Okay, so today at work they asked me to cover the people greeter's lunch break and I'm standing by the door smiling at people, offering little kids stickers and occasionally scanning and marking things people want to return. Derek in dairy comes up to me on his own lunch break. Derek is a short, frighteningly energetic teenager who has been working dairy and frozen for a month now and who has spent the last three weeks trying desperately to get someone to let him transfer pretty much *anywhere* that isn't dairy or frozen.
So he comes up while I'm greeting and says, "I want this job! I could do this. I'm great with people. Here! Let me show you how good I am!" So he's standing next to me with his arms folded and a big, huge, scary smile and a blonde walks in, moving fast, and Derek says "Hello!" real friendly. She spins around and gives him the most hateful look, like, "you dare speak to me? DIE VERMIN!" I mean, I think I probably imagined the fangs, but I'm pretty sure she snarled at him.
So I'm laughing hysterically and Derek is all "I don't like this job anymore" in a tiny little voice, and then he sees another blonde coming so he's like, "wait! Wait! I'll get this one! Just check out THESE people skills!" She walks past, he gives her a big smile and a friendly hello . . . and she breezes past like he's not even there.
After that there were two or three groups of people and a few of them noticed him in a "better edge away from the maniacally smiling little guy there" kind of way and that bolstered his confidence. And then this big, scary guy came in. He kind of reminded me of Bluto if Bluto'd been a hunchback with a peg leg and a squint. Also, I suspect he was drunk. He comes in and Derek says "hi!" all big and friendly. The scary guy wanders around in a circle in front of the greeter's station, rattles the hand baskets like he wants one but maybe can't figure out how to pick it up, staggers into the newspaper rack, then lurches right over next to Derek, squints up at him and croaks, "baskets?"
Derek's leaning back going, "uhghgn" so I point towards the carts and say "they're over there" and the guy gives me a fishy stare, wanders over towards the baskets, then lurches back up to Derek, squints up at him again for several seconds, then staggers out around him and disappears in the direction of deli.
I'm like, "Derek, you're really good at this!" and he's like, "oh, shut up! I'll get it. Watch me now!" So a group comes through and he smiles and says hi and they pass without anyone paying any attention to him. Then a second group comes in and the same thing happens and then a third. At that point, our would-be people greeter gave it up and went back to lunch.
I think he was discouraged, but I was highly amused. :D
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Cool New Blog
I came across this via Bookshelves of Doom. In response to Juan Williams' comments about Muslim garb (and the insane level of hatred against Muslims in general that has been spewed by the uninformed ever since 9/11), this blogger is posting Pictures of Muslims Wearing Things.
The first Muslims I ever knew, back in Columbia, Missouri, in the mid-eighties, tended to wear Taco Bell uniforms. Talk about scary clothing! Those were the days when the uniforms were made out of half-inch thick, plasticey polyster in a lovely dried-blood burgundy with orange and green stripes. Nice people though. I wonder where they are now and I hope they're okay. Ahlem and Zahra both had babies while I knew them. It's strange to think those kids are in their twenties now! Time sure does fly.
The first Muslims I ever knew, back in Columbia, Missouri, in the mid-eighties, tended to wear Taco Bell uniforms. Talk about scary clothing! Those were the days when the uniforms were made out of half-inch thick, plasticey polyster in a lovely dried-blood burgundy with orange and green stripes. Nice people though. I wonder where they are now and I hope they're okay. Ahlem and Zahra both had babies while I knew them. It's strange to think those kids are in their twenties now! Time sure does fly.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Public Humiliation
So. The Rejectionist is having one of her "uncontests" today, in honor of the beginning of banned book week. The idea is for readers to post embarrassing exerpts of their early writing on their own blog and then link to it in the commments section of her blog. Alas, I have no early writing samples. So, never being one to have the sense to avoid a chance for public humiliation, I thought I'd tell a story instead.
I went, first through eighth grades, to a small rural elementary school called Leesville R-IX. It's been expanded in the decades since I was a "bluebird", but when I started the kindergarten, first and second grades were conducted in a partitioned-off corner of the gymn (which was also the auditorium and the cafeteria)and the library was in a strange little, wedge-shaped closet at the bend in the hallway. Every classroom held two grades, we recited the Pledge of Allegiance every morning and probably the worst trouble you could get into was for taking the name of the Lord in vain.
Our principal was a lady named Mrs. Thompson, who had taught at a one-room schoolhouse before Leesville was built. She was a tall, stern, woman who brooked no nonsense from anyone. She always dressed properly in a skirt or dress, wore nylons and sensible, dark shoes, and was the first woman I ever knew who wore makeup. Looking back now, I know she was a kind and dedicated woman who cared deeply about the students under her protection, and I credit her with the high standards that Leesville adhered to and that gave us all a strong education, at least in the basics of reading, writing, and arithmatic.
In grade school, I was in awe of her.
When I was nine, Mrs. Thompson called all the fourth through eighth grade girls into the auditorium (no longer, by that time, doubling as a classroom). There were maybe 100 students in the whole school, and perhaps twenty-five of us, sitting there nervously on grey folding chairs, wondering what we'd done to get in trouble. That we were in trouble, no one questioned. Mrs. Thompson stood in front of us, hands clasped in front of her. She had a light Southern accent and spoke in a high, melodic voice that carried even over the din of a crowded playground. In the subdued silence of that auditorium, it echoed.
She said, "I understand that some of you girls have been talking about periods on the bus and on the playground."
Instand mortification! They'd been talking about periods! Mrs. Thompson knew they'd been talking about periods! And now she was talking about periods! Right out in the open and everything!
"Now, I know that this is something you're learning about, and that it's interesting to you. But you can't be talking about these things where these little boys can hear! These little fourth-grade boys like Ronnie and Radon*, they don't need to hear this sort of thing! I don't mind if you talk about it when you're alone, in the restroom or on a corner of the playground, but I don't want to hear any more about you talking about periods in front of the boys. Do you understand?"
