Have skills, will travel (out the door)

As I and my fellow previously employed editors set about finding new jobs, we have every reason to be optimistic and upbeat. Editors have many skills that are of great practical benefit in everyday situations, and other people are generally very appreciative of such skills being exercised in their behalf, as evidenced here:


Pointing out mistakes in menus, signs, brochures, etc.
Editor to restaurant manager: Excuse me, did you know that chicken is misspelled on your menu? Twice? A different way each time?
Manager: So don't order the chicken.


Pointing out spelling mistakes on birth certificates
Editor to new parent: You spelled your child's name with a comma in it.
New parent: No, that's an apostrophe.
Editor: No, that's a comma.
New parent: Listen, you, I gave birth to the kid and I'll put semicolons in his name if I want!
Editor (impressed): You know what a semicolon is?

Pointing out font irregularities
Editor to motor vehicle office employee: Um, you do realize the font on the first E on this license plate is not the same as on the second E, right?
Employee: Next!


Reducing unwanted e-mail
New acquaintance to editor: You're an editor, huh? Like, you probably find everything wrong with e-mails people send you? Ha ha, I wouldn't want to e-mail you! 
Editor: Great.


Reducing the number of horribly written books on the market
Slight acquaintance of editor: Hey, uh, I wrote this manuscript I thought you might want to look at...you, know, maybe give me some advice for having it published...
Editor (briefly looking over the tome): I think you should go into another line of work. Like selling trash compactors.


So, I am not worried about finding another job. People love editors. The truth about how editors have contributed to a better society may never be known. If everyone else can help it.

New beginnings are good (as long as they involve food)

The blog's new look is brought to you courtesy of the Princess's former employer, who has set her and many of her former co-workers free to pursue other pursuits. These pursuits should not, in the Hero's opinion, include eating brownies all day, excepting those brownies consumed while commiserating with other previously employed individuals and swapping tips for finding new jobs that involve being paid to eat brownies.


But there are many bright spots to this event, not the least of which is that the Princess is now free from Stink Bug Duty, which constituted quite a bit of her time in her former job. Presumably the stink bugs will now run amok at the company; indeed, in time they may run the company.


As the Princess seeks new opportunities, which hopefully do not include multiple-legged creatures, the Hero has encouraged her to keep on task by making a list of things to do, and this she has diligently carried out:


1. Wrap Christmas gifts
2. Put up tree
3. Take long naps
4. Make social engagements each day
5. Make oodles of Christmas cookies (and consume them)
6. Avoid showing this list to Hero


Of course the Princess will endeavor to spend time -- she is certain she can find a few minutes here and there between important social engagements -- devoted to job hunting, and she has already begun a list of her best qualifications:


1. Offering violence-free bug removal
2. Raising staff morale through such activities as decorating with festive window stickees, placing musical soap in the restroom at holiday time, placing glow-in-the-dark soap in the restroom at other holiday times
3. Encouraging operations personnel to keep the office environment comfortable, that is, above 32 degrees
4. Managing large inventories, especially her personal cache of tea
5. Supporting employee endeavors, particularly those involving birthday cake


There is no doubt that other companies will need an individual of such talents, and so the Princess doggedly marches on, holding the brownie banner high.

In 2. miles, turn...the GPS OFF

This Thanksgiving as I headed to my family's home in my trusty car, I made sure to bring my faithful GPS, which has never steered me wrong because I also always bring along a map of wherever I am going.


I did not need the GPS, of course, to go to my relatives' house, where I have been many times. The GPS was to help me find a new route to avoid the annual Thanksgiving tradition out here in the East, which is to park one's car along a 1,000-mile stretch of Interstate 95 and, every now and then -- about every two hours -- put the car back into drive, drive forward no more than two millimeters, and stop again. This puts one at one's destination just in time for the family holiday dinner at Easter.


This year the Thanksgiving traffic was projected to be even worse, because, by government decree, the toll booths had to undergo major renovations on this, the most heavily trafficked day of the year, and they must begin merging lanes at least 3,500 miles before the toll booth, and they must reduce the usually plentiful number of ticket booths available to somewhere in the negative numbers. Officials were advising drivers to find another route to their destination, preferably one by way of Mexico City. The newspaper printed a handy chart of peak drive times, and suggested that drivers choose a non-peak time to travel the interstate, such as March 6, 2016.


