Editor's Correction

The sun referred to in "The Master Race," a previous blog, is not actually a planet, but a star. Even though it's the central body of our solar system and keeps us all from instantaneously freezing solid and shattering into thousands of crystals, scientists won't give the sun planet status because it's on fire (or something like that). Who is the editor (that would be me) to play willy-nilly with the solar system by calling the sun a planet? Why would the editor during another wake-up-in-the-middle of the night bout of insomnia suddenly think, "Wait a minute! The sun is not a planet!?" Who knows? But in any case, she stands corrected--by herself, and of course all scientists. Please excuse any carnage caused by this error.

The Master Race

As we head toward the Mexican restaurant to meet my sister and brother-in-law, my mother and Jack (separated at birth) are into another mutually agreed upon tirade about taxes and illegal immigration. It’s not that I disagree with their views, but I’m tired of the conversation, so I ask that they not be too upset about the language barrier in the restaurant. Jack is also yelling about the Sun (you know, that bright planet that warms us, and a thumb that is hurting). Minutes before, he has gone ballistic when I want to find my sunglass attachments because of my light-sensitive eyes. “I would have taken a shower if I’d known we were going to spend time looking for your sunglasses!” I assure him that this makes no sense whatsoever. German Jack’s version of dining is as follows: sit down, order water and your meal, eat it, leave. My sister’s version, and mine is much more Irish: order your drinks, order your meal, order more drinks, eat and drink, talk and be merry, order more drinks.

VERBOTEN!!

I tell Jack that I would be eternally grateful if he would order an alcoholic beverage of any kind for himself. I whisper to my sister that I honestly believe I would drink less if he would only drink more. Totally out of character, he orders a margarita. Thank you sweet Jesus!

Mom has a margarita. She has a two drink maximum before she starts to sing soprano in public. She is insisting that I listen to the details of her funeral plans. She thinks all of the expenses are covered but she's not sure about the digging of the grave. I tell her as nicely as I can that this subject is a real buzz kill, but she replies that I need to know the details. (I'd prefer that she sing.) I finish off my first glass of wine and have another with dinner. Later, Jennifer whispers, “We want another margarita. Why don’t you have another drink and ride home with us?”

I say, “Jack, they’re going to have another drink. What do you think?”

“Asta la vista,” he says and asks for the check. I share a disappointed glance with my sister. Then he starts to point around the table declaring what every person had to drink. This is his way of helping the waiter determine how to split the check. Funny thing is that his method of ordering has usually left the two of us with six cups of coffee to go in a drive-through: “That will be two cups of coffee, one with cream, one without; that will be two cups, yes two cups with and without, yes two more cups…” And I get the feeling that the waiter isn't sure if he's ordering or informing.

The waiter comes back with a full round for everyone. (Sometimes I love that language barrier.) Hilarious! Jack looks at the bill and then at me, “You had three glasses of wine?!” he exclaims.

“You ordered it,” I answer as we all clink glasses. Fun for all, except maybe the German.

All Superstition Aside

I haven't read it yet, but I just received "The God Delusion" in the mail, a book recommended by Jerry. Supposedly, the author, Richard Dawkins, a gentleman, genius, and a scholar explains not only the improbability of a God, and thus religion, but the danger of such beliefs. I haven't read it yet, so I'm keeping an open mind, but while thumbing through the contents, the first thing I saw was this chapter title: "The 'Good' Book and the Changing Moral ZEITGEIST."

It's a sign, I tell you. It's a sign!

(Please see "Screwing with Vanity Fair")

Screwing with Vanity Fair

Vanity Fair (VF), the intellectually pompous, well-written, so-full-of-ads-they-have-to-put-the- letters-on-page-172 (or thereabouts) publication: yes, I’ll admit to reading it. I don’t always agree with the politics presented, but then I don’t always read those articles. Some of the true crime, and bios, book reviews, and so on are fantastic, but I don’t necessarily read every piece or always get the magazine, and that’s how this one thing started to bug me.

The first time I read the word “zeitgeist” in VF, I didn’t know what it meant, so being the dweeb that I can be, I looked it up.

zeitgeist: the spirit of the time; general trend of thought or feeling characteristic of a particular period of time.

