Phone Conversation with Emma

"Hi, Grandma!  I love the scrapbooks you made of our dance recital."


"I'm glad, sweetheart.  Papa and I were very happy we could watch you and your sister perform.  Thank you for the note you wrote us."

"Mommy made me do it!"

"Well, you have a very smart Mommy.  Thank-you notes are important to show appreciation.  What else is new?"

"Hanna has a fish!"

"Wonderful!  Did she get a goldfish?"

"No, it's some other kind."

"Are you going to get a fish?"

"Maybe when I save more from my chores.  Hanna had more than me because she got borned before me."

"What will you call your fish when you get one?"

"Lemonade!"

"Lemonade can be pink or yellow.  What color will Lemonade be?"

"It'll be yellow, Grandma!  You know it's my favorite color.  Are you getting forgetful, Grandma?"

Is It Still English?

                                                                                                               

It's hard to take the "English" out of a former English teacher.  I've been concerned for a while now!

It started when rap music began getting MTV Awards.  I couldn't understand a word they were singing.  And still can't, unless it's my seven-year-old granddaughter rapping.  I can appreciate musical melodies, good voices, and rhythmic steps.  I just want to be able to understand the language (or in some cases, am glad I don't!).

I studied the world's classic literature.  I taught classic and contemporary English and American literature.  I read all the time.  Then I got a cell phone.

I'm "hip" enough to text on the cell, and must admit that sometimes I'm rushed, like everyone else.  That is the only conceivable time I will abbreviate "you" to "u," or  "too" to "2," etc.  I have to assume that everyone else is in a rush twenty-four hours/day, seven days a week (notice I didn't use 24/7) and must use these abbreviations constantly.

Which brings me to my concern that the English language is going down the tubes, or should I say that it is going onto UTube?  There is no auto-correct on UTube, but auto-correct is merely fodder for Facebook jokes, anyway, and is part of the problem.  No-one has to use a dictionary anymore.

Oh yes, the acronyms - they are beyond me.  For the longest time, I thought "lol" was "lots of love!"

As a published author, if I were to write blog posts and emails with abbreviations, errors, and lots of slang, readers would think I'm dum, unprofossional, and careles.  Shouldn't I have higher standards?

Of course I know that our language changes constantly - daily.  I actually took graduate courses on how this happens, and I can "chill" with the rest of us old fogies.

But when I ask a receptionist for the room number of a patient named "Pat Priestly," I do not expect to be told there is no-one in the hospital named "Pat Priestly," if indeed there is a "Patricia Priestly" in Room 403!  Does anyone still teach English as I knew it?

Which brings me to my ray of hope.  I read a Sunday N.Y. Times article (April 1, 2012) about junior-high students who have used print-on-demand technology to self-publish their books and sell on-line (with the indulgence of Mom and Dad, who pay the fees).  Yes, part of writing is living, exploring, and interacting with the world as we mature.  Yes, parents could pay additional fees for a professional editor to tear a child's manuscript apart as a reality check.  But look at the bright side.  Someone is teaching these kids a form of English they can actually replicate.  And it is legible enough for readers to understand!  The kids are inspiring writers of all ages to corner a market with English as I knew it.   So what if they use "Spell Check?"

Age-Appropriate Clothes



     It's spring-cleaning time.  Starting in my clothes closet, I organize into two groups: donations and packables.  The packables go back into the closet until May, when they get boxed to go north to Massachusetts for the summer. 

     My "faves" stay with me for ten years or more.  I keep them because I can still fit into them (YEAH!!) and because the style eventually comes back around in fashion.  What goes around, comes around, right?  I tell Charley I really am trying to save him money.

     I start with the skirts.  If they're obviously too tight or too short, they go into the Goodwill pile.  A definition of  "too short" is open to interpretation.  I have decided that kneecaps are not my most attractive feature (I'm still looking for what it is!), so that means a lot of the skirts have to be hemmed.  Among the skirts I haven't worn in two years, none will get donated!  Maybe there are perfectly good jackets hanging somewhere in there that go with them. 

     The blouses are easier.  I recently wore a fancy pink lace top that showed a bit of cleavage.  Then I noticed a couple of ladies whispering and looking in my direction at a party.  So I decided that wrinkled cleavage over sixty isn't an asset.  The lace will get donated.  There's also a silver lame top with spaghetti straps, purchased in Italy, and a long, tight tunic that shimmies down over my hips when I wear black tights.  They both go into the Goodwill pile.  I'll throw the tights in the trash.  My workout capris are now loose enough so I can breathe and pump iron at the same time.

