VIVA LA DIFFERENCE

(Follow up--last week's obits included a "Dink" and a "Whiz". I guess they were too sick to read my blog.)

Spending an extended amount of time outside the US makes one acutely aware of cultural differences. Here in Mexico, for instance, you can buy a four ounce bottle of mayonnaise but you can't get a bottle of grenadine that's less than a quart. I guess that means tequila sun rises are more popular than tuna salad.

I don't always understand their choices. They wear a lot of polyester. Even in the summer. And any time you pass a work site, unlike the US where there would be many workers and one foreman, here there usually is one worker and a dozen overseers commenting on the progress. To be fair, most are just passers by. Most of the kitchens have no oven, and they don't eat bread.

On the other hand we do have a lot of things in common. The Mexican's love the beach, dogs, and children. Anyone would be lucky to have a Mexican son-in-law. They are hard working, entrepreneurial, and very family oriented. Sometimes differences are better.

Viva la Difference

My friend Jules has once again reminded me that the distance between men and women is measured in light years. Women have two transitions in their lives, menarche and menopause. They go slightly crazy with each one then brush off their hands and move on. Men, on the other hand, have many small transitions which occur more frequently as they get older. I like to call them minipauses.

Jules was in a funk the other day. When I asked what was wrong he sighed and started to reminisce, remembering the first time a waitress called him sir. It was one of the highlights of his life and was the first time, he said, he really felt like a man.

This made me realize that for most of men’s lives, older is better, a fact that is almost never true of women. I sadly recall the first time I was sold liquor without being asked for proof. My funk lasted for days.

Jules went on to say that recently a clerk in the grocery store called him honey. Listening with my ears instead of his, I couldn’t find the problem. His funk sank deeper when I responded, “So?” You’d think that after almost 72 years he would know that women need an explanation. They don’t instantly understand. Unless they’re talking to another woman of course.

He sighed again and started enunciating slowly and clearly as though he was talking to a brain damaged rodent. “It makes me feel as if I’m a five year old asking for a Happy Meal. It lacks respect.”

Suddenly I got it. The whole “Men are from Mars” thing. While women thrive on love, men require respect. The epiphany gave me a headache. Is it possible that with this knowledge I could broker a peace in the war of the sexes? Do I want to? (Am I starting to sound like Carrie Bradshaw?)

Of course men and women are different. At risk of being politically incorrect, so are blacks and whites, straights and gays, young and old, yada, yada, yada. It’s always been this way. When did it become unacceptable? A crime? When did different become bad? We really need to get over this Tower of Babel neurosis. It’s no longer valid. Nobody’s looking for God any more. At least not on foot. I’ll admit that xenophobia is wrong but we can be different without prejudices. Can’t we be different and get the same pay? Can’t we be different and do whatever job strikes our fancy? I’ve never heard a little girl say she wanted to be a fire person when she grew up. Why not? There must be girls who are just as in love with red trucks and yellow rubber suits as most boys are.

One thing men do differently than women is shop for groceries. Except for house husbands and chefs, men like to get in and out of the store as quickly as possible. I sent Jules for a green pepper the other day. He came home with the most anemic looking specimen--it looked as if it had matured in a dark basement with mushrooms. That’s because men grab whatever fruit or vegetable is on top of the pile. Women don’t do that. They spend enormous amounts of time squeezing, pinching and weighing each piece of produce they intend to buy. Even women with full time jobs take the time to do this.

And why is it so hard for men to find things in the refrigerator? It isn’t the black hole of Calcutta. If whatever they want doesn’t leap off the shelf into their waiting arms they assume there isn’t any more--say--mustard, or they bellow for specific directions. Being in the next room isn’t a detriment to the lady of the house. She can put her mind’s eye on anything the box contains and give an exact location. This must be a genetic mutation because I’m sure these differences aren’t taught either at home or in school.

It’s a fact that men and women do not share the same logic. For instance, Jules constantly tells me that I can’t compare apples and oranges. Of course I can. They are both round, sweet, fruit. They grow on trees. They have skin and seeds. How come I can’t compare them? Jules says it’s just an expression. It means you can’t compare two things that are different. Well, it’s a stupid expression if you ask me. If you can’t compare things that are different then what can you compare? Things that are the same? How do you compare things that are the same? Oh. This one’s bigger. Here’s an expression for you, you can’t compare big ones with little ones. As I said...stupid.

You do have to admit that being different is interesting. My mother always said if people were all the same it would be a boring world. She was a smart lady.

DEAD END

The Mexican's treat death very much like the Creole's in New Orleans. Everyone gets a parade with music at the end. On All Saints' Day they pack a lunch and go visit the relatives in the cemetery. It's a joyous occasion and if you saw their cemeteries you'd see why. They are colorful little cities. The memorial stones are painted beautifully and as individualized as the people they commemorate. There are flowers galore. I don't know if it's the Catholic or Indian influence but it's a really nice change from the sad places in the US.

