Last year we had a Christmas tree in the house, after several years of not. Actually, some of those several years we had alternatrees that did not suit the needs of three children. Sure, they want to be all grown up and have driver licenses and are practically ready to move out on their own if you asked them, but send around the holidays and they clam up their cries for independence and want instead presents and trees and stockings-full.
One year our untree was made from backyard scraps. I had some extra PVC pipe from a sprinkler project and I decided to build our own Christmas tree. It was more or less a pipe pyramid, with holes drilled along the tubes to hang ornaments. Lights were strung across and around, and it lit up just like any other Christmas trees. The kids demanded that it never come back.
Then there was the year we inherited a twelve-inch potted tree. We placed it on one of the stereo speakers and hung all the ornaments it could hold: about three. It was a legitimate Christmas tree, but would be better served in the land of midgets. The kids said they should be able to gather around our Christmas tree and look up in wonder. Not down.
I think it ended up in the trash.
There have even been a couple of years with no tree at all, real or alternate. Blame my frugality, or the misguided notion that it is cruel and unusual punishment to the tree. When you stop having a tree, the pattern ingrains. Last year’s tree almost broke the trend, but it was a fake tree we inherited from a friend. It had built in lights, went together fairly easily, and looked great. But the damned thing weighed a ton! Where was I going to keep it the other forty-eight weeks of the year?
So I found a great place to store it: the Salvation Army. Now it is in the way at someone else’s house.
This year there was again a debate about getting a tree. I was told that Kate was going away to college next year, that the house would smell great, that darn it the kids just wanted one! The kids, the kids, it’s all about the kids! It also ended up being all about the fact that it was four to one in favor of getting a tree. I was the lone dissenting opinion.
What a surprise. I lost.
We were thinking of going up in the hills to cut one down as we had in earlier years when the kids were much smaller (and when a Christmas tree made more sense, but I have to whisper this or I’ll get in trouble all over again with the family). I had done the same with my family when I was a kid. Christmas tree farms are plentiful in the mountains surrounding the Bay Area: all you have to do is drive along their pitted, alignment-jarring roads, grab a long-handled saw, and murder the tree of your choice. It is a lovely holiday tradition.
For those clamoring for a tree, all I asked was that it be a family trip, so that we could spend time together crammed into the car, whining about whose foot was in who’s space and can’t you just scoot over a little bit? You all want a tree? FINE! Get in the car and be quiet!
I don’t know what I was thinking. Why would I torture myself that way?
Instead we opted for a lovely specimen retrieved from the jolly holiday Home Depot parking lot. It worked out perfectly because Kelsey was practicing her driving skills in anticipation of her upcoming test and Kristin was in the car with her. Kristin was the real ringleader in the coup to get a tree, so I said, “Go, get a tree, have fun!”
They were driving down the road and saw the sign for cheap trees, and without causing an accident Kelsey made a legal left turn and parked mostly straight. Now the tree is in the house, and even I can admit it looks splendid. I had to do very little, nothing more than hold it straight while the kids screwed the clamps directly into its soft pulp.
Say, was that the sound of a tree screaming? Oh well, who cares, there’s is a nice pine aroma in the living room, glittering lights and shiny ornaments are festive and pretty, who cares if the decorated thing is dying. We can mask its pain with another decorative strand of tinsel. We can drown out its cries for help by singing the Christmas carols a little louder.
“O CHRISTMAS TREE, O CHRISTMAS TREE . . .” they yelled.
“Hey, maybe we should pick a different song,” I said.
Pine needles are strewn from one end of the house to the other, compliments of the dog, and we are on constant fire alert. “Did you water the tree?” “Who watered the tree?” “Does the tree have water?” I figure if the tree goes up in flames we can just borrow some chestnuts from whichever nutty neighbor would have some, and we can roast, roast, roast away!
Open fire, indeed.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Tissue
There are some awfully confusing signs during the teenaged years of the common American. Are you getting the sign to give a kiss at the end of the date, or are you getting the brush off? Do your friends like you because you are strong, or funny, or because you have the keys to your dad’s liquor cabinet?
In my house we debate whether having your house toilet papered is a sign of respect or the very opposite of respect. Otherwise known as disrespect. When I was a kid it was a sign of popularity. No one would spend the time and money festooning someone else’s front yard with strands of toilet tissue unless they liked the victim.
Kristin recalls that it was more of an insult, as in “normally I’d use this to wipe my backside, but tonight I’d rather scatter it willy-nilly amongst your foliage.” Though I doubt such hooligans actually used the word “foliage.” And since Kristin hearkens from very near the hill country of North Carolina, the youth there could be forgiven their ignorance of whether respect is good or the opposite of respect is good. They were probably too busy hunting for ingredients for that evening’s road-kill chili to attend school.
Our house was egged a year ago (yes, I am pretty sure an egg bombardment is not meant as a compliment) but we had thus far been able to escape the toilet papering. Until this summer.