     A few dresses I love must also go into the Goodwill pile.  One is bright red, with a "handkerchief" hem of different pointed lengths.  It's slinky and fun and fits perfectly.  But I must have been delusional a couple of years ago when I bought it.  I look like a male cardinal on steroids in it, so it's never left the closet.  There's also a white shift dress with tank top and "poofs" all around the skirt.  "Poofs" around the thighs are a bad idea to start!  Furthermore, the arms of anyone over sixty should probably be hidden, unless you've produced an aerobics video.  In fact, no matter how many tricep machines I struggle with at the fitness center, I still have angel wings hanging beneath my rather large biceps.

     There are pants with cuffs that my heels get caught in and others with wide, wide legs that brush against the floor mats when I drive and get filthy.  Into the Goodwill pile!  Any pants with pleats around the waist only make me look ten pounds heavier.  Those too must go.  And finally, my beloved gray jeans.  They're pencil-thin and make my muscular calves cramp because they're too binding.  The jeans make me saddest.

     I find high suede boots that take ten minutes to pull on and black satin pumps with heels I can't even stand in.  Actually, anything with a heel over two inches must go.  I spent five months in therapy one year, suffering from a dislocated, herniated disc; shoes must be as flat as possible.  Unless I can stand in them for more than an hour and have fallen in love with them, of course.

     Which is the story behind one reptile-printed three-inch wedge with laces that Charley helped me choose in Key West.  He chose it immediately among the two dozen pairs I was trying on at a shoe store.  They would have looked great on a Paris runway and I felt years younger in them.  The only problem was that they dislocated my big toes because of the severe angle, and I never wore them again.  I haven't told him.

     Sandals in south Florida are mandatory at the pool and beach, so I am  forced to wear the widest rubberized models for my bunions.  It is truly painful to donate some of the bejeweled, metallic, or seashelled versions that I have collected from our travels.  Instead, my sneaker collection keeps growing, for back support while walking, working out, playing tennis.  I'll do anything, not to be forced into footwear with velcro that is specially molded to fit my lumps and bumps!

     Am I age-appropriate yet? 

       

Making Infants Smarter

   

     I read an article by Yudhijit Bhattacharjee (seriously!) in The New York Times (March 18, '12) that scientists have now shown that being bilingual makes you smarter.  Apparently, the brain likes conflict!  And when two language systems are active, one system can obstruct the other.  Thus, a conflict.

     What does the brain do?  It gets a workout, resolving the conflict!  It calls on its command system, which directs the processes we use for planning, problem-solving, and other mentally demanding tasks - like ignoring distractions, switching attention, and holding information in mind (sequences of instructions, for example, or linguistical grammars).  In the studies mentioned, bilinguists performed better at these tasks and were more efficient at it.

     There is reason to believe that the bilingual experience may influence the brain from INFANCY to OLD AGE!  Bilingual pre-schoolers were quicker at performing challenging sorting tasks than the monolinguals. The conclusions even apply to those who learn a second language later in life.  The higher the degree of bilingualism, the later the age of onset of dementia (a recent UCSD study).

     So I began thinking about our daughters-in-law when they were pregnant with our grandchildren.  In the early 1990's, there was something called the "Mozart-effect."  Dr. Tomatis (French resesarcher) claimed that if a fetus listened to classical music in utero, his brain growth and neural connections would be enhanced.  Both daughters-in-law listened to music in-between the demands of their professional lives.

     Now, pregnant women might take The New York Times article one step further and learn a second language to enhance the efficiency of their children's brains in utero.  The pregnant mamas' daily routines might include a work schedule, physical exercise, listening to classical music, learning a second language, and who knows what else?

      I know that parents of pre-schoolers in N.Y.C. who apply to prestigious private pre-schools (often in excess of $10,000 a year tuition) must interview with their child.  In addition, the child must submit essays (I have to assume they are artwork), as well as undergo interviews alone.  So, it won't be surprising to me if some day pregnant mothers repeat calculus and physics formulas to their infants in utero.  After all, once the child is born, he could scream to clear his lungs, then spew formulas to get a jump on all those other pre-schoolers! 

     I see a couple of problems with all this scheduling of fetal activities in utero.    First, there's NO firm scientific evidence as yet that acoustic stimulation does anything to influence a fetus' creativity, smarts, or development.  A mother's voice is apparently enough to stimulate development.  Secondly, the child might become a "Type A" personality in infancy, crying for a new Chinese word in-between his cries for milk!

  At least there's still hope for old fogies like me, if we sign up for Italian at the Adult Education Center.

