HOLD THE MAYO — PART 4
— Written with heart, humor and a stubborn refusal to stay silent —
While slurping up the last of my pancake syrup this morning at the Holiday Inn Express in Rochester, Minn., I noticed the fine print on their lovely paper plate: "Compostable except in California."
Repeated in French. Which, as we know, is the second-most popular language in The Golden State — especially in LA.
California, you good?
We lived in CA for a couple of years, in Sacramento, the capitol. I know how whacky that place is.
Yet even with all their weirdness, how is it possible plates don't compost there? I could drive just east to Nevada. Not all that far from our home. Sure enough: Compost. I could go north into Oregon. Nice drive. Nice compost.
The plate that wouldn't die
In California? Nothing. A thousand years from now: Still a plate. Still showing signs of fake maple syrup.
What if I head over to Lake Tahoe after the snows melt? I'm sure there's a street there somewhere that straddles the state line. And I bet there's a crack on that street, right in the middle. I could put a plate right on that crack — half in California, half out. Would only part of it decompose?
Meanwhile, back in Warning‑Land
This isn't unique to my plate (which, I'm confident, will compost perfectly well here). But then, remember, a lot of our products nationwide carry warnings from the State of Big Brother:
The killer couch: WARNING: This product can expose you to chemicals including formaldehyde, which is known to the State of California to cause cancer.
The toxic garden hose: WARNING: This product can expose you to chemicals including lead and phthalates, which are known to the State of California to cause cancer and birth defects or other reproductive harm.
The lethal shower curtain: WARNING: This product can expose you to chemicals including DEHP, which is known to the State of California to cause birth defects or other reproductive harm.
So, let me get this straight. If I sit down on a cheap chair and use a hose in the shower, I'm a goner. If I'm in California. It's like the state is standing behind you in the store, whispering, "Put it down. Put it down. PUT IT DOWN."
I'm glad they're out there, protecting the nation from ourselves. No other state has a clue there are so many things that can screw you up.
Who the hell made them guardians of the universe? They can't even manage their own taxes — or streets in many cities. But they have plenty of time to tell us everything in everything will kill us.
What else doesn't work there?
"The Governor," my wife Tricia said.
She's smart. In any state.
Miss the previous story in my Hold the Mayo series? Here it is: The Elevator Button That Absolutely Shouldn't Exist
If you enjoy these small investigations into everyday oddities, you can follow me for the next one. I write about the mysteries hiding in plain sight — mechanical, linguistic, domestic and whatever else life throws at me.