I've Heard Enough!

I realize that I am more times than not un-cool and out of the loop but, when did we get to the point where we have no idea how to define privacy or a personal matter? I am addressing more specifically, cell phones. Every public place that I go there is someone in the midst of a conversation that is really audible and very personal. These conversations range from fights with lovers and spouses to financial problems to angry gossip about other people concerning matters that really isn’t anyone’s business (even the speaker’s). As a case in point, earlier a woman stood next to me in line and talked into her cell phone as if she were at home and in the privacy of her own room. She was telling her husband or baby daddy that she had “…signed the papers in case the kids wanted to get in touch with them later on.” She was clearly talking about the point in fact that someone was adopting her children. She added that their (she and the father’s) “…final visit with the children would have to be at a public place like Chuck E. Cheese’s.” The circumstances or what may have lead up to this “decision” she did not mention.

My first reaction was that I felt horrible for her. Then I felt bad for me. Why did I have to hear that, it was really none of my business? This led me to wonder why someone would have such a conversation in line at a Rite Aid Pharmacy. Have we become so used to cell phones that we don’t even consider that others can hear our conversations? Are we so ill-bred that we don’t have any sense of shame or privacy? I am not sure what is the dominate force here. What I do know is that I see on a daily basis people of all walks of life on cell phones, people inadvertently sharing with the world very private conversations.

I’ve heard people make drug deals and once even offer to purchase a pizza and a pack of cigarettes’ in exchange for sex. There does not seem to even be an attempt to disguise these conversations. It is as if the speaker has no idea what telephone etiquette might be. In some cases I feel that the speaker might just get some sort of gratification from sharing with the world but, for most it would appear as if they are just oblivious. Well, when I was a kid I was told by others that if I did not like hearing something I should not listen. Unfortunately, that is the problem here. The most offensive conversations usually take place where I am trapped; like public transportation or in line trying to pay for breath mints.

I have written about this topic before a couple years ago with the hopes then of things getting better. They are not getting better. They are getting worse. We either don’t know or care that our personal conversations are just that, personal.

Goodwill?

Yesterday I took a trip to the Wegman's grocery store because they have the greatest Half Moon cookies and "every day you get [their] best," as well. Next door to that particular Wegman’s is a new Goodwill thrift store. I am of course drawn to such ventures so; I decided to check it out. What an incredibly strange place. It was kind of a cross between Marshall’s, The Dollar Store and a traditional thrift shop. What an incredibly curious marketing approach.

The Marshall’s reference is because the store’s layout has the feel of a small discount department store. As well, the Goodwill sells many new items (most over priced); by new I mean "never worn or used" in lots and quantities that suggest they purchased the stuff from some wholesale closeout operation and just jack up the prices in order to abuse one group of poor to benefit another. Opps, did I say that out loud? Anyway, they had new socks, winter gears, house wares etc. The curious marketing faux pas was that the actual thrift store donated and gently used items looked really bad and not worth purchasing next to the new stuff under the bright department store lights. “Whose idea was this” I thought? Perhaps if the new items were in a separate department in another area of the store the comparison might not have been so dramatic. For instance they had new hats and scares on 3 or 4 end caps and on the next end cap were used ties.
Most of the ties were originally expensive. There were several Brooks Brothers ties there. Unfortunately, they were wrinkled or horribly pressed flat beyond repair. I could be wrong but, I believe that Brooks Brothers ties are kind of like the flag. Once abused or if their usefulness has waned, they must be ceremonially destroyed with others in a great fire. To add insult to injury the price on these useless neck affectations was $6.99. I looked at the tag again and then checked out others and indeed they were all priced at $6.99. Who might purchase a rumpled worn tie for $6.99 when other thrift stores sell them for $.50 or $1.00? Might they not sell more at a more reasonable price and has no one connected with their organization(s) ever taken a price theory course? Some poor soul who does not know any better will buy them. That’s where the abusing one group to support another comes in. This makes the store’s name a bit ironic don’t you think?

Moving right along I was captivated by a very pleasant young woman who appeared to be removing shoes from the shelves and stacking them on a cart. Since it was none of my business, I asked her what she was doing. She told me that shoes and other items that were on the selling floor too long and had not sold were removed and then tossed in the dumpster out back. She added that it was the store’s policy and some clothing items were baled and sent to third world nations. I asked her if that was why I see starving children on television in Denver Bronco and Buffalo Bills jerseys. “Probably” she giggled. “Why don’t you just set them outside the door or put them in a big bin with $1.00 on the front?” I suggested that people might be leery of purchasing used footwear for 7, 8, 9 or 10 bucks but, they might find $1.00 affordable and the shoes useful considering you are going to throw them in the garbage anyway. Future, I stated that people donate to help and not so one group can leverage free stuff to the highest bidder and then like spoiled children toss what they then consider useless. Again, she reiterated that she thought it a ridiculous practice but, it was the store’s policy. Indeed, it is the store’s policy, and that of several other major charitable organizations that operate thrift stores including The Salvation Army and The Rescue Mission.

I just don’t get this. I believe that the practice violates the trust that donors give the charity to make their former items useful to others. These are not specified donations. People don’t realize or expect that only one group will benefit. They drop the stuff off closest to their homes or travels for a particular day. They donate rather than toss the stuff themselves because they want to help. As well, I believe it stupid to toss stuff that you can get a buck for or better yet might help someone at no cost.

A Shoppers Card Rant

At the inception of the “shopper’s club” card I told a friend that it really wasn’t for the consumer but, rather the store. I added that stores would track what you and others purchase and eliminate slow selling products and manipulate prices far easier. Stores now know when and how many of a certain item you and others purchase. They can now predict to expert certainty what day and what time of day a certain item will be purchased. They know how much you will pay and can push that envelope as far as we will let them. (I even read that online merchants now adjust prices hourly based on data they have collected.) Because they have all of this information that is updated every second that their doors are opened, they can now sell you what they want to sell you rather than what you might need or want. This all sounds a little like one of my Port-laden conspiracy theories but, it really isn’t. We are being manipulated big time.

I imagine that it has been at least ten or twelve years since my first card. I believe that it was with Wegman’s supermarkets. This is only important in that they helped set a trend. I now have a separate wallet for my shoppers/club cards.

My rant today is about how in the past two or three months every time I go to the grocery store, drug store or anywhere else I cannot find what I am looking for. I recently went to the local Price Chopper supermarket for my favorite tea that only they sold here. After about 20 minutes searching on my own and another 20 with a customer service person; we discovered that the store was no longer carrying the tea. Yesterday, I went to Kenney’s Drugs for my usual deodorant and shower gel and neither were on the shelves. The store is no longer carrying them.

Why are they discontinuing all of the products that I like? Well, I guess I should not take it personally… it’s only business. Right? On one level it certainly is a very wise business practice/move to quickly get rid of slow sellers and replace them with stuff that’s going to make the business a lot of money. The problem is one of choice. For instance, I would purchase and drink that tea that I searched in vain for because I have IBS and it greatly helped to maintain a balance in my system. As well, I used that particular deodorant because I found through much trial and error that it worked best for me. Do you see where I’m going here? There is a great clash between the retailers profit motive and the products that I (we) believe are good for me (us). Products that specifically work for me or are good for my health and well being are not of particular interest to a profit driven shopper’s card. I am almost forced to do what I did yesterday, which is to go to three different stores only to arrive home sweaty and pissed with a product that is over-priced that I did not want. Also, after I got home I discovered that they charged me the regular and not the sale price on the shower gel.

