A Day Out

It should come as no surprise that each of us find different ways to entertain ourselves.  Some of us go to the movies, some enjoy amusement parks, others like to visit the beach, while some have fun hiking through the woods.

Sure there are countless other ways to pleasantly pass the time but, there isn’t enough time to discuss them all.  That’s why I’m going to let you in on my personal ways to amuse myself.

A regular trip to my local shopping establishment, whose identity we’ll disguise by calling it Tallmart, provides me with inexpensive, healthy, and humorous time I consider well-spent.

My sainted wife, her friend, and I were cruising the aisles of Tallmart when I quickly discovered I was walking in a parallel universe.

The Male Ben Roethlisberger

Standing before me was a female Ben Roethlisberger.  I know it was him because I personally saw his name emblazoned on his Pittsburgh Steelers jersey.  Except he was a she.  And, she could have been a he.  I’m just saying.

Then I came across a woman who was wearing a very short dress made from cheese cloth.  Every ripple and piece of underwear was quite visible; it shouldn’t have been as this vision would clearly have been illegal in 38 states.  Of course I left my cell phone in the car.

Eventually, after the blindness left my eyes, I spied another Tallmart anomaly – some employee was actually doing some work, rather than standing around idly shooting the breeze with other equally idle employees.

Then it was off to the deli counter for some lunch meat.  I asked this woman for a pound of hard salami.  After several industrious minutes she placed the thin-sliced Italian delicacy on the scale.

This mass closely resembled a bird’s nest of monofilament fishing line.  I stared at it for a second; then I asked what she was doing.

“You said you wanted a pound of hard salami,” she snapped.

“Did you think of peeling the skin off before you began slicing?” was my question.

“You didn’t ask me to remove it!” was her retort.

As I marched away empty handed, I could hear her yelling that I forgot my order.  I didn’t.

After finding a manager, I explained this episode to her.  She shook her head and rued that all employees are here because they “passed the drug test.”

It seems as though competence, skills, knowledge, and playing well with others, is not critical to hiring at Tallmart.  Only the fact that you can pass a pee test is critical to the Tallmart dynasty.

This was the moment I realized why Tallmart was so darn entertaining. 

If someone in Benton, Arkansas is reading this, please consider changing your company policy regarding your hiring practices.

You might actually find some competent employees.  Or not.

Yellow Journalism

There are many words that describe me but, I’ve never been accused of being wasteful.  Growing up, we were not wealthy; in fact, that proverbial silver spoon in my mouth was made of plastic.

I suppose that meager lifestyle groomed me to be rather frugal throughout the balance of my life, which borders on cheap.

No, I’m not a hoarder; however I still see uses for many items that most other people would view as disposable.

Pieces of heavy duty twine are saved to later bundle stacks of newspapers and cardboard destined for the recycling.  Bags of Styrofoam peanuts are stored to be reused in the near future.  Empty jars will be filled with old cooking grease and disposed of in the trash within weeks.  These are just a few examples of my miserly ways.

You must realize I throw away “junky” stuff for which I see no viable use, and do so with aplomb.  That’s because I also detest clutter.

All these practices are an effort to save money down the road by not having to purchase balls of twine, expensive Styrofoam, and drain cleaner, to solve my stop-gap problems.

But it was my sainted wife who spurred my cranial idea cells, after her recent physical examination.

Her getting a new life insurance policy was the catalyst that triggered this mental tsunami in me.  It seems she needed to ensure her perfect health to this company that is betting they are not going to have to pay out on her gamble with longevity.

Besides home-based EKG, blood pressure, and head cavity tests, she was administered a urine test.  Yes, a urine test.

She is not, and has never been, a drug user of anything stronger than baby aspirin and Pinot Grigio.

But this pee test was not checking for anything legal.  Rather, it was checking for the illegal mood changers such as marijuana, crack cocaine, and methamphetamines.

My sainted wife – like me – is a little long-in-the-tooth, and I believe she would likely be less stoic if she perhaps imbibed in a wee-bit-o’-weed.  Still, she and the pee cup-issuing nurse got a good chuckle out of the whole exercise.

It was at this point the nurse went on to explain how she also travels from home-to-home giving pee tests to the previously convicted among us, who are currently on home detention and must pass a regular urine squirt in the jar.

This nurse told my sainted wife about the many ways these legal miscreants attempt to circumvent their tests, or beat them altogether.

Evidently that old adage about ‘necessity being the Mother of invention’ is alive and well.

These law breaking innovators evidently keep “clean urine” hidden in a vial inside the toilet tank for just such emergencies.  Such samples are provided by friends and family just in case.

Then there are merchants on eBay purloining a substance called Clean Pee that actually can be warmed up to replicate a human’s body temperature.  No lie.

Suddenly my brain cells kicked back in to those recycling activities in which i am regularly engaged.  It was also at this point that I realized I had literally dumped hundred of thousands of dollars down the toilet.

Those jars I would normally use for grease disposal are now being filled with you-know-what.

I will guarantee this stuff is drug free and capable of passing test after test after test.

So if you’re in the market for some clean pee, give me a call.  I can help for $50 per pint.

Snip, Snip!

Day trips in the car were something special when I was a kid.  And they were a big deal as they were rather infrequent.  Nothing in our house was spontaneous, as planning seemed paramount to anything successful.

