When I was growing up I had some weekly chores. Among them was picking up the dog poop. You would think I would have considered this a disagreeable chore, to say the least. In actuality I embraced it, because it kept me out of the kitchen; the things that went on in that room were much worse than dog poop. While baking cookies & cakes was fun, the making of meals repulsed me - having to touch that raw meat, eew!, how gross was that? It gave me the shivers.
My mother decided that my sister & I were to learn to cook. Her plan was to have us cook on alternate Saturday nights. I was first.
I wish I had a funny story to tell about that meal I made - but truthfully I don't even recall what it was. Like any trauma, I must have totally blocked the event from my mind. What I DO remember is that after that first evening, I never had to cook on a Saturday night again. My sister took on the kitchen - cooking & cleaning up; I was banished to the furthest reaches of the house: the laundry room, & of course, the backyard for the dog poop. I was thrilled - no more cooking!
In college my meal staples were Top Ramen noodles, sunflower seeds & frozen vegetables - & Arby's, my weekly splurge. My roommates, (who would make actual meals!) would laugh at me.
"How will you ever find a husband, Helen; you can't DO anything!"
"I can do SOME things!"
"Like what?" they would laugh, "You can't clean!"
"'Can't' & 'don't' are two different things..."
"And you certainly can't cook!"
"I won't need to cook," I sniffed, "I will marry a Chinese chef & I will lounge around eating Chinese food all the day!" Beats me where I thought that I, as an Accounting major, was going to run into a Chinese chef. Twelve years later, tho, I did run into a French chef, & quickly married him before he could get away.
In my 20's the inside of my refrigerator looked like this: Diet Coke, Coors Light, & doggie-bags from where ever I had gone to lunch. In my freezer there was a pint of Ben & Jerry's, but only on grocery night - by the next day it had mysteriously vanished. My stove-top would accumulate a layer of dust in between my mother's visits. She tried to interest me in things like crock pots & stews. Raw meat touching! Eew! She was not successful.
Then I went to work on a cruise ship. No cooking there! (Ha! No cleaning either! Take that, you old college roommates!).
Anyway, in 1995 I met & married MY chef & promptly sent him off to cook for people who would pay. So where did that leave me? With my good friends Ben & Jerry, of course!
Until...
Children! Eek! It seemed unlikely that I could justify raising my children to believe that Ben & Jerry's was an acceptable dinner. I was going to have to suck it up - I was going to have to COOK! Because, sure enough, as they grew those kids began to ask that most hated, that most dreaded & unanswerable question each & every night -
"Mom, what's for dinner?"
Like I knew?! I would open the refrigerator & gaze into it like it was a Magic 8 Ball - "The answer is unclear". (By the way, just what is wrong with Ben & Jerry's anyway? - it's loaded with calcium, right? Why spend all this time & effort fortifying orange juice, for Heaven's sake, when you can get all your calcium naturally from those happy cows on the Ben & Jerry's container! Besides, the kids LIKE it - you never hear of anyone saying, "You are not leaving this table until you have finished your ice cream! & yes, I mean every BITE!")
(As an aside - No, Ben & Jerry's is not paying me.)
I have been unfortunately blessed with a memory that will only hold onto five meals at a time. Sometimes a new meal comes in, dislodging a previous favorite, which is promptly lost & forgotten. The meals I currently know are Pasta, Pizza, Stir-Fried Rice, Taco Salad & Morningstar Grillers. Luckily I don't have to feed my husband, as he is not home at meal times most days. I hope for my husband to cook on the one night when he IS home. I hope for enough left-overs for the other night. I don't always get my wish. Then it is back to the Magic 8 Ball Fridge - only now my children are old enough to gaze into it themselves - "The answer is still unclear". This is what happens when you put a woman who is perfectly happy making a meal out of the spice rack in charge of the food.
But, my children have not starved. So what if some days they ate deli ham, a carrot & a piece of bread for dinner! I do try to instill in them the knowledge (or the hope?) that one day they might get married into a 'regular' family, you know, people who eat more than five different meals in rotation. I need to prepare them for real life, after all. Give them something to look forward to when they go out into the world...
--which reminds me - stir-fried rice tonight - best go get that started. Day after day, it never ends. Tell you what, I'd rather go pick up dog poop.
Maybe one day we'll get a dog...
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Bedroom Doors: A Mother's Solace
In the bedroom of my oldest son you can see these things from the doorway:
- A double bed, no bedspread, top sheet wadded into a giant ball, bottom sheet in the process of becoming unfitted. On this bed will be a pile of folded clothes if it is daytime. In the nighttime the pile migrates to the floor.
- A dresser with a collection of sailing trophies & sailing boats, neatly organized. That may be hard to notice tho, since the dust covering them acts as a blanketing snowfall, making just their shapes visible. If you should open the drawers, however, you would see that whatever clothing actually makes it INTO the drawers is all neatly folded - right down to the underwear.
- A book shelf - again, you can tell which books have been read recently as their titles are still visible thru their much lighter coating of dust.
- The reason you must view all this from the doorway will become apparent to you as you try to enter the room & you stumble - oops! You look down at your feet. There you will find:
- a tennis racket
- a pair of gym shoes
- a pair of tennis shoes
- a life-jacket
- a hat
- a whistle
- sunglasses
- a water bottle
- a laundry hamper
It may not have occurred to you that an empty doorway INTO a room is obviously wasted space - look how much can be stored there! Plus, there is the added bonus in that it is very difficult for the mother to come into the bedroom to complain about the unmade bed or the mysterious shapes lurking under the dust.
In the bedroom of my youngest son you can see these things from the doorway:
- Two twin beds, pushed together - one of them has no bedspread, but instead a top sheet. You would not call the bed 'made', altho the sheet has been artfully arranged over the pillows in the shape of a dead body. The second bed is covered with a quilt. On it, you will find a rotating selection of these things:
- Lego's
- papers from school
- money - crumbled beyond all recognition
- trash from pockets: candy wrappers, rocks, odd bits of broken plastic, & other scary slimy things
- balloons for water fights
- pens - many
- a Nerf gun
- a plastic sword
- books - many
- ipod speakers
- piles of clean clothes
- piles of dirty clothes
- &, last but not least, a Darth Vader Helmet that continually escapes from the Halloween Box.
- It is good this child has the spare bed - otherwise I suppose all THIS stuff would be in the doorway!
- A large 3-tier shelf housing a collection of dusty Lego Star War's fighter sets ready for battle
- A dresser housing same. If you should open the drawers, however, you would notice that the ONLY space allocated for clothes in this dresser is the underwear drawer. You didn't really expect anything to be folded in there, I am sure. The rest of the drawers are filled with Lego's - sorted for the most part by color - a mother's feeble attempt at bringing order out of chaos.
- On the floor there are several Lego projects in various states of completion. One will be Star Wars, one will be a battle scene & one will be an invented game involving Lego characters & their weapons, dice & a zillion little pieces of paper. There will be the parent-required path thru the madness that winds from the doorway to the bed.
Upon seeing these things from the doorway, you will have no desire to go in. In fact, you may just want to reach out & shut the door...
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
The Bra Lady
Think about trying on clothes, all you ladies out there. You go to the store, you pick out a pair of pants to try on in two sizes - say a size 12 (that most likely fits), & a size 10 - well, just in case. Then the size 12 fits & the size 10 barely makes it past your thigh. So, you suck it up & buy the 12. Easy enough, right? Well, going shopping for a bra - now that's a different story...
My friend Susan said to me, "Helen, you really must go see my friend, the Bra Lady. She has the cutest little store with some really beautiful things! She will give you a personal fitting as well, to make sure you are wearing the right size."
I surreptitiously glanced down at my offending breasts, which were apparently encapsulated in an inferior as well as mis-sized bra. I crossed my arms over them.
"Oh?" I said calmly. Time for a defensive maneuver; a little name dropping. "I was fitted long ago. At Victoria's Secret." Victoria's Secret has some small reputation in the world of bras, after all.
"Hmpf." sniffed Susan, in a somewhat unimpressed manner. "You did say you wanted a new bra..."
"True," I agreed, I could certainly use one. Normally I would wait til I went back to the States. But hey, why not give a local business a shot? After all, I told myself, Jamaican women have breasts, too...
So, we hopped into Susan's car to seek out the Oracle of Undergarments. What ever this woman may or may not be, I thought to myself, she certainly has had an invigorating effect on my friend! Susan had a sparkle in her eye & her lips were parted in anticipation as she pressed her pedal to the metal, squealing out of my parking lot before I had barely shut the car door.
We found the bra store in a cute little old cottage that looked exactly like the witches house made out of candy that got Hansel & Gretel in trouble. We fended our way thru the profusion of flora, crossed the porch & entered the Holy Land.
"Hello, Ladies," the Bra Lady said from behind her counter. Okay, I thought, she doesn't LOOK like a witch. She came out from behind her counter & quickly ushered me into a dressing room. I took off my T-shirt & waited. In she breezed, "Now, I am going to tell you what WE are going to do. First, I am going to ask you about the bra you are wearing. Look in the mirror," I dutifully turned. "Now, tell me about your bra."
