Today we are pleased to present a short quiz on terms related to archaeological excavation, inspired by an elementary textbook used in the Princess's day job. Don't know anything about archaeological excavation? Not to worry! We provide the answers! Unfortunately, they are not the correct answers and have nothing to do with actual, scientific archaeological excavation. For the correct answers, please send a certified check for gazillions of dollars to the Princess.
Q. Name four methods of determining the age of an artifact, geological feature, or archaeological site.
A: Cultural dating, absolute dating, relative dating, and speed dating (for artifacts such as attractive members of the opposite sex).
Q: Explain cultural dating. Give an example.
A: Cultural dating involves going out with a representative person from each ethnic group recognized by the U.S. Census Bureau, although not all at the same time. An example would be dating a White one weekend, a non-White Mixed Decaf (tall) the next, and a person or entity of Some Other Race (including Martian) the next.
Q: What is absolute dating?
A: Absolute dating describes a positive state of mind, as in "Absolutely I am going on a date this Saturday, even if I don't have anyone to go with."
Q: What is relative dating? When is it used? When is it prohibited?
A: Relative dating is going out with someone you're related to. It is used in places where you can't get other dates because there isn't anyone you aren't related to. But it is prohibited if there is even ONE available person in your general age bracket (+/- 50 years) who you aren't related to, or when the person grew up in your house with you.
We hope you have enjoyed this quiz (we said it was short). If your answers did not match the answers given here, do not panic, even though this means you are not as smart as the average seventh grader. If your answers DID match those given here, you need more help than we can provide. Good luck.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
This week
The Princess apologizes for the scarcity of blog posts this week. She will leave it to readers to diagnose the reason: (a) further technical difficulties arose with the blog, (b) the Princess was indisposed after indulging in her favorite chocolate molten lava cake, (c) the Hero and Princess waged battle with large creatures who threatened to take over their domain, or (d) aliens with no sense of humor sabotaged the blog, then carried off the Princess, but promptly returned her when they realized that she was of no use to them in solving their garden problems.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Car troubles
We received a friendly e-mail communication from a neighbor recently, in which he casually mentioned that the previous night had been such a fine night that he and his wife (and cat and dog) had slept with their windows open, which normally is an enjoyable experience for them (and presumably for the cat and dog). On this particular night, however, their enjoyment of the fine evening had been severely curtailed, at least from 2:30 to 3:30 a.m., by the sound of a car alarm going off in the parking lot behind our homes. For some reason he believed this to concern us, probably because the car in question is Joe's, and the neighbor asked politely if we could, in the future, restrain our car from acting in such a disruptive manner.
Naturally we reassured him that he could sleep in peace in the future, that the car would be disciplined appropriately and brought under control. Unfortunately we have little hope of actually fulfilling this promise. This is due to the idea of resistentialism, which suggests that inanimate objects, far from being little blobs of inanimateness, can in fact act freely of their own will, and often choose to do so in a manner that is hostile toward humans. This is seen, for instance, in cases where an individual may, during normal waking hours, be perfectly able to find and operate the light switch in a particular room of the house, but when attempting to locate this same light switch in the dark, finds that the switch has mysteriously moved, probably to a location down the street. Why objects often choose to act thus in a hostile, rather than friendly or neutral, manner is still unclear, although refined sugar is suspected.
Joe's car exhibits several signs of resistentialism. One is that it will, periodically and without warning, hold the keys hostage in the ignition, knowing that without the keys we too are in fact held hostage in the car. After several tugs and pulls on our part, it finally tires of this game and spits out the keys, at which point we grab them and run before the car can change its mind and decide, say, to lock the doors and windows with us inside. Permanently.
The other instance of hostile behavior on the part of the car is this business of the alarm going off in the middle of the night, or in the middle of a quiet street in a quaint town we are visiting. This occurs even though we have never, in five years of owning the car, set the alarm. Clearly the car is acting on its own whims, delighting in tormenting us and in causing us to fall out of favor with neighbors and townspeople.
Mechanics are evidently taught that cars are susceptible to resistentialism, and to believe that there is nothing to be done in such a case, because Joe has submitted his car several times to expert scrutiny, and always the verdict comes back that the car was perfecty behaved during the analysis, and therefore nothing is wrong with the car. Or possibly they are taught that a certain percentage of car owners -- including us -- are just crazy, and not to be encouraged.
After the middle-of-the-night incident we were planning a beach getaway, and discussed whether we should take my car -- which has the temperament of Mother Teresa -- and leave his home, free to misbehave if it chose, but there was the real possibility that the if the alarm went off in our absence, we could return home to an angry mob surrounding it with hatchets, and our home in flames. We took his car.
Later we were strolling down the boardwalk at the beach when Joe suddenly cocked his head, and his face turned white. Off in the distance I heard beep, beep, beep, beep, beep...
He grabbed me and turned around, away from the beeping. "Let's walk the other way," he said.
"That can't be your car," I protested. "It's parked too far away."
"It could be five states away and I'd still hear it. That car is capable of anything."
Blessedly the honking ceased, and we started to relax.
Some minutes later Joe stopped again.
"What's that noise?" he said, listening intently.
"Beep, beep, beep," I said. But there was no actual beeping, and my helpful commentary earned me a bop on the shoulder.
We returned home without further incident, no angry beachgoers or store owners throwing us out of town for disturbing the peace.
But, we know, the car waits. It's just a matter of time.
