Sorry, No Autographs Please!

 

Writing courses for me weren’t very beneficial - but why did I pursue these courses?  Was I looking to become a famous author?  Of course I was.

I have enrolled in three writing courses, the earliest I recollect quite clearly, and humorous to say the least.  The first one was three years ago.  It was during the summer months, we gathered at a fine hotel downtown in a fairly large room, however, only a few people showed.  The speaker wore Bermuda shorts and donned a Hawaiian shirt (I was suspicious at this point thinking this was possibly a time-share sales rip-off gathering, expecting free tickets to Marine land).  But, it was a writing course, only problem was the guy bragged endlessly about his publications, including his book tours, offers from publishers, “too much work with too little time”, he kept stating.  I sat perplexed thinking, why was he teaching a course in my little city to a group of 7 people?  He continuously stood in front of the overhead, so his figure was on the white board.  He loved this white board, used assorted colored markers for stats (stats for writing?).  Also, PowerPoint pie charts seemed to appeal to him, but not to all of us who would have given anything for a pillow at this point (boring!). I learned nothing from this “wealth-of-knowledge” person and a waste for my $69.50 + tax.

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My next course, about a year later, was inside our downtown library, taught by a woman who was the editor of a farming newsletter.  As she was speaking, my mind was wandering (I do this often-a major flaw in character) thinking, how much could you write about to include in a 2 or 3 page farm weekly newsletter?  I suppose it would be of interest to farmers.   The course proceeded nicely; we were split into groups and given mini assignments.  The only negative was that the instructor appeared to have run out of material, thereby killing two hours at Arby’s, chomping on two orders of roast beef sandwiches, working on an assignment to present to the class in the last half of the day.  Overall though, I did take away some knowledge.

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My third course was put on by a fellow who looked like Perry Mason.  He co-authored a book (forgot the title but something along the lines of “Writing the Perfect Novel”).  The book had a picture of an orange peel as a smile on the cover, which I found a tad odd.  The session was only scheduled from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m., with a few people chastised for arriving at 9:10.  The most inviting part of this session were the huge jugs of ice water, as somehow at presentations I always become thirsty.  The seats were most uncomfortable reminding me of classroom seating, and this was a hotel; so most disappointing.  This aside, the session was a total waste of money and time, as this bozo stood there mostly reading exerts from his “book”.  I was surprised he didn’t have a stack of his books in the wings ready for purchase, already autographed for quick delivery.

Brand new to all of this writing quite a few years back, I still had the smarts to know this guy was shoveling hogwash.  He probably paid to have “Perfect Novel” published.

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My last and final attempt at a course was with the local college.  I was excited about a 4-week online course, but as luck would have it, I needed a student code to register and hounded the college with phone calls, and all to no avail.

So, forget the courses, I will plod along on my own.  My intention is not to have a career in journalism; I enjoy this as a hobby and don’t want to contend with deadlines and such.

Actually, not to brag, (yes, I am) I have been published.  And so, where does this leave me now?  Donning my Collections hat by day, a couple of writing credentials at hand, and having a helluva time writing for fun in my blog.

 

THE 1 – 10 ITEMS OR LESS SCAM

The 1-10 Items or Less Scam.  Evidently people can’t count.  The 1-10 items cashier was designed to allow customers with fewer items not to be penalized and standing in a line where other customer had 20-30 items.  But you forever have someone who doesn’t play by the 1-10 rules.  It’s not a crisis if they sneak 1 or 2 extra items, but it’s the moron who starts unloading his basket of 15+.  The cashier reminds this person, who goes into the whole “confused’ routine, but still agrees to process his order.  I suspect a scam and I deduce other customers can be found all over town committing “THE 1-10 ITEMS SCAM”!

Self-bagging at the “lesser expensive” grocery stores for me is nerve racking to say the least, and requires great talent, at which I do not possess.  I am slow bagging my groceries and will acknowledge it.  I typically get that smile-hurry-up look from the cashier that I am holding up the line, as she processed the customer behind me, and waiting for the next customer’s groceries after that.  Meanwhile, I’m sweating profusely.  All of this over groceries?  My wish is to return back to the olden days when they bagged your groceries in nice paper bags; sometimes even carrying them out to your car.

 

THE BP CUFF: There’s a moral of a story here…..

 

 

 

 

At the drugstore.  At the drugstore, you ask?  Not much goes on there apart from prescription filling.

 

Well try this on for size – how about getting your arm wedged in the drug store’s blood pressure apparatus.  Yep, you heard right.

 

I went to my drugstore to have a prescription filled.  Whilst waiting I became bored looking at the vitamin section and spotted a portable blood pressure machine.  Glancing at the instructions, I thought this was a fine idea and could compare these numbers with my doctor’s machine.

 

Having arms that are chubby to say the least, I stuffed my arm into the circular cuff.  Instantly, after pressing the green button the cuff inflated at a rapid pace.  The cuff was becoming tighter and tighter, and my arm was becoming redder and redder.  I yelled for the pharmacy assistant, but incapable to offering help, paged the store manager.  “Would Bob please come to the pharmacy immediately”.  Bob arrived promptly, and even he was powerless to remove my now crimson arm.  I felt so trapped – I was so trapped.  He raced to fetch some tools, returned to unscrew the cuff – and phew! finally I had my arm back.

 

Throughout these moments, a small crowd gathered, whispering at what was a comical situation.  I was so humiliated, and not at all flabbergasted if my BP was 250/150!  I’ll only permit my doctor to take it after this lesson.

 

Moral of the story: if you have a fat arm don’t stick it in uncertain waters!

Hey Lady….You Look Like A SKUNK!!!

I always longed for streaks in my hair, admiring other women who had them.  Not the big adventurous type, I kept putting it off.  Then one day, I glanced in the mirror, saw far too much gray and made a decision right then and there to take the plunge.  Previously, I had been dying my hair box-style from the pharmacy shelves; a true pain-in-the-neck practice.

An older woman downtown owned this small hair salon.  Cutting my hair on a regular basis for some time, I was impressed with her knowledge, and booked an appointment for streaks and color.  I discovered that in today’s society they are not called ‘streaks’, but now ‘highlights’.  Hey, I was a teen in the ‘70’s.  I phoned prior and quoted $48.00 for color and highlights.  I thought this a little low in price as phoning around everyone else’s price was higher.  But, I was used to this woman’s talent and went with her.

