Missing March

If I had to place a title on my life in 2013 that's what it would be: Missing March and most of April as well.

Brain surgery. It screws up your time schedule. Early March, I had a benign tumor removed from my brain via my nostrils.

The upside is that medical science has so far advanced that there is a procedure that doesn't require your skull being drilled. Nevertheless, the downside is that things that poke actually go into your brain, they prod and dance around up there and yank the yucky gooey stuff out. Apparently, the stuff that gets removed may have been there for years and suddenly your brain has to deal with the GAP. (Not my words, my neurosurgeon's).
This GAP left me with some heavy duty headaches that rendered me useless for several minutes many times a day. It felt like someone squeezing your brain to get juice and then suddenly release. Meanwhile, you remain frozen with tears in your eyes, motionless waiting for the pain to subside.

Now, I'm pretty good at keeping my cool when it comes to medical issues but juuuuust in case, I didn't do any in depth research on the internet BEFORE the surgery because I was content with my doctors' explanations. Also, because I'm a the-glass-is-half-full kinda gal, I trust people and hoped for the best. On the other hand I was also resigned to the idea of "hey, whatever happens, happens. Whadda ya gonna do".

I didn't allow myself to fret beforehand for something that may or may not happen. Few people in my life found this natural and logical, others looked at me with a worried brow "it's b-r-a-i-n surgery, this is major shit".
And they were right, the worriers.

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Green thumbing it

I like plants that don't need a lot of looking after and spineless yucca are my kind of plants and why my balcony is full of them. They are able to survive sizzling summers and frosty winters and remain green all year long. Yucca need very little water and can go a long time without any so there's no need for someone to "plant-sit" while you're away. They need a lot of sunlight, which, luckily, we have a lot of in Greece and why we haven't gone completely mad as a people. Yuccas don't drop their leaves so there's no need to clean up after them by sweeping and raking. They leave rings of old, brown leafages as they grow which should be tugged out so that yuccas keep looking green and healthy.

Yucca are popular in Greek gardens and verandas and their popularity will grow as global warming pushes the Saharan climate northwards, over the Mediterranean. The lack of water and excess sunlight and heat will prove this plant a viable solution for all-year greenery.

Yesterday I decided to exercise my green thumb and tugged out the old leaves from my yuccas. My hands, today, are aching from multiple nicks and cuts the sharp sword-like foliage caused. Yuccas are not a very safe plant to have around the house if you have children or toddlers running around. They have been known to send people to hospitals with eye pokes and severe cuts.

I keep smacking my forehead for forgetting to keep a pair of gardening gloves near when I set out to prune the yucca plants. I fool my myself that I'll be careful and my hands always end up looking like I tried to give some poor cat a bath.

This spring I'm thinking of adding some flower box assortments with some herbs and bulbs of color. I want to get my hands dirty and watch the flowers grow.

If I manage I'll post a photo. If not you can still admire my yuccas from my flickr collection.

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Being a network admin #2

Got a call from a new and young network computer user who has recently been assigned a brand new, shiny PC with a flat screen with speakers. He has that 'know-it-all computer' attitude that I've come across many a time from users in my 20 year stint as self-made computer geek.

"I can't hear very well from the PC".

Afraid I might insult him -power user that he has led me to believe he is- if I ask the obvious question of whether the speakers were turned on, I inquire if there is ANY sound coming from the speakers.

He replies "only a little".

"Look", I answer, frustrated and assuming that most young people just want to get the most out of their itunes at work, "if you need a better set of speakers, you might need to buy them yourself. The speakers are decent enough for regular office use. Our department won't order separate speakers".

"Oh no, I understand... but, I can HARDLY hear anything".

"That's really strange. I'll be up there to see for myself".

I go into his office. He's a courteous young man and immediately offers me his seat so I can inspect the problem.

"No need", I reply. He has a youtube movie playing on the screen but NO sound is coming from anywhere because...
he hadn't opened the power switch for the speakers.

His young cheeks turn violet red as I turn the knob that is on the screen, labeled "power". The music from the video blares as I adjust the volume from the same knob.

I didn't mean to add to his embarrassment but curiosity got the best of me: "You know what threw me off track? You said that you couldn't hear it VERY WELL and I assumed the sound was muffled or the sound card was below your standards. That's why I suggested a better set of speakers! What WERE you listening to?"

