Gloves VS Mittens

   Somebody once told me that a great test of character is to see if people wear gloves or mittens.  It's a style vs comfort issue.  The dexterity argument is over-rated.  There's not much you can do in gloves that you can't do in mittens, except have cold hands.

   Unless you're talking examination gloves - and that leads to some unpleasant associations, so we'll leave those out of this.
   My mother wanted all her little Hausers in mittens because she wanted us to be warm.  Cool was not an issue for Mom.  For some reason she thought cuteness was a reasonable substitute for cool.

   I won't dwell on that, either.
   Not long ago, I had a discussion with a co-worker about celebrities - whether they were gloves or mitten people - or, as mitten people put it, image-obsessed or genuine characters.

 
















 Our guesses (we didn't google,) weren't too far off, though she insisted that Johnny Depp was a mitten person.

  Finger-less gloves was all I could find for him.  We were also both certain that George Clooney was a glove guy.

   A surprising number of pictures on a google search show that Clooney is neither a glove nor mitten person.  He likes to put his hands in his pockets.
   But let's go to the people we got right.

Gloves

  Kim Kardashian is a committed glove wearer.  She's not so committed to wearing other clothing, but glove?  She's all for it.

   Diane Keaton is also a big glove-lover.  Unfortunately, the gloves only conceal her hands - not her lack of talent.

  We both guessed Susan Sarandon as a glove wearer, and I guess we were right.  But they don't seem to add to her cool factor - what are those, lunch-lady gloves?

   Tom Cruise wears gloves sometimes, but they look weird.  It's not like anything else about Tom is weird.

   And, or course, the easiest guess was O.J.  But there's something about those gloves that just doesn't fit.

Mittens

   I know I've seen Al Roker in gloves, but I figure that was the official Today Show wardrobe.  Al doesn't seem to be obsessed with image.  Not only are these mittens, but they're Canadian.  That's a pretty bold statement.

   Of it would be if Oprah wasn't wearing the same mittens.  Maybe Al gave them to her.  After all, Oprah doesn't have much money.

   Anne Hathaway seems to be a fearless type.  I applaud her choice of hand-ware - especially as it's really hard to make a good clapping noise when you're wearing thick wool on your hands.

   Is there any more genuine celebrity than Santa?  If you can drive a reindeer-powered sleigh faster than the down of a thistle, then why does anyone really need gloves?

AND

   Of course, not all hand-ware consists of mittens or gloves.

   But there's something about this that creeps me out.

John Oliver and his mittens of disapproval for Jack Warner and FIFA.

Like Fun and Taxes

“It hurts like FUN!”

If you were growing up in my neighborhood and heard a seven-year-old scream out that phrase you knew he was not claiming to be a masochist. He was saying that his injury, in spite of a lack of blood or protruding bones, hurt a great deal. Implied in that was a demand from the seven-year-old that his agony should be respected. Far from being teased for falling off the jungle gym, the injured party expected to be revered for his pain.

Everyone in our neighborhood understood the phrase with all its entire nuance, in spite of the fact that it made no sense what-so-ever.

I’ve never heard it spoken since I left the old homestead. Recently I Googled “Hurts Like Fun,” to see if I’d been unobservant.

If you are, unlike our poor seven-year-old, attempting to encounter masochists, I recommend that particular search.

Curiously, “Like Fun,” (with no “Hurts” preceding,) meant I don’t believe you, or No Way.

Once again, Google doesn’t agree.

Yeah… Like Fun, Google!

In an age where saying an actual curse word was a certain ticket to H, E, double hockey sticks, Like Fun was a socially acceptable substitute, and if you said it vehemently enough, it almost felt like cursing.

That might have been why it was so popular with seven-year-olds.

I’ve tried using it since leaving the neighborhood, but it’s been unsatisfying. Having to explain a euphemism really cuts down on its dramatic effect, and then there’s the risk of being misunderstood by lingering sadists.

I suppose some things should remain on old neighborhoods and in the province of seven-year-olds.

