Milk

I went to the shops last night to buy some milk. They were completely and udderly sold out. Not a single drop of lowfat milk to be found anywhere. However, they did still have almost every drop of whole milk they had stocked the night before. I wasn’t the only one who was much chagrined by this. Two other people came by whilst I was staring wastefully through the empty spaces where once stood gallons and gallons of lowfat milk and proclaimed, “Oh, they’re all sold out.” Yeah. That’s what I was thinking, too.

Why was this? Because nobody wants to drink whole milk. And why is that? Because we think it will kill us. And how does this make sense? Did nature intend for us to chemically process our milk so it no longer contains any fat or flavour? I doubt it. In fact, I doubt that drinking whole milk is dangerous at all; the problem perhaps lies in our propensity to drink too darn much whole milk. I only recently succumbed to the shame of drinking whole milk and programmed my brain to tell me to stop doing it, but the truth is, I’m a whole milk kind of gal. I don’t drink enough of the stuff for it to kill me. It’s all the other things that I do too much of that will likely push me into an early demise. I don’t have a problem with the way lowfat milk tastes. It’s certainly not offensive. But why bother? Why not just hit yourself on the head with brick and call it a motorbike collision?

We do these things because other people tell us to do them. People once told my mother things like breast feeding her children was a bad idea and that a cigarette was the only way to relieve the stress of an alcoholic father. I think they were all wrong.

But there are no rights and wrongs in life. There is only the crap we tell each other to help us to get by, day by day. We need the illusion of truth. Uncertain certainties and songs we already know the lyrics to help to distract us from the fact that we will die one day and we have absolutely no idea what the fuck that means. Drinking lowfat milk won’t prevent the inevitable; it will only make the space in between feel longer, especially if you would rather be drinking the real thing. It really makes no sense to me. And you’d be lying if you said it makes perfect sense to you.

After the milk fiasco, I drove home with the radio on. Further to my claims that all radio stations play the same junk, I scanned through the following songs: “Rock You Like a Hurricane” by The Scorpions; “Runaround Sue” by Dion; “Love Her Madly” by The Doors; “Modern Love” by David Bowie; “More Than a Feeling” by Boston; “Sultans of Swing” by Dire Straits. Then I found a station playing what I can only assume was either Soul Coughing or Mike Doughty solo. Unlike the missing milk, that was a pleasant surprise. I’ve not been able to pin down exactly what song it was, but it tasted like a nice tall glass of whole milk.

So here’s to the man who had the good sense to play something that ran the risk of not being recognised or appreciated by millions of people wandering around in their cars looking for lowfat milk and scanning the radio for some classic Fleetwood Mac.

Before You Push That Button…

When and if you decide to hit that FWD on to me, stop and consider a few things:

• Is it possible I have already received this? Check the list of previous targets. If my email address is on that list, don’t bother sending it to me again. I have already ignored it.
• Is this something I will not fail to see the humour in? You know me. Or, at least your should know me, since you do have my email address and are willing to send me crap like it’s candy. Is this really something you think I want to interrupt my day with? If it’s got anything to do with animated clip art, please reconsider.
• What are you doing to the world? Are you doing your part to not spread viruses, spam and infectious diseases? Are you putting my email on a list for possible future credit card frauders and other people who like to hit FWD? There could be someone in your contact list whose contact list I do not want to be a part of. Be my friend; don’t pass me on.
• Is this one of those “FWD this to 20 people or I will die a horrible death and you will be sorry” emails? I don’t respond to blackmail threats, but I really have no other choice when it’s either send 21 emails (20 of my unsuspecting friends plus you) or make you feel as though I don’t love and appreciate the other things you do in life. Truth is, I do love you. A lot. That’s why I haven’t punched you in the face.

So, before you hit that FWD button this holiday season, please consider all the good your can do for the world by hitting DELETE instead. Peace on earth and good emailing practices are not too much to ask for.

