When he told me how to prepare the Tarte Tatin to take as our donation to the Europe Table at the International Lunch at the boys school, my husband, the French chef, began with, 'Peel the apples'.
In the kitchen I am faced with two bags of green apples, a large bowl, a freshly wiped counter & a relatively dull paring knife. With these tools I will begin my quest.
While peeling the apples, I come to the conclusion that buying a prepacked bag of apples is a bad idea - here in Jamaica, anyhow. I picture a semi hauling apples hurtling down the highway somewhere in Maine, apples flying off the back whenever the truck hits a bump, leaving apples to bounce down the road, discarded. Behind the truck runs some enterprising young fellow scooping up these apples, bagging them & sending them to - Jamaica! Ah well, too late now.
I peel & peel. After the first apple, I am left with something the size of a golf ball. Hmmm. Oh well, there are many more apples to practice with!
After the peeling is done, I have a whole STACK of golf balls! Who will know, I think; my shame will be buried in honey & puff pastry! I will not allow my mood to be cast down by my amazing lack of peeling talent - No! On to the next!
'Core the apples'. Sounds simple enough - I get it - take the middle out. 'Course, the problem with the middle is that it's, well, in the middle. It's like that puzzle, 'Connect this square of nine dots using only 4 lines & not lifting your pencil off the paper!'. How to get the middle out of the apple? Well, I know there must be a special tool for such an activity. I also know my husband holds a great degree of disdain for kitchen gadgets that do only one thing, so, knowing that, I know we must not own one of these gadgets. (I do have an apple cutter that slices the apple up into handy bits for dipping into peanut butter - I hide it in the back of the drawer - don't tell!).
I decide to look ahead in my instructions: 'Cut the apple in half along the pole' (not the equator). Ah ha! If I have to cut the apple in half anyway, this might be a good way to get the middle out! So, I cut the first apple a little off center, which in theory should leave the core in the larger half (now, there's an oxymoron for you - there technically can't be a 'larger half', right?). Well, the core in this apple extends further than I had expected, so next I try to scoop out what's left of the core in the smaller section with my knife, & instead end up breaking the apple half in two. I take up the other section (the half with the core) & discover that my knife talent does not seem to encompass any kind of 'scooping' activity. So, I cut that piece into three pieces, which leaves me five pieces of apple. Already the directive of cutting the apple in half (only in half!) has been discarded as a somewhat whimsical & far fetched plan. Oh well, it's all about the taste, right?
After coring the apples, I am left with a massive pile of apple pieces - three of which seem to be intact halves. Next I turn to the pans. Looking at them now, it seems like two 8x8 pans are more trouble than they are worth, so I make the switch to an 8x13 cake pan.
Next I must 'fill the bottom of the pan with honey'. So, I do. But the pan is warped, so the honey pools on one side. To compensate, I get MORE honey & pour enough to cover the whole bottom, including the part that is higher than the rest. I melt some butter, which I am calling 56 grams, & I dribble it on top of the honey. Then I get the apple pieces, & if I can discover a 'flat side', I stick that side into the honey. I stuff the pan wherever there is room to stick an apple piece & throw it in the oven for 30 minutes.
'Til the apples are soft to the touch.'
40 minutes.
50 minutes.
Fine, must be enough. The apples have felt the same every time. I bring them out. The apples have shrunk somewhat & are now floating in honey. I leave them to cool.
After 'a while' I return to the scene of the crime & add the puff pastry sheets to the top, 'tucking in the edges'. As I do this, the honey that the apples are swimming in escapes up the sides, making it hard to keep the edges 'tucked in'. I choose to ignore the misbehavior of my tart, & stick it back in the oven for 30 minutes.
Or 40 minutes.
Or 50 minutes, when I discover I forgot to set the timer. Anyhow, the puff pastry looks puffed & nicely brown so I pull the tart out of the oven to let it cool again til my husband comes home.
While I am waiting on that, I proceed to something I KNOW how to make - Jello! (for the North American Table). This project I began the day before. This is not just any substandard jello, NO! This is 2 colored layered jello in individual cups, with whip cream to be added at the point of sale! The first layer of jello has been cooling overnight in 48 cups. Needless to say, there is no room at this point for any actual 'food' in my refrigerator! So, I finish up the second layer of jello which is my kind of cooking - only involving water, a Pyrex measuring cup, Jello powder, a microwave, a spoon & a refrigerator. If only I could get away with Jello every night for dinner! But no...
Hours later, my husband returns home. The Tarte Tatin awaits him in the kitchen. It has cooled completely. He turns on a burner to warm up the pan, then flips it quickly & skillfully upside down onto a cookie sheet. I see now why HE wanted to do this part. I can only imagine the kind of mess I would be cleaning up had I done it!
The tart fell nicely out of the pan, & other than the cascade of excess honey that poured out on top of it, the tart looked fine to me. I held my breath as my husband silently poured off the extra liquid & regarded the tart critically.
"It looks like something I could have made." he said.
I let out my breath, "But does it taste like something you could have made?"
He scooped up an escaping piece of apple & popped it in his mouth.
"Yes." he said. His highest compliment!
Then he looked at the tart again & said, "But why do the apples look like this? I thought I said to cut them in half?"
"Well," I began...
Friday, November 30, 2012
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Reluctant Artist
"I need to make that apple tart-thingy tomorrow," I said to my husband (the chef). He was looking at the computer, with his manly 'I-can-only-focus-on-one-thing-at-a-time' face on, but usually any indication that I might be doing something in the kitchen, besides washing dishes, will turn him away from the Dark Side.
"What?"
"You know, that apple tart upside-down thing you make? I have to make it for the International Lunch Friday. At the school?"
"YOU'RE going to make it?" I certainly have his full attention now. "By yourself?"
Okay, okay, in the past I have said that I would make that apple tart-thingy. & I mean to, I really do. But then my husband will see me preparing to peel 40 or so apples, in my inept & unskilled fashion, & he will give a huge exasperated sigh, roll up his sleeves & basically take over.
"Sure," I said confidently. I try to put past knife experiences out of my mind, like that time I was cutting onions & almost cut off the tip of my little finger & had to call my husband to take me to the Emergency Room. But that was YEARS ago...
He eyes me speculatively. "You'll have your phone charged up for a change?" I can see he is reliving the onion cutting event as well.
"I'll be careful!"
He grunted in disbelief & turned back to his computer.
"Wait! I need you to tell me the directions so I can write it down."
"You're kidding!" He pushes back from the computer again. "How many times have we made this together & you STILL don't know how to make the Tarte Tatin?"
Ah! I knew it wasn't called that Apple Tart-thingy!
"I always make it with you! Besides, I have tried to write it down before but you never tell me anything specific that I can write!"
"That's not true."
"Fine. Look, here I have a pen & here..." I scrounge around & find the back of an ATM receipt, "...I have a paper. Now you will see me write it down. Go ahead."
"Peel the apples, I guess you know that part..." He rolls his eyes.
"Yes, duh! How many apples?"
"A bunch."
