I am back from the dentist this morning, who had waved his arms expansively around his office & said, "All this!", while smiling proudly, "All this - 6 weeks from now, when you come back, all this will be totally different & new!"
As I settled back into the chair for my 10th crown, it was not hard to imagine that I had played some small part in his upcoming office renovation. It was only fitting that he expected that I would be just as enthusiastic as he, since I spend so much time there. Not only that, but notice his confident "when you come back" comment. Guess he must have his eye on some other big ticket item. Sure enough, I am scheduled for work on crown number 11 at the end of next month (sigh).
But how do you know what the dentist is really doing in your mouth? It's not like you can go back & check his work. Say you break your arm - you go to the doctor & he says, "You need a cast." & you think, ok, I can see that. But when the dentist says, with his hand in your mouth, "Looks like a cavity is growing here - you need a filling/crown/root canal!" All you can say is, "Wskjd msmmm, topqfse?"
Then the dentist sits back & thinks to himself - gee, what do I need around here? Some new dental equipment? A pay raise for my assistant? An office renovation? Yes, a renovation it is! & he says, shaking his head sadly, "I was right, looks like we'll be needing a porcelain crown here!" I certainly can't say that he is dishonest. After all, he did say "we".
My last dentist in the States was worse. Never pick a dentist who has just moved into a new office & probably has saddled herself with some hefty new expenses. On my first visit, after all the cleaning & flossing, scraping & x-rays, not to mention that panoramic x-ray (where they get some marvellous shots of your teeth, your jawbone, your sinuses, the roots of your hair, the plaster ceiling & the cleanliness of the carpeting on the second floor), my dentist rushes into the room & sits down in her rolling chair for our heart-to-heart. I am prepared for bad news. (As an aside, YES, I DO brush - twice a day!!!)
"We need to think about your Dental Plan!" she flashes her professionally whitened teeth at me.
Hmmm - Dental Plan. I am thinking that so far my dental plan has been to keep teeth from breaking at speeds greater than once a year.
"My dental plan.", I repeat nonchalantly, decapitalizing the phrase while trying not to grip the chair arms quite so tightly.
"Right!" she beams at my witty response. "Your Wish List for your mouth! Things we need to plan on doing in the future to get your mouth up to speed!" She pats my arm.
I am thinking that she does not mean the way I plan on one tooth per year usually needing a crown. & what the heck does she mean by "up to speed"?
"Have you ever thought of whitening? You know, as we get older, our teeth are not as white as they used to be!" I squint into the light reflecting off her incredibly white teeth.
"Well, I - "
"& what about that space between your front teeth? Ever thought of having that filled in?"
"My SPACE? What's wrong with my space? I kind of LIKE my space!" My hand flies up on its own accord to protect the endangered space & my unacceptably drab teeth.
"No, no," she insists, "It's nothing you have to think about right now! It is just something to consider adding to your dental plan. Along with these six teeth - for starters."
"SIX teeth?!" I grab the hand mirror. "But three of them have crowns already! & these two have fillings! & this one - what's wrong with this one? It's probably the only GOOD tooth in my entire mouth!" I struggle to remain calm, while mentally reassuring my mouth, my bank account & my insurance company that no matter what SHE says, I am on THEIR side. "Besides," I exclaim, "None of them even hurt!"
"Oh, now really, Helen. You know you don't have to wait until something hurts to come & see me!" The unspoken next sentence is obviously - I can MAKE your teeth hurt right here in this office! But no, instead she says, "Well, as for these three crowns, after the whitening procedure they will not match the color of the other teeth."
"But I didn't - "
"& these two with fillings? Look at how the metallic color is bleeding thru. We can't have that!"
"We can't?" I gulp.
"No, of course not. & this last tooth here? What's wrong with it, you ask? Well, hmmm, looks like nothing just yet, but that's what we call Preventive Dentistry!"
Luckily we moved away fairly soon after that. Now that's what I call Prevented Dentistry!
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
Lessons from my Laptop
This morning my laptop told me it could not find it's hard drive.
???
What am I supposed to say? "Well, where do you remember it being the last time you saw it?" or "Haven't I told you that if you would just put it back in the SAME place every time you use it, you wouldn't have this problem?"
Besides the whole annoyance factor here, it was kind of, well, arrogant, the way it just gave me the facts - you know, cold & unfeeling, no apology, no explanation, no nothing: just "I can't find the hard drive." - like some sort of gleefully whiny child, "Na, na, na - What are you going to do about it?"
The short answer to that is "Juan the computer repairman."
But, on the bright side, there is a lesson to be learned. In the future, when I lose my keys (again) & my husband & children are forced to help me find them, complaining & muttering uncomplimentary things while tossing couch cushions, I know how I will behave. I will just state the facts, "I can't find my keys."; cold & unfeeling, no apology, no explanation, no nothing.
& if my husband & children continue to complain, I will not get upset. I will take a cue from my laptop. I will repeat the facts again dispassionately. Then I will offer them the same choices my laptop offered me...
F1 to retry
F2 to reboot
or
F5 to run diagnostics.
I am sure those choices will offer my family the same sort of satisfaction that I felt, when my laptop offered them to me.
???
What am I supposed to say? "Well, where do you remember it being the last time you saw it?" or "Haven't I told you that if you would just put it back in the SAME place every time you use it, you wouldn't have this problem?"
Besides the whole annoyance factor here, it was kind of, well, arrogant, the way it just gave me the facts - you know, cold & unfeeling, no apology, no explanation, no nothing: just "I can't find the hard drive." - like some sort of gleefully whiny child, "Na, na, na - What are you going to do about it?"
The short answer to that is "Juan the computer repairman."
But, on the bright side, there is a lesson to be learned. In the future, when I lose my keys (again) & my husband & children are forced to help me find them, complaining & muttering uncomplimentary things while tossing couch cushions, I know how I will behave. I will just state the facts, "I can't find my keys."; cold & unfeeling, no apology, no explanation, no nothing.
& if my husband & children continue to complain, I will not get upset. I will take a cue from my laptop. I will repeat the facts again dispassionately. Then I will offer them the same choices my laptop offered me...
F1 to retry
F2 to reboot
or
F5 to run diagnostics.
I am sure those choices will offer my family the same sort of satisfaction that I felt, when my laptop offered them to me.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Outside the Box
The other day I learned a clever way to cut in line at the grocery store.
Calm down, calm down - I am not in the habit of cutting in line anywhere - I am American ;)! But in this country cutting in line seems to be, maybe not acceptable, but more, I don't know - tolerated? expected? - except by foreigners like me.
Anyhow, it works like this:
Think of the check-out line at the grocery store. First is the customer who is being helped. Her things are on the conveyor belt being funnelled to the cashier for scanning. The customer belonging to these groceries is waiting to pay, with her wallet at the ready (Obviously a work of fiction, this, but we can dream.). At the end of her line of purchases is one of those handy plastic dividers. After that comes my stuff on the belt - sorted by temperature & shape. (This is not fiction, I always sort my groceries - I am a woman!).
Now, here is the clever part - a different customer with a couple of items in his hands has walked around the bank of cash registers & is standing next to the bag boy who is bagging up the woman's groceries in front of me. As soon as she pays & moves out of the line, I start to push my empty cart thru so I can get to the paying place. But suddenly, SWOOP!, the customer hanging out with the bag boy darts into the paying spot from the wrong side of the line & thrusts his items into the cashier's hands. Well, what else can she do but ring him up!
Annoying - yes. But, hey, credit where credit is due - I had to admire the thought process!
Calm down, calm down - I am not in the habit of cutting in line anywhere - I am American ;)! But in this country cutting in line seems to be, maybe not acceptable, but more, I don't know - tolerated? expected? - except by foreigners like me.
Anyhow, it works like this:
Think of the check-out line at the grocery store. First is the customer who is being helped. Her things are on the conveyor belt being funnelled to the cashier for scanning. The customer belonging to these groceries is waiting to pay, with her wallet at the ready (Obviously a work of fiction, this, but we can dream.). At the end of her line of purchases is one of those handy plastic dividers. After that comes my stuff on the belt - sorted by temperature & shape. (This is not fiction, I always sort my groceries - I am a woman!).
Now, here is the clever part - a different customer with a couple of items in his hands has walked around the bank of cash registers & is standing next to the bag boy who is bagging up the woman's groceries in front of me. As soon as she pays & moves out of the line, I start to push my empty cart thru so I can get to the paying place. But suddenly, SWOOP!, the customer hanging out with the bag boy darts into the paying spot from the wrong side of the line & thrusts his items into the cashier's hands. Well, what else can she do but ring him up!
