Tag Archives: humor

Golden Oldies

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“Okay Boomer,” said my teenaged granddaughter to her dad one day, teasing him with the verbal equivalent of an eye roll. Informed that an actual Boomer (me) was sitting next to her, she responded, “Yeah, but Gran’s cool. Well, not cool, but for her age she’s really cool.” Best. Compliment. Ever.

I’m not fond of the term Boomer, which makes me think of oil wells and large tubas, but I’d rather have that label than some others applied to my age group. Golden Ager implies the best of all possible eras, and that’s unlikely when so many phone calls with my peers include what one has dubbed the “organ recital”: a list of the new body-part doctors we’ve acquired and the ailments they’re treating. Nor do I like the expression older people. As a grammarian, I’m obliged to ask, “Older than whom?” and wait for someone to complete the comparison. I’m okay with being called elderly, though I’d prefer to be known as an elder, a term implying that I’ve learned something valuable during my years on the planet. I’m also okay with old. That’s just accurate.

The term I really hate is senior citizen. I’ve been a teacher my entire adult life. School is my default context. If I’m a senior, what am I graduating to?

I mention all this because today is my birthday. A complete complement of candles would burn down the house, but I’ll take a symbolic, celebratory few. That seems the right way to mark this step on the path. As for terminology, this sign gave me the answer:

Where there are Minors, there must be Majors. That’s me, folks. Major, cool-for-my-age Woods.

What I Meant Was . . .

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I think and also hope that what these signwriters think they said is different from what actually landed on the page. Or screen. Or metal sheet. Wherever! Take a look at this one, courtesy of my friend Don:

Someone killed 3 Pedestrians for my own Safety? Please let that not be true. Also, what will Repeat to cross other side? Homicide? And don’t get me started on the green man’s activity.

Another, which I spotted while obsessively checking apartment listings in my building to find out who’s moving:

I’m wondering which hairdresser the apartment owner went to for Coiffured Ceilings. I have to admit that my own ceilings have never been cut, dyed, or curled. However, they are coffered by support beams. Does that make me stylish enough?

Probably not. I do sometimes shop at a fancy grocery, where the food is better than the accuracy of the “best if bought by” date:

True, time is relative and certain portions of 2020 have seemed endless, but September 31st? Nope. Well, maybe if there’s a recount . . .

The Dangers of 2020

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We all know that 2020 presents a long list of dangerous situations, the pandemic being just one. But I haven’t read much about Food Danger: not what you eat, but the danger of being eaten. Take a look:

I’m not attending any event offering entree choices of beef, pork, or child. I wonder how many people took the last line seriously and listed “human flesh” as a dietary restriction.

When I couple the card above with the sign below, I fear cannibalism is becoming a trend:

Call me picky, but I don’t want a restaurant to serve me, as in serve me on a plate, or to serve anyone else, for that matter. Better to take care of each other! With that in mind, perhaps we should veto this plan:

I must admit that the above signs seem attuned to the mood of this awful year. Maybe the problem stems from too much disinfectant:

Please don’t satanize anything (or anyone, no matter how tempting). Do stay safe, and keep those around you as safe as possible, too.

Precarious

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The world is precarious nowadays: danger seems to, and in most instances actually does, surround us. As a break from the deadly and serious, here are a few threats that may bring a smile and no damage whatsoever to anything other than the English language.

For the bad-breakup crowd:

For want of an apostrophe, a boy friend was lost. Well, turned into cash, which I’m pretty sure is illegal, no matter how toxic the relationship was. Side point: How do you turn cash into ca$h other than typographically? And why would you want to?

Although unemployment has risen sharply, I’m hoping no one is desperate enough to apply for this job:

Grilled man? I don’t even want to think about it.

And then there’s this placard*:

*Zero-star review from Marie-Antoinette and Thomas Cromwell.

As if we needed one more thing to worry about in 2020:

My recommendations: be kind to your ex-whatever, don’t barbecue yourself, watch the scissors, and stay off the sidewalk. Be safe!

Grammarian in a Watery City . . .

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The city being Venice, where I spent ten wonderful days and where at every turn I was startled by beauty, and, occasionally, by some creative use of the English language. Please note that I’m not criticizing here. How could I when I once wrote the Spanish-equivalent of “pitifully, I cannot accept your invitation”? As you read, imagine that I’m smiling gently at these menus. This one, for example:

I’d like to see a “cattlefish,” as long as it’s not stampeding toward me, leaving a trail of inky hoof-prints. Perhaps they reel it in with a lasso instead of a fishing pole?

Here’s another:

I won’t comment on “dishrealated.” I prefer to think of it as a positive, whatever it may be. I’ll just commend this restaurant for its “accurate procedure that leave unchanged the organoleptic qualities,” which, I discovered when I searched the dictionary, relate to the senses. In fact, from now on I’m ordering organoleptically. I also appreciate that the establishment is willing to engage with any “intolerance issue.” We all need help with that these days.

With “respect,” too:

And I thank you, dear reader, “for your delicate attention.” More on Venice when jet-lag abates.

Individual, or Strip?

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Really, it’s not a choice I have ever made or ever plan to make. But apparently some people do need to decide between “Individual, or Strip.” My question, in addition to why there’s a comma before “or,” concerns how an “Eyelash Application” decision is made:

On second thought, I don’t really want to know. I’d rather ponder still another eyelash dilemma:

So, a single eyelash walks into a bar . . . and gets 50% off? Or is the “first Eyelash” 50% off and all the others offered at the regular, or even double-the-regular price? (Sidepoint: Why capitalize “Eyelash”?) The whole thing sounds like a math problem to me: Calculate how much it will cost to have all your eyelashes visit. The answer may depend on whether you want your “first Eyelash visit” to be “Individual, or Strip.”

