22 April 2012
Story #520
R. Linda:
It's pouring rain today, and there's the usual sluggish attitude: no one feels much like doing anything or being social. The boys are in their room playing with toys, the dogs are asleep, as is Mr Kits, and I pretty much lazed around reading the newspapers while Tonya. . well, Tonya did her Tonya thing, which was to look busy but accomplish nothing. Yup.
In the middle of this dreary day, the phone rang. I was glad I did not answer it because it was the New Jersey Devil, I mean Dragon-in-law, ringing up Tonya about the impending trip to Ireland. Dragon went to the US government website for information about travelling to Ireland. It said something about wearing clothes to "blend in" so petty thievery doesn't unload one of their valuables, and not to be surprised if by announcing to an Irish person or persons that one be from the good old US of A, they get a barrage of badmouthing. None of this Tonya knew about, so instead of getting off the phone and chatting her lazy husband up about his homeland, she does the unthinkable; she says, "Hold on, Mom, here's Gabe. He can tell you about that."
As soon as I heard me name, me head popped up from me newspaper, and I tried waving and shaking me head at her that NO NO NO, do not give me to her on the phone. TOO FREAKING LATE!
So I got up and sat meself down (because I never get the pleasure of a two-minute conversation. It goes on for torturous hours), and I asked her what was up. Well, she told me (and she was in a tizzy of a panic over this).
"First off," I said, "since the terrorist list began here and the UK adopted it over there, and Northern Ireland being part of the UK, they didn't like the insinuation they might be considered a terrorist state because of groups like the IRA and the UVF and whatever new group be floating around over there. So they had to blame it on someone, so they blamed it on the people who started it, and that's the American people. And some still haven't got over the Iraq war."
Silence on the other end. Then, "That's plain silly." She said.
"Well, that's the way it be. So the website tells you not to go around announcing your nationality because some people (not all) may take offence, AND that means not to wear anything with flags; you know how the American flag is on t-shirts? THAT. And if I were you, I'd make sure Mr. A doesn't pick himself up a t-shirt with a British flag either. As a matter of fact, I'd not wear a flag of any country if I were you."
"Oh, my gravy! Then what are we to wear?"
This made me silent. I thought to meself, is she japing with me? Were she and Mr. going to wear clothing with flags the entire time we were there? FLAGS? Really? So I asked her.
"Neither of us wears t-shirts, but I have a denim jacket with a sequinned American flag on the back, which I wanted to wear."
"Well . . . leave it home. You should wear what the Irish wear. That would be the layered look. For Mr. A, that would be a shirt with a sweater over it, jeans, trainers (that would be running shoes to you), and a light jacket, and he should be all set."
"Oh my God, he'll look strange dressed like that. He normally wears Haggar slacks and a Polo shirt, so I don't know if he'll have to go out shopping. What you suggest sounds very young for him."
I wanted to hang up—I really, really did. But I said that usually, the way he's dressed is fine, so don't worry about it.
I didn't, but I wanted to say that he'd be fine if you could get him to put the expensive gold chains that adorn his neck in profusion, the watch, and all those rings away. Then I thought, well, duh! I'd better say something because he'd be a magnet for thievery. Yes, he would, so I decided I'd better mention that.
"Oh, I don't know, Gabriel, he cannot part from all of that. He'd feel naked."
I sat back, visualising us at some tourist stop with the petty thieves looking us over. And yup, instantly, the target would be the muscle man with the gold. I wondered how many it would take to take him down. A lot. OK, then, he can wear his jewellery. I just won't be standing next to him. The sound of her screeching voice awoke me from my reverie: "HONEE, GABRIEL THINKS YOU SHOULD LEAVE YOUR GOLD CHAINS AND WATCH HOME!"
I heard him snort. Like RIGHT.
"Well, I have my usual array of finery. I take it; is it just too fine for over there?" She chirped through the phone at me.
OH MY GOD. I wanted to tell her that not everyone in Ireland be still experiencing the famine. Come on! I bit me tongue. Of course, her "finery", as she calls it, is also a boatload of jewels up and down the arms, rings that sparkle so much they could light up the catacombs, and necklaces GALORE! But aside, the blowsy blouses, with all the colours- well, an African tribesman would think her quite the catch, the stretch slacks to complete the outfit- were also outstanding to someone looking for a tourist. Tourist bait for sure, the only thing that would fit into an Irish girl's dress would be the ballet slippers the Dragon jams her big feet into. But then I remembered, like you and those orange and pink Crocs, the Dragon has multi-neon coloured ballet slippers to suit every occasion! Oi!
