What if God was on Facebook and he unfriended you?

This is a perfect commentary on my growing addiction. Three days without a working computer -- the power plug on my netbook broke and I haven't had the time to fix it -- and I'm going crazy without the means to post or blog.

Anyway, as good as the application iBlogger may be, it's a bit too kludgy for my tastes. I'll have to leave you with an apology and a promise to be back as soon as I get repairs completed.

Good night and good luck.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

They Tell Me You're Never Too Old... or What to do when you know the Babe with Blades.

"Hey Dad, check this out."  My daughter lifted the laptop and tilted the screen so I could get a good look.

"Babe with Blade.  Rowr!"

Rowan looked horrified.  "Dad!  That's Elise!"

I allowed my body to go to autopilot and squint at the photo, adjusting my glasses as my brain tried to go into hyperdrive.  "Who?" was all I mamaged.

"Elise.  Your son's girlfriend.  Your future daughter-in-law."

I'm sure the grin looked as frozen as it felt as I settled back slowly in my chair.  "Then I suppose 'Rowr' is out of the question?"

Okay, let's get this straight: I don't wear my hair in a ponytail.  No, scratch that.  If you're under thirty, you probably won't get the reference.  All right, I don't take blue pills (and that's all you need to know about that, thank you).  I don't own a sports car (nor can I afford one, but that's not the point).  I'm not having an affair with a younger woman (which would rather end as an end-of-life vice a mid-life crisis if I did).  I don't comb-over, have hair plugs, use contacts, get a salon tan, or even belong to a gym.  Although maybe I should.  In other words, I pretty much act my age, and do so gracefully.

When I was growing up, all the older guys sat in front of the local corner barber shop and whistled at the cute girls as they walked by.  And look, this was in Mississippi, so it was a couple of decades behind the times, so it really isn't ancient history.

I guess my point is this: harassment is one thing, but paying attention to a person who obviously is taking pains to be noticed is not wrong.  And, to come to the very tip of my point as it pertains to me, paying attention or being appreciative to a person -- female person -- who wants to be noticed is not sick.  I'm just a man, and will be until I die.  Then I will be a dead man, but that's another matter.  I don't try to compensate for the fact I'm a middle-aged man, I only ask that I still be considered a fully functioning man in spite of the fact I'm middle-aged.

Back to the story with which I began this: my daughter understands, and has even commented that many of her friends think I'm interesting and cool, and not very much of a creep at all.  Elise, if you read this, you are an attractive and sexy young woman, and my son is very lucky to have someone like you.  I hope you know we appreciate you, even if, for some reason beyond understanding, one day Jordan does not.

We've already told him if he breaks up with you, he can't come home.  You, we've got a room for.

Fiction: Jeepers

This is a little something I cooked up back in 2003 to creep people out.  I hope you enjoy it!

“Why no, Mister Cosgrove, I don’t think I’d mind at all.”

            Mister Cosgrove stood naked and cocked his hat jauntily on his head.  “Then, Missus Jones, I think we should be married right away.”

            Missus Jones’ flowered dress billowed outward with the breeze, and blew over her head as the wind shifted and stiffened.  Lacy giggled, and Missus Jones followed her example.

            “I can’t possibly marry you, Mister Cosgrove.  I’m already married.”

            “Then I’ll win you away from him.  Just see if I don’t.”  He punctuated his declaration with a hollow plastic clunk as the wind blew him over and his head hit the lower step of the porch.  The noise seemed to frighten Jeepers, who stopped washing his whiskers and scurried under the lid of the cardboard box.

            “Lacy Anne Marie Sullivan!  What do you think you’re doing?”

            “Playing,” she replied.

            “With whom?”

            “M’self.”

            “Do you have Jeepers outside?  I’ve told you he’ll run away and you’ll never see him again.”

            Lacy poked her lip out, even if her mother couldn’t see it.  “It’s okay.  I’m watching him.”

