Imogen has been back at school for a couple of weeks and we are already drowning in projects, homework and deadlines. There appears to be no gentle start to the school year. I can recall it being very different..... For at least a week we worked on the one simple assignment - a written piece with drawings that had the tittle 'What I Did On My Summer Holidays'. If you were fortunate enough to be from a relatively rich family you had much more material to work with:- A trip to relatives, a day at a fair or a week away somewhere. If you were a poor kid you either had to develop a good imagination or you had to use lots of descriptive words to make hanging out in the street with the boy across the road sound appealing.
Some teachers used this kind of assignment to make every Monday pass quietly..... You would arrive at your desk on Monday to find your journal. Here you would write under the heading 'What I Did At The Weekend'. The poor kids were still penalized. I remember my brother being astonished when an account of his weekend was changed beyond all recognition. He had asked for help with the spelling of the word RUSSIA. As he had difficulty with the R-sound the teacher thought he said WASHER. Adam then wrote about a trip to the cinema to see the film 'From Washer With Love'. At the time his writing abilities were lacking and a journal entry could resemble a series of random letters and spaces rather than an actual sentence. This journal entry had been corrected so that the trip to the cinema became an account of a repair being carried out on the washing machine. I am sure this incident has affected him deeply - he has never written about James Bond films again.
My parents did a fine job of providing me with material to write about in my journals (I'm still able to write about it after all these years). My father specialized in taking my brother and I to places where no English schoolchild had ever been before. Although we begged and begged for the spring-break meccas of Spain there were to be no wet tee shirt contests on the Costa-Del-Sol for us. Instead we travelled through Scandinavia in the family car which had to be air-lifted to Oslo or we visited friends in remote parts of Yugoslavia and Bulgaria that my father had known as a student. We travelled to places that had no guide books,translatable menus, credit card machines or souvenirs. Gift buying for friends was always a nightmare. Fortunately my mother was always able to find menthol cigarettes and cold cocktails. You could make up what ever you wanted about these places in your back-to-school writing assignment because nobody had ever been there to dispute your stories. And we never had any spelling corrections from the names of towns because nobody had ever heard of them.
As my own family grew up we tried to plan holidays that struck a balance. We wanted to give the children some exciting experiences but we also wanted some good old fashioned fun and there is no place better to find this kind of fun than the Southwest of England. Devon and Cornwall will provide a family with lovely beaches, many good hotels and the chance to wear anoraks for at least five days in a row. The good old fashioned fun has to be found whilst you are freezing cold on a beach and your hotel room is draped with wet clothes. You can not rely on English weather.
One summer we went to stay at the Headland Hotel in Newquay, Cornwall. This is a deluxe hotel that sits on the cliffs overlooking Newquay which is Britain's surfing capital. It is a huge place built in 1900 it has history,views, children's programs and a very grumpy owner. It is where they filmed 'Witches' the Roald Dahl story. When we were there only some of the rooms had been renovated, very few guests were staying there and we were all able to drink together in the hotel bar prior to the evening meal. We exchanged stories of our days and offered to lend each other dry clothes when family supplies were running low.
On one fine day the men from two of the families who were staying at the Headland took all the children for a day of mackerel fishing. The young Mum's were left to sunbathe in peace all day long by the pool. Between the sun loungers there was an ice-bucket on a stand which held a bottle of Blue Nun Liebfraumilch. This was indeed the height of luxury. Those women were the envy of the rest of us as we sat in the sand building sand castles and drank warm coke. The fishermen returned at the end of the day with not only tales of the large one that got away but strings of mackerel. There must have been fifty of these very oily, strongly-flavored fish. They were kissed and hugged by tipsy wives and congratulated by the rest of us. The hotel agreed to cook all these fish for breakfast the next morning so that we could all enjoy this Cornish fayre. We all enjoyed the breakfast and brought the men pints of beer in the bar that evening only to find out that the whole thing had been a complete scam. The day's fishing had been disastrous, they had felt not even a nibble. Not wishing to be thought lacking by anyone back at the hotel they had pulled into the local fish market on the way home and purchased all the mackerel they had to offer. They discarded the plastic bags, strung the fish onto a line and bribed the children to insure their silence. They marched home to a heroes welcome. I can not remember if we asked for our pints of beer back when we learnt the truth.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Urban Myths And Legends
It is August, the dog-days of Summer are here with us in Atlanta but while the rest of the world is getting ready for vacations we are thinking of going back to school. Conversation at the pool has developed a new focus.
Rather than being rude about each other and discussing the price of fish we are dwelling on our children's intellectual prowess (and they are all talented). I have heard more than one parent assure anyone listening that their child (sons in particular) is very bright but has just not been able to get into reading. A straight 'A' student and a natural athlete may have one failing:- his inability to pick up a book and read it from cover to cover. It is hard to find a good book for boys but I would recommend a good dose of Urban Myths. Their unique blend of goriness and impossible truths will help any straight 'A' student advance even further.