Twenty-five little girls nodded solemnly, still not raising their heads. Avoiding eye contact.
"And, you know, you can also always talk to your teachers and me. You come to us, and we'll be happy to try to explain anything you're confused about. Understand?"
More nodding.
"Okay, well, before we go back to class, do any of you have any questions?"
Twenty-four little girls sat in uncomfortable silence, staring at the concrete floor, ready to die rather than involve themselves any more than necessary in this discussion. But I did have a question. So I raised my hand and when she called on me, I asked if we could talk about commas . . . .
*Yes, his name was really Radon, like the gas. ;)
I went, first through eighth grades, to a small rural elementary school called Leesville R-IX. It's been expanded in the decades since I was a "bluebird", but when I started the kindergarten, first and second grades were conducted in a partitioned-off corner of the gymn (which was also the auditorium and the cafeteria)and the library was in a strange little, wedge-shaped closet at the bend in the hallway. Every classroom held two grades, we recited the Pledge of Allegiance every morning and probably the worst trouble you could get into was for taking the name of the Lord in vain.
Our principal was a lady named Mrs. Thompson, who had taught at a one-room schoolhouse before Leesville was built. She was a tall, stern, woman who brooked no nonsense from anyone. She always dressed properly in a skirt or dress, wore nylons and sensible, dark shoes, and was the first woman I ever knew who wore makeup. Looking back now, I know she was a kind and dedicated woman who cared deeply about the students under her protection, and I credit her with the high standards that Leesville adhered to and that gave us all a strong education, at least in the basics of reading, writing, and arithmatic.
In grade school, I was in awe of her.
When I was nine, Mrs. Thompson called all the fourth through eighth grade girls into the auditorium (no longer, by that time, doubling as a classroom). There were maybe 100 students in the whole school, and perhaps twenty-five of us, sitting there nervously on grey folding chairs, wondering what we'd done to get in trouble. That we were in trouble, no one questioned. Mrs. Thompson stood in front of us, hands clasped in front of her. She had a light Southern accent and spoke in a high, melodic voice that carried even over the din of a crowded playground. In the subdued silence of that auditorium, it echoed.
She said, "I understand that some of you girls have been talking about periods on the bus and on the playground."
Instand mortification! They'd been talking about periods! Mrs. Thompson knew they'd been talking about periods! And now she was talking about periods! Right out in the open and everything!
"Now, I know that this is something you're learning about, and that it's interesting to you. But you can't be talking about these things where these little boys can hear! These little fourth-grade boys like Ronnie and Radon*, they don't need to hear this sort of thing! I don't mind if you talk about it when you're alone, in the restroom or on a corner of the playground, but I don't want to hear any more about you talking about periods in front of the boys. Do you understand?"
Twenty-five little girls nodded solemnly, still not raising their heads. Avoiding eye contact.
"And, you know, you can also always talk to your teachers and me. You come to us, and we'll be happy to try to explain anything you're confused about. Understand?"
More nodding.
"Okay, well, before we go back to class, do any of you have any questions?"
Twenty-four little girls sat in uncomfortable silence, staring at the concrete floor, ready to die rather than involve themselves any more than necessary in this discussion. But I did have a question. So I raised my hand and when she called on me, I asked if we could talk about commas . . . .
*Yes, his name was really Radon, like the gas. ;)
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Once Upon a Time . . .
Once upon a time there was a rich and powerful king who had an uncommonly hideous daughter (but she had a wonderful personality!). The king was rather partial to his cups, which explains a lot about the queen, and didn't notice that his only offspring was less than lovely, being that he remained continually drunk until she was sixteen.
Terribly lonely and lacking suitors, the young princess hit upon a plan. First, she watered down her father's wine until he grew sober in spite of himself. He looked at his sole heiress and cried out "aaaaiiiiii!!"
When he had gotten hold of himself she sobbed to him, "Oh, Father! Help me! For I have been turned into a hideous ogre by an evil witch and only a kiss -- a really, really passionate kiss -- from a man of courage and true heart can turn me back to my own true form."
The king cried out, "oh! My poor child! We can't have this! Send out a proclamation that whomesoever can undo this curse visited upon my daughter shall have her hand in marriage and half my kingdom! Gods, I need a drink!"
So they sent out a proclamation and young men came from far and wide to try to save the princess and win her hand. None of them ever succeeded, of course, but the princess got a lot of action and eventually married a very nice, very nearsighted poet who believed that she had a beautiful soul.
The king remained cheerfully intoxicated for the rest of his life. The women of the kingdom discovered the fashion possibilities of warts and arm flaps and they all lived happily ever after.
The end!
Terribly lonely and lacking suitors, the young princess hit upon a plan. First, she watered down her father's wine until he grew sober in spite of himself. He looked at his sole heiress and cried out "aaaaiiiiii!!"
When he had gotten hold of himself she sobbed to him, "Oh, Father! Help me! For I have been turned into a hideous ogre by an evil witch and only a kiss -- a really, really passionate kiss -- from a man of courage and true heart can turn me back to my own true form."
The king cried out, "oh! My poor child! We can't have this! Send out a proclamation that whomesoever can undo this curse visited upon my daughter shall have her hand in marriage and half my kingdom! Gods, I need a drink!"
So they sent out a proclamation and young men came from far and wide to try to save the princess and win her hand. None of them ever succeeded, of course, but the princess got a lot of action and eventually married a very nice, very nearsighted poet who believed that she had a beautiful soul.
The king remained cheerfully intoxicated for the rest of his life. The women of the kingdom discovered the fashion possibilities of warts and arm flaps and they all lived happily ever after.
The end!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
On Second Thought, I Write Like Myself
Yesterday I posted a link to a silly little meme that's supposed to analyze your writing and tell you "who you write like". Today I came across this blog post, by a blogger who analyzed it, discovered that of the forty authors included in the program there are 37 white men, three white women and no persons of color whatsoever. She politely contacted the author of the meme to point this out and the snotty answer she got is beyond belief.