"What would you suggest she wear, Gabe?" me wife whispered. Can you just see her in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt?"
I winced. I wished there was something to blind my inner imagination so I couldn't picture that image, but I did, and it was horrible!
"Well, Mrs. A, you should dress in layers: a nice sweater, a pretty blouse, preferably not silk, and maybe one necklace or, even better, a scarf." I sounded like a gay man. I did. "Perhaps keep the slacks and just one black pair of slippers. That should do nicely."
"Well . . . I guess I could do that." She moaned. "One more thing, Gabriel, I understand they don't take Euros in Northern Ireland?"
"No, they take pounds," I said, hoping this was the last of it.
"Why not? That's stupid. It is Ireland."
"Uh, no, it's not Ireland. Well, it is, but it isn't. The north is still part of the UK, so they use pounds."
"I don't understand that it's STILL IRELAND."
"Uh, no, it's the UK. You are visiting two countries for all intents and purposes." I said, hoping that I wasn't asked for a detailed history of WHY.
"Well, I can use my credit card, can't I? And what is chirp and click?"
"Chip and pin, it be the new credit cards with the chips in them, but you don't have to worry about having one. You can still swipe your card, just no debit cards. I'll tell you what: When we have nothing to do while we are being driven around Ireland, I'll be happy to fill the time and explain chip and pin to you." I was getting knackered by this. I wanted off the phone in the worst way.
"Oh, that reminds me. Tell Tonya, the itinerary I sent her a few weeks ago is correct, according to Daaruk and Radhani."
"Who?"
"Our travel guides."
"Our travel guides are someone named Daaruk and Radhani? Those aren't Irish names. What is that?" I asked, suddenly suspicious of where we were REALLY going.
"They are Indian, not American Indian, India Indian. They are from Bangalore, India."
"Are YOU telling me that two Indian nationals are taking us on a tour of Ireland?" I asked, barely getting the words out, so incredulous was I.
"Yes, is there something wrong?" She sounded genuinely perplexed.
"Uh . . . no. Nothing at all," I said, handing the phone off to Tonya, who had come back into the room from wherever she had been hiding.
I had to sit down, but first, I went into the kitchen, reached the top cupboard, got down the bottle of Jameson, and then a glass. I filled it to the brim and came back into the lounge. I sat down and started sipping, in the hopes I'd pass out or maybe get such a case of alcohol poisoning I'd be incapacitated for WEEKS, MONTHS, perhaps even YEARS!
WHO DOES THAT? WHO BOOKS A TOUR FROM INDIA TO SEE IRELAND? Has the woman not heard Ireland has a TOURIST BOARD?
"Anything else you want to tell my mom before I hang up?" Tonya asked me.
"Uh . . . yeah, tell her not to worry about what to wear; it's easy. She can buy a few saris, and Mr. A should wear a kurta dhoti or just tell him to get a long white sheet and dress like Gandhi. Then they'll be all set."
Tonya stood there, frowning at me like I had lost my mind, and then she returned to her mother.
"No, he has nothing to add, Mom. Okay, love you too, tell Dad we send our love, bye-bye," Tonya said, and then after hanging up the instrument of bad news, she came into the lounge and at once saw me full glass of Jameson.
"You know you really need to stop that. Just because my mother calls is not an excuse to drink to excess. Are you trying to kill yourself?" She asked me.
I looked up at her. "I hadn't thought of THAT. What a good option!"
"Stop it. Give me that glass, and I'll split it with you; you can't drink all that."
"Oh yes, I can, and darling, you might pour yourself one as well and just as full," I said.
She stopped and looked at me, the ultimate question of WHY on her face.
"Uh . . . go get a glass, and I'll split this. Then I'll tell you about my conversation with YOUR mother, and then, as need be, we'll fill your glass up JUST LIKE MINE. So bring the bottle back with you!"
"No, what?" She said, arms akimbo, which meant business, and TELL ME NOW, GABRIEL, OR I SWEAR . . .
So I told her, and she slowly collapsed into a chair. Then she got up, took the drink from me, and took a swig.
"HEY! GET YOUR OWN!" I said, taking it back.
She sat back down and said nothing. She just sat there. THINKING. Yup, I went in and got her a glass of her very own, and she's still sitting there THINKING and sipping. Yup.
Welcome to my world!
Author's note: The Dragon-in-law played a joke on me with the India tour guides. There were no such people or tours. She does things like that just to disrupt me happy life. The tour was one recommended by the Irish Tourist Board, so we were fine after all.
