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Michelle on writing and life.
I’m delighted to announce that Vicki W from ND has won the draw in my latest contest! Vickie wins a signed copy of Confessions of a Serial Dater. Congratulations to Vickie, and thank you to everyone who entered - don’t forget to enter again to win next month!
In other news - I’ve been absent from blog land for the past few weeks due to sadness and out of respect for Middle Sister, but I’ll be back later this week with Even More Red Tape - British Style!
Michelle
Although I don’t usually write about sad things here, I’m making an exception because something very sad has happened.
My sister passed away very unexpectedly on Friday night.
So today, to think happy thoughts about her and about good times gone by, I wanted to mark her passing by recalling a blog piece I wrote about our childhood, posted originally at literarychicks.
In memory of Middle Sister
. . .
No, not the Checkhov kind of 3 sisters where all they seem to do is hang around trying to fill their empty days with meaning until they can finally return to Moscow, I’m talking about…
Me and my two sisters.
We were born 4 years apart and I am the eldest (and no, I am not telling you my age because then you will be able to work out their ages and they will hunt me down and torture me, LOL).
When Middle Sister was born, my parents were anxious that I didn’t feel left out so they bought me a scooter. When visiting the New Arrival, all our relatives and all my parents’ friends brought me a gift, too. “This is great,” thought 4-year-old me, avariciously praying that many more siblings, therefore gifts, would follow this one.
Years went by, not a new sibling in sight…
So when I finally learned that I was to have another baby sibling, I knew that this was good news. I was 8 by now, so it was about time for some more gifts. And Middle Sister wasn’t the least bit anxious about the Imminent New Arrival because, of course, I primed her all about the abundance of prezzies which would also arrive.
So when Baby Sister was born, my parents bought us dolls with miraculously growing hair.
Middle Sister and I absolutely loved these dolls and we spent hours playing with them. Miraculously, there was a winding mechanism in the doll that let you change the length of the doll’s hair by the, um, winding of a mechanism.
This was fine until Middle Sister and I (and remember that we were 4 and 8 ) decided that we were such marvelous hairdressers that we could easily create fabulous hair styles not by winding, but by the application of a pair of scissors.
We were so delighted with the results that we decided to treat ourselves to new hair styles, too. Unfortunately, Baby Sister didn’t have any hair at this point in her young life, so we couldn’t include her in the fun (but don’t worry - we did it all again years later).
(Needless to say our sainted mother wasn’t too delighted with our new hair styles and I’ve often wondered if, in some small way, it was at that point she decided that enough was enough…)
Michelle
So, Killer Bunny and I have managed quite well, due to the fact that I developed a cunning plan for every time I need to clear out the bunny cage and restore it to general bunny loveliness.
I wait until the bunnies are out in the bunny run attached to the front of the deluxe two-story cage, quickly close the door to the cage, and with the assistance of Teenager #2 move the run slightly away from the cage, insert a barrier to stop the bunnies either (a) escaping or (b) going for my throat, and then attend to the cage in peace and serenity.
Yes, yes, Michelle, I hear you cry. But what does the Killer Bunny have to do with Killer Water Filterers?
Well, it would now seem that inanimate objects have it in for me, too.
The other day as I was minding my own business in the kitchen making a cup of tea, Killer Water Filterer Jug casually leaped off the top of the refrigerator, cruelly hit me on the head, nastily soaked me to the skin and crashed to the floor. Fortunately my head was fine, but the water filterer was definitely dead (it had a large crack in its base and was leaking the rest of its contents onto the kitchen floor - it was a mess!).
No, no, I don’t really believe that Killer Water Filterer Jug was possessed by an eeevil sprit, or something. I mean, there’s always always a rational explanation for these kind of events if you look for them. Turns out it was my own fault for not pushing the bloody jug further onto the top of the refrigerator when last I filled it up, and then opening the refrigerator door to hunt for the milk. . .
Needless to say, the replacement water filterer I bought the next day is now living on top of one of the kitchen units, and not on top of the refrigerator where it could lurk until an unsuspecting victim happened along. (But I’ve called it Gertie, and talk nicely to it, just in case it takes a dislike to me.)
