This classic battle has probably gone on throughout the entire history of mankind; between people and even within each person.
Recently my frustration with this conflict peaked and forced me to act. My mother always condemned my lack of patience, but these days I get praise for it. I would like to think that it was something I learned over time and acquired with maturity. But looking back over recent events, I question that. I accept that it is nothing I accomplished; intentionally or otherwise. Society changed; not me.
I am old enough to remember having to wait a week or more to hear from friends by mail. Having moved frequently I was very aware that it would take a few days for my letter to reach its destination, a day or two for a reply to be written, and then a few more days for their letter to travel to my new home. Today, even the mail only takes a fraction the time it did in the 1960’s to go from one side of the country to the other; on the rare occasions when we slow down enough to actually mail hand-written letters.
Not surprisingly the younger generations have come to expect immediacy – in everything. “Wait” has become an even fouler 4-letter word than those my mother threatened to wash out of my mouth with soap. But older generations have not been immune to the “NOW!” virus. We all wish “wait” was no longer even in our vocabulary at times, but making someone wait should not always be treated as a criminal act.
Savoring, creating, appreciating, understanding, all take time. They are valued largely because they take more time to accomplish. And because they require, time and patience, they are not easy and not everyone does them equally well. Taking the time to do something well should not be condemned as laziness or lack of commitment by those who must rely on others to accomplish such tasks. If they could do it better or quicker, they would most certainly have done it themselves. It’s just the way we are.
The impatient ones in our lives may not be solely to blame, though. We all have been lazy at times. I doubt anyone is unfamiliar with after having agreed to something, and then delaying because either we lost interest or actually disliked what was being asked of us. Because our pride, ego, or something else keeps us from speaking up and admitting we just don’t want to do something, others have learned to suspect this scenario any time things don’t happen as quickly as they expect. What the impatient person needs to learn, is to either ask if this is the problem, or accept that their time frame may not be the same as someone else’s and find a way to work with that; other than to lay blame and cause conflict.
Conflict, blame and misdirection wastes more time and effort than even the laziest person.
21 May 2012
28 Mar 2012
Old School Manners
A brief and casual encounter with a friend that I really am not that close to or know all that well made me truly appreciate what some have learned to ignore, or worse ridicule.
I have always had an intellectual appreciation for the customs, manner, etiquette or whatever you choose to classify what my English nanny taught me as a child. At the time, I was not very appreciative, except when bribed with tea cakes and scones. No five year old tom-boy wants to sit in a straight backed chair, with her ankles crossed (demurely, she would say) and juggle teacups and saucers destined to be spilled on the dress worn only for such occasions. Nor would those who know me well expect me to sit quietly smiling (“seen and not heard”) while the adults discussed the matters of the day; even at that age.
Perhaps it was this early implantation of a sense decorum that made my early encounters with Japanese culture so appealing. If there was anyone whose manners were stricter than a 1950’s British matriarch, it had to be Japanese women. Of course, in later years I discover that there were even more Asian cultures that elevated similar images of the serene and graceful side of the female nature. I also discovered that such reverence is a double-edged sword; the other edge being obedient subservience. It is true even in the more subtle cultures of the West, where that sword has dulled the fastest.
My encounter the other night was no philosophical analysis of society. It was a friendly discussion over dinner that bore none of the traits I mentioned above. And yet a gesture, a comment, and simple words that probably know one else noticed has brought a smile to me for days and spurred this commentary.
The days when men held a woman’s chair, helped her with her coat, or opened car doors for her on a regular basis are a distant memory for some of us; and almost a freak of nature for younger generations. There was a time when it was habit; even an unconscious reflex for older men. Today, if done at all, it is almost a grand gesture. It is often a calculated move to impress a date, or worse, done only because a man knows the woman he is with demands it at the price of civility.
