Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

I was picking up some prescriptions (of MEDICATION, not DRUGS – my Doctor insists I make this distinction – I told her that someone who takes as many MEDICATIONS as I take at my age should get to call them DRUGS) when I noticed a brochure for a special kind of lotion. Here is the page that particularly caught my attention:

It certainly has a very detailed illustration of the epidermal layers. However, this doesn’t seem to jive with the “scientific” explanation of how the product works. Maybe it’s just me, but if one is going to render all the various anatomical entities of the skin, shouldn’t one try to explain the lotion’s mechanism with something a little more detailed than, “It keeps BAD STUFF out and GOOD STUFF in?”

Never fear, if they were trying to appeal to the lowest common denominator in the public, I have a better option for them. Here it is:

More clear? I think so. Of course you could also go the other direction and take the complex epidermal drawing and use correspondingly intricate explanative text (“this product keeps lipids, etc. in the skin so that it can maintain its natural moisture balance and at the same time creates a barrier that prevents environmental pollutants – free radicals, harmful UV rays, etc.- from assaulting the skin – blah blah blah”). The truth of the matter is that I cannot draw that well.

Tonight I went to the ATM with my sister. I rode shotgun – literally. Okay, not QUITE literally, but I was in the passenger’s seat (riding “shotgun”) in a protective capacity (true enough – not with an ACTUAL shotgun – BUT with an oh-so-stern demeanor – poised to shout out, “You leave my *#&^@* sister alone!” to any would-be carjacker, thief or chance reprobate). After all, it WAS late to be getting cash all by one’s lonesome. She said something about having been stuck in the “Hmoob” language the last time she came and not being able to get out of the “Hmoob” screens. I did not really understand what she was talking about; I thought she had been stuck at a malfunctioning ATM that was spitting out computerese gobbledy-gook instead of English and “Hmoob” was her cute term for it. Then I realized that she was saying she was stuck on some sort of actual secondary language screens. I didn’t see why this should be an issue, as at MY bank, the ATM only offers the choice of English and Spanish, and she is fluent in both. Eventually, she actually navigated back through the screens and had me look at them. They offered SIX language choices: English, Spanish, Korean (in characters), Japanese? (in characters), Vietnamese, and – lo and behold – Hmoob. My uninformed contention was that it was not a language at all; I thought it was a computer programming place-holder for another language. But she explained that the bank formerly had only offered English, Spanish and “Hmoob” and argued that they wouldn’t have left “Hmoob” there when they added the Asian languages unless it was a genuine choice. Admittedly, some of the combinations of letters did look like words and sentences. But I was still skeptical. What ethnicity has a large enough local population here that they required a language option BEFORE Korean, Japanese and Vietnamese (one that I’d never heard of, anyway)? There were a lot of vowels – I mused that perhaps it was a language from the Pacific Islands (Tongan or Samoan, perhaps).

Well, I am stupid. Perchance not holistically stupid, per se, but I am ignorant (locally that would be pronounced “ignernt”) for sure.

I googled “Hmoob” when I got home, and I got big time “SCHOOLED” (as the young folks say these days – also “taken to school”*).

“Hmoob” is the English term (spelled out phonetically) chosen by the “Hmong” people (who, logically enough, speak the “Hmong” language) to identify themselves in writing. From Wikipedia:

The Hmong, also known as Miao (Chinese: 苗: Miáo; Vietnamese: MÚo or HmÎng; Thai: แม้ว (Maew) or ม้ง (Mong)), are an Asian ethnic group speaking the Hmong language, whose homeland is in the mountainous regions of southern China (especially Guizhou) that cross into northern Southeast Asia (northern Vietnam and Laos). The term “Miao” is offensive to some Hmong people.[This is possibly because the term “Miao,” orginally meaning “seedling” in Chinese, has been taken over by the Vietnamese, Laotions, etc., and it is only used to define people whom they consider to be “barbarians.”] Today, they form the fifth largest of the 56 nationalities officially recognized by the People’s Republic of China.

So – PLEASE, my friends, learn from my gaffe and do not arbitrarily insult languages on an ATM by referring to them as “computer babble” or the like because – oh yes – THERE IS A HMOOB. Let’s just leave it at that. Otherwise, I would have to explain that the “Hmong” language consists of thirty or forty “mutually unintelligible dialects” and “belongs, together with the Bunu language, to the Miao branch of the Hmong-Mien (Miao-Yao) language family.” Fear not – in America, there are only two main Hmong groups, and for most purposes, the “White Hmong” or Mong der dialect is used.

