Thursday 24 June 2010
Wish Lists
Mr F has been looking for a new job. His current job is 80 miles away from where we live. A couple of job interviews ago, a Christian friend announced she would ‘be praying extra hard’ that he would get the job. He didn’t, as it happens, but I was bemused by the idea of praying extra hard. Does that mean you focus better when praying? Or that you stay on your knees longer? Or that you keep repeating your request? And that made me wonder if God would consider that to be nagging? After all, surely he would understand the request the first time. And what do we mean when we ask God for things? Don’t we really mean that we’ve decided already what would be a good outcome for us and we’re lodging that thought with God in case he hasn’t already thought of it? And what does it do to these people’s faith when their request hasn’t been granted? I’ve noticed a double-headed penny system working here. If God doesn’t deliver their shopping list, some people conclude it wasn’t ‘God’s will’. Fair enough, but why not just pray for God’s will anyway then? Or to be aligned to it. It seems to me that Jesus taught a prayer to that effect which contains the phrase ‘thy will be done’ and that’s good enough for me. Did Mr F get a new job? Stayed tuned!
Wednesday 23 June 2010
Arseology
Mr F came up with a brilliant idea yesterday. He was massaging hemp cream into my dry, cracked feet. Or hooves, as he likes to call them, and I started to tell him about reflexology. Each bit of my foot is connected to a part of my body, I explained. Or an organ in it. That big toe is actually my brain and it needs a bit of help so I can out-wit The Teenager, so rub it extra vigorously, I suggested. He laughed cruelly and asked if I really believed in such drivel. You’re very cynical for one so young, I said, right now you are massaging my left buttock and very nicely too, as he stroked the heel of my left foot. He retorted that he’d much rather be stroking the actual buttock and that’s when he came up with the idea. I wonder if every part of your arse could relate to a part of the body, he mused. I’m sure it does, I murmered, enjoying the new focus. I could develop a new therapy called arseology, he went on. People would pay good money and I could develop an ‘arse-map’ to give it some credibility. I bet it would catch on.
I blame it on him reading ‘Suckers’ by Rose Shapiro which sets out to de-bunk alternative therapies as un-scientific at best and downright dishonest and harmful at worst. Everything from reiki to hopi ear-candling gets a bashing and even the common practice of giving children water to drink to aid learning is shown to be, erm… difficult to swallow. Actually I rather like so-called alternative therapies. There’s something cosy and non-threatening about them, though it does make me giggle when I get told to drink water to ‘flush out my toxins’ after a massage. And I am a bit of a sucker for pseudo-science, though I draw the line at the notice I saw in the sauna at my local health club, which advised bringing in a towel to soak up your body fluids because ‘it’s not fair to expect other people to sit in your melted fat’. But pseudo-science is OK with me if it justifies an enjoyable therapy like, well reflexology actually. Or arseology for that matter.
I suppose alternative therapies become insidious when they become the last hope of anyone with a terminal illness or cash in on unhappiness. I know people in unhappy relationships who spend loads on tarot card readings and ‘personal’ horoscopes, but the tough truth is that if you have to consult a ‘psychic’ to tell you how your boyfriend feels, you might as well admit ‘he’s just not that into you’. The cheap and simple alternative is to just ask him, but that would mean facing up to the answer.
But I digress. If Mr F wants to develop his craft, I am enough of a sucker to let him. Or maybe he is?
I blame it on him reading ‘Suckers’ by Rose Shapiro which sets out to de-bunk alternative therapies as un-scientific at best and downright dishonest and harmful at worst. Everything from reiki to hopi ear-candling gets a bashing and even the common practice of giving children water to drink to aid learning is shown to be, erm… difficult to swallow. Actually I rather like so-called alternative therapies. There’s something cosy and non-threatening about them, though it does make me giggle when I get told to drink water to ‘flush out my toxins’ after a massage. And I am a bit of a sucker for pseudo-science, though I draw the line at the notice I saw in the sauna at my local health club, which advised bringing in a towel to soak up your body fluids because ‘it’s not fair to expect other people to sit in your melted fat’. But pseudo-science is OK with me if it justifies an enjoyable therapy like, well reflexology actually. Or arseology for that matter.
I suppose alternative therapies become insidious when they become the last hope of anyone with a terminal illness or cash in on unhappiness. I know people in unhappy relationships who spend loads on tarot card readings and ‘personal’ horoscopes, but the tough truth is that if you have to consult a ‘psychic’ to tell you how your boyfriend feels, you might as well admit ‘he’s just not that into you’. The cheap and simple alternative is to just ask him, but that would mean facing up to the answer.
But I digress. If Mr F wants to develop his craft, I am enough of a sucker to let him. Or maybe he is?