As I was escorted to a seat for dinner, my chair was pulled out and held for me. No surprise, it was the restaurant’s manager. About the only time one can expect such courtesy is from the staff of nicer restaurants. I noticed it, but promptly forgot it once seated.
A few minutes later, I decided to remove my jacket. As if appearing magically, gentle and skilled hands were helping off with the jacket. Not only was the gesture a surprise, but also the grace with which it was done. And I remembered the night we met and went bar hopping, he did the same for me and the other women present. He has not abandoned the manners he was taught in exchange for disregard or laziness.
I noticed as he and the friend who had joined us were fully engaged in conversation, he continued to include me in the conversation with his smiles, gestures and comments. And I was more than comfortable to sit and just listen and watch, though I was the one who had broached the topic under discussion. As I was mentally acknowledging his conversational skills (which sometimes abandon me entirely), I realized that this same talent is why the last man to inspire me is so appealing
To keep from embarrassing either of them here, I will not mention names. But gentleman, your affable nature and well honed etiquette charm me whenever you are around. There is truly something impressive in your blend of old school ways with modern sensibility that I cannot help but admire. It matters not whether we are discussing business, delving into political histories, or just indulging in our mutual appreciation for good food and drink, I always enjoy your company.
(Hopefully, they recognize themselves in my reference.)
I have always had an intellectual appreciation for the customs, manner, etiquette or whatever you choose to classify what my English nanny taught me as a child. At the time, I was not very appreciative, except when bribed with tea cakes and scones. No five year old tom-boy wants to sit in a straight backed chair, with her ankles crossed (demurely, she would say) and juggle teacups and saucers destined to be spilled on the dress worn only for such occasions. Nor would those who know me well expect me to sit quietly smiling (“seen and not heard”) while the adults discussed the matters of the day; even at that age.
Perhaps it was this early implantation of a sense decorum that made my early encounters with Japanese culture so appealing. If there was anyone whose manners were stricter than a 1950’s British matriarch, it had to be Japanese women. Of course, in later years I discover that there were even more Asian cultures that elevated similar images of the serene and graceful side of the female nature. I also discovered that such reverence is a double-edged sword; the other edge being obedient subservience. It is true even in the more subtle cultures of the West, where that sword has dulled the fastest.
My encounter the other night was no philosophical analysis of society. It was a friendly discussion over dinner that bore none of the traits I mentioned above. And yet a gesture, a comment, and simple words that probably know one else noticed has brought a smile to me for days and spurred this commentary.
The days when men held a woman’s chair, helped her with her coat, or opened car doors for her on a regular basis are a distant memory for some of us; and almost a freak of nature for younger generations. There was a time when it was habit; even an unconscious reflex for older men. Today, if done at all, it is almost a grand gesture. It is often a calculated move to impress a date, or worse, done only because a man knows the woman he is with demands it at the price of civility.
As I was escorted to a seat for dinner, my chair was pulled out and held for me. No surprise, it was the restaurant’s manager. About the only time one can expect such courtesy is from the staff of nicer restaurants. I noticed it, but promptly forgot it once seated.
A few minutes later, I decided to remove my jacket. As if appearing magically, gentle and skilled hands were helping off with the jacket. Not only was the gesture a surprise, but also the grace with which it was done. And I remembered the night we met and went bar hopping, he did the same for me and the other women present. He has not abandoned the manners he was taught in exchange for disregard or laziness.
I noticed as he and the friend who had joined us were fully engaged in conversation, he continued to include me in the conversation with his smiles, gestures and comments. And I was more than comfortable to sit and just listen and watch, though I was the one who had broached the topic under discussion. As I was mentally acknowledging his conversational skills (which sometimes abandon me entirely), I realized that this same talent is why the last man to inspire me is so appealing
To keep from embarrassing either of them here, I will not mention names. But gentleman, your affable nature and well honed etiquette charm me whenever you are around. There is truly something impressive in your blend of old school ways with modern sensibility that I cannot help but admire. It matters not whether we are discussing business, delving into political histories, or just indulging in our mutual appreciation for good food and drink, I always enjoy your company.