Bunnies are cute. Bunnies are sweet. Bunnies are gentle. No way, no how, could there really be such a thing as a killer bunny. Right?
That’s what I used to think. . .
Several years ago my parents asked me to bunny-sit for them for the weekend while they went for a minibreak. Of course, I agreed. I mean, how hard could it be to look after one little bunny who had the entire expanse of the garage to live in? (Yes, the bunny got the garage, along with bunny toys and a deluxe bunny bed. The car got the driveway. My parents wanted the bunny to have a nice life with lots of space.)
“He’s a bit, er, frisky,” my mother warned me, as she got ready to leave the house. “A bit, um, aggressive. Sometimes,” she added.
“But totally harmless,” interrupted my father rather quickly, as he hurried mum out of the door, suitcase in hand.
A little while later it was time to feed Bunny and make sure he had plenty of hay for his deluxe bed. But bearing in mind my mother’s apprehension, I peered through the open garage door before stepping over the bunny gate my father had installed. Just in case of an aggressive bunny moment.
He was in the far corner, hopping around, gently playing with his bunny toys and doing bunny stuff. So I stepped over the little gate and headed to fill Bunny’s bowl with bunny food, along with a nice chopped apple as a treat.
I turned my back on Bunny to reach for the bowl. Big mistake. Because several seconds later I heard this growl. Followed by a thumping bunny-feet kind of sound. I turned around and Bunny was galloping towards me, big eyes flashing and totally focused on me, bunny teeth bared.
The bionic woman had nothing on me as I leaped over the bunny gate into the safety of the garden.
I spent the weekend gingerly putting clean bowls of food and water just over the bunny gate. I wasn’t risking a second encounter! I vowed never to look after a bunny ever again in my life. It was just too dangerous!
Fast forward to the current day.
I am currently Somewhere in London - you got it - bunny sitting again. This time for my lovely sister who is on vacation somewhere nice and hot.
“They’re really sweet and friendly,” Lovely Sister told me as she and her best friend prepared to leave the premises on Saturday night.
“No trouble at all,” Best Friend assured me, as I compiled a bunny To Do list for while they were away.
We-el. Guess what?
I swear that one of the bunnies is a reincarnation of my parents’ bunny, because every time I open one of the doors of the two-tier deluxe bunny home to either give it food or clean the litter tray (the bunnies are well trained) it comes at me. Teeth included.
I think those Monty Python boys had a point. . .
Holy Grail - attack of the killer rabbit.
Michelle, convinced that rabbits are not the meek creatures they make themselves out to be!
PS. No small, furry rodents were harmed for the writing of this blog.
Congratulations to Lauren H from PA!
Lauren wins a signed copy of Confessions of a Serial Dater.
I’m giving away another copy at the end of this month, so don’t forget to enter my contest.
Michelle
I love the Dutch. They’re so friendly and open and kind and generous. They really say what they mean, too.
But what has that got to do with abstinence only sex eduction, Michelle?” I hear you cry.
Well, I recently discovered what the Dutch think about it. They don’t agree with abstinence only.
And whether you believe in teaching teens about contraception and sexual health, or prefer to tell them to just say no, I think we can all smile at a photo of a Dutch public information poster I took on platform 13/14 in Rotterdam Central Station recently.
I nearly fell on the floor laughing when I read, “But that could be anyone’s penis!” (Sorry for the poor-quality photo, the sun was right overhead at the time). It somehow made me think of Terry Pratchett’s Igors in his Discworld books.
The Dutch part of the poster goes on to advise, “Always use a condom.”
So whenever I pick up a Terry Pratchett novel (he’s one of my favorite writers ever ever ever so that’s a pretty frequent occurrence) I will be thinking of Igors. And condoms. . .
Michelle
PS. Just bought Terry P’s latest novel, Nation. It’s a departure from the Discworld series, a bit darker, but he’s as terrific as ever!
*Michelle departs to do some serious reading.*
Is it a plane?
Last Saturday it was such a lovely day here in the Netherlands that Oh Patient One and I decided to get the train to Utrecht and play tourist. On the train there was an odd graphic on the door between our carriage and the next, so, of course, I decided to take a photo of it. Just for fun. Here it is. . .
