My hands are hurting from being repeatedly sat upon in vain efforts to conceal them from curious onlookers. I make an effort to appear clean and scrubbed, if not reasonably glamourous but venture beyond my wrists - and weep! As I type, I glimpse my hands out of the corner of my eye. Scratches from battling the rose bush in the front garden, a plaster on the finger where the cat dug in with her claws when I rescued my knitting from her playful grasp, dry skin from washing dishes, a scar on my thumb from the screwdriver which slipped and as for my fingernails, I wash my hands of them!
I feel like Scarlett in that scene where Rhett grabs her hand and grins wickedly, frankly not fooled-a-damn, my deah, by her attempt to present herself as a Lady of Leisure. Try, for example, to get through a whole job interview with your butt firmly placed on the offending instruments of God's work. It's bad enough struggling to resist the impulse to scratch those impertinent itches which niggle in all sorts of awkward places but there is no way a contract can be signed with one's teeth or toes without attracting unfavourable attention. Unless the job opening is for an armless artist.
Fortunately for me, an almost illegible signature hastily scribbled before my hand returns to its sanctuary has not lost me a contract yet. Neither have my wounded paws (never mind my wounded and scabby knees!) unduly offended any of my students as I point at the blackboard and gesticulate wildly in my attempts to illustrate various aspects of the English language. This is most likely due to the fact that they are so dizzy from the speed with which I point and gesticulate, that they don't have time to notice anything unusual.
Unusual, you may ask? Yes indeed. I suspect I am one of the last women on this earth who has never been to a nail salon for a bit of buff and polish. I dare not, for fear of being laughed at or, even worse, becoming an object of sympathy and being spoken to in the tone of a doctor who has to inform the patient that he/she is in for a bout of chemo.
How do they manage to do anything - those women who sport long, perfect fingernails, adorned with sparkly bits, stars, and stripes? I've taken to wearing dark glasses whenever I go shopping. Not to avoid the sight of my chipped offerings, but to protect my eyes from being blinded by the laser beams of light which glance off the claws of the sales assistants. I have to take several deep breaths before approaching the checkout at my local supermarket. The sight of those dazzling, dexterous till-tapping fingers is too much to bear, so I chuck my groceries into the cart at lightening speed with the result that my eggs are already scrambled, and the cream whipped before I exit through the revolving doors.
Lately, I have begun to flirt mildly with the idea of casting myself out of my outcastedness and entering the hallowed portals of naildom. This weakening of my integrity has partly been prompted by my confusing "M" with "N" on my worn out keyboard, resulting in my being regularly bombarded with links to "N"ail salons instead of Yahoo "M"ail. I believe in signs and portents, and fear this might just be one.
I could ignore this particular one, though. I mean, how gullible can one be? Signs and portents - huh! Might as well believe my daily horoscope. I play the piano, type, fiddle about with screwdrivers, and use good old soapsuds and water for household cleaning. None of those ghastly chemical sprays and wipes for me. I also abhor gloves of the rubber and gardening variety. And when I'm not busy shopping, scrubbing or gardening, I play the piano, type blog entries, e-mails and silly posts on Facebook, or knit. It's bad enough having to wear my sunglasses every time I leave the house without having to wear ear muffs at home to drown out the incessant clackity-clack of perfect fingernails.
That's decided then. And if that isn't enough, I will never forget a fellow pupil at the posh school I went to asking that girl with impossibly long fingernails: "How do you manage to pick your nose without causing yourself a nasty injury?".
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Savvy without a Navi
I am a grown-up, mature woman and mother to three just about grown-up sons. I have negotiated the streets of London, New York, Paris, Lower Sodbury and Queen Camel in my time but can I get from A to B without near accident and incident? Can I, bollocks! The more carefully I plan ahead, consult internet Route Finders and avidly study Google Maps, the less chance I have of arriving anywhere on time, never mind at the right location, without a few distracting incidents en route to boot.
I possessed a Navigator for a time. Tom was his name. I tried Jane for a while, but was irritated by her nasal, pseudo upper-class British voice. Tom sounded more like James Bond. We enjoyed a tempestuous relationship with lots of cursing, shouting, arguing and tears (me). I finally finished with him somewhere in Mannheim after having obediently turned left and left again until I nearly passed out with dizziness and realised I was going round in circles. It might not have been so bad if I hadn't been negotiating a busy main street. Before that, I had been yelled at for driving down a one way street, the wrong way. This relationship was becoming abusive. I wanted out!