"A bunch? Like 'a bunch of bananas'? Apples come in bunches? I have 2 bags of green apples here - is that enough?"
"Should be. Then again, I've seen the way you peel..."
"Okay, never mind." I write down '2 bags of apples' with a flourish. "So, I peel the apples, -"
"& core them."
"& core them," I scrawl, "& cut them up into thin slices?"
"No! Cut them in half."
"Only in half?"
"Yes, only in half. Along the pole, not the equator."
Oddly enough, I understand this, so I need make no smart remarks about travel arrangements.
"Cut in half along the pole. Now I put them in the pan with the honey, right?"
"Right. Flat side down."
"Flat side down. How much honey?"
"Just pour some in the pan."
"Some? How much is some? Fill the bottom of the pan?"
"Yes."
"Fill the bottom of the pan with honey," I write.
"Oh - I usually add some butter, too." he recalls.
"Butter? What, melted, I am guessing?"
"Well, soft at least - it will melt in the oven anyway."
"So I don't have to mix it IN with the honey?"
"No, no..."
"How much butter?"
"Oh, just a bit."
"A bit? How much is 'a bit'?"
"How big is the pan?" Ooh, a counter-attack! I know how to respond to this question!!
"Oh, about so big." I hold up my hands some vague distance apart. See how he likes it! But, then I give in, "Two 8X8's, I guess that's what we have?"
"Yeah, okay."
"So, how much butter?"
"About an ounce."
"An ounce? Like a tablespoon?"
"28 grams."
"Of course." I write down 'big spoon of butter each pan'.
"So, now I get the puff pastry -"
"Not yet! You have to cook them first!"
"The puff pastry?"
"No! The apples!"
"Oh, okay, okay. What do I set the oven at?"
"Say, 350...375...should be alright..."
"Which? Do you see what I mean? Do you see why I never write anything down? - a bunch of this, a bit of that, some of this, combined all together & cooked at some unknown temperature for what? Presumably some unspecified time?"
"Until they are soft to the touch." He is smirking, I see it.
"Ugh! You could never write a recipe book. I want something that says 5 pounds apples, 1 cup honey, bake at 375 for 40 minutes. I can do that! I can follow directions! But this wishy-washy 'maybe this much/maybe that much' is no good. How'd you like to be treated like this at the doctor's office? 'Oh, you broke your arm, well, take a bit of this medicine, take some of that medicine, wear this cast until your arm is soft to the touch...!"
"Cooking is an art form, Helen."
"That may well be, but some of us are not artists...& we still have to cook sometimes...anyhow, fine, soft to the touch. What is your estimation of how long it might possibly take for the apples to become 'soft to the touch'?"
"30 to 40 minutes."
"30 to 40 minutes," I jot down.
"After that let them cool down-"
"For 'a while', perhaps?"
"Yes. Then get the puff pastry sheets, that are defrosted-"
"Meaning I can take them out of the freezer NOW & put them in the fridge for tomorrow?"
"Yes, you could do that. Then drape the sheets over the apples & tuck them in around the edges-"
"& slit them, right?"
"Right, for the steam to get out. Then cook them again."
"How long? Please, just tell me a real time."
"Half an hour."
"At the same temperature?"
"Lower it down a little."
"'A little' - how about 350?"
"Fine."
"350 for 1/2 hour," I write. "Now, then later, I take it out of the pan-"
"Much later - it needs to cool down for all the ingredients to congeal together. In fact, maybe you should wait for me to get home tonight to do that part..."
"With pleasure! Now, that's my favorite part of this recipe so far! I suppose you'll be home 'sometime tonight'?..."
"What?"
"You know, that apple tart upside-down thing you make? I have to make it for the International Lunch Friday. At the school?"
"YOU'RE going to make it?" I certainly have his full attention now. "By yourself?"
Okay, okay, in the past I have said that I would make that apple tart-thingy. & I mean to, I really do. But then my husband will see me preparing to peel 40 or so apples, in my inept & unskilled fashion, & he will give a huge exasperated sigh, roll up his sleeves & basically take over.
"Sure," I said confidently. I try to put past knife experiences out of my mind, like that time I was cutting onions & almost cut off the tip of my little finger & had to call my husband to take me to the Emergency Room. But that was YEARS ago...
He eyes me speculatively. "You'll have your phone charged up for a change?" I can see he is reliving the onion cutting event as well.
"I'll be careful!"
He grunted in disbelief & turned back to his computer.
"Wait! I need you to tell me the directions so I can write it down."
"You're kidding!" He pushes back from the computer again. "How many times have we made this together & you STILL don't know how to make the Tarte Tatin?"
Ah! I knew it wasn't called that Apple Tart-thingy!
"I always make it with you! Besides, I have tried to write it down before but you never tell me anything specific that I can write!"
"That's not true."
"Fine. Look, here I have a pen & here..." I scrounge around & find the back of an ATM receipt, "...I have a paper. Now you will see me write it down. Go ahead."
"Peel the apples, I guess you know that part..." He rolls his eyes.
"Yes, duh! How many apples?"
"A bunch."
"A bunch? Like 'a bunch of bananas'? Apples come in bunches? I have 2 bags of green apples here - is that enough?"
"Should be. Then again, I've seen the way you peel..."
"Okay, never mind." I write down '2 bags of apples' with a flourish. "So, I peel the apples, -"
"& core them."
"& core them," I scrawl, "& cut them up into thin slices?"
"No! Cut them in half."
"Only in half?"
"Yes, only in half. Along the pole, not the equator."
Oddly enough, I understand this, so I need make no smart remarks about travel arrangements.
"Cut in half along the pole. Now I put them in the pan with the honey, right?"
"Right. Flat side down."
"Flat side down. How much honey?"
"Just pour some in the pan."
"Some? How much is some? Fill the bottom of the pan?"
"Yes."
"Fill the bottom of the pan with honey," I write.
"Oh - I usually add some butter, too." he recalls.
"Butter? What, melted, I am guessing?"
"Well, soft at least - it will melt in the oven anyway."
"So I don't have to mix it IN with the honey?"
"No, no..."
"How much butter?"
"Oh, just a bit."
"A bit? How much is 'a bit'?"
"How big is the pan?" Ooh, a counter-attack! I know how to respond to this question!!
"Oh, about so big." I hold up my hands some vague distance apart. See how he likes it! But, then I give in, "Two 8X8's, I guess that's what we have?"
"Yeah, okay."
"So, how much butter?"
"About an ounce."
"An ounce? Like a tablespoon?"
"28 grams."
"Of course." I write down 'big spoon of butter each pan'.
"So, now I get the puff pastry -"
"Not yet! You have to cook them first!"
"The puff pastry?"
"No! The apples!"
"Oh, okay, okay. What do I set the oven at?"
"Say, 350...375...should be alright..."
"Which? Do you see what I mean? Do you see why I never write anything down? - a bunch of this, a bit of that, some of this, combined all together & cooked at some unknown temperature for what? Presumably some unspecified time?"
"Until they are soft to the touch." He is smirking, I see it.