So, what’s a consumer to do? Well, this is a rant and not an advice column. BTW, I wouldn’t suggest “Occupy” the grocery and drug stores… you’ll just end up buying the stuff they want you to purchase.

They tried to make her go to rehab and she said, Yes.

I should first state that I am not an ultra-conservative. In fact my political leanings are very much dependant on the topic or issue at hand. This tale is about how a simple ride on public transportation can make you at least cognitively race to the right.

Yesterday, I took a very crowded bus from downtown four miles south. In the seat in front of me were two women in their mid-thirties. I am assuming here although, they both looked a bit older. I gathered that they had not seen each other in a while. The white woman had her hair pulled back in a very neat bun. The black woman’s do was similar but not so neat. This does not really matter, just setting the scene. Their conversation went something like this:

BW: Where you been, girl? I ain’t seen you in a long while.
WW: I just got out of rehab.
BW: Really, I thought you were doing so good?
WW: I got my settlement check. It was 30 grand and I relapsed.
BW: What settlement check?
WW: You know from when I fell at work. (She mumbles but, I got the impress it was at a fast food restaurant)
BW: Really, $30,000?
WW: Yeah, but I only got $8,000. left.
BW: $8,000.?
WW: Yeah, like I said I relapsed and spent the rest in 2 months. I woke up and two months later that’s all I had left. Yeah, they took my kids. That’s where um comin’ from now. They gonna give them to my mother for now until I can get things straight. My dad got the rest of the money, but, they don’t know about it. (I assume “they” here means the courts and the county).
BW: Dang, so how you gonna get them back.
WW: Well the first step was finishing rehab. I got another $20,000 comin’ too.
BW: Fa what?
WW: The whole amount was for $50,000. The 30 grand was just the first check.
BW: So, you get another $20,000?
WW: Yeah. (she puts her head down as if she were sad or ashamed. I’m not certain which?

I stared out the window while the words representing WTF! repeatedly paced through my brain. I had a million questions that I could not ask for obvious reasons and will ask a few here.

Does she need to reimburse the county for care for placing her children in foster care? Does she need to pay for her own rehab? Does she need to reimburse the courts for their time? Does she believe that she has any responsibility to the taxpayers that will have to foot the bill for her very bad choices? Do the powers that be know that her dad had squirreled away the money for her? I’ll save you the effort. The answer to all of the above questions I believe is a resounding, NO!

My eyes drifted to the guy across the aisle with muddy boots and a face that I felt certain was weathered 15 years beyond his actual age. He was a hump, a proud hump that I imagine got up every day and went and humped for the man to pay for his life; to provide for his family and give them a bit better than he had coming up. I felt far sorrier for this guy than I could ever for Miss Rehab. Yeah, I fully understand that a whole lot of bad, bad direction has made her the person she is today. I fully understand that in many ways the society, schools, government etc. have failed her and her children but, I can’t help thinking about that guy and a whole lot of others like him who have tried and more times than not succeeded in making good choices. His good choices have resulted in barely making it himself while supporting a system that believes in redemption/rehab. What about him? He gets to hump for his good choices. She on the other hand gets to blow the money obtained from a nuisance lawsuit while at the same time create “bills” she won’t be held responsible for. Yes, indeed I know that life is not often fair but, I still ask, is this situation fair? I believe that we are a society and as such should care for those who either temporarily or permanently cannot care for themselves but, where should the line be drawn? If your life sucks and you are handed $30,000., and you do not use it to move your life forward; should those of us who are pushing forward each day be responsible for your bad choices? I say, no, no, no.

A Little Squirrelly

Around 2:30 in the afternoon yesterday, the electrical power went out. The cooking gas stayed on but, the electrical power was out. The house alarm kept making this horrific screeching noise to alert me that it was off line. The nearest neighbor across the street was not affected. The problem seemed to be contained on my side of the street. After a couple three hours the power company came out to alert all involved that they need a bigger truck and would be right back. They said that the problem would take a couple hours to fix and to be careful with candles and “oh, by the way… squirrels had angrily attacked the transformer which knocked out the power.” They of course needed to replace said destroyed transformer thingy.

Roughly three hours came and went before the bigger truck with the replacement part returned. They made quick work of things. The process took roughly 30-40 minutes. The interesting story here really is how I spent my time in the dark.

After making a cup of tea and a peanut butter sandwich for dinner, I then allowed my mind to roam pondering the possibility that this was personal and the squirrels had it in for me. You see the inset photo I took a while back is key here. A bit earlier I had watched that same squirrel along with a friend rip a hole in the neighbor’s garbage and remove that very same half full (and it was half full and not half empty) Dorritos bag. They both dragged the bag around to my door where they proceeded to party. The second squirrel was camera shy and scurried away when I began to snap the shots. Eventually, the second squirrel dashed off and I tossed the Dorritos bag. A short while later three bewildered looking squirrels appeared to be glaring at the door. In the darkness I wondered if they wanted revenge and putting the power out was their first step. I even texted Dr. M and Dr. D who both suggested comical solutions being unaware of my true peril. One even suggested an appetizing dinner might be in the offing. Anywho, having exhausted my unrealistic fears I moved on in ridiculous thought.

I wondered how squirrels who acted so well, “squirrelly” in the yard and on the fence could shimmy up a utility pole and chew around live power lines until they had destroyed things and power was out? These same squirrels knew how to make a party with popular munchies but, at the same time could not get across a roadway without becoming pizza. What a curious lot. They were indeed crafty. This led me full circle to my belief that they were coming for me; then the lights came back on.

Sign of the times?

I spent last weekend putting together a proposal and contract for a new client. It all went smoothly and I was pleased as to how things came together. I felt certain the client might be please too in that I believed I had attended to and anticipated every detail or question. We were to meet Monday morning at ten- thirty.

Late Sunday evening after I had put everything in cover folders and then in my bag for the next day, it occurred to me that a certain document while not totally necessary, might be handy for the presentation. I found the document I wanted and giving it the once over thought that by adding a sentence it might be clearer. I had the document saved on a flash drive and came up with the bright idea that I would get downtown early, correct the copy on a computer at the main library, and then get myself a cup of coffee at the Starbucks across the street from where I was meeting the client. I have this thing about being on time. There at the coffee shop I could read through everything again and be over-prepared as I am oft to do.

Imagine my surprise when I entered the main library and walked over to the elevators that would have taken me to the upper floors where most of the internet and word processing computers were held. There were what appeared to be stanchion ropes surrounding off the area in front of the elevators. From the ropes hung a few signs that read something about the upper levels being closed to the public until 11:00am and that only library personnel were allowed to go up there before that time. Huh? I stepped closer not believing my eyes. Really, the main public library in this town is not open to the public until 11:00 in the morning? That couldn’t be, I thought as I stood in disbelief. My head swarmed with the implications of this policy. Was this everyday or just Mondays? What does that say about a town that cannot or cares not to have its main library open until half the day is over? All of my questions would be soon answered by a woman at the check-out desk.

The woman at the desk appeared either horribly disinterested or more than a little sedated. Apparently, the 11:00a.m. policy was for every day of the work week. That library branch was not opened on weekends. Also, I learned that the first floor where books could be checked out and many new titles were shelved, was however open at 9:00a.m. each weekday. The more incredulous I felt I was projecting, the more I felt responded to as if I had just arrived from another planted and asked to be taken to her library leader. She looked at me as if I were the oddest thing she had ever seen and offered no apology. Get with the program homeboy, this bi*ch be closed up in here; I am of course wildly paraphrasing. Feeling as if my head was going to spin off in a second or too, I gave the attendant a hard stare certain that I would detect the circuitry behind her eyes. I could not detect any and decided coffee was my best option.

