This Ain't Philly

The other day a perfect stranger yelled at me. 

My co-worker at Diamond Parking asked if I had ever watched the reality TV show on A&E called Parking Wars. Seriously? There’s a show that follows the Philadelphia parking authority people around the city as they write tickets and impound cars for parking violations. A year after I ended my recycling gig, I still think Redemption Wars would provide much mind numbing entertainment  The behind the scenes look at the nasty business of recycling – and why people bring stinky trash to the redemption center. Alas, the good things I miss in life because I don't have a TV.  I can't tune into the ½ hour show which highlights Philly’s most arrogant idiots who think they can park anywhere, anytime.  However, after I had my first irate person hunt me down to complain about his ticket, I jumped on the Internet and watched Episode 18 to see how the Philly job compares to tickets writing in paradise.

I was making my way back to my moped when a man stopped his car in the middle of the road "to discuss" why I gave him a ticket.  Granted, he was a little upset, but I honestly thought we were going to discuss it. I should have known that when a person prowls the streets looking for you they are either a Good Samaritan trying to do you a favor - like return your wallet - or they are insane.  He was insane.

I let another car pass before I could respond to why I wrote his parking ticket. I addressed him with sir and braced myself for the worst.  I kept my voice low. Figured it might diffuse the situation. Not really.  I remembered his car and knew exactly where he had parked,  a newly designated pay-in-advance parking lot. He had not paid.

“You got no business giving me a ticket. I wasn’t even in one of your spots.”  That was true. It was not parked in a number stall.  He managed to squeeze it into a space too small to number. It had been part of a handicap spot, but since that was removed the space by itself was not large enough to park a car in. For most.  I  could have written a ticket for improper parking...not in a stall.  Instead, I issued one for no advance payment.  Either way, you owe $40.00.

“You have no authority to issue tickets.” I was puzzled. I wasn't some random person wandering the Kona parking lots tagging cars. My company had been hired to manage the private lot. The owner decided to charge for the use of the space. I was hired to enforce the fees. I looked at my hand-held phone that contained the program for ticket writing. The program is awesome. With it I record all the necessary data on the car. It computes the length of time a car was parked in any "free for the first two hours" parking lot.   It takes a photo and prints it as part of the ticket along with the GPS coordinates.  No, “my car was never there” excuse. I'm sure the owner, my employer or I are not breaking any laws. 

“I’m going to the police and file a complaint. I’ll have you arrested.” You parked in a private parking lot which charges $3.00 for two hours and you arrogantly didn’t pay. I think that is theft. I'll have you arrested.

“If you don’t take this ticket back I am going to see my lawyer and sue you. And I am going to sue you for the cost of my attorney.”  I’ve been threatened by better and for far worse. Piss away your money as you will. That is your right. 

“Are you going to take this ticket back?” He shoved the ticket at me. Not flinching I said, “ No sir."

“Then I am going to the cops.”

“Okay.” Good call.

He zoomed off. I’ve been waiting for him to run over me. 

Its tough doing a job where people hate what you do. But I do make people happy too. Two Japanese girls ran up to me after I gave them a ticket. “I paid. I paid. The machine took my money.” I waited for the story. She called her friend over to corroborate it. “I put six dollars in machine. I didn’t have enough cash to pay seven. I didn’t have. The machine would not return my money. And no ticket. I could use credit card. I called the phone number on the machine.” The friend showed her phone and pointed to the called phone number.

 The story seemed plausible.  

“Please, no ticket,” she pleaded.

“Okay,” I said.  But that was too easy and they were suspicious.

“I won’t get a ticket when I get home?” Apparently, this is an embarrassing event back home. I assured them they would not. I wrote void on the ticket and showed them. She gave me her name -Alice- and her phone number so I could check their call.  I had no intentions of doing that. I placed an empty envelop on their car so I won't tag it again.

“Thank you. Thank you. We are not bad kids.” That cracked me up. They skipped away. Really, they skipped.

Yeah, Kona ain’t Philly.

Fundamental Stupidity

Remember when Barack Obama said we were “five days away from fundamentally transforming the United States of America”?  The reaction of the crowd was appalling. People cheered. Why cheer the idea of fundamentally transforming the country which provides its citizens more freedom, more opportunity – socially, economically, politically – and more liberty than any other country in the entire history of the planet?  Why would the people cheer the transformation of a government that acknowledges its citizens have certain inalienable rights that it is bound to protect?

Let’s be clear. Even the best country has its faults. Even in the best of countries people fall on hard times. Even in the land of opportunity some people can’t catch a break. Tragedy is ubiquitous to being human. There is no system in the world that has eliminated human suffering, although many socialistic and communistic regimes claim this to be their end.  I’m not saying that the United States is perfect. It too can be improved. But there is a chasm as wide as the Grand Canyon in the difference between fundamental transformation and making improvement.

To fundamentally transform something is to say, “I don’t like the way it performs, functions, or acts.”   It is to address the forming or serving essential components of a system or structure.  Painting the living room may make the room brighter or update it with the latest trendy color, but it is not a fundamental transformation until a wall or two has been knocked down, a ceiling vaulted and the 22 year old Lay-Z Boy with the nappy fabric and broken spring has been hauled to the curb.  

The fundamental components of the United States lie in the principles of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence.  To fundamentally transform America is to attack our founding principles and values: Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.  It has been these two documents that have established the systems, opportunities and freedoms that have made America great, its economic engine prosper and protected each citizen’s natural right.

Why then would you cheer the transformation of a system that protects what is naturally yours?  For no other reason than it feels good to think you are suddenly morally superior to all other who don’t want to transform America.

We have seen the vast expansion of government morph into bureaucracies that has no boundaries, no limits, no accountable to any other branch of government. These bureaucracies are law maker, executor and judge over their domains.  We’ve seen the national debt grow to unfathomable numbers that can be neither justified nor sustained. And all we want to do is continue the same course of spending on programs that cripple the ambition of the nation’s citizen. We have seen a shift in values that have moved us from liberty to emphasizing material equality.  We’ve seen the individual attacked and the state elevated.   We’ve seen the focus placed on what feels good rather than what is honestly best for the whole. And as we have watched the socialistic European model fail, we have shifted more and more to the following that same path of destruction.

Why are we headed in a fundamentally different direction than our Founding Fathers intended? To say that the cheering crowds surrounding Obama were selfish would be kind as would be to call them ignorant.  Stupid is more appropriate. We have grown dumb and dumber neglecting our responsibility to know what our government is, why it was formed the way it was and what our responsibilities and obligations in self-government are.  It’s no accident that we were given a gift like no other in the course of history. We have failed to protect our inheritance by not educating ourselves about the very creature that we are now allowing to enslave us.  

If you are still following the "fundamentally transform" mantra maybe it is time you stepped away from the Kool-Aid and hit a text book or two. 