He shrugged a bashful smile.

Moral of the story.
Always ask the stupid question first: "Is the power switch on?"

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Being a network admin #1

At work they call me by my given name, Athena or more commonly known as "Athenaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa help".

I could write a book with the various problems my network computer users have called me to help them.

Today, for example, a frantic user called me to complain that when she pushed the power button on her computer it started beeping.

I raised a worried eyebrow and inwardly groaned at the idea of a potential hardware conflict issue on the motherboard. Got my butt up and headed for personal inspection.

She was standing at the door of her office, pressing her hands together in fret "I just pressed the button!", "Do you think it's serious?", "Is my computer sick?".

I went to the computer, heard it beeping and...

removed the corner of a heavy folder that was pressing against the 'esc key' on the left corner of the keyboard.

Beeping stopped. Problem solved. Co-worker blushed shamefaced.

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Cell phone etiquette & public transportation

One of my pet peeves are cell phones and how people think they are obliged to engage in a conversation anywhere, anytime.

People, seriously, when you're on the subway or on any means of public transportation PLEASE don't chat away continuously on your cell phone. I don't mind passengers chatting amongst them on buses, trams, trolleys and subways but to have to listen to someone go on, and on and on with a headphone set is unnerving.

I don't care what you're making for dinner, I don't give a cow's dung if your co-worker treated you bad, I'd rather stick a fork through my eyeball than listen to all the details of what you chose to wear to a wedding you've been invited to.
Shut. uuuuup.

Take a cue from people who respect themselves and others around them: Answer the call (don't let the darn thing keep ringing with Britney's latest hit), explain you're on the subway and that you'll call back when you get to the office etc.

And if you insist on taking or making a call, then never rant in public using names and places - you never know when a future boss, an in-law or co-worker is standing 2 passengers behind you.

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Bald is life

Last night my friend Helen and I were out on the town. She now sports a light fuzz of gray hair which will soon fall out again because she's doing chemotherapies once more.

As we stood in the line outside the theater, people pretended not to stare at her obvious cancer-stricken hair loss and the large white mass of gauze tape strapped across her jugular vein which holds the needle that shoots chemos in her jaded body.

We've been out before and I've witnessed the eyes of strangers darting back and forth her wonderful round, hairless head. She defiantly refuses to wear any bandannas or head ware. It is her way of telling people we shouldn't be afraid of cancer, afraid of the consequences of chemotherapy, afraid to say the word cancer aloud.

Last night was one of the nippiest autumn nights in Athens and we were in a rather long theater queue. I kept asking her if she was OK, worried she might catch a cold that could cause complications. I looked desperately around me for someone to gesture Helen to cut in line and head for the warm lobby as quickly as possible. No one did.

People couldn't mistake her health situation. However, it occurred to me that a cancer victim at a theater line was something people tried to ignore, because they were out for a good time. And the word cancer and good time rarely go together. I felt my insides burning with shame at how Helen and all cancer patients have to endure these stares.

I turned and saw Helen smiling that great big child-like smile of hers. She was excited to be there. And I realized that nothing else but her being there, being happy, being alive was what mattered.

Let them stare at my courageous friend, Helen. Bald means life.

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Greek queues. The sibethera technique.

In ANY given Greek queue, there will a.l.w.a.y.s. be someone who cuts in line or instigates an argument how long the queue is and how nothing works in Greece.

Why? Because most Greeks suffer from wait-in-line phobia. These people have an extra gene in their DNA that makes it impossible for them to just shut up and wait their turns. The not-able-to-wait-in-line gene becomes more potent if combined with con-artist mentality of needing to constantly outsmart suckers who actually wait their turns and do things by the book.

Those suffering from "I wouldn't be caught dead waiting in line" disorder have come up with various techniques. In today's essay we examine the "Hey there sibethera! Τί γίνεται βρε συμπεθέρα;" technique.

Explanation:

si-be-the-ra = female in-law,

si-be-the-ros = male in-law

Varying from close to distant in-laws. Used widely by Greeks to acknowledge familiarity. Particularly useful when you can't remember a distant in-law's name.

Observe:

Went to the post office today to pick up package. When it was my turn, I handed the notice to post office employee, who went off to retrieve my parcel from the racks.

Suddenly a woman about 50-55 squeezes in next to me at the service window. She blatantly disregards people's objections with a "I only want to ask a question", as opposed to the rest of us who want to spend quality time at the post office.