All the way over to the coffee shop I was livid. “What kind of a friggin’ town is this” I even once asked aloud. How incredibly embarrassing that this town is building a multimillion dollar bus shelter to put all of the poor under one roof but, it can’t find the resources to keep the main branch of its public library open. “This is absolutely nuts” I thought. What does this say to visitors and potential business concerns that might be looking for a thriving community to work, play and prosper? I’ll tell you what it says. It says that we are a town of dullards and those libraries with all they hold, with all they offer to enhance the lives of young and old alike are not at all important to us. It says that we in a word suck! It says that we have no important priorities. It says that we are misguided and have paved a road to our own demise. It says that I am perfectly justified in being very ashamed.

The client presentation went well. I verbally added what I needed to the missing document and none were the wiser. After the meeting I went back over to the library to try to print out a copy again. (I don’t have the best memory and have found it a great idea to always do things when I think of them when I can). Here’s what happened. I got off of the library on the third floor. I walked over to the internet computer reservation desk and followed the instructions there. A slip of paper was spat out of the little machine informing me that I had a 35 minute wait for the next available computer. This was too long so, I thought I would go one flight up and just use the word processing computers and get it done. I told the woman at the desk there my dilemma. She told me that I could not use the word processing computers while I still had a reservation downstairs for the internet computers. I looked over my shoulder and directed her to notice that the six or eight computers for word processing were not in use. Not one person was there. I told her again that the work I need to do might take all of 60 seconds if I am slow. No, sir, “It is library policy.” If I were two years old or mentally challenged I might have interpreted her smile as empathy or even sympathy. I started to tell her of my ordeal earlier in the day and thought better of that. I then went down to the third floor picked up a copy of Advertising Age, Architectural Digest and Harpers. I sat and read trying to calm myself for oh, thirty five minutes.

What would you do?

Picture this… Syracuse, you’re a poor but honest writer taking a morning stroll. Before you on the sidewalk is a very large woman’s wallet. You pick up the wallet and inside you find someone’s life. There is a sum of cash; roughly six or eight credit cards; driver’s license; insurance cards etc. It contained all the stuff that creates and oh SH*T moment when they are gone altogether. The woman on the license did not look familiar or happy and the street address I had never heard of. As I stood there I looked about to see if there was anyone who resembled the woman in the photo. I was standing in front a vacant store front and the insurance office next door did not appear open. I had a few thoughts here…

My first thought was to touch the wallet as little as possible in that I had no idea how it got there. As you may all have learned here, I am indeed part germaphobe, part conspiracy theorist. Had the owner actually dropped it or was it dropped by a stick up man or something? My over-active imagination wandered further down stupid road to; maybe it was set there by the producer of one of those “moralistic” television shows and there were a dozen or so people watching me hoping I’d stripe the thing of its contents and make a go for it. Then they could appear telling me what was going on and condescend like Mrs. Greenwood in the second grade. To this day I still maintain that I did not drop a cleaned eraser on the way for the storage cupboard. No matter, I also quickly pondered whether or not it was like that “Bait Car” television show where the police leave a running SUV in the hood and wait for someone to get in and then arrest them. I guess those weird thoughts should have been dismissed but, they weren’t. I looked across the street and saw a Veterinarian’s office and a mailbox next to that. I walked over and stood staring at the opened wallet in my hands. I wondered what I would want someone to do if they had found my life encased in faux leather. I also thought of karma.


It then occurred to me to take the thing home and search for the owner. I had an address and name. I then had the overwhelming thought that people suck. What if I called up and the person accused me of not returning all of her belongs or that she had more than a couple three twenties? In case you have not noticed, people see windfall opportunities everywhere. I actually felt bad for thinking these thoughts. In the old days the first and only option would have been to personally return the lost wallet. This is now entirely too risky. So here’s, what I did…

I smeared my prints where I had held the wallet and then dropped it in the mailbox. I looked about for Allen Funt or some such reincarnation and then crossed the street again and continued on my way. I was sad.

Rational Thinking

I usually reserve this spot for humor and other items/things that make me scratch my head. Now, this incident certainly made me scratch my head. Earlier today I was accused of "thinking like a white person." I immediately knew what that person meant and was a tad offended. Here's how all of this got started: As I was dressing, I watched the local news out of one corner of my eye. A particular story seemed interesting to me. Later on I relayed to someone the story of a local liquor store that was robbed; the robber took a sum of cash and a bottle of champaign. I imagine that the bottle was to celebrate his victory over oppression? That was sarcasm for my new readers. Well, I continued my commentary adding that people seem surprised that small businesses and other services leave the city. I added that businesses like mom and pop setups are particularly vulnerable to stick-up bandits in that it is difficult to watch their shops and help real customers at the same time. Criminals can make quick work of these places where the register is not usually far from the door. What solicited the mean spirited comment was my statement that people tend to think of their and their family's safety over service to their communities. I made that comment without judgment. If they cannot run a business without a better than even chance of having their earnings taken from them, they most likely see no other choice other than to close down shop and move on to a safer venue.

I was responded to with loud cries that suburban and rural communities experience robberies all the time. I was not denying that. What I was saying was that a sense of community coupled with a stronger police presence made other areas at least appear safer to a business owner. If you live in a place where you know the police personally and you feel that your customers are not just customers but also your friends and neighbors you naturally feel more committed to offering the service(s) that you provide. If you are robbed you feel more secure that the culprit will be found. The community might even drop a dime (quarter) to see that the robber is brought to justice. In the city we have become jaded, apathetic. We do not take the violation of that shopkeeper personally; we almost expect that he will eventually have trouble. We don't see it as our problem.

What I do not quite understand is how my position has anything at all to do with race. Wishing for a sense of community where people can live and work and run their business while feeling relatively safe, I cannot fathom as a "white" invention. I am however amazed that anyone (I do not believe that the person I was talking to has views different from a great many others) would actually try to justify a disinterest in their own safety and future by dismissing a kinder perhaps gentler world as race specific.

BTW, I might flatter myself but, I believe that I am a rational thinker and I do not believe that any particular race either invented or controls that.

"Somebody got kilt."

Stop me if you heard this one…

I live in a fairly nice area of a city. Like most cities these days this means that you are roughly a quarter to a half mile from dicey areas. I reside at the very top of a great hill. There are no neighbors directly across the street or to the right of the house and but one to the left. The next street down is a fully regular city block but, the two side streets rise to only allow for two properties at the top. There isn’t much traffic up there and it indeed seems like another world. It is only when I climb down the great hills for a block or two that reality slowly sets in.

This morning I walked along enjoying the morning sun and even humidity when I noticed cars parked on both sides of the street a short distance ahead. I first assumed that a nearby church was having yet another bake/garage sale. As I walked I noticed huge numbers of people on foot coming from the other direction as well as people getting out of cars and on bicycles. They appeared to be coming from as far as 3 or 4 blocks ahead. After I passed the church, I noticed its lot almost empty; no sale there. I then concentrated on the other side of the street. The nearest side street had several police cars in front of the Lutheran Church, my polling place. I started to walk faster as the crowd grew and people seemed fixated on that little side street. I overheard a grand woman tell another, “This is the work of the devil.” Experience has taught me that it is never wise to dilly-dally about when the devil has been busy. I walked faster.

