Rich Beyond Compare

          Lately I’ve been inundated with emails advising me of the bags full of loot sitting around just waiting for me to say, please deliver to my door.’  Apparently I am such a paragon of wondrousness that even the UN has put me at the top of their ‘Relief from Poverty’ list and desire to make me happy with a check for at least $1.5 million.  Now isn’t that just the nicest thing?  And the UN with such a huge unpaid bill of its own too.

          One such advice really tugged at my heartstrings.  It was written by a man, from his hospital bed, dying of some terrible disease, yet still wanting to tell me of the enormous pile of money waiting for me.  He wrote this missive with ‘tears in his eyes.’  Now I ask you…how incredibly sweet is that?

          Of course one could be a total cynic and question how anyone could write anything on a computer from their deathbed, but that would not be me.  I do however hope the hospital has plenty of Kleenex tissues at hand to wipe the tears from the man’s eyes before he completely soaks the bed.  I’m sure the cost of laundering stuff in Nigeria is quite expensive.

          However all of this largesse on the part of these lovely Nigerians did make me think about incredible wealth.  What would I do if I had it? I mean to have so much loot that you literally couldn’t spend it in your lifetime if you truly tried to do so.  Well that boggled my mind far too much so I settled on a usable sum.  Twenty million.  What would I do with twenty million?  And investing it to make even more millions for myself was not to be an option.

          So I started making mental lists of who would get the money and for what purpose.  By the time I had bought beautiful homes in a nice area for my two kids; set up decent trusts for the grandkids for their education and a small house or apartment for each, I was on a roll.  There would be wonderful vacations, round the world trips for everyone…travelling first class of course; a car for each of the grandkids when they turned 18 and perhaps some cash to start a business if that was on their horizon. 

          My friends wouldn’t be left out either.  Mortgages would be paid off, some lovely new appliances would be delivered for those who needed it…or perhaps didn’t need it but would like it…what fun it would all be.

          I was having such a great time with my mental shopping that I wasn’t actually taking notice of how much I was spending.  When it was all added up I found I was going to be about $1 million short!  How could that be?  Obviously the Nigerians would have to find another lottery I’d won and send me much more cash even while crying buckets of tears.

          Ah, how lovely to dream.  I walked out onto my lanai and gazed at the majestic Ko’olau mountains.  The sun was just setting behind them and a song I heard many years ago came to mind:

          ‘I’m rich, I’m rich beyond compare

          I own those mountains over there

          I own the sun, the moon, the stars….’

          I can’t remember the rest of the verse but right then, the few words I remembered said it all for me.  I don’t have a lot, but looking at God’s incredible creation, I felt so rich….and that makes me truly happy.

           

 

         

On Being Cool         

           A little while ago a very sweet teenager told me that when she eventually gets to the dotage stage, she will be the ‘world’s coolest grandma.’  When I queried just exactly what did being a ‘cool grandma’ constitute, there was a decided lack of opinion.  I think it was one of those…can’t actually explain it, but I’ll know it when I see it…kind of things.

          Which of course, got me thinking about all the grandma’s, nanna’s, grannies and older ladies that I know or have met who work tirelessly to promote the happiness of their grandkids.  Would they be considered ‘cool’ by the youth of today?  Probably not.

          Certainly not if an email cartoon I received recently is any indication of just what ‘being cool’ is all about.  It listed all the new electronic gadgets available to all and sundry with the only apparent requirement for their correct usage being youth.  The punchline is a little old lady sitting hunched over an old computer with the caption ‘Go, Granny Go.’  A bit cheeky don’t you think?  Are we really considered thick as bricks and so far removed from the all knowing young people of today because we’ve got a few more years on our resumes?

          Listen up, young fry…before you stuck yourselves in solitary confinement with plastic plugs blocking your ears and glued your faces to colored screens of varying makes and sizes while your thumbs clacked out a message to another in solitary confinement, we granny’s were touch typing (that means without looking at the keyboard darlings) with all ten fingers at speeds north of 90 wpm.  And, incidentally, we could have a chat with our neighbor at the same time.  Try that with your thumbs and while blindfolded, sweet cheeks!

