Tag People

The Not Quite So Bad Smelling Pot

Michael Leave a comment

My last post was the bad side of a potpourri of encounters at the local retailers. This post is the better smelling side of that pot. It’s still a bit rotten but it has a less pungent odor about it.

On top of this list of things that don’t smell quite right (or if you prefer, things that make you go hmm) are shopping carts. Shopping carts themselves are not new fodder for the RRSB. Type “shopping cart” into my search bar and you can relive tales of shoppers with carts, carts without shoppers, crazy people with carts and crazy carts out to maim me. (My personal favorite that one. Relive it specifically at “Handicap Hate Crime,” (June 19, 2014)). But what put shopping carts on this particular list is that they officially are now everywhere, and some of it is intentional.

An intentional, yet questionable placement of shopping carts is now at the greeting card store. I’m ambivalent about greeting cards. I like them well enough. I like the idea of sending and getting real mail even if some far afield professional has written the sentiment. They fill a void that mere mortals like me could not and I for one feel accomplished just putting my name after somebody else’s perfectly chosen words. But I’m not so enamored with greeting cards that I feel the need to greet every occasion with a professional acknowledgement. Apparently the greeting card store people feel differently. So differently that they believe so many people will be buying so many of their cards in a single transaction that they have taken the step to make one’s shopping experience less physically exhausting and are now providing shopping cards in which to haul about your selection of selections as you go about selecting their cards. It is clearly just another overstated case of exaggerated hyperbole. Indubitably.

On the other hand, at stores where shopping with carts is advisable and often indeed a necessity, we are now faced with a decision as we pass through the doors that open automatically (and just in case you were unsure of that they are clearly so labeled but that’s a post for a different day). Of course I am talking about our basic supermarkets. At my closest go-to store the vestibule has 6 differently sized wheeled carts (one motorized) and two carry basket variants. For some reason the sporty compact models seem to be the most popular and never about when I need to pick up a dozen or so articles. Thus I am forced to wobble about poorly balanced (as if I wasn’t to be begin with) with a too small basket held in the crook of my arm or to reach deep into the void at the checkout line as I rummage for those 12 items in the bottom of the cart sized suitably to carry a month’s worth of groceries for a family of 4 (plus 2 pets). Where are all the cute little carts? They are being wheeled about by the family of four (pets safely locked in the over-sized SUV idling at the end of parking row 3) sagging under the weight of the soon to be purchased vittles and the pair of matching mini-monsters (aka 3 year olds who prefer to be at home in bed). It is clearly a case of bad choices. Several.

The last petal in our pot comes at the consideration of the local home improvement store. Today my needs that can be satisfied at a lumber, hardware, plumbing, electrical, lighting, appliance, paint, paper, carpet, and appliance store and nursery (the plant version, not the refuge for 3 year olds taking a break from mom and dad) can be met at that very nursery (the plant version). My biggest takeaways from the lawn and garden department begin at the garden half and end on my patio in the forms of plants, pots, and potting soil. Plants or seeds that will someday grow up to be young strapping plants and pots with a simple stand for the pots after the plants have been therein potted are light enough that a supermarket style shopping cart handles them with ease. But then there is that bag of potting soil. First I shouldn’t be lifting anything heavier than a five pound bag of donut holes and second I don’t want to be lifting anything heavier than a five pound bag of donut wholes. A flat bed cart that I can drag the bag of soil onto from the stack o’ bags would be ideal. But no, even though there is an entire store of wood, concrete, and refrigerator-freezers that have their own special carts, in the garden center you have only the extra-large version of the supermarket shopping cart that just ate my twelve items (no waiting) in the preceding paragraph.  It is clearly a choice of too many choices inside and not enough outside. By design.

At here you have it, today’s mélange just this side of rotten.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

The Rotten Pot

Michael Leave a comment

The potpourri – a quite lovely arrangement of highly scented dried flowers used to decorate and perfume.  Or collection of songs or poems, or a mélange of thoughts, ideas, or fact.  Whatever you want to make of it, or make it from, it is a beautiful order of otherwise unrelated things. In fact, I have often used it in post titles when I have too little of any one thing rummaging around in my head to add up to a couple hundred words of lucid thinking thus keeping that post from getting too ugly. Until now.