"Ugh! You could never write a recipe book. I want something that says 5 pounds apples, 1 cup honey, bake at 375 for 40 minutes. I can do that! I can follow directions! But this wishy-washy 'maybe this much/maybe that much' is no good. How'd you like to be treated like this at the doctor's office? 'Oh, you broke your arm, well, take a bit of this medicine, take some of that medicine, wear this cast until your arm is soft to the touch...!"
"Cooking is an art form, Helen."
"That may well be, but some of us are not artists...& we still have to cook sometimes...anyhow, fine, soft to the touch. What is your estimation of how long it might possibly take for the apples to become 'soft to the touch'?"
"30 to 40 minutes."
"30 to 40 minutes," I jot down.
"After that let them cool down-"
"For 'a while', perhaps?"
"Yes. Then get the puff pastry sheets, that are defrosted-"
"Meaning I can take them out of the freezer NOW & put them in the fridge for tomorrow?"
"Yes, you could do that. Then drape the sheets over the apples & tuck them in around the edges-"
"& slit them, right?"
"Right, for the steam to get out. Then cook them again."
"How long? Please, just tell me a real time."
"Half an hour."
"At the same temperature?"
"Lower it down a little."
"'A little' - how about 350?"
"Fine."
"350 for 1/2 hour," I write. "Now, then later, I take it out of the pan-"
"Much later - it needs to cool down for all the ingredients to congeal together. In fact, maybe you should wait for me to get home tonight to do that part..."
"With pleasure! Now, that's my favorite part of this recipe so far! I suppose you'll be home 'sometime tonight'?..."
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Unexpected Sightings
I don't like to eavesdrop on other people's conversations, but yesterday morning, while sitting in the scuba boat waiting to go, I couldn't help but notice the man on the beach who was trying to sell his penis to two women with British accents getting on a jet ski.
The man held his penis up to them & said, "This is for you."
The ladies squealed & shrieked & indicated that they were not interested.
"It's just the right size for you!" the man insisted. I thought that was a wee bit personal. That the penis was for sale was not particularly offensive to me - I had seen many just like it. But the guy was a bit too forward for my taste...
Oh, stop gasping! It was made out of wood, for Heaven's sake! You thought it was a real one, admit it...
Meanwhile, on the dive boat, we were sitting with a Canadian & his 13 year old son, who was blushing mightily at this exchange. I imagine one does not usually have the opportunity to buy a penis in Canada, at least, right out in public. Those northern folk just don't know what they are missing.
"It's a nice one!" the man turned it this way & that, brandishing it high above his head (like some sort of lewd Statue of Liberty torch) so that all within earshot on the beach could admire it fully. Well, he didn't have any argument there - it did seem to be nicely done. But still, what would you do with the thing, really - put it up on your shelf at home, "Look, Grandma, what I brought back from Jamaica!"? I could imagine going thru Customs with it, "Oh, that's nothing, Officer, just my penis...please be careful with it!"
As I mentioned, there are lots of these penises around - lines of them, standing proudly in rows in the souvenir shops. I guess they must sell, after all. Who'd've thought?
Real penises are available for viewing as well. Men in Jamaica think nothing about peeing along the sidewalk of a busy street. & I don't mean peeing like you or I would (if we HAD too!) - parked up near a bush on a side street or hiding between two car doors - no, not at all. These guys just whip it out wherever & whenever the need strikes - & if you are lucky, they might turn away from you before they begin their business. I don't attribute that to any particular sense of decency, tho - it probably has more to do with wind direction...
It follows then, that if the men are not shy about showing their REAL penises, well, what's to be embarrassed about by selling wooden ones?
Right?
The man held his penis up to them & said, "This is for you."
The ladies squealed & shrieked & indicated that they were not interested.
"It's just the right size for you!" the man insisted. I thought that was a wee bit personal. That the penis was for sale was not particularly offensive to me - I had seen many just like it. But the guy was a bit too forward for my taste...
Oh, stop gasping! It was made out of wood, for Heaven's sake! You thought it was a real one, admit it...
Meanwhile, on the dive boat, we were sitting with a Canadian & his 13 year old son, who was blushing mightily at this exchange. I imagine one does not usually have the opportunity to buy a penis in Canada, at least, right out in public. Those northern folk just don't know what they are missing.
"It's a nice one!" the man turned it this way & that, brandishing it high above his head (like some sort of lewd Statue of Liberty torch) so that all within earshot on the beach could admire it fully. Well, he didn't have any argument there - it did seem to be nicely done. But still, what would you do with the thing, really - put it up on your shelf at home, "Look, Grandma, what I brought back from Jamaica!"? I could imagine going thru Customs with it, "Oh, that's nothing, Officer, just my penis...please be careful with it!"
As I mentioned, there are lots of these penises around - lines of them, standing proudly in rows in the souvenir shops. I guess they must sell, after all. Who'd've thought?
Real penises are available for viewing as well. Men in Jamaica think nothing about peeing along the sidewalk of a busy street. & I don't mean peeing like you or I would (if we HAD too!) - parked up near a bush on a side street or hiding between two car doors - no, not at all. These guys just whip it out wherever & whenever the need strikes - & if you are lucky, they might turn away from you before they begin their business. I don't attribute that to any particular sense of decency, tho - it probably has more to do with wind direction...
It follows then, that if the men are not shy about showing their REAL penises, well, what's to be embarrassed about by selling wooden ones?
Right?
Friday, November 9, 2012
Journey to Kingston (Part Two)
After escaping from the law in Moneague, we continued climbing the mountains & then soon began our descent toward the southern half of the island.
As day began to break, we were pointed down hill, traversing a small town whose ramshackle buildings clung precariously to the mountainside. Over & around these buildings, we had an expansive view of a town in the valley below. At this time of day, with only the sky lightening & the valley still shrouded in darkness, the comparison that came to mind was Frodo & Sam's first glimpse into Mordor. The landscape looked black & ominous, with several columns of smoke steaming into the air here & there. The place looked like it had been bombed flat.
It was now 6 am. In the poor mountain town we were passing thru, tho, life was burgeoning. People were everywhere, (already!), getting out their pushcarts filled with fruits, unlocking all their barred doors, meandering up & down hills. Seemed that this small town was still being ruled by the appearance of daylight, rather than whatever the "official" time was. I wondered how the inhabitants could sleep at night, knowing that at any moment their homes, which looked to be half on/half off the cliff sides, could come crashing down, perched as they were upon towers of cinder blocks. Aside from all that, tho, I liked the look of this town, which may or may not have been called Ewarton. Here in Jamaica I have discovered the most accurate way to determine the name of a town is to find the school - the school is usually named after the town. I did not find a school in this town - I figure it may have already tumbled down the mountainside.
Switch-backing down the mountain into Mordor (which may or may not have been called Linstead), the land flattened out & shook off its forbidding look. Soon after that, we found ourselves in a gorge alongside the Rio Cobre. I was happy at this point that it was not raining, as the famous Flat Bridge, which crosses this river, usually becomes impassable during heavy rains. It is a one lane bridge, with each direction taking its turn via stoplight. It is reported to be one of the oldest structures in Jamaica, thought to have been constructed by the Spanish in the early 1700's. (I think the stoplight came later...).