Annoying - yes. But, hey, credit where credit is due - I had to admire the thought process!
Friday, February 24, 2012
Sometimes everybody's wrong...
When you are married, sometimes you need to step out of your own view of the world & embrace your spouses view. Even if he IS wrong.
The trash can - again with the trash can! I walk into the kitchen to hear my husband tell my son, "Don't put that orange juice carton in the garbage. You will fill it up."
Words of wisdom - translation: Don't put that trash in the trash can. You will fill it up.
Hmmm. Correct me if I am wrong, but isn't that what the trash can is FOR? There really aren't a lot of other things you can do with a trash can - laundry hamper maybe? But, then that same thought process might apply: Don't put those dirty clothes in the hamper. You will fill it up.
"Where," I wonder aloud, "should he put the orange juice carton - seeing as how it's empty & all?"
Get this - "On the counter." he says.
"So you think we should put all the trash on the counter?"
"No, not all the trash! Just the big trash." He shakes his head as if this should be obvious to any imbecile.
Words of wisdom - translation: It is okay to fill up the trash can with little trash, just not big trash.
"Look," I prepare to explain to my husband of 16 years my inner-most feelings about the trash can, which somehow I have kept hidden from him all these years. "The trash can is here in the kitchen for the sole purpose of receiving garbage. That is it's raison d'être (hey, the guy's french after all, never hurts to try to sway him by way of a little smooth talking!). The whole REASON that I have a trash can in the kitchen is so that I DON'T have trash lying all over the counter!"
A stubborn shake of the head tells me I have not won him over. "If you put the big trash in the trash can, it will fill up faster so that we will have to take it out more often."
"So, we will pile big trash on the counter until, what, there is no counter space left? The cockroaches move in? They put us on that Hoarders show?"
"No - when you get a couple big pieces on the counter you take them out to the dumpster separately."
Note the pronoun here. YOU. Meaning ME. Notice that people are quite free with ridiculous chores that are being delegated to OTHER people.
"Why on earth would I want to do that? You are suggesting that instead of filling up this nice big trash can with all sorts of trash & taking it out maybe every two days, I instead run outside several times a day with BIG trash, so that the bag full of little trash can sit fermenting in the house a few days longer? Not likely!" I laugh, shaking my head as if this should be obvious to any imbecile.
He goes off to work; having stated his wishes, he assumes they will be followed. What really happens is that I hide the big trash UNDER the little trash. I have never been particularly obedient.
My children are not stupid, either - contrary to what I may have indicated in other blog entries. Which must be why there are 3 orange juice containers in the fridge, each with an inch of orange juice in the bottom...
The trash can - again with the trash can! I walk into the kitchen to hear my husband tell my son, "Don't put that orange juice carton in the garbage. You will fill it up."
Words of wisdom - translation: Don't put that trash in the trash can. You will fill it up.
Hmmm. Correct me if I am wrong, but isn't that what the trash can is FOR? There really aren't a lot of other things you can do with a trash can - laundry hamper maybe? But, then that same thought process might apply: Don't put those dirty clothes in the hamper. You will fill it up.
"Where," I wonder aloud, "should he put the orange juice carton - seeing as how it's empty & all?"
Get this - "On the counter." he says.
"So you think we should put all the trash on the counter?"
"No, not all the trash! Just the big trash." He shakes his head as if this should be obvious to any imbecile.
Words of wisdom - translation: It is okay to fill up the trash can with little trash, just not big trash.
"Look," I prepare to explain to my husband of 16 years my inner-most feelings about the trash can, which somehow I have kept hidden from him all these years. "The trash can is here in the kitchen for the sole purpose of receiving garbage. That is it's raison d'être (hey, the guy's french after all, never hurts to try to sway him by way of a little smooth talking!). The whole REASON that I have a trash can in the kitchen is so that I DON'T have trash lying all over the counter!"
A stubborn shake of the head tells me I have not won him over. "If you put the big trash in the trash can, it will fill up faster so that we will have to take it out more often."
"So, we will pile big trash on the counter until, what, there is no counter space left? The cockroaches move in? They put us on that Hoarders show?"
"No - when you get a couple big pieces on the counter you take them out to the dumpster separately."
Note the pronoun here. YOU. Meaning ME. Notice that people are quite free with ridiculous chores that are being delegated to OTHER people.
"Why on earth would I want to do that? You are suggesting that instead of filling up this nice big trash can with all sorts of trash & taking it out maybe every two days, I instead run outside several times a day with BIG trash, so that the bag full of little trash can sit fermenting in the house a few days longer? Not likely!" I laugh, shaking my head as if this should be obvious to any imbecile.
He goes off to work; having stated his wishes, he assumes they will be followed. What really happens is that I hide the big trash UNDER the little trash. I have never been particularly obedient.
My children are not stupid, either - contrary to what I may have indicated in other blog entries. Which must be why there are 3 orange juice containers in the fridge, each with an inch of orange juice in the bottom...
Thursday, February 23, 2012
...heal thyself
Prescription drug advertisements on television -
What exactly is the purpose of these ads anyway? I mean, why are they geared toward the general television viewer? Last time I checked I didn't have any authority to write drug prescriptions. & what about the part where the ad says "Ask your doctor if XYZDrug is right for you."? Tell you what, if my doctor is sitting around twiddling his thumbs waiting for ME to suggest what drugs he ought to prescribe for me, then it's time to be shopping for a new doctor! Isn't that HIS job? Do the ad companies assume my doctor is at home watching daytime television? No wonder I can never get an appointment! & what am I supposed to think of my doctor's credentials if he then says, "XYZDrug? That sounds like an excellent choice! I never would have thought of that one. Thank you for mentioning it."
These ads: When you happen to see one, doesn't it seem a little longer than other advertisements? Of course it is! & do you know why? Obviously they have to extend the commercials time frame in order to list all of the possible 'side effects'!
Picture this: A bright sunny day, soft focus, unexplained soap bubbles drifting thru the air. Two women sitting together at the park, watching their perfectly clean children laughing & playing on the slide. One women says to the other:
"I have a headache."
"Ouch! Hey, I have this new pill my doctor prescribed for me that will knock that headache back fast! It's called the XYZDrug."
"Really? Great, are there any side effects?"
"You bet! You know a drug is not a good drug without side effects! I have the list right here on this memory stick. I had to get an 8G zip drive in order to fit the whole list on one stick. Let's fire up the laptop."
"You've got to be kidding - so many side effects?!"
"Of course! You know pills these days - no pain, no gain! That's what my doctor says. Ah, its loading now."
"Okay, let me just skim over these....
'People who should not take this drug: children under 12, women who are nursing, women who are pregnant, women who may BECOME pregnant, women in general, women who live with cats, men, dogs, people that work-out, people that require air to breathe..." Hmmm. Sounds a little all-encompassing...
Then there's this: 'Let your doctor know if any of the following occur: dizziness, drowsiness, dementia, alertness, confusion, aversion to children, dry eyes, moist eyes, runny nose, jaw pain, ear drainage, hearing loss, hallucinations, split ends, aversion to smells, short-term memory loss, hang nails, cracked cuticles, flashbacks to the 80's, dry skin, oily skin, red skin, flaky skin, sun burn, peeling, aversion to spouse, itchy throat, clogged airway, bloating, temporary insanity, stomach growling, aversion to mother-in-law, broken bones, joint pain, amnesia, aversion to drug commercials, loss of bladder control...'
"Good heavens! This list just goes on & on! & I haven't even gotten to the good parts! You know: stroke, death, possible lawsuits and/or an erection lasting longer than 4 hours! All these warnings just for a headache?"
"Well, I suppose you could just drink some water. But that's so last-century."
"Good idea. I mean, look at this list! - I'd be calling my doctor every minute. Jeez, look at the small print they use..."
"Well, if your vision is getting bad, my doctor gave me this new pill...I think it's the ICUDrug...Now, where is that other memory stick? It was just here..."
What exactly is the purpose of these ads anyway? I mean, why are they geared toward the general television viewer? Last time I checked I didn't have any authority to write drug prescriptions. & what about the part where the ad says "Ask your doctor if XYZDrug is right for you."? Tell you what, if my doctor is sitting around twiddling his thumbs waiting for ME to suggest what drugs he ought to prescribe for me, then it's time to be shopping for a new doctor! Isn't that HIS job? Do the ad companies assume my doctor is at home watching daytime television? No wonder I can never get an appointment! & what am I supposed to think of my doctor's credentials if he then says, "XYZDrug? That sounds like an excellent choice! I never would have thought of that one. Thank you for mentioning it."
