When my husband and I moved to Oregon, many things changed. Our cell phone numbers were not among them. But over time we developed a sneaking suspicion that we were missing calls. Local calls. Why?
Portland has a 503 area code; my cell phone has a 203 area code. Similarly, Portland has 971 while my husband has 917.
But. . . can’t people be trusted to read carefully, to pay attention, to not just dial out of habit or suspect a typo?
The silence is deafening.
Sorry, Portland, if this is not the mild winter you were promised.
Ain’t nothin’ certain. . .
Amidst all the headlines about science and France lately, I read Michael Pollan’s book “In Defense of Food.” In it he mentions an experiment by Paul Rozin, in which “he showed the words “chocolate cake” to a group of Americans and recorded their word associations. “Guilt” was the top response . . . the response of the French eaters to the same prompt: “celebration.”
Perhaps les Américaines have a bit to learn when it comes to joie de vivre.
If this image were part of a real estate listing, it might read “convenient to transportation.”
A few years back when I was house hunting, many of the homes I looked at were small. Or rather, “cozy.” I recall the realtor describing one as a “ranchelo” (i.e. ranch + bungalow).
Now it seems trailer parks have been renamed tiny home pods and efficiencies are micro apartments. In the words of one Nobel Prize winner, “The times they are a changin.”