BluEyedDaizy

That you can have a car key for so long that it will no longer turn the ignition in your car?  It can actually be worn down to a nub and just…not work!

Where I learned this lesson?  At a gas station.  After a loooooong, intense day at work.  On my way home I thought – ‘I’ll just swing in here and get some gas.  I don’t really need to yet…but why not?  I’m here, the gas station is here, my money is in my pocket.  PERFECT TIMING!”  AND!!  Even though there was a gas tanker pulled in obviously to refill the station, he hadn’t started yet and there was just enough room between him and the only open pump!  YEAH ME!  So, I squeeze my monolith of a truck between the tanker and the pump (so close to the tanker, mind you, that I cannot open my door), shut off my engine like a good little driver, and politely wait for the attendent to come on over and start pumping my gas (it’s not that I’m a pump-wimp or anything, it’s actually state law in Oregon that we cannot pump our own fuel.  Personally, having grown up in a place where I had to – I LIKE IT!  No smelly gas on my hands! BwaHA!).

So, the friendly attendant comes over and informs me that, by the way, could I just move over to the other side because they were closing this lane for the tanker.  SURE!  I’m not in a rush, I’m easy going, I can do that! (or so I think)  >insert key and turn<  Or TRY to turn is more like it.  You see, what happens when your key wears out is it no longer turns the ignition switch.  AT ALL.  And here I am, thinking…’aw – it’s just jammed…again.’  Like it does sometimes.  So, I’m cranking on that sucker and NUHTHING!  It. won’t. budge.

At this point, I start to kinda panic because the attendent is wondering what’s wrong with me that I haven’t moved yet, and here comes the tanker driver wondering what the hell the hold up is.  CRANK, CRANK, CRANK! (still nothing!) CRANK, CRANK *hits stirring wheel AND ignition housing (just for good measure)* (still nothing!) So, the driver (very kindly) offers his own help, reaches in from the passenger side and sure enough…even he cannot turn it.  So, I ask him, can he at least go ahead and start filling the tank?  I said, “Looks like I might be here a while.” It was at that point he tells me that not only am I blocking his exit from the gas station (he’s at an odd angle and would take off my front end if he tried to pull out), I am also parked directly OVER the top of the tank he’s supposed to unload in.

*sigh*

With no other alternative left to me, I decide it’s time…to call…my husband (hangs head in shame).  Lord love him, he dropped everything (because he knew exactly what was wrong) and came straight over.  He says to me over the phone as he’s driving over, “Well, put the car in neutral and at least push it out of there!”  I said, “Well…with the wheels being locked because I can’t turn the effin’ ignition…its very likely I’ll go head on into the side of the tanker and if I go backwards, I’m blocking incoming traffic.”  Oh.  The humanity of it all.  I was so frustrated.  Poor gas truck guy was off his schedule because I had to stop in for a quick fill up.  I hate my truck, lol.  I think I would’ve driven it off a cliff if I could’ve gotten the freakin’ key to turn the thing on.

So – after another agonizing 10 minutes or so, my White Knight appears (in a black volvo) with two cranky girls in the back seat and he thinks he can just get’er done.  He tries my key first and discovers what the rest of us already knows…IT DON’T WORK!  Luckily, he did have is own copy and sure enough – it worked beautifully.  And the angels were singing! as we drove outta there.  And yes, I did have it filled up after the fact.

Thus ends the saga of how I learned that you can have a car key for so long that it will no longer turn the ignition in your car.  I have a new key now…but I still wanna drive that beast off a cliff (but not with me in it…anymore).

Apparently, there will be a Tractor Parade in downtown Seattle at 1pm today.

I’m sure you can imagine that this is quite out of the norm.  After all…downtown Seattle looks like this:

And it is hardly the obvious venue for something like this:

Which, of course, is rather the whole point.  This is all in support of Measure I-933 and should prove to be quite the spectacle come lunchtime today.

*ahem* – In other news…I now have a cell phone that barks.  And I’m quite happy with it as my other cell was on it’s last legs and did not have the ability to learn how to bark.  My dear husband loved my barking phone so much that he taught his new phone to bark as well and I said to him, “But, but…how will we tell the two apart when they rin…I mean, ‘bark’?!?”  He says, “You mean you don’t speak dog yet?”  After about a 3 second blank stare from my uncomprehending eyes, he continues with, ”My phone is clearly saying ‘GETITGETITGETIT!’  While your phone is instead saying, ‘HEY!  PAY ATTENTION TO ME!’”  Yes…I see his genius now.  Two barking phones courtesy of our beautiful and sassy girl, Lucy – without whom life would be just a day to day thing…instead it’s a day to day thing with hair everywhere, dog toys all over the house (damn dog NEVER picks up after herself), and 4 bark alarms that “THERE’S A CAT!!!!” or “SQUIRREL!!!” or well, really anything that moves.  I love that dog.  *grin*

I would really like to know what ya-hoo out there first bought a pair of shoes and, upon finding the innocuous little packet of white pellets inside (a.k.a silica-gel used to keep any possible moisture at bay), thought, “oooOOOooo! TREATS!”