As I walked, a kid of maybe 16 rode along side me on a rusty blue bike entirely too small for him. I turned and asked, “What’s going on over there?” “Somebody got kilt,” responded in a tone as if I had asked simply the time. I looked ahead and walked even faster. As I’ve said a couple times here in posts before, I am probably one of the few people around in our voyeuristic culture that turns for the opposite direct when he smells smoke or hears sirens. I have no desire to be an eyewitless (yeah, I meant that). And I have certainly no desire to become another “innocent victim” on the local news.

What is it about people that would make them venture out, most in their night clothes at nine on a Saturday morning to get a glimpse of tragedy? I guess I could go into a rant about instant “news” or reality TV encouraging 15 minute fame mongers but, I won’t because you’ve certainly heard those arguments. I will say that we are horribly desensitized when we have any need at all to be part of such an ordeal. At least a hundred or more people left the safety of their homes to see who got “kilt” and how. They will most likely spend much of the day sharing what they know or think they know about what happened. I wonder how many will use the incident as a spring board to take the details of what happened and use them to create a safer community? Unfortunately, a safe community seldom makes for interesting conversation at the bar or beauty parlor.

Props

As I walked along yesterday, a guy stopped me. He was carrying a two year old. I noticed immediately that the two year old was very cute. She was very well groomed but, had an odd look about her as if she were confused. The man carrying her was about 5” 8’ and maybe 125 pounds. He was a grimy as the child was pristine. He walked right in front of me such that I had to stop or stumble into him. He said, “Sir, I really need 60 cents. Just 60 cents to catch the bus… She is getting’ heavy and I don’t want to get caught in the rain again. (There had been a couple spotty flash showers yesterday that lasted no more than five minutes each.)

Before I could respond with my usual, “sorry,” the man adjusted his body so I could not see his face but instead a full view of the adorable confused looking child. I reached into my pocket without thinking and gave him all of the change there. I believe that it was about $1.50 or so. He thanked me without showing his face and moved onward. Still carrying the child he walked onto a small grocery store’s parking lot. I stopped and watched as he approached three other people getting out of their cars with the same tired “sixty cent” line. I’ve been duped as they say in the movies. The man had apparently borrowed the child from perhaps a relative as a prop. They were too different in their presentations to be related. “Granma, let me take little Mary for a walk…

I shared the story with a friend when I got home who thought me surprisingly gullible. He thought that I should have seen that one coming. I did not see it coming because I guess I am not as cynical as the world might believe of me, even though the same thing did happen to me about ten years ago in Rochester. What can I say? Small children and puppies still make me gush. Besides, I have always thought that we must do the right thing. If the right thing is not received well, then that is on the soul of the receiver, if he/she has one. We live in a society and it is our responsibility to recognize that we are not alone but, at the same time we do have to protect ourselves which is why I did not take my wallet out.

Made My Day To Help

As I walked along this morning I noticed a nine or ten year old (I’m assuming) carrying his backpack on his way to school no doubt. He was on the other side of the street. He looked so happy. It was great to see and took me back a few decades. Suddenly, the boy stopped dead in his tracks… he took a step cautiously forward and then retreated. He carefully looked ahead to his right. Just a few houses ahead a woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips stood on a porch with a huge black dog on a leash at the bottom of the steps. The dog had eyed the kid and was straining on the leash. Now smoking and on the phone, the woman took no notice. The kid looked a bit frightened and confused as he stood on the other side of the six lane street. He looked straight ahead across the street and then back at the dog again. He looked as if he could not cross the street and was too afraid to go forward. What to do? What to do?

I waited for the traffic to dissipate and then made my way across the street. I asked the woman if she could hold her dog back while the kid passed. I might as well have asked her for a kidney. “What? Why?” I pointed to the kid and told her that the boy needed to pass and was a bit afraid of the dog. “Oh,” she said, as if it were the weirdest request ever asked of her. I beckoned to the boy and told him that it was safe to pass. As he passed I noticed that he was light complexion black with light grey eyes. His eyes seemed to dance as he smiled broadly and said, “thank you, sir. I hope you have a great day.” I told him to have a good day at school.

People, there are people in this world other than ourselves!

[Insert weiner innuendo here]

I can only speak for myself when I say, I fully expect that on some level or another most if not all public officials will eventually reveal themselves as wieners. They are human, you know? They are subject to human frailties, yada, yada, yada. We are not children; we know what kind of an ego is necessary for public office. We also know that the road to public office is fraught with moral and ethical temptations. In other words, it is ridiculous to assume that politicians need only perform one more miracle to be beatified. Why do we expect that all politicians assume their offices only after signing some sort of moral/ethical/purity oath that covers their past, present and futures? Just like the rest of us, they have libidos and unresolved issues that might cause Dr. Freud to delight in or even wince. They are humans and humans make moral/ethical mistakes even when we say we will not. We trip and fall. We do stupid things that are well beneath us.

That is my point here. Humans make stupid mistakes. The answer is not to forever shun them. The answer is not to toss the political baby out with the bath water. The answer is not to ignore all the good a person has done or might do because they did something stupid. We need to forgive when a person is genuinely sorry and move on. A stupid mistake should not destroy a life unless that stupid mistake has destroyed life(s).
I watched Anthony Weiner’s news conference yesterday. As I watched three things came immediately to mind: 1. He’s in pretty good shape for a congressman. 2. He’s a liar and appeared genuinely contrite. and 3. The best that I could tell he did nothing illegal and did not abuse his current position. Mostly because of numbers two and three, I say let’s move on! Weiner finds a good therapist (perhaps one without social media accounts) and moves on to repair his marriage and constituent relationships... He is allowed to continue to serve the good trusting and satisfied people of his district and the media moves on to find another life to attempt to destroy with its moralist gauntlet.

...and about the media. Was this something that the public had a great need or right to know or just that d-bag blogger Breitbart’s atonement for his own past? It all certainly makes a fine distraction to real issues and makes a few more headlines but, was it important to “pit-bull” the story? No. Don’t get me wrong, I am glad that it came to light if for no other reason that it forces a troubled man to face his demons and get help. However, I can always do without the self-righteousness the media provides and encourages. Last night, I watched with horror, former NY governor and whoremonger, Eliot Spitzer monitor a panel discussion on CNN with the result being head-shaking because it was the panels conclusion that the people of Weiner’s district care more about the point in fact that as a congressman he has fought hard for them; than about his recent mistakes. Spitzer also appeared visibly sour grapes in that he was not afforded the same pass. Eliot, they were entirely different situations and I believe that you know that. It was also disturbing that Spitzer positioned himself as some sort of men-behaving-badly punishment authority. This was as absurd to watch as to ponder.

This morning I watched three different national news sources trying to fire up the same indignation over Weiner. They even suggested that the people of New York were somehow “stupid” for taking the high road. They cited Charlie Rangel’s reelection after his senate censure or public flogging or whatever it was. They all believed Weiner should be removed or resign from Congress. What I believe is that this is about media power. Media has always loved the power it holds to make or break public figures. Hell, media has all but boasted of how it has the power to make and destroy presidents. I fear that at the root of this morning’s analysis was nothing more than disappointment on the part of media in that their egos were a bit bruised in not being able to completely flex their muscles and destroy another career. Unfortunately, I fear we will have to endure a few more days of judgment disguised as commentary; that is unless some other imperfect human has something new to show.

MY DAMN KEYS!

