Courageous or Rude?

The woman sitting next to me at the Mahjong table tells me that I get on her nerves. I’m not surprised that she finds me annoying, but I am surprised that she would say so. We have a regular group of about twenty women, and if we all start sharing what we truly think about one another the outcome will be disastrous.

“What about me gets on your nerves?” I ask impassively, with no intention of altering my persona to suit her sensibilities.

“You say things most people wouldn’t say,” she tells me, pressing her lips together as though she’s eaten something sour.

Well, there’s no arguing with that. I know myself; and I am outspoken. I could point out to her that I have a delightful sense of the absurd, and that while she finds me audacious, there are some who think I’m fun. Although, as she doesn’t comprehend humor, this would be a waste of words. I decide that I will avoid her when I can; but as we have a rotation, playing with her every once in a while is ineluctable.

And so, a couple of months after she tells me that I get on her nerves, I’m once again sitting next to her over a set of tiles. I’m coming from another table where I had an impressive Mahjong, having had a pure concealed hand (no jokers, can’t pick up tiles from the discards), which means that the original thirty-cent win is doubled. And, as East, I rolled doubles at the beginning of play, so it doubles again. Also, the person who gave me the winning tile must double that. I made enough off that one hand to buy a couple of tacos!

So it’s understandable that I’m in a merry mood when I arrive at the table where the repressive woman sits. Soon, without realizing it, I allow her dour attitude to effect my mood. I become serious, sinking into a thoughtful mien. We all play quietly and quickly, only speaking to name our tiles as we put them out.

But the woman who told me I make her nervous is the one who’s getting on my nerves today. Every time she discards a tile, her hand returns to her mouth and she picks at the space between two of her lower teeth. She makes little sucking noises as she digs.

I look around the table to see if anyone else has noticed.

My eyes meet those of the woman across from me. She grins, raises a brow, and gives an upward chin jerk, a silent communication meaning “I dare you.” She knows me well. I look to the woman on the other side of me. She looks like she’s about to throw up.

Sip! Sip! Sip! goes the woman who apparently needs to floss.

I can’t concentrate on the game. The only thing for her to be excavating like that is old food. The longer it goes on the more grossed out I become.  

Every one of us has her spit on our fingers.

Realizing that I’m close to an outburst, I take a few calming breaths and contemplate the state of our politically correct society. We are so afraid of speaking out when someone is acting offensively, that we’d rather put up with it than say anything.

Sip! Sip! Sip!

Okay, I’m done.

“Stop it,” I tell the cavewoman abruptly, but without rancor.

“What?” She straightens as though she’s been poked.

“Think about what you’re doing.” People should be mindful. Does she not know where she is? Does she not pay attention to herself?

“What?” she asks. “What am I doing?” I guess not.

“You’re picking at your teeth and touching the tiles. It’s revolting.”

“Oh. Well, I have something caught in my teeth.”

I give her a look.

“I’m sorry,” she says, humbled.

I shouldn’t have said anything. Why, oh why, do I always speak up? Now the other women will think I’m intolerant, overly critical, and tactless. They’ll be reluctant to sit with me, for fear I’ll point out some mortifying flaw.

Furthermore, the inherent consequence of all this civil sensitivity is a her-or-me conundrum. Do I say something that will embarrass someone and hurt her feelings; or do I refrain, to my own detriment? Most, I think, would choose to sacrifice their own wellbeing rather than take a stand. But not me, which is why I got on her nerves in the first place.

Play resumes. She doesn’t do it again. A few minutes later, when she leaves our table to go to the next one, I hear her tell her new opponents that she needs a few minutes before she can play because she’s got to go clean her teeth.

“You’re ballsier than I am,” the woman across from me says.

“I feel sick,” from the woman sitting next to me.

“She’s moved on and we’re left playing with spitty tiles,” I say in a tone fraught with indignation.

The three of us pull hand sanitizer from our purses. A new player joins us and we offer her some hand sanitizer, too.