Naturally we reassured him that he could sleep in peace in the future, that the car would be disciplined appropriately and brought under control. Unfortunately we have little hope of actually fulfilling this promise. This is due to the idea of resistentialism, which suggests that inanimate objects, far from being little blobs of inanimateness, can in fact act freely of their own will, and often choose to do so in a manner that is hostile toward humans. This is seen, for instance, in cases where an individual may, during normal waking hours, be perfectly able to find and operate the light switch in a particular room of the house, but when attempting to locate this same light switch in the dark, finds that the switch has mysteriously moved, probably to a location down the street. Why objects often choose to act thus in a hostile, rather than friendly or neutral, manner is still unclear, although refined sugar is suspected.
Joe's car exhibits several signs of resistentialism. One is that it will, periodically and without warning, hold the keys hostage in the ignition, knowing that without the keys we too are in fact held hostage in the car. After several tugs and pulls on our part, it finally tires of this game and spits out the keys, at which point we grab them and run before the car can change its mind and decide, say, to lock the doors and windows with us inside. Permanently.
The other instance of hostile behavior on the part of the car is this business of the alarm going off in the middle of the night, or in the middle of a quiet street in a quaint town we are visiting. This occurs even though we have never, in five years of owning the car, set the alarm. Clearly the car is acting on its own whims, delighting in tormenting us and in causing us to fall out of favor with neighbors and townspeople.
Mechanics are evidently taught that cars are susceptible to resistentialism, and to believe that there is nothing to be done in such a case, because Joe has submitted his car several times to expert scrutiny, and always the verdict comes back that the car was perfecty behaved during the analysis, and therefore nothing is wrong with the car. Or possibly they are taught that a certain percentage of car owners -- including us -- are just crazy, and not to be encouraged.
After the middle-of-the-night incident we were planning a beach getaway, and discussed whether we should take my car -- which has the temperament of Mother Teresa -- and leave his home, free to misbehave if it chose, but there was the real possibility that the if the alarm went off in our absence, we could return home to an angry mob surrounding it with hatchets, and our home in flames. We took his car.
Later we were strolling down the boardwalk at the beach when Joe suddenly cocked his head, and his face turned white. Off in the distance I heard beep, beep, beep, beep, beep...
He grabbed me and turned around, away from the beeping. "Let's walk the other way," he said.
"That can't be your car," I protested. "It's parked too far away."
"It could be five states away and I'd still hear it. That car is capable of anything."
Blessedly the honking ceased, and we started to relax.
Some minutes later Joe stopped again.
"What's that noise?" he said, listening intently.
"Beep, beep, beep," I said. But there was no actual beeping, and my helpful commentary earned me a bop on the shoulder.
We returned home without further incident, no angry beachgoers or store owners throwing us out of town for disturbing the peace.
But, we know, the car waits. It's just a matter of time.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Today
Due to technical difficulties (for once, NOT my fault), we regret that compelling, embarrassing stories about the Prissy Princess and the Gallant Hero will not appear today. Rest assured that this is NOT because they have not experienced any misadventures lately. Stay tuned.
Friday, June 19, 2009
The assigning of bug duties
We are settling in nicely to our new environment at work. Although we have suffered several disruptions due to the move -- no working phones, almost running out of toilet paper, no bulletin board on which to hang our crossword puzzles, etc. -- our productivity is high. For instance, so far we have killed or escorted off the premises four wasps, one centipede, three blue flying things, one cricket, and an unknown bug of large proportions. A daddy longlegs is still at large, although at last sight it was moving rather slowly, perhaps, as someone helpfully pointed out, because it only has six legs instead of the usual eight.
Various bug duties have been assigned in order to most efficiently deal with the creatures. Anne, for instance, takes care of any bugs on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, although she has asked to be excused from attending to any snakes that might appear. Fortunately there has not been a need so far to attend to snakes.
On Tuesdays when Anne is not there, Backup Bug Duty is performed by Megan, who will take care of anything unless it is known to fly or hop or otherwise behave in an unpredictable manner, and thus might frighten her, which in her current pregnant state would not be beneficial for the baby, although she admits that she does not like these creatures even when she is not pregnant. Megan is not, however, intimidated by snakes, and so will cover this vacancy left by Anne should the need arise.
All have pretty much agreed that in the unlikely event of a mouse sighting, we will leave the premises in an orderly manner, allowing the boss to remain and deal with the situation while we, thoughtfully remaining out of his way, reconvene at a convenient location, such as a nearby restaurant known for extremely good, but slow, service.
Some of us are quite adept at Bug Location and Notification, which allows those on Bug Duty to go into action at once. Although there is no rule against screaming when a creature has been sighted, it is generally discouraged in favor of a simple, calm appraisal of the situation, such as "I believe there is a very large centipede about to crawl up my leg. Could someone take care of this, please?"
Those who are on neither Bug Duty nor Bug Location and Notification perform the all-important services of Observation and Commentary, offering such helpful hints during the capturing or "release" process as "It went that way," or "It's definitely dead. Oops, make that definitely not dead," or "Who knew that box elder bugs fly?"
There is the occasional situation in which we much call in the experts, one of which is Dave, who very efficiently dispatches crickets in a method akin to children catching fireflies – hands clasping at air every few inches, then lifted up cautiously now and then to check whether a successful capture has occurred, accidentally letting the cricket escape, and setting into motion the process all over again. Although this makes for a very entertaining show, we are forced to watch it from afar due to the erratic nature of cricket movement, which the majority find somewhat unnerving.
Dave is sometimes assisted in this important removal effort by Jim, who may, for instance, stand on the other side of a cubical wall under which a cricket is hiding and poke at the cricket with an instrument known as the birthday wand, which sports colorful streamers and tiny bells. I believe we can safely say that we are the only organization, at least in the immediate area, to employ a birthday wand to capture bugs. If anyone knows differently, I would be glad to hear of it.
