Mensamom’s Musings

About a year ago, my husband asked me to come look at something on his computer.  Not sure how he had stumbled onto it, but he had discovered Steampunk.  Sometimes he’s cutting edge, sometimes he’s late to the party.  This time, I think he was a little of both.  For the uninitiated, Steampunk is that unique fusion of the modern and the antique – technology and Victorian styling.  For great visuals, rent Wild Wild West, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Van Helsing or Sherlock Holmes (the Robert Downey, Jr. version).   And while it is certainly not something you find in the mainstream, its popularity is prolific.  There is a huge culture surrounding Steampunk, as evidenced by the size of its Wikipedia page.  There are myriad sites devoted to the asthetic – blogs, shopping sites, and music (one of my faves being Abney Park).  If you are looking for it, you will be able to find it, but like many counter-culture things, it is not going to jump up in front of your face and advertise itself.  Usually I find new things because of the variety of sites I surf and things other people send to me.  Tonight I came across the next thing for modern-day authors to covet, thank you Twitter and Roger Ebert.

For your consideration: the USB Typewriter.  Jack Zylkin is a genius and I humbly bow down to him.  I want one of these!  Preferably the Underwood, but I’m not entirely certain about the green.  My sensibilities say it should be flat black.  I remember having to take typing in high school (my mother told me it would be a useful skill, no matter what field I decided to go into, because I could always make money in college by typing other students’ papers for them).  It took effort and deliberation to push down the keys of a manual typewriter (yes, I’m that old – or my school didn’t have the money to get that many electric typewriters – you decide).  And God forbid if you made a mistake.  Your only choice then was to either try and correct it manually or start all over.  That takes dedication.  You really have to be committed to what you are writing, otherwise each time you type it, it changes a little.  I guess that is the beauty of the writing process.  Each draft includes changes, until you just don’t change it anymore.

Anyway, I am ready to shop.  I am wondering if Jack would custom-make one of these for me if I came up with the typewriter.  I am thinking of one of those 50 pound jobs that comes with no warning labels or attorney-drafted disclaimers against such things as strained backs or crushed fingers.  But of course, I would also need to get an iPad . . . which begs the question: if I am old enough to remember manual typewriters, does that mean I am too old to be on Santa’s watch list?

Santa, if you are reading this, you know what I want . . . .

Humans are, by nature, social animals.  We have an innate need to interact with others of our species.  We talk, we touch, we exchange thoughts and ideas, we disagree, we fight, and sometimes it gets down-right ugly, but at the heart of it all is the interaction with another human.  We weren’t meant to be alone.  Sometimes though, those interactions have unexpected results.

I had breakfast with a dear friend the other day, and we spent several hours “catching up,” discussing the various aspects of our daily lives and the troubles we are facing and how we are handling all of it.  Of course, the occasion began ominously, with the wait staff giving me the evil eye for bringing Starbucks into their restaurant.  The one lady finally came over to seat us and said, “We’ll let you do this this one time, but we really can’t have you brining Starbucks in.  It’s like advertising for another restaurant.”  I never knew Starbucks was a restaurant.  I always thought it was a coffee shop.  ANYWAY . . .  this particular friend is the one I would consider my “best friend.”  No topic is off limits, and all discussions are met with respect and a healthy dose of frank, in-your-face honesty.  I know that if I share something private with my friend, it goes nowhere, and she’ll be the first one to tell me I am being a idiot or an ass, as the case may be.  She will also be the first one to share a shoulder to cry on and be at the ready with a supportive hug.  Even though we are not related in any way, I could not ask for a better Sister (we informally adopted each other years ago).

