I subscribe to a daily paper here in Louisville, KY, "The Courier-Journal". Most days the paper is no "biggie", but on Sunday, the paper takes on a different persona and could be legally labeled a lethal weapon. It weighs "pounds" and, if hurled through the air by anyone other than a 98-pound weakling, can knock an adult off his or her feet onto his or her kiester!
I usually wait to read the Sunday paper until I return from church, because, if I try to read it beforehand, I either have to get up at 4AM, so I can read and get ready for church, or, if I get up at my regular 7AM time, I'll miss church completely. And, I am not going to hedge my bet on the eternities by reading the newspaper instead of being at church.
This past Sunday, I picked up the paper to move it to my dining room table so I could eat lunch and read at my leisure. I believe I am now in the market for a truss for the hernia I developed picking up said paper. It isn't that there's more newsy stuff occurring on a Saturday and so the paper has to expand three-fold in order to accommodate all the (borrowing from the egotistical adage of the "NY Times") "news that's fit to print". No, it's a result of all the "flyers" and "booklets" that are wrapped up like a gigantic, pulpy "fish" in the real newspaper part. Looking at all the ads--which I find disconcerting (who has so much discretionary income that they need to be offered so many opportunities to spend their money?), it would appear that the world no longer works, at least here in Kentuckiana, but spends all its time and money at sales and discount retailers. Obviously, here in horse country, people don't shop until they drop. They just shop and never drop.
All these ads and all this paper devoted to "shopping" got me thinking about the unnecessary killing of trees to support this weekly advertising blitz. Perhaps, we readers should rebundle our Sunday paper, send it to the Pentagon and they can use it to bomb our enemies. Drop a load of these puppies on a targeted bad guy area and we'll destroy people instantly (or at least knock them silly or unconscious). There won't be any toxic issues (just some landfill ones), no spreading of after effects, no destruction of personal property (unless you consider someone's head personal property), and no massive weapons industrial complex needed. So what's not to like. And, once the "bomb" hits its target, people who are left standing can read the newspaper ads and they will become stunned, numbed, and neutralized. There will be no more shouts of "Kill the enemy!" "Death to the American Imperialists!" These will be replaced by "Let's head to Wallie's Wonder World of Discount Everything or Jimmie's Used Car and Recycled Tennis Rackets!"
I think maybe I'll run for president of these United States and this will be the foundation piece of my platform. I'll be recycling, finding a safer means of "negotiating" with the enemy, and helping out with the landfill situation here at home by filling some other country's land. They say that the pen is mightier than the sword. Let's put that to good use. My motto will be "All the news that's fit to bomb!" Pretty catchy don't you think? I believe my approach to the highest office in the land (not the fill kind) rates right up there with the two major party candidates. Don't stop the presses! Forget the Democrats or Republicans or Libertarians or the Green Party, vote for me as a write-in candidate. The economy will probably get worse under my administration, as will our international standing, our environment, our educational stystem, etc., but we won't have to wonder what to do with all those dusty old stacks of newspapers.... Now isn't that a load off your mind? And I approved of this message.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Flea markets...
I went to one yesterday, with my sister. I hadn't been to a flea market for a very long time, so I don't know what I was thinking I would find there. I enjoyed the ride through some of Kentucky's horse farm territory and the green, rolling hills. I almost enjoyed getting lost trying to follow the directions I had (only because the scenery was beautiful). The sign at the itsy-bitsy road into the flea market venue didn't face the road from either direction, so the only ways you would see it as you drove by, were 1) if you stopped dead in the middle of the road (giving all those behind you a little adrenaline and reflex check) at just the right place, and looked east. Of course, if you were on the side of the road heading south, you'd have to have pretty amazing turning ability--kind of like Michael Phelps at the pool wall in a 100-meter or more race--or you'd have to do a little turnaround to get back to the skimpy road's entrance; or 2) throw caution to the wind and drive east from west across the roadway from the gas station on the other side of the entrance. Chicken heart that I am, I chose the turnaround, and I had so much fun doing that, that I did it three times--I kept missing the minute (my-noot) opening to the road.
