Shift.
There is nothing inherently funny about the word itself, but the misspelling of it is often hilarious.
Yesterday Jen came home and told me about a computer training that she had to do at work. It was after a long day on the floor (she's a nurse) and she was a little...punchy. Slap happy. Silly. And at one point the program asked her to type the word, "shift." She typed "shift," but the "F" did not register. She giggled and typed it again. Nothing. She nudged the nurse next to her. She giggled too. Jen typed again, again NO "f." She invited everyone within the sound of her voice to try to type it and it kept coming up wrong. They finally decided that the person who wrote the program was either really bored or 13 years old. Both are equally likely.
This reminded me of a story that ran in my hometown paper YEARS ago. When I was in 6th grade the elementary school decided to build a new playground. It was designed by a guy named Bob Leathers. Bob's shtick is that he comes to town and has a "meeting" with all the kids where he asks them what they want in their playground. These being kids of course they shout out things like, "a castle," or "a rocketship" or "a solar-powered hamster launcher." You know, crazy stuff. And Bob just smiles and nods while jotting down all of it and making ridiculous promises that could not conceivably be kept even if the resources and technology were available. (So we settled for coal-burning hamster launchers. Sorry Al Gore, looks like global warming is totally the fault of Grundy Center, Iowa!)
But here's the beauty of Bob's gig: he doesn't build it. The community does. He's just the pied piper of playgrounds. Bob comes to town on a cloud of promises, draws some crap and splits with sacks and sacks of cash. Then the town has to pull together to attempt to keep from disappointing the kids who were promised a dinosaur fighting a shark in a tank of Legos.
So the playground committee places an ad in the paper to drum up volunteers. It stated that you could contact the committee to sign up for a shift. THAT one was spelled right. This one wasn't: "We know once you've done one four hour shift you'll want to sign up for another."
It's amazing the playground got built at all.
Labels: Bob Leathers, Grammar, Jen, Playgrounds, Spelling
Jen and I didn't leave the house yesterday and we got so punchy that we decided that, not only was it a good idea to spend a lot of time with her scarf but that we would take pictures with it as well. All you need to know for this to make "sense" (in the loosest general sense of the term) is that this scarf is also a tube. Enjoy.
Tuesday was our second wedding anniversary and I couldn't be more proud. Because now we have lasted longer than BOTH of Britany Spears' marriages COMBINED!
I did a little research on the traditional gift for the 2nd anniversary and it turns out to be cotton. So I bought Jen a plantation.
Labels: Anniversary, Britney Spears, Jen, Marriage
My wife did not take my name when we got married. She chose the more commonplace Hughes over the more infuriatingly Germanic Gummert. We both agreed that it had done enough emotional and psychological damage in MY life that there was no use knowingly inflicting it on someone who has a choice in the matter.
This has been only an occasional source of frustration for the two of us. Most commonly it is when my grandmother addresses mail to Chris and Jen Gummert or Mr. and Mrs. Gummert or Whats-His-Face and The Other One. But more often than not it is a endlessly amusing to us that people refer to us by the wrong name, especially when they refer to me as Mr. Hughes.
Once Jen fainted at a movie (Jen swears she doesn't think Jennifer Aniston's acting is THAT bad, but apparently her body disagrees!) and we went to the emergency room. She was fine, but the doctor wrote me a note to stay home from work and watch her the next day just to make sure that she didn't pass out again. He wrote the note for "Chris Hughes."
Today I got a phone call from a telemarketer. This is a fairly common occurrence since we've moved and haven't had the time to circulate our new number among our friends. Frankly, I don't know why I even answer if the phone number doesn't show up on caller ID.
"Hello?"
No response. Dead air.
"Hello?"
"Hello?" comes the answer, almost like she didn't expect anyone to answer at all.
"Hi."
"May I speak to Mr. Huge?"
I was certain I didn't hear that right so I asked her to repeat her question.
"May I speak to Mr. Huge?" she asked with the utmost confidence in her pronunciation.
Mr Huge? Really? How did she know my nickname? Clearly those internet ads were working!
"This is Mr. Huge and let me assure that it's not just a clever name. So before you ask any further questions, let me assure you that all the rumors are true...although I suspect that donkey had a weak heart to begin with! I'm not surprised you called. Mr. Huge is a legend. A man among men and a God among ladies. Mr. Huge is a state of mind, a way of life, a journey to the edge of insanity and back again on a pink, pulsating, pleasure raft. Those who see it never recover from the shock. People run away screaming at the mere mention of it. Others choose to just set up camp in the ample shade it provides. In fact a small Guatemalan family has taken up residence near the tip in a smart-looking bungalow. It's THAT big! Suffice it to say I don't buy pants off the rack anymore.'"
Then out loud I said, "There's no one here by that name."