            Sarah Sullivan stepped out on the porch.  Lacy had such a hard time making friends since the divorce, and the only child with whom she’d bonded had been a girl in school named Annette.  The two constants in Lacy’s life had become her make-believe worlds and her companionship with Jeepers.  If the rodent ran away, Lacy would be devastated.  “I know, honey.  But he runs away in the house, too.  And this would be so much worse.”

            “It’ll be fine.”  Lacy tucked her chin down and got that set to her jaw like she always did when the stubbornness took hold.

            “Just do like I said,” replied her mother, closing the door on the failing late afternoon light and the discussion.

            Lacy sat several minutes in silence, the evil plans of Mister Cosgrove and the tranquil life of Missus Jones forgotten.  Then she roused herself and began to pack away her dolls and toys, placing them inside their box, until she placed the lid on top.

            “Mommy!”  The cry cut through Sarah’s nerves like a scalpel.  “Jeepers is gone!”

            Lacy had been crying when she came inside and dropped her box of dolls in the big green chair.  Her mother waffled between scolding Lacy for disobeying and asking the child to recall what she’d done outside and when she’d last seen Jeepers.  She decided more could be accomplished in trying to find the hamster, so she and Lacy went outside to search.

            “Honey, can’t you remember where you saw him last?”

            They looked everywhere, except for where Jeepers had decided to hide.  After another hour and a half, Lacy was cried out to tired sniffling and her mother was fed up.

            “Look, I’ll buy you another hamster.”  Lacy began to bawl afresh.  “Okay, alright, we’ll look some more.  But not until after dinner.”

            And with her mother’s final comment on the matter, a sobbing Lacy swept the box of dolls onto the floor and dropped into the comfy green chair with crossed arms.

            And a faint, wet pop signaled the end of Jeepers the hamster.

            The funeral was a simple, yet emotional, affair.  Sarah volunteered the box she’d gotten with her Swiss Army watch at Christmas, a scrap of green velvet, and some cotton batting.  Lacy got roses from the late-blooming bush outside the kitchen window.

            Sarah dug a hole in the damp earth at the foot of a dwarf peach tree and gathered a large white stone from the garden as a marker, while Lacy played music on her CD player.  It was cold and drizzling, so the service was cut short by mutual consent.

            Lacy moped around for the next few days.  Her mother understood her being upset at the loss of her pet, but she worried about Lacy when the girl didn’t perk up after the first day or so.  Lacy was even indifferent to buying a new hamster, not seeming to register that Jeepers wasn’t coming back.

            “It was just a hamster,” said Doctor Ross.  She wasn’t treating Lacy anymore, but she’d remained Sarah’s friend.  “This isn’t very professional, but – ”  She bogged down in the concept.  Sarah understood:  It was a small beady-eyed burrowing rodent, and not at all much of a pet like a cat or dog.

            “He was her best friend,” replied Sarah.  “All through the hard times after her dad left.  And Lacy feels responsible for his death.”

            “Granted.  Then maybe she shouldn’t have taken it outside.”

            “She didn’t sit on him outside.  She didn’t think I cared he was missing, and Lacy was so upset she didn’t look before sitting down”

            “It wasn’t your fault.”  A pause.  “Maybe you should buy a new hamster.”

            “Yes, when she’s ready.  But not yet.”

            “Thanks, Honey,” said Sarah.  She smiled at Lacy and was rewarded by a smile in return.

            It’d been a rough six weeks.  Lacy had grown so despondent over the hamster’s death that Sarah had gotten referrals from the doctor, insurance issues resolved, and enough cash organized to take Lacy to see her therapist in McKinney.  They’d stopped seeing Doctor Ross six months ago, except for an occasional phone call, because of the cost. The bill for this visit was over two hundred dollars.

            Sarah didn’t care.  Lacy needed help.

            Lacy and the doctor had decided to work together, without Sarah being involved.  It seemed to be working, so Sarah never once complained.

            “She’s an intelligent and sensitive girl,” said the doctor. “She’ll come through this okay.”

            “I know,” replied Sarah.

