LADIES ONLY! And Now A Few Words From Meemselle....because one word is never enough

Meemselle

Just A Few Words
Oct 27, 2014
2,841
383
83
Inspired by Cabarete Diaries, I'm posting selected entries from my blog about my life and times here and there.

This one is from August 4th of this year.

Wherein My Son Buys Me a Taser
Posted on August 4, 2015 by meemselle
%Taser-Stun-gun-300x200

The title is not a mistake. It happened. It really happened. And mine is bigger.

Here I am at Caf? Valentino with Beloved Son and Beloved Son?s roommate. We had had a horrible beach day in Sosewage?no umbrellas at Playa Alicia (a must for the red-headed set) and then very crowded Playa Sos?a because of scheduled nighttime concert of huge old Dominican singing star, Fernando Villanova. I confess: I had no clue. I have a lot to learn about being Dominican.

So no umbrellas at Alicia, and then no space with my usual beach guy Roberto. So he sends us to his brother at the very,very,very Batey start of the beach where they anchor the boats and the swimming is awful. But by now, Beloved Son and Best Friend of Beloved Son have discovered pi?a coladas made in the pineapple. So this demands attention.

Yadda, yadda, off we go. We head for Caf? Valentino in search of ? I swear ? cigars. The Boychiks do indeed find cigars.

However, as we are reposing there, ?sun-tanned, windblown?* a vendor man approaches. Beloved Son is sitting curbside. Vendor-man flicks open 5-inch blade and says to Beloved Son: ?Do you wanna buy a knife??

Incredible marketing. Blade pointed to solar plexus. Darling Son is nothing if not resourceful, and manages to inquire: ?Anything else??

So Dominican vendor-man pulls out a personal sized, hand-held, rechargeable effing Taser. For RD$800 (US$20). He demonstrates; but only into air. It makes a very scary noise. A sort of Republican noise. Beloved Son instantly tosses $800 onto table and voila! I, his demure Jewish mother, am the owner of an expletive deleted Taser.

This, Gentle Readers, is a conundrum.

Those who know me (and who are members of my family because I know you are my only followers) know that I am anti-gun beyond anti-gun. When Beloved Son was small and would get invitations for play-dates. I was, yes, that mother who said, ?Do you have guns in your house?? There was a horrible gun-related tragedy directly affecting one sister when she was just a child, and I can never forgive or forget.

I know that there are even Democrats, and I know some, who can make the case for responsible gun ownership. I accept that. Proper training. Proper licensing. Complete understanding of need to use.

I still don?t get it.

Here?s just a snapshot of what guns & ?Murrica mean to each other:

http://www.thenation.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/GunsGR615px2.jpg

I am anti-gun. To the core. I have also read and studied the US Constitution and guess what? Disagree with the NRA about interpretation of the Second Amendment. Particularly in the 21st Century.

So what happened at Valentino?s?

My 20-year old son bought me a Taser. Not legal on about 6 levels in US. The demonstration was very dramatic. Nothing has been tazed. I do admit that I love the flashlight feature.

But it?s sort of like Pilot Sully Sullivan?s landing in the Hudson. You can?t really practice. What if a friend/family member you practice on has some undiagnosed heart condition (think Len Bias) and you give them a friendly practice zap and they die? Would never do to dogs. Not fond of the cat, but do not wish to incur even further disdain from the feline quotient.

So practice on myself? Physical courage is not one of my strong suits.

I thought maybe on a lizard, but Beloved Son says the lizard would explode and I have no desire to see that. Inside out gekko? No thank you.

So: the Taser. Lovely birthday gift (?Will you still need me? Will you still feed me when I?m 64??) I do freely admit I have never received anything like it.

Is it a good idea? Probably. If danger presents itself, will I think to use it? Probably not. If I think to use it, will it be turned against me? Chances, I think, are high for this scenario.

