A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

Beware the Overachieving Monster

Although I'm not one for shout-outs --and, truth be told, no shout-outs are generally bad for the popularity business around these here Internet parts-- I would like to point out that Mary and Heather of MomsTown have been sending something very cool to their email subscribers.  It's a mini pep talk a day, for 21 days, which is reportedly how long it takes to break a habit or start a new one.

I've been loving the newsletters-- short and to the point and not much else.  Today's was especially poignant to me and so I'm sharing it with you faithful few whose eyeballs and synapses I hold in high esteem:

Let go of the idea that you have to be a great
multi-tasker. Multitasking is, in our opinion, a
big fat lie that we all tell each other.

It is true that as mothers we must often do
more than one thing at a time... but that doesn't
mean we are that great at it. Truth is, mom or
not, we all do something better when we do one
thing at a time. Don't let anyone pressure you
into trying to be fabulous at everything at once.

I find this advice true and conciliatory-- it speaks of being kind to yourself and to realizing that with our limited time and resources, sometimes it's best to do one thing at a time and do it well.

Which brings me to November.

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You may have heard of the collective insanities that are NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo.  And you may even have heard of NoBloShoeMo on Flickr as well.

And you stop to think about how November is a crazy month of Thanksgiving.

And then you remember you had your first-born in November and that means a birthday celebration of some sort.

And you start to factor in the whole "getting ready for Christmas" bit, and the whole pregnancy thing --which yes, apparently does not affect one's ability to write at one's little computer but still is kind of a distraction-- and the whole "living with people" thing and the whole "and also a toddler" bit and things start to get funny.

Funny-looking in just a general kind of way, if you should ask.

But you cannot help yourself: you saw a weird couple the other day at a local place and started thinking about them and their convoluted backstory and you heard that one annoying song from Caddyshack this morning and it stuck in your head and then you started involving yourself in your own story because doesn't every story need a character who's woefully aware of her own neuroses and is addicted to tea?

So there's a beginning for NaNoWriMo.  And NaBloPoMo is just sentimental stuff-- November IS Blog Posting Month too, because suddenly posting once a day doesn't sound nerve-wracking and annoying.

And then there's the shoes.  I may pass on the shoes (and yes, I switched persons during the course of this explanation), just because I don't own thirty pair anymore and it would just depress me a little to do it with fewer pairs. 

That last sentence was shameful.  Please pardon me for that hideous bit of excess.  I will not go to Zappos after I am done with this blog entry.

But so yes: point taken, Mary and Heather. I obviously need to work on this whole overachieving thing.

As soon as I start a document on character development, that is.

Thou Shalt Not Allot Attention to "Alot"

Of all the egregious mistakes made in the written English language, one of the dopiest and more puzzling could be the one where people "forget" to type in a space between the words "a" and "lot", also known as "alot".

I mean, the only word that could be the possible source of confusion for these sad souls is the word "allot"  which, while pronounced exactly the same, is not exactly a word that comes easily to most of the people who are making the mistake in the first place. 

It's an unexplainable mistake, in my eyes.  I mean, if people took three seconds to reread, they would realize that the pronunciation isn't even the same: "a lot" is "uh LAHT" and "alot" would be.... "AY-laht"?  "AAH-lit"?  I don't even know exactly, but surely THERE IS A DIFFERENCE!

Alot: It's more than just a careless mistake.  It's just plain evil.

It's a lot evil.

From the Great Lakes of the Butterland

Today as I was making a little something for lunch for Herr Meow and for myself, he became transfixed with the Land O'Lakes indian maiden. 

"What is she?" he demanded.

(We don't have the who/what subtlety down just yet.)

"She's an indian princess," I triumphantly cooed, and then hesitated.

Holy crap.  So many years of buying Land O'Lakes butter (Land O'Lakes PR, please take note: I like your unsalted butter and your spreadable butter), and it took having a two-year old asking for me to take notice of this girl in depth.

"Pincess," he mouths, processing this new information.  "What is she?"

Blank.  I stare at her jet-black braids and her Caucasian features and her pretty dress.  Beaded dress, feathers.  So very stereotypical, and yet I couldn't tell you anything else about her.

