He Makes Me Laugh

HandyMan is a very private person. His life has been filled with painful moments in the spotlight because his wife can hardly do anything without attracting attention. When we were first married, he often looked like a deer in the headlights, having been dragged into the hectic, raucous, and I think, overwhelming sphere that is my life. I am not a wallflower, a retiring violet, shy or any of those other adjectives used to describe other people. I do not wait for people to notice me, I make sure they can't help it. I'm really very nice, but a function of my Choleric temperament is the pathological avoidance of anonymity. I truly don't care if people know my name, but I really do look to be recognized. That they've seen me before or remember me from a previous encounter. (Occasionally this is not a good thing as a previous encounter may have involved my temper). Maturity has tempered this facet of my personality somewhat, but poor HandyMan never had a chance. He likes quiet. Not. He loves solitude. Nope. He would prefer not to be noticed. Fat chance.
Mind you, he is not without resources, and it is those things that no one else knows about that make me fore go making a big splash somewhere in deference to his preference for invisibility.
 Mostly, he makes me laugh. And he does it in such a sneaky, underhanded way that I can't tell anyone about his escapades, or his naughty puns, or his wicked sense of humor. He's very bad (he says this is why I married him). After twenty-seven years he can still make me go from a towering rage to helpless giggles in a flash. Fortunately for him.
Today as we were getting ready to drive off to an appointment, I was talking about something of incredible importance, and HandyMan was faking that he was listening. He wasn't talking, but he was fluffing around in the driver's seat, seemingly unable to get settled to start the car. I'm very visual, so all  this motion was distracting me from the incredibly important thing I was saying. I couldn't figure out what his problem was, so I ignored his fidgeting and tried to finish my thought. Suddenly, the car was filled with this horrid crackling noise.

"What are you doing?!"
"I'm trying to clean my sunglasses and you're not helping me."
"Well, let me just take the till receipt you're using and replace it with the end of my shawl. Will that be satisfactory?"
"Well, I can't drive without my shades, and they're dirty."
"Of course not."
Now you may not think this is funny, but I laughed at the whole scene because I realized that HandyMan had  managed to get me to do what he wanted without actually having to ask. Again.
And I completely forgot the incredibly important thing I had to say.
Hmmm....

The Phantom Tollbooth

Mr. Xenophon recommended a book to me after reading the 'Fishes' blog. (Thanks, Virgil!) It led to some reflection on books and reading. Quite a few of my friends have Kindles or eReaders or whatever the hottest equivalent is, and I've been considering whether or not I want one. On the plus side, I love new technology, they're very convenient (one friend uses hers in boring meetings... so far she's not been caught), they travel well, books can be bought and exchanged instantaneously with virtually no fuss, and one can carry the entirety of "The History of Civilization" around in one's handbag without developing gorilla muscles or requiring the constant services of a longsuffering porter.
Nevertheless, I hesitate.
I like books. I like the feel of them, I love the smell of them, and I love the page turning and the tangibleness of books made of paper, glue, and ink. A new book reeks of possibilities and escape, an old book smells of mustiness and places the book has been. New books have taken me to India, to Nepal, to the Grande Canyon and to Russia. Old books have led me to Auschwitz, Saudia Arabia, and Boston. I've found photos, postcards, grocery lists, bookmarks, and squashed bugs in old books. New books have uncut pages, misplaced galleys, and typos and that lovely new ink odor.
None of those things matter when I open the first page. I expect to be transported to the place where the story is happening. I fall into the books that I read, headfirst. I realized a long time ago that I make a movie in my mind of what's happening on the pages. I'm laying beside Carlos Hathcock in the jungle as he sights in his sniper's rifle in "White Feather;" I'm walking with Slavomir Rawic as he trudges across the Gobi Desert in "The Long Walk;" and I'm soaring through the stars at hyperspeed with Helga and her captain in "The Ship Who Sang." Of course, the wonderful advantage of books is that when I'm hungry or I have to go the bathroom, I just put the book down. Carlos and Slavomir weren't quite so fortunate, but that's why books are so great - thrilling but convenient adventure. No hardship required.
I'm just not sure something like the Kindle will be able to provide the right ethos for the comfort and 'checkout' that books provide. It's hard molded plastic, has to be held with two hands, doesn't fold, bend, or make any noise, and one can't turn over the corner of the page. There's no little frisson of guilt for defacing the book by creasing the page nor is there the wonderful sense of coming back to a friend when I unfold the page to keep reading.
And these eReaders are mostly limited to what's popular or professional. My eclectic and esoteric reading habits over the years cannot possibly be accommodated by what's "popular." I think I've probably only read 8 or 10 of the Times' Bestseller list over the past twenty years, and generally, feel no lack because I didn't rush out and buy the latest hot read. I have, however, read 300 year old books; held these gorgeous, ancient tomes in my hand, feeling like I've won a lottery somehow. The pages are heavy and thick, the ink can be felt, and the edges of the pages are ragged and scraped. And even though I would never do such a thing, nearly all of these old, old, old books have a page or two creased from having been turned down by some other long ago reader. Imagine that.
Just holding such a book in my hand brings a vision to my mind of someone reading it - did they lay down on one side and prop the book up like I do? Did they sit up straight with the book on a stand like in the pictures from that era? Did they secretly haul it out to the hay field and lay on their stomachs in the sunshine, reading about wonders in other lands? All this lovely pleasure before I've even begun reading. Try that with a Kindle.