Well, I thought, sort of a sissy-pants word to use, but it’s VF, so I moved on. The thing is that sometimes I saw this word several times in an issue and I wasn’t even reading the whole thing. Then I’d get a new issue and there was that word again. It started to really irritate me. What kind of group think, smug, pretentious people would continue to use this word like it’s a common noun in conversation? I started envisioning them walking around in little bowties and saying things like, “Is everyone eating Thai food for lunch? It’s the best thing there is. At least that’s the zeitgeist for Thursday.”

I’d be having a perfectly enjoyable read and there it was again, like someone jumping out from behind a door and yelling, “ZEITGEIST! You’re it!” I loathed it and I knew it was coming every time I read the DAMN MAGAZINE!! To calm my demons, I finally wrote a letter to VF asking them with sarcasm if they had ever printed an issue without the word or if it was their intellectual version of Where’s Waldo lurking somewhere in the pages. Was there a contest I didn’t know about, because if there was, I surely should be the winner. Of course, they didn’t publish the letter, but months later I was reading a section at the end of the letters called “More from the V.F. Mailbag” and the magazine spoke to me: “Has Vanity Fair ever published an issue that did not contain the word ‘Zeitgeist?’ Well, Gail Snyder of Woodstock, Georgia, this might have been the one—until you came along.”

I kid you not. I think they were a little cranky that I pointed this out, but I’d had my say at least. Maybe some of them didn’t even use the word in their snooty conversations for a day, I liked to imagine. That would have been the end of my strange little episode, but three months later, while reading the same section I was shocked to read this: “I cannot be the first to note that Ms. Snyder of Georgia chastises V.F. in the March Mailbag for overuse of the word ‘Zeitgeist’ and receives somewhat of a prickly response, yet her claim is validated later in the same issue (page 214, column three, paragraph two). What delicious delight for Ms. Snyder!”

Something tells me that this isn’t over; at least that’s the ZEITGEIST of my multiple personalities for this period of time today.

Bookmobility

I’m not that into fiction anymore, so I had never read any John Grisham. Then Jack gave me “An Innocent Man” Grisham’s first work of non-fiction. I thought it was pretty good, though it made me very sad. Long-time friend and funny person, Tim, gave me John Stewart’s “America: A Citizen’s Guide to Democracy Inaction.” I laughed and laughed, until about halfway through it I spotted Tom Brokaw’s “The Greatest Generation” on my bookshelf. Hey, didn’t I almost finish that and then forget about it for some reason? My late father served in WWII. I finished it and cried and cried. Then I once again picked up Stewart’s tongue-in-cheek take on American history and laughed and laughed. However, I got busy, put it down, and then about a week later, while at the local library, I was inexplicably drawn to the book “The Burning Bed.” (I told Jack not to take it personally, but the next day he had to go out of town: coincidence?) I couldn’t put that tale of torture and abuse down; finished it off in about two days and cried at the end. I want to read a book about the scientific examination of the origins of and mankind's need for God, or something like that, that good friend Jerry keeps talking about, but every time I write the title down on a piece of paper I lose it, then forget about it. Now, I’m finishing up Stewart’s book and I’m just laughin’!

You know, sometimes a tendency for manic depression coupled with a healthy dose of ADD can have its good points: it encourages one to vary one’s reading materials, for example.

Another Bad Suggestion

I told Jack that when he was out of town, I had made some delicious French Onion Soup that I bought at Trader Joe's. "Would you like me to make some of that this week?" I asked.

Jack said, "I don't want any damn French onion soup. I don't like the damn stuff, never have, and never will!"

Well . . . alrighty then.

Why is That?

Something that I never see on the news is people rioting in the snow.

A Grim Future

This Saturday afternoon as I’m cleaning up the kitchen, son David is eating soup and watching the kitchen T.V.: one of those Discovery Channel shows about Nostradamus, Edgar Cayce, and other prophets of doom and gloom who always bum me out, because what are you going to do about it? For example, Cayce predicted that the Earth’s axis would shift, causing, well instant death to just about all who are lucky. Right after this news, the voiceover states that Cayce thought we could influence these predictions. I said, “How are we going to keep the Earth’s axis from shifting? Are we all going to agree to lean in a certain direction? Will we all wear one weighted shoe?” The apocalyptic scenes continue. “That’s it!” I declare as I throw my dish cloth in the air. “To hell with everything. Why should I clean when this mess is on the way? I’m not even going to brush my hair today. What’s the point?” David grins but ignores me, which is totally understandable.

