Random Acts of Kindness

         

          Back in the good old days people were actually polite to each other.  It was not unusual to walk down the street and have complete strangers greet you with a smile and even a brief ‘morning’ or ‘afternoon.’  But, from observations I’ve made lately, that little nicety has flown out the window along with its friends, kindness and good manners.

          That’s why I was so delighted when my sixteen year old grandson was awarded a ‘Random Acts of Kindness’ certificate by his high school at their year end celebrations.  It made me feel so hopeful about the youth of today.  That perhaps the downright rudeness so prevalent among the younger generation might be a passing fad.

          Case in point…I was standing in a long line at the post office.  Directly in front of me was an elderly woman, who was probably in her 70’s; in front of her was a young girl, about 18 or so.   While rattling around in her purse, a small envelope fluttered from the young woman’s purse to the floor.  I saw it, the elderly lady in front of me saw it, the 18 year old appeared oblivious.

After a beat, the old lady bent down, picked up the envelope and handed it to the younger woman.  Not a smile, not a nod, not even a muttered word passed the young woman’s lips.  She grabbed the envelope, checked to make sure it was hers and turned to face the line again.

          I was stunned.  How rude can one person be?  But perhaps I’d missed something?  I tapped my elderly neighbor on the shoulder.  ‘Did she even say thank you?’ I asked.

          The woman raised her eyes to the heavens and shook her head.  ‘Nope.  But that’s the young people today isn’t it?’

          Really?  Well, it’s about time the young people of today developed some grace, stopped thinking the sun was created to only shine on them, and started acting as though they lived on the same planet as us ‘oldies.’

          Where did all this arrogant rudeness come from?  Someone had to teach them.  Perhaps it was the guy who insisted on walking between me and the shelf of books I was looking at without so much as an ‘excuse me.’  Apparently, the three feet of empty aisle behind me was too difficult for him to see.  Or perhaps it was the parents of a young girl who, preceding me into a store, pulled open the heavy door and even though she could see me behind her, allowed the door to swing shut.  Had I not stopped it with my foot, my nose would probably be smeared over my face. Or at least I would have been seeing stars for quite some time.

          I don’t know…growing up in Europe, as a child I was expected to curtsey when being introduced to an adult; to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ as a matter of course and even to stand when an adult entered a room.

          Now, I’m not for one moment suggesting that the kids of today should curtsey for an adult (I can hear the hoots of derision already.)  And, unless it is a crowded bus or train, I’m not even saying they should stand.  But they sure as heck can add some little politeness to their mumbled comments when addressed by someone older than they are.  Or even add a smile…that would be a step in the right direction at least.

          It’s my belief that kids learn by example first and words of explanation are an additional confirmation of conduct that is acceptable and required.  But it seems the youth of today have few examples placed before them.  They are trained rather than taught, by anyone and everyone except their parents.

          That’s why I appreciate the amazing job my daughter and son-in-law has done with their five offspring.  Random acts of kindness are not unusual events in that family…but it’s nice to have a certificate that recognizes the achievement.  Well done, Jacob!

         

         

 

         

O Holy Night

          I awoke this morning to the sound of rain pelting against my window.  It was, as they say in Oz, bucketing down.  The mountains, usually visible from my bedroom, were shrouded in thick mist, the trees in my backyard were being swayed by the strong wind…it looked like winter had set in.  And since it was heading towards the end of December, that would be a fair assumption.  Except I live in Hawaii, and while the rain was quite heavy today, the temperature stayed in the high 70’s.  No chance of snow for Christmas here.

          But, since I grew up in a country where Christmas is celebrated in the middle of summer, and there are more people at the beach trying to keep cool on Christmas Day than slaving over a hot stove at home, Christmas heat is not unusual for me. 

          And no, Christmas in Australia is not celebrated in July!  Believe me, I was once asked that question by someone who had never left the mainland United States…and with a completely straight face too.

          But Christmas isn’t about weather.  Although those first mornings after a snowfall, with the sun glistening on the new icicles dripping from the trees, is quite breathtaking…it doesn’t make it Christmas.  Nor do the parades down the main street, with Santa waving to the crowds, or families piling up the loot under a beautifully decorated tree make it Christmas.

          Christmas to me is the children.  From remembering that first little baby born in a stable so long ago and acknowledging why we celebrate the season, to seeing the faces of the kids in my neighborhood, walking from house to house, singing carols at the tops of their voices, Christmas is such a special time of the year.

