A throwaway comment when I was a teenager, from an older woman I greatly admired, set the tone for my basic self image. She had taken me to see "Cabaret" and, afterwards I sighed that I would love to be an actress and singer like Liza Minelli. "You? - no chance! You're far too lazy".
Almost forty years later, I have started to question this assumption. In fact, I have come to the conclusion that I might just as earnestly have taken on the comment from another admired older woman who exclaimed at how much weight I'd gained and was I pregnant? I was about as much pregnant as I was lazy. I hung on to the fat stamp, though. "Fatness" is traditionally lumped together with laziness, isn't it? Another myth. That one took years to sort out, too, but that's another story.
I first began to question my apparent slothfulness, in my late twenties, when challenged by my psychology lecturer during a class. He was asking us how we saw ourselves, what we thought our weaknesses were. While energetically and fervently lamenting my plight, I kicked the man next to me, who had all the while been unconsciously banging his foot against mine. "Why did you just kick 'M'?". "Because he was kicking me", I replied. "Well then. You're not lazy, are you? You took action." That was a revelation and a relief, but was still not enough to convince me completely.
Only recently have I begun to see the truth in what was said. I am not lazy. Never was.
It's more a matter of time-management. During maths lessons at primary school I expended lots of energy on finding new places to hide my books in order to avoid having to tackle the loathed subject. No matter that my teacher saw right through me every time. I could have saved myself a lot of stress by doing my piano theory homework in half an hour at home rather than hurriedly and in a state of panic, five minutes before my teacher arrived.
I've moved on since then. My therapist wanted me to do "homework" every week. Keep a diary, make notes. I laughed. "I never bothered much with homework when I was a kid, and I'm not going to start now!". Too lazy? Not at all. It took a lot of effort to stand up and be honest about myself. Never mind that I've been making up stories, songs and poems for as long as I can remember. Just try and stop me writing. It would be superfluous to point out the irony in this, dear reader. Add bolshy and stubborn to my list of failings why don't you.
I'm too busy for externally imposed assignments (and I enjoy provoking my therapist). There are those daily tasks which I work so hard to put off until later, starting with my having to clear the kitchen sink at 6 a.m.before I can get to the tap to fill the kettle for my morning cup of tea.
Hours are spent looking for important pieces of paper which, had they been filed immediately, could also have been found tout de suite. Adding insult to injury, there is the added expense of parking fines incurred because I couldn't be bothered to walk that little bit extra to get to my destination. The extra charges for delayed payment of mislaid bills. All resulting in more searching and more work. No lazy person would invest so much time and effort.
I try to use my laziness wisely. I really do, but I'm far too taken up with deciding which project to tackle next. B-J's socks, which I started knitting almost two years ago, that knitted square for the charity blanket, the sexy thongs for my photographer friend's website, and Mary's wrap. This is just the tip of the iceberg. Then there's the preparation for my English and French courses, the ubiquitous (I'm not sure what that word means, but I like it, so I'll use it) paperwork, the housework, the weeding, the phone calls which interrupt my cogitations as I try to decide whether to file this 'n that under A or Z?
As for the filing, nothing can be filed away before sections are created using coloured dividers. Does this belong in the grammar or worksheet section? Pink or red? What to do? Decisions decisions! The file itself needs to be covered. Not for me those dull, grey eminences gracing the shelves. They must be adorned with pretty paper and coated with water (and tea and coffee) proof varnish.
Coloured clothes pegs have been banished from the washing line. Plain wooden ones must suffice, otherwise hours are whiled away, colour-coordinating pegs and pegged.
Lazy - moi? Another word springs to mind, but I won't use it here. Just call me "ubiquitous". Not because it fits but because, as I said, I like it. Should I file this word under "woody", or "titty"? (ref: Monty P).
Ho hum. Back to work before I waste any more time blogging. I should be so lucky. Before I can even get started I have to rework the colour schemes. Now, where did I file that quiche? ...
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Lone Dancer
My father had two nicknames for me: "Jettifer B", for the non-stop talker, and "Mouse", for the silent one.
