We Chicks live to solve mysteries, but there are some mysteries in this world that are unsolvable because they simply don’t make sense to us. Oh, for example, like…
There are indeed many great mysteries of the universe, and I’ve made my peace with the idea that many of them I will simply never understand. But there is one that has driven me crazy my entire life, and no one seems to know the answer. As a kid, I was told never, ever, EVER to refer to my mom (or my teacher, or principal) as “she.” Of course, I did so, on many, many occasions. Usually I got away with it, but sometimes I was marched directly to my room. There was only one other “she” in our home, and I couldn’t help questioning the sense of this. Every. Single. Time. Then my dad would get even madder, and tell me I was being disrespectful. “No, I’m not,” I’d say. “Mom is a she.” And then, about 2 seconds before I received my marching orders, my dad (not “he,” you’ll notice) would say, “Who is ‘she,’ the cat’s mother?” Double, triple, quadruple confusion. Who was the cat’s mother? And was she a she? Please advise!
I live in Los Angeles, where many people seem to feel that the best way to prove you’ve made it is to buy a loud, expensive sports car. Porsches seem to be as common as my l’il Honda Civic. I’ve seen a fair share of Lamborghinis and Maseratis (sp?), and even a few vintage Corvettes. Yup, Lalaland may have the highest percentage of high performance vehicles in the country. But we also have the worst traffic in the country. So why on earth would you spend a gazillion dollars on a car designed to go from zero to one hundred in about a second when on the best day, you’ll be lucky if you can hit sixty-five? It just doesn’t make sense to me.
I’m exaggerating, of course. I have had some pricey midlife crises zoom by me at eighty-five or ninety miles an hour. Then, shortly afterwards, I pass them sitting on the side of the road as one of our famous CHPS officer writes a hopefully very expensive, well-deserved ticket.
Things that don’t make sense to me could be a long post. How can it be hot as hell one day and cold as hell the next? Why isn’t phonetic spelled the way it sounds? I’m here all week. But today, I’ll keep it to just a couple of things.
Why do people say, “Can I ask you a question?” They just did, didn’t they? What they often mean is, “I’m about to ask you a nosey or inappropriate question.”
And why is the grading scale A,B,C,D,F? What the L happened to E? Why didn’t it make the grade? Maybe I should ask Cynthia about this one, since she’s a professor.
Right now, I have a huge question about a little show called Game of Thrones. You may have heard of it. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you the thing that doesn’t make sense because if you haven’t watched it yet, you will be SUPER mad if I ask my question. So I won’t. But trust me: it doesn’t make sense.
Actually, it’s more than one question, to be honest. I have often been like Wait, WHAT? and How Is That Possible and Who Decided That Was A Thing and Now I Have So Many Questions. (Yes, maybe I just missed the explanations. But most of the time, when I ask other people who’ve watched, they don’t know either.) Great show, though!
I’m gonna talk clothes here. What the heck is up with folks who wear their baseball cap backwards and then squint when it’s sunny and use their hands as a visor? Uh, dude, you do realize you have a visor built in, right? Or those guys who wear their pants three sizes too large so they hang down around their thighs, making it almost impossible to walk and displaying their skivies to all the world? Huh? I so don’t get that.
And speaking of pants, this has to be the biggest mystery for me (as well as a major pet peeve): Why, oh why, do they not design women’s slacks with pockets? <shakes head in confusion and irritation>
There’s a lot I don’t understand. Whether I’m supposed to tuck the legs of my jeans into my boots. Why I was forced to learn how to calculate the area of a hexagon. (Pretty sure I’ve never had to do it.) How many people must have eaten those little package of desiccants to necessitate a warning label.
But what I really don’t get—and maybe it’s just my mood—is meetings for the sake of meetings.
I’m all for gathering to kick off a project, make decisions, build community, or brainstorm. I’m just not wild about meetings that seem to serve no purpose. Some are disguised as “touch-base” meetings, which is really just code for “I could have probably sent you an email about this.” Others are meetings to set up other meetings. (Ummmm…) The worst are meetings about how meetings have impacted our ability to get actual work done. There aren’t enough eye-rolls in the world for that one.
So I’d like to propose a moratorium on meetings unless they serve an actual, bona fide, fer-realsies purpose. I promise not to schedule a meeting to discuss.
There are a lot —a LOT— of things in this world that don’t make sense to me. Like most things scientific (gravity? electricity? how cow farts are ruining our atmosphere?), but I let people above my pay grade worry about those. Instead, I like to stay in my lane, complain about things that don’t make sense to me within my realm. Today I’ll only pick two. (You’re welcome.)
The first is when people use the word “arguably,” as in Agatha Christie was arguably the best mystery writer of all time. Sorry, Agatha, but that’s ridiculous. If you’re writing an article about Ms Christie, then take a stand! Either she was or she wasn’t. And no matter which you say, you will get arguments because there’s not one darned thing that can’t be argued. Henceforth and forever, if you see the word “arguably” in a sentence, remove it. You can do so mentally, if you’re a normal well-adjusted person, or I can lend you my Xacto knife and my outrage. Then the sentence will be correct.
The second is when people use the words “junior” and “senior,” as in He was twenty years her junior, or He was twenty years her senior. It’s such an archaic, confusing phrase but I still see it all the time. And it’s dumb. And it makes my head explode. He was either twenty years older, or twenty years younger. SO JUST SAY THAT! Pfft.
Okay, I’m done. For now.
Readers, what doesn’t make sense to you?
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