So, finally, after a lot of effort and half my gas tank emptying, I made it. I drove down the lovely, tree-lined dirt road to a bunch of metal buildings. No signs or labels showing where to enter or start the flea festivities. I parked and looked for my sister. She said she'd be wearing a red top and waiting out in the parking lot at the far end--where I sat. I didn't see anything red, except for a couple of veins in my eyeballs as I checked my rear view mirror so I could pull out of my parking space and search for my sister. I did see someone at the opposite end of this line of buildings, but she was wearing pale apricot. I have affronted individuals before, in public, whom I thought I knew but found out I didn't, so I am a little reluctant to go on the attack anymore, especially now that I'm aging and my eyes, even with glasses, just don't capture clearly what I look at in the distance. (I love Monet and all the rest of those Impressionists for making it "okay" to see things in a blurry, painterly view!) I slowly worked my way down to the place where I had seen the apricot-shirted person, but, by the time I got there, she had disappeared. I decided to just park, get out and look around and hopefully find someone, anyone wearing a red shirt. I was ready to redo my genealogy....
After a few minutes of my standing, staring, turning my head and looking hopelessly dopey (as in Snow and the Seven Guys), my sister appeared. She was wearing apricot. Now, I'm pretty good with colors, but no matter how long I looked at her top, I couldn't put it in the red category. When I asked her about the color, she said she'd spilled something on her red shirt and had to change. When I asked her about parking at the far end, she said she found a parking place right off the entrance road and took it. Without further ado, I unseated her as the person in charge of meeting up anywhere. From now on, we'll have to confirm fashion and parking via cell phone en route. The downside of that is that I won't have any funny stories to put on my blog.
To continue our adventure, we entered the first building. Oh my! There were so many booths, so much to see, so little to buy. Hadn't I just gotten rid of a bunch of stuff at our Mom's house before making my journey to Kentucky? Well, it must have followed me here! There were some scary items--T-shirts and other paraphernalia with gory themes, some lethal ones--guns and knives, some items that looked as if they would fall apart as soon as you paid for them, some that were dusty and dirty (I have that at home already, thank you), and a few things that were clever and worth the price. These latter items were all sold. Guess the early birds found the only worthwhile "worms". There were food concessions with everything fried, including the napkins and plasticware (just kidding). We took a pass on that because the lines were long and we still had several buildings ahead of us. In our last building, at the very end, there were cold cases full of meat. The cases were like those you see at your local grocer's, except they were off-color, dirty and the compressors were making sounds like a B-52 about to take off. The meat, and maybe it was just the lighting, appeared to have an, uhm, certain hue to it. Both my sister and I wondered if the meat was actually cold enough not to give everyone in the western end of Kentucky food poisoning. We were both tempted to walk over to the cases to touch the wrapped packages to see if they were cold to the touch, but both of us knew we'd gasp loudly if we found they weren't, so we, just like Elvis, left the building. I read the newspaper today. I didn't read about hospitals overflowing with food-poisoned flea marketers, but then, maybe I'm a day ahead of myself. We'll see what tomorrow brings. I may call my stockbroker and buy stock in whoever manufactures Donagel or Kaopectate.
By the way, other than the Avon eye-makeup remover cream my sister bought, the only thing we left with was possibly fleas. I've been itching and scratching ever since our little visit yesterday...too bad they weren't selling flea collars. That I could have used.
So, finally, after a lot of effort and half my gas tank emptying, I made it. I drove down the lovely, tree-lined dirt road to a bunch of metal buildings. No signs or labels showing where to enter or start the flea festivities. I parked and looked for my sister. She said she'd be wearing a red top and waiting out in the parking lot at the far end--where I sat. I didn't see anything red, except for a couple of veins in my eyeballs as I checked my rear view mirror so I could pull out of my parking space and search for my sister. I did see someone at the opposite end of this line of buildings, but she was wearing pale apricot. I have affronted individuals before, in public, whom I thought I knew but found out I didn't, so I am a little reluctant to go on the attack anymore, especially now that I'm aging and my eyes, even with glasses, just don't capture clearly what I look at in the distance. (I love Monet and all the rest of those Impressionists for making it "okay" to see things in a blurry, painterly view!) I slowly worked my way down to the place where I had seen the apricot-shirted person, but, by the time I got there, she had disappeared. I decided to just park, get out and look around and hopefully find someone, anyone wearing a red shirt. I was ready to redo my genealogy....
After a few minutes of my standing, staring, turning my head and looking hopelessly dopey (as in Snow and the Seven Guys), my sister appeared. She was wearing apricot. Now, I'm pretty good with colors, but no matter how long I looked at her top, I couldn't put it in the red category. When I asked her about the color, she said she'd spilled something on her red shirt and had to change. When I asked her about parking at the far end, she said she found a parking place right off the entrance road and took it. Without further ado, I unseated her as the person in charge of meeting up anywhere. From now on, we'll have to confirm fashion and parking via cell phone en route. The downside of that is that I won't have any funny stories to put on my blog.