Yesterday evening I forced myself to go alone to the annual three day summer fair. Jettifer B would have loved to have gone with a group of friends and chatted and danced the night away, but none were available that evening, so it was Mouse who ventured tentatively into the throng. Jettifer provided a running commentary.
I have never had any difficulty establishing contact with people, but it was a challenge to go out alone and be among a crowd composed of groups of friends, couples and local inhabitants who feel at home amongst each other. Having eschewed the joys of alcohol, I didn't have the usual crutch to soothe and uninhibit.
Jettifer chatted, non-stop: "How Sad can you be? No boyfriend, no friends. Aren't you embarrassed to be out, wandering around alone?". I remembered once seeing one of my sons, walking alone around the playground at his new school, trying bravely to look as if he didn't care, as if he was part of things. It hurt.
A year or two ago I would have been with a crowd. I had many friends at the school where I was teaching - teachers, parents and pupils. Now, nearly two years after having left the school, I am still in that limbo land between the old and the new. Many of those old friends have gradually dropped away, along with the common ground of "shop" talk.
I haven't been easy company. Crashing from crisis to crisis. Trying to re-weave the rug which I pulled out from under my feet. I am fascinated by the emerging warp, weft and colours which are now emerging after a time of self-imposed exile.
I run into an ex-colleague with whom I always got along well. He seems sort of pleased to see me, but doesn't quite know how to relate. "How are you doing?", he asks. "Fine, great!", I smile, clutching my alcohol-free beer. "You here with the family?". He nods vaguely and points to a group of kids before ambling away. Not one of them belongs to him, but turn out to be my ex-pupils who greet me warmly, and I respond in turn. The conversation is limited, too, although our pleasure at seeing each other is genuine.
I spot my youngest son, regarding the proceedings critically. He was always torn between embarrassment and pleasure at my easy, friendly relationship with his schoolmates. I try to make myself semi-invisible, but am distracted by his friend saying a loud, friendly "Hello!". I helloooo back, making a jokey comment about my son along the lines of: "Do I know him?", and move on.
Bump into family guy and his mistress, who had also been a friend. ("AhHa!" moment re: inquiry after family). I defuse any potential awkwardness by giving her a big hug and then stand with them a while, watching the band in which her son is playing. Their love-child is being babysat by her ex-husband. I know too much. People tell me things, whether I want them to or not. No matter that I keep them to myself. I "know" and that's enough to put the kybosh on a friendship.
"I'd rather be knitting", comment Jettifer and Mouse simultaneously. I ignore them, busy creating t-shirt design in my head. More warm hugs and greetings from my eldest son's friends who play together in a band and are good-looking, talented and coooooooool! I admire and tickle J's new beard and begin to relax and bask in the hugs and banter.
A tap on the shoulder startles me out of my reverie as I negotiate the crowds. My second son and his girlfriend. Buy them drinks and chat for a while. I don't want to cramp their style, so linger not. Later, driving back from the hospital, he tells me I would have been welcome to join them. I had forgotten that he is not, like his younger brother, ashamed to be seen with me in public.
I stand and watch a rather good band, my feet tapping, wishing I had the guts to dance alone (which I might have done had I not been stone cold sober). "Get out there girl!" hisses Jettifer. "You're always the Life and Soul of the party". "You don't have to be", whispers Mouse. My handbag would have been an incumbrance and I refuse - absolutely, to succumb to the "All Around My Handbag" dance routine, beloved of so many girls and women.
One more awkward encounter with an ex-colleague/friend puts the final stamp on my evening and I start to head homewards. My mobile jingles. "Mum ...", (son number two) "My girlfriend's mother has collapsed and has been taken to hospital". "I'm on my way", I reply before he can continue. A few more hugs, greetings and "where have you been hiding?"s) from ex-pupils as I run to my car.
I admit it. Having ascertained that girlfriend's mother was alright and in good hands, I was relieved to have something useful to do with my evening.
Next challenge: Get back out into the arena tonight, minus handbag, and dance. Alone, if necessary. Well, not quite. Jettifer and Mouse will be with me.
Yesterday evening I forced myself to go alone to the annual three day summer fair. Jettifer B would have loved to have gone with a group of friends and chatted and danced the night away, but none were available that evening, so it was Mouse who ventured tentatively into the throng. Jettifer provided a running commentary.
