Jump In My Car

          When, as a teenager I was taking driving lessons, my instructor told me that it wasn’t enough for me to know the road rules and drive accordingly, he advised that I should also drive for every other person on the road within my line of sight.  At the time I thought that was all a bit much, after all wasn’t it hard enough for me to remember all the stuff I was supposed to know without wondering if the blue-haired lady in the car next to me was also clued in?  And what if she wasn’t?  What then?

          Which of course was the whole point and, over the years, following his advice, I have been saved from some potentially nasty fender benders or worse. 

          All this was brought to mind when a friend emailed me the results of a brand new study recently published by the Society of Automotive Engineers.  It seems that after observing some 12,000 drivers over a period of a year, the study showed that 48% neglected to indicate lane changes and 25% zoomed around corners without the appropriate signals.  This lackadaisical approach to road rules when applied to US drivers as a whole, translated to 750 billion instances of signal neglect and an estimated 2 million road crashes per year.

          Now I’m fully aware that in this rotten economy a job that pays a living wage is a good thing to have.  But is it really necessary to do a study of something that is patently obvious to anyone who drives?  At least in Hawaii most drivers have no idea what the little lever attached to the steering column is for or, if they do have an inkling they’re not about to let other driver’s in on the secret by using it.

          I have been behind a driver who suddenly decided to change lanes, drove for a half block or so and then just as suddenly veered back into the lane in front of me; all this without once dropping a hint of his intentions.  The fact the driver was a police officer in a marked police car stopped me from doing anything dumb… although my mental tirade directed at the back of his head was quite brilliant.  And no, the gentleman in question was not on his way to apprehend some bad guys but, more likely, didn’t want to be late for lunch.

          This inability of driver’s to flick a little lever leaves me puzzled. 

          I can remember in days of old when cars weren’t equipped with such modern marvels and to indicate a turn was a major production.  The window had to be rolled down, the arm extended outside the vehicle in plenty of time to allow the car behind to see the flapping appendage.  Too bad if it was pouring down rain or the temperature was hovering around freezing, it was what you did to avoid getting smacked in the bum by the following car, and it was required by law.

          I’ve actually reverted to doing this on a certain road I drive quite often.  I need to do a left hand turn from the median, with an immediate second left hand turn into a driveway.  So that the driver behind me isn’t confused by my intentions, I indicate with my signal and also shove my arm out the window halfway through my first turn, hoping whoever is sitting on my tail gets the message.  So far I’ve been lucky.  I shudder to think what will happen the day a following car doesn’t understand what blinking lights or waving arms are all about and cruises up my backside.

          So, I’ve come up with this great idea.  Would some smart GPS guy ask the tiny woman who sits inside the gadget to add, ‘turn your indicator on..’ before advising any turns or lane changes?  If the driver didn’t do as instructed, a stinky gas would waft from the GPS unit.  This would surely encourage all the dingbats to do as they’re told in the future.  Well, wouldn’t it?

         

         

         

         

           

For My Mother

          As I read the various ads in the local paper all touting their programs to help us celebrate Mother’s Day next Sunday, I wished that I could shower my Mamma with some of their offerings; to pamper her and watch the delight on her face as she opened her gifts.   Did she enjoy her special day in years past?  I think so.  She certainly deserved the celebration.

          Mamma was born in Latvia and immigrated to Australia in the late 1940’s after many years of being shunted around the Displaced Persons camps of Europe.  She arrived with a battered cardboard suitcase, two small daughters and a handful of change she’d managed to acquire by selling off her few precious possessions.

          For years she worked long, grueling hours at the hardest, dirtiest jobs she could find because they paid more, with just one dream: to buy a house.  A house with a separate room for sleeping and one for eating; a house with its own bathroom and, maybe, even a yard.  Some place that was larger than the 10ft square curtained off area that had been our home for so many years in so many camps.

          Each morning she arose before dawn to walk the five miles to her job so she could save the money needed for tram fare.  After working a double shift in a factory, she took the train into the city for her evening job as a dishwasher.  She went home in the dark.  And, eighteen months later, she bought our first house – a tiny weatherboard with a pocket handkerchief back yard and a sliver of grass at the front.

          That first night, we three slept huddled together on the bare boards, wrapped in army blankets for warmth.  It was a wonderful house.

          Mamma’s dream expanded as she continued to work and save – a bigger house, with perhaps a sleeping room for each of us and a front garden where she could plant her roses.

          Mamma’s one extravagance during those years was a Saturday evening outing to the movies.  She would sit in the front stalls (the first ten rows from the front) because she wouldn’t afford herself the luxury of the higher priced back stalls, and be transported to magical places by her movie heroes.  How she loved the movies.

