House-calls
One of my most pleasant surprises here in Madrid is the discovery of a pediatrician who not only gives you his cell phone number (that he picks up), but who will make house-calls. With four children, one of whom is in his first year of preschool, can I say what a life-saver this is.
Dr. J is probably way over-specialized to be dealing with my children's flus and sniffles (he's also a neonatologist), however, he never makes me feel bad when I call him, even one time when the school secretary sent my daughter home saying she had conjunctivitis and it turned out to be a pimple on her eyelid. I am under no illusions that tending to my progeny's medical needs has much to do with what he studied in medical school, however since the morning portion of his work is related to social-security and making the rounds of day-cares, I feel like a relative prize--something along the lines of Mrs. Pumphrey with her pampered lap dog Tricky Woo from the BBC series "All Creatures Great and Small," about a Yorkshire veterinarian in pre-war England. Or, at least someone who pays full cash fees for quick and easy work. On that note, I need to think of Christmas present to send to the nice Dr. J. to express my gratitude to him.
The Great American Medical Factory
I really like my children's pediatrician in the US, but his office, part of a multi-doctor practice, feels like Grand Central Station. He's a good doctor, very in demand. To make an appointment with him for something like an annual check-up requires a minimum of six weeks advance notice. The children have to be really sick for me to be motivated to take them in because this requires a drive to a medical building with inconvenient parking, followed by a 45 minute wait with a bunch of other snotty-nosed children. You wonder what they're there for, and hope you won't be back in the office one week later with something far worse than the original illness. The American medical visit is truly a triumph of process engineering, with its supporting army of receptionists, medical techs, lab technicians, nurses, back office accounting and insurance professionals, its shiny medical buildings, disposable paper covers for examination tables, in-house testing with immediate results and its various protocols. By the time you go through the whole experience, the doctor is the person with whom you will spend the least amount of time.
I have the television series House, especially the clinic duty segments, to thank for the uncompromising vision of exactly how our doctors must view us: an endless procession of whiny patients with the same uninteresting complaints. Every time, Dr. W patiently explains the same thing to me. "Mrs. Fleury pretend that this is 1907 and I'm here with my little black attache case. There is nothing I can do for your child: it's a virus." I reply: "Yes, but he's had this for more than two weeks and he's not getting better," to which he replies: "He probably caught a second virus." Meanwhile, he's got some urgent communication from the nurse, which, from the little I can gather, involves a diagnostic tour de force along the line of "sarcoidosis with Colonel Mustard in the Billiard Room."
First Madrid experience, in the Office of Dr. "R. G. de L."
Same flus and colds, same forty-five minute wait with snotty-nosed kids, different hours, different decor.
Before I discovered Dr. J., I used to take the children to another doctor, whose name I got out of the health insurance booklet. Dr. "R.G. de L." is the only pediatrician in our neighborhood on our private health insurance plan (everybody else they will re-imburse at 80%). His hours are from 5pm to 9:30pm. His receptionist doesn't even know how to contact him during the day, so if you can't wait until evening, your only option is to go to "Urgencias," the emergency room, which everybody here seems to visit at the drop of the hat, whether it's because they can't see their regular doctor or they don't want to go to various different labs and wait one week for the results of a strep test. In fact, none of my Madrileno friends has ever heard of a strep test. If the child has white pus in the back of their throat, the doctors assume they have a throat infection and give you antibiotics.
Dr. R.G. de L., an older and very dignified person, reminds me of my childhood pediatrician, which is to say he says the same things as Dr. W, but with the the bedside manner of a mortician. "Madam, since this is your child's first year in preschool, you might as well expect for him to have a runny nose all the way through May. The cough is a healthy mechanism because it gets rid of the mucous in the lungs. If he wasn't coughing, he'd get a bacterial infection for sure."
His office isn't in a medical building at all, but in an elegant nineteenth century residential apartment building. As for the inside of the office, it looks like something out of a period movie from 60 years ago with reproduction antique furniture and books whose publication date probably coincided with the Spanish Civil war. Exactly nothing in the place is child-friendly, from the bay windows with low handles that my 2 yr old wanted to open and pitch himself out of, to the antique looking type-writer on the floor with loads of intriguing electrical wires. Ironically the only concession to juvenile furniture---plastic Ikea kid stools, posed the biggest problem. My 2 yr old proceeded to steal them from other children. Then he discovered that it was more fun to throw them on the floor and watch their legs and tops pop off. This was before he started to climb on the adult chairs and try and pull down the oil paintings (conveniently within the enterprising child's reach) and reach for handfuls of the random pamphlets with information about aloe vera hand creams, "sexo con seso" ("sex without stupidity?") for adolescents, even though I've never seen a child older than 9 at the office, and Parkinson's disease (in a pediatrician's office?) Needless to say I spent the whole time trying to control my little American savage, cowed by the disapproving regard of the other parents and, later, Dr. R.G. de L.
The one time I did bring all 4 children to his office, it was total chaos. The children brought balloons and proceed to run around tossing them to each other, screaming and fighting. My children not only stand out because of their unruly behavior, but also because of their number. With the exception of immigrants, the average Madrileno my generation seems to have one, at most, two children. I couldn't tell if it was with pity or disapproval that Dr. R.G. de L. told me, after our first vist "Usted tiene muchos hijos" "You have lots of children." At that point, I was so exhausted and worn down, I couldn't think of anything better to say than "Pues alguien tiene que tenerlos" "Well, somebody's got to have them..."
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Chocolate con Churros--The Neighbors Strike Back
Some of you may have become acquainted with our neighbors in my previous blog entry. Since that time, they have not been idle. In addition to a hostile visit from the forty-something single woman who lives with her mother in the apartment below us, the building association (representing the owners of the exactly 12 units in this place) sent us a certified nastygram citing "numerous complaints" about the noisiness of our children and telling us that noise is forbidden in the building before 9am. Almost none of these people, in the almost four months that we have lived here, has ever bothered to introduce themselves to us, but they apparently organize enough amongst themselves to dispatch certified communications via the post office.
None of this bothers my French husband in the least. He, himself, has vivid childhood memories of ongoing noise complaints (regarding his brother and himself) from the curmudgeonly old lady who lived in the apartment below his family. One day, in a scene reminiscent of Tatie Danielle, his mother tried to shut the door on her, but the sturdy old hag stuck her foot out, at which point his father had to physically push her out.
I wonder if there isn't something particularly Anglo-Saxon, reinforced by the American high school experience, about the tendency to spend so much time worrying about whether people (whom we may not even like ourselves) like us?
In a nod to Stephen Colbert, my phrase of the day, came across it in a Canard Enchaine article about a French socialist political convention, is "petits meurtres entre amis," which I roughly translate as "little assassinations among friends." This phrase conveys, for me, two sentiments: a dismissive tone regarding a petty domestic spat and the slightly more sophisticated and cynical perspective that the greater the degree of intimacy among people, the greater the likelihood they'll be at each others throats--especially when the stakes are low.
You can't control whether people like you, but you can force them to respect you.
On that note, I exacted my own petty revenge on the neighbors. I complained to the landlady that the owners renovating the third floor apartment were giving the building keys to very unsavory sub-contractors--that these people entered the building at all hours of the day with no supervision, and that they were coming up to our floor acting like they were casing it out for future robberies (all true). The upshot is that they changed the keys to the building, thereby inconveniencing everybody. Because of the key situation, I found myself in the ironic position of letting the judgmental neighbors' adolescent children in the building at one thirty in the morning, when their parents were out of town. They were standing outside the door as we were returning from a party. We let them in and chatted briefly on the elevator, and, really, their children were quite nice.
None of this bothers my French husband in the least. He, himself, has vivid childhood memories of ongoing noise complaints (regarding his brother and himself) from the curmudgeonly old lady who lived in the apartment below his family. One day, in a scene reminiscent of Tatie Danielle, his mother tried to shut the door on her, but the sturdy old hag stuck her foot out, at which point his father had to physically push her out.
I wonder if there isn't something particularly Anglo-Saxon, reinforced by the American high school experience, about the tendency to spend so much time worrying about whether people (whom we may not even like ourselves) like us?
In a nod to Stephen Colbert, my phrase of the day, came across it in a Canard Enchaine article about a French socialist political convention, is "petits meurtres entre amis," which I roughly translate as "little assassinations among friends." This phrase conveys, for me, two sentiments: a dismissive tone regarding a petty domestic spat and the slightly more sophisticated and cynical perspective that the greater the degree of intimacy among people, the greater the likelihood they'll be at each others throats--especially when the stakes are low.
You can't control whether people like you, but you can force them to respect you.
On that note, I exacted my own petty revenge on the neighbors. I complained to the landlady that the owners renovating the third floor apartment were giving the building keys to very unsavory sub-contractors--that these people entered the building at all hours of the day with no supervision, and that they were coming up to our floor acting like they were casing it out for future robberies (all true). The upshot is that they changed the keys to the building, thereby inconveniencing everybody. Because of the key situation, I found myself in the ironic position of letting the judgmental neighbors' adolescent children in the building at one thirty in the morning, when their parents were out of town. They were standing outside the door as we were returning from a party. We let them in and chatted briefly on the elevator, and, really, their children were quite nice.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Chocolate con churros--Meet the Neighbors
This is my favorite Spanish breakfast--Spanish hot chocolate is very thick and soupy and churros are sort of like string shaped donuts with no sugar. It is in no way heart-healthy and the first time I tasted it, I thought it tasted weird, but it grew on me. I've finally found an unpretentious bar--Cafe Simpatia--on my walk back from taking the children to the school bus--where this costs two euros twenty centavos and the barman automatically knows what to bring me.