The two myths that I remember feature plenty of blood and gore. The first took place on a foggy Moore in Yorkshire and involved a young bride, her new husband and a broken down car. The brave man goes off for help whilst the bride dozes through the night only to be wakened by thumps on the roof of the car. She is halted from opening the car door by the distorted voice of someone talking to her through a megaphone. She is advised to leave the car quickly and run towards the sound of the voice without looking back. She leaves the car runs, but looks back only to find out that the thumping on the roof of the car is being caused by a demon/lunatic/villain repeatedly slamming the decapitated head of her beloved on the metal roof. I can not remember what happened after that.
The second involves a young man or a woman who has been out partying in some foreign city. They have too much fun and wake up the next morning in a strange hotel room or in the gutter with something more than a hang-over. Further examination reveals that their bodies are covered in crude surgical scars. Even further examination reveals that their non-vital organs have been stolen to help with the lack of organs available for transplants in that particular country.
It doesn't really matter if these tales are true or not but with a few well-chosen descriptive words their content can capture the heart and a few brain-cells of many reluctant readers.
The Wood family have a couple of urban myths that I feel should be written down before they are forgotten. How true the tales are and where they stem from is lost in the mists of time by family members who prefer a good laugh and an attentive audience rather than facts that can authenticated.
My father was born in Scotland his mother came from a rather well-to-do family but I don't think his father did. Dad was the first born son and to recognise the importance of this his mother was given a large silver-cross carriage pram by her father. A silver-cross pram is equivalent to a Rolls Royce car in the world of baby transportation. Every afternoon the proud young mother would wheel my father to the grocery store and leave him in the pram outside whilst she purchased a few provisions (everybody did this in those days). One dreadful afternoon she left the shop only to find that the silver-cross pram was gone. Fortunately my father had been left lying on the pavement. Rumour has it that when she told the tale tearfully to her father his only comments concerned the stupidity of leaving an expensive pram outside the shop. No comment was made about the rejection of his only grandchild. Could this tale be true? And do we really care?
The other Wood Urban Myth takes place much later on and concerns my mother, my brother, Adam, and his best friend Danny.
When Adam and Danny were about five they were taken on a school trip to the zoo at Whipsinade. As zoos go this zoo was better than most, the animals were in large enclosures and in a lot of cases you could walk amongst the animals. Obviously, not the lions and tigers and bears but the rabbits and goats and sheep. You could also get up close to the penguins.
Each child carried one small backpack for his lunch and a pencil. They moved from enclosure to enclosure enjoying all they saw. At the end of the day Danny came back to our house to play and have tea (probably spaghetti and chocolate cup-cakes). He would not allow my mother to touch his backpack even though it was explained to him that she was just going to clear out the remains of the packed lunch. Mum, not being a stupid woman, waited until the boys were distracted and tackled Danny's backpack. To her horror she found a rather weak baby penguin. Straight away she telephones the zoo to ask for assistance. They are very cross and tell her to put the poor thing in the salad crisper at the bottom of the fridge. She does so without delay and within the hour an emergency vet ambulance arrives to take the baby bird home. I believe it did survive. my mother probably had a couple of glasses of sherry, smoked a few menthol cigarettes and dined out on the story whenever she could.
Adam says this is not a true story at all but I think I can remember it or some of it.
Rather than being rude about each other and discussing the price of fish we are dwelling on our children's intellectual prowess (and they are all talented). I have heard more than one parent assure anyone listening that their child (sons in particular) is very bright but has just not been able to get into reading. A straight 'A' student and a natural athlete may have one failing:- his inability to pick up a book and read it from cover to cover. It is hard to find a good book for boys but I would recommend a good dose of Urban Myths. Their unique blend of goriness and impossible truths will help any straight 'A' student advance even further.
The two myths that I remember feature plenty of blood and gore. The first took place on a foggy Moore in Yorkshire and involved a young bride, her new husband and a broken down car. The brave man goes off for help whilst the bride dozes through the night only to be wakened by thumps on the roof of the car. She is halted from opening the car door by the distorted voice of someone talking to her through a megaphone. She is advised to leave the car quickly and run towards the sound of the voice without looking back. She leaves the car runs, but looks back only to find out that the thumping on the roof of the car is being caused by a demon/lunatic/villain repeatedly slamming the decapitated head of her beloved on the metal roof. I can not remember what happened after that.
The second involves a young man or a woman who has been out partying in some foreign city. They have too much fun and wake up the next morning in a strange hotel room or in the gutter with something more than a hang-over. Further examination reveals that their bodies are covered in crude surgical scars. Even further examination reveals that their non-vital organs have been stolen to help with the lack of organs available for transplants in that particular country.
It doesn't really matter if these tales are true or not but with a few well-chosen descriptive words their content can capture the heart and a few brain-cells of many reluctant readers.
The Wood family have a couple of urban myths that I feel should be written down before they are forgotten. How true the tales are and where they stem from is lost in the mists of time by family members who prefer a good laugh and an attentive audience rather than facts that can authenticated.