Now we have the not so flattering side of the potpourri – it’s otherwise disagreeable origin. From seventeenth century French it is literally the “rotten pot.” And today is a collection of the rotten side of reality that stuck its ugly face in my path this week.

The major ingredient in this pot is “some people’s children.” Not once, not twice, but three times just since Sunday did I get to witness not one, not two, but three little monsters disturbing the peace and leaving it in pieces.

There was the 3 or 4 year old girl (or boy, at that age does it matter) who made her own potpourri while seated in a shopping cart and systematically pulled petal after petal from the bouquet of flowers I suppose that her mother left with her to keep her (the child) occupied while she (the mother) gave her order to the deli counter clerk (and who couldn’t contain herself (the clerk) and pointed out the impromptu de-blooming). And then there was the 6 or 7 year old girl who at the local party store walked through a full aisle of piñata, punching one after the other until she got bored with that, realized that mom was not within arm’s reach, and wailed at the approximate pitch and volume of an ambulance siren.

But the killer (could we wish) was the around six-ish boy (I think) who stood (yes stood!) on the conveyor belt at the supermarket checkout line while he (I think) systematically threw every item in the impulse rack above the belt onto the belt to his (hers?) mother’s chorus of “Please get back in the cart, get in the cart, get back in the cart, I’m telling you get back in the cart, this is the last time now get back in the cart, get in the cart, get in the cart.” When the cashier had the nerve to say “It’s all right,” I couldn’t just stand there idly at the next check-out line. I said “No, it’s not alright. It’s rude and disgusting. And it’s why I’m in this line because I’m certainly not putting my food on that belt and if I were you (now directed to the cashier) I’d have someone get over there and clean that up.” And I actually felt good about myself having said something until the mother said, “Like that belt was any too clean before.”

And that was my mélange of otherwise unrelated urges to kill.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Fishing For Memories

Michael Leave a comment

Trout season begins this week. Saturday specifically. In my state. I’ve never fished for trout. I’ve fished for walleye, I’ve fished for bass, I’ve fished for compliments. But I’ve never fished for trout. And that’s unusual for around here because there is a lot of trout around here. Of course, to catch trout around here you have to fish around here and I’ve never done that either.

Around here is huge on fishing. The county I live in issues more fishing licenses than anywhere else in the state, odd for an urban area but the numbers don’t lie. Even though the county sports only 10 percent of the state’s population it has ranked number 1 in fish licenses since 1919. Probably before that but that’s as far back as I could find records. For most of those years there were more fishing licenses issued in this one county than in the rest of the state combined.

I’m not a real fisherman – or fisherperson as the TV reporter reminded the viewing public of the start of trout season put it. I fish, or fished, once or twice a year and at what could at best be called sporadically over 40 years or so.

My first fishing memory was of my father taking me up into the mountains for an overnight trip with two friends of his and their sons. I didn’t catch anything. I’m not sure that anybody caught anything. I remember cooking something outside for dinner but it was probably hamburgers. After dark we piled into someone’s station wagon and went deer spotting and that night slept in someone else’s hunting cabin. That was the first fishing memory I have. It is also the first memory I have of doing something special with my father.

My second fishing memory came 20 years later and 20 states away. Floating in the middle of some lake in the middle of Texas were me and an Army friend in a rented bass boat. It had all that was required for fishing for bass. We had the trolling motor attached to the bow, the big Merc mounted on the stern, the electronic fish finder, the funny chairs that looked like bar stools. We got just far enough out to finish our to-go coffees and were when his pager went off. Return to base. His unit was being mobilized. In less time to write about it we were back at the dock, secured the boat, gotten to the car, and were two-thirds of the 15 minute drive to base. That’s when my pager went off.  Later that day we found ourselves as parts of one of the largest training exercises our base had mounted in years. We ate in the field that night but it wasn’t fish.