Unfortunately, all this important work may soon be coming to an end, as an exterminator is scheduled to treat the building. Unless something else comes along, such as we get our bulletin board soon for the crossword puzzles, we may have to do some actual work.
Which would be truly scary.
Various bug duties have been assigned in order to most efficiently deal with the creatures. Anne, for instance, takes care of any bugs on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, although she has asked to be excused from attending to any snakes that might appear. Fortunately there has not been a need so far to attend to snakes.
On Tuesdays when Anne is not there, Backup Bug Duty is performed by Megan, who will take care of anything unless it is known to fly or hop or otherwise behave in an unpredictable manner, and thus might frighten her, which in her current pregnant state would not be beneficial for the baby, although she admits that she does not like these creatures even when she is not pregnant. Megan is not, however, intimidated by snakes, and so will cover this vacancy left by Anne should the need arise.
All have pretty much agreed that in the unlikely event of a mouse sighting, we will leave the premises in an orderly manner, allowing the boss to remain and deal with the situation while we, thoughtfully remaining out of his way, reconvene at a convenient location, such as a nearby restaurant known for extremely good, but slow, service.
Some of us are quite adept at Bug Location and Notification, which allows those on Bug Duty to go into action at once. Although there is no rule against screaming when a creature has been sighted, it is generally discouraged in favor of a simple, calm appraisal of the situation, such as "I believe there is a very large centipede about to crawl up my leg. Could someone take care of this, please?"
Those who are on neither Bug Duty nor Bug Location and Notification perform the all-important services of Observation and Commentary, offering such helpful hints during the capturing or "release" process as "It went that way," or "It's definitely dead. Oops, make that definitely not dead," or "Who knew that box elder bugs fly?"
There is the occasional situation in which we much call in the experts, one of which is Dave, who very efficiently dispatches crickets in a method akin to children catching fireflies – hands clasping at air every few inches, then lifted up cautiously now and then to check whether a successful capture has occurred, accidentally letting the cricket escape, and setting into motion the process all over again. Although this makes for a very entertaining show, we are forced to watch it from afar due to the erratic nature of cricket movement, which the majority find somewhat unnerving.
Dave is sometimes assisted in this important removal effort by Jim, who may, for instance, stand on the other side of a cubical wall under which a cricket is hiding and poke at the cricket with an instrument known as the birthday wand, which sports colorful streamers and tiny bells. I believe we can safely say that we are the only organization, at least in the immediate area, to employ a birthday wand to capture bugs. If anyone knows differently, I would be glad to hear of it.
Unfortunately, all this important work may soon be coming to an end, as an exterminator is scheduled to treat the building. Unless something else comes along, such as we get our bulletin board soon for the crossword puzzles, we may have to do some actual work.
Which would be truly scary.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Braving the wrath
My life has been spared.
In attempting to set up my computer at home to remote in to work, to my surprise everything went smoothly, things worked exactly like they were supposed to, and there were no frustrated tantrums on my part.
Right.
In reality I came pretty close to throwing the computer down the sewer, which of course would have solved ALL my problems, except that I knew I would have to go retrieve it at some point, and there are gigantic creatures living down there that even horror writers have no conception of.
I pleaded with Joe, long-suffering soul that he is, to work his magic and cure the patient, but even he eventually reached a roadblock. He decided that there was only one solution, a bold and reckless solution, and one that no one ever wants to hear.
"You need to ask your IT guy at work," he said.
I shook my head emphatically. "Are you crazy? I can't just go ask him," I said. "It's not allowed. There's a process you gotta go through. You have to, like, get presidential permission and stuff."
"He can tell you what to do," he urged. "You gotta ask him."
"No," I said, and looked at the computer, silently willing it to heal itself. The available screen space was the size of a thumbtack, the words as small as cars look from the air.
Joe rolled his eyes and muttered something about my wimpiness, which I freely admitted existed.
"You don't understand," I said in desperation. "This guy is like King Ahasuerus in the Bible. You don't go uninvited to him. If you do --" here I made a slashing motion across my neck -- "it's curtains for you."
Apparently willing to risk the chance that I might not come out of such an encounter alive, Joe wrote out a detailed description of what I should ask the IT guy.
Sensing that my fate was already decided, like Queen Esther I solicited prayers and fasting. "And just in case I don't make it through," I said, "don't put any flowers on my grave. They die and then it looks worse than with no flowers."
I did have one advantage over the ancient queen. She had to go in person to the king. I could e-mail my request, hiding behind a veil of, if not anonymity, at least distance.
For whatever reason, I found favor in the sight of the IT guy, who not only did not order my execution for daring to come before him with a private request -- and on top of it, not submitting a work ticket for it -- but also deigned to provide me with a solution. It was a cryptic, one-sentence solution, of course, but a solution nonetheless, and one that turned out to be just what I needed to cure my computer.
"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Joe asked.
I thought. "Well, if another computer problem comes up," I said, "I think I would rather brave the creatures in the sewer."
In attempting to set up my computer at home to remote in to work, to my surprise everything went smoothly, things worked exactly like they were supposed to, and there were no frustrated tantrums on my part.
Right.
In reality I came pretty close to throwing the computer down the sewer, which of course would have solved ALL my problems, except that I knew I would have to go retrieve it at some point, and there are gigantic creatures living down there that even horror writers have no conception of.
I pleaded with Joe, long-suffering soul that he is, to work his magic and cure the patient, but even he eventually reached a roadblock. He decided that there was only one solution, a bold and reckless solution, and one that no one ever wants to hear.