DEAD END

The older I get the more time I spend reading obituaries. I have become somewhat of an expert. I believe most of them are written by the deceased themselves, or at least someone who loves them. A lot. We Americans have gotten so politically correct even our obits read like Emily Post. Always so polite. You almost never read the real reason for someone's demise. We can't even use the word died. It's passed on, or left this earthly world, or entered heaven (are you sure??), or joined his beloved parents--yuck. When I read an obit I want to know the facts, not just of a life but the death too. Let's face it, it's the very last activity we mortals engage in. It's almost as if we are ashamed of dying. I read one the other day that said, "Sally Young passed on to join the heavenly angels above and dance among the stars." What happened to resting in peace? I think most of us have earned it.

If it's been a long struggle with cancer or a car accident we're likely to see that in print. Dying suddenly usually means a heart attack or suicide. Sometimes you can figure out the cod (cause of death) from where the family wants donations sent. The American Cancer Society, Heart Association or various other common and not so common research organizations. You never see an obit that says something like--Jimmy O'Sullivan died from cirrhosis of the liver after years of drinking Irish Whiskey. Please send donations to your local AA. Or, Antonio Bacca died from advanced venereal disease after years of whoring around. Please send donations to Planned Parenthood. I'm surprised we don't see such things in the paper. It's usually the wives, after all, who write the darn things, right?

How come the obits always describe the deceased in glowing terms? Beloved by his relatives, will be missed by his extended family of friends, etc. Don't the bastards of this world die too? And don't their estranged family get to write the obituaries? You know--"John Dork died a peaceful death after years of inflicting serious beatings on his wife Sally. When last seen, she was dancing on his grave."

I read one the other day for Sarah Millsap, tap-dancing expert. I realize it's nice to be remembered for an accomplishment--but shouldn't it be something that is important for society?

There are three times in our life that are guaranteed to be noted in the newspaper. Our birth, marriage, and death. Occasions that should be handled with dignity. Nicknames that seem cute in life can sound downright degrading in an obit. Just the other day I read that John "Nookie" Desmond passed to the great beyond. "Nookie"? Need I say more. It just starts us fantasizing about how the heck he got it. Not a good mental picture for strangers to carry around. Isn't how we're remembered just as important as being remembered?

When my mother died, the undertaker had a fill-in-the-blank form for the newspaper. He just went down the list asking us questions, you know--where was she born, what was her education? The obit was sterile and cold. I wish I could go back and write it again, better yet I wish she had written it. She had a wonderful sense of humor. I'm sure she would have loved to have her last word cause a laugh. She probably would have put in a change of address and maybe the phone number of a psychic.

I guess it's important to some people where their remains will repose. Not me. Being cremated and poured off the back of the ferry would do me fine. My mother used to say, "Don't put me in a nursing home. Just shoot me and bury me in the back yard." I read an obit today that gave the final resting place as the Odd Fellow's Cemetery. Wouldn't that be the final indignity? I didn't even know there was such a place but I sure wouldn't want to spend eternity there amongst the odd.

Bill Clinton's remains will probably repose for eternity at the 19th hole of the Vineyard Golf Club. That would be more appropriate, don't you think?

Anyway, if you want your obit to be correct and really reflect who you were in life--you'd better start writing.

ALMOST FREE

I have spent enough time in Mexico to come to the conclusion that the national pastime is haggling. Even if a person's profession isn't in retail they are not above selling things on the side. The Mexican version of a paper route is a child selling boxes of Chicklets. Sitting on the beach, believe it or not, makes me yearn for Martha's Vineyard in August. It is impossible to relax. Peddlers come by in droves trying to sell, well, anything that is available to buy anywhere in the country will eventually make it's way past your beach chair. And like some menus if you don't see what you want just ask. If you refuse to haggle with them they will haggle with themselves until they come up with a price you can both live with. When they are trying to get your attention they say, “Almost free today.” I always reply, “Come back when it’s free.”

ALMOST FREE

Most people don’t read the classified ads unless they want to buy something used and/or cheap. I find they can be almost as amusing as the funny papers. You can imagine how shocked I was last week when I saw a listing for a pine coffin. This, naturally, started me thinking about what circumstances would cause a person to buy a coffin in the first place. Isn’t that usually left up to one’s survivors? And what happened that now makes it unnecessary? Was the guy really sick and got better? Was it purchased for a wake for someone who wanted to be cremated? In that case wouldn’t they have to advertise it as used?

Here on the Vineyard we have a section of classifieds called the Bargain Box. This was developed so people won’t have to lug potentially usable items to the dump and pay for the privilege of getting rid of them. The ad is free and the item must cost no more than $100. As you might imagine many are free. “1962 Studebaker Hawk. Great for parts, just take it away.” And who do you suppose would be looking for parts for such a vehicle? Or Jeep parts--roll bar, convertible top and front grill. What happened to the rest of it?

