On The Lighter Side
The Tambourine of Woe and Other Such Things
I am fascinated by how sayings and celebrations come to be, because it usually turns out to be something quite different from what you’d expect. And I like that.
Recently, Ben and I were discussing Easter and just how the heck bunnies and eggs got thrown into the mix, since nowhere in the bible does it make reference to eggs and bunnies having anything to do with Jesus' death and rebirth... Well, ask and you shall receive—the other night I read a book by Thom Hartman, in which he explains this mysterious combination:
When the Roman Empire converted to Christianity, it couldn't quite get the support of the masses without keeping some of their pagan religion, so they changed the Jewish Passover and combined it with their Roman spring equinox worshipping ritual. The fertility goddess, Ichtar [pronounced Easter] had to be appeased every spring with fertility rituals, such as eating large amounts of eggs and sprinkling fresh blood from highly fertile animals on the ground. And there you have it. Every God-fearing Catholic and Christian on the face of the earth, symbolically sacrificing sugar bunnies and chocolate eggs to a sexy Roman goddess while singing the lord's praises. Go figure.
Another mystery, that I've contemplated more than once, is the Christmas tree. It's nice; don't get me wrong. The whole thing is quite lovely, and personally I always figured it went together with the story of St. Nicholaus, who put dowries into the stockings of poor young girls, so that they would be able to get married. But, I couldn't remember ever hearing about St. Nicholaus dealing with pine trees during his nightly charity runs. As it turns out, the Christmas tree stems from an old Celtic tradition.
Back in the days, your average folks didn't have a clue about the rotation of the earth along a tilting axis—causing the days to lengthen and shorten—so every winter they feared their world was coming to an end, as the days grew darker. The Celtic priests, however, had this all figured out and vowed to use their supernatural powers to re-ignite the sun. So, they asked the townsfolk to bring them the biggest pine tree they could find—right around December 25 (the winter solstice)—and haul it up the highest hill. There they lit it on fire, while the priest commanded the sun to return. Presto! Nature would comply over the next several weeks and the priest was heralded by the minions of the less educated.
It just so happened that Rome chose this particular [European] tree-burning time of year to celebrate the birth of Jesus (which is more likely to be sometime in March or April), and now we all celebrate his birth in December with paganistically lit pine trees in our living rooms, and give each other gifts thanks to the dowry-giving example set by St. Nicholaus.
This brings me to the less known phenomenon of "The Tambourine of Woe". This saying is frequently used in reference to something that is, well... woeful.
At the beginning, there was Disney World. Ben and I, and our pirate-loving pack of friends were meandering through the Pirates of the Caribbean store, in search of Disney loot, and found... a tambourine. "Behold! The Tambourine of WOE!" Tom bellowed.
"The tambourine of what?" Ben said.
"WOE!"
"Why ‘tambourine of woe’?" Ben asked, suspiciously eyeing the instrument.
"Put out your hands," said Tom. Ben complied, and with a ferocious WHACK! Tom cracked him over the knuckles with the tambourine.
"WHOAOW!" Ben hollered across the fairylands, hopping with his hands between his kneecaps.
"That is why, it is the Tambourine of Woe!" Tom said.
And there you have it.
Love 3052
Ben and I sat on our patio discussing reincarnation - pre-planning our first date, for the next go-around, to be exact. Our next sojourn of bliss is now scheduled for the year 3052. I’m an intergalactic space ranger - a female with eyes like pools of dark chocolate and silky smooth skin in a lovely hue of Robins-egg blue - piloting the brand new InnerFlight 5000: the fastest five-man crew ship in the outer territory, with a point-to-point speed of IM2 (Instantaneous Minus 2 [seconds]) Which means: I’m so fast, I get there ahead of time.
Ben is an award-winning reconstitution chef, specializing in high-energetic nano-food particles. Stationed on the small and exclusive resort-planet Gaudea, he whips up elaborate dishes that once consumed seeks out constitutional deficiencies and automatically transforms into the appropriate substance.