“I want my damn key. You think this is FUNNY? I’ll come over there and slap yo face, you asshole. Oh, I guess you on to da next bitch so, I don’t matter? I don’t care nothin’ ‘bout her. I just want my key. WTF do you mean, get the landlord to get me in? Why should I pay him when you got my keys? We broke up so, you shouldn’t even be havin’ my keys. Never mind, I lost my set… you need to give me my keys back!

He hung up on me, the bastard. Can you believe he hung up on me?”

(She dials again)

“I’m on the bus asshole and you laughin’ like somethins funny. What, I want? I want to come where you are and get my damn keys. Where you at? You at that bitches house? I’ll call her what I want. I’m near Brighton now. Should I get off and walk over so you can give me my keys? No, I am not goin’ pay to have the landlord let me in. LISTEN, my wallet, insurance cards and all my personal stuff is in there, I need my keys. Yes, it is your problem because we ain’t together no more and you should give me my keys back. HE FUCKIN” hung up!

Ooooh, somethin’ bad gonna happen. Somethin’ bad gonna happen!”

(She redials)

“I need my keys! Where can I come? I am almost to my street. What am I supposed to do, just stand outside all night or break in to my own place? Look, all my stuff is in there and I need to get into my house. Not your problem, not your problem! Who gave you the money for that car? Who brought you clothes and gave you a place to stay? Now, you on to the next bitch and I don’t even matter. I just need you to give me my keys back.”

She starts to weep uncontrollably and the passenger next to her tries to console her. She pled with her to calm down. The upset woman starts to hyperventilate but, the helpful passenger intervenes telling her to “breathe baby.” She manages to calm herself and the intervening passenger tells her that she lives nearby and invites her over. She tells her that she will give her something cool to drink and then help her figure out what she should do. The upset woman’s wailing is now a childish whimper. After a few moments…

(She redials)

“He hung up!”

(She redials)

“Now don’t hang up,” she states calmly. “I just want to meet up with you to get my keys. But, it is your problem because you shouldn’t have a copy of my keys at this point. Why are you doing me like this? LOOK, I’M TIRED OF MESSING AROUND WITH YOU! I WANT MY DAMN KEYS. Oh you gonna slap me cause I raised my voice to you? I’ll slap you back too.” He hangs up on her once again. She is now out of her seat screaming at the entire bus but at no one in particular. She is frustrated. Her intellect and emotions are no match for her cruel ex-boyfriend. She is so hysterical that she is gagging in between wailing and shouting incoherently. The intervening passenger woman rises and gets her seated and tries her best to calm her.

This went on for three miles. I sat directly in front of the screaming woman. I was petrified. All sorts of thoughts went through my head as a direct result of watching too much action TV. I’ve seen too many innocent victims bite it in the movies and on TV to fully understand that I could easily be one. I was seriously frightened. I couldn’t take it anymore. Then I got up and walked to the front of the bus. I told the driver that while I was one and one half miles from home and even though it was 92 degrees out, I would rather walk. He apologized twice.

As I walked along the boiling heat and humidity seemed refreshing.

A Word...

I listened intently for an accent or discernable speech defect or impediment. He had none. Given my already blackened heart, it was necessary to answer those questions in the negative in order to tell the tale. If the guy’s problem extended beyond the failure of our educational system, it would be mean spirited to tell you that indeed he said, “CAPACATY” (Kuh-pa-kuh-T). He said it at least a dozen times during the four and one half mile ride. Again and again and again he told passengers waiting to board, “I’m sorry, this bus cannot take any more passengers. It is over capacaty.” Each time he said capacaty, I would forget how much I hated public transportation and instead perseverated over how much I detested the point in fact that the bus driver could not pronounce the word capacity. I even took out a pen and wrote “capacaty” on the label of the jar of peanut butter in my bag. I was getting confused. Each time he said capacaty he hesitated on the last two syllables as if he had a little grammar cop in his head saying, “Dude, you’re going to F**K it up again!” And once more out came capacaty; my head hurt more.

(As an aside: Microsoft Word keeps automatically changing capacaty to capacity as I type. This makes me wonder how far off in the future a spell-check chip for our brains will happen.)

A couple times he changed things up a bit and uttered “capacacy” (kuh-pa-kuh-C) instead of capacaty. That too had a marked embarrassed tone at the end. Then I noticed a girl facing me of maybe 16 or 17yrs., who weighed 275 if a pound. She was wearing skinny jeans. I was a bit jealous of her calves; they were at least twice the size of my own. She seemed so happy although, I noticed that her forehead furrowed each time the driver said capacaty or capacacy. “Yeah,” I thought, “even big girl know he be sayin’ it wrong.”

Les Mails a Package (in one act)

Pardon the formatting here. This blog site does not allow much manipulation of margins and such.


The Setting: The dankest and dingiest of post office locations. The place is almost cave-like in late afternoon. It’s raining heavily outside.

Characters:
LES = Me
MLPC = Mean Lady Postal Clerk
* * * * *

Scene One

(Enter stage right: Les wearing a smart chocolate brown Perry Ellis blazer and in jovial spirits in spite of the rain)

LES
(While waiting in line he is distracted by the horse play of the four children in front of him. The mother is not as amused.)

I would like to mail this please.

MLPC
(The mean lady postal clerk has badly dyed red hair that has been straightened but not curled. She looks tired and as if they tried to make her go to rehab but she said no. She takes the package giving Les a curious once over)

That would be $7.28 to get there tomorrow; $5.08 will get it there Saturday.

LES

Saturday’s fine.

MLPC

Is there anything breakable, perishable...? Do you want insurance or delivery confirmation?

LES

No and no and no. I trust you.

MLPC

What’s in it?

LES

Books.

MLPC

Because you said books, this [package] is subject to inspection.

LES

What? I don’t understand.

MLPC

(In a tone that suggests arrogant superiority. If Les were deaf she would have simply spoken louder.)

It means we can open your package to make sure you did not put anything in it other than books. To make sure there are only books in the box.

(She then writes something on the box which is too small for Les to see as he cranes his neck.)

LES

That’s ridiculous but, if you want the terrorists to win...

MLPC

$5.28 will get it there tomorrow, $2.82 by Saturday.

LES

Saturday

MLPC

(She mumbles unintelligibly and says...)

...delivery confirmation?

LES

I have to tell you that I’m a bit disturbed that my package will be opened. I have never had so much as an over-due library book and now my packages are suspect and subject to inspection?

MLPC

That’s $2.82... out of $5.00.

LES

(Now very pissed)

When you are finally out of business in a few years, think of this moment.

MLPC

Have a blessed day!

We could use a few more like him!

I sat reading a research article in my local library when a boy of about 10 or 12 years raced by. He was followed in hot pursuit by a taller older kid, I thought. It all happened so fast. I also thought that the “race” was perhaps a silly prank the boys had contrived, racing from the library’s back entrance across the length of the library and finally out the front doors. Not giving it another thought, I lowered my head to my work. I guess I’ve learned nothing from Oprah.

As I was about to leave nearly an hour later, I walked over to the librarian’s desk to thank her for her help. She asked me if I had seen the commotion earlier. “You mean those kids that ran through?” The librarian enlightened me to the point in fact that the first runner was 12 years old and that the individual in hot pursuit was his father. Apparently, the kid had run away from school. This wasn’t his first time. The school had contacted an unconcerned mother who called the boy’s father at work across town. The father (who is my new hero) left his job and drove around town until he found his AWOL son. I assume that the foot pursuit started once the two discovered each other.