I was going to bed one evening when one daughter or the other received an alarming call on her cellular telephone. A friend of hers had noted something odd going on around our property as he drove by, so he called to report it. (Why didn’t he just stop and intercede? I dunno. I asked the same question, and got no answer.)
There is, of course, no logical reason that he should be driving right there, right then, but such is the logic of teenagers. It was all just a big cowinky-dink, they both said, and they swear so to this very day.
I was much more interested in going to bed, but I decided to check the perimeter of the house, just to make sure we were all safe and sound. The friend had no details other than “shadowy figures.” The dog hadn’t gone crazy, as she does when she smells or hears or psychically intuits ne’er-do-wells on the premises, so I expected to find nothing before heading quickly to my slumber.
On the front porch I immediately identified strands of flowing white tissue draped across the yard and could tell that we had been papered. No worries, I thought, it’s a compliment. It only happens to popular people. I thought about which one of my friends might have done it.
Then I realized I wasn’t seventeen anymore. It had nothing to do with me. Someone who knows one or more of my children had pilfered the rolls from their own house and proceeded to decorate mine. In honor of one of the three youngest Baxters. For a moment I was proud.
Then I went to clean it up, and I saw what a terrible job they had done. It was really embarrassing, how poor their efforts were.
It’s true that we didn’t really give much for the offending morons to work with. The front tree was replaced a few years ago with a lovely maple Autumn Blaze that still doesn’t stand tall enough to serve such a thrashing. The only other front yard tree, at the end of the driveway, was chainsawed to a height of three feet just last year.
That doesn’t leave much, does it? The large oleander took the brunt of the damage, but it was cleaned up in about thirty seconds. Some was scattered over small bushes but it was really a pathetic effort. There were two benches they could have covered, and the basketball hoop was completely ignored. Bad, really bad, boys and girls. Next time, try a little harder, eh?
When the neighbors woke the next morning there was really nothing different about the Baxter property. The yard was still yellow and weedy like it had been one day earlier. I missed one two-foot strip at the top of the oleander but that was gone as soon as I saw it in the light of day.
As the so-called victim of this crime, let me simply say that it was much easier to clean up than the egging of twelve months or so ago. Thank you, boys and girls, for using a paper product rather than a protein-based food. I really appreciate it. But it doesn’t make up for the poor quality of your work.
In the final analysis, because I was outside shortly after the aerial assault ended, I gained four rolls of only partially used toilet paper that the youthful hooligans were nice enough to leave on my front lawn. They couldn’t even be bothered to use up their supplies. No one else in the house had any interest in using the free toilet paper, but I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Seriously, the unrolled parts weren’t wet at all! Or dirty!
Everything worked out in the end, except I wonder if the lackadaisical manner in which the hoodlums approached this “job” is indicative of their future performance for the employer foolish enough to hire them.
In my house we debate whether having your house toilet papered is a sign of respect or the very opposite of respect. Otherwise known as disrespect. When I was a kid it was a sign of popularity. No one would spend the time and money festooning someone else’s front yard with strands of toilet tissue unless they liked the victim.
Kristin recalls that it was more of an insult, as in “normally I’d use this to wipe my backside, but tonight I’d rather scatter it willy-nilly amongst your foliage.” Though I doubt such hooligans actually used the word “foliage.” And since Kristin hearkens from very near the hill country of North Carolina, the youth there could be forgiven their ignorance of whether respect is good or the opposite of respect is good. They were probably too busy hunting for ingredients for that evening’s road-kill chili to attend school.
Our house was egged a year ago (yes, I am pretty sure an egg bombardment is not meant as a compliment) but we had thus far been able to escape the toilet papering. Until this summer.
I was going to bed one evening when one daughter or the other received an alarming call on her cellular telephone. A friend of hers had noted something odd going on around our property as he drove by, so he called to report it. (Why didn’t he just stop and intercede? I dunno. I asked the same question, and got no answer.)
There is, of course, no logical reason that he should be driving right there, right then, but such is the logic of teenagers. It was all just a big cowinky-dink, they both said, and they swear so to this very day.
I was much more interested in going to bed, but I decided to check the perimeter of the house, just to make sure we were all safe and sound. The friend had no details other than “shadowy figures.” The dog hadn’t gone crazy, as she does when she smells or hears or psychically intuits ne’er-do-wells on the premises, so I expected to find nothing before heading quickly to my slumber.
On the front porch I immediately identified strands of flowing white tissue draped across the yard and could tell that we had been papered. No worries, I thought, it’s a compliment. It only happens to popular people. I thought about which one of my friends might have done it.
Then I realized I wasn’t seventeen anymore. It had nothing to do with me. Someone who knows one or more of my children had pilfered the rolls from their own house and proceeded to decorate mine. In honor of one of the three youngest Baxters. For a moment I was proud.