She gives me a quick once-over and the conspiratorial grin that spreads on her face foretells her evil scheme (to overtake this post office first and then the world) and much worse, assumes I'm a push-over.

When the employee comes back with my package, lady-who-cut-line pompously blares "Ti kaneis sibethera?"
[The subtitles: "Look at me you fools! I don't need to wait in line. I KNOW the employee which means I am not a mere mortal like yourselves.]

Employee responds with a lukewarm hello and undertones of "oh no it's you again".
Lady-who-cut-in-line, holds up a bill and asks loudly for protesting chumps to hear that she's ONLY asking, "Can I pay for this here?"
Emloyee: "Yes", rolling eyes, "but you have to wait in line".

Lady-who-cut-in-line, taken aback that the sibethera technique isn't opening any doors for her yet, leans in.
"Really SI-BE-THE-RA? Can't. you. take. it. now?"
Seriously, Internet, she enunciated every syllable with "Godfather" meaning.
I could easily imagine her scratching her jaw like Marlon Brando.

I turn to her, "I think it's only fair to me and the other people here that you wait in line like the rest of us".

Appalled that her grin has been wasted on me she switches to plan B, pity mode: "it's not my bill, I'm doing someone else a favor", "I only asked", "since I'm already here why don't you just let me pay for it?"

Luckily, the post-office employee stood her ground, backed me and the other protesting customers. Lady-who-cut-line admitted defeat and went to the end of the queue.

Employee apologetically whispers to me while I'm signing for my package, "She's not really my sibethera (in-law). I hardly know her".

Yes, I nod in understanding, but excuse me while I do my little victory dance inside my head for all us SUCKERS who wait patiently in lines and deal with her annoying sort all our lives.

related: Seat lurkers, IKA witches

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Every day is poker night for dust-bunnies at my home

No matter how hard I try to balance a job, a family and a household, the infidels known as dust bunnies have a way of breaking my spirit and rendering all my house-keeping efforts useless.

Enigmatically, the sound of the doorbell seems to call this grey stuff out of its hiding, like a voodoo chant that arouses zombies from their crypts.

I bite my lip to control the gasp let loose by that annoying conventional housewife in me (who, by the way, refuses to just shut up - die - leave me in peace). I cringe at the thought my visitor may witness "The Fluff", that peeps out from behind furniture legs and then ...THEN... has the audacity to casually drift across the living room floor like a wind-swept sagebrush/prop from a spaghetti Western. [insert background music of OST "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly"]

I cringe and wordlessly repeat my "please don't look down" mantra, hoping visitor's brain waves will unconsciously obey. By the time I maneuver myself near enough to stomp on dust-bunny and avoid the embarrassment of the moment, it has disappeared again!

Aaaargh! I have no idea where this STUFF comes from, how they form, who their leader is. They obviously retreat to an underground refuge colony while I vacuum and are trained to appear only before house guests.

They are mocking me. I need to find their clandestine hide-out before they evolve, multiply and start grabbing my guests' ankles, yelping what a terrible house cleaner I am.

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Greek geek gal grunts

The network technicians' seminar I'm attending has turned out to be challenging for the majority of my "classmates". Nearly all of the young people attending this seminar are either in it (a) because it's free (b) they're hoping to acquire a certificate with as little studying possible to add to their CVs and better the chances of finding A job or a better job.

I can sympathize with their need, but to be honest, most of them don't know squat about computers - not to even mention computer NETWORKS. There are a few die-hard geeks, hungry for the advanced stuff, gritting our teeth with polite patience when the neophytes continually stall the seminar’s syllabus with newbie questions.

The instructors are doing their best to accommodate the mixed levels of the class. They mingle with the computer geeks during coffee breaks, allowing us to set forth our more sophisticated inquiries. I am the only woman running with this seminar's ultra-geek pack.

I am used to being a minority in my field of work. In 1997, I was the only female attending a Microsoft workshop in a huge college auditorium, where I stood out like "a fly in milk" (Greek saying). Thankfully, things for Greek geek gals picked up along the way but not in a big way.

I sense, that like any Greek he-men, the male instructor and my male counterparts would prefer to be hanging around with the luscious, tight-jeans clad blond with big, batting eyelashes that has trouble understanding that the screen is NOT the computer. Instead they are seen chatting with lil' ole Flubby moi.

