Wednesday, October 28, 2009

SILLY SIMILIES

I write because I read. I read because I love language. Rules of English are not always easy to understand. Don't ask me about grammar although I think I know what syntax is. I'm a pretty good speller, good thing too because I can't figure out how the spell check works on my new computer. The girl who does my nails is from Viet Nam and is a pretty quick study and I always feel like an idiot when she asks me to explain idioms and such that I've been hearing since I was a tot. I get them but can't explain them.

Silly Similes


Do you ever wonder where most of the old similes we use come from and why we still use them when they have become hopelessly out of date? Take “working like a dog” for instance. I guess there are some working dogs somewhere, sled dogs and sheep dogs, but most dogs are house pets and work about as much as a slacker brother-in-law on the dole. Take my dog for instance. He spends the vast majority of his time sleeping. Bathroom and food breaks pretty much account for his day. He thinks his job is being a guard dog but has gotten so lazy that when he hears an unidentifiable noise, such as someone at the door, he just lifts his head and spits out a couple of semi-ferocious woofs and lies back down. It doesn’t make me feel any safer and, frankly, has become annoying so I wish he’d stop making the attempt. I guess it’s easier to use arcane similes rather than find something more appropriate. “Working like a dog” rolls off the tongue much easier than “working like a Japanese schoolboy” would.

Another one that has me baffled is “happy as a clam”. Who decided clams were happy? And how do they know? Now I’ve never seen a clam in its natural habitat. Maybe they do something that indicates joy but when I see them they’ve been chowdered, linguinied or casinoed and the adjective I’d use is yummy. The only thing I can figure is that when you look at a clam shell the bottom arc does look like a smile but I think I’m reaching here. Happiness is, of course, subjective. I don’t want to go all existential on you but shouldn’t we define it before we bandy it about in context to clams? I think “happier than an ugly girl on her wedding day” might be truer but, again, doesn’t roll off the tongue.

Blind as a bat would imply cave floors strewn with the creature’s little bodies after knocking themselves senseless slamming into walls. In fact bats have a sophisticated system of echo location not unlike sonar which enables them to get around quite nicely thank you very much. In fact they function just as well in daylight as night time, an advantage over most animals, including man. Takes the punch out of the simile though doesn’t it.

You can’t prove that loons are crazy. Not the way you can prove that a fruit cake is nutty. And how do we know peacocks are proud? Maybe they just have sore feet--strutting around nature’s catwalk like they do. It’s really not easy to take candy from a baby you know. Sure, it can be done but it’s hard to shut them up afterwards. If you have sensitive ears it’s not worth it. Get your own candy. Just to let you know, when I’m in an awkward situation I do not flop around like a fish out of water, and it doesn’t kill me either. But sometimes I do sleep like a log.

Some similes are downright prejudicial. Why are bees busy while hornets are angry? Why is a goose silly but an owl wise? All dirt is not old. There’s some brand new dirt at the bottom of my compost heap.

Maybe that’s why the new generation doesn’t use similes any more. The word “like” has become the unspoken simile. “I was like....you know” has become common usage. I guess we’re supposed to listen to the rest of the sentence and fill in the blank with something appropriate. In this case dumb as a box of rocks comes to mind.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND

Living on an Island means you have to worry about your trash. The recycle center takes glass, newspapers, plastic, and cans for free. Anything else you must pay to get rid of. A small TV? $25. Old computer? $35 and up, depending on size. This is the driving force for yard sales. Spring and Fall there are a plethora of them. It's better to sell something than have to pay someone to take it away, eh? If you can't sell it you'd be surprised at the junk people will exit your yard with if it has a big sign on it that says FREE. I love to go to yard sales as well as have them. I imagine that some day I will attend one and everything for sale will have once belonged to me! A version of the following essay was published in Martha's Vineyard Magazine.

WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND

My girlfriend Janice saves the papers for me when I’m off Island. I’m always afraid I’ll miss something that is destined to become Island lore, like one year’s biggest derby fish--just shy of fifty pounds dragged aboard a boat by a twelve year old girl. There are things so uniquely Vineyard that you wouldn’t want to miss them.
The papers are in pristine condition except for the yard sale sections. These ads are circled, crossed out and accompanied by comments in the margin. Janice knows just about everyone on the Island, so she knows where the best stuff will be. The last time I picked up the papers she was beside herself with glee. A local summer celebrity (I won’t mention her name because we Island people aren’t impressed by such) was staging a yard sale with the proceeds going to charity. The two things Vineyarders love most, yard sales and charities. Naturally I had to go.
I arrived at the sale about a half hour after it began and all that was left were a few chipped coffee mugs and a pile of dog eared books. There was a truck in the driveway filled with mismatched furniture. The new owners of this, let’s be honest, heap of used stuff were in seventh heaven. I’m willing to bet they would have turned their noses up at my own, far superior, furniture. I realized then that this celebrity was, like the rest of us Vineyarders, just trying to avoid a large dump fee.
I saw a woman walking around with an item no one could identify. Not even the owner. It looked like a slinky welded to a flat rectangular piece of metal. She forked over four dollars and announced, “It’ll be a conversation piece.” Well, I thought, maybe if someone figures out what it is. How can you have a conversation about an unknown object? I don’t know about you, but six people sitting around saying, “Maybe it’s a...” is not, in my opinion, a conversation.
There was a long line snaking into the house. Don’t ask me why but I just can’t resist a line. I always join. I guess because I have faith in people. I figure if there’s a line there must be something good at the other end. The crowd was humming like a high tension wire. I guess it was the thrill of seeing a celebrity in her own house. Now as for me, I never want to know too much about famous people. It takes away their ‘aura’. Gee--she has a toilet and a garbage pail--hmmm.
At last my part of the line made it into the house. There she sat, surrounded by her minions, smiling benevolently. The only thing missing was a throne. On the table in front of her sat a stack of autographs ($5) and signed photographs ($10) that one assumes, had it not been for the yard sale, would have gone in the trash with the rest of the unwanted items.
Sometimes I’m wrong. Sometimes there isn’t anything I want at the front of the line. I wondered what this famous celebrity would have done if, in true yard sale fashion, I had offered her a quarter for an autograph.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

THREADING THE NEEDLE

We just took our boat to dry dock for the winter. It's always a sad day, especially since we've gotten so good at sailing. After 11 years we are no longer the two stooges--and we no longer yell at each other. We've had just about every mishap possible and now stop and think before panicking. This essay was previously published in Martha's Vineyard Magazine.

THREADING THE NEEDLE


My husband and I had always planned to retire to Martha’s Vineyard. It was a dream we shared. Along with the dream of having a little day sailer in Edgartown Harbor, and two million in the bank, and our daughter graduating from college in only four years........you get my drift. Dreams sometimes stay just that. Dreams.

We retired on Friday, February 13, 1998. February 14th we went to a boat show at the Javits Center in New York City. By the end of the day we were proud owners of a twenty nine and a half foot Hunter sloop that sleeps six. They really shouldn’t be allowed to sell beer at boat shows. We took lessons from Captain Steve. We learned how to put up the sail, how to tie up and cast off (completely different than knitting) and were in business.

We used to fly small Cessna airplanes. (He flew, I just went along for the ride.) If your hobby is flying then you have to find places to fly to. The best way to do this (if you only have one day to get there and back) is to use a map and a compass, one of those little tin things you stick a pencil in, and trace a circle around where you keep your plane. Then you look at the map to find interesting destinations. That’s how we found Martha’s Vineyard. We figured boating would be equally exciting. It’s not. Not if you are true fair weather sailors like us. First of all our top speed is five knots which will get you to Nantucket or Cape Cod in about five hours if the wind is just right. This rules out going for lunch. Second, the wind is very rarely just right which means a lot of tacking and gibing which is a lot of work but not very exciting (unless you’re like my friend Tom who was taught to never, never gibe. In that case you’d spend the whole day coming about in little circles, also not very exciting). So we have settled into a routine of sailing to nowhere for a couple of hours and having cocktails at the mooring for a couple of hours. Not exciting but it suits us just fine.

Frequently the most challenging part of the trip is navigating the harbor. We never do this under sail and have only the highest regard for the captains who do. Unfortunately the captains who do (who pilot everything from twelve foot cat boats to fifty foot charter sail boats) turn the harbor into an obstacle course. The rule of the sea is that boats under power give way to boats under sail. Throw the yacht club classes that scoot around like water bugs into the mix and it can be down right daunting, which brings me to the point of this little tale.