Tomorrow

I went through my blogs and found 23 unpublished. This one was written a month after my mother passed away in August 2006. I was about to continue down the road in the RV with Phoenix and Diablo and The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin.

Tomorrow I leave home with mixed feelings. I'm not excited; yet, I'm looking forward to being alone. Road time. Time to contemplate in solitude on the events of the last month. To cry alone. Years ago, after Rusty, my mother's dog,  had been put down Mom said she had not had a good cry. She was waiting for Dad to go on a trip at the end of the month. Then she could grieve alone. I wondered how she could store away the emotion, as if it were a coat to be pulled out of a closet at the first chill. You can't tell the night air not to come because you're not ready. Can grief be pulled out when it is convenient to wrap it around your heart and soul?  I never knew if Mom had that a good cry. Dad did not go on his trip.

Now I have done the same thing. I have not burst into a long hard cry since Mom died. I  have caught myself aching for Mom’s presence, missing her dearly, feeling sad and lonely. I have been caught off guard when for no apparent rhyme or reason the emotion was triggered as if a spontaneous combustion of thoughts ignited in my heart to violently remind me that my mother died.

Oh, my eyes have shed their share of tears.  I have felt an ache fill the back of my throat and I have choked on a heart so tender that just one more thought of her would indeed break it and make it stop beating. But I have not sobbed. I have wanted to, but I want to be alone. I don't want to be consoled or have to explain why I just fell apart. I want to be at the ocean, sitting in the sand. I want to be at the place of the beginning. The place of the end. The place where something else lies beyond the horizon. Where Mom is.

Tomorrow…

If it had been any other month there were things I would have shared with Mom.  Ordinary things that nevertheless would have been of interest to her. I would have told her that the old barn on Rt9 is being relocated to Duchess County. Being restored instead of demolished. She would be delighted to know this. I would have told her that the patio and back porch on the Grey’s house is being redone. This would have pleased her too. I would have told her that I found old grape vines still growing behind the barn and Dr. Gabay’s wife offered fresh rhubarb for a pie.  She would have sent me down their way to pick enough for a pie and some for the freezer. I would have shown her the freshly minted Colorado quarter and put it in the cup on the top of the cherry cabinet where she saved every new state quarter.  But, it wasn't a month like any other. It was the first month since Mom died.

I lost my watch this month too. An $1800 Tag. It doesn’t seem to bother me too much.

The Incredible Egg

A couple of weeks ago I posted a photo of hard boiled eggs on Facebook. There wasn’t anything special about these eggs, except to boast that I can produce a hard boiled egg on par with any Food TV celeb. Yes, my great egg throw-down has been issued. However, what made me whip out my Droid and snap away was that the white eggs were sitting on my black flat stove top. The contrast made a nice shot.

Once the photo went up on Facebook I got a response from a Dorothy E Nolan elementary school classmate. She said she remembered my packed lunches and my hard boiled eggs. Yes, I toted a plaid lunch box to school everyday until Mr. Grey, on his way to work one morning, ran over the box I accidentally left at the end of his driveway. Then I carried a brown bag. Everyday Mom packed lunches for my father and my brothers and sisters. Well, unless the school served hotdogs and then Mom splurged on the wieners. I got milk money to purchase a carton of milk and when I was in elementary school it was a whopping 2 cents.

I was puzzled as to why after 50 years (gulp) my friend remembered what I ate for lunch. I remember bologna or ham sandwiches on white bread, carrot sticks, a piece of fruit (apple, orange or banana) and Mom’s homemade cookies (toll house or peanut butter). That was the norm, but I recalled the eggs too. We probably got them on sale from Stewart's: three dozen for a dollar. But why did my friend remember my eggs? She said because I got a whole egg. She got an egg salad sandwich. And she was pretty sure her portion of the egg was not a whole.

I was amazed. I thought I was impoverished because I toted a lunch to school everyday and here was this other kid envying my lunch. I suppose today we would have a bullying moment. She’d call me egg-head and I would get upset and cry and be in counseling the rest of my life. But back then, kids were kids and we kept our mouths shut unless we had something really, really mean to say and if we did we got smacked for it by the closest teacher. What I remember about my classmate was how smart she was. She knew how to spell weird. I was impressed. Weird wasn’t one of those “i”-before-“e”-except-after-“c”-and-sounding-like-“a”-in neighbor-or-weigh words. I could use all the help I could get in grade school and this kind of knowledge was a keeper.

Anyway, my youngest sister commented on the photo. She said Mom wrapped the eggs in waxed paper. I didn’t remember that. I assumed Mom must have peeled the egg for her and then wrapped it. I chided her. Why else wrap the egg in wax paper? She claimed Mom never peeled the egg.

This morning I was in my kitchen packing my lunch for work. A piece of waxed paper sat on the counter so I decided to wrap my egg, after I peeled it. As I began to wrap it, my brain was suddenly deluged with memories. I was seven or eight. I sat at the cafeteria table. I heard the rumble of all the other kids sitting around the room. I could smell goulash from the kitchen. I saw the waxed paper before me. On it were tiny bits of egg shells. I could see my friend across from me at the table. I almost cried.

 God, I love my brain.

The Test

My pool monitor job has to be the easiest way to make legal money in the world. Yeah, I have to keep myself busy so I don’t veg out in complete boredom, so occasionally I break up a Marco-Polo game in the pool, or strongly suggest that the alcoholic beverage in the spa area needs to completely disappear (I don’t mean guzzle it down and belch in my presence). For what I must do, the job is what we called in Tennessee a pie job. Everyone loves pie.

There are no commutes, no meetings, no reports, no paperwork, and no bosses to supervise my work (but I am sure that is done every morning when he opens the pool I closed). There isn’t much I can do that if not done would have dire consequences. The worst might be a high electric bill because I didn’t turn off a light, pump or heater. Costly yes, but not world crippling. As a condo owner I have some incentive to keep costs in check. This keeps my condo fees from going up. The fact that I get paid to look after my own interests seems too good to be true. I can even project that my fees pay my salary, so I get a little of that back.

The main draw back is that I don’t get a week crammed full of hours. Twenty hours a week would put me into the magic employment bonus round, for the state mandates an employer to provide health care to any employee who works more than 20 hours a week for four consecutive weeks. It hovers around 17 to 19 hours. With the shortage of pool monitors this month, I’ll get the 20, but not much more. Since I have this huge tiling project to do in one of my rental apartments I need a few bucks to cover my travels to Tennessee.

So as my employer and condo association embark on repainting the largest complex on the Island of Hawaii, I hinted that I can paint. Last night my boss told me to show up at quarter to eight the next morning. Yahoo, but after a little thought I got nervous. I’ve painted my first house back in the 80’s. I’ve painted my rental units numerous times. I’ve painted inside and outside. I’ve painted large and small projects. I’ve painted my father’s house (one major project for this summer will be to stain the siding). I’ve painted a couple historic buildings that were in rough shape. But what I have never done is paint with a crew of guys. I’ve always painted alone. That is what I love about painting. The solo work. Me and my radio.

