Super Samaritan Man

Yesterday I went out with my daughter for some child-free time. We had lots of stuff planned. Well, a little stuff planned, as we didn't have all day. But we were going to check out a place with lots of crafters and artisans, and then try to find the Russell Stover outlet that we saw advertised on the way to Branson. And maybe get a manicure.

We couldn't find the craft place, so we just got onto the highway and went looking for the Russell Stover place. We found it, and got some yummy chocolate. (Naturally, we went there first, and got to haul the chocolate everywhere we went afterwards, as opposed to leaving it in the car, where it would melt in the 100 degree heat. Remember this fact, as it will have bearing later in the story.)

Afterwards, we went to Walmart across the parking lot to buy a blanket for my frozen granddaughter, and then went back across the parking lot to a nail place for manicures.

Fresh from the newly drying manicures, we set off for the condo we are staying in. Just at our exit, we heard a noise like we'd driven over a stick or something, and then an ominous sound that meant only one thing: flat tire. In a tire that was less than a week old.

I've never changed a tire in my life, though I've seen it done. Cassandra either. And there we were. The one person in our party that could have done it was back at the condo with two children and no transportation. Good times. With her freshly manicured nails, Cassie managed to get the tire out of the trunk while I got the instruction manual out of the glove box. I then got the jack out. That was the extent of our knowledge. Mind you, the entire time we were striving to look as pretty and helpless as possible so that someone would stop. So far nobody had. Luckily, just as we were despairing how to use the jack, and wonderful good samaritan stopped. I think he had previously been by and circled back to save us. He was wonderful. He changed the tire and refused any reward.

And he did it so quickly that the chocolates were still nice and firm when we got them home. And also the manicures survived quite nicely, thank you.

She's a Rebel

Last week Joseph went to a school party, which included swimming. The nice thing was that they took his bus home from the party, so Joseph simply left his swim bag on the bus, in order to hold his seat, while he went to the classroom to gather his things. An oh, so helpful teacher's assistant saw the bag and took it to her classroom. Joseph found out about it when he got back on the bus and found his bag missing. The bus monitor told him that he didn't have time to go retrieve it, and that she would get it for him later. Saturday...Sunday...Monday (a holiday)...Tuesday. She didn't have it when the bus arrived in the morning, but said that she'd get it. After school she didn't have it, and told Joseph that he'd said that he was going to get it. Wednesday morning, I spoke to her and told her that he didn't know where the classroom was. She said she'd get it. Bottom line, the oh, so helpful teacher had just abandoned the bag on a table outside. It was nowhere to be found at the school, not even in the black hole that they call Lost and Found. One pricey swim bag, one swimsuit, and our best swim towel. Gone. Forever.

Perhaps you are wondering what this all has to do with the title of this blog entry. Try to imagine my feelings after trying to get this bag back for nearly a week, and then tromping all over the school in search of it today, this last day of school. Frustrated? Angry? Extremely annoyed? All of the above.

So, as we were making our way to the parking lot, we had to pass in front of the front bus in the line. A man--monitor? bus driver? who knows?--stopped me and told me that we weren't allowed to pass in front of this bus, because we couldn't see any traffic that might be coming up beside the bus, IN THE PARKING LOT. I gave him my what am I, a moron, look, told him that I was capable of looking for cars before stepping out from the front of the bus, and continued right on my way. In front of the bus. And I lived to tell about it. Go figure.

Ma Barker Lives! (In Kenya)

Today I met with one of my Young Women from church. I thought I was there to help her prepare a talk for church this Sunday. We did a bit of that, but mostly she wanted my advice on what she could say to comfort her grandmother. Here's the story:

Five years ago, her (granny's) son had a wife. A pregnant wife. Said wife went to the hospital one day to deliver her baby, and then later came back without said baby. She told everyone that the baby had been premature, and had to stay at the hospital. Apparently here its like in Romania, where only the mother of a hospitalized child gets to actually see the child in hospital. After a while, when the baby still didn't appear, the family began to wonder where it was, and then the mother said that it had died. Dad, as you can imagine, was none too happy about this, and wanted to see the body. Finally, the mother confessed that she had sold the baby for ksh 80,000 ($1000).

Dad and grandma were very upset, as you can imagine. Soon thereafter, grandma and the aunt of my Young Woman--I'm assuming this aunt is the baby's mother--went and took back the baby. The next day they awoke to find cops all over the place, and granny found out that they were looking for her. She turned herself in, and was arrested, and spent several days in jail before her family could raise bail.

Over the course of the ensuing five years, trial was set, and dna tests ordered. The father was advised NOT to do the dna test, as it was already known that he was the father. However, he did anyway, and apparently the baby purchasers bribed a doctor or two, and the blood sample was switched. Also, the father was poisoned, and subsequently died.

Grandma has been paying her lawyer with every shilling sent from her daughter living in Dubai, and with the dowery money she received a couple of weeks ago for her daughter's marriage a quarter of a century ago. But that's another story. The trial has been postponed several times, and this week the final judgment was due. Postponed again, presumably through bribery from the other side. The latest date is May 6.

The good news is that granny is officially too old to to to prison. But a hefty fine could be in order. This is the nicest sweetest old lady you'd ever want to meet. We have been to her home in the slums on more than one occasion. Humble isn't the word for it. But its home, and she deserves to be there, without all this worry.
This photo is of a
pot, yes, but in the
background is granny's
humble home.

The King of Multi-Tasking

Joseph has a bedtime routine. There are certain things that he must do every night. These things include putting on pajamas, brushing teeth, and reading scriptures. The other night I popped into his room while he was getting ready for bed. I found him sitting on his bed in his underwear, with a toothbrush in his mouth and scriptures in his lap.