To continue our adventure, we entered the first building. Oh my! There were so many booths, so much to see, so little to buy. Hadn't I just gotten rid of a bunch of stuff at our Mom's house before making my journey to Kentucky? Well, it must have followed me here! There were some scary items--T-shirts and other paraphernalia with gory themes, some lethal ones--guns and knives, some items that looked as if they would fall apart as soon as you paid for them, some that were dusty and dirty (I have that at home already, thank you), and a few things that were clever and worth the price. These latter items were all sold. Guess the early birds found the only worthwhile "worms". There were food concessions with everything fried, including the napkins and plasticware (just kidding). We took a pass on that because the lines were long and we still had several buildings ahead of us. In our last building, at the very end, there were cold cases full of meat. The cases were like those you see at your local grocer's, except they were off-color, dirty and the compressors were making sounds like a B-52 about to take off. The meat, and maybe it was just the lighting, appeared to have an, uhm, certain hue to it. Both my sister and I wondered if the meat was actually cold enough not to give everyone in the western end of Kentucky food poisoning. We were both tempted to walk over to the cases to touch the wrapped packages to see if they were cold to the touch, but both of us knew we'd gasp loudly if we found they weren't, so we, just like Elvis, left the building. I read the newspaper today. I didn't read about hospitals overflowing with food-poisoned flea marketers, but then, maybe I'm a day ahead of myself. We'll see what tomorrow brings. I may call my stockbroker and buy stock in whoever manufactures Donagel or Kaopectate.
By the way, other than the Avon eye-makeup remover cream my sister bought, the only thing we left with was possibly fleas. I've been itching and scratching ever since our little visit yesterday...too bad they weren't selling flea collars. That I could have used.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
If I were in the Olympics...
there would have to be some new categories. I don't run, jump, catapult myself through the air on a skimpy stick, do anything on the rings, pommel, parallel bars, or vault (unless it's in a bank and I'm accessing my safe deposit box). If I'm riding a bike, it has to be stationary with training wheels, and, although I swim, I'd have to practice in my apartment complex pool which means that I would dive in, take one stroke and be at the other end. I guess I could really get my turns down, but I'd get dizzy pretty quickly, turning, turning, turning. Then I'd be disoriented and would stagger out of the pool, so, unless the Olympic Committee has added "walking like a person under the influence" as a new event, I'd be out of luck.
All of that aside, here are the categories that I think should be added--1) walking upright for 100 yards in a snazzy outfit, 2) remembering to bring reading glasses to a social event so you don't have to share one pair with 39 other people (question--why do people, who obviously need reading glasses, always fail to bring them when going out? Not bringing them so you can read menus, timetables, schedules, greeting cards--if you're at a birthday or anniversary party--etc. doesn't change the fact that you're "older" and need them. Not bringing them proves that you are in denial, can't see, and/or that your memory, along with your eyesight, is shot). 3) speed denture installation--this needs no explanation. Let the best gummy applicator win!, 4) best use of a cane or walker routine set to music--this wouldn't be as pretty as the routines with the ribbons twirling, but it would certainly be more entertaining, 5) putting on a spandex gymnastics leotard or full-body swimsuit while remaining standing--this would be a timed event and might take a day or two, 6) dinosaur dressage (proving the point to our children that we indeed lived in the days when dinosaurs walked the earth), 7) shuffleboard (and if you have to ask what this is, you won't qualify for the event), 8) speed bingo with small "tokens" and cards that have tiny print (those who have excelled at the number 2 event noted above will have an advantage here), 9) lacing up and tying your sneakers while bending over, and finally, 10) equestrian endurance rides (this can only be done if the host nation has a Wal-Mart nearby and the entrant has a roll of quarters).
Let the games begin!
All of that aside, here are the categories that I think should be added--1) walking upright for 100 yards in a snazzy outfit, 2) remembering to bring reading glasses to a social event so you don't have to share one pair with 39 other people (question--why do people, who obviously need reading glasses, always fail to bring them when going out? Not bringing them so you can read menus, timetables, schedules, greeting cards--if you're at a birthday or anniversary party--etc. doesn't change the fact that you're "older" and need them. Not bringing them proves that you are in denial, can't see, and/or that your memory, along with your eyesight, is shot). 3) speed denture installation--this needs no explanation. Let the best gummy applicator win!, 4) best use of a cane or walker routine set to music--this wouldn't be as pretty as the routines with the ribbons twirling, but it would certainly be more entertaining, 5) putting on a spandex gymnastics leotard or full-body swimsuit while remaining standing--this would be a timed event and might take a day or two, 6) dinosaur dressage (proving the point to our children that we indeed lived in the days when dinosaurs walked the earth), 7) shuffleboard (and if you have to ask what this is, you won't qualify for the event), 8) speed bingo with small "tokens" and cards that have tiny print (those who have excelled at the number 2 event noted above will have an advantage here), 9) lacing up and tying your sneakers while bending over, and finally, 10) equestrian endurance rides (this can only be done if the host nation has a Wal-Mart nearby and the entrant has a roll of quarters).
