lines can haunt you

2006-05-12

The middle finger response and dead babies

THAT'S IT. We're all becoming just a bit too fucking Canadian, aren't we? Just now, while I spooned sugar into my coffee and stirred in the cream, another man stood and waited patiently beside me, afraid he was, or so he said, of reaching over me, or my general coffee-fixing area, or whatever. So what did we do? I stepped back, stretched my arms way out like a Frankenstein in order to continue to stir my coffee, while he did likewise and grasped buffoon-like at a spoon just out of his reach. It's all getting to be a bit much now, isn't it?

I call it Canadian, this addiction to politeness, because I can remember clearly how often it was commented on while I travelled, and how I got used to the idea (eventually) of not saying sorry for every little thing that occurred in the course of a day. While playing frisbee the other day someone yelled, 'Oops! Sorry!' for not being able to catch a throw that landed 20 feet in front of them in the dirt. Why so sorry? The bad throw was my fault, and clearly I didn't mean to do it, so I really need not apologize either (though I'm sure I did). If you step on another Canadian's foot, they're as likely to say sorry as you are, just for having thoughtlessly placed their foot in the way of your own.

I tell you what, I'm done with it. No more sorry's for me. You're gonna really be deserving of a sorry if you hear it from me. I'll have to have chopped off your pinkie toe or spilled hot coffee down your blouse. Or, let's face it, baby-steps here, try to quash the instinct to apologize for random things like reading the section of the paper you wanted, for not quite solving a complete stranger's problem, for not giving change to the homeless when I have none.

My babies are dying. Fusarium wilt, caused by the fungal spore Fusarium oxysporum lycopersici, has stricken my young tomato plants. The disease is untreatable and it will cause them to die early. The same thing happened last year, only the blight didn't appear in force until the plants were already 4-5 feet tall, and because of that and the freakish care I devoted to them, the lower leaves died and fell off at less than the replacement rate nearer their crowns. But these guys are barely a foot tall, and their vascular system is already deepening an ugly red. They appear strong; their leafy green tops look invincible and so full of hope, stretching like kittens' claws at the string just out of reach - unaware, they are, of the clogging fungus that will eventually cause analgous infarction.

I'm scared.


Navigation previous entry next entry latest entry archives profile notes e-mail How lines can haunt you... Recent Forays 2009-03-10: The names 2008-05-21: in medias res 2007-11-14: The things I meant to write about: 2007-07-29: More than meets the eye 2007-04-13: Where the words have gone. Links Abroad in medias res Modern Drunkard Ftrain The Onion Exploding Dog McSweeney's Internet Tendency The National Pist Higher Blogs Palinode's Palace Schmutzie Friday Films Luvabeans Sprigs Fairlywell Dirty Laundry Boombasticat f-i-n jonquill Stray Sparrow Swordfern Pablo Ashahands Erasing		2006-05-12 The middle finger response and dead babies THAT'S IT. We're all becoming just a bit too fucking Canadian, aren't we? Just now, while I spooned sugar into my coffee and stirred in the cream, another man stood and waited patiently beside me, afraid he was, or so he said, of reaching over me, or my general coffee-fixing area, or whatever. So what did we do? I stepped back, stretched my arms way out like a Frankenstein in order to continue to stir my coffee, while he did likewise and grasped buffoon-like at a spoon just out of his reach. It's all getting to be a bit much now, isn't it? I call it Canadian, this addiction to politeness, because I can remember clearly how often it was commented on while I travelled, and how I got used to the idea (eventually) of not saying sorry for every little thing that occurred in the course of a day. While playing frisbee the other day someone yelled, 'Oops! Sorry!' for not being able to catch a throw that landed 20 feet in front of them in the dirt. Why so sorry? The bad throw was my fault, and clearly I didn't mean to do it, so I really need not apologize either (though I'm sure I did). If you step on another Canadian's foot, they're as likely to say sorry as you are, just for having thoughtlessly placed their foot in the way of your own. I tell you what, I'm done with it. No more sorry's for me. You're gonna really be deserving of a sorry if you hear it from me. I'll have to have chopped off your pinkie toe or spilled hot coffee down your blouse. Or, let's face it, baby-steps here, try to quash the instinct to apologize for random things like reading the section of the paper you wanted, for not quite solving a complete stranger's problem, for not giving change to the homeless when I have none. My babies are dying. Fusarium wilt, caused by the fungal spore Fusarium oxysporum lycopersici, has stricken my young tomato plants. The disease is untreatable and it will cause them to die early. The same thing happened last year, only the blight didn't appear in force until the plants were already 4-5 feet tall, and because of that and the freakish care I devoted to them, the lower leaves died and fell off at less than the replacement rate nearer their crowns. But these guys are barely a foot tall, and their vascular system is already deepening an ugly red. They appear strong; their leafy green tops look invincible and so full of hope, stretching like kittens' claws at the string just out of reach - unaware, they are, of the clogging fungus that will eventually cause analgous infarction. I'm scared. Tell me when this blog is updated email: