I have a strong distaste for shopping. So if my list is long, my style is to show up at the store with only enough time left to get what I need before it closes. That way I’m in and out of the automatic doors with a minimum of hassle and competition from fellow shoppers.
If I have to shop during peak hours, it’s usually to grab the few necessities my senior memory overlooked on previous late night forays, or to satisfy a sudden craving for something definitely unnecessary, and almost always bad for my health.
Anyway, last week I twice went to the store for such odds and ends. Both times there were long lines at the registers, so I headed for the Express Checkout Line. As in all stores, it was clearly designated by a large, clearly printed sign in English. This one stated: “Express Checkout. 12 Items Or Less. Cash Only. No Checks or Coupons.”
After double checking to make sure my cart met all requirements, I took my place in line. Glancing ahead, I noticed the cashier was scrambling to ring up a lady whose number of items far exceeded the total supposedly allowed. And, as her cart was being filled with bags, she fumbled through her purse to find a clutch of coupons she was determined to use to not only lower her tab, but to raise the furor of those around her.
Now, understand our angst. To this point she had purchased a minimum of two dozen items, at least double or triple the posted maximum. And now she was fumbling through this stack of stamp-sized coupons, asking the cashier dumb questions like, “Did I buy one of these,“ or, “Is this one OK?” She also seemed to have forgotten her glasses because, with sloth-like speed she closely squinted at each one trying to determine whether the expiration date was current or not.
In seconds, the indignation of everyone behind her became overwhelming. The next girl in line, seemingly fatigued from having tapped her fingers on two packs of gum and box of cinnamon Tic Tacs for fifteen minutes, finally called it quits. With a dirty look, she turned and threw the items back on the candy rack, then almost ran out the door like she was late for a date.
The guy behind me, who had a large bottle of Vodka in each hand, seemed ready jump over me to either smack “Madame Roadblock” in the head with them, or just begin chugging there in line while pretending he was on a date.
A last frustrated shopper who could bear it no longer, almost ran over and flattened two other customers as she angrily backed her cart out, and with considerable disgust and profanity propelled it erratically to another checkout register.
Me? Well, I just stood there trying to be “cool,” you know, civilized… displaying an uncharacteristic brand of senior patience. The whole time, however, I secretly worried that such an unjustified delay might cause the freshness date on my Whole Wheat Pita Pockets to expire before I reached the cashier.
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A day later, thinking my travail for the week was over, I again ventured out to the store. This time it was for something to put in those Whole Wheat Pita Pockets I had previously bought. (Obviously, another memory lapse.) Once again, the Express Checkout Lane was embroiled in controversy when I arrived. This time, however, the Line Lummox was a man.
There he stood, not the least bit embarrassed. In front of him were enough items to feed, clean, and wipe the rear ends of an entire village. And to compound his effrontery to those he was making wait, he sheepishly said he had to write a check because, DUH… he had “left all his cash in his other pants,” (along with his brain). Again, those languishing in line came close to rioting before the ink on his check was dry. I really couldn’t believe it. How could this have happened to me twice in one week?
I guess there could be many reasons. Perhaps the American Educational System really is so inept, that it can’t produce quality citizens that function at a minimum level of math and reading proficiency. Or maybe that’s patently unfair, and the few they couldn’t educate just happened to migrate, in mass, to my particular neighborhood to violate Express Lanes in stores where I shop.
More likely, it’s that too many people these days just don’t give a rat’s ass about manners, or how they treat others with whom they share the planet. In short, it’s all about them. They show it daily by not only ignoring posted limits in stores, but by living lives unfortunately guided by situational ethics. In this case, “Laws are made to be followed and enforced …… but just not for me!”
And maybe it’s because political correctness dictates that checkout clerks not hurt the feelings of those taking advantage of the system. Were they to look a transgressor in the eye, then using the microphone loudly announce, “Dumb Ass in the Express Lane… blue tank top and ratty flip flops. Assistance needed to read him the sign, and move his crap to another line,” how many times do you think it would happen again? Probably very few.