My biggest preoccupation in Spain is the details of daily life and raising four children in a foreign country. Any insights I might have will reflect that, so if you are expecting to read about the latest, coolest nightclub or the most up-to-date cultural offerings in Madrid, this is not the spot. "Chocolate con churros" is a metaphor, for me, of adapting to a different place and the quick sketch writing that most suits my schedule and interests.
Meet the Neighbors
We live in a nineteenth century building in the Barrio de Salamanca whose twelve units (mostly still owned or rented out by various descendants of the original family) are occupied by older inhabitants, who never had children or whose children are mostly grown up. My husband now has proof of my laughable American naivete in wanting to invite the neighbors over for a get-to-know you drink. Apparently the neighbors, at least the across-the-hall and floor-below inhabitants, don't like us, or rather they don't like our noisy children. Nobody in this building seems to really talk to each other (I speak more to the live-in help than to some of their employers, whom I have never met), so the central point of communication is the "portero" (doorman). He transmitted the neighbor's complaints to our landlady, who communicated them to us. To know us (or our children) is not necessarily to love us; the cultural quirkiness lies in specifically why our neighbors consider us to be deviants. It all hinges on our schedule, which is "desfasado" (off kilter) with that of self-respecting Spaniards.
While they politely note that our children are mostly silent after 8pm, they particularly resent the fact that the children get up at 7am and trample around the apartment like a herd of wild elephants. This is a necessity during the week since the children have to be on the school bus on or before 8pm. Unfortunately, getting my children to sleep much past 7 or 8 am on a weekend is luxury I have yet to enjoy. My childless neighbors don't get up until 9 or 10am and the older children of the other neighbors happily sleep in on the weekends as well.
If you are going to live here and don't come from some Latin or other country with a similar timetable, the first thing that takes some getting used to is the schedule. People don't seem to work much before nine thirty in the morning, many shops don't open until 10 am. Lunch is at 2pm instead of 12 and most of the shops and public services close from 2pm to 5pm. If it's a public service, it usually opens at 9 and closes down for good (to the public) at 2pm. I don't know what kind of lunches working people take here, but most stay in the office until 7pm or much later depending on their profession and level of responsibility. 8pm is the happy hour and nobody has dinner until 10pm. Most restaurants don't even open until 9pm, and even that is considered a rather uncivilized "giri" (foreigner) hour.
It seems that if I were Spanish my children would adhere to a more civilized schedule, or at least be more silent and better behaved, but also I wouldn't give much of a damn what the neighbors thought anyway. I discussed the neighbors' complaints with some of my husbands' local family members and their feeling was why in the world would anybody care about getting to know their neighbors? They have lived in compete anonymity, or, barring that, a detente of mutual dislike with theirs for decades, exchanging nothing more than the requisite hola (hello) and hasta luego (see you later) on the elevator. They told me that the official noise ordinance is from 12pm to 8am and, as long as I generally respected that, there's nothing anybody can do.
This point was really brought home to us by the story the landlady told us about the previous tenants who lived in a state of open war with her family for generations, protected by some grandfathered rent control law, whereby tenants can inherit apartments and inflation-indexed rent from their parents and spouses. The grandfather of the deceased spouse of the last tenant rented our apartment in 1931. As the years passed, land values and rents increased dramatically beyond the official inflation index, but nobody could kick the tenants out as long as they paid their ridiculously low hereditary rent. The landlords couldn't sell the apartment because the undesirable tenants and their low rent went with the property. The only thing they could do was prevent the tenants from doing any work to the apartment, so at the end they had to wait until the widow of the grandson of the original tenant died to recuperate an apartment, that was in shambles.
Sidenote: The portero also inherited his job from his father. He seems to occupy an executive function over invisible subordinates. In his case, doorman is somewhat of a mis-nomer, since he is present at unpredictable hours, spends most of his time smoking outside and gives me a look (with my baby carriage or shopping bags) that dares me to ask him to open the door. Other times, he relies on a tactic of turning the act of opening the door into an exaggerated parody that brings home just how inconvenient my presence is, accompanied by a smirk of satisfaction in being the central dispatch for the neighbors complaints about us, and the certitude that he (or his descendants) will outlast us.
My biggest preoccupation in Spain is the details of daily life and raising four children in a foreign country. Any insights I might have will reflect that, so if you are expecting to read about the latest, coolest nightclub or the most up-to-date cultural offerings in Madrid, this is not the spot. "Chocolate con churros" is a metaphor, for me, of adapting to a different place and the quick sketch writing that most suits my schedule and interests.
Meet the Neighbors
We live in a nineteenth century building in the Barrio de Salamanca whose twelve units (mostly still owned or rented out by various descendants of the original family) are occupied by older inhabitants, who never had children or whose children are mostly grown up. My husband now has proof of my laughable American naivete in wanting to invite the neighbors over for a get-to-know you drink. Apparently the neighbors, at least the across-the-hall and floor-below inhabitants, don't like us, or rather they don't like our noisy children. Nobody in this building seems to really talk to each other (I speak more to the live-in help than to some of their employers, whom I have never met), so the central point of communication is the "portero" (doorman). He transmitted the neighbor's complaints to our landlady, who communicated them to us. To know us (or our children) is not necessarily to love us; the cultural quirkiness lies in specifically why our neighbors consider us to be deviants. It all hinges on our schedule, which is "desfasado" (off kilter) with that of self-respecting Spaniards.
While they politely note that our children are mostly silent after 8pm, they particularly resent the fact that the children get up at 7am and trample around the apartment like a herd of wild elephants. This is a necessity during the week since the children have to be on the school bus on or before 8pm. Unfortunately, getting my children to sleep much past 7 or 8 am on a weekend is luxury I have yet to enjoy. My childless neighbors don't get up until 9 or 10am and the older children of the other neighbors happily sleep in on the weekends as well.
If you are going to live here and don't come from some Latin or other country with a similar timetable, the first thing that takes some getting used to is the schedule. People don't seem to work much before nine thirty in the morning, many shops don't open until 10 am. Lunch is at 2pm instead of 12 and most of the shops and public services close from 2pm to 5pm. If it's a public service, it usually opens at 9 and closes down for good (to the public) at 2pm. I don't know what kind of lunches working people take here, but most stay in the office until 7pm or much later depending on their profession and level of responsibility. 8pm is the happy hour and nobody has dinner until 10pm. Most restaurants don't even open until 9pm, and even that is considered a rather uncivilized "giri" (foreigner) hour.
It seems that if I were Spanish my children would adhere to a more civilized schedule, or at least be more silent and better behaved, but also I wouldn't give much of a damn what the neighbors thought anyway. I discussed the neighbors' complaints with some of my husbands' local family members and their feeling was why in the world would anybody care about getting to know their neighbors? They have lived in compete anonymity, or, barring that, a detente of mutual dislike with theirs for decades, exchanging nothing more than the requisite hola (hello) and hasta luego (see you later) on the elevator. They told me that the official noise ordinance is from 12pm to 8am and, as long as I generally respected that, there's nothing anybody can do.
This point was really brought home to us by the story the landlady told us about the previous tenants who lived in a state of open war with her family for generations, protected by some grandfathered rent control law, whereby tenants can inherit apartments and inflation-indexed rent from their parents and spouses. The grandfather of the deceased spouse of the last tenant rented our apartment in 1931. As the years passed, land values and rents increased dramatically beyond the official inflation index, but nobody could kick the tenants out as long as they paid their ridiculously low hereditary rent. The landlords couldn't sell the apartment because the undesirable tenants and their low rent went with the property. The only thing they could do was prevent the tenants from doing any work to the apartment, so at the end they had to wait until the widow of the grandson of the original tenant died to recuperate an apartment, that was in shambles.
Sidenote: The portero also inherited his job from his father. He seems to occupy an executive function over invisible subordinates. In his case, doorman is somewhat of a mis-nomer, since he is present at unpredictable hours, spends most of his time smoking outside and gives me a look (with my baby carriage or shopping bags) that dares me to ask him to open the door. Other times, he relies on a tactic of turning the act of opening the door into an exaggerated parody that brings home just how inconvenient my presence is, accompanied by a smirk of satisfaction in being the central dispatch for the neighbors complaints about us, and the certitude that he (or his descendants) will outlast us.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Bring on the Bitch
This Hilary vs. Sarah Palin parody is hilarious.
The friend who sent me the link, is more politically conservative than I. She is arguing with me that Sarah Palin is more than a beauty queen bimbo. At the same time she has some useful advice for me about how to avoid the six-year old nightmare birthday party from hell. Between the two classes where my twins are in enrolled, there are fifty children...
I am excited because my first-choice candidate for a live-in helper has accepted the job. It's so nice to have somebody who is excited to work for me--not because the children or I are so nice and lovable, but because in the local job market I pay top-of-market wages and am a catch as an employer. Although I have four children, the three older ones are in school most the day, I don't have a ginormous three story house to clean, I don't require every article of clothing we wear to be hand-ironed, don't require them to wear a uniform, and I am willing to provide food and pay social security.