          And so it was that I was wandering around the stores, buying the final bits and pieces for the traditional family get together and listening to the excited chatter of children as they ran around pointing out things of interest to their parents, when I stopped to listen to the Honolulu Boy Choir.  About thirty strong, the oldest of the lads couldn’t have been more than twelve. 

          As their lovely voices filled the cavernous Mall with my very favorite Christmas song ‘O Holy Night,’ a little girl in a brightly decorated stroller was pushed to my side.  The mother stopped and I glanced down at the child.  She was about three years old, all dressed up in her Christmas finery.  She looked around at the decorations, the huge Christmas tree in the center of the Mall, the choir singing and her eyes got big and round as saucers and she whispered:  ‘Oh Mommy, it’s Christmas!’

          I left the Mall smiling.   Looking at everything through the eyes of a little child, it was indeed Christmas.  I hoped that parents everywhere would take a moment to tell their little ones the real reason for the season…and be blessed because they did so.

For me, yes, it’s lovely to receive a thoughtful gift and to be part of happy holiday traditions, but my true happiness comes from celebrating the day as the birthday of my Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ.

Happy birthday, Jesus, I hope our celebrations of your birth make you smile too.

         

         

A Simple Life

          Some years back, an Australian Prime Minister was quoted as saying, ‘Life wasn’t meant to be easy.’  Okay, perhaps that’s true, but surely it is meant to be simple isn’t it?  I mean, isn’t that why Fred Flinstone invented the wheel? 

          But these days it seems that everything around us has been created to make life more difficult.  Well, at least that’s the way it appears to me.

I’m the first person to admit that I am not handy…not with any electrical stuff nor with things that a ‘handy’ person, be they male or female can deal with and do it with a smile.  I even admit to not knowing what certain tools are called.  But, as long as it does the job, does it really matter if I call an electric drill a ‘buzzy thing’ or masking tape as ‘sticky stuff?’  Not to me.  But, judging by the smirks and giggles at the local building supply store, my lack of hardware jargon is a great source of amusement to its employees.

          So it should be no surprise that I try, as much as possible, to avoid doing anything to or at my home that requires me to use a hammer, nails, buzzy things or even sprays.  My life is simple.  If it breaks, throw it out.  I probably didn’t need it anyway.

          Still, there are some things that are necessary even for a simple life…a small sideboard for the dining room being a good example.  I mean I had to have some place to put all my plates, cups, saucers and wine glasses, didn’t I?

          I had purchased the sideboard from a well known, local furniture store and eagerly awaited its delivery.  I was stunned therefore, to receive a rather large box full of wood panels, plastic baggies bursting with screws and a three page work sheet.  Apparently, for a rather hefty $ outlay, instead of a lovely sideboard, I had bought a box of kindling!  A call to the store produced little joy.  I was informed that if I’d wanted to actually have a sideboard delivered, I should have paid the additional charge to have the item ‘put together’ for me.   It seems that furniture stores these days don’t actually sell furniture, they sell cut up trees.  Who knew?

          However, necessity being the mother…and all that, I figured surely I could put the thing together by myself.  After all, how hard could it be?  Men do this sort of thing for a living don’t they?

          Well, the first instruction showed me just how hard it could be. 

          ‘Taking your Phillips head screw driver….,’ it said.

          I didn’t even know screwdrivers had heads, let alone heads with specific names.  And it’s not like screwdrivers have their names written on their sides for easy identification either.  Just try to figure out that instruction if you don’t know the difference between a screwdriver and a chisel.  Or whatever those flat blade pokey things are called.

          But I tried.  I really did.  For several hours I tried to screw, hammer, and glue bits of wood together to make something that resembled the picture on the side of the box.  I scrutinized the instruction sheet trying to match up what the picture showed to what I had scattered on the floor around me.  At one point I was convinced the instructions were for a completely different piece and had been put into my box of sticks by mistake.

The whole exercise was not my idea of a simple life.

Fortunately, a neighbor who called in for a chat over a glass of wine, took pity on me and offered up her husband as a ‘very handy man.’  Bless his little cotton socks, he had the whole sideboard up and usable in short order; my crockery and stemware had a nice new home and we could get on with living the real simple life.  A lovely glass of Australian merlot….(she sighed.)

 

 

         

         

         

Can You Hear Me Now?

          Yesterday, I nearly mowed down a young woman with my grocery shopping cart.  She was below my line of vision because, apparently, she was having a wonderful chat with a row of canned soup on the bottom shelf.

          My ‘oops, sorry,’ prompted her to glare in my direction.  It was then I noticed the phone clutched to her ear.  As I pushed past her, I heard her grumbled comment: ‘Old biddy…probably blind as a bat.’

