Out of curiosity, I consulted Google for the correct spelling of Snufalupagus, the lumbering, oversized mammoth on Sesame Street. (These things happen when you're home for days on end, the languishing victim of a contagious, foreign bacterium – see earlier blog).
As expected, when I typed in "snuffaluffagus" I got the reassuring "Did you mean Snufalupagus?" Yes, Google, that's exactly what I meant, thank you. But suddenly it occurred to me that I've never questioned the spelling of this creature's name or even why a simple children's character should have such a lengthy, complex, and inexplicable moniker. I mean, Snufalupagus? How the hell did they come up with that one? Even more disturbing is how I never thought twice about it until now, at the age of 33 (and only now out of boredom due to my weakened and feverish state caused by a contagious, foreign bacterium – see above). It's almost like I've been in some kind of Sesame-Street-induced state of hypnosis, just floating through life as if Snufalupagus is a perfectly normal thing to name a TV show character, never questioning any of it, like some brainwashed Stockholm syndrome sufferer. What does that name mean? Is he even a mammoth? Why doesn't he have tusks? And why do I still like him so much in spite of these inconsistencies?
I'd like to name this condition the Snufalupagus Syndrome. Thanks to Snufalupagus and his motley gaggle of costumeers, I have no faith in my own brain's ability to decipher the logical from the absurd.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
roll over, mr. whipple
While waiting in line at the drug store the other day, I was subjected to what might arguably be the most mind-numbing conversation ever overheard in the history of eavesdropping. A customer and the clerk were discussing at length the difference between Cottonelle and Charmin toilet papers (a difference which, I surmised from their exchange, is negligible). In the great American quest to maximize comfort AND save money, the customer was tempted to switch to Cottonelle, but was concerned she would be sacrificing the downy softness of Charmin. The clerk reassured her that she, too, used to be a Charmin fan, but is now a staunch supporter of Cottonelle so much that she recently converted her husband, also formerly of the Charmin camp, to her side. Until then, the clerk shared, they were a house divided, with she and her husband using separate bathrooms with Cottonelle in hers and Charmin in his. Now, apparently, harmony prevails, with the same toilet tissue in all bathrooms.
The customer was skeptical, partly because a misunderstanding arose; halfway through the conversation, the clerk began saying "Charmin" where it was obvious she meant "Cottonelle," a lamentable error when attempting to offer a comparison. After explaining how she converted her husband to the Cottonelle campaign, she chirped, "and now we have Charmin in all the bathrooms and my husband couldn't be happier!" This sent the already apprehensive customer fishtailing into the guard rails. "Wait, Charmin? Or Cottonelle?" The clerk, oblivious to her error, continued on her campaign for Cottonelle, calling it Charmin, which turned an already painful 2-minute conversation into something excruciatingly longer. I thoroughly enjoy eavesdropping, but I intensely dislike listening to a conversation in which there is a misunderstanding that confuses everyone and I'm the only one who notices what it is.
"But is Cottonelle as soft as Charmin?" the customer persisted, abandoning the need for clarity in her search for the bottom line, and the clerk assured her that she wouldn't be disappointed, and I don't remember any more, because I think it was around that time that my head exploded.
And now, in honor of the many souls lost to mundane suburban existence, I offer this humble prayer:
Dear lord, may I never find myself trapped in a relationship in which the brand of toilet paper used becomes an issue worthy of discussion or division in my household, such that my partner and I retreat to separate bathrooms where we enshrine our respective preferences in toilet tissue. And may I never be so overly concerned with these banalities that I feel compelled to discuss, in depth, with a complete stranger and in earshot of other strangers, the softness of a material everyone knows I will be using on my ass. Amen.
P.S. In case of further questions or concerns, please refer to the Charmin website, where you can view such essential information as a comprehensive Charmin timeline dating back to the 1920s, as well as a question and answer page with detailed instructions to riveting, crucial matters such as "What do I do if the plies on my Charmin roll are not lining up properly?" and "What is the proper way to hang the Charmin roll on my dispenser?" Or, for those of the rival camp, the Cottonelle website offers an open-text forum where you can submit a "pledge" as to "how you plan to be kind to your behind," (I couldn't make this up if I wanted to, folks). Fortunately, Cottonelle also has a question and answer page, which I'm sure you will find informative if you are able to stay interested long enough to click onto it, which I was not.
In closing, and just so we can all rest easy, Charmin does recommend that you hang the roll so that the paper drapes over the TOP, but they let us know that it can also be placed such that the paper hangs down the back, and that each individual household will have to battle that out on its own. Will the American household survive yet another divisive issue? Tune in next week, for "Conversations with the waitress at Denny's: When you're a top-hanger and your partner is a back-hanger." With any luck, another suburban disaster will be successfully averted. Thanks, Cottonelle. Er, Charmin.