Arriving, I repeated, “$48.00 for BOTH”, she replied, “NO, that’s just for permanent color”.  Then she said, “I’m feeling generous today, I will do both for $48.00”.  Hmmm, bells should have gone off…was this too good to be true?

She applied the color, which turned out very nice, dried my hair, fluffed it up a bit and now was the time for the highlights.  Here goes…  She began parting my hair on top…just on top, first mixing this white goop.  Then applied these foils, but only on top, and only down the middle.  I really didn’t question as I thought, maybe this is the way you do highlights.  The foils were in place, she applied the goop, and I did ask, “what about the sides”, she replied – “this is the way I do it”.  And so, I waited and waited for the goop to do its thing – read a couple of ho-hum magazines chiefly ignoring the models with trim figures, placed under the dryer and waited some more.  The time had come…drum roll…  She removed the foils and TA DA! I didn’t observe at first, but did deem it too blonde.  Subsequently, more blow-drying.  I kept staring, my eyes as big as saucers, and was almost in tears.  Fluffing my hair up and all excited stating, “aren’t you excited with your new look?”   UUUUGH – no.  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing – I LOOKED LIKE A SKUNK!  I HAD A MOHAWK!

I don’t know why, but I paid my $48.00 bargain and ridicule quickly leaving the salon.  Wondering if it was perchance just the mirrors in the salon, I sought to assure myself that perhaps I really didn’t look this way, and took every opportunity to gaze at my reflection in store windows.  EEEK, yes, this was genuine and gruesome looking.

My husband, arriving home to find a wife with a whole new look, found a woman with brown and blonde hair resembling a skunk with a Mohawk, and in tears.

So my next move: to refurbish this baby.  Should I do the pharmacy box color, or play safe and visit a different salon?  I knew better than to approach the ‘bargain lady’, and instead phoned a few salons crying on their shoulders recounting my disaster.  Two salons both advised that using box color to patch up the blond would result in green hair!!! Oh gasp!  Also, my $48.00 bargain would have resulted in $175 to repair a possible green hair touch-up.

To conclude, the new salon did an excellent job and although the procedure took hours, the blonde chaos was repaired, re-colored and lastly my hair highlighted properly.  I was thrilled.

  

DOG-EARED MAGAZINES & THE WAITING ROOM

The wait in a doctor’s waiting room can on occasion be short and sweet, rarely happening to me, or, you can bring camping gear to set up for the day.  You recognize you are in a dilemma when, after driving two hours and upon arriving, the receptionist slides the plexi-glass window, takes your name, shuffles through files and says, “Were you scheduled for an appointment today?” a sudden fright is felt.  “Yes, at 11:00 a.m.”  “Hmmm…How do you spell your last name again?”.  “OK, just have a seat and we’ll we right with you”.   A commotion develops, receptionists are in a huddle, when suddenly, “yes, you are booked for 11:00 a.m., but he is backed up a bit”.  ‘Backed up’ in my experience translates to at least a minimum of 1 ½ to 2 hours or more.  I detest these backed up doctors, stuck in the waiting rooms fearful to leave for even a snack or pee break in the event your name is called.  If they call you and you aren’t there, I’m sure they will not be holding your space open and assume you surrendered and left for home.

Waiting is the agonizing part.  Magazine reading grows thin, furthermore, they are typically dog-eared and dated; some dating as far back as 2004.  (Britney Spears wasn’t in as much trouble back then).  Then you fall into almost a snooze/light snoring mode and suddenly a name is called.  You perk up “Was that me she called?” you say to yourself?  Nah, some old guy gets up with a smile on his face and gets ushered into ANOTHER WAITING ROOM. 

This office waiting room came equipped with an annoying TV and large screen.  The only programs viewing were that of health shows, people jogging, playing tennis, swimming, eating yogurt, bananas, brushing their teeth all day long.  I came away that day with the knowledge of how overweight I really am, my percentage of fat, safety car seats for babies, how to cook with asparagus 23 different ways, and at the rate I’m going…..I should have  already been dead by now!

The clock was ticking…..it was 1:00 p.m. and suddenly MY name is called.  Yippee!  Actually the metal/fabric chair was feeling not too badly on the ass end, but my turn has come and like the gentleman before me, I am ushered into the next WAITING ROOM for another WAIT. No mags in this room though!

Just Walk Right In – a test for leprosy?

Medical Form: Marital Status?      How many years married? Exposure to hazardous materials?  Blood transfusions?  Family history: Stroke, tuberculosis, liver problems, heart attack, asthma, colon cancer, high blood pressure,  nervous breakdown, diabetes, arthritis, alcoholism, kidney disease, migraine headaches  List of medications Previous x-rays including: EKG, MRI, CAT scan. Where have you travelled in the past 2 years? Drink:  Alcohol?  Coffee/Tea? Tobacco:  Have you tried to stop? Do you wish to stop? Do you wear a seatbelt? Women:  Gonorrhea, syphilis, AIDS, other

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I am unaware if any of you have ever had the pleasure of a visit to a walk-in clinic.  I’m not reproachful of this practice, I mean when your family doctor leaves his/her office for the day, and the cough that you ought to have called him/her about earlier sounds as if you are ‘barking’, this is the only option you possess.

 

Walk-In Clinic Pros – You are attended to speedier than at an ER, and the procedure of a triage nurse, killing time in the outer waiting room for hours and escorted to an awaiting bed and lastly assessed, are eliminated.

Walk-In Clinic Cons– If x-rays, stitches or an admission to hospital is required, you will ultimately be sent to the hospital ER.

Upon entering this clinic, I am greeted by a young receptionist who mutters something in limited English, and shoves a clipboard at me attached with a 2-sided information sheet.  This sheet appears to contain 1,000 questions which embrace teeny-tiny boxes to tick off.  It’s mandatory to list diseases from long ago including a test for leprosy?

I complete the form as assigned, digging out some information from my wallet and sometimes guessing at others, and feeling as if I just accomplished an exam.   All of this information gathered for a cough?  I understand they have to be cautious – but gonorrhea or a nervous breakdown?