So before I became part of the enormous parking lot I turned off the interstate, and promptly threw the GPS into panic. It insisted that I turn around and get back on the interstate, offering up every street and driveway that could possibly be used to turn around.


In .2 miles, it urged, turn left on Goat Hill Road.


"I am not turning left on Goat Hill Road," I said firmly while passing Goat Hill Road.


It tried again. In .9 miles, turn right on Snake Lane.


"I am not turning right on Snake Lane, either. Get over it," I said. "Tell me something useful, like where a Starbucks is around here."


In .4 miles, turn left into Starbucks, the GPS said. 


"Really?" I said hopefully.


Ha ha ha ha ha! You are 916 kilometers from the nearest Starbucks! 


"Kilometers, kilometers...kilometers are smaller than miles, right? So that's, like, only .3 miles, right? Like, it's close?"


Ha ha ha ha ha! the GPS jeered again.


The GPS continued to vie with the Christmas music station for my attention, certain that what I really wanted was to turn around and drive 900 kilometer-miles back to the interstate. Eventually it gave up on this, and settled for helpfully pointing out nearby points of interest.


You are 3,000 miles away from the nearest Dunkin' Donuts. You are 562 light-years away from the nearest restroom (which is closed). You are...

Oh, if Elvis would only come

It's holiday time, which means it is time for the Princess and Hero to take their annual Christmas Torture Photo, which the Hero looks forward to almost as much as watching Pride and Prejudice. During this annual event the Hero is reminded of our wedding-photo session, which lasted a record nine days and left him with a permanent phobia of cameras.


For the second year in a row, Elvis has failed to appear in our little touristy town on the day we have planned to take our photo, greatly disappointing the Hero. Not only does he feel Elvis would add some interest to the annual photo, more importantly, Elvis would not stand around for 350 pictures, thereby greatly shortening the length of our photo session. 


Lacking Elvis, the Hero attempted to come up with some other masculine-interest photo idea this year. "We could take a picture...with a football," he suggested.


"Please," I said. "I'm a girl."


"Well...we could use a pink football."


"How about we take a picture throwing leaves?" I suggested.


"Hey, we could sit in the leaves."


"Too much contact with nature," I said.


And so, with no clear idea of what we wanted to do for this picture -- which is often the case -- we headed for a nearby trail abounding in nature. Overcome by the beauty around us, I enthusiastically endorsed the idea of sitting in the leaves, whereupon the Hero offered the sobering reminder that Nature was in the leaves.


"There could be spiders in there," he said. "Centipedes. Snakes!" 


A cursory search revealed nothing too nature-y, and our photo session commenced, consisting of several rounds of the following:


1. Sister snaps photo and gives camera to us to view.
2. The Hero gives enthusiastic approval, no matter if we are not looking at the camera, or even if we are not in the picture. Especially if we are not in the picture.
3. The Princess rejects it, usually on the grounds that the Hero looks pained.


The Hero used increasingly wily tactics in an attempt to end his torture, including appealing to the Princess's vanity:


1st picture: "Oh, this one's great."


2nd picture: "This one's PERFECT!"


495th picture: "Oh, honey, your hair is perfect in this one."


By this point even the Princess's standards have slipped a little, and eventually a photo is approved that, later, will turn out to be of someone else. Ha! Not really. Although the Hero is not above bribing a complete stranger to take his place in the photo.


But at least for this year he is finished with the torture. And maybe next year, Elvis will be around.

Accidentally speaking

I don't mean to be insensitive, but I have one teeny, tiny suggestion for all the drivers out there who have been getting into accidents lately on my route to and from work: Could they please choose some other road to have an accident on?


Of course when you come upon an accident you are grateful that it is not you in the accident, but once the gratefulness has worn off -- in like a half second -- the next thing you think, if it is a very recent accident, is: Can I get around this accident before all the rescue vehicles get here and block me in?