Still, every now and then, when we get together, I feel a twinge of jealousy for the things she has that I don’t, tempered with a thankfulness for my own situation.  Being able to compare our joys and woes lets me take a good look at what I have and how I am coping with it.  Today was one of those days.  As our discussion progressed, in the back of my mind I could occasionally hear a little voice saying, “Oh, to be so cursed . . . ”  At other times, I would listen to her talking about her situation with her family and parents and think, “Man, am I lucky.”  Ironically, I could see the horror/compassion on her face as I told her about some of the difficulties my family is currently facing.  All in all, it was a typical get-together for us.  And yes, I did tip generously, despite (or maybe because of) the Starbucks flap.  But the point is, it is only during those times of social interaction, where we compare ourselves to those around us, that we look outside ourselves, and then look back at ourselves from the outside, and make an honest appraisal of our situations.  Not everyone is willing to go there.  Americans do have the tendency to be overly self-critical, but not in the ways we need to be.  Not everyone can accept honest criticism, especially when it means accepting the truth from the one person we trust the most – ourselves.  I continue to learn about myself every day.  Sometimes I may not like what I learn, but that is when I have to take a step back, and put it all into perspective.

Ver·klempt´ – adj.  To be overcome with emotion; extremely emotional.

Maybe it is a sign of getting older, or maybe it is just hormones, but I am finding that more and more things affect me in ways I did not foresee.  On the first day of school, I watched the 3-yr-old climb (literally, climb because they are so big) up the steps of the school bus and head to his new preschool.  My best friend asked me if I was OK, or did she need me to come over and give me a shoulder to cry on.  I told her I was fine, and I was.  To me, watching my child go off to school is no big deal.  I am excited for him and the adventures he will have there, but there are other things that have me totally bewildered.  And the ironic thing is that most of them are things that don’t even directly affect me personally, it is just the situations that get me all choked up.

There are some that I have come to expect.  Movies with tragic stories fall into this category.  You know the kind – the ones where, when you ask someone if they liked the movie, they say, “I cried during the movie, but it was a good cry.”  I am not really sure what that means, but if I am planning on seeing one of these, I make sure I have some tissues along.  I also have difficulty when I hear about harm coming to a child, but not just any harm.  When I read the paper and there is a story about a parent or other caregiver who did something to injure or kill a child, I don’t get upset, per se, I get angry.  There is no Hell good enough for those people who would willingly injure a child.  No, it is the stories of children dying from a dreadful cancer they couldn’t overcome or being hit by a car while playing that get to me.  Those “There-but-for-the-Grace-of-God-go-I” situations hit me right in the gut.

More recently, I have found myself getting worked up over those things related to pride and patriotism.  Now don’t get me wrong, I am very proud of who I am and where I come from, but I never considered myself a Flag-Waving, G0d-and-Country kind of girl.  However, things are beginning to change.  Things like the singing of our national anthem.  I have heard this song and sung this song thousands of times in my lifetime, but nowadays I find it difficult to get all the way through the song without a catch somewhere.  I choked back the tears when I saw workers in New Orleans rebuilding after the devastation of Katrina.  I held my breath while the waters climbed the banks in Nashville and prayed for the kids from our church who went to the scene three weeks after the floods receded.  And I have cried outright when seeing troop-related coverage on TV and in person.

The most recent event that caught me off-guard occurred this morning.  For the past several days, the local paper and news media have been covering the story of a local man who joined the Marines and was killed in Afghanistan.  Several friends on Facebook had posted comments related to honoring fallen heroes, but most were the generic sort of messages you see at times like this.  This soldier returned home earlier this week, and his funeral was this morning.  Until 10 days ago, I had never heard of this man.  I never met him or his family.  To the best of my knowledge, our paths never crossed.  I did not attend his visitation and was at work this morning during the funeral.  I had read the stories in the paper and looked at the pictures, but none of it meant much to me until I was at work this morning and saw the fire department blocking off our road at the corner.  I was a little confused, until I realized that the funeral procession to the cemetery was about to pass by.  The procession was amazing.  I can’t remember ever seeing anything like it.  It was led by two motorcycle officers, followed by a contingent of police, fire, and sheriff’s department vehicles, all with lights flashing.  Next came the motorcycles – 40 or 50 riders on a variety of bikes, some single riders, some with passengers behind, a few flying large American flags off their back bumpers.  The hearse, the limos, and the throng of assembled friends and family followed.  Trucks and cars with flags.  SUVs with farewell messages written on the windows.  It took a full 20 minutes for the entire parade to pass by.