Another 20 years and in the middle of another lake, this one called Erie, I was one of a group of five pulling in our 30th, and last, walleye. After years of doing so, my friend had the planning down pat for this trip. We left the day before for the drive north, now mostly highway making it a relatively quick trip. Quick enough that we got there hours before anyone else. We picked up our licenses, checked into the hotel, and asked for wake up calls for 4 the next morning. That gave us twelve hours to meet the rest of the gang, have a few beers, have dinner, retell our lies from previous years’ trips, make our ways back to the hotel, and turn in for the night. What was much more than but felt much less than a couple of hours later we were back in the lobby with our coffees and headed for the dock. Our hired captain and his boat were waiting in the dark and we clambered in for the ride to where the fish waited in the dark. The lines weren’t all in yet when the first walleye struck. As he was being brought in another line was hit. The first fish was landed, pictured, and chucked into the well when number three hooked on. And so it went. Nobody remembered a year when the fish came so willingly to us. We had reached our limit and turned back to the docks before some other boats had begun their day. The picture of us with our racks straining under the morning take was on the captain’s charter company’s website the following day. A copy of it is still on one of my walls. A week later we reassembled in my friend’s back yard to fry fish and tell lies. That was the last fishing memory I’ve had. Three weeks later I was in the hospital where a surgeon took longer than we did to fish for his limit.

Trout season starts this Saturday. I’ve never fished for trout.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Going to Town

Michael Leave a comment

Last week I had to go into town. Going to town around here isn’t quite the event as for someone from Queens going into Manhattan. But it’s close.

When I just a youngster, back in a different century, I grew up about 20 miles from town. Then going into town was indeed an event. Actually we had to differentiate our in-town trips. If we went “downtown” that was to the business district of our suburban hamlet. That was easy. Every piled into Dad’s car and in 10 or 15 minutes we made the one mile excursion from home to shopping, a rare dinner out, or to the Saturday matinee.. If you weren’t in a hurry a bus could get you there in about a half an hour. But going “to town” – that was something else.

We went “to town” once or twice a year and it required serious planning. Did we drive in or take the train? And when we said train we meant train. This wasn’t some glorified subway extension or light rail system. This was a big one with names like Baltimore and Ohio, Wabash, or the Pennsylvania Rail Road. Our line was the Pittsburgh and Lake Erie Rail Road. (Even though the P&LE began business in 1875 it didn’t actually make it all the way to Lake Erie until sometime in the 1970s. You got to love their spunk back then!)  If we drove it would only be after the car had a serious going over. Tires, oil, and water checked and double checked. There was a bus that made the trip but that was a true adventure. If you didn’t mind a little walking you could make it to town with only one transfer. I don’t think I did the trip by bus until I was in college and then would make a weekly commute from dorm to home with real food, a television set (although black and white) and a washing machine. And the 2 hours gave me some study time.

Last week’s trip was an easy one. Now I’m only a half dozen miles out of the center of the city and even budgeting for rush hour and parking it’s a quick 15 minute commute that I made twice daily for almost thirty years.

Since I stopped work I haven’t been to town other than once or twice a year just like from back in my youth. All those years later there are still diners and restaurants, bakeries and pastry shops, meat markets and delis that don’t have anything to do with national brands. You can still buy artisan products from meats and cheeses to fixtures and furniture from real artisans that you can watch being artisanal. There’s even a classic haberdasher.

Yes, it can still be quite the event. Only now when I get home I have to do my own laundry.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

You think your commute is challenging

Michael Leave a comment

The weather forecasters are saying it will be chilly this weekend, somewhere between 25 and 30 degrees colder than the first half of this week and only 8 degrees above freezing during the daytime. That will probably be a better time to take the little car out for a spin than in clear, 70 degree, sunshiney weather.

If you’ve been reading for a while you know I have a little red convertible that gets about as much use as you would imagine in an area where the average temperature is 52 degrees F and it rains or snows almost 150 days a year. But when the sun comes out the top goes down and I understand the true meaning of the phrase “worth the wait.” Right up until some guy with more testosterone than brains spots me.