          Which got me thinking about the way cell phones are creating a generation of rude, clueless, and in many cases classless people.  It now appears entirely acceptable to talk through, around and over others as long as the cell phone user is also multi-tasking.  In the foregoing case that would be deciding whether to buy the clam chowder or mushroom soup, while at the same time checking with a friend to see whether cardboard crackers were an acceptable part of her diet.

          I’ve had to listen to the minutiae of how to encourage a baby to eat carrot mush; the scene by scene review of the latest action movie and advice on how to save a marriage.  All because I was waiting in line behind a cell phone addict.

          Whatever happened to those halcyon days when people actually spoke to each other face-to-face?  When you could see a smile on someone’s face and be happy knowing you were the one who put it there?  Now it seems the best you can hope for is not too many conversations that are interrupted by ‘You’re breaking up…’ or ‘I’m losing you.’

          I completely understand that cell phones are a very handy accessory in the case of an emergency.  But how many emergencies can there possibly be in one day to each person?  For that matter, what exactly constitutes an emergency?

          I’ve witnessed a neighbor leave her house, lock the front door, enter the garage, start her car and begin backing it out and THEN slap the phone to her ear to report her imminent arrival at her destination.  And how about the young couple who were seated at a table next to mine in a fancy shmancy restaurant a while back?  They arrived, the server handed them menus and, even before his back was turned, both people had their cell phones out and were texting.  Each other?  I at least hope that was the case.  Which then begs the question, what were they saying?

          ‘Soup or salad?’ or ‘Yikes, did you bring any money?’

          In any event, it was sad to watch and an even sadder example of where we’re all heading.  First, good manners fly out the window, smartly followed by dialogue between two people, and then what?  We all turn into robots?

          I think I’ll start a ‘Let’s Talk Face-to-Face’ club.  The only rule will be that all cell phones must be left at the door.  Problem is, the conversations will probably consist of what the latest cell phone apps can do or how to increase your texting speed by eliminating more letters from the alphabet and using your toes.  I don’t think I’m on a winner with this one.

         

         

         

         

Can I Help You?

         

Maybe it was the complete chaos of Black Friday (and Saturday and Sunday) and the televised wars between shoppers that got me thinking about customer service.  Or, in the case of many stores, the lack of customer service.  And I’m not talking about “I’ll Give You a Black Eye Friday” here but the regular weekly shopping days.

          Oh, there are sales clerks.  Plenty of those…usually found guarding the cash register…but actually helpful people with a pulse to assist in the purchase of an item?  Not so much.

          It used to be that when you took a couple of garments into the dressing room, a sales person would hover outside the door to see if you might require a different size to try on.  Now, if a garment doesn’t fit, you have the choice of getting dressed again, stumbling back into the store, or trying to catch someone’s eye at the dressing room door while hiding your underwear only clad body behind a rack of someone else’s returns.

          And how about wanting an item sitting up on a top shelf?  Signs prohibit you from actually lifting the item off the shelf yourself…you need to ask a sales assistant for help.  Well try to find one baby.  I’ve practically grown roots waiting for someone to arrive after being told ‘I’ll get an assistant for you,’ by a cash register guard. Then trying not to burst out laughing when the ‘someone’ turned out to be a young lad who was about six inches shorter than me and about half my weight.  I wondered if I was strong enough to break his fall if he dropped to the floor under the weight of the box of fuzzy slippers.

          There are stores however, who obviously hold ‘customer sensitivity’ training on a regular basis.  This seems to be to show customers that their store’s employees really want to help you.  You can tell which stores have just had their yearly dose of this training by the number of sales people who greet you with a huge smile and a ‘good morning,’ the moment your foot steps inside their territory.  That’s very nice…albeit a little offputting if you’ve had to respond to nine ‘good mornings’ by the time you’ve traversed the first floor and you’ve still got two floors to go!

          But the one I like best is ‘did you find everything you needed?’  This is usually asked by the cashier at a grocery store checkout, while busily scanning your groceries into a bag.   Rarely is there any eye contact.

          This was my experience last week:

          ‘Did you find everything you needed?’

          ‘No, I didn’t.’

          ‘Oh, that’s good.’

          Huh?  Obviously, that store’s customer service training includes asking the question.  It doesn’t appear to include listening to the answer, and then making sure the needed item is made available.

          I don’t know.  Back in the day, ‘Can I help you?’ was the standard request from most sales assistants.  At least with them you knew where you stood.  Today’s sales people greet you with a smile, inquire about your health, and then disappear back to their inevitable guard dog duties.