I’m referring to the little figure with its arms outstretched with a red line through it. Obviously it was telling us not to do something, but what was that something? And might we do it without realizing and get dragged off to The Hague and thrown into prison for ever and ever and ever? Oh noes!
To entertain ourselves on the journey Oh Patient One and I came up with some possibilities.
1. No flying on the train (yes, we’re talking to you, Superman).
2. No emotive holding-out-of-arms while singing on the train. I’m all in favor of that, except if it happens to be Robert Plant doing the singing (sigh, I share that with Emma from 32AA - he really is one of my gods among men).
3. No hugging? I mean, that could represent a person in a pre-hug position. But the Dutch are good at hugging. And kissing. They kiss each other on alternate cheeks three times when greeting or saying goodbye to friends or family members. So it couldn’t be the hugging thing.
4. No karate on the train?
5. No holding out of arms while walking through the door to the next carriage? That kind of made sense, we don’t want people breaking their arms, or something, while walking through a door. But obviously this was a bit worrying - do people really need to be reminded not to do this? Then I thought about the time I was doing research for Confessions of a Serial Dater and discovered that some people need to be reminded not to iron their clothes while wearing them (it’s true!).
So we puzzled, and we puzzled, and we puzzled. Then we puzzled some more. When the train inspector arrived to check our tickets, we asked him, and guess what he told us?
It means no standing on the train.
I broke that rule taking the photo in the first place. Oh, well, I was obviously born to be a rebel!
Edit for clarity: The inspector meant, of course, no standing on the train while it is in motion.
Michelle the Rebel 
But not the Palin you think I mean.
I mean . .
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Michael Palin! Monty Python star, fearless traveler of the globe, and altogether nice, funny, intelligent chap.
Whoever you think should be president, here’s a wonderful, funny piece of satire to brighten your day. Enjoy!
Rewind back to ten years ago when we first moved to New Jersey.
Oh Patient One and I went to buy me a car. After some research we decided to go for a Saturn. Nice safety features (I’m a safety kind of gal), not too expensive, good mileage per tank of gas, yadda yadda.
So we went to the Pompton Lakes dealership, chose the model I liked, and were told we’d have to wait a week because I wanted a stick shift (not that I am a control freak but I just prefer manual transmission). I could wait a week.
Back we went the following week to collect my shiny new car. The staff were lovely. They gave me flowers. They sang me the Saturn song. They took a photo of Oh Patient One and me with my shiny new car and flowers (alas I cannot find the photo). I loved that car. When I left America I missed that car. I still miss that car (it went to a good home).
Fast forward to the present day. Oh Patient One decided that he needed a new car. He spends a lot more time in it than he used to, on account of having to travel further to work each day, so two weeks ago we went to test-drive a Fiat Grand Punto.
Oh Patient One really liked it, it was comfy, it had a bigger engine, it was a smoother ride, he decided to take the car. Only thing was that he would have to wait for two weeks before all the appropriate paperwork and red tape could be sorted, etc. It was the norm. It seemed like a long time, but if two weeks was the norm then two weeks it would have to be.
Because we are due to pick it up tomorrow, Oh Patient One called the dealership yesterday to make sure all of the red tape had, in fact, been sorted out.
Guess, what? There was a problem. Oh, really? I hear you all ask rhetorically. Who’da thunk?
The rep who Oh Patient One had been dealing with had gone on vacation, and nobody seemed to know anything about us picking up the car on Saturday, but promised to pass on the message to Vacation Rep when he gets back on Monday. Oh Patient One put his foot down and insisted that somebody else help him. He’d been promised the car by Saturday, and taking time out of work during the week was just not an option. Vacation Rep’s co-worker agreed to sort it all out and call Oh Patient One back.
Vacation Rep’s co-worker didn’t call Oh Patient One back yesterday. Vacation Rep’s co-worker called me this afternoon.
It would seem that the new car was accidentally loaded onto a truck this morning and accidentally shipped to South Holland and there was no way it could be back in Rotterdam before Tuesday next week.
