Phone Love

I recently broke up with Blackberry.  We were together for five long, mostly beautiful years.  It’s not that he wasn’t good to me; in fact he was generous, reliable and trustworthy.  You know—Canadian.  In the end, however, I came to the conclusion that BB, (that was my nickname for him), was too serious and kind of boring.  I thought I could do better.  I guess I just didn’t appreciate what I had.  And truth be told the last year we were together I wasn’t entirely faithful.   Don’t get me wrong, I kept my clothes on, but my eyes and heart were wandering.  I watched as other women cavorted around town, hand and hand with i-phone the new wunderkid from Silicon Valley.  Sexy, youthful women laughing, taking pictures and texting.  My old, staid, BB stood by proudly as I stared longingly at the happy healthy people holding hands.  I can’t imagine he didn’t see the breakup coming.

So now, I’m dating again.  O.K. well dating is probably a little misleading.   I am in a “new relationship” with i-phone—we live together.   I fell hard and just like that (snapping fingers) I kicked BB out of my life and I let i-phone move in with all his apps.  I didn’t even look at his references or demand a demo.   I was told by a reliable source that our relationship would be a snap, a plug and play kinda deal, I should have known better. 

As you can imagine our relationship started out a little rocky, after all we hardly knew each other.   I am on a PC and he never lets me forget it.  I suppose I should have looked into that little fact before I decided to let him move in. 

But he’s sexy.  You know in that “I’m a savant from Stanford” sort of way.  That snarky “I’m smarter and more attractive, so you better keep up,” kind of way?   It can get a little intimidating.  But, like most creative types he’s sensitive to the touch, a nartist really, (that’s part artist, part narcissist).  It’s all about him—every time I go to make a call or send an e-mail he presents me with all kinds of complicated options, “hey try this,”  “what about this?”  All I want to do is make a simple call or send a text but when I touch his shiny screen he quivers and suddenly we’re somewhere else.  He doesn’t know it but I’ve had to call the experts on more than one occasion. 

Between you and me, all the funky new moves he wants me to learn make me a little nervous. I’m not entirely sure I’m up to the challenge.  You know teaching and old dog new tricks. He keeps telling me I need to work on my touch and my voice control.  Just yesterday he said that he’d like to employ the mega pixel camera into our love life.  Next he’s going to be trying to convince me that we need the compass in our bedroom.   BB wasn’t demanding at all, he just liked me to hold on tight and keep him warm.  i-phone?  He’s a live wire.  But I guess I asked for it. 

 My friends tell me not to worry.  They assure me that one day it will hit me smack dab in the face and I will be in love.  I too am hopeful that our relationship will blossom into something very deep and meaningful; otherwise I may be crawling back on my knees and begging BB to take me back.

Consider a Career Shift? Lice Knowing You

A few weekends ago I had the pleasure of going on an all-girl’s weekend with a group of friends sans children.  The social coordinator of the trip has a marvelous house on a remote island in the San Juan’s.  It was lovely and the weather, which can be iffy in early spring, cooperated beautifully.  The company could not have been better and the food and libations were nothing short of gourmet.  Let’s just say the only thing any of us suffered that weekend was a hang over and a few extra pounds.  That was until late Sunday afternoon on the drive home.  

I was in the front seat driving when one of the women in the backseat of the car took a call from her husband.  He gave her the report: their youngest child, she has three under the age of eight, had lice….again.  This wasn’t the first time the subject of head lice had come up that weekend.  We had spent at least an hour discussing the topic over gin and tonics the previous evening; my friend in the back seat’s three little darlings had had it no fewer than three times.  

As I write this I am hesitant to say, knock on wood, that our family, (three boys aged 6 to 17) has not yet suffered from the Seattle School lice epidemic.  That said all of this lice knowledge is new to me.  

Apparently there is a whole arduous regime that needs to be followed in order to rid one’s head and house from the nasty mites.  And there is quite a stigma that goes along with it. “When we found out we had it, we felt like leapers,” said one mom while throwing back the last of her gin and tonic.   “No one wants to play with a child who has lice.”  