"Hmmm," I began. What to say about my bra? It lives a happy life in my underwear drawer with my few other ill-fitting bras. It is washed carefully each time in a special "bra bag" so that it will not get it's wires crossed (Ha!) & it is hung to dry. I never thought about the life of my bra, really. Obviously I knew better than to point out that is was from Victoria's Secret... I picked a safe answer that would be sure to please, "Well, it just doesn't seem to be quite right..."
"Exactly!" the Bra Lady pounced upon my opening. "Do you remember what size it is?"
Ha! I knew that answer! "38C."
The Bra Lady dropped her eyes, shaking her head at the pure folly of the legions of misguided women that she has encountered along her lonely path as the Bra Guru. She muttered to the tape measure in her hand. "Lord, have mercy."
She spun me around to show me the back of my bra. "See the back? The band is where you are going to get MOST of your support. I should be able to slip just two fingers between your back & your bra band." She quickly slid both of her arms up to the elbows thru the back of my bra. I looked down at my breasts, who didn't even seem to notice the company. "You are definitely NOT a 38!"
First commandment handed down - THOU SHALT NEVER AGAIN PURCHASE A 38!
So, she briskly turned & went in search of a bra or two. "What about the cup size?" I tossed after her. "Don't you need to measure for that too?"
She turned patiently & said, "There is NO point in even ATTEMPTING to get your cup size until we get a bra that FITS PROPERLY."
Okay, then!
Soon she returned, with a 36, that she soon deemed unacceptable, & a 34 (Lord have mercy), that she determined was the correct size. Then she set to work on the cup size. I looked in the mirror. There was, shall we say, some 'spillage'. "This doesn't seem quite right, either. Tho I do feel the support you mentioned with this new band size."
"You are right," she agreed, "But first you need to reach in there & arrange everything! You must put your hand inside the cup & pull everything toward the center." She demonstrated this on herself, making a scooping motion across her breast like a backhoe excavator. A fleeting thought crossed my mind - so, this is what men are doing with their hands in their pants all the time! I looked down at myself after this operation & found that my cleavage, which I used to consider an asset, had now flattened out & wrinkled like it had been ironed wrong.
"Oh my, this can't be right either." She agreed & made me to understand that NOW I had to sweep with my hand from the breast bone into the cup as well. "Like windshield wipers", she said. I tried to get a mental picture of this, but could not.
After several more tries & a pile of bra's littering the dressing room floor like a fresh snow fall, she pronounced that I was now in the RIGHT bra. I turned to the mirror. There I stood, in all my glory, resplendent in a 34F (merciful Father!) - my breasts fully lifted & supported by what felt like a steel belted radial bra band, with specially formed "gel" straps (missing only dual exhausts & a Hemi under the hood!) made by a company called Natori. Susan was called to witness this amazing transformation, as I put my T-shirt on over this new bra, so that she could be made to 'ooo'! & 'ahhh'! along with us.
Then to seal the deal, the Bra Lady & Susan said the one thing that would be sure to take me to the cash register...
"You look like you've lost 10 pounds!" said the Bra Lady.
"Well, I actually HAVE lost 10 pounds."
"Then it's 10 MORE pounds! - 20 pounds!" Susan chimed in.
"I'm never leaving this store!" I exclaimed.
Well, we did leave - eventually. In my bag were two of these miraculous bras, a pair of matching panties, that were 'ruched' to give shape to my derriere. I tried those on myself, not wanting to have to have the Bra Lady ensure that I 'reached in there & moved every thing to the middle'. Oh, & some earrings, that somehow made my ensemble complete. Meanwhile, Susan ran up a bill bigger than mine - & she already HAD a miracle bra or two...
I left with a promise to return, off we ran, Susan & I, wild & free (yet fully harnessed!), laughing out the door, clutching our purchases to our breasts (sorry, couldn't resist), hoping to return to this mecca again one day...
My friend Susan said to me, "Helen, you really must go see my friend, the Bra Lady. She has the cutest little store with some really beautiful things! She will give you a personal fitting as well, to make sure you are wearing the right size."
I surreptitiously glanced down at my offending breasts, which were apparently encapsulated in an inferior as well as mis-sized bra. I crossed my arms over them.
"Oh?" I said calmly. Time for a defensive maneuver; a little name dropping. "I was fitted long ago. At Victoria's Secret." Victoria's Secret has some small reputation in the world of bras, after all.
"Hmpf." sniffed Susan, in a somewhat unimpressed manner. "You did say you wanted a new bra..."
"True," I agreed, I could certainly use one. Normally I would wait til I went back to the States. But hey, why not give a local business a shot? After all, I told myself, Jamaican women have breasts, too...
So, we hopped into Susan's car to seek out the Oracle of Undergarments. What ever this woman may or may not be, I thought to myself, she certainly has had an invigorating effect on my friend! Susan had a sparkle in her eye & her lips were parted in anticipation as she pressed her pedal to the metal, squealing out of my parking lot before I had barely shut the car door.
We found the bra store in a cute little old cottage that looked exactly like the witches house made out of candy that got Hansel & Gretel in trouble. We fended our way thru the profusion of flora, crossed the porch & entered the Holy Land.
"Hello, Ladies," the Bra Lady said from behind her counter. Okay, I thought, she doesn't LOOK like a witch. She came out from behind her counter & quickly ushered me into a dressing room. I took off my T-shirt & waited. In she breezed, "Now, I am going to tell you what WE are going to do. First, I am going to ask you about the bra you are wearing. Look in the mirror," I dutifully turned. "Now, tell me about your bra."
"Hmmm," I began. What to say about my bra? It lives a happy life in my underwear drawer with my few other ill-fitting bras. It is washed carefully each time in a special "bra bag" so that it will not get it's wires crossed (Ha!) & it is hung to dry. I never thought about the life of my bra, really. Obviously I knew better than to point out that is was from Victoria's Secret... I picked a safe answer that would be sure to please, "Well, it just doesn't seem to be quite right..."
"Exactly!" the Bra Lady pounced upon my opening. "Do you remember what size it is?"
Ha! I knew that answer! "38C."
The Bra Lady dropped her eyes, shaking her head at the pure folly of the legions of misguided women that she has encountered along her lonely path as the Bra Guru. She muttered to the tape measure in her hand. "Lord, have mercy."
She spun me around to show me the back of my bra. "See the back? The band is where you are going to get MOST of your support. I should be able to slip just two fingers between your back & your bra band." She quickly slid both of her arms up to the elbows thru the back of my bra. I looked down at my breasts, who didn't even seem to notice the company. "You are definitely NOT a 38!"
First commandment handed down - THOU SHALT NEVER AGAIN PURCHASE A 38!
So, she briskly turned & went in search of a bra or two. "What about the cup size?" I tossed after her. "Don't you need to measure for that too?"
She turned patiently & said, "There is NO point in even ATTEMPTING to get your cup size until we get a bra that FITS PROPERLY."
Okay, then!
Soon she returned, with a 36, that she soon deemed unacceptable, & a 34 (Lord have mercy), that she determined was the correct size. Then she set to work on the cup size. I looked in the mirror. There was, shall we say, some 'spillage'. "This doesn't seem quite right, either. Tho I do feel the support you mentioned with this new band size."
"You are right," she agreed, "But first you need to reach in there & arrange everything! You must put your hand inside the cup & pull everything toward the center." She demonstrated this on herself, making a scooping motion across her breast like a backhoe excavator. A fleeting thought crossed my mind - so, this is what men are doing with their hands in their pants all the time! I looked down at myself after this operation & found that my cleavage, which I used to consider an asset, had now flattened out & wrinkled like it had been ironed wrong.
"Oh my, this can't be right either." She agreed & made me to understand that NOW I had to sweep with my hand from the breast bone into the cup as well. "Like windshield wipers", she said. I tried to get a mental picture of this, but could not.
After several more tries & a pile of bra's littering the dressing room floor like a fresh snow fall, she pronounced that I was now in the RIGHT bra. I turned to the mirror. There I stood, in all my glory, resplendent in a 34F (merciful Father!) - my breasts fully lifted & supported by what felt like a steel belted radial bra band, with specially formed "gel" straps (missing only dual exhausts & a Hemi under the hood!) made by a company called Natori. Susan was called to witness this amazing transformation, as I put my T-shirt on over this new bra, so that she could be made to 'ooo'! & 'ahhh'! along with us.
Then to seal the deal, the Bra Lady & Susan said the one thing that would be sure to take me to the cash register...
"You look like you've lost 10 pounds!" said the Bra Lady.
"Well, I actually HAVE lost 10 pounds."
"Then it's 10 MORE pounds! - 20 pounds!" Susan chimed in.
"I'm never leaving this store!" I exclaimed.
Well, we did leave - eventually. In my bag were two of these miraculous bras, a pair of matching panties, that were 'ruched' to give shape to my derriere. I tried those on myself, not wanting to have to have the Bra Lady ensure that I 'reached in there & moved every thing to the middle'. Oh, & some earrings, that somehow made my ensemble complete. Meanwhile, Susan ran up a bill bigger than mine - & she already HAD a miracle bra or two...
I left with a promise to return, off we ran, Susan & I, wild & free (yet fully harnessed!), laughing out the door, clutching our purchases to our breasts (sorry, couldn't resist), hoping to return to this mecca again one day...
Saturday, May 19, 2012
How American I Am
It was only after I moved away from the States that I began to see what a sheltered life we in the US live.