Gabe
Copyright © 2012 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
It's pouring rain today, and there's the usual sluggish attitude: no one feels much like doing anything or being social. The boys are in their room playing with toys, the dogs are asleep, as is Mr Kits, and I pretty much lazed around reading the newspapers while Tonya. . well, Tonya did her Tonya thing, which was to look busy but accomplish nothing. Yup.
In the middle of this dreary day, the phone rang. I was glad I did not answer it because it was the New Jersey Devil, I mean Dragon-in-law, ringing up Tonya about the impending trip to Ireland. Dragon went to the US government website for information about travelling to Ireland. It said something about wearing clothes to "blend in" so petty thievery doesn't unload one of their valuables, and not to be surprised if by announcing to an Irish person or persons that one be from the good old US of A, they get a barrage of badmouthing. None of this Tonya knew about, so instead of getting off the phone and chatting her lazy husband up about his homeland, she does the unthinkable; she says, "Hold on, Mom, here's Gabe. He can tell you about that."
As soon as I heard me name, me head popped up from me newspaper, and I tried waving and shaking me head at her that NO NO NO, do not give me to her on the phone. TOO FREAKING LATE!
So I got up and sat meself down (because I never get the pleasure of a two-minute conversation. It goes on for torturous hours), and I asked her what was up. Well, she told me (and she was in a tizzy of a panic over this).
"First off," I said, "since the terrorist list began here and the UK adopted it over there, and Northern Ireland being part of the UK, they didn't like the insinuation they might be considered a terrorist state because of groups like the IRA and the UVF and whatever new group be floating around over there. So they had to blame it on someone, so they blamed it on the people who started it, and that's the American people. And some still haven't got over the Iraq war."
Silence on the other end. Then, "That's plain silly." She said.
"Well, that's the way it be. So the website tells you not to go around announcing your nationality because some people (not all) may take offence, AND that means not to wear anything with flags; you know how the American flag is on t-shirts? THAT. And if I were you, I'd make sure Mr. A doesn't pick himself up a t-shirt with a British flag either. As a matter of fact, I'd not wear a flag of any country if I were you."
"Oh, my gravy! Then what are we to wear?"
This made me silent. I thought to meself, is she japing with me? Were she and Mr. going to wear clothing with flags the entire time we were there? FLAGS? Really? So I asked her.
"Neither of us wears t-shirts, but I have a denim jacket with a sequinned American flag on the back, which I wanted to wear."
"Well . . . leave it home. You should wear what the Irish wear. That would be the layered look. For Mr. A, that would be a shirt with a sweater over it, jeans, trainers (that would be running shoes to you), and a light jacket, and he should be all set."
"Oh my God, he'll look strange dressed like that. He normally wears Haggar slacks and a Polo shirt, so I don't know if he'll have to go out shopping. What you suggest sounds very young for him."
I wanted to hang up—I really, really did. But I said that usually, the way he's dressed is fine, so don't worry about it.
I didn't, but I wanted to say that he'd be fine if you could get him to put the expensive gold chains that adorn his neck in profusion, the watch, and all those rings away. Then I thought, well, duh! I'd better say something because he'd be a magnet for thievery. Yes, he would, so I decided I'd better mention that.
"Oh, I don't know, Gabriel, he cannot part from all of that. He'd feel naked."
I sat back, visualising us at some tourist stop with the petty thieves looking us over. And yup, instantly, the target would be the muscle man with the gold. I wondered how many it would take to take him down. A lot. OK, then, he can wear his jewellery. I just won't be standing next to him. The sound of her screeching voice awoke me from my reverie: "HONEE, GABRIEL THINKS YOU SHOULD LEAVE YOUR GOLD CHAINS AND WATCH HOME!"
I heard him snort. Like RIGHT.
"Well, I have my usual array of finery. I take it; is it just too fine for over there?" She chirped through the phone at me.
OH MY GOD. I wanted to tell her that not everyone in Ireland be still experiencing the famine. Come on! I bit me tongue. Of course, her "finery", as she calls it, is also a boatload of jewels up and down the arms, rings that sparkle so much they could light up the catacombs, and necklaces GALORE! But aside, the blowsy blouses, with all the colours- well, an African tribesman would think her quite the catch, the stretch slacks to complete the outfit- were also outstanding to someone looking for a tourist. Tourist bait for sure, the only thing that would fit into an Irish girl's dress would be the ballet slippers the Dragon jams her big feet into. But then I remembered, like you and those orange and pink Crocs, the Dragon has multi-neon coloured ballet slippers to suit every occasion! Oi!