            After almost a month, all Sarah knew about the treatment was that Doctor Ross thought Lacy was “making progress.”

            “Do you need any more help?” asked Lacy.

            “I don’t think so, kiddo.  Thanks.”

            “I’ll be in my room, then.”  And she scampered out.

            Lacy listened at her door for several minutes to the sounds of her mother putting the groceries away, then she closed the door as quietly as she could and locked it.

            “I’m home, Jeepers,” she said with a smile.

            It was when Annette ran home screaming that Sarah had the first indication that anything was wrong.

            Annette was a quiet girl, recently moved from Florida.  She’d had trouble making friends, so Lacy’s teacher had placed her and Lacy in adjoining seats.  They struck it off right away.

            When Lacy had asked whether Annette could come over and play, her mother had agreed.  Annette’s family was renting a house about four blocks away, so the arrangement was convenient and easy.  Until the girls went into Lacy’s room.

            Half an hour later, Sarah heard screams of absolute hysteria and saw Annette running out the front door, all her things forgotten on a chair in the dining room.

            “Lacy?  What happened?”  Lacy stared at the wall past her mother’s shoulder.  “Lacy?”

            When the doorbell rang an hour later, it was Annette’s father.  His face was blotchy and his manner was distracted.  “I’m sorry, Missus Sullivan, but I’ve come for Annette’s things.”  He seemed to fumble for words for a moment, then:  “She refused to come back here, even with me.”

            Sarah helped gather the girl’s belongings.  “Did she say why?  She ran out of here like she’d seen a ghost, and Lacy won’t tell me anything.”

            “No.  She won’t say, only that she’s frightened and doesn’t want to ever see Lacy again.”

            “Oh.  I – I’m so sorry.”

            “So are we.”  He walked to the door, juggling items to keep a hand on them.  “We’d hoped – ”  Words seemed to fail him.

            “I know,” replied Sarah.

            “She’s stupid,” said Lacy at dinner.  “She wanted to play dolls, and when we started she just got scared.”

            “People just don’t get scared,” said Sarah.  “Something must have happened.  Don’t you know?”

            “She’s just stupid, okay?”

            “I don’t like the tone in your voice,” replied Sarah.

            “So what?”

            Sarah took several deep breaths before she spoke.  When she did, her voice was toneless and cold.  “You’re excused from the table, Lacy.  Go to your room straightaway, and no television, CDs, or playing.”  As Lacy got up, she added:  “And I’ll be there right after dinner to have a talk with you.”

            She sat for half an hour, picking at her food and thinking about nothing at all.  Finally, she got up and padded to Lacy’s room.

            “ – tell me.  You can – ”  Lacy’s voice was barely audible through the closed door.  Sarah bent over and placed her ear nearer to the door to try to hear better.

            “ – don’t know what you mean.  You scared her, so it’s your fault.  Why should I apologize?”

            Sarah frowned, trying harder to hear.  There was another sound – not quite a voice, but something else – and Lacy responded to it as if it carried a message.

            “Alright.  If it’ll make her be friends again.”  There was a pause, and then Lacy whispered something of which Sarah only caught “ – outside?”  Then Lacy raised her voice.  “Mommy?  Come in.”

            For some reason, her blood felt cold in her veins.  She’d been fumbling outside the door, and obviously Lacy would’ve heard her.  She should be embarrassed, certainly, but not – fearful.  Why fearful?

            She opened the door and peered inside.  “Who were you talking to?”

            “Myself,” Lacy said with a little smile.

            “Of course.  There’s no one else here.”  Sarah glanced around the room to be sure. 

            “You didn’t say I couldn’t pretend.”  When Sarah shifted back to her, Lacy smiled again.  “I was pretending someone was here with me.”

            Doctor Ross wouldn’t be able to see Lacy until the end of the week.  When Sarah told Lacy, the girl was upset.

            “I don’t want to see the doctor!”

            “Why not?  I thought you were friends.”

            Lacy’s lip trembled.  “She makes me talk about stuff I don’t want to.  I don’t want to go.”

