The Way We Roll

First day and all the unknowns. What will my driver be like? As friendly and as beaming as a driver cast and scripted in a logistics commercial? How many 70 pound boxes can I really lift? The answer is a big fat zero. Will my knees and elbow handle climbing on and off the truck? Not if I bounced in and out like a twenty-something. Will I know where to put the packages? In a protected out of street view site. Will I get car sick? Could happen. Yes, I was a little nervous about my seasonal job with UPS.

I grew up in Gansevoort, but never been to McGregor Links. The golf course on Northern Pines Road was the spot where I was to rendezvous with my driver. He pulled up at 1:15 and asked if I was waiting for him. “Yes, I’m Valerie”, and extended my hand. Instead, he jumped out of his seat, slid the cargo door open and grabbed my uniform off one of the metal shelves. “Here. Put this on in the back." The metal door clanged behind me, automatically locking me in the cavernous volume of the big brown truck.

One thin and well worn pair of pants. Holes worn in the pocket where the previous owner kept his wallet. He was bigger with a 31 inch waist. The extra three inches I gathered in using the belt from my jeans. No gang banging look for UPS professionals. No shirts are issued to the seasonable help. It’s November in upstate New York. The winter jacket would cover any shirt. But an unseasonable and late Indian summer pushed the temperature to 70 degrees. I stripped down to my t-shirt and donned the pullover. There wasn’t a mirror to see if I looked like I felt. The Michelin Man. A brown fat Michelin man. I was going to die in the jacket. I yelled through the door and the driver released me from cargo.

Underway. The driver asked, "Ever work as a helper before?"
“No” My voice sailed out the open doors. Mailboxes, trees and houses rushed by. I gripped my jump seat.
"I hand you the package. Point to the house. You take it straight to the door. Just leave it. Don't bother to announce UPS or knock. Just get back to the truck. When you’re buckled in we go to the next stop." I’m sure this was not the way it was done on the training video. Two minutes later, I ran off to my first house. He warned, "Oh, yeah dogs. Don't step on any land mines."

While I delivered packages in the mazed developments behind the golf course, he rooted around for packages, pre-staging upcoming stops. I returned to hear him cussing at the inability of the loaders to arrange the packages correctly. He couldn’t find the next package and finally gave up. He was hot throwing out the f-bomb as we got underway. I just sat there. I wondered if this guy was the jerk one helper talked about in training. "He went through ten helpers. Nobody could work with him." Oh, boy.

I figured I just do what I could do to make each stop quick. I jogged truck to door and back. (Mental note. No more 4 miles walk before work.) To anticipate the next stop, I read the address label and searched for the house so my driver didn’t have to tell me which house. He still pointed and said, “leave it by the red door.” (You know how many houses have red doors?)

After the first hour we were flying down Northern Pines when he said, “I should have went to college.”
“I did. I’m here.”
“By the way, I’m Greg.”
I reintroduced myself. I must have been making a favorable impression. I was thirsty and very sweaty. My hair totally tangled. My eyes watery due to blast of air swirling about the cab. And my fingers numb from hanging onto my jump seat for dear life.

“Don’t worry. I won’t kill you,” Greg said.
“Thanks.” I grinned, but did not relax my grip.

I never tell people I live in Gansevoort. No one outside the Capital District has ever heard of it. I realized my dinky rural town with its Dutch heritage has grown in the past 50 years. We hit houses and places I never knew existed. Yet, we flew by familiar houses tucked between developments I had never entered. I saw people I knew raking leaves, walking dogs, picking up their mail. We delivered one package to a guy whom with I had gone to kindergarten. Two hours later, my test run was done. Greg dropped me off at my Jeep and said thank you. He still had packages left, but my assigned time was over.

That’s how we roll in logistics.

Virtual Baby Shower

Where do you make friendships? At work or class. In church, around the neighborhood, at your kid’s school. Perhaps at common interest gatherings or reoccurring events such as a pottery firing, an AA meeting or Saturday romp in the dog park with Rockford. But ever since the social networking age morphed out of an AOL chat room, online friendships have been stigmatized. A virtual friendship is labeled as strange, just an entertainment, certainly not real. When I mention my online friends to people, I get that what’s-wrong-with-you look. I know what they are thinking. Don’t you know crazy people stalk other crazy people who are only online because they have such incompetent social skills development that they live in little houses with the curtains drawn only to emerge from behind the glow of the computer screen to feed their 27 cats and go to the mailbox to collect their monthly social insecurity check. Losers.

So when I mentioned I was attending a virtual baby shower this past Sunday I got a few side glances and raised eyebrows. To make things far stranger and more difficult to explain was the attendees were people I met through Twitter postings made by my cat. The logic gets lost on those who are not on social media or limit their online contacts to school mates they have not seen in 30 years.

My cat, Diablo, goes by SouthBoundCat on Twitter has blogged since 2006. That never has been met with any reservations. (Oh, how cute.) As long as Diablo conversed with Phoenix, my other cat, on the blog everything was acceptable. But when Diablo reached out to the world and gathered over 3500 followers, well, that challenged the safe realm of plausibility. (Oh, how weird.) Opinions shifted from hilariously entertaining acceptance to concern for my mental stability. Seriously my cat tweets.

Explain a virtual baby shower for a person I have never met, but who has a cat that twitters with my cat about a feline world takeover once the cats acquire opposable thumbs from another person I have never met who has two cats converted to the dark side of tyranny and mayhem. It raises doubts of one’s social acumen. To be polite some respond, “You have too much time on your hands.” Less polite is the observation, “You don’t have a job, do you?” What is left unsaid I don’t know, but I've watched the listener slowly back away while looking around for sharp objects within my reach.

I am perfectly sane, not in therapy and have good social skills. I know the difference between right and wrong, alive and dead, pretend and real. Sort of.

Virtual means existing in the mind, especially as a product of the imagination. Make believe. I can be guilty of that. After all, I am a writer. In Computer Science virtual means created, simulated or carried on by a computer or computer network. Blame this on technology, making connections with others across 24 times zones and latitudes from pole to pole. Virtual also means existing or resulting in essence or effect though not in actual fact. This applies to literacy criticism. A writer pens with fire and cuts with ice to get people to lose their moments in prose. Very real never discredited and readily accepted when done well.

Those who know me know I am not a party person, much less a person who likes baby showers. Not my style. It began with my first ever shower and reiterated by my last experience. The first was for a sorority sister. I belonged to Mu Rho Sigma. We were all married. Get it? MRS. Anyway, as a rookie I didn’t know the rules and I always played to win. So after winning some lame game someone politely took me aside and told me the prizes where given to the guest of honor. What? But I won! Right there was confirmation that I didn’t like baby showers. If you can’t play for keeps, why play? The last baby shower was a few years ago. I had been church shopping when I stumbled upon a church whose entire female membership was throwing the minister’s wife a shower after the morning service. Oh brother. The overly friendly congregation invited me for cake, games, gifts and laughs. Well, what the hell. Game time and I had no clue what the baby’s room theme was much less what the mother-to-be’s middle initial stood for. Her best friend won that game and gracefully relinquished the prize. Predictable.

I don’t know if this was the first ever virtual baby shower, but it should be the beginnings of a positive trend. There certainly are a few advantages. Armed with webcams and the google+ platform, eight women from Newfoundland to the sunny California coast gathered around their monitors to surprise their soon-to-be-new-mom friend. No driving instructions needed although I was a bit concerned about some technical difficulties. I never used google+. Easy as pie. The only trouble I had was not understanding that the hangout time was on the central time zone. I was an hour early.

I had painted all day. I had paint on my hands, elbows, jeans, even my hair. I can’t paint anything without having it in my hair. I took off my paint shirt, donned a head set and never gave my attire a second thought. No shower, no second thoughts about dress, no uncomfortable shoes. Since I was at my sister’s house (known for low thermostat settings) I wore three shirts, a sweatshirt and slipper socks.

There was no fret about what to bring. Something sweet, finger food, dips, chips or pickles? While we had links to pictures of punch, snacks and drinks to share, a virtual shower entails whatever can be found in the frig and toted into the den or wherever the computer is set up. Could be leftover Chinese, or a chicken leg. Bring a favorite beverage. Either a bottle of wine for personal consumption or in my case a mug of hot chocolate. Don’t worry about the three bean salad you had for lunch, if you get my drift.

Gift giving is easy too since online shopping became as common as Cyber Monday. Pick, click, ship. No wrapping, bows or lame cards with leggy storks and play-it-safe yellow. Sixteen key strokes of a credit card number and done. During the shower everyone opened shared links to view the gifts. Oohs and aahs unleash a montage of video frames bouncing from one participant to another capturing the delight of all.

In the comfy of home, stories were shared about anything and everything. That's no change from a real baby shower. But with a few key strokes sharing a picture made the story even better. Do that at a baby shower! We wanted a peanut cake and within four seconds we had a peanut cake. Virtual magic! Since I met all these friends because of my twittering cat, we used the web cams to see our feline fur balls. Try taking your cat to the next baby shower.

I heard my friends' voices for the first time. There were some faces I saw for the first time too. I even met a new friend. We "talked story" like real friends. We laughed like real friends. Laughed so much that my face hurt and the expecting mom nearly peed her pants. She was very surprised and touched.

Virtual my ass. This was very real. Highly recommended.

Moments

8:48: Flight 11 crashes into the north face of the North Tower of the World Trade Center, between floors 93 and 99.

I sat alone in my living room, clutching a pillow. Like so many Americans I watched the horrific events of this day snuff out the sunlight of a clear blue morning, taking with it the dreams and promises of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, of friends who shared bits of their lives with co-workers around conference tables, water coolers, elevators, cubicles, hallways, garages, or breakfast tables on the 101st floor. The dust never settled harder, thicker on America’s heart and it ushered in a new awareness marked with a new vocabulary – jihad, hajj, imam, al-Qaida, madrasas, Taliban, Sharia Law... We questioned our values, our faith, our God.