Maybe “hurts like taxes,” and “like taxes,” would make reasonable adult equivalents.

I think it’s got a shot. After all, we have plenty of sadistic law-makers to help make it popular.

Warning!  This is far too educational for this blog!

Pacifism and Misc.

Have you ever noticed that you can’t spell PACIFIST without making a FIST?

That’s all I have to say about pacifism in spite of it being in my title. I don’t know much about it, and I don’t want to insult the pacifists and start a fight. So this post is really much more about misc than pacifism – meaning that it’s a bunch of unrelated items, none of which is big enough to be expanded into a post of its own.

Like this:

Decades ago, the state of Wisconsin decided it was time to replace America’s Dairyland on their license plates. They asked the public for suggestions. One citizen, let’s call him Harvey Curdcrusher, expressed admiration for New Hampshire’s slogan, “Live Free or Die,” (impressed on their plates by incarcerated felons.) He suggested that Wisconsin adapt a similar slogan, “Eat Cheese or Die.”

Another helpful citizen, let’s call her Hildegard Wheystrainer, thought the purpose of the license plate slogan was to encourage tourism. In that effort, she recommended, “Come Smell Our Dairy Air.” (Those of you who took High School French, try saying that out loud.)

I don’t promise that this really happened – just that I believed it when I heard it.

In a similar vein:

Perhaps twenty years ago Canada reorganized their tundranous territories in order to give the impression that people actually lived there. They decided that to make provinces, or provincials or something like that of what used to be called the Northwest territories. That meant that the Northwest Territories couldn’t be called the Northwest Territories anymore. The great Canadian poo-bahs in Ottawa decided to poll the burgeoning populace about possible names, take the two most popular and decide between them in a ballot. Maybe they decided to do this because it had worked so well with Wisconsin, (who you will note, still uses the phrase, “America’s Dairyland” on their plates.)

The most popular response was… Northwest Territories which either shows that bitter cold saps the imagination or that it makes you cranky with bureaucrats who can’t just leave well enough alone.

The number two response (thanks to a slick internet campaign, back when many people in rural Canada hadn’t yet seen a computer,) was Bob. No other response got enough votes to compete with Northwest Territories and Bob.

The proponents of Bob argued that it was a word that meant the same thing in English, French, and every Native American dialect present in the Northwest Territories, (or Bob.)

My haggard (and now quoted without permission,) supervisor at the time thought that Bob was a fine name for a province as long as they named the capital, Yessiree.

And now this reflection on aging:

When I was a youngster, I dreamed of running fast and easy.

When I was in my twenties, I dreamed of fast and easy women.

When I hit forty, I dreamed of making fast and easy money.

Now as I approach sixty, I dream of fast and easy bowel movements.

And that’s all the misc that’s fit to post.

All I know about Pacifism I learned from British comedy.  Now if someone could please explain British comedy.

Green Stuff

“Three shiny green leaves,” said my Dad.

“Like these?”

“No, those are strawberries – see the buds? Their leaves are more ragged and not shiny.”

“So, like these?”

“No, that’s an ash maple, also known as Acer Nugundo, Box Elder Maple, or Ash-leaved Maple. In Canada they call it the Elf Maple and the Manitoba Maple. Some people call it the Cut-leaved Maple, the Red River Maple, the Stinking Ash, the Three-leaved Maple, the Western Box Elder, and the Sugar Ash. The Russians call it the American Maple.”

“Uh huh.”

“It's a tree, Headley.”

“But it looks like a bush.”

“That's because it's young. If you look at the stem… Never mind, just look for three shiny green leaves.”

“Like this?”

“Yes, Headley, that is poison ivy. You should probably put that down now.”

I have a hard enough time telling green from blue, telling green from green is just too much for me. Botany class seemed like a practical joke. I half expected someone to slip a Chinese finger trap on me as I stared at hundreds of nearly identical items with Latin names that had been specially immunized against memorization.