The tiles don’t speak to me for the rest of the afternoon.

I have no pictures to represent the blog, so this is how I look these days. 

I found this guy on my floor when I got home from the grocery store. I feel the same sort of revulsion when I look at him as I did when Cavewoman picked her teeth. 

Austin, TX

I have a hankering for lamb vindaloo, and Marble Falls has no Indian restaurant, so David and I decide to spend the weekend in Austin. Our hotel, the downtown Sheraton, has been taken over by a grief recovery convention. The participants wear matching t-shirts and their motto, hanging on a banner in the lobby, is “Good Grief,” which I think is a clever play on words. Considering that it’s a grief group, there’s a lot of laughter and echoing good cheer.

“They don’t sound like they’re grieving to me,” I say with a judgmental snort.

“What does grief sound like?” is David’s response.

We get settled into the room. I’m still wearing my yoga clothes from this morning, and my hair is flat and stringy, so there is much work to be done. Though I’m aware that every restaurant in Austin is casual, I prefer not to go out looking like a wilted slob. David watches golf on television while I improve my appearance.

He has made a reservation for Saturday night at The Clay Pit. Parking is always a problem in Austin and this restaurant that holds a hundred people provides only ten parking places. We park two blocks away and it’s raining outside; but it’s a light rain, we have umbrellas, and walking is good for the soul. If we’d driven around more we would have seen the parking garage right across the street.

We’re led to our table, which is in the cellar.

“The ceilings are low,” our host warns as he leads us down. “And the stairs are rough and crooked, so be careful.” I follow just behind and above his head, which is a bald dome with puny Rasta strands hanging limply from his nape. The effect is so disastrous that it’s difficult to look away.

The beam at the base of the stairs is indeed low, but David and I aren’t overly tall, so it’s no problem. And I have the joy of being placed in the perfect spot to watch people descend and bump their heads, which many do. I chuckle every time. David asks for a martini and I ask for a glass of Malbec. After our drinks arrive, we peruse the menu. David orders Chicken Mughlia and I, as anticipated, order the Lamb Vindaloo. This turns out to be the best Indian food we’ve ever had, including actual Indian food in India. Thanks to our friend, Tere, for the recommendation. 

The place is lively, full of glowing energetic young people. This is something we miss. The majority of the citizenry of Marble Falls is old and rendered dull and slow moving by arthritic pain. But in a town populated by college students, the enthusiasm never dies.

The next morning we take a sweaty walk up Eleventh, through the grounds of the capitol, which contains monuments to represent every historical event and the three ethnic groups that influenced Texas history (Latino, Caucasian, African American; sorry, Asians, you weren’t here yet). I take a picture of the statue of the longhorns because I’m currently writing a novel about a longhorn stampede, a happy coincidence.

From there it’s down South Congress, along Lake Austin, returning to Eleventh on Trinity, and back to the hotel where we get ready for brunch at Geraldine’s, located on the fourth floor of the Hotel Van Zandt. Right away we learn something unexpected, which is that we cannot be served bloody marys before noon unless there is food on the table.

“What?” I ask the waitress. “I’ve had brunch in Austin many times and I recall always getting my bloody mary before the food came.”

She shrugs, saying, “It’s the law. But I can bring you a couple of biscuits so there’ll be food on your table and then you can have your drinks.”

We accept this solution and she walks off.

“That’s crazy,” David says, truly appalled by this astonishing rule.

“What a weird arbitrary law.” I am flummoxed. When did this law get passed? What is the thought behind it? Who told lawmakers to pass such a law?

The couple at the next table sympathizes with our confusion. Apparently they encountered the same situation and had the same reaction.

“Our tax dollars at work,” the husband says with a disapproving click of his tongue.

“But what prompted this law?” I ask.

“Maybe they don’t want people getting boozy when they should be in church.” The man smirks.