Let the games begin!
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Dressing a baby...
isn't like dressing a dollie or your cat or dog or even the Thanksgiving turkey. No, dressing a baby is one of those things that new moms especially enjoy. The baby has no rights, cannot protest (in words at least) or run away and hide in the closet or garden shed until mummsy's desire to dress said baby in some cute little snookums outfit passes.
Many of us, pre-baby, will protest that we will not dress our innocent little child in any outlandish, goofy-looking, cutsey-poo outfits, but that promise disappears like mist on a lake as soon as we are home from the hospital and we start trotting out all the cute little outfits that friends and family have given us or that we have found on our own. We have froggie, duckie, goosie, puppy, kitty, bear-y and other assorted animal get ups at our disposal. We also have outfits that are way too big for our newborn, but we are driven to dress him or her up in everything in the dresser drawers and closets of the nursery.
If we really want to think ahead to possible, future means of subduing (or should I say blackmailing) a child, especially a tween or teen, who has left the I-love-mommy-no-matter-what stage and entered the I-only-love-you-when-I-need-to-go-to-the-mall-or-get-the-car-keys mode, then we'll store up all the "ammunition" we can. So we get out the camera and dress and click 'til our hearts content or our baby is worn out and falls asleep. I had a friend who did this with every baby outfit given to her first-born. She then sent a copy of the photo to the person whose gift it was so they could see how "cute" the outfit and the baby were together. Cute is a word that every parent discovers loses is luster as a child enters the two-digit age group. Clothes can be cool or awesome or rad, but they cannot be cute and leave the house on the body of your child.
My youngest son is a case in point. Of my three children, he was the easiest to dress up and I was able to do it for quite a while longer with him than with the other two before he reluctantly complained. His (and my) day of reckoning came when I laid out his church clothes and he put on everything but the very cutsey-poo sweater I had bought him in Rome. It was red (a favorite color of his) with a big teddy bear, fuzzy emblem dead center on the front. He put it on and then lowered his head as if I'd just pinned the scarlet letter on him, and he whispered, in a very quiet voice, that he didn't want to wear a sweater with a bear on it. (His nickname was Bear.) I had to ask him to repeat what he said loudly enough so I could hear him. He did and I recoiled knowing that I had run out of children whom I could dress up, photograph and publicly humiliate with my need for childish, gimmicky fashion statements. My youngest changed his sweater to something plain and "more mature" looking, and I went looking for our cat. I also went a little overboard that year with our turkey. I just couldn't resist those very cute little white "boots" that go on each drumstick and a flouncy, lacy suturing at the neck cavity to keep the dressing from bursting out. The turkey did not protest, but wore his bib and tucker with great aplomb. The cat is still missing....
Many of us, pre-baby, will protest that we will not dress our innocent little child in any outlandish, goofy-looking, cutsey-poo outfits, but that promise disappears like mist on a lake as soon as we are home from the hospital and we start trotting out all the cute little outfits that friends and family have given us or that we have found on our own. We have froggie, duckie, goosie, puppy, kitty, bear-y and other assorted animal get ups at our disposal. We also have outfits that are way too big for our newborn, but we are driven to dress him or her up in everything in the dresser drawers and closets of the nursery.
If we really want to think ahead to possible, future means of subduing (or should I say blackmailing) a child, especially a tween or teen, who has left the I-love-mommy-no-matter-what stage and entered the I-only-love-you-when-I-need-to-go-to-the-mall-or-get-the-car-keys mode, then we'll store up all the "ammunition" we can. So we get out the camera and dress and click 'til our hearts content or our baby is worn out and falls asleep. I had a friend who did this with every baby outfit given to her first-born. She then sent a copy of the photo to the person whose gift it was so they could see how "cute" the outfit and the baby were together. Cute is a word that every parent discovers loses is luster as a child enters the two-digit age group. Clothes can be cool or awesome or rad, but they cannot be cute and leave the house on the body of your child.