I'm sorry I ever mentioned the stupid thing! From now on, I'll write like myself, thank you.
I'm sorry I ever mentioned the stupid thing! From now on, I'll write like myself, thank you.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Apparently
I write like
David Foster Wallace
David Foster Wallace
I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!
And here I was hoping for Tolkien! Dang! Seriously, I wonder how they come up with this stuff? I stole the link from GhostFolk's blog, btw. ;)
Monday, June 7, 2010
Weird Weekend
It started on Friday when a couple came up to me, horrified, and said, "those people over there are biting the corn and putting it back!" I walked over to where I could watch about five or six rednecks going through the corn and when they walked away I went through the display. Sure enough, I found bitten corn.
Then, on Saturday morning, it took me half an hour to get through the construction on Mile-Long Bridge while, in front of me, a slow-motion running battle of illegal passing, cutting one another off and screaming threats and obscenities took place between two guys in white SUVs, a motorcycle gang that had cut in line, and a guy driving an "Esser's E-Z-GO" tanker truck. (Esser's provides porta-potties to construction sites.)
Later, at work, I walked around the end of an aisle in time to see a man casually pop open a container of grape tomatoes, dig out a handful, put the container back on the shelf and stroll away tossing tomatoes into his mouth. Normally I wouldn't say anything. We have security and if they choose not to act on petty shoplifting that's their call, but the guy was so brazen about it that I was shocked into speaking and I think I scared him. I hope I embarrassed him! Seriously! He could at least carry it around in his cart and pretend like he's going to buy it and then ditch the empty container in "lawn and garden" the way everyone else does!
Our night manager wasn't feeling well, so he lent me his key so I could take out the organics recyclables without him. (We keep our rotting fruits and vegetables and dairy products under strict lock and key!) When I tracked him down to return it he was in the midst of a crowd at the service desk watching four paramedics tend to a semi-conscious woman who was lying on the floor. There were two ambulances with their lights going parked outside the front door and a state trooper came in while I was there.
The story I eventually got was that two groups of about five young people each (late teens, early twenties) were following each other around the store trading insults and threats. A person from one group made a comment about a member of the other group's pants being baggy and they acted like they were going to fight. Being outside, I missed the panicked calls for help from the service desk. (I also missed seeing Mitch The Night Support Manager Who Looks Like Ben Franklin run. This is kind of like missing Haley's Comet.) Anyway, somebody called the police and the stress of their impending arrival apparently triggered one young woman's seizure.
While the paramedics were loading her on a gurney I looked over and noticed my friend Cecil The People Greeter (Cecil is a woman, btw) standing at the customer service desk, about three feet from the action, talking to one of the girls at the desk. Now, you have to understand that Cecil knows everyone and everything that goes on in Benton County. She frequently tells me about them as if she thinks I know who everyone is too. ("See that guy in the green? That's that brother of Myra Staple's husband, the one that was married to Claire that used to work in shoes until she found out he was having an affair with Carol Brooke's niece and she stripped their bank account and left him for that guy she met on the Internet who . . . .") I ran into Cecil a little later, after everyone was gone except for the state trooper, and I asked her what exactly had happened. She told me that a bunch of people were going to fight over baggy pants and I said that I knew that, but what about the girl who had the seizure?
Cecil didn't know what I was talking about. She hadn't seen any girl and hadn't noticed the paramedics who were working right by her feet. Not only hadn't she noticed them, I don't think she believed me that they even existed!
So, in the course of two days we had The Perfidious Corn Biters, Road Rage on the Mile-Long-Bridge, The Naughty Tomato Nosher, The Manager's Malaise, The Baggy Pants Fight Club, Running Rare, and The Case of the Oblivious People Greeter.
And they tell me it wasn't a full moon!
Then, on Saturday morning, it took me half an hour to get through the construction on Mile-Long Bridge while, in front of me, a slow-motion running battle of illegal passing, cutting one another off and screaming threats and obscenities took place between two guys in white SUVs, a motorcycle gang that had cut in line, and a guy driving an "Esser's E-Z-GO" tanker truck. (Esser's provides porta-potties to construction sites.)
Later, at work, I walked around the end of an aisle in time to see a man casually pop open a container of grape tomatoes, dig out a handful, put the container back on the shelf and stroll away tossing tomatoes into his mouth. Normally I wouldn't say anything. We have security and if they choose not to act on petty shoplifting that's their call, but the guy was so brazen about it that I was shocked into speaking and I think I scared him. I hope I embarrassed him! Seriously! He could at least carry it around in his cart and pretend like he's going to buy it and then ditch the empty container in "lawn and garden" the way everyone else does!
Our night manager wasn't feeling well, so he lent me his key so I could take out the organics recyclables without him. (We keep our rotting fruits and vegetables and dairy products under strict lock and key!) When I tracked him down to return it he was in the midst of a crowd at the service desk watching four paramedics tend to a semi-conscious woman who was lying on the floor. There were two ambulances with their lights going parked outside the front door and a state trooper came in while I was there.
The story I eventually got was that two groups of about five young people each (late teens, early twenties) were following each other around the store trading insults and threats. A person from one group made a comment about a member of the other group's pants being baggy and they acted like they were going to fight. Being outside, I missed the panicked calls for help from the service desk. (I also missed seeing Mitch The Night Support Manager Who Looks Like Ben Franklin run. This is kind of like missing Haley's Comet.) Anyway, somebody called the police and the stress of their impending arrival apparently triggered one young woman's seizure.
While the paramedics were loading her on a gurney I looked over and noticed my friend Cecil The People Greeter (Cecil is a woman, btw) standing at the customer service desk, about three feet from the action, talking to one of the girls at the desk. Now, you have to understand that Cecil knows everyone and everything that goes on in Benton County. She frequently tells me about them as if she thinks I know who everyone is too. ("See that guy in the green? That's that brother of Myra Staple's husband, the one that was married to Claire that used to work in shoes until she found out he was having an affair with Carol Brooke's niece and she stripped their bank account and left him for that guy she met on the Internet who . . . .") I ran into Cecil a little later, after everyone was gone except for the state trooper, and I asked her what exactly had happened. She told me that a bunch of people were going to fight over baggy pants and I said that I knew that, but what about the girl who had the seizure?