9:03: Flight 175 crashes into the south face of the South Tower of the World Trade Center, banked between floors 77 and 85.

There was no mistaking the act, a deliberate thrust of evil’s sword, deep into the underbelly of innocence. And America roared in pain, disbelief, agony and anger, but in calm resolve. We did not take to the streets in mobs and turmoil. We went quietly to houses of worship, to our jobs and to our families, looking for answers. We stepped forward keeping an eye on the world once we discovered the hate.

There are certain things I like about this time of year. Sunlight begins to lay long on the morning horizon drawing dark finger-like shadows into the woods. By dinnertime the day’s warmth quickly recedes and pools of cool air rise out of the wetlands where cattails stand tall and plump. The summer’s humidity is swept away and everything is cleansed by the fresh air that carries a quiet scent of butternuts, crabapples and wild grapes.

It was a perfect morning. During the past ten years there has not been a crisp clear day when I didn’t look toward the zenith and remember 9/11 and the days following when skies were void of contrails.

9:37: Flight 77 crashes into the western side of the Pentagon

2.2 million men and women wear the US military uniform. They serve again and again in places as remote and desolate as one can get on the face of this cursed earth. But their mission is no less diminished for if free men will not fight who will step up, when and for what?

10:03: United Airlines Flight 93 is crashed by its hijackers and passengers, due to fighting in the cockpit 80 miles (129 km) southeast of Pittsburgh in Somerset County, Pennsylvania.

Today, like an old scar—the nasty gash happened so quickly you might forgot how it happened—etched on the surface, it remains tender, red and deep. We touch it to wonder about what could have been and to remind ourselves that on this day we changed. Not because we wanted to, but because forces beyond our borders dictated the change. We took this hard. We took it as an insult. We took it as an attack on the very truths we hold dear. We fought back.

We remember who we were and resolve not to forget. But how many of us remember December 6th, the bombing of Pearl Harbor? Fewer still remember September 2, 1945, when the signing of the Japan’s surrender occurred.

It isn’t about time or place or citizen. It is about appreciating and defending the very thing that makes us great. But if we forget to honor those who reached a hand through the rubble to pull a stranger to safety or if we forget those who ran toward the buildings only to lose their lives in a situation that looked hopeless, we leave ourselves vulnerable to those who will take advantage of our apathy.

9:59: The South Tower of the World Trade Center begins to collapse.

The day after 9/11 I hiked the trails on House Mountain. Just like the previous day, I was alone. I had a running dialogue in my head. It seemed logical to speak with bin Laden, a man I knew I could kill if given a chance. A bold and brave proposition, yes. One borne with hate. I asked God to forgive me for such vile thoughts, but I never denied them either. I resolved to never apologize for who I am. A Christian, yes. But so much more passion emotes in being an American.

Oddly I found myself alone on so many of the September 11th anniversaries that being alone on this day has become my tradition. On the first anniversary, I hiked to the top of the Chimneys in the Smokies and waited for daylight to reach me on my perch. Only the September 11th after I joined the Peace Corps was I not alone. That day with a fellow volunteer, I went to the US embassy in Micronesia to place a mwarmwar near the United States flag pole. With it was a letter to those who lost it all on that day.

10:28: The North Tower of the World Trade Center begins to collapse.

The sun broke the tree tops near the ravine’s waterfalls. Perfect. The recent tropical storms of the past two weeks left the kill running hard over the slick black rocks. The roar deafened the sounds of cars that made the looping curve down the mountain side. I could no longer hear the crickets in the grasses or the songs of the birds that flittered under the hemlocks. I waited for the emotions of ten years to rise. The hatred is no longer there for the man is dead, but the sorrow is still there. Still strong.

The spray dampened my face and mingled with my tears. Alone again, naturally. And a prayer that God hold America, bless her. 180 miles south in New York City the families of those who lost their loved ones gathered near the memorial falls on the footprints of the two great buildings that had buckled and fallen ten years ago. They touched the names carved in stone. It will take 1000 years to erode the memory.

One nation, under God, we remain indivisible.

Kiosk Attack

So I was dissecting the Mall after my plan to hit Christopher and Banks blew up. Since when did they turn into a chic twenty-something boutique? Or maybe it always was. I just hadn’t been on a hunt for a modest and more conservative look, something between an old lady dressed like a sleaze and a has-been MBA trying to compete with this year’s graduating class. Whatever that look is.

The first stop Bon-Ton, the anchor store I have never been in because since it has been in Saratoga, I haven’t been. And when I returned to my hometown, I wasn’t dressing for my success any longer. Painting houses and protecting the general public from errant thoroughbreds doesn’t require Evan-Picone. But with a real career interview looming in North Carolina next week and any clothes remotely acceptable were long ago donated to Goodwill or tucked away in a Tennessee storage locker. I had to find that look.

A twenty pound weight loss wasn’t helping the situation. In the petite section, which really means short and not little, I couldn’t find a thing. I stood in the dressing room looking at my reflection and watching the skirt slide to the floor from my hips. Size 4P. The Gang-bang sag wasn’t going to cut it. After a laboring search I found a sharp black jacket with an acceptable sleeve length and a decent price tag. I hung it back up and headed off to the other end of the Mall.

JC Pennys. Same name brands and same sales. Thank God for the suck economy.

I have a patience quotient for this sort of shopping and it is very low. To beat the quotient, I’m a grab and run shopper. The technique proved fruitless. I had to slowed down. I began to leaf through the racks as if I were reading an instruction manual. Painful. One item at a time, looking at size tags. Praying something had been misplaced as the sizes bogged down in the twelves and fourteens. Score. I found a skirt that fit nicely and would go with the black jacket. I trudged back to the other end of the Mall.

Here’s the story. I had already blown off the lady at Seacrets, the kiosk hawking little packets of hand lotion containing some sea-cret ingredient found only in the Dead Sea. But her partner, a young man in slim legged blue jeans called after me with the greatest of sincerity in his voice, “Hey wait a minute. I want to ask you a question.” I fell for it. Okay, I gave the kid with a middle eastern accent my time of day. I humored him and he must have thought, “Sucker, I got you.”

He pitch was good. Smooth and charming. He caressed my hand and used some buffing tool with three distinct sides to put such a high glossed shine on my ring finger’s nail, he made me promise not to scream in delight. Okay, it looked like a professional nail job. He applied a little lotion to my mechanic and painter worn cuticles. I was almost embarrassed. They look masculine. Thinking job interview, I listened to the pitch and considered the product.

“How many thousands of dollars,” I asked?

“For you, just two thousand.”

He smoothed down the ridges on my thumb. Nice, I was thinking. “And you can use this on your toenails too.”

Finally, the price. “$59.00 for a year’s supply. Consider how much you pay for a whole year on your nails.” A whole freaking year? That’s zilch, buddy. I considered the price and my need for a jacket.

“I’m afraid not.”

“No, no, for you my first customer of the day, I’ll give you a deal.” He looked over his shoulder and moved in close. I could see every stubble on his young face. I could smell a faint hint of cigarette smoke. Putting a finger to his lips he said, “You must not tell anyone. I give you a deal. Normally this is $89. I will let you have the kit for $59. But for you I will add in another kit. What is your favorite fragrance? Sea or Cucumber?” He offered each smell to me.

I didn’t bite. I said no thanks. He pressured. “A gift for a special women in your life. Your mother or sister perhaps. A free gift for Christmas or someone's birthday.”

I said, “ no.”

“Would you pay cash or credit card?” He walked over to his computer like he was going to make the sale.

“Neither.”

“You’re killing me. What are you Jewish?”

The words stunned me. Not much I can do about the big shit in life, but I sure can between me and you. “You almost had me until you banged that one.” Ass hole. You lost me there. What are you? Fucking Muslim?

And I walked away.

Open Letter to Senator Roy McDonald

Dear Senator McDonald,

Your decision to support gay-marriage in New York State is disappointing. For 5000 years of human history the institution of marriage has been defined as one man united with one woman. Great philosophers down through the ages have defined marriage as the union between a man and a woman. Now in some new enlightenment we have discovered something no other civilization has ever discovered? That marriage should be redefined and our governmental representatives should be empowered to do so? What a shame and what a peril.

The slippery slope on which you intend to put the great State of New York and ultimately the country is both steep and the decent is fast. If government can redefine marriage based on compassion what else can be justified? Yes, compassion sounds so right. Compassion and bringing us all together sounds so warm and fuzzy. What is a better course to take? To feel good or to do the right thing?

You have now been pressured by individuals who want to feel good about things while neglecting what is right. Right is about moral behavior and moral behavior is not defined by one man or government. It is defined by God. Otherwise, we suffer the consequences of government defining rights, liberties and ultimately truth based on law defined by man. That is a dangerous ledge to stand upon.

You are neglecting your obligations as a representative of the people to hold us all to a high moral standard. These morals are defined by our Creator. No man or government should define these standards.

Defining marriage based on compassion is wrong. How can you deny a brother from marrying a brother, a sister a sister or even a sister and a mother? Would this not be in the name of compassion when these individuals love each other or have a good economic reason to be “married”?

Mr. McDonald, I ask you to reconsider your decision. Gays and lesbians should be afforded the same rights as heterosexual individuals. That’s where compassion as well as morality lays. Marriage is a human institution established to perpetuate the society, and that is done by making the morally correct decision. Making moral decisions and the consequences for doing otherwise must be borne by all, gay and straight.

May God bless you and your family

Demons and Angels

Demons come in all sorts of forms, shapes and identities. But fortunately so do angels.

The attack came calmly, an older gentleman with disheveled hair suffering from an early onset of Parkinson’s disease. Dressed in a faded Hawaiian shirt that reeked of stale body odor he huffed up to me, hands shaking. He asked for the number of the main office. In the back of his pickup neatly stacked sat 860 beer bottles in their six packs or cases of twenty. My Wingman had explained our policy. We only count to 200 and weight anything over that amount. This did not make the older man a happy camper, but i suspect life didn't make him happy.