Meals were planned a week in advance to ensure we had enough canned green beans, canned corn, and canned everything else salty, at hand.  Wood working projects were checked, re-checked, and checked again, to guarantee plenty of boards and stain and nails were available.  Those day trips were no different.

Mom would plan lunch with enough sandwiches to feed the Eighth Army, sodas, and some sort of dessert.  We never got dessert at home but, eating at a picnic table in some unfamiliar tourist trap dictated we have dessert.  This all meant we needed to make ice by the buckets full.

This is part of where the planning came in.  We had a drawer at the bottom part of the fridge that served as the freezer.  We would take turns making ice – tray by tray, one day after another – until my supervisor father would blow a whistle to indicate we had plenty.

In the mean time, Dad would begin assembling provisions for this few hour trip.  He would pack special provisions in a box destined for the trunk that would make Lawrence of Arabia yearn for.

We had a jug of anti-freeze, extra bottle of water for the windshield washer, two spare oil cans plus a spout, jumper cables, blankets, rags to wipe your hands, and wire cutters.

Eventually, we had enough stuff packed into the car to make the neighbors giddy thinking we were moving out of state.  Alas.

Back in the day there were no cell phones, reliable cars, or GPS devices.  We relied on paper maps, pay phones, personal wits and good luck to leave home and return safely.  Indians attacks were imminent, or so it seemed.

Day trips were just what they sound like.  They were established spots consisting of tourist traps that advertised to the kids.  Frontier Town, North Pole, and the like were themed toward rug rats like my sister and me.  We never visited those places.

Rather, we went to educational places like Ausable Chasm and Howe Caverns.  Both places were really cool and, as Dad put it, expensive.

Still, we got out of the house for a day.

Just in case you’ve never been to one of these tourist areas, one of the bonuses was to park your car in a lot while you played or hiked or sulked for several hours.  Upon return to your car you would find a bumper sign attached.

A bumper sign was a piece of flimsy cardboard upon which was printed a free ad for fellow drivers.  This cardboard had holes the entrepreneurs would put wires through to attach to your bumper.

These clever tags were pure genius as they were not much different than selling t-shirts with the establishment’s name upon it.  It was all gravy for the business owner.

Of course, these were the precursors to bumper stickers of yore, and those nifty window stickers of present.  But I digress.

It was at this time my Dad would turn beet red and make a beeline toward the trunk to fetch those all important wire cutters.  And all the way he would be muttering phrases illegal in 38 states about overcharging for admission yet screwing us by trying to get free advertising.

The snips were distinct and signaled an end to his rant.  Mom would do her best to find a roadside picnic table for us at which to enjoy our packed feast.  Dad was cooled off enough after working up an appetite cutting the tag wires, and my sister was just about done complaining about everything.

And all was good.  Until next time, that is.

Ice, Ice, Baby

It’s not often but, occasionally I talk to myself.  I meander into my workshop with intent, only to quickly realize the purpose was lost in a mere few steps.  That, is what we call a brain fart.  The verbal rambling begins, met by a blank stare from Smokey the cat.  Eventually I remember and start anew on my quest for whatever the original task was, and then complete it.

Still, along the way, a couple of sentences meant for no one but me were uttered uselessly.

I can’t really say this is a more frequent occurrence than before, just more annoying.  That is because I don’t have nearly as much on my mind as I did when I was gainfully employed.

So it was when I was on the phone attempting to acquire a manual for my refrigerator that I recalled my self-chatting and realized just how sane I was.

My sainted wife and I own a Samsung French door refrigerator with an ice maker.  Somewhere along the way the user manual became lost.  Don’t ask me where or how.

To attempt to rectify this seemingly insignificant issue, I simply found the phone number for Samsung on a sticker inside the wine cooler, aka: the vegetable tray.

I called and got an automated receptionist, aka: annoying woman’s voice.

Immediately, I was notified that this call would be monitored for quality control.  If someone was available to monitor this call, why not simply answer?

In any case, I was prompted to say my first name, and then spell it.  Next, I was asked to say my last name, and spell it.  In between these prompts were annoying sound effects attempting to simulate someone typing on a computer keyboard.  It was really hokey because after my first name – Uncle Paul – the fake computer clicks lasted for at least 18 seconds.  That’s enough time for a good secretary to type the Gettysburg Address.

Throughout all this clicking, I attempted to make small talk with my automated information taker.  I tried to converse about the weather and I even asked her for a date.  All fell on deaf digital ears.  There was no other person on the line, and I now realized that I was, once again, talking to myself. 

Three more minutes passed and I was informed I would be directed to a customer representative.  This time I was connected to a real life person who was fluent in Hindi.

Not an automatic ice maker

He was pleasant but, clearly he had no idea of the importance of self-dispensing ice crescents.

You see, the ice maker manufactures ice crescents rather than cubes.  Sure, they’re cute and all, but if you refer to them as ice cubes, they should be – at least – rectangular, if not cubed.  But I digress.

The fellow with whom I was now connected was named Afzal.  He was pleasant enough but not at all helpful.  He had real trouble pronouncing my name even after I has spoken clearly to the digital babe.

After providing Afzal with all my important information, including the refrigerator’s serial number, he informed me he could not provide me with a manual. Evidently, Samsung is poorer than I thought.

I needed to go on their website to download it.  That effort only consumed another twenty minutes.

I can’t wait for the call from Samsung to have me complete my satisfaction survey.  I’m going to write it in Hindi.