While my conservative friend dedicates her time to worthy charities to make the world a better place, I, Wellesley graduate that I am (like Hillary and also that bitchy stock broker played by Sigourney Weaver in that 80s movie "Working Girl," the one who rightly gets what she deserves from the hard working blue collar secretary played by Melanie Griffith), in the words of the twenty-something, American current incumbent of the job (with the kind of self righteousness that you can only have when you're still subsidized by your parents)--am "taking part in the exploitation of the third world and women."
This moment of zen is seconded only by my IT industry marketing skills, which included hiring females to liven up our user conference party. On the advice of my older cousin, who at 36 married a 20 year old swim suit model and event promotions girl, I learned that I could request head shots of these girls before hiring them, dictate what they wear and request "that they not chew gum." When I told this to a good friend and colleague, he drily suggested that if JBoss didn't pan out, at the least I could get a job as head of HR at Hooters.
Ironcically, thanks to my experience at JBoss, I can now afford to contribute to the Arts as a playwright/expiate the sins of my past life and experience catharsis therein, by writing about characters as self-indulgent and flawed as myself.
A former boss of mine, who took pity on me and hired me, partly because I could talk about literature and partly because I reminded him of a Wellesely girl he dated in the fifties (he, himself, was a graduate of Harvard Law who never practiced law a day of his life, but went into advertising instead)--once had this to say about that great American contributor to the Arts, Aaron Spelling, "if you want to liven up a tier-three soap opera that is going nowhere (Melrose Place), sometimes you gotta bring on the bitch (Heather Locklear)."
Of course, if you were talking about Shakespeare, she'd be Lady Macbeth, but same premise.
The friend who sent me the link, is more politically conservative than I. She is arguing with me that Sarah Palin is more than a beauty queen bimbo. At the same time she has some useful advice for me about how to avoid the six-year old nightmare birthday party from hell. Between the two classes where my twins are in enrolled, there are fifty children...
"Just invite the boys so you only have 25 kids to deal with. I, in the meantime, have been trying to negotiate the smallest possible party with my son. There are 10 boys in his class so I told him he can have twelve kids because all the favors I have to buy come by the dozen. So I told him I would pass on the savings to him by reinvesting it into the final product of his party. Meaning that for his Indiana Jones party, instead of getting a bag full of crap, each kid will now get an authentic Indiana Jones whip that they can take home and terrorize their younger siblings with. I figured I'd try to teach him some precepts of capitalism before it becomes totally antiquated...as it seems to be headed. :-)"
I am excited because my first-choice candidate for a live-in helper has accepted the job. It's so nice to have somebody who is excited to work for me--not because the children or I are so nice and lovable, but because in the local job market I pay top-of-market wages and am a catch as an employer. Although I have four children, the three older ones are in school most the day, I don't have a ginormous three story house to clean, I don't require every article of clothing we wear to be hand-ironed, don't require them to wear a uniform, and I am willing to provide food and pay social security.
While my conservative friend dedicates her time to worthy charities to make the world a better place, I, Wellesley graduate that I am (like Hillary and also that bitchy stock broker played by Sigourney Weaver in that 80s movie "Working Girl," the one who rightly gets what she deserves from the hard working blue collar secretary played by Melanie Griffith), in the words of the twenty-something, American current incumbent of the job (with the kind of self righteousness that you can only have when you're still subsidized by your parents)--am "taking part in the exploitation of the third world and women."
This moment of zen is seconded only by my IT industry marketing skills, which included hiring females to liven up our user conference party. On the advice of my older cousin, who at 36 married a 20 year old swim suit model and event promotions girl, I learned that I could request head shots of these girls before hiring them, dictate what they wear and request "that they not chew gum." When I told this to a good friend and colleague, he drily suggested that if JBoss didn't pan out, at the least I could get a job as head of HR at Hooters.
Ironcically, thanks to my experience at JBoss, I can now afford to contribute to the Arts as a playwright/expiate the sins of my past life and experience catharsis therein, by writing about characters as self-indulgent and flawed as myself.
A former boss of mine, who took pity on me and hired me, partly because I could talk about literature and partly because I reminded him of a Wellesely girl he dated in the fifties (he, himself, was a graduate of Harvard Law who never practiced law a day of his life, but went into advertising instead)--once had this to say about that great American contributor to the Arts, Aaron Spelling, "if you want to liven up a tier-three soap opera that is going nowhere (Melrose Place), sometimes you gotta bring on the bitch (Heather Locklear)."
Of course, if you were talking about Shakespeare, she'd be Lady Macbeth, but same premise.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Postcards from Spain: Culture in Context
The first thing that strikes me when I think about writing about my experiences here, as an American living in Spain, is all the things I don't want to write.
This is because of all the times I have been on the other side of the fence. When foreigners implore the "Natives" to read their cute little blog musings on the natives' little corner of the world, they don't imagine that how offensive the Natives will find some of those musings," for ex. "Have I become dumber since moving to America?"
Genre and the American Travel writer
The Self-loathing American/Geography snob
This is the type of person who usually grew up somewhere in bum-fuck and could not wait to move to New York, San Francisco, or Abroad, to manifest their innate sense of superiority to all the rubes they grew up with. This kind of person inevitably becomes "more" New York, San Francisco or name your Euro capital than anybody who actually grew up there. I think there is something innately fishy about being ashamed of where you come from, especially when that person came from the same place (in a manner of speaking) as me, and, therefore, looks down on me! I am not always proud of my country and don't agree with its current government, but there are still a lot of things I like about America, that I am grateful for. I realize that where I come from has played a significant role in my identity today.
The American Bigot
I was well into a reverie of the reverse type: "When Americans go abroad, waxing poetic about their fresh baguettes and Tuscan views and how they just love the relaxed pace of living in the 'Old World' they don't realize that this is because they are 'On vacation' and they are not having to get anything practical done."
This was in a moment of frustration, dealing with the headache of getting papers here, like the NIE--foreign tax ID number, whose only benefit is a big "come and get me" to the tax authorities--it's harder than you think to get, and without it you can't even get a mobile phone in Spain. Or, dealing with Customs and blocked containers and more administrative papers. In short, huffing and puffing because my immigrant status here forces me to deal with that most international, illogical and pernicious of characters: the low level civil servant.
Just at the moment, I feel myself slipping into the American bigot rant, which frankly, being married to somebody from somewhere else and having dealt with the INS on his behalf and seeing what kind of treatment you can expect from them, even if you do have a higher education and speak perfect English, and God forbid you move to another region of the US and they can't locate your file..., I was still tempted to feel all American-bigoty about how much more efficient we are at getting things done, when what do I get in my in-box? A note from my surgeon's "appeals professional," apparently he has a full-time person with this title on staff. The letter informs me that Cigna (which has now been bumped ahead of Blue Cross Blue Shield in my personal circle of Hell ranking of health insurance companies) has decided to only pay half their portion of my surgery, from back in June.
Nastygram to Cigna
So I spent the morning writing an appeal to Cigna, pointing out that the first reason they denied partial payment on my claim--that I had co-insurance, was patently false, I do not now, nor have I ever had co-insurance. So that does not exactly inspires me with confidence at how closely they reviewed my dossier, as a whole. Or, do they automatically deny payment as a policy, assuming that not everybody is going to be pissed off and energetic enough to appeal? I had a PPO, what ever happened to my choice in health care? Why should some paper pusher at Cigna determine that I should go to some hack who just happens to be in their network to have my belly sliced open from hip to hip when I could have a laparoscopic procedure done by The Male Surgeon and His Colleague, who have more published successes in this surgery than anybody else in the World, let alone the Atlanta metropolitan area? I have a poor history of wound healing and four children to run after...and so on.
This is because of all the times I have been on the other side of the fence. When foreigners implore the "Natives" to read their cute little blog musings on the natives' little corner of the world, they don't imagine that how offensive the Natives will find some of those musings," for ex. "Have I become dumber since moving to America?"
Genre and the American Travel writer
The Self-loathing American/Geography snob
This is the type of person who usually grew up somewhere in bum-fuck and could not wait to move to New York, San Francisco, or Abroad, to manifest their innate sense of superiority to all the rubes they grew up with. This kind of person inevitably becomes "more" New York, San Francisco or name your Euro capital than anybody who actually grew up there. I think there is something innately fishy about being ashamed of where you come from, especially when that person came from the same place (in a manner of speaking) as me, and, therefore, looks down on me! I am not always proud of my country and don't agree with its current government, but there are still a lot of things I like about America, that I am grateful for. I realize that where I come from has played a significant role in my identity today.
The American Bigot
I was well into a reverie of the reverse type: "When Americans go abroad, waxing poetic about their fresh baguettes and Tuscan views and how they just love the relaxed pace of living in the 'Old World' they don't realize that this is because they are 'On vacation' and they are not having to get anything practical done."
This was in a moment of frustration, dealing with the headache of getting papers here, like the NIE--foreign tax ID number, whose only benefit is a big "come and get me" to the tax authorities--it's harder than you think to get, and without it you can't even get a mobile phone in Spain. Or, dealing with Customs and blocked containers and more administrative papers. In short, huffing and puffing because my immigrant status here forces me to deal with that most international, illogical and pernicious of characters: the low level civil servant.