My father was born in Scotland his mother came from a rather well-to-do family but I don't think his father did. Dad was the first born son and to recognise the importance of this his mother was given a large silver-cross carriage pram by her father. A silver-cross pram is equivalent to a Rolls Royce car in the world of baby transportation. Every afternoon the proud young mother would wheel my father to the grocery store and leave him in the pram outside whilst she purchased a few provisions (everybody did this in those days). One dreadful afternoon she left the shop only to find that the silver-cross pram was gone. Fortunately my father had been left lying on the pavement. Rumour has it that when she told the tale tearfully to her father his only comments concerned the stupidity of leaving an expensive pram outside the shop. No comment was made about the rejection of his only grandchild. Could this tale be true? And do we really care?
The other Wood Urban Myth takes place much later on and concerns my mother, my brother, Adam, and his best friend Danny.
When Adam and Danny were about five they were taken on a school trip to the zoo at Whipsinade. As zoos go this zoo was better than most, the animals were in large enclosures and in a lot of cases you could walk amongst the animals. Obviously, not the lions and tigers and bears but the rabbits and goats and sheep. You could also get up close to the penguins.
Each child carried one small backpack for his lunch and a pencil. They moved from enclosure to enclosure enjoying all they saw. At the end of the day Danny came back to our house to play and have tea (probably spaghetti and chocolate cup-cakes). He would not allow my mother to touch his backpack even though it was explained to him that she was just going to clear out the remains of the packed lunch. Mum, not being a stupid woman, waited until the boys were distracted and tackled Danny's backpack. To her horror she found a rather weak baby penguin. Straight away she telephones the zoo to ask for assistance. They are very cross and tell her to put the poor thing in the salad crisper at the bottom of the fridge. She does so without delay and within the hour an emergency vet ambulance arrives to take the baby bird home. I believe it did survive. my mother probably had a couple of glasses of sherry, smoked a few menthol cigarettes and dined out on the story whenever she could.
Adam says this is not a true story at all but I think I can remember it or some of it.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Shopping and Lists
Subtitle: This Could Possibly Be Two Blogs.
Lists have always fascinated me. I used to spend a fair amount of time in grade school compiling lists of favorite things ranging from pop stars to Friday night venues. A history teacher once suggested it might be worthwhile to make lists of favorite dictators or statesmen but this idea never appealed and my list making days came to an end. I don't even write shopping lists anymore because I keep forgetting them or I forget my glasses and then I can not read the list anyway.
I once started a book in which the plot hung around the old lists found scattered around the home of a dead old woman. Her estranged relatives were going to piece together her life as they read the lists hanging on the fridge door or by the phone or screwed up at the bottom of old handbags. I never really got past the first chapter as I could not decide whether these lists were going to disclose a tragic love affair (think Bridges of Madison County) or whether they were going to form sets of instructions to develop Good Housekeeping skills (think Mrs. Beeton or Diary of an Edwardian Lady).
The last list I wrote, or rather it was written for me, was designed to ensure that a trip to buy a big rock for the garden was successful first time around. As the name suggests big rocks are heavy. They have to be delivered and placed by large pieces of machinery. If you don't like the big rock you first choose returning it to the shop could be a nightmare
Two years ago we decided to have a little landscaping done. A little very quickly became a lot. What started out as few more feet of grass and a blossom tree or two developed into a woodland path, stepping stones, a tasteful statue and two big rocks. It was my job to purchase the big rocks that would be placed just to the right of the entrance to the woodland path. I had never really thought much about the big slabs of stone that people had in their gardens. They made lovely features but I had rather assumed that they were just somehow there left over from creation days. I learnt quickly that this was not often the case and I could go shopping for rocks at a lovely nursery just up the road from our house. Armed with my list telling me that I needed two rocks weighing no more than 5 tons, a credit card and wearing comfortable shoes I set out to shop.
The people at the nursery were very helpful and directed me to a field at the back where I could see row after row of these big rocks. These had not been left there by the ice age but arranged in groups depending on size, color and flat bits. Each had a label that told you how much it weighed. The price could be calculated by doing some very hard multiplication sums.
I wandered up and down, down and up becoming more indecisive as I went. Who would have imagined that all those people with beautiful rocks in their gardens had come shopping like this wearing comfortable shoes and been able to reach a decision. I kept coming across what I thought was a good one only to loose it when I came back to give it the final once-over.
Eventually, the owner of the garden center came up with a helpful solution:- He lent me a piece of chalk and suggested I mark each one I liked I was then able to narrow my search down and then finally watch as two beautiful big stones were loaded onto a lorry and placed at the entrance to my woodland path. As I look at them now it would appear that they were left behind by a glacier millions of years ago.
The final note on big rocks......... I asked the owner of the nursery where all the rocks had come from, he explained that they were locally "grown" and that contractors had cleared them from lots as they built new houses and created new gardens. Do you think my rocks look so good because they had been placed exactly where the glacier had left them all those years ago?
Lists have always fascinated me. I used to spend a fair amount of time in grade school compiling lists of favorite things ranging from pop stars to Friday night venues. A history teacher once suggested it might be worthwhile to make lists of favorite dictators or statesmen but this idea never appealed and my list making days came to an end. I don't even write shopping lists anymore because I keep forgetting them or I forget my glasses and then I can not read the list anyway.