I know it may sound like a cheap excuse not to improve my appearance, but throughout my career it is moments like these I'm glad my "outsides" don't leave room for any sexual insinuations and men talk to me like an equal (not at my chest). Self-condemning as it may sound, I'm grateful that my fat bottom isn't a come-on to check out my ass when I bend over to fix a network cable.

It's hard to make your mark as a woman in all-guys sector without having to put up with a lot of undercurrent flirting and I, personally, find it nauseating to see men swing the caveman club over their shoulders whenever a decent looking woman crosses their paths.

I am woman, hear me roar.
And you, my young blond classmate, stop meowing for Pete's sake.
It gives men a reason to think they can pet you.
Someday you'll want to roar and they won't believe you.

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Young folk & Time

Started a two-month Certified Network Technician seminar on Friday.

Most of my classmates are younger than me. I'm the "oldest" one, 41.

During one of the recesses, we were getting acquainted. "Hi, my name is...", "where do you work", "how long have you been there".

When I replied that I've had this particular job for 18 years (not counting 3 years of previous occupations) an astonished YOUNG lady exclaimed,

"Oh my! You're almost ready to retire".

"No deary, I still have at least 22 years to go until I'm eligible for a pension".

"But... 18 years? That's like, for-E-V-E-R".

Sheesh, kid, thanks for reminding me.

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IKA witches

This morning, before I went to work, I took my mother-in-law (MIL) to our local IKA to see an orthopedist. She called at 8 am to make an appointment. IKA call center informed her that the next available opening for requested doctor was on July 10th (today is June 14th) OR she could go in TODAY at 9:10 a.m. because they had a cancellation. MIL chose today's appointment and I volunteered to drive her there and take her home again.

Note to non-Greek, non-IKA insured readers and Michael Moore, director of "Sicko": Unfortunately, it's a well-known Greek fact that IKA doctor appointments are scheduled for a month after the day you call in (IF you are lucky and IF the three fairies blessed you the day you were born). Otherwise, IKA will schedule your medical appointments for after 2 to 4, sometimes even up to 6 (!) months (if you haven't died -that is- by whatever is ailing you). Consequently, this insufficient health coverage causes a lot of frustration to those insured with IKA, which happens to be the majority of Greece's working and retired citizens.

IKA doctors are given print-outs of their daily appointments every morning (NOT INCLUDING CANCELLATIONS) which are posted outside their doors. However, a patient who gets to fill in a cancellation must verbally inform the doctor of their appointment, which is then verified -via telephone- with the IKA appointment centre.

While I was still parking the car, my MIL politely asked the 8:50 appointment if she could pop her head in ahead to inform the doctor of the switch, which he OKayed and she returned outside to wait for her scheduled time.

Alas, no IKA is without attending nasty old ladies. Nagging ones. Bitchy ones. The kind that seem to get their kicks out of making trouble wherever people line up. The type who feels everyone is out to grab their spot in the queue and -if given the chance- will cut in the line ahead of you because they are smarter and you are dumber. The kind of women you wonder if their offspring had pointy tails and little horns.

By the time I got inside, several biddies were clucking around my MIL, "WE have appointments. You came AFTER us. We've been here since 7 am. Our legs hurt. I don't believe you have an appointment. You're a liar".

That last phrase caused something in me to snap and I could no longer contain my ire. My 80 year old MIL, who is very sweet and docile, looked like she was surrounded by a flock of vultures tearing at her like prey that was still breathing.

I surprised even myself when my voice boomed, God-like, from across the hall, "How dare you call her a liar?"
The corridor shut up and all eyes turned to me.

The lady, who had the gall to call my MIL a liar, quickly reclaimed her wits and retaliated, "How do I know she's telling the truth?"
"Why are you so sure she's not?”
"I don't know her, that's why!"
"Why do people have to believe the worst in others? Why can't you trust one another?"
I tried not flinch at how corny this sounded, but amazingly, she backed off. Perhaps my loose, flowing white shirt intimidated her because I looked like a medical worker. In any case, something did the trick and she stopped harassing my MIL.

Another nasty old lady, dressed in customary full Greek mourning outfit, from black head shawl down to black panty-hose, was much worse. I thought how hypocritical her dress-code of lamentation came off when she was slinging shit from her mouth at my MIL.