            “That’s what she does,” said Sarah.  “She talks things over with you and – ”

            “I don’t want to see her!”

            “I don’t care what you want.  We see Doctor Ross in three days.”  Sarah stood back, hands on her hips.

            “Mommy, please . . .”

            “It’s final.”

            Lacy went to school the next day, red-eyed and sullen.  Sarah didn’t think it was a great idea for Lacy to be around the teachers – the last thing she needed was for one of them to think Lacy might be abused or something like that--but Sarah needed the break, too.  And Lacy seemed to thrive on schoolwork.

            She got the call at ten-thirty.  The school nurse wanted Sarah to come and pick up her daughter.  Lacy was in tears, the class was in hysterics, the teacher was angry, and the Principal was confused.

            The Principal was Rosemary Cates, a solid woman of short stature and indeterminate age whose voice sounded like a wet cough through ground glass.  She peered at Sarah through sharp eyes while Lacy sat in the outer office.

            “Missus Sullivan, I understand Lacy has been seeing a psychologist.”  She wrung her lips around the last word as if it had an unpleasant taste.  “Is there some problem of which we should be aware?”

            “I’m not sure how Lacy seeing a doctor can be involved in her school activities,” replied Sarah.

            “Ah.  Were you not aware of the reason we called you?”

            Sarah shook her head.  “The nurse asked me to pick up Lacy.  Your receptionist asked me to wait for you.”

            “Well, Lacy seems to have brought something to class to show the students.”  She leaned forward as if attempting to make her words more ominous.  “Something I think is inappropriate to have in school.”

            When she didn’t elaborate, Sarah raised an eyebrow.  “And that was what?”

            The Principal cleared her throat, a sound like a small engine starting on a cold morning.  “According to several of her classmates, she had a skull.”

            Sarah opened her mouth, shut it, and then tried hard not to laugh at how ridiculous that sounded.  “A skull?  Did I hear that right?”

            “You did.  A small animal skull.”  Again her mouth clinched into a grimace of distaste.  “I understand she had put it on the end of her pencil, pretending it was talking to the class.”

            Sarah sat for a moment, composing herself.  “Then I have to ask what the skull was saying.”

            Principal Cates’ eyes flashed.  “I hardly think this is a matter for a joke!  I’m told Lacy was scolding the class for not being friendlier toward her, and that she told them they would be sorry if anyone was mean to her again.”

            “Are they?”

            “What?”

            Sarah took a deep breath.  “Are they being mean to her?  I can understand you can’t make kids like everyone in class, but it’s your job and your teachers’ jobs to make sure there’s no teasing or that kids don’t abuse each other.”

            “Let’s not get off the point, Missus Sullivan.”

            “The point?  Lacy’s complained to her teacher repeatedly about other kids being mean and insulting and even hitting her.  I’ve sat in this chair several times – ”

            “Missus Sullivan, I assure you – ” Principal Cates attempted to interrupt, but Sarah rolled right over her voice.

            “ – and had conferences with you on just this same thing. You didn’t do your job, and Lacy has been seeing a doctor about it.  Maybe I can’t hold you responsible for that, but I don’t see why Lacy shouldn’t stand up for herself and hold the bullies and her own teacher responsible for it.”  Sarah slowed her speech.  “You just don’t like how she did it.”

            Cates sat silent for a moment, then dropped her eyes.  “Point made.  I apologize for seeming unsympathetic, but the fact remains that Lacy brought something to class that proved a disruption.”

            Sarah nodded.  “Did the teacher take it away from her?”

            “Well, no.  The students complained:  Many of them were frightened at the way Lacy was acting.  Even her teacher was disturbed.  But when she asked Lacy for the skull, Lacy denied it existed.”

            “And Miss Evans didn’t find it?”

            “No.  Not on Lacy or in her belongings, as far as she could tell.”  Cates shrugged.  “We’re not a prison.  We don’t strip search the students.”