Just outside the front doors of the library the father overtook his son and threw him into the family car, while telling those concerned about the boy’s safety who he was and why the apprehension was necessary. My first thought was that that kid did not know how very fortunate he was to have such a father.

Being Bus

My old friend from grad school, Jim Ellison coined the term, "Being Bus." Being bus simply describes that person on public transportation that has a conversation so loudly that the other passengers have no other choice but to listen. It's like a one man act or something. If you try to read, look out of the window or even have your own conversation, you will find it impossible, resistance is futile!

Back in the late eighties the being bus conversations were usually with another person. Many times it was really about an unfortunate person who found themselves trapped next to the being bus character. The conversation was usually about nothing interesting. I imagine those conversations were most likely uninteresting even to the speaker. The times have changed baby. Being bus people don't really need trapped passengers any longer, they have cell phones. I even suspect that half of the times there is not actually anyone on the other end of the line. The being bus creep is just talking to be heard. I don’t know why, maybe to feel important or less lonely.

Yesterday afternoon I found myself trapped on public transportation. It was a full house. High school had just let out leaving a standing room only crowd. I can’t imagine that being trapped in the primate cage would be less horrifying or odiferous. I guess that I was fortunate enough to be seated. The aisle seat, of course means I was shoved and inadvertently poked every which why. I needed to go five miles and a half mile into the trip, I was confused and felt certain I had been on the thing for at least two days. And then he got on… A little man of say fortyish who appeared very very short even from my seated position was being bus. He was wearing an over-stuffed puffer jacket and ski cap all hunkered down as if it were 40 degrees colder than in actuality. He was a loud little man. This dude put the being in being bus! He apparently was sent to regal us with this knowledge of all things computer or rather his half-knowledge. Here’s what I learned from Mr. Being Bus: He was married with two teenage daughters; his wife has a laptop which she wants to use everywhere and no, no she does not have WiFi; one daughter has and old Dell and the other an even older Acer, neither of which is worth a shit; his “conversation” was apparently with a customer service rep. in India whose ass he was going to kick if the rep did not “figure out how to fix his problem.” The best I could tell was that he wanted to connect his bunch of outdated computers together and did not have a lot of money to spend because he had just bailed his cousin out again. He also knows everything there is to know about computers and the rep was a prick for saying he should have been able to figure the problem out himself [if he knows so much].

For 30 minutes I had to listen to this douche. He stood over me elbowing me in the head constantly as he shifted out of other’s way or to make a point to the Indian rep. People groaned, some even whispered audibly enough to be heard, “shut the f*** up!” He took no notice. It was as if he were wearing headphones. The older woman across the aisle tugged at his coat finally and exasperatingly asked “could you please stop talking?” Her tone suggested that this wasn’t really a request. All eyes were on Mr. Being Bus. He looked down at the old woman and then about the bus. He then told the rep. “I’ll call you back when I get home,” as if he’d get the same person.

A Random Ride-by

Now if this little tale does not warm the cockles of your frozen heart, I am not at all sure what will. For those of you who have allowed yourselves to become more jaded than myself (which is hard to do), I should make note that this is indeed a true story.

Around three in the afternoon yesterday, I decided to have Dunch or Linner. I seldom eat both lunch and dinner in any given day. If I can I usually eat a meal early and a small snack later on if I get hungry. I was chilled yesterday, one of those days when you cannot seem to get warm. I decided that vegetable soup would put me right. What’s this? There wasn’t a cracker in sight and I can’t eat soup without crackers. I made half a sandwich of PB & J for some quick energy and then bundled up for a long walk. Even though I was chilled, I also needed some exercise. The now old ankle injury stiffens if it does not get out as much as it should. I set my sights on the grocery store 2 ½ miles away. The trip to the store was uneventful. I was annoyed by the gray skies and landscape. My brain seemed to chant, “Where the heck is Spring?” every step of the way.

At the store I purchased three boxes of crackers; Saltines, Ritz and Graham. As well, I purchased a big arse double box of bran flakes. I bore you with those details only to signify that I made the return trip with a large, over-sized bag in each hand. The bags weren’t at all heavy, just over-sized. About three blocks from the store I could feel someone on a bicycle to my left slowing down. I slowly turned to notice a rather fit gentleman of about 60 years, I’d say. He had a full gray/silver beard and blue eyes. He smiled and asked, “Do you have far to go?” Before my twisted jaded mind could reach the conclusion that, old dude was going to off me, the man followed with, “I ask because if you have far to go you are welcome to take my bike. You can bike your groceries home and then come back. I’ll wait for you on that bench there.” Huh? No, I had never seen this guy before in my life! I was speechless. It seemed sunnier out and that chill I had all day was g one. I thanked the man and smiled broadly as I declined his offer. He smiled back and nodded and was then off. I almost skipped home.

After I got home, I made myself a cup of tea with lemon and dissected the event in my head in my usual attempt to ruin just about everything. I imagined that upwards of 99% of people would not have returned with the man’s bike. I thought further that perhaps he was a perv and that I might have ended up on a milk carton. I came up with all sorts of other stupid explanations and scenarios and finally settled on a truth… We should all slow down and care.

Of St. Patty’s Day Past

Way back in the day when I was a college student at St. John Fisher College in Rochester, I celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with zeal (and whoever else wanted to join in). We, along with many other students would eat breakfast together prior to heading off a mile and a half up the road to Thirstys Pub in Pittsford, New York... I’ll get to Thirstys later. It was quite the big deal back when I shared a room with Mark Natalie.

The average sized dorm room was a suite connected by a common bathroom. We were all neat clean guys so, things worked out pretty well. The cleanliness of the bath is important because in the wee hours of St Patty’s morn’ it became a make-shift kitchen. In the days before this we made our way to the Wegmans’ supermarket up Fairport Road and purchased bacon, bread, eggs, O.J. and whatever else we need to make breakfast. The anticipation of this breakfast might only be matched by Christmas morning. Around five on St. Patrick’s Day morning we would convert the sink counter in the shared bath to a kitchen. We used all manner of electrical kitchen appliances to cook our meal. It is decades later and I can still smell the bacon and taste the orange juice. We were smart in that we wanted full bellies for what was yet to come. Like giddy children we prepared the meal and swiftly ate all the while monitoring friends down the hall and about the building as to their progress. We finished up and washed ever inch of the place as if it were ballet. We wanted no sign of our fun in that it was not legal to cook in our rooms much less the John. We were now ready. It was time to go.

Laughing and joking every step of the way up East Avenue past Nazareth College of Rochester,15 or 20 of us reached Thirstys at 7:00a.m. at their special St. Patrick’s Day opening time. We wanted to be the first there and usually were with the exception of regulars who I always imagine slept over. I remember it like yesterday, we’d step to the counter and slap down a one dollar bill and the friendly bartender would return with twenty cups of beer. Yeah, five cent beers! Hours later I remember waking up in my suite shower naked. I cannot tell you what happened much after the first couple beers. I’ll tell you what did not happen, murder, mayhem or disrespect, save Thirstys floor. It was a different time. We would never think of driving and the armed forces could learn a thing or two from us about leaving no man behind. We drank massive amounts and had fun and bonded forever. I offer no apology.

Things were different then, at least for us. No one was found face down in a stream and there were no real “incidents” as I recall. We were different people than students are today. We helped and cared about people we did not even like. I guess you might call it responsible fun/drinking. “Well, how can you say you lost a full day and call it responsible?” We were different then, we looked out for each other.