Then I went to clean it up, and I saw what a terrible job they had done. It was really embarrassing, how poor their efforts were.
It’s true that we didn’t really give much for the offending morons to work with. The front tree was replaced a few years ago with a lovely maple Autumn Blaze that still doesn’t stand tall enough to serve such a thrashing. The only other front yard tree, at the end of the driveway, was chainsawed to a height of three feet just last year.
That doesn’t leave much, does it? The large oleander took the brunt of the damage, but it was cleaned up in about thirty seconds. Some was scattered over small bushes but it was really a pathetic effort. There were two benches they could have covered, and the basketball hoop was completely ignored. Bad, really bad, boys and girls. Next time, try a little harder, eh?
When the neighbors woke the next morning there was really nothing different about the Baxter property. The yard was still yellow and weedy like it had been one day earlier. I missed one two-foot strip at the top of the oleander but that was gone as soon as I saw it in the light of day.
As the so-called victim of this crime, let me simply say that it was much easier to clean up than the egging of twelve months or so ago. Thank you, boys and girls, for using a paper product rather than a protein-based food. I really appreciate it. But it doesn’t make up for the poor quality of your work.
In the final analysis, because I was outside shortly after the aerial assault ended, I gained four rolls of only partially used toilet paper that the youthful hooligans were nice enough to leave on my front lawn. They couldn’t even be bothered to use up their supplies. No one else in the house had any interest in using the free toilet paper, but I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Seriously, the unrolled parts weren’t wet at all! Or dirty!
Everything worked out in the end, except I wonder if the lackadaisical manner in which the hoodlums approached this “job” is indicative of their future performance for the employer foolish enough to hire them.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Host
Let me preface this wordy bit of self-denigration by insisting that I am not utterly devoid of basic social skills—I just keep them well hidden. I don’t engage in friendly banter, I ignore the proper utensil order when setting the table (but hey, I am setting the table for goodness sake!), and I couldn't care less if I’m caught wearing pink after Labor Day. Or whichever color is verboten.
Kristin doesn’t have these problems. She is not obsessed with the formality of proper behavior, but she can toe the line and behave in an appropriately grown-up manner when necessary. This might stem from the fact that she was nearly a debutante during her upbringing in North Carolina. She escaped, however, to California and saved herself that ignominy.
Whenever visitors descend on our house, therefore, Kristin is the designated host. She can greet with a smile (I do not) and effortlessly relieve the intruders, I mean guests, of their burdensome purses and jackets (I will not). Kristin can also provide a refreshing beverage without even asking what they’d like—she’s that good.
I’ll point out the kitchen faucet and assume the guests can find the nearby drinking glasses. That is, if I have even bothered to look up from whatever I am reading on the couch. It’s not so much disinterest as it is a lack of interest.
The most recent social event at our house was comprised of thirty teenaged girls, blowing in from the nearby high school for a pre-game pasta dinner and taking over my house in a loud and teenaged fashion.
It was “pre-game” by about twenty-four hours. The field hockey game was the next day, but the girls often gather one day prior for a team-building meal. This started out several years ago as pasta dinners—probably because it was cost effective—but have morphed into whatever the host-daughter can convince her parents to provide.
Kelsey (defender and occasional goalie) wanted me to barbecue burgers this time. It had everything: the party atmosphere of grilled meat; not the regular boring food; and me cooking in the backyard (in other words, out of the house). The latter was important to help make the evening more enjoyable for everyone.
This was no assembly line, “you’ll get it like I like it,” meal. I have served those to my own children for the better part of two decades. Doing that in this instance would have resulted in thirty-plus burgers with mustard and onion and nothing else, and plenty of disgruntled girls with strong arms and long sticks ready to do me damage if I didn’t become a little more flexible.
Kelsey made sure I had a couple of vegetarian patties available, and even a few hot dogs. There were condiments galore, cheese if you please, and various vegetables (lettuce, tomato, onion) that I knew would go mostly unused.
Never fear: they would be Kelsey’s dinner salad the next night.
The grilling started off reasonably well before the players arrived, and while it never really went out of control, it most definitely toyed with the idea for a while. I cooked more meat than this at any given dinner service back when I worked at Burger Pit, but I was dealing with a much smaller work area in the backyard, and possibly more flammable food.
Apparently thirty individual hamburger patties, each comprised of roughly 83% real meat, drop a tremendous amount of melting fat on the flames beneath. This only angered the flames, which rose high to melt even more fat and perhaps even remove my eyebrows if I was standing too close. At one point I was disoriented by the smoke, and the flames reached out to grab my best spatula. I rescued it in the nick of time.
Despite the fact that I had been banished to the backyard to be away from the crowd, the party slowly moved toward me. The girls were sitting on the ground and chatting over snacks, though I know some were watching me trying to beat back the inferno. They were probably worried about their meal, and quite possibly I had become the evening’s entertainment.