So how does a demure Jewish matron born and reared in a small town in Massachusetts, who came of age in hippie-Boston of the 1970s and free-wheeling New York City of the late 70s-80s, fiercely feminist, so leftist that if on the rare occasion I don?t like the Democrat I vote for the Communist (I did so love Angela Davis?s hair and you know how much I j?adore Jessica Mitford) come to have possession of a personal Taser in my handbag? (Mid-sized embroidered black and red Liz Claiborne?lovely scarlet interior lining).

First of all, it was just funny that the salesman flicked open a switchblade as the opening to his sales pitch. How does one say no after that? ?Do you want to buy a knife?? ?Ummm, no? So what else do you have?? ?Aha. A Taser. For my mother. Please, sir. Put away the knife.?

So for $800 pesos?and to make the salesman go away without stabbing us or tazing us, I have received my 64th birthday present from my equally pinko-Commie-liberal son.

This is just bizarre.

It?s in my Liz Claiborne bag. Will I ever have it in my hand? I don?t know. If I did, will I have the presence of mind to use it? I don?t know.

So I guess this is the difference between Republicans and Democrats. They know. I don?t.

*Purely for pleasure: my parents? most favorite love song. One of mine, too. Grace sings!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZ1ZLiyGrE0
 

dv8

Gold
Sep 27, 2006
31,266
363
0
your son should have asked to see more. maybe the next item in the bag would be uzi. and after that? "no? you no like, my fren? how about this missile, then? missile good."
 

dv8

Gold
Sep 27, 2006
31,266
363
0
they are more suited for choking someone to death with them, i think. it's better to taser the thief and claim he was hit by the lightning.
 

dulce

Silver
Jan 1, 2002
2,524
211
63
they are more suited for choking someone to death with them, i think. it's better to taser the thief and claim he was hit by the lightning.

Who remembers the dr1 member who tasered himself?
Nice blog Meemselle. very entertaining.
Thanks for sharing.
 

sosuamatt

Bronze
Jul 29, 2013
912
13
38
Meems, you can practice on anyone. Tasers do not interfere with the heart nor pacemakers. They are high voltage and extremely low wattage. They may fall and break something however. If you ever tase Easton please post the video.
 

Tamborista

hasta la tambora
Apr 4, 2005
11,747
1,343
113
Who remembers the dr1 member who tasered himself?
Nice blog Meemselle. very entertaining.
Thanks for sharing.

He is an active poster, won't say who, as he is a little "touchy" about the story.

Hint besos!

Terrible Tambo'
 

chic

Silver
Nov 20, 2013
4,305
1
0
but stay away from the guy matza....u know the one whp always mentions his you kno whats...
 

LTSteve

Gold
Jul 9, 2010
5,449
23
38
Inspired by Cabarete Diaries, I'm posting selected entries from my blog about my life and times here and there.

This one is from August 4th of this year.

Wherein My Son Buys Me a Taser
Posted on August 4, 2015 by meemselle
%Taser-Stun-gun-300x200

The title is not a mistake. It happened. It really happened. And mine is bigger.

Here I am at Caf? Valentino with Beloved Son and Beloved Son?s roommate. We had had a horrible beach day in Sosewage?no umbrellas at Playa Alicia (a must for the red-headed set) and then very crowded Playa Sos?a because of scheduled nighttime concert of huge old Dominican singing star, Fernando Villanova. I confess: I had no clue. I have a lot to learn about being Dominican.

So no umbrellas at Alicia, and then no space with my usual beach guy Roberto. So he sends us to his brother at the very,very,very Batey start of the beach where they anchor the boats and the swimming is awful. But by now, Beloved Son and Best Friend of Beloved Son have discovered pi?a coladas made in the pineapple. So this demands attention.

Yadda, yadda, off we go. We head for Caf? Valentino in search of ? I swear ? cigars. The Boychiks do indeed find cigars.

However, as we are reposing there, ?sun-tanned, windblown?* a vendor man approaches. Beloved Son is sitting curbside. Vendor-man flicks open 5-inch blade and says to Beloved Son: ?Do you wanna buy a knife??