My youngest son is a case in point. Of my three children, he was the easiest to dress up and I was able to do it for quite a while longer with him than with the other two before he reluctantly complained. His (and my) day of reckoning came when I laid out his church clothes and he put on everything but the very cutsey-poo sweater I had bought him in Rome. It was red (a favorite color of his) with a big teddy bear, fuzzy emblem dead center on the front. He put it on and then lowered his head as if I'd just pinned the scarlet letter on him, and he whispered, in a very quiet voice, that he didn't want to wear a sweater with a bear on it. (His nickname was Bear.) I had to ask him to repeat what he said loudly enough so I could hear him. He did and I recoiled knowing that I had run out of children whom I could dress up, photograph and publicly humiliate with my need for childish, gimmicky fashion statements. My youngest changed his sweater to something plain and "more mature" looking, and I went looking for our cat. I also went a little overboard that year with our turkey. I just couldn't resist those very cute little white "boots" that go on each drumstick and a flouncy, lacy suturing at the neck cavity to keep the dressing from bursting out. The turkey did not protest, but wore his bib and tucker with great aplomb. The cat is still missing....
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Job huntin'...where's my rifle?
I am currently looking for employment...mostly in all the right places. I am registered with two agencies, I search the Internet daily and read the local newspaper classifieds.
So far I have had one "real" interview, one mini-interview with a human resources person who appeared to be as uninterested as she could be, and a few e-mail responses saying "thanks but no thanks". It's discouraging because I know I could do any of the jobs, for which I apply, in my sleep. I have "dumbed down" my resume so potential employers won't think I want to be the president of the company or expect a fantabulous salary with a gold parachute (and a jet plane to boot). Hopefully, that will bring in a few more interview opportunities.
This "bloggity" is not to complain about what a pain it is to search for a job--which, incidentally, is true. Just think about it--you're selling yourself, hoping that someone wants to buy your "act" and hire you, and when you do not receive a lot of positive feedback it can be discouraging. You also spend a lot of time second-guessing yourself thinking about your resume--is it too much, too little, and wondering if your references to herding dinosaurs as a youth highlights your age issue. But, back to the point at hand, which is not to whine about what isn't right or fair, but to discuss some of the peculiarities of test taking for employment agencies and companies seeking employees.
I recently took a test for a US Census management position consisting of 29 questions about workplace/management issues. Part of my adventure the day of the test included arriving 45 minutes early at the library branch where said test was to take place. I signed up for a library card and sat at a reading table with the "Wall Street Journal" in hand. I was so proud of myself for finding the library
--tucked back into a strip mall with no signage at the street side entrance, creating an opportunity to drive throughout the parking lot and mall searching for any sign of librariness (and people wonder why the illiteracy rate is high!), and I was proud that I was early thinking that would help me be calm and prepared for the test. The testing was scheduled to begin at 1:30PM, and, at 1:05, a library staff member approached me and asked if I were there for the census test. "Yep, that would be me!" Well, she said, "The test is at another branch today, so you'll need to go there. You're the second person who came here by mistake." Let's see, I spoke with the US Census scheduler-of-tests and was told to come to this library, but that was just a little government joke, a test of resourcefulness and driving skills. I was given the new location and directions to get there and I put on my Mario Andretti persona and proceeded to drive down the highway of life--at 80 miles an hour, praying that all the Kentucky State Troopers were on lunch break.... Fortunately, no one got in my way en route and I arrived only five minutes late. I rushed into the library and was directed to the room where the test was being administered. Voila!! No one but the test administrator was there and she was pretty dang casual about what time it was. Two more people showed up and at about 2:00 we started. (The efficiency of our government at any level is a topic for another whole blog entry.) We were given only one hour to complete our test. Now you're probably thinking that answering 29 questions in 60 minutes is a piece o' cake, but these questions made my eyeballs roll backward and I felt dizzy--kind of like I felt while racing to get to the test site on time. Remember those horrid math questions we all took for college--"If two people get on the train at Blah City, and three people get off, and the conductor drops his ticket puncher, how long will it take to get to Freeze-Your-Rump, South Dakota?" Well, these questions made those pale in comparison. And we were told that we should choose the "best" or "closest" answer. So, with only two minutes per question, I started a mental argument between my better side and my better-get-it-right side on every question. Oh, and did I mention that there was a little "story" or table or example that you had to review before you could make your "best" guess. Whatever confidence I had when I walked into the test room, disappeared as my brain fought to find something familiar in the fog of the US Census quiz. I thought my brain had turned to gray jelly and I swear I could hear it sloshing about in my head as I tried to reason my way to the correct, or should I say, best answer. I finished about 10 minutes before the time was "up" and was told that I did very well on the test. Not sure what that meant--possibly that I could print my name legibly and remembered my social security number and birth date. Probably. We'll see if anything comes of this little mental exercise. Three hours and $8 worth of gas later, I arrived home. I'm not sure I am capable of managing an office and crews of census takers (enumerators is the official title, just in case you were dying to know this) after this experience. I may just be one of the millions counted.