In the final analysis, the only charred meat was served on my own dinner plate, and the guests were all satisfied. When the gas was finally shut off, I was left on my own. Kristin took care of whatever else came up, with assistance from Kelsey. Like a flock of birds, the team departed in a mad rush, just as they had arrived.
They were all appreciative and called out “Thanks!” on the way through the front door. I waved and left them alone, because I didn’t belong at the center of the evening’s festivities. I belonged behind the scenes, especially as this was rather a rather large party. Quick, but large. My hosting skills have atrophied, although I can imagine this possibility:
“Baxter, party of one?” Now that’s a party I could host.
Kristin doesn’t have these problems. She is not obsessed with the formality of proper behavior, but she can toe the line and behave in an appropriately grown-up manner when necessary. This might stem from the fact that she was nearly a debutante during her upbringing in North Carolina. She escaped, however, to California and saved herself that ignominy.
Whenever visitors descend on our house, therefore, Kristin is the designated host. She can greet with a smile (I do not) and effortlessly relieve the intruders, I mean guests, of their burdensome purses and jackets (I will not). Kristin can also provide a refreshing beverage without even asking what they’d like—she’s that good.
I’ll point out the kitchen faucet and assume the guests can find the nearby drinking glasses. That is, if I have even bothered to look up from whatever I am reading on the couch. It’s not so much disinterest as it is a lack of interest.
The most recent social event at our house was comprised of thirty teenaged girls, blowing in from the nearby high school for a pre-game pasta dinner and taking over my house in a loud and teenaged fashion.
It was “pre-game” by about twenty-four hours. The field hockey game was the next day, but the girls often gather one day prior for a team-building meal. This started out several years ago as pasta dinners—probably because it was cost effective—but have morphed into whatever the host-daughter can convince her parents to provide.
Kelsey (defender and occasional goalie) wanted me to barbecue burgers this time. It had everything: the party atmosphere of grilled meat; not the regular boring food; and me cooking in the backyard (in other words, out of the house). The latter was important to help make the evening more enjoyable for everyone.
This was no assembly line, “you’ll get it like I like it,” meal. I have served those to my own children for the better part of two decades. Doing that in this instance would have resulted in thirty-plus burgers with mustard and onion and nothing else, and plenty of disgruntled girls with strong arms and long sticks ready to do me damage if I didn’t become a little more flexible.
Kelsey made sure I had a couple of vegetarian patties available, and even a few hot dogs. There were condiments galore, cheese if you please, and various vegetables (lettuce, tomato, onion) that I knew would go mostly unused.
Never fear: they would be Kelsey’s dinner salad the next night.
The grilling started off reasonably well before the players arrived, and while it never really went out of control, it most definitely toyed with the idea for a while. I cooked more meat than this at any given dinner service back when I worked at Burger Pit, but I was dealing with a much smaller work area in the backyard, and possibly more flammable food.
Apparently thirty individual hamburger patties, each comprised of roughly 83% real meat, drop a tremendous amount of melting fat on the flames beneath. This only angered the flames, which rose high to melt even more fat and perhaps even remove my eyebrows if I was standing too close. At one point I was disoriented by the smoke, and the flames reached out to grab my best spatula. I rescued it in the nick of time.
Despite the fact that I had been banished to the backyard to be away from the crowd, the party slowly moved toward me. The girls were sitting on the ground and chatting over snacks, though I know some were watching me trying to beat back the inferno. They were probably worried about their meal, and quite possibly I had become the evening’s entertainment.
In the final analysis, the only charred meat was served on my own dinner plate, and the guests were all satisfied. When the gas was finally shut off, I was left on my own. Kristin took care of whatever else came up, with assistance from Kelsey. Like a flock of birds, the team departed in a mad rush, just as they had arrived.
They were all appreciative and called out “Thanks!” on the way through the front door. I waved and left them alone, because I didn’t belong at the center of the evening’s festivities. I belonged behind the scenes, especially as this was rather a rather large party. Quick, but large. My hosting skills have atrophied, although I can imagine this possibility:
“Baxter, party of one?” Now that’s a party I could host.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Friday
A horde descended on places of commerce recently, and though it wasn’t a plague of locusts or an invasion of zombies, it was no less destructive. Those who survived congratulated themselves on surviving, and also for finding seventy percent off deals that would be the envy of their friends (unless those friends got seventy-five percent off elsewhere).
In the wake of the event were store shelves torn from their moorings, disheveled stacks of slacks and sweaters, minor flesh wounds such as dislocated digits caused by tug-‘o-wars for electronic gizmos, and an abundance of lessons for the younger citizens on how not to behave. Watch the news tonight, kids, maybe you’ll see mama fighting for your Christmas gifts. I loooooove this time of year!
Welcome to the world of competitive shopping.