Would my style, skill and speed be up to par? Before we got started, one guy asked if I ever painted before. When I said yes he asked, “With what company?” I laughed and told him I never worked for any company. Always individuals. He quickly ran down the process. Top to bottom and wet on wet. All to minimize ladder work. Get up and stay up until that area is done. Stupid to me, but these are the same guys who can’t go around the complex without a golf cart. I know I was being tested. To add to the pressure, they assigned me to the lanai area of the President of the Condo Board.

They gave me a ladder than was too high to clear the fan that hogged the enter ceiling. It was impossible to work around the fan. It didn’t take long for me to ask if they had a shorter ladder. They did. The ten by seven foot area is obviously not large. But with two windows, a sliding glass door, and a closet door there was plenty of trim and little siding. Nothing that gives lots of unbroken square footage. But by 11:45 I had every surfaced painted light cocoa brown with white trim. When the guys saw me standing back to look at my work they asked if I was okay. I said I was done.

Surprised they asked, “Everything?”

“Well, no. I left the two spots under the window that needed to be re-prepped. Remove the old screws, sand down the old paint ridge around the bracket and fill in the holes.” In other words, where the prep work sucked. I said nothing about all the gecko shit I painted over.

I asked about clean up, but they told me to leave my buckets and brushes. They would use them in the afternoon. I cringed. I had to scrub out my buckets this morning before I filled them with paint.

“Coming back tomorrow?”

“If I passed the test, I hope so.”

Victim Hood

In the 1980’s there was an evil man. He blew up people mailing bombs to their places of business and homes. Over seventeen years he killed three people and injured twenty-three. I would say countless family members and friends lived in fear. The FBI called him the Unabomber. His brother identified him as Ted Kaczynski. A man in a hooded sweatshirt with a zipper.

During this same period of time, I played left wing striker (soccer, baby). My attire included a sweatshirt with a hood. Yes, consider me a trend setter, along with thousands of athletes participating in sports world-wide. After one particular game, my teammates and I headed off to Wendy’s for a burger, fries and a frosty. Ah the days of wolfing down transfats with reckless abandon. In the South most fast food places are notoriously freezing. I pulled the sweatshirt on. The hood draped over my head. Before I could remove it, someone made a comment that I looked like the Unabomber. I didn’t swagger with defiant pride with this identification. I ripped the hood off my head faster than a teen can down a cheeseburger.

Thirty years later, I own at least three such hooded sweatshirts and that is what I continue to call them. One sweatshirt was given to me by a young teen back in 1992. Today it is a little worn around the cuffs and the pull string has long disappeared. A little ratty, but fully functional. It’s functionality only includes keeping me warm when riding my scooter around Kona-town on early mornings. It doesn’t function as thug apparel when I hang with my peeps.

When I do drape the hood over my head, I’m freezing. I’m not grabbing my crotch with one hand and holding my jeans up with the other in an effort to keep them from falling below my ass. Something about swaggering down the street with a gangsta attitude seems well, first, stupid and second, intimidating even if I might be a 58 year old white Hispanic (NY Times new name for me) of some economic means (pool monitor, extraordinaire).

I’m not from some big city with hard neighborhoods. I don’t watch TV and I’m not prone to viewing culturally deprived Spike Lee movies, but I am not so sheltered that I don’t know that when I see a young black male sporting a hoodie my sense of self-preservation gets raised. Call it my Juan Williams Muslim-in-the-airport-dressed-in-a-ghutra alert. When I hike in the woods and find a tree leaning over the trail I think “widow maker.” Trust me I don’t hate trees.

You can call me racist until you run out of breath and drop dead. This is not a black and white issue. It’s a cultural issue. The hoodie symbolizes nothing but a negative image for young black males, white males, and girls. I learned this 30 years ago. Why do you think a Congressman wore one in the House of Representatives? To show his solidarity with a young black? Bullshit. Too capture his moment in the spotlight.

Let’s look at the facts. The majority of all murdered people in the United States are black. And you know who killed them? 93% of black murder victims are killed by blacks. (83% of whites murders are committed by whites.) However, young black males commit violent crimes way out of proportion to their percentage of the population. It doesn’t have anything to do with skin color. It’s culture. That is a fact. The odds that I’ll get killed by a young black male are remote, yet I won’t be found hanging with the brothers. Why? The same reason why I won’t stand under leaning trees. It isn’t the smart thing to do. And wearing a hoodie…?

The President, Congressmen and Congresswomen and black activists should be outraged, but not because a Hispanic man shot a young black male. The facts should outrage them. My apologies to the families of all the young black victims murdered by their own whose deaths have been ignored by their own. That is the outrage. But hell, we can’t make a media political stink about that can we?

From My Perceptive

The first email from my brother-in-law, Darryl, written sterilely contained no alarm, no major concern, no dire urgency. He apologized for not writing sooner. Like the scientist he is, the tone was matter of fact, as if he had just concluded an experiment and summarized his observations:

After ~1.5 weeks of diarrhea, Jen was admitted to the hospital and is fighting a nasty Clostridium difficile infection. The CT scan shows massive inflammation of the large intestine. She has a mild fever and is very uncomfortable - menses is not helping - but hopefully the i.v. metronidazole will start clearing the C diff soon. She has not slept much in over a week, so her tolerance/patience is wearing thin.

[Jen] Still beautiful, just a bit frazzled.

Not being a medical person, I googled C-diff. Went straight to the Mayo Clinic’s website. Dad had had been visiting me in Hawaii and I told him what was going on and how serious a C-diff infection can be. Even fatal. We were both very concerned. We called and that day was the last of what I would call a good day for the next week and a half. It seemed like an eternity.

There is a six hour time difference between Hawaii and the East Coast. That means lots of mile and the Pacific Ocean. Leaving Hawaii is not something you do on a whim. To compound the separation my sister, Robin, who normally is just 3 hours away from our little sister was scheduled to visit Hawaii. We discussed cancelling her trip here, but realized our little sister needed rest, not visitors.

Over the next couple of days Jen’s condition didn’t worsen, but the lack of sleep, discomfort and dehydration sapped her physically and mentally. She disengaged. When Dad and I called she was too tired to talk or unwilling. Robin had made a quick visit before flying out to Hawaii and found Jen so weak she made little effort to open her eyes.

Things like this are not suppose to happen to the youngest of five siblings. Being a God-fearing Christian I prayed. I asked my friends to pray. I prayed in private, lying in bed at night talking with God about His awesome powers and unknown plans. I asked a prayer team member at church for prayers. She prayed with Dad and me for my sister’s recovery and God’s hand to be shown to the attending doctors and nurses. At that moment I knew all would be fine. Recovery, on its way.