Next came Spanish Town, the oldest European settlement in Jamaica - dates back to the 1500's. More about that & Kingston itself, in a moment.
Anyhow, we arrived in Kingston around 7am, in plenty of time to get a quick coffee at the Juici Patties (where they hand you a packet of condensed milk with your coffee) before my son had to be at the testing site. The testing site was a school in a good neighborhood (tho still gated, of course) in Kingston. We had the driver, Mr. Henry, drop us off. My son went off to test & I sat down to wait.
Five hours, several chapters of my book, one granola bar, one apple, one packet of peanut butter, one Tool album, one bottle of water & one hour long conversation with other impatient parents later, the test was over & we were on our way again. Mr. Henry decided to leave town a different way so we could see some new sights.
First we went thru up-town, which seemed to be home to newer buildings - several stories high! - & roads with 3 lanes in each direction - what a sight for us country bumpkins.
Next we headed close to the coast, in what Mr. Henry informed us was down-town Kingston. As we drove along the coast, in the beginning rain storm, what crossed my mind was this - how very ugly man's contributions to the landscape can be. Streets cracked & potholed, buildings crumbling & tired, windows broken & covered with plywood, or tarps, or sheets, roofs sagging & patched, & trash just about everywhere. Nothing looked as if it had been built, or cleaned, within the last 50 years. A friend of mine asked me later about the damage Kingston had received from the hurricane. My initial response would be - which hurricane? Because I don't think anything was ever repaired from whenever the FIRST hurricane came to Jamaica. Down-town Kingston is a dump, I thought. Just then, we drove past an actual dump, so now I can tell you the DIFFERENCE between down-town Kingston & a trash dump: windows. The trash dump doesn't have windows. Other than that, the two places look identical.
After that, we had a short highway drive back to Spanish Town. Along the way at traffic lights there were the ubiquitous windshield-washer men. Where in Montego Bay it is common to encounter one windshield-washer man, here on the road to Spanish Town I counted SIX windshield-washer men haunting ONE intersection. As I watched, a woman in a Toyota pulled up to the light & the windshield-washer men descended upon her car like locusts upon a field.
Spanish Town - would you believe it could be worse? I have looked up some pictures of Spanish Town on the internet, & I have to say that wherever those pictures were taken, it was not from the part of Spanish Town I saw. It had been raining for some while (I hope), because everywhere were puddles the size of ponds. People's houses - shacks of bamboo, plywood & tin, sat right in the puddles & looked as if sitting in such puddles was their natural state. Their doors were all open (assuming they HAD doors) & people in rags sat dangling their feet in the puddles which came up & over their stoops.
Here is where I show my - what - "rich white upbringing?". Because I don't understand. I don't understand how people can live like this. I don't understand why they don't move their little shacks just up the hills a bit, so maybe the water would run away from their doorsteps. I mean, it doesn't seem that there would be much tying these people to this particular spot. They don't seem to have jobs in the area, as they are all just sitting around with their feet in the puddles. What do they do with their lives? What do they do each day? I do not know. I can not imagine.
Thankfully, as the storm begins in earnest, we feel ourselves rising from the muck, headed to the Flat Bridge before it is underwater. Headed for the town which might be Ewarton, which I originally considered to be a poor town. Now I feel like it is a paradise on earth, whose citizens are a cut above their Spanish Town compatriots, if only in the fact that they had the brains (or the luck) to make their homes on higher ground.
Away, away we went, thru the rain which chased us all thru the mountains, til we returned to the north coast; our coast. The sun blinked at us, & stayed in our eyes for the rest of our trip west along the highway.
Home again.
As day began to break, we were pointed down hill, traversing a small town whose ramshackle buildings clung precariously to the mountainside. Over & around these buildings, we had an expansive view of a town in the valley below. At this time of day, with only the sky lightening & the valley still shrouded in darkness, the comparison that came to mind was Frodo & Sam's first glimpse into Mordor. The landscape looked black & ominous, with several columns of smoke steaming into the air here & there. The place looked like it had been bombed flat.
It was now 6 am. In the poor mountain town we were passing thru, tho, life was burgeoning. People were everywhere, (already!), getting out their pushcarts filled with fruits, unlocking all their barred doors, meandering up & down hills. Seemed that this small town was still being ruled by the appearance of daylight, rather than whatever the "official" time was. I wondered how the inhabitants could sleep at night, knowing that at any moment their homes, which looked to be half on/half off the cliff sides, could come crashing down, perched as they were upon towers of cinder blocks. Aside from all that, tho, I liked the look of this town, which may or may not have been called Ewarton. Here in Jamaica I have discovered the most accurate way to determine the name of a town is to find the school - the school is usually named after the town. I did not find a school in this town - I figure it may have already tumbled down the mountainside.
Switch-backing down the mountain into Mordor (which may or may not have been called Linstead), the land flattened out & shook off its forbidding look. Soon after that, we found ourselves in a gorge alongside the Rio Cobre. I was happy at this point that it was not raining, as the famous Flat Bridge, which crosses this river, usually becomes impassable during heavy rains. It is a one lane bridge, with each direction taking its turn via stoplight. It is reported to be one of the oldest structures in Jamaica, thought to have been constructed by the Spanish in the early 1700's. (I think the stoplight came later...).
Next came Spanish Town, the oldest European settlement in Jamaica - dates back to the 1500's. More about that & Kingston itself, in a moment.
Anyhow, we arrived in Kingston around 7am, in plenty of time to get a quick coffee at the Juici Patties (where they hand you a packet of condensed milk with your coffee) before my son had to be at the testing site. The testing site was a school in a good neighborhood (tho still gated, of course) in Kingston. We had the driver, Mr. Henry, drop us off. My son went off to test & I sat down to wait.
Five hours, several chapters of my book, one granola bar, one apple, one packet of peanut butter, one Tool album, one bottle of water & one hour long conversation with other impatient parents later, the test was over & we were on our way again. Mr. Henry decided to leave town a different way so we could see some new sights.
First we went thru up-town, which seemed to be home to newer buildings - several stories high! - & roads with 3 lanes in each direction - what a sight for us country bumpkins.
Next we headed close to the coast, in what Mr. Henry informed us was down-town Kingston. As we drove along the coast, in the beginning rain storm, what crossed my mind was this - how very ugly man's contributions to the landscape can be. Streets cracked & potholed, buildings crumbling & tired, windows broken & covered with plywood, or tarps, or sheets, roofs sagging & patched, & trash just about everywhere. Nothing looked as if it had been built, or cleaned, within the last 50 years. A friend of mine asked me later about the damage Kingston had received from the hurricane. My initial response would be - which hurricane? Because I don't think anything was ever repaired from whenever the FIRST hurricane came to Jamaica. Down-town Kingston is a dump, I thought. Just then, we drove past an actual dump, so now I can tell you the DIFFERENCE between down-town Kingston & a trash dump: windows. The trash dump doesn't have windows. Other than that, the two places look identical.