Other people waiting eye one another other, wondering if he/she will be the chosen one to proceed next.  Throughout this visit, I assume two doctors are on duty by the constant switch of rooms, and of course the male and female both in white coats tip me off as well.  Whispers can be heard, others saying amongst each other that they were here long before the lady who just got called.

Misbehaved children run back and forth, screaming loudly, a female finally motioning for them to halt.  They do not heed warnings and continue.  A few other people also claim a ‘barking’ cough, but most people in this room seem to hold tissues to their nostrils representing a cold.  Sometimes the tissue catches a sneeze, most times not.  Magazines are aged and dog-eared, and subjects such as gardening, wine and the Hollywood tabloids don’t peek my interest.  A television is on, but the sound is mute, for which I am grateful. Rooting through my purse passes some of the time, discovering bits and pieces here and there.  I’m puzzled as to why I am carrying so many gum packets and pens.  Also, two calculators, can’t quite figure that out.  An old shopping list pops up, as well as, a yellow sticky note with two phone numbers on.  I scratch my head in bewilderment at these numbers.  Interesting.

At least during this visit I was lucky enough NOT to sit alongside someone who wishes to chat away the time.  I’ve been through enough experiences with people who care to share a little too much about themselves, and fail to realize it’s a one-sided conversation with me on the other side continually saying “uh-hum, oh is that right”.

Three hours have passed now, my name is finally called and I am ushered into a very tiny room.  The room is sparse (possibly a theft precaution), but is equipped with the standard “bed”, and a few jars of cotton puffs, swab sticks and tongue depressors (not big ticket theft items I wouldn’t think). The wait is short and a female doctor enters.  She quickly scours my medical ‘quiz’, centering in on my ‘non-smoking’ status.  I guess that is a positive.  The other information on the form doesn’t appear to matter.  Maybe it will be for future use?  I am quickly examined, assessed and prescribed a cough suppressant.  Two weeks later I’m ok.

PERHAPS THE COMB-OVER QUESTION WASN’T A GOOD IDEA!

The first real hurdle to jump, after the e-mail or mailed resume, is the call for the actual job interview itself.  This is followed by the nerve wracking wait by the phone to see if you got the job.  Personally, I feel the wait is worse.  Antacids could be used at a time like this for quick relief.

Walking doggie is put on hold, so are showers, phoning friends/family, cupboards remain empty due to fear of leaving the house, and each time the phone does ring the heart races and diving across the room for the phone becomes the norm.  Hopes are thwarted when it’s a telemarketer selling carpet cleaning or hubby wondering what’s for din-din.

Suddenly, your mind is swirling.  You question the references supplied.  Did your last boss really think you were a worthwhile employee and did the bang-up job you thought you did?  And the previous references; were they the best choices, and will they remember you?  People forget other people fast.  Out of sight, out of mind.

Then you begin to question everything else.  I should have been quicker with my answers, maybe not mentioned I was a non-smoker, and perhaps shared more of my strong points rather than my weak points, and then the biggie:  rehearsed the all important question – “why should we hire you?”  That one is always a toughie.  You don’t want to appear boring and hand them a pat answer such as:  “I am a hard worker and dependable”.  Possibly something such as this:  “I have unique skills, am energetic, a team player (I think this is phoney, but employers love these words) who is energetic and committed to any task that my come my way”.  Also, “I have good attendance, am punctual and a good sense of humor”.  This may be a better sell.

I do know that you should always ask something at the end of the interview, however, someone told me they asked about the interviewer’s family picture on her desk.  The interviewer became all red-faced and went into detail about the family photo and who was in it.  That would be a no-no.  Also, carry copies of your resume and references.  Do research on the company.  No limp lettuce handshakes.  No blabbering on and on – just answer questions short and sweet.  No bragging – nothing worse than a braggart.  Make sure cell phones are off.  Complaining or putting down last boss – MAJOR NO NO.  Someone asked an interviewer about his comb-over (stupid, and what purpose did it serve?).  Should I call and bother, or not call and bother after the interview?  Your decision.

Remember, you are interviewing them too.  Is this a place YOU want to work?

You leave an interview at times with the notion that you could have done better; ought to have said this/that, possibly laughed more at something humorous the interviewer said (even though it wasn’t), and the brain just sees no end to it all.  Suppose you simply have to sit back, maybe make some tea, stay calm and unhappily wait for that call.

Good luck to all who are waiting for that call.  I waited for “that call” countless times.  Not pleasant; but I did eventually land a position.

By the way:  I’m not in H.R. or a job counselor; just wanted to relay some tips.

 

 

MOANS, GROANS & OBSERVATIONS (PT. 2)

Nowadays we live in the world of store scanning – labeling items is becoming a thing of the past.  The only glitch is, occasionally on the shelf where the item is placed (whether it be grocery, clothing, household etc), there is only a scan code bar and no price.  You either have to wait until you arrive at the cashier for the price, or utilize a scanner which is occasionally provided within the store.  I think it’s a ploy for the store or possibly inept management; perhaps knowing if you want the product you will buy it regardless. 

What is with people picking their noses in public?  That is disgusting.  Use a Kleenex, and if you must feel the need to do this – then go somewhere private.  Also, looking over while at a stop light is no treat either; the person in the car alongside you has his whole hand up his nostrils and must be vacuuming.  Geez, certainly use a tissue. 

Why is it every time at amateur talent shows; whether it is local or in the big city or in Hollywood or wherever, there for eternity has to be 1 or 2 Elvis Impersonators?  They typically are very bad, generally sing “You’re Nothing but a Hound dog”, and have the stuck on side burns via Krazy Glue.  Also, the same tired white outfit with sequins is repeatedly worn, and in my estimation some are so youthful they don’t even know who or what an icon Elvis was.

Spitting.  Announcement:  All of you people out there who believe you must leave your spit on the sidewalks – could you please refrain.  Consider us who are standing at bus stops or walking along and are the recipient of your unpleasant spit.  Would you like it if a mound of disgusting spit landed on you?  Why do people spit anyways?  Is it a custom?  Do they have a bad taste in their mouths?  If it’s the bad taste theory, then chew on some gum or pop some tic-tacs.  Why must we walk on your freshly formed spit? 