"You need to ask your IT guy at work," he said.
I shook my head emphatically. "Are you crazy? I can't just go ask him," I said. "It's not allowed. There's a process you gotta go through. You have to, like, get presidential permission and stuff."
"He can tell you what to do," he urged. "You gotta ask him."
"No," I said, and looked at the computer, silently willing it to heal itself. The available screen space was the size of a thumbtack, the words as small as cars look from the air.
Joe rolled his eyes and muttered something about my wimpiness, which I freely admitted existed.
"You don't understand," I said in desperation. "This guy is like King Ahasuerus in the Bible. You don't go uninvited to him. If you do --" here I made a slashing motion across my neck -- "it's curtains for you."
Apparently willing to risk the chance that I might not come out of such an encounter alive, Joe wrote out a detailed description of what I should ask the IT guy.
Sensing that my fate was already decided, like Queen Esther I solicited prayers and fasting. "And just in case I don't make it through," I said, "don't put any flowers on my grave. They die and then it looks worse than with no flowers."
I did have one advantage over the ancient queen. She had to go in person to the king. I could e-mail my request, hiding behind a veil of, if not anonymity, at least distance.
For whatever reason, I found favor in the sight of the IT guy, who not only did not order my execution for daring to come before him with a private request -- and on top of it, not submitting a work ticket for it -- but also deigned to provide me with a solution. It was a cryptic, one-sentence solution, of course, but a solution nonetheless, and one that turned out to be just what I needed to cure my computer.
"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Joe asked.
I thought. "Well, if another computer problem comes up," I said, "I think I would rather brave the creatures in the sewer."
Monday, June 15, 2009
A tale of two buildings
Both Joe and I recently experienced a company move. As you will see, our new work environments are similar, in the sense that we go to them every day. Today we give you a point-by-point comparison between the two new buildings.
Joe: Employees enjoy a plush, brand-new, made-to-order 6-star facility with marble floors and counters.
Me: Employees move into a building that appears to have been recently vacated by Motel 6, but not as nice.
Joe: The building overlooks a former quarry, which is now filled with water and is in fact the deepest lake in Maryland. Benches are strategically placed around the perimeter of the lake, giving opportunities for thoughtful reflection.
Me: The building overlooks a sometimes-running tiny commuter train, which makes up for its diminutive size by having an oversized horn, blown several times when the train is strategically located right outside the building. This horn is so loud that even our assistant, who is almost completely deaf, is startled when it is blown.
Joe: Employees park in a cozy, covered parking structure, with a designated parking spot for each employee.
Me: Employees may park anywhere they wish, as long as it is not in one of the 2,137 handicapped spaces the building is required to have, which means parking several miles away. Employees arrive starting at 3:13 a.m. to ensure getting a good spot. Or any spot.
Joe: Building has a spacious lobby.
Me: Building has a tiny room between the inner and outer doors, which has been dubbed "the vestibule," although it more resembles an unused closet.
Joe: Building has several floors, hallways, large comfortable rooms, etc., beyond the lobby.
Me: Building has one large, long room, which -- thanks to new lighting -- resembles a runway with cubicles.
Joe: Fine art adorns the walls of the lobby and hallways.
Me: Walls are adorned by black marks and a few random clocks, all of which show a different time.
Joe: Ambient noise is masked by a white noise machine, which surreptitiously whirrs in the background.
Me: Any noise, including attempts at work-related conversation, is masked by the copy machine.
Joe: Work spaces are lit by floor-to-ceiling windows on every wall of every floor. Translucent shades automatically descend to gently shield employees from the harsh afternoon sun.
Me: Employees played Rock, Scissors, Paper to determine who gets to sit next to the lone window, which is six inches wide. The winner looks out on a Dumpster.
Joe: Building has state-of-the-art, bright dividers between personal work spaces, giving one the feeling of being in an Ivy League library.
Me: Building has tall cubicle walls that form narrow work spaces, giving one the feeling of being incarcerated. The walls have been thoughtfully "broken in" by previous cubicle users, with stains and rips and gouges, giving one the feeling of being incarcerated in a mental facility.
Joe: Visitors are welcomed by a concierge, who asks whom they are visiting, whether they would like some complimentary coffee or tea, whether they would prefer a partial or total massage while they are visiting, etc.
Me: Visitors bang on the inner door, and the employee who happens to be closest to the door at the time lets them in, if he or she feels like it.
Joe: On the first day in the new building, employees were treated to omelettes made by a professional chef, with each omelette made to specification by the employee.
Me: On the first day in the new building, employees were treated to an empty vending machine. (Okay, actually we had a nice little spread of fruit and crackers and cheese and Tootsie Rolls. But no personalized omelettes.)
Joe: Employees enjoy a state-of-the-art workout room, with plush adjoining locker rooms with heated floors.
Me: Employees exercise by walking down the length of the room to retrieve their items from the printer.
Joe: Employees are able to remove themselves from the stressful work environment by lounging in the Relaxation Room, affectionately dubbed the Nap Room.
Me: Employees deal with stress by eating more Tootsie Rolls and, in extreme cases, by falling down on the floor of their cubicle. In more extreme cases, employees walk back past the 2,137 handicapped parking spaces, drive to Joe's new building, and bang on the door, begging the concierge to let them use the Nap Room, just this once.
At which time the concierge merely laughs, and finishes her omelette.
Joe: Employees enjoy a plush, brand-new, made-to-order 6-star facility with marble floors and counters.
Me: Employees move into a building that appears to have been recently vacated by Motel 6, but not as nice.