    

    

    

Aging Hands



     They say you can tell a woman's age by looking at her hands.  Which puts me at about one hundred!  Let's just say that my hands will never be models for a sculpture, unless it's outside a nursing home.

     One of my granddaughters once asked me why I had blue worms on the backs of my hands.  The veins are raised and twisted, in-between the now protruding knuckles.  I gave her a lengthy explanation of what veins do, and told her she had them in her hands, too.  Only problem was, we couldn't find them!

     When I go for blood work, the lab nurse never fails to exclaim, "Oh, these are beautiful!"  I look at her like she's not operating with a full deck.  Then she explains that I'll never be traumatized by having a succession of needles poked into my hands (or forearms) trying to find a vein.  And that if one collapses, I'll have plenty of others to choose from.  That's supposed to make me feel better??

     There are operations where plastic surgeons inject YOUR OWN fat into your hands to plump them up.  The operation is a mere $5,000/hand.  But then, I do have saddlebags I'd like to get rid of!

     Almost as offensive as the veins are the small round bruises.  I am not even aware of doing it, but if either hand bumps against something, a small purple mushroom appears.  My mother used to call them "age" or "liver" spots.  She got them from the Coumadin she took to thin her blood, then from the aspirin regimen that replaced the Coumadin.  Since I take neither, I couldn't figure out why my hands always looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.  Then I realized it's probably from the fish oil I take to lower cholesterol and keep joints functioning.  At least if I bend down for a low tennis shot, I know I'll be able to get up again.  I guess I'll have to live with the purple mushrooms.

    Tonight my right hand sports a new cut across the middle finger.  That's from scraping it on the door latch of my locker, while storing my golf bag.  So in addition to the blue worms and purple mushrooms, I have a red badge of courage.  The courage was just for going out on a golf course!

     And then there's the lump and blue/black bruise on my shin.  I know, I'm digressing from the hands, but it's the same beat-up body.  In a match I whacked myself with my tennis racket, as I followed through with my serving motion.  An ugly hematoma appeared instantly, and my opponents were gracious enough to let me sit with an ice pack for ten minutes so I could elevate the leg.  The lump is gone, but the blue/black three-inch bruise remains.  You can actually see the indentation of the racket against my shin.  At least I didn't cut myself, as our captain did in the same match and in the same location!

     I guess I could sit at the computer all day, or on the sofa.  But that still doesn't solve the problem of my worms.  

The Pedicure

I'd looked forward to the appointment for three weeks!  I loved  foot rubs, especially since Charley had reneged years ago.  I had calluses across the bottom of my toes and heels from all the tennis I played.  In addition, balls protruded from the bunions of each big toe.

                                                                I'd explained all this on the phone each time I booked.  "You come early," the receptionist said in clipped English.  "You so-wok!"

"I what??"

"You so-wok!  You know - tub?"

"Oh, you mean I have to come early to soak!"

"Yeesss."  Her voice dipped through the "Ye" and then lilted upward for the "s's."  She was obviously running out of patience with me.

I showed up looking forward to the lengthy soak.  "Kim," the American name for receptionist Sholon, showed me to my tub.  It was in a line with nine others, all occupied.  "Kim" threw a tablet of disinfectant into the water.  "Too much hot?" she wanted to know, as I stepped into the water and positioned my butt on the raised seat. 

"Perfect!" I said.  Kim trotted off in her four-inch heels.  I turned the massage button to "knead" and sat back to enjoy the moment.

When I'd first started coming to this salon, it had been a mom-and-pop operation.  I remembered when the couple's second child had been born, and when they'd expanded the space.  Where had all these other Vietnamese come from?  The family must have chartered a boat to sponsor them.  At least they were working!

I noticed a  bald Vietnamese male speaking with the other two men behind the manicure stations.  He towered over them.  He started walking toward me, struggling with rubber gloves.  He yanked and twisted the rubber, raising his eyes to me above his mask.  "Small!" he said, throwing the gloves in a nearby waste bin.  His gnarled hands could have used the services of his peers.

I didn't like the looks of this!  I was here to relax.  I concentrated on my printed page, while the man went to find larger gloves.  I prayed someone else would show up at my tub.

"You choose color?" he said to me.  I handed him my selection.

He had to remove my old polish first.  He did what any field worker catching a mouse would do: he pressed down on my five toes with the palm of one hand, while the other hand rubbed off the pink polish.  I looked down the line at the Vietnamese women working.  They held their customers' toes gingerly between two fingers.  If he pushes down any harder, I'm going to say something, I promised myself.

