Being Assimilated Back into “The Norm”
There should be a law that you are allowed to throttle your parents under special circumstances. Okay, so that is a bit harsh but where does the insanity end?
This story has a bit of history that has to be related.
Sometime during my stay up in Sodom and Gomorrah Maw ‘phones me, panic-stricken, she has lost her Alt codes. Now for those of you who have used Word Perfect as a word processor understand this concept. It is a set of codes whereby you depress the Alt key and then a series of numbers and it gives you the related character, like è or ê, etc. It is very handy when you have to type funny languages like, say Afrikaans for example. In fact, it is so handy that Microsoft adopted the same system. So, Mummy Dearest has lost her Alt codes and now her long suffering daughter has to talk her through the process of accessing Insert, Symbol, blah, blah, blah. Let me just add here quickly that my mother and technology are two elements that are highly incompatible. There is no doubt in my mind that I am going to get a brain tumour as a result of spending that long a period of time on my cell ‘phone.
This morning I was summoned to the court of The Odd Couple to a) update her anti-virus software license and b) to figure out what on God’s green earth she did do to lose her Alt codes. Firstly the anti-virus CD doesn’t want to read because, hey, the CD Rom is 3 years old and welcome to the fast-paced world of technology. Then to tackle the mysterious Alt Code Disappearance (can you hear the theme song from The Twilight Zone playing in the background?).
You try and figure out what this woman did three weeks after the fact! I challenge anyone to figure out her next bugger up and you will win a week for two on Gough Island and a Datsun! After about half an hour of trying to find anything vaguely related to Alt and Codes on Word Perfect it’s onto the internet to see if the Corel website can be of more assistance. Nada! I even check existing Alt commands just to make sure the offending key is actually working. Big surprise! It is.
So, next step, ‘phone the woman for whom we do the transcription typing because she is pretty clued up on the programme. Hey, give me a break here, I work on the thing, I don’t play around on it. Whilst explaining the situation to her she starts cracking her sides laughing because she is familiar with Maw’s panic button – it doesn’t take much for it to be pushed. Then the wise woman we work for says: “Is the number pad locked?” I blushed, said thanks to her, passed the ‘phone back to Maw as a shriek of mirth erupted from the ear piece. And depressed the Num Lock key. The light came on, literally and figuratively!
But that’s not all!
We ‘phone the local computer repair/supply… what’s it called? An IT solutions company and I explained that the CD for the anti-virus license was not being read. Chickie Babe on the ‘phone says please bring the case in because it can’t be the CD as that has been checked. My reply is I will get back to them. I explain the situation to Maw and Maw says: “Okay, let me just go and put on town clothes.” I asked her what is the significance of tarting herself up and her reply? “So you can take me to take the PC in.” Oh, of course, silly me. I have no life, I live to serve you and play taxi driver. And I haven’t had a cigarette for what, oh, TWO HOURS because you will have a hernia if you know I smoke and you are driving me INSANE! Luckily I was saved by the fact that I had made a hair appointment prior to stopping off at Maw’s. I am learning, it has taken 33 years but I am learning.
The previous paragraph serves as an intro to my next adventure, the hair appointment (I am so clever – and smug too). Okay, besides the fact that I feel like a shorn sheep – it’s not that much shorter but it feels like it - and besides the face that NO ONE noticed my trimmed tresses, it was quite an enjoyable experience. Oh, to be pampered again. I know, I am cheap, no facials, manicures, pedicures, etc, just a hair cut once a year and The Katt purrs.
There was however one jarring note. Hell, there would have to be otherwise I would have nothing to tell. The young lady who washed my hair didn’t warm up the shampoo or conditioner before she applied it to my knobbly scalp. The gloop was ice cold. She froze my frontal lobes, three times. I … am… functioning… at… a… much… slower… pace… now.
On the subject of a knobbly scalp, I really must make a point of going for a hair cut more often. Yours truly is of those unfortunate soles who are prone to moles and there are two on my noggin – no Sinead O’ Connor look for me. Each time I go for a trim I have to explain to the trimmer that I have these knobs on my head because of a nasty experience once with a male trimmer – he nearly combed the damn things off and it was rather painful. Bear in mind, you have to divulge this somewhat unpleasant info quite loudly because there is the noise of hair dryers and all sorts to contend with. Okay, so honesty is the best policy, right? Well, honesty doesn’t save you the embarrassment of the hair dresser taking a deep breath and diving into your mane looking for the offending bumps. Listen up, woman, one of those lumps grosses me out at the best of times and you made me feel very self-conscious.