          What about you?  ‘Are you being served?’

         

           

         

Giving Thanks

         

          Growing up in Australia there were many American holidays or celebrations I was never involved in, or, aware of only minimally.  The obvious ones being 4^th July, Memorial Day (although Aussie’s do have a similar holiday in Anzac Day) and, my favorite, Thanksgiving.

          Of course I knew stuff about it.  I’d read about the Indians and the Americans’ first Thanksgiving in grade school and seen the day celebrated in movies.  Although in those Technicolor offerings, there was never any mention of the poor old Indians.  But there was the giant turkey, the mouthwatering pies, the table beautifully decorated with autumn leaves and candles; and Doris Day singing and dancing around the kitchen with a gravy boat clutched in her hand.

          I loved the way Americans decorated even their homes for the holiday.  Pumpkins, dried flowers and ribbons scattered on the front porch and windowsills.  I thought it was a very pretty day and often wished we had something like it in Australia.

On the other hand, given the fact that Oz was built and populated by convicted criminals, I guess there really wasn’t that much to jump for joy about…or for that matter give thanks.  Except perhaps by the criminals who escaped.

          However, this year I will be celebrating Thanksgiving with friends who have a son recently graduated as a Marine.  He will be home for the holiday and I’m looking forward to seeing him again.

          Josh is not the typical picture of a Marine.  He is smaller than most lads his age and perhaps less physically endowed.  He had wanted to be a marine even as a young boy and worked hard at ROTC training and privately, after school, to learn everything he could about the Corps.  For years, he awoke earlier than the rest of the household to give himself at least 30 minutes on weight training equipment before attending school.

          Boot camp was tough.  It is a hard job to walk twenty miles with a 100lb pack on your back if you’re 6’1”…it is an entirely different thing to carry the same weight, walk the same distance when you barely scrape 5’2”. But Josh persevered and he won.   His proud parents couldn’t stop smiling at his graduation ceremony last February.

          And so this Thanksgiving I will be sitting at the same table as Josh…his last day home on leave before he deploys overseas…and I will give thanks.  Thanks for young men like Josh, who dreamed big and then accomplished their dreams.  And thanks for their spirit which could put them in harm’s way so that I can live in freedom.   To all the young men and women who protect me, my home and my country, I thank you.  Semper Fi!

         

         

I'm Sorry, So Sorry ...

          Why are public apologies the suddenly politically correct requirement of everyone who so much as looks cross-eyed at a co-worker or glares at a rude sales assistant? 

          Don’t get me wrong.  I think an honest, sincere apology to someone whom you’ve hurt is a good thing.  A necessary show of humility that clears the air and gives the recipient an opportunity to forgive.  But surely it should be left to the two people concerned and not turned into a ‘let’s see who can grovel the best’ reality show.

          Why is it the business of anyone but the parties concerned?  What difference should an apology, whether it was given or for that matter received, make to a complete outsider?

          Recently, I’ve heard the talking heads on TV, suggest that a congressman who played hankie pankie with a lady not his wife, should apologize.  Then days later chiding the same man for being a bit slow in the apology department…he hadn’t hung his head in public shame yet, nor begged forgiveness.

As I sat open-mouthed listening to the poor schnook’s life being dissected by complete strangers, I couldn’t help but wonder to whom was he supposed to apologize?  Everyone who ever knew him?  The TV people who were ripping him to shreds because he hadn’t beaten himself senseless as yet?

Who?  Well, certainly not to me.  I didn’t have a horse in that particular race.  And, I’m pretty sure the wife in question would prefer to hear her husband’s excuses and ‘mia culpas’ in the privacy of their home and not as a headline in the national newspapers.

But, the need for public apology is not just for participants of marital indiscretions anymore.  Judges on a TV dance show were castigated for ‘being unkind’ to a truly woeful contestant.  The opinion of outsiders was that the judges…professionals in their own right, should apologize to the contestant.  The guy couldn’t dance and being dragged around the dance floor by his professional partner was painful to watch.  Why make the judges the culprits in this little saga?  And believe me, an apology, public or otherwise. would not suddenly make the gentleman in question a Mr. Twinkle-Toes.

          Now too it seems that a public apology is some sort of standard by which the rest of the populous will judge the culprit to be worthy, of not just forgiveness, but, life in general.  If the apology appears heartfelt…a tear sliding down a cheek is always good at this point…and the words don’t sound too rehearsed, the arbiters of forgiveness will sagely nod their collective heads and agree that ‘he should be given another chance.’