Next came the callus removal.  My guy squirted liquid from a pink plastic bottle onto the rough areas, then grabbed a large pumice stone.  He rubbed the stone back and forth, applying more and more pressure with an elbow motion that would have given him the blue ribbon in a sawing competition.  For the bottom of my small toes, the only thing he changed was the size of the stone.  Finally, he was satisfied that the calluses were smooth.   I tried to resume my reading.

"Short?" he asked. 

I wasn't sure what he was talking about.  Then I realized he was holding the clippers in his hand.  "Yes," was all I said.  I wanted to explain that my big toenails get ingrown from my tennis sneakers, but I knew it was futile.

The nail clipping accomplished, he began to snip away the dead skin at the corners.  I watched his every move, and he watched me watching him.  When he dug underneath, I winced.  "Hurt?" he asked.

"No more!" I said.

"OK?" he asked.

Oh God, he thought I was asking him for more snipping.  What a difference a comma makes!  "Stop!" I yelled.  The other operators all looked up and began chattering in Vietnamese to each other. I felt like telling them my husband had been in their country during the War, trying to prevent the North Vietnamese from overrunning the place.  Why was this man torturing me?

The other operators resumed, and the dead skin was left hanging around my big toes.  My guy proceeded to the massage.

I might have failed to mention up till now that I have several small cysts on the bottom of my feet.  They are benign, the result of heels I wore while standing for years in front of classrooms teaching.  That was in the Mesozoic era, when a dress code for teachers did not include sneakers.

The massage began with my toes.  Obviously, my guy did not appreciate his own strength.  The bones of my toes actually cracked, as I lifted one butt cheek and then the other off the seat, trying not to yelp.

Realizing my discomfort, he pooled more lotion into the palms of his gloves and proceeded to the soles of my feet.  "What this?" he said, as he came upon the first cyst.

"Just a cyst," I said in a slow cadence, glaring at him.  He glared back.  The other operators stopped to look up again, and chattered in Vietnamese.  Obviously they understood every word of English and I had become a source of disruption, if not ridicule.

He finally moved on to massage my calves.  I have large calves, the result of twelve years of cheerleading and quadruple years playing tennis.  More lotion into the gloves, then a deep tissue massage. He kept smirking at me.  What was he thinking?  My calves were freakish?  It didn't matter.  I was going to enjoy this part, even if he killed me!

The polishing went relatively smoothly.  Before I knew it, I heard, "OK."  He handed my sandals to me and lifted the armrest.  "You go."  He was pointing to the blow dryers on the floor.

I closed my book.  I had read a total of one page.  I shuffled in paper sandals to the dryers under the front window, carrying my shoes, my purse, and my book.  I had a name for this man who would NEVER touch me again - Conan the Barbarian!  Did he actually think I was going to tip him?   I weighed my options with my feet under the blowers.

When I got myself together, I stood at the reception counter waiting for the bill. The pedicure was $21, an obvious ploy to have me round out to $25 with a tip.  Should I cave in?  Mom and Pop, who owned the place, were staring at me.  Maybe Conan was their son-in-law!  I gave them a thin smile, wrote a check for $21, and knew I'd be looking for a new salon.




 



 

   

Must-have's



The following took place in a children's shoe department.

"I'm in love!  I'm in love!"  Both hands spread across her cheeks.  Her mouth formed a perfect "O."

"You mean you have a boyfriend?"  I didn't have a clue.

"Well, yes, Grandma, but he's a bad boy in my class.  And you know I'm a really good girl.  He's always in trouble.  I don't know why I like him.  Why is that, Grandma?"

"Sweetheart, sometimes bad boys seem exciting.  But they're not the ones we want to spend much time with."

"Anyway, I'm in love with these SHOES!!  Mom, can I have these for summer?  Please!  Please!"

"You're not getting summer sandals now, young lady.  Your feet may not be the same size in two months."

"Can I get measured?  And if I don't grow, can I get them?  Maybe the lady will keep them for me!"

"We can measure now, but the lady can't put them away that long."

"Please take off your shoes," said the saleswoman.  No problem there - Emma had already thrown hers under a chair.  She knew the drill.  "Now stand on this, please," the woman said, indicating the sizing device.

"Don't forget to write it down and put it in your room back there!  My name is Emma Carey.  What if you don't have them when we come back?"

"Then I can order some for you."

"I LOVE these!  Can I get them for my birthday, Mom?"

"I'm sure by then there'll be something else you'd like for your birthday.  Do you believe this?" my daughter-in-law asked, turning to me.

Miss Emma was five years old!