I never cared much for watching or reading the news while I was growing up. When I became an adult, the news still held no attraction for me. Happy to wallow in my ignorance of current affairs, I figured that if anything really noteworthy happened, someone would tell me. Sure enough, that worked. I was told when the Challenger blew up. I heard about news that might touch my own life, like the Tylenol scare & Toxic Shock Syndrome. Like AIDS.
But news from around the world? I couldn't tell you anything. When you are living in the States, almost all of the news is ABOUT the States. News from other countries consisted of natural disasters, government coups & financial crisis's. The Middle East? Just one big mess, as far as I could see. Who could possibly keep that straight?
As for what other countries thought of us - well, I knew lots of them thought that the US should mind its own business in world affairs. Heck, I often thought that myself! I was under the impression that many countries did not like us & I couldn't understand why the US had to act like we were "the boss of the world". Why didn't we just leave everyone alone & take care of ourselves? It didn't seem to do much for our image.
Then I left the country.
One of the first things I learned from some SOUTH Americans was that we in the US are not the ONLY Americans! Sure enough, those South Americans are Americans too. & the Canadians! & the Mexicans! So I learned to say I was from the US, instead of calling myself an American.
When you spend some time OUTSIDE the US, you come to view things differently. Or, at least, you come to understand some things. One of them is that the US is BIG. Not just geographically, but in its overall presence in the world. It is magnetic. Many people from other countries are trying to get visa's to live in the US, to go to school in the US, to work in the US, even just to to transit the US. These people often can't understand why we, who have the right to live in the US, do not.
Not only is the country BIG & MAGNETIC, it is also ONE BIG WALMART! Seriously! When anyone knows someone coming from or going to the States, out come the lists. What can I ask someone to bring me that is not too inconvenient for them to carry? Sure you can get most stuff here in the Caribbean - for twice the price of what it costs in the US! Not to mention an almost 20% tax rate on top of that...
Then there are the tourists - the REAL US ambassadors to the world. These are the people that a local population has to use as an example of what life in the US might be like. They are easy to spot, my countrymen. Wandering about aimlessly, men with their shirts off & their sunburned & tattooed shoulders peeling for all to see, with a beer in their hand; like they are on the beach instead of walking down a city street. Women with big white legs that suck their ill-fitting shorts up in the middle, holding tightly to their children's hands & their floppy hats. The tourists look nervous, sometimes, milling about in confused groups. They smile with goofy smiles & are friendly beyond reason. They try not to be rude as they attempt to shake off the locals who are going to "help" them across the street. & they are so WHITE! So obviously out-of-place. Yet strutting about as if they own the whole world, a local person on the street might think. A frivolous people from a frivolous nation, with no idea that most of the locals they encounter as they shop for useless trinkets do not even have running water in their homes. No wonder the world thinks that we from the US have more money than we know what to do with...
During the aftermath of the earthquake in Haiti, I started to get yet another view of the US. First, of course, we got to see CNN at the scene, sending out to the world pictures of the devastation. But soon after that came the worldwide rumbles, which seemed to amount to "when is the US going to step in there & help those people?". Did I miss something? Since when is Haiti a US possession?
But, now, now when people NEED something, the US is expected to come thru. This is the same country that is too much of a "bully" around the world, slinging its weight around like some sort of "cowboy". NOW, people want us, the US, to step in & take care of things. Now, no one is saying the US should mind it's own business. Because that's the way the US is - it IS like a cowboy! A cowboy that's going to ride in & "clean up this town"! Whether the world admits it or not, that is the role other countries have assigned the US. And once you beseech the cowboy to rescue you, you cannot expect him to mind his own business. You can't have it both ways.
And I find that I am proud, at those moments, to be from the US, to BE an American. To be from a country that is BIG & MAGNETIC, & yes, even frivolous. To be from a country that the world knows will gallop in from the west on a white & dusty horse; to step up. For whatever reason.
Sometimes when I am driving in my car & I see the planes taking off & making their immediate turn north to head for the States, my heart goes with them. Home, I think to myself, I want to go home. To MY country, where I ultimately belong. With my goofy smile & my friendliness beyond reason. With my countrymen, where I fit in, even tho I have no tattoos & my shorts fit better.
I miss my country. I never really realized how American I was until I moved away. One day, I will come home. But not yet.
Not yet.
I never cared much for watching or reading the news while I was growing up. When I became an adult, the news still held no attraction for me. Happy to wallow in my ignorance of current affairs, I figured that if anything really noteworthy happened, someone would tell me. Sure enough, that worked. I was told when the Challenger blew up. I heard about news that might touch my own life, like the Tylenol scare & Toxic Shock Syndrome. Like AIDS.
But news from around the world? I couldn't tell you anything. When you are living in the States, almost all of the news is ABOUT the States. News from other countries consisted of natural disasters, government coups & financial crisis's. The Middle East? Just one big mess, as far as I could see. Who could possibly keep that straight?
As for what other countries thought of us - well, I knew lots of them thought that the US should mind its own business in world affairs. Heck, I often thought that myself! I was under the impression that many countries did not like us & I couldn't understand why the US had to act like we were "the boss of the world". Why didn't we just leave everyone alone & take care of ourselves? It didn't seem to do much for our image.
Then I left the country.
One of the first things I learned from some SOUTH Americans was that we in the US are not the ONLY Americans! Sure enough, those South Americans are Americans too. & the Canadians! & the Mexicans! So I learned to say I was from the US, instead of calling myself an American.
When you spend some time OUTSIDE the US, you come to view things differently. Or, at least, you come to understand some things. One of them is that the US is BIG. Not just geographically, but in its overall presence in the world. It is magnetic. Many people from other countries are trying to get visa's to live in the US, to go to school in the US, to work in the US, even just to to transit the US. These people often can't understand why we, who have the right to live in the US, do not.
Not only is the country BIG & MAGNETIC, it is also ONE BIG WALMART! Seriously! When anyone knows someone coming from or going to the States, out come the lists. What can I ask someone to bring me that is not too inconvenient for them to carry? Sure you can get most stuff here in the Caribbean - for twice the price of what it costs in the US! Not to mention an almost 20% tax rate on top of that...
Then there are the tourists - the REAL US ambassadors to the world. These are the people that a local population has to use as an example of what life in the US might be like. They are easy to spot, my countrymen. Wandering about aimlessly, men with their shirts off & their sunburned & tattooed shoulders peeling for all to see, with a beer in their hand; like they are on the beach instead of walking down a city street. Women with big white legs that suck their ill-fitting shorts up in the middle, holding tightly to their children's hands & their floppy hats. The tourists look nervous, sometimes, milling about in confused groups. They smile with goofy smiles & are friendly beyond reason. They try not to be rude as they attempt to shake off the locals who are going to "help" them across the street. & they are so WHITE! So obviously out-of-place. Yet strutting about as if they own the whole world, a local person on the street might think. A frivolous people from a frivolous nation, with no idea that most of the locals they encounter as they shop for useless trinkets do not even have running water in their homes. No wonder the world thinks that we from the US have more money than we know what to do with...
During the aftermath of the earthquake in Haiti, I started to get yet another view of the US. First, of course, we got to see CNN at the scene, sending out to the world pictures of the devastation. But soon after that came the worldwide rumbles, which seemed to amount to "when is the US going to step in there & help those people?". Did I miss something? Since when is Haiti a US possession?
But, now, now when people NEED something, the US is expected to come thru. This is the same country that is too much of a "bully" around the world, slinging its weight around like some sort of "cowboy". NOW, people want us, the US, to step in & take care of things. Now, no one is saying the US should mind it's own business. Because that's the way the US is - it IS like a cowboy! A cowboy that's going to ride in & "clean up this town"! Whether the world admits it or not, that is the role other countries have assigned the US. And once you beseech the cowboy to rescue you, you cannot expect him to mind his own business. You can't have it both ways.
And I find that I am proud, at those moments, to be from the US, to BE an American. To be from a country that is BIG & MAGNETIC, & yes, even frivolous. To be from a country that the world knows will gallop in from the west on a white & dusty horse; to step up. For whatever reason.
Sometimes when I am driving in my car & I see the planes taking off & making their immediate turn north to head for the States, my heart goes with them. Home, I think to myself, I want to go home. To MY country, where I ultimately belong. With my goofy smile & my friendliness beyond reason. With my countrymen, where I fit in, even tho I have no tattoos & my shorts fit better.
I miss my country. I never really realized how American I was until I moved away. One day, I will come home. But not yet.
Not yet.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
...the reward is the problem...
About a month ago it occurred to me that I should lose some weight. Yeah, well, okay, it has occurred to me before, but a month ago I put myself on a work-out & calorie counting routine. (&, FYI, I am still doing it!).
Anyhow, in my search for calorie counting sites online I stumbled upon a site called (who would have thought?), caloriecount.com. I have been happy with this site - it does all the calculating for me, plus has other perks as well. But, I am not here to advertise for them - besides, NO ONE is interested in calorie counting unless they are doing it themselves, so there is no point in me going on & on about it here. It is just one aspect of the site that I am going to talk about...