People who have emotional issues tend not take responsibility for their own actions. For them, blaming others is a more reasonable approach. When he had asked to see the supervisor, little old me, looking just as dirty as the next employee, wasn’t going to satisfy him, especially when I wouldn’t engage in a shouting match.
“Who can I call? Where is the number?” I provided both.
“Where is this policy? Is it written down somewhere?” I pointed to the posters explaining the process. “You expect people to read that?”
“This is not what I was told at the other site.”
“Sir, you are here. I have nothing to do with the other sites on the island.”
“Well, I am running out of time. I’m tired of arguing with you. Take two hundred and give me my money.” As we did so, the insults began. “You people are so stupid. You have the stupidest polices. You don’t even know what you are doing.” I processed his ticket, and politely directed him to the cashier. He stormed off to the recycling bins. I needed a walk.

Moments later he returned. My Wingman looked at me and said, “Let’s treat me like we never saw him before.” After a fist bump, we went to work. The man came out of his truck still griping, “What a ridiculous waste of time. Take 200.” My Wingman greeted him with “How ya doin' today, brawh?” As he filled four barrels of glass each containing 50 beer bottles Wingman discussed the weather. "Is it going to rain?" Our target looked at us like we were indeed so stupid we hadn’t remembered him from five minutes ago.

I decided to weigh his bottles to show him he would get a little bit more money. That should make him happy.

Wingman was shocked. Why bother? Because if we are to treat him like all others I'll try to educate him just like I would for anyone else. Except for plastic and pony glass bottles you’ll get more. I weighed the last barrel. “Sir, if we weigh your 200 bottles you’ll get $10.48 for them instead of $10.00 by the count.
He gave me a suspicious look. “I don’t believe you.”
I invited him to view the computer screen. Line by line I went through the ticket: the weight, the barrel tare, the net amount, the price and the final total.
“Then give me the forty-eight cents for my other 200.”
“I can’t do that. You signed for the material and it is disposed.”
“You people are so stupid.”
“Sir, if you don’t like doing business with us, there is another recycling center down the street. You are welcome to go there.”
“I will continue to come here and torment you. You are so stupid. I don’t know how much you are making but you are making too much.”
Not enough to deal with you.
My Wingman had enough of his yelling at me. Other customers were shifting around for a good view of the character.
“Okay, that is enough,” Wingman interrupted. For the first time his voiced was raised.
“You get away from me,” he replied.
A couple more posturing statements were exchanged.
I asked, “Do you want your money?”
“Give it to me.”
“Then please sign for it.”
His shaking hands signed the signature pad. I stepped back so I couldn't smell him any more.
“I want the rest of my bottles weighed.”
Oh brother.
Wingman went to unload the rest of his stash. They were stacked far out of reach in the back of the pickup bed. I reminded Wingman not to reach into customer's vehicle. Policy. The man’s feebleness showed as he struggled to get into his bed. As we emptied the bottles into the weigh barrels, he asked if we disposed of the cardboard. Unfortunately, we do as a courtesy. He proceeded to dump all the cardboard on the ground making no attempt to avoid hitting me in the head. Another customer rolled in and Wingman went to greet them.
“Hey, we aren’t finished here", he growled at Wingman.
“Sir, I’m still helping you."
I told Wingman not to dump any of the glass until the customer was gone. And sure enough after it was all weighed he refused to sign. He went to his truck and returned with the count. “How much is 860 times five cents?”
"$43.00." Quick math in my head and I confirmed he made more money on the weight.
“Why didn’t you tell me this in the beginning?”
"What? Why did you start yelling at me in the beginning? You insisted on the count. Remember?

At lunch, Wingman and I sat down and grinned at each other. I was upset. I was about to post on Facebook, “the dumbasses are out in full force”—there had been another incident the day before—when an angel rode up on a scooter. Unexpected. Unplanned. Before he left he prayed for me.

After lunch Wingman said, “I hope the rest of the day is better than this morning.”

I said it would be. And it was.

Shameful

This latest issue of Time Magazine features a letter to the editors in bold print. It is a response to a recent article that questioned if God is good how could there be a hell? If you are a believing Christian you know that our good God is also a just God. How can you have reward without punishment? A reader was compelled to express his opinion about hell. And Time Magazine showed no shame. Not only did they print the comment, but featured it in bold text. Hell is easy to define. It would be spending eternity with Evangelicals.

I suppose this was to show what a witty staff and readership this magazine sports. However this letter was shameful. I ask would Time Magazine dare publish a letter that defined hell as spending eternity with Jews? Or how about Muslims? Could they dare be so ignominious to claim spending eternity with Catholics be hell? While the subject of hell is a religious one could hell be defined as eternity spent with blacks or gays? How much more insensitive could the editorial staff and management of Time Magazine be? Oops, I forgot they are of the secular left.

The secular left claims to be all about inclusivity. Being warm and fuzzy, rallying around the social justice cause whether it's global warming or gay marriage. They cry, "Why can’t we all get along?" It is obvious it is all a façade. The gregarious welcome only goes so far. As long as you believe as the secular left believes, then you are a protected class, a class not to be offended. That's the rule.

Evangelical Christians, more than any other group, challenges the secular left. That makes us fair game. We are attackable. The secular left’s tactic is to attack those who take issue with their positions. This is not done on any level of logic, reason, debate or intelligent discussion. The tactic is to demean those who are not on their side. Mock and ridicule. How else can this shameful “joke” be published in Time Magazine? As a Christian I’ll wear it as a badge of honor.

There is one other explanation. Christians are reasonable. Attack a Christian and there is no demonstration in the street. They don't don headbands and chant "Death to Time Magazine". They don't go around issuing death threats or declaring Holy War against those who are non-believers. Instead, they pray for their enemy. They forgive their persecutors. They are in peace with God. One would be damned lucky to spend eternity with a Christian. But that won't happen unless you believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God who saved you by His grace.

I suggest Time Magazine feature the present day percussion of Christians in the Middle East and Africa. It is something mainstream media just won't do.

Strike 2

So what part was I responsible for? The president of the company was on my cell phone and she chewed my butt. I’m so thankful in moments like these that I have God to rest upon. I let him take control of the situation and my emotions. I felt like she was baiting me. If she could push me far enough and make me explode, she's have grounds to fire me. But I laughed instead. At least that was what Paul said I did. I don’t remember doing so. She went on and on. About how important this was. Important enough to keep a driver waiting (why hadn't someone told me this?). I walked into the field behind the redemption center and listened until she seemed to be finished and somewhat came to her senses saying she would see if she could do something. I doubted that would happen.

As an employee I really didn’t care if she had been up to 1:30 am, nights in a row trying to get things done. As an employee I really didn't care that she was just one person handling a work load doubled in size. As an employee I really didn’t care that she had just gotten the forms herself on Friday. As an employee all I cared about was my two crew members and I just get screwed out of medical coverage because the company tried to force us to make a decision that we all believed was too important to make without the proper information. As a person, I tried to care.

Here’s what happened. On Saturday my supervisor called. It’s a four day Easter weekend, but stupid me answered my phone. She wanted to meet me. She had the insurance forms that needed to be turned in on by Monday. They were due. Had to be in. Urgent. I agreed to meet her but wondered when she was going to arrive. I wanted to go to an Earth Day concert. At 3 PM (concert is over) she called and said she was running late. On top of that she couldn’t get a hold of my two team members. Of course not. One is just one step away from homelessness and doesn’t have a phone and the other has a cell plan that’s anemic. Her instructions were that she'd leave the paperwork at the redemption center. When we come in on Monday we are to fill it out and give it to a driver.

Simple enough, but I got visions of Nancy Pelosi and “have to pass the bill so you can know what’s in it.” When was the last time you enrolled in an employer health plan with two carriers to choose from? Remember how much packet info there is? I wanted to know my options. The co-pay, the deductibles, the benefit plan, the doctors, their locations... just the small details. And how much is going to come out of my paycheck. As a former HR manager we use to have enrollments that lasted a whole month. Well, maybe the driver won’t come until mid-morning. Maybe we will get a few minutes to look the stuff over.

Each day when I arrive at work I have to literally set up the office because everything is shut down, and locked away each night. My desk folds up, the chairs, the laptop, the printer. Sometimes even the power has been be “set up”. And there is all the money to count. I pray everything works after I get it all plugged in and I log on to the computer. Sometimes Windows wants to make 20 updates. It takes nearly thirty minutes to get everything done, so I get come to work 15 minutes early. It's my spaz prevention plan.

When I arrived today the driver had already gotten his loads and was waiting. Now how was I suppose to set everything up and familiarize myself with insurance plans and complete enrollment forms? By 8 am? Sorry, I couldn’t make that happen and neither could my coworkers. It was unfair. It was not reasonable. I apologized to the driver. I held him up. He said he would wait. I’ve had drivers get huffy if I make them wait. I told him we couldn’t get the forms done. The customers began to roll in.

It was busy. We paid out just under $2000. Remember that is at five cents a whack. We averaged a customer every five minutes. That’s a customer coming in, sorting his material, weighting the material, making the computer entry, paying the customer and dumping the material into the bin. I was able to sit down at lunch time for 30 minutes at 1PM. By then the driver was long gone.

Fortunately, we were busy because if I had time to think about getting chewed out for not filling in the forms and sending the driver down the road, I would have exploded.

Why was this done at the last minute? The president had all the excuses. She even blamed me for not coming in and getting the paperwork on Saturday as if I knew where my coworkers were this weekend.

Something about wanting to make an intelligent decision. I believe that decision is to get back to NY as planned.