Bag of chips.  50% air, 50% chips.    

WHEN YA GOTTA GO, YA GOTTA GO!

What is it about me and public bathrooms?  It never fails, practically every time I’m out – it’s pee time and the search is on for a public washroom.  The huge decision – do I hang on and do that ‘I gotta go now dance’ in the department store, or surrender and hunt endlessly for their facilities.  I loathe this decision with a passion and question if my body is on some sort of timer.

In the larger stores, I’m the one found asking at least 3 sales clerks to point me in the right direction, then rapidly sprinting to my potty destination.  These bathrooms always appear to be situated in the oddest spots; next to portrait studios, layaways, and hardware or auto tire departments.  Possibly when the store was first designed, these departments weren’t chosen as neighbors.

Travelling on the road is not much better, although seated in the car, desperation sets in, and “I gotta go” follows…..which brings me to my little tale but also my big question:  Why do they lock bathrooms at some gas stations that are filthy and essentially in the middle of nowhere?  Are they fearful people will steal something or construct a home in there?

Desperation set in and hubby and I pulled up to this roadside gas bar.  The place looked modern and clean outside, so I ventured inside.  Also, the interior was orderly with only one clerk on duty who handed me a bathroom key attached to a wooden stick with a happy face on it.  The bathroom was unisex and I somehow expected a pristine looking bathroom; I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

What struck me first was the toilet and the ugly stain around the bottom of the base.  I didn’t even want to look into the bowl.  The sink was filthy, dripping, with a well-used pink bar of soap, and a brown stain around the drain.  Oodles of toilet paper (I hope clean) all over the floor, and the waste basket overflowing with paper.  A few phone #’s on the wall reading “Tattoo’s At A Good Price” and “Call Cindy @ 123-4567”.  It made me want to puke.

I high tailed it out of there, returned the key, and stated “You have one filthy bathroom in there”.  No reply.

THE FITTING ROOM NIGHTMARE

Trying on clothes in stores is an entire story in itself.  It is an adventure to see what new clothes will look like, however, the whole dressing and undressing process can be a nightmare.

Ever try clothes on in some of those department store fitting rooms?  Geez, elbows are hitting the walls, no spot to hang your coat or purse, some locations not even to hang the potential new clothes.  And then there’s the pant-dance if you’re purchasing pants.  The room is so tiny; you have your leg in one pant leg while attempting to balance with your hand on the wall to get the other leg in.  Quite the system you have to develop. Winters are murder, with boots to get off and on.  The mirror to inspect the new garment is sometimes only on the outside of the fitting room; a shear embarrassment to say the least, especially when you only want you to admire the new garb.  Forever seems to be other people around waiting for whatever and seemingly giving you the “I hope she’s not going to buy that one” look.

The “only 3 garments at a time rule” can be infuriating.  I understand that stores must have this to ensure security, but you must undress, try on your 3 garments, redress to fetch the fourth garment. At times the clerk leaves, thereby allowing a greedy shopper to haul her 18 items in, thus taking up a fitting room rental for 45 min.

When I was trying my jeans on at the independent big-box stores, they had spacious change rooms with chairs and sometimes 2 hooks, which really was more accommodating; with the clerks very attentive also.  Wearing jeans was new to me – zippers zipped – no more pull-ups.  Took me awhile in there to get those babies on.  The sales clerk had already been following me around the store, and leapt at the chance to assist when I chose some pants to try on.  “If you need any assistance just be sure and ask for Carol”.

In some department stores, and their fitting rooms, you could be dead with one pant leg on, coat on floor due to no hooks, and they wouldn’t know until the cleaning lady showed up until the next day.

 

Is that 1 or 2 ply?

Ok, so now you know….my most embarrassing moment (and I have experienced many) is: 

Leaving a restaurant one evening, I discovered I was the proud owner of some toilet paper trailing (unused) behind me.

Tucked into the back of my pants, I wondered how far I had walked with this horrendous display.  Slipping into an alley, I quickly removed the white, fluffy sheets and breathed a sigh.   The fear continues on though; will this ever happen again…

I should  cough up another embarrassing moment – one not so horrendous, however this one when I was 15 – a touchy age at best.

 A drop-dead gorgeous guy sat next to me in English and asked me if I had any gum.  I was so startled that he was even talking to ME,  and reached into my macrame bag and handed him a tampax instead of the gum.  Beat red – I felt like racing out of the classroom.  He just looked at me very puzzled like.  Then again, why wouldn’t he.

THE TOOTHPICK THEORY

I was a coffee drinker for many years, then suddenly grew tired of the taste and jumped on the hot tea wagon. What I discovered though, it seems the tea drinker gets forgotten at restaurants.  Waitresses are buzzing around with coffee pots, but asking for hot water to fill up your little tea pots are at times met with a “put off” look on their faces.  And speaking of little tea pots – those silver pots are a nuisance.  Ever try and pour the hot water w/bag into the cup in a fairly dainty way?  Yes….hot water all over the table.  OK if you are in the restaurant and can summon a waitress to sop up the mess with a cloth, but if in a coffee shop; you are stuck with 80 nappies sopping up the water.  Most distressing and inadequate design of the tin pot if you ask me.

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THE TOOTHPICK THEORY.  Never really knew there was one….but here goes.  Why do some men (have never observed a woman practicing this) sit with a toothpick hanging out of their mouths.  This is perplexing to me.  Are they constantly picking their teeth, or savoring the zest of the wood pick, or attempting to act cool/tough or is it kind of a soother thing?

A few days ago in a restaurant, a man seated next to us, was reading his paper and had a toothpick planted squarely between his lips the entire time we were there.  Turned me off and I thought it looked stupid.

 

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Isn’t it always the way.  You grab a coffee while on the way to work and wearing a white blouse or top; sure enough SPLAT! Coffee spill.  You have to live and breathe with this discoloration for the remainder of the day.  It’s not as if you have your own personal closet for a change of clothes at work.  One day, awhile back, I had to live with a hideous stain planted right over my boob, and of course on a day I had to make a presentation at our department meeting.  I was unsure if the people in the room were looking at my pie charts or staring at my chest!