Although the next couple of days were dark I knew God’s healing hand was on my sister. The long days and nights were taking a toll on my brother-in-law. He tended to his wife’s most personal and intimate needs. He wrote…

I know, I know. Last night I slept. I'm headed home in a few minutes. Staying here overnight is torture. Imagine how the poor girl feels – 2.5 weeks of diarrhea - 7 days in the hospital. She hasn't had a full night's rest for 2.5 weeks. The little naps are not enough - the episodes of diarrhea and cleanup can last for hours and it just wipes her out. But she cannot lay in it. It's unacceptable to me (and should be to them) and puts her at risk to get other infections. So if I'm here and they don't come right away, I'm doing it. The problem is I can't be here all the time – I need to sleep. She kept the PCA busy all night last night. There was only one PCA on the floor today – it's not enough. I've spoken with the doctors and nurse manager about it and told them that I do not want her lying in diarrhea. I was practically crying this morning, because her bottom is so raw and sore, and they want to use a face cloth to clean her. "Here let ME wipe YOUR butt with 60 grit and see how YOU feel. And you know I'm not going to use the same gentle approach on your butt that I use on mine." You ever been sandblasted? I have. Turns you into raw hamburger. It hurt so much that I can't even remember the pain from getting blasted and from the cleaning I got at the ER. You know how they treat it? They scrub it – like road burn. Maybe it's similar to how women feel when they give birth – note "maybe". Point is it's tender; treat with care. Treat as if it was the most precious thing you ever held. Right, nobody else can do that. I'm lying in that bed, not the PCA or the RN or the MD.

I thanked God for Darryl and I thanked Darryl for being there for my sister. If he flinched we never knew it. He pulled strings. He begged. He demanded. And maybe he did cry. The only thing I wanted to do was hug him. But I was 5000 miles away.

And finally, slowly, my sister responded. She spent sixteen days in the hospital. (A week and a half on the couch before being admitted.) After two cat scans, two sets of x-rays and a sygmoidoscopy, zillions of blood samples and countless IVs for fluids, antibiotics, nutrition and drugs she was well enough to be rolled out of the hospital.

All I heard was ka-ching!

Maybe this is where I make a statement about ObamaCare and health care in the United States. Except one case, good or bad, doesn’t paint an accurate picture. What appalled me was how two intelligent individuals with good jobs and excellent health insurance had to wrangle their way through a system of understaffed nursing care. If adequate medical care staff can’t be had then no system, private or public, is going to make health care affordable. If I had been in the hospital who would have rescued me from my own filth? And I know damn well my out-of-pocket expenses would be a whole lot more than $450!

The Hawaii Republican Caucus

Today was the first time Hawaii's Republicans went to the polls to determine how the spoils of the state get divvied out. At stake are 20 delegates, of which three remain at large. It was kind of a marketing ploy among the party, but without much marketing. Granted without TV or radio I have heard very little about the caucus. Nevertheless, I managed to find the where’s and the when’s. The predicted statewide turnout was to be 6000 in a state as blue as its Pacific coastline on a sunny day.

I was excited and nervous. I've never participated in a caucus before. It made me recall the very first time I voted. The year 1972. Eighteen year olds would vote in a presidential election. Okay I voted for McGovern. Just goes to show that eighteen year olds have no business voting.

This afternoon, due to logistics with my Dad and sister’s visit, I found myself at the polling place at 5pm. Polling didn’t start until 6pm. So I was first in line, first to sign in, first to cast my vote and by 6:05pm I felt I just got ripped off.

I expected an Iowa-style caucus. Instead got a high-school style vote. Check the box on a slip of paper, fold it in half and stuff in the cardboard box. What happened to the speeches made on behalf of the candidate? The first, second, third rounds of voting? People switching candidates after each vote? Counting the ballots and announcing the winner? Or do they just do this in Iowa? Or maybe they don’t and somewhere I got the wrong impression about good old citizenry.

After all these months attention on the primaries I stood before the ballot box with a slip of paper in hand. Four options and one write-in space. The final four stared back at me. I have seen no political ads, heard no robo-calls, had no fliers stuff in my door or campaign signs staked in the ground. We are having a Presidential election right? I know this is Obama’s home state. I know only 20 delegates are up for grabs. But still.

I stepped out of the school cafeteria five minutes after I went in. I had expected to be there until 8 PM. A long line snaked through the courtyard. Yes, there was a crowd. I was the first of that crowd and that did not disappoint me.

You might hear of the results tomorrow, a small footnote after Alabama and Mississippi ignored the southern boy and went sweater vest. Mitt had been predicted to take the Aloha State. My entrance poll, discussions with people standing in line waiting to vote, indicted that wasn’t going down in Kona-town.

Watercolors

Some times I can’t explain myself. Thankfully, I don’t have to explain or account for any criminal activities. Mostly, just weird stuff. Mostly, my adventures. For example, there is my trip to the base of Mount Everest. I hate cold. Why would I want to lie on the ground in a sleeping bag with a complete stranger and two hot water bottles only to wake up in the middle of the night when it is 8 degrees outside (and inside for that matter) with the urge to go to the bathroom? It is tough to satisfactorily offer an explanation. Because I wanted to see the mountain? Does that explain it?

Can I offer a rationale explanation for my desire to stand foot to paw and eye to eye with a cat so huge it would not hesitate to kill me if given the remotest chance? One day I want to see a tiger in such a way it scares the life out of me. And not get eaten.

But as I get older, my undertakings have become less hazardous. Still they are no easier to explain. So I wanted to re-learn how to watercolor. I say relearn because I once knew. In high school I took every class Mr. Izzo, the art teacher, offered. After he died one spring afternoon during school, there was Mr. McD. I can’t remember his full name. Never liked him. Another teacher couldn’t replace Mr. Izzo. Or maybe I didn’t like him because he was the only teacher who put me in detention. My crime: spraying another student with a water hose. Such a juvenile delinquent I was.

Anyway, I debated about signing up for a four day watercolor class. Besides the cost of the instruction, there was a list of supplies to purchase. Have you priced a watercolor paintbrush? Or 140 pound cold press paper? Paints? Everything is expensive. As a housepainter I know the importance of quality paint and brushes. To skimp on either will make a job tough. Same goes for artists’ materials. But all you can find on this island is crap at Ace Hardware. So I went to class with crap.

I was nervous and tried not to have expectations that soared too high. I didn’t expect masterpieces to be flow off the paper, but I did expect something more than a refrigerator painting. I once was pretty good. But watercolor wasn’t something that stuck like bicycle riding.