The Details

Besides stuffing the laptop and 40 feet of cables, USB cords, power stripes and printer into a tool box every night after I print out and call in the end of the day reports to the office answering machine, I count the money in the safe and balance out with the cashier all the money we have on hand. I’ve learned I hate counting money unless it is in my basement done under the dim of a single naked light bulb in the wee hours of the night. All with a pencil tucked behind my ear.

The other day, I was fifteen dollars short in the safe. Not only was this not logically possible, it was not practically possible. Nevertheless, by the end of the day, my brain, normally fried, could not find the simple math error. The mistake laid hidden and I was holding the crew over as no one is to be on site alone with the safe open.

I called the missing fifteen dollars in to my supervisor. She went through the process of the day, but without numbers in front of her, she couldn’t see the problem either. I went home wondering what I screwed up. The next day, despite my day off, I had to go to the redemption center to give the one and only set of keys to the oncoming lead. It was an opportunity to grab the week’s paperwork and hunt down the missing fifteen. Sure enough with a refreshed set of eyes I immediately found the error. Three rolls of dimes equals fifteen dollars, not thirty dollars. There was my fifteen dollars. Ugh. Obviously, in my lifetime I have not worked as a cashier in retail.

I corrected the mistake and took off to run errands. By noon I swung around to the bank and checked my account balance at the ATM. It was payday and I expected big things in my account which ran a grand balance of $44.20. The amount was that large because I got sixteen dollars and change back from Lowes after I returned a pair of safety glasses. However, my balance had not improved. I thought about the rest of the employees who were depending on this first payday. Despite my paltry balance, I wasn’t. Thank God.

I learned years ago as a first line supervisor in an automotive manufacturing plant that you don’t mess with an employee’s family and you don’t mess with their checks. If this happens the employee's reactions are not pleasant and it impacts an entire crew once the shop talk gets fired up.

I called my supervisor. Before I could say anything she was overly apologetic. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I know you worked more than 41 hours in the past two weeks. Margret is working on the corrections. I want you to know we do know what we are doing!” Not only had my check not been deposited, apparently it was short about thirty hours.

“No worries,” I said. But what had gone wrong? Margret is the company owner. She handles the HR stuff and processes the payroll. I laughed to myself as I jumped back on my scooter to head home. Margret had been to my site last Sunday night and left us a note to clean up the office. I was puzzled. Each night after the barrels are hosed down, we stack them in the office so they don’t walk off in the middle of the night. Once they are crammed inside it is nearly impossible to reach the alarm system let alone make it to the desk where the cashier had left a few scraps of paper and a rubber band. House keeping has always been a priority in my manufacturing career. Despite the oils and machine shavings, the floors and machinery, were clean and parts in process were always stage properly. Her note stabbed me in my gut. I felt like I failed a surprise inspection.

It’s three days since payday and my bank account is still short. I now realize why I am working here. Soli Deo Gloria.

The System

When I joined the Army I actually thought the war was over, but not until Saigon fell did the war end. By then, I had been in the Army a little over two years. I got to wear The Everybody Button on my dress uniform signifying that I was in the United States Army sometime during the period of time from November 1, 1955 to April 30, 1975. That makes me a Vietnam Era Vet.

After my discharge I applied for the GI Bill. All of my undergraduate work at Georgia State was paid via the benefit. I had a full scholarship and stipend to the University of Michigan so the checks from the government made ends meet while I pursued my MBA. That was the last time I applied for or used any veteran benefits-26 years ago.

As a person of limited income since returning from the Peace Corps in 2005 I have eked out a living relying on my rental properties, and odd employment opportunities. When I moved out of Tennessee health insurance got too expensive so I dropped it about three years ago. Next month as a result of my new job at the redemption center, I’ll pick up coverage once again.

As a fiscal conservative I have been reluctant to apply for any governmental assistance. At any moment I could get off my ass and get a real job. I’ve been lucky to be healthy. I watch what I eat, watch my weight, and regularly exercise. I maintain my body in a way that is responsible. My only vice is Chap Stick. For my aches and pains I say screw it and work through the creaks complaining to my doctor every year that it sucks to get old.

But getting old is a reality. So before I landed my job I applied to the Veterans Administration to see if I might qualify for VA insurance. Last week I was notified that due to my limited income I am qualified, but due to my assets I must pay a small co-pay for doctor’s visits, and specialists. Prescription drugs are $9.00. The only prescription I have is for migraines and I buy them out of Canada. Otherwise each pill cost $35.00.

This afternoon with my recently received Letter of Eligibility in hand, I attempted to enter the Veterans Affairs “the system.” In the Kona office I signed in and as instructed I slid the little shield over my name for privacy purposes. The security guard and I recognized each other from the redemption center. I live on an island. What are you going to keep private?

The lady behind the sliding glass window smiled politely as I explained that I had my eligibility letter and I wanted to get my photo ID as the letter instructed. “No problem’, she smiled. I was in luck because they take photo IDs only four days a month and I showed up on the afternoon of the great photo shoot. Immediately, I was escorted back where the young male photographer dressed in a Hawaiian shirt asked me for my last four. Last four what? DUI’s. Children? Addresses? Books I read? I gave him the last four digits of my social security number. Except, he couldn’t find me in “the system.” Not even with my full nine digits.

Back to the front desk. And, of course, back to the back of the line. Approach glass window. The receptionist re-examines my letter and notices my New York address. “New York? You’re in Hawaii now.”
“Yes, but I thought I was in the United States.”
“It’s a different district. That’s why you’re not in ‘the system’. No worries. I need a little information.” She handed me a one page sheet, after highlighting all ten questions on the page. There’s nothing on the back. Name, next of kin, emergency contact, Medicare information and my DD214 discharge papers. I return to the line after I complete the required information in about 42 seconds, printing as neatly as possible. She took my paper. “Okay, please have a seat.”

Less than 30 seconds later she called me back to the window. Now everybody knows I’m here. “I don’t have enough information.” She handed me a four page form very similar to the on-line form I completed weeks ago when I first applied. Highlighted are previous year’s income, total spent on unreimbursed medical including dental, assets from real estate to stocks and bonds, other valuables and again, next of kin. Do they know something I don't?

When I completed the on-line application I had my tax information in front of me. Now I was guessing. I looked at the line wanting other valuables. I thought of the homeless guy who drown last week in the Kona boat harbor—one fishing pole, a box full of lures, a bike and a pair of shorts. I wrote estimate all over everything. I’m sure nothing matched the on-line application. Why do they need this again?

I return the completed form. The receptionist dismissed me while she began to enter more information in “the system.” Getting me “into the system” for a photo ID was proving difficult.

Once again she called me to the window.
“Ms. Perez.”
Oh brother. Truly, I tried not to roll my eyes.
“I need more information.”
“I don’t have my DD 214,” I blurted out.
She replied, “That might be a problem.”
“I’m already classified as 7c. I’m eligible. I have a letter.” I wasn’t upset or anything, just stating the facts. I noticed the security guard eyeing me from his desk in the corner. Quickly, I look away.
“I’ll try to get you into ‘the system.’ It is now asking me for some more information. Branch?”
“Army.”
“Service date?”
“March 27, 1973.” One’s enlistment date is never forgotten.
“Date discharged?”
“March 26 1976.” A date of significant importance in my life.
“Type of discharge?”
“Honorable.”
“Okay. I think you are in. Please have a seat.”
The young photographer asked me to follow him back to his digital camera perched on a tripod in a room not bigger than a linen closet. He repeated his request, “Last four?”
I spew out four numbers.
“Valerie Perez. Got you. ‘The system’ says you are pending. I can’t take your photo. Can you come back next week?”

Now I remember why I haven’t approached “the system” in 26 years.

Change You Can Have

It’s amazing how we all wanted change during the last presidential election (are you through with that stupid slogan?), yet when introduced to a seemingly inconsequential change there is a tendency to spazz-out. That’s human nature. Take the person who washes their aluminum cans and plastic bottles then meticulously counts each item. He shows up at the redemption center announcing, “I have 117 aluminum cans, 27 glass bottles and 26 plastics.”
“Sir, if I weight them, I’ll pay you the scrap value for the material.” It’s more.
“But I’ve counted them.” To prove his efforts, he thrusts a scrap paper with his scribbled counts in my face.
“If you want them counted, we will count them, but I guarantee you’ll get more if I weight them.”
Not convinced of this, he says, “I have the count right here.” Again with the paper.
“I appreciate that, but if you want to be paid for the count I must verify the count.”
“You didn’t do that before.” (there’s another change)
“That’s because I never did this before. We are a new company (change) and we must verify counts. Anything up to 200. (change) Then we only weigh (change).
“Well count then.”
Now I am thinking, “shit.” I hate counting. I always lose track of my numbers.
I finish the count. My numbers match his. I take note of the smug look on his face. I carry the bins to the scales and enter his counts into the computer.
“That’s $8.50.” I give him his receipt and direct him to the cashier. Then I weighed his material. He would have received $10.01 for the scrap value. That’s change I could live with. It’s money my company keeps.

Working: Day Three

After working a full day at the redemption center I wasn't so filthy to be embarrassingly caught in the grocery store buying bread. Nor was I dead tired. But my brain was definitely fried. Never had I been so nervous for an enter day.

Before buying the bread I let the cashier know that Allen, the bakery dude, said that the prices were marked wrong on the bread, but ring them up per the coupon price. Sure enough the register misread the price. The cashier calmly whipped out her cell phone with slide keyboard from her bra (no lie) and manually calculated the refund. Then she went through an elaborate series of keystrokes – more than what would be used to write a short story - on the register. As she performed this amazing feat I looked at the other cashiers and elevated my appreciation for the job.