I once started a book in which the plot hung around the old lists found scattered around the home of a dead old woman. Her estranged relatives were going to piece together her life as they read the lists hanging on the fridge door or by the phone or screwed up at the bottom of old handbags. I never really got past the first chapter as I could not decide whether these lists were going to disclose a tragic love affair (think Bridges of Madison County) or whether they were going to form sets of instructions to develop Good Housekeeping skills (think Mrs. Beeton or Diary of an Edwardian Lady).
The last list I wrote, or rather it was written for me, was designed to ensure that a trip to buy a big rock for the garden was successful first time around. As the name suggests big rocks are heavy. They have to be delivered and placed by large pieces of machinery. If you don't like the big rock you first choose returning it to the shop could be a nightmare
Two years ago we decided to have a little landscaping done. A little very quickly became a lot. What started out as few more feet of grass and a blossom tree or two developed into a woodland path, stepping stones, a tasteful statue and two big rocks. It was my job to purchase the big rocks that would be placed just to the right of the entrance to the woodland path. I had never really thought much about the big slabs of stone that people had in their gardens. They made lovely features but I had rather assumed that they were just somehow there left over from creation days. I learnt quickly that this was not often the case and I could go shopping for rocks at a lovely nursery just up the road from our house. Armed with my list telling me that I needed two rocks weighing no more than 5 tons, a credit card and wearing comfortable shoes I set out to shop.
The people at the nursery were very helpful and directed me to a field at the back where I could see row after row of these big rocks. These had not been left there by the ice age but arranged in groups depending on size, color and flat bits. Each had a label that told you how much it weighed. The price could be calculated by doing some very hard multiplication sums.
I wandered up and down, down and up becoming more indecisive as I went. Who would have imagined that all those people with beautiful rocks in their gardens had come shopping like this wearing comfortable shoes and been able to reach a decision. I kept coming across what I thought was a good one only to loose it when I came back to give it the final once-over.
Eventually, the owner of the garden center came up with a helpful solution:- He lent me a piece of chalk and suggested I mark each one I liked I was then able to narrow my search down and then finally watch as two beautiful big stones were loaded onto a lorry and placed at the entrance to my woodland path. As I look at them now it would appear that they were left behind by a glacier millions of years ago.
The final note on big rocks......... I asked the owner of the nursery where all the rocks had come from, he explained that they were locally "grown" and that contractors had cleared them from lots as they built new houses and created new gardens. Do you think my rocks look so good because they had been placed exactly where the glacier had left them all those years ago?
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Communications For Today
A SUBTITLE: You Can Hide Your Head In The Sand But Technology And The Way We Communicate Is Going To Bite You On The Bottom More Than Once A Day.
My friend Suzanne made the following comment on Facebook (via the wall or newsfeed or whatever)......... "So many communication tools available and yet so ineffective when it comes to reaching my son"....
This says it all, we are making life too complicated for each other, everything has gone too far. By the time you have decided how you are going to contact somebody you have forgotten what you were going to say.
Last week my beautiful daughter forgot something that she needed to return to a friend at school. And it was important. Whilst in a computer class she was able to chat to her brother in California who sent me a text that advised me to check my email. I did and I was able to read a message from my daughter in which she outlined the problem and I was able to leap in the car, deliver the goods and make everything alright for at least 30minutes.
It seems incredible to me that a message had to go all the way via California to reach me down the road. When I was at school - just after the invention of electricity (ha!) I think we were allowed to phone home in dire emergencies. You went to Mrs Meadows, the very scary secretary, and you explained the nature of the emergency. The need for sanitary napkins or notifying parents about a completely unjustified after-school detention seemed to produce results more consistently than anything else. If she was in a good mood you were allowed to dial out from the Bakelite phone on her desk. Often the deputy head (vice-principal) would emerge from his smoke filled office to listen in. We didn't often forget things or phone home.
Today my daughter is able to sit in class, talk to Alex in California who is then able to attract my attention enabling me to read an email that Imogen wrote half an hour ago. This networking gave me the opportunity and the excuse I needed to talk to Alex on the phone in order to check that he was eating right and wearing clean underwear. I then took the time to email Matthew, tell him about the family networking and I could tack on an inquiry about washing behind ears and remembering 'pleases and thank yous'. I was able to tell David about it all over dinner that night face-to-face and then I could talk about the weather. You are right...... nothing very exciting is happening to me at the moment. I have nothing to say to anyone - and yet I blog!!
My first telephone number (remember I grew up just after the invention of the car - ha!) was Burnham 20. Burnham was a small village but I can not believe it only had twenty telephones, I don't know how the numbering went. The telephone exchange was at the top of the High Street. To make a call you picked up the receiver and asked the operator to connect you with Burnham 19 or whoever you wanted to speak to. The telephone in our house was on the telephone table which sat in the entrance hall. The directory was on the bottom shelf and the phone on the top. You didn't have a chair to sit on. If you wanted to communicate at length with someone you wrote a letter.
As time went on our phone number became Burnham 5020 and you didn't speak to an operator you could dial direct. If you wanted the operator you dialled 100 and she could help you with more complicated problems. My best friend Julie and I could be entertained for hours when we were left on our own with the telephone. We would dial 100 and when the operator answered we would say - in what we believed was a mature voice "Operator are you on the line?" If she answered in the affirmative, which she always did, we tried to suppress our mirth and shriek (mature voices forgotten) "Well get off there's a train coming". It would appear that not only have huge strides been made in the communication field but humor has become more sophisticated.