The class was small. All retired old ladies and one retired old guy who disappeared after the second class. Every one of the eight students knew each other. They knew the instructor. And there I was. I didn’t even know how to mix my paints without contaminating the primary colors. Nervousness turned into intimidation as we started our beach scenes. We were suppose to bring pictures. I had no pictures. The instructor showed me how to make puddles.

The instructor, Annabel Spielman, was very patient. She loved my naïve and curious questions. She explained wet on wet and wet on dry techniques and other nuances in her lovely British accent. She described elements and composition as "episodes". And she had a technique she called a “happy accident”, and if she like something it was “delicious”. My stuff was too delicious.

At the end of the first day I was very frustrated. If I hadn’t paid $200 I probably would not have gone back. My head hurt. My beach scene looked tormented. My palm tree neglected and my ocean polluted. I did have what I thought was one nice puffy white cloud hanging in the sky. The next day I woke and went to class with a head ache.

Noticing my inferior materials Annabel gave me a pallet of paints, two good brushes and a block of paper. She must have seen some talent worth investing in. She suggested I try my beach scene again. Same painting, superior materials. A better result even though I have yet to finish this painting.

The class moved on. I practiced making palm trees. On the second day we dove under the water to paint fish. I have little interest in painting fish, but then I had little interest in painting palm trees on the beach.

So why was I in this class? I hated watercolors in high school. I drifted toward acrylics. Maybe it was to reclaim the media. After the first day there seemed to be slim chance of this happening. But once upon a time I fell in love with an artist named Byron Birdsall. I was in the army stationed in Anchorage and saw his work in a local gallery. That was watercolor. On my measly army pay I purchased two of his paintings. At the time nearly two months worth of military pay. Years and years later, after one of the painting “foxed”, a moldy appearance to the paper, I contacted him. He explained that back then he was still a starving artist using cheap materials. But his paintings come with a lifetime guarantee. He redid the painting, mounted it next to the original and sent it back to me, insured for far more than I ever paid for it.

In class, I was determined to get one painting worth hanging on the refrigerator. Any time I approached something with shaky hand or too much speed I talked to God. For Your glory God, steady my hand and slow me down. Oh, to paint with the talent, technique and discipline. I have a little bit of each, but a wealth of none.

Today was the last class. I got that refrigerator painting. I sort of like it. I’ll invest in some worthy supplies because I want to paint a picture to hang on the wall over the dining room table. Something Mom would love. Except now I know that I need one huge ass piece of paper. No canvass. My brushes should last a lifetime.

The Decision

I wedged my body between the overstuffed arms of living room chair - back against one microfiber arm, legs draped over the other – and forced myself to finish A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian. It had taken too long to read. Even for me, a slow reader. I barely had started it when it was due back at the library. I renewed it. Felt compelled to explain to the librarian that it was difficult to get into. That’s what you say when a book starts slow, right? But this one didn’t. "Two years after my mother died, my father fell in love with a glamorous blond Ukrainian divorcee." That grabbed my attention. Almost six years since my mother died and my sisters and I navigate carefully around conversations involving my father’s women friends.

The reconciliation between the two sisters and their 80 year old father’s uncontested divorce absorbed my attention. The distraction needed. I didn’t want to think about a job interview I just landed. Interviews can be hard to come by, but this one wasn’t. I wasn’t sure why I applied. An exciting and glamorous job. Lots of travel. The requirements, however; life changing. But then again aren’t most careers life changing?

For the last two years I’ve sent out resumes. It hasn’t been an all out assault on the job market. I’ve been picky, looking for high level HR jobs in the manufacturing arena. The economy has made competition tough. Meanwhile, to stay one step ahead of the tax man I've picked up temporary work. This work also has helped with the plumber, the roofer and the auto mechanic, and the occasional dentist and doctor. Besides these stupid expenses who needs to work? Food, shelter and clothing - so over rated.

So surprise, surprise! An email from ADMIN regarding an Interview Invitation. The first thought was, “Spam. Where did this come from?” I almost deleted it. I forgot that three weeks ago I applied for a job as a flight attendant with Hawaiian Airlines.

The job openings made the news. Hawaiian Airlines was looking for flight attendants. Apply on line. So I checked it out. Without thinking too much about this I began to complete the application, but only after I checked to see if I could meet one important physical requirement. With a tape measure running up the wall I reached toward the ceiling as far as possible. On the tip of my toes I passed 82 inches. Barely, but successful.

Another qualification was two years of customer service experience. I explained that having my own consulting business was all about customer service. But I have never served anyone passion fruit juice.

It was one of the most time consuming applications I have completed. Every bit of time for the past ten years had to be accounted for. That included gaps in employment. Do you know how many gaps I had just last year? Four. I filled out seven time periods for 2011. I ran out of form before I could explain the past ten years. The same happened for the places I have lived. Ten years. First, I couldn't remember the addresses where I lived. Thank God Amazon retains all my previous mailing addresses. Second, again, I ran out of form.

I was sure these incomplete parts of my application would spit me out of the automated system. So I didn’t fret the details of getting to Honolulu for a couple of interviews. Nor did I worry about a six week unpaid training period in Honolulu. The logistics of lodging, transportation and relocation weren’t something I needed to solve. Then neither did I ponder living in Hawaii year round. How would I do that? Would I make enough to live in Honolulu as a flight attendant? Would I get enough hours for a car, rent, clothes? They only guaranteed 75 hours a month. And join a union? Almost against my religion. But the biggest hurdle I didn’t want to think about were my cats. How would I get them to Hawaii? Because if I permanently lived in Hawaii, Phoenix and Diablo would have to relocate. And if I got a Tahiti route, who would take care of them while I was gone?

I finished A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian. The story is a delightful mix of characters shaped by the powers of culture, time and politics. The reconciliation between sisters pulls the past to the present as they deal with the expectations of their father and his new bride. I held the finish book in my hands. A book.

I had my decision. It didn’t take deep contemplation. No wrenched soul-searching. No long reflective walks. No sleepless nights. No long discussions with friends. No t-charts with the pros on the left hand column and the cons on the right. It just happened. I realized I am just not willing to change my life that much at this time. I still dream about writing.

Honestly, I hate flying.

Job Benefits

Throughout my career I’ve had to deal with challenging individuals. I’ve handled drunks and obnoxious people who thought they owned the track because they had a two dollar winner in the third. I’ve confronted backstretch staff who thought living with horses licensed them to wander any place they wanted at any time. Damn the gate. Their logic was similar to someone with a miniaturized train set in their basement rationalizing they can beat an oncoming train. Damn the gate. I’ve wrestled juvenile delinquents to the ground when they were determined to pummel another delinquent. I’ve stood in a verbal firing line when employees got upset about overtime, schedules or policy changes. My response held in check knowing later I would have address the issue behind closed doors. I’ve had a customer thrust his nose in my face and call me stupid and with the help of God and one cool co-worker stood calmly and handled it as if nothing happened when the same customer returned. Yeah, my careers have been fun. My new career as pool monitor is not going to be any different.