            Lacy had continued to deny knowing anything about a skull all the way home and Sarah had sent her back to her room as soon as they walked in the door.  She was upset in seeming to punish Lacy for what Sarah saw as standing up to bullies, but she couldn’t ignore the way that Lacy refused to tell her anything.

            It was getting back the way it had been right after Ted left.  When Sarah and her husband split up, Lacy had blamed herself.  She became withdrawn, secretive, and lost all her friends.  Jeepers had been her only companion and confidant at that time.  It had taken months of therapy to bring her back out of that lonely place, and now Sarah saw her daughter slipping back into the darkness again.

            She went into the kitchen and put water on to boil.  It seemed like she was drinking a lot of tea these days, and she needed the calming effect now.  As she stood looking out the window above the sink, she frowned at a point in the yard, straining to comprehend what her eyes saw.

            Finally, she walked out into the yard to stand by the center dwarf peach tree near the wooden fence.  She stood looking down at the white stone she’d placed there weeks before, and dropped to one knee to touch the disturbed soil.

            There was a hole, about a foot deep, at the base of the tree. The pile of dirt to one side had become smoothed over with the rains of last week, and the sides of the hole were beginning to cave in.  Doll clothing, cheap jewelry from Lacy’s room, and other odds and ends cluttered the damp ground as if Lacy’d been playing there regularly.

            At the bottom of the hole was tossed a black box, beginning to collapse from moisture, and inside the box was –

            Covering her mouth with a hand, Sarah ran into the house.

            Lacy had shut her door.  Another example of how she had changed, since she never would’ve closed her door in the past.  Sarah reached for the knob, paused in mid-motion, and leaned close to listen.

            Voices:  “She’s really mad.  I’ve never seen her so mad at me.”

            Another voice.  No.  Something, maybe Lacy’s voice or not.  It hovered lightly at the threshold of hearing.

            “That’s because you won’t let me tell her about you,” continued the girl.  Sarah had to remind herself that Lacy was carrying out both sides of this imaginary conversation.  She’d had no idea how far the child had backslid.

            “Then you’ve got to stop.  I’ve got to stop.”

            Sarah brought a knuckle up to her lips and bit down.  Hearing this from her only child – it was too much.

            And the door swung open in front of Sarah’s face.

            Lacy stood before her, her face puffy and hopeless.  She held a hand away from her body, at an awkward angle almost behind her, and although Lacy’s lips didn’t move, a light, almost comical voice cut through the silence.

            “Hello, Sarah.”

            Lacy bent her arm so that the fist peeked around the edge of her body like a person peering from behind her.  In it she gripped a pencil so tight her fingernails had bitten into the palm and blood trickled down her wrist.  Mounted on the eraser of the pencil was a tiny white skull.

            “Remember me?  I’m Jeepers.”

            “Mommy!” mouthed Lacy.  Tears were streaming down her face now, cutting into the threads of drool stringing from her chin.

            “What – ?”  Reason had shorted out.  Sarah couldn’t make herself think about what she was seeing, even if she’d known it since discovering the dressed and headless body of Jeepers nestled in his black cardboard box at the bottom of an opened grave.

            “Lacy doesn’t want to play anymore.”  Sarah didn’t see Lacy’s lips move, and had no idea how the child accomplished this ventriloquism.  “Would you like to play with me?”  Lacy had closed her eyes and was shaking her head in emphatic negation.  “I like to plaaay. . .”  The last word was drawn out into a hiss like a chain dragged over asphalt.

“No!” snapped Sarah.  Without thinking, her hand lashed out and she caught the skull backhanded.  It flew from the pencil and smacked into the wall with a sound like a cracking egg.

Sarah took three large steps and stomped her foot down on the tiny white thing with a crunch.  She scraped her foot along the carpet, leaving a trail of papery shards, then turned and leaned her back against the wall.  As her legs gave out, she slid to a sitting position.

            Lacy had fainted.

            After a few days in the hospital, Sarah brought Lacy home.  She was drawn and pale, but otherwise seemed no worse for wear.

            “This is very serious,” said Doctor Ross.  “I’m still not sure about the nature of Lacy’s episode, but she needs treatment.”