(Hopefully, they recognize themselves in my reference.)
15 Feb 2012
Failure to Communicate
Miscommunication happens; it’s a fact of life. It’s something we should make honest efforts to avoid, but also learn to accept that it happens, fix the problem(s) it caused and move on. Simple enough.
There are two contributors to this aggravation that seems to peak when ages or cultures mix, and for which there is very little excuse. When did we become a nation of mumblers? We have always been prone to not listening – the largest single contributor to the never ending plague of miscommunication – which we are all guilty of at times and need to work on. But not speaking clearly is inexcusable, unless you have some physical impairment.
I remember as a child having my parents tell me to “stop mumbling!” In my world that phrase was doomed to be followed by some sort of punishment. Not because of my failure to speak clearly, but because the only reason I ever mumbled was because I was admitting to doing something wrong. In my little mind I had the mistaken belief that said parent would hear only part of what I muttered and just let things slide. My garbled, but contrite confession would be enough, even if they didn’t know exactly what the infraction was. I can’t imagine where I came up with such a fantasy. To the contrary, the delay in understanding only irked the adult even more.
And today, as an adult, I have come to realize just how irksome it is communicating with someone who does not enunciate or whose voice is muffled, regardless of the reason. Not long ago I encountered this problem so many times in one day that I began to wonder if I might be losing my hearing. My days with rock bands and hours of cranking up bombastic symphonies over earphones certainly upped the odds for nerve damage. I admit that ambient noise is a problem for me at times. Certain machines have pitches that override my ability to hear human speech; just another fact of life for many of my generation. (And probably even more of an issue for generations to come.) It is also common as we age to begin losing the ability to hear higher pitches, such as women’s voices. Of course sometimes we women mistake selective hearing for this sort of hearing loss when it comes to the men in our lives, but that is another issue we may expound upon some other time. Taking all this into account and being one who has always endorsed preventive medicine, I made an appointment to have my hearing tested.
While I waited to have my ears checked I began paying closer attention to what I could or could not hear. I quickly realized the only time I could not hear something clearly, was when someone was speaking. I still listened to the TV at the same volume; even lower at times. When there was not a fan, copier or printer running between me and the rest of the office, I could hear almost everything. I also noticed that the clerks and others I had trouble hearing always spoke with their heads down. Not that I can read lips, but their voices were projecting downward, not toward me. More importantly, I was not the only one struggling to understand what they said. Other people were leaning closer, asking them to repeat, or even nodding and then turning to someone else for information. It was not my hearing, but their speaking that was inadequate.
With the thought of writing this, I asked myself whether I just notice this more because of my age or are people just not learning diction and projection anymore. Generations always criticize the next generation for what they perceive as shortcomings, so my aggravation is likely to have that influence, but I don’t think that invalidates the observation. The younger the person, the more likely they seem to not speak clearly. This is not because of difficulty with the language; their vocabulary and pronunciation is no worse than my generation and in some communities, it’s even better. But with the crunch to get more and more information into students and using writing and graphic illustration more than we used to for getting ideas across, instead of speaking to individuals and groups in person, I wonder if we are overlooking the practice speaking that used to be part and parcel to education at all levels.
When I am faced with someone fresh out of school, be it high school or college, and they do not speak clearly, I can’t help but wonder if I should dust off that certificate that says I can teach Speech (as in public speaking and debate) and see if I can’t make more of a difference in a classroom somewhere. I just wish one semester of Speech was required in order to graduate from high school, like the health and civic classes. One semester would enough to teach teenagers how to speak clearly and convincingly to others, without “gettin in their face”, so they could keep pace, once they are out in this place, called the real world.