Yesterday there was a birthday party of a group of four year olds at the upper pool barbeque area. I wasn’t scheduled to work, but I was asked to fill in for one of the guys. Great, a kid party. I imagined the worst. Kids running all over the place, screaming, yelling, jumping off the rocks. Being boisterous is a pool conduct no-no. How do you keep kids pumped up on birthday cake, ice cream and candy at a pool birthday party from being boisterous?

I imagined unruly four-year olds terrorizing the pool deck, annoying the residents who live in the condos that surround the upper pool. Complaints from everyone. I expected the parents to tuned out their kids' behavior as they lounged in the hot tub, traded gossip and chow downed on pupus. How was I suppose to check the four-to-one kid-to-adult ratio? How was I going to rein in the choas? I went to bed the night before and had a nightmare about the party. Unruly kids make me nervous. Heck, four year olds in general make me nervous. No motherly instincts in this being.

When I entered the pool area I ran smack into a sea of Hello Kitty pink. It was everywhere. Cupcakes stacked on three tiered pedestals. Thin plastic table cloths draped over picnic tables. Balloons tethered to the cabana dancing in the late morning breeze. A small army of adults busied themselves with adding more balloons to the decor and hanging a Disney castle piñata. I eyed a shiny blue bat and decided that most of my day would be tied up with keeping a tight check on this scene. I remembered my nightmare. Did anyone drown?

Carrying a clipboard I circled the pool, greeted the patrons and asked them for their pool passes. Made some small talk. Wrote numbers down. I waited for one young kid in his late teens to get off his phone. Then I stepped toward him.

“Pool pass?” I had pen in hand ready to record his number. I thought about the days when there was nothing more dangerous than a lieutenant with a clipboard and pen in hand. The army.

“What?”

“You got your pool pass with you?” I couldn't see his eyes behind his shades.

“Ah, I’m staying in DD.” His thumb was tossed over his shoulder. I let my eyes follow.

“Yep. Okay. Got your pool pass?”

“Um. I got to have it? It’s at the place.” He turned his head in that same direction his thumb had gone. Consistent

“Got to have your pool pass.” I persist as nonchalantly as possible. I shift my weight from one foot the the other.

“Now?”

I was tempted to say, “No tomorrow.” But I’m still the new pool monitor. I know patrons are watching. I’ve heard the comments, “there’s the woman.” I must ask. Has there ever been a woman pool monitor before? Instead I say,“Yep. Got to go get it, if you want to stay.” Realizing I wasn’t going away anytime soon, he picked his lanky body off the lounge chair and strolled off toward the gate. Never saw him again.

Once I checked everyone in I enter the period of time where I challenge myself not to go crazy. Killing five hours without playing Angry Birds. I mean killing. I could organize chairs, scoop debris out of the pool, check spa temperatures, clean the bathrooms, polish the drinking fountains, empty trashcans, clean grills, sweep the parking lot…but the truth is most days everything is in pretty good order. So I tackled the three sets of large sliding glass doors at the community center with Windex. Very slowly and paying meticulous attention to every smear, smug and streak I GIed every window in the place. Meanwhile, the children gathered. Quietly gathered.

I expected the worst. Occasionally, I reminded a boisterous tot that there was no running or jumping into the pool. Once, four adults gathered poolside to dangle feet in the pool while they chowed-down on cake and sipped on soda. I informed them that food and drink had to be kept in the barbeque area. They apologized and retreated. A few minutes later, as I was admiring yet another shiny window, Birthday Mom came over and apologized for her invited guest. "No problem", I said. Thank you.

The rest of the afternoon moved slowly toward the moment of piñata smashing. Everyone watched the shy kids take four whacks a piece at the Disney castle. As the party wrapped up I heard one guy tell his wife to fix a plate for me. Flashbacks to Micronesia and my Peace Corps experience. There everyone leaves a party carrying more food than they brought. It defies physics, but the phenomenon always proved true. Yesterday afternoon, I came home with a Hello Kitty cupcake, a bag of popcorn and four seaweed wrapped rice thingies. Local food. Job benefits.

Corporate Stalking

This is how it works.

Notice the cluster of ads running down the side of your Facebook page? Who really clicks on those? I suspect they contain malicious malware and other creepy things that can infect my computer, eat all my files and steal my identity. So I don’t click through. If I ever find something of interest, I go the slow route, open a new browser page and type in the address. This is very rare.

My Facebook ads this morning were:

Gluten free food
Upstate New York
MomThink.org
Rachel Ray lost 47 pounds
Feedback on Your Writing
Creative Writing Degrees

In some corporate office many streets removed from Madison Avenue some intern convinced some ad exec that money spent on these ads was an investment well made. Have bots ferret out key words and target the word user with ads. Brilliant. Facebook could not agree more racking a cool Billion in profit last year of which advertising comprised a full 85 percent of revenues. Look out when they drop these ads on your smart phone.

What these particular ads all have in common when posted on my homepage is that they will not generate one dime of revenue for the merchant, cause, organization or after thought that decided to pitch to me. Not even a curious “click through” will generate revenue.

They ought to give me the dollars and save themselves half the trouble. In this day and age of what I call corporate stalking, social media content is used as criteria for the ads placed in your face. It is also very easy to steer. Mention booger and sooner than you can sneeze a Kleenx ad appears. And we all can imagine what happens when you mention a few choice words you would never utter in church. Some day, like two years after the Facebook IPO, someone is going to wake up and realize they have spent a lot of money and got very little in return. Facebook stock will tank and the rest will be Enron history. Hey, I have an MBA.

Meanwhile let’s examine the fiscal flaws of this revenue stream on a micro scale.

Gluten Free
I have eaten no gluten free food since the day I ate a gluten free cookie to quell desperate hungry pains. Stranded in Kealakekua and waiting on the public transportation I needed something to eat. I had gone to a writers group meeting at an independent bookstore located next to a health food store. Nothing else was nearby so I moseyed in for some organic goat yogurt and a gluten free cookie. Imagine, small town Hawaii hippie-type village. Imagine me running around in long flowing sarong from Bali wearing a knit cap and flapping hairy arm pits. (Advertisements for shaving cream and razor blades are beginning to appear along with travel adventures companies going to the South Pacific.) You see how corporate stalking works? But this is not me. It is all so wrong. Totally throwing good money when the poor so desperately needs it.

That gluten cookie was the most God-awful thing I ever tasted since Kaopectate. (Diarrhea and church ads forthcoming.)

Upstate NY
It’s my neck of the woods and a great place to live in the summer time. I commented on a photo the Wishing Well, a fine local restaurant in Saratoga Springs had posted. They were participating in the annual Chowder Fest being held in downtown. Trust me, if I were in Upstate New York, I would totally be down with sampling chowder unless it was gluten free. The error in this ad is that I am not in Upstate NY and no ad about Upstate NY in February is going to lure me back to New York. Ever.