Presently I feel doomed to run back and forth to the dump for four days a week to face computer programs that are filled with glitches. The customers have been impressed to see our new portable office, a computer system run on solar and the “local material” bamboo structure that serves as the staging area for the operation. But I know I am using a system that has no mistake proofing and more bugs than the cockroaches that wander around the center. I can just about enter anything in any input field and the computer will let me get away with it. And since I am the lead, I’ve slowed the sorters down so that I’m sure I enter everything correctly. Due to one typo I made, the guys had to reweigh over 300 dollars worth of glass. And you only get twelve cents a pound. That’s a lot of glass. It was my fault. I felt really bad. I apologized to them and the waiting customer, but as I explained, “otherwise, you owe me seventy cents.” Because that was what the computer said.

Not all the problems are mine. This morning, my first solo day as lead, the computer and the scale refused to communicate. I’m getting way to familiar with the software tech guy in New Hampshire. He walked me through all sorts of troubleshooting but to no avail. Meanwhile we were swamped with customers. Maybe it was because the local paper ran a little write up about the new business operating the redemption center. Everybody and their auntie came to recycle and check us out. Don’t these people go to church? Thank God I wasn’t talking to a guy with an Indian accent. My two-man sort crew resorted to weighting the barrel and manually computing the scrap values for aluminum, glass and plastic. Not as simple as .05 cents a can.

Finally the owner’s son arrived. He set up the computer so I could manually enter the material, weight and tare weight. The rest of the day smoothed out after lunch. At the end of the day I came up $10.00 short. Piss. I couldn’t find the error and by 5 PM I was blinded by an eye migraine. I couldn’t even see the numbers.

At least I didn’t have to jump into a bin of aluminum cans to retrieve plastic. I did that on my first day. Wading up to your waste in – well waste – isn’t something you get to do everyday. Getting into the bin was easy. Getting out was difficult. Mixed recycled material can result in a ten grand fine by the state.

And the cops didn’t come and take my scooter away like they did to one of my coworkers. He bought it on Craig’s List two weeks ago. A customer recognized it was his and called the cops. It had been stolen. Now my coworker is out $900, a scooter and a ride to work. But because the ad was still posted on Craig’s List, they nabbed the guy who sold it to him.

And yesterday the cops showed up looking for a homeless guy named Frank who had been by the day before. Apparently, after he collected a few bucks recycling, he used his redemption money to buy a few pills and booze, then fell off the rocks at the harbor and drown.

If I were a writer, would I have material!

Island Transportation (Part II)

The sliver of the moon had been erased by the rising sun. Clear nighttime skies left the morning air damp. I put on my sweatshirt and looked down Alii Drive. Traffic was still light when the HELE-ON bus rolled to a stop in front of my condos. Very convenient and very free, at least for a little bit longer, before the county in it’s never ending quest for more funds increases the rate to a buck.

The coach-like bus released a hiss of air pressure and the doors swung open. The driver, a plumb local lady wearing a faded green jacket greeted me with clipboard in hand. “Where are you going?” she asked. Did she just lick the tip of her pen?
I replied, “The Kuhio Plaza,” the shopping mall in Hilo, the last bus stop on the line. 104 miles from my condo. She scribbled down my destination.

It was 6:30 am. Scheduled arrival time was 10:10 am. Three hours later, at 1:10 pm the same bus returned to Kona. I slipped into a seat two rows back behind the driver and opened the morning paper. I settled in for the long ride.

The day was all about logistics. I had no idea if the bus had a bathroom or if the bus stopped anywhere long enough to use a restroom facility. So I drank nothing before boarding. At the other end of the trip I would have to pee in a cup, for my employment drug screen. I didn’t want to show up with the plumbing bone dry, but I didn’t want to burst either.

I packed a lunch-a roast beef sandwich, banana, ginger snaps and a Kashi TLC snack bar. I’d have only a couple of hours at the company’s office. To use every minute constructively, I thought I would get all the paperwork, documentation and instructional training done in those two precious hours of time. Then on my return, I’d eat my lunch.

I didn’t know you couldn’t eat on the bus until we stopped at Kmart. There the driver got out and lit up a smoke. A young couple boarded. Hauling large backpacks, they carried an open box of cereal.
“No eating on day bus,” the driver growled at them.
“Oh no, we won’t. It wouldn’t fit in our packs,” the young man with dreadlocks explained.
“If I catch you eatin’ on day bus, believe me, I’d throw you off day bus.”
Gulp. When was I going to eat lunch? I would not have thought about it again, but I kept hearing a rustling sound. It was the driver, diving into a bag of candy. She popped gummie bears all the way to Waimea.

In Waimea, the bus pulled into Parker Ranch Mall. It seemed like a perfect place for a pit stop. A food court, restrooms and a Starbucks. Not that I’d dare smuggle food or drink onto “day bus” for fear of being thrown off by the four foot six 150 pound chain smoking driver. But the bus cruised through town stopping just long enough for the driver to hit a few drags from her cigarette.

We made a pit stop at the Honokaa Recreation Park. A thirty minute stop in the middle of almost nowhere. No place to buy a cup of coffee or a donut. The cinder block restroom near second base was modest to say the least. Inside the stalls were so short that my head appeared over the top of the warped plywood door. There was one cold water sink, no paper towels. Before re-boarding I grabbed my Kashi bar and took a few sips of water from my pack. The driver managed two phone calls and three more cigarettes.

We got back on the road and headed down the Hamakua Coast toward Hilo. There must have been a couple sides of beef onboard because the air conditioner was turned down so far that the weather report from the back of the bus called for snow. By Hilo, the passengers packed tighter than a Hindu transport in New Delhi blew warm air into their cupped hands. I sat on my hands and pulled my hood over my head.

The return trip should have been so mundane.

Gordon (his real name because there is no innocence to protect) volunteered to take me and another guy back to Kona. This was despite the fact that he lived in Captain Cook, a town about a half hour south of Kona. Gordon seemed harmless enough. A local guy, he had an outgoing personality and a good sense of island humor. He was on my team when we assembled our office desk. Maybe the speed in which we completed the task should have indicated his thirst for moving faster than glass shatters. But, that was only half the story.

On the long stretches of island road I’ve driven 70 miles an hour. Everyone does. But Gordon drove like a maniac. Not since I was in Micronesia had I seen such crazy driving. There the taxi drivers opened the cab’s doors, leaned way out over the road, head down and spit beetle nut juice. It was a honed skilled done without slowing down or missing a curve, but it scared the living crap out of me the first time I experienced it.

Gordon cranked up the island gang bang music in his early model Honda. He claimed he knew a shortcut and lit out for the other side of the island. I expected a Hawaiian secret route. His shortcut was to take distance out of the road by hugging every turn and corner along the southern coast. With every four letter word booming from the speakers just inches from my ears - a rap ghetto beat straight from the wickedness of Hades – he ran right up to the bumper of the car ahead of him until there was a gap in oncoming traffic. A sharp snap of the wheel and he’d veer into the oncoming traffic throttle bleeding speed. Gordon turned back into the right lane microseconds before the oncoming car reached us, just a hair width in front of the passed car. I froze expecting to hear metal on metal.

After the third such maneuver, I closed my eyes and prayed to my God. If I prayed out loud Gordon never heard me. My prayers drowned in the deadly beat of rap. I don’t know how he knew his cell phone rang. Half the time he talked on the phone, the other half he scanned his Ipod for the next musical classic, “my girlfriend won’t let me f…. I need to bust my nut…” And if there was any conversation it was about his pregnant daughter expecting his grandchild any minute now. If we live...

I planned not ride back with Gordon the second day. I planned to discreetly tell the staff that his driving scared me. I planned to insist on riding the bus back. But before I could say anything to the staff one of the instructors asked for volunteers to drive me back home that afternoon. Gordon immediately volunteered again. It might have been because the night before I gave him $10.00 for gas money. But the second time around I just thanked him for not killing me.

The Opportunity (PART I)

I wasn’t against taking the bus to Hilo. It just didn’t make a whole lot of sense. An eight hour round trip for 2.5 hours of training that most likely included a lunch break? Two days in a row? After all, I had been offered a job at the recycling redemption center. How difficult can that be? I’m sure I know the difference between plastic, aluminum and glass. Give me a pair of gloves and I’ll go to work.

When I saw the ad posted on Craig’s List it looked like the perfect job to make some spare cash. Let’s face it. Craig’s List? How “professional” can the job be? The company’s name wasn’t even posted with the ad. The posting said to email for an application. No link? I wrote a little cover letter and requested the application.

The reply came quickly. It was suggested I submit the application soon. Interviews were being scheduled in the near future. A couple days later I got a call for an interview at the recycling center in Kona. When I showed up, the place was closed. The sign out front said Out of Cash. Under a tarp, five people sat around a fold down banquet table. It was 12:15 pm so I assumed the employees were on their lunch break. Probably had a good game of dominoes going. I’ve seen them play when I’ve returned cans and bottles for redemption. But I discovered I stumbled on a four-on-one interview in progress. I returned to my scooter, listened and waited my turn.

I've utilized the team interview process many times as a manufacturing manager. I wasn’t expecting it here. Their methodical approach asked questions to assess qualities deemed important: team and social skills, conflict resolution and honesty. However, I almost laughed when first asked, “Tell me a little about yourself.” When I coach people for job interviews I told them to prepare a two minute pitch that doesn’t involve marital status, age, religion, ailments, weird hobbies or flat out denials of drug use and tendencies to fight. Pet peeves are also not a good idea.

To be honest,I didn’t reveal my entire work experience on my application. The fact that I once hired and fired hundreds of employees, made strategic decisions for large corporations, or owned a consulting business didn’t seem to be relevant to picking through a barrel of aluminum cans looking for rocks. I simple wrote I had been a security guard for the past three years. The honesty card. But at the end of the interview Shon asked if there was anything I wanted to share that wasn’t on my application. I sighed and quickly summarized: Director of Human Resources, Manufacturing Manager, Business Owner, Landlord. I stayed away from house painter, bathroom remodeler, and certainly I never told them I wrote some book.