          She instilled in us a love of music and dance and taught us that freedom was a precious gift to be treasured and never taken for granted.  And too, that with hard work anyone could attain their dreams whatever they may be.

          In her later years she suffered through two unsuccessful hip replacement surgeries but, undaunted, took to her motorized wheelchair with gusto and became a well known and loved local ‘grandma on her bike.’

          Mamma loved God, her children, grandchildren and her pets; she loved to see her flowers grow and took joy in reading her Bible.  At 92 she was still learning; a little notebook on her nightstand was filled with new words and their meanings, quotes from interesting people, favorite parts of scripture, poetry and comments on books she had read.

          She was not sad to leave this world.  She knew exactly where she was going and who would be waiting to greet her there.

          We are less because of her passing, but, I know it is only… until we meet again Mummy. 

          And to all the Mothers out there…have a wonderful, blessed Mother’s Day!

This Sporting Life

          It is quite possible that I’m the only female on the planet who has absolutely no interest in sports.

          As a child I never participated in any sporting activities at school, mainly because I was too busy trying to learn how to read, write and speak English.  As an adult my first attempt at tennis resulted in a pulled groin muscle which had me limping around for weeks and put paid to any wild dreams I might have had about Wimbledon; my laughable foray around a golf course had my friends surreptitiously kicking my little ball towards the hole so we could finish before the moon rose in the heavens, and riding a horse was such an exercise in futility the riding instructor asked me to please only return when he was not on duty.

          Watching others taking part in this thing called sports leaves me confused and frustrated.  Despite having the game of football (gridiron) explained to me, I’m still at a loss to understand why the ball takes forever to move barely inches at a time and why all the men spend most of their time in a huddle, flashing their bottoms at the yelling crowd.  All this while grumpy looking gentlemen walk along the sidelines, mics attached to their faces, glaring at all and sundry and endlessly screaming at unseen bodies.

          I must admit though that baseball has, from time to time, tweaked my interest.  Usually it’s after I’ve spent a couple of hours drooling over Robert Redford hitting balls into the stands or the equally luscious Kevin Costner converting a cornfield into a baseball diamond because ‘if you build it, they will come.’ 

          After one such movie outing I was convinced that, in fact, I could become an enormous fan of baseball.  Non baseball aficionados advised me that the game was actually mind numbingly boring unless it was a game between the best of the best in the business, and then only if they were having a great run.

          But, not to be deterred, I gathered together a group of friends and we took ourselves off to Baltimore’s Camden Yards for what I was sure was going to be a truly exciting afternoon.  It had such potential.  Camden Yards had only recently been opened after either a refurbishing or a complete overhaul from the ground up (I can’t remember which one).  It was designed, so I was told, in the style of the old baseball stadiums of years gone by and thus carried with it all the nostalgia that such a building can produce.

          I must admit, sitting in the stands behind first base, I was quite fascinated with all the stuff happening that had nothing to do with the actual game.  Vendors with trays laden with peanuts, candy and cans and cans of beer, ran up and down the aisles hawking their wares; kids armed with baseball mitts jumped around practicing catching that big hit ball in their tiny hands; and the jumbotron screen homing in on unsuspecting fans, plastering their faces on the screen for all to see. 

          When a ball was actually hit into the stands and caught by an excited child, I loved the loud trumpet blare and the announcer suggesting to: ‘give that kid a contract!’  It really was fun.

          The game we attended was also the one at which the crowd gave Cal Ripken a standing ovation for, as he said, ‘just turning up for every game for the past 25 years,’ so there was an element of sentimentality there too.

          But sadly, the actual game was a disaster.  At halftime, one team was so far ahead, it appeared the other side was sleepwalking through their innings and, for that matter, their more frequent outings.  By the seventh inning most of the crowd had given up and started to head home.  I insisted we stay to the bitter end, and that’s exactly what it was… a bitter end.

          It’s probably not fair to judge a whole sport by one single game.  But, as our little group straggled to our car so terribly disappointed, we all had to agree, it was unlikely our next outing would be a baseball game.  Next time… dare we try cricket?

           

         

         

A Grand Old Name

            George M. Cohen wrote that Mary, was a grand old name.  He even insisted that derivations of Mary, like Marie and Maria, were not quite as grand nor as lovely.  Which makes me wonder what they were thinking when some of today’s parents named their children?  Or for that matter, what possesses adults to change their perfectly acceptable names to something that makes no sense?

          I was watching LL Cool J doing a pretty good job of catching the bad guys on a TV show the other night and wondered what people actually called him to his face.  Do you say, ‘Hey, how’s it happening LL?’  Or is it, ‘Great show Mr. Cool?’  What then happens to the J part of his name?  Is it left flapping in the breeze like a sole coming away from an old shoe?