Joe: The building overlooks a former quarry, which is now filled with water and is in fact the deepest lake in Maryland. Benches are strategically placed around the perimeter of the lake, giving opportunities for thoughtful reflection.
Me: The building overlooks a sometimes-running tiny commuter train, which makes up for its diminutive size by having an oversized horn, blown several times when the train is strategically located right outside the building. This horn is so loud that even our assistant, who is almost completely deaf, is startled when it is blown.
Joe: Employees park in a cozy, covered parking structure, with a designated parking spot for each employee.
Me: Employees may park anywhere they wish, as long as it is not in one of the 2,137 handicapped spaces the building is required to have, which means parking several miles away. Employees arrive starting at 3:13 a.m. to ensure getting a good spot. Or any spot.
Joe: Building has a spacious lobby.
Me: Building has a tiny room between the inner and outer doors, which has been dubbed "the vestibule," although it more resembles an unused closet.
Joe: Building has several floors, hallways, large comfortable rooms, etc., beyond the lobby.
Me: Building has one large, long room, which -- thanks to new lighting -- resembles a runway with cubicles.
Joe: Fine art adorns the walls of the lobby and hallways.
Me: Walls are adorned by black marks and a few random clocks, all of which show a different time.
Joe: Ambient noise is masked by a white noise machine, which surreptitiously whirrs in the background.
Me: Any noise, including attempts at work-related conversation, is masked by the copy machine.
Joe: Work spaces are lit by floor-to-ceiling windows on every wall of every floor. Translucent shades automatically descend to gently shield employees from the harsh afternoon sun.
Me: Employees played Rock, Scissors, Paper to determine who gets to sit next to the lone window, which is six inches wide. The winner looks out on a Dumpster.
Joe: Building has state-of-the-art, bright dividers between personal work spaces, giving one the feeling of being in an Ivy League library.
Me: Building has tall cubicle walls that form narrow work spaces, giving one the feeling of being incarcerated. The walls have been thoughtfully "broken in" by previous cubicle users, with stains and rips and gouges, giving one the feeling of being incarcerated in a mental facility.
Joe: Visitors are welcomed by a concierge, who asks whom they are visiting, whether they would like some complimentary coffee or tea, whether they would prefer a partial or total massage while they are visiting, etc.
Me: Visitors bang on the inner door, and the employee who happens to be closest to the door at the time lets them in, if he or she feels like it.
Joe: On the first day in the new building, employees were treated to omelettes made by a professional chef, with each omelette made to specification by the employee.
Me: On the first day in the new building, employees were treated to an empty vending machine. (Okay, actually we had a nice little spread of fruit and crackers and cheese and Tootsie Rolls. But no personalized omelettes.)
Joe: Employees enjoy a state-of-the-art workout room, with plush adjoining locker rooms with heated floors.
Me: Employees exercise by walking down the length of the room to retrieve their items from the printer.
Joe: Employees are able to remove themselves from the stressful work environment by lounging in the Relaxation Room, affectionately dubbed the Nap Room.
Me: Employees deal with stress by eating more Tootsie Rolls and, in extreme cases, by falling down on the floor of their cubicle. In more extreme cases, employees walk back past the 2,137 handicapped parking spaces, drive to Joe's new building, and bang on the door, begging the concierge to let them use the Nap Room, just this once.
At which time the concierge merely laughs, and finishes her omelette.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The big move
Today marks the start of a new era, at least for the editors and graphics people where I work. We are moving to a new location, which we affectionately call "the Annex," mainly because this sounds better than "the warehouse," which is in fact what it is. Naturally there was some resistance at first to the idea of moving to a warehouse, but our objections were soon soothed with the assurance that if we did not move, we would have no jobs. Enthusiasm for the warehouse ran quite high after this.
And who knows -- in time, we might even forget that we are in a warehouse, forget that there is but one lone window, forget that there is no receptionist to let in visitors, forget that there is no one to empty the dishwasher each morning, and that we must do these tasks ourselves.
For weeks we have been consumed with important logistical questions regarding the move and the new building, like whether we will have an ice maker, how many ice makers we will have, approximately how much ice these ice makers will be able to produce in a certain period of time, what happens if global warming expands far more quickly than anyone expected and the ice makers do not produce enough ice, etc.
We have also debated such critical matters as the superiority of fancy instant coffee versus high-quality ground coffee, and which we should have at the Annex. Fortunately we have been able, as mature adults, to come to a consensus on such matters even though our opinions still differ, one result being that we will have both fancy instant coffee and high-quality ground coffee.
Other concerns that have been brought up include: There are so many handicapped spots in the parking lot. Can we park in some of them? (Answer: If you do, and you get a ticket, we will deny that we know you.) Who will get the cube by the lone window in the room? (Answer: Not me.)
Remarkably -- and callously, I might add -- no one has seen fit to relieve us of our actual work projects, or extend our deadlines, in order to allow us to focus fully on these issues. And so we do our best to keep up with our heavy schedules and, at the same time, come up with solutions to difficult problems, like who will buy the milk each week for our cereal.
And who will let the visitors in the door.
And who knows -- in time, we might even forget that we are in a warehouse, forget that there is but one lone window, forget that there is no receptionist to let in visitors, forget that there is no one to empty the dishwasher each morning, and that we must do these tasks ourselves.
For weeks we have been consumed with important logistical questions regarding the move and the new building, like whether we will have an ice maker, how many ice makers we will have, approximately how much ice these ice makers will be able to produce in a certain period of time, what happens if global warming expands far more quickly than anyone expected and the ice makers do not produce enough ice, etc.