There are two contributors to this aggravation that seems to peak when ages or cultures mix, and for which there is very little excuse. When did we become a nation of mumblers? We have always been prone to not listening – the largest single contributor to the never ending plague of miscommunication – which we are all guilty of at times and need to work on. But not speaking clearly is inexcusable, unless you have some physical impairment.
I remember as a child having my parents tell me to “stop mumbling!” In my world that phrase was doomed to be followed by some sort of punishment. Not because of my failure to speak clearly, but because the only reason I ever mumbled was because I was admitting to doing something wrong. In my little mind I had the mistaken belief that said parent would hear only part of what I muttered and just let things slide. My garbled, but contrite confession would be enough, even if they didn’t know exactly what the infraction was. I can’t imagine where I came up with such a fantasy. To the contrary, the delay in understanding only irked the adult even more.
And today, as an adult, I have come to realize just how irksome it is communicating with someone who does not enunciate or whose voice is muffled, regardless of the reason. Not long ago I encountered this problem so many times in one day that I began to wonder if I might be losing my hearing. My days with rock bands and hours of cranking up bombastic symphonies over earphones certainly upped the odds for nerve damage. I admit that ambient noise is a problem for me at times. Certain machines have pitches that override my ability to hear human speech; just another fact of life for many of my generation. (And probably even more of an issue for generations to come.) It is also common as we age to begin losing the ability to hear higher pitches, such as women’s voices. Of course sometimes we women mistake selective hearing for this sort of hearing loss when it comes to the men in our lives, but that is another issue we may expound upon some other time. Taking all this into account and being one who has always endorsed preventive medicine, I made an appointment to have my hearing tested.
While I waited to have my ears checked I began paying closer attention to what I could or could not hear. I quickly realized the only time I could not hear something clearly, was when someone was speaking. I still listened to the TV at the same volume; even lower at times. When there was not a fan, copier or printer running between me and the rest of the office, I could hear almost everything. I also noticed that the clerks and others I had trouble hearing always spoke with their heads down. Not that I can read lips, but their voices were projecting downward, not toward me. More importantly, I was not the only one struggling to understand what they said. Other people were leaning closer, asking them to repeat, or even nodding and then turning to someone else for information. It was not my hearing, but their speaking that was inadequate.
With the thought of writing this, I asked myself whether I just notice this more because of my age or are people just not learning diction and projection anymore. Generations always criticize the next generation for what they perceive as shortcomings, so my aggravation is likely to have that influence, but I don’t think that invalidates the observation. The younger the person, the more likely they seem to not speak clearly. This is not because of difficulty with the language; their vocabulary and pronunciation is no worse than my generation and in some communities, it’s even better. But with the crunch to get more and more information into students and using writing and graphic illustration more than we used to for getting ideas across, instead of speaking to individuals and groups in person, I wonder if we are overlooking the practice speaking that used to be part and parcel to education at all levels.
When I am faced with someone fresh out of school, be it high school or college, and they do not speak clearly, I can’t help but wonder if I should dust off that certificate that says I can teach Speech (as in public speaking and debate) and see if I can’t make more of a difference in a classroom somewhere. I just wish one semester of Speech was required in order to graduate from high school, like the health and civic classes. One semester would enough to teach teenagers how to speak clearly and convincingly to others, without “gettin in their face”, so they could keep pace, once they are out in this place, called the real world.
28 Dec 2011
My Review of Roku 2 XS Streaming Player
Adds an enhanced remote for playing games, plus extra connectivity options.
Rock Rocks!
By Taln SG from Dallas, TX on 12/28/2011
Pros: Compact, Easy to set up, High quality picture, Built in Wi-Fi, Video selection, Angry Birds, Easy to use, Reliability, Mahjong, Korean Dramas, Great value
Cons: Need more Asian channels, Want more video choices
Best Uses: Secondary TV, Bedroom, Living room, Primary TV
Describe Yourself: Movie buff, Early adopter, Netflix fan, Power User, Foreign movie buff - Asia
The basic model is still fine for my lazing in bed watching movies once the broadcast TV channels have all turned to Infomercial Central, but the 2 XS is for finally using my HDMI and indulging my limited interest in gaming.
