WASH HANDS...YOURS, MINE, HERS, HIS...GOOD, NOW GO BACK TO WORK

I am not making this up, I saw a sign in a restaurant rest room about one week ago and it said exactly what you see here.  For some strange reason, it got me going.  I got back to the table and where my two sons were seated along with the Voice from the Kitchen.  Since it was in the period before the food was served I decided it was safe to mention my reaction to the sign.  WRONG!  
I mentioned that I had found it a little humorous that the English communications skills of the person leave so much to be desired.  We laughed about some of the messages that we saw in the language.
Employees only?  No. 1 son says, "Of course, if you're not an employee somewhere you can't afford to eat here."
Employee?  What about the people at the table with the slob customer who comes back with grimy, streptococcus hands?
The Voice from the Kitchen asks, "Whose hands are they supposed to wash?"  You might know, the tiny lady sitting deep in the corner of the booth found the most challenging interpretation of the sign.  
Actually, the conversation continued in typical Dion fashion.  Since we are no longer sitting at the table, the crude innuendo and the substitute words for various and sundry bodily functions dictate that I no pursue the topic any further.  Probably not a bad idea.
I have had similar experiences in other parts of the world, but I think that what happened this time is worth remembering.
So, I leave you for now.  My life is getting a little looser lately, so I hope to be back.  I have a ton of stuff I want to tweak you with.  

BAD HANDS

Hello:  You got a truncated message yesterday because my arthritic, numb and dumb fingers hit the wrong key.  Happens to me a lot.  Not to worry, dear ones, it's not your fault.  It's arithmetic catching up to me.  If you want to know how it feels, wait until your hands have worked for you for 27,300 days like these poor appendages have done faithfully for me.
These guys have been through a lot.  I remember the summer when I was digging a ditch for a friend of my father's.  This guy was a combination auto-body fixer upper and a mechanic and a painter all at the same time.  He was alone in his shack of an office that sheltered (somewhat) his enterprise.  It happened to be on the river side of South Main street, in South Hadley Falls, Massachusetts.  Polish guy he was.  There was a small rivulet of a stream down the embankment behind the shack.  That's where all the "Hazardous waste" went.  Of course, I use quotes because you all know that were no "hazardous wastes" 60 years ago.  So, anyway, I got the job, one Summer, of cleaning out the rivulet.  It was a slow moving and sluggish "body of water."  Well, I think it was water, somewhat, I guess.  There were a lot of weeds along the sides [banks?  hardly] and I had to make sure that this rivulet was cleared and looked spiffy so that everyone would think of it as scenery rather than sluice juice gone wild.  So, on the appointed day I went to Ted's auto shop and reported to work.  My first paying job.  I was but 12 years old, so needless to say I didn't get paid much.  Anyone want to venture a guess?  No?  I don't blame you.  $0.25 per hour.  Yep.  I kid you not. It took me three weeks to finish the job according to Ted's tastes.  I was in there pulling weeds, hacking away with the "D" handled shovel.  Barehanded, of course.  The first money I got was a whopping $5.25.  You've never seen anyone so happy over that kind of money.  Had I decided to get my hands examined by the corner doc, he would perhaps have told me to quit.  No way was I taking that chance.  So I persevered.  I can't remember how much I made, total, but it doesn't matter.  That was my first test.  It was also just the beginning of torture for my hands.  Still to come along the way was the molten lead, the filter-bed filter cleaning with razor blades, the unloading of box cars full of filter bed sand, plucking chickens eight hours a day for three days straight, tobacco farm suckering and picking, hockey rink snow shoveling, underwater boat dock assembling.  Six hours a day for three straight days...all of them underwater.  I got to the point that I could stay under for over a minute and a half.  I was like a prune for a week after.  My fingers didn't work for a long time.  I mean, they were curled up all the time.  Just the right size to slip a can of Bud into the curve, though.  I'll never forget that Summer.  Bud and uncooked hot dogs every night for the week that we were setting up the water front for the Summer camp.  I wonder if that helped to get my hands to the point they are now.
Actually, I have to confess that after the age of about 19 or 20 my hands went on vacation.  Until I started to drive professionally, that is.  Airport shuttles.  Luggage, in, luggage, out, 30 miles on city roads and start over again.  I did a lot of professional driving.  I think that's why my fingers are still curled up and won't get straight any more.  The worst of it is that they don't work on the Bud can any more...nor on the floppy, slippery hot dog.  Man, you might as well stick a fork in me, I'm done!
Before I leave, I have to tell you that the job where I had to work with molten lead was the toughest one on my hands.  My hands got so tough from handling the hot molded lead plates that we were making,  I could pick up hot platters and pans that were out of the kitchen oven for only about 5 or 6 minutes.  I'll never forget that.  I had to throw that in here.  The more I think of it the more I am amazed.
Anyway, pity me for my stiff, numb, almost no feeling left, hands.  If that's all I ever have to complain about, I don't want any of you crying at my funeral... Not that you would any way :-)

WHY I WEAR PANTS -- Warning: Children must be accompanied by a parent to read this.

IS HE WEARING TROUSERS?

You have to be intrigued by the question.  I don't know about you but it is one that I have long asked myself.  No kidding.  Even from childhood.  All I knew was that I hated shorts and knickers.  I raised all sorts of dust about having to wear knickers to school. I wanted long pants, period.  So, I got some.  Somewhere in third or fourth grade, I think. I was so happy!  But after a while, it got old and then I would wonder why anyone would have to wear clothes at all. Well, I was told that it is in the bible.  We wear clothes because like Adam and Eve we are ashamed to be naked after she ate the apple.   You know what?  I bought that.  for a while.  Not because I was sure that I would be brazen without clothes, but because there were other questions that came up just about every week or so.  For instance, what would the people in New Hampshire do in the Winter without clothes?  I also had some basic hygiene questions, like, why should I wipe my hands on my sleeves, when my pants were much closer.  It's daylight clear to me,  sleeves are for wiping your mouth, your eyes, your nose and stuff like that.  So pants have to be for wiping your hands.  This is especially true when you are sitting down.  In fact the cool part about it is that when you're at table, you can slip your hands down between your thighs an wipe them in places that are not going to get much attention anyway.  Right?  The convenience of doing it at table is that you always have a chance of getting away with it. You just know that I'm right.
Which brings me to the question of whether or not women should wear trousers.  Absolutely not!   Think about it.  Women have absolutely no need for pants.  They abhor wiping their hands on clothes.  You know that.  Aren't they the ones who always remember to take napkins at the fast food outlet.  You guys know it because the women in your life were always shouting at you to "stop that!"  You women know that because you're always disgusted when you see a guy sneak his hands down to his pants to wipe the fingers that held his crispy fried chicken, or his potato chips or sugary pastry .  Shheeeesshh, ladies, what's your problem?  Pants don't ever get dirty anyway.  Getting dirty is for shirts, hankies, ties, sweaters, socks and underwear, but pants?  Of course not.  So, ladies, get back to dresses and skirts and make more wiping material available to the men of the world.  


You know what?  The other day a friend told me that she loves "365 Thoughts..." because it is so smooth and so scholarly.  No kidding, she said that.  Now, you don't think that I'm going to let her get away with that, do you?  She's the reason why I had to place the warning at the top.  She has three boys.  Four, including Hubby.  Not that Hubby would ever wipe his hands on his pants.  Not him.  Except when he's alone in his truck and he forgot his paper towels at home.  After this she's going to force me to buy him "truckware" paper towels.  Sorry, Ed.
To satisfy my dear friend, the truck driver's Voice from the Kitchen, tomorrow I will be more intellectually rewarding.  Really.  I want her to forget I said all these silly things.