Maybe I'll carry a Kindle with all the weighty reference texts I need for my profession - nothing like reducing the Physician's Desk Reference to the size of a netbook. Oh yeah. But "The Last of the Breed"...? I don't think so. It just wouldn't be the same.
A small plug for my wonderful parents - we had no TV as I was growing up. We read, and as I recall, listened to CBC radio a lot (which I hasten to add was VERY different than it is today). Our family actually talked about the things we were reading, and both my parents took a keen interest in the things their children were interested in. We all fought every month over who got the newest issue of National Geographic first, and my mom's 'Reader's Digest Condensed Books' selections were popular as well. (On a side note - later as an adult I reread a lot of those selections in the full format... I remain impressed with the ability of the hackers & slashers at RD to reduce whole books to a condensed version. I couldn't do it.) We deprived our own daughters of television as they were growing up, and instead we read widely. Everything and anything that caught our collective eye. And the reward today is articular, knowledgeable adults who every once in awhile trot out a quote or phrase from a favorite book we read together. We laugh, and I am thankful for the ability to read and books to be read.
Just a few of my favorite books-
"The Long Walk" Slavomir Rawic
"Pilgrim's Progress" John Bunyan
"The History of Civilization" Will & Ariel Durant
"White Feather" Carlos Hathcock
"When Hell was in Session" Jeremiah Denton
"The Horse Lord" Peter Morwood
"The Last of the Breed" Louis L'Amour
"Lord of the Rings Trilogy" J.R.R. Tolkien
Anything by C.S. Lewis
Anything by William Dalrymple
Anything by Anne McCaffrey
"The Phantom Tollbooth" Norton Juster
All of Dr. Seuss
"When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit" Judith Kerr
"Father Goose" William Lishman
"Extra Virgin" Anne Hawes
"Shantaram" Gregory David Roberts   ...and about eleventy-three hundred more.

I happily collect recommendations from friends...

Fake Fendi & Madona

Finally, HandyMan and I made it to the Friday Market on Friday. This wouldn't seem like a big deal, except we've been there numerous times on other days, and the market is never in full swing.Tonight, however, the hawkers, haulers, and shoppers were in full cry. I must say, though, that fleas in Kuwait are hardly different than fleas in Canada. The junk was just that... junk. Used clothes, used shoes, tools, cheap watches, and the most hideous collection of furniture you'd ever think to see anywhere.
I wanted a new purse, and since I'd just bought one I hated, I wasn't ready to spend a lot of money on replacing it so there's no help for it but the Friday Market. I found the bag sellers and bargained for a fake Fendi, and a real leather classic with all identifying marks removed. A grand total of 4KD ($15).
We sauntered through the rest of the market, looking at all the stuff. I stopped by a perfume stall because my eye was caught by the "Madona" perfume. I noticed the display included "Taitanic" perfume, "Boos" (Boss), and something especially hideous by Lenkoom (Lancome). The actual smell is pretty consistently awful for all of them. I think the people creating these "Genuine Brand Name" scents begin with a LOT of alcohol. There was even a scent called "Full" which is apparently made of Foul -Fava- beans! It was no worse than the rest of them, even though the box stated with great boldness that the scent was "all natural." Uh huh.
The 'wood' furniture is hard to describe - there's no real wood anywhere, and it is so garishly decorated that it would be the stuff of nightmares to have a bedroom full of it. We tried not to laugh too obviously as we speculated what some of the pieces would be used for. I didn't think I could find a use for any of it, but having seen similar furniture in real, genuine villas here, somebody buys it.
HandyMan wanted to find some tools for his project that he's doing for Mr Hollywood, and so we cruised all the vendors yelling about screws, wrenches, and drills. He was looking specifically for a circular saw which turned out to be quite rare. After about 11 stalls of what looked to me like a jumble of junk, HandyMan spotted a real circular saw. He picked it up and began to fiddle with the knobs and safety guard. It wasn't pretty. The guard scraped, obviously warped, and flakes of paint fell off onto HandyMan's shoe.
"Oh look," I pointed out helpfully, "The sticker says Made in Germany."
HandyMan carefully put the saw back. " 'Made in Germany' must be a tiny little village in Malaysia."
On the way out, we passed a couple of Indian men carrying diwaniya furniture out of the souq. We had just walked by the couches and we weren't sure how furniture could be any uglier. Then we saw one of the pieces walking away by itself. It was perched on the top of a head, and the body was carrying the cushions. This particular set happened to be purple which truly caused an involuntary gagging response. Anything purple currently causes me to gag reflexively and break out in hives. I'm sure this will continue to be true for a significant period after my last visit to the Purple Palace. Ugh.
Leaving was fun. Everyone is wanting to get into the line of cars headed for the 4th Ring Road. This is much easier said than done since people are backing into the road, trucks are loading furniture, and people are walking all over the place. HandyMan did his usual Formula One thing and we headed for home. I think both of us are spoiled forever for driving in any civilized country which expects that rules will be followed.
Ducky. Just ducky.