We have also debated such critical matters as the superiority of fancy instant coffee versus high-quality ground coffee, and which we should have at the Annex. Fortunately we have been able, as mature adults, to come to a consensus on such matters even though our opinions still differ, one result being that we will have both fancy instant coffee and high-quality ground coffee.
Other concerns that have been brought up include: There are so many handicapped spots in the parking lot. Can we park in some of them? (Answer: If you do, and you get a ticket, we will deny that we know you.) Who will get the cube by the lone window in the room? (Answer: Not me.)
Remarkably -- and callously, I might add -- no one has seen fit to relieve us of our actual work projects, or extend our deadlines, in order to allow us to focus fully on these issues. And so we do our best to keep up with our heavy schedules and, at the same time, come up with solutions to difficult problems, like who will buy the milk each week for our cereal.
And who will let the visitors in the door.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Happy hour in the garden
One of the nice perks about having a garden is watching the animal life attracted to the flowers. With careful planning and selection, you can attract flittery butterflies, buzzing bees, and tiny hummingbirds to your yard -- those creatures that amuse and delight us with their antics, and that help pollinate to produce more lovely flowers.
Or, with careful planning and selection, you can attract the animal life in MY garden, which consists of: wasps and slugs.
In an effort to encourage the slugs, at least, to stop their destruction of the flowers, I have mobilized a highly technological device for catching them, consisting of a cat food can and beer ("It's good beer, too," bemoans the neighbor who gave me my "starter" bottle). Although I do not fully understand the mechanism behind this procedure, I do know that slugs like beer, and that once coaxed into a container of it, they rarely leave of their own free will. This, of course, is the idea.
Of course the slugs in MY garden do not follow typical slug protocol. I have yet to catch one actually inside the can. They are always on their way to it, or on the side of the can, as if the effort of making it up and over the lip is just too much, and if someone could just toss down a drop or two to them they would be satisfied with that.
Because the slugs that have so far been caught appear to be not yet fully mature, my sister is concerned that the slugs are not of age to be drinking, and that we may be running an illegal operation, not to mention that we are hooking a whole generation of slugs on evil drink. But since the whole idea of the can and beer operation is to rid the area of slugs, permanently, I personally am not too much concerned with how this is accomplished. Indeed, every slug caught causes great celebration. Someday, I'm sure -- if it hasn't happened already -- someone will become alarmed with how slugs are being treated in yards such as mine, and issue a report on slug eradication titled The Ethical Treatment of Slugs in the Home Garden (with a Particular Emphasis on Juveniles). This person will, of course, have a garden that attracts only butterflies, bees, and hummingbirds.
In the meantime, the Slug Happy Hour continues in my yard.
Or, with careful planning and selection, you can attract the animal life in MY garden, which consists of: wasps and slugs.
In an effort to encourage the slugs, at least, to stop their destruction of the flowers, I have mobilized a highly technological device for catching them, consisting of a cat food can and beer ("It's good beer, too," bemoans the neighbor who gave me my "starter" bottle). Although I do not fully understand the mechanism behind this procedure, I do know that slugs like beer, and that once coaxed into a container of it, they rarely leave of their own free will. This, of course, is the idea.
Of course the slugs in MY garden do not follow typical slug protocol. I have yet to catch one actually inside the can. They are always on their way to it, or on the side of the can, as if the effort of making it up and over the lip is just too much, and if someone could just toss down a drop or two to them they would be satisfied with that.
Because the slugs that have so far been caught appear to be not yet fully mature, my sister is concerned that the slugs are not of age to be drinking, and that we may be running an illegal operation, not to mention that we are hooking a whole generation of slugs on evil drink. But since the whole idea of the can and beer operation is to rid the area of slugs, permanently, I personally am not too much concerned with how this is accomplished. Indeed, every slug caught causes great celebration. Someday, I'm sure -- if it hasn't happened already -- someone will become alarmed with how slugs are being treated in yards such as mine, and issue a report on slug eradication titled The Ethical Treatment of Slugs in the Home Garden (with a Particular Emphasis on Juveniles). This person will, of course, have a garden that attracts only butterflies, bees, and hummingbirds.
In the meantime, the Slug Happy Hour continues in my yard.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Of cards and DVDs
One of our local grocery store chains, plagued by low sales and lower customer satisfaction, got serious about fixing up their act. "People" were brought in at the corporate level, people who could help determine what the chain could do to regain its place in the grocery store industry. After much debating and surveying and more debating, they finally decided to give the shoppers what they wanted in a grocery store: videos.
I personally would have chosen, say, fresher produce, or maybe even politer employees, but this is because I am a customer, not a savvy marketing person who knows what customers really look for in a great grocery store.
On the other hand, I do know what I look for at Hallmark stores, and at the risk of sounding like a traditionalist, I traditionally go to Hallmark for: greeting cards. Traditionally, this was an easy task: You went into the store, you had your choice of a gazillion or so cards for every possible occasion (From our Philodendron to Your Crysanthemum on Hanukkah; In Sympathy on the Shrinking of Your Hair Follicles), and the only trouble you had was deciding whether this particular card occasion was a $4.95 occasion, or a bargain 99-cent one.
It is getting harder these days, though, to find any cards at Hallmark. What used to be known as Hallmark Cards and Gifts is now Hallmark Gifts (and an Occasional Card). Random sightings of cards in a Hallmark store have occasionally been reported, but by the time you have waded through the t-shirts, purses, raccoon figurines, scratch-and-sniff stickers featuring geese, a great variety of teddy bears, etc., etc., any locating of an actual greeting card occurs totally by accident.
