cultural difference: Part II

So it's not cultural difference. It's mere incompetence. Here's the reply I received yesterday from F*** (nice that her name has the same number of letters as another, very favored and often used, word in my vocabulary) at the PPA. Note that in the previous entry, Cultural Difference: Part I, I never used any title in any self-reference. And also note that the first reply that I received from F*** did not contain any salutation and that her tone was rather curt. But look at this new email. See how her tone has changed. Once she checked the facts in her files and found a) that she was wrong and b) those two pretty little letters that now introduce my name: the 'D' and the 'r', well, there's no way around it -- once F*** realized that, she changed. She grew... polite. How powerful is the team of the 'D' and the 'r'! Of what alchemy it is capable! It can change sour apples into apple pie!

But seriously, aren't I the same person who -- just last Friday -- didn't even deserve a salutation from her? There's a lesson here somewhere, but it's not about treating people with special letters like they're extra-special. It's about treating people, in general, with kindness. (It's a lesson I could stand to review every now again, myself. I know. You don't have to remind me.)

Here's F***'s email from yesterday (I will not comment on grammar, style, or punctuation. I will leave that to you):

Dear Dr DumbOkie
Further to your email sent at the end of last week, I have looked into your comments further and have discovered that there was a typo on the database and your flat is in fact 2/1, which links with Royal Mail.

We apologise for the confusion caused and we will be in contact with your utility suppliers to rectify the situation. If convenient we would like to ask you to come into our office to resign a corrected lease at any time. Our offices are open between 9-5 Monday-Friday.

Unfortunately as we do not have any connection with the flat next to yours we are unable to assist you in retrieving your mail.

Kind regards F***

====

This morning I visited F*** at her office and we signed a new lease together. She's promised to identify the appropriate government office and make enquiries about the names of the owners next door so that we can retrieve my mail. That's a sweet girl, that F***.

showering in the UK

Seems to me the biggest battle I've had in the UK is over the shower. No matter where I live or where I visit, I have shower drama.

Today the the electrician came to the flat to have a look and see what he could fix. He was so competent and friendly! i really like the Scots. I especially like the way the roll their 'R'. And it's becoming somewhat easier to understand them. Despite warnings to the contrary, I haven't met a dour Scot yet (Except for F***, but maybe she's just the exception that proves the rule). He gave me lots of information about my electricity and my shower. here's the good, the bad, and the ugly:

THE GOOD: The Professor and I aren't dead. When the shower quit the first time, The Professor and I stood in the hall and stared at the electricity box for about 10 minutes with our thumbs up our noses. Turns out, that was the best place for our thumbs. If one of us had opened that box and messed around, it's possible we would have gotten the shock of our lives. It's a good thing we acted like the ignorant academics with no common sense that we are. The electrician said under no conditions should i open that box -- even to replace a blown fuse -- because the box is dangerous inside. While up on a step stool or ladder, I might lose my balance and reach out to steady myself -- and instead of getting steadied, I might steady my heart forever. He didn't have to tell me twice. You and I both know exactly how graceful I am.

THE BAD: the circuit that flips is an ancient model from around the time of Robert the Bruce and the warehouse doesn't seem to have any replacements. The temporary solution would be to replace this switch, but he doesn't think he'll be able to obtain one. if he could find one, he says it would probably last up to, max, a year before it needed to be replaced again. So, a stop-gap measure is only a stop-gap if you've got a stop.

THE UGLY: the small box that contains the malfunctioning circuit is no longer allowable. it's connection to the larger box is not quite illegal, but under today's regulations they are not allowed to simply replace that box when it has a fault. Rather, my ancient bigger box (the dangerous live box that I'm forbidden to open on threat of death), which powers the smaller box that powers the shower, will have to be overhauled and that will take a couple hundred pounds worth of parts. so, this is a big expense for the owners of my flat, which they probably didn't anticipate when they added this property to their empire. (or at least hoped they'd be able to indefinitely delay.)

the electrician will file a hazard report with [putative property management agency], PPA will will alert the owners, and the owners will decide whether i deserve an investment of 200 pounds so that i (and The Professor, and the Parentel, when they visit) can have a comfortable shower.
So, we'll see. Technically, they don't have to replace it, I guess. Ethically, they should.

cultural difference: part I

Here is a recent exchange with my letting agent. Would anyone in the U.S. ever expect to have a "debatable" apartment number? Would it ever cross your mind that you needed to confirm the apartment number on your lease corresponds with the number that your postal carrier calls your apartment? Remember this exchange, dear friend, if you ever happen to find yourself living abroad. Like Gavin says, it's the little things that kill.