Skipping The Serious Side of Being FAT

I am skipping the serious side of being fat, as we all know what we should do, but usually don’t.  Struggling for the majority of my life, in fact since the age of 12, I have grown accustomed to being overweight and adapted to living in a larger sized body.

Fortunately, absent are the primitive ways of clothes designing, and plus-size specialty stores have popped up with clothes that look reasonably fashionable. Department stores now are in fact selling XL sizes, even XXL and XXXL, and placing them in their own little sections.  Typically these sections are called “Above Average”.  What precisely does that mean?

Clothes are contemporary, some designer labels, and designed for the well endowed, puffy armed, and fitting around excessive abdomen figures.   I have a somewhat odd looking figure.  Kind of resembling a pole lamp.  Slimmer up top, hardly any boobs, puffy arms, larger abdomen, and very slim legs.  Sort of a Mr. Peanut shape.  Losing weight with this figure is very problematic.

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Here are several diets I’ve attempted – typically thought of on a whim.  Each and every one I did lose on, however, gaining back was just too speedy and easy.  Better to not have attempted any at all.

1.  My first diet was the grapefruit diet.  I considered this the one for me – the big breakthrough.  A miracle fruit, I was told, had such fat-burning properties and the pounds would be plummeting.  Hmmm….have you ever eaten 6 grapefruits in one day?  Back then they had these yucky aspartame packets you sprinkled on the fruit, but actually, they did help with the sour taste.  Cutting out any snack and most complex carbs, coupled by giant glasses of water, I lost pounds every day.  But, who can live on grapefruit alone – not I, and leaped back into the land of carbs, sweets and everything else.  I gained back the weight back in no time.

2.  The drink-only-juice-per-day diet.  This sounded like some sort of fruit juice buffet.  I consumed large quantities of orange, grape (my favorite), and the dreaded prune and apple juice.  I was promised 10 pounds in a 48-hour period.  Actually, I did drop the pounds, in fact 12, but what can you expect with nothing but liquid consumed and sprinting to the potty every 40 minutes.  I was employed during this time, and co-workers must have suspected a urinary tract infection.  I lasted 4 days and gave up.  Of course, gained the whole lot back more rapidly than I lost.

3.  The low-fat/high-fiber cabbage soup diet.  I call this the ‘fart’ diet.  Many people have said this was the miracle diet of the century.  The pounds will be dropping off, and you will have to buy new wardrobe.  And so there I went, to the grocery store and purchased cabbage after cabbage, a few other veggies, some fruit and dairy products.  People in the store looked in wonderment – a cart filled with cabbage.  I lost a lot of weight on this diet, but was in the bathroom so many times with diarrhea and a dilemma with farting that I ended this miracle diet.  Returning to the carbs again, which went hand-in-hand with the weight gain.

4.  One week on the chicken soup diet, and I became so tired of chicken broth that to this day I get the heave-hoes.  I was not allowed noodles on this diet – a strange objection, so no wonder the pounds dropped off.  So much for that diet.

5.  The toast and tea diet.  Boring.  Lasted one day.

6.  Drink unlimited glasses of water diet, with a few Melba toast thrown in.  Geez, thanks. Have you ever consumed Melba toast?  It isn’t bad with something on top of it, but by itself – yuck, it’s like eating nothing.  I lasted two days on this diet. So here I am – no more diets.  For me they just don’t work.

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A Fat Observation: Interestingly, they conducted a research study to observe how people react to thin people vs. fat people.  On a busy sidewalk, a ‘thin’ well-dressed woman while walking dropped some papers on the ground.  Immediately, folk (mostly men) were almost trampling over one another to assist her.  Now, in a dissimilar scenario, a ‘fat’ woman, also well dressed, repeated the same paper dropping.  Not one person assisted, just walked on by taking a momentary look.  Surprised?            

THE DECISION

 Isn’t the wait for coffee (or in my case tea) for take-out in a coffee shop/café the pits sometimes?  As typical, I forever find myself in the wrong line; the one with the trainee employee, or the employee who is changing shifts and requires the cash in the till to be confirmed, or the one who’s been assigned to fill the empty coffee pots whilst serving.  Bearing all of this, you stand there behind 8 people, the line not moving, your body moving from side to side to assess the lineup situation, but now discover the line alongside you had 8 people but now has 4.

THE DECISION: You are fearful to leap just in case your line suddenly becomes an express line perhaps, yet you may well be stuck here forever.  Ah, what the heck.  Today I leapt and found myself in the short line-up; or so I thought.  Abruptly, it came to a standstill when this construction guy decided it a good idea to treat his buddies to coffee and snacks.  I counted 7 coffees/2 teas/1 hot chocolate, with each coffee bearing a different combo (1 crème/no sugar, 2 sugars/no crème…etc), and 2 dozen donuts (all assorted).  Then, he didn’t have sufficient cash, so sprinted to his truck for the remainder.  Meanwhile, my spot in the first lineup had by now been served.  This is the gamble you take.  All during this, my error in judgment caused me to sweat profusely in my winter parka.

Moral of the story:  Look before you leap and size up all who are in your line-up as potential suspects for sizeable orders causing tie-ups.  Is waiting 20 minutes for hot water and a tea bag worth it?  Also, sporting an oversized parka in a jam-packed coffee shop is not a sensible idea either!

 

THE FROG AND THE URINAL

I thought this is hilarious, and a true story by the way (who else would make this up!).

Hubby was at one of our local parks when duty called and went searching for a restroom.  Those outdoor ones are repulsive at parks, but he had no alternative.  Upon entering he discovered a frog in the only urinal.  That’s right a frog.

Now, these were his choices:  1) Remove the filthy frog from the urinal, OR, 2)  pee over the frog?   What would you have done?   I’ll leave the guessing up to you, and leave you wondering what he chose!

Graphic:  Flickr photographer:  mikaplexus

 

What’s with all the Meatballs?

Pot Luck Supper – Just returned from a Pot Luck Supper.  The guests were pleasant, the spread was nice, the music in Polka fashion, but I’m simply not a ‘pot luck’ personality. Scores of different foods all met on one’s plate; a buffet of sorts.  Dishes and dishes of meatballs – WHAT IS WITH ALL THE MEATBALLS?  Straightforward to prepare? And all in BBQ sauce?  It was pointed out that some of the balls were of the chicken and pork variety, as well as, beef.  Was I impressed?  NOT!  I passed on all of these meatballs for fear of eating the toothpick stabbed into each ball.