Cecil didn't know what I was talking about. She hadn't seen any girl and hadn't noticed the paramedics who were working right by her feet. Not only hadn't she noticed them, I don't think she believed me that they even existed!
So, in the course of two days we had The Perfidious Corn Biters, Road Rage on the Mile-Long-Bridge, The Naughty Tomato Nosher, The Manager's Malaise, The Baggy Pants Fight Club, Running Rare, and The Case of the Oblivious People Greeter.
And they tell me it wasn't a full moon!
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Tales From the Customer Service Desk
My friend Stacy, who works at the customer service desk, has been telling me stories. Some of them are just too good not to share.
ONE
An elderly lady called the service desk and asked if we'd gotten any more corn in. Stacy assured her that we had.
Caller: That's good. You know, we looked at your corn the other day and there's something wrong with it. Did you know it's white?
Stacy: Yes, ma'am. It's white corn. It's supposed to be white.
Caller: White corn? I've never heard of such a thing. And it was so hard! I went over there and poked at it, and you know, I just don't think I could have chewed it.
Stacy: . . . you do know that you have to cook it first, right?
She didn't. She said she'd never heard of such a thing. Stacy gave her directions for boiling it. She (Stacy) said she wasn't about to try to tell her how to grill it.
TWO
A man called wanting advice about his "two stage, sit down transformer", but he didn't know what department he needed. Stacy didn't know what a two stage, sit down transformer was. He said it was "a thing". She asked him what he uses it for. He said "all kinds of stuff".
THREE
A lady called and told Stacy that she's nursing and she's developed a rash. She wanted to know if there's an anti-histimine she can take while breastfeeding. (We really need better health care in this country!)
FOUR
A teenage girl called to ask if she could re-use old earrings to get her ears pierced rather than buy a new kit. Stacy told her no, sorry, against health regulations. The girl said, "but I'm trying to do it at home and it's bleeding and it hurts!" (Heather in jewelry claims this is not an unusual request, btw.)
and FIVE
A woman called. She found a little blue pill on her bathroom floor. She didn't know what it was and wanted to know whether or not she should take it.
ONE
An elderly lady called the service desk and asked if we'd gotten any more corn in. Stacy assured her that we had.
Caller: That's good. You know, we looked at your corn the other day and there's something wrong with it. Did you know it's white?
Stacy: Yes, ma'am. It's white corn. It's supposed to be white.
Caller: White corn? I've never heard of such a thing. And it was so hard! I went over there and poked at it, and you know, I just don't think I could have chewed it.
Stacy: . . . you do know that you have to cook it first, right?
She didn't. She said she'd never heard of such a thing. Stacy gave her directions for boiling it. She (Stacy) said she wasn't about to try to tell her how to grill it.
TWO
A man called wanting advice about his "two stage, sit down transformer", but he didn't know what department he needed. Stacy didn't know what a two stage, sit down transformer was. He said it was "a thing". She asked him what he uses it for. He said "all kinds of stuff".
THREE
A lady called and told Stacy that she's nursing and she's developed a rash. She wanted to know if there's an anti-histimine she can take while breastfeeding. (We really need better health care in this country!)
FOUR
A teenage girl called to ask if she could re-use old earrings to get her ears pierced rather than buy a new kit. Stacy told her no, sorry, against health regulations. The girl said, "but I'm trying to do it at home and it's bleeding and it hurts!" (Heather in jewelry claims this is not an unusual request, btw.)
and FIVE
A woman called. She found a little blue pill on her bathroom floor. She didn't know what it was and wanted to know whether or not she should take it.
Like a Rocket to Heaven
Last Sunday promising young Warsaw, Missouri, sprint car driver Jesse "The Rocket" Hockett won his third race in three days. Last Wednesday, while preparing his trailer for a busy schedule of Memorial Day weekend races, he died in a freak electrical accident. He was only 27 and had just been married a matter of months.
I didn't know Jesse, though I'm sure I've seen him hundreds of times. His mother and grandmother-in-law, however, are both friends and co-workers. I'd like to extend to both of them, and to all his friends and family members, my deepest condolences.
I didn't know Jesse, though I'm sure I've seen him hundreds of times. His mother and grandmother-in-law, however, are both friends and co-workers. I'd like to extend to both of them, and to all his friends and family members, my deepest condolences.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Things I Keep Telling People
. . . in case they come in handy for anyone reading this.
1. Unlike many other fruits, strawberries do not ripen further after picking. If you buy green bananas they will last longer. If you buy green strawberries they will still be green when you either eat them or throw them away. Generally darker berries will be sweeter. You can tell that strawberries are going bad if there's mold (of course) or if they're starting to get drippy.
2. When buying corn on the cob, a dry husk does not necessarily mean the corn is bad. Look for plump kernels without dimples. The cob should be filled out all the way to the end. A fat, heavy ear of corn is better than a slender, lightweight ear.
The sugar in sweet corn begins to turn to starch the instant it's picked, so the less time between picking and cooking the better. You can't always tell fresher corn by looking. The bright, pretty green ears of corn just out of the produce cooler might be every bit as old as the ones that have been sitting out on the sales floor for three days while the husk turned papery. Your best bet is to find out where the corn is from. Corn that was grown close to wherever you are will always be better than corn that has been shipped in from far away.
Finally, if you are putting ears of corn into a plastic bag, especially one of the thin ones at the supermarket, put the corn tassel side down and it will not slice a hole in the bag.
