What matters most

The only thing that matters in this world is money. If you have it, you have everything. If you don't, nothing else matters.

Speak to me

Voice activation is cool. All the new toys have it--phones, cars and very soon, toothbrushes (I'm sure, just wait and see). Husband started making grocery list on his phone using dictation as I sat and surfed. Here's what I heard:

Hu: Hey babe, so what do we need from Safeway?
Me: Bread.
Hu: (to phone) Bread
Phone: Greg
Hu: No, W-h-i-t-e bread
Phone: W-h-i-t-e greg
Hu: Baguette frikkin bread
Phone: My bed forgetting that
Hu: Fine, I'll just type it. Types out bread.
Hu: Okay, what else do we need?
Me: Orange juice.
Hu (to phone): Orange juice
Phone: Fine jews
Hu: Or-an-ge juice
Phone: You are fine jews

We are all laughing uncontrollably by now. After all, what can beat "get white greg"? So there you have our grocery list for this week--white greg and fine jews. I wonder what "contact lens solution" means in dictationese?

Sleepless in Seattle

This has been a very weird week. It's Monday. And I already know this. So I expected some jet lag last week, after my India trip and getting back to work straightaway. But nope, there was none. Elated, I told myself that I was becoming one of those veteran travelers who always brag that they never get jet lag. I don't know about you but I always hope that they'll fall asleep in their soup as they're telling me this.

Anyways, flash forward six days. I feel sick. Add to that a crummy work day full of underachieving students and bosses who talk of cutting positions at work and other nebulous risks. Getting towards a sicker feeling in the stomach as evening approaches. Now we complete this picture with two unhappy children who are probably coming down with something themselves. I don't know whether I have some vague virus, PMS or the stomach 'flu, but there's certainly something wrong in Central America. (Isn't that a cute name for an ever-expanding mid-section? It's like it has a mind of its own!).

Back to my weird week. I went to sleep at 8, and now here I am at the cinderella hour beating out tired phrases from the keyboard. What is wrong with me? Why do I worry so much? Why can't I just let things fall into place in a natural rhythm? I don't know. I haven't a clue. When I think I know what I'm doing, I just successfully make it worse.

They say that it can only get better once you hit rock bottom. Question is, have I hit rock bottom yet? I guess there's only one way to find out. By then I hope my prose will not feel so shopworn and cheesy.