Because my father worked away from home a lot we were one of the first families in our small community to get an extension line so that Mum could have a phone by her bed. This enabled Julie and I to try daring new tricks. We would dial a random number and then as someone picked up we would start this conversation between each other using the extension line. We would pretend to be robbers planning the next heist or a couple who needed to plan a murder of an unwanted husband or wife we were desperate for the unknown number to be sucked in. They never were. I can only think that we weren't allowed much television in those days.
Sadly opportunities to have fun on the phone have been diminished greatly with the invention of the itemized phone bill and the technology that allows you to identify the number that has just been rung. I can not think that my parents or Julie's parents would foot the bill for so many calls to the operator if they had known they were going on.
Kids these days are called into account for the cost of their communicating. If you are on the wrong plan teenage texting can do serious damage to a bank account. This is especially annoying if the level of communication is not particularly inspiring. One text message 'what's up?' with the reply 'nothing much' can cost as much as three dollars.
Texting, tweeting, IM'ing or working with facebook have created a whole new world which is much too complicated to understand. The remake of E.T. is obviously not going to include the line "phone home". He would give us a facebook link.
My friend Suzanne made the following comment on Facebook (via the wall or newsfeed or whatever)......... "So many communication tools available and yet so ineffective when it comes to reaching my son"....
This says it all, we are making life too complicated for each other, everything has gone too far. By the time you have decided how you are going to contact somebody you have forgotten what you were going to say.
Last week my beautiful daughter forgot something that she needed to return to a friend at school. And it was important. Whilst in a computer class she was able to chat to her brother in California who sent me a text that advised me to check my email. I did and I was able to read a message from my daughter in which she outlined the problem and I was able to leap in the car, deliver the goods and make everything alright for at least 30minutes.
It seems incredible to me that a message had to go all the way via California to reach me down the road. When I was at school - just after the invention of electricity (ha!) I think we were allowed to phone home in dire emergencies. You went to Mrs Meadows, the very scary secretary, and you explained the nature of the emergency. The need for sanitary napkins or notifying parents about a completely unjustified after-school detention seemed to produce results more consistently than anything else. If she was in a good mood you were allowed to dial out from the Bakelite phone on her desk. Often the deputy head (vice-principal) would emerge from his smoke filled office to listen in. We didn't often forget things or phone home.
Today my daughter is able to sit in class, talk to Alex in California who is then able to attract my attention enabling me to read an email that Imogen wrote half an hour ago. This networking gave me the opportunity and the excuse I needed to talk to Alex on the phone in order to check that he was eating right and wearing clean underwear. I then took the time to email Matthew, tell him about the family networking and I could tack on an inquiry about washing behind ears and remembering 'pleases and thank yous'. I was able to tell David about it all over dinner that night face-to-face and then I could talk about the weather. You are right...... nothing very exciting is happening to me at the moment. I have nothing to say to anyone - and yet I blog!!
My first telephone number (remember I grew up just after the invention of the car - ha!) was Burnham 20. Burnham was a small village but I can not believe it only had twenty telephones, I don't know how the numbering went. The telephone exchange was at the top of the High Street. To make a call you picked up the receiver and asked the operator to connect you with Burnham 19 or whoever you wanted to speak to. The telephone in our house was on the telephone table which sat in the entrance hall. The directory was on the bottom shelf and the phone on the top. You didn't have a chair to sit on. If you wanted to communicate at length with someone you wrote a letter.
As time went on our phone number became Burnham 5020 and you didn't speak to an operator you could dial direct. If you wanted the operator you dialled 100 and she could help you with more complicated problems. My best friend Julie and I could be entertained for hours when we were left on our own with the telephone. We would dial 100 and when the operator answered we would say - in what we believed was a mature voice "Operator are you on the line?" If she answered in the affirmative, which she always did, we tried to suppress our mirth and shriek (mature voices forgotten) "Well get off there's a train coming". It would appear that not only have huge strides been made in the communication field but humor has become more sophisticated.
Because my father worked away from home a lot we were one of the first families in our small community to get an extension line so that Mum could have a phone by her bed. This enabled Julie and I to try daring new tricks. We would dial a random number and then as someone picked up we would start this conversation between each other using the extension line. We would pretend to be robbers planning the next heist or a couple who needed to plan a murder of an unwanted husband or wife we were desperate for the unknown number to be sucked in. They never were. I can only think that we weren't allowed much television in those days.
Sadly opportunities to have fun on the phone have been diminished greatly with the invention of the itemized phone bill and the technology that allows you to identify the number that has just been rung. I can not think that my parents or Julie's parents would foot the bill for so many calls to the operator if they had known they were going on.
Kids these days are called into account for the cost of their communicating. If you are on the wrong plan teenage texting can do serious damage to a bank account. This is especially annoying if the level of communication is not particularly inspiring. One text message 'what's up?' with the reply 'nothing much' can cost as much as three dollars.
Texting, tweeting, IM'ing or working with facebook have created a whole new world which is much too complicated to understand. The remake of E.T. is obviously not going to include the line "phone home". He would give us a facebook link.