Anyway, since these checkout nightmares occurred, I haven’t had the courage to even leave the house. Frankly, I might just give up shopping in person, altogether. As we speak, I’m trying to find an on-line source (even on another continent, if necessary), that can sell and deliver Whole Wheat Pita Pockets fresher and faster than I can get them through the local Express Lane.
Furthermore, it would probably be a lot safer in the end. Shopping by computer all but rules out the possibility of me sustaining bodily injury in a spontaneous eruption of civilian violence. After all, that’s way too steep a price to pay… just to make a sandwich.
A few weeks ago, my wonderful, oldest daughter made me a "special" birthday cake that I didn’t need to wash down with a glass of insulin after eating. While not completely sugar or calorie-free, it was a delightful compromise for someone like myself who must be mindful of what I ingest on a daily basis.
Not to invoke sympathy, but those of you not suffering from the insidious disease called “diabetes,” don’t fully understand how tough it is to enjoy traditional eating habits, (especially if you’re Italian), with such a health “monkey” hanging on your back. I mean, who in his right mind would substitute a slab of tofu-heavy vegetable quiche, for even the smallest sliver of French apple, chocolate cream, or lemon meringue pie? Or which of you “healthy” types would rather chomp on a celery stalk than nibble on a chilled Snickers Bar, (or one of its close cousins)? Right…… you get what I mean!
Anyway, though you’ll probably not find many recipes on this Blog as a matter of course, I thought it a civilized gesture to share my daughter’s friend’s simple recipe, of a refreshing, more healthy alternative to the traditional birthday cake. Here are the ingredients and assembly instructions:
What you'll need...
- A box (or more if you want a larger cake) of “No Sugar Added" ice cream sandwiches.
- A container of “Sugar Free,” Cool Whip topping.
- A bag of “Sugar Free” mints
What to do with them...
1. Place a first layer of ice cream sandwiches on a tray or plate covered with waxed paper.
(Be sure to unwrap them first! :) Use as many as needed to meet the size requirements of your cake.
2. Frost the top of those sandwiches with a layer of Cool Whip.
3. Place a second layer of ice cream sandwiches on the first layer.
4. Frost the entire cake with Cool Whip, including the sides.
5. Add enough mints (or other sugar-free soft candy) so that there will be at least one on each
serving when the cake is cut.
6. Put the cake into the freezer until you‘re ready to serve it.
Pretty simple, eh? And you don’t have to be Chef Bo Friberg to pull it off. So, “bon appetit,” my diabetic friends. Keep fighting the good fight, no matter how hard it gets! And consider this recipe my present to you, whether it's your birthday or not!
On my last birthday, my adult kids and I got talking about… of all things, books. Somehow the discussion turned to favorite children‘s stories, perhaps because reading was such a big part of our family’s life from the time they were born. For until they could decipher the written word for themselves, they were read to at every opportunity by either me or their Mom.
For some reason I mentioned that, “The Story of Little Black Sambo,” a classic by Helen Bannerman, was a book that was loved and cherished by all youngsters when I was a child. I found a copy on the shelf, and asked if they remembered me reading it to them when they were little. They looked at me blankly, and I immediately sensed their answer. “Nope.”
I was shocked and a little embarrassed I had somehow omitted that book from the vast selection we had shared during those early years. And I couldn’t help feeling some guilt that I had cheated them of a delightful literary experience, one I recalled so fondly from my childhood.
How could it have happened? Why, by the time they were preteens, had the book all but disappeared from school reading lists, most bookshelves, and even from my conscious recollection? The reason was profoundly simple. Little Sambo and his family were BLACK. And despite the story being full of family values and strong life lessons, oversensitive adults of the time branded it as politically incorrect and racially insensitive. In short, they thought it a bad influence for impressionable young readers.
It made no difference to them that Sambo came from a loving, secure, “traditional” family with a mother and father whose first priority was the health and welfare of their child.