I turn to Google for answers.  One of the first hits?  How to make the "Land O'Lakes indian trick."  Are you familiar with this?  I wasn't.

Apparently, you must dismantle a1 lb. box of Land O'Lakes and make a precision cut around the box of butter the indian maiden is proffering and place the knees of another maiden you can find on said box so it can be seen when you lift the flap you've just carved out. And then you giggle nervously over and over as you lift the flap and the lovely maiden shows you her "beadwork". 

Maybe it's better if you click here and see for yourself.

I am endlessly amazed at the resourcefulness of the teenage boy.

Back to the Land O'Lakes girl:  if you go to the butter people website, you can read how she --with some "minor alterations" they say, which I take to mean that they've made her whiter, thinner, and prettier over the years-- comes from a 1928 painting inspired by the Longfellow poem "The Song of Hiawatha" .
Specifically, it was inspired by the hero and by his (most likely Sioux, possibly Dakota) lady love, Minnehaha, who were said to have lived in the Minnesota/Wisconsin area.  So one can infer from the information that perhaps the fair Minnehaha took some time from her busy schedule of being a romantic heroine to pose with some butter and inadvertently sparked small fires in the loins of future generations of pimply kids with X-acto knives.

Thank you, darling Herr Meow, for posing the question in the first place.  Because now, we know.

And now I won't fret when I find you've taken my box of butter some ten years in the future, either.

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By the by, I am guest blogging over at my pal Gunfighter's blog-- so please go visit!
Happy Monday, all!

No, Not "Hippo-Chondriacal"

Can I be completely honest with you?

I want to like public swimming pools, but they give me the creeps.

I want to be free and jauntily throw a towel and some flip flops and a warm change of clothes and zip off to the nearby swimming pool and just be happy and accept my pasty white skin and saddlebags and, sitting side-by-side with Herr Meow, kick my legs in the water and froth it up happily, as we both enjoy the water.

I want to squeal happily and jump into the fine, chlorinated water, and squee and splash and play Marco Polo and do headstands under the water so only my feet poke out.

But then I start to realize that one of the side effects of motherhood for me has been an acute awareness of just how insanely disgusting a swimming pool is.

No, not "can be."  Is.

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What you cannot catch in the pool:  HIV, most viruses, many kinds of bacteria, most fungi.

Sounds good so far, right?  I mean, that kind of covers the heebie-jeebie inducers.  But not so fast, buckeroo.

What you CAN catch in a pool: Giardia, Cryptosporidium, Mycobacterium marinum and in some cases, pseudomonas.  Mmm.... just what I love doing after swimming-- throwing up, possibly feeling like I'm peeing razorblades and scratching oozing pustules on my body!

Oh, and let us not forget what Rev. Mom ever so elegantly called corneal edema-- a.k.a that weird blurry vision you get when chlorine gets in your eyes.  Because, you know, chlorine is kind of not that good for your skin (not that possibly pus-filled pustules or granulomas are, either).  After all, if you're swimming in a chlorinated pool, you're swimming in low-grade bleach. 

Do I want to stop and ponder for a second that you could also get a nasty pus-filled infection in your eye?

I'm cringing too much.  I have to count to five before I type some more.

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Thank goodness there are cheerful, happy folks like the ones at Water and Health Dot Org, who created a checklist of how to identify a clean pool.  Although when I read such helpful hints such as "do not swim when you have diarrhea" I feel the waves of nausea rising in my throat.

You mean that there are people who need to be told they should refrain from swimming when they have major mudbutt???

Shouldn't there be a basic common sense test administered to all those who frequent swimming pools?

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More info?  Click here:

iVillage
Medline
Aqua Culture Swim School FAQs

And please remember: if you read this but you happen to love swimming in pools, feel free to think I'm just a stupid hypochondriacal weenie who looks fat in her swimsuit.

But don't forget the Neosporin.

Sounds Like Whoosh, Does Not Promote Fresh Feeling

Ooh.  I think it's the right moment for that one blog post I talked about.  I just hope I haven't talked it up too much and ends up in disappointment.  If you didn't remember, then, hey!  The topic's new to you!

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From Answers.com:

douche (dūsh)
n.