I got the offer contingent upon passing the drug test. Okay, I can say no problem, but you'd be amazed at how many positive test results there are after people say, "no problem." Here's a Hawaiian statistic: One out of ten drivers coming toward you down the road is under the influence of something they shouldn't be.

My problem was that the training was in Hilo, the other side of the island and over a 100 miles away. I didn’t understand why I had to go to Hilo to learn how to sort cans. Sure the company had to make sure the chain of custody was not broken in handling the urine sample. Sure they got to verify employment status. Okay, issue uniforms and safety equipment. And review the handbook rules. And discuss customer service issue. And watch a safety video. And teach the best way to sort a barrel full of recyclables.

I arrived in Hilo and stepped off the bus at the last stop. Margaret was waiting. My assumption: she had tidied up the morning mail distribution, made the coffee for the guys in the office, completed the payroll and then she was sent to pick me up. On the ride to the plant I engaged in small chitchat.
“How long have you worked with Hawaii Business Services?”
“Oh, I don’t work for the company. I own it.”
“Then you work,” I quickly recovered.
She explained that 25 years ago her sister and she had a truck. Her sister drove. She picked up the trash. They had 40 customers. “And now,” she swept her hand out to the building coming up on the right, a huge warehouse without a visible scrap of rubbish in sight.

Inside a meeting room, 35 people were wedged around two long tables. All new hires. What I didn’t know was the company was doubling its workforce from 30 to 60. They had been awarded the redemption contract for the island of Hawaii. They needed to man ten sites. And the antiquated pencil and paper system used by the old company was being upgraded with a new computer/weight and tracking system.

If I were to get home that night, I had to catch the 1:10 pm bus, but I was able to stay longer when one of the other new hires volunteered to take me home along with another guy who had been on the bus. (Island Transportation PART II). Staying the afternoon gave me the opportunity to take a plant tour. I wished I had my camera when a truck load of plastic returnable bottles were dumped into a conveyor belt that herded them into the BADGER, a press that crunched them into a 1000 pound bale. Put me in a plant and I’m excited. That’s why I got into manufacturing.

At the end of the day we were assigned to one of the newly constructed portable offices. We assembled our glass topped desk. A team project. We finished first. I joked it was a Survivor exercise, except we were already in redemption. We split up and helped the other teams. The competition wasn’t even close.

At the end of the second day, the company staff (the same people who had interviewed me) made their assignments: cashiers, sorters or leads. I got lead. I get to operate the scales and computer and make sure the team functions as one cohesive unit. Oh, Boy! I thought I was sorting recyclables.

Mission Accomplished?

A couple days after the Christmas plunder of bacon for breakfast and lamb for dinner and a week before heading off to Hawaii, my doctor called and said something like, “Your cholesterol is 238. You better cut the cheese and drop 15 to 20 pounds.” I heard, “your mother died of a heart attack.” Granted, the scales didn’t moan under my weight, nor would anyone call me fat, let alone chunky. I'll never solicit or receive much empathy from Overeaters Anonymous. When I told my sisters that the doctor told me to lose weight they both asked if the doctor had actually seen me.

I hate those mechanical scales where after stepping on the pad you must “guess” at your weight. It's like having your weight guessed at the circus. First, you slide a weighted block across the rail to the one hundred pound notch, an easy given. Then the smaller weight slides over to the point where the balanced arm raises or lowers the tiny arrow when a perfect balance is achieved. The stupid little arrow clanks the upper bracket. It's always further to the right than you expect. The more you move the block to the right, the heavier reality becomes. The process forces you to stand face to face with the fact that your body isn’t that toned, lean machine it might have ever been. Thank God I have yet to see one of these scales placed in front of a mirror. They usually face a wall, where you can't see your eyes roll to the back of your head.

I knew what the scales had been whispering. I had joined the YMCA to lose ten pounds during November and December. I actually gained weight. Muscle, my ass. I was 122 pounds of middle aged post menopausal jiggle. And now the doctor claimed I was full of heart stopping cholesterol.

I’m not a junk eater nor am I a couched potato even in the throes of dark winter days and subzero temperatures. Yes, I grumble a whole lot during every outside venture. It is so easy to slump into a cabin fever depression. And the doctor’s news had done just that, for about 30 minutes. It was so bad that outside the YMCA I sat in the Jeep contemplating my resolve. I never made it into the building. Damn if I would swim one lap or trot my ass around the upstairs track counting light fixtures out of shear boredom.

Recovery from my self-defeat came quickly. I cranked up the Jeep, blasted the defrost on the windshield and headed downtown to Borders. I had to prove that I wasn’t eating cholesterol ladened food (Christmas feasts are not the norm.). I had to prove I had been dealt a cruel set of genes.

The diet section in bookstore was busy with those toying with New Year Resolutions. Three women chatted about their latest diets, and the successes and failures of others who had been on crashes and regimes.
"Have you seen her?" one sniped. It wasn't complimentary. I took a quick glance at the trio, their physiques concealed by massive coats and scarves. You got to love upstate New York this time of year. I bought two books, the Lose Weight Fast Diet Journal and The Ultimate Calorie, Carb and Fat Gram Counter.

Counting calories wasn’t going to be enough. I needed a complicated goal that required me to research what I was about to do and then to set specific targets for calories, fat, cholesterol, protein and fiber. Tracking my exercise and calories burned was also important. My ultimate goal was to prove I wasn’t eating a poor diet and to lose 15 pounds. The cholesterol level may or may not fall below 200.

Since December 29, 2010 I have written down everything I have eaten. When I prepare meals, I measure every portion. In restaurants, I look up their nutritional information, although I have yet to find the data on a Costco hot dog. At the end of each week I track the totals of my consumption against my exercise goals. I graph the weight lost and assess my energy levels. I make little notes about challenges, obstacles and courses of action. My sister would be amazed that I even track water consumption. She calls me the Desert Flower because I drink so little of it.

This week I hit the 107 mark. Minus fifteen. Only twice during the past twelve weeks have I gone over my 200 mg or less cholesterol goal. Most days I don’t even come close. Similarly, I have ranged well below my daily saturated fat target of less than 16 grams per day. If there is a target I can't hit, it is fiber. When I crank it up towards my goal, I pay for it the next day. It's the way my system rolls.

To celebrate I bought low fat ice cream after carefully reading the labels. Then I measured out the ½ cup serving and ate it out of the measuring cup, not to waste a lick of it. I thought I died!

The end of June is still a long way off. That’s when I get the cholesterol rechecked. Meantime, I must add calories back into my diet so I don’t drop any more weight. My swimsuit is sagging.

Today's News

My one week moratorium on news ended today when the front page of the West Hawaii Today caught my eyes. It wasn’t about Obama in South America, the no fly zone in Libya, a nuclear meltdown in Japan or that Hilo ranks number one in America for drunkenness (page 9). The photo sent shivers down my back. A huge colored picture of an older man and two women gutting a mastodon in Austin, Texas about 16,000 years ago. Yes, even back then a news blackout would have served a purpose.

By Thursday of last week, six days after the tsunami and in the throes of a nuclear meltdown hysteria in the US media I couldn’t handle the bombardment of speculated doom. When I received emails and phone calls from friends that radiation was headed to Hawaii I snapped under my own post traumatic tsunami syndrome. I became depressed and angry.

I needed to decompress, to step back from the all the chaos. My life had hardly been impacted by the 9.0 earthquake and the generated tsunami. I did evacuate. I spent a tense night following the wave across the Pacific. I waited all morning for the all clear. I knew something had happened in Kona. But with no loss of life Hawaii’s event wasn’t worthy of a mention on the world wide clutter of headline grabbing information. Nor should it have been.

After all, in Japan entire communities and families were lost. The real tragedy is that a typical Friday routine for one person had not only been disrupted, but had vanished from the face of the earth. To think that someone vanished and everyone who knew that person and everything associated with that individual--from entire families and friends, to a house, car, place of employment, a simple routine of going to the local market for a bowl of noodles--had disappeared was unfathomable. Irreplaceably gone. Multiplied tens of thousands times more. How do you pick up from that?

That was the real tragedy. Yet the media focused on the what ifs. The remote perhaps, maybes, and possibilities of a radiation leak drifting the west coast. Run and buy your iodine pills. A typical American response, a pill for every ailment. I’ve seen Godzilla movies. If radiation were so easily cured give the lizard a pill.

I was bombarded by too much news. So was everyone else. I couldn’t do much about that, but I could withdrawal. I decided to go on a news break for one week. I don’t have a TV so to curb my viewing habits was easy. But the radio, newspaper and internet became the challenge.

The word went out to family and friends. Unless Israel gets nuked, the President gets shot or a tsunami was headed to Hawaii, I didn’t want to hear it. I turned off the radio. I didn’t stop the newspaper delivery, but I carefully edited my way to the comics, the crossword puzzles, the sports section and the classifieds. At first, I read Anne’s Mailbox, the advice column. Keenly aware of the human condition in Japan, I found the drone of unfaithful husbands, ungrateful kids and dissatisfied wives lacking in intellectual depth.

The biggest challenge to the news blackout was the internet. On social media sites like FaceBook and Twitter friends post more than “What’s on Your Mind?” and “What’s Happening?” They post news stories or comment on news items. When I read comments about what a great lady Elizabeth Taylor was, I concluded she died, because nobody says those things while you are alive.

Back to today’s news, the gutted elephant in Texas. The headline: Discovery of Artifacts in Texas May Rewrite Human History. The news I missed this week will be analyzed, rehashed, editorialized and eventually rewritten. It might go down better the second time around. 16,000 years from now.

Photo: Butchering a Mastodon, 2. A older man and two women butcher a mastodon, an Ice-Age elephant. It may have taken several days just to carve the beast into manageable pieces and then many more days to dry the meat and prepare the hide. Painting by Nola Davis, courtesy Texas Parks and Wildlife Department.