It counted for naught that the family was portrayed as stable and upper middle class. His parents were both ambitious and self-sufficient in every way, with more than enough wealth to buy beautiful clothing at the Bazaar to lavish on their boy.
The critics seemed unimpressed that little Sambo modeled poise, bravery, and presence of mind beyond his years in the face of danger. And it was worth nothing, that through cleverness and steadfastness of purpose, he righted every wrong that had been committed against him, by story’s end.
Likewise, “concerned” adults seemed to ignore that the tale of Black Sambo showed young readers the ultimate folly of being consumed with petty jealousy and superficial vanity as the tigers were. Neither did they value its message, that using one’s brain to solve issues instead of resorting to violence, is the most productive way to live one's life.
When all was said and done, then, its redeeming qualities added little to the book’s survival. And over time, “The Story of Little Black Sambo” was ultimately pushed into silent obscurity, irreparably tainted by political condemnation that was proffered by adults, in the name of doing good.
In retrospect, I acknowledge contributing to Little Black Sambo’s demise, as well, no matter how unintentionally. My failure to share his story with my own kids surely dealt as critical a blow to his longevity, as the ranting of his most harsh critic, in the most public of arenas.
What’s most regrettable, is this. It was adults who were offended by young Sambo‘s story. We children cared little about their grownup constructs of prejudice, racial animus, or political correctness. Instead, we cherished each page of Sambo’s jungle adventure. And it was there we became friends, and quickly grew to love him… simply because he was one of us.
Just when one hopes that politicians are working hard to come up with new ideas to help pull California out of the toilet, they once again prove they’re mostly ideologues with ADHD and questionable IQ’s.
Beyond that, this new breed of legislator seems to crave undelegated power, and expansion of the Nanny State we have come to abhor. Convinced that people like you and me need to be rescued from ourselves, they routinely continue to infringe on our personal freedoms in the name of responsible governance.
The latest political Nanny (or perhaps, “Ninny”), is a Silicone Valley elected official named Ken Yeager, who spearheaded a law to ban McDonald’s Happy Meals in unincorporated parts of the Santa Clara County. The law is based on his conclusion that, quote, “This (law) prevents restaurants from preying on children’s love of toys to peddle high calorie, high fat, high sodium kids’ meals. It breaks the link between unhealthy food and prizes.”
Now, I’m no medical sociologist, so I can’t outright dismiss there might be an element of truth in what he hypothesizes. But one fact is for sure. This guy’s got major “chutzpah!” His latest legislation infringes on what has always been a parental right and responsibility… the care and feeding of one’s own offspring. And furthermore, it erodes a child’s historical and sacred right to put whatever he wants into his mouth, from whatever location he chooses to retrieve it.
I mean, let’s get real. This law wasn’t needed to combat thousands of school-aged kids who were regularly filching cash from their Mom’s purse, then purloining the family vehicle to drive to McDonald’s with friends to gorge themselves on Happy Meals. And it wasn’t because the toys included in each box were of such retail or emotional value, that those kids were willing to blow four bucks of their ill-gotten loot to get four cents worth of colorful plastic.
Kids eat Happy Meals because their significant adults take them to McDonald’s. Nowhere is there documented evidence that any child has ever been involuntarily dragged there by a parent, kicking and screaming, and under direct threat of physical harm if they didn’t order and eat everything in that happy little box.
Come on! Dining out is part of the fabric from which most American families are made. And, in my opinion, Mr. Yeager is a pesky, bureaucratic moth who’s hard-wired to gnaw holes in whatever fabric he finds exposed.
Should parents be more vigilant when it comes to the weight of their kids? Certainly! It’s an important health and “quality of life” issue. But, if they choose to raise a gaggle of Wide Load Weebles, it’s not going to be because the family camps out at a local McDonald’s cramming Happy Meals down their throats seven days a week. It’ll be due to the fact they’re living a personal lifestyle that needs basic caloric adjustment and menu modification, starting at HOME.