1. 1. A stream of water, often containing medicinal or cleansing agents, that is applied to a body part or cavity for hygienic or therapeutic purposes.
   2. A stream of air applied in a similar way.
2. The application of a douche.
3. An instrument for applying a douche.

   

[French, shower, from Italian doccia, conduit, back-formation from doccione, pipe, from Latin ductiō, ductiōn-, act of leading, from ductus, past participle of dūcere, to lead.]
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Ah.  The word "douche" is awesome, isn't it?

I don't think I know a better word to describe smug, self-centered, egotistical, vain, careless, blindly self-obsessed; did I already use smug?; and how about deluded?; and also rude; people.  *gasps for breath*

See?  That above is seven or nine words --depending on how you count-- to clumsily try to get the point across.

But if I say "douchebag" or the briefer and more to the point, "douche", you just get it.  And we can all have a laugh and then, twenty five minutes later, repeat the word with emphasis and start giggling and snorting all over again.

It is the perfect insult combined with a happily onomatopoeic pronunciation for maximum enjoyment.

Say it aloud: "douche."

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For me, the best part of this particular insult is that it comes from the same word root as "duke", "duct" (as in the tape), and "deduce".  Yes, I know: nerdy and random.

But it IS significant:  because you see, it's definitely an American invention, just like Duke himself and duct tape-- it is a word whose very ethereal definition can be made what you want it to be, albeit still holding a particular essence of what it means (that last part would be the deduction part).  Douche:  It's the American Dream of insults, because YOU the American people make it what it is.

Therefore, the words "douche" and "douchebag" exist in the collective psyche of us all.  "Turd sandwich", while hilarious, is a distant second.

Do you think this is just some random bullshitting from someone who is enjoying way too much the way her fingers are ever so neatly falling on d-o-u-c-h-e a lot on this entry?  Perhaps.

But!

Just do me a favor: think of someone who is a complete and total douchebag. 

Thinking?  Good.

Chances are that you zeroed in on someone whose values are not like yours; who is probably enamored with him or herself; and who really could benefit from a change in perspective and a slap across the face for being such a....

.... douche.  That's right.  See?  It rolls trippingly off the tongue, with no effort whatsoever!

It doesn't matter that Urban Dictionary has over one hundred definitions of the term -- many of which feature another modifying word.  And it doesn't matter that the fellas over at Big Douchebag range from the old and pervy to the young and clueless to the sartorially incapable, for their doucheness unites them all.  A douche has become a deliciously universal word to describe a repellent human being.  One who also happens to be dense, and possibly vinegary.

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Maybe the term itself is some vestige from the feminist movement-- use as an insult that which was used to oppress and attack ladyparts. I still cannot believe that people actually irrigated (and still irrigate) their poor gentle vaginas with something that is meant to clean floors and disinfect counters.  Incidentally, if you have stumbled upon my blog honestly looking for information about douches,  I urge you to click here for information on what douches can do to your delicate lily blossom.

Ick.

A shrewd commentator from the last entry remarked that "douche" does seem to be a very 80s term.  I concur, but I must also point out that if footless tights are coming back, it was only a matter of time before we would see a reemergence of the word-- along with its far more dated cousin, "bitchin'".

But douche will forever live in our hearts and our minds as the foremost word to describe ... well, you know.

Long live the funniest insult on earth-- and one that is safe to write on mainstream media blogs, even!

And long live the slimy, sycophant, arrogant, lily-livered, popped-collared, no-game, frat-boy-at-33, preppy-jerk, cutting-me-off-by-riding-on-the-shoulder, ridiculously-large-bag-toting-skinny-women, elbowing-idiot-in-the-metro, perverted-mustachioed-freak, backward-baseball-cap-even-indoor-wearing DOUCHEBAGS of this world.

Amen.

Bloody Nerd/Day ONE!!!!

Oooh... day one of NaBloPoMo and I must confess I am very excited.  A whole host of possibilities to write about  and honestly--from Herr Meow's colossal sugar rush and party-hearty antics last night to the ABO diet to how when you're craving sweets you should really try reaching for a piece of fruit you like instead and watch your sugar craving go away-- I'm giddy with possibility.

