It is amazing how many people get lost when they are driving. My office building is at the end of a dead end street. Everyday I see people driving down the street, come to the dead end, then turn around and drive back the way they came. This is America in 2018. Virtually everyone has a GPS. Virtually everyone has a smartphone with a GPS. For those who are technologically disinclined, there are dead end signs when you first turn onto the street. Yet everyday people keep driving down the road and turning around immediately.
The neighborhood I used to live in before the first apartment had three parallel avenues. Two were short and residential. One led from one major street out to the wildlife sanctuary where I worked for awhile, and beyond that, to a picnic area and some acreages (all within city limits, although you couldn't convince a lot of taxi drivers, pizza guys, or one of my geographically-challenged colleagues during one of the municipal votes we had). In the case of the vote situation, it was a plebiscite on Sunday shopping (whether the old law should be repealed to allow Sunday shopping), and it was my job to make sure people were at the correct polling station (one of the radio stations stupidly told people "you can vote anywhere" when the fact was, they had to vote at the same place they would if it were a municipal election).
So one of the DROs took it into her head to be DRO/Poll Clerk/Constable all in one (Constable was my official job title), and she would beckon people over so they'd walk right past me. That would sometimes lead to arguments when it was discovered they were at the wrong polling station. So finally I told her to just let me do my job and she could do hers - which didn't include annoying people by letting them get to her table, taking their names, and then discovering from their addresses that they couldn't even vote there.
Well, that worked for awhile. But then it got late in the day and it was 5 minutes to 8 pm, when the polls closed. A group of three people walked in, went up to her... and she wouldn't let them vote. They got very upset, said they'd been to three different polling stations already, and been told each was the wrong one. So I went over and asked them what their address was, they told me, and I said to the DRO, "They can vote here."
She argued, and I took out a map. They lived on an acreage just mere feet inside the city limits - the range road beside their garden was where the boundary was. I showed the map to the DRO and said, "They're within city limits, and part of this polling district. Give them their ballots so they can vote."
I'd never seen three more grateful people in my life. They'd been from polling district to polling district for the last couple of hours, trying to figure out where to vote. As they were getting their ballots, one of them said, "
Thank you," and another one said, "We can't even get a
pizza delivered out there!"
It was after 8 pm by that time, but the rules say that any voter physically inside the polling station at closing time would still be allowed to vote. So they voted, went home happy, and I wondered how some people couldn't tell east from west. West of the range road was within city limits; east was county land and if they'd been on the other side of the road, they wouldn't have been able to vote.
This was in the mid-80s, btw, before people had GPS to use as a crutch for not knowing how to read maps, or even which way was north, south, east, west, or up.
I don't have GPS. I might not go very many places anymore, but at least I know how to figure out the cardinal compass points by the Sun, and how to read normal maps.
I once melted ice cream in the microwave. I was trying to heat up the chocolate sauce. That wasn't very smart.
It doesn't take much for chocolate to burn. That's one of the things I found out when experimenting with making chocolates and using the microwave to melt it. White chocolate is especially difficult to get just right, so I used yogurt-based chocolate instead (and it tasted better; my grandmother loved yogurt-dipped cherries).
Fried ice cream just sounds messy.