As the procession was approaching our building, I was right in the middle of helping one of our customers.  As the cars went by, time seemed to stop.  I lost all track of what I was doing, and found myself staring, with one hand over my open mouth, while tears flowed silently and unceasingly down my face.  I stood there, watching, and was completely unaware of anything around me.  Nothing seemed to exist except this solemn, quiet parade passing by.  Slowly, I started to regain my sense of place and become aware of my surroundings.  I have no idea what the woman I was helping was thinking, but she seemed rather put out that she would not be able to jump in her car and drive away, as all the roads were blocked off.  I was appalled as I overheard another customer make a comment to the effect that if someone was stupid enough to join the military, they deserved whatever they got.  Right then, my sorrow turned to anger, and I just wanted to scream.  For the life of me, I could not wrap my head around how this person could be so callous as to not be affected by the devastation that this young man’s death had caused those who loved him.  I realized then how lucky I am, not only to live in a place where a young man would voluntarily sacrifice his life for his country, but also to not be so jaded that I am unable to appreciate that sacrifice.

Rest in peace, RJ.  You did good.

* Based on a true story.

Once upon a time, somewhere in Middle America, lived a woman named Mary.  Mary was a wife and mother, with a loving husband and three intelligent and polite children.  She loved to do special things for her family, especially on holidays.  Every year, she would try to get those one-of-a-kind special presents that she knew her family would love.  As the variety of things available on the internet began to grow, she would occasionally look on different web sites to compare prices or see what choices were out there, but for the most part she would do her shopping locally.  She liked to be able to see the thing she was purchasing, feel it, and make a decision based upon all the lovely intangibles that come with shopping in person.  Every once in a while she would buy something online, but usually it was only when she had already seen the thing in a store and could be assured of what she was buying.  The deciding factor always seemed to be cost – if it was significantly cheaper online, then she would get it there.

Last year at Christmas time, she made what she thought was a simple purchase.  She went to a well-known, popular online retailer called “Nile”.  Everyone shopped at Nile.com because they carried just about everything, from books to toys to movies to clothing – anything a person could want could be had at Nile.  She figured it was safe making a purchase at Nile, since they were so well-respected and were known for their exceptional customer service.  She didn’t even mind submitting the personal information Nile.com requested, like her email address.  She knew they would need a certain amount of information in order to ship her purchases.

Mary was looking for a very specific item – a book – based upon a TV series her husband liked to watch.  The show was on one of the cable channels and was all about a former spy who had been fired from his job.  Each week the spy would help a hapless victim get deserved justice, using only his amazing spy skills and the help of two friends – his on-again-off-again pyromaniac girlfriend and a retired spy friend who used to work for a competitor spy agency.  Mary’s husband, John, really liked this show and watched every episode.  John had even bought the first two seasons of the show on DVD so that he could watch it again with cast commentaries and behind-the-scenes features.  Well, when Mary discovered that someone had written a short novel based upon show detailing yet another case of unofficial justice, she knew that John would enjoy reading the book (and she was right).

Several months passed, and Mary did not give any thought to having purchased the book from Nile until the day she opened her email and found a new message from Nile.com.  The message read as follows (this text taken verbatim from Mary’s email):

As someone who has purchased or rated Burn Notice: The Fix by Tod Goldberg, you might like to know that Curious George A Winter’s Nap (CGTV Reader) (Curious George Early Readers) will be released on August 9, 2010.  You can pre-order yours by following the link below.

Now Mary was a smart woman, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not figure out what these two books could possibly have in common, other than the fact that they were books.  It’s not like her toddler son had read the novel or her husband would enjoy reading Curious George as much as he had the novel.  In the end, she came to the conclusion that Nile.com’s targeted marketing program had just gone haywire.  She shared her observations with John.  Once John quit laughing, he suggested she write about it.

So she did.

The moral to the story is “If you shop online, remember – personal service really isn’t personal.”