Incredible marketing. Blade pointed to solar plexus. Darling Son is nothing if not resourceful, and manages to inquire: ?Anything else??

So Dominican vendor-man pulls out a personal sized, hand-held, rechargeable effing Taser. For RD$800 (US$20). He demonstrates; but only into air. It makes a very scary noise. A sort of Republican noise. Beloved Son instantly tosses $800 onto table and voila! I, his demure Jewish mother, am the owner of an expletive deleted Taser.

This, Gentle Readers, is a conundrum.

Those who know me (and who are members of my family because I know you are my only followers) know that I am anti-gun beyond anti-gun. When Beloved Son was small and would get invitations for play-dates. I was, yes, that mother who said, ?Do you have guns in your house?? There was a horrible gun-related tragedy directly affecting one sister when she was just a child, and I can never forgive or forget.

I know that there are even Democrats, and I know some, who can make the case for responsible gun ownership. I accept that. Proper training. Proper licensing. Complete understanding of need to use.

I still don?t get it.

Here?s just a snapshot of what guns & ?Murrica mean to each other:

http://www.thenation.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/GunsGR615px2.jpg

I am anti-gun. To the core. I have also read and studied the US Constitution and guess what? Disagree with the NRA about interpretation of the Second Amendment. Particularly in the 21st Century.

So what happened at Valentino?s?

My 20-year old son bought me a Taser. Not legal on about 6 levels in US. The demonstration was very dramatic. Nothing has been tazed. I do admit that I love the flashlight feature.

But it?s sort of like Pilot Sully Sullivan?s landing in the Hudson. You can?t really practice. What if a friend/family member you practice on has some undiagnosed heart condition (think Len Bias) and you give them a friendly practice zap and they die? Would never do to dogs. Not fond of the cat, but do not wish to incur even further disdain from the feline quotient.

So practice on myself? Physical courage is not one of my strong suits.

I thought maybe on a lizard, but Beloved Son says the lizard would explode and I have no desire to see that. Inside out gekko? No thank you.

So: the Taser. Lovely birthday gift (?Will you still need me? Will you still feed me when I?m 64??) I do freely admit I have never received anything like it.

Is it a good idea? Probably. If danger presents itself, will I think to use it? Probably not. If I think to use it, will it be turned against me? Chances, I think, are high for this scenario.

So how does a demure Jewish matron born and reared in a small town in Massachusetts, who came of age in hippie-Boston of the 1970s and free-wheeling New York City of the late 70s-80s, fiercely feminist, so leftist that if on the rare occasion I don?t like the Democrat I vote for the Communist (I did so love Angela Davis?s hair and you know how much I j?adore Jessica Mitford) come to have possession of a personal Taser in my handbag? (Mid-sized embroidered black and red Liz Claiborne?lovely scarlet interior lining).

First of all, it was just funny that the salesman flicked open a switchblade as the opening to his sales pitch. How does one say no after that? ?Do you want to buy a knife?? ?Ummm, no? So what else do you have?? ?Aha. A Taser. For my mother. Please, sir. Put away the knife.?

So for $800 pesos?and to make the salesman go away without stabbing us or tazing us, I have received my 64th birthday present from my equally pinko-Commie-liberal son.

This is just bizarre.

It?s in my Liz Claiborne bag. Will I ever have it in my hand? I don?t know. If I did, will I have the presence of mind to use it? I don?t know.

So I guess this is the difference between Republicans and Democrats. They know. I don?t.

*Purely for pleasure: my parents? most favorite love song. One of mine, too. Grace sings!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZ1ZLiyGrE0

Love the story, yenta, I always wanted a tazer. You are now a Super Jewish American/Dominican Princess. You may someday need that toy, but lets hope not.
 

retiree

Bronze
Jan 18, 2008
978
10
0
Calling someone a yenta is not a big compliment. She doesn't seem like a yenta to me. Very entertaining story Meemselle! Thanks.
 

Meemselle

Just A Few Words
Oct 27, 2014
2,841
383
83
A Few More Words From Meemselle

This one is about regularizacion.