          If we really wanted to write something very quickly, most of us new a form of writing called shorthand that whipped out letters at upwards of 130 words a minute.

          When it was necessary to add, subtract, multiply or divide we did it with pencil, paper and brainpower and usually faster than you could check the batteries in your calculators.

          In the days before Al Gore invented the internet, and the gathering of information was left to Google or Wikipedia, we used books.  Yes, it took a little longer but along the way we discovered other treasures including how to spell and to locate cities and towns on a map.  Unlike most of the youth of today, we actually could find Washington DC or Canberra in our atlases.  Those are the big books with lots and lots of maps kiddies.

          Instead of bopping to music and lyrics heard only in our heads via a clutched Ipod, we shared our music with everyone within listening range.  It was fun to sing along together with the big hits of the day.   Something that only happens in karaoke bars now.

          Does the unwillingness of today’s grandma’s to join the zombie crowds shuffling along to their own drummers make them ‘uncool?’  I don’t think so…but then, what is a cool grandma?’

          I believe it is the woman who spends hours with her grandkids playing puzzles and word games despite the pile of laundry needing to be done at her own home.  It is the woman who will whip up a batch of cookies because the grandkids invited the whole neighborhood over without asking permission first.  It is the woman who will defend her grandkids in all situations and dare another to disagree.  It is the woman who will smile proudly at the achievements of her grandchildren even if the accomplishment is only getting a certificate for being a good student.  And it is the woman who will comfort a distraught teenager when she thinks her world is coming to an end because that cute boy at school won’t give her the time of day.

          That’s my idea of a ‘cool grandma.’  What do you think?

I Love Paris

          I see the dollar is getting stronger and stronger against the euro…or should that be the euro is getting weaker and weaker?  Either way, it should make American and Aussie travelers to Europe chuckle with glee as they load up with previously far too expensive goodies or gifts to take home.

          During my trip to Paris last year with my granddaughter, the exchange rate on our beloved dollar was so pitiful it was hard to enjoy many of the lovely sights Paris has to offer.  Well, if it’s a choice between the Louvre and lunch…?

          So of course, all this euro buzz brought to mind a previous trip to France some years ago.  After touring through Provence for several days, I’d made arrangements to meet up with friends in Paris.  Since we were booked into different hotels we agreed to meet outside Notre Dame early evening and figure out then where to have dinner.

          The cab from the station dropped me off outside my hotel.  A narrow street loaded with Smart cars and only a doorway into the hotel…hmmmm.  However, remembering how unimpressive some of the hotels had looked from the outside in Provence, I optimistically dragged my suitcase and roll-on over the threshold and smiled broadly at the rather fierce woman behind the desk.  I think working as a concierge was her weekend job…she probably works as a prison guard at the local women’s’ institution during the week.

          The prison guard spoke very little English and she apparently wasn’t too impressed with my French because she slapped a registration card in front of me, told me I was a half hour early for check-in and promptly ignored my presence for the next thirty minutes.  Not to worry, I was happy to sit in the lobby and peruse some of the brochures.  After all, I had hours before I was to meet up with my friends.

          Exactly thirty minutes later Madame Prison Guard advised me my room was ready for occupancy.  She apparently got this information through mental telepathy because the phone didn’t ring nor did anyone resembling a maid appear to advise the status of the rooms.  Ah, but why quibble over little details?  I was in Paris!  Let the fun begin!!

          It was then Prison Guard informed me that the elevator was not working and my room was on the third floor!  The elevator would not be fixed for at least 24 hours and so how do you like them apples?  I stood open-mouthed staring at the circular stairway that seemed to rise all the way up to heaven.

          Have you ever tried to get something big and heavy up a circular stairway?  The tread is not the same width all the way across…plus, in this case each step was only about ten inches wide anyway.  Oh, and Prison Guard was happy to tell me, there was no bellman, no janitor, no nuttin’ to assist me in lugging my bags up to the third floor.