Ten years later I returned to Fisher to teach in its English department. MADD was all the rage and Thirstys St. Patrick’s Day event was gone. Somewhere in those ten years someone decided that students could not drink and look out for each other. They raised the drinking age and outlawed the panty raids too.

Another case for a personal assistant.

Sometimes, okay very often, I skip merrily along in life ignoring a lot of stuff. The result is that more times than not I end up with a "duh" look on my face. Early last evening I presented such a look. Someone gave me a Burger King Gift card. I was so flustered that I wasn't sure later if I even said thank-you. I emailed one this morning.

A Burger King Gift card? I had never heard of such a thing. I can't remember when I was last even in a Burger King. I stopped going there because that "king" clown guy gave me bad dreams. That was maybe ten years ago or so and I believe it was to just buy a drink. I guess I can buy Burger King drinks for a little while now. If I had a personal assistant I might have been made aware of this fast-food trend or at least have someone to blame for not knowing what "everybody knows." I can't help thinking that my embarrassment might have been averted if the card had been simply left with my assistant. You're right, it is morning and I do need a shave.

Manipulating the data

Having recently filled a USB flash drive it was time to purchase a new device. While looking through the Sunday newspaper's sale circulars I found several on sale although, there did not seem to be any rhyme or reason for the pricing. Some stores offered 2GB drives for more than others sold 4G drives. Later that day I was in Rite Aid which actually wanted $49.99 for a 2BG drive. It finally appeared that Kmart might be the “best buy.” (Yeah, that pun was intended also.) Kmart had a 4GB flash drive for a mere $9.99.

On Monday off to the mall I went in that Kmart is next to the thing as is a US Post Office where I needed to purchase more stamps. While at the mall I wandered through Sears. Sears of course had a Vegas wedding of sorts with Kmart a couple three years ago. Oddly, enough Sears wanted more than twice the Kmart price for flash drives but, in all fairness they weren’t on sale there. On the way out I noticed that they had 3 pairs of thick cotton glove liners on clearance for a couple bucks. These I also needed badly. I took them to the nearest counter.

No bubbly chick, I do not want them free for opening a Sears charge today. Yes, I do have a rewards card! Yes, I will remember to go online at my earliest convenience and fill out your dang customer satisfaction survey. Really, you don’t actually care but your manager does? (Wait a second. That voice in my head is asking me, “Why are you telling me this?”) Really, when I go online to fill our your survey you are suggesting that I rate you a nine or ten because, if you get ratings lower than that you will get into trouble with that same boss who cares? (Wait a second. That voice in my head says you are a liar and that you really do care. As well, you are very bad at customer service. –Yeah, that voice can be a little judgmental.) Yes, I will have a nice day and you do the same.
As I walked away, I wondered if she really wished me a good day or if she only said it because her manager wants her too. Would this be addressed on the questionnaire? For those of you who are not accustomed to my sarcasm, that was some. Winding things up, the obvious moral to the story was: I have a price, it is just higher than most. If you want a definite nine or ten point rating regardless of your performance, maybe you should sweeten the deal. Being entered in your bogus gift card contest isn’t cutting it!

...but, it's more important to be nice.

About four blocks from the house is an extended care facility for elderly folks. Roughly a couple hundred feet from their entrance is a short path. That path leads to or rather connects to the parking lot of a shopping plaza. Like most plazas these days, its occupancy is either half full or half empty. On occasion I have seen a grizzled gent of perhaps 70-75 years of age and with one leg in a wheel chair. The chair must be only 30 or 40 years younger than the man. It is metal, rickety and not motorized. I have noticed that the man wears no gloves and the chair gets stuck in the ice and snow. As well, the path is at an incline causing the man to have to maneuver backwards or risk flying forward much too quickly to control. Also, I have seen him have a b***h of a time getting back up the path. That’s where I come in. I have offered assistance in the past when I have seen him. I’ve guided the chair up or down the path as needed. I’ve always hesitated to offer help because the old dude looks so pissed off or so it would appear. He nevertheless accepts my push or pull with gratitude.

On Monday morning the street plows had inadvertently created a small mound of snow at the top of the path. The man in the chair was stuck there trying in vain to move. The chair rocked back and forth going nowhere. I of course offered my help, which he accepted. When we got to the bottom of the path, we both noticed that the plaza’s lot was barely plowed. He immediately got stuck again. I pushed the chair along and finally asked where he was going. He was headed to the dollar store on the opposite end of the plaza. I moved him along at a steady clip. When we arrived, I was thanked again and continued on my way.

On Tuesday morning the mound of snow at the top of the path was gone however, the old dude was sitting there in his chair, again with no gloves. I should bring him a pair, I thought. As I approached him I asked if he was okay. “Could you just give me a little push?” he asked while adjusting himself in his seat. Once at the bottom of the path he was on his own. He then immediately rode the chair into a patch of ice and got stuck. I unstuck him and again off to the dollar store we went. “Glad to help and have a great day,” I told him.

On Wednesday… (See Monday and Tuesday).

On Thursday… (See Monday, Tuesday and then Wednesday). The only change was that the two guys who remove snow for the plaza greeted me along the way.

On Friday there was a bit of a snow storm with a great deal of wind. The man was not at his usual spot at the top of the path. I continued on through to the plaza walk. I saw one of the snow workers who asked, “Where’s your friend?” He meant the old man in the wheelchair. Snow removal dude went on to tease me about pushing the guy. I don’t remember his exact words but, he made it sound as if I had been taken horrible advantage of by the old man. There was a hint of anger in his voice. Indeed, I had for about a split second noticed that pushing the man had somehow become my “job.” I had quickly let those thoughts perish. I gave snow removal dude a big smile and nod indicating, “I know what you mean.” Actually, I did not really know what he meant. I did not quite understand why this was such a problem for him.

As I continued along, I now started to wonder and question why the old man was there every morning. Why did he need to go to the dollar store every day? And for god’s sake, why did he not pick up a pair of gloves while he was there? Who knows? The best that I can come up with is that the dollar store must be a part of his daily routine, his outing. Perhaps, he has waited for me each morning because he now looks forward to someone being kind to him. Perhaps, I had not taken a moment to reach this conclusion before because on some level I ready knew this.

Poop head: a lesson

Last Friday I allowed myself to get all publicly loud and black, if you will. Picture this… For those of you who have never been trapped in an elevator with this writer, you are most likely unaware that I suffer from IBS. If you don’t know what that is then go to Google and well, Google it. My primary care physician prescribes medication that coats, soothes and altogether relieves the problem.

Early Friday morning I dropped off the last refill prescription to my local pharmacy. Around lunch time I went to pick up the medication. I’m not going to lie, I was in a bad mood, one that had been impacted for roughly five days, if you get my drift. I gave my name to the cashier girly at the pharmacy and she could not find my filled order. After some searching she discovered that the order had not been filled because the insurance company only pays for prescriptions that are filled within the first six months of the original prescription/write date. My original prescription date was July 2010 and was good for several refills until July 2011. Why it’s only February, you say? I have had this problem before; the doctor writes a prescription that is good for a year and the insurance company only honors it for six months. After that the bound-up patient must get a new prescription because the pharmacy’s tail is wagged (like all of us) by those who pay us and in this case that would be the insurance company.

