This and That

Random thoughts.

Emojis No More

I don’t like emojis. They are just a tad too precious for my taste, especially the ones with hearts. As a rule, I do not send emojis with text messages. 

Adding an emoji to a tweet would be proof positive that I am not cool. (Does anyone other than weather forecasters still use “cool” as a synonym?)

I never know which emoji to send as a response.

When I am having the crazies while texting do I add the one with crossed eyes or the grimacing one? Life is hard enough. I should not have to ponder this issue.

The tears of joy face confuses me; it could also mean laughing until I cry. I never know if I should send the yellow face sideways or the scrunchy face. To complicate matters, there are also cats who laugh, cry and do everything human emojis do.

How should I interpret the one with the blue face? Is the sender telling me I have committed an unforgivable blunder? I thought the red angry face emoji was for reprimands.

The human emojis really throw me for a loop. They are gender-specific, but without my glasses I can’t tell if it is a female or a male with a bad mullet.

They have an emoji for everything, even poo. Except for responding to political messages from those who lean to the hard right, I can’t think of an instance where they are appropriate. Note to self: Don’t even think about using the hand gesture emojis.

An offspring, who I will not identify, but she knows who she is, noted I am emoji deficient and sent me a link to a site on the web called emojipedia. The choices made my head spin.

I will remain uncool. There is no way I am going to spend time emoji searching.

I am declaring myself emoji free. I’ll just stick to four-letter expletives. They have served me well and eliminate confusion for everyone.

Native Origin of Dinner

Original post: August 2011.

Nutritionist tell us eating fish is healthy. Maybe; depends on the native origin of the fish.

Wild caught salmon is expensive, and I waiver between paying the mortgage or buying wild caught.

Farm raised salmon was an alternative until I read the fish are naturally gray, then dyed red to appear more appealing. Aside from questionable cosmetic enhancement, fish that swim up stream in the Pacific ocean have to be in better shape than those that loll around in a tank all day.

A grocery circular featuring a sale on sea scallops prompted a race to the store. My research on sea scallops indicates they are often carved from cod and passed off as sea scallops. I flatten my body against the meat case and peer at the scallops to see if their grain runs vertically and they are not cod in drag.

I try to make myself invisible while other shoppers  look at me as though I escaped from the asylum.

The store demo at the seafood counter was hawking monkfish as “poor man’s lobster.” He assured me it tasted exactly like lobster tail. Sure it does and rattlesnake meat taste exactly like chicken, but who wants to go there?

Shrimp is another matter entirely. If the price is too good to be true, the shrimp are native Indonesian. There’s nothing wrong with being from Indonesia, but shrimp making the journey may have experienced more trauma than I wish to ingest.

Much of the Tilapia at my supermarket comes from China. The possibility I might glow in the dark gives me a reason to eliminate that choice. I give up on the fish and head to the produce section.

Should I flip a coin and get the stuff from the farmer and hope I can get all the pesticide off, or should I get the organic and trust that it’s truly organic?

Too much information about food sources is depressing. I arrive home empty-handed, famished and call the pizza delivery guy.

Pizza is fish and lettuce free.

My Name is Obsolete

I just discovered yet another unpleasant truth about myself. I am obsolete; headed for extinction.

I refuse to cover all the mirrors. My creativity in avoiding them is unparalleled. I apply makeup by tactile maneuvers, and thus far have failed to scare small children.

I was doing fine, content to function in self-deception until I discovered my name is obsolete. No one has named their child Jo Ann since the Roosevelt administration; Franklin, not Teddy.

For any of my friends who are reading this, I am not going to reveal your names, but your moniker’s shelf life expired too.

When is the last time you read a birth announcement that welcomed Gwendolyn or Gladys into the family? What about Judy or Shirley?

Anyone of a certain age doing online dating should immediately change her name, especially if they are vague about their generation. Personally, I believe anyone of a certain age who pursues online dating is nuts, but what do I know – my name is JoAnn.

Names come and go like automobile models. I checked out some of my female ancestors’ names. There is an Effie, Ophelia, Arvelia, Bernice and Allie Mae and that’s just one side of my family. The other side has names too horrendous to repeat.

No one in my family on either side has a similar name to mine. My parents did not want to saddle me with the available resources from our gene pool. How were they to know decades down the road my name would identify to the era when dinosaurs roamed the earth.

New parents today who are in the process of naming their child face the same dilemma, but they don’t know that historically, the name will be obsolete in about twenty years. Maybe they should consider the name Geraldine. Who knows – it may evolve into style again.

I’ve made peace with my obsolete name; maybe I looked like a JoAnn to my parents. I’m thankful; I don’t really feel like a Bernice.

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