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.

Oh Hell No!

Recent events, and yes, I’m talking about the shootings, have caused me to re-evaluate my thoughts about being politically correct.

I read an online account of someone who was conflicted about a family member who touted the stereo-typed “one good man with a gun coulda, shoulda, blah, blah, blah” It occurred to me that conflict resolution doesn’t have to be hard. Even the densest among us know not to fool with a southern woman when she says, “oh hell no.”

Heretofore, I’ve tried to be tolerant of the views of those who do not agree with me. But wait a minute; how do I justify being a tolerant host/matriarch/friend/liberal person to those whose views and values are diametrically opposed to mine?

I had an ‘aha moment; I don’t have to.

So here’s the deal; I do not give a continental damn if you have open carry, conceal carry or whatever carry, your second amendment rights expire when you enter my home.

I’ve tried to be polite; hoping my silence, accompanied by eye-rolls, and grimaces would convey my abhorrence of the use of racial slurs. The guilt I have experienced by not speaking out, has finally overcome my reluctance to create a scene.

The Nigerian pharmacist who double checked my prescriptions to make sure I am taking them effectively, deserves better from me.

The Eastern Indian woman, my physical therapist, who I love like family, deserves better from me.

The female African American physical trainer at my gym, who knows stuff about me my family would be surprised to know, deserves better from me.

Our Mexican American neighbor deserves better from me.

In the interest of being politically correct, not wanting to make waves; keep the peace, I have denigrated those who mean a great deal to me.

My granddaughters deserve the example of a strong female role model.

To those who spout hate and racism, I don’t care where it is, or who it is I’m saying “Oh hell no.” If I create a scene so be it.

Enough is enough.

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