These ads: When you happen to see one, doesn't it seem a little longer than other advertisements? Of course it is! & do you know why? Obviously they have to extend the commercials time frame in order to list all of the possible 'side effects'!
Picture this: A bright sunny day, soft focus, unexplained soap bubbles drifting thru the air. Two women sitting together at the park, watching their perfectly clean children laughing & playing on the slide. One women says to the other:
"I have a headache."
"Ouch! Hey, I have this new pill my doctor prescribed for me that will knock that headache back fast! It's called the XYZDrug."
"Really? Great, are there any side effects?"
"You bet! You know a drug is not a good drug without side effects! I have the list right here on this memory stick. I had to get an 8G zip drive in order to fit the whole list on one stick. Let's fire up the laptop."
"You've got to be kidding - so many side effects?!"
"Of course! You know pills these days - no pain, no gain! That's what my doctor says. Ah, its loading now."
"Okay, let me just skim over these....
'People who should not take this drug: children under 12, women who are nursing, women who are pregnant, women who may BECOME pregnant, women in general, women who live with cats, men, dogs, people that work-out, people that require air to breathe..." Hmmm. Sounds a little all-encompassing...
Then there's this: 'Let your doctor know if any of the following occur: dizziness, drowsiness, dementia, alertness, confusion, aversion to children, dry eyes, moist eyes, runny nose, jaw pain, ear drainage, hearing loss, hallucinations, split ends, aversion to smells, short-term memory loss, hang nails, cracked cuticles, flashbacks to the 80's, dry skin, oily skin, red skin, flaky skin, sun burn, peeling, aversion to spouse, itchy throat, clogged airway, bloating, temporary insanity, stomach growling, aversion to mother-in-law, broken bones, joint pain, amnesia, aversion to drug commercials, loss of bladder control...'
"Good heavens! This list just goes on & on! & I haven't even gotten to the good parts! You know: stroke, death, possible lawsuits and/or an erection lasting longer than 4 hours! All these warnings just for a headache?"
"Well, I suppose you could just drink some water. But that's so last-century."
"Good idea. I mean, look at this list! - I'd be calling my doctor every minute. Jeez, look at the small print they use..."
"Well, if your vision is getting bad, my doctor gave me this new pill...I think it's the ICUDrug...Now, where is that other memory stick? It was just here..."
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
The Gauntlet
Friday evening.
Coming down Queens Drive into Montego Bay, I ready myself. I am prepared for this journey. My windows are rolled up. My two Jamaican one hundred dollar bills are tucked under my leg. I approach the intersection of St James Road & Howard Cooke Highway. I breathe deeply. I stop for the light. I like to do the unexpected.
Just outside my window stands a skinny black man with an unkept beard, no teeth & a dirty red rag. He is holding his hand out. I look forward. He approaches my window & knocks on it with his rag. He mumbles. I edge forward. On my other side a fat woman with orange hair is walking between the lanes selling newspapers. I catch her eye & shake my head 'no thank you'. The man with the rag bangs on my window again, then waves his red rag around while yelling at me & bending forward to peer with both hands into my window. I look forward. The light changes.
I toe the gas pedal, happy to make my escape from the rag man. I get about two feet away, & find myself stuck in the intersection with at least 30 other cars coming three different directions. The light is in my favor, but the intersection is packed solid. We make the best of it. We all creep forward until we are fully committed to the intersection. Like entering a stream of mud; we are not moving much but cannot escape. Now & then a cross traffic vehicle manages to slip thru. It honks. I honk. Everybody honks. Could be "thank you!" Could be "fuck you!" Hard to tell. The man with the rag is banging on someone else's window behind me. The newspaper woman is doing some business with another car. As I inch forward I begin to hear the sound of the peanut machine whistling.
The cars around me & I make it thru the intersection, packed together as if on a ferry. The peanut machine is just outside my window now, whistling its shrill story. Beyond the peanut machine I can see the ocean, & the sun making its dive over the hills, just out of view. On my way to the next traffic light I encounter:
The Peanut Man: long & lanky, wearing a knit rasta cap, he walks between the lanes, as they do, offering his peanuts wrapped in heavy paper
The Phone Card Man: stretching out accordion strips of perforated phone cards
A Newspaper Man: in case I missed the lady at the last intersection
Another Newspaper Man: the competition
The Michelin Man: He is not really carrying tires, but around his neck are many steering-wheel covers, which look like bicycle tires. Not only that, he is carrying a battalion of little flags sticking out of his rasta cap & other tourist souvenirs dangling from both arms. He unrolls windshield sun shades like ancient scrolls for my perusal - assuming I had come on this trip, fighting my way thru this Friday evening traffic, for the express purpose of buying a sun shade.
Meanwhile the slow lane is stopped due to three different taxis on-ing & off-ing passengers. Effectively a dam, the taxis are stopped in front of the Kentucky Fried Chicken exit, blocking a substantial artery of cars whose passengers clutch their buckets of chicken. There is honking. There is yelling & waving of chicken wings . The cars in the slow lane are trying to merge into the fast lane to get around the taxis, not that one can tell from the current crawling pace which lane might be which. Of course, I expected this; I am territorially guarding my right to be in the fast lane by only allowing the required two inches between my bumper & the car in front of me. The pedestrians, who outnumber the cars, rise up en mass to cross the street between the stationary traffic. The more agile place their hands on the two vehicles they are trying to squeeze between & swing their legs over the bumpers. There is more honking, amid the continuous din of the peanut machine. I can see the signal up ahead. But before I can get there I find:
The Drink Man: selling water & juice, dancing & singing, belly waggling, happy as can be, he bounces & jives in between the lanes of sluggish traffic
The Cashew Man: I do business with the cashew man. I hold my two bills up to my windshield, spread apart so he can see how many bills there are. I make eye contact with him & point at him with the money. He comes to my window, breaks off two plastic-wrapped bags of cashews from the wire hanger that he uses to carry them, trades them for my two hundred & then blesses me.
The Windshield Wiper Man: This man tries to sneak up on me from the side with his bottle & squeegee while I am dealing with the cashew man. Without even turning my head or interrupting my transaction I quickly turn on my wipers & successfully send him on to the next vehicle.
Then the light changes & I am thru the gauntlet! There is still more traffic & more vendors up ahead, but I have cleared the worst. The sun is gone & the whistle of the peanut machine is but a memory - until I begin to hear another one, somewhere up ahead in the dusk...
Coming down Queens Drive into Montego Bay, I ready myself. I am prepared for this journey. My windows are rolled up. My two Jamaican one hundred dollar bills are tucked under my leg. I approach the intersection of St James Road & Howard Cooke Highway. I breathe deeply. I stop for the light. I like to do the unexpected.
Just outside my window stands a skinny black man with an unkept beard, no teeth & a dirty red rag. He is holding his hand out. I look forward. He approaches my window & knocks on it with his rag. He mumbles. I edge forward. On my other side a fat woman with orange hair is walking between the lanes selling newspapers. I catch her eye & shake my head 'no thank you'. The man with the rag bangs on my window again, then waves his red rag around while yelling at me & bending forward to peer with both hands into my window. I look forward. The light changes.
I toe the gas pedal, happy to make my escape from the rag man. I get about two feet away, & find myself stuck in the intersection with at least 30 other cars coming three different directions. The light is in my favor, but the intersection is packed solid. We make the best of it. We all creep forward until we are fully committed to the intersection. Like entering a stream of mud; we are not moving much but cannot escape. Now & then a cross traffic vehicle manages to slip thru. It honks. I honk. Everybody honks. Could be "thank you!" Could be "fuck you!" Hard to tell. The man with the rag is banging on someone else's window behind me. The newspaper woman is doing some business with another car. As I inch forward I begin to hear the sound of the peanut machine whistling.
The cars around me & I make it thru the intersection, packed together as if on a ferry. The peanut machine is just outside my window now, whistling its shrill story. Beyond the peanut machine I can see the ocean, & the sun making its dive over the hills, just out of view. On my way to the next traffic light I encounter:
The Peanut Man: long & lanky, wearing a knit rasta cap, he walks between the lanes, as they do, offering his peanuts wrapped in heavy paper
The Phone Card Man: stretching out accordion strips of perforated phone cards
A Newspaper Man: in case I missed the lady at the last intersection
Another Newspaper Man: the competition
The Michelin Man: He is not really carrying tires, but around his neck are many steering-wheel covers, which look like bicycle tires. Not only that, he is carrying a battalion of little flags sticking out of his rasta cap & other tourist souvenirs dangling from both arms. He unrolls windshield sun shades like ancient scrolls for my perusal - assuming I had come on this trip, fighting my way thru this Friday evening traffic, for the express purpose of buying a sun shade.