Monday 21 June 2010
Teen Wit
21st June
I’ve just been in The Teenager’s bedroom. It contains the usual detritus of clothes hung on the floor, penicillin in coffee mugs, Robert Pattison competing with blue-black hair dye that has somehow made it to the walls. In vain, and knowing that my words would fall on skull-candy ears, I commanded she clear the place up. OK, maybe I didn’t so much command as ask politely? Suggest mildly? OK I virtually begged. She may have gone to do it now. I don’t know. More likely – and I’ll check in a minute – she’s on Facebook holding ten conversations, dishing out relationship advice and organizing a take-over bid of the local ‘emo park’. Actually, what am I thinking? Her bedroom is the command-centre of local teen activity. What right do I have to impose my bourgeois tidying up regime when so much teenage angst and happiness is at stake?
I find myself out-witted at every turn. The other week The Teenager returned from town without most of the items I had given her £60 to buy. She had £28 worth of underwear & hair dye and handed me £15 change. Reluctantly. When asked. And I was lucky to get that. Now I did maths at school, when adding and taking away was in fashion, and worked out that I was £17 short. Some probing revealed she had had to buy a birthday gift for a teen friend. Some other friends would be chipping in with their contributions at an unspecified date, meanwhile I was subbing them too. Oh, and a trip to MacDonald’s for lunch. The Grown-up Sister weighed in that The Teenager had still not paid her whack for a sibling Christmas present syndicate and that was another £15 owing. And then there was the phone bill. I decided to take action.
After much discussion with Mr F (my new husband and former Head Teacher), I decided that The Teenager should earn some money. At 14, she’s too young for most jobs and she walks too slowly to do a paper round, so I had the bright idea of jobs around the house. I stopped short of paying her to tidy her own bedroom, that’s what she’s meant to get her pocket money for, but she could clean my car. And Mr F’s car. And her Dad’s car. Inside and out for five quid a car. Then maybe a bit of ironing, though I’d have to teach her how to do it!
After much cajoling she managed to clean our cars, even if she did miss one side of mine, so was £10 better off. To speed up the debt-paying process and stash enough cash for travel to a concert she had tickets for, she set about selling some of her clothes to her friends. Once again Facebook came into its own. I thought she was quite enterprising, even though I had only bought said clothes a few weeks earlier brand new.
I paid her a fiver to do some ironing. But her greatest triumph was when her father gave her £5 to NOT clean his new car! At this point, she was able to pay her sister back and get to and from the concert and buy her tea at Subway.
Guess who did not get paid. And was 15 quid lighter having paid her to do chores I had invented so she could earn something. Hmmm… way beyond the wit of Jan.
I’ve just been in The Teenager’s bedroom. It contains the usual detritus of clothes hung on the floor, penicillin in coffee mugs, Robert Pattison competing with blue-black hair dye that has somehow made it to the walls. In vain, and knowing that my words would fall on skull-candy ears, I commanded she clear the place up. OK, maybe I didn’t so much command as ask politely? Suggest mildly? OK I virtually begged. She may have gone to do it now. I don’t know. More likely – and I’ll check in a minute – she’s on Facebook holding ten conversations, dishing out relationship advice and organizing a take-over bid of the local ‘emo park’. Actually, what am I thinking? Her bedroom is the command-centre of local teen activity. What right do I have to impose my bourgeois tidying up regime when so much teenage angst and happiness is at stake?
I find myself out-witted at every turn. The other week The Teenager returned from town without most of the items I had given her £60 to buy. She had £28 worth of underwear & hair dye and handed me £15 change. Reluctantly. When asked. And I was lucky to get that. Now I did maths at school, when adding and taking away was in fashion, and worked out that I was £17 short. Some probing revealed she had had to buy a birthday gift for a teen friend. Some other friends would be chipping in with their contributions at an unspecified date, meanwhile I was subbing them too. Oh, and a trip to MacDonald’s for lunch. The Grown-up Sister weighed in that The Teenager had still not paid her whack for a sibling Christmas present syndicate and that was another £15 owing. And then there was the phone bill. I decided to take action.
After much discussion with Mr F (my new husband and former Head Teacher), I decided that The Teenager should earn some money. At 14, she’s too young for most jobs and she walks too slowly to do a paper round, so I had the bright idea of jobs around the house. I stopped short of paying her to tidy her own bedroom, that’s what she’s meant to get her pocket money for, but she could clean my car. And Mr F’s car. And her Dad’s car. Inside and out for five quid a car. Then maybe a bit of ironing, though I’d have to teach her how to do it!
After much cajoling she managed to clean our cars, even if she did miss one side of mine, so was £10 better off. To speed up the debt-paying process and stash enough cash for travel to a concert she had tickets for, she set about selling some of her clothes to her friends. Once again Facebook came into its own. I thought she was quite enterprising, even though I had only bought said clothes a few weeks earlier brand new.
I paid her a fiver to do some ironing. But her greatest triumph was when her father gave her £5 to NOT clean his new car! At this point, she was able to pay her sister back and get to and from the concert and buy her tea at Subway.
Guess who did not get paid. And was 15 quid lighter having paid her to do chores I had invented so she could earn something. Hmmm… way beyond the wit of Jan.
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