I have never had any difficulty establishing contact with people, but it was a challenge to go out alone and be among a crowd composed of groups of friends, couples and local inhabitants who feel at home amongst each other. Having eschewed the joys of alcohol, I didn't have the usual crutch to soothe and uninhibit.
Jettifer chatted, non-stop: "How Sad can you be? No boyfriend, no friends. Aren't you embarrassed to be out, wandering around alone?". I remembered once seeing one of my sons, walking alone around the playground at his new school, trying bravely to look as if he didn't care, as if he was part of things. It hurt.
A year or two ago I would have been with a crowd. I had many friends at the school where I was teaching - teachers, parents and pupils. Now, nearly two years after having left the school, I am still in that limbo land between the old and the new. Many of those old friends have gradually dropped away, along with the common ground of "shop" talk.
I haven't been easy company. Crashing from crisis to crisis. Trying to re-weave the rug which I pulled out from under my feet. I am fascinated by the emerging warp, weft and colours which are now emerging after a time of self-imposed exile.
I run into an ex-colleague with whom I always got along well. He seems sort of pleased to see me, but doesn't quite know how to relate. "How are you doing?", he asks. "Fine, great!", I smile, clutching my alcohol-free beer. "You here with the family?". He nods vaguely and points to a group of kids before ambling away. Not one of them belongs to him, but turn out to be my ex-pupils who greet me warmly, and I respond in turn. The conversation is limited, too, although our pleasure at seeing each other is genuine.
I spot my youngest son, regarding the proceedings critically. He was always torn between embarrassment and pleasure at my easy, friendly relationship with his schoolmates. I try to make myself semi-invisible, but am distracted by his friend saying a loud, friendly "Hello!". I helloooo back, making a jokey comment about my son along the lines of: "Do I know him?", and move on.
Bump into family guy and his mistress, who had also been a friend. ("AhHa!" moment re: inquiry after family). I defuse any potential awkwardness by giving her a big hug and then stand with them a while, watching the band in which her son is playing. Their love-child is being babysat by her ex-husband. I know too much. People tell me things, whether I want them to or not. No matter that I keep them to myself. I "know" and that's enough to put the kybosh on a friendship.
"I'd rather be knitting", comment Jettifer and Mouse simultaneously. I ignore them, busy creating t-shirt design in my head. More warm hugs and greetings from my eldest son's friends who play together in a band and are good-looking, talented and coooooooool! I admire and tickle J's new beard and begin to relax and bask in the hugs and banter.
A tap on the shoulder startles me out of my reverie as I negotiate the crowds. My second son and his girlfriend. Buy them drinks and chat for a while. I don't want to cramp their style, so linger not. Later, driving back from the hospital, he tells me I would have been welcome to join them. I had forgotten that he is not, like his younger brother, ashamed to be seen with me in public.
I stand and watch a rather good band, my feet tapping, wishing I had the guts to dance alone (which I might have done had I not been stone cold sober). "Get out there girl!" hisses Jettifer. "You're always the Life and Soul of the party". "You don't have to be", whispers Mouse. My handbag would have been an incumbrance and I refuse - absolutely, to succumb to the "All Around My Handbag" dance routine, beloved of so many girls and women.
One more awkward encounter with an ex-colleague/friend puts the final stamp on my evening and I start to head homewards. My mobile jingles. "Mum ...", (son number two) "My girlfriend's mother has collapsed and has been taken to hospital". "I'm on my way", I reply before he can continue. A few more hugs, greetings and "where have you been hiding?"s) from ex-pupils as I run to my car.
I admit it. Having ascertained that girlfriend's mother was alright and in good hands, I was relieved to have something useful to do with my evening.
Next challenge: Get back out into the arena tonight, minus handbag, and dance. Alone, if necessary. Well, not quite. Jettifer and Mouse will be with me.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Nailed?
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?".
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?".
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!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Warning - This Film Contains Hats!
The other evening I watched a film in which Meryl Streep played a mother who was dying of cancer. The title of the film eludes me. Rene Zellweger was her daughter, and William Hurt, her egoistic husband. I enjoyed the film. The cancer and family themes were handled with minimum schmalz-effect. Meryl and William can do no wrong, in my eyes, and I have yet to be disappointed by Rene Z. I just love her name, for one thing.