3. When buying watermelons, the rind should be firm and not have any give to it. Yellow on the melon means it remained in the field long enough for the sugars to start coming through the rind. The more yellow, the sweeter the melon will be. Don't thump it for sound while it's laying down, or on a pile of melons. It will pick up the tones from its surroundings. Pick it up and give it a solid rap with the tips of your fingers. You will not be able to tell anything by slapping it gently, as I see so many people do. What you're listening for is a good, hollow tone like a drum. I like for watermelons to sound with a medium C or B flat tone, maybe a D. It should echo. The more high-pitched the tone, the greener the melon. The deeper the tone, the riper the melon. If it just gives a dull "thud" then the melon is overripe and the flesh will be mushy. Usually, by this time, the rind is starting to go soft as well.
4. If you're buying fruit that is pre-packed in a plastic bag and if it's not cold, avoid buying fruit that has moisture droplets inside the bag. If the bag has just been brought into a warm room from a cooler, the moisture is probably just condensation. But if the bag is room temperature and there is moisture, it means something in the bag is going bad.
5. Granny Smith and Jonathon are classic baking apples; however, you can cook with almost any variety of apple except Red Delicious. It has a high water content and will turn to mush when heated.
6. If you need potassium and don't like/can't get bananas, never fear. A serving of kiwifruit (two fruits) has more potassium than a medium banana and also more vitamin C than a grapefruit.
7. When buying grapes, the rule of thumb is that darker is sweeter. Red is sweeter than white/green and black is sweeter than red.
1. Unlike many other fruits, strawberries do not ripen further after picking. If you buy green bananas they will last longer. If you buy green strawberries they will still be green when you either eat them or throw them away. Generally darker berries will be sweeter. You can tell that strawberries are going bad if there's mold (of course) or if they're starting to get drippy.
2. When buying corn on the cob, a dry husk does not necessarily mean the corn is bad. Look for plump kernels without dimples. The cob should be filled out all the way to the end. A fat, heavy ear of corn is better than a slender, lightweight ear.
The sugar in sweet corn begins to turn to starch the instant it's picked, so the less time between picking and cooking the better. You can't always tell fresher corn by looking. The bright, pretty green ears of corn just out of the produce cooler might be every bit as old as the ones that have been sitting out on the sales floor for three days while the husk turned papery. Your best bet is to find out where the corn is from. Corn that was grown close to wherever you are will always be better than corn that has been shipped in from far away.
Finally, if you are putting ears of corn into a plastic bag, especially one of the thin ones at the supermarket, put the corn tassel side down and it will not slice a hole in the bag.
3. When buying watermelons, the rind should be firm and not have any give to it. Yellow on the melon means it remained in the field long enough for the sugars to start coming through the rind. The more yellow, the sweeter the melon will be. Don't thump it for sound while it's laying down, or on a pile of melons. It will pick up the tones from its surroundings. Pick it up and give it a solid rap with the tips of your fingers. You will not be able to tell anything by slapping it gently, as I see so many people do. What you're listening for is a good, hollow tone like a drum. I like for watermelons to sound with a medium C or B flat tone, maybe a D. It should echo. The more high-pitched the tone, the greener the melon. The deeper the tone, the riper the melon. If it just gives a dull "thud" then the melon is overripe and the flesh will be mushy. Usually, by this time, the rind is starting to go soft as well.
4. If you're buying fruit that is pre-packed in a plastic bag and if it's not cold, avoid buying fruit that has moisture droplets inside the bag. If the bag has just been brought into a warm room from a cooler, the moisture is probably just condensation. But if the bag is room temperature and there is moisture, it means something in the bag is going bad.
5. Granny Smith and Jonathon are classic baking apples; however, you can cook with almost any variety of apple except Red Delicious. It has a high water content and will turn to mush when heated.
6. If you need potassium and don't like/can't get bananas, never fear. A serving of kiwifruit (two fruits) has more potassium than a medium banana and also more vitamin C than a grapefruit.
7. When buying grapes, the rule of thumb is that darker is sweeter. Red is sweeter than white/green and black is sweeter than red.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Cats are weird!
Okay, so after absolutely detesting the kittens from the day they were born, Layla has suddenly decided she loves the baby kitties. Right now she's crammed herself into an empty Dr. Pepper box and is slapping playfully at Helios and Foggy through the holes. This morning she was sleeping with Persephone and a little while ago she was cuddling the mother cat (Portia) while Portia was feeding the babies.
People are weird too. I've been reading emails people sent to a Missouri ghost hunting group, sharing their stories. I keep seeing (about different places) "this was once part of the underground railroad and the tunnels used to run under all of those houses . . ." Folks, if you don't know this, the underground railroad was, for the most part, not actually underground. Also, there generally weren't real trains involved.
People are weird too. I've been reading emails people sent to a Missouri ghost hunting group, sharing their stories. I keep seeing (about different places) "this was once part of the underground railroad and the tunnels used to run under all of those houses . . ." Folks, if you don't know this, the underground railroad was, for the most part, not actually underground. Also, there generally weren't real trains involved.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The crowds come back
I was three when I moved from Oregon to Missouri with my parents. It was early April and several of my older siblings stayed behind with my aunt and uncle to finish out the school year. Aunt Clem was unhappy that we were moving so far away and told my brothers and sisters horror stories about Missouri - that it was an uncivilized backwoods region filled with uneducated hillbillies. She said all the houses were like Jed Clampett's shack and no one had electricity or indoor plumbing.
The stories seem ridiculous now, but apparently my youngest brother, Danny (he would have been 12) believed them implicitly. They came on in late May or early June and had only been here a day or two when he ran in the house at twilight, all excited and upset. "Dad," he said, "you'd better come outside! I don't know what's going on, but there's a whole crowd of men down on the road with little bitty flashlights!"
There are no fireflies in Oregon, of course.
I was the one drafted to catch some and prove to my disbelieving brother that there really were bugs out there whose butts light up. All these decades later I still remember that story every year when the lightning bugs return. They're back now, fourth this year after daffodils (always first), tree frogs, and early purple iris. Next will come the whippoorwills and then it will be summer for sure.