Monday, February 1, 2010
How To Win AT Bunco Whilst Looking As If You Don't Care
As a responsible writer I have, of course, researched my subject matter thoroughly and I can report the following facts. Bunco was invented by the English in the eighteenth century but it has recently become popular amongst middle-aged suburban housewives and teenagers who use the opportunity to drink irresponsibly. In 2006 as many as 27 million enjoyed rolling the dice. It is widely reported to be a game of no skill. I dispute this. If you read on I can offer tips that will make you become a phenomenal and much feared bunco player. These tips are probably more pertinent to a suburban housewife than a hell bent teenager. I find it hard to imagine many leather clad, wayward teenagers worrying about winning a vegetable platter.
At this point I had better mention my own bunco buddies and explain a little bit about our group which has been playing together each month for about five years. Our neighborhood has seen other groups come and go but ours remains strong. In fact we have had waiting lists of people wanting to join us. I think we might start hazing would-be dice rollers. I find this in some ways surprising as although all the women are fabulous the standards we set ourselves are high. To be the bunco hostess can lead to financial ruin, threats of divorce, high-blood pressure and at the very least a migraine. Our hostesses provide clean, beautifully decorated surroundings, really tempting appetizers, wine, cocktails, desserts and prizes that cost more than the sum of all the entrance fees. We all do this for each other. Quiet suggestions about the merits of an open jar of salsa and chips or a bring-your-own booze policy are never followed up. Whilst other groups have been known to spend money on male-strippers and dispense with actual prizes our group carries on with the Full Monty and we love it.
The second Thursday of each month will find children left to fend for themselves and husbands left with microwavable TV dinners. We are all off to so and so's house to eat some delicious food, knock back a cocktail or two and, most importantly, win a prize.
Whilst carrying out the extensive research which is necessary to write a blog I came across a statement which is untrue. Bunco was described as a game that required no skill. This statement needs to be expanded apon. You can play bunco in an unskilled way. Each group has plenty of spaces for a player who just wants to drink the cocktails and gossip but if you want to win a prize some skills can be employed so that you reach the next level of bunco playing and walk off with the prizes. Drinking, chatting and rolling dice can be regarded as a level one performance. Drinking, chatting rolling the dice, using some winning strategies and winning a prize are identified as a level two performance. But at the top of the pyramid is the level three bunco player. She is able to drink, chat, roll dice to win prizes and no one realizes she is focused on winning. It comes as a surprise each month when she walks away with the platter, soap dish or candle.
To win this is what you have to do......
1. It is most important that you hurry the dice rolling along. As soon as your table is complete get set. When the top table rings that bell get going. Listen politely to your friends, grab that handful of nuts but move those dice along. The total of dots will soon add up and the more times you roll the greater your chances of rolling the magic three. If any of the table get up for whatever reason, get the partner rolling for them, just keep it rolling along.
2. Do not sit at the top table any more often than you can help. At this table you can only roll until someone reaches 21 whilst the rest of the room can go higher. Although the appetizers are exquisite and the call of the cocktail shaker shrill when someone suggests the start of play make a deadline for table two or three. There is little you can do if the order of play leads you to the top table but try and make your stay there short.
3. Don't offer to keep the score too often, you don't want anyone to think that you would cheat but try and wrangle the pencil and pad away from a friend who has had a lot to drink or has a lot to say (they are often one and the same person). If you have spent the first part of the evening rolling like a demon you don't want some lush ruining your total with bad score keeping.
4. Finally, remember no one must suspect that you care that much about winning. After all it is much better to impress your friends with your children's acoomplishments or your diminishing waistline than your collection of bunco trophies.
Now, why will no one forward me a bunco schedule and how come my neighbor was talking about a chance to play with our group. Have I made myself too obvious?
At this point I had better mention my own bunco buddies and explain a little bit about our group which has been playing together each month for about five years. Our neighborhood has seen other groups come and go but ours remains strong. In fact we have had waiting lists of people wanting to join us. I think we might start hazing would-be dice rollers. I find this in some ways surprising as although all the women are fabulous the standards we set ourselves are high. To be the bunco hostess can lead to financial ruin, threats of divorce, high-blood pressure and at the very least a migraine. Our hostesses provide clean, beautifully decorated surroundings, really tempting appetizers, wine, cocktails, desserts and prizes that cost more than the sum of all the entrance fees. We all do this for each other. Quiet suggestions about the merits of an open jar of salsa and chips or a bring-your-own booze policy are never followed up. Whilst other groups have been known to spend money on male-strippers and dispense with actual prizes our group carries on with the Full Monty and we love it.
The second Thursday of each month will find children left to fend for themselves and husbands left with microwavable TV dinners. We are all off to so and so's house to eat some delicious food, knock back a cocktail or two and, most importantly, win a prize.