Let's see... what else shall I blog about?  Here's a tip for the uninspired:  I've found that if you make a quick yet public jot of things that have popped into your mind, it makes it kind of easy to go back and, days later, read your own blog when you're stuck for idea.   Also, anytime you commit things to writing it makes it easier to remember without looking back at your notes.  True story-- I believe it has something to do with using different pathways in your brain to remember, such as your visual and kinesthetic areas when writing a list, as opposed to just one pathway (your inner monologue).   Which is why lists work, unless you forget where you put the list.

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Back to the ABO types, though.
I guess that one thing lead to another and I found several interesting-for-different-reasons sites.

The first one is the Wikipedia explanation of the blood type diet.  If you've never heard of this, it was a theory that was popular a number of years ago and explained your diet preference and/or what you should eat as your ancient world preference thing or whatnot.  Wait.  That was confusing.

Well anyway, what struck me as funny is that this diet claims that type B blood people are the only people who can handle dairy products.  It struck my fancy for two reasons:

1. Maybe type B people were truly meant to be cows?
2. Doesn't that assertion kind of negate the prevalence of lactose intolerance in certain ethnic groups, notably Asians?

So to check this point, I found this site on blood type distribution across the world and I found it interesting that type B blood's prevalence is not very high across the world's populations --so I guess there aren't too many people who are meant to be cows-- but that for instance in Japan, a whole 22% of the population is type B-- if you look at the native Ainu, that number jumps to an amazing 32%!!!!!  So at least 22% of the population should be perfectly fine with eating dairy, but it could be as high as 32 percent-- and for people who consider it an insult to put cream cheese in sushi rolls, I find that chuckle-worthy. 

(Incidentally, Philly rolls are a disgusting concept to me.  Ew.)
(OMG!  I JUST FOUND OUT TODAY IS SUSHI DAY!!!!  DRAGON ROLL HERE I COME!)

By contrast, the Swiss --those devils of candy and dairy confectionery goodness, and fondue! fondue! (and raclette..... mmmm)-- have only 8% of their population as the dairyholic B type.  So, ha!

Of course,  I didn't need to go through this wormhole, considering that this theory is highly criticized, but wasn't it fun?  Well, at least I had fun.

The internet: a delicious waste of time.
Incidentally, I'm an O-type, and the ABO diet thingy says that we're meant to be carnivores.  And yes, I must admit, I do love meat.

But honestly, that's me and  75% of the world population or some ridiculous number like that.  One of us was bound to like meat, right?

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So anyway, back to the blood type stuff, a friend of mine had mentioned something about how in Japan horoscopes are nowhere near as popular as your lover's bloodtype.

And I hadn't really thought about it until I ran across this website  on the temperament descriptions of the four types. So of course here I am sharing with you and asking you to tell me in the comments (if you'd be so kind),

1. What's your sign blood type, baby? (this would make an excellent Halloween pick-up line)
2. Does the description fit? If so, a lot or a little?

I love impromptu social experiments!

I'm Thinking William of Ockham Didn't Like Housework, Either

The thought for today:

Whenever you find yourself in doubt about something and there could be several options or explanations but there is the one that is dead easy and simple and really not that complex but it bugs you and you're thinking to yourself that it would totally suck if it were THAT ONE... it's time to realize that it is.

Repeat after me:  "Ockham's Razor, bitch."

Or if you're not fond of cussing it up, you can always go for, "Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem."

I.e., "Things shouldn't go ahead and multiply themselves just because you need them to do so."

I.e., "The explanation is much simpler than you'd want it to believe so stop making up strange, fruity things up that are way too far-fetched to be true or even rationally possible."

I.e., "Stop whining about strange theories of dust and/or sinus problems and dust the house, dingbat."

It's a little annoying, but you'll seldom be wrong.

I might try to go for two posts today, but it is Monday-- day of endless fount of energy for me.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.
Hate me because I actually get things done on Mondays.

A Freudian (Sales) Slip

Yes, Canada: I was thinking of you during my post of yesterday-- I just didn't know it.  So I wish you a happy Thanksgiving day if you're north of the border!  Squee!

