, and know exactly what to say, or sing, at every point where a response from them is required. This works like a charm, so that even first-time visitors know what to expect at any given moment, and can hold their own with the confidence of any old-timer from way back, for Pete's sake. This is especially useful when you want to make changes to the liturgy on an ad hoc basis, by adding or removing elements, or switching them around in different order temporarily. Adding in the Affirmation of Baptism is a perfect example of how the projector system provides limitless flexibility to change the service, while still keeping everyone informed of what is going on. At least, that's the way it's supposed to work, and for the most part, it does just that, thanks to the heroic effort that it takes to have all of the right slides in the right places at the right time, and which doesn't happen all by itself, not by a long shot. Unfortunately, this became all too clear when the minister let fly with this righteously bombastic barb to launch the Affirmation segment: "Do you renounce all the forces of evil, the devil, and all of his empty promises?" It was at this critical juncture that the usually reliable but over-burdened minion who assembles the projector slides for the service neglected to include one with a response for this, so after the pastor's opening salvo, all the befuddled congregation could do was stand there in helpless silence, with their mouths open and eagerly waiting to speak, but no idea what words they were supposed to be saying. (In their defense, it's usually something formal and complicated, like "I will, by the grace of God," or "I promise, and I ask God to help and guide me." For the record, the correct response in this case was a simple "I do.") Our old friends the dinosaurs can tell you that I'm easily amused, but I thought it was so funny that you could ask a routine question about renouncing the devil to a church full of life-long Christians, and they would find it impossible to formulate an answer on their own, even unsure to just say "yes" without prompting. Oh well, I guess that's why they say the devil's in the details, but under the circumstances, I'm prepared to let that slide. Elle