She had assumed I was just another patient waiting my turn -a complete stranger to my MIL- because we hadn't come in together. Trying to persuade me to come over to the dark side she approached me and hissed in a conspiring voice, "She's a liar. A liar I tell you!"

I turned in disbelief and slung a flubberwinklism at her, "I would expect you, dressed in black, obviously knowing what pain is, to be more good-hearted towards your fellow man and not accuse someone without evidence". It was a feeble argument but it felt right to say it because I can't stand hypocritical black-dressed old ladies who instead of expressing humanity look like they want to gauge other people's eyes out. And enjoy it.

Her serpent tongue silenced and she backed away like I was holding Holy Water or I might contaminate her with my craziness.

The fight wasn't over. Another banshee came at me from across the room, "I called at 6:20 am and they told me there were no appointments for today".
"Really? That's strange since the IKA call center doesn't open till 7:00!"
She tried desperately to uphold her transparent lie by arguing that she had been lucky... that the operator took her call... mumble... mumble.

Then, unexpectedly, an elderly man sitting next to me, leaning on his cane, spoke.
"She's right", he nodded in my direction, "you're all getting worked up over nothing. You (pointing to the one who had called my MIL a liar) DON'T have an appointment and wanted to take advantage of any cancellations. You (raising his cane to the black-dressed woman seething in the corner) have an appointment at 10:20 and came here to pass your time. And you (aiming his gaze at the one whose call at 6:20 had been miraculously answered) DON'T have an appointment either".

Meanwhile, my MIL had gone in to her appointment and the old nags feeling defeat took to whispering amongst themselves about us. Assessing the situation in silence, I realized it was the first time I had spoken in public without my voice fluctuating with sentimental anguish. The old ladies had resorted to yelling and swearing, whereas I maintained Zen mode and didn't even blush with anger.

Then the black-dressed lady who still wanted a piece of me, sidled up to me and asked, "What do my black clothes have to do with making an appointment with IKA?"

And very much to my amazement the old man turned to her, "You should show more sympathy to the living than to the dead." He winked at me and went back to leaning on his cane and waiting patiently for his turn.

When my MIL came out, I smiled good bye to him and was glad someone put my feelings in better wording... "Show more sympathy for the living than the dead".

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Taunted by subway DJs

There I am standing on the subway platform, waiting for the train.
Out of the speakers flows the soft, all-familiar music theme from "The Godfather".

Uh-oh.
I muster all my self-control to keep from scratching my jaw, and NOT imitate Brando's famous gesture, rasping "I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse".

I have to exercise the same self-control whenever the cursed subway sound system plays "Singing in the Rain". It seems some people find a
fatoverly plump woman jumping in a puddle singing "Doo-dloo-doo-doo-doo-doo" intimidating.

So, don't taunt me subway DJs!
Play that funky lounge music instead, cappish?

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Seat lurkers

I have used Greek public transportation for many years and there is one particular type of passenger that has always irritated me.

The seat lurker.

Mostly female, definitely over 50, varying weight, usually short, with an uncanny ability to cut through a long line of preceding passengers, thrusting purses and shopping bags out of their paths, gnarling "if you can't handle it, take a cab".

They are famous for their Superman x-ray vision, able to scan and detect vacant seats from afar as the bus stop, before they even board the vehicle. Once they lock in empty chair coordinates, they proceed with G.I. Jane determination, eyes unblinkingly glued to the goal: The Seat.

In the unlikely case that someone else beats them to The Seat. The war is not over. They will hover annoyingly above seated young Ipoder until he/she relinquishes. If simple hovering goes unnoticed, then heavy respirations ensue. If those don't work, they whip out the old "I-could-be-your-mother/grandmother" cow-eyes accompanied with phony sweet smile and eyelash battings.

If obstinate chump STILL refuses to budge, seat-lurker reluctantly turns to other seated bus riders skimming for hints of potential dismounting and fresh seat coordinates.

I've had many personal bad experiences with this rude lot over the years. Only this morning, on a packed bus that could have easily been mistaken for a sardine can, a seat opened up directly in front of me. I looked around in case there was someone more needy than I and indeed, a couple people down, was an old man weakly balancing himself by a hanging bus strap.