Just at the moment, I feel myself slipping into the American bigot rant, which frankly, being married to somebody from somewhere else and having dealt with the INS on his behalf and seeing what kind of treatment you can expect from them, even if you do have a higher education and speak perfect English, and God forbid you move to another region of the US and they can't locate your file..., I was still tempted to feel all American-bigoty about how much more efficient we are at getting things done, when what do I get in my in-box? A note from my surgeon's "appeals professional," apparently he has a full-time person with this title on staff. The letter informs me that Cigna (which has now been bumped ahead of Blue Cross Blue Shield in my personal circle of Hell ranking of health insurance companies) has decided to only pay half their portion of my surgery, from back in June.
Nastygram to Cigna
So I spent the morning writing an appeal to Cigna, pointing out that the first reason they denied partial payment on my claim--that I had co-insurance, was patently false, I do not now, nor have I ever had co-insurance. So that does not exactly inspires me with confidence at how closely they reviewed my dossier, as a whole. Or, do they automatically deny payment as a policy, assuming that not everybody is going to be pissed off and energetic enough to appeal? I had a PPO, what ever happened to my choice in health care? Why should some paper pusher at Cigna determine that I should go to some hack who just happens to be in their network to have my belly sliced open from hip to hip when I could have a laparoscopic procedure done by The Male Surgeon and His Colleague, who have more published successes in this surgery than anybody else in the World, let alone the Atlanta metropolitan area? I have a poor history of wound healing and four children to run after...and so on.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Postcards from Spain: Afernoon in Ikea
Ikea must truly be the world's most democratic place. While equipping our apartment in Madrid, we made the requisite stop there. After spending an hour and a half configuring something called the "blobbi" or the "schlaghklumf" or some other lump of unpronounceable Scandinavian syllables for our living room couch and various other pieces of furniture, we were in for a nasty surprise. Things have changed since our last stop in Ikea outside Paris in the mid-nineties. You no longer drop off your ticket at the warehouse and wait for them to bring you your boxes. Each piece of furniture comes with it's own aisle and item number; you grab your cart and off you go to the warehouse to find each individual item and lift it onto your cart, before proceeding to checkout. This might work just fine for one or two items, but gets tiresome when you are equipping a whole apartment.
Talk about a company that knows how to squeeze a margin. I look at the smiling employees (they all mostly seem happy to work there) re-stocking items and ask my husband if we couldn't just hand one of them 20 or 30 euros to get our stuff for us? He said this just isn't done and they would be offended that I am trying to subvert their egalitarian Scandinavian ethos with my filthy American money and expectations. I wonder about the supposed high level of youth unemployment in Spain and other European countries. Surely it wouldn't cost Ikea anything to let these people earn tips by getting people's boxes for them at the warehouse? Where's the evil in paying for extra service? Why isn't Ikea online, or is it?
Marc tells this story to Sacha (Labourey)--our friend and former colleague at JBoss and RHT, who sympathizes. "I know what you're saying. The other day, I needed to buy some furniture for a family house in the mountains. I called up Ikea and told them that I had rented a truck and was going to drive 200 km just to get some furniture there and could they please reserve the pieces I wanted. They responded: No, we can't do that. All we can tell you is that there are eight of those items left and they are going fast, so we recommend you hurry."
We find ourselves reflecting. When we were young and didn't have money, we went to places like Ikea. Now that we're older and more settled, we are still still doing many of the exact same things. Some things don't change.
Talk about a company that knows how to squeeze a margin. I look at the smiling employees (they all mostly seem happy to work there) re-stocking items and ask my husband if we couldn't just hand one of them 20 or 30 euros to get our stuff for us? He said this just isn't done and they would be offended that I am trying to subvert their egalitarian Scandinavian ethos with my filthy American money and expectations. I wonder about the supposed high level of youth unemployment in Spain and other European countries. Surely it wouldn't cost Ikea anything to let these people earn tips by getting people's boxes for them at the warehouse? Where's the evil in paying for extra service? Why isn't Ikea online, or is it?
Marc tells this story to Sacha (Labourey)--our friend and former colleague at JBoss and RHT, who sympathizes. "I know what you're saying. The other day, I needed to buy some furniture for a family house in the mountains. I called up Ikea and told them that I had rented a truck and was going to drive 200 km just to get some furniture there and could they please reserve the pieces I wanted. They responded: No, we can't do that. All we can tell you is that there are eight of those items left and they are going fast, so we recommend you hurry."
We find ourselves reflecting. When we were young and didn't have money, we went to places like Ikea. Now that we're older and more settled, we are still still doing many of the exact same things. Some things don't change.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Live and Let N.I.E.
Confession: I didn't even make up this title, I found it on a Spain Expat blog.
For those who haven't contemplated moving to Spain, this is their foreign tax ID number. As far as I can tell, it conveys no advantage whatsoever to the holder besides acting as a giant "Come and Get Me" to the fiscal authorities. Unfortunately, every basic transaction you might want to perform in Spain requires the NIE, from getting a telephone to opening a bank account, to getting your stuff through customs. You would think it would be easy to get.
Perhaps it is...if I hadn't decided to engage the services of BlahBlahBlah (prestigious international audit, tax and consulting firm). When I had less, I used to fantasize about how much easier life would be if you could Pay People to Do Things For You. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it isn't. In the case of the immigration services provided by BlahBlahBlah, I've learned more in one hour on Google than anything they've told me or provided me with so far. My husband says that it's my fault, I should have known that BlahBlahBlah is far more concerned with its fat multinational corporate clients than private individuals, unless, perhaps, you happen to be Bill Gates. I engaged BlahBlahBlah in the hopes that it would shield me from the usual insults and injuries wielded by that most vicious of creatures--the Low Level Civil Servant, in this case employed by immigration authorities.
In my experience, the Low Level Civil Servant (LLCS) is an international breed, whose temperament tends to worsen when deployed in highly populated capital areas (conversely it can be quite nice and personable in the more sparsely populated rural settings). The typical LLCS exists in limbo between gratitude for its job for life and generous employment benefits, mixed with subtle disdain for the mind-numbingly repetitive functions it must perform, and outright contempt for the people it is compelled to serve. The Low Level Civil Servant is programmed to follow a systemic series of rules and to exist in a world with no individuals, only check-marks. Asked to perform any function not automatically subsumed in the order and exact definition of the checkmarks, the LLCS automatically spits out a "No" response. Regardless of one's circumstances, there is a two-step approach that can improve your odds with the LLCS. 1)self-abasement and recognition of the LLCS' superior authority. "Oh most powerful one whose hand rests upon the stamp that I currently need, please forgive my ignorant ways and failure to blah blah, I beseach you to look with favor upon your humble supplicant" is an appropriate tone to adopt, followed by 2) The VCH (very compelling story)
For those who haven't contemplated moving to Spain, this is their foreign tax ID number. As far as I can tell, it conveys no advantage whatsoever to the holder besides acting as a giant "Come and Get Me" to the fiscal authorities. Unfortunately, every basic transaction you might want to perform in Spain requires the NIE, from getting a telephone to opening a bank account, to getting your stuff through customs. You would think it would be easy to get.
Perhaps it is...if I hadn't decided to engage the services of BlahBlahBlah (prestigious international audit, tax and consulting firm). When I had less, I used to fantasize about how much easier life would be if you could Pay People to Do Things For You. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it isn't. In the case of the immigration services provided by BlahBlahBlah, I've learned more in one hour on Google than anything they've told me or provided me with so far. My husband says that it's my fault, I should have known that BlahBlahBlah is far more concerned with its fat multinational corporate clients than private individuals, unless, perhaps, you happen to be Bill Gates. I engaged BlahBlahBlah in the hopes that it would shield me from the usual insults and injuries wielded by that most vicious of creatures--the Low Level Civil Servant, in this case employed by immigration authorities.
In my experience, the Low Level Civil Servant (LLCS) is an international breed, whose temperament tends to worsen when deployed in highly populated capital areas (conversely it can be quite nice and personable in the more sparsely populated rural settings). The typical LLCS exists in limbo between gratitude for its job for life and generous employment benefits, mixed with subtle disdain for the mind-numbingly repetitive functions it must perform, and outright contempt for the people it is compelled to serve. The Low Level Civil Servant is programmed to follow a systemic series of rules and to exist in a world with no individuals, only check-marks. Asked to perform any function not automatically subsumed in the order and exact definition of the checkmarks, the LLCS automatically spits out a "No" response. Regardless of one's circumstances, there is a two-step approach that can improve your odds with the LLCS. 1)self-abasement and recognition of the LLCS' superior authority. "Oh most powerful one whose hand rests upon the stamp that I currently need, please forgive my ignorant ways and failure to blah blah, I beseach you to look with favor upon your humble supplicant" is an appropriate tone to adopt, followed by 2) The VCH (very compelling story)
Saturday, July 5, 2008
I, convalescent IV: Encounter with The Male Surgeon
Post Script
Two and a half glasses of champagne (Veuve Cliquot), one half bag of Milano cookies later...
My surgery, a medically recommended procedure being related to the end-of-the-line as far as my (biologically) procreative life goes, offers in my choice of surgeon, a hilarious intersection in his clientele, divided between women like me with real medical conditions, and women whose procedures are purely elective and cosmetic. In my brief interaction with The Male Surgeon, whose tendency not listen to me and then interrupt me with pre-prepared answers that have little to do with anything I have said, has convinced me that, despite his superior anatomical knowledge of women, the only way he really likes dealing with them is completely knocked out under general anesthesia. Supposedly he's a wizard with trocars and laparoscope, which is more important than personality, under the circumstances.