Meanwhile the slow lane is stopped due to three different taxis on-ing & off-ing passengers. Effectively a dam, the taxis are stopped in front of the Kentucky Fried Chicken exit, blocking a substantial artery of cars whose passengers clutch their buckets of chicken. There is honking. There is yelling & waving of chicken wings . The cars in the slow lane are trying to merge into the fast lane to get around the taxis, not that one can tell from the current crawling pace which lane might be which. Of course, I expected this; I am territorially guarding my right to be in the fast lane by only allowing the required two inches between my bumper & the car in front of me. The pedestrians, who outnumber the cars, rise up en mass to cross the street between the stationary traffic. The more agile place their hands on the two vehicles they are trying to squeeze between & swing their legs over the bumpers. There is more honking, amid the continuous din of the peanut machine. I can see the signal up ahead. But before I can get there I find:
The Drink Man: selling water & juice, dancing & singing, belly waggling, happy as can be, he bounces & jives in between the lanes of sluggish traffic
The Cashew Man: I do business with the cashew man. I hold my two bills up to my windshield, spread apart so he can see how many bills there are. I make eye contact with him & point at him with the money. He comes to my window, breaks off two plastic-wrapped bags of cashews from the wire hanger that he uses to carry them, trades them for my two hundred & then blesses me.
The Windshield Wiper Man: This man tries to sneak up on me from the side with his bottle & squeegee while I am dealing with the cashew man. Without even turning my head or interrupting my transaction I quickly turn on my wipers & successfully send him on to the next vehicle.
Then the light changes & I am thru the gauntlet! There is still more traffic & more vendors up ahead, but I have cleared the worst. The sun is gone & the whistle of the peanut machine is but a memory - until I begin to hear another one, somewhere up ahead in the dusk...
Sunday, February 19, 2012
You SHOULDN'T have to teach...
You shouldn't have to teach your teenage boy how to use a towel. Right?
Somewhere, in the secret manual that is issued to 13 year old boys, this must be the entry under "Using the Bath Towel":
1) Finish shower.
2) Open the shower door, leaving door open widely so that water dripping off the door can accumulate into a large puddle. Do not allow water to drip conveniently onto the bath mat that your mother foolishly placed there in anticipation of just such an occurrence, but instead allow water to spread freely across tile floor. Step over water balloons, army men & assorted shampoo bottles to exit shower.
3) Realize that, once again, you have not remembered to put the towel within reach.
4) Realize that, worse, you have left the towel on the floor of your bedroom in a wadded-up heap.
5) Cross the bathroom & bedroom naked & dripping. Look every which way, hunched over & clutching your privates, in case a hoard of onlookers have somehow broken into your bedroom. Do not consider drying your feet on any of the dirty clothes that you pass by that have yet to find their way into your hamper. Just go ahead & track that water into your bedroom.
6) Locate the towel (this may take some time).
7) Pick up towel, hug it to your body, patting your face, your chest & the inside of your arms.
8) Throw towel back on floor.
9) Get dressed. Note the interesting way the shirt sticks to your body. Wonder why it is so hard to pull underwear up over legs that are still soaking wet. Put on your pants & socks, then proceed to walk thru all the puddles on the floor in order to get your socks as wet as the rest of your clothing.
10) Go back to bathroom. Stand in the puddle. Try to look in the foggy mirror. Look for towel to pat down the drips that are running out of your hair, into your eyes, & down the sides of your face & neck.
11) Decide to forget about the drips, as towel is somehow not in your bathroom. Just wipe the rivulets of water off with your hands & rub onto the sides of your pants.
12) Go downstairs. Realize that drips are still coming off of your hair because it is not dry. Obviously you do not have a very good quality towel. Think about letting your mother know, then change mind because if you mention your towel she will ask you if you hung it up & you are hoping she will forget to ask this time.
13) Wonder why your hair dries in a point in the middle of your forehead every day.
Somewhere, in the secret manual that is issued to 13 year old boys, this must be the entry under "Using the Bath Towel":
1) Finish shower.
2) Open the shower door, leaving door open widely so that water dripping off the door can accumulate into a large puddle. Do not allow water to drip conveniently onto the bath mat that your mother foolishly placed there in anticipation of just such an occurrence, but instead allow water to spread freely across tile floor. Step over water balloons, army men & assorted shampoo bottles to exit shower.
3) Realize that, once again, you have not remembered to put the towel within reach.
4) Realize that, worse, you have left the towel on the floor of your bedroom in a wadded-up heap.
5) Cross the bathroom & bedroom naked & dripping. Look every which way, hunched over & clutching your privates, in case a hoard of onlookers have somehow broken into your bedroom. Do not consider drying your feet on any of the dirty clothes that you pass by that have yet to find their way into your hamper. Just go ahead & track that water into your bedroom.
6) Locate the towel (this may take some time).
7) Pick up towel, hug it to your body, patting your face, your chest & the inside of your arms.
8) Throw towel back on floor.
9) Get dressed. Note the interesting way the shirt sticks to your body. Wonder why it is so hard to pull underwear up over legs that are still soaking wet. Put on your pants & socks, then proceed to walk thru all the puddles on the floor in order to get your socks as wet as the rest of your clothing.
10) Go back to bathroom. Stand in the puddle. Try to look in the foggy mirror. Look for towel to pat down the drips that are running out of your hair, into your eyes, & down the sides of your face & neck.
11) Decide to forget about the drips, as towel is somehow not in your bathroom. Just wipe the rivulets of water off with your hands & rub onto the sides of your pants.
12) Go downstairs. Realize that drips are still coming off of your hair because it is not dry. Obviously you do not have a very good quality towel. Think about letting your mother know, then change mind because if you mention your towel she will ask you if you hung it up & you are hoping she will forget to ask this time.
13) Wonder why your hair dries in a point in the middle of your forehead every day.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
My Sons Perfect Wives
For the oldest son:
His wife will have a name like Megablast548. She will be wearing a fetching suit of bulletproof armour. She will be sporting an assault rifle & assorted grenades. She will be calm in a crisis, yet willing to follow the commands of my son, who will insist that he is THE BOSS. She will know how to drive a Banshee & a Warthog & she will never-ever teabag (jumping up & down on her opponent), which is unsportsman-like, as well as being unfeminine.
As a home-maker, she will be thinking only of my sons comfort & ease. The jug of orange juice will be the only thing in the refrigerator, so he won't have to say, "I can't find the orange juice!" The rest of the food will be healthy fruits & will be lying all over the counter within easy grasp. She will touch nothing on the floor of his room. She will be able to read his mind so that when he runs out of soap he won't have to go for weeks before receiving a new bar. She will never even suggest that he could use a haircut.
She will sail around the world with him in a sailboat. She will be ready for adventure.
For the youngest son:
His wife will have a name something like Evanstar. She will be dressed in a flowing gown with a torque & will stand at the ready to touch the hilt of my sons sword for luck as he goes off to battle. She will have pointed ears. She will be an expert at archery, but will not carry a quiver, as it will not go with her gown. While he is away, she will run a shop & be sure to turn over all the money to him upon his return.
As a home-maker, she will be thinking only of my sons comfort & ease. She will keep the refrigerator stocked with Coca-Cola. In the cupboard will be Lipton Teabags & Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Crackers. She will touch nothing on the floor of his room. In fact, she probably will not even be able to get thru the door of his room, as by then the Lego's will surely have taken over. She will not tell him that it wouldn't kill him to wash his face & hair during the half hour that he is in the shower.
She will live with him in a house he will build himself. She will be ready for adventure.
Monday, February 13, 2012
...the nose on your face
When I was last living in the States, about 4 years ago, we in the US were, whether we liked it or not, becoming immersed in "political correctness". Here in the Caribbean, things are a little different.
For example, when we were living in Georgia, & say, I wanted to tell another parent something about a black child who the other parent did not know, I would have to beat around the subject like this:
"Did you see what Johnny did yesterday?"
"I don't believe I know Johnny."
"You know, Johnny on the soccer team?"
"No - what's he look like?"
"Well, he has dark curly hair...you know who I mean?"
"Nooo."
"Dark curly hair, brown eyes - he wears that green pair of cleats...you know, Johnny! With the glasses? He runs really fast? That Johnny!"
"Sorry, I still don't know who you mean!"
"Well," lower voice confidentially, while looking furtively around, "He's that black boy!"
"Oh. Oh! Okay, Johnny! That Johnny!"
Because in the States we are not allowed to actually mention someones ethnicity. To state out loud such a bold fact as what color a person is is simply not done. As if leaving such a fact unnamed will allow people to not SEE it for themselves - kind of like an Adam & Eve thing. "You mean Johnny is black? I never would have known had you not told me!"