I swear I later heard him sniggering that time I landed in the middle of a tram intersection, but I remained resolute and kept him switched off.
There are two main ways of getting lost, in my experience. One is missing or not seeing the signs (I swear there are magic ones which disappear), confusing destination names or being distracted by a particular song or thought process. The other is the "this road looks interesting, I wonder where it leads to", or the "I'm bored with this route, let's try this one" variation. This can be educational and enlightening as long as no cul-de-sacs or rivers are involved. I once almost drove directly into the river Rhein on the way to Koblenz, mistaking the narrow road for the turn-off into the city. My son made no comment and just rolled his eyes, which was the extent of his communication with me at that time, what with his being fourteen and me being a constant source of embarrassment, no matter what.
The last time we drove down to Provence the boys asked, carefully, if we could please avoid the diversion via Strasbourg this time. The Navigator was briefly reconciled with the family during the long drive to Switzerland, last summer, at my sons' insistence. This time, I argued with the "Navi" indirectly, through my son who kept insisting we refer to the damn thing. "Oh, don't listen to him! He's a liar and a cheat and hasn't got a clue". I had to eat my words after ending-up on the wrong motorway, but otherwise I was in the right. I think.
On the way back, we made an unintentional detour through - Strasbourg. There must be some magnetic attraction there. My sons resigned themselves to the extended journey time and settled down to investigate Tom's language skills. I was just beginning to relax and join in, urging them to try the Japanese version, having gone through every variation on offer, when he finally fizzled out for good.
He still hasn't been replaced. I need some more time and therapy to get over the grieving process. Well, alright. I can't be bothered to embark on a new relationship. I can manage perfectly well on my own, thankyou, even if it does mean I automatically add an extra hour to every new, uncharted journey. Like the one yesterday to an appointment in Saarbrücken.
Mind you, if one more person tells me I'll find the place easily, I shall get very cross! Likewise if they exclaim: "But what on earth are you doing, phoning from a gas station in Reykjavic? I told you, take a half-right after crossing the busy, four-laned motorway bridge!". What is a "half-right" when it's at home? Sounds like a jazz-dance step and I was never much good at taking directions in dance classes, either.
The reason I was phoning from a gas station was that I had no money left on my mobile phone. I'm sure it was nicely topped-up before I left?! In fact, as I was going out through the front door, a friend had sent me an SMS giving me a useful website address, relevant to the theme of my impending appointment But I hardly registered it as I was anxious to get there on time.
After about an hour-and-a-half, (standard driving time to the centre of Saarbrücken - 40 minutes) having almost overtaken a tram before realising I was literally on the wrong track again; found myself driving homewards; crossed the four-lane bridge three times; viewed a few local sites of interest through my steaming car window and suffering from a stiff neck, I arrived at my destination. My neck was stiff from having been craned in all directions looking out and listening for police cars, with blaring sirens, all out to get me for multiple misuse and abuse of the Highway Code.
I was greeted with a forgiving and friendly handshake by my advisor: "Dr. I'll Get Your Business Plan Wrapped Up In No Time von Teabreak". I threw in the "von Teabreak" bit because I very quickly got the impression that I was keeping him from just that. He adeptly and professionally shuffled the pages of my plan, which I'd e-mailed to him in advance, and told me that it was impressive but needed some final details. "Yees", I thought - "Which is why I am here, consulting you". Then he swivelled his computer screen in my direction and informed me that I should check out the Website which he had called up. I instantly recognised the link which my friend had SMS'd to me before I left.
WAS THIS IT? The interview, which had taken about ten minutes, was over. I felt cheated. There was no way I was going to leave quietly after such an odyssey. He was personally responsible for my wasted afternoon. "Half-right-turn" indeed! I regaled him with tales of previous navigational mishaps while he smiled politely, his feet and fingers tapping obtrusively. He was so hysterically relieved when I finally stood up to go, that he rashly invited me to come back next week when I had made the final adjustments to my proposal. No thanks. I'll send him a link to my blog and get my nails done instead. Which leads tidily to my next blog entry.
COMING SOON!