By the way (no fancy previous paragraph intro here), I have found a way to take revenge on Flyboy. A short bit of history here…
I love guitar! Nearly two and a half years ago I bought myself the most beautiful acoustic guitar complete with electric pick-up and steel strings. I know, half the guitar playing world just said: “Rather get gut strings because they are softer on your fingers.” You don’t understand, folks, I want to bleed for my music.
(A quickie on this subject: On the day I bought this instrument of beauty I ‘phoned Maw and told her I had spoilt myself. She said: “Ooooh, did you buy yourself a food processor?” In case you don’t know this, Maw is obsessed with food, I fall into the decidedly NOT obsessed with food category).
Anyway, last Sunday was the first time I have ever had what could be described as a music lesson (in my life – pity my teacher, please. My brother got the guitar lessons, I got the swimming training and the canoe, where is the canoe now I ask myself). Last night I unleashed my baby, my plectrum and myself and started… what? It can’t be called playing. Well, started strumming, cursing, going crazy, plucking, practising, swearing at the F chord (it’s not called the F chord for nothing), you get the picture! At one stage it felt like I was doing something right so I called up to the study asking Flyboy if he thought that sounded better. I got a strangled, choking “Hm” back. Oh goodie, revenge! Flyboy, you kill my cat, I play guitar. But it does mean no Carnegie Hall for me. *sigh* There is a thin musician in me dying to get out, I know it.
Now time to go stick my head in the oven and defrost my frontal lobes! I wonder if I will manage to nuke the little suckers on my head at the same time.
This story has a bit of history that has to be related.
Sometime during my stay up in Sodom and Gomorrah Maw ‘phones me, panic-stricken, she has lost her Alt codes. Now for those of you who have used Word Perfect as a word processor understand this concept. It is a set of codes whereby you depress the Alt key and then a series of numbers and it gives you the related character, like è or ê, etc. It is very handy when you have to type funny languages like, say Afrikaans for example. In fact, it is so handy that Microsoft adopted the same system. So, Mummy Dearest has lost her Alt codes and now her long suffering daughter has to talk her through the process of accessing Insert, Symbol, blah, blah, blah. Let me just add here quickly that my mother and technology are two elements that are highly incompatible. There is no doubt in my mind that I am going to get a brain tumour as a result of spending that long a period of time on my cell ‘phone.
This morning I was summoned to the court of The Odd Couple to a) update her anti-virus software license and b) to figure out what on God’s green earth she did do to lose her Alt codes. Firstly the anti-virus CD doesn’t want to read because, hey, the CD Rom is 3 years old and welcome to the fast-paced world of technology. Then to tackle the mysterious Alt Code Disappearance (can you hear the theme song from The Twilight Zone playing in the background?).
You try and figure out what this woman did three weeks after the fact! I challenge anyone to figure out her next bugger up and you will win a week for two on Gough Island and a Datsun! After about half an hour of trying to find anything vaguely related to Alt and Codes on Word Perfect it’s onto the internet to see if the Corel website can be of more assistance. Nada! I even check existing Alt commands just to make sure the offending key is actually working. Big surprise! It is.
So, next step, ‘phone the woman for whom we do the transcription typing because she is pretty clued up on the programme. Hey, give me a break here, I work on the thing, I don’t play around on it. Whilst explaining the situation to her she starts cracking her sides laughing because she is familiar with Maw’s panic button – it doesn’t take much for it to be pushed. Then the wise woman we work for says: “Is the number pad locked?” I blushed, said thanks to her, passed the ‘phone back to Maw as a shriek of mirth erupted from the ear piece. And depressed the Num Lock key. The light came on, literally and figuratively!
But that’s not all!