Finally, I must also note that one of the tests I took on-line while job hunting in California (before my move to Kentucky) required knowledge of corporate decorum and dress. I don't think I did well on this test. I think smacking someone alongside the head when they're uncooperative saves time and energy and pretty much gets the point across as to who is boss. As for wardrobe appropriateness, I do know how to clean up pretty well, but I question which corporation or company in America has a need to know whether I believe that taupe should be included as a "corporate" color along with navy, gray, and black. I'm thinking that the questions should be more like--"How much of your belly should be visible to clients and your colleagues?" or "Is cleavage a good sales tactic or just plain distracting?" or "If your flip-flops make too much noise whilst you walk about the office, will it lower the worker productivity or, if you walk fast enough, speed things up?" There aren't many work places these days who have any fashion requirements or dress codes, but I guess those who do will hire the fashionistas even if they can't function. At least they'll look spiffy in their corner offices or cubicles and perhaps this will become the theme for an episode of "The Office".... Meanwhile, my search continues and I have vowed to occasionally wear taupe to an interview just to thumb my nose at corporate America!
So far I have had one "real" interview, one mini-interview with a human resources person who appeared to be as uninterested as she could be, and a few e-mail responses saying "thanks but no thanks". It's discouraging because I know I could do any of the jobs, for which I apply, in my sleep. I have "dumbed down" my resume so potential employers won't think I want to be the president of the company or expect a fantabulous salary with a gold parachute (and a jet plane to boot). Hopefully, that will bring in a few more interview opportunities.
This "bloggity" is not to complain about what a pain it is to search for a job--which, incidentally, is true. Just think about it--you're selling yourself, hoping that someone wants to buy your "act" and hire you, and when you do not receive a lot of positive feedback it can be discouraging. You also spend a lot of time second-guessing yourself thinking about your resume--is it too much, too little, and wondering if your references to herding dinosaurs as a youth highlights your age issue. But, back to the point at hand, which is not to whine about what isn't right or fair, but to discuss some of the peculiarities of test taking for employment agencies and companies seeking employees.
I recently took a test for a US Census management position consisting of 29 questions about workplace/management issues. Part of my adventure the day of the test included arriving 45 minutes early at the library branch where said test was to take place. I signed up for a library card and sat at a reading table with the "Wall Street Journal" in hand. I was so proud of myself for finding the library
--tucked back into a strip mall with no signage at the street side entrance, creating an opportunity to drive throughout the parking lot and mall searching for any sign of librariness (and people wonder why the illiteracy rate is high!), and I was proud that I was early thinking that would help me be calm and prepared for the test. The testing was scheduled to begin at 1:30PM, and, at 1:05, a library staff member approached me and asked if I were there for the census test. "Yep, that would be me!" Well, she said, "The test is at another branch today, so you'll need to go there. You're the second person who came here by mistake." Let's see, I spoke with the US Census scheduler-of-tests and was told to come to this library, but that was just a little government joke, a test of resourcefulness and driving skills. I was given the new location and directions to get there and I put on my Mario Andretti persona and proceeded to drive down the highway of life--at 80 miles an hour, praying that all the Kentucky State Troopers were on lunch break.... Fortunately, no one got in my way en route and I arrived only five minutes late. I rushed into the library and was directed to the room where the test was being administered. Voila!! No one but the test administrator was there and she was pretty dang casual about what time it was. Two more people showed up and at about 2:00 we started. (The efficiency of our government at any level is a topic for another whole blog entry.) We were given only one hour to complete our test. Now you're probably thinking that answering 29 questions in 60 minutes is a piece o' cake, but these questions made my eyeballs roll backward and I felt dizzy--kind of like I felt while racing to get to the test site on time. Remember those horrid math questions we all took for college--"If two people get on the train at Blah City, and three people get off, and the conductor drops his ticket puncher, how long will it take to get to Freeze-Your-Rump, South Dakota?" Well, these questions made those pale in comparison. And we were told that we should choose the "best" or "closest" answer. So, with only two minutes per question, I started a mental argument between my better side and my better-get-it-right side on every question. Oh, and did I mention that there was a little "story" or table or example that you had to review before you could make your "best" guess. Whatever confidence I had when I walked into the test room, disappeared as my brain fought to find something familiar in the fog of the US Census quiz. I thought my brain had turned to gray jelly and I swear I could hear it sloshing about in my head as I tried to reason my way to the correct, or should I say, best answer. I finished about 10 minutes before the time was "up" and was told that I did very well on the test. Not sure what that meant--possibly that I could print my name legibly and remembered my social security number and birth date. Probably. We'll see if anything comes of this little mental exercise. Three hours and $8 worth of gas later, I arrived home. I'm not sure I am capable of managing an office and crews of census takers (enumerators is the official title, just in case you were dying to know this) after this experience. I may just be one of the millions counted.