I was reasonably gripped until Rene donned the cutest, darlingest hat. Suddenly I was oblivious to dialogue and plot and lost the thread as I peered at the screen to get a closer look at the gorgeous embroidery (or was that border trim knitted?) and to study the shape for future reference.
This was a pleasurable hat distraction.
Later, I became aware of my teeth gritting and my blood beginning to boil as Meryl was wheeled around wearing what looked like a badly-crocheted dishcloth on her balding head. Who on earth did they assign to design the Chemo Caps for this film? Was this just a bad, sloppy piece of handiwork, or a not-so-subtle indication of Meryl's increasing deterioration? As if we hadn't noticed.
And why, when she was wheeled out for a perambulation through the snowy pre-Christmas neighbourhood, was she sporting a dashing knitted, red and reindeer number which she wanted to show off to all and sundry? What was the message here? Put on a brave hat in public, but make do with a ragged dishcloth at home? I would rather wear a wet dishcloth than a badly crocheted imitation.
At the other extreme, I was again distracted by Uma Thurman's hats in "BeCool". I am definitely going to copy the white, peaked cap with the chain. I'll pass on the simpler knitted cap, although I was pleased to see her evident enjoyment in wearing it.
I am still bugged by Meryl's dishcloth and am playing with ideas for a "BeCool Cap" à la Urma, for myself, as well as for cancer patients. Why discriminate? The t-shirts say: "Fuck Cancer". My hats will scream: "Cancer Ain't Cool, But I Am!".
I was reasonably gripped until Rene donned the cutest, darlingest hat. Suddenly I was oblivious to dialogue and plot and lost the thread as I peered at the screen to get a closer look at the gorgeous embroidery (or was that border trim knitted?) and to study the shape for future reference.
This was a pleasurable hat distraction.
Later, I became aware of my teeth gritting and my blood beginning to boil as Meryl was wheeled around wearing what looked like a badly-crocheted dishcloth on her balding head. Who on earth did they assign to design the Chemo Caps for this film? Was this just a bad, sloppy piece of handiwork, or a not-so-subtle indication of Meryl's increasing deterioration? As if we hadn't noticed.
And why, when she was wheeled out for a perambulation through the snowy pre-Christmas neighbourhood, was she sporting a dashing knitted, red and reindeer number which she wanted to show off to all and sundry? What was the message here? Put on a brave hat in public, but make do with a ragged dishcloth at home? I would rather wear a wet dishcloth than a badly crocheted imitation.
At the other extreme, I was again distracted by Uma Thurman's hats in "BeCool". I am definitely going to copy the white, peaked cap with the chain. I'll pass on the simpler knitted cap, although I was pleased to see her evident enjoyment in wearing it.
I am still bugged by Meryl's dishcloth and am playing with ideas for a "BeCool Cap" à la Urma, for myself, as well as for cancer patients. Why discriminate? The t-shirts say: "Fuck Cancer". My hats will scream: "Cancer Ain't Cool, But I Am!".
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Muffin Mail
Finally got to the post office to mail Jody's knitted muffin. This time I decided not to risk parking on the "disabled" spot and waited, with unaccustomed patience, while observing an obviously sprightly woman park in the forbidden area. SHE didn't get a 35€ fine.
My restraint paid-off and, after a few minutes, a child clambered into the disgustingly large, ecology-defying, automobile which was occupying two spaces. I caught a glimpse of the mother in my rearview mirror, fired-up the engine and revved a little, thereby warding off any wannabe takers of "my space". Bristling with pride at my powers of endurance as well as having resisted the temptation to maim the offending vehicle without anyone noticing, I became aware of mounting aggression and competitiveness as I noticed a man waiting to move-in on my patch.
I revved again, flicked on the indicator, and manoeuvered my economically viable VW Polo into a position which left the man no doubt as to who was boss here. No sign of mum, so I "killed" the engine. At last, she appeared, tried the handle of the driver's door and ... it was locked. Her little darling, who was hanging out of the car window, had whiled away the wait by playing with the central locking device. Mum searched, and searched in the depths of her spacious handbag (Louis Vuitton, I bet!) for her car keys.