          And what about Ice-T?  He’s been keeping Law & Order for years and I’m still at a loss to understand how one would address him.  ‘Would you like a glass of iced tea Mr. Ice-T?’  And then of course there’s Ice-Cube, just to confuse matters completely.

          Of course there are some names that actually do suit the person to whom they’re applied.  Snoop Dog, for instance.  He looks a lot like a skinny beagle so top marks for that one Mr. Dog.  But, 50 Cent?  Is that supposed to indicate how much he has in his off-shore account or how much he wants to be paid for future appearances?  Another puzzlement for me to ponder!

          Then, there are the girls’ names.  Poor Gwyneth Paltrow has been hammered nearly to death because she named her daughter, Apple.  Ms. Paltrow’s excuse for this was that an apple is such a pretty fruit…so why not call an adorable baby a piece of fruit?  Why not indeed?  Perhaps because the kid will thump you in the kneecaps when she gets older, would be my best guess, but that’s just me.

          Beyonce’s baby girl got stuck with Blue Ivy.  Not too awful until you realize that her Dad’s name is Jay Z.   As we all know, kids can be cruel, so I wonder how long it might be until someone latches on to BlueJay or BlueZee and it devolves from there.

          And let us not forget the different and various spellings of names that once upon a time were quite easy to remember and spell.  Cheyna, Chyna, Ashlee, Ashleigh, Ashley…the list goes on and on.

          But the name we should all feel truly mystified by is Blanket.  Now I’m fully aware that the parents of Blanket were probably not working with a full deck when the name cropped up in conversation, but just how many brain cells do you have to have to realize that a blanket goes on a bed and not on a baby’s birth certificate?  And there isn’t even a way to cute-ify it (don’t nitpick…if Blanket can be a name, cute-ify can be a word!).   Bla, Blan, Blankie…yikes!

          And what happens when the child becomes an adult and decides to marry the girl of his dreams?  I can picture it now:

          ‘Do you Blanket, take Pillow for your wedded wife?’  And all the bedposts applauded the union.

          Now I know friends might point out that I gave my daughter an unusual name, but it is still an acceptable girl’s name and not a name gleaned from the local orchard, vegetable garden or linen closet.

          I think George M. Cohen had a good point.  Let’s get back to those grand old names of yore and stop trying to outdo each other with just how ‘different’ we can be in choosing a baby’s name.

         

         

         

         

         

         

Are You Kidding Me?

          Let me set the scene.

          A woman, incapacitated by a broken ankle and on crutches, is attacked at the top of the stairs by the family’s psycho Nanny.  The woman, a delicate looking blonde, tries to defend herself as best she can, but Psycho Nanny is younger and stronger, plus she has the advantage of not being hampered by a couple of wooden poles jammed under her arms.  After beating each other around the head for several minutes, causing some serious damage to the Delicate Looking Woman, Psycho Nanny ends the altercation by pushing the woman head first down the stairs.  There she lies, beaten to a pulp, barely breathing.

          Enter handsome husband who at first is oblivious to the mayhem being caused in his home and proceeds straight to the kitchen to greet his little woman.  There he is confronted by Psycho Nanny complete with a cast iron frying pan which she smartly wraps around Handsome Husband’s head.

          Now we have two people lying on the floor doing some critical bleeding while Psycho Nanny walks between them muttering to herself. 

          Handsome Husband raises his head barely inches off the floor and peers across the room to where his Delicate Looking wife lies battered, bruised and bleeding, and says:

          ‘Are you all right?’

       Now I ask you?  Really?  Could not the screenwriters have come up with another question…another phrase, anything but what appears to me to be the most idiotic line ever written?

          Just what is Delicate Looking wife supposed to say to that? 

          ‘Well duh…can you not see the red ooze puddling around my body?  But apart from that, I’m great.  Oh and, how’s yourself?  Doing okay?’

          And this dumb line is not just the standard for murderous home rampages.  It is used with increasing frequency in any and all situations in which someone gets hurt or is in some sort of danger. 

          Hanging from a cliff edge with only eight fingers between life and certain death, or stuck in a wrecked car with fire about to ignite the fumes and gas dripping from the fuel tank, you can bet your bifocals that the immortal, ‘are you all right?’ will spout from the mouths of rescuers.

          I’ve only once been in a situation that could be termed ‘life or death’ and believe me, my rescuer was more concerned with getting me to safety than to ask obviously ridiculous questions.  But that is a post for another time.

          In this meantime, perhaps we could send suggestions to the screenwriters of the various movie studios and give them creative and different examples of suitable lines to be used in dangerous situations.  Lines that won’t leave viewers rolling their eyes and gritting their teeth in frustration.  Well, it’s a thought anyway.