The customer was skeptical, partly because a misunderstanding arose; halfway through the conversation, the clerk began saying "Charmin" where it was obvious she meant "Cottonelle," a lamentable error when attempting to offer a comparison. After explaining how she converted her husband to the Cottonelle campaign, she chirped, "and now we have Charmin in all the bathrooms and my husband couldn't be happier!" This sent the already apprehensive customer fishtailing into the guard rails. "Wait, Charmin? Or Cottonelle?" The clerk, oblivious to her error, continued on her campaign for Cottonelle, calling it Charmin, which turned an already painful 2-minute conversation into something excruciatingly longer. I thoroughly enjoy eavesdropping, but I intensely dislike listening to a conversation in which there is a misunderstanding that confuses everyone and I'm the only one who notices what it is.
"But is Cottonelle as soft as Charmin?" the customer persisted, abandoning the need for clarity in her search for the bottom line, and the clerk assured her that she wouldn't be disappointed, and I don't remember any more, because I think it was around that time that my head exploded.
And now, in honor of the many souls lost to mundane suburban existence, I offer this humble prayer:
Dear lord, may I never find myself trapped in a relationship in which the brand of toilet paper used becomes an issue worthy of discussion or division in my household, such that my partner and I retreat to separate bathrooms where we enshrine our respective preferences in toilet tissue. And may I never be so overly concerned with these banalities that I feel compelled to discuss, in depth, with a complete stranger and in earshot of other strangers, the softness of a material everyone knows I will be using on my ass. Amen.
P.S. In case of further questions or concerns, please refer to the Charmin website, where you can view such essential information as a comprehensive Charmin timeline dating back to the 1920s, as well as a question and answer page with detailed instructions to riveting, crucial matters such as "What do I do if the plies on my Charmin roll are not lining up properly?" and "What is the proper way to hang the Charmin roll on my dispenser?" Or, for those of the rival camp, the Cottonelle website offers an open-text forum where you can submit a "pledge" as to "how you plan to be kind to your behind," (I couldn't make this up if I wanted to, folks). Fortunately, Cottonelle also has a question and answer page, which I'm sure you will find informative if you are able to stay interested long enough to click onto it, which I was not.
In closing, and just so we can all rest easy, Charmin does recommend that you hang the roll so that the paper drapes over the TOP, but they let us know that it can also be placed such that the paper hangs down the back, and that each individual household will have to battle that out on its own. Will the American household survive yet another divisive issue? Tune in next week, for "Conversations with the waitress at Denny's: When you're a top-hanger and your partner is a back-hanger." With any luck, another suburban disaster will be successfully averted. Thanks, Cottonelle. Er, Charmin.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
foreign "culture"
Those of you who have ever returned from traveling overseas might be familiar with the ever-joyous white and blue Customs Declaration form everyone must fill out upon landing in the U.S. On this form you have the opportunity to rat yourself out for any number of forbidden items you might be attempting to bring into the country, including plant seeds, fruits and vegetables, animal products, meats, etc. (they have a particular interest in salami, I learned from previous travels -- see earlier blog) along with other oh-so-likely imports such as the skins of endangered animals, disease agents, snails, insects, obscene materials, toxic substances, cell cultures, and soil (does a chunk of the Berlin wall count?) It also gets a little personal about how much money you have, how much your souvenirs cost and whether you've been "close" to livestock lately, but I digress. My favorite part of the form says something like "if you have any of these things, contact customs before you get to the United States," which is especially helpful since these forms are usually distributed about 30 minutes before you land.
After a number of stern warnings about what U.S. Customs and Border Protection prohibits and expects and has a right to do to you, the form manages a weak "Welcome to the United States."
After having visited upwards of 12-14 other countries, I daresay that the entry process into the U.S. is anything but welcoming, even for its own citizens. The weary traveler finds himself herded into the bleak, warehouse-like customs building where he languishes in long, stuffy lines while waiting his turn to be questioned and grilled (and in the case of non-residents, questioned, grilled, fingerprinted and photographed). While he waits, he is subjected to a "welcome video" on several large screens above the queues that depicts a number of Border Protection agents reminding him that "we take the entry process very seriously." Even I, as a U.S. citizen and an honest, non-animal-skins-or-illegal-narcotics-bearing traveler, find myself clutching my passport and entry document in my nervous, sweaty palm, waiting for my turn under the scrutinizing eye of the ever-powerful Border Control agent. I ruminate on everything in my luggage, wondering what might get me hauled away and mentally developing a speech about why it was necessary to bring back (not one, but) two packets of Czech cookies and how the Polish condensed milk is stashed inside my snow boot not to be concealed, but to save room. I can only imagine how intimidating this process must be for the first-time visitor to this country, especially for the non-English speaker.