Sigh.
When Oh Patient One got back from work about half an hour later and I broke the news to him, he said he’d called again this morning and Another Rep had told him the car was there, it was being buffed up to a nice, shiny buffyness, but they were having problems locating the paperwork.
So here’s the question. Did the lost paperwork get accidentally shipped to South Holland along with the car?
Friend Cindy Holby thinks that I have a little red “red tape” demon sitting above my head laughing joyously and tangling things up for me. I am not a superstitious woman, but I’m giving that hypothesis some serious consideration.
All I can say is that when Oh Patient One finally gets to pick up his new car, there had better be flowers, songs and photos involved. And champagne.
This is a phrase I seem to see or hear all over the place these days. That, accompanied with the plaintiff talking about “hurt feelings.”
Well, today I’ve decided that it’s my turn. Are you ready?
I’M OFFENDED. MY FEELINGS ARE HURT!
This state of affairs came about by two related news articles I read online this week.
On Monday I saw this very nice piece on George Takei (Mr. Sulu from Star Trek). He got married to his long-term partner.
Former Star Trek actor George Takei has married his long-term partner in a Buddhist ceremony in Los Angeles.
Takei, 71, who played Mr Sulu in the sci-fi series, married business manager Brad Altman, 54, in front of a number of his Star Trek co-stars.
They included best man Walter Koenig, who played Chekhov, and matron-of-honour Nichelle Nichols - Uhura.
The wedding - at Japanese American National Museum - came after California lifted a ban on same-sex marriage.
The couple, who have been together for 21 years, wore matching white tuxedos in the ceremony.
Yay, I thought to myself. Go California for establishing equal rights for our gay fellow human beings. Live long and prosper, Mr. Sulu!
The second article featured another couple in California. They got married in church recently, but are refusing to sign their marriage license because - wait for it - they’re offended by the new wording.
Last month, Rachel Bird exchanged vows with Gideon Codding in a church wedding in front of family and friends. As far as Bird is concerned, she is a bride.
To the state of California, however, she is either “Party A” or “Party B.”
Those are the terms that have replaced “bride” and “groom” on the state’s new gender-neutral marriage licenses. And to Bird and Codding, that is unacceptable.
Hmmm, thought I, and read on.
Bird and Codding have refused to complete the new forms, a stand that has already cost them. Because their marriage is not registered with the state, Bird cannot sign up for Codding’s medical benefits or legally take his name. They are now exploring their options, she said.
Then the bride’s dad got involved:
Bird’s father, Doug Bird, pastor of Roseville’s Abundant Life Fellowship, said he is urging couples not to sign the new marriage forms, and that he is getting some support from congregants and colleagues at local churches.
“I would encourage you to refuse to sign marriage licenses with ‘Party A’ and ‘Party B,’ ” he wrote in a letter that he sent to them. “If ever there was a time for the people of the United States to stand up and let their voices be heard – this is that time.”
Oh, dear. I wanted to say, Relax, Pastor Bird, and have a nice cup of tea. The State isn’t forcing you to perform religious ceremonies for gay couples in your church, it has simply established one legal marriage document for all its citizens.
Was I offended by their offense? Not at all. They have a right to their opinions, but they don’t have the right to expect everyone else to respect or comply with their wishes. You see, they can either sign the document and be recognized as a married couple by the State, or they can refuse to sign it and not be entitled to any marriage benefits. The point is that they have a choice, unlike gay couples until June this year.
So, why am I offended?
Well, this little kerfuffle had me running to dig out my marriage certificate. You know, just to remind myself of how Oh Patient One and I are described on it.
Oh Patient One is listed as “bachelor.” I am listed as a “spinster of the parish.”
Spinster of the parish? I don’t think I like that. I mean, although it’s just a word that describes an unmarried woman, it has connotations of a dried up, bitter old crone. Bachelor, on the other hand, sounds kind of sexy. How unfair is that? That hurts my feelings!
So you know what I’m going to have to do, don’t you? I’m going to have to persuade Oh Patient One to come to San Francisco with me and get remarried (did I mention how much I loved San Francisco?). Just so that we can be Party A and Party B.