Next, I was perplexed by a giant bowl of spaghetti (more meat balls included), but I’ll get to that later on.  Proceeding, I viewed the customary lasagna, a hamburger helper type of dish (passed on that), casseroles (3 bean, cheese), hot/cold beans in molasses, followed by your basic salads: potato, macaroni, coleslaw, also strange salads made with raw whole mushrooms in vinegar sauce (passed on that).   Desserts were  the familiar cheesecake/brownies/chewy coconut bars (I DID NOT pass on them).  I contributed the store-bought brownies, by the way, mistakenly leaving the price sticker on the bottom of the tray.

Returning to the spaghetti though.  Why would anyone bring/serve this dish to a pot luck?  With no room to sit down, one would be balancing spaghetti in one’s hand on a flimsy paper (fake Chinette) plate, while twirling noodles and drinking wine with the other.  Impossible, I’d say, and doggie below would be smacking his lips waiting for the food to collapse.  Scarcely anyone touched this spagetti dish.

Conclusion:  Give me a sit-down meal anytime. 

What’s With The “Team Player” Crap?

I take a seat in the outside waiting room, pretending to have a chat on my cell phone (which in actuality ran out of minutes months ago).  This appears, I consider to the snotty receptionist that I am an in demand individual, possibly communicating with other companies.  A one-sided discussion on a phone that is not in service is tricky to master, so I switch to fiddling with a variety of mini-screens, totally mystified by these and realized never knew existed.

Suddenly, my name is called, and feels as if I’m going to slaughter.  This is it; I proceed while clutching my resume and a page of references.  I enter a huge room with a long board room table.  These are difficult moments, and advised by others to envision the interviewers sitting in their underwear.  Interesting thought. 

Observe male: Armani suit (not sure authentic), buffed black shoes, yellow silk tie, cheap tie clip and hair that resembles Pee Wee Herman.  He rises to shake my hand and it’s a chilly, limp hand shake.  Not impressive.

Observe female: icy stares, dark rimmed glasses, navy business suit, high-heeled shoes, slim with hair-straightened type hair.

The male motions me to be seated, and attempts to warm up the conversation with a joke.  (Sorry bud, it ‘aint working).  The female peers above the rim of her glasses, and studies my resume, beginning the interrogation hoping for a slip-up.  Now…I pause.  Here comes possibly the most redundant question in interview history (well, maybe not history) but…Are You A ‘Team Player’?  I deem this a stupid question, I mean why would I answer “NO”; I’m not a ‘team player’.  That would likely stun them – probably never heard a “NO” before.  If I was thirsty for a job, why would I say “NO”.  The interview would likely come to an end, probably stating “well, we’ll be in touch” – translation: “sorry buddy, see you around”.  Corny thing this ‘team player’ stuff.  This position was for an administrative assistant, not an audition for Donald Trump’s “The Apprentice”.  I wonder if the female is a true ‘team player’, or just said she was when she had her interview?

That was a few years ago while looking for a job, but scouring the ads just yesterday for fun, I was alarmed at the number of ads asking for ‘team player’ as a requirement.  Also requested:  can you “multi-task?” thrive to make this a #1 company? a self-starter (I’m a little confused by that one) and punctual.  Punctuality is detrimental to a firm, never mind all of this la-dee-da stuff, and seems a perfectly logical question.

TARZAN & JANE

Peeking out my living room window, I observe a yellow and white truck with the words “Shorty’s Moving and Storage” on it.  This was my first indication of our new neighbors.

We had been clear of neighbors on one side of us for a few months, and frankly, that was fine with me.  Everyone has had their share of ‘bad’ neighbor tales; me included.  I usually live beside the ones who have dogs that continually bark.   People love to leave their dogs outside while they are out on THEIR errands.  And, it’s everyone else who has to contend with the non-stop barking.  Selfish isn’t it?  Suppose they don’t want the dog to tear apart their furniture or mess on the floors.

• My girlfriend and I were exited by our first apartment, but experienced what sounded like a tap dancing class practicing above us a few times per week.  The noise was incredible and thought the ceiling would collapse during these ‘practices’.  I have no idea what exactly these people were doing up there to make such a noise, but it continued for hours.  Complaining to the upstairs neighbor was useless – our raps on the door would have been unheard.  The super was also useless.  He seemed a fair fellow when we rented the apartment; however, knocking on his door we were met with a man smelling of whiskey and slurring his words “I’ll look into it”.  We put up with it for a few months, but since it luckily was a month-to-month packed up our gear and left.  Not fair that we had to leave, however, it was the tap dancing troupe or us.
• We purchased a house in a small town.  The neighbor who’s backyard backed onto ours (fence separated), had a German Sheppard dog.  This bastard left this poor dog outside 24/7.  The dog barked non-stop; no wonder – it was in the dead of winter.  The SPCA was called numerous times, as well as, the police for the noise.  I’m sure doggie probably peeked through the fence when the SPCA arrived hoping for a rescue from his hell, but that never happened.  Makes me ill just thinking about that dog.  Why even have dogs?  The barking ended and I became worried about the dog; however, another neighbor informed me the dog went to live with the man’s relative.  Hope the dog had a better home at his new surroundings.
• Another apartment we lived in was high priced, yet not very well built due to paper thin walls.  Our next door neighbor’s master bedroom was attached to ours.  Too many nights attempting to fall asleep and trying not to listen to moaning and groaning.  Lots of words like “man”, “wow” and “whoa” became the regular script.  This couple must have been on sexual marathons, possibly practicing for competitions.  They sure put my life to shame!  At times, I envisioned there was the possibility of a Tarzan rope; thus nicknaming this couple “Tarzan and Jane”. 

At times I felt like rapping on their door, yet almost feeling guilty interrupting a session and felt it also useless.  Then one day it all ended.  Either Jane or Tarzan or both of them moved out.  Wow, peace.

I have other dilly neighbor experiences that I have had to live with; some that were extremely annoying, but you get the picture.