As for service, it's always been good, but recently when Drama Fever's subtitles suddenly vanished, Roku was quick to check out the problem and work with the channel's techs to get things back in order, rather than leave me to deal with both companies separately.
(legalese)
9 Nov 2011
25 Oct 2011
Now that I mentioned the new adoptees, let me say that I am not necessarily a cat person. It’s very dependent on the personality of the feline as to whether or not we become friends. I love dogs, but not enough to endure my allergy to them, or the treatment of it for very long. I play with everyone else’s pooches and then hit the shower. Same thing for some cats, especially ones with long or fine hair.
Recently I had a lapse where my emotional side overrode the logical and adopted these two fur balls without doing quite enough research about them, or their previous owner. As I mentioned in my previous blog they have both been spoiled by regular feedings of anything other than cat food. One is adjusting easily to the ready dish of what she should be eating, but the other seems to be in nearly perpetual begging mode. Fortunately the beggar is the sweet, affectionate and otherwise quiet one, so we humans will make allowances as she learns her new dietary rules. The one who doesn’t beg is actually the wild child.
Bitchy, once known as Betty, was renamed within hours of her moving into the house. Before you say it, I will. Yes, it takes one to know one, and this is test of who can be the bigger bitch. Given that it’s my house, I am many times larger than she is and I am the eldest, I will prevail ….. eventually …..somehow.
Miss B (the more affectionate of several other names she has acquired) is a cat rescued from the streets by her former owner. Thankfully she is not feral, but neither is she quiet tamed. She is clear to alert you when she thinks you have stepped out of line. A round of hisses is the split second alert that teeth are about to be sunk into your flesh. At least you are spared being shredde by claws as well, because the former owner had them removed. The least interference with what ever her plan or desire of the moment will trigger this action. We learned rather quickly that in the case of Miss B, rubbing up against your leg and meowing is NOT a request to be petted. Sometimes it is, but listen carefully as you reach for her so that you can spare your hand if you have misinterpretted her actions.
When she discovered the comfort of my bed (uninvited) I was informed, via puncture wounds to the thumb, that any disturbance of her hiney-ness without being given the approval signal (usually a headbutt) would not be tolerated. In turn, she soon discovered a swiftly moving foot under the covers was more than a match for her sprawled mass, and she found herself summarily relocated to the floor. Our ritual is now repeated at various times throughout the night. It would appear that I am winning this battle, except that she usually returns to stake her claim in less than 10 minutes, and I am the one losing the most sleep over it.
All cat owners that experience various forms and levels of power struggles with their oh-so-independent pets, so these experiences may sound familiar. Bitchy is not the first feline I have had skirmishes with. At least she is not 25 lbs. of pure muscle hanging from the grout of the bathroom wall by razor sharp claws, like my dear Louie the first time the vet insisted I bathe him. However, this blog was inspired by a truly unique experience Bitchy visited upon me this past weekend.
After a few swats from her paws and a warning hiss, I backed away from the Psycho-kitty perched on the corner of my bed and began some light strecthing exercises for my injured shoulder, before risking sutures in a hand or arm. As I completed the 20 reps of raising a piece of doweling over my head while laying on the bed for support, a rather docile, almost snoozing, Bitchy watched. When I finished I dropped my equipment on the floor and brought my arms down to my side for relief from the aching shoulder as Bitchy stood and stretched, seeming to be having a hard time rousing from her boredom. Then before I could defend myself she stepped across my face and slowly continued to the other side of me. I say slowly because her furry belly dragging across my face, that is so opposed to contact with fur, seemed to take far too long. In reality, given my response time, it could only have taken seconds. Thoroughly displeased with this stunt, I turned to shout my objection. Wrong move! I was now face to face with the base of her upraised tail. Repelled, literally and physically, I jumped back only to watch as she stayed motionless, ass in the air, tail straight up, apparently enjoying my comprehension of her commentary. Bitchy is the first cat I have ever known to clearly tell their owner to “kiss my ass.”