This actually works in the favor of some men who may have a difficult time remembering to buy a card for the love of their life. Now they can claim: "I went to Hallmark, but they were out of cards. Any cards." Don't think they are making this up; this is absolutely true.
And now, thanks to those savvy grocery store marketing people, when men are dispatched to the grocery store, they also have a new excuse for why they forgot the milk: They got lost in the DVD section.
I personally would have chosen, say, fresher produce, or maybe even politer employees, but this is because I am a customer, not a savvy marketing person who knows what customers really look for in a great grocery store.
On the other hand, I do know what I look for at Hallmark stores, and at the risk of sounding like a traditionalist, I traditionally go to Hallmark for: greeting cards. Traditionally, this was an easy task: You went into the store, you had your choice of a gazillion or so cards for every possible occasion (From our Philodendron to Your Crysanthemum on Hanukkah; In Sympathy on the Shrinking of Your Hair Follicles), and the only trouble you had was deciding whether this particular card occasion was a $4.95 occasion, or a bargain 99-cent one.
It is getting harder these days, though, to find any cards at Hallmark. What used to be known as Hallmark Cards and Gifts is now Hallmark Gifts (and an Occasional Card). Random sightings of cards in a Hallmark store have occasionally been reported, but by the time you have waded through the t-shirts, purses, raccoon figurines, scratch-and-sniff stickers featuring geese, a great variety of teddy bears, etc., etc., any locating of an actual greeting card occurs totally by accident.
This actually works in the favor of some men who may have a difficult time remembering to buy a card for the love of their life. Now they can claim: "I went to Hallmark, but they were out of cards. Any cards." Don't think they are making this up; this is absolutely true.
And now, thanks to those savvy grocery store marketing people, when men are dispatched to the grocery store, they also have a new excuse for why they forgot the milk: They got lost in the DVD section.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
You are entering a time warp
Although science would try to convince us that time is constant, and that any particular block of time is equal to any other block of time of the same amount, with all due respect to scientists, science is just wrong. It is well-known, for instance, that time warps occur in at least two common, everyday locales: the workplace, and womens' public restrooms.
On a typical workday, time changes once you enter your place of labor, such that while it seems that outside the building various kingdoms must be rising and falling and global climactic changes taking place, inside the building it is still not even lunchtime. One is stupefied, when one finally emerges at the end of the day, to find that things are pretty much as one left them earlier that day.
Joe asserts -- and no doubt many husbands would agree -- that the opposite type of time warp occurs when a woman enters a public restroom. During the time a woman is in the restroom, doing womanly things, the husband outside languishes, feeling his body gradually descend into old age and decay, and desperately making out his will in his mind for fear he will not get the chance to put it into writing. He despairs, knowing he will never see his own children grow to adulthood. Indeed, he firmly believes that by the time his wife emerges from the restroom, his children will be older than he is. When the woman does finally emerge, she cannot understand why her husband has fallen asleep again, when she was only in the restroom for five minutes.
Although, as the writer of Psalm 90 points out, a thousand years is to the Lord as the passing of a day, for workers and waiting husbands the reality is quite the opposite: A single day is like the passing of a thousand years.
Note: For those of you who have been following the saga of the Winter Pansy Squatters vs. Prissy Princess Gardener, we regret to report that drastic measures were taken earlier this week to remove the accused squatters from the gardening premises and "relocate" them, making way for the new flower residents, who presently reside in cramped quarters on the porch. Security has been beefed up in the immediate area in anticipation of protests from the community, although the community of late has shown more interest in other matters, such as painting the restored (but fortunately non-working) outhouse.
On a typical workday, time changes once you enter your place of labor, such that while it seems that outside the building various kingdoms must be rising and falling and global climactic changes taking place, inside the building it is still not even lunchtime. One is stupefied, when one finally emerges at the end of the day, to find that things are pretty much as one left them earlier that day.
Joe asserts -- and no doubt many husbands would agree -- that the opposite type of time warp occurs when a woman enters a public restroom. During the time a woman is in the restroom, doing womanly things, the husband outside languishes, feeling his body gradually descend into old age and decay, and desperately making out his will in his mind for fear he will not get the chance to put it into writing. He despairs, knowing he will never see his own children grow to adulthood. Indeed, he firmly believes that by the time his wife emerges from the restroom, his children will be older than he is. When the woman does finally emerge, she cannot understand why her husband has fallen asleep again, when she was only in the restroom for five minutes.
Although, as the writer of Psalm 90 points out, a thousand years is to the Lord as the passing of a day, for workers and waiting husbands the reality is quite the opposite: A single day is like the passing of a thousand years.
Note: For those of you who have been following the saga of the Winter Pansy Squatters vs. Prissy Princess Gardener, we regret to report that drastic measures were taken earlier this week to remove the accused squatters from the gardening premises and "relocate" them, making way for the new flower residents, who presently reside in cramped quarters on the porch. Security has been beefed up in the immediate area in anticipation of protests from the community, although the community of late has shown more interest in other matters, such as painting the restored (but fortunately non-working) outhouse.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
The gluten-free empire
It was all perfectly planned.
With Joe now eating gluten free, desserts have become something of a scarcity in our house. It is true that gluten-free foods and recipes are better than they used to be, in the sense that thinner cardboard tastes better than thicker cardboard (although this has not been scientifically proven). But my plan was to perfect some gluten-free dessert recipes -- irresistible things with names like Quadruple Chocolate Chip Fat Clothes Brownies -- and offer my wares to a number of stores and cafes in the area, all of which would immediately fall at my feet and beg to buy them and sell them in their establishments. In short, I would build a Gluten-Free Baking Empire.
