“Leash me alone, you little moppets!”

OK, this is a very specific complaint. And I’m yelling it now, the way I yelled it (in my car) right after the whole thing happened.

If you’re going to bring eight children, who are all young enough to be under four feet tall, to a SMALL produce market, and let them run free to knock over plants and bite into apples, and shriek, and hit me in the back and hip (yes: HIT — not bump) as they run by, then be prepared to hear me yell. They scared me. They came up behind me and scared me. One of them smacked me in the back, and the other hit my hip. No, it didn’t hurt. They’re little enough to be fairly harmless, smacking-wise. But it scared me. They came up behind me. I HEARD them, but never thought they’d hit me!

And when I turned around, startled, and yelled, YOU, the parents/caregivers/whatevers, told me to go to hell.

Don’t do that.

I mean it. Your rugrats asked for it.

Your little anklebiters are lucky they hit me and not someone who hits back.

Next time, how about trying leashes?

Workplace No-No’s

Going to settle “the particulars” today, but as of now, things look like this: I’ll be working part-time, from tomorrow until the end of May.

I USED to work for a big company, in a pretty snazzy job (well, not when I started there, but later). I had my own suite of conference rooms and offices, etc. In my office, when the door was closed, I could do lots of things that aren’t socially acceptable behavior. You know? But when I walked out of my office or if the door was open, I had to behave myself, so I never quite relaxed my “standards.”  However, when I lost my job, I discovered the joys of “living free.”  And, over the course of eleven years, I’ve become accustomed to behaving that way.

Last night I realized that I need to stop doing a few things:

No more blowing my nose so hard that my teeth rattle.
No more joyfully burping and then giggling afterwards.
No more walking around in scuzzy, ripped clothing.
No more screaming at the TV news people.
No more ignoring the $&*#ing phone when it rings.
No more flinging great flying buttresses of colorful &#*@ing swear words and epithets into the air. And then congratulating myself on the originality they exhibit.
No more stopping whatever I’m doing, to hug my cat or to go outside and watch turkey buzzards wheel around the sky.
No more complaining to the Gods of Gas about the amount of time it takes to digest various kinds of fiber.
No more talking to my lunch.
No more talking to myself.

These losses will be balanced by good things, I know. But some of them are habits that will be hard to break. Don’t you feel sorry for the other people in that office? Yikes.

And a hearty lol. See you later!

The Lady Who Saw Kennedy: Why do people want to touch the candidates?

You know, the Presidential ones — in the news, we see people reaching to shake hands, grip shoulders, receive and give hugs: ANY way for a member of the “crowd” to touch these people. People have been doing that ever since I was a kid and I don’t get it. I’m sure there’s a sociological reason for it, an anthropological imperative, something that’s explainable — but I don’t get the FEELING behind it. Are they hoping that the candidacy will rub off? That the projected power of the sought-after office will oooooze into them? That when they go back to their jobs and homes and families they’ll be transformed?

Here’s the thing: When I was a little squirt, John F. Kennedy was running for President (yes, I’m that old).  One of our neighbors was in the city when Kennedy came through, campaigning. This lady happened to be in the crowd on the street and saw him. She saw him. She didn’t touch him or shake hands or speak with him. She didn’t sleep with him (as far as I know) or bear any of his children or learn state secrets from him. She SAW him. Within days, she became the Lady Who Saw Kennedy. Her kids were the Kids Whose Mom Saw Kennedy. She was a local celebrity. He wasn’t even President yet.

I never understood that value. I still don’t. She was a sweet, patient woman; active in the community and supportive in the school system; and made wonderful fried chicken (I was at their house all the time, because her daughter was a friend). This lady had tremendous value, before she saw the future President. But it took that moment in a campaign, when she was standing in a crowd, to alter her legacy.  She SAW Kennedy. With her own eyes. When she died, there were people who mentioned that. And it was at least 25 years later.

No one mentioned her fried chicken. Or how she worked part-time in the hospital gift shop, for nothing, to help the Ladies Auxiliary. Or how excited she was, when she was named School District Volunteer of the Year, for 5 years in a row.

It’s fascinating to me, that our perceived worth can be so affected by something so ephemeral.

Anybody want to shake my hand?

Buying Matzoh on Easter Sunday: Teach Your Children Well

My supermarket always has a coupon or two, for free 5-pack boxes of Matzoh, starting a few weeks before Passover (Pesach), and I always buy two or three of them. I keep one and the other(s) go to charitable food organizations. Matzoh with apple butter or jam is a wonderful breakfast — crunchy and simple and easy. I also like to have sealed boxes of matzoh in the house for emergencies — they last FOREVER and are basically very flat crispy bread. My favorites are Streit’s Matzoh and Yehuda Matzoh, but the Manischewitz seems to have the longest shelf life, maybe because of its packaging.

Anyone who’s interested in more a substantial matzoh dish could try Matzoh Brei — a scrambled egg/matzoh delight that can be varied for different tastes.

Unfortunately, my Acme isn’t wonderful with their stock replenishment practices and they never have many of the 5-pound boxes to begin with, so I figured I’d better get over there and buy it when I could. Great! I selected the $75 threshold of other items, put them in my cart, went to the checkout lane and waited. This was yesterday, Easter Sunday.