Here in the Caribbean, the conversation would be more like this:
"Did you see what Johnny did yesterday?"
"I don't believe I know Johnny."
"You know, Johnny on the football team?"
"No - what's he look like?"
"He's that black boy - you know who I mean?"
"Nooo. Is he light or dark, or really black?"
"Kind of dark, but not really black black."
"Oh, okay, Johnny!"
Because here in the islands, your color is just another fact about you. It is not praise; it is not an insult. It is just a fact. This makes sense to me. When did mentioning ones color become an insult?
I wonder how it would it be if we couldn't even use gender to describe people - wouldn't want to insult anybody by calling them 'male' or 'female':
"Did you see what Johnny did yesterday?"
"I don't believe I know Johnny/ie."
"You know, Johnny on the soccer team?"
"No - can you describe Johnny/ie to me?"
"Well, I can try. But you know how difficult that will be. Perhaps we should play The Politically Correct Rhyming Game?"
"Good thinking! Go on..."
"Johnny has dark, CURLy hair. Can you think of something that rhymes with CURL?
"GIRL!"
"Shhh!" Both parents look guiltily around.
"Girl?"
"Yes, 'girl' does rhyme with 'curl'!", said loudly, for the benefit of PC spies.
"So," leaning forward, whispering, "Johnnie is a-"
"No! Can you think of something opposite?"
"Oh, I get it, Johnny is a-"
"Right!" Phew, Stage 1 complete. On to Stage 2.
"So, NOW you know who I mean?"
"Nooo."
"Dark curly hair, brown eyes - wears that green pair of cleats...you know, Johnny! With the glasses? Runs really fast? That Johnny!"
"Sorry, I still don't know who you mean!"
"Well," lower voice confidentially, while looking furtively around, "He's black!"
"Oh. Oh! Okay, Johnny! That Johnny! Sure, I know that child - wait a minute, it's still okay to say 'child', isn't it? Isn't that insulting - I mean, we are flat out saying that Johnny is not an adult. Is that still allowed?"
"Yes, I think that is still acceptable - but you might want to be careful who you say it in front of."
"I will - thanks! Now, what did you want to tell me about Johnny?"
"Beats me if I can remember..."
For example, when we were living in Georgia, & say, I wanted to tell another parent something about a black child who the other parent did not know, I would have to beat around the subject like this:
"Did you see what Johnny did yesterday?"
"I don't believe I know Johnny."
"You know, Johnny on the soccer team?"
"No - what's he look like?"
"Well, he has dark curly hair...you know who I mean?"
"Nooo."
"Dark curly hair, brown eyes - he wears that green pair of cleats...you know, Johnny! With the glasses? He runs really fast? That Johnny!"
"Sorry, I still don't know who you mean!"
"Well," lower voice confidentially, while looking furtively around, "He's that black boy!"
"Oh. Oh! Okay, Johnny! That Johnny!"
Because in the States we are not allowed to actually mention someones ethnicity. To state out loud such a bold fact as what color a person is is simply not done. As if leaving such a fact unnamed will allow people to not SEE it for themselves - kind of like an Adam & Eve thing. "You mean Johnny is black? I never would have known had you not told me!"
Here in the Caribbean, the conversation would be more like this:
"Did you see what Johnny did yesterday?"
"I don't believe I know Johnny."
"You know, Johnny on the football team?"
"No - what's he look like?"
"He's that black boy - you know who I mean?"
"Nooo. Is he light or dark, or really black?"
"Kind of dark, but not really black black."
"Oh, okay, Johnny!"
Because here in the islands, your color is just another fact about you. It is not praise; it is not an insult. It is just a fact. This makes sense to me. When did mentioning ones color become an insult?
I wonder how it would it be if we couldn't even use gender to describe people - wouldn't want to insult anybody by calling them 'male' or 'female':
"Did you see what Johnny did yesterday?"
"I don't believe I know Johnny/ie."
"You know, Johnny on the soccer team?"
"No - can you describe Johnny/ie to me?"
"Well, I can try. But you know how difficult that will be. Perhaps we should play The Politically Correct Rhyming Game?"
"Good thinking! Go on..."
"Johnny has dark, CURLy hair. Can you think of something that rhymes with CURL?
"GIRL!"
"Shhh!" Both parents look guiltily around.
"Girl?"
"Yes, 'girl' does rhyme with 'curl'!", said loudly, for the benefit of PC spies.
"So," leaning forward, whispering, "Johnnie is a-"
"No! Can you think of something opposite?"
"Oh, I get it, Johnny is a-"
"Right!" Phew, Stage 1 complete. On to Stage 2.
"So, NOW you know who I mean?"
"Nooo."
"Dark curly hair, brown eyes - wears that green pair of cleats...you know, Johnny! With the glasses? Runs really fast? That Johnny!"
"Sorry, I still don't know who you mean!"
"Well," lower voice confidentially, while looking furtively around, "He's black!"
"Oh. Oh! Okay, Johnny! That Johnny! Sure, I know that child - wait a minute, it's still okay to say 'child', isn't it? Isn't that insulting - I mean, we are flat out saying that Johnny is not an adult. Is that still allowed?"
"Yes, I think that is still acceptable - but you might want to be careful who you say it in front of."
"I will - thanks! Now, what did you want to tell me about Johnny?"
"Beats me if I can remember..."
The Downside to Video Games
If a person has to throw up, he should position himself on his knees, in front of the toilet, with the seat up, while bending over close to the bowl to ensure the successful completion of a distasteful yet unavoidable event.
If, however, the person in question happens to be a 15 year old boy, he will perform this procedure like so: standing up, as far away from the toilet as possible (only the wall behind him keeps him in the bathroom). He will slightly incline his head & hold onto the shower door with one hand. He will not trouble himself to raise the seat. This position will allow him to not only hit the toilet bowl, but also the toilet seat, the entire body of the toilet, the walls both behind & beside the toilet, as well as the floor, the bath mat & the trash can. Presumably he is thinking that he will be awarded points for each direct hit. I can't imagine where he would get such an idea.
If, however, the person in question happens to be a 15 year old boy, he will perform this procedure like so: standing up, as far away from the toilet as possible (only the wall behind him keeps him in the bathroom). He will slightly incline his head & hold onto the shower door with one hand. He will not trouble himself to raise the seat. This position will allow him to not only hit the toilet bowl, but also the toilet seat, the entire body of the toilet, the walls both behind & beside the toilet, as well as the floor, the bath mat & the trash can. Presumably he is thinking that he will be awarded points for each direct hit. I can't imagine where he would get such an idea.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
February 9th
Way back, in the 1930's (when dinosaurs walked the land!), there came to pass an event significant, yet unknown, to me. My father was born.
My father did not know he was to be my father, of course. He was just a boy. A boy who was probably somewhat like my own sons. Tho, allowing for their different eras, he probably dressed more formally, was more respectful to his elders, ate his dinner with the correct utensils & even (praise God!) combed his hair!
He had a life of his own, before mine. He lived in a small town & helped in his grandparents store. He delivered newspapers on his bike, like many mid-western boys. He served his nation & went on to college. He found a wife & a job & had children. He was a father. He had done the things he was supposed to do. There are pictures of him in a suit (& a hat!) going off to work. There is something of the feeling of a little boy playing dress-up in these photos. As if he himself could not believe this was really him. What happened to the boy on the bike? Now here he was, going off to work with a family to feed.
That is the space my father occupied during my school years - a place called WORK. Where is Dad? He is at WORK. What does he do there? He WORKS, obviously. Why is he there? So we can have food on the table. He worked, mysteriously, for the government. I used to entertain the idea that he was a spy. (He wasn't.) Sometimes, we might stop by his office on a weekend for him to go inside & get something. We walked down echoing hallways which smelled of old buildings & paper. It appeared that WORK was SCHOOL, only larger, & someone paid you to go there.
At home, he was in the garden, which seemed to mean that even when he was not at work putting food on the table, he had to be at home doing the same thing. He looked to be a serious guy. We girls often tread lightly, "Don't bother your father!" What did he think about, our father? Was he happy? What did he want? He was a man; therefore, he was a mystery.
Yet, while he appeared to be mostly a serious guy, he was also a funny guy. We would catch glimpses of his lurking-under-the-surface sense of humor. I can remember one time our family was walking thru the JCPenneys lingerie section when suddenly my father was inspired to stop & exclaim loudly in falsetto, "Pantie-Land! We're in Pantie-Land!", while my sister & I cringed with embarrassment. He often joked with cashiers as they were ringing up his purchases. They would look at him strangely. It wasn't til I was older that I came to see that some people did not get his brand of humor. I felt somehow privileged that I did. Like I was part of a club that was somewhat selective.
