Googling - My Trivial Pursuit

I’m enchanted with Google. It’s so versatile: You can research your ailments and discover that every one of them is potentially fatal; and you can check on snopes.com and then ignore the warnings that service stations are fiddling with their pumps.

You can also Google yourself. I’ve done that but the results have not always been satisfactory: of the eight pages of entries under my name, 2½ are filled with background checks. I won’t go into detail but they involve a notorious namesake, a Texas Court of Appeals, and a gun.
Google allows me to see whether the person I met at a party is really as interesting as I thought he was. Or as he wanted me to think he was.
Last week, after a wonderful dinner party, I rushed upstairs to the study – yanked off my Spanx so I could think and breathe simultaneously – and hit the Google Search button on my laptop.
"What did I tell you,” I yelled down from what John calls my control panel – the desk from which I issue proclamations, edicts, and orders – “that fabulous young bartender tonight was not the star of Billy Elliot! Must have been Moira’s younger brother. The one that’s always hoping to be discovered by some talent scout.”
"I didn’t notice him, I’m afraid,” answered John, who was still contemplating the conversation he’d had with a guy from the World Bank.
What’s not to notice about a guy mixing martinis in a tutu and ballet slippers, I wondered.
Occasionally, just for recreation, I google superfluous facts. Were you aware that King Edward VIII’s proper given name was Edward Albert Christian George Andrew Patrick David? He abdicated more than 70 years ago so you can be forgiven for not knowing. But with Google’s help, I’ve memorized every syllable of his moniker. I just know that one of these days someone that’s seen the recent film The King’s Speech will stop me in the street and ask, “Do you happen to remember the proper name of King Edward VIII?” and I’ll make my public debut by rippling off this useless bit of trivia, insouciantly.
It’s tricky trying to slip such random bits of Google-gleaned information into ordinary conversation. For example, the late Pamela Harriman, America’s English-born ambassador to France, and courtesan extraordinaire, was actually Pamela Digby Churchill Hayward Harriman, thanks to a number of advantageous marriages and some nimble sexual activity.
Yet inserting these details about Pamela – and her remarkable horizontal ascent – into commonplace discussion requires unique conversational contortions: “According to Google, a bar of soap tucked between the sheets really does stop night-time leg cramps, but I’m sure Pamela Harriman didn’t need such devices in bed…”
It’s not only people I look up, but unfamiliar words as well.
Homunculus!” I cried out late one night recently, yanking off the duvet.
"No. Water softener,” mumbled John from a deep sleep, anxious to allay any fears I might have.
I dashed out of the bedroom, still clutching the book containing that mystifying word, and clicked on Google. Instantly www.homunculus.com, appeared in the search results. I clicked on it. And what I got was ‘The Iconophile: an angry web geek’s multimedia reliquary of the lesser, hard-to-find goddesses and saints of the celebrity pantheon’. The site offered, helpfully, ‘Profane Images’.
"Ohmygawd,” I whispered aloud to myself, “I think I’ve hit porn!”
I slammed the computer shut and rushed back to bed.
"Porn!” I exhaled as I slipped back into bed.
"Yup," murmured John groggily, "and it backwashes every Thursday night.”

And - marvelling at how betwen John and Google - I manage to stay pretty well informed, I turned out the light.

Desperately Seeking a Specimen

Years ago, when you returned from a third-world posting, the government would generally agree to let you undergo a tropical medical examination. This was to make sure you weren’t harbouring anything sinister in your system; that you presented no danger to your friends, family or the public at large; and probably so you couldn’t sue anyone when, twenty years later, you discovered something unfortunate hiding in your liver. 

We’d been living in Lagos, Nigeria for three years. Our daughters, Elizabeth and Katherine, were tiny and vulnerable; we’d had amoebas a number of times (something caused by a microscopic creature that leaves you feeling as though you’d had a bicycle pump applied to your intestines); and John and I had travelled all over the country under dubious hygienic conditions.  We therefore thought it wise to take advantage of this entitlement and the government’s generosity.

At the time, the Toronto General Hospital was the only place in Eastern Canada able to run these tests.  Appointments were generally arranged for the morning, presumably because patients were more likely to produce the required specimens at that time of day.  