          But, poor soul, this will not be the end of it all.  For at least several years, his apology and forgiveness will be held up as model for others to emulate.

          ‘Tiger didn’t apologize for weeks, you know.  He should have done it the moment it came to light.  So John is really a much better person.’

          ‘Yep, he apologized the moment he was found out.’

          ‘Mmmm.  A much more sincere person.’

          All that could be heard from me when this little exchange hit my eardrums was a giant thud as my body hit the floor.  So now even sincerity is to be judged by the speed at which public apologies are dished out.  The fact that the apology was required at all seems to be lost on the politically correct population.

          I’m so sorry for this post.  I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.  Hey, sincere enough?

           

         

         

Damaged Goods

          I have an aversion to trying on clothes in stores.  The lights in the dressing rooms are hideously bright and herculean efforts to suck in the tummy, pull up the ribcage and look like you did 20 years ago, fall by the wayside.  So my usual system is to pick out a few garments, take them home and hope they fit.  Of course if I’ve conned myself into thinking that the two days I ate only cardboard and broccoli stumps have dropped me down at least a dress size, there are obvious garment returns in my future

          I was thinking along these lines as I fumbled through the sale rack at Macy’s the other day.  And that of course got me thinking about the times I’ve had to return items that were damaged or just didn’t fit and the hoops I sometimes had to jump through to be reimbursed.

          There was a time I’d bought a packet of three pairs of knickers from a chain store.  Three pairs for $6…what a deal!  The packet was sealed, and a sign on the product table warned that packets were not to be opened under pain of death.  Also, having escaped death, you’d better not even think of returning anything in the intimate apparel department anyway because the resulting leg irons would be uncomfortable.  Okay, I understood that, of course.  No one wants to buy another person’s used underwear, right?  Not a problem.

          However, once home with my new, silk-like material knickers, I discovered that two of them had inch wide runs right down the back.  My bum would certainly be feeling a draught in those little babies.  So, back to the store with my packet of panties.

Now, one might wonder why bother for an item that cost a measly $6.  But it was the principle of the thing.  If the store wanted to assign rules to the purchase of their stuff, they should at least back up their rules with unmarred goods and a little common sense.  My logical argument being that, since the knickers were so damaged as to be useless, therefore unsaleable to anyone else, the ‘no returns on intimate apparel’ rule shouldn’t apply.  The sales assistant didn’t agree.

          ‘See the sign?’ she pointed to the large poster plastered on the wall.

          ‘Yep.’

          ‘What’s it say?’

          ‘Doesn’t matter what it says.  These knickers have runs in them so you can’t sell them to anyone else anyway.’

          ‘You shoulda checked ‘em out before youse bought ‘em then.’

          ‘Couldn’t.’  I pointed to the sign on the table.  ‘See the sign?’

          ‘Are youse bein’ smart then?’

          ‘No,’ I sighed.  ‘Just frustrated.’

          It was obvious that our conversation was going to continue in circles with the sales assistant holding her ground and me pointing out that her ground was very muddy.  Even a call for the manager produced little joy.  She too kept pointing to the signs.

          I eventually wrote a strong letter of complaint to the corporate office…again, it was the principle of the thing!

          Several weeks later I was summoned from my office to the front desk where a gentleman carrying a rather large suitcase greeted me.  He was from the chain store’s corporate office and had been instructed to offer me six packets of knickers of my choice and of course free of charge.  And with that he threw open the suitcase and presented me with a dazzling array of knickers…all styles and colors.   Wow, eighteen pairs of knickers for what was the original price of $6!  I was more than pleased to acquiesce to the gentleman’s request.

          I have to wonder though…what kind of job description is it that has men walking around town carrying suitcases full of colored knickers?  But I’m not complaining…if customers have to obey dumb signs, then Dispenser of Colored Knickers should be a job category at every chain store's corporate office.

         

Let's Hear it For the (Tall) Girls

          Last week, after being measured as part of a bone density exam, I discovered I was 5’6” tall.

Huh?  What happened to the other inch that has been the bane of my life since my early teens?  Just where did that little sucker go?  And, for that matter, why disappear now when it’s essentially a non event in my life?

Preparing for my first school dance at age thirteen was the beginning of my tallness trauma.  We had been informed by the headmaster that there would be no wallflowers at the dance.  All boys would dance with all girls in turn, no excuses!