Whilst carrying out the extensive research which is necessary to write a blog I came across a statement which is untrue. Bunco was described as a game that required no skill. This statement needs to be expanded apon. You can play bunco in an unskilled way. Each group has plenty of spaces for a player who just wants to drink the cocktails and gossip but if you want to win a prize some skills can be employed so that you reach the next level of bunco playing and walk off with the prizes. Drinking, chatting and rolling dice can be regarded as a level one performance. Drinking, chatting rolling the dice, using some winning strategies and winning a prize are identified as a level two performance. But at the top of the pyramid is the level three bunco player. She is able to drink, chat, roll dice to win prizes and no one realizes she is focused on winning. It comes as a surprise each month when she walks away with the platter, soap dish or candle.
To win this is what you have to do......
1. It is most important that you hurry the dice rolling along. As soon as your table is complete get set. When the top table rings that bell get going. Listen politely to your friends, grab that handful of nuts but move those dice along. The total of dots will soon add up and the more times you roll the greater your chances of rolling the magic three. If any of the table get up for whatever reason, get the partner rolling for them, just keep it rolling along.
2. Do not sit at the top table any more often than you can help. At this table you can only roll until someone reaches 21 whilst the rest of the room can go higher. Although the appetizers are exquisite and the call of the cocktail shaker shrill when someone suggests the start of play make a deadline for table two or three. There is little you can do if the order of play leads you to the top table but try and make your stay there short.
3. Don't offer to keep the score too often, you don't want anyone to think that you would cheat but try and wrangle the pencil and pad away from a friend who has had a lot to drink or has a lot to say (they are often one and the same person). If you have spent the first part of the evening rolling like a demon you don't want some lush ruining your total with bad score keeping.
4. Finally, remember no one must suspect that you care that much about winning. After all it is much better to impress your friends with your children's acoomplishments or your diminishing waistline than your collection of bunco trophies.
Now, why will no one forward me a bunco schedule and how come my neighbor was talking about a chance to play with our group. Have I made myself too obvious?
Monday, January 25, 2010
Skiing
Before I can write anything about my own skiing experiences I should record a story which I think is very funny. My husband and the boys don't think it's funny they doubt it ever happened and cringe everytime I tell it.
A friend of a friend of a friend was asked to go skiing for a weekend with some corporate clients. Not wanting to admit that she had never tried this sport she thought she would just bluff her way through it. On the Saturday morning she met up with the corporate crowd at the bottom of the lift and travelled up a frighteningly steep slope. At the top, having had difficulty just getting off the lift she realized that she would have to leave the group at least for the morning. As she excused herself she asked the way to the nearest restroom. On being told the nearest one was at the bottom of the hill she decided she would just have to stagger into the trees and turn the snow yellow in the great outdoors. Leaving the ski's on but pulling the awkward padded trousers to her ankles she attempted to perform. Within seconds her balance was lost and she found herself travelling down the hill at break-neck speed with the padded trousers trailing behind her. When she came to rest at the bottom she pulled her trousers up and hurried into the lodge before anyone could see her or recognize her. The next morning she excused herself from joining the group and prepared to spend the day enjoying a book by the log fire at the lodge. As she settled down she struck up a conversation with a gentleman who was sitting by the fire his leg propped on a stool and swathed in bandages. She naturally asked how he had been injured. He explained....... In all his year's skiing he had never fallen but whilst skiing yesterday he had lost concentration as a woman with her "pants on the ground" had sped past him. Whilst studying her bare arse he had ploughed into a tree and hurt himself badly.
Now I have never turned the snow yellow at the top of the slope because I konow that the clothes you wear to ski are so difficult to get on and off or adjust that once you are in them and all equipment is dangled from your limbs it is best to leave everything on and in place until you are in the privacy of your own condo.
Everytime I go skiing I am at first struck by the beauty of the mountains, the blue skies and the crisp air. Once I have breathed deeply it creeps up on me that I am either too hot or too cold, my feet are already killing me and I can not bend over as every pocket of my ski jacket is crammed with essential things that make me look like a lumpy and abominal snow man. I have to take a spare hat, goggles, sunglasses, reading glasses in case I need to look at the map, suntan stuff, a mobile phone, and occasionally, a walkie-talkie thingy. And lets not forget the camera.
With all this electronic stuff strapped to my body it is not surprising that on the lift I bleep alot. It will either be my phone going off, the camera being short on battery power or family telling me over the walkie-talkie that they are at the top and heading down for lunch. this will causes three different parties that i don't know, to reply that they are at the bottom and have been waiting there for hours and anyway its only 10.30 and nobody is hungrey yet.
This year I am going to unload the jacket. After all I can not answer the phone whilst skiing or on a lift. I might drop something. Extra clothing will also be jettisoned. If I have paid for a ski in, ski out I can ski in and ski out to get the extra hat or vest. I have not decided how to simplify the eye-wear but an idea is forming.
The next best thing to speeding down the mountains and beeping as you go up is drinking in the hot tub when its all over.