          One might now wonder why I didn’t hotfoot it out of the place and find accommodations with a working elevator or at least a bellman…simple…Paris was more or less booked out…the French elections, Liberation day and the like.  So I was stuck.

          I tried to put a happy face on it and lugged my roll-on up the stairs one step at a time.  I was sweaty and exhausted when I finally got to my room.  I truly thought I was going to cark it right there and then.  But, I didn’t have time to drop dead…I still had to make a second trip dragging my very heavy suitcase.

          Back downstairs, I bent over my suitcase panting.  Madam PG apparently worried that I actually might become a corpse in her lobby, suggested I leave the suitcase behind her desk until the morning when, hopefully the elevator repairman would present himself for service.  I explained I was meeting friends for dinner, I had to shower and my change of clothes were in the suitcase.

          PG came up with brilliant idea…I should take my shower and then I could come back downstairs and change right there.  I had visions of me running down the stairs wrapped in a bath towel, rummaging in my suitcase for the appropriate items and then what?  Bobbing up and down behind her desk while I put on my clean knickers?  Heaven forbid that anyone else was checking in at the time.

          But, finally I was in my room, flaked out on the bed and wondering if I’d ever be able to stand upright again.

          That’s when I discovered the toilet didn’t work properly.  Flush and listen to the water running endlessly into the tank.  I located a maid on the floor above (who didn’t speak English of course…she didn’t speak French either, she was Jamaican) and with hand signs explained my problem.  She was so helpful, she showed me that by turning the water off at the wall all would be well.  So for whatever my euro outlay was per night, not only did I have to haul my own luggage up three flights of stairs, I also had to turn the toilet water on and off every time I wanted to pee!

          But I still love Paris.  I’ll just make sure future stays will have hotels with at least a bellman if not a working elevator.

Fly Me to the Moon

          ‘Pan-Am’, a TV show halfway through its first and possibly last season, follows the exploits of a handful of flight attendants and a couple of pilots as they zot around the globe.  The show is set in the heyday of the airline, in the late sixties or early seventies, when flight attendants were still called air hostesses and flying the skies was every little girl’s dream job.

          This of course got me thinking about the days when, because of my job, I was required to frequently fly around the country. 

          I hate flying now and I hated flying then.  But at least back in those days it was easier to gain some semblance of calm by being able to check out the plane before it actually took off into the wild blue yonder.  Then, because passengers were required to walk from the airline lounge…usually a one-storey building resembling a shed with a wind sock on the roof… across the tarmac and up a flight of steps to the door of the plane, it was an easy matter to check and make sure there were no missing rivets on the body, no bits hanging down that shouldn’t be, and the plane had the necessary number of wings and engines.

          Now, of course, passengers are herded down tunnels and into, you assume, a big airplane.  It could just as easily be a truck.  How would you know?  It’s not as though you can actually see the plane.

          So, on one of my trips overseas, having talked myself into remaining calm on a scheduled flight, I took my seat next to a most disagreeable gentleman.  My bright ‘Good morning,’ was met with a scowl after which his head disappeared behind a newspaper. 

          ‘Oh great…fourteen hours on a non-stop flight with Mr. Grumpy Britches,’ I thought.

          But moments before take-off the flight attendant appeared at his side and advised that the Captain had asked said gentleman be upgraded to first class.  The man was thrilled.  I was ecstatic.  Anything not to have to sit next to Grumpy was a major good thing.

          His replacement next to me was a young man who at least smiled and nodded to me and all was well with the world.

          We were just gaining altitude and I was staring out the window at beautiful Sydney Harbor, when there was a loud bang, the plane shuddered and the engine closest to my window started making a frightening grinding noise.  This was smartly followed by smoke beginning to drift from the top.       Well, that was it!  Obviously we were all going down into the drink…goodbye world!

          But, our imminent death apparently hadn’t occurred to the flight attendant.  With her mic turned up to full volume, she began running down the list of great things that were going to happen on our very long flight.  Movies would be shown, drinks would be served followed by such fabulous eats they would go down in history.

          ‘We’re the ones going down,’ I wanted to shout.  ‘We haven’t got time for movies or drinks.’