"What would you suggest she wear, Gabe?" me wife whispered. Can you just see her in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt?"
I winced. I wished there was something to blind my inner imagination so I couldn't picture that image, but I did, and it was horrible!
"Well, Mrs. A, you should dress in layers: a nice sweater, a pretty blouse, preferably not silk, and maybe one necklace or, even better, a scarf." I sounded like a gay man. I did. "Perhaps keep the slacks and just one black pair of slippers. That should do nicely."
"Well . . . I guess I could do that." She moaned. "One more thing, Gabriel, I understand they don't take Euros in Northern Ireland?"
"No, they take pounds," I said, hoping this was the last of it.
"Why not? That's stupid. It is Ireland."
"Uh, no, it's not Ireland. Well, it is, but it isn't. The north is still part of the UK, so they use pounds."
"I don't understand that it's STILL IRELAND."
"Uh, no, it's the UK. You are visiting two countries for all intents and purposes." I said, hoping that I wasn't asked for a detailed history of WHY.
"Well, I can use my credit card, can't I? And what is chirp and click?"
"Chip and pin, it be the new credit cards with the chips in them, but you don't have to worry about having one. You can still swipe your card, just no debit cards. I'll tell you what: When we have nothing to do while we are being driven around Ireland, I'll be happy to fill the time and explain chip and pin to you." I was getting knackered by this. I wanted off the phone in the worst way.
"Oh, that reminds me. Tell Tonya, the itinerary I sent her a few weeks ago is correct, according to Daaruk and Radhani."
"Who?"
"Our travel guides."
"Our travel guides are someone named Daaruk and Radhani? Those aren't Irish names. What is that?" I asked, suddenly suspicious of where we were REALLY going.
"They are Indian, not American Indian, India Indian. They are from Bangalore, India."
"Are YOU telling me that two Indian nationals are taking us on a tour of Ireland?" I asked, barely getting the words out, so incredulous was I.
"Yes, is there something wrong?" She sounded genuinely perplexed.
"Uh . . . no. Nothing at all," I said, handing the phone off to Tonya, who had come back into the room from wherever she had been hiding.
I had to sit down, but first, I went into the kitchen, reached the top cupboard, got down the bottle of Jameson, and then a glass. I filled it to the brim and came back into the lounge. I sat down and started sipping, in the hopes I'd pass out or maybe get such a case of alcohol poisoning I'd be incapacitated for WEEKS, MONTHS, perhaps even YEARS!
WHO DOES THAT? WHO BOOKS A TOUR FROM INDIA TO SEE IRELAND? Has the woman not heard Ireland has a TOURIST BOARD?
"Anything else you want to tell my mom before I hang up?" Tonya asked me.
"Uh . . . yeah, tell her not to worry about what to wear; it's easy. She can buy a few saris, and Mr. A should wear a kurta dhoti or just tell him to get a long white sheet and dress like Gandhi. Then they'll be all set."
Tonya stood there, frowning at me like I had lost my mind, and then she returned to her mother.
"No, he has nothing to add, Mom. Okay, love you too, tell Dad we send our love, bye-bye," Tonya said, and then after hanging up the instrument of bad news, she came into the lounge and at once saw me full glass of Jameson.
"You know you really need to stop that. Just because my mother calls is not an excuse to drink to excess. Are you trying to kill yourself?" She asked me.
I looked up at her. "I hadn't thought of THAT. What a good option!"
"Stop it. Give me that glass, and I'll split it with you; you can't drink all that."
"Oh yes, I can, and darling, you might pour yourself one as well and just as full," I said.
She stopped and looked at me, the ultimate question of WHY on her face.
"Uh . . . go get a glass, and I'll split this. Then I'll tell you about my conversation with YOUR mother, and then, as need be, we'll fill your glass up JUST LIKE MINE. So bring the bottle back with you!"
"No, what?" She said, arms akimbo, which meant business, and TELL ME NOW, GABRIEL, OR I SWEAR . . .
So I told her, and she slowly collapsed into a chair. Then she got up, took the drink from me, and took a swig.
"HEY! GET YOUR OWN!" I said, taking it back.
She sat back down and said nothing. She just sat there. THINKING. Yup, I went in and got her a glass of her very own, and she's still sitting there THINKING and sipping. Yup.
Welcome to my world!
Author's note: The Dragon-in-law played a joke on me with the India tour guides. There were no such people or tours. She does things like that just to disrupt me happy life. The tour was one recommended by the Irish Tourist Board, so we were fine after all.
Gabe
Copyright © 2012 All rights reserved