Oh yes – you’ve been SCHOOLED!

*I KNOW – it sounds like I’m seventy-seven years old. Even though I have been known, upon occasion, to swear like a proverbial sailor, I also say “Oh dear” pretty habitually (I inherited this from maternal grandmother – she used to visit us when we lived in California and my Mom says that I would wander around at age two saying, “Oh dear,” for weeks afterwards). But I really must blame my Father. He is only sixty-two and he has been using phrases like, “Back in my day,” and “In my day,” for years and years – I’d swear he has even used the term “good ol’?? days.”

I was given a pair of hand-crafted underwear yesterday. They are made of a cotton knit festooned with a cheerful paleontological pattern in primary and secondary colours.

I might have ended up with two pairs, but the second crotch was misplaced. It was found eventually in the dog’s bed, but by then the moment was gone.

Emmry Kate Anderson

Born June 14, 2005

It never fails; birth and death stand inextricably linked – overlapping, sometimes, or one or the other following upon each other’s heels. “To every season?”

Sydney Ann Samuelson Riggs

December 7, 1944 – June 18, 2005

People often say in these circumstances, “I have no words…” I certainly feel that way at heart, but nonetheless I do have, perhaps, ill-chosen and inadequate words. Here’s an edited (sorry – not shorter) version of my entry in Syd’s Legacy guestbook as well as a follow-up entry. Here, too, is her Obituary.

I woke up from a nap the other day with a completely random memory of school lunch from Junior High. My Mother always insisted that my siblings and I avail ourselves of the opportunity to eat a “good hot lunch,” so we ate “school lunch.” Now, “good hot lunch” was a relative term. In grade school, the food wasn’t too bad at all (or my memory has become clouded with fond nostalgia for the lunch tables that folded into the wall and the Principal, Mr. Glacier, who would serenade us with the accordion when it was someone’s birthday). In high school it wasn’t all bad, either, especially since, during the second half of our tenure there, we could DRIVE and have food at RESTAURANTS.

Junior high “school lunch,” on the other hand, was an ADVENTURE IN CUISINE. I ate with my two best friends, Kris and Janae. Kris ate “school lunch” like I did, but Janae ate what we might call “Joan concoctions.” She pulled amazing things out of that brown paper bag. Her Mother, for instance, often prepared sandwiches with Cheese Whiz®, cream cheese and that paper-thin vaguely-recognizable lunch “meat” that came in plastic packages. Sometimes she would have cookies that were made from, among other things, frosting mix (it’s TRUE – I saw them put together at some point). Janae would often have yoghurt (hence we learned to gargle yoghurt – but that’s a story for another time), or, better yet, a pudding-like confection called “Kistle.” I’ve never seen the stuff before or since.

These are fond memories, indeed, but I awoke to quite a different recollection. It was a particular “pizza” day that I remembered. “Pizza,” at my school, was a square glob of dough-like substance upon which a vague tomato-like “sauce” was placed, and then “toppings” of an indeterminate nature were used. Kris and I were walking to a table with our “pizza,” anxious to see what odd delights might be in Janae’s lunch bag that day, when I noticed an unusually peculiar “topping” on my “pizza.” Upon further examination, I determined that it was none other than a SPIDER baked right onto the “pizza.” I am not picky, truly, but this was just not acceptable. I went back up to the lunch counter (no doubt waiting in line again, because that’s what residual shyness does to you), and faced one of the “Lunch Ladies.” My memory paints a picture of a curt, burly woman with a bad dye-job. In her mouth I see a cigarette – half ash – precariously hanging from her lip right over a vat of pudding or some other glutinous substance. I know that the cigarette part can’t be true, but I do not doubt for one moment that she was curt and burly, dressed in that ubiquitous garishly-coloured “apron.”

“Pardon me, but there is a SPIDER on my ‘pizza,'” I timidly said.

She grunted impatiently, grabbed the tray, and gave it a cursory glance. Then came the quote of the decade:

“It’s just a FLY,” she retorted, and shoved the tray back at me.

I stood there for a moment, completely floored. I surmised that this was the moment at which I was expected to express great relief and say, “Phew – just a FLY. Bonus ‘pizza’ topping day for me!” But I could only remain mute with disbelief.