One last outrage of English, courtesy of my friend Ellie:

Nicotine-puffers can read this notice in columns (“No Safety / Smoking First”) and nonpuffers line by line (“No Smoking / Safety First”). I’m a nonpuffer but also a noncombatant in the “what does it mean?” war. I do wonder whether the letters were applied to the boat “Individual, or Strip.”

Math Problems

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Although I write about language, I’m not a total tourist in Math Land. That’s why these signs caught my eye, and not in a good way — more in tune with Margaret Atwood’s lines: “you fit Into me / like a hook into an eye / a fish hook / an open eye.” Okay, maybe not so extreme, but the signs are still problematic.

This poster offers a great deal:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two-for-one tickets: not a problem. A week running from “Feb 12 to 25”: problem! Well, a problem for the performers if they’re being paid by the week and not per performance. A boon for ticket-buyers, who have 14 days to take advantage of this deal.

If theater’s not for you, try this gym:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kudos to whoever realized that the compound adjective “one-hour” needs a hyphen. No kudos (anti-kudos?) for the person who decided to offer “3 classes & gloves.” Maybe the gym is aiming for the alien market, with three-armed boxers? Or for anxious fighters who take comfort in the idea that a spare glove is available?

This one mixes grammar with math:

 

 

 

 

 

 

The terrible layout made me ponder what “40 0ver Toppings” could be. Once I had decoded the meaning, I still winced at “over.” Traditionally, “more than” is proper for things you count and “over” for things you measure. I thought about writing “more than 40 toppings” on duct tape and attaching it to the sign, but I have more fun mocking mistakes than correcting them. Plus, I don’t want to go to jail.

This last one lacks a number:

I won’t quibble about “thru,” because, well, if I quibbled about spelling mistakes I’d be busy all day, every day. But “close”? This store is open from “4 pm” (where did the periods go?) until “close”? Isn’t everything open until “close,” or rather, until “closing”? To paraphrase all the teenagers I’ve ever met, “duh.” Add the appropriate, tell-me-something-I-don’t-know intonation and an eloquent eye-roll for the full effect.

That’s it for today. I was open to solving math problems, but now I close.

February

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Poet T. S. Eliot called April “the cruelest month,” but he was wrong. It’s definitely February. The holidays are over and spring feels far, far away. Plus, the month is almost impossible to spell correctly. And sometimes it has an extra day! To cheer myself up as February staggers to its end, I snapped these photos of silly signage. I hope they make you smile.

First, a store-closing notice:

“Bitter cold summers, sweltering summers.” Huh. I’ve lived in New York City all my life, and I don’t remember any “bitter cold” July or August days. This store went out of business because, I suspect, the lease the owners signed was checked as carefully as the text of this message.

To defend yourself against “bitter cold summers,” you might try working out:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pilates, fine. But the other part? We’ve all got “privates” — and I don’t mean the military sort —  so I don’t see a need to purchase any.

This one, for reasons known only to my phone’s camera, is rather small, but I’m posting it anyway because . . . well, you’ll see:

 

 

 

In case you can’t read it, the sign says: “self dog wash instructions.” Where do I start? How about here: It’s reasonable to assume that Fido doesn’t know how to lather up and rinse thoroughly without instructions, but if you assume that, you have to assume that Fido can’t read either.

One more:

 

 

 

 

 

 

In case you’re craving a bit of jerky or a nice bone, you know where to go. Enjoy!

The Next Logical Question

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A challenge of writing is to distinguish between what’s in the mind and what’s on the page, or, in the case of this blog post, on the sign. No doubt these sign writers thought they were expressing themselves perfectly, but each left me with at least one unanswered question. For example:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unanswered Question: What do the “gas leaks” say?

I should note that a little punctuation would have gone a long way. A question mark after “leaks” and a period or exclamation point after “us” would do nicely here. On the other hand, clarity may be overrated. I did spend an enjoyable quarter hour thinking up possible dialogue:

COMPANY: Good morning. How may I help you?

GAS LEAK: Hiss …sss … sss.

Longer but not clearer is this one:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unanswered Questions: Why do “pearls” (plural) outnumber “diamond” (singular)? And does the shop really grind up precious gems? Most important: Does anyone working in this shop actually know what these facials are?

Once again I’m struck by the number of nonsense words employed by the “beauty” industry. I read a Sunday NY Times feature on skin and hair care for several weeks before I realized that it was not, in fact, a parody. Moving on:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unanswered Questions: How many passengers need a DNA Kit? Can’t they check their genetic heritage at home? Does the transit authority seriously believe that a robber will stand still long enough for a cheek swab?

The difference between “may be” and “is” seems significant, but I can’t quite figure out why. My best guess is that the MTA wants you to know that they are not necessarily watching but they are always ready to roll when it comes to your genes. Last one:

Unanswered Question: What happened to the candlestick maker?

I did toy with the idea that the “butcher” chops up a “prime” number — not into factors, but maybe into pieces, like severing the top circle of an eight from the bottom. That interpretation leaves out the “baker,” who may bake less than prime quality bread and cake. Perhaps that’s why the candlestick maker quit.