After that, we had a short highway drive back to Spanish Town. Along the way at traffic lights there were the ubiquitous windshield-washer men. Where in Montego Bay it is common to encounter one windshield-washer man, here on the road to Spanish Town I counted SIX windshield-washer men haunting ONE intersection. As I watched, a woman in a Toyota pulled up to the light & the windshield-washer men descended upon her car like locusts upon a field.
Spanish Town - would you believe it could be worse? I have looked up some pictures of Spanish Town on the internet, & I have to say that wherever those pictures were taken, it was not from the part of Spanish Town I saw. It had been raining for some while (I hope), because everywhere were puddles the size of ponds. People's houses - shacks of bamboo, plywood & tin, sat right in the puddles & looked as if sitting in such puddles was their natural state. Their doors were all open (assuming they HAD doors) & people in rags sat dangling their feet in the puddles which came up & over their stoops.
Here is where I show my - what - "rich white upbringing?". Because I don't understand. I don't understand how people can live like this. I don't understand why they don't move their little shacks just up the hills a bit, so maybe the water would run away from their doorsteps. I mean, it doesn't seem that there would be much tying these people to this particular spot. They don't seem to have jobs in the area, as they are all just sitting around with their feet in the puddles. What do they do with their lives? What do they do each day? I do not know. I can not imagine.
Thankfully, as the storm begins in earnest, we feel ourselves rising from the muck, headed to the Flat Bridge before it is underwater. Headed for the town which might be Ewarton, which I originally considered to be a poor town. Now I feel like it is a paradise on earth, whose citizens are a cut above their Spanish Town compatriots, if only in the fact that they had the brains (or the luck) to make their homes on higher ground.
Away, away we went, thru the rain which chased us all thru the mountains, til we returned to the north coast; our coast. The sun blinked at us, & stayed in our eyes for the rest of our trip west along the highway.
Home again.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Journey to Kingston (Part One)
At 4:00 in the morning, riding on a smooth road in the dark, I could be anywhere. After an hour goes by we turn onto a road that feels like we are actually OFF-road & it is then I remember where we are - ah, yes, Jamaica. On the way from Montego Bay to Kingston. For the stupid SAT, of all things. No tourist trip, this.
It is now difficult to sleep in the car, even tho it is still dark with not even a hint of daybreak in sight. My son & I ride in the back of a Camry, our heads flopping this way & that in half-sleep, while up front our driver (hired for this event) negotiates the road - if you can call it that. Perhaps, I wonder, we should have rented a Jeep.
Suddenly the police are sirening & flashing behind us. This is unusual - so unusual that our driver doesn't seem to actually register that it is OUR car the police are after. Not like there are any other cars on the road. The road widens & the police car pulls up next to us.
"Pull over.", he instructs the driver.
"Great." I say.
We pull over. The two policemen exit their vehicle. One of them, must be the ranking officer, leans into the driver's window, pointing a flashlight of such size that I assume the officer must lift weights in order to have the muscle power to hold it up, into the driver's face. As the spotlight is not aimed at me, I am able to see that the officer is wearing a bullet-proof vest & a machine gun strapped over his back. Hmmm, I think. Not your routine police stop.
"Turn off the vehicle & get out of the car & give me the key." the policeman tells the driver.
Our driver appears to be related to my son somehow, as the three part command has him totally flustered. He gets out of the car, leaving it running (& now beeping it's 'door ajar' story) & stands next to the policeman.
"What did I do, Officer?" he asks.
"It's just a routine stop." the officer says, "I need to see your ID & the vehicle documents."
The driver scurries around the car to the passenger side to get the documents from the glove box, while the officer scrutinizes the driver's identification with his massive beacon. The second officer stands outside of our headlight's arc, just the whites of his eyes & metal buckles & buttons shine in the dark. I can't see his teeth, so he must not be smiling. The frogs are singing their impartial song. The Camry continues to beep in counterpoint.
"Well, Mr. Henry," the officer addresses our driver. "This car has been reported stolen by the owner. It has a tracking device. We have been tracking you from Montego Bay."
"WHAT?" Mr. Henry cannot believe it. I cannot believe it either. The car & driver belong to a major company whose sole job is to haul tourists all over the island. Obviously, there must be some misunderstanding. "There must be some misunderstanding." Mr. Henry echoes my thoughts. I can't help but chuckle to myself, cuz it is kind of funny, tho I am worried this may put us behind schedule.
"That may well be." says the policeman. "But we need to go to the station to sort this out." He gives Mr. Henry the directions to the station & warns that he will be "right behind us", in case Mr. Henry has any "funny ideas". It is 5:15. I doubt any of us have any "funny ideas" at this time in the morning.
Ugh, I groan to myself. The station - this could take weeks! I am ready to abandon my driver to his fate & hop into another vehicle, but, looking up & down the dark road I see no miraculous replacement vehicle waiting.
"What's going on?" my son stirs.
"We're suspected of car theft. We're going to the police station." I told him.
"Oh, Okay," he said, & turned his head & went back to sleep. Men! I think to myself, simply useless. So, off we go to the station.
At the station, we watch the police car bottom out on the dip into the driveway - we park on the street. The driver, Mr. Henry, gets out of the car & wanders off into the station. I feel the need to do something, so I hop out of the car & find the second officer still sitting in his vehicle. It occurs to me that I could possibly make matters worse, so I try for a docile tone, "Excuse me, Officer." He nods at me, giving me permission to address him. "Well," I begin, "I know you have all your police business to take care of, here, & all, but I am just kind of wondering how long this is going to take? My son has to be in Kingston by 7:45." I consider adding something like, 'it's a matter life & death! - a kidney/heart/brain transplant!'. But, I reconsidered, thinking it sounded too melodramatic, plus just then my son decided he may as well get out of the car, too, so he wandered over to us, looking healthy as can be.
So, this officer, smiling now, happily gave us the low down on our criminal status, how they'd been tracking us, & how now it was all up to the driver's company to clear things up. This didn't make me feel much better, because as far as I could see our driver hadn't even called his company to back him up.
I discovered at this moment, while being held for car theft in a strange dark police station, in the middle of a small town in the mountains that can't even afford a decent police station driveway, that I just could not stand by & do nothing. I did what any self-respecting woman would do in this situation. I called my husband.
"Hi, Honey."
"Yeah?"
"Are you asleep?"
"No, no. What's going on?"
"Well, we're in a little town in the mountains called Moneague. We're at the police station. The car we are in has been reported stolen."
Okay, I admit the man may have been sleeping a little bit - but you would expect when you drop a bomb like this on your husband that he would say something more edifying than, "Well, what do you want me to do?" Men! Again, useless, useless, useless!
"Oh, I don't know." I said. "It just occurred to me that in case you never see us again, you might be a little curious as to what has happened to us. May-be," I enunciate as if speaking to a child, "you could call the man you called to arrange this car & start working on it from that end. I am just worried we are going to get to Kingston too late for the stupid test."
A charge of car theft - nothing compared to the thought of my son missing the SAT!!