The site has a scrolling sort of page, similar to facebook, where members can jot down their thoughts at the close of each day. Then, people can respond to them - it is really quite nice. Someone will say, "Oh, I had a horrible day, I went way over on my calories because my mother-in-law would kill me if I didn't eat her banana pudding!" or, "What a wonderful day - I ran for an hour & have lost 10 pounds so far!". In response to peoples entries other members come along with a supply of commiserations or congratulations. What a great idea - people say they feel accountable for their actions by having to log everything they eat & that they are happy to be connected to a wider world of weight challenged people for support & guidance.
That's all good.
What I wonder about, tho, are posts like these:
"I am soooo happy, after 3 long months I can fit into my size 10 jeans. So, to celebrate that incredible milestone, I went & had a Whopper with extra cheese & curly fries..."
"Boy, I really worked hard today - this is my 17th week of counting calories & so far I have lost 30 pounds! Obviously I deserved that pint of Ben & Jerry's New York Super Chunk Fudge that you can see there on my log."
"My wife is so pleased with the way I have slimmed down that she took me out to dinner at Outback, where I had not one but TWO Bloomin' Onions, for just 3000 calories each!"
What's wrong with this picture?
If you don't see it, let me rephrase it:
"I am soooo happy, it has been 3 long months that I haven't had a cigarette! So, to celebrate that incredible milestone, I went & smoked 2 packs of Marlboro Reds!"
"Boy, I really worked hard today - this is my 17th week without a drink!! Obviously I deserved that fifth of rum & all those jello shots that I had last night!"
"My wife is so pleased with the way I have finally kicked my cocaine habit that she took me out to celebrate! We went to a happenin' night club where I did lines all night long!"
See what I mean? When the reward is the problem then it's no longer a reward!
Now that I've figured THAT out, maybe I should track down some of that Ben & Jerry's New York Super Chunk Fudge (or was it 'Super Fudge Chunk'?)...;)
Anyhow, in my search for calorie counting sites online I stumbled upon a site called (who would have thought?), caloriecount.com. I have been happy with this site - it does all the calculating for me, plus has other perks as well. But, I am not here to advertise for them - besides, NO ONE is interested in calorie counting unless they are doing it themselves, so there is no point in me going on & on about it here. It is just one aspect of the site that I am going to talk about...
The site has a scrolling sort of page, similar to facebook, where members can jot down their thoughts at the close of each day. Then, people can respond to them - it is really quite nice. Someone will say, "Oh, I had a horrible day, I went way over on my calories because my mother-in-law would kill me if I didn't eat her banana pudding!" or, "What a wonderful day - I ran for an hour & have lost 10 pounds so far!". In response to peoples entries other members come along with a supply of commiserations or congratulations. What a great idea - people say they feel accountable for their actions by having to log everything they eat & that they are happy to be connected to a wider world of weight challenged people for support & guidance.
That's all good.
What I wonder about, tho, are posts like these:
"I am soooo happy, after 3 long months I can fit into my size 10 jeans. So, to celebrate that incredible milestone, I went & had a Whopper with extra cheese & curly fries..."
"Boy, I really worked hard today - this is my 17th week of counting calories & so far I have lost 30 pounds! Obviously I deserved that pint of Ben & Jerry's New York Super Chunk Fudge that you can see there on my log."
"My wife is so pleased with the way I have slimmed down that she took me out to dinner at Outback, where I had not one but TWO Bloomin' Onions, for just 3000 calories each!"
What's wrong with this picture?
If you don't see it, let me rephrase it:
"I am soooo happy, it has been 3 long months that I haven't had a cigarette! So, to celebrate that incredible milestone, I went & smoked 2 packs of Marlboro Reds!"
"Boy, I really worked hard today - this is my 17th week without a drink!! Obviously I deserved that fifth of rum & all those jello shots that I had last night!"
"My wife is so pleased with the way I have finally kicked my cocaine habit that she took me out to celebrate! We went to a happenin' night club where I did lines all night long!"
See what I mean? When the reward is the problem then it's no longer a reward!
Now that I've figured THAT out, maybe I should track down some of that Ben & Jerry's New York Super Chunk Fudge (or was it 'Super Fudge Chunk'?)...;)
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
A Little Something
There is a man camped out at the air hose at my favorite gas station.
Well, it has been my favorite gas station, & mostly for the fact that the gas station employees seem to be able to keep the beggars away from the car while I am waiting for my gas to be pumped. It's bad enough being accosted for money all the time because I look like a tourist, but worse at the gas station, where I am kind of stuck there - at least for a little while. Not only stuck, but stuck with the window open. Like the pitcher plant with the flies, a stopped car with the windows open & some white lady at the wheel appears to be an opportunity that no self-respecting beggar can ignore!
I used to feel bad for these people. After three years, they are mostly annoying.
I was at the wrong gas station last week (sorry Shell). The lady with no teeth leaned into my window & told me good morning. I told her good morning. The gas station attendant came along & made "shooing" gestures at the woman, which sent her packing all of 10 feet. Next on my to-do list was the rasta man for coconuts, which was just around the corner. The lady with no teeth did have good eyesight, however, & she followed me.
"Good morning." she perches on my door handle again.
"Good morning," I say, "I remember you - I saw you at the gas station!" I act surprised. The rasta man shoots her an evil glare while he machete's my coconuts. Believe me, if the rasta man glared at me like that while wielding his machete I think I'd be in hurry to be someplace else. She has no fear, however, & bends over to look inside my car.
"Yes, yes," she smiles, exposing all her gums.
"Well," I joke, "I hope you are not going to follow me HOME!"
"Yes, I am. I am going to come home with you & you will take care of me & give me clothes & give me food & give me-"
"Really! That's a lot of giving!" I exclaim. She obviously has an inflated expectation of both my generosity & my domestic skills. "You ought to talk to my boys - they don't think I give them anything!", which elicited a chuckle from the rasta man.
The rasta man then elbows past her to give me my coconuts, one by one. He glares at her again. He does not seem to think her presence is an asset to his business. As he turns back to get another coconut, she leans in an whispers, with a darting glance at the rasta man. "No, really, can you give me something? Can you give me something? A little something... "
"I'm sorry," I shake my head, "I know how this works. If I give you something today, then you won't be happy. You'll just want something again tomorrow. & again the next day. & then before I know it you will be sitting here waiting for me every day. God knows I don't want that."
My little speech obviously resonated deep inside her being, because she leaned in once again & whispered, "A banana? A mango?"
So what does this have to do with the man at the air hose? Well, like I said, back at the Total gas station I used to live a carefree & beggarless life. But now the man at the air pump is there...
My husband went to put air in the tires the other day & he gets my 15 year old son out of the car to learn about the manly business of car maintenance. We were waiting behind a taxi, who was receiving the services of the self-appointed Keeper of the Hose. After which, he expects to receive some reward, of course. Well, my husband is not one to go about rewarding people for something he prefers to do himself, so out of the car he jumped.
"I pump the air." said the man.
"No thanks, I will do it myself," said my husband, reaching for the nozzle that the man is holding.
"I work here!" the man exclaims vehemently. Well, he may "work" here, but he is not wearing a uniform, so my husband is not swayed.
"No, I want to do it myself." he reaches for the nozzle again & the man won't let go, so there ensues a bit of a tug-o'-war, while my son stands by waiting to receive the nozzle once my husband frees it from the grasp of this guy.
The man suddenly releases the hose with a grand gesture of wiping his hands of the whole issue, & stalks around my husband & son like a lion as they put the air in the tires. The man goes on & on, complaining about the way my son is pumping the air, & how it would be so much better if HE could pump the air HIMSELF. Getting no response from either of my men out there on the battlefield, he then turns to a nearby fellow & switches over to patois while he tells the other guy about the many faults of my husband, my son, white people, rich people, etc. etc, with now and then a "dis bomboclat" thrown in (which can be roughly translated as meaning "this asshole").
Well, so we got the air. But I am normally the air-getter & the gas tank-filler & my problem is this. Today the Man at the Air Hose has left his station & is trolling for business - he is now coming up to check people's tires while the gas is pumping. Then he declares that they certainly need air & attempts to lure them over to the air station. When they say no, the man shouts after them. What - I don't know. But probably the word "bomboclat" features prominently in the monologue. Is there anywhere left that a lady can get gas & be left in peace?
'Course, there is another Total about 10 miles away...
Well, it has been my favorite gas station, & mostly for the fact that the gas station employees seem to be able to keep the beggars away from the car while I am waiting for my gas to be pumped. It's bad enough being accosted for money all the time because I look like a tourist, but worse at the gas station, where I am kind of stuck there - at least for a little while. Not only stuck, but stuck with the window open. Like the pitcher plant with the flies, a stopped car with the windows open & some white lady at the wheel appears to be an opportunity that no self-respecting beggar can ignore!
I used to feel bad for these people. After three years, they are mostly annoying.
I was at the wrong gas station last week (sorry Shell). The lady with no teeth leaned into my window & told me good morning. I told her good morning. The gas station attendant came along & made "shooing" gestures at the woman, which sent her packing all of 10 feet. Next on my to-do list was the rasta man for coconuts, which was just around the corner. The lady with no teeth did have good eyesight, however, & she followed me.
"Good morning." she perches on my door handle again.
"Good morning," I say, "I remember you - I saw you at the gas station!" I act surprised. The rasta man shoots her an evil glare while he machete's my coconuts. Believe me, if the rasta man glared at me like that while wielding his machete I think I'd be in hurry to be someplace else. She has no fear, however, & bends over to look inside my car.