By the time I motioned him to come and sit down, a female seat lurker had plopped herself down in the available seating. I informed her that an elderly gentleman was about to be seated and I got a mouthful of adjectives from her from out of the blue. Nasty mouth, too. Old man remained standing, I was fuming.

This is why I feel no remorse when I utilize my own personal ploy against seat lurkers as payback. If I'm seated and I notice a disgruntled, standing seat-lurker (you can tell by their eyes, up down the aisle doing the scan), I bait them. How? By adjusting my bag strap over my shoulder (makes it look like I'm getting ready to board off).

Bait is taken and they start to make their way through a bus full of standing people. I get halfway up from my seat and then.... innocently re-adjust the folds of my skirt and sit down again, never intending to get off the bus in the first place.

The expression of disgust on their faces is priceless.

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Still dizzy from the startdust

Visited the Planetarium yesterday.

Accompanying Husband and Daughter#2 teased me about my silly grin throughout the Black Hole show. I can't help it, I'm mesmerized by full dome digital projections. They make me feel so relaxed, so Zen.

There I am - minuscule, tiny, flyspeck of a being, floating among astral bodies, albeit digitally composed ones, trying to savvy the greatness that is universe. I am humbled by the wonder of supernovas and time-space quanta and trivialities of my mundane existence seem to magically fall into perspective again.

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Crazy about crayons

I stopped in another office to say hello and was delighted to see that a colleague had brought along her daughter. Adorable toddler, very comfortable with everyone but bored out of her bambino mind with what they had scrounged up as toys to keep her busy: a blue ballpoint pen (blah!), a plain piece of white paper (pif!) and two fluorescent highlighters (yeah, like, woo-hoo!).

I winked at her and asked her if she liked crayons and coloring pages.

Kid's eyes lit up, quickly jumped off her mother's lap, grabbed my hand, looked up at me, "Take me to them".

While my kids were growing up and going through various boxes of crayons I couldn't bear the thought of throwing any left-overs away. All broken, unwanted, half-used delightful wax sticks were secretly stashed away in a colorful bag that I kept at work. This little treasure chest of arts and crafts has made many of my colleagues' kids very happy over the years just when they had lost all hope of any fun at Mommy's or Daddy's workplace.

If I have a tot visitor, I go to craoyla.com print out some ready-made coloring pages, sit and draw with them. Most of my colleagues are grateful that my office and I are child-friendly, leaving them some free time to get some work done. Little do they know, however, that I enjoy myself as much as the kids do. We try not go outside the lines, but even if we do, it's OK.

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Aye, the eyes say it all

I was hopping around Greek TV channels when I came across CSI:NY and was enthralled by Gary Sinese's eyes and eyebrows. They make the actor look like he's always surprised or always pissed off.

Eyes really can make a statement.

When I was in university, a fellow student gave me some Chinese balm to place over my eyelids to help me stay awake for an all-night cramming session.

That goo smelled like mint. As soon as I smudged some on, my eyelids whipped open and fastened themselves on the skin above my eye sockets. The eyebrows arched, as if trying to get away from the rousing sensation. I looked awake but my mind was screaming SLEEP! So I re-applied quack ointment throughout the long night to assure awareness.

Next morning, the professor demanded I remove sunglasses while taking the exam. He did a double take when he saw that my erected brows didn't move and my eyes were alarmingly very -very- wide awake.

What statement did my eyes make? He passed me because he mistook me for some crazy bitch with a wild look in her unblinking eyes. Who needs the hassle of a weirdo student, right?

Never used the stuff again. Itched like hell when it wore off.

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One of the side effects of my cough syrup is long-winded blog posts. Brace yourselves.

Grandma's out of the woods and at home. I, on the other hand, managed to catch a nasty bug at the hospital, rendering me useless of interacting with other humans for a week. Fever, runny nose, raspy vocal chords, the works. My head felt as if its insides have been carved out with a spoon. Now, after 5 consecutive days of sickness I am pestered with the irritating cough phase; once triggered my entire body shakes, my lungs ache and I sound like a moose in heat. I've never actually heard a moose in heat... but humor me, I'm sick.

So, what have I been up to, except recovering from The Plague? Well, since I couldn't go in to work and didn't need to actually dress I just padded around the house in my large, plaid, flannel robe and its overstuffed pockets with used tissues doing small, insignificant tasks like cleaning out drawers and cupboards to make myself useful.