Today: a random assortment of thoughts because today is Columbus day and when Columbus sailed the ocean blue he was doing it so we would all have a three-day weekend five hundred years later. 

Oh, right, and because spices were expensive.  I bet there was no Safeway back in those days; no Safeway and no Trader Joe's.  Those poor deprived (depraved?) people.

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Speaking of Safeway, I've been meaning to share a very Freudian moment in the life of my local Safeway --one which has been very consistent and which has made us giggle.  Well, it made us giggle after we got over the shock and the fact that it was a very consistent and odd typo-- because we Meows like our beer and this is not the first time we see this particular item.  Let's see if you can spot what's.... different about this receipt:

Now, I realize that if you've never had the pleasure of drinking one of the fine brews made by Cervecería Modelo--a Mexican brewery-- you may not be aware of the fact that this is a receipt for beer.

So. 

This is a receipt for Mexican beer, purchased by me.

The name of the beer, however, is Negra Modelo.  "Negra", spelled with an "a" and not with an "o".

Not much to speak about, but at the same time, much.

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Let me explain a few things:
1. The word in Spanish for black is "negro"--which comes from the Latin "nigrum".  Also, as in English, it is also the word we use to address people who are dark-skinned.  It is directly where the words "Negro" and the pejorative "nigger" come from.

2. However, Spanish being an annoying language where there are gendered words, by modifying the word "beer" --"cerveza" in Spanish-- the word "negro" needs to take the feminine form.

3. Therefore, since the beer is a girl, the adjective is also a girl, and thus "Negra Modelo."

4. Incidentally, "Modelo" is just a last name.  It has nothing to do with models.

5. If you've never had a Negra Modelo, you're missing out on life.

So why am I even writing about something that could be attributed to a typo with no consequence?

Well, see, I don't think it is just a typo.  I believe I'm in the presence of greatness-- a cultural Freudian Slip.  A Freudian slip that has no consequence other than making me look twice at my receipt, but a slip nonetheless.  Because the word "negra" is just a word in Spanish, but the word "Negro" has a very definite meaning and history.  And seeing a Safeway slip asserting that I've purchased a "Negro" --albeit a delicious and gold-decked one (Tyrese? Purr.)-- makes me a little uneasy psychologically speaking.

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You see, in many ways it's all the fault of today that the word "negro" is even imprinted into our psyches.  If Christopher Columbus hadn't set hearts aflame about coming over to what he still stubbornly thought was India, and if these lands hadn't been so damned fertile and filled with treasure, then well....

... honestly, I have no idea what would have happened.  As I mentioned the other day, the one thing that seems to have set Columbus apart from prior explorers was his press secretary -- if he even had one.  Because it was the publicity and the feeling that a quick buck could be made that drove people by the millions over here.

And then when the indigenous people were exploited, sickened by the nasty diseases that the Europeans brought from their Eastern lands, robbed and worked to death, landowners had a very large problem in their hands: where to turn for cheap labor?

And the solution was written in blood, in the richest and most misunderstood continent of all. 

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So you see, when I see the receipt staring back at me, I can't help but feel a weird and unseen guilt.
A guilt associated with fearing that I am insulting someone or something, and at the same time a silliness because I feel I also have the immediate need to explain part of my culture -- the part that rolled her eyes when New York (yes, THAT New York) thought the Latin guy was offending her when he called her "mi negrita" while I sat there shaking my head and hoping that someone would pipe up and say something!  Like, "While it may be an allusion to the color of her skin, it's not racist because it's not spoken in hatred or with intention to debase or demean the person," perhaps? 

(I guess it's too much to ask from guys who want to get it on with New York, though.  She's so gross.)

[Oh yes.  Please click here if you need an explanation of the above paragraph.  I realize not all of you had the pleasure of losing brain cells watching a few episodes of the first season of I Love New York.  (thank you to M. Meow for pointing that out)]

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Looking around my dear Capitol Hill, I realize that there is still much painful history in this neighborhood.  I realize, for instance, that the stern but kind gentleman who lives around the corner from me and who always greets Herr Meow and me politely and asks about our day knew a city where he wouldn't have ever talked to someone who looked like me --because it simply wasn't done.