Dear _______,

I haven't been receiving my mail, so I put my name and flat number, 2/2, which is on my lease, on the door. The postal worker left a note saying that I'm actually 2/1. So, there are two things here: 1) I think important mail has been going in the mail slot next door, and 2) my lease is technically not valid. To me, this latter is rather trivial, but the former is quite important. There's been construction going on next door, so my hope is the same people who own my flat also own it, and, I hope, [your property management company] is managing it. We need to arrange entry into that flat so I can retrieve my mail. The less-urgent but nonetheless important issue is about the shower. The new shower was installed by the workers in a very efficient and professional manner. However, it became clear that the problem doesn't lie with the shower; it lies with the electrical circuit, which is not strong enough to operate the shower at a comfortable temperature. I therefore either take an uncomfortably cool shower or I take a warm shower punctuated by trips (two within 10 minutes) to the breaker box to hop upon a chair and re-set the broken circuit. I'm not an electrician, so I don't know what needs to be done, but I hope someone can come inspectthe wiring and see if it will be possible to improve the situation. In advance, thank you for your attention to these two matters--Kind regards, DumbOkie

The reply:

The official address for your flat is 2/2 although sometimes it can be debated if your flat is on the right when looking out from the flat to thefront or looking at it from the street. Putting your name on the door shouldsolve the mail problem. Unfortunately we do not have any details of the flat next door. I have contacted [putative electrician] to get in touch with you about your shower.
F--- Putative Property Management


My response:

Hello,
Thank you for the quick reply and thank you for contacting someone about the shower. I do look forward to having that matter resolved.

Regarding the matter of the mail, I do wish for a more satisfactory solution and I hope you can help me generate one. Although I have noticed workers going in and out of there, I haven't observed any activity there for the last 10 days or so. It is therefore unclear when anyone will return and how I will obtain my mail.

It may be the case that the house numbers are ambiguous, but I'm sure you can see from a tenant's point of view that the matter is not trivial and such unresolved ambiguities can be the source of substantial problems, including financial ones, for example, if bills are misdelivered and cannot be retrieved. I would think it is a fundamental of property management that the number assigned to a property corresponds to the number recorded with the Royal Mail, don't you? One usually does not expect to have to obtain verification of her own flat number upon moving into a new property. Usually, one can take it at face value that the flat number documented in a legally binding lease is accurate.

Fortunately, today I am working from home and had the opportunity to talk with the postal carrier. Unfortunately, he told me that he has put a lot of my mail into the other slot. I'm sure you agree with me that this matter is of serious concern, since the flat next door is empty, as I mentioned earlier, and therefore, I can only speculate about when and how I am going to be able to retrieve my mail.
Kind regards,
DumbOkie

So far, I've received no reply. And I don't expect to.

the corners of the internet universe

I recently came across this. Whenever you need a break from whatever mindnumbing task you are working on, just randomly click through whatever images are presented in the right-hand bar. They change with each click so it gives the feeling of a random tour through their archives. amazing the things that people lose, and the the things that people find. Anyone who knows me also knows I could have a whole house full of items there. Grandma once put an odd twist on an old cliche and said that I would lose my butt if it wasn't attached.

I also recently found this fascinating diversion from everyday life. It is by some ol' guy, seemingly a Vietnam (or other) veteran. We might not agree about politics but his 'hobby' is brilliant. His commentary is sometimes moving, but it's also sometimes a little cheesy, especially the poems. Skip the poems, look at the photos. Don't miss this set (scroll down past the colour photo of the camera). I think it's the best. It's clearly from WWII. Any idea where these pictures were taken?

Finally, I can't get home any time soon. I miss home, I hate home, and I love home. Here are some things that I miss and that I love about home.