The Law and Molly Bloom
Posted to blog on May 30, 2015

So I am legal.

I had been dreading the process, the paperwork, the trips to Santo Domingo and New York, the search for documents, and so on and so on until it just wound up crippling me, sending me into deep freeze inertia at the bottom of a pit. Talk about “Frozen.”

Whether it was because I had the right lawyer, or whether there were some strings pulled: I don’t know. But it turned out to be remarkably easy. One of the few bureaucratic things in this country that worked for me the way it’s supposed to work.

Which is not to say it wasn’t without its 2.5 World moments….

We—we being me, the lawyer, and a German couple—arrive at the Palacio de Justicia in Puerto Plata at 9 a.m., and there is a line stretching around the block. And it’s all Haitians.

We park the car and proceed to the gate, where a very angry, very zaftig Dominicana is yelling at the Haitians trying to get in to the inner courtyard where the tent — a sort of outer office — is located. They’re brandishing pieces of paper through the gates and she’s screaming at them in machine-gun fire Spanish. Half of them are shouting in Spanish, half of them are shouting in Kreol, and the resulting din is pure bedlam. If you’ve never heard Haitian Kreol, you don’t know how incredibly foreign it sounds to the Romance Languages-trained ear. And the arms through the gate and the waving papers: it’s like the fall of Saigon. I kid you not.

Our soft-spoken little lawyer walks up to the gate, puts her hand on the dragon lady’s arm, speaks a few words, and dragon lady opens the gate to let the lawyer and the Germans in. It seemed at first that I was not going to be welcomed into the sanctum sanctorum. However, though Maria speaks softly, she apparently carries a big stick and I am allowed in. Gracias a Dios.

All the chairs are taken and we’re standing there under the canopy and it’s a hot day and there’s no breeze. Every so often, an official in a bright green Oficina de Regularizaci?n polo shirt comes to the door and shouts out some names and numbers. A frisson goes through the crowd as they all wheel around to see where veintiuno is and 21 becomes “ven-yon” and people swarm for the empty chairs and the doors close and the conversation begins to hum and then to throb.

And then the doors open again and an official in the official shirt comes out and yells at everybody to be quiet because how will they know when their numbers are called and he slams the door without calling any numbers and the crowd gets more frustrated and starts to rumble. This is not reassuring.

Somehow the lawyer convinces the people on the inside to see me today and not make me come back on Monday. I get called, with my passport, passport copy, copies of first and most recent entry stamps, and “plaster tire tracks, footprints, dog-smellin' prints and...twenty-seven 8x10 color glossy photographs with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back explainin’ what each one was.”*

I’m nervous as a rat in a laboratory. The green shirt asks me my phone number and the only phone number I can remember is the one from childhood. Luckily, as I’m sitting there like an ijit, he gets called to deal with another immediate problem, so by the time he returns I’ve composed myself and remembered my current phone number.

So now I?m sent back outside to wait some more.

Now, also keep in mind, that the car came earlier than originally planned and I flew out of the house this morning without coffee or any food or water, so between the heat and the standing and the overwhelming smell of sun-baked urine and the slight menace in the crowd, I’m not feeling great. An understatement, as in fact, I feel like floating seal manure.

I ask the lawyer if I can go and get some water and she says not a good idea in case they call your name. So I’m standing there suffering, but luckily brought my Kindle so I got to stand there suffering not quite so much because I had Caitlin Moran’s “Moranthology.” A cure for just about anything that ails one, I’d say.

Eventually, not even the Divine Cait is cutting it, so I finally I say to the lawyer, look: I think I’m going to be ill. She says OK so I run over to a little colmado, where it takes forever and a week to buy 4 waters and a banana. I manage to make it back without a.) getting hit by a car; b.) fainting. It wouldn’t have been nice to get water just for myself, so I pass out the 4 waters to the lawyer and the Germans. I freely admit that I ate the banana in one bite crossing the street. And threw the peel in the gutter. Soy Dominicana.