The term Black Friday has multiple origins, but nowadays it refers primarily to the kickoff to the Christmas shopping season. Stores used to mail print ads to bring shoppers out the day after Thanksgiving, and everything was going along normally, even in the midst of the capitalist machine.
Then, it went nuts. Stores started offering bigger discounts and nuttier hours. It wasn’t only a competition for those spending money they didn’t have, it became a rivalry between Toys R Dust and Best Byze. If one opened their doors at six a.m., another tried five. Four o’clock in the morning wasn’t unheard of, and was only surpassed by those willing to welcome customers at midnight before the turkey dinner was even digested.
Experts say this doesn’t increase sales, but it certainly makes for excitement. It shouldn’t be newsworthy, and yet there are the reporters and the cameras and, sadly, the coroners. On Black Friday ‘08, one unfortunate fellow was trampled in New York by a mob trying to enter a store where he was working, and two idiots shot themselves to death in California outside a store after fighting inside.
Okay, argue with me that the California lunacy wasn’t directly related to Black Friday, but hey, they were out in the crowded store, where stress was on sale right next to Disney Monopoly and cable knit sweaters. It could not have helped their mood. And you know, they might have been fighting over Transformer action figures. So there you go.
I deplore the mass hysteria and blame everyone involved, from the stores ill-equipped to deal with large crowds to the individuals who, together, become the large crowds, but I realize that the mass of people out shopping last Friday did so without calamity. Parking was difficult, lines were long, and frustration was likely simmering, but most shoppers probably expected it and dealt with it in an appropriate manner.
My son was out at midnight, with a friend who had money to spend. Kyle was low on funds, so he was just along for the ride. When he got home in the morning, he went to bed. Everything worked out. I stayed at home all day, didn’t spend a dime on anything, and everything worked out for me as well.
So next year, let the eager beavers rush out and spend their time and money as they see fit. Let the stores open early if they can find employees willing to work. And let us all keep our heads. Black Friday will always come to an end, and the TV economists will debate if it was a strong indicator for the retail sector, and I will still stay at home.
I have found a different event to celebrate for Turkey Day Friday, and that is called Buy Nothing Day. Proponents don’t advocate the end of the consumption-based economy, but they do say, “Hey, give yourself a break, don’t spend anything today and see how you feel!” To some degree it makes sense, because you do get to avoid a certain amount of the madness.
But my brother has a point when he says that folks on either side of the spectrum—to buy nothing or to buy everything in sight—are bombastic when they complain about their opposites. It is possible to be unpleasantly dogmatic about your position, and to skip over that whole “live and let live” philosophy. Which is odd in this supposed festive time of year.
To mock the housebound when standing in the checkout line, or to rant at the TV images of Black Friday shoppers from the comfort of your own home, is the same unpleasantness.
Either way, you destroy your soul in the process.
In the wake of the event were store shelves torn from their moorings, disheveled stacks of slacks and sweaters, minor flesh wounds such as dislocated digits caused by tug-‘o-wars for electronic gizmos, and an abundance of lessons for the younger citizens on how not to behave. Watch the news tonight, kids, maybe you’ll see mama fighting for your Christmas gifts. I loooooove this time of year!
Welcome to the world of competitive shopping.
The term Black Friday has multiple origins, but nowadays it refers primarily to the kickoff to the Christmas shopping season. Stores used to mail print ads to bring shoppers out the day after Thanksgiving, and everything was going along normally, even in the midst of the capitalist machine.
Then, it went nuts. Stores started offering bigger discounts and nuttier hours. It wasn’t only a competition for those spending money they didn’t have, it became a rivalry between Toys R Dust and Best Byze. If one opened their doors at six a.m., another tried five. Four o’clock in the morning wasn’t unheard of, and was only surpassed by those willing to welcome customers at midnight before the turkey dinner was even digested.
Experts say this doesn’t increase sales, but it certainly makes for excitement. It shouldn’t be newsworthy, and yet there are the reporters and the cameras and, sadly, the coroners. On Black Friday ‘08, one unfortunate fellow was trampled in New York by a mob trying to enter a store where he was working, and two idiots shot themselves to death in California outside a store after fighting inside.
Okay, argue with me that the California lunacy wasn’t directly related to Black Friday, but hey, they were out in the crowded store, where stress was on sale right next to Disney Monopoly and cable knit sweaters. It could not have helped their mood. And you know, they might have been fighting over Transformer action figures. So there you go.
I deplore the mass hysteria and blame everyone involved, from the stores ill-equipped to deal with large crowds to the individuals who, together, become the large crowds, but I realize that the mass of people out shopping last Friday did so without calamity. Parking was difficult, lines were long, and frustration was likely simmering, but most shoppers probably expected it and dealt with it in an appropriate manner.
My son was out at midnight, with a friend who had money to spend. Kyle was low on funds, so he was just along for the ride. When he got home in the morning, he went to bed. Everything worked out. I stayed at home all day, didn’t spend a dime on anything, and everything worked out for me as well.