"Yes, yes," she smiles, exposing all her gums.
"Well," I joke, "I hope you are not going to follow me HOME!"
"Yes, I am. I am going to come home with you & you will take care of me & give me clothes & give me food & give me-"
"Really! That's a lot of giving!" I exclaim. She obviously has an inflated expectation of both my generosity & my domestic skills. "You ought to talk to my boys - they don't think I give them anything!", which elicited a chuckle from the rasta man.
The rasta man then elbows past her to give me my coconuts, one by one. He glares at her again. He does not seem to think her presence is an asset to his business. As he turns back to get another coconut, she leans in an whispers, with a darting glance at the rasta man. "No, really, can you give me something? Can you give me something? A little something... "
"I'm sorry," I shake my head, "I know how this works. If I give you something today, then you won't be happy. You'll just want something again tomorrow. & again the next day. & then before I know it you will be sitting here waiting for me every day. God knows I don't want that."
My little speech obviously resonated deep inside her being, because she leaned in once again & whispered, "A banana? A mango?"
So what does this have to do with the man at the air hose? Well, like I said, back at the Total gas station I used to live a carefree & beggarless life. But now the man at the air pump is there...
My husband went to put air in the tires the other day & he gets my 15 year old son out of the car to learn about the manly business of car maintenance. We were waiting behind a taxi, who was receiving the services of the self-appointed Keeper of the Hose. After which, he expects to receive some reward, of course. Well, my husband is not one to go about rewarding people for something he prefers to do himself, so out of the car he jumped.
"I pump the air." said the man.
"No thanks, I will do it myself," said my husband, reaching for the nozzle that the man is holding.
"I work here!" the man exclaims vehemently. Well, he may "work" here, but he is not wearing a uniform, so my husband is not swayed.
"No, I want to do it myself." he reaches for the nozzle again & the man won't let go, so there ensues a bit of a tug-o'-war, while my son stands by waiting to receive the nozzle once my husband frees it from the grasp of this guy.
The man suddenly releases the hose with a grand gesture of wiping his hands of the whole issue, & stalks around my husband & son like a lion as they put the air in the tires. The man goes on & on, complaining about the way my son is pumping the air, & how it would be so much better if HE could pump the air HIMSELF. Getting no response from either of my men out there on the battlefield, he then turns to a nearby fellow & switches over to patois while he tells the other guy about the many faults of my husband, my son, white people, rich people, etc. etc, with now and then a "dis bomboclat" thrown in (which can be roughly translated as meaning "this asshole").
Well, so we got the air. But I am normally the air-getter & the gas tank-filler & my problem is this. Today the Man at the Air Hose has left his station & is trolling for business - he is now coming up to check people's tires while the gas is pumping. Then he declares that they certainly need air & attempts to lure them over to the air station. When they say no, the man shouts after them. What - I don't know. But probably the word "bomboclat" features prominently in the monologue. Is there anywhere left that a lady can get gas & be left in peace?
'Course, there is another Total about 10 miles away...
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Reallocation Matters
Mr. Jones, Head of Creative Affairs, looked up from his reclined feet-on-the-desk position, to see a somewhat fussy little man in a gray suit standing in the doorway to his office. Not only was the man wearing a gray suit, but he was quite monochromatic in that his silk tie was gray, his shoes were gray, his hair was gray, his eyes were gray & even the pen in his hand was gray.
Mr. Jones said about the only thing he could say, "Mr. Gray, I presume? What brings you down to the bowels of the Creative Affairs Department?"
"I have an order from the Coordinator." Mr. Gray was not one for small talk. "The Coordinator requests an explanation for the fall-off of output from YOUR department, Mr. Jones. He also demands a reversal of this trend."
"Oh, he does, does he?" Mr. Jones slid his feet off of his desk with a thump. "& just how does the Almighty Coordinator expect me to do anything about that?" Mr. Jones gestured to the vast empty room behind him. "Do you see any of my staff? NO! Why? I'll tell you why. The Coordinator has seen fit to "reallocate resources" from this department to other areas of the Unit. & what am I left with?" Mr. Jones pointed accusingly at - oh yes, way in the back of the room could be seen one man, pounding away at his computer, "That useless character, Len! Len wouldn't know a creative idea unless it fell onto his computer & interrupted his Bejeweled Blitz game - which, by the way, is about ALL that Len does here!"
"Not true!" shouted Len, "I also handle Solitaire Blitz & Zuma Blitz!"
Mr. Jones turned back to Mr. Gray, "You see?"
"No matter," said Mr. Gray. "I am ordered to have you commence reading thru past idea files, or whatever it takes, to get some output. The Coordinator says the Unit has not updated her blog in four days. The Coordinator finds this unacceptable."
"Well, perhaps the Coordinator can explain to me why he has taken my staff! First he took Pat, the pottery designer, & shipped her off to the Health Department, of all places, where she supervises exercise on the treadmill! Then, he took Slim, my Blue-Sky Idea Man, & sent him off to the Health Department also, where he counts calories, for Heaven's sake. I mean, a talent like Slim - wasted COUNTING CALORIES?! It's a dog-gone shame, that's what it is. & Deb? My keeper of Family Foibles? He allocated her to, you guessed it - the Health Department - where she spends her time planning menus! She spends her days wondering about Bulgar wheat & Greek Yogurt & what-not! & that is surely a joke, because as we all know, the Unit does not even cook!"
"The Coordinator," huffed Mr. Gray, "has to look at the big picture! It is not for him to justify himself to the likes of you, a mere department head! But," Mr. Gray relented, "I do see how this situation might be confusing to you, so I will give you a brief summary. The Unit has decided to reduce her caloric intake, as well as add some cardio workouts to her routine, with an expected outcome of weight loss & better health in general. After all, the Unit is nearing the Half-Century mark. Seeing as how this is quite a departure for a mostly sedentary Unit, you can acknowledge the necessity of some reallocation of personnel. As I have some, say, 17 minutes before my appointment with the small but newly invigorated Obsession with the Scale Department, I will lend a hand."
Mr. Gray strode purposefully off to the filing shelves. On his way he pulled the plug on Len's computer, which elicited a wail from Len, "NO! I just bought a Phoenix Prism! Do you know how expensive those are?"
"Shut up, Len," said Mr. Jones, trailing along in Mr. Gray's wake. "Give Bejeweled Blitz a rest, why don't you?"
"Len," Mr. Gray demanded, "Explain the filing system to us."
"Alright," Len grumbled, pulling folders from the shelves. "Here we have Stories about Driving, Stories about Living in the Caribbean, Stories about her Husband, Stories about her Kids, Stor-"
"Wait!" Mr. Gray commanded. "That sounds good. Stories about Husband & Kids - what do you have in that folder?"
"Nothing!" Len waved the empty folder around. "The Husband & Kids have done nothing to inspire any stories lately - except that the Husband continues to put wet clothes on top of dry clothes, the Youngest Son continues to hide HIS wet clothing in odd locations of his bedroom & the Oldest Son STILL cannot find anything in the house at all - it is almost as if he does not even LIVE there - but these are all things the Unit has blogged about already. We can't use them again! At least, not so soon..."
"He's right, Mr. Gray," agreed Mr. Jones, "We have a strict policy not to duplicate any previous blogs within a six month period."
"Fair enough - & rightly so." Mr. Gray nodded. He indicated a fat file folder on a shelf by itself. "What about that folder? It looks like it has a lot of material?"
"Oh, no!" Len shook his head, "Those are not suitable for the blog."
"Are you sure?" asked Mr. Jones. "Bring the file out so that we might have a look at it."
"Okay, but I'm warning you, it's really a waste of time." Len shuffled over & grabbed the file. "Look here. Here we have Stories about How Things Would Be if This Unit Ran the World, Stories about Annoying Things that the Unit's Friends Do but Cannot Be Told Since They Might Read this Blog, Stories with a Maturity Rating of "R" bordering on "X" Which Are Not Suitable for ALL Audiences..." Len sighed, "Unfortunately we cannot just dispose of such material. So, we file it & hope the Unit leaves it alone..."
"No matter," said Mr. Gray (get it?). "I will speak to the Coordinator. I imagine some sort of joint cooperation between the new Health Department & your department can be arranged - perhaps a staff-sharing situation? Maybe your old staff members have found new & exiting ideas in their new departments that may warrant a tale or two, that could be put to good use HERE, in your department..."
"Maybe," Mr. Jones said dubiously, "Tho when I last talked to Slim, he hadn't found much to inspire him in counting calories, for Heaven's sake! But, I do thank you, Mr. Gray, for apprising the Coordinator of the difficulty we are experiencing down here in Creative Affairs. We can do without Pat for now, as the Unit is on a break from Pottery, but if only some arrangement can be made to at least get Slim & Deb back..."
"I will discuss our visit with the Coordinator," Mr. Gray turned to go. Then, with a last look back at Len, who was back at his computer shouting "I made three Hypercubes in one game - a personal best!"
Mr. Gray said to Mr. Jones, with a nod toward Len, "I think we may have a replacement candidate for the Calorie Counting position close at hand. Why don't you go ahead & ready Slim's desk for him?"
Mr. Jones said about the only thing he could say, "Mr. Gray, I presume? What brings you down to the bowels of the Creative Affairs Department?"