“I stop by Gaudea one day - to defrag from an especially taxing month of brainwave surveillance - and order the Chef Special,” I said and took a sip from my coffee mug, watching him to see where he’d take the story.
“And the order-specialist tells me a red-hot blue chick just asked for my masterpiece, and I decide to bring it out myself,” Ben said, wagging his eyebrows up and down at me.
“So, do I get a drink on-the-house with that meal?” I asked.
“Oh, you get a lot more than a drink - at my house,” Ben replied with a mischievous smile.
“Pretty presumptuous, don’t you think? After all, I am a woman of the law,” I said.
“Not at all. Because you recognize me, just like we’re planning right now, and you say: ‘Hey, you’re the happy gimp that brought joy and laughter to my life, back in the earth-days’,” he said lyrically.
I laughed and nodded as he continued: “and I say: ‘Yes! And just look at me now, baby. I’m new and improved - I have four legs’.”
Widgets and Whatgets?
I just figured out how to add a subscription feed and a page counter to my blog page. I am a friggin' GENIUS!
Please. Please, don't laugh! I'm really proud of this feat, for when it comes to technology, I am all thumbs and no brains. Really. This despite the fact that I'm part of a group of independent contractors, working on several technology related projects.
As the token female in this group of testosterone-packed techie-geeks, I am like a leather-bound Filofax in a bag full of Palm Pilots and Pocket PC's.
(It may seem like an oxymoron to hire someone like me in an industry like this, but I'm actually hired more or less specifically for my lack of technological know-how, in order to "humanize" the applications, as well as supply old-fashioned editing and research skills.)
"Ok, so what we're going for here is a feature similar to the Apple Widgets," Larry started off.
Apple...Widget. Now, is that kinda like a thingamabob, a doohickey or more like a whatschamacallit?
Hmmm... I looked around the room. Am I the only one who doesn’t know what a Widget is? Poker faces all around.
"Er, 'scuse me," I chimed in, "what on earth are you talking about?"
Turns out this widget-thingy is a small, independent application that reside on your desktop, and is used for quick reference on things that you want to keep track of, like stocks, weather conditions and who your husband is sleeping with. Ok, I made that last part up. But it's supposed to be pretty handy. At least, that's what I hear from people who actually know what they are and how to use them.
What was that? Was that actually a flash of relief running across their faces? Perhaps some of these blokes are bluffing?
"Alright, moving on," he said. "Ami, I'll need you to research the most common sources for RSS feeds."
You must be joking.
"Uhm, 'scuse me. One more question..."
If ya can't stand the heat...
Have you ever been to a family gathering where people didn't spend half the time talking about their illnesses and physical woes?
I haven't. And our trip to Finland, this past July, proved to be no exception.
Foot problems, apparently, is an issue in our family. Lots of colorful foot-complaining during our coffee klatches. I myself have a hallux valgus--fancy name for a big ole' knob sticking out the side by the big toe. Although I've had it since age fourteen or so, it's a never-ending source of conversation for some of my relatives.
"What's up with that, girl. You've got a sixth toe growing on the side there!" my uncle-in-law pointed out.
Uhuh. Been there for the past twenty-some years, remember--old news already.
"No, really. Let me see. What on earth is that?" he said.
"Brrr! It's cold here. I thought it would be a lot warmer, based on what everyone had been telling me," I said, trying to change the topic away from my sandal-clad bunion, to something not as humorous-at-my-expense.
"Oh no, this is nice!" he said. "Is it much hotter in Florida?"
"Yes. Very. About 90-95 degrees when we left."
"Oh, my lord. That's too hot!" he said.
"Well. You get used to it," I said. To which he replied, "Hmmph! Why on earth would you want to live in a place where it's so hot, even your feet start growing extra toes?!"
Label Makers.