I saw him most often at the dinner table. He & I would often clash at these times. I think we were too much alike. I don't know what he thought of my sister & I as we grew into young women. My mother ruled all things concerning us girls. My father was out there, tho, in the garden, at the office, putting food on the table. My sister & I were not willing garden participants, much to my fathers disappointment.
Later, he & my mother went their separate ways. Now what were we to make of him? He was not at the office, not in the garden, not putting food on the table. How would we incorporate this new person who claimed to be our father into our lives?
What happened was that we discovered that our father was a real person, not just Our Father, Who Art at Work. He started living his life, making new tennis friends, updating his style (I went with him to help pick out his first pair of jeans after the leisure suit days!). He had a mild heart attack. He ate black beans from cans to compensate. He would stop by my apartment in college, use my phone for business, & leave 20 cents on the counter for the call. My roommates would shake their heads, "Your father..."!
He is as unfathomable as before, only different. Like fine wine, he has mellowed. As I grew older, I developed a new appreciation for who he is & who he is to me. There have been times I have needed to lean on him & he has been there. When things seem to fall apart, he is there, doing something disarmingly annoying enough to distract me. He still makes me laugh. & that counts for more than can be said.
It has always been difficult to get Dad a gift for his birthday. Mom did it for us when we were little. When I went out on my own, I took a stab at it. I got him a nice sweater. "Well, that's a nice sweater, but you didn't have to do that. I have so many clothes I never wear."
Fair enough. Next year: "Well, that was a nice selection of chocolate that you sent, but I have to watch my cholesterol these days, you know."
Okay. Next year: "Well, that was a great fruit basket that you sent, but you know I mostly just ate the apples."
Ah ha! Next year: "Well, that was a really nice apple basket that you sent, but it had so many apples that I just couldn't eat them all before they went bad. Now what am I supposed to do with all these baskets? I hate to just throw them away...Do YOU want them?"
After years of defeat, I sent a card. "Well, that was a nice card that you sent, but what will I do with it now? You didn't have to spend, what, $1.50, on something I'm just going to throw away eventually."
Happy Birthday Dad! Smile! This blog entry cost me nothing, except internet service, which I am paying for anyway. Also, a bit of my time, which I am happy to give. To thank you - for all you have given me...
My father did not know he was to be my father, of course. He was just a boy. A boy who was probably somewhat like my own sons. Tho, allowing for their different eras, he probably dressed more formally, was more respectful to his elders, ate his dinner with the correct utensils & even (praise God!) combed his hair!
He had a life of his own, before mine. He lived in a small town & helped in his grandparents store. He delivered newspapers on his bike, like many mid-western boys. He served his nation & went on to college. He found a wife & a job & had children. He was a father. He had done the things he was supposed to do. There are pictures of him in a suit (& a hat!) going off to work. There is something of the feeling of a little boy playing dress-up in these photos. As if he himself could not believe this was really him. What happened to the boy on the bike? Now here he was, going off to work with a family to feed.
That is the space my father occupied during my school years - a place called WORK. Where is Dad? He is at WORK. What does he do there? He WORKS, obviously. Why is he there? So we can have food on the table. He worked, mysteriously, for the government. I used to entertain the idea that he was a spy. (He wasn't.) Sometimes, we might stop by his office on a weekend for him to go inside & get something. We walked down echoing hallways which smelled of old buildings & paper. It appeared that WORK was SCHOOL, only larger, & someone paid you to go there.
At home, he was in the garden, which seemed to mean that even when he was not at work putting food on the table, he had to be at home doing the same thing. He looked to be a serious guy. We girls often tread lightly, "Don't bother your father!" What did he think about, our father? Was he happy? What did he want? He was a man; therefore, he was a mystery.
Yet, while he appeared to be mostly a serious guy, he was also a funny guy. We would catch glimpses of his lurking-under-the-surface sense of humor. I can remember one time our family was walking thru the JCPenneys lingerie section when suddenly my father was inspired to stop & exclaim loudly in falsetto, "Pantie-Land! We're in Pantie-Land!", while my sister & I cringed with embarrassment. He often joked with cashiers as they were ringing up his purchases. They would look at him strangely. It wasn't til I was older that I came to see that some people did not get his brand of humor. I felt somehow privileged that I did. Like I was part of a club that was somewhat selective.
I saw him most often at the dinner table. He & I would often clash at these times. I think we were too much alike. I don't know what he thought of my sister & I as we grew into young women. My mother ruled all things concerning us girls. My father was out there, tho, in the garden, at the office, putting food on the table. My sister & I were not willing garden participants, much to my fathers disappointment.
Later, he & my mother went their separate ways. Now what were we to make of him? He was not at the office, not in the garden, not putting food on the table. How would we incorporate this new person who claimed to be our father into our lives?
What happened was that we discovered that our father was a real person, not just Our Father, Who Art at Work. He started living his life, making new tennis friends, updating his style (I went with him to help pick out his first pair of jeans after the leisure suit days!). He had a mild heart attack. He ate black beans from cans to compensate. He would stop by my apartment in college, use my phone for business, & leave 20 cents on the counter for the call. My roommates would shake their heads, "Your father..."!
He is as unfathomable as before, only different. Like fine wine, he has mellowed. As I grew older, I developed a new appreciation for who he is & who he is to me. There have been times I have needed to lean on him & he has been there. When things seem to fall apart, he is there, doing something disarmingly annoying enough to distract me. He still makes me laugh. & that counts for more than can be said.
It has always been difficult to get Dad a gift for his birthday. Mom did it for us when we were little. When I went out on my own, I took a stab at it. I got him a nice sweater. "Well, that's a nice sweater, but you didn't have to do that. I have so many clothes I never wear."
Fair enough. Next year: "Well, that was a nice selection of chocolate that you sent, but I have to watch my cholesterol these days, you know."
Okay. Next year: "Well, that was a great fruit basket that you sent, but you know I mostly just ate the apples."
Ah ha! Next year: "Well, that was a really nice apple basket that you sent, but it had so many apples that I just couldn't eat them all before they went bad. Now what am I supposed to do with all these baskets? I hate to just throw them away...Do YOU want them?"
After years of defeat, I sent a card. "Well, that was a nice card that you sent, but what will I do with it now? You didn't have to spend, what, $1.50, on something I'm just going to throw away eventually."
Happy Birthday Dad! Smile! This blog entry cost me nothing, except internet service, which I am paying for anyway. Also, a bit of my time, which I am happy to give. To thank you - for all you have given me...
Monday, February 6, 2012
- a view from the other side
I think the first time I noticed the corruption sweeping thru the younger generation was a couple of years ago, at Carrabba's. My son (who was 14 at the time) brought a girl friend of his to dinner with myself & a couple of friends of mine. We were seated in a booth; my sons friend, my son & I on one side & my two friends on the other.
After we placed our orders & while my son & us three adults were chatting & waiting for the food, I noticed that my sons friend was pretty quiet. My friend & her husband kept looking across the table pointedly at my sons friend. I couldn't see the girl, as my son was between us. I noticed that they seemed to be engrossed with the girls' lap (which couldn't be good) as both of their eyes were aimed downward. Finally, my son sat back & I could see what was going on - & I was right! They WERE up to no good - my son was being corrupted right before my eyes!
Yes - it was an iphone, or a Blackberry, or - I don't know, something similar; it didn't really matter to me what BRAND of corruption it was!
So?
SO! Okay, so I am not the queen of table manners myself, I admit. I have been known to rest my elbows on the table. I have inadvertently used the dinner fork instead of the salad fork. In fact, once I accidentally used the wrong bread plate (gasp!). But these are mere TRIFLES! This girl stared down into her lap for THE ENTIRE DINNER, ignored everyone (including my son!) & did not seem to know or care that this would be classified as rude behaviour by most anyone born prior to 1980. I am not even sure how she was able to eat her food using only one hand. She probably had to download an app to tell her how to do it.
What I didn't get was this: how could parents just allow this type of behavior - after all, parents still tell kids to get their elbows off the table, right? (right??). The answer that comes to mind is this: obviously their parents are doing this too! Just go eat in any restaurant & count how many people's hair parts you can see. Most the people look like they are praying. (I am pretty sure they are not, unless they are praying that their battery will not die, or that they brought their charger with them, or that their next phone is 4G.)
Imagine an alien race scouting out our planet:
Zorcon: Ah, look, here we have a gathering place of humans, the indigenous species.