Yes, Virginia, There Is a Sentence Clause

When I was 27, I realised that I was too old to work for Mtv. I have never wanted to work for Mtv, but that was not the point. I had always thought of myself as young and inexperienced, but this revelation made me feel like I had nothing left to offer to the world. I hadn’t even begun to try and figure out what that thing was. Something must happen, I thought, when you pass the age of coolness, and the world looks at you through a very different lens. It must be the same thing that prevents radio stations from knowing that there have been several good songs released since “Barracuda” and “Peaceful Easy Feeling”. I think it must have been the day that “Sweet Child O Mine” joined the ranks of the Classic Rock genre that I officially lost my innocence. That’s another reason for me to hate that song.

Eventually, when I realised that I was no longer able to choose from the first few sets of age ranges on obligatory surveys, I began to panic. What if the next survey doesn’t have an age range for me? What if I go over the limit of possible recognition for skin care users, website visitors and opinionators? What happens when I reach that final demographic? I haven’t even reached 40 yet, but society has made me feel like I am at the bottom of the list. Almost listless. I have stopped counting up and started counting down.

What about all of those people that I know who are older than me? Do their opinions no longer count? Or is there a point in life when you are no longer a part of the game, when you are 39+ and totally off the radar, and there is not enough activity in your life for you to need to fill out a form containg lists of age ranges? Is that when you are no longer living but just waiting to die? Do they put all of the 39+ pluses into one bus and let the children, teens, twentysomethings and almost middle-aged people each have their own? Does that work out because there are more of them and less of us? If we keep running out of troops, these young punks are going to take over the world. Why is it that none of them have managed to shut down the Classic Rock stations yet?

Christmas is a good time to realise your age. You are also forced to come to terms with the revelation that, when you were young and still felt the magic of Christmas, mum and da did not. You had no idea. You thought they loved it just as much as you did. Sure, they didn’t get as many gifts, and they did have to master negotiations with Santa, which takes a bit of the magic out of the whole thing. But they still felt it, didn’t they?

You don’t have to lie to me; I know what they felt. These days, I’m feeling it, too.

Thanks anyway, my little friends.

Blitzens

Yes, it is snowing on this blog. You can stop scratching your head.

I recently purchased a nice, new pair of gloves. Mittens. Glittens?

These are the things that transform from gloves to mittens with the flip of a flap. Mine are gray and have some shiny things on them. Although I suspect the shiny things will fall off soon enough, so let’s just call them gray.

I did this for two reasons: 1.) I have always been fond of mittens. 2.) I need my fingers.

The problem with these glovesmittenglittens of mine, however, is the bit over the thumb. Of all the fingers that I have, I’d say my thumbs have served me the best over the years. This is something you realize when you can’t use them as well as all of your other fingers, because your glittens expose all but those two digits.

For example, have you ever tried to dial a mobile with gloves on? Howzabout if it’s one of them fancy phones that’s all touchy-feely? Yeah, that’s right. Those phones don’t like the feel of unhuman flesh. No reply at all.

Another problem – lighting a cigarette with a fabric thumb. Hmm. I smell something burning.

It also doesn’t make picking up loose change from the pavement any easier. All it does is slows down traffic and makes the chap walking behind you get too close to your bum. People don’t like to wait around while you scrounge for 20p for the washing machine. They won’t tell you that, but you will know.

The only good that has come out of this whole glitten experience has been the revelation that mittens are totally useless. No wonder I was always coming home without them as a kid.

“Where are your mittens?”

“I burned them.”

“Why did you burn your mittens?”

“Because I was trying to build a snowman and I needed my thumbs to poke out his eyes. Also, because it’s really freaking hard to light a cigarette with those suckers on!”

Don’t Smoke This Grass

Sorry, folks. I’ve been a wee bit distracted. Best of Craigslist. I’m sure you can understand.

My mission with BOCL is always to find the posts that were intended to be serious and not meant for the approving eyes of the “We See You and Applaud so Your Existence Is Justified” crowd. Those are always obvious. I don’t have a favourite yet, but I can tell it’s coming. One of these days, while I’m wasting away precious writing time, I will find it. I will know it’s the one. It’s the question that drives me… oh, no. That’s teh matrix.