After a moment, she rolled her eyes in disgust, took the plate, and gave me new one with an insect/arachnid-free piece of “pizza.” Had it BEEN a spider, in her mind, (and damn it – IT WAS) then perhaps she might have reacted differently. But a completely serendipitous BAKED FLY – apparently, I had turned up my nose at a wonderful BONUS piece of protein. Oh, the ingratitude of youth.

Hopefully you’ve noticed the purposefully conspicuously-placed “WEARYELLOW :: LIVESTRONG” icon at the top of this page.

Please, if you haven’t already, click on the image and learn why I wear Yellow.

I have come across other lovely and helpful colors to support cancer research and awareness. Take a look:

• The American Cancer Society® has an incredibly useful site with medical information, contacts for support, stories of hope and loss – you name it, they have it. They also carry wristbands; the sale of these items supports cancer research and awareness, naturally. And wearing them spreads the word. Here are my favorites:I am Strong
  
  Celebrate HopeThey carry four other wristbands as well (specifically for breast cancer, colon cancer, living “smokefree” and a version in Spanish – Fuerza y Esperanza, which means “Strength and Hope”).
• Another great site is provided by The Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. This is the foundation that sponsors the famous Komen Race for the Cure®. They, too, have wristbands for sale:
  
  Sharing the Promise
• The Target® website (as in Super Target® – pronounced the snooty French way, of course) carries over thirty breast cancer awareness items (many available only online). Their wristbands, it seems, are temporarily out of stock.
  Share Beauty. Spread Hope.

  However, like I said, they still have a large selection of breast cancer awareness jewelry, t-shirts and other items.

• And don’t forget the fantastic Lance Armstrong Foundation site and the classic wristbands:
  LIVESTRONG

I must ask one thing of anyone who wishes to purchase cancer support wristbands: Please ONLY buy from sources licensed by the society or charity that will benefit from the sale of the merchandise. Usually, this means you need to buy the bracelets directly from the websites for those societies or charities (whose url’s, you’ll notice, are all included in this entry). Myriad other websites sell these wristbands (and others) at a substantial mark-up. Not only is this disgusting and unethical (in my opinion), but it breaks the law in regards to the sale of charity merchandise. Come on – you DO NOT want to be a customer of one of the sites to which I’ve sent a very, VERY angry letter. Do you??? I didn’t think so. Do not incur the wrath of THE ANGRY CONSUMER!!!

I’m considering that as my potential superhero title. Let me know what you think.

Okay, so that song rather stinks, but I couldn’t get it out of my head (so I’ve given you all TUNE COOTIES!!!). Then again, I think it would make a lovely medley intermingled with Up, Up and Away [My beautiful balloon] and MacArthur Park. Holy Random Coincidences, Batman!!! Both of those songs were written by the same composer – the multi-talented Jimmy Webb. I can’t seem to find who wrote that lovely kid’s ballad, You can wear a rainbow! I say sing it with gusto as you walk down the street and shout, “Happy Upcoming Pride Day!”

So help us, today I learned:

It’s Winger’s Sticky Fest!

Perhaps there are those who look forward to the “Sticky Fest” each year with bated breath (probably the same people who send me all the porn spam). I, on the other hand [MUST RESIST URGE TO MAKE VAGUELY INSINUATINGLY FOUL REFERENCES TO “CLEAN” HANDS OR THE LIKE – MUST RESIST], am vehemently opposed to the word “sticky” being used in conjunction with any advertising (especially if it’s used ambiguously). Ewwwww!

Then again, too much specificity in regards to this term can be repugnant, too. I’m not a squeamish person, nor a wilting violet by any means;I consider myself to be frank and open in most respects. But I have absolutely CRINGED every time a recent feminine hygiene product ad using “that word” has appeared. And if it makes me sit there wincing and muttering to myself, “Too much information! Too much information!!!,” than the World is in dire and hopeless straits.

I’ve got to figure out where I put that box of MRE’s and my foil packets of “emergency” water.

*With apologies to Grettir for stealing his title (even though it’s not like he’s TRADEMARKED it or anything…)

Here is the pick-up line du jour courtesy of a gentleman from Chicopee, Massachusetts:

“Where is the Frisbee Golf Course [?]”

*A pick-up line story for another day…

Said by a blood relative this very day:

“I was just showing him my monkey.”