Qusalt: This structure appears to be a place of worship. See how their heads are bowed respectfully? They are praying to their gods.
Zorcon: No, Qusalt, I beg to differ. See the sign - Arby's Roast Beef? Roast beef is an item for consumption. This is a feeding station.
Qusalt: Then why are they all sitting so quietly & not talking amongst themselves? I was given to understand that the consuming of sustenance was a social bonding ritual for humans.
Zorcon: They are busy operating their communication devices - hear that? Listen to all the click clacks & musical tones. Perhaps you ARE right, Qusalt, perhaps they ARE praying to their gods with these devices. After all, it is not logical that the humans would have to operate their communication devices to speak to the human next to them. And look at how indifferently the humans behave toward their feeding partners. It stands to reason that the devices in their hands are much MORE important than actual human beings.
Qusalt: Do you think their gods require so much - what do they call it? - texting from their subjects before a simple meal?
Zorcon: I do not know. But, I'll tell you one thing, Qusalt. God or not; if you ignore me like that while we are consuming our sustenance, don't expect to consume with me ever again! Looks like those humans with these devices make pretty unexciting - what do they call them? - dinner partners!
Qusalt: I agree. Let's hope the boring humans click-clacking their devices are the ones who are providing the money for the sustenance. That would be the only reason that I can think of to sit with that type of human being!
After we placed our orders & while my son & us three adults were chatting & waiting for the food, I noticed that my sons friend was pretty quiet. My friend & her husband kept looking across the table pointedly at my sons friend. I couldn't see the girl, as my son was between us. I noticed that they seemed to be engrossed with the girls' lap (which couldn't be good) as both of their eyes were aimed downward. Finally, my son sat back & I could see what was going on - & I was right! They WERE up to no good - my son was being corrupted right before my eyes!
Yes - it was an iphone, or a Blackberry, or - I don't know, something similar; it didn't really matter to me what BRAND of corruption it was!
So?
SO! Okay, so I am not the queen of table manners myself, I admit. I have been known to rest my elbows on the table. I have inadvertently used the dinner fork instead of the salad fork. In fact, once I accidentally used the wrong bread plate (gasp!). But these are mere TRIFLES! This girl stared down into her lap for THE ENTIRE DINNER, ignored everyone (including my son!) & did not seem to know or care that this would be classified as rude behaviour by most anyone born prior to 1980. I am not even sure how she was able to eat her food using only one hand. She probably had to download an app to tell her how to do it.
What I didn't get was this: how could parents just allow this type of behavior - after all, parents still tell kids to get their elbows off the table, right? (right??). The answer that comes to mind is this: obviously their parents are doing this too! Just go eat in any restaurant & count how many people's hair parts you can see. Most the people look like they are praying. (I am pretty sure they are not, unless they are praying that their battery will not die, or that they brought their charger with them, or that their next phone is 4G.)
Imagine an alien race scouting out our planet:
Zorcon: Ah, look, here we have a gathering place of humans, the indigenous species.
Qusalt: This structure appears to be a place of worship. See how their heads are bowed respectfully? They are praying to their gods.
Zorcon: No, Qusalt, I beg to differ. See the sign - Arby's Roast Beef? Roast beef is an item for consumption. This is a feeding station.
Qusalt: Then why are they all sitting so quietly & not talking amongst themselves? I was given to understand that the consuming of sustenance was a social bonding ritual for humans.
Zorcon: They are busy operating their communication devices - hear that? Listen to all the click clacks & musical tones. Perhaps you ARE right, Qusalt, perhaps they ARE praying to their gods with these devices. After all, it is not logical that the humans would have to operate their communication devices to speak to the human next to them. And look at how indifferently the humans behave toward their feeding partners. It stands to reason that the devices in their hands are much MORE important than actual human beings.
Qusalt: Do you think their gods require so much - what do they call it? - texting from their subjects before a simple meal?
Zorcon: I do not know. But, I'll tell you one thing, Qusalt. God or not; if you ignore me like that while we are consuming our sustenance, don't expect to consume with me ever again! Looks like those humans with these devices make pretty unexciting - what do they call them? - dinner partners!
Qusalt: I agree. Let's hope the boring humans click-clacking their devices are the ones who are providing the money for the sustenance. That would be the only reason that I can think of to sit with that type of human being!
Friday, February 3, 2012
Driving for Dummies
We moved to this island almost three years ago. My husband arrived several months before us. He started trying to prepare me for one of the biggest differences between our new island & our old one: driving. While both islands, having been British, drive on the left, the style of driving is completely different. "Get ready", my husband said, "It's pretty scary."
How bad could it be?
Now that I have been driving here for a couple years, I do have some things to say. First & foremost, I would have complained about the fact that I had to take both a written & driving test to get my license here. Obviously, providing a drivers license from a little known country like the United States could not be accepted as 'driving experience'. Okay, fine. But, like I said, I am NOT going to complain about that. In fact, I am not even going to mention how many times I had to back up thru 100 feet of cones...oh, right, sorry.
What I do have an issue with, tho, is the written test material. The written test was somewhat like the exam I took in the States: multiple choice questions simple enough that had you even been in the proximity of the Drivers Manual, you would have been able to pass. But it seems to me that there is no point in that kind of exam if it doesn't resemble in any way actual traffic conditions. I have thought of some questions that I think I should submit to the licensing authority for future inclusion on the Drivers Exam.
1. If you are driving along a road going 80 km/h (about 50mph) & a taxi in front of you suddenly slams on his brakes to pick up a fare, what should you do?
a) Trick question. What driver in his right mind would slam on his brakes in the middle of traffic moving this quickly?
b) Swerve wildly into the next lane without bothering to look.
c) Honk your horn.
d) Make big swooping gestures of disgust while hollering out your window.
e) All of the above except a.
2. If you witness an accident, what should you do?
a) If you are first on the scene, stop to assist & notify emergency services. Otherwise, continue on as the police give you the "move along" signal.
b) Park your car anywhere, get out, form a thick circle around the accident vehicles & search the crowd for people you may have not seen in a while so you can do some catching up. If the police or ambulance show up, if it is not too much trouble, make way for them.
c) Honk your horn.
d) Both b & c.
3. If you are driving along & are stopped by signs of civil unrest up ahead, like debris burning in the road, you should...
a) Politely wait in your car for the authorities.
b) Lock your doors, jump the median & make a new lane in the double lane of oncoming traffic.
c) Honk your horn.
d) Both b & c.
4. If the traffic light you are stopped at turns green, you should...
a) Go.
b) Wait for those unusual vehicles that will stop at their red light, then proceed with caution, as they may change their mind. Resist the urge to wave "thank you" at them.
c) Honk your horn.
d) Both b & c.
5. A turn lane on the side of the road should be used for:
a) Turning.
b) A parking lot.
c) Another thru lane - why waste it? Tho this does conflict with the people choosing b.
d) Honking your horn.
e) All of the above.
6. If you are approaching a red traffic signal at a T-junction, you should:
a) Come to a complete stop.
b) Check your rear view mirrors, then come to a complete stop.
c) Slow down, coast into the intersection along the top of the T, pretend you are picking up someone there, whether you are or not; then, since you are now parked directly under the signal, go ahead & go thru it as tho you hadn't really noticed that it was there.
d) Honk your horn.
e) All of the above except a.
7. Which side of the road should you drive on?
a) The left.
b) The right.
c) Either, as long as you honk your horn.
d) Whichever side has the least potholes.
e) All of the above.
8. If stopped by the police, you should:
a) Pull over, remain quietly in the vehicle, & provide all documents requested by the officer in a respectful manner.
b) Jump out of your vehicle, stand exclaiming your disbelief & denials while waving your arms around next to the officer.
c) Honk your horn.
9. If you pass by a police officer who has pulled over someone else, you should:
a) Move along.
b) Yell out your window at the policeman while making shooting gestures at him with your hand, then floor the gas while laughing derisively.
c) Honk your horn.
d) Both a & b.
10: If your horn is broken -- pull over right away! You will never survive!
How bad could it be?
Now that I have been driving here for a couple years, I do have some things to say. First & foremost, I would have complained about the fact that I had to take both a written & driving test to get my license here. Obviously, providing a drivers license from a little known country like the United States could not be accepted as 'driving experience'. Okay, fine. But, like I said, I am NOT going to complain about that. In fact, I am not even going to mention how many times I had to back up thru 100 feet of cones...oh, right, sorry.
What I do have an issue with, tho, is the written test material. The written test was somewhat like the exam I took in the States: multiple choice questions simple enough that had you even been in the proximity of the Drivers Manual, you would have been able to pass. But it seems to me that there is no point in that kind of exam if it doesn't resemble in any way actual traffic conditions. I have thought of some questions that I think I should submit to the licensing authority for future inclusion on the Drivers Exam.