The stories seem ridiculous now, but apparently my youngest brother, Danny (he would have been 12) believed them implicitly. They came on in late May or early June and had only been here a day or two when he ran in the house at twilight, all excited and upset. "Dad," he said, "you'd better come outside! I don't know what's going on, but there's a whole crowd of men down on the road with little bitty flashlights!"
There are no fireflies in Oregon, of course.
I was the one drafted to catch some and prove to my disbelieving brother that there really were bugs out there whose butts light up. All these decades later I still remember that story every year when the lightning bugs return. They're back now, fourth this year after daffodils (always first), tree frogs, and early purple iris. Next will come the whippoorwills and then it will be summer for sure.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Monday Night at the Laundromat
When I made my weekly foray into Clinton, to the Laundromat tonight, I wasn't expecting there to be a young man there practicing his guitar. His singing wasn't the greatest (he'd probably improve greatly with a little self-confidence and maybe some breath control lessons), but he could carry a tune and his guitar playing was fantastic. The Laundromat has two televisions, which are kept tuned to some country music cable channel, so I always look forward to Mondays with trepidation. Running into Guitar Man was a definite treat and MUCH better than Extreme Home Makeover (which, seriously! Do they just show the same episode every week? There's always some skinny guy acting insane, then they knock down a house, then they build stuff and then a bunch of people cry.)
Unfortunately, Guitar Man brought along (or perhaps simply attracted) Harmonica Old Guy. Harmonica Old Guy accompanied Guitar Man on his harmonica. Except he couldn't play it. Guitar Man is playing Stairway To Heaven and Free Bird and Harmonica Old Guy is interjecting a high-pitched screech at irregular intervals. Then Harmonica Old Guy confided in me that he can't sing and then he proceded to prove it.
And he wouldn't stop!
He couldn't carry a tune and he didn't know the words (he kept singing "a wretch like me" but not in any way that you'd recognize as being part of Amazing Grace) and he wouldn't shut up! Guitar Man put up his guitar and busied himself with his cell phone and I'm stuck there with a phony smile on my face listening to this guy mumble random lyrics in the tune of "Fingernail on chalkboard". And you know, it's times like this that I really regret that my mother didn't raise me to be someone who can look a stranger in the eye and say, "you know what? You're right! You DO suck! Now do us all a favor and shut the fuck up!"
Aaaarrghh!
Unfortunately, Guitar Man brought along (or perhaps simply attracted) Harmonica Old Guy. Harmonica Old Guy accompanied Guitar Man on his harmonica. Except he couldn't play it. Guitar Man is playing Stairway To Heaven and Free Bird and Harmonica Old Guy is interjecting a high-pitched screech at irregular intervals. Then Harmonica Old Guy confided in me that he can't sing and then he proceded to prove it.
And he wouldn't stop!
He couldn't carry a tune and he didn't know the words (he kept singing "a wretch like me" but not in any way that you'd recognize as being part of Amazing Grace) and he wouldn't shut up! Guitar Man put up his guitar and busied himself with his cell phone and I'm stuck there with a phony smile on my face listening to this guy mumble random lyrics in the tune of "Fingernail on chalkboard". And you know, it's times like this that I really regret that my mother didn't raise me to be someone who can look a stranger in the eye and say, "you know what? You're right! You DO suck! Now do us all a favor and shut the fuck up!"
Aaaarrghh!
I'm a Grandma!
This is Mommy Portia with Fog, Helios and Persephone. Fog (the grey baby of course) and Helios, the dark gold, are tom kittens. The pale gold is Persephone.
Church and State
There's been a lot of talk recently about separation of church and state. As much as I sympathize with the freedom from religion groups, I'd like to point out that a complete and total separation is never going to be possible.
You see, as long as you have politicians you're going to need some form of religion so you can say, **"Oh, my GOD! What in the hell do those damned fools think they're doing? I swear! There isn't one of them who has the sense God gave a chicken! They all claim to be on the side of the angels, but who needs demons when you've got congress? I guess all we can do is pray that the Devil takes the lot of them before they send the whole country to hell in a handbasket!"
**Please feel free to substitute the language of any other religion of your choice.
You see, as long as you have politicians you're going to need some form of religion so you can say, **"Oh, my GOD! What in the hell do those damned fools think they're doing? I swear! There isn't one of them who has the sense God gave a chicken! They all claim to be on the side of the angels, but who needs demons when you've got congress? I guess all we can do is pray that the Devil takes the lot of them before they send the whole country to hell in a handbasket!"
**Please feel free to substitute the language of any other religion of your choice.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Mummified Baby Stolen
I can't decide which part of this story is weirder!
CONCORD, N.H. – The mummified body of a baby, kept by a family for nearly a century before a judge ordered the remains to be buried, has been removed from a cemetery, police said Tuesday.
. . .
Thomas said the police believe the grave was disturbed over the weekend. After seeing evidence of grave-tampering, investigators got a search warrant to exhume the site and found the casket, but not the remains, he said. He said many people have been interviewed and declined to name any suspects.
. . .
Relatives had treated the mummified infant as a family member, giving it cards during holidays and a dried fish as a pet.
CONCORD, N.H. – The mummified body of a baby, kept by a family for nearly a century before a judge ordered the remains to be buried, has been removed from a cemetery, police said Tuesday.
. . .
Thomas said the police believe the grave was disturbed over the weekend. After seeing evidence of grave-tampering, investigators got a search warrant to exhume the site and found the casket, but not the remains, he said. He said many people have been interviewed and declined to name any suspects.
. . .
Relatives had treated the mummified infant as a family member, giving it cards during holidays and a dried fish as a pet.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Dear Persephone
I realize Hades is very sexy, what with that whole, powerful, Dark Lord of the Underworld thing going on. And I know you're going to miss him in the coming months and I sympathize. But a deal's a deal and it's SPRING already!
So kindly get your ass home to Mama!
Aaargh!