As I wait agonizingly for Christian to come through the foreign visitors line, I watch the visitors, one after another, approach their designated agent to submit a fingerprint; if they've been in the country before, the border agent's monitor displays their mug shot, current and prior fingerprint, and large text announcing, "SUBJECT VERIFIED." It's like entering a high-security prison where there's just been an escape; you almost expect to see someone dragged away, moaning and howling, "it wasn't me; it wasn't me!" The entire place is infused with a fear that is almost palpable, and feels liable to erupt into a five-alarm calamity at the slightest provocation. I think the only way they can make the process more terrifying is to install electric barbed wire around the queues and subject people to random shocks. We could watch a video that reassures us that in the U.S., shocking foreign visitors is just another way to show our hospitality. Welcome to the United States!
Anyway, I pulled one over on the Department of Customs and Border Protection this time. Salami, you ask? The skins of endangered animals? No, even better. In my toasty little throat, that I thought was just scratchy from the fatigue of 48 hours in transit, I was harboring a DISEASE CULTURE. That's right -- some strange, Eastern European strain of strep throat managed to smuggle its little way into the United States with me as its vessel. And no one was any the wiser.
Not that I'm proud of bringing in a bacteria that might end up causing an outbreak all over town. I guess I just felt a little smug at the CVS minute clinic, when the nurse practitioner (who was just in the process of giving me the spiel about how there's a lot of viral throat junk floating around right now and that we test for strep as a precaution but generally rest and fluids are the best medicine) glanced at my test and exclaimed in surprise "…and, you're going to have a positive strep culture." As if I would be mediocre enough to catch something locally. Hmph! The latest Polish bacterial strains are much more en vogue, but I wouldn't expect mere peasants to appreciate that.
Eat that with your salami, Border Control.
After a number of stern warnings about what U.S. Customs and Border Protection prohibits and expects and has a right to do to you, the form manages a weak "Welcome to the United States."
After having visited upwards of 12-14 other countries, I daresay that the entry process into the U.S. is anything but welcoming, even for its own citizens. The weary traveler finds himself herded into the bleak, warehouse-like customs building where he languishes in long, stuffy lines while waiting his turn to be questioned and grilled (and in the case of non-residents, questioned, grilled, fingerprinted and photographed). While he waits, he is subjected to a "welcome video" on several large screens above the queues that depicts a number of Border Protection agents reminding him that "we take the entry process very seriously." Even I, as a U.S. citizen and an honest, non-animal-skins-or-illegal-narcotics-bearing traveler, find myself clutching my passport and entry document in my nervous, sweaty palm, waiting for my turn under the scrutinizing eye of the ever-powerful Border Control agent. I ruminate on everything in my luggage, wondering what might get me hauled away and mentally developing a speech about why it was necessary to bring back (not one, but) two packets of Czech cookies and how the Polish condensed milk is stashed inside my snow boot not to be concealed, but to save room. I can only imagine how intimidating this process must be for the first-time visitor to this country, especially for the non-English speaker.
As I wait agonizingly for Christian to come through the foreign visitors line, I watch the visitors, one after another, approach their designated agent to submit a fingerprint; if they've been in the country before, the border agent's monitor displays their mug shot, current and prior fingerprint, and large text announcing, "SUBJECT VERIFIED." It's like entering a high-security prison where there's just been an escape; you almost expect to see someone dragged away, moaning and howling, "it wasn't me; it wasn't me!" The entire place is infused with a fear that is almost palpable, and feels liable to erupt into a five-alarm calamity at the slightest provocation. I think the only way they can make the process more terrifying is to install electric barbed wire around the queues and subject people to random shocks. We could watch a video that reassures us that in the U.S., shocking foreign visitors is just another way to show our hospitality. Welcome to the United States!
Anyway, I pulled one over on the Department of Customs and Border Protection this time. Salami, you ask? The skins of endangered animals? No, even better. In my toasty little throat, that I thought was just scratchy from the fatigue of 48 hours in transit, I was harboring a DISEASE CULTURE. That's right -- some strange, Eastern European strain of strep throat managed to smuggle its little way into the United States with me as its vessel. And no one was any the wiser.
Not that I'm proud of bringing in a bacteria that might end up causing an outbreak all over town. I guess I just felt a little smug at the CVS minute clinic, when the nurse practitioner (who was just in the process of giving me the spiel about how there's a lot of viral throat junk floating around right now and that we test for strep as a precaution but generally rest and fluids are the best medicine) glanced at my test and exclaimed in surprise "…and, you're going to have a positive strep culture." As if I would be mediocre enough to catch something locally. Hmph! The latest Polish bacterial strains are much more en vogue, but I wouldn't expect mere peasants to appreciate that.
Eat that with your salami, Border Control.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)