We ‘phone the local computer repair/supply… what’s it called? An IT solutions company and I explained that the CD for the anti-virus license was not being read. Chickie Babe on the ‘phone says please bring the case in because it can’t be the CD as that has been checked. My reply is I will get back to them. I explain the situation to Maw and Maw says: “Okay, let me just go and put on town clothes.” I asked her what is the significance of tarting herself up and her reply? “So you can take me to take the PC in.” Oh, of course, silly me. I have no life, I live to serve you and play taxi driver. And I haven’t had a cigarette for what, oh, TWO HOURS because you will have a hernia if you know I smoke and you are driving me INSANE! Luckily I was saved by the fact that I had made a hair appointment prior to stopping off at Maw’s. I am learning, it has taken 33 years but I am learning.
The previous paragraph serves as an intro to my next adventure, the hair appointment (I am so clever – and smug too). Okay, besides the fact that I feel like a shorn sheep – it’s not that much shorter but it feels like it - and besides the face that NO ONE noticed my trimmed tresses, it was quite an enjoyable experience. Oh, to be pampered again. I know, I am cheap, no facials, manicures, pedicures, etc, just a hair cut once a year and The Katt purrs.
There was however one jarring note. Hell, there would have to be otherwise I would have nothing to tell. The young lady who washed my hair didn’t warm up the shampoo or conditioner before she applied it to my knobbly scalp. The gloop was ice cold. She froze my frontal lobes, three times. I … am… functioning… at… a… much… slower… pace… now.
On the subject of a knobbly scalp, I really must make a point of going for a hair cut more often. Yours truly is of those unfortunate soles who are prone to moles and there are two on my noggin – no Sinead O’ Connor look for me. Each time I go for a trim I have to explain to the trimmer that I have these knobs on my head because of a nasty experience once with a male trimmer – he nearly combed the damn things off and it was rather painful. Bear in mind, you have to divulge this somewhat unpleasant info quite loudly because there is the noise of hair dryers and all sorts to contend with. Okay, so honesty is the best policy, right? Well, honesty doesn’t save you the embarrassment of the hair dresser taking a deep breath and diving into your mane looking for the offending bumps. Listen up, woman, one of those lumps grosses me out at the best of times and you made me feel very self-conscious.
By the way (no fancy previous paragraph intro here), I have found a way to take revenge on Flyboy. A short bit of history here…
I love guitar! Nearly two and a half years ago I bought myself the most beautiful acoustic guitar complete with electric pick-up and steel strings. I know, half the guitar playing world just said: “Rather get gut strings because they are softer on your fingers.” You don’t understand, folks, I want to bleed for my music.
(A quickie on this subject: On the day I bought this instrument of beauty I ‘phoned Maw and told her I had spoilt myself. She said: “Ooooh, did you buy yourself a food processor?” In case you don’t know this, Maw is obsessed with food, I fall into the decidedly NOT obsessed with food category).
Anyway, last Sunday was the first time I have ever had what could be described as a music lesson (in my life – pity my teacher, please. My brother got the guitar lessons, I got the swimming training and the canoe, where is the canoe now I ask myself). Last night I unleashed my baby, my plectrum and myself and started… what? It can’t be called playing. Well, started strumming, cursing, going crazy, plucking, practising, swearing at the F chord (it’s not called the F chord for nothing), you get the picture! At one stage it felt like I was doing something right so I called up to the study asking Flyboy if he thought that sounded better. I got a strangled, choking “Hm” back. Oh goodie, revenge! Flyboy, you kill my cat, I play guitar. But it does mean no Carnegie Hall for me. *sigh* There is a thin musician in me dying to get out, I know it.
Now time to go stick my head in the oven and defrost my frontal lobes! I wonder if I will manage to nuke the little suckers on my head at the same time.
posted by Katt at 5:33 pm
5 Comments:
Good going Katt,
Next time have the full
Monty, Ayurveda -
headmassage....
For a laugh, check this
out.
Why guitars are better
than men.
www.acousticfingerstyle.com/
gtrvswma.htm
I know I can be a bit obtuse sometimes, but I ususally get there in the end. I am, however, really battling to figure out how 'norm' fits in anywhere here ;-)
To P & E: Thanks for the tip but I am so self-conscious about my "knoppe" I cringe each time the hair washer stops for a second after she has discovered one of them.
To Kyk: I suppose it would depend on your definition of "The Norm." In my life this is normal, that is why I gnash my teeth when I sleep at night.
To P & E: By the way, thanks for the URL, I had a much needed giggle.
Post a Comment
<< Home