As far as these new neighbors go – haven’t really spotted anyone coming or going yet.  Will have to wait and see and I’m definitely crossing my fingers.

THE PSYCHIC – AN EASY WAY TO EARN A BUCK

While cleaning out a cabinet, I came across a cassette tape labeled “psychic reading April 14, 1994.  Hmmmm….interesting, as listening to this tape would be the first time since 1994.

I have never believed in the power of psychic ability, therefore not enthusiastic on attending a psychic reading.  A girlfriend, however, was mesmerized and talked non-stop about this psychic who lived just outside of town and apparently known for his accuracies.  I was skeptical to say the least, and she had to virtually drag me there; but I did it for her and agreed to go.

We arrived at the trailer park; his address #33.  My friend found this number a positive sign; I on the other hand found this to be none other than ‘trailer park address #33’.  Rapping on the screen door, we were greeted by a short, pudgy man, not much older than me, with a pleasant smile.  His cramped living room was covered with wall plates, hanging on paneled walls, and countless multi-colored crocheted pillows placed on the loveseat and couch.  Everything was neat and orderly.

My friend went for her ‘reading’ first, which gave me a chance to examine the plates.  Most pictures were of Canada; possibly provincial scenery of places visited.  Others were of the Royal family and some of different flowers.  I just thought – too many plates for my liking, but then I don’t collect much of anything.

After 25 minutes, my friend emerged with smiles.  “He is so good, Deb – you are going to be floored at how accurate he is”.  At that point, I truly thought that perhaps I misjudged this entire psychic process.  NOT!

Should have stayed with my first instinct, as this fake was so far off; a guy off the street could have done better.  Plus, I wouldn’t have forked over my hard earned $80 bucks for a bunch of fluff and nonsense.   Before we began he asked me my first name.  If he was psychic, wouldn’t he have known that?

This is a wee bit of what transpired at my so-called accurate ‘reading’: (“F” = Fake Psychic)

F  ~   I see tension between you and your sister

Me ~  I don’t have a sister

F ~    Do you have a sister-in-law?

Me ~  Yes

F ~    There is great tension and jealousy between the two of you

Me ~  I have no problems with her – we get along fine

F ~    You are married?

Me ~  You tell me

F ~    Yes, you are and there are problems right now and you will work them out

Me ~  I have a good marriage

F ~    Problems with an ex-husband?

Me ~  I have never been married before

F ~    You have a wonderful relationship with your mother; I can see this clearly

Me ~  I haven’t seen/or spoken to my mother in 10 years – we are on the outs

On and on

Now, how precise is all that?

Only accuracy was with my employment and company supervisory position (had many questions before he nailed that), stating that I was there a few years.  Other than that, he failed miserably.

So how accurate was his future predictions?  He fared even worse at these:

He stated “You can expect a promotion and huge raise within the coming year.  Also, I see you sipping champagne on a cruise ship in the sunny south just before Christmas, so get out the tanning lotion”.

Reality:  Six months after the “reading”, my company went down the tubes and I was laid off.  I was fortunate to receive the measly severance package that I did manage to squeeze out of them.  Therefore, I barely had enough money left for the mortgage, bills had piled up and believe me, there was no money left over for a cruise to the sunny south.  The sun lotion gathered dust.

Hogwash to this whole thing.

For the most part, people are just people looking for answers to unanswered questions.  And, here are these vultures; fakes looking for some quick, easy bucks.

What saddens me mostly are the fakes who pocket people’s money; people who are desperate for clues to a loved one’s whereabouts or what happened in a death. Cruelty; how can you rip-off people who are just seeking answers?  One psychic who appears weekly on a TV show, has been found to have 96% of her predictions WRONG, yet still has the unmitigated gall to charge $750. per reading.  People – wake up and smell the coffee.

Graphic:  photo Flickr by Alex Robinson

  

THE SPECIALIST

Isn’t waiting for a specialist (doctor) appointment enough to frost your socks sometimes?  Both the wait for the family doctor, followed by the specialist referral, and then the anticipated wait for the phone call from the specialist, can be a lengthy drawn out process.  Sometimes, an envelope of written instructions arrives in the mail.  Then comes the big day of the actual appointment where you wait in the waiting room….and wait….and wait…and wait some more……  

After waiting months and months to see a neurologist, I received that “call”, however, I had to wait several more months for the actual appointment.  It would be one more appointment concerning my infamous migraine anguish, but this time was assured by many I would be seeing “one of the best doctors in his field”.  My hopes would quickly be dashed and prove a wasted appointment.

Avoiding going into great details about the exam; let’s just say it was very brief.  Essentially this wonder doctor felt around the base of my skull and neck, asked me the identical old questions that I am forever asked, leafed through my thick chart and said “uh hum” a lot.  And, ultimately coming to same conclusion: “Yes, you suffer from bi-lateral migraines”.  Geez, I drove 2 hours and waited 5 1/2 months for this?

I have been a migraine sufferer since my early twenties, have been through the series of required tests to rule out anything other than migraines (x-rays/spinal tap/MRI/scans), seen countless neurologists and in the end told “THERE IS NO CURE”.  Tylenol is really the only pain reliever, and as a last resort – the ER.  And you can imagine the ER route.  Migraine isn’t exactly a priority upon arriving at the Emergency Room, thus a 9-15 hour wait must be anticipated; if you’re lucky.  The guy with the stubbed-toe and I are sitting there tied for 25^th place to be called.  He’ll possibly go before me due to the presence of crutches. (Maybe I should have brought along my ice pack).

**This is not intended to be a “specialist bashing”; only my migraine account.  I have visited several other specialists for other concerns and grateful for their expertise, to be able to get me well and on my way.

Oh yes, I must add, I am incredibly grateful for the neurologist that I have now.  He finally found the exact medication to treat my migraines.  This man is brilliant.  It only took 28 years and 6 previous neurologists to strike it rich.  I’m not headache free, but at least not a permanent fixture in the ER waiting room.  Wow, how life has changed.

So I ask… “HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT DUST”?

A friend and I were chatting last evening about our past job interviews.  I have noted in a recent post my ‘brush with the interview’, but this “dusty” one was truly hilarious, and we were both howling at the recount.