Anywho, as I stated I was in a foul mood to begin with when the girl told me to “go back to the doctor and tell him to give [me] a new script.” Her tone and demeanor were condescending. It was as if I were greatly her intellectual inferior and she had no patience (pun intended) for that . I tried to explain that I had been here before, and she interrupted and spoke slowly and loudly as if… Now, if there is one thing I hate it is being talked down to. The main reason is not because I am all snooty fancy pants (which is probably true) but, rather as an educator at heart it is about the most ineffectual means of communicating information that I know. It is just stupid. Especially stupid if you are less than half my age and can’t look me in the eye while behaving this way. Anyway, I said some things and while tempting was not disrespectful in any way. She parroted her original position louder each time. I found myself shouting that I needed the meds and did not understand that if this was a hard-and-fast rule why my doctor’s office seemed surprised when I asked them to refill an open prescription in the past. There were a half dozen people behind the pharmacy counter who stopped what they were doing to watch yet, none intervened. I was getting nowhere so, I turned on my heel and walked away. The girl was still parroting.

As soon as I got home I called my doctor’s office and requested a new prescription. It’s an automated system and I never know if it has worked until the pharmacy leaves me a voice mail message stating that my order is ready for pick-up. That message never came. Over the next four days I used over-the-counter meds that only worked a bit. I happened to be in the drug store on Monday afternoon and it suddenly occurred to me to check with the pharmacy again. I discovered that my order had been called in by the doctor and filled on the Friday before and had been sitting there for four days. As well, the new prescription is for a year starting with last Friday’s date. When I got home I embraced the meds like they were drugs.

In sum, there are three lessons here: 1. Never talk down to me. , 2. Did somebody say health care reform? (And most importantly), 3. Never yell at stupid people, they will get you for it every time.

Where were you when the lights went out?

So, I arrived home and I was starving as usual. I ate a dinner of left over roasted chicken, egg noodles, mixed veggies and a corn muffin. I worked most of it off shoveling the snow that wasn’t there early that morning. When all that was done, I looked about the kitchen for something to call dessert. Unfortunately, nothing fit the bill. I bundled up and hobbled down the great hill and over a few blocks to the local Family Dollar. All I wanted was a box of Vanilla Wafers. Ultimately, I had to settle for a package of imitation-like shortbread cookies but, I’m getting ahead of myself.
As I searched for the cookie aisle I was distracted by what appeared to be the home décor section. In particular my eye was drawn to a plaque. That plaque read simply, “AS FOR ME AND MY HOUSE, WE SHALL SERVE THE LORD.” My mind raced even though I had seen the plaque a few months ago. I stood chucking to myself trying to imagine the wall this would hang on. I also thought it a great deterrent from fun or “devilish” behavior. How could you ever laugh or be anything other than contrite in the room where that plaque hung? No more scolding disobedient chil’ren or scowling at Edgar for his penchant for a pipe and a glass of demon liquor. Granma could just point her chubby index finger towards the plaque. It would say it all. Loud talk or bawdy jokes? There would be none of that, just point to the sign. The old gal would wonder how she ever kept them all in line before and it was a bargain at only $6.00.

Moving right along... I handled a couple vases which were surprisingly attractive. “Enough of that,” I thought. I asked a tiny 30-ish woman where I could find the cookies. Through a nicotine coated larynx she called me, “sweet heart” and pointed me toward two aisles over. It was amazing how many cookie-like products that store sells. I don’t believe that there were any name brand cookies there. Think Little Doris or Little Helen rather than Little Debbie. It would be a mistake to call them imitations. Even from the pictures on the packaging you could tell that they tasted somewhere between a store brand (not even a name brand) and going hungry. I kind figured that if they couldn’t even Photoshop a good picture for the packaging, it probably was not worth the gamble. A case in point might be the oatmeal cookies that looked badly carved from a hunk of driftwood or something. The “Scooter Pies”-like product weren’t much better. The filling looked like that spray foam insulation stuff from the can, same color and all. After research that took about a half hour, I decided that the imitation-like shortbread cookies might be the lesser of evils. This was only after discovering that the Vanilla Wafer-imitation-like product was sold in a plastic bag rather than a box. I actually tried to break one of these morsels through the bag without luck. “Maybe they’re good for teething babies,” I thought? Anyway, how could you screw up a shortbread cookie? I discovered later that dunked in a cup of hot tea, they could be made almost bakery fresh... not. Anywho, I grabbed a package that was offered at the very odd price point of 92 cents and headed towards the counter.

As I walked towards the counter it appeared as if some lights in the back of the store went out. They had, although it was hours before closing. Then the tiny woman reappeared looking all official and in emergency mode. She shouted, “All customers to the front of the store, NOW!” I had swiftly made my way to the cash register as she shouted. I was next in line. I was confused and looked about for someone anyone to say something. Everyone just stared at the five foot, 85 pound woman. What was going on? All I know is the back lights of the store were off and the tiny woman was now demanding that, “All customers leave the store, now!” She seemed to be taking instructions from her cell phone. I imagine that there was some Family Dollar security mucketymuck on the other end. That’s probably spelled wrong if it is even a word? Anyway, we had to leave without explanation. ...but, but, my cookies? I asked the guy at register if I could pay for the cookies or did I just need to leave? “No, I can always take your money,” he smilingly offered. Bewildered I paid him and left the store where I found a large group of confused looking people waiting outside. They looked to me as if I had a prepared statement. Huh? I walked quickly way hoping the terrorists hadn’t won.

I was enlightened later in a superior tone (I will protect the identity here to avoid a slap on the back of my head) that this is standard procedure if a store’s lights go out for any reason. I asked why and was told, “Because people will loot.” Loot from the dollar store, I wondered? Oh, the humanity! On the other hand... hmmm, I wonder what’s the street value of imitation-like-Fig Newtons?

Read... and eat pie!

And I was thinking maybe later on
We could get together for a while
It's been such a long time
And I really do miss your smile

-England Dan and John Ford Coley
"I'd Really Love to See You Tonight"

Geez, it’s almost February and I have not posted since Christmas. January has just flown by. I was just sitting here wondering what has been happening. It's been cold. Its 2 degrees about now with a wind chill of “yo mama.” When it's cold, that part of my brain which looks for the humor in things turns all dark and depressed. I write less and read and eat more apple pie. I cannot begin to tell you how comforting books and pie are. They are sweet and juicy and always bring a smile, and the pies are great too. There has always been something about apples and musty pages that do it pour moi.

So, what have I read in the past month? In addition to reading most articles that have come my way ranging from those found in the New York Times to The Chronicle of Higher Education to Women's Wear Daily, I have read:

1. Who Moved My Cheese by Spencer Johnson, M.D
2. East of Eden by John Steinbeck
3. The Inner Circle by T.C. Boyle
4. The World is Flat by Thomas Friedman
5. Thrive: Finding Happiness in the Blue Zone
6. Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare
7. All' Well that Ends Well by William Shakespeare
8. Half Empty by David Rakoff
9. Cleopatra: A Life by Stacy Schiff

-And a couple others that were so great that I can't remember the titles right now. As you see here, only one of the titles is actually a new print. I decided that January was to be about reading some of the titles from my book shelves that were screaming out. "Why did you buy us at that book sale, if you weren't going to do anything other than occasionally dust our spines?' I won't bore you reviews or recommendations that would undoubtedly lean towards the academic. I will however advise you to get yourself a wedge of pie (if it is an 8 inch pie, you can even get away with cutting a quarter of it) and a book that you should have read long ago... and read and enjoy!

BTW: Here is a link to several fantastic apple pie recipes: http://www.epicurious.com/tools/searchresults?search=apple+pie&x=18&y=10