"I have an order from the Coordinator." Mr. Gray was not one for small talk. "The Coordinator requests an explanation for the fall-off of output from YOUR department, Mr. Jones. He also demands a reversal of this trend."
"Oh, he does, does he?" Mr. Jones slid his feet off of his desk with a thump. "& just how does the Almighty Coordinator expect me to do anything about that?" Mr. Jones gestured to the vast empty room behind him. "Do you see any of my staff? NO! Why? I'll tell you why. The Coordinator has seen fit to "reallocate resources" from this department to other areas of the Unit. & what am I left with?" Mr. Jones pointed accusingly at - oh yes, way in the back of the room could be seen one man, pounding away at his computer, "That useless character, Len! Len wouldn't know a creative idea unless it fell onto his computer & interrupted his Bejeweled Blitz game - which, by the way, is about ALL that Len does here!"
"Not true!" shouted Len, "I also handle Solitaire Blitz & Zuma Blitz!"
Mr. Jones turned back to Mr. Gray, "You see?"
"No matter," said Mr. Gray. "I am ordered to have you commence reading thru past idea files, or whatever it takes, to get some output. The Coordinator says the Unit has not updated her blog in four days. The Coordinator finds this unacceptable."
"Well, perhaps the Coordinator can explain to me why he has taken my staff! First he took Pat, the pottery designer, & shipped her off to the Health Department, of all places, where she supervises exercise on the treadmill! Then, he took Slim, my Blue-Sky Idea Man, & sent him off to the Health Department also, where he counts calories, for Heaven's sake. I mean, a talent like Slim - wasted COUNTING CALORIES?! It's a dog-gone shame, that's what it is. & Deb? My keeper of Family Foibles? He allocated her to, you guessed it - the Health Department - where she spends her time planning menus! She spends her days wondering about Bulgar wheat & Greek Yogurt & what-not! & that is surely a joke, because as we all know, the Unit does not even cook!"
"The Coordinator," huffed Mr. Gray, "has to look at the big picture! It is not for him to justify himself to the likes of you, a mere department head! But," Mr. Gray relented, "I do see how this situation might be confusing to you, so I will give you a brief summary. The Unit has decided to reduce her caloric intake, as well as add some cardio workouts to her routine, with an expected outcome of weight loss & better health in general. After all, the Unit is nearing the Half-Century mark. Seeing as how this is quite a departure for a mostly sedentary Unit, you can acknowledge the necessity of some reallocation of personnel. As I have some, say, 17 minutes before my appointment with the small but newly invigorated Obsession with the Scale Department, I will lend a hand."
Mr. Gray strode purposefully off to the filing shelves. On his way he pulled the plug on Len's computer, which elicited a wail from Len, "NO! I just bought a Phoenix Prism! Do you know how expensive those are?"
"Shut up, Len," said Mr. Jones, trailing along in Mr. Gray's wake. "Give Bejeweled Blitz a rest, why don't you?"
"Len," Mr. Gray demanded, "Explain the filing system to us."
"Alright," Len grumbled, pulling folders from the shelves. "Here we have Stories about Driving, Stories about Living in the Caribbean, Stories about her Husband, Stories about her Kids, Stor-"
"Wait!" Mr. Gray commanded. "That sounds good. Stories about Husband & Kids - what do you have in that folder?"
"Nothing!" Len waved the empty folder around. "The Husband & Kids have done nothing to inspire any stories lately - except that the Husband continues to put wet clothes on top of dry clothes, the Youngest Son continues to hide HIS wet clothing in odd locations of his bedroom & the Oldest Son STILL cannot find anything in the house at all - it is almost as if he does not even LIVE there - but these are all things the Unit has blogged about already. We can't use them again! At least, not so soon..."
"He's right, Mr. Gray," agreed Mr. Jones, "We have a strict policy not to duplicate any previous blogs within a six month period."
"Fair enough - & rightly so." Mr. Gray nodded. He indicated a fat file folder on a shelf by itself. "What about that folder? It looks like it has a lot of material?"
"Oh, no!" Len shook his head, "Those are not suitable for the blog."
"Are you sure?" asked Mr. Jones. "Bring the file out so that we might have a look at it."
"Okay, but I'm warning you, it's really a waste of time." Len shuffled over & grabbed the file. "Look here. Here we have Stories about How Things Would Be if This Unit Ran the World, Stories about Annoying Things that the Unit's Friends Do but Cannot Be Told Since They Might Read this Blog, Stories with a Maturity Rating of "R" bordering on "X" Which Are Not Suitable for ALL Audiences..." Len sighed, "Unfortunately we cannot just dispose of such material. So, we file it & hope the Unit leaves it alone..."
"No matter," said Mr. Gray (get it?). "I will speak to the Coordinator. I imagine some sort of joint cooperation between the new Health Department & your department can be arranged - perhaps a staff-sharing situation? Maybe your old staff members have found new & exiting ideas in their new departments that may warrant a tale or two, that could be put to good use HERE, in your department..."
"Maybe," Mr. Jones said dubiously, "Tho when I last talked to Slim, he hadn't found much to inspire him in counting calories, for Heaven's sake! But, I do thank you, Mr. Gray, for apprising the Coordinator of the difficulty we are experiencing down here in Creative Affairs. We can do without Pat for now, as the Unit is on a break from Pottery, but if only some arrangement can be made to at least get Slim & Deb back..."
"I will discuss our visit with the Coordinator," Mr. Gray turned to go. Then, with a last look back at Len, who was back at his computer shouting "I made three Hypercubes in one game - a personal best!"
Mr. Gray said to Mr. Jones, with a nod toward Len, "I think we may have a replacement candidate for the Calorie Counting position close at hand. Why don't you go ahead & ready Slim's desk for him?"
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Over-the-Top Protection
"Hello, this is the Citbank Fraud Department, Sharon Wise speaking. I am trying to reach Helen -"
"This is Helen."
"Yes, good morning. We are calling today from Citbank because of possible suspicious activity on your credit card account. Tell me, is your Citbank card currently in your possession?"
"It is."
"Well, maybe you can just verify these charges. Last Friday a charge came across our desk that we here at Citbank were unable to identify. It was for about $170US. Do you remember it?"
"No-o-o-o. But I know my husband was trying to do something the other day & he said his card didn't work..."
"His card WAS working, but we here at Citbank blocked it."
"Oh-h-h, okay, so THAT's why it didn't work. Why did you block it again?"
"Because it was suspicious!"
"What was suspicious about it?"
"It was your husband's card!"
"So?"
"So, we here at Citbank seldom see your husband's card in use - only yours."
"Well, that's true - but he's gotta let loose sometimes, don't you think?"
"I'm sorry, I'm going to have to transfer you to another department. Please hold."
"But-!"
♪♪ no woman, no cry...
no, no woman, no woman, no cry...♪♪
"Hello? This is the Citbank Husband Fraud Department, Linda Danfield. To whom am I speaking?"
"Uh, Helen; Helen-"
"Ah, yes, I have your account info right here. How can I help you?"
"I really don't know. Sharon from the Fraud Department just transferred me over here."
"Oh, wait a minute. I see. Were you discussing this charge from Friday, May 4th, for $170US?"
"Yes, we were. It was something about my husband's card not working."
"His card WAS working; we here at Citbank blocked it."
"So I was told. You all seem quite proud of that fact, yet no one has told me WHY!"
"Well, we here at Citbank seldom see your husbands card in use."
"That's what the other lady said. Is there some sort of problem? I mean, my husband's on the account & everything - that's why he has his own card!"
"OH - no, there's no problem with that - at least not here in MY department. This is the "Husband Fraud" department. His card is not our business."
"Then, what is your business? I'm sorry, I don't understand - if my husband's card is not the problem then what is?
"HE is!"
"My HUSBAND is the problem?"
"Tell me, is your husband currently in your possession?"
"No! He's at work."
"So, you CANNOT actually verify at this time whether he IS your husband or someone passing himSELF off as your husband & using his credit card!"
"I'm sorry - are you saying my husband may not BE my husband? Don't you think I would know? I mean, men are not entirely interchangeable!"
"Did you, or did you not, just state that your husband is no longer in your possession?"
"Well, I suppose I DID say that-"
"Please hold."
"Wait-!"
♪♪ I remember when we used to sit
in the government yard in T-♪♪
"Hello, this is Investigator Tyson, Citbank Identity Theft Department. I see you are Helen - "
"Identity theft? Why am I being transferred to you?"
"Well, ma'am, it says here that you cannot verify the identity of your husband so we have a possible identity theft here. We here at Citbank go the extra mile to protect our customers."
" 'I cannot' - what? Of course I can identify my husband! He's the cute french guy who hangs his wet clothes all over the house in all the wrong places & leaves his trash all over the kitchen counter!"
"That is not enough to prove his identity to Citbank, I am afraid. After all, many women can use that exact same description for THEIR husbands-"
"Excuse me. Hold on a minute. You are getting me all upset. I was just sitting here at home, minding my own business, when Sharon from Citbank calls me up to tell me they blocked a charge because it was on my husband's credit card & then Linda told me my husband may not be my husband & now you, Investigator Tyson, are telling me - what? - that I have to PROVE that my husband is my husband?"
"That sounds about right, ma'am. Now, if you could just produce him, we could clear this all up."