I was supposed to be partially conscious for part of the procedure, but "freaked out" under the first narcotic they gave me which was supposed to be very chill, but not, apparently, chill enough for me. I am dying to know what I said or did, but The Male Surgeon, smiles, a first for him, which is completely unfair because I'm not smiling. What am I doing? I'm lying in extended recovery in more pain than I care to remember in a hospital gown reminiscent of Jack Nicholson in "As Good as it Gets." Then, The Male Surgeon says, knowingly (ok what the frak did I do?), not to worry that "people do very weird things under the effect of anesthesia" and that I simply "wasn't comfortable" and that none of this means I was a "bad girl." If this was sexual repartee, that truly is as good as it gets for irony in my life these days.
Meanwhile, the marketing service employed by The Male Surgeon and His Colleague has been bombarding my email in-box lately wanting feedback on them. These emails started weeks before my procedure was scheduled, which is laughable because, whether or not, I'm "bad," I'm not stupid. I'm certainly not stupid enough to answer one of these and get moved from number two to number eight on his surgery schedule. You know the point where they've get the PA to stitch you up so they can make their four o'clock tee-off or worse yet, they accidentally nick a nerve somewhere and you won't be feeling anything for years. I'd like to think what I did tell him, under anesthesia, was that as a feminist and professional woman with serious medical issues, I don't completely relate to his advertising (glanced at once in "Atlanta Magazine") that seems to be aimed at the Alpharetta housewife who's afraid her husband is going to trade her in for a younger model and that his logo, with the strategically placed Georgia O'Keefe calla lily, would almost work, if it were intentionally that kitsch. Or, maybe I just made an ass of myself.
Post post script: Oxycodone, the Hillbilly Heroin
Worst of all, my husband, sympathizes with The Male Surgeon. "What did you say to him, honey? You could have had the ride of your life, but even after a healthy dose of what my anesthesiologist calls the 'number one drug abused by anesthesiologists who abuse drugs' (sounds good, but I'm not an anesthesiologist so I can't remember its name), "you're the one in ten who showed signs of residual "personality'." He wishes he could take me off-line when I get loopy and reload me into the system with plenty of upgrades. My husband says to write about oxycodone. What is there to say about oxycodone? It works. It takes the pain away. It fucks up your digestive system. My husband begs to differ, he nicked one of my painkillers in order to "get a good night's sleep," so good, in fact, that he didn't wake up until 11 am the next day. He says it's fantastic.
My husband comes around again and says that I have been writing for eight hours. He says that I am even more autistic than he is, because after four hours he needs a break. I say that I am a repressed autistic, who doesn't generally get to give in to her nature, seeing as we have four young children to raise.
So Nick and Nora Charles.
Thanks to those of you who sent flowers.
Two and a half glasses of champagne (Veuve Cliquot), one half bag of Milano cookies later...
My surgery, a medically recommended procedure being related to the end-of-the-line as far as my (biologically) procreative life goes, offers in my choice of surgeon, a hilarious intersection in his clientele, divided between women like me with real medical conditions, and women whose procedures are purely elective and cosmetic. In my brief interaction with The Male Surgeon, whose tendency not listen to me and then interrupt me with pre-prepared answers that have little to do with anything I have said, has convinced me that, despite his superior anatomical knowledge of women, the only way he really likes dealing with them is completely knocked out under general anesthesia. Supposedly he's a wizard with trocars and laparoscope, which is more important than personality, under the circumstances.
I was supposed to be partially conscious for part of the procedure, but "freaked out" under the first narcotic they gave me which was supposed to be very chill, but not, apparently, chill enough for me. I am dying to know what I said or did, but The Male Surgeon, smiles, a first for him, which is completely unfair because I'm not smiling. What am I doing? I'm lying in extended recovery in more pain than I care to remember in a hospital gown reminiscent of Jack Nicholson in "As Good as it Gets." Then, The Male Surgeon says, knowingly (ok what the frak did I do?), not to worry that "people do very weird things under the effect of anesthesia" and that I simply "wasn't comfortable" and that none of this means I was a "bad girl." If this was sexual repartee, that truly is as good as it gets for irony in my life these days.
Meanwhile, the marketing service employed by The Male Surgeon and His Colleague has been bombarding my email in-box lately wanting feedback on them. These emails started weeks before my procedure was scheduled, which is laughable because, whether or not, I'm "bad," I'm not stupid. I'm certainly not stupid enough to answer one of these and get moved from number two to number eight on his surgery schedule. You know the point where they've get the PA to stitch you up so they can make their four o'clock tee-off or worse yet, they accidentally nick a nerve somewhere and you won't be feeling anything for years. I'd like to think what I did tell him, under anesthesia, was that as a feminist and professional woman with serious medical issues, I don't completely relate to his advertising (glanced at once in "Atlanta Magazine") that seems to be aimed at the Alpharetta housewife who's afraid her husband is going to trade her in for a younger model and that his logo, with the strategically placed Georgia O'Keefe calla lily, would almost work, if it were intentionally that kitsch. Or, maybe I just made an ass of myself.
Post post script: Oxycodone, the Hillbilly Heroin
Worst of all, my husband, sympathizes with The Male Surgeon. "What did you say to him, honey? You could have had the ride of your life, but even after a healthy dose of what my anesthesiologist calls the 'number one drug abused by anesthesiologists who abuse drugs' (sounds good, but I'm not an anesthesiologist so I can't remember its name), "you're the one in ten who showed signs of residual "personality'." He wishes he could take me off-line when I get loopy and reload me into the system with plenty of upgrades. My husband says to write about oxycodone. What is there to say about oxycodone? It works. It takes the pain away. It fucks up your digestive system. My husband begs to differ, he nicked one of my painkillers in order to "get a good night's sleep," so good, in fact, that he didn't wake up until 11 am the next day. He says it's fantastic.
My husband comes around again and says that I have been writing for eight hours. He says that I am even more autistic than he is, because after four hours he needs a break. I say that I am a repressed autistic, who doesn't generally get to give in to her nature, seeing as we have four young children to raise.
So Nick and Nora Charles.
Thanks to those of you who sent flowers.
I, convalescent III: She Reads the Press
The TUE (totally useless education) offered broad de Tocquevillian cultural speculations on the difference between BBC English (RP) and the totally flat Midwestern American newscaster pronunciation, which is totally accent-less (to an American). I read both the high and the low press, and when I say low, I mean really low, the lowest of the low, "The National Enquirer." I love you Dominick Dunne, old fart and insignificant snob that you are, for admitting that you were thrilled to learn one could get a subscription to that publication. Sometimes, I read "Vanity Fair," then in Mallorca, I discovered "The Daily Mail,"Hello" and "Tatler."
Although their standard is hipness as opposed to old money, "Vanity Fair" and "Tatler" seem to employ a formula first popularized, for Americans of my generation, by "The Preppy Handbook." Referring to the latter, Angela Carter amusingly described it as symptomatic of Reagan era prosperity, an instruction manual for the "nouveaux riches" to study the mores of the "anciens riches" so that they might pass among them unnoticed. "The Preppy Handbook" offered insights such as "money is like the golden retriever sitting by the fireplace, you don't necessarily notice it much, but it's good to know it's there." Written by a class-traitor, who bites the hand that feeds it (and laughs all the way to the bank), the levity of style reassures the reader that it's ok to pay attention to this sort of thing because nobody takes it seriously. As for le vice anglais, "Vanity Fair" tends toward interminable articles in which the Dear Reader is offered a glimpse at people whose lives are touched by beauty, coolness, social significance and/or deviance, the likes of which his own will never approximate," whereas "Tatler's" articles are shorter and get right to the point: new and unsuspected opportunities for social mortification. "What kind of bore are you" (always suspected you were a bore, but now you can find out what kind!) "The new ultra-rich" (and why you aren't anybody if you haven't got at least $IB) or "The latest, coolest neighborhood off the M something or other" (don't worry, once you discover it, the hip will have moved on someplace else.) I think I like the "Daily Mail" better.
Back to Anglo/French/American stereotypes, in the more serious international rags I read, where I quickly skim past all references to the Dismal Science, but linger in the Arts, Culture and Home sections, it appears They view us (Americans) as naive, overgrown children who are occasionally (but not often) visited by glimpses of self-awareness. Friday's FT movie section queries, in all seriousness: "Is the American capable of irony?" As for sex bay-bee, they seem to ascribe to us a mix of Puritanism and liberation that makes us sexually weirder than they are. It's barely relevant, but I love this repartee from my husband's great-aunt, a Very Grand Lady, who as the wife of the Spanish ambassador somewhere in South America, responded to a remark about Spanish imperialism with the comment "Really you ought to be grateful to us for civilizing you. Prior to the Spanish arrival you were running around with nothing but a tail-feather in the arse." Not sure where that leaves us, their own descendants, who grew up in Rousseau's Garden of Eden among the noble savages, the "criollos" or creoles, from the Spanish "criado alli" or "raised over there," but having lived in both the Old and the New World, I think we are a hybrid mutation.