            In the end, Ross decided that Lacy needed time at home and a lot of love from her family first and foremost.  She approved of Lacy’s release after three days.

            “She needs to be monitored.  The medication will make her groggy, and she needs a lot of rest and quiet.  We’ll plan on beginning therapy at the end of the week.”

            Once Lacy was home and settled, Sarah sat on the edge of the bed looking at the sleepy child.  “If you need anything at all, just call.  Okay?”

            Lacy managed a groggy nod, her eyes remaining closed.  Sarah caressed the child’s cheek, then got up and left the room.

            All was silent.  The sounds of television conversation from the living room were distant and muffled.  The smell of tea being brewed was a pleasant undertone to the afternoon sunlight.

            “Oh, goody, it looks like we’re finally alone,” said a high-pitched voice from a cartoon.  And a tiny tear trickled a path down Lacy’s soft cheek.

 

Return of the Asshat

  1. One who has their head up their ass. Thus wearing their ass as a hat. Asshat. 

2. A person, of either gender, whose behavior displays such ignorance/obnoxiousness that you would like to make them wear their own ass as a hat. 3. Describing when one's head is so far up one's ass that one is wearing the ass as a hat; in other words, extreme stupidity. Thank you, Urban Dictionary. For the record, my three favorite words, in order, are coochiesnorcher, asshat, and fucktard.  Mostly because of how funny they sound, but also because they are so dead-on describing something, and by how much they make people cringe when I have to explain what they mean. Also for the record, my eighteen year-old daughter tells me there's a pattern she's found online for an asshat.  She insists she wants to knit one for Christmas. Fast forward a week after my post "Is that a Towel..." and I see my assistant talking seriously to a fat man sitting on a motorized scooter.  First of all, those things are plugged in near the front doors for a reason: if you're older and don't move around too well, or if you've been injured.  This man was older, but by no means elderly, and he seemed quite healthy, aside from being well over two hundred seventy-five pounds on a one hundred and fifty pound frame.  In other words, he didn't have to be on one of the scooters if not for the fact that he -- well, I'll try not to be too judgemental. Things looked pretty intense for a few seconds before the man abruptly motored away.  "That," said Marie as she walked over to me, " was the sorry excuse that insulted Syeda last week." "I thought he said he was going to shop at Walmart from now on?" "That's what I said," Marie replied.  "This time he asked another cashier when were we going to put Syeda back on a camel and send her ass home."  She paused for a moment, choosing her words carefully.  "I told him to never make a comment about one of my cashiers ever again, and that if he had any complaints, either keep them to himself or tell the store manager." It's frustrating, but this is what we do.  We are a service industry, and we can't say what's really on our minds.  We have to take the abuse, the invective, and the ass-holiness of some people and smile and give them great customer service right back, which only reenforces their belief that they are in the right and can keep right on doing what they're doing. Sometimes it's a minor thing: talking to us like we're stupid because we wear a name tag, or complaining we need to open another checkout lane because they're second in line and the person in front of them has three items left in the cart and it will take more time to sign into the register and move them over than it will for the cashier to finish with the first person.  But it makes them watch us jump, and they feel better about their own pointless, petty lives.  Sometimes it's more serious, like the man who used to come in and bait cashiers until they cried or got angry enough to lash out, then sneer at them and say "C'mon, say something.  Try to hit me.  I'll have you fired so quick you're head will spin." Well, that ended the day the second customer in line grabbed him by the arm and said: "Either shut up or I'll drag you outside, and I have a lot of witnesses here who'll say you took the first swing."  But they don't always end well or satisfactorily. I'm not in the income bracket that allows me to entertain the thought that one day I might be able to retire.  Put something away for retirement?  How many of you out there really think you'll be able to afford to do anything other than work until you drop, then hope the insurance will cover whatever breaks next?  But, one day, I'm going to stop caring about myself just enough to stick my neck out further than I should.  And when that day comes, it's going to be an awesome thing to witness. I hope one of you is there to see it.