I was mortified therefore, as I was dragged around the dance floor by boys whose eye level was no higher than my chin.  And, since this put their Brillcream plastered down hair right under my nose, I spent most of the night trying not to gag.  I also could have done without their version of hysterical humor.

‘What’s the weather like up there?’ and ‘You married to the jolly green giant are ya?’ spring to mind as examples of their wit.

For years my mother kept assuring me that being a tall girl was a good thing.  I should be pleased.

‘Look at all the short girls who would love to have your height?’

Really?  I wondered who they might be.  Certainly not the 5’2”s who were lining up boyfriends like nine pins while I sat at home and let down the hem of another skirt.  At the time the only advantage I could see was being able to reach stuff on the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet.  Big deal!

As I moved into my later teens and early twenties and started on a brief modeling career, my height became an advantage.  That and the fact that I was a true, skinny beanpole.  I barely weighed more than the clothes I was expected to show, usually in department store parades. 

In those days, runway models were a very much different breed.

It seems that showing a garment today requires a tall, grumpy looking young woman…the grumpier looking the better…who struts down the runway ready to kick an audience member’s face in if they so much as look away or  make a slight comment.  The models usually walk at warp speed so that trying to see any detail on a garment is a lost art and buyers are left hoping they saw what they thought they saw.

I’ve often wondered if the grumpies zot up and down the runway so fast because they actually think the garments they’re showing are hideous and so want to get off and away from audience eyes as quickly as possible. Or perhaps it’s the designers who instruct their models to move so quickly.

‘Really move it. Don’t let anyone see your bum showing through the back panel or we won’t sell a thing.’  It could be the case.

Back in my modeling days, the greatest asset a model had was the ability to glide down the runway beautifully, as though walking on air, taking time to make eye contact with the audience and actually smiling.  The idea was to show prospective buyers how gorgeous that particular garment was and how beautiful they would look in it if they would only fork out the required loot for its purchase. 

However, as I tried to move from local store parades to something a little higher up the modeling ladder, my height once again came into play.  This time because I was lacking in the inches department.  A 5’7” beanpole might be all right for the local stores, but Fashion Week parades or the prestigious Wool Board shows, required at least another couple of inches.  And no matter how much I tried to stretch myself up to at least 5’8’, neither my spine nor my legs would cooperate.  I was doomed to stay at a measly 5’7” for what I thought was the rest of my life.

But, apparently that is not to be.  As the years pile on it appears that the inches of my height sag downwards along with the rest of my bits and pieces.  So you 5’2”s had better watch out.  It won’t be long before I’m at your level and we can discuss what the weather is like down there.

Separated by a Common Language

          The English have long been considered somewhat prudish, yet it is Americans who in panic blip out mild expletives on TV shows, make endless apologies for wardrobe malfunctions and oh so quaintly go to ‘the bathroom.’

          As a young woman in Australia, the first time I heard this odd phrase coming from the mouth of an American visitor,  I thought the woman requesting the use of ‘the bathroom’ wanted to take a shower or, at the very least, scrub her hands.  Since we were in the middle of a PTA meeting at the time, I realized her need was far more basic.  When later the same woman stopped the meeting to allow her little doggie to go outside ‘to use the bathroom,’ it was all I could do not to burst out laughing.  How very precious it all sounded.

          But it did get me thinking about the way two countries, with the same language, can be so many miles apart in the construction of sentences and the use of particular words.  Let alone the spelling of those very same words.

Australian English, and/or the Australian accent, is actually called Strine.  It is full of maddeningly shortened words and wild colloquialisms.  Many have said Strine came about when Aussies developed a highly efficient way of getting their sentences out while barely opening their mouths thus precluding the high density of local flies from getting into the open cavity.   I have no reason to think otherwise and, as a result, have to acknowledge that an American listening to two Aussies chatting might wonder just when did English become a foreign language?

Sentences like:  ‘she hoofed it to the servo because her spare had gone down the gurgler’ or ‘she was really upset, she chucked a wobbly right in the middle of the shopping center,’ would certainly produced confused looks from anyone not used to the Aussie vernacular.  How about, ‘he nearly lost the plot when his footie team came in last.’  Or, ‘having tried to make sense of the conversation, she finally decided to spit the dummy and returned home.’

          The garbo picks up the trash once a week; the avos are ripe and ready for a lovely salad; if you’d like a beverage to go with that salad, whip over to the bottle-o for some cold tinnies and, if you’re a young person and have matriculated high school, you might choose to attend Uni.

Makes my head want to explode or at least spin.