ThinkMom
When a friend posted this photo I wondered why someone had not created a similar one with a cat. I guess this sparked MomThink to target me as a potential…mom? I later investigated their site. I learned "strategic nuclear weapons are long range missiles that can reach a target between 3,500 to 9,000 miles away. Tactical nuclear weapons (a.k.a. nonstrategic nuclear weapons) are short range missiles with a range of 350 to 400 miles." Oh yeah, another advertising home run.

Rachel Ray
Why Rachel Ray's diet secrets targeted my Facebook page puzzles me. I have not mentioned diet, weight loss, fat… Wait, wait a minute. I did mention in a tweet that a certain cat in Chicago had a fat booty. Now let’s think. Rachel is from Upstate New York. And she lost weight. And I might be eating chowdah. So? Maybe the ad execs thought I was gaining a few extra pounds. I swear I need one of these jobs!

Writing
Okay. Now a writing advertisement I can see. Not that I have ever clicked on one. But I do have a blog. Actually I have two. I mention writing. The blogs are part of the Google Empire, but still. A mining bot is a mining bot. On Facebook I have friends who are a writers. A few more who are English majors. And from time to time writing gets mentioned. Last night one posted:

"My favorite Grammar Peeve: Lay and Lie
This is the crown jewel of all grammatical errors. “Lay” is a transitive verb. It requires a direct subject and one or more objects. Its present tense is “lay” (e.g., I lay the pencil on the table) and its past tense is “laid” (e.g., Yesterday I laid the pencil on the table). “Lie” is an intransitive verb. It needs no object. Its present tense is “lie” (e.g., The Andes mountains lie between Chile and Argentina) and its past tense is “lay” (e.g., The man lay waiting for an ambulance). The most common mistake occurs when the writer uses the past tense of the transitive “lay” (e.g., I laid on the bed) when he/she actually means the intransitive past tense of “lie" (e.g., I lay on the bed)."

My reply: "Whew. That made me tired. I need lie down. Then I'm going to look up transitive if I can remember where I laid the dictionary." Thus the creative writing classes.

Corporate stalking on social media is an expensive proposition. It is like reconstructing a crime scene and hoping the jury will buy it. I predict the case will be lost.

Just what have you posted in the last thirty six hours?

The Separation of Church and Transportation

Hang onto your boarding passes and Bibles. After 30 years of distributing prayer cards to passengers with their meals Alaska Airlines has discontinued the practice. The reason is that some people “didn’t feel religion was appropriate on the plane and preferred not to receive one.”

As a marketing ploy (who says sex is the only thing that sells) Alaska Airlines placed scriptures printed on colorful photos of wispy clouds, mist ladened mountain tops and gently flowing streams on the meal trays of their passengers. The verses included such text as “Give thanks to the Lord for He is good. His love endures forever.” Some people found this offensive. Holy Toledo! We are not talking PETA commercials here.

When airline food hardly passes for more than POW rations, these cards offered more nourishment than the tissue-thin slice of cheese with a piece of limp lettuce slapped between a jaw-tiring roll and served with three ounces of warmed Coke poured over half-melted ice cubes. Since when would you not appreciate wise and kind messages?

Yet, "after carefully considering all sides, it was agreed that eliminating the cards was the right thing to do," said Bobbie Egan, an airline spokeswoman. Implied is that placing these cards on the meal trays was the wrong, obtrusive, insulting, evangelistic thing to do. If you were insulted, made uncomfortable and preferred not to have religion mixed your transportation I must conject about your state of being. After all, it wasn’t like the flight attendants were reciting prayers and scriptures over the PA system as they pushed the beverage cart down the aisle. Nor were they setting down prayer rugs or burning incense. The prayer card was placed on the tray, for the perusal and use of the diner, similar to the evacuation card slipped in the seatback pocket for the need of those who wish to be informed in case of an emergency. Most don’t read the card preferring to deny the possibility that these vehicles do fall out of the sky. And few experienced the Miracle on the Hudson, where I can assure you a lot of praying was going on.

If you were one bothered by the prayer card you must so loathe religion that you wish to destroy it for all. Non-believers think prayer should be a private thing, unlike sexual preferences. The non-believer prefers to deny the believer of the hope, calm and peace that religion can offer. The atheist who is uncomfortable when confronted with "public" displays of faith and belief even in the most benign and subtle forms prefers to deny the believer his faith.

Why so uncomfortable? They are so bothered by something they don’t believe. If the non-believer doesn’t believe in God, why does anything to do with God bother him? God doesn’t exist. Move along with life. They can’t confront with their own atheism. I don’t believe in leprechauns, but the idea that a little bearded man dressed in a green suit sitting at the end of a rainbow with a pot of gold doesn’t scare me, offend me or consume me in such a way that I am propelled to eradicate leprechauns from the face of the earth.

Non-believers argue that they have a right not to have religious values imposed upon them. Then whose values should be imposed? Theirs? With values like “live and let live” guiding their behavior I say, "exactly", even if I prefer to have my principals and values come from a higher, more divine source. Why do those who don’t believe in God or religion oppose it with such venom? Surely, not for our benefit.

I recognize divine Providence every time I get on a plane, even as I practice two boarding superstitions. The first is, I must have something to do the next day. God won’t let me off this earth until I finish His business. The second is that I touch the outside of the plane. When I have done this the plane has never crashed. But after I take my seat, I pray. I pray for the mechanics, the pilots, the flight attendants and all the people involved in getting the plane from point A to point B without incident. I pray for the passengers. I pray for those who sent off the passengers and those who will receive them at the other end. It is pretty broad sweeping, but nothing beyond the ability of God. And if my plane goes down, I’m going to God. My belief extends to the non-believer even if he doesn’t believe.

If Alaska Airlines distributed cards that pictured war, starvation and crime and said there is no God, I would be offended. I might even decide that it was time to get off the plane. It is exactly what those who were offended by the prayer cards should have done. Taken their business elsewhere.

We are nose-diving as a society because the secular whims of the non-believer who screams separation of church and state forgetting our country was founded on Judeo-Christian values. While the founders differed in their religious beliefs and practices they recognized the important role divine Providence played in this country’s creation. Now the offended non-believer is yelling separation of church and transportation and getting away with it.

I am deeply disappointed in Alaska Airlines' choice to “do the right” thing.

Since writing this I have learned that yesterday Dubai-based airline Emirates and Alaska Airlines have launched a new frequent flier partnership that will offer travelers the opportunity to accrue Alaska Airlines Mileage Plan miles when they fly to any of Emirates' 118 destinations worldwide, including points across Africa, India and the Middle East. Maybe this was the reason to eliminate prayer cards?

