Bad Connection

I stumble around the kitchen making breakfast with my children draped over the furniture in the family room on summer holidays routine. I check my email whilst I wait for the kettle to boil. Nothing from my mother or my mother in law. Both these octogenarians are now equipped with laptops, the same breed, so that tutorials may be conducted more easily. The toaster erupts so I grab the butter and call in the troops. No movement or sound is discernible, so I go and round up my children and corral them to the table for sustenance.

The telephone rings and it’s prior to daylight. I check the clock. I check the children. Spouse is at his morning exercise programme. The rings ring to tell me that spouse has collapsed and is currently whizzing his way to the emergency room. I swallow hard and then lift the receiver. I hear my mother’s voice. She is 8 hours away and so this translates to one of the following: someone is dying, or already dead and I’ve probably missed the funeral.
“Hello? Is that you dear? It’s a very bad line! Can you speak up a bit?”
“Yes, is that better?”
“Yes.”
“Hi!”
“Are you alright! You sound very odd dear?”
“Odd?”
“Well, very cheerful.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.” I practice breathing to stop the rising panic and pray that the children can hang on a few more breathless minutes as I wait for her to tell me the ghastly news.
“Are you still there dear?”
“Yes, I’m right here. I’m quite ready.”
“Ready for what dear? Have I called at a bad time?”
“No, no, no, anytime is just fine, I’m always here for you, you know that don’t you mum.”
“Well of course you’re always there, you never go out! You’ve turned into some kind of hermit. How are the teeth by the way?”
“Fine.” I leave the way open for her to tell me, so that we don’t get sidetracked onto something else. I know that this is her way of letting me down gently.
“Oh good. That’s good then.”
“And?” I prompt.
“Are the children well, er, I mean well despite, you know everything else?” This avoids the elephant in the room otherwise known as autism. I glance across at my elephants to check that they are indeed still well. I feel a rising thread of irritation, just a tiny one. I was ‘prepared’ a few moments ago, but now ‘prepared’ is fading and annoyance is rising.
“So what is it that you wanted to tell me mum?”
“Tell you?”
“Yes, what did you want to tell me?”
“What makes you think that I wanted to tell you something?”
“You telephoned me…….so I’m assuming you have something to tell me?” I want to ask ‘how is dad?’ but I’m not sufficiently prepared for the answer. I think of distant relatives that I could tolerate being removed? A sacrifice to the greater good of my mental health. Maybe 3rd cousins, removed twice, or 5th cousins removed 17 times? How distant is distant enough? I change my tone to exactly match the woman on the relaxation tape, mellifluous. I gird my loins for the inevitable.
“So…..” I offer helpfully.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering…..”
“What were you wondering dear?”
“I was wondering what it was that you telephoned to tell me?”
“Oh, I see.” I wait. “Are you still there?” I wonder if I am?
“Mum, tell me. Tell me right now!”
“Well! I can tell that you’re not feeling particularly helpful, so perhaps I should call at a more convenient time. What is the time by the way, for you, not for me?”
“Here it is three minutes to six.”
“Ah well you must be busy with supper then, I quite understand.”
“Morning mother, morning!”
“Oh really! What on earth are you doing up at this ungodly hour?” I am always up at this hour, although if I were alone, or not on the phone, it would probably be quite heavenly. She continues without prompting.
“Well you won’t want to be bothered with my woes then.”
“I am quite happy to be bothered with your woes, if you’ll only tell me what they are, your woes that is?”
“Oh, I see. Well it’s the computer, it’s broken, I can’t get my messages, umm e-mail.”

Bad Connection

https://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2007/08/bad-connection.html

Etiquette – no comment

I spent many of my formative years in England, where I adopted the cultural norms. [link] My father was in the Navy, which meant that we spent some of those years hither and thither, but Brit’s do not adapt to ‘abroad,’ and maintain the same standards regardless of where they end up. [translation = colonialism] If I were to visit my "brother in China," things would be very different. If I jumped on an aeorplane to visit my "daughter," they would be different again.

But etiquette in the ether, is more intangible, with no-one to tell you what the rules are. Quite often as you’re zipping happily along in the blogosphere, you come across a posting the effects your "psyche." Sometimes you’re shocked, or struck dumb. It is at these times that I feel like a voyeur. Often I will want to add a comment, but I am at a loss to know what to write, that will not seem crass, insensitive or meaningless.

