A puzzling T(t)urkey question

I can’t remember if I’ve put this ponderance out there before. It keeps coming up in my mind, and has been doing so for years, which is why I uttered a gleeful ‘yippee’ when my mother announced that she and my father are going to Turkey in September. The big question I have needed an answer to for such a long time, is this: Are there turkeys in Turkey?

Knowing my parent’s trip is imminent, I will ask them to go searching, while they’re there. I’m sure they’ll be perfectly happy to trail around the Turkish landscape, looking for turkeys (as opposed to exploring Turkey’s fabulous sights and sounds and rich history (I sound like a travel advert)) to answer this aeons-old question of mine. Obviously, turkey-hunting will take preference. I do not refer to the shoot-to-kill version of hunting, rather the just-find-one version. Then again, I am quite partial to roast turkey at Christmas and a turkey roast in October wouldn’t go unappreciated.

I may be asking a a tad too much, though, expecting them to hunt, kill, pluck-and-deinnard, freeze, fly back to Africa with turkey in hand luggage, cook (preferably stuffed) and serve said turkey (preferably with lots of gravy, roast potatoes, butternut, creamed cauliflower. And peas.) Just a tad.

What do you think?

Tired eyes

Last week I went to see A Serious Man with G, the latest offering from the Coen brothers, whose movies I love. It left me silent afterwards (very unusual for me) as I contemplated its intricacies and the overall downtroddeness of it. It’s about a guy in whose life everything is going wrong. Depressing really, but done in the Coen brother’s signature style which, somehow, brings a humour to even the worst situation. I must admit that this was not their most humorous though, the ‘black comedy’ being somewhat too real (as opposed to their normal kookiness.) Thus my quietness. I felt sad.

During the movie, the main character, whose life is falling apart around him, goes to the rabbi to try and make sense of things. In this scene the rabbi points out of the window at the most ordinary, drab parking lot and says: "I mean, the parking lot here, not much to see. But if you imagine yourself a visitor, somebody who isn't familiar with these autos and such, somebody still with a capacity for wonder, someone with a fresh perspective... You're looking at the world through tired eyes... Things aren't so bad. Look at the parking lot, Larry."

It made me think, and has stuck with me (obviously, otherwise I would’t be writing about it, it would’ve flitted out of my mind like the million other swirlings that have left me before I put them to paper) and I realized why during my insomniac moments in the early hours of this morning… My eyes are feeling tired, I’m looking at the world through them, tiredly, like Larry in A Serious Man.

Time for me to look at the parking lot, right?

My mother outdoes herself

My mother has been referred to by many people the occasional person as eccentric. She becomes more so as she gets older. Yesterday (Women’s Day, a public holiday here on the tip of Africa, in remembrance of the Women’s Day March in the 1950’s to protest the Pass Laws. Very civilised to have a public holiday dedicated to women) she called me at home:

Shiny: Hello
Shiny’s Mother: Hello love. Can you do me a favour? Are you on Facebook?
Shiny: Sure. I’m not at the moment, but I will be tomorrow. What do you need?
SM: I want you to enter a competition for me. For Women’s Day. They’ve given a recipe for a cocktail and you have to give a name to it.
Shiny: Okay, what name have you given it?
SM: Vodka Vagina.
Shiny: (Spluttering) You’re not serious, surely?
SM: I think it’s a brilliant name for a cocktail! Have you seen the names they give them?
Shiny: Yes. What’s the prize?
SM: VIP tickets for the winner and three friends to Club TrendyYoungThings.
Shiny: But, mum, you’ll hate it there. It’s for Trendy Young Things. And it’s a night club. I don’t think you and three of your 60-something year old friends will really enjoy it.
SM: Oh no, when I win, I’ll give you the tickets (with a tone of pride and charity in her voice.)
Shiny: Urm, thanks, but three of my 30-something year old friends and I are not really Trendy Young Things either!
SM: Oh, well then I’ll give it to the Trendy Young Things next door.

So, being a dutiful daughter, I went into Stalkbook this morning and found (thankfully) the e-mail address needed to enter the competition (for a moment I thought I’d have to enter as me, on Facebook) and she entered.

She has just phoned me to say she received a curt e-mail back from the woman running the competition to say she found her entry offensive! My mother has written back to say she is sorry she found it offensive but she thought it very apt and, although she’s never drunk cocktails in her 60-something years on this earth, she has read some cocktail menus in her life, and thought her suggestion was rather tame!

It’s hard to bring up parents correctly, isn’t it?

Of car-buying and salesmen

I need a new car. A sad, but true fact. My sweet little aubergine has developed some, well, incontinence problems and so is starting to smell less-than-savoury, and there was that incident of refusing to go, in rush-hour traffic, in the fast lane. So, yes, the result: the search for a new (secondhand) car.

Some back history, to make my tale of woe a little more sensical. Cars do not interest me. At all. This, in fact, is an understatement. I know nothing about them, and couldn't give a hoot about how much horsepower (or whatever) they have, as long as they get me from A to B. I have been known to answer to the irritating question: "What car does he drive?" with "A blue one." Often, I have been wrong even with that, the car in question being a brilliant red one. I can, I'm proud to say, discern a car from, say... a bicycle, but that's about the sum total of my vehicular knowledge.