This is what I think. “Snoopervisor” Yeager’s attempt to legislate better child health by banning the Happy Meal, will have zero net impact. He would have had a better shot by sponsoring a strict new labeling law, instead. Such a statute could have mandated that any child’s meal sold with more than 485 calories, be marketed as a “Crappy Meal.” This way, at least kids would burn up a few calories laughing their asses off as they placed their orders.
I was cleaning out my desk yesterday and found a poem I wrote over forty years ago. It was prompted by this picture, one I found by accident as I was looking for visuals to use for school.
There was something about it that called out to me… something that made me want to speak for the child. I imagined him clinging to his Mother at a moment of true crisis in his innocent life. Look at his face one last time, then read his words to her, below
Something’s wrong, Mommy…
Today I wheeled my wagon down the street
To see my white-haired friend the paper man,
(the one who’s old like Grandpa).
He’s always waiting, Mommy…
Sitting on his box inside the paper fort,
Smiling and humming and nodding,
Feeding his little gray kitty from the dish with the piece
missing.
Everyday he waits for me, Mommy…
I talk to him about my friends and toys.
He never says a lot (that’s ‘cause he’s old),
Just smiles and hums, and puts his funny hand on my head
while I tell him things.
He’s my very best old friend, Mommy…
Every day he waits for me to visit him,
And when he sees me coming with my wagon
He smiles and nods, and hums and waits.
But something’s wrong, Mommy…
Today the fort was empty,
And no matter where I looked I couldn’t see my friend.
He wasn’t sitting on his box, waiting and smiling and humming.
I know something’s wrong, Mommy…
My friend has never missed a visit,
And I’m sure he wouldn’t go someplace and leave his kitty.
It was crying in the fort, and the dish with the piece missing
was empty.
Where’s my best old friend, Mommy?…
Does he know I came to visit?
Does he know his kitty is crying?
Something’s wrong, Mommy… our fort is empty.
© 2010
This week the Discovery Channel finally broadcast the episode of “Deadliest Catch,” where Captain Phil Harris of the crabber, “Cornelia Marie,” died of complications due to a massive stroke.
One of many characters on the show, I never especially thought of him as my favorite. Even now, I can’t say he was. But there was something about him that made his death seem like a punch in the stomach. It brought out raw emotion, as if a close friend had passed away and left me standing there alone. And why I reacted that way? Well, I really don’t know for sure.
Maybe it was because I secretly admired his bravery. I marveled at how he could be so calm as angry waves as tall as skyscrapers, crashed dangerously over his wheelhouse.
It could have been that I envied how the roughest of crew members respected his leadership, and trusted his judgment in situations where both their lives and livelihood were on the line. He seemed the epitome of a “man’s man.”
Perhaps it was because he always said what was on his mind. With his gravely voice, he was blunt and direct. His choice of words could not be misinterpreted, and he showed almost disdain for discourse that even bordered on political correctness.
And maybe it was because I could tell how much he loved his boys, and would do whatever it took, including tough love, to mold them into the men he thought they should be.
It might have also been how much I admired his fighting spirit. Whether it was sailing into the face of high winds and rough seas, or conducting the last battle of his life in the hospital, he never gave up.
And most of all, perhaps it was that, when he knew he was dying and could fight no more, he struggled to clear the decks of his life before setting sail into the unknown. Struggling, he apologized to his son for not being a better dad. Then he kissed him one final time, and whispered, “I love you," words from his heart that sealed the final record.
Yes, I'll miss you, Captain Phil. And the fact that I will, is a measure of the kind of man you must have been.
The other day I came across a four-pack of gigantic Cynara cardunculous buds while shopping at Costco. Whether it was their low price, or merely a subconscious urge to fulfill my fiber quotient by eating thistles, I put them in the cart and took them home.