And when the excitement of all this got too much I got online and made my eyes redder by reading and downloading stuff.

Here's a couple of serious Internet readings that I found particularly interesting:

• For those who refuse to believe that Jews and Arabs can find footings in peace, I found this story by Danny Felsteiner so inspiring.

• This piece of news about a woman (in the US) being sued for putting up a Christmas wreath in the shape of the peace sign on her house made quite an impression also.

I also had plenty of time to catch up on my favorite TV shows and seek out new ones.

Somewhere out there in blogland I read a good write-up about a new tv series 'HEROES'. Downloaded the first 10 episodes and me likes. I have no idea where it's actually leading, a little dark but hopeful, newfangled concept which I like for the time being.

Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. The very first episode with Judd Hirsch's monologue got my full attention. My interest has been wavering as the episodes progress but I enjoy the ambiance of anything 'behind-the-scenes' as well as the camaraderie between leading men Whitford and Perry.

Slowly catching up on HOUSE MD second season. I'm savoring House's spank-me-hard sarcastic quips. Hugh Laurie should have been allowed to keep his British accent for this role, it would have been even better.

Gilmore Girls, season 7. Hello? Where's the fast paced dialogue and snappy comebacks? I hate Lorelai being married to him but NOT to him. I guess she has to come full circle before everything makes sense. (Or at least drag out the seasons). This season, so far, is a bummer.

Hold on there's more. (I can wait until you go to the bathroom).

On my Internet entertainment rampage, I was sucked into a huge banner advertising the 25 year anniversary of soap opera's supercouple from 'General Hospital'. Wow! What a trip down memory lane that was! I had totally forgotten about my high school addiction to GH, rushing home to catch the last 20 minutes of the show.

Before you go rolling your eyes, I have to confess that I respect daytime shows because
a) My mother learned English from watching these shows when we immigrated to the US; her favorites were 'All My Children' and 'General Hospital'.
b) There were a few cool anti-heroes and story lines that were view-worthy; Luke and Laura of General Hospital were one of those.

When I was in high school no one was ever home waiting for me after school, except General Hospital. My parents worked 14 hour shifts, my brother was permitted to participate in all sorts of after-school sporting events, whereas, I, the obedient little Greek geek, had to come directly home. Television played a very big part in keeping me company, whether I actually watched or not.

I was 14 when the Luke and Laura romance took off; fascinated by Anthony Geary's performance and cool demeanor and so envious of Laura's adventures with him. Like many viewers I was hooked on the innovative storyline. I never got to see their actual wedding because by then I had graduated and moved to Europe and, unsurprisingly, forgot all about General Hospital.

As it turned out, this year ABC decided to milk the Luke-Laura love story as much as they could since it's been 25 years since they tied the knot first time around. In five minutes I caught up on 25 years: They're divorced (twice?), she's been in a catatonic comma for 4 years after killing her step-father, he's re-married, they have 2 kids, Laura also had a son with Luke's arch enemy while she had been abducted and kept hostage(!), the show's writers found a miracle drug to bring Laura out of the comma, long enough to have a mock-wedding (unbeknownst to ill Laura) because her last memory was of Luke asking her to re-marry him. Days later, Laura relapsed and went in a comma again. The end? No way!

Geary, who plays Luke, has aged well, is still WAY COOL and [*blush*] I still have a crush on him. I liked his honesty in an interview where he had left GH for eight years and said "I would rather put out my eyes with hot pokers than return to play Luke Spencer again". Well, he went back and 29 years later he's still there. Oddly, I felt like I had found an old lost friend. Isn't it unusual how some characters, whether they're from books, movies or even soap operas, stay lodged in your mind?

Last but not least, I uploaded my blog's new masthead for December 2006. Season's Greetings to all and ho-ho-ho to you!

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Christmas aisle experience

Little boy, about 2-3 years old, swinging his legs from the shopping cart seat looks at all the Santa Clauses, snowmen and Rudolphs on the shelves. Suddenly he starts screaming his not-so-tiny voice off at them. No words. Just AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Kids scares me out of my wits and I give a fright jump. His Mom rushes to him, shushing him. I look desperately at the kid and wonder why his mother isn't asking him where it hurts but instead I notice that his yelling is actually aimed at the shelves. For a moment I'm stumped. And then it dawns on me.

His scream is scanning for the voice/music activated Christmas dolls so they can start swinging and swaying. He knows the power source for his entertainment has to come from him.