I went out in the middle of the day when the real men with huge pick-up trucks riding on 28 inch wheels with massive brush guards, multiple running lights, and chrome steps to get into the cab should have been at work doing something involving torches and welders’ masks and comparing tattoos. But no, there was one about ¾ mile behind me when I slipped onto the onramp of the local expressway. I heard him, or rather his mufflerless behemoth, snarling up behind me. He closed that ¾ mile before I made it all the way to the end of the acceleration ramp and in his desire to make certain I knew he had more horsepower at his disposal than I did, he passed me on the single lane ramp and launched himself onto the highway mainline. Right in front of another mini-monster truck a few miles per hour above the speed limit. It was a spectacular sight in my rear view mirror. You could almost see their premiums going up.

I pulled onto the shoulder and waited until I saw that both of the not quite matured miscreants were moving about on their own power and then eased back into traffic and continued on my spring shake-out tour. You would think I’d have been shocked at the carnage (or trucknage if you prefer) and I was the first time or two such craziness happened. Unfortunately this goes on every year when I, and presumably everyone else with a weekend roadster, first hit the road.

In a month or so the craziness will wane perhaps because the crazy mongers become used to seeing us on the road again or perhaps because they run out of clean underwear.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

(Yes, I know this is St. Patrick’s Day and I didn’t say anything about that in my post. Monday was Pi Day and I didn’t bring that up then either. I’m not totally predictable.) (Am I?)

 

Who Paid You Today?

Michael Leave a comment

I was reading about the top employers in each state – because I have that kind of time. A pattern showed up and to be honest, I’m not sure if it’s a disturbing pattern or patently disturbing.

Two are two business types that are the dominant employers in these United States. Those are universities and their affiliated healthcare systems, and Wal-Mart. You say you’re sick of hearing about Wal-Mart. That’s ok because there are plenty of hospitals out there to take care of that for you.

Where are the entrepreneurs who are not relying on your health insurance or your paycheck from those relying on your health insurance?  There are in the far reaches of the country. In Alaska, the Anchorage Airport ranks number one. It is also number one in the world for floatplanes. Pratt and Whitney dominates employment in Connecticut. That’s where they make airplane jet engines that all of the Boeing employees use to make it the top employer in Washington. Maine’s biggest human resourcer is the Hannaford supermarket chain. Food is also big in New Jersey where the ShopRite subsidiary Wakefern Food Corp. hires more Jersey boys and girls than any other in the state. Nevada has the country’s biggest share of gambling revenue and the MGM Grand hires the most employees in that state.

In a few states health care manages to lead employment figures without a university feeding their researchers. Those are Delaware, Rhode Island, Minnesota, North Dakota, South Dakota, Colorado, and Utah.  Kansas, Hawaii, Wisconsin, Nebraska, and New York have university systems without affiliated hospitals.  Those guys should get together or risk going through the record books with asterisks next to them.

Clearly I have too much time on my hands.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Yes, It Is a Number – A BIG Number

Michael Leave a comment

I had a terrific post ready to upload but then that old lady happened. It was supposed to be about getting older but how everyone says, “Hey, it’s just a number.” In a way, this post is still about that. Let me start at the beginning.

I was at the store just as the heavens opened with a good old-fashioned downpour. Hundreds of gallons of water poured out of the sky every minute. And that was at its slowest. Then, it stopped. As quick as it started it just stopped. Unpredictable spring weather. I hobbled my way to the car, loaded up the groceries, backed out of the space, and turned toward the exit.

And there she was. Marching down the middle of the road, head bent over, shuffling in that gait you have to be around 90 to master, was that old lady. She was every one of 90 years, not looking left, nor right, nor straight ahead. She looked nowhere and at nothing. And she headed straight for me.

The last place I wanted to see her was splayed across my hood as some macabre ornament. But she continued heading straight for me. I mean straight. She didn’t veer a fraction of a degree to either side. She was walking right to me. The impact was going to crush her. Her bones were going to drop out of her skin and she was going to collapse in a heap like a worn out building imploded to make way for a new one. I would be guilty of running over an old lady. And I was stopped!