Anyway Edgar Cayce eventually had a stroke from the stress of doing too many readings for people, which depleted his energy. We are told he was buried in a cemetery in his home state of Kentucky. Then the commentator says, “You can’t put Edgar Cayce in a box and label it prophet. You can’t put him in a box and label it scientist. You can’t put him in a box and label it . . .”

“But they did put him in a box didn’t they?” I intervene. “Is he saying that they put him in an unmarked grave? Why didn’t they just label it Edgar Cayce?” Then I laugh, because I’m self-amusing. I have to be, because I rarely amuse others.

David finally looks at me and says, “You’re dead inside aren’t you?” We both think that’s pretty funny.

Wintry Mix Day

Yesterday in regions north of Atlanta, we had a Wintry Mix day. This is what we call rain, sleet, and pellets of ice that no one can play in, basically a bunch of wet slush—if you threw it at someone you’d have a lawsuit on your frozen hands. Since I wasn’t going anywhere (and it really isn’t necessary for the less thoughtful of you to point out this as my usual condition) I was wearing my house attire. That’s what I call it. My family calls it “When are you going to throw that in the garbage?” Jack calls it, “No, I’m going to use it as a grease rag and that’s final.”

Anyway, I decided to make something for dinner on this rare occasion when we were all home, and I proceeded to open a can of peas. Just as I was rounding the 360 a little voice said to me, “Now don’t cut your hand on that.” Immediately the back lid of the can popped up and did the damage that I wasn’t willing to look at, but felt immediately. This kind of premonition is really pretty worthless. It’s like your parachute not opening and just before you hit the ground a little voice whispers, “Stay in the plane.”

Now I’m noticing here how many p’s are in this missive because my little finger is wrapped (there they are again) in an inch of gauze and those p’s are painful (Damn!) to type (Ouch). Yes, I cut it from the tip (Darn!) down to the bone and it was a real bleeder. I then learned that in my next emergency, I should dress before alerting anyone to the possibility (ouch again) that I might need stitches. Son and husband panicked (ouch) and started shuttling me out the door. I Protested (I’m just going to caPitalize them from now on to denote Pain) that I needed to Put on some jeans in Place of my Victoria Secret leggings: ten years old, holes in the seams, not a good look at my age esPecially from the rear view, and anything besides my Pajama top. Jack grabbed a sleeveless sweatshirt and started shouting, “Where’s the front of this damn thing?” as he Pulled it over my head and Pushed me out the door with my son shouting, “Just go! Forget the jeans!” I had been double-teamed and was very unkemPt.

Jack, for some reason, doesn’t get warm and fuzzy during such times. He morPhs into the Commander of the Wounded. As we sat in the waiting room of the urgent care center, he snaPPed orders at me: “Sit still! Hold your hand uP! Where are you going? Stay in your seat! Don’t look at it! StoP! Go! Put Pressure on it I tell you!”

I thought about mouthing the words “HelP me” to some of the others in the waiting room. When the blood started running down my arm, Jack went into “Terms of Endearment” mode, ran to the recePtion desk and demanded gauze or something! They took me into a room at that Point. “Don’t want me to bleed in front of the customers?” I quiPPed. They laughed but I think they were trying to calm Jack down.

Anyway, a tetanus shot, four stitches, and a PrescriPtion for antibiotics later, I just took my first shower after “the incident.” I didn’t have any baggies and I am now thoroughly convinced that the inventor of Cling WraP was/is a sadist. It’s difficult enough to get the first round out to wraP uP the hand, but once you have only one hand available, getting more of the stuff off the roll is Pretty dicey. A little voice said, “Now you’re going to cut your other hand off on the jagged edge thing on the box you idiot.” This time I listened and secured the rest of the stuff with rubber bands. All in all, it wasn’t such a bad Wintry Mix day and I learned something from the exPerience: it is virtually imPossible to wash your left armPit without the use of your right hand, and there sure are a lot of P's in the English language.