The answer to that, if you are me, is no. Twice recently the rescue vehicles have roared in just when it was my turn to make my way around the accident site, as if they have some radar that lets them know when I am coming, and they rush to get there before I can escape. One time the fire truck came to rest within two feet of my car, giving me a ringside seat to all the action, which I did not want to see if it included any blood. If there is any blood around, and I see it, they will be putting me on a stretcher:


Rescue person 1 to rescue person 2, carrying stretcher: ANOTHER victim? 


Rescue person 2: Nah, this one just fainted in her car while watching all the action.


Really, my being at an accident scene is just going to cause more work for everyone involved. So to avoid that, let's just not have any accidents on my route, okay? The rescue people will thank you.

The War of Pillows

Today we bring you a short poem composed by the Hero, who, like other men we know, has developed a marked animosity toward couch pillows.

"I do not like these pillows," said he.

"I do not like them in a chair. 

I do not like them in the air."

"They're not in a chair or in the air," I pointed out.

He thought some more.

"I do not like them on the couch

Where feathers can poke through and -- ouch!"

Of course as the principal decorator I take his feelings about such things into account when considering new purchases for the home. For instance, knowing how he feels about decorative pillows, I might buy even more pillows. Because having more pillows is a fundamental right of females.

Unfortunately this right directly interferes with the right of men to an Uncluttered Seating Area, on which they can plop themselves down to sit, nap, roll over and fall off, etc. So men, particularly husbands who feel their personal couch space has been grossly invaded by pillows, want to take away our right to pillows. They are probably this moment forming Guys Against Pillows (GAP) to lobby against having any pillows in the home that do not fulfill a functional purpose, defined as something they can sleep on. 

The Hero certainly equates pillows with sleeping, and is disturbed when a pillow proves unfit for such an activity, such as the couch pillows with their poky feathers. But the feathers are a protective mechanism. Tired of years of abuse from guys plopping down for a nap on their delicate forms, decorative pillows have learned to fight back, sometimes with feathers, sometimes with a stray button or other decoration. With more pillows, it is possible to build up an arsenal of attack, until finally a man will not sit anywhere near the couch as long as there are pillows on it.

Which is, of course, the point of having all those pillows. They are there to be looked at and admired. We females dream of a day when the War of Pillows is won, and we will no longer have to follow behind our men and fluff up the squashed pillows they leave in their wake.

Until then, the fight will continue to inspire us to purchase more pillows, and perhaps inspire more poems.

Mistext

A new study shows that individuals, particularly teens, who text most often -- like, when they are awake, and sometimes also when they are asleep -- are more at risk for engaging in dangerous behaviors. This is sobering news, but the good news is, the Hero and I should be safe!


I say this on the basis of the total number of texts we send, which are limited by our severely incompetent fingers. The fingers express their displeasure at being made to perform an exacting task for which they were never intended -- if they had been, our hands would be about a third of their actual size -- by sabotaging the whole process, with the result that when we are sure we texted


Get bread store


it actually gets sent as


Braid dog more


Once I was at the store attempting to choose just one kind of ice cream to bring home, and I texted the Hero for his input. He responded with


U choose, Locus


This text was quickly followed by an amended text saying


I mean Lovie


"Locus" attempted not to laugh too noticeably, there in the ice cream aisle, where a family of three was also making efforts to choose just one kind of ice cream.


Another night I had been stuck in traffic on Interstate 70, and in an effort to spare the Hero the same fate, I texted him Don't come home 70. At least, that's what I thought I texted. My traitorous fingers rearranged my text to say


Don't come Jo


and then, with absolutely no authorization from me, they pushed "send."


I tried again, this time sending, prematurely,


Don't come ho


At this point I considered just calling, but the time it would take to dial, ring, him to pick up, etc., was...hmmm, substantially less time than to send another text.

Occasionally the problem is not fingers that act on their own authority, but the delay in receiving texts sent to or from home, where there is a notoriously weak signal. Our texts, instead of being instantaneous, rival the post office for time delays:

Me (upon Hero's arrival home with a large supply of leeks): "Why did you buy leeks?"

Hero: "You texted me to get some."

Me: "No, that was last week. And it was cheese, not leeks."

And so we forge on with our texting, thankful that world security does not rest on such text communications as

Home late -- couch needs engine painted

Today's blog brought to you by Locus and Jo