I had to warn her. I tried to connect with her telepathically telling her to look up. Either I didn’t get through or she just ignored my call because she kept her head down and kept on coming. I rolled down the window and waved furiously. She walked on. I called to her. “Yo, Lady!” Nothing. Finally I decided she had left me no choice. I had to use my horn. I had hoped to avoid that. I was certain that the sudden honk would startle her into a heart attack and then I would be guilty of oldladycide.

As gently as I could, I pushed down on the horn button in the steering wheel and was awarded with a short “…beep…..” Still nothing. To myself I said, “Self, give it to her,” and smashed down on that picture of a horn and let go with a “HOONNNNKKKKKKKK!”

Finally, just steps away, she looked up, saw me sitting there, snarled at me (yes, snarled), then flipped me the bird.

Oh it’s a number all right.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Different Potpourri du Different Jour

Michael Leave a comment

Yesterday completed the year-long fundraising effort by Penn State’s Pan-Hellenic Council to benefit the Four Diamonds Fund at Hershey Medical Center children’s cancer unit – or more lovingly known by the PSU crowd as “Thon.” The pinnacle event is the weekend long dance marathon with the fundraising reveal wrapping up the festivities. This year Thon raised over $9.77 million dollars for the charity, still the world’s largest student run philanthropy. Thon typically runs on about a 4% administrative cost. That means that 96 cents of each one of those dollars goes to the charity. Compare this to the American Cancer Society, no slouch in fund-raising themselves, who manage to work on about 84% costs netting their charity efforts 16 cents for each dollar raised. It would do us well to remember that the student can sometimes be the teacher.

I was standing in the super market line and saw this blurb on one of the magazines that festoon the check-out lines. “Lose weight and gain height with new diet!” It went on to claim one could lose 5 pounds in weight and gain 2 inches in height in the first week. It could just be me but I’m suspecting some monkey business with those figures. I think it is quite possible to lose 5 pounds in a week but I can’t figure out any diet that adds heights, unless it’s to eat anything but eat it while being stretched on a rack.

Speaking of diets, a different cover screamed at me that I could lose weight just by cutting out sugar. I’ll remember that while I’m gorging on french fries and cole slaw while scarfing up double bacon cheeseburgers and washing it all down with several bottles of beer. If figure if I do that 4 or 5 times a week I can positively disappear by the end of next month.

Speaking of french fries, shouldn’t it really be frenched fries referring to manner in which they are cut. What became of the “ed?” I wonder if that was what the potato lost when it eliminated sugar from its diet.

And speaking of nothing that we’ve already spoken of, Spring is really around the corner. It was a balmy(!) 55 degrees this afternoon and I spotted my first non-fat guy wearing shorts. There is no surer sign that spring is here.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Potpourri du Jour

Michael 1 Comment

I had a heck of a time figuring out what to write for today’s post. Not because the possibilities were endless, let me tell you. In truth, they were somewhat limited but terribly diverse.

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, or as some people prefer, St. Valentine’s Day. One would think referring to the Saint (or Saints if you wish since there were actually three of them) gives the holiday more credence. This is both true and misleading. The Roman Catholic Church removed St. Valentine Day from its calendar in 1969. They are still Saints, just not with a specific feast day. Thus yesterday officially was Valentine’s Day.

The fact that those guys were real people who were canonized has made Valentine’s Day a holiday non-grata in some parts of the world whatever you want to call it. There are places where Christian traditions are seen as contrary to other religions and religious traditions.  You’d also think that the church and state separatist nuts in the U.S. would also prefer plain Valentine’s Day to St. Valentine’s Day and perhaps they do because you never hear anything about the ACLU suing anybody over giving away cards and chocolate without a Saint being involved. Then again they seem to get just as drunk as every else on St. Patrick’s Day so who knows what they think.

Another one of potential topics for today is the abrupt end of commercialism of holidays including Valentine’s Day. We might have a 10 or 12 week marketing run-up to the holiday but once it gets here, it’s done for. Just a day before television, radio, print, and electronic ads touted candies, flowers, fruit, jewelry, even pizza for the one you love. Today those same ad spots were pushing life insurance, disposable diapers, tires, and toilet cleaners.  After noon you couldn’t even find a decent rom-com without downloading it from a ppv service. Where did the love go?