Finally, I must also note that one of the tests I took on-line while job hunting in California (before my move to Kentucky) required knowledge of corporate decorum and dress. I don't think I did well on this test. I think smacking someone alongside the head when they're uncooperative saves time and energy and pretty much gets the point across as to who is boss. As for wardrobe appropriateness, I do know how to clean up pretty well, but I question which corporation or company in America has a need to know whether I believe that taupe should be included as a "corporate" color along with navy, gray, and black. I'm thinking that the questions should be more like--"How much of your belly should be visible to clients and your colleagues?" or "Is cleavage a good sales tactic or just plain distracting?" or "If your flip-flops make too much noise whilst you walk about the office, will it lower the worker productivity or, if you walk fast enough, speed things up?" There aren't many work places these days who have any fashion requirements or dress codes, but I guess those who do will hire the fashionistas even if they can't function. At least they'll look spiffy in their corner offices or cubicles and perhaps this will become the theme for an episode of "The Office".... Meanwhile, my search continues and I have vowed to occasionally wear taupe to an interview just to thumb my nose at corporate America!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
This is why I need therapy...
I have been blogging for over a year, but just today I finally figured out (or took the time, blood, sweat and tears needed) to post a picture on my blog. I can't believe I did it! And the photo isn't upside down or sideways!! Woohoo!!! Miracles do happen. This photo is my daughter, Brynley, and me, taken during her visit (which ended today...sniff, sniff) to Louisville, KY in mid-July. But, after all the mental straining required to get the photo from one place on my computer to another, I either need a serious nap or some serious therapy. I think I vote for the serious nap--it doesn't cost anything and I don't have to be on someone else's schedule or be cut off mid-sentence when my "time is up".
Maybe tomorrow I'll put some other photos on my blog of other family members. I'll need a good night's sleep and sturdy breakfast to attempt another such feat, but I think I'm up for the job. I'm feeling confident. I'm feeling knowledgeable. I'm feeling superior to those who still can't do what I did (but that won't last long because I may forget what I did and how I did it and I'll be back to the blood, sweat and tears and the phone call to one of my computer-savvy children). For now, I am celebrating and then napping. Success is good and there is much rejoicing, except for Wilbur, my papier mache pig, who is just a little jealous because he will never be able to post anything on a blog. Good night and good luck....to me that is, hoping that, in the morning, my slippery-as-grease-in-a-pan memory will serve me well.
Maybe tomorrow I'll put some other photos on my blog of other family members. I'll need a good night's sleep and sturdy breakfast to attempt another such feat, but I think I'm up for the job. I'm feeling confident. I'm feeling knowledgeable. I'm feeling superior to those who still can't do what I did (but that won't last long because I may forget what I did and how I did it and I'll be back to the blood, sweat and tears and the phone call to one of my computer-savvy children). For now, I am celebrating and then napping. Success is good and there is much rejoicing, except for Wilbur, my papier mache pig, who is just a little jealous because he will never be able to post anything on a blog. Good night and good luck....to me that is, hoping that, in the morning, my slippery-as-grease-in-a-pan memory will serve me well.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Grammar School
I have noticed of late that the English language is being misused and abused, mostly by people who think comic books are classic literature and video games are Oscar-worthy "screenplays" (well, there is a screen involved and there is play).
I am not the perfect grammartarian because I still haven't quite got the "lie" vs. "lay" issue figured out, which is why I avoid using those verbs and get mental hernias trying to find suitable substitutes. However, I know most of the rules of the verbal road and I obey them. I like the sound of a language being spoken properly. I wonder about the upbringing and education of individuals who, on a daily basis, mispronounce, misuse, misapply, and otherwise ignore the basic rules for speaking and writing.