I mean, was this really such a problem that a warning had to be put on this slightly larger than postage-stamp sized envelope? In two languages no less? (Apparently they have similar issues in France, lol)

Warning labels crack me up because it only means that at some time, somewhere, some idiot actually tried to do the thing the rest of us are being warned about.  It further means that said idiots then tried to sue the companies that now have these ridiculous warning labels claiming “But…nowhere on that thing does it say NOT TO!” thereby making such “warnings” necessary.

For example:

• “Do not eat toner.” — On a toner cartridge for a laser printer. (and you think red popsicles stain yer tongue? wait until you get a mouthfull of this stuff…)
• “Do not use for drying pets.” — In the manual for a microwave oven. (how many pets were lost to this stupidity?!?)
• “Do not use orally.” — On a toilet bowl cleaning brush. (could it really be mistaken for a toothbrush?  really? maybe if you’ve got a REEEALLY big mouth!)
• “Do not iron clothes on body.” — On packaging for a Rowenta iron. (for the love of GOD!!!)
• “For external use only!” — On a curling iron. (Seriously…I cringe to imagine…and only hope it was unplugged and cold at the time…)

And this one just…confused me, LMAO!!!: (On a laser pointer)

• “Do not look into laser with remaining eye.” (With “remaining eye”?!? Does that mean he shined it into the first eye, went blind then decided to shine it in the other eye to make sure it was the laser causing the blindness in the first eye?? LOL! Ya…CLEARLY natural selection is NO LONGER WORKING!)

What, after all, does it say about the general level of human intellect when you have to specifically tell people “do not use orally after using rectally (electric thermometer)?!?”

It might be better for the human gene pool in general for those who actually need to be told that the “wearing of this garment does not enable you to fly” to go ahead, put on that superman costume and run right off the edge of that building and spare the world the infliction your DNA will no doubt carry on into the next generation.

Passion Parties. Have you heard of these yet? Neither had I until recently.  Think ‘Mary Kay (Cosmetics) wants to get laid’ and you’d just about have it right.  (Of course, with the line of products THIS company sells, a man isn’t exactly necessary for that)

I am my own victim more often than not and though the things other people unknowingly say tend to be my ultimate source of mirth, I often look over my shoulder only to find that my own Freudian-slip is showing.  Such was the case in this particular instance.  Here’s what you DON’T want to say in relation to Passion Parties, especially in mixed company:

Never ever shout across the room to a friend that if she decided to host one, you’d “love to come!” Because the first thing you’ll notice is a sudden silence that fairly screams you’ve got the WHOLE room’s attention…then you’ll see a-WHOLE-LOTTA evil grins quickly spreading across your *coughcoughsocalledcough* “friends” faces, and it will be right about THAT moment that the light-bulb of mortification will illuminate your unfortunate choice of verbiage and you will then be compelled to forcefully correct yourself with an “I mean GO! I would GO to one!” – except this will only clue in anyone else who missed the initial fumble (not to mention emphasizing your possible over-enthusiasm for the topic at hand)…and then all hilarity will break loose…and it will all be at your expense…just like it was at mine.   Fuhtenmouthe Syndrome…a.k.a. Humiliations Galore.

That was a rough 20 MINUTES I’m tellin’ ya!  It must’ve taken another 15 minutes for the flaming blush of shame to cool.  Geesh…some people really live in the gutter…I mean, other than me of course. *big evil grin*

And now, a Deep Though by Jack Handy: “A good way to threaten somebody is to light a stick of dynamite. Then you call the guy and hold the burning fuse up to the phone. “Hear that?” you say. “That’s dynamite, baby.”

So, yesterday’s little rant about man-sneezes has brought up (out of the dark recesses of my memory) a truly crawl-under-the-table-and-tunnel-out-of-the-restaurant incident I endured along with four traveling buddies (Mike, Bill, Heidi, and Thomas) many moons ago…in the far away land of Shanghai (which is a fabulous destination if every you get the chance).

I was 18…first time traveling abroad…we had just finished touring Beijing, Guangzhou, and Hong Kong…and so were taking a couple of days in Shanghai, where we found, to our delight, a real live Hilton hotel. Gorgeous, btw. We were starving…really wanting something like french fries which, amazingly enough, were a little difficult to come by in China at that time. So the five of us trooped in and politely waited to be seated in the utterly beautiful Atrium Cafe. Menus were passed around as someone *wink, wink* started a dialog about the merits of french fries vs onion rings, which was better and why. It was decided that they were just about even in popularity, though onion rings had an edge up in the fact that they are inherently more american simply because they lacked the word ‘french’ in the title. Whatever.