I couldn't be cross with her. I can never find anything in my (cheap but cheerful) handbag. I'm convinced it is inhabited by a mischevious spirit who takes great delight in hiding my mobile phone, lipstick and lighter. I once tried to light a cigarette with my lipgloss and ended-up with a fetching smear of pink gloss gracing my chin.
Car keys were found. Beautiful, well-dressed, mum climbed into her Rich-Bitch Mobile and proceeded to reverse out of the two parking spaces, edge forward again, turn the wheel first this way, then that, reverse again, tentatively while I watched, fascinated. Again I asked myself, "Why is it that these people who possess such huge cars do not know how to drive them???!!!". I had to grip the edges of my seat in order to hold myself back from leaping out, grabbing her by the strap of her handbag, flinging her out of the way, and un-parking the damn thing myself.
"Patience!", I reminded myself. Also, I hadn't forgotten the guy, poised, behind me and focused instead on keeping him at bay, all the while maintaining an air of nonchalance which belied the fact that I was even aware that he existed. To prove my point, I reversed dangerously close to his car, at which he edged back, nervously. I gave him a surprised?? yet friendly and casual wave. Beautiful Bad Driver gave me a thankful wave as she drove off and I returned the greeting as I parked neatly and expertly on one of the two spaces.
"You'll have to write what's in this package for the customs", said the man at the post office counter. "Gestrickte Torte", I responded. He just shrugged and said, "You'd better write it in English". So I wrote: "Knitted Muffin" on the sticker provided, wondering whether the U.S. customs would translate that into "Hash Brownie". Now there's an idea!
My restraint paid-off and, after a few minutes, a child clambered into the disgustingly large, ecology-defying, automobile which was occupying two spaces. I caught a glimpse of the mother in my rearview mirror, fired-up the engine and revved a little, thereby warding off any wannabe takers of "my space". Bristling with pride at my powers of endurance as well as having resisted the temptation to maim the offending vehicle without anyone noticing, I became aware of mounting aggression and competitiveness as I noticed a man waiting to move-in on my patch.
I revved again, flicked on the indicator, and manoeuvered my economically viable VW Polo into a position which left the man no doubt as to who was boss here. No sign of mum, so I "killed" the engine. At last, she appeared, tried the handle of the driver's door and ... it was locked. Her little darling, who was hanging out of the car window, had whiled away the wait by playing with the central locking device. Mum searched, and searched in the depths of her spacious handbag (Louis Vuitton, I bet!) for her car keys.
I couldn't be cross with her. I can never find anything in my (cheap but cheerful) handbag. I'm convinced it is inhabited by a mischevious spirit who takes great delight in hiding my mobile phone, lipstick and lighter. I once tried to light a cigarette with my lipgloss and ended-up with a fetching smear of pink gloss gracing my chin.
Car keys were found. Beautiful, well-dressed, mum climbed into her Rich-Bitch Mobile and proceeded to reverse out of the two parking spaces, edge forward again, turn the wheel first this way, then that, reverse again, tentatively while I watched, fascinated. Again I asked myself, "Why is it that these people who possess such huge cars do not know how to drive them???!!!". I had to grip the edges of my seat in order to hold myself back from leaping out, grabbing her by the strap of her handbag, flinging her out of the way, and un-parking the damn thing myself.
"Patience!", I reminded myself. Also, I hadn't forgotten the guy, poised, behind me and focused instead on keeping him at bay, all the while maintaining an air of nonchalance which belied the fact that I was even aware that he existed. To prove my point, I reversed dangerously close to his car, at which he edged back, nervously. I gave him a surprised?? yet friendly and casual wave. Beautiful Bad Driver gave me a thankful wave as she drove off and I returned the greeting as I parked neatly and expertly on one of the two spaces.
"You'll have to write what's in this package for the customs", said the man at the post office counter. "Gestrickte Torte", I responded. He just shrugged and said, "You'd better write it in English". So I wrote: "Knitted Muffin" on the sticker provided, wondering whether the U.S. customs would translate that into "Hash Brownie". Now there's an idea!