All day yesterday there were pale, shaky people coming into Walmart telling us how bad the roads were getting. It was snowing just INSANELY! I have a twenty mile drive over *extremely* bad roads. I'm talking three bridges, two of them under construction, and more hilly curves than I can count. The heater fan has gone out on my car so I have no heat and can barely keep a clear spot on the windshield. The Walmart truck driver came in with a horror story about a multiple fatality accident he passed in the direction I had to travel and my boss wouldn't let me leave while it was still daylight. He just said, "oh, it's not bad. The roads are fine! Just go slow, you won't have any trouble!" He finally let me go an hour early but by that time the roads were completely covered, the temperature had dropped below freezing, it was still snowing heavily and a rising fog had visibility down to zero.
After an hour and a half I finally managed to cover the fifteen miles to where I turn off the highway only to completely miss my turn and go nose-down in a deep ditch. Luckily for me, a guy I went to grade school with happened along right after and was kind enough to go home for a chain and then come back and pull me out. Another twenty minutes or so later I got to my own little dirt road and started to relax. Then I drove over a small tree that had fallen in the road and been buried by the heavy, thick, wet snow. (The trees drooping down across the road from both sides nearly made it impassable as it was.) I don't think I did any damage to my car but I really can't say for sure because I no more than got off the tree and turned into my driveway than I got stuck again. This time I was really stuck and alone, but the car is on my property so I left it and walked the rest of the way. I know it doesn't sound like much, but I have a long, steep driveway, with deep ruts I couldn't see in the dark, buried under a heavy snowfall. Plus, I was already freezing, what with the car heater not working.
I'm sure my manager meant well, but I know the roads I drive, I know my own driving skills and what my car will and will not do. And if the bosses at work won't trust my judgement when I say I need to leave, then next time I wake up to a heavy snowstorm (and may it please not be until next year!) I'm damn well calling in! I'm not going to do this again!
Seriously, Persephone! GO HOME!
So kindly get your ass home to Mama!
Aaargh!
All day yesterday there were pale, shaky people coming into Walmart telling us how bad the roads were getting. It was snowing just INSANELY! I have a twenty mile drive over *extremely* bad roads. I'm talking three bridges, two of them under construction, and more hilly curves than I can count. The heater fan has gone out on my car so I have no heat and can barely keep a clear spot on the windshield. The Walmart truck driver came in with a horror story about a multiple fatality accident he passed in the direction I had to travel and my boss wouldn't let me leave while it was still daylight. He just said, "oh, it's not bad. The roads are fine! Just go slow, you won't have any trouble!" He finally let me go an hour early but by that time the roads were completely covered, the temperature had dropped below freezing, it was still snowing heavily and a rising fog had visibility down to zero.
After an hour and a half I finally managed to cover the fifteen miles to where I turn off the highway only to completely miss my turn and go nose-down in a deep ditch. Luckily for me, a guy I went to grade school with happened along right after and was kind enough to go home for a chain and then come back and pull me out. Another twenty minutes or so later I got to my own little dirt road and started to relax. Then I drove over a small tree that had fallen in the road and been buried by the heavy, thick, wet snow. (The trees drooping down across the road from both sides nearly made it impassable as it was.) I don't think I did any damage to my car but I really can't say for sure because I no more than got off the tree and turned into my driveway than I got stuck again. This time I was really stuck and alone, but the car is on my property so I left it and walked the rest of the way. I know it doesn't sound like much, but I have a long, steep driveway, with deep ruts I couldn't see in the dark, buried under a heavy snowfall. Plus, I was already freezing, what with the car heater not working.
I'm sure my manager meant well, but I know the roads I drive, I know my own driving skills and what my car will and will not do. And if the bosses at work won't trust my judgement when I say I need to leave, then next time I wake up to a heavy snowstorm (and may it please not be until next year!) I'm damn well calling in! I'm not going to do this again!
Seriously, Persephone! GO HOME!
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Dear Sweet, Lovely, Kind Facebook Friends,
Please stop sending me virtual fish. Also virtual pigs, frogs, goats, puppies, bunnies and cherry trees. I cannot handle them.
I'm a bad virtual mommy.
Facebook is a slow site for me. On the rare occasions when I make myself visit it, I can play three to five games of Free Cell while waiting for each page to load. If I go to the imaginary aquarium? Seven games, minimum. I'm not patient enough to even *go* to Facebook very often, and when I do the guilt almost overwhelms me.
I haven't fed those poor damned fish for months now!
Years ago I had a Tamaguchi. It was a pterodactyl. It took 24 hours to hatch from its egg and then, with the absolute best care you could give it, it lived for exactly seven days. I slept with it beside my bed. For a week at a time I would wake up every two hours all night to feed and care for my pterodactyl. I snuck it into work with me. I cried when it died.
I am not the sort of person that wise people give virtual animals to. I don't even have real fish because I don't have time to take care of them. And I wouldn't even have to sit around and play computer solitaire while I waited on *real fish*! They'd be right here all the time (most likely floating belly up while I wondered why the water was cloudy and what was that smell coming from the aereator).
Seriously! I'm having nightmares about those starving virtual fish. I've thought and I've thought and I've thought about what to do. I considered looking for a virtual cat, but then I felt really bad. It's not enough that I'm starving the poor things, but now I'm planning out and out fishicide? Then I thought maybe I could make a 25-mile round trip to the library on a regular basis and use their broadband connection to feed my fish, but that seemed a little extravagan. Hire someone to care for my virtual menagerie? Only if they're willing to work for virtual money! Ask a friend to care for them? Never live THAT down. So finally I came to the conclusion that my only real option is to ask for mercy.
MERCY?!?
I'm a bad virtual mommy.
Facebook is a slow site for me. On the rare occasions when I make myself visit it, I can play three to five games of Free Cell while waiting for each page to load. If I go to the imaginary aquarium? Seven games, minimum. I'm not patient enough to even *go* to Facebook very often, and when I do the guilt almost overwhelms me.
I haven't fed those poor damned fish for months now!