Recently I had a lapse where my emotional side overrode the logical and adopted these two fur balls without doing quite enough research about them, or their previous owner. As I mentioned in my previous blog they have both been spoiled by regular feedings of anything other than cat food. One is adjusting easily to the ready dish of what she should be eating, but the other seems to be in nearly perpetual begging mode. Fortunately the beggar is the sweet, affectionate and otherwise quiet one, so we humans will make allowances as she learns her new dietary rules. The one who doesn’t beg is actually the wild child.
Bitchy, once known as Betty, was renamed within hours of her moving into the house. Before you say it, I will. Yes, it takes one to know one, and this is test of who can be the bigger bitch. Given that it’s my house, I am many times larger than she is and I am the eldest, I will prevail ….. eventually …..somehow.
Miss B (the more affectionate of several other names she has acquired) is a cat rescued from the streets by her former owner. Thankfully she is not feral, but neither is she quiet tamed. She is clear to alert you when she thinks you have stepped out of line. A round of hisses is the split second alert that teeth are about to be sunk into your flesh. At least you are spared being shredde by claws as well, because the former owner had them removed. The least interference with what ever her plan or desire of the moment will trigger this action. We learned rather quickly that in the case of Miss B, rubbing up against your leg and meowing is NOT a request to be petted. Sometimes it is, but listen carefully as you reach for her so that you can spare your hand if you have misinterpretted her actions.
When she discovered the comfort of my bed (uninvited) I was informed, via puncture wounds to the thumb, that any disturbance of her hiney-ness without being given the approval signal (usually a headbutt) would not be tolerated. In turn, she soon discovered a swiftly moving foot under the covers was more than a match for her sprawled mass, and she found herself summarily relocated to the floor. Our ritual is now repeated at various times throughout the night. It would appear that I am winning this battle, except that she usually returns to stake her claim in less than 10 minutes, and I am the one losing the most sleep over it.
All cat owners that experience various forms and levels of power struggles with their oh-so-independent pets, so these experiences may sound familiar. Bitchy is not the first feline I have had skirmishes with. At least she is not 25 lbs. of pure muscle hanging from the grout of the bathroom wall by razor sharp claws, like my dear Louie the first time the vet insisted I bathe him. However, this blog was inspired by a truly unique experience Bitchy visited upon me this past weekend.
After a few swats from her paws and a warning hiss, I backed away from the Psycho-kitty perched on the corner of my bed and began some light strecthing exercises for my injured shoulder, before risking sutures in a hand or arm. As I completed the 20 reps of raising a piece of doweling over my head while laying on the bed for support, a rather docile, almost snoozing, Bitchy watched. When I finished I dropped my equipment on the floor and brought my arms down to my side for relief from the aching shoulder as Bitchy stood and stretched, seeming to be having a hard time rousing from her boredom. Then before I could defend myself she stepped across my face and slowly continued to the other side of me. I say slowly because her furry belly dragging across my face, that is so opposed to contact with fur, seemed to take far too long. In reality, given my response time, it could only have taken seconds. Thoroughly displeased with this stunt, I turned to shout my objection. Wrong move! I was now face to face with the base of her upraised tail. Repelled, literally and physically, I jumped back only to watch as she stayed motionless, ass in the air, tail straight up, apparently enjoying my comprehension of her commentary. Bitchy is the first cat I have ever known to clearly tell their owner to “kiss my ass.”
Groovy - Her sweet, plaintiff, feed-me look......
Bitchy, the psycho kitty.....