Why 50 year-olds shouldn't take drugs.

This was previously published in my first incarnation of this blog, hosted by Opera, on Saturday, July 17, 2010, at about 6:50 am.  I had had surgery the previous day to repair a torn muscle in my groin:

Why fifty year-olds shouldn't take drugs?  Specifically, I'm talking about Cephalexin and Hydrocodone, while recuperating from surgery. I am flat on my back the afternoon after undergoing minor, yet excrutiatingly painful, surgery.  My wife had to go to work, and so had left me with my phone and an ipod touch loaded with TextFree, under the dominion of my eighteen year-old daughter. You see, a flurry of texts to the Significant Other can take on a warlike atmosphere with the help of pharmaceuticals.

I see an ad for a type of drop bag like the ones used by the LAPD, and think it might be a possibility for the students in our family - my wife had retruned to college to complete her degree, and my daughter starts college in a few weeks. It has umpteen pockets and loops and snaps.  I text Significant Other the particulars.

"70 pockets?!?" replies my wife. "Must have! That's enough for even the most anal retentive packrat."

I agree. After looking, though, I find the 70 pockets misleading. That's for the largest of the bags, with the ones on sale ($19.99) having more like 25 pockets. I list the bags, sizes, and various merits. I chuckle that the smallest is described as a "tactical lunchbag."

She replies: "Tactical lunchbag sounds like something the French Foreign Legion would use. 'Henri, bring out the strategic baguette.'"

Or maybe the 'assault baguette'?

"Antipersonnel Flan?"

"No, the 'Antipersonnel Souffle'. It collapses when stepped on and sucks everything in."

How about the 'SFC - Shoulder Fired Croissant'?

"Pate' Gas - it's deadly. Or Flan Thrower."

"I had gas after eating a pate', once."

Excuse me, but is that a towel on your head, or are you Jihad to see me?

On Sunday, August 28, Glenn Beck is going to mount the steps of the Lincoln Memorial to deliver a speech about reclaiming the Civil Rights movement and beginning the journey to restore honor to our country.  It doesn't take away from the amazing gall to do that to say that he'll stand "a few steps" down from where MLK stood, "because it's appropriate."  I have mixed feelings about saying this, but I really do have a dread that somebody is going to take Beck's challenge made a few nights ago and try to take him out.  They're mixed because, while I think getting rid of people like Glenn Beck should be a focus of those of us who really believe in the principles that made our country what it is, I can think of nothing that would create a martyr better than the assassination of the man the spokesman for the Tea Party called the "Administrative and Communications Branch" of the Tea Party movement.

I can think a lot of things about Beck, though, like he's not so insane that he didn't make hate a commodity to sell like overpriced gold collector coins, and turn it into a multi-million dollar industry.

When do those of us who still have a drop of decency stand up against the bile spouted by these cretins?

Four days ago I was working with one of my associates, Syeda, who comes from Pakistan.  She is a devout Muslim and wears a head scarf to work, and asked permission to be allowed to take her late afternoon break to coincide with prayers.  I found out she had been crying in the restroom because she moved here for a better life and education, leaving her family behind and moving in with an uncle and his wife.  The uncle, even more devout, does not believe in celebrating birthdays and anniversaries, and it was Syeda's birthday and she hadn't gotten any news from her family in over a week.  I bought her a card, and we all signed it and told her "it doesn't matter how busy we are, or what might be going on, we're wishing you a happy birthday and we're happy you're here."

The reason I bring this up is because of what started it all: a customer who quoted Glenn Beck while standing in Syeda's line walked up to one of our Supervisors and said, "If you're going to hire one of those ragheads to work here, I can take my business elsewhere."  The Supervisor's response was: "Good."

What I implore you to think on is this:  When you read the paper or watch television, it's not a Mosque they're talking about, and it isn't even within sight of Ground Zero.  It's a Community Center.  The actual Mosque has been in continuous operation since 1979, one block from Ground Zero, and because it's small and there is proof over time no one there has caused the slightest amount of trouble, it doesn't have the impact of the bigger lie.