          The young man next to me, realizing how terrified I was, tried to make things better.  But a very clammy, sweat soaked hand patting mine was really not the way to do it and not much help.

          Eventually the Captain, in one of those laid-back, calm voices addressed us: 

          ‘Seems we’ve hit a couple of birds folks and we’ll be returning to Sydney.  Just relax and enjoy the hour or so we’ll have to fly around in circles to dump fuel.  Oh and don’t worry about the fire trucks and ambulances on the tarmac as we taxi in…they’re only there in case we burst into flames upon landing.’

          We’ll he probably didn’t say the last part but it’s what he meant! 

          For indeed nothing says ‘dead people’ like several EMS vans racing along the tarmac in line with a landing plane.

          But, we landed perfectly and were issued free upgrades for a future flight assuming anyone was brave enough to actually get on another plane ever again.

          I still hate flying but sometimes (like when visiting family and friends) you’ve just got to do what you’ve got to do.

This Year I Resolve To...

           

          It’s on again!  The excited and determined hordes are once again descending on local gyms.  Zumba classes are filling up faster than a samba, rumba or salsa can thump out the beat, bikes are being lined up for spinning lessons and membership at all exercise venues is experiencing its usual spike for the new year.

          For at least the next six weeks, gyms across the country will be filled to overflowing with bright eyed, eager new members wanting to get rid of those excess pounds piled on during the holiday season and to firm up muscles that have long forgotten words like ‘well-toned.’ 

          These eager beavers will run miles on treadmills, pedal up and down countless hills and push and pull various pieces of equipment all to regain some of the bodies they left behind six or more months ago and all because ‘getting fit and healthy’ is on their list of New Year’s Resolutions.

          I love these New Year gym fanatics, I really do.  A healthy work-out should be part of everyone’s weekly routine.  If not to retain that youthful figure that most of us can now only dream about, then to at least make doctors happy and visits to their clinics fewer and further apart.  And, although, all these new additions to the gyms make it more difficult for regular members to access equipment, hey, let’s not be mean about sharing the health!

          But what about those newbies who, after ten minutes on a treadmill, decide that a gym is the very best place to arrange their social calendar?  The ones who straddle a bike and wax poetic about the next party they’ll be attending and would their neighbor on the adjoining bike care to join them? 

          I sat open-mouthed on a machine that guaranteed my arms to turn into tight and gorgeous appendages in no time, while a fairly hefty young man did tummy crunches on an abs machine…with his cell phone pressed between his ear and shoulder recounting his exploits for all and sundry.  It seemed that he’d had met a fantastic lady at his New Year’s party and hoped to see her again.  Isn’t that nice?

          Of course New Year’s resolutions don’t stop at gym memberships.  There’s the, ‘this year I’m going to save loads of money,’ which lasts for as long as it takes to access Amazon, Ebay or other web sites to check out their latest sales; and there’s the  old time favorite, ‘I’m going to lower my cholesterol by only eating grass and twigs for the next twelve months.’  This one lasts just long enough for the aroma of sizzling steak or frying chicken to hit the nose and even mighty resolve disappears into the mist.

          When I was a kid, on New Year’s Eve, my mother would entertain us with an old European custom.  At a few minutes before midnight, she melted a small bar of lead into a saucepan.  Then, when the lead was soft as liquid silver, she quickly poured the lot into a bucket of cold water.  The resulting blob was your fortune for the coming year.  Many minutes would be spent deciphering just what your particular blob meant…something resembling a boat meant a trip…something looking like a musical instrument meant you’d be attending concerts or learning to play said instrument.  It was fun and best of all, it didn’t put any pressure on the participants.  If the ‘fortune’ didn’t happen as predicted, well obviously the blob had been incorrectly deciphered, but not your fault and better luck next year.

          So, for all of you who didn’t have a lead blob to decipher this New Year’s Eve, who instead made resolutions that have already slipped into a murky haze or are soon about to make that trip…don’t feel bad…there is always next year.  In the meantime, the equipment at my gym will once again be available to me without waiting in line for it…my arms will get tight and if my bum also follows suit all will be well with the world.