Le Monde est Mondial
At any rate, I'm a lot more "demi-monde" than "Monde"--that's "demimonde" not Demi Moore and, if you do look it up: not a "grande horizontale" either. See "demi-world of ghost writers, hacks and publicists." In a life, largely unburdened by any qualities likely to make me popular or easily identify with selective groups, I do remember one time at Wellesley, I considered joining a "Society." It was one of the better ones frequented by the pretty, witty girls. I had friends there, I might have got in, but then I thought better of it. I realized to get in would be a complete masquerade. I'd have to spend the whole time making sure they didn't get to know the real, not pretty, not witty me. I joined the Shakespeare society, instead, which offered a greater mix of people, more interested in Elizabethan masques than social status. This is where I learned there was an Indian equivalent of "The Boarding School Boys." This phrase, straight out of my high-school and early college vocabulary, had to do with getting a date to PDC (local prep school, girls ask boys, Sadie Hawkins dance) or deb parties. The only thing more mortifying than having to rely on A Boarding School Boy as your date (you were such a loser you couldn't get anybody you actually knew--or their brother, or their resident exchange student--to accompany you), would be to learn that you (the male), had unwittingly, through the machinations of Your Mother, become the poster-child (I'm pretty sure a picture was included) for The Boarding School Boys. That is to say, she had written up a resume of your qualities and, more succintly why she thought you would be a desirable date aka "Eddy would like to meet some nice local girls." I think the Indian equivalent, never actually saw it, was a marriage-focused resume with picture that went something along the lines of "Arun is a doctor/engineer with a degree from blank, or blank IIT, great professional prospects, job waiting for him in the States...who would like to meet a suitable girl."
Although their standard is hipness as opposed to old money, "Vanity Fair" and "Tatler" seem to employ a formula first popularized, for Americans of my generation, by "The Preppy Handbook." Referring to the latter, Angela Carter amusingly described it as symptomatic of Reagan era prosperity, an instruction manual for the "nouveaux riches" to study the mores of the "anciens riches" so that they might pass among them unnoticed. "The Preppy Handbook" offered insights such as "money is like the golden retriever sitting by the fireplace, you don't necessarily notice it much, but it's good to know it's there." Written by a class-traitor, who bites the hand that feeds it (and laughs all the way to the bank), the levity of style reassures the reader that it's ok to pay attention to this sort of thing because nobody takes it seriously. As for le vice anglais, "Vanity Fair" tends toward interminable articles in which the Dear Reader is offered a glimpse at people whose lives are touched by beauty, coolness, social significance and/or deviance, the likes of which his own will never approximate," whereas "Tatler's" articles are shorter and get right to the point: new and unsuspected opportunities for social mortification. "What kind of bore are you" (always suspected you were a bore, but now you can find out what kind!) "The new ultra-rich" (and why you aren't anybody if you haven't got at least $IB) or "The latest, coolest neighborhood off the M something or other" (don't worry, once you discover it, the hip will have moved on someplace else.) I think I like the "Daily Mail" better.
Back to Anglo/French/American stereotypes, in the more serious international rags I read, where I quickly skim past all references to the Dismal Science, but linger in the Arts, Culture and Home sections, it appears They view us (Americans) as naive, overgrown children who are occasionally (but not often) visited by glimpses of self-awareness. Friday's FT movie section queries, in all seriousness: "Is the American capable of irony?" As for sex bay-bee, they seem to ascribe to us a mix of Puritanism and liberation that makes us sexually weirder than they are. It's barely relevant, but I love this repartee from my husband's great-aunt, a Very Grand Lady, who as the wife of the Spanish ambassador somewhere in South America, responded to a remark about Spanish imperialism with the comment "Really you ought to be grateful to us for civilizing you. Prior to the Spanish arrival you were running around with nothing but a tail-feather in the arse." Not sure where that leaves us, their own descendants, who grew up in Rousseau's Garden of Eden among the noble savages, the "criollos" or creoles, from the Spanish "criado alli" or "raised over there," but having lived in both the Old and the New World, I think we are a hybrid mutation.
Le Monde est Mondial
At any rate, I'm a lot more "demi-monde" than "Monde"--that's "demimonde" not Demi Moore and, if you do look it up: not a "grande horizontale" either. See "demi-world of ghost writers, hacks and publicists." In a life, largely unburdened by any qualities likely to make me popular or easily identify with selective groups, I do remember one time at Wellesley, I considered joining a "Society." It was one of the better ones frequented by the pretty, witty girls. I had friends there, I might have got in, but then I thought better of it. I realized to get in would be a complete masquerade. I'd have to spend the whole time making sure they didn't get to know the real, not pretty, not witty me. I joined the Shakespeare society, instead, which offered a greater mix of people, more interested in Elizabethan masques than social status. This is where I learned there was an Indian equivalent of "The Boarding School Boys." This phrase, straight out of my high-school and early college vocabulary, had to do with getting a date to PDC (local prep school, girls ask boys, Sadie Hawkins dance) or deb parties. The only thing more mortifying than having to rely on A Boarding School Boy as your date (you were such a loser you couldn't get anybody you actually knew--or their brother, or their resident exchange student--to accompany you), would be to learn that you (the male), had unwittingly, through the machinations of Your Mother, become the poster-child (I'm pretty sure a picture was included) for The Boarding School Boys. That is to say, she had written up a resume of your qualities and, more succintly why she thought you would be a desirable date aka "Eddy would like to meet some nice local girls." I think the Indian equivalent, never actually saw it, was a marriage-focused resume with picture that went something along the lines of "Arun is a doctor/engineer with a degree from blank, or blank IIT, great professional prospects, job waiting for him in the States...who would like to meet a suitable girl."
I, convalescent II: Southern Lady
Would I be a Southern Lady? A lot of ambiguity where I come from when it comes to the word "Madame." In the careers I considered but never pursued category, I did once aspire to a title I could have earned on my own merits: The Honorable," for current or former American ambassadors. After all, if you are going to represent a bordello, why not The Most Powerful Nation in The Free World? In my imaginary life, association of "The Honorable" is tied up with lots of creamy stationary and the third person address: "The Honorable requests the honor of your presence" or "The Honorable declines to attend your function, busy as she is with her important life, looking after Matters of State."
The Southern (as opposed to European) definition of lady has more to do with "maintaining your dignity in the face of adversity" than who begat or married you. At least that's what I came upon reading Tennessee Williams' autobiography. He offers the example of the older lady living in reduced circumstances with her daughter and son-in-law, in a boarding house somewhere in Florida. Apparently being a lady means that when your drunken bastard of a son-in-law gets in a rage and drops his glass eye in your soup bowl, you gingerly fish it out (with the correct spoon) and say something along the lines of "Willis, I think you dropped something."
Meanwhile, I glance at a Lady's Progress sort of story in"Hello" magazine. "Lady So and So, daughter of somebody I've never heard of and his un-memorable little slut of a fourth wife (she's young enough to be his daughter and then some) became London's IT Girl and took up with a ubiquitous restaurateur." Exactly whose mother is proud of their daughter taking up with a ubiquitous restaurateur? The Hilton's may not act like ladies, but they're the grand-daughters of a hotelier, for frak's sake. We then learn that "Young Lady So and So (now past her prime in the Euro scene?) aspires to come Stateside and do Reality TV." There again, who, with any shred of dignity, would do reality TV? Whatever happened to the Pamela Harrimans? They had presence and style. At least Pamela's resume had lovers with premium names you'd heard of--The Aga Khan, Agnelli, etc.
Oh back to my denouement, forget the blood and lizards. Pan to some generic Western frontier scene. Cheryl Crow is singing about putting on a poncho and playing for mosquitoes, drinking, and talking about thrift store jungles, and Geronimo's rifle (he he), Marilyn's shampoo and Benny Goodman's corset and pen--my cultural patrimony. Or maybe, it's the South, throw in some magnolias and the strains of Reba McEntire's "Fancy" are playing instead
The Southern (as opposed to European) definition of lady has more to do with "maintaining your dignity in the face of adversity" than who begat or married you. At least that's what I came upon reading Tennessee Williams' autobiography. He offers the example of the older lady living in reduced circumstances with her daughter and son-in-law, in a boarding house somewhere in Florida. Apparently being a lady means that when your drunken bastard of a son-in-law gets in a rage and drops his glass eye in your soup bowl, you gingerly fish it out (with the correct spoon) and say something along the lines of "Willis, I think you dropped something."
Meanwhile, I glance at a Lady's Progress sort of story in"Hello" magazine. "Lady So and So, daughter of somebody I've never heard of and his un-memorable little slut of a fourth wife (she's young enough to be his daughter and then some) became London's IT Girl and took up with a ubiquitous restaurateur." Exactly whose mother is proud of their daughter taking up with a ubiquitous restaurateur? The Hilton's may not act like ladies, but they're the grand-daughters of a hotelier, for frak's sake. We then learn that "Young Lady So and So (now past her prime in the Euro scene?) aspires to come Stateside and do Reality TV." There again, who, with any shred of dignity, would do reality TV? Whatever happened to the Pamela Harrimans? They had presence and style. At least Pamela's resume had lovers with premium names you'd heard of--The Aga Khan, Agnelli, etc.
