What are they thinking?

Once and for all... what is it with white sunglasses?

There is nothing cool or sophisticated about people wearing white-framed sunglasses! To me they look like kiddie glasses, you know the kind you buy at the dollar store for children under the age of 5.

OK... I admit, I've got a soft spot for Max Headroom (wow! does that age me or what! that was a great tv show in its day!) but don't tell me Cobain looks sexy or manly in those specs?

Guy with tie: You know everyone's laughing at you in those glasses, don't you?

Guy in white shades: I don't care, they're Fila, and I can afford them!

I'm showing my ignorance here - I've no idea who they are - and my apologies to the owner of the photo (yes, I sort of "borrowed" it when I googled 'men in white sunglasses' and this image popped up so many times!) but the joker on the right looks like a right ponce! 

Well, it goes to show that money can buy you everything but intelligence (and that, my friends, is a blog and a half unto itself).

I visited my son a few weeks ago - and horror of horrors, as we stepped out into the sunlight, he pulled out a pair of white frames. "Ugh! Stefan! Come on! I'm not walking beside you if you wear those!" "Mum! They're so ugly, they're cool!" [He's almost 30 - and if he'd said they were "bucc" I would have disowned him right then and there!]

And it's not only men. I snapped this couple the other day - lucky girl to have been included in Cobain's will! [Notice her boyfriend is hanging his head in shame - bet he doesn't make eye contact with passersby.]

And now I've got that off my chest - time for me to don my Ray Ban's. Now, those are cool!!

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Three strikes and you’re out… Strike One!

Several weeks ago, on a fine Saturday morning, Peter and I had breakfast and decided to combine several errands so that we could have Sunday free to lounge around. Sears was the first stop – they were having their annual Canada Day sale and Peter was desperately in need of dress shirts for work. 

Just so you know, Sears and I have a very tenuous relationship. I can’t resist their sales, but apart from one regular (actually fantastic) salesperson in major appliances at the location near us, I usually end up getting frustrated or angry – usually both – with the lack of service in the store or with the credit department – wherever they are located.

I got the usual “behave in the store” warning from Peter: stay calm, don’t let them push your buttons, and please don’t cause a scene. Moi? Cause a scene? Ha! Never! <ahem>

Half an hour in men’s shirts and I was ready to call the store manager to ask if staff ever picked up the merchandise off the floor or re-stocked the shelves. Ok, I know… it’s a sale, but really, why do people think they can just drop opened packages on the floor and walk off? Peter wasn’t looking for a white shirt with a footprint pattern.

We found several shirts, thanks to a shop assistant who surprised me by being efficient and helpful (wow… two such staff in one store!!) – and prior to heading off to the cash register, I checked the signs for confirmation of the sale pricing. Even the saleswoman confirmed yes, the shirts Peter had chosen were indeed 50% off the regular price.

We arrived at the cashiers station – a square counter with two cashiers working. As usual, there wasn’t so much of a lineup as more of a gaggle of people standing around, holding various items for purchase. I nudged Peter and told him to go to the far cashier, where the line was definitely shorter. As we arrived, the cashier barked at us, “go to the end of the line!”

I politely responded with, “what end of line? where?” “There’s a sign!” she snapped. I snapped back, “where?” “There!” she growled, not even looking up. I was buggered if I could see a sign anywhere that said “line forms here.” I asked a few of the customers waiting if they knew were the line started. No! Like me, they had arrived at the cash register and knew who was in front of them and that was it.

Several back and forth comments ensued, with me getting angrier, the cashier getting ruder, and no lineup or resolution forthcoming. Finally, one woman near me heaved the items she was purchasing from one arm to the other, and we all exclaimed in surprise, “there it is!” It was a single slim pole, three feet high, with an index-card sized sign saying, “Line forms hear” (and yes, here was spelled hear!).

When it was our turn to pay, I realized we were paying full price for several of the shirts. I questioned the cashier; she told me they weren’t on sale, and rather impatiently asked if I still wanted to purchase them. Peter stepped in and said yes, paid and despite my protests, signed for and completed the purchase.

“Hang on,” I said. “These are supposed to be 50% off the regular price!” I exclaimed to no one in particular. I know I’d caused a scene (yet again!), but really!

Instead of following Peter out of the store, I headed over to the wall of shirts with the sale signs. I read the fine print. I compared the “sale item codes” against the shirts we’d purchased. Sure enough! These matched! I removed one of the large signs attached to the wall and, this time with determination, headed back to the cashiers station.

As luck would have it, the kind saleslady who had assisted Peter and me walked by at that moment. I grabbed her (not literally!) and explained that we didn’t get the sale pricing, all the while waving the sign for emphasis. At that point, I had lost all self respect - I was on a mission to prove those cashiers wrong!

To make a long story a little shorter, she took us back to the cash register, explained to the frazzled cashier that we should have received the sales price. We walked out of the store with a refund of $38.

I know Peter was a tad embarrassed about the crazy woman waving the sales sign and causing a scene but as always, he kept quiet and let me bask in the glory of the kill! I had made my point and had won my battle! Yes! Score 1-0 for the home team!

Next stop: the jewellers.

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It’s all in your head…

The last four weeks have been absolutely miserable for me… I’ve spent way too much time at the dentist’s office… and far too much money! Postponing the inevitable for the last eighteen months, I finally gathered enough courage to step over the threshold of the dental clinic to start my necessary bridge procedure. It’s been stressful, to say the least, between appointments, infections, aching jaws and tears. Argggh!

Not that I’m blaming my dentist – she’s been absolutely stellar, considering her chosen profession as a torturer, but in my mind all dentists are Orin Scrivello, DDS – the sadistic dentist from Little Shop of Horrors.

Long, long ago… in a old Victorian building off Stretford Road, in Manchester, England, I first came face-to-face with the British equivalent of the SS-Einsatzgruppen: the NHS school dentist. Claw marks and gashes on the chair were my first indication that this was not going to be fun. The fact that I could hear screams and crying from another room didn’t ease my mind any either, and to this day I suffer from what has been diagnosed as dental anxiety syndrome, a very common ailment especially for Brits growing up in the mid-20th century.

Well, do you blame us?

No freezings, no high-speed drills, no elevator music to soothe the savage beast (the dentist, not the patient!), no conscious sedation; 1950s was dentistry at its most archaic, barbaric and unbelievably nasty. Added to that were the abhorrent surroundings: high hospital-green ceilings, bare bulb fixtures, white and black tiled walls, the noxious smell of chloroform and disenfectant, and the most uncomfortable wooden benches in the waiting room.

No wonder the British have poor dental habits!

Times and procedures may have changed… but I haven’t. Those memories are indelibly etched in my mind and the fact that I bit one dentist when I was eight years old, and refused to open my mouth for another one when I was ten years old – and was unceremoniously ejected from his office, much to the shame of my mother – cannot take away the weak knees, quickened pulse and tremors I experience each time I sit in the chair of doom.

That being said, I do appreciate the dentist I have now. She understands my trepidation and the clinic receptionist greets me cheerfully each time with “ready for your happy pill?!” which I gladly place under my tongue and wait for it to take effect. Most of all, I’m grateful to my husband who accompanies me each time I have a dental appointment (in sickness and in fear of dentists, I believe were part of our vows) as he’s the one who drives home a staggering, drooling, slap-happy ninny, all the while listening to protests of “I’m fine, honest!” as he rolls me into bed to sleep off the effects of my medication.

This isn't going to hurt a bit! (No, it's going to hurt a lot!)

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