It's not about the Mosque.  It's about politics.

It's time to put aside your emotions on this one.  They are valid and you have every right to have them, but you do not have the right to allow decisions involving civil rights to be made based on them.  It's time to put aside emotion, and allow the truth to be told.

On the Subject of Nametags

We all treat servers at restaurants and the guy behind the counter at McDonald's like a sub-human. Maybe it's time to get to know who we're dealing with...

There was once a joke making the rounds that if you were over thirty and had a job where you wore a nametag -- the comedian stops right here and you hear the chuckles and laughter in the background: we're all in on that joke, and know exactly what the comedian and his audience thinks about the poor sap wearing the aforementioned bit of bling. He's a loser.

Well, I'm here to tell you a little bit about the rest of the story. You see, I'm fifty, well-educated with a degree that does me little good out in Deepinthehearta, Texas, and I wear a nametag. To work. Every day. Horrible, isn't it? The wearing a nametag part, not the living in Texas part, which really is bad enough all on its own. I'm politically very liberal, you see, and live in the most right-wing county in a right-wing state, and -- but I digress. We'll get back to that another time, shall we?

We're people, too. We have families, friends, interests outside of -- although not always exclusive of -- our work. That's an important distinction, there: if we have been very, very lucky, as much as you think our jobs might suck, we've done something you may only dream of, and that is find a job involving something we are interested in. I'm in the grocery industry, and I'm also a foodie, a very talented cook -- I'm by no means a chef, although my daughter is a culinary arts major in college -- and I enjoy talking to people about food. If you have no idea how to make a perfect Hollandaise sauce without breaking it, I should be your best new friend. But that means you have to dump some of those preconceptions you're so proud of, first.

Like that, because we don't have PhDs -- they don't give them for work in the food industry -- we're stupid. So, how many letters do you have after your name? Probably not many, aside from "Jr." if your Dad ran out of ideas for another name starting with "J" or ending with "-Bob." Most of us don't have degrees we can put on the letterhead with a lot of pride: Phoenix University just doesn't have the clout it did back when it started out. But, does it really matter? Just how smart does a tight grouping of letters after your name make you?

Not very, it turns out. The lady in the scrubs with the security badge identifying her as the Chief of Staff of the local Baylor cardio-pulmonary surgical team found that the hard way when I walked over to diffuse the situation when she started calling my self-checkout lane attendant "stupid" because the lanes were "shit" and never worked right. I made it there as the robot attendant (what we call the computer hiding behind that touch screen) asked for the fourth time for her to "Please select the type of payment." I pressed "credit," it processed the card and spit out her receipt, which I handed her.

"But aren't you going to discipline the checker?" she asked. "She doesn't know what she's doing."

"Excuse me? You're the one who can't follow printed and verbal instructions. And you're a surgeon? Remind me not to go to your hospital if I have a heart attack."

We're there to help. Really, we are. If for no other reason than we can't afford to be unemployed or unemployable. But you've got to help us out here. Throw us a bone.

And we know your secrets. Don't call us names or look down on us, but still expect us not to tell other people.

Like the elderly woman who is the head something-or-other for the town in which my store is located. She asked me a few weeks ago where the restrooms were since she "normally never visited the facilities in this sort of place." I pointed out the restroom door, cleverly hidden behind the sign that said "Restrooms."

A little while later she came flitting back, commending us on our forsight in equipping the restrooms with such luxurious items.

"What did she say?" asked a bagger.

"I'm not sure. I thought something about a 'bidet,' but no..."

A bit later I was called to the management office to talk to our very agitated utility clerk, who spoke little English. He was upset over finding a grey-haired little old lady squatting on the urinal in the men's room about twenty minutes earlier. "But he says she looked very cheerful, so he didn't disturb her," commented one of the managers.

So it's okay. We won't tell your secrets except in self-defense. And we won't go to great lengths to point out just how wrong you are unless we're provoked. We've both got to live here, right?