Anyway…it would be appropriate at this point in the story to mention that society in the Far East is extremely polite. People (both men and women) talk more softly, move more quietly and all around are just elegant in general. And then there was us: The loud, obnoxious tourists, complete with fanny packs and white sneakers (hey! It was the 80′s after all!). Awww, we weren’t all that bad, just slightly uncouth. Not completely hick, but uh…there was a touch of ‘hayseed unsmoothness’ present…you know, typical of most americans! *grin* Which sadly, when placed alongside the shear graciousness of that region…well, we did tend to stick out slightly. Moving on…

So there we were, perusing the menu in this upper-class indoor garden…sounds of a piano lightly floating down from some obscure source above us in the open air cafe, wait staff walking to and fro quietly whispering the daily special to a business lunch here, a romantic couple there…just a very chic and relaxing environment in which to sit, unpack and rummage through our collective thoughts and just…*slow inhale*…breeeeeathe…*slow exhale*. It was in this exquisite peace that quite suddenly and without warning of any kind, Bill sneezed. Now…not that this is particularly relevant, Bill is a firefighter, and he’s not a little man. He’s pretty much the size of a bull (in a good, Brawny-Man kind of way) and he doesn’t do anything small, least of all, sneezing. And when he sneezed – which he did loudly and with much gusto, and even though he did do it inside his napkin…when he sneezed – it echoed.

Now we get to the crawl-under-the-table-and-tunnel-out-of-the-restaurant part. Not only did his sneeze echo…but now we had the attention of the table next to us…and the table next to them…and so on. All talking ceased, all heads turned towards us. The piano stopped playing…mid-song! Even the wait staff stopped mid-stride and turned to look at us. And everyone of them had a look of shocked disbelief splayed across their face – jaws had dropped all over the place. You would have thought that he had jumped up on the table, stripped completely nekkid and proceeded to do the Chicken Dance instead of merely sneezing! Poor Bill.

Though this humiliation must have lasted only a few seconds…it felt like bloody YEARS!!! All eyes – from the cafe to the lobby to the floors above were looking down on us…the uncouth, red-necked, no mannered, how-could-they-DO-that, tactless, amateur, american tourists. I’m pretty sure that’s exACTly what they were thinking…only, you know, in Mandrin. I’m also very sure we had permanently cemented in their minds every american tourist stereotype they had ever half-believed until then. We did have a great laugh about it…much later.

Maybe this incident has scarred me for life and that’s why I have such a low tolerance for FIG and his incessant need to display his sneezing abilities *shudder*…lol. It’s possible.

…twenty-four little hours…brought the sun and the flowers…where there used to be rain…

Ya, so yesterday sucked…but today is shaping up pretty good. Just grabbed a mondo cup of coffee that has the very optimistic wording of “GOOD MORNING” embossed around the circumference of it…so…here’s hoping.

More later…

——————

12:25pm

So, here’s a question: Why is it that when men sneeze, the ENTIRE room needs to know about it? I mean there is nothing genteel about a man sneezing, is there. And the sneeze itself is a HUGE advertisment that HEY!! LOOK AT ME! I’M SNEEZING – and LOUDLY ’cause I’m a MAN! At least that’s the way it seems to me…working in an office with ALL MEN…and it’s a fairly close in here…some days closer than others. *shudder*

The worst offender is FIG. Now, FIG may be a new concept to some, so let me explain. FIG = Freaky Intern Guy. About a year ago we took on a Freaky Intern Guy who more or less did and at times still does freak the sh*t out of me – by being at the office at least a half hour ahead of everyone else only to sit in total darkness with only the eerie glow of his computer monitor for company (I showed up early one day…creeped me out in a very “The Shinning” kind of way) among manymanymany other instances of basic weirdness. Things have mellowed a bit though and he doesn’t seem half as weird as he did last year. BUT – one thing remains the same…the way the man sneezes. *groan*

I kid you not, he starts by grabbing the edge of his desk (the big sign he’s got one comin’), rears back and goes. “AAAAAHH-CHOOOIE!!!” (yes…he actually says “chooie”) But WAIT! There’s more. He always seems genuinely disgusted that he has had to sneeze and follows up the performance with an encore of “gggggrrrrUUUNN-UUNT!” And it’s been getting progressively worse I’ve noticed. Used to be a short grunt…now it’s punctuated at the end with emphasis on the “unt” followed up with an “ahhhhhh”. Hurts so good, don’t it.

Now, we’ve hired a new guy – and he is equally forceful. BTW, neither seem to favour the use of Kleenex *shudder* and I’m sure you can just imagine the twitch I walk outta here with being somewhat germ-phobic (not OSD germ-phobic, just “keep-yer-DNA-to-yerself” germ-phobic). And since the new guy showed…they sneeze in freakin’ stereo. *sigh* Thank heavens for the sheet of glass that separates my office from theirs. Sadly, it does nothing to muffle the sound. In fact, I think it adds some reverb.