          Additionally, and possibly to avoid the above mentioned flies, Aussies, unlike their US counterparts, also avoid being redundant in their sentence structure.  Things do not fall ‘off of’ a shelf, table or other furniture.  In Australia they just ‘fall off.’ And, it should be pointed out that people in Oz ‘lie’ down to take a nap.  They leave the ‘laying’ to the chooks in the backyard.

          But, whether Aussies are ordering take-out from the local Chew and Spew or cutting up those avos for their salads to eat at home, they all use a toilet or a lavatory.  The bathroom is where the tub and shower are located.

Perception: in the eyes of the beholder?

         

          Recently I received one of those ‘forwarded to thousands’ supposedly hysterically funny emails.  Except in this case it actually was funny.  It was also sad and mind bogglingly frustrating because it purported to be true.

          The contents of the email were said to be the questions of would-be visitors to Australia with the answers provided by the Australian Tourism Authority.  The questions came from as far north as Sweden and the United Kingdom and as far east as the USA.  All left me speechless.

          Admittedly I laughed.  The way one does when a question is a little embarrassing and you’re not sure if the question is actually a serious one or someone poking fun.  But then I started thinking about the lack of plain common sense from the inquirers.  Or is it lack of education?  These days does anyone planning a trip outside their own country actually look at an atlas?

          One questioner asked if it was possible to walk from Perth, on the west coast, to Sydney on the east coast, by following the railway line.  A quick glance at a map would have shown that distance was about the same as the distance from Tallahassie, Florida to San Diego, California.  Quite a lovely little stroll!  ‘Just take plenty of water with you,’ advised the Tourism office.

          Surely today, with the internet at everyone’s fingertips, a rudimentary search for information on any country on the planet is just a few clicks away.  On the other hand, a look at the size of a country, establishing that there are real cities with tall buildings dotted along the horizon isn’t going to help with questions like these:  ‘Is English spoken in Australia?’ and ‘Should I bring my own cutlery?’

          Hmmm.  The question of English could be tricky.   Aussies do seem to have a language of their own.  One which bears only a slight resemblance to English as spoken by the English.  As spoken by Americans…well…that’s a whole different blog for another day.

          The use of cutlery however should be addressed here.  Do people planning a visit to Oz (that’s what Australians call their country) really think that because Australia is at the bottom of a spinning globe, it’s a nation of vegan/vegetarian hunters and gatherers?  People who still eat with their fingers?  Apparently so.

          So it all boils down to perception.  Unfortunately for most would-be travelers to Oz, from all parts of the planet, that perception seems to have stopped expanding somewhere between kindergarten and elementary school.  Many of the enquiries concerned countries other than Australia, although they did all start with the letter ‘A.’  Let me help with the following:

          Africa – where Tarzan swings from the trees;

          Austria – where the Von Trapp family are still yodeling in the Alps;

          America – where the streets are paved with gold; and

          Australia – where kangaroos can be seen hopping down the main street.  How many you see will depend on how much you’ve been drinking.

          The final question which is important to get right was:  ‘which direction is north in Australia?’  Tell you what, you crazy globetrotters you, once you land on Aussie soil, turn 180 degrees and then ask for further instructions.

         

Surgery Instructions

            Since the beginning of the year many of my friends and relatives have either undergone surgery, are recovering from surgery, or are looking forward to surgery.  Well, probably not actually looking forward to it as much as hoping and praying for it to be over and done and themselves returned to the happy, healthy creatures they once were.

          And that got me remembering.  I do a lot of that lately.  I think it has something to do with my advancing years.  If you can’t do it anymore, its fun remembering when you could.  But I, as usual digress.

          Back in those good old days, I used to do quite a bit of runway modeling.  Usually I was booked for sportswear or swimsuit parades in stores and occasionally for bigger affairs like Fashion Week today.  Understandably it was pretty much seasonal work but it did bring in a few extra bikkies to top up the family coffers.

          At the beginning of one such season I had begun to experience severe pain under my left should blade.  So much so that the only way to alleviate the pain was to lie flat on my back for several minutes until the pain passed.  I was then good for as long as it took to change into my next swimsuit, do my strut down the runway and get back to the dressing room, at which time I again flung myself onto the floor.

I should explain here that the reason I did runway modeling and not photographic stuff (which incidentally paid a heck of a lot more), was because I was totally unphotogenic.  Still am come to think of it.

You’ve heard the expression ‘the camera loves her?’  Well, it hated me.   My saving grace was that I did move beautifully down a runway and could show off any garment to perfection.

