Stupid downstairs computer doesn't want to talk to the world, so I am upstairs in the cold guest room doing a quick (well, as quick as the slow old computer will allow) post on the issue that is burning in my mind, as much as I can remember of it anyhow because I had to pull out all those passwords I had forgotten because of course I was already logged into everything for all of eternity on the other computer. Oh how I loathe you downstairs computer and your refusal to cooperate with wireless internet.
Graveyard in northern Chile.
How I have come to take technology for granted. I, who didn't even have a calculator in high school and even had to do a computer program on punch cards so better than most should be grateful, yes down on my knees grateful for my ability to connect with the outside world and have friends I have never even met in person or wouldn't have met had it not been for the web (Hi Mr Scribbler, Richard, Holly, Marta, Laura, Kikita, and Amanda!) but no, here I am griping because I had to walk up One. Flight. Of. Stairs. To read email from people on the other side of the world or even on this side. People who would otherwise not even bother to write to me. Yes, this is true because when I was in the Peace Corps in 1993-1995 how many letters did I get from most of my friends?
Almost none. Yeah. I'm talking to you, you not-letter-writing friends. Well, not really, because I am not friends with those people any more, so they are not reading this blog. Some friends wrote, but the rest? Couldn't be bothered to put pen to paper. But email? People will put finger to keyboard and hit enter, so thank God for that and I'm going to quit whining now.
Woman selling grass for guinea pigs (which are eaten -- by people) in Peru.
Anyhow. What was I saying?
Oh. Right. The etiquette thing. When I was getting my beauty school pedicure yesterday, the lady next to me was very sensitive about her hammer toes, but I wasn't staring at them, I was just watching what her nail tech was doing. I did feel bad, though, when she asked the tech to put a towel over her foot so nobody (i.e., me -- there was nobody else around except the four of us) could see her ugly feet and made an effort not to look any more. I feel her pain. I get self conscious about my yellow teeth with the lines across them and I am also in the market for those cutlets that you put in your bra. Now you know my deep dark secrets. Also, I have told SH that on our 50th anniversary, he is allowed to play with my belly button, but until then, it's hands off, buddy. I don't like having my belly button messed with. It just creeps me out. I don't know why.
Anyhow. The ugly foot lady (she lives in the right climate for not having pretty feet because Lord knows it is not like anyone gets to see them around here) was reading a treatise on how to get salt out of your diet while the tech worked on her toes. So really, she was just indicating she didn't want to talk, which is fine, but here is my question: Is it rude to read while someone works on your feet? I mean, here you have someone doing what is already one of the most humbling jobs there is in the world. When Jesus wanted to show his humility, he washed the apostles' feet. That was about as low as you could go in that culture. If someone is going to wash your feet, shouldn't you at least do her the respect of paying attention while she does it?