The Germans are all finished so off they go and the crowd is thinning and I finally get a seat. I crunch myself into it, murmuring a Shehekianu. I close my eyes and just let the noise and the heat and the smell and the tension just take me, just cloud me like some humid miasmic haze, and try to concentrate on just going to zero. Oh, the applications of Method acting for the layperson! Who said my misspent youth in the American Theatre isn’t something to fall back on?

Finally, I hear something that sounds like my name: a nest of “ee” sounds in a basket of “s’s.” My name is virtually impossible for Dominicans to fathom; they usually take one look at it written, and look up at me imploringly. I’m used to it now. I sort of like it. I confess. Mostly because it gives me an additional 10 seconds to start thinking in Spanish.

So in I go, to blessed air-conditioned official greenshirtdom, and wait some more. And then the lady with the very bad bra (only in the DR does a lady who’s a 45NN wear a 38D;porque, mi amor, if it ain’t tight, it ain’t right!) brings me over to the folding screen and takes my picture (twice, because my eyes were closed the first time) and sticks my hands on a digital fingerprint machine. I make an electronic signature. I wait again. And Sra. Bad Bra pulls a piece of paper out of a printer and hands it to me. Ta-da!

It’s been a strange journey, being illegal. I realized I like being a revolutionary, but not an illegal. I’m not a particularly patriotic American. But I do not and never can deny that the geographic accident of my birth has worked out well for me. Because for better or for worse, an American passport is pretty much gold.

It was highly unlikely that I was going to be deported, especially in the first round of deportations, whenever that will be. And there is also a certain zen to my feeling that if I ever left and was refused re-entry, then that’s the universe telling me it’s time to move on. So why the paralysis?

That’s the part I’m still trying to figure out. I asked so many people so many questions and it was like the old joke about asking four Jewish ladies for a recipe for cheesecake and getting five recipes. Everybody, including one law student, two lawyers, a representative from Migracion and various friends and acquaintances in the US and the DR (Italians, Germans, Dominicans, French, Belgians, and one sad old Canadian) gave me different answers to the same questions.

I think it was yet another case of trying to apply First World Logic in the 2.5 World. It’s never a good idea, because one always winds up frustrated and confused. It was only by surrendering to the 2.5 World way of doing things that I wound up getting what I wanted and needed in the 2.5 World.

It’s a hard thing, especially for a control freak like me, to just give it up, to go where they tell you to go and make copies of what they tell you to copy and say what they tell you to say and nothing else except to just follow along, without really understanding or thinking about any of it.

I felt like Molly Bloom, saying, “…yes I said yes I will Yes.”

But anyway, it’s done. I am legal. I know that all of you, Gentle Readers, are sleeping more soundly now. I know I am.

*"Alice's Restaurant Massacre" by Arlo Guthrie
 

dv8

Gold
Sep 27, 2006
31,266
363
0
meemselle, i'm gonna keep it all in one thread, ok? easier to follow your blog if all posts are kept together.
 

Camden Tom

Bronze
Dec 1, 2002
736
39
0
Angela Davis was a guest in my hotel last year.
Inspired by Cabarete Diaries, I'm posting selected entries from my blog about my life and times here and there.

This one is from August 4th of this year.

Wherein My Son Buys Me a Taser
Posted on August 4, 2015 by meemselle
%Taser-Stun-gun-300x200

The title is not a mistake. It happened. It really happened. And mine is bigger.

Here I am at Caf? Valentino with Beloved Son and Beloved Son?s roommate. We had had a horrible beach day in Sosewage?no umbrellas at Playa Alicia (a must for the red-headed set) and then very crowded Playa Sos?a because of scheduled nighttime concert of huge old Dominican singing star, Fernando Villanova. I confess: I had no clue. I have a lot to learn about being Dominican.

So no umbrellas at Alicia, and then no space with my usual beach guy Roberto. So he sends us to his brother at the very,very,very Batey start of the beach where they anchor the boats and the swimming is awful. But by now, Beloved Son and Best Friend of Beloved Son have discovered pi?a coladas made in the pineapple. So this demands attention.

