Panpanic

A quick pit stop between emptying buckets, checking on temperatures and refilling warm water bottles: After Matt came down with swine flu a month ago, we have tried to stay healthy, albeit with moderate success. Jules was prescribed Tamiflu a while ago by the Pandemic National Health Line, but we ended up waiting it out. They are awfully quick with their diagnosis, even if you check NO to most of their questions. Off they send you with an authorization code in your pocket to pick up the miracle drug at one of their ‘collection points.’ In the end, it was only a a very virulent stomach virus, fever and all. And while it is noisily making its round through our family, I am glad that I didn’t combat it with viral cyanide. More than a pandemic, this seems to be a panpanic.

Nothing more dangerous, than...

thinking for yourself.

In times of relativism where the individual stands to decide for her or himself everything including sexual identity, spiritual affiliation and source of information, it seems dated to speak about norms and taboos. Political correctness yes, but divine censorship??

In fact, it has become sort of démodé to mention the old iconoclasts, all those individuals and movements of the past who passionately fought for fairness, justice and equality. After all, we’ve got it all.

Why mention that a mother’s job is grossly underpaid? Get a better paying job then!
Why insist that the services rendered by society’s hardest working population should be reflected in the GDP? Who cares?
Why point fingers at tenaciously persistent gender inequalities? Get a life!

Just please don't think!

Whodunnit

Anna: Look, Jules, it's a half moon!
Jules: Who ate the other half?

Got a Room

I am living through the most stressful November of my life. I remember that, for a number of years it used to be Spring, especially April and May, when Matt’s social skills plummeted, friends and family got a bit demanding, and my pets died.

But this November is the mother of all hair-pulling and Tylenol-popping months. I keep waking up in the middle of the night, and immediately roll over to check the calender. Not over yet. Inevitably, as daylight creeps in, I try to play dead, which requires determination and stamina with Jules around. He likes boobs.

After this school thing had been settled, I was hoping that we would settle down as well. As a matter of fact, we nave been trying to get back in the grove, but for some reason, it seems, that we can’t find one grove that fits all. Or maybe we have forgotten what a groove feels like.

We are stumbling around in some odd syncopated pattern that makes Ragtime sound like a Waltz. One of us always has a headache, feels unappreciated or is going bald while the other feels it’s time for Tequila. Like an odd couple tripping each other with their wobbly canes, the two of us are entangled in a strange off-beat Tango. And Fridays are the worst.

Six o’ clock rolls around and I know we are off to our dance macabre once again. Whatever I do in those doomed hours that usher in the weekend: smile, not smile, listen or ignore, offer drinks, or get drunk, unfailingly we hit the wrong key and it’s downhill from there.

So, last weekend I skipped the dance and instead took off at five to six to return only when the chamber maid breathed heavily into my ear indicating that it was time to vacate the bed. Yes, I rented a bed for myself, free from spiteful snoring and groping critters. For a full 39 hours (yes, I counted) my life belonged just to me. Time was mine, and silence reigned. It was heaven.

I just might try that again some time.

Not so poor boys !

If I have to hear about one more whining and complaining husband/father, I am going to vomit.

What on earth can be so horrible about being male in this world? Last time I checked every single political system was thought off my males and dominated by them, capitalism isn’t a woman’s idea, all dominant ideologies are man-made (including religion) and have worked out very well for that minority population, I’d say.

Also, major artwork, literature and technological inventions until very recently have been produced almost exclusively by men, not because men are more capable but simply because they are physically stronger and have ruthlessly threatened women into subjugation and isolation, relegating them to chores that they subsequently classified as inferior: Childcare, housework, teaching, social work, nursing, midwifery, you name it.

But banking - uh, yes, we are all supposed to be oh-so-grateful for these emotionally challenged asses to dominate our world. Let’s pay them really well, preferably by laying off teachers!

No, I am not sorry to say, that men should just shut up when it comes to their work life. Go figure it out, boys - it was your idea to begin with.

If you’re smart, you’ll change it. If you’re stupid, you will probably end up buying a gun and shoot up a convenience store - that or vote Republican.

Kafkaesque - or one of the many reasons why Citibank sucks!

THIS IS CITIBANK CARD SERVICE - PLEASE ENTER YOUR 16 DIGIT CREDIT CARD NUMBER !

PLEASE HOLD...

“This is Citibank Card Services, Underpaid Bangladeshi # 873. Can you please tell me your 16-digit card number?”

“I just entered it”

“I don’t have it, Ma’m”

“Why do I have to type it then when I call this number?”

“You have to identify yourself”

“I just did.”

“No you haven’t.”

“Hm. I think what you mean is that you want me to identify myself AGAIN.”

“How can I help you?”

“I would like to use my card to pay for my groceries online as I do every week and a CITIbank SecureCode screen popped up where I was asked to enter my name, security code and experation date. When I did as I was told a text in red letters informed me that the information wasn’t correct and it asked me to re-enter it. So I re-entered the card details and when that didn’t work I called this number.”

“Your card has been blocked because you entered the information twice.”

“I was asked to do that.”

“If you enter your information too many times your card is automatically blocked.”

“I entered it twice because I was asked to.”

“You have to register your card to receive a temporary code on a webpage that I will give you and then you will have to change the password and re-register your card.”

“Can you guide me through the process step-by-step because it sounds a bit complicated?”

“Go to securecode.com and enter your temporary number.”

“I don’t have that number.”

“Please hold.”

And I did until I was disconnected.

While I am writing this I am on my third attempt to do as I am told. Kafka would have a field day.