          Anyway, after several weeks of bobbing up and down like a lavatory seat in dressing rooms across the country, and with the pain getting worse with each day I finally consulted a doctor.

          I was diagnosed with a cyst on one of my ovaries.  The fact the pain was nowhere near my ovary was called referred pain and apparently was quite common.  Surgery to remove the cyst was required and I was duly booked into the hospital for the procedure.

          A few days later, lying in my hospital bed an hour before my scheduled surgery, I was going into sleepy glow mode because of the just administered pre-med, when it suddenly hit me.  Where was the surgeon gong to cut me?

          If I didn’t have a photogenic face, the only thing I did have was a photogenic body.  I didn’t want my only asset ruined by a visible scar.

          Half asleep, I fumbled in the bedside table drawer for my make-up bag and extracted a soft black eyeliner pencil.  Raising my nightgown, I wrote – upside down – on my stomach, these immortal words:  ‘Please cut below this line,’ with an arrow pointing down to my bikini line.  I covered myself with the bed sheet and gave way to sleep.

          Afterwards, I vaguely recall giggling nurses poking their heads into my room, pointing at me and whispering behind their hands.  Apparently my message to my surgeon had spread through the hospital.

          And my surgeon, bless his little cotton socks, had acquiesced.  My scar was so low, and incidentally so tiny, that I needed glasses to see it.  I was told later that my encounter with the surgeon’s knife was published in the AMA Journal. 

          But, possibly the lesson in all this is…speak openly to your surgeon before any procedure or, at the very least, have a sharpened, soft black pencil within easy reach.

         

         

         

Casting Call for Klutzes

          Apparently there are people today who have no concept of volume.  They will wildly pour a gallon of water into a teacup and wonder why there is water dripping onto the table.  The same sad group, for surely they must be the same group, think that jamming a big wallet into a small purse will somehow expand the latter into the size required without bursting its seams.  Maybe they are also the group who can be knocked to the floor with no more effort than a slight push unless they’re wearing a twenty dollar bracelet which has qualities that somehow give them the strength to withstand a tornado while standing on one leg.

          Why is it that marketing people think consumers are such ningnongs that unless a TV ad is completely over the top, we poor fools won’t get the message?  Is ramming stupidity down our throats really a great marketing tool?

          I can visualize a couple of TV producers and the marketing genius for a new customer sitting around a table ready to see the results of their casting call.   It could be for a water globe, an aluminum wallet, a magical bracelet or any one of a hundred different items; the product really doesn’t matter as long as the actors can be made to look like klutzes’ and are desperate for a job.

          ‘Now, I want you to hug ten pots and pans to your chest, a spatula between your teeth and a spoon in your hand,’ the TV guy instructs.  ‘I want you to look frustrated as you try to put them on the kitchen workbench.’

          Really?  Should the actor then also look like a twit because she couldn’t figure out that clutching all of her kitchen utensils to her body at one time was probably not the smartest way to pick out the most useful one to drain her spaghetti?

           And how about the guy with the horribly bent-out-of-shape credit card because he didn’t have an aluminum wallet?  How did that happen?  The last time I tried to dispose of a credit card I practically had to use an electric saw.  But this poor schnook apparently just sat on his.  So how big was his bum?

          I understand that TV ads are meant to be bigger, louder and sometimes even crazier than real life.  After all, they are supposed to grab our attention and make us salivate for the product advertised.  But couldn’t the marketers also consider the fact that viewers, therefore potential buyers, don’t want to be treated as idiots?

          Telling me that my eggs can line up looking like little bald heads if I use some cute plastic containers to cook them in is one thing.  Watching a woman unable to peel an egg without tearing the shell to pieces and ending up with something resembling a dog’s dinner is quite another.

          Those marketing hotshots might also want to take a closer look at the finished TV ads to ensure the scripted dialogue actually goes with the visual.  There is something a little upsetting with a middle-aged woman, sweat sitting on her top lip like a wet moustache, panting from exertion, saying: 

          ‘I lifted it and moved it all by myself.’

          And then what?  Was she rushed off to the hospital for hernia surgery?  She certainly looked like she was ready to drop.

          I know there are numerous actors who look on TV commercials as simply a job.  A paycheck in these hard economic times.  But come on TV producers and advertising bigwigs, they’ll never move on to bigger and better things while you guys are asking them to look like the greatest klutz’s on earth.  All the time asking us, your customers, to accept that people really are as inept and dopey as you make them out to be.

          For an actor, having to accept work of this nature must be quite humiliating. There is little to get excited about when an actor’s resumé includes the words ‘As Seen on TV.’