I possessed a Navigator for a time. Tom was his name. I tried Jane for a while, but was irritated by her nasal, pseudo upper-class British voice. Tom sounded more like James Bond. We enjoyed a tempestuous relationship with lots of cursing, shouting, arguing and tears (me). I finally finished with him somewhere in Mannheim after having obediently turned left and left again until I nearly passed out with dizziness and realised I was going round in circles. It might not have been so bad if I hadn't been negotiating a busy main street. Before that, I had been yelled at for driving down a one way street, the wrong way. This relationship was becoming abusive. I wanted out!
I swear I later heard him sniggering that time I landed in the middle of a tram intersection, but I remained resolute and kept him switched off.
There are two main ways of getting lost, in my experience. One is missing or not seeing the signs (I swear there are magic ones which disappear), confusing destination names or being distracted by a particular song or thought process. The other is the "this road looks interesting, I wonder where it leads to", or the "I'm bored with this route, let's try this one" variation. This can be educational and enlightening as long as no cul-de-sacs or rivers are involved. I once almost drove directly into the river Rhein on the way to Koblenz, mistaking the narrow road for the turn-off into the city. My son made no comment and just rolled his eyes, which was the extent of his communication with me at that time, what with his being fourteen and me being a constant source of embarrassment, no matter what.
The last time we drove down to Provence the boys asked, carefully, if we could please avoid the diversion via Strasbourg this time. The Navigator was briefly reconciled with the family during the long drive to Switzerland, last summer, at my sons' insistence. This time, I argued with the "Navi" indirectly, through my son who kept insisting we refer to the damn thing. "Oh, don't listen to him! He's a liar and a cheat and hasn't got a clue". I had to eat my words after ending-up on the wrong motorway, but otherwise I was in the right. I think.
On the way back, we made an unintentional detour through - Strasbourg. There must be some magnetic attraction there. My sons resigned themselves to the extended journey time and settled down to investigate Tom's language skills. I was just beginning to relax and join in, urging them to try the Japanese version, having gone through every variation on offer, when he finally fizzled out for good.
He still hasn't been replaced. I need some more time and therapy to get over the grieving process. Well, alright. I can't be bothered to embark on a new relationship. I can manage perfectly well on my own, thankyou, even if it does mean I automatically add an extra hour to every new, uncharted journey. Like the one yesterday to an appointment in Saarbrücken.
Mind you, if one more person tells me I'll find the place easily, I shall get very cross! Likewise if they exclaim: "But what on earth are you doing, phoning from a gas station in Reykjavic? I told you, take a half-right after crossing the busy, four-laned motorway bridge!". What is a "half-right" when it's at home? Sounds like a jazz-dance step and I was never much good at taking directions in dance classes, either.
The reason I was phoning from a gas station was that I had no money left on my mobile phone. I'm sure it was nicely topped-up before I left?! In fact, as I was going out through the front door, a friend had sent me an SMS giving me a useful website address, relevant to the theme of my impending appointment But I hardly registered it as I was anxious to get there on time.
After about an hour-and-a-half, (standard driving time to the centre of Saarbrücken - 40 minutes) having almost overtaken a tram before realising I was literally on the wrong track again; found myself driving homewards; crossed the four-lane bridge three times; viewed a few local sites of interest through my steaming car window and suffering from a stiff neck, I arrived at my destination. My neck was stiff from having been craned in all directions looking out and listening for police cars, with blaring sirens, all out to get me for multiple misuse and abuse of the Highway Code.
I was greeted with a forgiving and friendly handshake by my advisor: "Dr. I'll Get Your Business Plan Wrapped Up In No Time von Teabreak". I threw in the "von Teabreak" bit because I very quickly got the impression that I was keeping him from just that. He adeptly and professionally shuffled the pages of my plan, which I'd e-mailed to him in advance, and told me that it was impressive but needed some final details. "Yees", I thought - "Which is why I am here, consulting you". Then he swivelled his computer screen in my direction and informed me that I should check out the Website which he had called up. I instantly recognised the link which my friend had SMS'd to me before I left.
WAS THIS IT? The interview, which had taken about ten minutes, was over. I felt cheated. There was no way I was going to leave quietly after such an odyssey. He was personally responsible for my wasted afternoon. "Half-right-turn" indeed! I regaled him with tales of previous navigational mishaps while he smiled politely, his feet and fingers tapping obtrusively. He was so hysterically relieved when I finally stood up to go, that he rashly invited me to come back next week when I had made the final adjustments to my proposal. No thanks. I'll send him a link to my blog and get my nails done instead. Which leads tidily to my next blog entry.
COMING SOON!
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