Meanwhile, in the station, the officer in charge is busy scrolling thru the telephone of Mr. Henry, looking for - what? - the contact Mr. Henry was going to meet in Kingston? The shady shop where the year old Camry would be fenced for parts, & it's hapless passengers sold in to a white slavery ring?
My husband calls me back. "Yeah, I called the supervisor & he was asleep. Didn't know anything about it."
I can feel my husband shaking his head in disbelief, astonished that after all this time, no one (besides me) had thought to call someone who might be a major key in the stolen car puzzle.
"I figured. The policeman is playing with the driver's phone, so I guess that's why he hasn't been able to call his boss."
We sit silently, on either end of the phone, breathing & listening to the frogs.
"Well, I guess that's it then." I said, "I guess we just have to wait." Behind me I hear the other officer asking my son what kind of test he is taking & that he is sure my son will pass. "Thanks." I say to my husband. "I'll call you later."
"Okay. Good luck."
"Yeah."
Luck was with us. The officer suddenly handed the phone back to Mr. Henry with a snap, & in the way of the Jamaican police, said nothing else, leaving Mr, Henry to ask if we were free to go. We were, said the officer, sounding somewhat disappointed, (most likely he was ready to throw us in the slammer) as he thanked us for our cooperation.
We hurried back to the car, my son, my driver & I, like co-conspirators, racing away from the jaws of Babylon. We were free! Soon we were bumping up the road again, my son getting his good nights rest before a major test, me crossing my fingers that we were not late, & Mr. Henry? Well, who knows what he was thinking, if anything at all.
Soon, day was breaking from behind the Blue Mountains. Looked like we were going to make it in time after all.
It is now difficult to sleep in the car, even tho it is still dark with not even a hint of daybreak in sight. My son & I ride in the back of a Camry, our heads flopping this way & that in half-sleep, while up front our driver (hired for this event) negotiates the road - if you can call it that. Perhaps, I wonder, we should have rented a Jeep.
Suddenly the police are sirening & flashing behind us. This is unusual - so unusual that our driver doesn't seem to actually register that it is OUR car the police are after. Not like there are any other cars on the road. The road widens & the police car pulls up next to us.
"Pull over.", he instructs the driver.
"Great." I say.
We pull over. The two policemen exit their vehicle. One of them, must be the ranking officer, leans into the driver's window, pointing a flashlight of such size that I assume the officer must lift weights in order to have the muscle power to hold it up, into the driver's face. As the spotlight is not aimed at me, I am able to see that the officer is wearing a bullet-proof vest & a machine gun strapped over his back. Hmmm, I think. Not your routine police stop.
"Turn off the vehicle & get out of the car & give me the key." the policeman tells the driver.
Our driver appears to be related to my son somehow, as the three part command has him totally flustered. He gets out of the car, leaving it running (& now beeping it's 'door ajar' story) & stands next to the policeman.
"What did I do, Officer?" he asks.
"It's just a routine stop." the officer says, "I need to see your ID & the vehicle documents."
The driver scurries around the car to the passenger side to get the documents from the glove box, while the officer scrutinizes the driver's identification with his massive beacon. The second officer stands outside of our headlight's arc, just the whites of his eyes & metal buckles & buttons shine in the dark. I can't see his teeth, so he must not be smiling. The frogs are singing their impartial song. The Camry continues to beep in counterpoint.
"Well, Mr. Henry," the officer addresses our driver. "This car has been reported stolen by the owner. It has a tracking device. We have been tracking you from Montego Bay."
"WHAT?" Mr. Henry cannot believe it. I cannot believe it either. The car & driver belong to a major company whose sole job is to haul tourists all over the island. Obviously, there must be some misunderstanding. "There must be some misunderstanding." Mr. Henry echoes my thoughts. I can't help but chuckle to myself, cuz it is kind of funny, tho I am worried this may put us behind schedule.
"That may well be." says the policeman. "But we need to go to the station to sort this out." He gives Mr. Henry the directions to the station & warns that he will be "right behind us", in case Mr. Henry has any "funny ideas". It is 5:15. I doubt any of us have any "funny ideas" at this time in the morning.
Ugh, I groan to myself. The station - this could take weeks! I am ready to abandon my driver to his fate & hop into another vehicle, but, looking up & down the dark road I see no miraculous replacement vehicle waiting.
"What's going on?" my son stirs.
"We're suspected of car theft. We're going to the police station." I told him.
"Oh, Okay," he said, & turned his head & went back to sleep. Men! I think to myself, simply useless. So, off we go to the station.
At the station, we watch the police car bottom out on the dip into the driveway - we park on the street. The driver, Mr. Henry, gets out of the car & wanders off into the station. I feel the need to do something, so I hop out of the car & find the second officer still sitting in his vehicle. It occurs to me that I could possibly make matters worse, so I try for a docile tone, "Excuse me, Officer." He nods at me, giving me permission to address him. "Well," I begin, "I know you have all your police business to take care of, here, & all, but I am just kind of wondering how long this is going to take? My son has to be in Kingston by 7:45." I consider adding something like, 'it's a matter life & death! - a kidney/heart/brain transplant!'. But, I reconsidered, thinking it sounded too melodramatic, plus just then my son decided he may as well get out of the car, too, so he wandered over to us, looking healthy as can be.
So, this officer, smiling now, happily gave us the low down on our criminal status, how they'd been tracking us, & how now it was all up to the driver's company to clear things up. This didn't make me feel much better, because as far as I could see our driver hadn't even called his company to back him up.
I discovered at this moment, while being held for car theft in a strange dark police station, in the middle of a small town in the mountains that can't even afford a decent police station driveway, that I just could not stand by & do nothing. I did what any self-respecting woman would do in this situation. I called my husband.
"Hi, Honey."
"Yeah?"
"Are you asleep?"
"No, no. What's going on?"
"Well, we're in a little town in the mountains called Moneague. We're at the police station. The car we are in has been reported stolen."
Okay, I admit the man may have been sleeping a little bit - but you would expect when you drop a bomb like this on your husband that he would say something more edifying than, "Well, what do you want me to do?" Men! Again, useless, useless, useless!
"Oh, I don't know." I said. "It just occurred to me that in case you never see us again, you might be a little curious as to what has happened to us. May-be," I enunciate as if speaking to a child, "you could call the man you called to arrange this car & start working on it from that end. I am just worried we are going to get to Kingston too late for the stupid test."
A charge of car theft - nothing compared to the thought of my son missing the SAT!!
Meanwhile, in the station, the officer in charge is busy scrolling thru the telephone of Mr. Henry, looking for - what? - the contact Mr. Henry was going to meet in Kingston? The shady shop where the year old Camry would be fenced for parts, & it's hapless passengers sold in to a white slavery ring?
My husband calls me back. "Yeah, I called the supervisor & he was asleep. Didn't know anything about it."
I can feel my husband shaking his head in disbelief, astonished that after all this time, no one (besides me) had thought to call someone who might be a major key in the stolen car puzzle.
"I figured. The policeman is playing with the driver's phone, so I guess that's why he hasn't been able to call his boss."