Princess Please Give Me Something Worthwhile to Do!

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess. This princess, however, didn't live in a castle. Her father, the king, had fallen on hard times, and the family was forced to make some changes. Accordingly, the royal family had sold the castle to a foreign corporation and moved into a modest three bedroom home in the suburbs.

The princess, whose name was Arabella, enrolled in the local high school, where she found that her fellow students were unaware of her heritage. They were not interested at all in Arabella's past life, but spent their time (free and otherwise) texting one another and hanging out at the mall. Arabella found this behavior puzzling, but, wanting to fit in, went to the mall to look for a cell phone. She figured that if she was seen hanging out at the mall with a cell phone, the friends would come.

That's all I've got. I just started typing and the story came to me. At least this much. I've got nothing more. I'm sure that eventually Arabella found some friends; she probably even found popularity. She was beautiful, after all. But maybe not. I really don't know. Perhaps she found her new life to be extremely lonely. Not that she had more friends when she lived in the castle. Just that now she knew what she was missing. Isn't that what its all about? We're fine, until we see what we've been missing, and then suddenly, with the same as we've always had, or sometimes even more, we are no longer fine. Anyway, Arabella may have made a better queen for her experience. Or maybe not. Maybe she started amassing uzis and grenades and killed everyone in her school, thus bringing democracy to her country. I really don't know. I just wanted to type something so that when my housekeeper came into the room she would think that I've been extremely busy, rather than knowing the truth--I was playing games, bored out of my mind while trying to stay out of her way.

Water, Water Everywhere, and Not a Drop for Washing

Water. We all need it. For all sorts of things. We drink it, bathe in it, wash with it, cook with it. Here in Nairobi we have a shortage. Too many dry rainy seasons. We all need it, and really feel the pinch when its lacking.

I'm quite accustomed now to drinking bottled water. Pretentious? In many contexts, yes, but not here in Kenya. Or in Romania. Or El Salvador. I've lived many places where its simply not safe to drink from the tap. So when I go home it seems really strange to me to do so. (I get over it quickly.)

One beef we had in Romania was that when you used the public restrooms in the malls, there was no hot water for hand washing. Just cold. I hated it. But last week I discovered that things can be--and in some places are--worse.

Heathrow airport. Very nice place. Plenty of shopping, and, unlike some airports, plenty of seating. Very nice. However. The restrooms. Like Romanian shopping malls, they only have one temperature of water. Unlike Romania, however, the temperature of the water in the London Heathrow taps is hot. Really. They have warning signs over every sink: Warning: water extremely hot!

Now I ask you, how are you supposed to wash your hands in uber hot water? It can't be done. You can just moisten your hands by placing them under the tap for a milisecond, before the water becomes unbearable. Soap? Sure, if you're willing to wipe it off with a towel. Oh wait! No towels at Heathrow. Just air dryers. (On a side note--I HATE air dryers, but the ones at Heathrow are actually super powerful and do, in fact, dry the hands. But they don't remove soap.) All these years, I thought that Romania was seriously dumb and cheap for not providing hot water in their mall restrooms, when in reality it was the progressive Brits that miss the point entirely. At least you CAN wash in cold water.

Another issue with the Brits: what the heck is the point of two faucets in a bathroom sink? Picture me trying to remove my mascara: Quickly wet the fingers in the hot water, and then move quickly to the cold to cool off the fingers before rubbing the eyelashes. Repeat over and over again until fingers turn blue or blister, or mascara is removed. Wash the face? Not in the usual manner, sister!

Cart 'em Off

Having lived in five different countries, and visited several more, I feel I am at least a little qualified to discuss certain aspects of culture and/or products that span the globe. One of these global products is the shopping cart. Being an American, I perhaps suffer from the arrogance of many of my countrymen in thinking that our products are better than others'. Oftentimes this is simply not true; we simply prefer what we are used to. However, on the subject of the shopping cart, I truly believe that America has the better product, and I truly cannot understand why the rest of the world doesn't follow. Actually, some of the rest of the world has; perhaps the shopping carts to which I refer began elsewhere. The trouble is, much of the world is deprived of this truly underappreciated product.

The key to the betterness of the shopping cart currently in use in America is wheels. In America, shopping carts have four wheels, just like everywhere else in the world. All four wheels rotate. However, in the American version, only TWO of the wheels turn--just like in automobiles. In cars, the front wheels are used for steering--they turn right and left--while the back wheels follow. Our shopping carts follow this same principle. And they are easy to steer for just that reason.

I first encountered a different type of shopping cart in London, and have since found them in Romania, Kenya, France, and Sri Lanka. I'm sure they exist in other countries. This type of shopping cart has FOUR wheels for steering. All of them turn right and left. and this is extremely annoying. I suppose the inventors of this type of cart figured that this style would make for tighter turns. I'm sure this can be achieved--in theory. However, in America, if I have trouble with a tight turn, I simply pick up the back end of the cart and make the turn. No matter how full my cart has been, this has never been difficult. Making tight turns--or any turn, for that matter--with the 'other' type of cart is nearly impossible, however. Instead, all turns are inevitably wide. Its just the way they are built.

You can tell which type of cart a country uses without actually trying them out. You just have to watch other shoppers. If they are pushing American style carts, they are going straight down the aisle. The 'other' type? They'll be going diagonally. Every time. This phenomenon is even more pronounced outside, when shooppers are navigating the slopes into the parking lot. They cannot be pushed straight.

I thought that perhaps this was just my American arrogance showing through. But no. I spoke to some friends who are not American, and do not live in America, but have visited America. To a man (ok, woman), they all preferred the American style.

Rise up, shoppers of the world! Let's demand steerable, controllable shopping carts. Things are already grim enough in the stores these days.