WritingBetweenTheLines

First, allow me to apologize to all of my fans out there (both of you - hi, mom) for the huge gap in between blogs. You see, my brain has turned to mush, and I forgot how to type, formulate sentences, create original ideas, and everything else not associated with poop or drool. Frankly I’m still operating with less than half a deck and on hardly any sleep, and I have the attention span of a thirteen-year-old. All this does not bode well for a blog that makes sense, much less is entertaining. So you should probably just stop reading now.

Still here? Aw, thanks Mom. Okay, today’s topic is: useless signs. The idea came to me when I was in the restroom today at work, washing my hands. Because this is something one does after one has gone potty. This is what I was brought up to believe, and I certainly intend to bring my daughter up in the same manner. In fact, I am SO adamant about this particular habit that not only do I wash my hands after *I* go to the bathroom, but also after my daughter does. Because so far I’m the one who handles THAT matter as well. She keeps her hands clean; or, when they are not clean, she thoroughly cleanses them by emitting a bucket of drool which ends up being far more thorough than my own method involving soap based on sheer quantity of the water flow. Anyway, in the restroom at work is a sign that says “Wash hands before leaving this room.”

What a completely useless directive. Those of us who were not raised in a cave (and maybe even those of us who were) know to wash our hands without needing a reminder. Those of us who - and there is one in every office, if not several, and you know who you are and should be ashamed of yourself - do not make this an automatic practice are certainly not going to be reformed by a cryptic sign. I’m not sure what, exactly, it would take to convince someone who has just handled their own excrement that it’s a good idea to clean their hands afterwards if this thought does not occur to them on their own.

This led me to continue to contemplate useless signs, as to do so is less strenuous on my mushy brain than to try to engage in work. Work, after maternity leave, is something one has to ease into, like a frigid swimming pool at the very beginning of summer. I read the New York Times and deleted all the email in my inbox, and I think that, after having done NOTHING for the past 20 weeks except make silly faces, I have the right to call it a day and fuck off until five pm.

“Avoid alcohol during pregnancy.” This is one of my favorites. First of all, the choice of the word “avoid.” As if one might be ambling down the sidewalk and, due to a pregnant woman’s natural lack of balance, accidentally fall right into a pitcher of beer. If only she had been more careful to avoid it! Secondly, in order to read this sign and have it apply, one must already be a pregnant woman in a bar. Chances are solid decision making isn’t what led you to this circumstance in the first place and, again, a sign certainly isn’t going to convince you otherwise.

I don’t know if my absolute favorite sign of all time is still on the side of the highway leading to the Phoenix airport, but every time we read, “Caution, low flying aircraft,” everybody in my family would yell gleefully, “DUCK!” How, exactly, is this sign supposed to be of assistance? If an aircraft is flying low enough for you to be concerned about it, that’s pretty much it for you.

Of course, “Baby on Board” has been done to death, the typical sarcastic comment being “Well, I WAS going to hit your car, but since there’s a BABY on board I’ll let you go on your way.”

I’m sure there are lots more, but frankly I’ve lost interest.