"Produce him?! Like, wave my wand or what? I told Linda there, my husband is at WORK! About this time of day he is probably in a meeting! No, I cannot produce him!"
"Ma'am. Are you saying that you cannot produce your husband's body?"
"My husband's ---? My husband's BODY? Are you kidding me?"
"Please hold."
♪♪ Good friends we've had, oh,
Good friends we've lost,
Along the way...♪♪
"Hello. Special Citbank Agent Todd, Murder Investigations. To whom am I speaking?"
CLICK
"Hello? Hello? Hello?"
♪♪ Ev'rything's gonna be alright,
Ev'rything's gonna be alright,
Ev'rything's gonna...♪♪
"This is Helen."
"Yes, good morning. We are calling today from Citbank because of possible suspicious activity on your credit card account. Tell me, is your Citbank card currently in your possession?"
"It is."
"Well, maybe you can just verify these charges. Last Friday a charge came across our desk that we here at Citbank were unable to identify. It was for about $170US. Do you remember it?"
"No-o-o-o. But I know my husband was trying to do something the other day & he said his card didn't work..."
"His card WAS working, but we here at Citbank blocked it."
"Oh-h-h, okay, so THAT's why it didn't work. Why did you block it again?"
"Because it was suspicious!"
"What was suspicious about it?"
"It was your husband's card!"
"So?"
"So, we here at Citbank seldom see your husband's card in use - only yours."
"Well, that's true - but he's gotta let loose sometimes, don't you think?"
"I'm sorry, I'm going to have to transfer you to another department. Please hold."
"But-!"
♪♪ no woman, no cry...
no, no woman, no woman, no cry...♪♪
"Hello? This is the Citbank Husband Fraud Department, Linda Danfield. To whom am I speaking?"
"Uh, Helen; Helen-"
"Ah, yes, I have your account info right here. How can I help you?"
"I really don't know. Sharon from the Fraud Department just transferred me over here."
"Oh, wait a minute. I see. Were you discussing this charge from Friday, May 4th, for $170US?"
"Yes, we were. It was something about my husband's card not working."
"His card WAS working; we here at Citbank blocked it."
"So I was told. You all seem quite proud of that fact, yet no one has told me WHY!"
"Well, we here at Citbank seldom see your husbands card in use."
"That's what the other lady said. Is there some sort of problem? I mean, my husband's on the account & everything - that's why he has his own card!"
"OH - no, there's no problem with that - at least not here in MY department. This is the "Husband Fraud" department. His card is not our business."
"Then, what is your business? I'm sorry, I don't understand - if my husband's card is not the problem then what is?
"HE is!"
"My HUSBAND is the problem?"
"Tell me, is your husband currently in your possession?"
"No! He's at work."
"So, you CANNOT actually verify at this time whether he IS your husband or someone passing himSELF off as your husband & using his credit card!"
"I'm sorry - are you saying my husband may not BE my husband? Don't you think I would know? I mean, men are not entirely interchangeable!"
"Did you, or did you not, just state that your husband is no longer in your possession?"
"Well, I suppose I DID say that-"
"Please hold."
"Wait-!"
♪♪ I remember when we used to sit
in the government yard in T-♪♪
"Hello, this is Investigator Tyson, Citbank Identity Theft Department. I see you are Helen - "
"Identity theft? Why am I being transferred to you?"
"Well, ma'am, it says here that you cannot verify the identity of your husband so we have a possible identity theft here. We here at Citbank go the extra mile to protect our customers."
" 'I cannot' - what? Of course I can identify my husband! He's the cute french guy who hangs his wet clothes all over the house in all the wrong places & leaves his trash all over the kitchen counter!"
"That is not enough to prove his identity to Citbank, I am afraid. After all, many women can use that exact same description for THEIR husbands-"
"Excuse me. Hold on a minute. You are getting me all upset. I was just sitting here at home, minding my own business, when Sharon from Citbank calls me up to tell me they blocked a charge because it was on my husband's credit card & then Linda told me my husband may not be my husband & now you, Investigator Tyson, are telling me - what? - that I have to PROVE that my husband is my husband?"
"That sounds about right, ma'am. Now, if you could just produce him, we could clear this all up."
"Produce him?! Like, wave my wand or what? I told Linda there, my husband is at WORK! About this time of day he is probably in a meeting! No, I cannot produce him!"
"Ma'am. Are you saying that you cannot produce your husband's body?"
"My husband's ---? My husband's BODY? Are you kidding me?"
"Please hold."
♪♪ Good friends we've had, oh,
Good friends we've lost,
Along the way...♪♪
"Hello. Special Citbank Agent Todd, Murder Investigations. To whom am I speaking?"
CLICK
"Hello? Hello? Hello?"
♪♪ Ev'rything's gonna be alright,
Ev'rything's gonna be alright,
Ev'rything's gonna...♪♪
Friday, May 4, 2012
Coconut - No Lime
The Coconut - surely one of the advantages to living in the Caribbean!
I'm not talking about the brown things that lurk in the dim areas of the produce section of the grocery stores in the States (always stuck there side by side with the ginger & the yams - must be the 'ugly' produce section). Those hairy things that upon first sighting caused our toddlers to point & whisper, "What's THAT?!", as they scampered behind our legs, lest the coconuts roll of their own accord onto the ground like giant spiders...
Sometimes my mother would buy us one of those brown coconuts - we would take it onto the patio & whack it with a hammer. & whack it again. & again. At some point it would crack & the disgusting milk would dribble out & FINALLY it would break - but yet your work was not done; scraping the white flesh out of the shell was almost as labor intensive.
No - not those coconuts. Here in the Caribbean we have the nice big green coconuts, which we discover are one & the same coconut, but the green ones are younger.
Inside these green coconuts is coconut water (not milk). What you do is you get your machete - what, you don't have a machete? Okay, then what you do is you go to the rasta man down the street who will sell you the green coconut & he will use HIS machete to open the top & flatten the bottom & give you a straw. What you now have is not called a coconut; it is called a jelly.
My husband came home with a jelly a few months back. Can you believe we have been here for 3 years & are just discovering jellies? "Here," he thrust the coconut at me, "Try this."
"Eew!" I wrinkled my nose at him, & pushed it back in his direction. It just seemed gross to me - like drinking out of a bladder or something, all warm & runny. But, then I went with my husband to the rasta man one day & discovered you could get a COLD jelly. Well, for me, that made all the difference.
Soon my husband had a hankering for a machete of his own, so we looked around, but luckily all the stores seemed to be out of the 'short' machete, which was good, because I think my husbands fingers look nice there on his hand. He wanted this machete because he had decided to buy a bunch of coconuts in bulk (still on the stem). Think of this - a nice size green coconut is about as big as a bowling ball - & weighs about the same. Now picture a stem of 12-15 of them. It took two people to carry it.
Ever wondered where you might store a stem full of coconuts in your kitchen? I thought not. I left them on the porch.
So, from deep within the reaches of his 'Chef Tool Box' my husband located a knife that looked scary enough to BE a machete, & proceeded to whack at his coconut. Then he sharpened his knife & tried again. & again. Luckily the counter is granite, so it did not seem to mind when he missed the coconut - tho I did not like THAT noise, of the knife striking the counter - CLANG!, & had to leave the kitchen with my hands over my ears while the mad chef wielded his dangerous tool. When I would return to the kitchen it would be to wipe all the counter tops & sweep the floor free of coconut chips, which were everywhere!
At some point my husband agreed that it just made sense to give our business to the rasta man, who seems to be good at his job, because from what I can see he still has all of HIS fingers! Which seems like a miracle when I watch him with his machete - he holds the coconut in his hand while chopping off bits & gently tossing it in the air to turn it about so he can work at it from all sides.
Now that I am a jelly professional, I have discovered that there are interesting things that can be done with a jelly while drinking it. If it is a good soft jelly, I like to scrape my straw along the insides while drinking. The white flesh has not hardened yet, so you can scrape it up with the straw & suck it in your mouth along with the coconut water. The flesh at this point has a consistency similar to a papaya, so it is very soft & flexible. Then, if you are really hard core, like I am becoming, you've made the straw hole wide enough for a spoon & after you've finished the water you can get even MORE flesh out with the spoon! A drink you can eat! A jelly keeps me entertained for at least 20 minutes...
My husband & older son just drink them. They are happy with a hard jelly (which has water, but no scrape-able flesh). My younger son sees no resemblance in the coconut to either a pizza or a Coca-Cola, so he is not interested.
Think of me next time you are driving thru a drive-thru window - because the ONLY drive-thru window that I ever see is when I roll down my window for the rasta man, who machete's me 4 jellies almost every day. He gets them almost to the point of being opened, which is good, as they roll all around my passengers feet area as I am driving home. Sometimes, if I am unlucky, a jelly will burst & spray all over the car - but that's only happened a couple times.
Should you ever find yourself visiting, be sure to come by & try one. My refrigerator usually has 4 or 5 jellies cooling - they take up an entire shelf! Good thing I don't put much else in there...
I'm not talking about the brown things that lurk in the dim areas of the produce section of the grocery stores in the States (always stuck there side by side with the ginger & the yams - must be the 'ugly' produce section). Those hairy things that upon first sighting caused our toddlers to point & whisper, "What's THAT?!", as they scampered behind our legs, lest the coconuts roll of their own accord onto the ground like giant spiders...