No, not those handy suckers that anal-retentive types, like myself, can use to create indispensable stick-on's for anything from file folders and binders, to book shelves, toy boxes and art-and-crafts drawers. No, I'm talking about the people who so haphazardly throw labels at you in their misguided attempts at impressing you with their astonishing mind-reading skills and psychological insight into your personality.
Some of these people are so good at this you don't even realize they're doing it, until schmack, it hits you across the face and there's nothing you can do to evade it. You have to just sit there and *smile*, with a big fat post-it hanging from your eyebrow.
Just recently, Ben and I attended a seminar/presentation for alternative health practitioners. It was great. Just great. Until I developed severe chills. No matter how many scarves I wrapped around me, I just couldn't keep warm.
The Doctor--esteemed Doctor--mind you, well versed in both western and eastern medicine, proceeded to use me as a live example, right there and then. Diagnosed me with a Yang deficiency and prescribed the proper formula to remedy the problem. What he didn't give me a remedy for though, was the personal label he so graciously tacked on to my diagnosis.
"Yang deficiency is a sign of a very controlling-natured person," he began. "I bet she wears the pants around the house and keeps everything in order, doesn't she?" he asked Ben, who suddenly developed an uncontrollable itch at the seat of his pants.
"Well,” he started off, "she's very organized. But other than that, she's actually very laid back. She has learned to control her controlling nature over the years," he said, at which the Doctor laughed out loud to the point of nearly choking.
"She's in control of her controlling nature?! What does that become? Controlling squared?"
Alright, maybe I am a bit controlling. Maybe I am just a tad obsessive-compulsive about some details--ok, all details--like the way I like my clothes organized by sleeve length, or the way my folders are labeled on my computer, or the way the vase on the counter is turned just so, or whether I used one too many commas in a sentence. But, when it comes right down to it, somebody’s got to do it. May as well be me. Just wish I could get that damn post-it glue off my forehead, is all.
Signs, Signs Everywhere!
Sometimes there's no mistaking the "signs of the times"...
It all started with the speeding ticket yesterday. "Do you know why I stopped you?" the officer asked. No idea. "Did you see the blinking light back there?" Why, yes I did. But it wasn't blinking. "Yes, it was. I turned it on myself," said the officer and handed over a ticket for 255 dollars--the punishment for doing 10 mph over the speed limit in a supposed 20 mph zone.
It's a *%#@! quota scam, I grumble to myself. Michael, my spirit guide, chuckled over my shoulder.
Na, you deserved that one, he said.
Did not! There was no blinking light!
Yes, there was, he said.
Was not!
You're not paying attention to the obvious, he said.
Letting it go, which was my original plan, didn't go as well as I'd hoped. This morning I had an early job across town--now doing my best geriatrics impression behind the wheel, watching my speed (some poor mofo's already gotten pulled over by an unmarked cop car)--keeping it right around 57mph, when all of a sudden a police officer walks out into the middle of the highway and starts to pick up trash. Five in our cruising posse stand on our breaks and scatter across the surrounding lanes. Whoa! Don't they give these guys free highway-loitering-safety-classes?
Sitting at a red-light, I cautiously inch forward for a (legal) right-hand-turn-on-red. Everyone's standing still. I do one more quick right-left look-see, and a black sports car screams through the intersection, barely missing my front bumper.
Just one more stop and then I can go home and lock the doors.
I'm sliding out of the ATM lane at the local bank when I catch a glance of the banking screen, as I yank my seat belt back on. "Do you want another transaction?" Well, no. And I should probably get my card back too before I leave...Does early onset of Altzheimer's run in our family?
Ok, cruising right along now. Got my card, just need to get out of the parking lot. A four-door sedan backs out in front of me. Black. Again. But this time I am totally ready--moving at two inches per hour. He smiles and waves thanks at me.
Almost home free! Now all I need to do is make a right hand turn, back onto the highway...Yup, it would be a "one-way" turn, wouldn't it?
I'm going back to bed.