20 Oct 2011
Stupidly semi-permeable
I am not going to tell myself that “accidents just happen” and to get over it anymore - at least not anymore today. There are those that say the younger generation is too self centered, inconsiderate and down-right obnoxious. Maybe so, but guess where they learned those fine arts. You guessed it; from our generation. Or at least the slightly younger portion of my generation that I see during my daily commute to and from work.
A rainy day, even if I can’t lounge around the house to enjoy it, is usually something I find relaxing and refreshing. Ok, that’s odd to many of you, but maybe it’s my childhood in England coming through. However, today’s very welcome morning rainstorm was not to be one of those days.
An hour before the alarm roused me I was awakened by the rumble of thunder, but without a pause I smiled and just rolled over and snuggled deeper under the light cover. A moment later I was confronted by two loud and distraught felines. Now these are relatively new adoptees in the household so if a little thunder unnerves them, it’s understandable. But realizing the human was awake brought on persistent howling for not cat food, but people food. Thank you, previous owner, who seems to have hand fed these two from your own plate on continual basis. You risked their health, taught them bad habits and totally sabotaged any future human’s contact with these two beggars. Thank you for your lack of responsible pet ownership.
Leaving the whining girls to their full bowls of nutritious food designed for their species, I escaped to the car with the remains of my toast and tea and headed for the train station. By now the rain had stopped and the air was refreshing. It seemed as though the morning was going to right itself for me. Wrong! As I had driven barely a block from the house when I nearly ran over someone. Not the usual squirrel or stray pet, or even the occasional coyote on the prowl. No, this was an adult human jogging in the middle of the street, in the dark and dressed in a either a dark gray or faded black jogging suit. She was about as invisible as a moving, live body could possibly be ….. until she was between my headlights about 6 feet from the bumper headed right for me as if she couldn’t see the thing in the area with lights on – my oncoming car. I slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel sharply as she loped by, more attuned to whatever was blaring through her earplugs, than the environment she was moving through.
Once the adrenalin surge subsided, I continued my drive to the train station with an increased appreciation for the latter part of my route with copious lighting. But the invasion of idiots and insensitivity was not over. It was just gearing up for the final round.
Parking the car and finding my way to my usual spot on the platform to wait for my ride to work was unremarkable, unless you are traumatized by sporadic drizzle in the absence of an umbrella. Though sometimes compared with Dorothy’s Wicked Witch of the West, I am not related and I do not melt from contact with water and only torrential downpours are incentive for me to carry one. However, like most people, especially when dressed for work, I do not appreciate being unnecessarily splashed. Apparently there are those fellow travelers who feel that as long as it is not them being doused, all is well. More than once in the 10 minute wait I was treated to a sprinkling as someone shook their umbrella vigorously in my direction to dry it. Apparently they consider it better that I be wet than their accessory designed for use when water falls from above. At least making me dodge to keep from being gouged in the eye by the points of the contraption as they walked along in crowds, heedless of where they were aiming their portable shelter.
When the train arrived I hurried aboard ahead of those once again opening and shutting their umbrellas and found my seat. And it was this positioning that afforded me a view of the climax of the morning’s stupidity without being one of its victims. Closer to the door we board through, a man had taken one of the aisle facing seats and then set his cup of coffee down while making himself comfortable. The train lurched on takeoff and instantly the aisle and adjacent flooring of that half of the car was coated in a solution of hot coffee, cream and sweetener of some sort. Not exactly recommended for washing such flooring. You see this otherwise normal looking gentleman apparently thought (1) trains glide smoothly along the tracks, (2) oversized, top heavy paper cups are stable and unlikely to tip and (3) those covers provided at the coffee shop are just for decoration and to slow down your enjoyment of the beverage. Three stops later when I was departing the train, the hard working conductor had managed to mop that half of the car with all the available paper towels, why the six riders that would have been seated in area stood for their ride across town.
Ironically, when I finally sat down at my desk, I was greeted with a challenge to use the term “semi-permeable” in a sentence. There were oh so many options. Brains that were only semi-permeable to learning or common sense? No, it is my stupidity deflector membrane that must have been only semi-permeable this morning.
