Wherein I hate on oft-used English phrases

I am so over the term, "Like a fish out of water."

I don't know if all of you have had the extensive icthyologous experience that I have, so I'm just gonna tell you: A fish out of water is dead. It's not "like" anything, except maybe something that flops sadly on its side for a few minutes before expiring.

Really, the only way I can see it working as a simile is:  "He was shot in the stomach, and, for a brief moment, as his life flashed before his eyes, he was like a fish out of water. Then, when he died, he was like a fish who had been out of water for too long. Only his eyes weren't so buggy." Morbid, but possibly effective.

Don't you feel clean - oui or non?

I'm writing a lot about shower products lately. Bear with me - I spend a lot of time either in the shower or thinking I should be in the shower because I smell kinda funky (thanks, Tom's of Maine deodorant stick of worthlessness!).

Getting so much face time with bath products has made me curious: why is everything written on the bottle in perfectly clear English repeated in French on the exact same bottle?
This bizarro, French copy-catification happens on soap, shampoos, rasors, lady products - pretty much everything having to do with personal hygiene. These things are not, to my knowledge, being sold to French people. Nor are they created in France, so I am confused about this extraneous and careless use of the French language. If I've learned anything from Pepe LePeu cartoons and/or the type of people who brought us "freedom fries," it's that the French are not anywhere close to experts on the subject of personal hygiene. Love, oui. Wine, bien sur. Soap - maybe once a week if vee can stop zee smooching for long enough! Honhonhon!

Obviously, given the above, extremely factual example, the idea that the French would have any say in America's cleanliness is ridiculous.

This is either some sort of nefarious plot by the French that is too complicated for me to even explain, a kind but misguided effort to encourage more American-like bathroom behaviors among our French brethren, or, even worse, a ridiculous attempt by American marketing people to fancify an American product for American consumers...by talking about it in a language none of these people knows.

My money is on choice #3. Only the type of people who appreciate "Burst"-scented things would think a French is a sexysexy surefire way to sell people on soap. It's not enough for these people that my shaving cream smells like a cabana blender or that my soap is "purifying" me instead of just cleaning me - my shower now has to be French as well. It's elegant, like when a restaurant puts "gateau" on its menu instead of "cake" or when people order "french fries" instead of "freedom taters."

The one person you do not want as your opponent in a deadly manhunt

I've thought about this a lot over the years. Some celebrities you really believe you could take on, were you forced to play The Deadliest Game: Larry King, Bob Dylan, most comedians, the Pope, etc. I think I even stand a fighting chance against a few professional athletes, like gymnasts (they're tiny!) and golfers. 

Venus Williams, though, is not a person with whom I would willingly engage in hand-to-hand combat to the death. And neither would you, for the following reasons:

1) She is enormous. The woman is 6'1". If I stood on my dad's shoulders, we might make it to that altitude, but then Venus might be entitled to have Serena on her shoulders to make it fair, and we would still certainly die.

2) She is stunningly fast. Her legs are approximately 6 feet long (see "enormous," above). Her hunting me down would be like a greyhound chasing a corgi. 

3) She has stamina. I might try to run from her, and she might even give me a head start, but I would get tired within a mile. Venus Williams could hunt you day and night without rest. She would run alongside your getaway train, if you managed to snag one, until it stopped the next town over, and then she would get you.

4) She makes terrifying noises. It's one thing to be running through the woods with a giant, muscle-bound, physically superior opponent on your tail. It's another when said opponent is making noises you've only ever heard on Jurassic Fight Club before. As Gerard put it, being on the other side of the net (or ahead of her in the final run of your life), must feel like being a fish and hearing the shriek of an Osprey overhead. It is the sound of something better than you come to put you out of your misery.

Cleaning Day

Today is cleaning day. It's always interesting to see just how much filth you've been living in.

We have soap scum; that's a given, and I was prepared for it. I was not prepared for soap scum IN COLORS. I watch TV. I've seen the horror movie-lite commercials starring soap scum as a ravenous world-destroyer and bane of moms everywhere, and I've seen said soap scum depicted in a variety of ways: claymation, animation, very scientific microscope close-ups, but I've never seen it depicted in orange. Most of ours is very orange, though we do have some lovely blacks, greens and clear-ishes as well.

Never fear, dear readers -- I've eradicated the orange plague for now. Everything on our floor is another story, however.

Through some fault of mop, mop liquid or mop-handler, all the dirt, hair and flotsam that was once on our floor is...still on our floor, now stuck there under a shiny, tacky layer of cleaner. It's like the world's worst decoupage project, preserving all the elements of our life that we'd much rather forget.