'Survivor' in the Academy

I just got back 'home' (what is home to a grrrl who feels like she lives in three countries?) from my first experience with interviewing in the British university system. It is quite similar to that which they use back home in the good ol' U.S. of A., but it differs in one crucial respect: all candidates are evaluated simultaneously in what I've come to call 'Academic Survivor'. You could make a reality TV show out of it. Fortunately, although this was my first interactive experience with Academic Survivor, I was a member of the 'live studio audience' when my partner was a contestant (a strong contestant, I might add, albeit unsuccessful) two years ago at a university that shares its name with a city in the deep South of the good ol' U.S. of A., and which is the hometown of musicians ranging from the Moody Blues to Electric Light Orchestra to Ozzy Osbourne. Being a member of the live studio audience while my partner suffered was fortuitous for me because it gave me valuable insight into this sadistic selection method. The Brits throw all three candidates together into two nights and three days of artificial camaraderie during which you dine together the night of your arrival, then the next day sit together while you await your job talk 'performance' (thankfully without the other candidates in the audience), lunch together after the faculty have had a 30-minute closed-door gossip session about you and your job talks, embark together on tours of the department, go out together for friendly pints at the local contemporary arts centre, and then sit nervously together the next day while you wait your turn for formal interviews with the selection committee. All the while wondering, who of us is next to be voted off the Island of Academia and lose the coveted prize of guaranteed employment for the next years? Social comparisons run rampant as one scrutinizes one's fellow contestants, sussing out their strengths and weaknesses compared to one's own. For example, I almost immediately surmised that my co-candidate from a southern European country was little or no competition, not due to her research or intellect (about which I was unable to obtain any diagnostic information), but rather to her amazing inability to suppress her whinging on about various trivialities (as well as stuff more substantial, such as the climate). But then I saw her greeted warmly by a member of the faculty who is also from her homeland. Aha, I mused, an inside track! Nepotism of a sort. Will it trump her unpleasantness? The third candidate was a guy from the same university that had stupidly (although thankfully, but that's another, less interesting, story) failed to offer the job to my partner two summers ago. Early on, I evaluated this third candidate to have at least an equally strong research track record as I, but less teaching experience. Also less personality. Personality is where we Americans can often (but not always) win out over the Brits. Also in my favor: This candidate bows to the gods of experimental reductionism in our field of research, which might give him an edge in the broader scope of the field, but in the narrower scope of this job, i suspected would not favor him, as his interests simply did not match with those of the faculty (mine did). So, Dr. Whinge had done me the good deed of getting her own self voted off the island, but Dr. Boring was still 'stiff' competition. I set about the two nights and three days to work hard to make him the next to get the boot. Being my charming, self-effacing, enthusiastic self, and emphasizing how well I fit with the faculty, along with my clear advantage in the teaching department, seems to have been a successful strategy. Dr. Boring was soon voted off the island and I received my prize: a faculty position in the vaunted halls of academia in a city that shares its name with a famous fictional hunter of crocodiles.

Precious Things

I live where the sun doesn't shine that often. And I love the sun. Today started off rainy and grey. This afternoon the sky cleared and I went again to the post office to try to mail my shoebox of love. The way back from the post office was pure pleasure. A skinny latte made with fair trade coffee not purchased at Starbucks in my hand, the sun shining on my face, and Ani Difranco on my ipod. Bliss.

Defying Nature

So the other day I woke up to the latest breaking story on BBC 4: women who wait till the age of 35 to have babies are defying nature. Now, I haven't defied nature in this way yet, and actually, I doubt that I ever will want to, but listening to this story elicited a really strong psychological reactance in me. Waking up to this story, about how inconsiderate and self-centered "career women" are to wait until their mid-thirties to conceive just simply started my day off on the wrong foot. Not again, please.

How long will it take until people -- including women -- stop trying to put women back in their place: young, barefoot, pregnant, and dependent on men? On how many points is this tired old chestnut about selfish career mothers just wrong and bad?

1. Is it defying nature to inoculate people against smallpox, pneumonia, and tuberculosis? Why are all these medical advances: transplant operations, stem cell research, gene splicing, or whatever, why are these not defying nature, while a woman who waits until she is secure in her career and confident in herself and chooses to be a mother when it is right for her (and therefore optimal for the hypothetical child), who might use medical technologies to extend her fertile years, why is THAT defying nature?

2. The people who wrote this editorial in the British Medical Journal are infertility specialists and their clientele is, overwhelmingly, the women 35 and over who they criticize. Really, rather dumb of them. Do they want to put themselves out of business?