I didn’t grow up Jewish, so I’m not someone who has had all of the experiences someone who did might have had. Maybe that’s why I didn’t think anything of putting my matzoh box on the conveyor belt on Easter Sunday, right behind a lady and her two kids. They were buying milk, lilies, hyacinths, muffins, and a Sunday newspaper. They were all dressed up — looking very festive, and one of the kids was clutching a bulletin from one of our local churches. It was covered in crayon marks. Sunday school, I figured. They were behind another lady, who was buying six huge bags of dog food.

When I lifted the 5-pound matzoh package onto the conveyor it thudded as it landed and they all turned to look at the source of the noise — the huge orange box. The lady with the kids gave me a half-smile and pulled her kids around to the other side of her, the dog food lady side. The boy didn’t like being moved. He fussed. He waved his papers around and she shushed him. The little girl, who was dressed in dainty pastels and looking like a tiny version of her Mom, swatted her brother. Gently. But he started to cry. The boy complained and his Mom picked him up and soothed him. It was sweet, you know, except that her soothing words were, “We told about those people, Mattie; they crucified our Lord. You stay away from them.”

Nice. Scare the kid. Tell him that middle-aged woman with the giant matzoh box is a torturer and a murderer, that there’s do-it-yourself crucifix kit hidden in that big orange box, and that I’m coming after him, too.

*sigh*

Like I said, I didn’t grow up Jewish. I don’t know if this kind of thing happens much or how to handle it. I was shocked, and angry, and frightened - what if she was a Warrior for the Lord and had a shotgun in her car?? — but mainly I was sad for those kids.

Parking Meter Tears

Went to the County Seat today to be sworn in as Executrix of my Mom’s estate. Haven’t been to the Court House for a while and didn’t know that it costs 10 cents for 8 minutes, to park. 5 cents will buy 2 minutes. I had very little change and in the cold wind I put it all into the meter. The minutes added up to a little over 20. I was crying so hard I couldn’t see the read-out. There was a Sheriff’s Office car nearby, and I stared at the guy in it, hoping he’d come over and ask if he could help. Naturally, he didn’t. Why would he? Silly women who arrive in town with “insufficient coinage” are beyond his jurisdiction. So I just stood there by my car, crying, until the Court House opened. As soon as I got away from the parking meter, the tears stopped. Odd.

I speak with my Mother’s voice.

For anyone who doesn’t know, my Mom died toward the end of December of last year. She was sick for a long, long time. For many years, we shared the house that I grew up in.  I’m here now, working to make my way through the days, to rebuild a life that was “on hold.”

Anyway, I spent a lot of my childhood alone and got used to talking to myself. It’s a normal thing, to chatter away; there’s comfort there, I think. Now that my days are so quiet, I hear my voice loudly.

The thing is, it’s my Mother’s voice. We sounded alike. Not just a little alike but almost scary-alike. Even my aunts and uncles couldn’t tell, on the phone, who was who. So these days, when I drop something and say, “S%&#!!!” I hear Mom. And when I say, “Have a good nap, Sweetie,” I hear Mom. And when I tell me I’d better get the dishes done, I hear Mom saying it.

It’s not a bad thing. Just jarring. You know? Yesterday I began to realize that it’s a wonderful gift, to hear her voice. And I’m treasuring it.

TOP CHEF: It’s back! And tongues are wagging on the homefront. Gah.

TOP CHEF returned last night. I just started watching it, just having my breakfast, just enjoying the show. The trash guys arrived, so I stopped eating and watching to bring down the empty trash cans, and saw a couple of my neighbors yakking at the end of one of their driveways. They’re both nice enough women — 40’s, mothers, active in their jobs, and at home; the usual — and one of them yelled over to me if I saw Top Chef. I said I just started watching it.

“Did you see they came out?” (her, with a nasty edge to her voice)
“No. Who?” (me)
“Lesbians. It’s got lesbians now. Don’t bother watching it.” (her, with a dismissive wave)
“What?” (me)
“Lesbians. Gays. Two of the contestants are a couple. I don’t care what they do in private, but I don’t want them rubbing it in my face!” (her, screwing up her nose to avoid what she’s obviously thinking)
“Oh.” (me, stunned into unaccustomed wordlessness)

I came back in the house and watched more of the show. Yep. There’s a couple. Women. Chefs.
I have newfound disrespect for that neighbor lady.

OK, now I’m going back to eating my breakfast and watching the show. Have a good day, everyone — and try not to rub anything in anyone’s face, hunh?

Do I have a sign on my back?

Do I really look like someone who wants to talk to you? I couldn’t possibly appear that friendly! Don’t bother me in the store — I’m busy shopping, trying not to go broke. Trying not to be robbed. Trying not to waste too much time. I want to focus on what I’m doing and I don’t want to talk!

And I don’t like to talk — to people — anywhere! I’m not a chit-chatty person. EVER!!!

You look like nice enough — why can’t you talk to that other lady, over there? Why is it that everyone selects me to talk to?

I was in  TARGET yesterday, trying to find a few items that were supposed to be on sale. I was not planning to mosey and dawdle. I wanted to find the things and go home.

There were plenty of other people in the store. WHY did three of you talk to me? Are you two women and one man who have nothing else to do or are so lonely that you’ll talk to anyone at all, even someone who won’t talk back? Why ME?? There were other people you could have snagged for your confab.

I was frowning viciously, so it couldn’t have been my kind and welcoming face.

There must be  a sign on my back that says “Talk to me!”

Bah!