Oh back to my denouement, forget the blood and lizards. Pan to some generic Western frontier scene. Cheryl Crow is singing about putting on a poncho and playing for mosquitoes, drinking, and talking about thrift store jungles, and Geronimo's rifle (he he), Marilyn's shampoo and Benny Goodman's corset and pen--my cultural patrimony. Or maybe, it's the South, throw in some magnolias and the strains of Reba McEntire's "Fancy" are playing instead
I knew what I had to do but I made myself this solemn vow
That I's gonna be a lady someday
Though I don't know when or how
I couldn't see spending the rest of my life
With my head hung down in shame you know
I might have been born just plain white trash
But fancy was my name
I, convalescent I: Remembering JBoss
For somebody full of nervous energy, the hardest thing is to be still. The only other time in my life I have been in a similar situation was six weeks of bed-rest before giving birth to twins in 2002. My husband bought me a laptop and set-up wireless in the house for the first time. I can remember having about two hours a day in which I could get some work done, something that probably saved my sanity. At any rate, this weekend my parents have taken the three older kiddos for the first time in as long as I can remember, leaving us with His Babyship (ok he's not a baby anymore, he's 18 mos. old) who's chirruping about, the house with his nanny, and there's my husband--which leaves me with Time To Write.
Remembering JBoss
The difference between now and my bed-rest with the twins was a sensation, then, of germinating something, both biological and externally, with the fast growth of the company. The other day, a chance coincidence brought my husband back in touch with a figure from our previous life, a company that was an early on-site training customer. My husband didn't at first remember the name (nobody who knows him should ever be offended by this trait), but I eventually did because it was connected with that refreshing novelty of Getting Paid, something my upbringing had not quite led me to believe was possible in the context of independence, rebellion and Having Fun. Although, much of the early work was certainly mundane, much concerned with setting up trainings and Java User Group talks, arranging wires, signing checks, reading legal documents and approving contracts--that I laugh when I read about business school grads wanting to be entrepreneurs because I have a hard time reconciling that sort of risk-avoidant, professionally conventional stamp of social approval with getting your hands dirty with the unglamorous work and the professionally and socially dubious status of the old-fashioned entrepreneur (he who has no money and no patronage). So, we built a company in the shadow of a standard and a brand built by my husband's former employer, unofficially barred from JavaOne, we ran our own dog and pony show at the bar next door. The neighbors and social acquaintances presumably imagined my husband and I sold novelties out of the trunk of our car, and those people who had heard of us professionally told us we were "crazy," although being from the South, there is a distinction. When you're poor, you're crazy. When you're rich, you become "eccentric."
The high point in our public awareness was the day The Industry Billionaire, whose public persona channels Genghis Khan, that is if Will Ferrell played Genghis Khan with the sort of one-liners Will Ferrell would use (disclaimer, my husband has met Genghis; I have not. If I did, I would like to talk to him about his Japanese garden). Anyway, The Industry Billionaire let it be known through his flunkies, that he might Have An Interest in us, an interest that quickly waned once he learned that we had shortly thereafter sold ourselves to a smaller company. At this point The Industry Billionaire publicly congratulated himself on not having bought us (IBM and BEA then publicly congratulated themselves that they too "passed" on us, even though they never were real contenders). He speculated that he could just as easily rape our technology and toss it into the gutter without the inconvenience of having any dealings with such contempt-worthy beings as ourselves and Our New Patron.
They say the English 19th century novel ends with epithalamion; the 19th century French novel--the French being more cynical and worldly--although, rather amusingly, they imagine the English to be far more pervy than they are: witness le vice anglais--begins with epithalamion and goes downhill from there. The American 19th century novel, from what I've gleaned from my Totally Useless Education, was less concerned with social mobility (thank God we got out of the fucking village) than with the epic battle of Man vs. Nature (think Melville's "Moby Dick") and surviving amidst the flora and fauna of the New World. At any rate, my problem with the American 19th century novel, being a 21st century sort of American girl, is what if you reached the frontier 20 years too late? The frontier's already mostly carved up. You claim your territory, then you take a look at the plot of land adjacent to yours, the adjacent land-owner takes a look at the menacing rancher from across the river and before you know it, you wake up with a splitting hang-over after a shot-gun marriage in Vegas. There's blood everywhere and the lizards are crawling up the walls. Maybe I'm getting a little too Hunter S. Thompson "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," here. Maybe "Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman" is better? Hmmh?
Remembering JBoss
The difference between now and my bed-rest with the twins was a sensation, then, of germinating something, both biological and externally, with the fast growth of the company. The other day, a chance coincidence brought my husband back in touch with a figure from our previous life, a company that was an early on-site training customer. My husband didn't at first remember the name (nobody who knows him should ever be offended by this trait), but I eventually did because it was connected with that refreshing novelty of Getting Paid, something my upbringing had not quite led me to believe was possible in the context of independence, rebellion and Having Fun. Although, much of the early work was certainly mundane, much concerned with setting up trainings and Java User Group talks, arranging wires, signing checks, reading legal documents and approving contracts--that I laugh when I read about business school grads wanting to be entrepreneurs because I have a hard time reconciling that sort of risk-avoidant, professionally conventional stamp of social approval with getting your hands dirty with the unglamorous work and the professionally and socially dubious status of the old-fashioned entrepreneur (he who has no money and no patronage). So, we built a company in the shadow of a standard and a brand built by my husband's former employer, unofficially barred from JavaOne, we ran our own dog and pony show at the bar next door. The neighbors and social acquaintances presumably imagined my husband and I sold novelties out of the trunk of our car, and those people who had heard of us professionally told us we were "crazy," although being from the South, there is a distinction. When you're poor, you're crazy. When you're rich, you become "eccentric."
The high point in our public awareness was the day The Industry Billionaire, whose public persona channels Genghis Khan, that is if Will Ferrell played Genghis Khan with the sort of one-liners Will Ferrell would use (disclaimer, my husband has met Genghis; I have not. If I did, I would like to talk to him about his Japanese garden). Anyway, The Industry Billionaire let it be known through his flunkies, that he might Have An Interest in us, an interest that quickly waned once he learned that we had shortly thereafter sold ourselves to a smaller company. At this point The Industry Billionaire publicly congratulated himself on not having bought us (IBM and BEA then publicly congratulated themselves that they too "passed" on us, even though they never were real contenders). He speculated that he could just as easily rape our technology and toss it into the gutter without the inconvenience of having any dealings with such contempt-worthy beings as ourselves and Our New Patron.
They say the English 19th century novel ends with epithalamion; the 19th century French novel--the French being more cynical and worldly--although, rather amusingly, they imagine the English to be far more pervy than they are: witness le vice anglais--begins with epithalamion and goes downhill from there. The American 19th century novel, from what I've gleaned from my Totally Useless Education, was less concerned with social mobility (thank God we got out of the fucking village) than with the epic battle of Man vs. Nature (think Melville's "Moby Dick") and surviving amidst the flora and fauna of the New World. At any rate, my problem with the American 19th century novel, being a 21st century sort of American girl, is what if you reached the frontier 20 years too late? The frontier's already mostly carved up. You claim your territory, then you take a look at the plot of land adjacent to yours, the adjacent land-owner takes a look at the menacing rancher from across the river and before you know it, you wake up with a splitting hang-over after a shot-gun marriage in Vegas. There's blood everywhere and the lizards are crawling up the walls. Maybe I'm getting a little too Hunter S. Thompson "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," here. Maybe "Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman" is better? Hmmh?
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Battlestar Galactica: BSG and me
Frak, frak, frak, motherfrakker, clusterfrak, frakker, frakked up, frak me, frakkin' A, fraktard--lately I find myself employing the word and its derivatives at the most inopportune times. There's a certain ambiguity about the expression, which combines the childish glee of saying a bad word, with a sneaking suspicion of massive un-coolness on the level of somebody's middle-aged midwestern aunt saying "Oh, for cry out."
My husband and I finally succumbed to the a) the plastic fantastic life: traveling to beautiful exotic places, interacting with beautiful, important people, in the course of carrying out beautiful, important work, ahem...b) taking a break from running around with the kids for our nightly Netflix date (don't call us after 9) of seasons-old programming from our new favorite, newly discovered TV series, recommended by friends: BSG (Battlestar Galactica)
My French-born husband wants to know if "House" could be a cult classic. I try to explain that "House" could not be considered a "cult classic." It is too consistently good and too many mainstream people like it.
Battlestar Galactica is a cult classic: being a B or B+ series, that has not (and never will be) discovered by the masses, about which one can feel a certain sense of superiority for overcoming all of its short-comings in return for rare nuggets of superior and transcendent drama, not to mention the satisfaction of belonging to a geeky subculture where you can impress your friends with the correct usage of all the series-specific jargon. Kind of like being in the Open Source Java community of yesteryear.
I have this obsession with BSG, in spite, or because of...
1)Tier two script writing--all those non-story arc episodes you have to "power through"--we're in the doldrums of it right now--"The tylium refinery labor dispute episode"--what the frak? Hello, if I'm watching sci-fi, it's to see the last battle that will determine the fate of the human race and hot Cylon sex, not because I'm interested in the working conditions of the underclass laboring in the tylium refinery.
2)Wooden acting--per "Entertainment Weekly," which I catch up on in my weekly appointment for allergy shots: half the fun is to see if any of the actors can break out of their one trademark facial expression.