How are the mighty fallen!
These modest plans were all made before even a single gluten-free item had emerged from my oven, and when one finally did emerge, I had the vague feeling that the Empire was not going to be built in a day.
The banana bread, for instance, more resembled Banana Goo, and would have made a perfect gluten-free baby food, had I been interested in building a Gluten-Free Baby Food Empire. Not sure I wanted to go this route, I tried the banana bread again.
The results, though better, did nothing to advance my Empire, but I cheered myself with the thought that it was not my fault.
It was the pan's fault, for being too small.
It was the bananas' fault, for being too chunky.
It was the oven's fault, for not being able to automatically correct itself when I put it on the wrong temperature. I am SURE that Martha Stewart's oven is able to do this, not that Martha Stewart ever puts the oven on the wrong temperature. But the point is that her oven probably could, if the occasion ever arose, perform this service.
And then -- joy of joys -- I found out that there was something wrong with the recipe. Banana Goo really wasn't my fault.
A faulty recipe wasn't going to stand between me and my Empire, so I tried some double chocolate chip cookies. What could go wrong with double chocolate chip cookies?
Plenty, it turned out.
This recipe called for coconut oil, which is not only used in cooking but can also be slathered on one's body for the purpose of moisturizing. According to Wikipedia, coconut oil is traditionally ground in mills powered by bulls. I admit to having some qualms, as I was measuring out the coconut oil, about using a body product that has been ground by bulls in my baking, but I tried not to think about it.
Unfortunately the coconut oil did not lend itself to being measured. Although it is reportedly a solid at room temperature, in my kitchen it slowly started to melt into a river of thick liquid, with the result that it would not cooperate when coaxed into the measuring cup. Instead of packing down nicely when pressed with a spoon, it squooshed out the other side of the cup. The amount that finally made it into the bowl probably in no way resembled the amount I was supposed to put in, but it is impossible to know for sure.
The cookies spread over the entire pan and joined forces, creating Square Siamese Paper-Thin Cookies. In an effort to disguise them, I crushed them up and used them for a crust in an ice cream pie. I wondered vaguely, as I pressed the crumbs into the pie pan, how freezing would affect crumbs that had so much oil in them they were oozing. But thoughts of my Empire filled my mind, and I soldiered on.
The ice cream pie was edible, even tasty. Yes, it required a knife to cut through the granite-hard crust, but gluten-free foods are generally not known for their light, fluffy texture anyway.
Luckily, coconut oil can also be used for "soothing the head," according to Wikipedia. Good thing I have some left over.
With Joe now eating gluten free, desserts have become something of a scarcity in our house. It is true that gluten-free foods and recipes are better than they used to be, in the sense that thinner cardboard tastes better than thicker cardboard (although this has not been scientifically proven). But my plan was to perfect some gluten-free dessert recipes -- irresistible things with names like Quadruple Chocolate Chip Fat Clothes Brownies -- and offer my wares to a number of stores and cafes in the area, all of which would immediately fall at my feet and beg to buy them and sell them in their establishments. In short, I would build a Gluten-Free Baking Empire.
How are the mighty fallen!
These modest plans were all made before even a single gluten-free item had emerged from my oven, and when one finally did emerge, I had the vague feeling that the Empire was not going to be built in a day.
The banana bread, for instance, more resembled Banana Goo, and would have made a perfect gluten-free baby food, had I been interested in building a Gluten-Free Baby Food Empire. Not sure I wanted to go this route, I tried the banana bread again.
The results, though better, did nothing to advance my Empire, but I cheered myself with the thought that it was not my fault.
It was the pan's fault, for being too small.
It was the bananas' fault, for being too chunky.
It was the oven's fault, for not being able to automatically correct itself when I put it on the wrong temperature. I am SURE that Martha Stewart's oven is able to do this, not that Martha Stewart ever puts the oven on the wrong temperature. But the point is that her oven probably could, if the occasion ever arose, perform this service.
And then -- joy of joys -- I found out that there was something wrong with the recipe. Banana Goo really wasn't my fault.
A faulty recipe wasn't going to stand between me and my Empire, so I tried some double chocolate chip cookies. What could go wrong with double chocolate chip cookies?
Plenty, it turned out.
This recipe called for coconut oil, which is not only used in cooking but can also be slathered on one's body for the purpose of moisturizing. According to Wikipedia, coconut oil is traditionally ground in mills powered by bulls. I admit to having some qualms, as I was measuring out the coconut oil, about using a body product that has been ground by bulls in my baking, but I tried not to think about it.
Unfortunately the coconut oil did not lend itself to being measured. Although it is reportedly a solid at room temperature, in my kitchen it slowly started to melt into a river of thick liquid, with the result that it would not cooperate when coaxed into the measuring cup. Instead of packing down nicely when pressed with a spoon, it squooshed out the other side of the cup. The amount that finally made it into the bowl probably in no way resembled the amount I was supposed to put in, but it is impossible to know for sure.
The cookies spread over the entire pan and joined forces, creating Square Siamese Paper-Thin Cookies. In an effort to disguise them, I crushed them up and used them for a crust in an ice cream pie. I wondered vaguely, as I pressed the crumbs into the pie pan, how freezing would affect crumbs that had so much oil in them they were oozing. But thoughts of my Empire filled my mind, and I soldiered on.
The ice cream pie was edible, even tasty. Yes, it required a knife to cut through the granite-hard crust, but gluten-free foods are generally not known for their light, fluffy texture anyway.
Luckily, coconut oil can also be used for "soothing the head," according to Wikipedia. Good thing I have some left over.
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