We arrived for our appointment at 8 a.m.  The waiting room -- essentially a long narrow hall with wooden chairs arranged in a row on the left, and two doors leading to the all-important toilets on the right – was already full.  There were only two unoccupied seats and John and I each took one, perching a small daughter apiece on our laps.  Within an instant of sitting down we heard our names booming out the length of the hall.

“MR. SCHRAM!  MRS. SCHRAM!  COME HERE FOR YOUR VESSELS!”   

Nonplussed and with considerable embarrassment, we headed in the direction of the voice.  There, at the end of the long hall, behind a desk, sat a grim looking nurse, an array of what looked like Chinese restaurant take-out boxes arranged before her.

“TAKE ONE OF THESE VESSELS EACH AND GIVE ME A URINE SPECIMEN,” she announced to everyone in the room, her voice echoing off the walls.  Thirty pairs of eyes seemed to follow us as we made our way back to our seats.

No problem.  The girls and I walked through the door marked “Ladies”, did as we were told, and walked out again triumphantly, lids on our little boxes.  We handed in our specimens and sat down again. 

Then we waited.   And we waited.  And we waited, as John sat quietly with his own lidless box on his lap.  Five minutes passed.  Ten minutes.  The box stayed put.  We were prepared to sit there all day if need be, but clearly the nurse wasn’t.

“MR. SCHRAM!  MR. SCHRAM!  IF YOU CAN’T GIVE ME A SPECIMEN, I’M GOING TO HAVE TO SEND YOU TO THE COKE MACHINE!” she bellowed, accusingly. 

Heads turned.  John’s ears went pink.  A sense of failure seemed to surround him.  And another five minutes passed.

“ALRIGHT, MR. SCHRAM!  THAT’S LONG ENOUGH.  YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO GO TO THE COKE MACHINE NOW!”

John got up, walked miserably the length of the hall, past the nurse who seemed to be smirking, and off to the soft drinks machine.  He returned a few minutes later, presumably better prepared for the task.

In some seven minutes the Coke had worked its magic and John too was able to produce a small, lidded container for the insufferable nurse.  Even Elizabeth and Katherine looked relieved.

Next the crucial stool specimen.  Don’t ask me how, but the girls and I were somehow –inexplicably -- able to produce something on demand.   Once again, within moments, we emerged from the ladies’ room victoriously, our boxes sealed.   You could see the pride in our steps as we marched towards the desk and plunked our boxes down.

But John was neither so fortunate, nor so glib, and again we sat there, expectantly and supportively, together.  Once again long minutes passed.  And then the inevitable reproach:

“MR. SCHRAM!  MR. SCHRAM!  IF YOU CAN’T PRODUCE SOMETHING FOR ME IN THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES, I’M GOING TO HAVE TO GIVE YOU A SUPPOSITORY AND A RUBBER GLOVE!”

Now if there’s anything that’s going to produce constriction of sphincters in a patient it’s this ultimate and public humiliation.  Unable to endure another, John submitted immediately and, like a schoolboy going for a failed test paper, he approached the gorgon in starchy white, wordlessly took the two items she seemed to be waving about, and with his box and lid, entered the Gents’.  The waiting room seemed to go silent.  An air of expectation hung heavily.

Let me just say that he eventually appeared looking mortified, furious, but noticeably pleased.  The girls and I waited for the round of applause we were sure would follow. With something of a swagger, John carried his contribution to the desk, set it down resolutely, and strode out of the room.  In fact, he strode right out of the hospital.   

When I eventually managed to catch up with him, he turned and snapped, “Alena, you and I eat together, drink together, and travel together.  Whatever I’ve got, you’ve probably got too.  So next time we need one of these things, YOU go alone and bring me back all the same medicine!”  And, of course, we’ve never been back.

Coming soon:  "The Opinionated Old Cow:  Ruminations from the Field".  It will be published in paperback the end of October and available simultaneously as an eBook from Amazon.

AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);  
OTHERWISE ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

 

Throwing Off the Kitchen Shackles

After a lifetime of preparing meals, I've reached my threshold. John is going to take over in the kitchen.