“But that’s not for them to say. And how does the order of the arrival of food and drink at the table pertain to anything?” I’m getting worked up. It’s absurd to think that people up the street in the capitol building believe they have a say in when I can drink a bloody mary—well, they obviously do have a say. I force myself to take a breath in and let it out. The biscuits arrive, along with the bloody marys. The couple at the next table wishes us a good day and departs. 

Later, on the way home on I-35, traffic slows way down.

“There’s a wreck up there,” I tell David. “This is about rubbernecking.”

Ambulances whiz by on the other side of the highway. Four frighteningly smashed-up cars block the opposite lanes. Looking at the crushed cars, I’m sure people are dead or dying from this accident. Up ahead police vehicles block trucks and cars, keeping them from entering this portion of the highway, directing them to a two-lane flyover. Unmoving traffic is backed up for miles and miles.

“Those people are going to be trapped in their cars for hours,” David says.  

The highway system in Austin is notoriously confusing.

“This was a nice little break,” I say. "Although spending an overnight in pursuit of food seems indulgent."

“First thing I’m going to do when I get home is water the plants.”

Our state capital is lovely.

Longhorns on the capitol grounds!

Best Indian food in the world!

Don't expect a bloody mary if there's no food on the table.

Geraldine's is so pretentious that they delivered our bill in an antique book. The food was excellent, as was the bloody mary.

Now Available

My novel, Old Buildings in North Texas, is now available on Audible—or should that be in Audible? This doesn’t mean a lot to me, as I tend to read books rather than listen to them, but my husband, David, assures me that this is a good thing.

“The more avenues for selling, the better the exposure,” he tells me.

Well, there’s no arguing with that. He sits at his computer and explores the Audible website as I hover behind, impatient that I’ve been summoned from another part of the house to watch him slide his mouse around. 

Audible, it turns out, is an entity you have to join, which right away gets me ruffled because, as a general rule, I’m not a joiner.

“You pay a monthly fee,” David explains, “and you download the audio versions of whatever books are available in this format.”

He decides it’s great, pays up, and becomes an Audible member.

We only recently joined the Boat Club, and now he’s joined something else, which I think borders on making too many commitments. Is it wise to go around impulsively joining things? Must we now join a club for books being read to us instead of reading them for ourselves? What’s he going to join next?

“Will you have to swear an oath to be a member of this club?” Sometimes clubs make you recite promises you’ll never keep. I fear that it’ll be the Mother Candle initiation all over again. 

“It’s a book club. No oaths, no promises.”

“And with this monthly fee can you download as many books as you want?”

“Of course not. Then people would join for a single month and unload years’ worth of reading.”

“But it’s not really reading is it?”

“Let’s just see what happens.” He’s much better at “wait and see” than I am.

He calls up the sample of Old Buildings and we listen as a woman I don’t know reads the first few paragraphs. Her voice is of a similar pitch to mine, so it’s not jarring. Her pace is relaxed and even, though she lacks my Texas accent which, as some who’ve listened to the podcast available on my website know, either lends authenticity or, as others might say, is relentlessly distracting.

“Do you know anybody who listens to these Audible books?” I ask.

“I imagine lots of people, like commuters or painters.”

“Painters? What kind of painter—artistic or someone who paints your house?”

“Either one.”

And now I’m wondering about this person who narrates my book. I’ve been informed of her name, Sally Vahle, so I return to my own computer and look her up online. She was born in Minnesota, grew up in Wisconsin, has had small parts in a few movies I’ve seen, and is active in the theatre community in Dallas. I think she was a good choice. I hope she enjoyed my novel.

One advantage that’s clear is that, though Old Buildings in North Texas was published in the UK, on Audible it’s readily available in the US. Also, Audible has generously given me ten promo codes to use for publicity. As I did when Old Buildings was first published, I will happily give these promo codes to anyone who’s a member of Audible, or intends to join, in exchange for reviews on the Audible website.  

Here they come again! It's a pretty book, isn't it? If you haven't read it yet, here's an opportunity to get it from Audible Books.