I Flip-Flop Over Flip-Flops

In between errands I perched myself on a bench in Union Square. If you've ever been to San Francisco you know it's the hub of the city, teeming with both tourists and locals. It's a great place to take a shopping break or nurse a latte. For me, it wins any and all awards as the best place to examine variations in the gene pool -- otherwise known as people watching.

At the risk of sounding utterly simplistic, humans do indeed come in all shapes and sizes -- a real salmagundi. A real what? OK, OK, I have to confess I've loved that word forever and, frankly, find it difficult to work into a conversation. So let me show off just this once. Salmagundi is of French derivation meaning a medley or mixture.

Did I learn it in French class? Hardly. In French 101, we were always entering the class, opening the windows and asking what our fellow students called themselves. Salmagundi was the name of a deli I frequented during the 70's mainly because I loved the name.

But I digress. Back to Union Square. Body types? Some could pose for Reuben, some for Picasso. Some would do well on the basketball court, others should look into checkers. Hair colors that match no shade in the natural world. Flat bellies. Round bellies. Really round bellies. If it's an assortment you want, we humans certainly have it.

But can you guess what one clothing item more than half had in common? Flip-flops.

I wore flip-flops as protection from whatever disgusting fungus thrived in our high school locker room. I have a hard time shifting those little rubber soles from the mental category of shower sandal to fashion statement. Perhaps a few more visits to Union Square will help.

Raise Your Hand If You Own One

So let's get right to it. Raise your hand if you or someone you know actually owns a chia pet. I didn't think so.

I'm probably not the first to tell you that the holidays are just around the proverbial corner and that means a deluge of TV ads for the critter. Is it just my memory or have they been using the same commercial for, well, let's just round it off to eons shall we?

It sounds like the perfect gift for the office secret Santa or one of those no-gifts-of-more-than-$10 holiday parties and yet I've never heard of anyone who has either given or received one.

This is not a criticism. Simply wondering who the demographic is. There must be a website, a twitter account and perhaps even a chat room for chia lovers. I'll have to do a bit of research.

But if I don't find anything, I'm sticking with my theory that it's akin to the fruit cake legend -- there is just one in the entire world, it's making the rounds and it's coming soon to a Christmas tree near you.

After the Beep....You Know the Drill

The answering machine and voice mail -- are they the same thing? -- are great communication conveniences. For the caller, you can leave a message and avoid the hassle of repeatedly calling back.

And it puts the callee in control. You decide who gets to vault that personal screening wall you've carefully constructed. No time to deal with a chatterbox? Don't want to explain why you blew off the dental cleaning? Let the machine take the call.

However, I think there needs to be a manual on how to leave a message. Name and number are, of course, essential. But listen up, class. Can you say "succinct"?

Some people feel that beep is a signal for them to ramble endlessly. I have a few friends who've sowed the seeds for a new game show. All they need is Alex Trebek to make it work. Since I'm not answering the phone, they recite a litany of places I could possibly be and reasons why I'm not picking up.

Maybe you're out doing something fun -- or maybe I'm scrubbing the toilet. Maybe you're taking a nap -- or maybe I've run off to Vegas to be a showgirl. Maybe you're working late -- or maybe I'm in Oslo accepting the Nobel Peace Prize.

Wherever I might be and whatever I might be doing, I am not answering the phone so please leave a message -- a succinct one -- after the beep.

Zapping Our Tiny Tootsies

It's getting more difficult to find shoes that fit well. Seems there's a small growth that's pitched camp on the outside of my foot. Perhaps it's the vestige of a sixth toe or some other evolutionary flaw. It doesn't hurt. It's not unsightly. It just means my shoes need a wider toe box. Certainly there are more important things to worry about.

But I can't help wondering where it came from. Analyzing the results of a self-inflicted multiple choice podiatry quiz, I just may have found the culprit: the shoe fitting x-ray machines found in nearly every shoe store in America during the 1950s. If you're of a certain age, you know what I'm talking about. If you're a tad younger, let me explain.

Before mom paid out hard earned cash for shoes we'd quickly outgrow, the salesperson would have us step into a contraption that zapped our tootsies right through the shoes. Next, wriggle your toes to be sure there was room for those young feet. The machine had three viewing points -- one for the customer (me), another for a companion (usually mom) and another for the salesperson.

Personally, I found this fluoroscope x-ray machine fascinating. It was like a really cool science fiction toy. I'd stick my feet in while the salesman was fetching additional shoes or mom was distracted. Hey, I was 5! What did I know about radiation?

As dangerous as it might have been, you have to admit it was a brilliant sales tool. Talk about finding the perfect fit. Interested in a fluoroscope x-ray shoe fitting machine factoid? According to the Internet, the same industrial engineer designed the Oscar Meyer Wiener Mobile.

Remember that next time you play Trivial Pursuit -- or eat a hot dog.