Another mom in the group told the story of going to see a hairdresser in the neighborhood who would only see her little boys “covertly.”   The stylist and business owner demanded that my friend come in after hours and through the back door, lest her customers find out that she had been harboring and helping lice victims.  

After my friend in the backseat hung up with her husband she was distraught; it was as if all the Kum Ba Yahing, from the girl’s weekend had suddenly vanished like a glass slipper.  Nit picking, sheet washing, and itchy children filled her brain before we hit King County.  

One of our friends, an experienced and organized mom who had her own lice infestation story to tell, was riding shotgun next to me.  She suggested, with a practical tone, that our friend call in the professionals. “I have heard they will come to your house,but it’s not cheap.”  “Well, hell,” lice mother responded.  ”At this point I will pay anything!”

A few days later I ran into my friend in the neighborhood, she was surprisingly yippity skippity—hardly the image of a woman who had been slaving over a comb and picking out nits (or is it nats?).  “We did it, we called in the professionals,” she said proudly, with a bright smile stretching from one ear to the other.  “It cost $500 but it was worth it!” 

Who knew?

Apparently there is a business, yes a certified business called Lice Knowing You .   I have heard some crazy business ideas floating around lately but this one really takes the cake.  Talk about filling a niche.  The online brochure states: As the premier (are there others? I wonder) head lice removal company in the Seattle area, we arrive discreetly (thanks for that) with all the necessary items (hmmm. what might that be?) to make head lice removal as quick and painless as possible.  During the removal process, Lice Knowing You will provide free consultation on taking care of your home to ensure that the head lice will be gone for good. .….All of our consultants are trained in the most up to date methods of head lice removal.  Our bilingual staff speaks Spanish, French, Japanese and of course English. Our staff consists of teachers (special ed and general ed), medical professionals and counselors.

God bless her…see what women can do!   What a relief!

I Married a Sesquipedalian

I married to a Sesquipedalian. For those of you who don’t know what a sesquipedalian is Webster defines it as a person who uses exceedingly long words when a simple more concise word would suffice.

It gets a little nutty around our house. Let’s just say it keeps me on my toes. He’s a regular William Safire, mixing and playing with words. There are times when it makes me incredulous; I think he’s just pulling my leg, throwing out a far-fetched jumble of gobbledygook. I’ve worn a path in the carpet, running to the computer to consult dictionary.com. In most cases, much to my chagrin, I find that that gobbledygook is a word.

He doesn’t mean to be acrimonious, egregious or haughty. He finds words creative, stimulating and naughty. The longer the word the happier he is. ‘Can it be both noun and verb?’ is often the quiz.

I like words too, don’t get me wrong. But my theory has always been they must fit in a song. I often snub Webster and add my own endings like ishes and ises, all depending –on the mood or the crowd I’m in.

Dubious, dubiety, dubitable, dubitation. That’s me, if I could learn all the words it would be a breeze. But until them I’m just a dilettante.

But my husband Mark, he’s not that way.

He reconnoiters each page of the NY Times collecting his words like a kid collecting dimes. He savors each word, one by one, looking for the spectacular that will start the fun. I know when he finds it, his eyes they lift, he swallows and prepares for the perfect gift.

His shoulders shift back; he clears his throat, the word rolls off his tongue like the perfect note.

This week it was— axiomatic. That’s axiomatic.

I made a visit to dictionary.com. It means self evident, obvious, goes with out saying. In a sentence it could be, “It is axiomatic that Mark is a sesquipedalian.”

It’s not like he’s a nerd or dork per se. He’s an intellectual jock who likes words his own way. He’s not a grammar hound or a perfectionist, but when it comes to words he likes to insist the more the vowels the better; he likes constants too, the x and the z are the precious few. They make good endings and they always sound sharp if you say them just right they sound like a harp: Spetsnaz, accusatrix.

His word obsession is entertaining but there are times, however, when its charm begins waning and I just want to say…Cut the crap.

But then I remember, it can be romantic… and it’s not in his nature to be pedantic…after all it’s just…..semantics.

But the good news is, I find his word thing a turn on, it keeps us up nights with the dictionary and the light on.