         

         

         

A Slower, Gentler Time

          Last week, I took myself off to the local cinema complex to enjoy a good movie.  I was nearly knocked over by the countless number of young folk elbowing their way into two separate theatres to see the latest offering in the blood and guts department.  The favorite for the young people that week was a movie featuring children hunting other children while adults looked on and cheered.  The concept made me shudder.  Talk about stepping backwards into history and the days of Rome and the gladiators.

          These days it seems that people attend movies not so much to be transported by their imaginations into beautiful places or to enjoy a tender love story or amusing comedy, but to have their ears bashed with extremely loud noise that passes for music, to have people being shot, stabbed, dismembered or otherwise disposed of, and to watch scene after scene of either car crashes, car chases or car explosions.  This is entertainment for today’s youth.

          And that of course, had me remembering…

          Prior to taking my granddaughter on a long promised vacation to New York and Europe last year, I asked her to watch two movies with me.  I explained that, since we’d be playing tourist while in New York and visiting the Empire State Building, I wanted her to see how it had been featured in so many great movies.  I guess I wanted her to be impressed with actually standing on the same spot as some famous people.  The two movies were: An Affair to Remember and Sleepless in Seattle. 

          Now, An Affair to Remember is one of my all-time favorites.  I’ve watched it so many times I can practically mouth every line of dialogue along with the stars.  For me, it has all the elements a terrific movie needs…wonderful actors, gorgeous scenery, brilliant writing, tender love scenes and a good cry before the end.  And since ‘Affair’ is delightfully referred to in Sleepless in Seattle, and also features the Empire State Building as an important part of the movie, I thought it a perfect follow-up to ‘Affair.’

 Tasha and the Empire State Building

          So there we were in my daughter’s living room, DVR remote on hand... Three generations of movie goers ready to be swept off into celluloid heaven by the debonair charm of Cary Grant and the subtle humor of the beautiful script.  At least that’s what I thought would happen.

          I was stunned therefore, and admittedly a little miffed, when, at a most poignant part in the film…a scene where the two would be lovers are making plans to meet in six months time at the top of the Empire State Building, my daughter sighed and said: ‘Can we fast forward through this Mum?  It’s kinda boring.’

          Huh?  One of the sweetest, most touching scenes in the whole movie was considered boring?  I was not amused.  And, although I insisted we persevere with watching all the movie to the end, it did make me realize that in this hurry, hurry, hurry world we live in today, there is no place for something as gentle, as simple as a cinematic love story.  And that makes me very sad.

           

         

                             

You Are What You Eat?

          There is an old adage, ‘you are what you eat.’  That must mean that my neighbor, a tall, willowy, young miss, eats fresh air sandwiches on a regular basis.  And, she probably washes the whole lot down with water from a secret spring under her house that contains not simply zero calories but negative ten calories.

           By the same standard, I must be the one who hooks herself up to a vat of cream each mealtime and slurps strawberry smoothies with wild abandon.  Which, trust me, I don’t do, so I consider it grossly unfair that I should pack on the pounds just by looking at food, while others can eat what they like and remain reed slim.

          This dichotomy was recently brought to mind when I read about a little girl who was scolded by her school teacher for bringing an unsuitable lunch from home. Her neatly packed meal consisted of a turkey sandwich, a banana, a small packet of chips and an apple juice.  This, according to the Food Police at the school was completely unsatisfactory.  Where was the milk?  An essential food requirement for healthy growth, they spouted.  Children should be encouraged to eat at the school cafeteria…after all, that’s where good nourishment could be found.

          And just what was the offering at the school cafeteria that day you may ask?  Well, there was certainly milk.  Added to that there were trays and trays of greasy, fried, chicken nuggets.  Eat enough of those sweetie pie and you’ll be wondering why you waddle when you walk.

          But that’s how it seems to be in this day and age.  Even our TV advertisements seem to contradict themselves.  This fact was actually pointed out to me by a very new immigrant to our fair shores recently.

          First, she said, we stare at lovely slenderized lasses extolling the virtues of one diet eating plan after another.  The one a viewer eventually chooses is dependent entirely on how good a sales job the TV lass has done at the time, for there doesn’t appear to be much difference in the actual food.

          Then, my friend continued, not ten minutes later (usually in the next commercial break) a voice-over is telling us that we should all pop over to Joe’s to enjoy a mouthwatering pizza as only Joe can make it.  Or, how about those hamburgers with juices dripping, and with bacon curling around the succulent meat pattie?  Try pretending they’re just as good for you as a salad of spring grasses and twigs, if you dare.

          I’m fully aware that we, as a nation, are horribly overweight.  But, suggesting that we all try an e-diet which, although delicious to look at tastes like soap slices on grilled tree bark is asking too much.  At least it is asking too much of me. 

          On the other hand, if I could look as svelte as my slender neighbor… perhaps a regular diet of fresh air sandwiches is not such a bad thing?