A couple of weeks ago, when The Pond was here, we trundled off on a blustery Saturday morning to town where the car places live. We were bombarded with all shapes and sizes, all the 'best on the market', completely trustworthy, fabulously shiny... car salesmen. Before we even got to the cars. The car salesman cliche, I am here to tell you, is no lie.

So you see my dilemma. Enter: C, thank goodness. A friend who IS interested amd is fabulously organised and gathered together information on all the possibilities (with me, I'm sure very irritatingly asking, after glazing over during the 'specs', "But what colour is it?")

This morning I am going with her, to another place where secondhand cars live, waiting for new owners. I am going to do my best not to ask what colour they are. This should be easy, as I will be able to see the colour. I will also try my hardest not to glaze over when they talk 'specs' and promise to try not to make up stories about the greasy car salesman's personal life in my head, behind my glazed-over eyes.

I wonder if I'll manage?

Stupidity invokes letter writing. Two letters.

Sometimes at Real Work I come across stupid people. I’m sure they’re really nice people too, but they shouldn’t be practicing medicine. It’s as simple as that. This morning I stumbled over one of them that left me, even after thirteen years of dealing with such things, aghast at the level of stupidity. The pharmacist phoned about a script he'd received. It necessitates a letter.

Dear Healthcare Professional,

Thank you for calling for advice regarding one of your clients, the mother of a 6-month-old baby who is not sleeping (the baby, that is, to prevent any confusion) and presented you with a script for sleeping pills for her baby. You were wise to call. The mother, too, was wise to take said baby to the paediatrician to be checked out. However, everybody seems to have got a little bit confused about the patient, thus the need for my writing this letter.

You need to explain to the mother that her baby is SIX MONTHS OLD, she doesn’t have insomnia. It’s called being a baby. Some of them don’t sleep. Contrary to the paediatrician’s advice of ‘give these pills for a month to establish a sleeping pattern’ and subsequent prescription of sleeping pills.

Perhaps a gentle explanation on the sleeping habits (or lack thereof) of small babies would be more apt. Also, it may be wise to warn her that, as babies get bigger, their sleeping patterns change (even from night to night, what with teething etc) until, in fact, when they hit puberty, she’ll probably have to try her hardest to get them to stop sleeping too much. At this point I’d not advise another consultation with the same paediatrician, who would most likely prescribe a stimulant.

While it’s completely understandable that sleep deprivation could (and often does) lead to the occasional 'unnecessary' dose of that lovely pain and fever syrup that makes them sleep so nicely to keep her sanity intact, it seems just ever-so over-the-top to turn her 6-month old into an addict.

Just a thought. Well done for questioning it. I hope you can get the mother to see the light.

Love,
Shiny x

And, then, another one, to the paediatrician involved.

Dear Paediatrician,

You are an idiot and should not be practicing medicine. I think it’s time you consider another career path. Something harmless, perhaps, like threading beads for necklaces out in the country, away from people.

Love,
Shiny x

Honestly, can you believe that a child specialist diagnosed insomnia in a 6-month old? And then prescribed sleeping pills?

An update

It’s a weird wake-up call, having someone you love face the challenge of cancer. She is doing well, the op yesterday showed another lump which wasn’t seen on the scan (a scary thought in itself), so she may need a mastectomy. Big, hard stuff but she’s a brave girl. I’ll be off to see her after Real Work. I have wanted to go there the whole time, to cling to her, like a little lichen, possibly even like a barnacle covered in lichen. Luckily she has her love with her, so she hasn’t had to be alone. I’m really looking forward to seeing her later.

And, in the meantime, between the worrying, the world carries on turning, but from my perspective there’s a different glint to it. It makes me want to treat people more carefully, be a little kinder, pay a bit more attention to the important things. My thoughts are constantly swirling (nothing new there) but with an added edge. A good edge because some good must come out of this. She is brave and strong, although in a very small frame, and is more than capable of fighting this, with all of us backing her up, and there are SO many who love her.

In the meantime, let's all be a little kinder to each other, shall we?

Unbearable news

About twenty five years ago I lay along the back of the couch (I was 10, it was a favourite spot, and I was small enough, at the time, to fit) and felt the breath sucked out of me and the world tilt uncomfortably as my father explained to my sister and I that my mother would be in hospital for a bit, having an operation that, hopefully, would let her live. She had breast cancer, at 40.

On Friday, I had exactly the same feeling when one of my best friends called me to say that the lump she’d found is also cancer. She’s 37. Apparently they treat aggressively in such a young woman. She’ll have chemo and radiation and is, as we speak, having a scan to determine how much they’ll cut.

It seems inconceivable that someone so wonderful, so sweet, should have to go through this. I want to throw myself to the ground and shout and scream that it’s not fair, like a two-year old. But mainly I wish that we could share out the struggle that she is facing. She has so many people who love her, if we just each took a little bit, it’d be so much more tolerable.

Luckily she is strong, and fit, and they caught it early. We’ll wait for the scan results and then she goes in this afternoon for the operation. My mother is now in her 60’s and (touch wood) has been healthy since.

In the meantime we all pull in closer and cling to each other and surround her with love and focus all our energy on everything going well this afternoon and the next months. Please.