A rainy day, even if I can’t lounge around the house to enjoy it, is usually something I find relaxing and refreshing. Ok, that’s odd to many of you, but maybe it’s my childhood in England coming through. However, today’s very welcome morning rainstorm was not to be one of those days.
An hour before the alarm roused me I was awakened by the rumble of thunder, but without a pause I smiled and just rolled over and snuggled deeper under the light cover. A moment later I was confronted by two loud and distraught felines. Now these are relatively new adoptees in the household so if a little thunder unnerves them, it’s understandable. But realizing the human was awake brought on persistent howling for not cat food, but people food. Thank you, previous owner, who seems to have hand fed these two from your own plate on continual basis. You risked their health, taught them bad habits and totally sabotaged any future human’s contact with these two beggars. Thank you for your lack of responsible pet ownership.
Leaving the whining girls to their full bowls of nutritious food designed for their species, I escaped to the car with the remains of my toast and tea and headed for the train station. By now the rain had stopped and the air was refreshing. It seemed as though the morning was going to right itself for me. Wrong! As I had driven barely a block from the house when I nearly ran over someone. Not the usual squirrel or stray pet, or even the occasional coyote on the prowl. No, this was an adult human jogging in the middle of the street, in the dark and dressed in a either a dark gray or faded black jogging suit. She was about as invisible as a moving, live body could possibly be ….. until she was between my headlights about 6 feet from the bumper headed right for me as if she couldn’t see the thing in the area with lights on – my oncoming car. I slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel sharply as she loped by, more attuned to whatever was blaring through her earplugs, than the environment she was moving through.
Once the adrenalin surge subsided, I continued my drive to the train station with an increased appreciation for the latter part of my route with copious lighting. But the invasion of idiots and insensitivity was not over. It was just gearing up for the final round.
Parking the car and finding my way to my usual spot on the platform to wait for my ride to work was unremarkable, unless you are traumatized by sporadic drizzle in the absence of an umbrella. Though sometimes compared with Dorothy’s Wicked Witch of the West, I am not related and I do not melt from contact with water and only torrential downpours are incentive for me to carry one. However, like most people, especially when dressed for work, I do not appreciate being unnecessarily splashed. Apparently there are those fellow travelers who feel that as long as it is not them being doused, all is well. More than once in the 10 minute wait I was treated to a sprinkling as someone shook their umbrella vigorously in my direction to dry it. Apparently they consider it better that I be wet than their accessory designed for use when water falls from above. At least making me dodge to keep from being gouged in the eye by the points of the contraption as they walked along in crowds, heedless of where they were aiming their portable shelter.
When the train arrived I hurried aboard ahead of those once again opening and shutting their umbrellas and found my seat. And it was this positioning that afforded me a view of the climax of the morning’s stupidity without being one of its victims. Closer to the door we board through, a man had taken one of the aisle facing seats and then set his cup of coffee down while making himself comfortable. The train lurched on takeoff and instantly the aisle and adjacent flooring of that half of the car was coated in a solution of hot coffee, cream and sweetener of some sort. Not exactly recommended for washing such flooring. You see this otherwise normal looking gentleman apparently thought (1) trains glide smoothly along the tracks, (2) oversized, top heavy paper cups are stable and unlikely to tip and (3) those covers provided at the coffee shop are just for decoration and to slow down your enjoyment of the beverage. Three stops later when I was departing the train, the hard working conductor had managed to mop that half of the car with all the available paper towels, why the six riders that would have been seated in area stood for their ride across town.
Ironically, when I finally sat down at my desk, I was greeted with a challenge to use the term “semi-permeable” in a sentence. There were oh so many options. Brains that were only semi-permeable to learning or common sense? No, it is my stupidity deflector membrane that must have been only semi-permeable this morning.
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