The one exception – and not in botany, but in real life, was in the swamp behind my house growing up. We had cattails, pussy willows, elephant ears, and skunk cabbage. This stuff was memorable, but if a plant didn’t look or smell like mammal parts, I was out of luck.

Flowers are different. I know a daisy from a marigold, a pansy from a violet – but once you pick the blossoms, it’s all back to green – just green.

It’s not easy naming green.

“Headley, help me weed the garden.”

“Sure, Mom. What do I do?”

“You pull the weeds and leave the flowers.”

“Which are the weeds?”

“That clover is a weed.”

“Got it.”

“That patch of grass is weed.”

“Got it.”

“Headley, you know the difference; just pull the weeds.”

“Like this?”

“No, Headley, that used to be a petunia. Go help your father.”

Maybe it doesn’t surprise you that I got a very serious case of poison ivy when I was nineteen. My father wanted the entire back yard stripped of foliage. My arms were rotting so profusely that I had to have my hands strapped to a pole above my bed in order to sleep.

(sorry - I probably should've warned you.)

The foliage grew back about a week before I recovered. I think a lot of it had three shiny leaves, but what do I know?

I don’t get green stuff.

Tarzan knew green - he just didn't know English.

pOnce Again

   I admit it - one of the reasons I don't like puns is that I frequently don't get them.  Maybe they are funny.  Maybe tax simplification really was simpler.  Maybe reality TV really is quality entertainment.
   If these things are true - you can't prove it by me.
   But people seem to like puns if my last pun post is any indication.  one percent  Anyway - here're more.  Don't ask me to explain them.

 Got this from a banker - go figure

 Yeah, you grate on me,

 Boohooberry

 Grammar police watch everything

Does Disney own Sesame Street?  I'm gonna get sued.

   I don't know why, but animals are featured in a lot of pun pics.

 I've heard worse.

 Not much worse than that.

 Hey!  I got that one!  How do I include it in conversation?

 Coming soon to a theater near you.

 Huh?

Looks good on you.

   Here's a couple for holidays past (or I'm really early.)

 Nothing says battle commemoration like a drunk cat

Sigh...

   And finally - (which you're supposed to say when you get to the last, best bit - but with puns it's just the last bit,) for all you fans of 25-year-old PC games...

   And in an unrelated note - here's John Oliver.

Real Jobs

They were paving the parking lot at Amalgamated Monster yesterday. We watched a crew out in the hot sun working with steaming blacktop.

“It looks rough out there.”

“No chairs.”

“No AC.”

“No snack machine,” said Pee Wee who was seriously addicted to peanut butter and jelly nabs.

“And they’re doing real work,” I said. Everyone nodded solemnly.

Things may seem horrid at Amalgamated Monster. We spend much of our time avoiding some of the most sadistic people that Mother Nature or the Great Pumpkin chose to put in management above us. We also spend a great deal of energy looking busy, but not a single one of us does any real work.

So as we looked busy and avoided said work, we discussed what constituted the realest of real work.

“Preschool teacher,” said Scratchy.

“Kid’s party clown is worse,” said Pee Wee.

“How’s that?”

“It’s preschool work where the kids are additionally hopped up on sugar and high expectations.”

“Roofing sounds pretty bad to me,” said Stinky.

“Plumbing is worse,” said Pee Wee.

“How can plumbing be worse than roofing?”

“Something about the job just makes all plumbers crack.” Maybe it was the nabs that made Pee Wee so wise.

“How about the guy that cleans out the port-a-potties?” asked Fish Bait.

That silenced everyone for a few minutes. I don’t even like walking by port-a-potties. I couldn’t imagine having to clean them.

Finally Pee Wee spoke up. “Politician.”

“Politician is worse than port-a-potty cleaner?” I asked.

“Politicians shovel a lot more crap said Pee Wee.

It was only hours later, after everybody left, that I thought of publisher. They don’t seem to get anything done, but they’re always too busy to work on my novels.

I wonder what Pee Wee would say about that?

Here's a little work-related song we like to sing  at Amalgamated Monster when the bosses are out getting... lubricated.