Years ago I had a Tamaguchi. It was a pterodactyl. It took 24 hours to hatch from its egg and then, with the absolute best care you could give it, it lived for exactly seven days. I slept with it beside my bed. For a week at a time I would wake up every two hours all night to feed and care for my pterodactyl. I snuck it into work with me. I cried when it died.
I am not the sort of person that wise people give virtual animals to. I don't even have real fish because I don't have time to take care of them. And I wouldn't even have to sit around and play computer solitaire while I waited on *real fish*! They'd be right here all the time (most likely floating belly up while I wondered why the water was cloudy and what was that smell coming from the aereator).
Seriously! I'm having nightmares about those starving virtual fish. I've thought and I've thought and I've thought about what to do. I considered looking for a virtual cat, but then I felt really bad. It's not enough that I'm starving the poor things, but now I'm planning out and out fishicide? Then I thought maybe I could make a 25-mile round trip to the library on a regular basis and use their broadband connection to feed my fish, but that seemed a little extravagan. Hire someone to care for my virtual menagerie? Only if they're willing to work for virtual money! Ask a friend to care for them? Never live THAT down. So finally I came to the conclusion that my only real option is to ask for mercy.
MERCY?!?
Monday, February 1, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Gary Corby's a Bad Influence
So, for the past couple of days I've been having fun playing in the comments section at Gary Corby's blog. Specifically, this post in which some of us have been joining him in coming up with punny songs for ancient times. For example, I Want A Girl Just Like The Girl That Married Dear Old Dad by Oedipus.
In self defense, the poor man has suggested maybe I should post some of mine here, so brace yourselves and here they are:
Lady Echidna by The Beatles: (Slightly tweaked from the version at Gary's house)
Lady Echidna
Monsters at your feet.
Don't want to think about what they eat.
Lernaean Hydra,
coiled at your breast,
wonders who you're going to feed the rest!
Heracles arrives without a suitcase.
Beware Argos, creeping like a nun.
Send Cerberus down to guard the hot place.
See how folks run!
A few more titles:
Since I Fell For You by Icarus.
Like A Rolling Stone by Sisyphus.
Rock You Like A Hurricane by Poseidon.
Homeward Bound by Odysseus.
Don't Cry For Me, Sweet Niobe
If You Think I'm Sexy by Narcissus.
and a duet by Nelson Eddy and Echo: When I'm Calling You- ooo-ooo-ooo! Ooo-ooo-oo! Ooo-ooo-ooo!
And finally, the song I woke up with and have had stuck in my head all day. (I'm going to record an audio version. If I can figure out how I'll post it later. Consider yourselves warned!)
(To the tune of Battle Hymn of the Republic)
Ooooooooh
my! Have you read the story
of the mating of the gods?
There was Zeus and all his girlfriends.
It was really pretty odd!
Seems the big guy liked to bonk things
that were hooved and furred and clawed.
When all roads led to Rome!
Ooooooooh!
He fell in love with Io and
I swear she was a cow!
It seems that there was nothing
his mores would not allow.
Then they called him "an Olympian"
We'd call him "redneck" now!
And all roads lead to Rome!
Weeeellll,
In his pursuit of Romance,
Zeus was always very bold
He made love to Princess Danae as
a shining shower of gold
Though I always wondered how the hell
The story never told.
And all roads lead to Rome!
Soooooo,
I guess that in the old days
they were not afraid of sin.
Get caught making love to Fido?
Say, "the gods tricked me again!"
They loved wine and song and sex and
bestiality was in
When all roads led to Rome!
In self defense, the poor man has suggested maybe I should post some of mine here, so brace yourselves and here they are:
Lady Echidna by The Beatles: (Slightly tweaked from the version at Gary's house)
Lady Echidna
Monsters at your feet.
Don't want to think about what they eat.
Lernaean Hydra,
coiled at your breast,
wonders who you're going to feed the rest!
Heracles arrives without a suitcase.
Beware Argos, creeping like a nun.
Send Cerberus down to guard the hot place.
See how folks run!
A few more titles:
Since I Fell For You by Icarus.
Like A Rolling Stone by Sisyphus.
Rock You Like A Hurricane by Poseidon.
Homeward Bound by Odysseus.
Don't Cry For Me, Sweet Niobe
If You Think I'm Sexy by Narcissus.
and a duet by Nelson Eddy and Echo: When I'm Calling You- ooo-ooo-ooo! Ooo-ooo-oo! Ooo-ooo-ooo!
And finally, the song I woke up with and have had stuck in my head all day. (I'm going to record an audio version. If I can figure out how I'll post it later. Consider yourselves warned!)
(To the tune of Battle Hymn of the Republic)
Ooooooooh
my! Have you read the story
of the mating of the gods?
There was Zeus and all his girlfriends.
It was really pretty odd!
Seems the big guy liked to bonk things
that were hooved and furred and clawed.
When all roads led to Rome!
Ooooooooh!
He fell in love with Io and
I swear she was a cow!
It seems that there was nothing
his mores would not allow.
Then they called him "an Olympian"
We'd call him "redneck" now!
And all roads lead to Rome!
Weeeellll,
In his pursuit of Romance,
Zeus was always very bold
He made love to Princess Danae as
a shining shower of gold
Though I always wondered how the hell
The story never told.
And all roads lead to Rome!
Soooooo,
I guess that in the old days
they were not afraid of sin.
Get caught making love to Fido?
Say, "the gods tricked me again!"
They loved wine and song and sex and
bestiality was in
When all roads led to Rome!
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Pass, past, passe
Okay, I'm probably preaching to the choir here (or talking to the wall), but I've been wandering around the Internet for the last couple of days and I keep seeing the same words misused again and again so I thought I'd point it out.
Goofing off on the Internet is a pastime, not a passed time.
Someone who has died has passed away, not past away.
"I saw something run past me," not "I saw something run passed me."
"We hung around and passed time," not, "we hung around and past time."
Goofing off on the Internet is a pastime, not a passed time.
Someone who has died has passed away, not past away.
"I saw something run past me," not "I saw something run passed me."
"We hung around and passed time," not, "we hung around and past time."
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