1. If you are driving along a road going 80 km/h (about 50mph) & a taxi in front of you suddenly slams on his brakes to pick up a fare, what should you do?
a) Trick question. What driver in his right mind would slam on his brakes in the middle of traffic moving this quickly?
b) Swerve wildly into the next lane without bothering to look.
c) Honk your horn.
d) Make big swooping gestures of disgust while hollering out your window.
e) All of the above except a.
2. If you witness an accident, what should you do?
a) If you are first on the scene, stop to assist & notify emergency services. Otherwise, continue on as the police give you the "move along" signal.
b) Park your car anywhere, get out, form a thick circle around the accident vehicles & search the crowd for people you may have not seen in a while so you can do some catching up. If the police or ambulance show up, if it is not too much trouble, make way for them.
c) Honk your horn.
d) Both b & c.
3. If you are driving along & are stopped by signs of civil unrest up ahead, like debris burning in the road, you should...
a) Politely wait in your car for the authorities.
b) Lock your doors, jump the median & make a new lane in the double lane of oncoming traffic.
c) Honk your horn.
d) Both b & c.
4. If the traffic light you are stopped at turns green, you should...
a) Go.
b) Wait for those unusual vehicles that will stop at their red light, then proceed with caution, as they may change their mind. Resist the urge to wave "thank you" at them.
c) Honk your horn.
d) Both b & c.
5. A turn lane on the side of the road should be used for:
a) Turning.
b) A parking lot.
c) Another thru lane - why waste it? Tho this does conflict with the people choosing b.
d) Honking your horn.
e) All of the above.
6. If you are approaching a red traffic signal at a T-junction, you should:
a) Come to a complete stop.
b) Check your rear view mirrors, then come to a complete stop.
c) Slow down, coast into the intersection along the top of the T, pretend you are picking up someone there, whether you are or not; then, since you are now parked directly under the signal, go ahead & go thru it as tho you hadn't really noticed that it was there.
d) Honk your horn.
e) All of the above except a.
7. Which side of the road should you drive on?
a) The left.
b) The right.
c) Either, as long as you honk your horn.
d) Whichever side has the least potholes.
e) All of the above.
8. If stopped by the police, you should:
a) Pull over, remain quietly in the vehicle, & provide all documents requested by the officer in a respectful manner.
b) Jump out of your vehicle, stand exclaiming your disbelief & denials while waving your arms around next to the officer.
c) Honk your horn.
9. If you pass by a police officer who has pulled over someone else, you should:
a) Move along.
b) Yell out your window at the policeman while making shooting gestures at him with your hand, then floor the gas while laughing derisively.
c) Honk your horn.
d) Both a & b.
10: If your horn is broken -- pull over right away! You will never survive!
Word of the Day
trash can (trăsh căn), n. a receptacle for depositing household refuse, often located in the kitchen and/or bathroom of the home. Inexplicably, said receptacle is not visible to the male of the species. However, men do seem to sense the presence of the trash can, as can be witnessed by the piles of rubbish they leave accumulating on or near any adjacent counter top.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
For What It's Worth
Ever hear that phrase,"Live every day as if it were your last."? And everybody nods; yes, yes, so true, that's the way we should live...
Sounds good, right?
Today I am thinking about the logistics & expense of sending my oldest son to sail in a regatta on another island. There are many things to consider. There's the money thing. He would be missing almost a week of school - in the 10th grade that gets to be tricky. Then there's the money thing. Plus, I or my husband would want to go as well, otherwise my 15 year old will have to hang out with drunken sailors all week. Well, who wouldn't enjoy that? - but that's another story. Of course, there's the money thing. & if I go, what about the 13 year old, or if my husband goes, what about his work? He is the Chef - will the hotel guests starve if he is not personally there to feed them? Oh yeah, & did I mention the money thing? Airline tickets, rental cars, hotel rooms, food, registration fees, etc.
**Note** We are talking US currency in all following paragraphs.
It's not even the issue of whether the money is available or not. In fact, having the money available actually makes it more difficult - cuz if the money's not there it's a no-brainer. Same as if you are rich beyond your wildest dreams. But for those of us in the middle, it's a matter of worth. What is this fill-in-the-blank worth to me? If I say, "Hey, you can go for a week to another island, hang out while your son sails in a few races, eat at some cool restaurants, lie on a beautiful hassle-free beach, maybe catch a little scuba diving - & you can do this ALL for five bucks!" Is it worth it? YOU BET! Don't let me knock you down on my way upstairs to pack!
How about twenty dollars, or fifty dollars, or two hundred dollars? Yeah, yeah, get out of my way & let me remember where I put that passport...
Raise the price. How about $20,000? (sliding suitcase back under bed). Is it worth it now?(putting passport sadly away).
So, somewhere in between $200 & $20,000 there is an actual number that is the turning point. An invisible ceiling over which point the money in the hand is worth more than the sailing & the beach - for whatever reason. (No fair soliciting the point of view of the 15 year old, who doesn't lay out any cash of his own.) We should find out where our ceiling is using logical means; which does not mean to say emotions & desire will not play a part - we just need to know how much value to assign them. And that can change in an instant.
Here's where that stupid phrase comes in. If I must assume that every day is my last, obviously I could care less for money in the bank tomorrow. NOW the $20,000 price tag does not even cause me to blink. Of course it's worth it! ANYTHING is worth it if I'm not going to be here tomorrow!
In my opinion, people shouldn't really live like that. Think of that guy last year who said that May 21, 2011 was going to be the Rapture. He had his followers selling everything they owned - & we all probably thought, what a bunch of idiots! Why? After all, they were just living each day as if it were their last. Isn't that 'really living'? Isn't that what we are supposed to do?
I, for one, would rather assume that I WILL be here tomorrow! & if somehow I get proven wrong one day, feel free to take my money & go to an island somewhere. I am sure it will be worth it!
Sounds good, right?
Today I am thinking about the logistics & expense of sending my oldest son to sail in a regatta on another island. There are many things to consider. There's the money thing. He would be missing almost a week of school - in the 10th grade that gets to be tricky. Then there's the money thing. Plus, I or my husband would want to go as well, otherwise my 15 year old will have to hang out with drunken sailors all week. Well, who wouldn't enjoy that? - but that's another story. Of course, there's the money thing. & if I go, what about the 13 year old, or if my husband goes, what about his work? He is the Chef - will the hotel guests starve if he is not personally there to feed them? Oh yeah, & did I mention the money thing? Airline tickets, rental cars, hotel rooms, food, registration fees, etc.
**Note** We are talking US currency in all following paragraphs.
It's not even the issue of whether the money is available or not. In fact, having the money available actually makes it more difficult - cuz if the money's not there it's a no-brainer. Same as if you are rich beyond your wildest dreams. But for those of us in the middle, it's a matter of worth. What is this fill-in-the-blank worth to me? If I say, "Hey, you can go for a week to another island, hang out while your son sails in a few races, eat at some cool restaurants, lie on a beautiful hassle-free beach, maybe catch a little scuba diving - & you can do this ALL for five bucks!" Is it worth it? YOU BET! Don't let me knock you down on my way upstairs to pack!
How about twenty dollars, or fifty dollars, or two hundred dollars? Yeah, yeah, get out of my way & let me remember where I put that passport...
Raise the price. How about $20,000? (sliding suitcase back under bed). Is it worth it now?(putting passport sadly away).
So, somewhere in between $200 & $20,000 there is an actual number that is the turning point. An invisible ceiling over which point the money in the hand is worth more than the sailing & the beach - for whatever reason. (No fair soliciting the point of view of the 15 year old, who doesn't lay out any cash of his own.) We should find out where our ceiling is using logical means; which does not mean to say emotions & desire will not play a part - we just need to know how much value to assign them. And that can change in an instant.
Here's where that stupid phrase comes in. If I must assume that every day is my last, obviously I could care less for money in the bank tomorrow. NOW the $20,000 price tag does not even cause me to blink. Of course it's worth it! ANYTHING is worth it if I'm not going to be here tomorrow!
In my opinion, people shouldn't really live like that. Think of that guy last year who said that May 21, 2011 was going to be the Rapture. He had his followers selling everything they owned - & we all probably thought, what a bunch of idiots! Why? After all, they were just living each day as if it were their last. Isn't that 'really living'? Isn't that what we are supposed to do?
I, for one, would rather assume that I WILL be here tomorrow! & if somehow I get proven wrong one day, feel free to take my money & go to an island somewhere. I am sure it will be worth it!
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