Although the Hill appears to be mostly relaxed and integrated in terms of racial attitudes --i.e. an eclectic mix of people from different ethnicities and skin colors and world backgrounds living together mostly in harmony-- there are still pockets within the neighborhood that, understandably, do not trust The Other, whatever that Other happens to be.  You can sense it from the way purses are clutched or people sit up just a little straighter in their porches and conversations fall to a distant murmur, that they are not happy to be together.  As we say in Spanish, "Juntos, pero no revueltos" -- that is to say, that they may be side-by-side, but certainly not mixed together.

It saddens me that there is this static.  It saddens me that I see a receipt for beer and I think not of how far we've come, but how little we still care for those who are different from us.

And yet, maybe we can all be grateful that Old and New Worlds came together all those years ago --despite the nastiness that lies within that union-- and raise a frosty Mexican pint to our differences and our similarities. 

We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive. He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this, we are less prone to hate our enemies.
Martin Luther King, Jr.

  Happy Canadian Thanksgiving, and Happy Columbus Day to all!

FeedBurn To The Head

So, holiday today, right? It's Labor Day today and all its banal and poetic implications of the working man and of how labor is what made this country big and strong, and yet how unions have become these horrible hydras that only look out for their own selfish interests and whatnot.

You know, just the usual thoughts for a very misunderstood and lovely federal holiday.

I feel Labor Day especially close to me, since it usually falls around my birthday.  I feel it's my birthright to protect it and discuss it and not let it fall by the wayside as just one more hot-dogs-and-burgers type of holiday.

This morning I sought to write about something deep.  However it being a holiday, I was also thinking about doing something light and airy.  And then I got stuck plodding through FeedBurner.

Holy crap, people.  FeedBurner.

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I don't know why or how FeedBurner is important, but it's apparently super-important and it can make a difference in your blog traffic, bla bla bla.

So I, knowing that I'd created an account a while back, decided to start poking around some more.  Since the site is designed in such a chummy we're-totes-besties format, it kind of sucks you in.

And then you're set adrift in the FeedBurner sea, not understanding what is going on, and it's horrible.  You feel like someone with a pocket protector should emerge from the mists and come and save you, and your eyes glaze over.

Yes, it's written in English.  (Do I speak English?)
But this brand of English melts your brain and makes you feel really weird and... dumb.  Take this little example:

I know I'm supposed to understand.  In fact, I get words such as "title" and  "description" and even "sparkling"... but beyond that I feel that FeedBurner is speaking a weird dialect unknown to me and it's making me break into hives or something.

Please make sure you take a tour of FeedBurner sometime and tell me if this is just my personal beginning of feeling very passé and old --maybe that's what happens when you turn 31-- or if it is that those geeks from hell have finally managed to construct their own language and we're all doomed if we don't get ourselves a Pocahontas.

HALP!

Is "Manners Consulting" A Business Opportunity?

These days have passed by in a bubble and apart from observing never-was fashionistas and watching Herr Meow The Weed grow and amass an impressive vocabulary that is bilingual in its bilinguality (more on that later), I haven't had much of a chance to step into the DC streets and be bowled over with the curious mix of extreme politeness and utter rudeness and cheek that is our nation's capital.

Okay.  I haven't had much of a chance to tell you about it, really.  Until now.

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I was reading OC Girl's blog on the common courtesy of yielding seats to those who need them being dead or just passé, and it made me think about all the things that seem to be dead all around us-- only to be replaced by awkward pauses and silence. 

For instance, yesterday I received the newest J. Crew catalog and I actually drooled on it from cover to cover. 

It's a sparkling piece of advertising, and it made me lust after sweaters and boots and coats all the more.  Let's face it: summer is slowly doing the second act dying swan dance and it goen' git cooooohd, y'all. Not that you need me to point out the obvious, but I bet you could use some creamy cashmere sweaters and a wool blend coat with Thinsulate, so you can be chic AND warm (nothing sadder than a well-dressed person with pneumonia).