So there I am, perusing the best of the craigslist, reading about the woman who pooed in the parking lot and the guy who left his beer on the driveway and let the cat get drunk, when I see this: The Update to Free Sod.

Honestly, that could be The One. I’m saving it in the pile in case nothing better comes along.

Who, cares about punctuation! (?)

Here’s my problem with the internet – sorry, the Internet: it’s that stigma attached to any form of communication that says, “Proper Grammar Not Required.” Sure, I understand that spoken English does not capitalize its proper nouns, and it is more concerned with the sound of ‘bourgeois’ than it is with the spelling of it. That’s fine. I’ll even concede that the semicolon, that beloved devil of the academic elite, has no place in unwritten language. However, since when do we interrupt ourselves awkwardly or run off at the mouth needlessly when we talk? Oh yes, that’s right – when we are drunk. Comma splices and run-on sentences are certainly one way to know when Uncle John has had too much eggnog. But that email you just sent to me from your computer at work, you know – the one that is dated 9:05 am, I sure do hope you weren’t drunk when you wrote that.

Recently, Graham Linehan, a person I am confident knows where to stick his commas and colons, became disgruntled by a bit of writing in the Irish Times. I was disgruntled, too. I had several questions on my mind while reading the well-researched yet overly under informed profile of Mr. Linehan. A lot of it really didn’t jive with things I had read and heard previously; how am I supposed to know what to believe? But my biggest complaint was not with the author of said profile, for whom I assume content takes precedence over format, regardless of where that content comes from. No, instead I became quite bent out of shape about this:

Linehan’s computer crashed and he got an IT worker in to have a look at it. He listened to the IT guy for two hours – not understanding a single work he said.

So my big question (and trust me, I was questioning it for some time – it was that big) was: Is this some clever, new way of referring to jargon? Does this “not understanding a single work he said” thing work, or is it just, you know, a stupid typo? I know many editors, and not a single one of them are the type to mistake the letter “k” for the letter “d”. Not by the hair of their chinny chin chins.

My answer came to me a few days later: I’m obsessed with all the wrong things. Never mind that a stupid typo can completely alter the meaning of things
- typos happen. I’ve been known to make several unforgettable ones myself. So why did I walk away from that incident feeling like someone had just declared jihad on my family? Why do I take it personally when people send me emails that have not been proofread when it is obvious the problem is more than just a stupid typo? Unlike someone I know, the nuns did not crack me on the knuckles when I didn’t turn in a perfectly polished composition book. Yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel the history of the world being threatened by a laziness I cannot comprehend. Can I somehow blame this on the French?

Seriously, my drunk at work friend, how can you not get this? It comes out of your mouth everyday. You read it, you write it and you have been told how it works. For crying out loud, you have an advanced degree! Surely, somewhere along the line, a well-meaning professor has suggested that you review the rules of grammar.

I once ended a relationship with someone because he didn’t know the difference between “they’re” and “their”. I was concerned he might pass this on to our children. Truth be known, I am the culprit. All those bloody papers that I so kindly “edited” for friends over the years weren’t really helping anyone.

What was that thing Jesus said? “You can lead a pharisee to water, but you can’t save his soul.” Something like that anyway.

So that letter I drafted to the Very Prominent Publishing House that let loose a friend’s novel with 16 (yes, I counted) very obvious typos – I’m not going to be sending that.

Outsauced

Let’s think about all of those phone calls and emails I have made to service people who have 1.) not understood a word I said, or 2.) made no sense to me.

Let’s think about Giaun (or Guain or Gianu) who answered my very well-thought out, calmly composed and perfectly detailed email to (name of big bank), with whom I was having several problems and a slight concern about possibly being victimized by fraud artistes du jour. I explained all of my issues and concerns in some of the best English this side of the Mason-Dixon line – never mind that I am nowhere near the Mason-Dixon line nor know where it is. South Jersey, is it? A five-year-old could have understood what my complaints were. Giaun, however, could not.