OK, kiddo, I give you points on thinking fast, but NOW shut up. The voice activated dolls were one aisle back.

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Hanging out with the Golden Girls

My grandmother, the same one I mentioned a few posts back, is in hospital because of a stroke. She's out of the woods and her hospitalization is to find out what caused the strokes. But, let's be honest; she IS around 97. We love her deeply and want her to be healthy and with us for a very long time, but her age, justifiably, might warrant a blind date with the Grim Reaper, so we're prepared for the worst.

Although she's the oldest in her hospital ward, she's the healthiest Golden Girl in there. The room has 7 beds. They're all occupied with Grandmas younger than mine. Mine's just in denial of her age, which might be the secret to her longevity.

The first night of her admittance, whilst trying to get accustomed to her new surroundings, she heard another patient across the room moaning loudly in pain. She looked around and tried to pinpoint which ailing woman was making these sounds.

My grandma inquired, "Why is that old lady yelling?"

The scene might not have been funny but the fact that MY old lady was 20 years older than THAT old lady just added an uncanny comic relief to it.

p.s. I'm off for my night shift with Grandma again.
But I DO have a rant to get off my chest:

TURN OFF YOUR GODDAM CELL PHONES IN THE HOSPITAL ROOMS, ESPECIALLY IF YOU'RE SITTING WITH AN AILING PERSON. AT NIGHT!

OLD LADIES DO NOT APPRECIATE THE UPBEAT RHYTHM OF YOUR COOL RING TONE.
SHAKIRA'S HIPS MAY LIE, BUT I WILL KICK YOUR ASS TONIGHT, SO HELP ME, IF I HEAR IT AGAIN!!!!


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What's in a name?

Some of you might have observed that in the "about me/debriefing" box my given name is Athena. Greek, mythological, helmet-wearing goddess of wisdom, protector of Athens, owned an owl and remained a virgin.

The similiarities stop at Greek.

I was named after my father's mother which is the traditional way of naming babies here in Greece. No need for the hassle of searching in baby-name books AND make the in-laws happy in one stroke.

Athena was the name on my passport when my family crossed the Atlantic and immigrated to the US when I was just a toddler. Permit me to digress a bit; one of the few scenes I recall from my very early childhood was seeing the Statue of Liberty from our cabin's porthole and the tugboats blowing their horns to greet our big cruise ship, the "Anna-Maria". Not to be confused with the "Santa Maria" accompanied by the "Nina" and the "Pinta" in 1492.

We settled in the Midwest and everyone called me Athena. The neighbors, the mailman, the ice-cream truck driver. I crossed the threshold of my first institution of learning, kindergarten, as Athena.

As soon as I graduated kindergarten (with honors, mind you), my brother and I were flown back to the motherland. We had adopted a head tilt to the side, like monkeys, when they spoke Greek to us. Afraid that we'd never be able to communicate in our mother tongue again my parents opted for homeland schooling. Mom and Dad, however, realized that maintaining one's language and culture is
(a) financially draining and
(b) awful lonely without your kids,
so we rejoined them back in the States as soon as schools let out, after nine months.

It was time to go to second grade. The school registered me unremarkably as "Athena". But when I was promoted to third grade, a typo put me down as "Atena" (dropped the h and sounded like antennae). I was too young to realize my goddess status was being jeopardized to protest.

A year later, my fourth-grade teacher decided that the A in Atena was redundant. School administration agreed that Tina sounded better, so "Tina" it was. This cost me a few "Tina-Hyena" jokes because I giggled like one. My parents shrugged it off as a cute American time-saving custom of minimizing words and names (hi, thanks, bye, Tina).

I was apprehensive about the future of my name. At the rate things were going, by the time I'd finish grade school there would only be a letter for a name.
Athena,
Atena,
Tina,
Ina,
Na,
A.

Thankfully the snipping stopped after Tina. However, I was no longer in the Ancient Greek Pantheon and everyone assumed that my nickname came from Christina. My high school diploma and all my US documents recorded me as a Tina.

Fortunately, I have recovered my original name (I'm still working on the goddess status though). My mother forgets herself and occassionally belts out a Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiina. Some people find it kooky for trimming such a mythical name to Tina.

Ha! They think Tina is a nutty deduction, wait until they find out about Flubberwinkle...

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