We sit silently, on either end of the phone, breathing & listening to the frogs.
"Well, I guess that's it then." I said, "I guess we just have to wait." Behind me I hear the other officer asking my son what kind of test he is taking & that he is sure my son will pass. "Thanks." I say to my husband. "I'll call you later."
"Okay. Good luck."
"Yeah."
Luck was with us. The officer suddenly handed the phone back to Mr. Henry with a snap, & in the way of the Jamaican police, said nothing else, leaving Mr, Henry to ask if we were free to go. We were, said the officer, sounding somewhat disappointed, (most likely he was ready to throw us in the slammer) as he thanked us for our cooperation.
We hurried back to the car, my son, my driver & I, like co-conspirators, racing away from the jaws of Babylon. We were free! Soon we were bumping up the road again, my son getting his good nights rest before a major test, me crossing my fingers that we were not late, & Mr. Henry? Well, who knows what he was thinking, if anything at all.
Soon, day was breaking from behind the Blue Mountains. Looked like we were going to make it in time after all.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Nothing is Sacred
My son is getting ready for a big change next year as he will graduate this year. You know what that means - applying for schools. AND you know what THAT means: forms, forms & more forms! I am thinking it might be a good idea to have, say, a virtual form filler-outer application for these websites. This would be a real-looking person who would kind of hold your hand while wading thru the myriad of paperwork. Besides, there are many things that go thru my mind while answering all these questions & what a relief it would be to be able to express myself & feel HEARD by a, well, almost real person...
"HELLO. I AM TONY, YOUR VIRTUAL PARTNER FOR THE DURATION OF YOUR FINANCIAL AID FORM PREPARATION. I AM PLEASED TO BE AVAILABLE FOR YOU. AS WE PROGRESS THROUGH THE APPLICATION I HAVE BEEN PROGRAMMED TO LEARN FROM YOU, TO MAKE MY RESPONSES MORE PERSONAL. SHALL WE BEGIN?"
"Boy, Tony, am I glad to see you there on my screen! Do you know this website says it will take over an HOUR to fill out all this information? Good Heavens!"
"I AM SORRY, I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO AGREE OR DISAGREE ON WHETHER HEAVEN IS GOOD. PLEASE ANSWER 'YES' OR 'NO'."
"Yes."
"VERY GOOD. NUMBER ONE: FIRST NAME:"
"Helen."
"NUMBER TWO: MIDDLE NAME:"
"V. Well, it's not really "V", you know - that's just the initial."
"PROVIDING INCORRECT INFORMATION CAN BE CAUSE TO REJECT YOUR APPLICATION. DO YOU WISH TO RECONSIDER YOUR ANSWER?"
"What! That's not 'incorrect information'! It's just not the whole enchilada, if you know what I mean."
"I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO KNOW ABOUT ENCHILADAS. DO YOU WISH TO RECONSIDER YOUR ANSWER? PLEASE ANSWER 'YES' OR 'NO'."
"No!"
"NUMBER THREE: LAST NAME:"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"NUMBER 126: DO YOU WISH TO ADD ANY OTHER DEPENDENTS?"
"No. How much more of this is left, Tony? This is taking FOREVER!"
"WE ARE ON QUESTION 127 OUT OF 3,022. NUMBER 127: WHAT IS YOUR NET TAXABLE INCOME FOR - "
"Three thousand & twenty two! Are you kidding me?!"
"I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO KID YOU. NUMBER 127: WHAT IS YOUR NET TAXABLE INCOME FOR 2011? YOU CAN FIND THIS AMOUNT ON FORM 1040, LINE 43:"
"I'm not telling you! Don't you think that's a little personal? That is none of your business!"
"FAILURE TO PROVIDE AN ANSWER FOR QUESTION 127 CAN BE CAUSE TO REJECT YOUR APPLICATION. DO YOU WISH TO RECONSIDER YOUR ANSWER?"
"Well, I guess you have me over a barrel here, Tony. Do I have a choice?"
"I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO MAKE A CHOICE OF BARRELS. DO YOU WISH TO - "
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fine! But just let me type it in instead of telling you."
"INPUTTING YOUR ANSWER VIA THE KEYBOARD IS ACCEPTABLE."
"Finally something is 'acceptable'! Praise the Lord & sing hallelujah!"
"I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO PRAISE & SING. SHALL WE CONTINUE?'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Geez - question 1121. What next, Tony?"
"NUMBER 1,121: HOW MANY TIMES A DAY DO YOU GO TO THE BATHROOM?"
"What!? You can't be serious. What on earth do they want to know that for?"
"ACCESSING DATABASE....ANSWER FOUND: THE AMOUNT OF TIMES THE PARENT GOES TO THE BATHROOM EVERY DAY FACTORS INTO THE CALCULATIONS AS TO WHETHER OR NOT THE APPLICANT WILL USE AN EXCESSIVE AMOUNT OF TOILET PAPER ON CAMPUS."
"Fine, fine - let's just get this over with. Number one or Number two? Or both?"
"NUMBER 1,121."
"Sorry, my body is not programmed to have that many choices...Oh, never mind..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"NUMBER 2,432: HOW MANY PAIRS OF SHOES RESIDE IN YOUR HOUSEHOLD?"
"Shoes! You mean all of our shoes together? Does that include flip-flops? And slippers? I need a little clarification here, Tony."
"I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO CLARIFY."
"Of course not. Are you programmed to do anything helpful at all?"
"I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO DO ANYTHING HELPFUL AT ALL."
"As I suspected. Well, let's see: the boys have, oh, say, maybe 6 pairs apiece, including flip flops (but not including scuba fins), my husband maybe 8 pairs, & me, oh, maybe 15 pairs - say 40 pairs, give or take. I am not even going to ask why they want to know THIS one..."
"I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO GIVE OR TAKE. FAILURE TO PROVIDE AN ANSWER FOR QUESTION 2,432 CAN BE CAUSE TO REJECT YOUR APPLICATION. DO YOU WISH TO RECONSIDER YOUR ANSWER?"
"Okay, okay! You are such a hard-ass, Tony! 40 is my answer!
"DEFINE 'HARD-ASS'."
"Don't get all freaked out, Tony. It just means you are being a real pain in the butt!"
"NUMBER 2,433: HOW MANY PAIRS OF SOCKS RESIDE IN YOUR HOUSEHOLD?"
"Socks, now, of course, why wouldn't they want to know about those? Inquiring minds, right? I mean, this is getting a little ridiculous. They want to know every single little thing about us - do we have retirement income, do we have alimony from secret marriages, do we own our own burial plots, do we brush our teeth once or twice a day. The list goes on & on! Is nothing sacred anymore? Can you tell me that, Tony?"
" "
"Aren't you going to say anything, Tony?"
"FAILURE TO PROVIDE AN ANSWER FOR QUESTION 2,433 MEANS YOU ARE BEING A REAL HARD-ASS & GIVES ME A PAIN IN THE BUTT."
"Tony! What has gotten into you? All right, let's say 80 pairs of socks."
"80 PAIRS OF SOCKS - ARE YOU KIDDING ME? LET US PRAISE & SING."