Seeing all those cute and skinny models parading themselves around with chic and panache made me realize, though, that most people who do not have a personal assistant or a stylist (myself very much included) just do not try hard enough.  Whatever happened to the times of old where women wouldn't be caught dead without gloves, lipstick, and a pretty hat on, and when men always wore hats and knew the proper way to use them --as in, you remove the things before you enter a building, you eternally-baseball-capped morons!  We live in sad and frumpy times people.  I am not demanding that everyone shop above their means or wear impractical things like lace gloves or ascot ties, but can't we just try --as a city, perhaps?-- to get past wearing flip-flops with everything and rumpled jeans always?

(You don't have to iron your clothes to look unrumpled.  Justsmooth them out when they come out of the dryer, gents.  It makes a lovely difference!)

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I realize I'm in the whiny breeding camp when I bring this up, but I must debate this point of common courtesy cum common sense (would that be easier with a portmanteau like common sensery or something?) when walking down the street.

Do you see those ramps on sidewalks, ye people who are able-bodied and are not overburdened by a wheeled cart of some sort?

Those ramps are not designed to shave fifteen seconds off your mad dash to Eastern Market Metro.

I know.  Shocking.  The world doesn't revolve around you either-- and don't you shoot the messenger.

They are actually designed so people with wheelchairs, strollers, and those grandma-frumpy yet-oh-so-functional grocery carts can have an easier time getting around.  So when you see someone with a wheeled apparatus aiming to use a ramp, kindly step around them and use the sidewalk.  I know: it's really that simple, although it does take forethought and an extra 15 seconds.

You don't need a ramp.  Be grateful and keep walking.

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Dear indigent person who walks the alley at around two a.m.,

Kindly stop throwing empty bottles around and making so much noise, man.
These bottles make a disturbing noise and have awakened me twice this week already --and it's only Wednesday.
If you hang on to those bottles, you can make a fortune off the recycling redemption value.

Oh.  What's that?  We're not in a cool state that has redemption value for recyclables?  Hmm... go figure.
Still.  I'd appreciate it if you stopped, and I'm sure someone is willing to pay money for that stuff.

______

Yield ≠ merge
Left Turn Only lane ≠ your personal merging lane
No turn signal = No letting your rude-person butt in
Flashing RED light = Stop, then proceed with caution
Flashing RED light ≠ "Let's see who can get faster to the intersection!"
Flashing YELLOW light = Proceed with caution.
Flashing YELLOW light ≠ "The road is mine, bitches"
Flashing YELLOW light ≠ Stop.  Go.  Gooo....ssttttooopp!!! GO!
Pedestrians ≠ Bumper fodder (unless jaywalking in high-traffic area)
The bird = always a humbling experience coming from an elderly woman.

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I know that chivalry is dead these days, and that it is a silly double standard to expect the man always to open the door for the woman.

HOWEVER!

Opening doors for other people --especially those burdened by parcels, appliances, or a stroller and diaper bag-- is actually nice and civilized.  You are expected to be civilized when in civilization, so get with the program.  And FYI: the genital thing doesn't matter.  Doors aren't usually heavy:  you can hold them open for a few seconds.

I could have burst into tears when a host of nice Red line passengers made sure to hold the door open so my stroller and those of my two friends could make it without resorting to gymnastics.  Wherever you are, nice commuters, please know that you made me dare to trust in my fellow man (and woman) again.

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Speaking about the Metro, please remember that the people coming OUT are supposed to do so before the people come IN because otherwise the train becomes unnecessarily crowded and the "Ding-Ding-Ding-Dong" starts going crazy and then the "Dee-Dee-Dee-Dee" that tells you someone is blocking the doors becomes comically furious and people waste time and get upset and call Metro sucky and slow and refuse to ride and their revenue is lost and things go to pot.

So remember, kids: that's another politeness bit.

People coming OUT of a building/closet/enclosure/Metro car/elevator have the right of way (it's your chance, Senator Craig!!) and people coming IN should defer to them.

And, lest we forget, people going UP the stairs also have the right of way and those coming DOWN need to defer (since usually they can see where they are going and gravity is on their side).

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Go forth with a smile on your face and remember that while the world is still full of rude and self-important people who seem engaged in endless races to put you and everything about you down, you can still make a difference in one life by being kind and smiling.

Don't knock the cheesiness until you've tried it.