Recently there was an ad for a “5’5” Red-Tail Boa Constrictor, comes with cage (thank god!) Experience necessary.” Ya think? I don’t know who writes the headers for each ad but this week there was one that said, “Kitchen, Baby, Bike”. Is it legal to sell babies? And “GOATS TO EAT OR BREED”, yuk. One wonders what kind of fur coat you can get for $40. How about bar stools, still in the box. I guess his wife put her foot down. A hospital bed that was only used a few months. I'm not sure I’d sleep well knowing the previous owner croaked on my mattress. “Size 6 wedding gown. Never worn. Paid $500, will sell for $100 or best offer.” My question is did he break it off...or did she gain weight?

I can’t figure out why some places sell manure and some places give it away. And exactly how is an apartment size stove different than a house sized one? And must you get apartment sized food to cook on it? “Two Coffee Air pots, used once”. If they didn’t like the first one why did they buy the second one? I like the ads that seem to talk to me. Several weeks in a row there was an ad for “Five Franklin Planner storage binders, one with slipcover. You know what they cost!” Actually, no. I don’t even know what they are. Then there was, “Roasters, yum, nice size for the pot.” Or, “Free. Handsome rooster to take care of your hens or to have on your plate.” This came, not surprisingly, from someone in West Tisbury. Speaking of chickens, someone was selling 20 month old Rhode Island Reds, laying BIG eggs. Ouch.

I can identify with the person selling, "Collectibles--miniatures, curio/book shelf units." I'm sick of dusting too. And some ads require you to be an insider to even know what is being sold. "Power venters SWG & SWG 2 Series. $99."

After Christmas there is always a plethora of clothing items "new with tags", well meaning gifts I guess but if she didn't even want to exchange it for size you don't know her very well. The one that said beauty sale followed by a list of cosmetics made me think the local Avon or Mary Kay lady was retiring, My personal favorite was, "Fish tank & Scuba gear." Now there's someone with an unusual hobby.

After reading the Bargain Box, if you can't find anything you need or want you just aren't a shopper.

IT'S IN THE BAG

Jules and I are on our annual winter trip to Mexico. This is the first place I noticed the backpack phenomenon. Most Mexicans travel by bus and spend long hours away from home. Several years ago I noticed the transition from plastic bags from the grocery to backpacks for carrying the daily essentials. Now all sorts of people tote them around. It got me wondering......

What is in those backpacks I see men carrying these days? I must admit I’m curious since none of the men of my acquaintance carry one. Guys used to be low maintenance travelers. As long as they had a wallet in their pocket they were good to go. Women, on the other hand, because they are nurturers I suppose, always carry bags. Being a woman I am familiar with what is in a woman’s bag.

The wallet and everything therein is common to both sexes. What else do women carry? It depends on their stage of life. Young girls bring toys and stuffed animals. Lots of them. Boys are limited to what they can cram into their pockets or con their moms into bringing along. A Matchbook car or two and a plastic dinosaur. Teen girls stow make-up, cell phones, diaries, IPods, snacks and various other items they can’t survive without. Teen boys lean towards nothing until they get their driver’s license, when they buy a wallet and become a man.

As they grow older females of the species have to get bigger and bigger bags. Career girls carry all the things teens do plus any work and gym related items they’ll need plus a pair of three inch heels to put on at work since the only sensible way to commute is in sneakers. When a woman marries she needs an even larger bag since the responsibility of being a wife and mother includes lots of “stuff”. Not just her own stuff but other people’s as well. Acquiring a husband means you also get his stuff. I always laugh out loud when I see a movie with a married couple dressed to go out for the evening and the wife slides her lipstick into her husband’s jacket pocket. I don’t know where these screen writers live. Not on my planet. “A lipstick in my pocket?” he would groan. “It will spoil the suit’s silhouette. Don’t you have a pretty little bag you can carry?” Into which he will stuff his camera, car keys, handkerchief, cigarettes, valet and coat check tags. And that’s just for starters. Anything else that comes his way during the evening will also find its way in until the bag is so heavy that eventually his guilt will force him to offer to carry it for you. Martyrs that we are, much to his pleasure, we generally decline.

Motherhood is another big step up. Mothers used to carry two bags. Her own which, as I said, keeps getting bigger and a “diaper” bag which, believe me, carries a lot more than diapers. The advent of the back pack has eliminated the necessity of a separate bag for baby and it isn’t unknown for the last Pamper to be disposed of at the youngest child’s high school graduation. This is usually to make room for a pair of three inch heels which will be necessary for mother’s new job that college tuition will require.

Once the kids are grown the bags get smaller again until you retire and start spending a lot of time with your husband. Since it’s hard to teach an old one new tricks you won’t see him carrying a backpack any time soon. So you continue toting his stuff. Age changes what’s in the bag but not the need for it. Maalox instead of Chanel #5, hydrocortisone cream instead of lipstick and mascara, bedroom slippers instead of those three inch heels. I have to stop now because I’m depressing myself but if you find out what those young men are carrying in their backpacks would you let me know?