A friend of a friend of a friend was asked to go skiing for a weekend with some corporate clients. Not wanting to admit that she had never tried this sport she thought she would just bluff her way through it. On the Saturday morning she met up with the corporate crowd at the bottom of the lift and travelled up a frighteningly steep slope. At the top, having had difficulty just getting off the lift she realized that she would have to leave the group at least for the morning. As she excused herself she asked the way to the nearest restroom. On being told the nearest one was at the bottom of the hill she decided she would just have to stagger into the trees and turn the snow yellow in the great outdoors. Leaving the ski's on but pulling the awkward padded trousers to her ankles she attempted to perform. Within seconds her balance was lost and she found herself travelling down the hill at break-neck speed with the padded trousers trailing behind her. When she came to rest at the bottom she pulled her trousers up and hurried into the lodge before anyone could see her or recognize her. The next morning she excused herself from joining the group and prepared to spend the day enjoying a book by the log fire at the lodge. As she settled down she struck up a conversation with a gentleman who was sitting by the fire his leg propped on a stool and swathed in bandages. She naturally asked how he had been injured. He explained....... In all his year's skiing he had never fallen but whilst skiing yesterday he had lost concentration as a woman with her "pants on the ground" had sped past him. Whilst studying her bare arse he had ploughed into a tree and hurt himself badly.
Now I have never turned the snow yellow at the top of the slope because I konow that the clothes you wear to ski are so difficult to get on and off or adjust that once you are in them and all equipment is dangled from your limbs it is best to leave everything on and in place until you are in the privacy of your own condo.
Everytime I go skiing I am at first struck by the beauty of the mountains, the blue skies and the crisp air. Once I have breathed deeply it creeps up on me that I am either too hot or too cold, my feet are already killing me and I can not bend over as every pocket of my ski jacket is crammed with essential things that make me look like a lumpy and abominal snow man. I have to take a spare hat, goggles, sunglasses, reading glasses in case I need to look at the map, suntan stuff, a mobile phone, and occasionally, a walkie-talkie thingy. And lets not forget the camera.
With all this electronic stuff strapped to my body it is not surprising that on the lift I bleep alot. It will either be my phone going off, the camera being short on battery power or family telling me over the walkie-talkie that they are at the top and heading down for lunch. this will causes three different parties that i don't know, to reply that they are at the bottom and have been waiting there for hours and anyway its only 10.30 and nobody is hungrey yet.
This year I am going to unload the jacket. After all I can not answer the phone whilst skiing or on a lift. I might drop something. Extra clothing will also be jettisoned. If I have paid for a ski in, ski out I can ski in and ski out to get the extra hat or vest. I have not decided how to simplify the eye-wear but an idea is forming.
The next best thing to speeding down the mountains and beeping as you go up is drinking in the hot tub when its all over.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
How This Page Got Its Name.
I am sure that the Bogging Universe is full of words of advice which help parents of picky-eaters come to terms with the lack of green stuff and the amount of calories and chemicals their children consume. To my mind all this worry is a waste of time. Parental worry is much more worthwhile when it is focused on the amount of time their offspring spend enjoying drugs, sex and rock 'n' roll. I site Adam Wood, Alexander Evans and Freddy Tripp in support of my opinion.
Adam Wood, my brother, grew up in the sixties and survived very well on a diet of tinned spaghetti in tomato sauce followed by a lot of chocolate cupcakes. He played soccer, did well in school and was almost a rockstar. He is now a successful father.
Alexander, my son, grew up on a diet of chicken nuggets and fries. he was nauseated by the smell and appearance of any other food. He will now eat pizza, red meat and chicken curry. Lettuce leaves still offend him but he is a healthy 22yr old surviving on his own.
Freddy Tripp, my best friend's son would only eat burnt toast and marmite at my house (and not much else at his mother's). A year ago I sat across from this beautiful 21 year old and watched him enjoy a salmon fillet and asparagus.
All that anxiety was wasted.
With one son only eatting nuggets and fries whilst the other was a vegetarian who ate no vegetables. Going out to eat was a challenge. We didn't do it. The Italian restaurant that served a pizza for the vegetarian served no fries. The fast food restaurant that served the nuggets and fries used the wrong kind of oil. We gave up and stayed home drinking some lovely glasses of wine.
In later years when food preferences could be compromised it was me that made the stipulations. Before we set foot in any restaurant I always wanted to know.......IS THIS PLACE LICENSED?
Adam Wood, my brother, grew up in the sixties and survived very well on a diet of tinned spaghetti in tomato sauce followed by a lot of chocolate cupcakes. He played soccer, did well in school and was almost a rockstar. He is now a successful father.
Alexander, my son, grew up on a diet of chicken nuggets and fries. he was nauseated by the smell and appearance of any other food. He will now eat pizza, red meat and chicken curry. Lettuce leaves still offend him but he is a healthy 22yr old surviving on his own.
Freddy Tripp, my best friend's son would only eat burnt toast and marmite at my house (and not much else at his mother's). A year ago I sat across from this beautiful 21 year old and watched him enjoy a salmon fillet and asparagus.
All that anxiety was wasted.
With one son only eatting nuggets and fries whilst the other was a vegetarian who ate no vegetables. Going out to eat was a challenge. We didn't do it. The Italian restaurant that served a pizza for the vegetarian served no fries. The fast food restaurant that served the nuggets and fries used the wrong kind of oil. We gave up and stayed home drinking some lovely glasses of wine.
In later years when food preferences could be compromised it was me that made the stipulations. Before we set foot in any restaurant I always wanted to know.......IS THIS PLACE LICENSED?
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