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Things Have Come To A Pretty Pass ...
... when MuM is informed that she can have the night off, because her son wants to invite several friends to stay over in our small abode. "You can go and spend the night with your boyfriend", he offers, magnanimously. "Boyfriend? What boyfriend?". He is obviously keen to get me out of the way.
I admit, I have been complaining that I never get a break and muttering that I need to get away, but I was thinking more along the lines of ten days in the South of France, hanging out with Zoe, Clodagh, Kerry and other friends, old, new and yet to be discovered.
The thought of being practically ordered to go, and for one night only, made me feel slightly mutinous. Until Kai pulled out his trump card. "I'll clean the whole house, help you move that furniture you've been wanting to rearrange for ages, we won't eat ANYTHING! and Michael can come out with us for the evening. "And", he added slyly, "you really don't want to be disturbed by us when we finally come home in the early hours of the morning!".
"I'll think about it", I said, not wanting to capitulate too easily. Give them an inch and I'd end-up homeless.
Think, I did and it didn't take me long to acknowledge that it was too good a deal to pass up, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I called my friend, Daggi, invited myself over for the evening and night and graciously informed Kai that I was prepared to concede to his wishes.
Not that I'll get much sleep at Daggi's. Last time I stayed-over, we shared her bed (obliging hubby slept on the sofa) and her pre-teen daughter slept on a mattress on the floor. She regaled us with imitations of her two grandmothers, causing fits of hysterical laughter. Every time we tried to stop, one of us started-up again and off we went. Finally we settled down to sleep. At some point, Daggi's young son climbed into bed between us, as was his wont, not realising that I, and not his dad was snoring gently next to his mother.
It would have been no problem for me, but for the fact that I was sleeping "au naturel", having removed my pyjamas, due to the room being unaccustomedly warm. I like to sleep with the window open, no matter what. I could not sleep, so concerned was I not to wake this little boy and traumatise him. The shock of realising I was not his accustomed dad would have been bad enough, but the discovery that he was sharing a bed with his sister's naked English teacher might just have pushed him over the edge.
Finally, I did fall asleep. I know, because Daggi told me that her daughter asked her later if her 16-year-old male cousin had also stayed the night, 'cos nobody else snores as loudly as he does!???!
I admit, I have been complaining that I never get a break and muttering that I need to get away, but I was thinking more along the lines of ten days in the South of France, hanging out with Zoe, Clodagh, Kerry and other friends, old, new and yet to be discovered.
The thought of being practically ordered to go, and for one night only, made me feel slightly mutinous. Until Kai pulled out his trump card. "I'll clean the whole house, help you move that furniture you've been wanting to rearrange for ages, we won't eat ANYTHING! and Michael can come out with us for the evening. "And", he added slyly, "you really don't want to be disturbed by us when we finally come home in the early hours of the morning!".
"I'll think about it", I said, not wanting to capitulate too easily. Give them an inch and I'd end-up homeless.
Think, I did and it didn't take me long to acknowledge that it was too good a deal to pass up, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I called my friend, Daggi, invited myself over for the evening and night and graciously informed Kai that I was prepared to concede to his wishes.
Not that I'll get much sleep at Daggi's. Last time I stayed-over, we shared her bed (obliging hubby slept on the sofa) and her pre-teen daughter slept on a mattress on the floor. She regaled us with imitations of her two grandmothers, causing fits of hysterical laughter. Every time we tried to stop, one of us started-up again and off we went. Finally we settled down to sleep. At some point, Daggi's young son climbed into bed between us, as was his wont, not realising that I, and not his dad was snoring gently next to his mother.
It would have been no problem for me, but for the fact that I was sleeping "au naturel", having removed my pyjamas, due to the room being unaccustomedly warm. I like to sleep with the window open, no matter what. I could not sleep, so concerned was I not to wake this little boy and traumatise him. The shock of realising I was not his accustomed dad would have been bad enough, but the discovery that he was sharing a bed with his sister's naked English teacher might just have pushed him over the edge.
Finally, I did fall asleep. I know, because Daggi told me that her daughter asked her later if her 16-year-old male cousin had also stayed the night, 'cos nobody else snores as loudly as he does!???!
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