What I received from Giaun was a form response containing several grammatical errors and having absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with my problems. There was some mention of one or two similar things, but the solutions that Giaun provided, I think, were meant for another customer. Nor did Guain answer my question, which was, “Would it be possible for me to actually speak to someone at (name of big bank) who can assist me with this matter?” Although, in a way, Gianu did make it clear to me that the answer is, “No, it is not.”

Dear Gianu, Thank you for your response to my email. However, none of the solutions you have provided me with actually apply to any of my issues. While I do appreciate that you have taken the time to cut and paste for me, could you please refer me on to a customer service agent who understands what sort of assistance I need? Cheers.

Guain then emailed me back, telling me how sorry he was that his solutions did not resolve my problems, and giving me more stock responses meant for yet another customer.

Dear Gauin, Clearly, you do not understand the way that I write, so I will say this very plainly: I want to speak to another customer service representative. Thanks ever so much.

I began to realize that part of the problem was that my English was too formal, too good for someone like Guain. I had to let go of my notions that bad English is a dirty whore and accept that, at times, rules are made to be broken. In a way, I felt this was the most logical approach. In another way, I felt it was necessary for me to continue to write such complex emails to Gianu and his pals in order that they practice more, to see how it’s done. They needed my emails, whether they liked them or not. But I also needed to know what the hell was going on with my (name of big bank) account. In the end, my finances won over Giaun’s future. Who the hell is this Guani anyway?

And now I’m thinking, do they require English for this job, or just hands, or just one hand? Do they teach them big key words to look out for and give them a chart of responses they should use when they see the corresponding key word? Have they explained to them about spell checkers, or does it not matter since it’s more than just the poor spelling that needs improvement? No gold stars for Guian, I can tell you that. One sentence even lacked a verb, and it was a run-on sentence at that!

I can’t stop imagining Giaun sitting in his sweatshop at a desk half his size on a stool made of flake board and missing half a foot (the stool, not the Giaun, although…). He is drinking Coca Cola and eating from a small bowl of plain, dry rice. He has his iPod shuffle tucked into his headband. He is listening to Timbaland or Timberlake or whatever, and wearing Adidas tennis shoes, laces undone, and his pants are three sizes too big. When his coworkers say hello to him, his reply is always, “Yo, wassuup?” He is being paid the equivalent of $4.25 an hour to sit in a hot, stinky room for 9 hours a day, take food breaks at his desk and piss breaks in the alley to provide him with 2 more smoke breaks per shift and write responses to customer emails. Just something, anything, it does not matter, just make sure they all get one. Straight up the arse.

After my second attempt to correspond with Guain, I was referred to another agent. This one had a better grasp of English, but I think this is just because someone helped him to proofread his form responses. Still, it gave me some comfort, as if, by starving me of civilization for a while, any bit of contact would be a welcome relief. And it was.

Dear Fiauk, Thank you for your response to my email concerning my (name of big bank) account. However, this is just a variation of the first email that I received from Giaun, and it does not apply to any of my concerns. I did not enjoy it enough the first time around to give it another read, so I will ask you again, please may I speak to a customer service representative who understands me? Thanks!

Fiauk still hasn’t written me back.

Maybe I am being too harsh. Maybe, because my second language is French, and I had to learn this from French people who would not only refuse to allow my Brooklyn-born mouth to murder their alphabet, they would also beat me mercilessly with baguettes anytime I mis-conjugated, I feel that people should pass all their exams before being allowed to wander the streets of spoken English. We should not have to struggle to understand others who wish to communicate with us in our language. That’s not helping them at all, is it now?

No, what we need to do whenever we come across one of these lazy language people is to chastise them and send them straight back to their Longman textbooks until they are ready to be functioning, comprehensible members of our society. After all, this is the very reason I avoid going to Paris. Far be it for me to waste a Frenchman’s precious time.