"I am?" he said, startled, when I told him.

Actually, when we started dating I couldn't cook at all-- unless you consider Jell-O with fruit cocktail floaters a repertoire. It didn't take John long to notice what a useless culinary wretch I was. One afternoon several months into our courtship, he passed through the kitchen of his flat where I was struggling to prepare corn on the cob – the centrepiece of my gourmet dinner – and spied four ears bobbing about upright, in a small pan of boiling water.

"What on earth is that?" he asked.

"What does it look like?" I answered, wondering what he could possibly be referring to.

And with those five ill-chosen words, our wedding was put on hold until I could get a grip. Fortunately, I had a couple of redeeming features, like big hair and legs that looked good in a mini-skirt -- important attributes for a girl in the '60s.

Once married, I quickly made up for lost time. Wine sauces were my deliverance: I smothered meat dishes in red wine sauces; poultry and vegetables in white; and poured brandy or rum over desserts. Some evenings I served all three. I was so soignée.

In those days, it was easy to appear sophisticated. If you brought out artichokes, the room fell silent. A friend who concocted a vile little first course – a mound of jellied consommé topped with a globule of sour cream and a spoonful of black caviar – was the talk of the town for weeks. Even gazpacho was considered urbane.

"Jeepers, what is this stuff ? It's got the consistency of a marsh floor!" exclaimed my friend Sally the first time I served it. But after that initial gagging incident, she was charmed by its pungency.

To be safe, I always began cooking supper at three in the afternoon. This gave me enough time to prepare a second meal if the first didn't turn out, with an hour left over to shower, change and tie a velvet ribbon in my hair before John came home.

There were disadvantages to this system. For one thing, the meat would turn to porridge if left simmering for four hours; for another, the sauces would dwindle away, requiring extra lashings of wine to perk them up. Often, by the time John got home at 7:30, the food was wine-logged and so, of course, was I. There I'd be, my little hair ribbon all askew, blowing welcome-home-honey kisses up at him, horizontally, from the couch.

Naturally, there were regrettable episodes in that first year. Here are three of the lessons I learned from them: First, cayenne and paprika are similar only in colour. Second, if you've never poached fish before, you'd better like gumbo.  And, finally, it's better to be known for your salmon than your salmonella. This I discovered the evening John's epicurean boss, Frank, came to dinner and our oven would only preheat.

"What exquisite salmon!" gushed Frank extravagantly, drawing a mouthful over his famed palate. "Scottish or Norwegian? Baked, right?"

There was an audible suck-in sound from John's end of the table. His promotion seemed in jeopardy.

"Close," I burbled. "Chicken. Half-baked."

But that was 13,000 meals ago. Now I was about to be liberated.

Over coffee the other day, I told my friend Lesley about John taking over in the kitchen.

"Wow," she declared, "you're brave. When I let Rob have the run of the kitchen, the first thing he served was barbecued calf’s tongue with a mustard sauce. It made me heave. The next day I was back in the kitchen."

"Sounds like a ploy to get out of cooking," I replied. "John loves a challenge. I'll probably walk in tonight and find beef tenderloin with mixed peppercorns, and something spectacular for dessert."

Pumped with anticipation, I headed home. John was in the kitchen, surrounded by every possible pot, pan and utensil, his debut meal nestled nearby on a warming platter.

"You'll love it," he enthused, grabbing some plates. "It's barbecued calf’s tongue with mustard sauce..."

Personally, I think something that's been in a calf’s mouth for a year has no business being in mine. It took me an hour and a litre of water to get the thing down. Then, I explained to John -- admittedly 18 decibels above my normal range -- that if he truly loved me, he'd prove it by learning to cook good things. He agreed.

But later in the evening something happened that gave me pause: John was sitting in an armchair quietly studying the salad section in The Joy of Cooking. Suddenly and without any warning, he jumped up and yelled, "Arugula!? Holy cow, all this time I thought it was something you blew into a handkerchief!"

Can I really entrust the next 13,000 meals to someone so daft? 

© Alena Schram

alenaschram@gmail.com

AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);
OTHERWISE ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM. 
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.