3. The point made already by lucid women, including Diana Holland and Rehana Azam, who have pegged the authors of this British Medical Journal editorial for who they truly are: people, men and women (one of the authors is a woman, a successful medical doctor specializing in infertility -- wonder how old she was when she had her children) identified with the patriarchal arrangement who try to use "science" to justify the gender hierarchy and women's disadvantages relative to men. As Diana and Rehana point out in their article in the Guardian today on p. 27, the problem doesn't lie with women 35 and older waiting to have babies, the problem is with a social structure that is set up to the advantage of people (other than women; men) with wives at home to take care of their reproductive needs, not for two-career families, or, god forbid, single-parent (mother or father) families. If childcare and childrearing were valued, then the social system, which is artificial and constructed and no ways natural, would be reconstructed so that people could parent without career and income penalties. The system would be structured so that parents could take care of their children and their careers: more and better childcare programs for all -- regardless of economic status, and more and better childcare facilities within the workplace. For example.

4. Why do we never hear about men sacrificing their careers, working part time, sharing jobs, putting their careers on hold, for the sake of having and rearing children? Why is it still and only women? Why aren't men like Tony Randall, who had his first child at age 77, criticised for the fact that their children are, in all likelihood, never going to be able to even remember them, because these fathers are probably going to croak before the child's fifth birthday, for christ's sake?

Why do women who choose to delay motherhood get criticised by the very medical doctors who are making big bucks off of their fertility treatments?

These authors insist that the optimal time for a woman to enter motherhood, to conceive, is age 20 - 34, before she's even of legal drinking age in the United States. No, say those who know better than us what we should do with our bodies, no, we won't let you have that glass of wine, but please, this is your window of optimal opportunity for motherhood, please go conceive. We trust you with a baby, not with that dangerous glass of wine. Please find yourself a wealthy, preferably older, father for your optimally timed child, go forth, and conceive! It's only natural.

Why in the world would a medical doctor be encouraging motherhood to women who are, by almost any definition, still children, or at least girls? Why would any medical doctor encourage a girl of 20 to make herself a slave to diapers and sore nipples before she is old enough to have even earned a bachelor's degree? This is tantamount to consigning her to an uneducated life of dependency and drudgery.

I have half a mind to go forth and conceive, at my ripe old age, just to stick it to the British Medical Society and the authors of this article. But if in defying nature, I am to need fertility treatment, I'll never go to those hypocrites. I will be the $10,000 that they will never make.

Embryonic Streams of Consciousness

So this is my first post. Why am I doing this? My ideas are no better than anyone else's; indeed, you can see from the name of my blog that they may be a lot worse. What's a dumb okie got to say about anything that someone else hasn't already thought of and already articulated in a much cleverer way than I ever will? For a clever blog, you are much better off going to my all time favorite, charismatic megafauna .

I'm a transplanted Okie who lives far, far away from Louisiana, but I did get to where I am via a small conservative southern baptist convention liberal arts college in the middle of that state, where i did manage to lose my religion in the literal, not the southern, definition of the phrase (although i had many occasions to lose it that way, too, back in that former life). Although I lived in Louisiana, I never made it to New Orleans, mostly because i had shacked up with the worst of the potato version of so-called human beings. But that is a different story for another day.

Several days before Katrina hit, my friend Bologna called and asked me, "have you ever been to New Orleans?" "No," I replied. "Well, you never will," said she, who works for an international news agency and ought to know things like whether or not, in the wake of the hurricane, I would ever have the chance to bear my little breasts in the hope of receiving plastic beads in return, listen to jazz, or walk Bourbon Street. Her partner, also in the news business, predicted 25,000 deaths. Several days before the hurricane hit, Bologna was saying I will never see New Orleans and Bo was saying that 25,000 would probably die. Don't tell me, Porgie Pie, that you didn't know. You knew. And you didn't care.

Today I filled a "shoe box with love" to mail to evacuees in need of toiletries. If you want to do the same, go here. Doing this makes me feel good, like I did something; and crappy too, because this is all I have done, thus far. Filling a shoebox with toiletries does not get me off the hook of for my bit of collective responsibility, to respond not just now, but well into the foreseeable future. Responding to Katrina with a shoebox full of tampons and shampoo seems like pissing into the Atlantic. It's pitiful, embarrassingly small. Where are people going to be in six months, 1 year, six years? Where are those of us who give shoeboxes of love now going to be then? What will we be doing to do our bit?

Yes, I encourage you to go fill a shoebox and send it to Grambling. But don't stop there. It's a start, but it is not enough.