3)Egregious use of genre cliche: "The One, whose destiny it is to save the human race;" a "tough, but damaged" central character--this role mostly monopolized by Starbuck; "Oh my God the machines have infiltrated our central defense system and are going to set off a nuclear catastrophe that will end the human race;" "the machines now look like us now;" the guessing game of who's the Cylon," and the old stand-by of "will they ever act on their latent attraction to each other and actually get it on"(Apollo/Starbuck, twilight romance of Admiral Adama, President Roslin)--the latter usually works best with female audience by exploiting their latent romantic tendencies. Granted, these are all staples of tier-one drama, as well. There are only so many story lines out there, the difference is in the writing and the acting.
4) HD would be
a) Bad, according to Nathalie, 'cause there's already too many disturbing close-ups on Admiral Adama's acne-pitted face. Come on, he should at least be earning enough per episode for some laser or collagen improvement.
b) Good, according to Marc and Andy O.--for highlighting more naked Boomer/Athena/Number6 scenes. Here is an actual conversation between Marc and Andy O. "AndyO: I swear she was naked... Marc:was not... AndyO: yes, she was... Marc: you mean she was naked under her military uniform...(they settle the score by going back and actually watching actual BSG episode in slow mo with poorly lit, multiple naked Boomers)...Marc: ok, you're right on that one! but, seriously, man! from a time investment standpoint for actual skin, you might want to consider porn, I recommend Natasha Nice these days.
5)In the sack/most frakkable?
He says: Starbuck, ok but not so much, too metro-butch (the feminine equivalent of metro-sexual). D'Anna? nah, all the sex appeal of a cold cucumber sandwich. Number Six, mos def'. He's ready to upgrade to his pneumatically-enhanced Cylon wife right now, oh wait, she winds up displaying all the annoying pyscho-bitchy qualities of a real wife. The Baltar projection episodes with Number Six are definitely tier-one, by far the best thing in the series. Hands-down, hottie, according to both of them: Athena/Boomer. Marc also likes Dualla.
She says: Gaius Baltar. Need I say more? As the picaresque, scheming, self-absorbed, disgraced, and utterly craven computer geek, he is by far the most interesting character in the series. Lee Adama and Helo? Nah, too bland.
6) Insiders only:
Deep thought a) If Rickard Oberg had based his alternative reality on BSG, who would be a Cylon, what kind? No spoilers please, we haven't watched all the episodes yet.
Deep thought b) Selling out (Gaius Baltar in BSG), Apache/recent licensing issues/MSFT as seen by Andy O. "You know you're getting older when you can accept selling out, as long as it's a greedy sell-out, for something that actually was worth it. What's pathetic is selling-out and being cheap..."
Friday, March 21, 2008
Spring Break in Utah
Am here skiing or, more correctly "avoiding skiing" --one of those activities, like golf, that didn't turn out to be a great marriage enhancer for us, showcasing, as it does, significant differences of ability and inclination. So now, like Bartleby the Scribner, I choose not to. I check the children into ski school from 9-3, and choose to snow-shoe, cross-country ski, but most of all, I just enjoy agenda-free time, to drink coffee, read a newspaper and write.
Have lately been amused by the Eliot Spitzer brouhaha. Nothing like that after dinner mint of political scandal, to entertain and distract from the depressing and tedious reality of the economy and the war. What does surprise me is that this sort of activity shocks anybody. Reminds me of my very Catholic, French-raised grandmother who declined to watch some Life-of-Christ inspired movie on the premise that she "knew the story." She did, however, watch "Emmanuelle," a soft-porn of the late seventies, presumably to stay abreast of what the young were up to in those days and was known to loudly and publicly remark afterwards, "___, ___, ___, doesn't anybody f... anymore?" Or maybe it's like the old joke "Why do women watch porn? To see if they get married at the end."
At any rate, politicians, prostitutes and crimes seeming to be linked from time out of mind, it's the petty details that interest me. The more unctuously sanctimonious, full of self-righteous cant the public persona; the more entertaining the skeletons likely to be clangoring about their closet. This is why, for those who have ever had to answer to the finger-wagging and opprobrium of others, it's expedient to ascribe to those voices of outrage the most deviant behavior imaginable, which works pretty well...if you've got a dirty mind.
What iconography, what "bons mots" will come to be associated with these stale lusts? What contradictions are offered by the public posturing and the private perversions; what legal terminology and period details will be used to define their crimes--"Back to family values," a taste for asphyxia, call girls and Russian spies with Profumo; the mass-market blue dress from the Gap added a de Toquevillian touch to the Clinton era, "Not a penny more, not a penny less" came back to haunt novel-writing Lord Archer, in this case it's the anti-terrorism laws governing financial transfers and the Mann act for Spitzer. I was reassured to learn that a top-drawer whore still earns more than the equivalent industry consultant, although they both are limited to selling their time. Ultimately though, based on who was writing the checks, it would appear, for those who successfully overcome certain constraints involving time and reality, there's still more money to be made f--ing with people's minds.
Personally, my favorite detail was the name Q.A.T. Consulting. It's exactly the kind of acronym-based, pretentious little name an Internet-related company would choose for itself, yet possessing exactly what most of those names lack, a dash of delightfully sardonic and self-aware humor--not always surprising for those in the business of catering to more literal or littoral humours. Sort of like the Cheetah's credit card signature being "Alluvia," or a company with a human resources incentive program called "Brave New World," or the little chuckle elicited by the Latinate name of a short-lived software consultancy called "Ars Digita."
Have lately been amused by the Eliot Spitzer brouhaha. Nothing like that after dinner mint of political scandal, to entertain and distract from the depressing and tedious reality of the economy and the war. What does surprise me is that this sort of activity shocks anybody. Reminds me of my very Catholic, French-raised grandmother who declined to watch some Life-of-Christ inspired movie on the premise that she "knew the story." She did, however, watch "Emmanuelle," a soft-porn of the late seventies, presumably to stay abreast of what the young were up to in those days and was known to loudly and publicly remark afterwards, "___, ___, ___, doesn't anybody f... anymore?" Or maybe it's like the old joke "Why do women watch porn? To see if they get married at the end."
At any rate, politicians, prostitutes and crimes seeming to be linked from time out of mind, it's the petty details that interest me. The more unctuously sanctimonious, full of self-righteous cant the public persona; the more entertaining the skeletons likely to be clangoring about their closet. This is why, for those who have ever had to answer to the finger-wagging and opprobrium of others, it's expedient to ascribe to those voices of outrage the most deviant behavior imaginable, which works pretty well...if you've got a dirty mind.
What iconography, what "bons mots" will come to be associated with these stale lusts? What contradictions are offered by the public posturing and the private perversions; what legal terminology and period details will be used to define their crimes--"Back to family values," a taste for asphyxia, call girls and Russian spies with Profumo; the mass-market blue dress from the Gap added a de Toquevillian touch to the Clinton era, "Not a penny more, not a penny less" came back to haunt novel-writing Lord Archer, in this case it's the anti-terrorism laws governing financial transfers and the Mann act for Spitzer. I was reassured to learn that a top-drawer whore still earns more than the equivalent industry consultant, although they both are limited to selling their time. Ultimately though, based on who was writing the checks, it would appear, for those who successfully overcome certain constraints involving time and reality, there's still more money to be made f--ing with people's minds.
Personally, my favorite detail was the name Q.A.T. Consulting. It's exactly the kind of acronym-based, pretentious little name an Internet-related company would choose for itself, yet possessing exactly what most of those names lack, a dash of delightfully sardonic and self-aware humor--not always surprising for those in the business of catering to more literal or littoral humours. Sort of like the Cheetah's credit card signature being "Alluvia," or a company with a human resources incentive program called "Brave New World," or the little chuckle elicited by the Latinate name of a short-lived software consultancy called "Ars Digita."
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Martin Lukes Goes to Jail
My father is always criticizing me for not reading the Atlanta newspaper and keeping up with the local news. I blame it on the fact that I grew up here in the eighties. My memories of local news coverage run something along the lines of "Atlanta Zoo initiates program where local children can come and 'Watch TV with (local gorilla) Willie B'." Lately, my hometown and the surrounding 'burbs (OTP) have proven nationally newsworthy with such diverse personages and events as the Mansion Madam, the Runaway Bride and the Michael Vick dog-fighting charges.
Nevertheless, it never occurred to me that I would pick up the pages of the Financial Times, that daily broadsheet of the dismal science, and realize that I had missed out on the daily goings on of a juicy trial taking place in my own back yard. Today, I was introduced to "the great chief leader" of Atlanta-based multi-national a-b global, the iconic thought leader and world-class communicator, who re-defined management thinking with his foundational concepts: creovative(tm) and integethical(tm).
According to the FT, Mr. Lukes has just been sentenced to 2 years and three months in federal prison on three counts of insider trading, which he will likely serve in FCI Coleman, a correctional complex in central Florida.
Nevertheless, it never occurred to me that I would pick up the pages of the Financial Times, that daily broadsheet of the dismal science, and realize that I had missed out on the daily goings on of a juicy trial taking place in my own back yard. Today, I was introduced to "the great chief leader" of Atlanta-based multi-national a-b global, the iconic thought leader and world-class communicator, who re-defined management thinking with his foundational concepts: creovative(tm) and integethical(tm).
According to the FT, Mr. Lukes has just been sentenced to 2 years and three months in federal prison on three counts of insider trading, which he will likely serve in FCI Coleman, a correctional complex in central Florida.
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