Staying Connected

It was just after five Saturday morning when I hear the flip-flop padding of the newspaper deliver man. I was wake, but hadn’t flex any muscles except to test the soreness of my butt. Too much sitting around yesterday. The newspaper landed with a whack against the front screen door. I wanted to see the news, but I dozed off again. The sun’s light filtered over Hualalai and through the thin wisps of vog stretched over the summit by the time Dad called. The last time we talked had been about 4 the previous morning. “I think we dodged the bullet,” a phrase he is more prone to use for missing forecasted snow storms in upstate New York. “That’s good news, Val.” he replied.

It was good news. Not only for me, but for the whole state of Hawaii which had sent its entire coastal population and visiting tourists inland after a 8.9 earthquake rocked the coast of Japan.

I put off writing about the tsunami because I felt the whole experience paled against the tragedy in Japan. An hour after I called Dad with the good news, a six foot wave crested the sea walls in down town Kona. The damage crippled 51 businesses. Rocks, sand, tangled rebar, sign posts, concrete, tires and dead fish littered Alii Drive. Bubba Gump’s furniture floated out to sea. Chunks of the sea wall peeled away, discarded on the graceful curve drive in front of the harbor. The pier was reported condemned and the King Kamehameha Hotel which recently completed a renovation was left covered with a sticky coating of sea salt after the waters receded. The small town beach lost all of its sand. Lava rocks and old tires jutted forth as if Davy Jones had left his watery tomb. The ghoulish eye sores reminded me of what we don’t know about what is at the bottom of the ocean. And eleven homes where destroyed, most near Kealakekua Bay where Captain Cook first anchored.

The inconvenience of the 18 hours of evacuations, the 36 hours without sleep, the tsunami and the wait was nothing but an inconvenience for me. Across the Pacific, thousands of people in Japan could only wish they had one more day with loved ones who were swept away by the twenty-two foot waves that came minutes after the great earthquake.

Technology played a crucial role in keeping me informed. The ability to get information eased concerns, reduced anxiety, and filled dark voids the mind would otherwise fill with crap of pending doom. My sisters rag on me for the time I spend on Facebook and Twitter. Honestly, sometimes I can’t argue with them. In my defense, I argued that if they had been on Facebook last year, they would have known what was happening with Dad and me when we evacuated after the Chilean earthquake. Sure it is a social network, but it is a great tool as well. Just ask any Egyptian.

My youngest sister joined Facebook a couple of months ago, but uses it …never. However on Friday, after she woke up on the east coast and learned of the evacuations, she called me and then stayed with me the rest of the day, via Facebook. I took comfort in knowing people around the world were with me. I was never alone even though I was by myself (by choice).

Last year I was immediately aware of the Chilean quake because of Twitter. This year was the same. In less than 20 minutes after the quake I knew what had occurred and the dangers that could fall on Hawaii. Three neighbors knocked on my door to warn me of the tsunami. I would venture to guess I knew before they did. When I told one I had seen it on Twitter she looked unsure of what I said.

I reactivated my broadband account with Verizon before leaving the condo. Hopefully half way up the mountain the signal would be better than at seaside where I was forced to use DSL. It worked beautifully. I lost connection only once during the twelve hours I was hooked up. A few times I had to wait on buffers. A minor annoyance. With laptop and internet access I watched Honolulu TV news and listened to local radio. I switched back and forth to catch the latest updates on the tsunami’s arrival, severity and damage. And I caught information that was relevant to the Big Island and was able to relay this info to friends and family.

At one point before the tsunami’s arrival I switched to BBC. Video of the waves in Japan were too disturbing for me to watch. It looked like the earth puked. The whirl pool was mind-bogglingly surreal, and the footage of the series of waves stretching horizon to horizon left me dazed by its perfected beauty while knowing the powerful terror it was about to unleash. I thought, “This could happen here.” I could not handle that thought. I stopped watching news out of Japan.

My body and mind reacted strangely. I misinterpreted one piece of video. A wave entered a Japanese airport. To me it looked like the building comes to the wave instead of the wave washing over the tarmac. Too tired I guess. Even today I don't know why I thought that. The thought was not fleeting.

I was also extremely hungry and very cold. I had no reason to be either. I huddled in my hoodie under a fleece blanket. I wore socks. I ate the thick peanut butter sandwich I packed as a supplement to my three days of emergency food and water supply. I never shook either physical need completely until it was all over. Two days later I am still tired.

My refuge was outside an office building where electrical outlets kept my computer and five-spot charged and my phone juiced. Baby, I was connected. At mid-morning when the tsunami danger was down graded to an advisory, the office staff, a bunch of realtors, poured out of the building. They were off to check on their rental properties. “It’s all clear,” several told me. I watched them dash off in their cars wondering how far they would get. As the vagrant on their side walk I didn’t argue, but I was listening to Mayor Kenoi say the evacuation was still in place for the Big Island. We had been hit hard, but no TV station in Honolulu reported this. However, local island radio, KAPA was on top of it.

Fifteen minutes later, they returned. “It’s not clear.”
“I know,” I replied.
“Why didn’t you say something?” I thought this was a ploy to get rid of me.

Shortly thereafter one office employee came out and asked, “What are you listening too? You obviously have better information than we do.” I removed my ear buds. "You’re watching TV?"
“Yeah,” she replied.
“It’s Honolulu. It is clear there. You must listen to local. I’m on KAPA.” She thanked me and returned inside.

By 11 am, after being up since 5 the previous morning, I was so hungry I began to consider the cat food left by the AdVoCat lady for the ferals. I had to get something. I disconnected my information source to wander among the thousands who were going about their day as if nothing happened. Truly I entered a world as a displaced person. And felt lost among those who were not impacted. After all, if you were not in the evacuation zone you stayed home. You went to bed after filling your bathtub. Because we never lost power, everyone outside the coastal areas got up the next morning and yawned.

I stilled needed information but by 11 am local radio had resumed regular broadcast. Two Hawaiian melodies followed by an old Civil Defense bulletin. I lost my information.

At Costco I got a hotdog and a 16 oz soda for $1.58. Feeling slightly recharged I did my own reconnoiter to see if Alii Drive was accessible. Downtown was still closed, but south Alii was opened. I went home at 1:30pm. However, the road was not officially cleared until 4:30 pm. Just like last year no sirens communicated the all clear.

So what if I had not had access to the internet? Well, in my survival kit that I assembled after last year's evacuation is a hand cranked – solar powered radio. It works fine. My sister suggested that I get a solar charger for my phone. Excellent Christmas idea. Hint, hint.

Speaking of phones. For those on ATT, you might want to seriously consider Verizon. It never went down.

Two Events, Two Reactions

Two weeks ago while I rode on my scooter through town, I had the driver of a huge white Ford pickup ride so close behind me I could feel the heat coming out of the engine. Speed limit is 15 mph and that was what I was doing. If you need to get through Kona fast, think twice, because it doesn’t happen.

On this day a cruise ship was in harbor. Foot traffic was heavy, with pedestrians dropping off the sidewalks and crossing the street wherever and whenever they saw a gap in the line of cars snaking between the tourist shops.

Every time traffic halted the pickup driver brought his monster truck right up on me and revved his engine. The only thing I could see in my mirrors was silver grill and the Ford emblem. At an intersection cars were backed up far enough to block off the merge to the left turn lane. However, there was enough room to slip through on my scooter. I thought I would lose the jerk, but he veered out into the oncoming lane and got back on my tail.

I turned and he followed in close pursuit, laying on the horn as we came through the intersection. I gunned the engine to 25 mph, the speed limit and he stuck to me like a bad reputation. At the next intersection he got in the right turn lane. As he passed he felt compelled to share his limited vocabulary.

Now I was pissed. For one brief moment I decided to pursue this jerk. But for only a moment. What was I going to do? Throw my helmet at him? Then what?

I was on my way to the pool. When I arrived every lane was full. Unusual, but I needed the wait time. I was shaking furious. I tried to calm down. I prayed to calm down. I swam to calm down. I prayed some more. Even told God I forgave the idiot, but I knew I hadn’t. Of course, He knew that too. That afternoon I went on Craig'slist and ranted. (I've never done that.) I was a mess, thinking this guy in his rage, could have killed me.

Now when I ride in town I’m looking for white Ford pickups. I also have forgiven him and prayed that he got safely to where he was going and that he too calmed down.

Yesterday, car nearly sideswiped me when the driver pulled from the driving lane to the turn lane where I was. This time I was in a rental car. The driver decided to turn left at the last minute. He was very startled to hear my horn blast a warning that we were on a collision course unless I hit the brakes and he pulled out of the turn. Fortunately, on a very busy road, no one rear ended us.

The older driver was upset. He kept apologetically shaking his head and looking at me in his side mirror. We waited for the oncoming traffic to clear and then proceeded through the intersection. He pulled over. I passed by and tried to give him a quick, “Oh, well” glance.

I was never upset, but couldn't figure out why. Until now.

Senator Standing Down

In his last form letter response to his constituent who fires off letters and emails to the Senior Senator of Hawaii with some regularity, Senator Daniel Inouye took a very defensive position defending his long history of filtering earmarks to his state. His December 17th letter outlined numerous projects funded with earmarks.

• The East West Center
• Preventing the extinction of the “Monk Seal”
• Establishing the Rural Economic Transition Assistance Hawaii program as an alternative agricultural enterprise to replace the dying sugar industry
• Establishing the Barbers Point Harbor Facility which serves the development of Ewa and adjacent areas, like Kapolei
• Maui Supercomputer Center
• Pacific Basin Agriculture Research Center
• Imiloa Astronomy Center
• Preventing the demise of Pacific Middle Range Facility
• The Restoration of the Island of Kahoolawe
• Native Hawaiian education programs, cultural programs and health programs

Mr. Inouye argued that he has always believed that Hawaii is a very unique state, with special needs. Without earmarks many of Hawaii’s crucial programs would go unfunded. (I need to look up the definition of crucial). Obviously, without earmarks many of these programs would go unfunded.