So next year, let the eager beavers rush out and spend their time and money as they see fit. Let the stores open early if they can find employees willing to work. And let us all keep our heads. Black Friday will always come to an end, and the TV economists will debate if it was a strong indicator for the retail sector, and I will still stay at home.
I have found a different event to celebrate for Turkey Day Friday, and that is called Buy Nothing Day. Proponents don’t advocate the end of the consumption-based economy, but they do say, “Hey, give yourself a break, don’t spend anything today and see how you feel!” To some degree it makes sense, because you do get to avoid a certain amount of the madness.
But my brother has a point when he says that folks on either side of the spectrum—to buy nothing or to buy everything in sight—are bombastic when they complain about their opposites. It is possible to be unpleasantly dogmatic about your position, and to skip over that whole “live and let live” philosophy. Which is odd in this supposed festive time of year.
To mock the housebound when standing in the checkout line, or to rant at the TV images of Black Friday shoppers from the comfort of your own home, is the same unpleasantness.
Either way, you destroy your soul in the process.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Line
I used to be one of those people who jockeys for the “best” checkout line at the grocery store. I would approach stealthily, counting the heads I could see above the candy racks, but checking for short customers as well. It’s often the short ones that get you to commit to an aisle before you see them.
If the conveyor belt had a lot of little items on it, that would be a bad aisle. Loaded with larger items (24-pack toilet tissue, large bags of dog food, or, my personal favorite, cases of beer) I knew that the clerk would be able to move it along quickly. It was amazing how much time I would spend analyzing such a small part of my daily existence.
Now I’m a little more relaxed. I don’t purposely aim for the aisle with the doddering or chatty clerk who will slow everything down, or the customer who doesn't begin rummaging through his or her purse or pocket for the debit card until after the grand total is announced . . . I’m not a masochist.
But I pick an aisle and go with the flow. No switching to what appears to be greener pastures once I’ve committed. If things slow down I’ll just read the covers of the silly newspapers and magazines in the racks. Or I’ll wonder how they can charge a buck ninety-nine for my beloved Reese’s peanut butter cup two-pack.
I was subbing in a kindergarten class recently that reminded me of the grocery line competition that we all go through. Really. Bear with me for a moment. As we approached the cafeteria at lunchtime we found a conundrum worthy of the most impacted register at the local Safeway (or Raley’s, or Whole Foods, or the regional food store of your choice). The line was long and it wasn’t moving. There were no options in this, the only, hot lunch line. Trying to move around a slower moving class would have just been rude.
It was the first day of a new ID card system, where the students were expected to walk up to a large display and promptly find their card amongst hundreds. Fact 1: the cards were not grouped logically by class. Fact 2: the font used for the students’ names was tiny. Fact 3: these were five-year-olds I was trying to help. Fact 4: I was the last of four kindergarten classes to get in the line.
Final outcome, half our lunch period was spent waiting in line. Just like when I show up at the store at 5 p.m. to buy a carton of milk and some apples (okay, a six-pack of beer and a box of Bagel Bites) and everyone else has a cart full of a week’s worth of groceries.
On the positive side, by the time we got to the board many of the cards were already taken, so it was a little quicker for us. Still, the pupils were quite antsy. I wondered briefly if these small citizens would be the ones to grow up and bollix up the lines at my neighborhood grocery. We may have been teaching math and reading in class that day, but we certainly weren’t educating them on effective line management skills.
That sub assignment was exasperating, at least during lunch. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I did a four-day stint in 7th and 8th grade P.E. Those kids don’t even know the meaning of the word line. We tried to line up to take attendance but they hovered around like drunken bees. Every time I got eight or ten to stand still, eight or ten others would flit about with their friends.
“Line up!” I’d yell again. Some smart aleck would point out that they are each supposed to stand on one of forty numbers that were laid out in a five by eight grid on the black top. “Fine,” I’d say. “Number up!”
“Number up?” several muttered. Others were tiring and began sitting on their numbers.
“Stand up!” Complaints came from every corner, except for those pupils who had already wandered off. I’d lost control. Line up, number up, stand up, none of it was working, so I went with my standard response. The one that indicates I have lost all control.
“Shut up!”
They hadn’t lined, numbered, or stood, so of course they didn’t shut either. Finally, I did what any self-respecting substitute teacher would do: I handed the roster to a future Employee of the Month grocery store clerk and asked her to mark down anyone she couldn’t see.
She would learn some valuable inventory skills, and the knuckleheads would get some practice lining up for detention.
If the conveyor belt had a lot of little items on it, that would be a bad aisle. Loaded with larger items (24-pack toilet tissue, large bags of dog food, or, my personal favorite, cases of beer) I knew that the clerk would be able to move it along quickly. It was amazing how much time I would spend analyzing such a small part of my daily existence.