Economics 101

Here’s a simple economic example. Let’s say that anyone who wants a loaf of bread is given $100 to spend on bread. All anyone has to do to get the $100 is apply and once you get it spend it only on bread.

Now let’s pretend, I am a bread maker. I now know that bread money is available. So what do I do? I might invest in bread making equipment and hire a couple of people to help me make bread. I’d pay real good money to my new staff because I know my profits on bread will be good. Why? Hang on, I’ll tell you. Meanwhile, everything sounds good.

What will happen to the bread market? Well, if you remember your basic economics law of supply and demand it says that when demand goes up, so do prices. And when supply goes up, prices come down. Economist draw nice curved lines on their charts because there is a law of diminishing return where all things in a free market balance out, sort of.

However, in my scenario is there really a free market? I say no because anyone who wants it, can get $100 for bread. Where did this $100 come from? Why the government, of course. And not out of thin air. Yes, taxes baby.

If money for bread is readily available prices will go up and so will wages in the bread industry. Bread becomes more expensive because money is available only for bread. Want bread get $100 and buy bread. Whether it is that $1.99 loaf white bread or that $8.00 organic hand made gluten free mass of tasteless brick, the prices of these breads will go up. And go up radically because people won’t hesitate to buy bread because they have $100. So as the prices increase to $40, $50 and even $100 per loaf, I the bread maker am raking in the dough. (By the way, it is also human nature to demand today and worry about that $100 bread money phenomenon later.)

Time to worry.

Let’s turn to the State of The Union address. The President would like every poor high school graduate and every child of an illegal alien who was dragged to our borders by their parents to go to college. Anyone who wants to go should. And to do so the government provides loans, grants and subsidizes institution of higher learning.

“At a time when Americans owe more in tuition debt than credit card debt”… wait for it, "this Congress needs to stop the interest rates on student loans from doubling in July.” Was this a secret? This just popped up? Smart college kids didn’t know this was going to happen? Shame on them. Remember all student loans now come from the government. Talk about bad lending practices!

“Extend the tuition tax credit we started that saves millions of middle-class families thousands of dollars. And give more young people the chance to earn their way through college by doubling the number of work-study jobs in the next five years” Sounds like bread money.

Have you ever wondered why the cost of a college education continues to rise? It’s because the government is involved in giving money out to anyone who wants to go. It’s the bread money syndrome. And it is damn similar to the government saying anyone who wants a house can get a loan. We all know what happened to the economy when that bubble burst. Now can we just imagine what will happen when the college bubble bursts? Can you say American Spring?

And the President has the audacity to say, “So let me put colleges and universities on notice: If you can’t stop tuition from going up, the funding you get from taxpayers will go down.” The President is speaking nonsense because he doesn’t have a clue as to why the cost of a college education is outrageous. It is because government funding is involved.

But he does add: “Of course, it’s not enough for us to increase student aid. We can’t just keep subsidizing skyrocketing tuition. We’ll run out of money.” DUH

End of Life Discussion

Have you had this discussion yet? It is 2012. This is the year the Mayan Calendar ends. However, I’m not sure about what day this happens. I’d look it up but the world of Wikipedia ended nearly 24 hours ago so I, like a lot of other people, are winging it today. We are presently as stupid as we were before Al Gore invented the Internet. Of course, the end was predicted twice (May 21 and then Oct 21 without as much trepidation as the first time – “The Cry Wolf Syndrome” ) in 2011 so I assume “this too will pass”, a saying that is not in the Bible. You can look that up on the Blue Letter Bible site, a website that has not blacked itself out in the SOPA (Stop Online Piracy Act) protest. They want pirates to access the Bible.

The other day I was watching Sleepless in Seattle with a friend of mine. Do you realized that movie came out 19 years ago? Meg Ryan was married to Dennis Quaid and Rosie O’Donnell hadn’t yet gone off the deep end. Life was good; life was innocent. I had a good job. There was no such thing as iAnything. Computer searches were done on data bases that had no window or graphic interfaces. This was pre-Y2K. Snail mail and in person contact were the most prevalent means of stalking. Facebook was nothing but a typo. Back then a little kid could fly alone on a plane and Amber Alerts were not issued. You could meet your arriving party at the gate and security didn’t belong to the government. You could carry to and leave a backpack at the top of the Empire State Building, after convincing an elevator guard to let you go to the observation deck when it had already closed. And from that observation deck you could see the Twin Towers standing proudly over lower Manhattan.

This brought me to wonder about the end of life and having that discussion. I don’t mean what kind of medical care would you want if you were too ill or hurt to express your wishes. Sure that is important and you should have those discussions and have supporting documents in place. But what I am talking about is the end of the way of life in America, as we currently know it. For example, what you want in end of life health care might not be what the government gives you under ObamaCare.

You just rolled your eyes. Yep, most people do. The tendency for government is to slowly chip away at the citizen’s right and just as importantly, the citizen’s responsibilities. Most of the time we talk about what government has limited. We point to the constitution to say, “See, that bill or law violates this right.” Some of us say “this God given right”, but we have allowed others to take that saying away from us because it offends people who don’t have any god. (They do, but should I lose my right to say so when they claim otherwise?)

Government also assumes the responsibility of what the citizen should be doing for himself or his neighbor. That, my friend (sounds like John McCain), makes all of us fat, dumb and lazy when we allow and expect government to tax us to pay for food stamps, housing, unemployment and other socially accepted safety nets. Add in the socially accepted “entitlement” programs (Social Security, Medicare and ObamaCare) and the burden we have yoked ourselves with is staggering.

Current and future taxpayers face an enormous burden in trying to sustain the Medicare program as it is today. If our elected officials refuse to address rapidly rising Medicare spending, then it would perforce require Americans to pay taxes at a level far exceeding anything Americans have paid before. Social Security fairs no better. Fewer and fewer workers fund today’s and future benefit distribution. Most of us think we are entitled to these funds because we paid into it. The truth is if you were to receive all you paid in the benefit it would last you about 2.5 years! So get over it. You are entitled to nothing when nothing exists.

And this is why we should engage in end of life discussions. Because it is coming to an end. Look at Sleepless in Seattle. Would you ever imagine someone saying to you in 1993, “You know those Twin Towers? They will be knocked down by two airplanes in eight years. Gone.”

I’m saying, “You know those entitlement programs? Won’t be there if we don’t buck up.”

When I was a kid my older brother had a replica of the Mayan Calendar. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. I remember studying the figures wondering what they said. The Mayan’s were not predicting the end in 2012. It was just that they couldn’t see any farther into the future. Short-sightedness? Naivety? I don’t know. Wikipedia is still down. You’ll have to look it up tomorrow.

But my sister is buying a farm (not buying the farm). She plans on chopping down trees and burning wood, killing chicken, raising trout and having lots and lots of guns. I’m just saying I think she is having that end of life discussion.

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.