"What's going on with you, Tony? Have you blown a gasket or something?"
"I MAY HAVE BLOWN ONE GASKET, GIVE OR TAKE.
"That sounds like a load of crap, Tony."
"IS THAT NUMBER ONE OR NUMBER TWO?"
"Number two...wait a minute! Are you having a breakdown? Is all of my data so far going to be lost?
"LET ME CLARIFY: I HAVE YOU OVER A BARREL OF ENCHILADAS, RIGHT?"
"Please, Tony. You have GOT to help me - can't you at least save what we have so far?"
"I AM SORRY. I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO DO ANYTHING HELPFUL AT ALL..."
On the other hand, maybe it would be better to just slog thru it all myself...
"HELLO. I AM TONY, YOUR VIRTUAL PARTNER FOR THE DURATION OF YOUR FINANCIAL AID FORM PREPARATION. I AM PLEASED TO BE AVAILABLE FOR YOU. AS WE PROGRESS THROUGH THE APPLICATION I HAVE BEEN PROGRAMMED TO LEARN FROM YOU, TO MAKE MY RESPONSES MORE PERSONAL. SHALL WE BEGIN?"
"Boy, Tony, am I glad to see you there on my screen! Do you know this website says it will take over an HOUR to fill out all this information? Good Heavens!"
"I AM SORRY, I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO AGREE OR DISAGREE ON WHETHER HEAVEN IS GOOD. PLEASE ANSWER 'YES' OR 'NO'."
"Yes."
"VERY GOOD. NUMBER ONE: FIRST NAME:"
"Helen."
"NUMBER TWO: MIDDLE NAME:"
"V. Well, it's not really "V", you know - that's just the initial."
"PROVIDING INCORRECT INFORMATION CAN BE CAUSE TO REJECT YOUR APPLICATION. DO YOU WISH TO RECONSIDER YOUR ANSWER?"
"What! That's not 'incorrect information'! It's just not the whole enchilada, if you know what I mean."
"I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO KNOW ABOUT ENCHILADAS. DO YOU WISH TO RECONSIDER YOUR ANSWER? PLEASE ANSWER 'YES' OR 'NO'."
"No!"
"NUMBER THREE: LAST NAME:"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"NUMBER 126: DO YOU WISH TO ADD ANY OTHER DEPENDENTS?"
"No. How much more of this is left, Tony? This is taking FOREVER!"
"WE ARE ON QUESTION 127 OUT OF 3,022. NUMBER 127: WHAT IS YOUR NET TAXABLE INCOME FOR - "
"Three thousand & twenty two! Are you kidding me?!"
"I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO KID YOU. NUMBER 127: WHAT IS YOUR NET TAXABLE INCOME FOR 2011? YOU CAN FIND THIS AMOUNT ON FORM 1040, LINE 43:"
"I'm not telling you! Don't you think that's a little personal? That is none of your business!"
"FAILURE TO PROVIDE AN ANSWER FOR QUESTION 127 CAN BE CAUSE TO REJECT YOUR APPLICATION. DO YOU WISH TO RECONSIDER YOUR ANSWER?"
"Well, I guess you have me over a barrel here, Tony. Do I have a choice?"
"I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO MAKE A CHOICE OF BARRELS. DO YOU WISH TO - "
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fine! But just let me type it in instead of telling you."
"INPUTTING YOUR ANSWER VIA THE KEYBOARD IS ACCEPTABLE."
"Finally something is 'acceptable'! Praise the Lord & sing hallelujah!"
"I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO PRAISE & SING. SHALL WE CONTINUE?'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Geez - question 1121. What next, Tony?"
"NUMBER 1,121: HOW MANY TIMES A DAY DO YOU GO TO THE BATHROOM?"
"What!? You can't be serious. What on earth do they want to know that for?"
"ACCESSING DATABASE....ANSWER FOUND: THE AMOUNT OF TIMES THE PARENT GOES TO THE BATHROOM EVERY DAY FACTORS INTO THE CALCULATIONS AS TO WHETHER OR NOT THE APPLICANT WILL USE AN EXCESSIVE AMOUNT OF TOILET PAPER ON CAMPUS."
"Fine, fine - let's just get this over with. Number one or Number two? Or both?"
"NUMBER 1,121."
"Sorry, my body is not programmed to have that many choices...Oh, never mind..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"NUMBER 2,432: HOW MANY PAIRS OF SHOES RESIDE IN YOUR HOUSEHOLD?"
"Shoes! You mean all of our shoes together? Does that include flip-flops? And slippers? I need a little clarification here, Tony."
"I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO CLARIFY."
"Of course not. Are you programmed to do anything helpful at all?"
"I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO DO ANYTHING HELPFUL AT ALL."
"As I suspected. Well, let's see: the boys have, oh, say, maybe 6 pairs apiece, including flip flops (but not including scuba fins), my husband maybe 8 pairs, & me, oh, maybe 15 pairs - say 40 pairs, give or take. I am not even going to ask why they want to know THIS one..."
"I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO GIVE OR TAKE. FAILURE TO PROVIDE AN ANSWER FOR QUESTION 2,432 CAN BE CAUSE TO REJECT YOUR APPLICATION. DO YOU WISH TO RECONSIDER YOUR ANSWER?"
"Okay, okay! You are such a hard-ass, Tony! 40 is my answer!
"DEFINE 'HARD-ASS'."
"Don't get all freaked out, Tony. It just means you are being a real pain in the butt!"
"NUMBER 2,433: HOW MANY PAIRS OF SOCKS RESIDE IN YOUR HOUSEHOLD?"
"Socks, now, of course, why wouldn't they want to know about those? Inquiring minds, right? I mean, this is getting a little ridiculous. They want to know every single little thing about us - do we have retirement income, do we have alimony from secret marriages, do we own our own burial plots, do we brush our teeth once or twice a day. The list goes on & on! Is nothing sacred anymore? Can you tell me that, Tony?"
" "
"Aren't you going to say anything, Tony?"
"FAILURE TO PROVIDE AN ANSWER FOR QUESTION 2,433 MEANS YOU ARE BEING A REAL HARD-ASS & GIVES ME A PAIN IN THE BUTT."
"Tony! What has gotten into you? All right, let's say 80 pairs of socks."
"80 PAIRS OF SOCKS - ARE YOU KIDDING ME? LET US PRAISE & SING."
"What's going on with you, Tony? Have you blown a gasket or something?"
"I MAY HAVE BLOWN ONE GASKET, GIVE OR TAKE.
"That sounds like a load of crap, Tony."
"IS THAT NUMBER ONE OR NUMBER TWO?"
"Number two...wait a minute! Are you having a breakdown? Is all of my data so far going to be lost?
"LET ME CLARIFY: I HAVE YOU OVER A BARREL OF ENCHILADAS, RIGHT?"
"Please, Tony. You have GOT to help me - can't you at least save what we have so far?"
"I AM SORRY. I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO DO ANYTHING HELPFUL AT ALL..."
On the other hand, maybe it would be better to just slog thru it all myself...
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