Yadda, yadda, off we go. We head for Caf? Valentino in search of ? I swear ? cigars. The Boychiks do indeed find cigars.

However, as we are reposing there, ?sun-tanned, windblown?* a vendor man approaches. Beloved Son is sitting curbside. Vendor-man flicks open 5-inch blade and says to Beloved Son: ?Do you wanna buy a knife??

Incredible marketing. Blade pointed to solar plexus. Darling Son is nothing if not resourceful, and manages to inquire: ?Anything else??

So Dominican vendor-man pulls out a personal sized, hand-held, rechargeable effing Taser. For RD$800 (US$20). He demonstrates; but only into air. It makes a very scary noise. A sort of Republican noise. Beloved Son instantly tosses $800 onto table and voila! I, his demure Jewish mother, am the owner of an expletive deleted Taser.

This, Gentle Readers, is a conundrum.

Those who know me (and who are members of my family because I know you are my only followers) know that I am anti-gun beyond anti-gun. When Beloved Son was small and would get invitations for play-dates. I was, yes, that mother who said, ?Do you have guns in your house?? There was a horrible gun-related tragedy directly affecting one sister when she was just a child, and I can never forgive or forget.

I know that there are even Democrats, and I know some, who can make the case for responsible gun ownership. I accept that. Proper training. Proper licensing. Complete understanding of need to use.

I still don?t get it.

Here?s just a snapshot of what guns & ?Murrica mean to each other:

http://www.thenation.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/GunsGR615px2.jpg

I am anti-gun. To the core. I have also read and studied the US Constitution and guess what? Disagree with the NRA about interpretation of the Second Amendment. Particularly in the 21st Century.

So what happened at Valentino?s?

My 20-year old son bought me a Taser. Not legal on about 6 levels in US. The demonstration was very dramatic. Nothing has been tazed. I do admit that I love the flashlight feature.

But it?s sort of like Pilot Sully Sullivan?s landing in the Hudson. You can?t really practice. What if a friend/family member you practice on has some undiagnosed heart condition (think Len Bias) and you give them a friendly practice zap and they die? Would never do to dogs. Not fond of the cat, but do not wish to incur even further disdain from the feline quotient.

So practice on myself? Physical courage is not one of my strong suits.

I thought maybe on a lizard, but Beloved Son says the lizard would explode and I have no desire to see that. Inside out gekko? No thank you.

So: the Taser. Lovely birthday gift (?Will you still need me? Will you still feed me when I?m 64??) I do freely admit I have never received anything like it.

Is it a good idea? Probably. If danger presents itself, will I think to use it? Probably not. If I think to use it, will it be turned against me? Chances, I think, are high for this scenario.

So how does a demure Jewish matron born and reared in a small town in Massachusetts, who came of age in hippie-Boston of the 1970s and free-wheeling New York City of the late 70s-80s, fiercely feminist, so leftist that if on the rare occasion I don?t like the Democrat I vote for the Communist (I did so love Angela Davis?s hair and you know how much I j?adore Jessica Mitford) come to have possession of a personal Taser in my handbag? (Mid-sized embroidered black and red Liz Claiborne?lovely scarlet interior lining).

First of all, it was just funny that the salesman flicked open a switchblade as the opening to his sales pitch. How does one say no after that? ?Do you want to buy a knife?? ?Ummm, no? So what else do you have?? ?Aha. A Taser. For my mother. Please, sir. Put away the knife.?

So for $800 pesos?and to make the salesman go away without stabbing us or tazing us, I have received my 64th birthday present from my equally pinko-Commie-liberal son.

This is just bizarre.

It?s in my Liz Claiborne bag. Will I ever have it in my hand? I don?t know. If I did, will I have the presence of mind to use it? I don?t know.

So I guess this is the difference between Republicans and Democrats. They know. I don?t.

*Purely for pleasure: my parents? most favorite love song. One of mine, too. Grace sings!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZ1ZLiyGrE0