Many bloggers have no way of knowing that anyone has read their work, as a "sitemeter," hasn't entered radar screen. Others know that they have had visitors but that no-one has any opinion that they wish to share with the writer, leaving them without validation, approval or acknowledgment.

As I struggle up my own personal learning curve, or rather, creep, I thought I might share my conclusion Whilst I am a newbie of a mere six months, this phenomenon has left me flummoxed on more than one occasion. Do I make my presence known by leaving a comment, or do I slink away with my proverbial tail between my fingers?

It is therefore with “grateful thanks” that I can now note, that to write a comment to say the equivalent of ‘you have left me speechless,’ is probably the way ahead for me.

So unlock your stiff upper lip, snap those typing fingers and don't let your lips be sealed.

Etiquette – no comment

https://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2007/04/etiquette-no-comment.html

White noise

I whiz around at high speed first thing in the morning. The radio burbles in the background. Usually it’s the news from NPR, snippets of this and that. Someone is speaking from the White House. They have been speaking for a long time. As a former student of politics, I should pay heed, regardless of the message or content. The stumbling erratic delivery, ignoring the accent, is too halting and laboured. Like most people, my political affiliations are complex. Unlike most people, the complexity is aggravated by tiny irritations, such as when a person chooses to pause in a sentence. Pause at the wrong time, for too long or not long enough, and I’ll tear up my ballot paper in disgust.

I use the 7 available minutes to lay slip on my bowl. [translation = colour the clay pot that I made three months ago.] Spouse yells into the telephone receiver, at his poor mother. [translation = who is hard of hearing] I do not know who I feel more sorry for, his mother or him. She is learning how to use the computer. He, on the other hand, is a computer expert. They have no common language with which to communicate, even if she were able to hear the technical language he uses. The number of repetitions at an ever increasing volume, does damage to my blood pressure. Once each sentence is completed, and individual words clarified, the conversation progresses. Each new statement follows the same trajectory. I feel my creative juices dry out.


I turn the power on for the tape recorder instead to listen to Richard Dawkins who talks about “The God Delusion.” From one extreme to the other. Junior hurls his baby oatmeal, texture free, onto the floor due to inadequate temperature control. Time is of the essence before the mixture turns to cement on every surface that it touches. ‘believe your parents, do a raindance to the rain gods to get the rains to come’ I hear, as Mr.Dawkins reads from his book. That is enough information to send me out into the garden, to escape all noise and do some therapeutic watering instead.

I sprinkle and shower the plants as my neighbour pulls over in her car and alights onto the drive way. We meet, we greet. She requests visual confirmation of teeth progress. I oblige. My neighbour has the same difficulty with her hearing. I discover that it is very difficult to shout when your teeth are clenched together, a fact that I had been blissfully unaware of , up until now.
“What’s yur house number agin?” I point at the house where the number is displayed on the wall.
“Yur number? What is it?” she asks again. I attempt verbalization but my diction is poor.
“Say yit agin.” I point frantically at the numbers, the six inch numbers nailed to the wall.
“So what’s my number agin?” she queries. I have no idea. Since all house numbers are 5 digits, people rarely manage to learn more than their own house number.
“I’m not sure?” I mutter. She remembers, “so which way d’yah think 14590 ould be?” I point down the road to the left. “That way is up? Are yu sure?”
“WHY?” I shout.
“Oh darlin iz jus the mail carrier delivered this packet to me an it’s the wrong address.”
“Give it make to the postman and let him redeliver it,” I suggest to the octogenarian.
“Yu what?” I repeat, louder, with my numb lips attempting to enunciate.
“The ‘po’ what? I ken get what yur sayin. Say it agin.” Louder still, with lips working like a camel.
“Police! Whatdaya mean, the ‘police’?”
“NOT ‘POLICE,’ ‘POSTMAN’!” I yell at 50 decibels, misting up her glasses.
“Well, they’re no need to holler. I’m not deaf. Why didn’t yah jus say ‘mail carrier’ then I’d have known what yah were goin on about.”

So two syllables more and I save 50 decibels.

White noise

https://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2007/04/white-noise.html