Me and her went to the store. Yep. You did. Too bad she and you didn't purchase a book on the proper use of pronouns while you were there. We was doing real good on our project. Well, except for mangling the language perhaps, yes, you was, I mean were. And this grammartrocity isn't limited to the spoken word, it is also rampant in the written word. Verbs and nouns don't match up
--plural needs plural and singular begs for singular. Participles are left dangling (a very uncomfortable situation). Sentences end before fully formed. Punctuation has taken a vacation and is not returning. Spelling has checked out, left the building.
I had an excellent English teacher in high school. He always told my class that we are what we read. If we read well-written, well-thought-out verbiage, we will speak and write it. If we read Harlequin Romances, the joke will be on us. I know that math and science have been put at the forefront of education these days, but not everyone is going to be an Albert Einstein or Werner VonBraun. The percentage of mathematicians and scientists in an adult, working population is small. The vast majority of students will not be wearing lab coats or focusing on whether the theory of relativity is still relative. Doesn't it make sense to include instruction in other subjects, not the least of which is one emphasizing the proper use of language? And while we are at "it", let's lose the R-rated words that appear to have a unique ability to shift from verb to noun to adverb to adjective. Pretty soon we'll have a vocabulary that consists of approximately 10 words (ones that would prompt your mother to lather up your mouth with soap back in the "good ol' days"). We will be unable to precisely express ourselves and much will be left to interpretation. Perhaps the only people who will still be using $5 words that won't require that you be accompanied by an adult when reading, will be the lawyers. They will continue to use words to detail legal documents, etc. and, at $5 a word, we will all pay dearly for this language skill. If the Bible is right and there will be no lawyers in Heaven, does that mean life will be Hell when we find ourselves in a verbal traffic jam at the crossroads of "Whatssup" and "Hey Dawg"? Hopefully not. Hopefully me and her and everyone else will have decided that William Shakespeare (and other great writers) isn't just a dead guy with nothing to say to us. And hopefully enough people will think a return to the use of proper language, decorum and social mores isn't "Bunches of Stuff about Nada" but will still be called, "Much Ado About Nothing"....
I am not the perfect grammartarian because I still haven't quite got the "lie" vs. "lay" issue figured out, which is why I avoid using those verbs and get mental hernias trying to find suitable substitutes. However, I know most of the rules of the verbal road and I obey them. I like the sound of a language being spoken properly. I wonder about the upbringing and education of individuals who, on a daily basis, mispronounce, misuse, misapply, and otherwise ignore the basic rules for speaking and writing.
Me and her went to the store. Yep. You did. Too bad she and you didn't purchase a book on the proper use of pronouns while you were there. We was doing real good on our project. Well, except for mangling the language perhaps, yes, you was, I mean were. And this grammartrocity isn't limited to the spoken word, it is also rampant in the written word. Verbs and nouns don't match up
--plural needs plural and singular begs for singular. Participles are left dangling (a very uncomfortable situation). Sentences end before fully formed. Punctuation has taken a vacation and is not returning. Spelling has checked out, left the building.
I had an excellent English teacher in high school. He always told my class that we are what we read. If we read well-written, well-thought-out verbiage, we will speak and write it. If we read Harlequin Romances, the joke will be on us. I know that math and science have been put at the forefront of education these days, but not everyone is going to be an Albert Einstein or Werner VonBraun. The percentage of mathematicians and scientists in an adult, working population is small. The vast majority of students will not be wearing lab coats or focusing on whether the theory of relativity is still relative. Doesn't it make sense to include instruction in other subjects, not the least of which is one emphasizing the proper use of language? And while we are at "it", let's lose the R-rated words that appear to have a unique ability to shift from verb to noun to adverb to adjective. Pretty soon we'll have a vocabulary that consists of approximately 10 words (ones that would prompt your mother to lather up your mouth with soap back in the "good ol' days"). We will be unable to precisely express ourselves and much will be left to interpretation. Perhaps the only people who will still be using $5 words that won't require that you be accompanied by an adult when reading, will be the lawyers. They will continue to use words to detail legal documents, etc. and, at $5 a word, we will all pay dearly for this language skill. If the Bible is right and there will be no lawyers in Heaven, does that mean life will be Hell when we find ourselves in a verbal traffic jam at the crossroads of "Whatssup" and "Hey Dawg"? Hopefully not. Hopefully me and her and everyone else will have decided that William Shakespeare (and other great writers) isn't just a dead guy with nothing to say to us. And hopefully enough people will think a return to the use of proper language, decorum and social mores isn't "Bunches of Stuff about Nada" but will still be called, "Much Ado About Nothing"....
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