I prepared them for cooking with great care. It was like disarming enemy grenades designed to rip your throat out. But, after clipping away the needle-like thorns, the denuded buds surrendered to the pot without incident. And after a few minutes, they were ready to eat. Surprisingly, they had become not only food for dinner, but food for thought.
“Who in the heck was the first guy to figure out you could eat these things?” I mused while scraping each leaf between my teeth. “And under what set of bizarre circumstances would he even have considered doing so in the first place?” I pondered these questions as I ate, then invited my childlike imagination to fill in the details.
Here’s how I think it might have happened. A North African nomad named Artie lay dying of hunger in a grove of stinging nettles. As his spirit ascended towards the “light,” he heard a voice. To his surprise, it wasn’t God, rather an ancient Space Alien from beyond the stars (not from Arizona).
Eager to be of help, the alien removed a bud from one of the brier-like bushes. He told Artie that it was not a worthless weed, but a viable source of food that could save his life. He described how preparation and cooking could take hours, but promised that in less than a thousand years, someone would invent a pressurized pot that would cook it in ten minutes.
He predicted a bright future for the thorny globes. He spoke of a time when they would be considered a cash crop worth millions of dollars for farmers in a far off land called Monterey Valley, California, as well as a source of steady revenue from Government subsidies during bad times.
He also said their uses would become legion, especially on round things named “gourmet pizzas,” and in vegetable assortments called “appetizers.” And he described large glass containers of them on shelves in giant warehouses of the future. He predicted that only the bottom portion, or “heart” would used, but would be worth its weight in gold.
Artie listened, and at the point of death found enough strength to ask the alien one final question. “How do I go about eating these wonderful buds, Lord Alien,” he gasped, “and what do I call them?” The response was clear and unequivocal. “Eat them one leaf at a time, my Son. As for their name, it’s the last thing you need to worry about right now considering your condition. Just focus on this one critical thing. When you get down to that fuzzy, hairy part near the bottom, be careful not to eat it. If you do, Artie might choke.”
That’s my story, and like all kids, I’m sticking to it!
I'm a very private person. I don't Twitter, socially network, or even answer the phone if I don't like how it rings. I hang up on survey takers, bar the door to Census snoops, and even take my garbage cans to the curb only when it's dark.
I'm retired, which means nobody has to see me unless I want them to. I come and go at my pleasure, with a level of visibility I alone determine. And, because my life is purposefully unexceptional, I can move with anonymity. It's like being an out-of-work spy.
There's nothing extraordinary about my intellect, so I have little to say that would profoundly change the lives of others, even were they to listen. I possess no special insights on human existence, other than a knowledge that people are more than capable of screwing things up for themselves without my help. If I'm asked an opinion, I'll usually say what's on my mind. If probed for advice, I respectfully defer to, "Dear Abby."
I was raised to be polite, but loathe today's "political correctness" which masquerades as good manners. I have little faith in a world where contrived labels make everything socially acceptable, and are too often used to discredit those who tell it like it is. I believe that things are simply what they are. I have seen myself in a full length mirror, and I'm SHORT, not vertically challenged!
I love words, but hate writing. It's a tedious craft... like trying to put together a huge puzzle that has no picture on its box. But I write anyway, even though when I'm finished there always seems to be something not exactly right. And, when I finally press the "publish" key, it's never a triumphant decree that I have created something exceptional, but a frustrated admission that I've finally given up trying... totally surrendered... no longer able to endure one second more at the keyboard.
So what in the heck am I doing starting a Blog? Actually, I'm not sure. Perhaps I'm just trying to fill a subconscious need to be heard. Maybe I just need a less embarrassing method of venting, than swearing at the television. Then again, perhaps it's just another one of those creative fads of mine, a seductive exercise for my mind destined only for extinction. We'll see......
I have a strong distaste for shopping. So if my list is long, my style is to show up at the store with only enough time left to get what I need before it closes. That way I’m in and out of the automatic doors with a minimum of hassle and competition from fellow shoppers.