Another possible topic for today’s post is another American holiday that isn’t – Presidents’ Day. Officially today is Washington’s Birthday. Even though was have a firm date for George’s birth, February 22, we don’t celebrate it then because the Uniform Monday Holiday Act of 1968 pushed four federal holidays (Washington’s Birthday, Memorial Day, Columbus Day, and Veterans’ Day) from their fixed day designations to specific Mondays thus ensuring at least 4 three day weekends for federal workers. (Which calls to mind, how many people work for the federal government? About half of them. Ha, ha, ha! Geez, I crack myself up!)

Anyway, when that happened although nobody of any importance, certainly nobody in Congress, changed anything else about Washington’s Birthday. Still, all of a sudden it became Presidents’ Day. Some people claimed it was the perfect time to recognize the contributions of all of the U. S. Presidents and their accomplishments. If you ask me, I think the only President we ever had who was really cognizant of his responsibility to the country and its citizens was George Washington. Everyone who came after has been less respectful than the one before until we have now reached the pinnacle of disrespect by being given the choice between one to the current crop of Democrat idiots versus one of the current crop of Republican idiots. And they expect us to make that choice without throwing up all over the ballot.

Now that I’ve given this all some thought I don’t think any of these are worth the effort. Good thing today’s culture makes disdain so effortless.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Milk and Bread and Toilet Paper – Oh My

Michael Leave a comment

A week ago I was writing about a restaurant with a sign up that said “Patio Open.” This week, that patio is covered with snow. There are times I truly hate February. But I have my milk, bread, and toilet paper so I know I’m set for the rest of the month.

I’m sure there are super-markets across the country, no, across the world that are overrun with mad shoppers a flake short of looters hoarding all the milk, bread, and toilet paper at the first hint of a storm. But here we can actually walk that particular cat back to a real crisis – sort of.

It was in 1950, the day after Thanksgiving. The forecast was dire, 12 inches of snow over the next 24 hours. The weathermen (remember, 1950, no weatherwomen then) were wrong. Over three feet fell over those 24 hours. Over the next few days the locals dealt with it. The snow came, emergency services served, and people existed on their Thanksgiving leftovers.

The weekend came and went and so did the leftovers. Probably because of those leftovers, the city grocers had fairly well stocked shelves come Monday. So well stocked they were that one of the local papers headlined how well things were going with “City’s Food Supply Is in Good Shape.” The story was slugged “There Is Plenty for Everybody…” That was a relief, but rather short-lived. The article’s second sentence began, “Milk was the one shortage that has hit all sections…”  The sentences that followed noted specific abundances, praised workers who showed up, and in general commented positively on how there is still plenty of food for everybody. Except for that milk thing. Oh, and bread which had been “doled out in some stores.” Remember, 1950. World War II rationing wasn’t that long ago. “Doled out” did not conjure up images of “plenty for everybody.”

Then to make matters worse the story continued that heads of families should buy “only what you need on a day-to-day schedule in order to have enough of everything to go around.” That doesn’t sound like “plenty for everybody” at all. No sir, not at all.  No milk, no bread and here are families who just spent a weekend of every meal that included leftover turkey gravy. And those were some big families (remember, 1950, baby boomers). If they needed enough of anything to go around it was going to be toilet paper. And it was going to be soon!

Ever since then, no matter what the forecast, if there was any snow in it then as God as our witness we will NEVER run out of milk, bread, or toilet paper! And that’s why today when I stopped in the bakery for a loaf of bread all that was left were a few mini-Italians and a couple donuts. The little cooler had no milk and they don’t even sell toilet paper. And yes, yesterday’s forecast called for 1 to 3 inches by tomorrow.

Fortunately I really don’t drink much milk. I myself am a mini-Italian so I was quite satisfied with the available bread. Since the inception of places like Sam’s and Cosco I can open my own toilet paper franchise.

The donuts? They were a plus. I figure you can never have too much of anything with sprinkles, and if I didn’t buy them somebody else would.

I can hardly wait for the next snowfall.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?