Now I’m a little more relaxed. I don’t purposely aim for the aisle with the doddering or chatty clerk who will slow everything down, or the customer who doesn't begin rummaging through his or her purse or pocket for the debit card until after the grand total is announced . . . I’m not a masochist.
But I pick an aisle and go with the flow. No switching to what appears to be greener pastures once I’ve committed. If things slow down I’ll just read the covers of the silly newspapers and magazines in the racks. Or I’ll wonder how they can charge a buck ninety-nine for my beloved Reese’s peanut butter cup two-pack.
I was subbing in a kindergarten class recently that reminded me of the grocery line competition that we all go through. Really. Bear with me for a moment. As we approached the cafeteria at lunchtime we found a conundrum worthy of the most impacted register at the local Safeway (or Raley’s, or Whole Foods, or the regional food store of your choice). The line was long and it wasn’t moving. There were no options in this, the only, hot lunch line. Trying to move around a slower moving class would have just been rude.
It was the first day of a new ID card system, where the students were expected to walk up to a large display and promptly find their card amongst hundreds. Fact 1: the cards were not grouped logically by class. Fact 2: the font used for the students’ names was tiny. Fact 3: these were five-year-olds I was trying to help. Fact 4: I was the last of four kindergarten classes to get in the line.
Final outcome, half our lunch period was spent waiting in line. Just like when I show up at the store at 5 p.m. to buy a carton of milk and some apples (okay, a six-pack of beer and a box of Bagel Bites) and everyone else has a cart full of a week’s worth of groceries.
On the positive side, by the time we got to the board many of the cards were already taken, so it was a little quicker for us. Still, the pupils were quite antsy. I wondered briefly if these small citizens would be the ones to grow up and bollix up the lines at my neighborhood grocery. We may have been teaching math and reading in class that day, but we certainly weren’t educating them on effective line management skills.
That sub assignment was exasperating, at least during lunch. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I did a four-day stint in 7th and 8th grade P.E. Those kids don’t even know the meaning of the word line. We tried to line up to take attendance but they hovered around like drunken bees. Every time I got eight or ten to stand still, eight or ten others would flit about with their friends.
“Line up!” I’d yell again. Some smart aleck would point out that they are each supposed to stand on one of forty numbers that were laid out in a five by eight grid on the black top. “Fine,” I’d say. “Number up!”
“Number up?” several muttered. Others were tiring and began sitting on their numbers.
“Stand up!” Complaints came from every corner, except for those pupils who had already wandered off. I’d lost control. Line up, number up, stand up, none of it was working, so I went with my standard response. The one that indicates I have lost all control.
“Shut up!”
They hadn’t lined, numbered, or stood, so of course they didn’t shut either. Finally, I did what any self-respecting substitute teacher would do: I handed the roster to a future Employee of the Month grocery store clerk and asked her to mark down anyone she couldn’t see.
She would learn some valuable inventory skills, and the knuckleheads would get some practice lining up for detention.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Mustache
I have finally discovered what has led to the good fortune showered upon me during my lifetime. Years ago I thought it was marrying Kristin, a smart, hardworking girl who had great potential from salary and childbearing perspectives. Later it was working for Automatic Data Processing, with its stock options for upper management and the life skills it taught me, like how to fire people without feeling guilty.
Now I have figured out what has truly been my lucky charm, and it turns out I’ve been carrying it around since I was fifteen years old.
Yes, the 1977 version was a wispy and laughable amusement, but ever since I first let the hair between my nose and upper lip grow unimpeded, things have been going great.
Perhaps calling that eighth grade atrocity a mustache is being too generous, but it shows up in pictures from that era. So it was either a mustache or a shadow or a bit of dirt. Pardon my ego stroking if I’m sticking with the first option.
During my high school years I was led to believe that the whiskers were the key to girls. At least that’s what the guys with facial hair said. I did ask a few girls out, and a few said yes, but usually within a short period of time they would discover that there was really nothing of interest besides the mustache. Then the girls would go off to find another boy with perhaps a thicker, more luxuriant lip warmer.
Or maybe the other boys were more interesting. Could that be it?
I shaved on occasion, but that was just to knock down the weeds, so to speak. The first real removal of an honest-to-goodness mustache was at the end of my senior year, when I shaved off the whole thing along with my first attempt at a beard and, for some peculiar reason, put the trimmings in a box and presented it to one of the guidance counselors at school.
I’m sure she thought I was the creepiest guy to ever pass through those hallowed halls, but she always liked my older sister so she forgave me. I think.
During the ensuing thirty years or so, I have had a mustache and beard combo for probably 363 days out of every 365. I cut it all off every once in a while, but typically it begins growing back in a matter of hours. I don’t like what I see in the mirror when I have nothing to hide behind.