Sometimes my mother would buy us one of those brown coconuts - we would take it onto the patio & whack it with a hammer. & whack it again. & again. At some point it would crack & the disgusting milk would dribble out & FINALLY it would break - but yet your work was not done; scraping the white flesh out of the shell was almost as labor intensive.
No - not those coconuts. Here in the Caribbean we have the nice big green coconuts, which we discover are one & the same coconut, but the green ones are younger.
Inside these green coconuts is coconut water (not milk). What you do is you get your machete - what, you don't have a machete? Okay, then what you do is you go to the rasta man down the street who will sell you the green coconut & he will use HIS machete to open the top & flatten the bottom & give you a straw. What you now have is not called a coconut; it is called a jelly.
My husband came home with a jelly a few months back. Can you believe we have been here for 3 years & are just discovering jellies? "Here," he thrust the coconut at me, "Try this."
"Eew!" I wrinkled my nose at him, & pushed it back in his direction. It just seemed gross to me - like drinking out of a bladder or something, all warm & runny. But, then I went with my husband to the rasta man one day & discovered you could get a COLD jelly. Well, for me, that made all the difference.
Soon my husband had a hankering for a machete of his own, so we looked around, but luckily all the stores seemed to be out of the 'short' machete, which was good, because I think my husbands fingers look nice there on his hand. He wanted this machete because he had decided to buy a bunch of coconuts in bulk (still on the stem). Think of this - a nice size green coconut is about as big as a bowling ball - & weighs about the same. Now picture a stem of 12-15 of them. It took two people to carry it.
Ever wondered where you might store a stem full of coconuts in your kitchen? I thought not. I left them on the porch.
So, from deep within the reaches of his 'Chef Tool Box' my husband located a knife that looked scary enough to BE a machete, & proceeded to whack at his coconut. Then he sharpened his knife & tried again. & again. Luckily the counter is granite, so it did not seem to mind when he missed the coconut - tho I did not like THAT noise, of the knife striking the counter - CLANG!, & had to leave the kitchen with my hands over my ears while the mad chef wielded his dangerous tool. When I would return to the kitchen it would be to wipe all the counter tops & sweep the floor free of coconut chips, which were everywhere!
At some point my husband agreed that it just made sense to give our business to the rasta man, who seems to be good at his job, because from what I can see he still has all of HIS fingers! Which seems like a miracle when I watch him with his machete - he holds the coconut in his hand while chopping off bits & gently tossing it in the air to turn it about so he can work at it from all sides.
Now that I am a jelly professional, I have discovered that there are interesting things that can be done with a jelly while drinking it. If it is a good soft jelly, I like to scrape my straw along the insides while drinking. The white flesh has not hardened yet, so you can scrape it up with the straw & suck it in your mouth along with the coconut water. The flesh at this point has a consistency similar to a papaya, so it is very soft & flexible. Then, if you are really hard core, like I am becoming, you've made the straw hole wide enough for a spoon & after you've finished the water you can get even MORE flesh out with the spoon! A drink you can eat! A jelly keeps me entertained for at least 20 minutes...
My husband & older son just drink them. They are happy with a hard jelly (which has water, but no scrape-able flesh). My younger son sees no resemblance in the coconut to either a pizza or a Coca-Cola, so he is not interested.
Think of me next time you are driving thru a drive-thru window - because the ONLY drive-thru window that I ever see is when I roll down my window for the rasta man, who machete's me 4 jellies almost every day. He gets them almost to the point of being opened, which is good, as they roll all around my passengers feet area as I am driving home. Sometimes, if I am unlucky, a jelly will burst & spray all over the car - but that's only happened a couple times.
Should you ever find yourself visiting, be sure to come by & try one. My refrigerator usually has 4 or 5 jellies cooling - they take up an entire shelf! Good thing I don't put much else in there...
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Nothing Worse
I learn a lot of interesting things on TV. No, I do not mean forensic procedure, I am talking about normal everyday life. Where does this knowledge come from? The news, you may ask? Never. Commercials - that's where I learn the things that really matter.
Today I saw a commercial from the States for Stamps Online. Yes, if you did not know it, you can buy US stamps online & print them from your very own printer! Maybe you already know that - I am often behind the times. But that's not what I learned that was interesting.
In the advertisement, REAL customers extol the virtues of being able to print their own stamps. They say things like how it's so convenient, so practical, etc, etc. But my favorite one is a man who declares, & I quote: "There is nothing worse than having to go to the Post Office & stand in line."
Nothing Worse! Nothing?
Is he kidding? Nothing at all: war, famine, global warming, wisdom teeth extractions, car accidents, cancer, oil spills, lost internet connections - no, no, no. It all PALES in comparison to the thought of having to go to the Post Office.
"Hello?"
"Claire, Hi. Listen, did you hear about Wendy?"
"No! What happened, Liz? Is she all right?"
"We don't know yet - but it doesn't look good."
"Oh my God - what is it!? She's not - "
"Yes, that is exactly it. Her boss sent her to the Post Office!"
"Oh, Liz! You aren't serious! Didn't anyone try to stop her?"
"Well, Randy said he did, but I don't think he tried very hard...Anyway, he said that Wendy was afraid she would lose her job if she didn't do it."
"Poor Wendy! So brave!...When will we have any news?"
"She's been in there for about 2 hours now, Claire, so she is not out of the woods yet."
"Oh! Liz! Has...has anyone notified her family?"
"Not yet. I think everyone is just waiting to see how it turns out. I mean, who knows, she may just be getting up to the counter right now, getting her stamps & leaving, you know?"
"That's just like you, Liz, looking on the bright side. But tell me really, what are the odds of that being the outcome today, do you think?"
"I'm not sure. Randy did say he saw a person come out of there yesterday. An old woman..."
"Sure, that's what they want us to think! She was probably a YOUNG woman when she went in there! Anyhow, I think Randy is full of it - he's just trying to act like it's NO BIG DEAL that poor Wendy is in the Post Office, for God's sake!"
"You're probably right, Claire. I just keep remembering the last time I talked to Wendy. We had an argument." Sniff, sniff, "If I could just have that moment back again I'd-"
"Liz, you just stop it. None of this is your fault - Wendy knows we love her. Look - there - now you have ME crying!" Sniff, sniff.
"Okay, Claire. I'm sorry I broke down - you're right; now is the time for us to be strong. Hey - I've gotta go - keep my phone line open, in case... I'll let you know the moment we hear-"
"The moment you hear anything! Promise me! I am going to keep Wendy in my prayers."
"Good idea, Claire. I will too! Wendy will need all our prayers. After all, we all know that there is nothing worse than having to go to the Post Office..."
Today I saw a commercial from the States for Stamps Online. Yes, if you did not know it, you can buy US stamps online & print them from your very own printer! Maybe you already know that - I am often behind the times. But that's not what I learned that was interesting.
In the advertisement, REAL customers extol the virtues of being able to print their own stamps. They say things like how it's so convenient, so practical, etc, etc. But my favorite one is a man who declares, & I quote: "There is nothing worse than having to go to the Post Office & stand in line."
Nothing Worse! Nothing?
Is he kidding? Nothing at all: war, famine, global warming, wisdom teeth extractions, car accidents, cancer, oil spills, lost internet connections - no, no, no. It all PALES in comparison to the thought of having to go to the Post Office.
"Hello?"
"Claire, Hi. Listen, did you hear about Wendy?"
"No! What happened, Liz? Is she all right?"
"We don't know yet - but it doesn't look good."
"Oh my God - what is it!? She's not - "
"Yes, that is exactly it. Her boss sent her to the Post Office!"
"Oh, Liz! You aren't serious! Didn't anyone try to stop her?"
"Well, Randy said he did, but I don't think he tried very hard...Anyway, he said that Wendy was afraid she would lose her job if she didn't do it."
"Poor Wendy! So brave!...When will we have any news?"
"She's been in there for about 2 hours now, Claire, so she is not out of the woods yet."
"Oh! Liz! Has...has anyone notified her family?"
"Not yet. I think everyone is just waiting to see how it turns out. I mean, who knows, she may just be getting up to the counter right now, getting her stamps & leaving, you know?"
"That's just like you, Liz, looking on the bright side. But tell me really, what are the odds of that being the outcome today, do you think?"
"I'm not sure. Randy did say he saw a person come out of there yesterday. An old woman..."
"Sure, that's what they want us to think! She was probably a YOUNG woman when she went in there! Anyhow, I think Randy is full of it - he's just trying to act like it's NO BIG DEAL that poor Wendy is in the Post Office, for God's sake!"
"You're probably right, Claire. I just keep remembering the last time I talked to Wendy. We had an argument." Sniff, sniff, "If I could just have that moment back again I'd-"
"Liz, you just stop it. None of this is your fault - Wendy knows we love her. Look - there - now you have ME crying!" Sniff, sniff.
"Okay, Claire. I'm sorry I broke down - you're right; now is the time for us to be strong. Hey - I've gotta go - keep my phone line open, in case... I'll let you know the moment we hear-"
"The moment you hear anything! Promise me! I am going to keep Wendy in my prayers."
"Good idea, Claire. I will too! Wendy will need all our prayers. After all, we all know that there is nothing worse than having to go to the Post Office..."
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