I’m in Cincinnati gearing up for a trip to the Creation “Museum” tomorrow. I figured out that not only does the museum lie about history, it lies about how far the facility is from Cincinnati. On the web site, it says 7 miles. On google maps, 30 miles.
I reserved the best room possible at the Millenium so Tina and I could enjoy a romantic evening together. The ice machine on our floor and the floor below are out of order. The room is so so and no one came to turn down the bed.
I called down to the front desk to get an Internet cable, b/c it comes free with the room. After waiting 1.5 hours, I called down and said, “cancel.” I can hack this shit out on my phone, bitches.
Lots of disappointment this week. Like Annie sang sing sung …
My cat Zoe is an interesting monster. She’s a “fraidy” cat. She loves to be curious, but she’ll run from a baby spider. She cat calls birds, but hides while doing it.
She warmed up to me after living with her for almost four years. Really, she’s Tina’s cat. She sits on me if Tina’s gone. She loves for me to play with her. I’ve conditioned her that I’ll brush her occasionally while she sits on my chest in bed. She loves it. We have it down to a science. I grab the brush. She hears it and runs from where ever she might be in the house. She jumps on the bed, and she sits politely on my chest. Then I go to work.
The Zoe/Jeremy fail is in communication. She mistakes me reaching for my phone in bed for reaching for her brush. Her trigger goes off and she does the routine, but I’m not going to brush her.
There are also times when she walks in the kitchen while I’m cooking, and she yells at me. Nonstop. Loud. Sans cesse. Her brain is expecting reward for this communication. No matter how much variation she uses in her vocal cord, I might never figure out what the hell it is she wants to tell me.
If she could just listen to Tina and I talking more often. If she could just find a way to bend her cords to resemble english. Maybe just maybe, she could meow something resembling, “Where’s Tina?” or “I’m hungry for Tuna.” or “Brush my rump, ya tuchas.”
I think there’s something about being a little closer to bilingual that helps me figure out what Zoe wants, before her head explodes and she lies in a pool of her own headless blood.
The irony is that despite ALL the forms of communication there are in the world, there remains such vast contradictions in information. You can know 10 languages, use all sorts of email, internet and telephony communiques, but all can fail at any given time. And yet people devote years of effort and study into information and its delivery.
You can be married to your best friend, spend every waking hour together, and still communicate erroneously or haphazardly to that person. Think how communication might be junked up between different households or different cultures.