Our first summer in Edgartown Harbor my husband chose the job of casting off the mooring and let me pilot the boat to the outer harbor where we could safely raise the sails. I became quite good at it, if I do say so myself. Our second season, when he suggested that we alternate jobs so we both learned to do everything, I was a little nervous. I’ve always been a terrible back seat driver and once drove all the way to Florida so I wouldn’t have to co-pilot my mother (who was known as Lead Foot Lee in her day). Our first few trips in and out went off without a hitch. We must have always timed our trips just right because the On Time ferry had never even entered our thoughts. One Saturday we had some guests from the mainland who were looking forward to a sail. Our experience in getting people to go sailing with us had always been bad. I guess we just didn’t look like able seamen. So we were delighted to have company. The sail went smoothly, even though Saturday in Edgartown Harbor is like Five Corners when the ferry unloads. On the way in, with hubby proudly at the wheel and sailboats passing through the ferry lane with impunity, he suddenly realized that the On Time II and On Time III had started to cross and were too close for comfort. We were not the only ones motoring through. Two large sailboats and a cabin cruiser were about to become headlines in the local newspaper. To add insult to injury the ferry captain blew his horn at us! My husband panicked (not that I wouldn’t have done the same) and turned sharply to starboard where he almost crashed into another vessel. Fortunately the other boat also turned sharply to starboard and gave us room to come about. Needless to say we made it back in one piece (though our friends seemed a tad too happy to set foot back on land). Thanks to the Chappy ferry we once again have an exciting hobby.


Wednesday, October 7, 2009

A CRAPPLE A DAY

Unlike my daughter I have issues with technology. I'm not so good with anything that has an instruction booklet much less the things that come without said booklet.


MY NEW COMPUTER

I recently bought a new Crapple computer. My first computer, an iCrap, is nine years old and people kept telling me I was living in the dark ages. So I went out and got myself a laptop CrapBook. Well, the dark ages have gotten even darker since my purchase. For some reason they don’t give you instruction manuals with a computer. They assume you know how to work it. Or you know how to get the information. Even my bread machine came with a book. If you don’t know what you’re doing how the hell are you supposed to find out? They didn’t even show me how to turn the darn thing on!
My iCrap was purchased in 2000--a millennium in techno years, but it took me that long to get comfortable with it. Now I’m in a black hole and spending hours doing the same thing over and over again trying to figure out how to change my preferences. These are things that you want your computer to do your way. Unfortunately my computer was set up at the Crapple store by a young male geek who doesn’t know me and didn’t even ask me what my preferences were.
At best my relationship with technology is one of those love/hate situations. I love the idea that I can save tons of papers without any paper at all. Very neat. I hate the idea that I paid for software that I am unaware of and don’t know how to use. There are applications on my old computer that were never opened. Even though I didn’t need them they are on my new computer, as well, along with about a gazillion new ones that have come out in the past nine years.
I love the idea that I can hook up to the Internet and I have the knowledge of the world at my fingertips. I can even Google myself and get stuff. Unfortunately, the minute I went on line with my new computer I felt that it wasn’t new any more. It became a little dirty--and every site I take it to makes it less pristine. Things have drifted in from cyber space. It’s like when my kid started school. Suddenly she had memories that we no longer shared. I didn’t know everything about her any more. It made me feel lonely, and left out.
Computing has a language all its own. Early on I figured out the difference between software and hardware but that’s as far as I’ve gotten. I think I know what an application is but not well enough to define it for anyone, or how it differs from a program which I’m pretty sure is some kind of software. I bought myself a copy of Crap for Dummies thinking it would help me solve some of the mystery. Well, the guy that wrote the book seems to be in cahoots with the people who make and sell the computers. It’s the same old thing. He assumes that you know a certain amount about your computer. They wouldn’t give you a driver’s license without giving you a driver’s manual to study and a test that proves you know how to handle a car but anyone can walk right in and buy a computer. They just assume that you’ll find the “help” menu and get all the information you’ll ever need. Unfortunately it’s like moving to Spain after taking one year of high school Spanish. Hello! In the valley of techno-speak the nerd is king.
To be perfectly honest, except for email I probably only needed a word processor. It’s pretty much all I use my new CrapBook for. It has a different program than my iCrap did, though. I simply can’t figure out how to edit my work on it so I’ve come up with a solution that will be fine until my old iCrap dies. I write on the new computer then email it to myself, cut and paste it into the old CrappleWorks application so I can edit it, then email it back to the new computer. It a little cumbersome but it works for me.