The American Mustache Institute (yes, there really is such an entity, dedicated to “fighting discrimination against mustached Americans”) has a veritable laundry list of great mustachioed men, their worldly accomplishments, and how having a mustache improves not only the life of the wearer, but the lives of all with whom he comes in contact. The AMI also recently reported that those of us with hair under our nose earn 4.3% more than the clean-shaven.
Hooray! This is why I have a mustache, to better fill my retirement accounts. I’ve heard that taller people make more than the vertically challenged (another notch in my favor), and reportedly people of my gender earn more than the opposite sex (although not in my house). Once again, everything was going my way. Then I read the bad news: the mustached fellows actually earn 8.2% more than those with a beard.
Egads! How horrible! Just when I thought I was doing all right, I learn that my beard is likely holding me back. If I had stuck with a ‘stache by itself, not only would I look like Tom Selleck or Hulk Hogan but I could have retired at 35. Why, or why, did I ever grow a beard?
Oh yeah, the reason that I maintain facial hair to this very day is that I am just too lazy to shave regularly, despite the fact that the AMI says I’d be richer with a chin that showed. They also taunt the bearded among us, claiming that we spend three percent of our income on beard combs and lice removal kits—a number that I dispute most vociferously.
It turns out that the American Mustache Institute, while defending the mustached against discrimination, actually discriminate against those of us with beards. They call my facial hair a “spousal compromise,” and claim that I am not man enough to go with just a mustache, a lip brow, a soup strainer.
Shame on you, AMI, we should be working toward unity and not fomenting discord, or making silly lists of mustache euphemisms (lip hugger, push broom, face sweater, hair snake, etc.). Everyone with facial hair should feel welcome in your little club.
Even the ladies.
Now I have figured out what has truly been my lucky charm, and it turns out I’ve been carrying it around since I was fifteen years old.
Yes, the 1977 version was a wispy and laughable amusement, but ever since I first let the hair between my nose and upper lip grow unimpeded, things have been going great.
Perhaps calling that eighth grade atrocity a mustache is being too generous, but it shows up in pictures from that era. So it was either a mustache or a shadow or a bit of dirt. Pardon my ego stroking if I’m sticking with the first option.
During my high school years I was led to believe that the whiskers were the key to girls. At least that’s what the guys with facial hair said. I did ask a few girls out, and a few said yes, but usually within a short period of time they would discover that there was really nothing of interest besides the mustache. Then the girls would go off to find another boy with perhaps a thicker, more luxuriant lip warmer.
Or maybe the other boys were more interesting. Could that be it?
I shaved on occasion, but that was just to knock down the weeds, so to speak. The first real removal of an honest-to-goodness mustache was at the end of my senior year, when I shaved off the whole thing along with my first attempt at a beard and, for some peculiar reason, put the trimmings in a box and presented it to one of the guidance counselors at school.
I’m sure she thought I was the creepiest guy to ever pass through those hallowed halls, but she always liked my older sister so she forgave me. I think.
During the ensuing thirty years or so, I have had a mustache and beard combo for probably 363 days out of every 365. I cut it all off every once in a while, but typically it begins growing back in a matter of hours. I don’t like what I see in the mirror when I have nothing to hide behind.
The American Mustache Institute (yes, there really is such an entity, dedicated to “fighting discrimination against mustached Americans”) has a veritable laundry list of great mustachioed men, their worldly accomplishments, and how having a mustache improves not only the life of the wearer, but the lives of all with whom he comes in contact. The AMI also recently reported that those of us with hair under our nose earn 4.3% more than the clean-shaven.
Hooray! This is why I have a mustache, to better fill my retirement accounts. I’ve heard that taller people make more than the vertically challenged (another notch in my favor), and reportedly people of my gender earn more than the opposite sex (although not in my house). Once again, everything was going my way. Then I read the bad news: the mustached fellows actually earn 8.2% more than those with a beard.
Egads! How horrible! Just when I thought I was doing all right, I learn that my beard is likely holding me back. If I had stuck with a ‘stache by itself, not only would I look like Tom Selleck or Hulk Hogan but I could have retired at 35. Why, or why, did I ever grow a beard?
Oh yeah, the reason that I maintain facial hair to this very day is that I am just too lazy to shave regularly, despite the fact that the AMI says I’d be richer with a chin that showed. They also taunt the bearded among us, claiming that we spend three percent of our income on beard combs and lice removal kits—a number that I dispute most vociferously.
It turns out that the American Mustache Institute, while defending the mustached against discrimination, actually discriminate against those of us with beards. They call my facial hair a “spousal compromise,” and claim that I am not man enough to go with just a mustache, a lip brow, a soup strainer.
Shame on you, AMI, we should be working toward unity and not fomenting discord, or making silly lists of mustache euphemisms (lip hugger, push broom, face sweater, hair snake, etc.). Everyone with facial hair should feel welcome in your little club.
Even the ladies.
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