In a state that defines itself as independent and desires to be self-sustaining, Hawaii citizens have long drank from the trough of the federal government and the citizens of all other 49 states. I’ve been to all but a handful of states and know that each is unique. However, none are more exceptional than the whole, the United States of America founded on the principles of freedom, defined as a smaller, less intrusive government.

Mr. Inouye, the self-proclaimed King of Pork titled himself, “Number one earmarks guy in the US Congress.” And without retracting their outstretched hands, the citizens of Hawaii reelected him last November. Shameful disgrace.

But the good news is Mr. Inouye has finally caved to pressure. Sadly, not pressure from me or his other concerned constituents, but from his congressional peers.

The handwriting was on the wall. Many funded programs in Hawaii had begun preparing for the loss of the gravy train.

One such company suffering from the loss of fund is Oceanit, a company developing a traffic control system for space junk. The company says it will develop the technology anyway, just not as fast. Probably because the commercial demand is zero. I would love to here Senator Inouye’s rationale for this program.

Yes, it can be argued that every program has a benefit. An employment opportunity here or there, a lesson plan for letting kids know meth-labs are not our friends and monk seals are cute, but if we can’t cull the wants from the needs and prioritize the “crucial” from the “niceties”, we’ll never be able to address the core fiscal issues that face this county.

Let’s hope Hawaii can be a little smarted in 2012 when Senator Akaka is up for reelection.

The Lack of Technical Support from DELL

Okay, you'll never read this, so I highlighted the stupid stuff.

Now you get to Dell's tech support by putting in the your computer's service tag number. That identifies the computer and all its great operating systems. So, how did I get the wrong department is my first question.

01/30/2011 11:13:36PM Session Started with Agent (CEBg_Johan_223495)
01/30/2011 11:13:48PM Agent (CEBg_Johan_223495): "Thank you for contacting Dell Chat for Optiplex and Latitude Systems under the Corporate and Business Group. My name is Jet, how may I help you today?"
01/30/2011 11:15:24PM Agent (CEBg_Johan_223495): "Hello Valerie"
01/30/2011 11:15:28PM Agent (CEBg_Johan_223495): "Please give me two minutes to pull-up your account and update if necessary before we get started. Would that be okay with you?"
01/30/2011 11:16:08PM valerie perez: "yes"
01/30/2011 11:16:13PM Agent (CEBg_Johan_223495): "Thanks"
01/30/2011 11:19:08PM Agent (CEBg_Johan_223495): "Thank you for waiting. To verify, this is for an Inspiron 710M? I'm sorry you've been routed to the wrong department. We handle Optiplex and Latitude systems, Let me transfer you to the correct department"
01/30/2011 11:19:43PM valerie perez: "Oh, okay"
01/30/2011 11:20:15PM Session Transferred to Queue (US.SMB.TS.CORE.Inspiron)
01/30/2011 11:20:20PM Session Started with Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433)
01/30/2011 11:20:43PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Thank you for contacting Dell Small and Medium Business Hardware Support. My name is Mark. How may I help you today?"
01/30/2011 11:21:08PM valerie perez: "Hi"
01/30/2011 11:21:22PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Hello Valerie."
01/30/2011 11:21:31PM valerie perez: "I've just set up wireless router and now my computer's network connections - the wireless network connection - doesn't work. It is disabled at the moment and when I try to enable, it says connection failed. It won't even pop up a menu to let me chose which wireless connection to connect to. Therefore, the router is useless. Talked to Netgear and after some crap diagnostics, which I had already done, they sent me off to download new driver for wireless. I found them at dell support. I assumed I downloaded
and installed, but I think maybe not. There were 9 of them listed under network. And it still doesn’t work.

So my question is how do I get the wireless network connections working again? (Simple question with a simple answer)
01/30/2011 11:22:21PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Thanks for sharing me that issue."
01/30/2011 11:22:34PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Kindly please give me 2 - 3 minutes to pull out your records. Thanks!"
01/30/2011 11:22:50PM valerie perez: "You guys are so polite"
01/30/2011 11:24:27PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Thanks for waiting Valerie."
01/30/2011 11:24:38PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "I am sorry that, that issue happened to you."
01/30/2011 11:25:02PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Can you confirm the system that you would like to have support with is Inspiron 710 with Service Tag:1T8BT91 ?"
01/30/2011 11:25:18PM valerie perez: "that is correct"
01/30/2011 11:25:40PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "To give you an update, your Hardware Warranty and Technical Support contract expired last April 19, 2007."
01/30/2011 11:25:55PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Unfortunately, you will be required to purchase a one-time incident support fee of $59 for any troubleshooting assistance that you may need."
01/30/2011 11:26:06PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "However," (Wait for it...)
01/30/2011 11:26:51PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "You can also have an option to call the Expired Warranty Service."
01/30/2011 11:27:48PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Do you want to have the hotline?"
01/30/2011 11:29:17PM valerie perez: "No thanks , I have a friend who works at Apple. I'll ask him to help me first."
01/30/2011 11:29:33PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Alright. no problem then." (maybe not for you. But you hardly utilized those tech support skills.)
01/30/2011 11:29:50PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Well, you can call Expired Warranty Service for any query :)"
01/30/2011 11:29:53PM valerie perez: "Maybe I'll buy a new Apple. Hell, I'm just asking how to download a driver."
01/30/2011 11:30:31PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "I apologize for the inconvenience but your warranty has already expires that's why."
01/30/2011 11:30:43PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Would there be anything else Valerie?"

The answer to my question was to go to the Device Manager and turn the damn thing back on! Since I don't routinely go digging into my computer I couldn't remember what I needed or where it was. I just knew it was simple.

I hate Dell. I really do.

Scooter er... Motorcyle Registration

A year ago on the same day I witnessed a horrible and deadly motorcycle accident outside my condo, I bought a Honda Metropolitan scooter. The accident punctuated my nervousness on my ride home with no more instruction than how to turn it on and off and get the kick stand up and down. With a whopping 49cc engine that produces lightening fast speed of 35 mph going all out on the flat I can kill myself on it, but statistic show it is more likely someone else will kill me. Like my mother would say you can drown in a teacup of water. That never prevented me from bathing.

To assure I purchased a worthy ride, I took my new-to-me-scooter to the local Honda dealer, Kiser Motorcycles. A good once over and a couple of electrical fixes, (brake and head light bulbs) and they slapped an inspection sticker on the back. For five dollars I registered it with the state, as required for such a vehicle that is regularly passed by those training for Ironman’s bike leg.

Now with my inspection sticker about to expire, I took the scooter to the Honda dealer. There I was told I couldn’t pass inspection because I had not licensed the vehicle and carried no insurance. I leave town for six months and return to a whole new set of rules. Oddly no one can tell me exactly when it happened. The vague response has been sometime last year. (duh!) My scooter apparently grew in might and power during my absence and is now classified as a motorcycle. It doesn’t look like one. It doesn’t ride like one, but it cost like one.

In order to get insurance I had to get a motorcycle endorsement. Oh brother. Thank God I have a Hawaii driver’s license; otherwise, I would have to return to my home state to get the endorsement. After paying $9.00 for an inspection I couldn’t pass, I headed down to the DVM. It was closed because it was Friday and a scheduled furlough day. State budget cuts and all.

I returned on Monday and stood in the long line of those needing to register their cars, get new plates and transfer titles. When it was my turn I stepped forward and told the clerk I needed to get a plate for my scooter. "You mean motorcycle," she informed me. She proceeded to process the new Certificate of Registration. I had $38 in my pocket and assumed that would be a sufficient amount. After much number crunching and referral to several manuals, she said pushed her glasses up on her nose and said, "$56.86." I almost blurted out, “For a scooter?” Instead I had to embarrassingly admit I was short on funds. She let me run off to the bank and return directly to her window without waiting in line. (Okay, that was the good part.)

Next stop was Ace Hardware to get a pair of nuts and bolts to secure my $56.86 plate to the "motorcycle". $2.43. I got those that require a wrench, since me and two other guys are the only people on the island in compliance. I don’t want anyone stealing this piece of tin.

I ran around town trying to find a Motorcycle manual so I could study the rules of the road and other necessary information I needed to know to pass the written test. After I passed the test I could get a temporary learner's permit to ride a "motorcycle" I have had for a year. I went to Hawaii’s need-anything-get-it-at-Long’s drug store, but they didn’t have it. I couldn’t find it anywhere. I even went to Border’s. There a young girl gave me the web address for the manual. The URL was bigger than my "motorcycle".

I had no ink in my printer so I made a stop at Office Max to get a new cartridge. A $17.00 pop to my plastic. With manual in hand and a yellow highlighter, I went through it until I was blind with boredom. It was all about motorcycles! Shifting and swerving and braking and passengers and drinking….None of the stuff that applied to me and my "motorcycle". Nevertheless, I absorbed the information just long enough to regurgitate it for the 25 question test. I aced it, which is far more than I could say I scored when I got my Hawaii driver's license. This cost me $11.00. I was issued a temporary license good for one year. I got to say, this is my second license issued by the state and both photos are great, making me look far younger than I am.

I contacted the insurance company I use to cover my condo, but since I don’t have a car, they would not insure me. My choice was the gecko or that high-pitched voiced lady in the white apron. I went with Progressive only because I was on their website last. Either way, the choices were 100 bucks.

Now I must return to the Honda dealer to pass my inspection. Then the road test conducted behind the community pool. However, the DVM is moving to the new civic center this month so they are not scheduling any more exams until after the move.

Total unexpected damage is $198.29 and a lot of running around on the “illegal” scooter. To add to the financial woes of my transportation issues, my bike’s front wheel needed to be replaced. The spokes were breaking under the stress of rust. I also need a new pair of Tevas.