I shop on the odd occasion at a large thrift shop, which contains a considerable hodgepodge of used goods including clothing, furniture, books, toys etc.

An advertisement appeared in our paper for ‘staff openings’ at this store, for which I promptly applied.  A few weeks passed, never heard a word, then out of the blue I received a call for an interview.  The position for was for part-time, typically evenings, but the actual position was not stipulated on the phone.

Arriving early, I waited at the front of the store by the cashiers, where upon a young girl bearing pink highlights in her hair and pierced nose approached me, asking my name etc.  She explained that the manager was slightly delayed and would be right with me.  At least appearance isn’t a concern here, I thought, and they take you as you are.  The manager arrived and introduced himself, escorted me back to his office, explained a bit about the company, and asked me where I saw myself in one year.  Geez, this was only a part-time position not in line for CEO – what kind of question was that? 

So then came time for the tour.  I, of course, have only viewed the store on ground level, and never below.  I was taken aback to say the least.  We walked down these tiny spiral steel steps to the basement (more like a dungeon) which houses the sorting area.  Bags of used clothing, books, records, small appliances, kitchen ware, sat in bins. The manager pointed out that the bags piled high to the ceiling were mainly clothing.  Six women are huddled around a dim suspended ceiling light chattering amongst themselves, oblivious to my presence.   They are the sorters, and I am informed that they are required to sort clothing in 4.22 minutes per bag.  He stated since I was new, my time would probably be around 6.1 minutes per bag, and I will begin a 4 week training course immediately.  I thought this perplexing, four weeks to learn how to sort used goods?  Next came the howler:  he asked me, and with a straight face, slightly shouting, “HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT DUST”?  Geez, never been asked that before, but then why would I – so never thought about it.  I replied quickly (perhaps too quickly) “I don’t like it” (I mean who does).  He didn’t appear impressed.  I presume I blew it right there with the dust answer.  After that, the interview went downhill, and to conclude I never got the job.  But in hindsight, would I have survived in a mountain of dust, chatting under dim lighting, processing used clothes in 4.22 minutes? NOT!

45 Minutes in the Burger Joint

Hubby and I have been on the move all morning and both getting very cranky with one another – solution: Eat.  Driving along the main street; flashing fast foodie restaurant names all seem to appear alike (subs, chicken, tacos).  Hmmm…we decide on our old favorite hamburger joint.  We would regret this later.

Standing in line for only a couple of minutes, we are greeted by a young girl (who looks no more than 12), who points out the neon sign menu behind her.  Wow, things have changed since we last visited.  Too many choices cause anxiety and stress to decide.  I know I am holding up the line.  Sweat on the brow, I make my choice of the single burger with cheese/fries/diet Coke combo (the diet drink is my ploy to offset the gazillion calories in the combo; my theory is that I could at least save one button from popping). 

The food arrives speedily, and we sit in one of the durable plastic booths.  Good – no one around us.  I treasure quiet. 

Not even two minutes pass after first dipping my fries into the ketchup, a male teen sits in the adjacent booth grasping only a drink.  He is in midst of a conversation on his cell phone, which spells disaster from the get-go, as he is laughing very loudly, and I can hear every word.  Great, just what I needed.  At this point I am annoyed and toy with the idea of packing all of my stuff and hauling it to another booth.  Too late, people have poured in and almost every booth is full.

Next, a family equipped with 2 young children plus a baby in a car seat arrive.  One child and the baby are both crying loudly.  The family sits at the table next to us (figures), and the male leaves to order, while the female remains with the children.  Both children begin to run around the tables, screaming and laughing; the mother totally oblivious.  Patience by this point is lacking and I pop a couple of Tylenol to ease a tension headache.  I wish to get the hell out of there at this point, but I’m only done my fries and half the burger sits.

Finally the two brats have settled down for chow, and the cell phone teen has departed.  Maybe the ending of this meal won’t be bad.  Spoke too soon – not in the cards.

An elderly man seated in the corner booth decides it’s a good time to do some housecleaning of his nostrils.  Terrible phlegm sound.  Geez, thanks buddy – just as I was eating my lunch.

So much for peace….and we were only there 45 minutes!

ENTERING THE WORLD OF DENIM

I’ve surrendered nearly all of my polyester pants and I’m currently into the world of blue denim jeans.  Kind of a new found fad for me.  I’m on the heavy-set side so forever shied away from the likes of zippered up anything – elastic being the only means to hold my pants up.  Elastic and poly had been my basic wardrobe for years, and becoming ho-hum to say the least.  A few of my co-workers, and what seemed the general public, adopted denim as a sort of staple in their clothes diets.  And so the pursuit was on for a brand new look.

Of course I had to go the plus-size route, and to my amazement I discovered many choices out there for stylish denim jeans in my size.   The problem was though:  1) price, one store had a pair for $95.00!  2) The fit, fine around the waist, but I’m petite with slender legs. 

The first pair I tried on had me practically turning blue, attempting to secure the gut in and having the fat distributed painstakingly on both sides of the zipper in order to zip up.  This was a size 1X, and I was evidently pushing it.  Carol, the sales clerk, botched her assessment of the 1X; I could barely breathe in those pants, almost resembling the bottom half of a scuba suit.  So tight, my spare….and I mean spare tire was very much peaking over the top.  Suddenly, I was taken aback when Carol yelled out towards the front “Could we have a 2X here in Dressing Room 4”.  Geez.  Announce my size to everyone.  But it was either laying flat on the floor every day and stuffing the lower half like a sausage into a pair of pants, or resign myself into the world of 2X.  The 2X fit like a glove around the waist area but I could sweep the floor due to the length, and take off in a parachute because the sides were so baggy.  I thought the $95 price tag for denim, zipper, pockets and some belt loops and now needed alterations was a bit steep.

The best-fitting jeans were at a department store which carried the label (Gloria Vanderbilt).  I nevertheless had problems with the length/poufy sides, but alterations will constantly be the norm.  The best windfall came at a couple of thrift stores; the jeans in marvelous shape with well-known labels – think I paid $12.99 (also requiring alterations).  Oh well, you don’t mind paying for alterations for a $13.00 pair of jeans. 

So now, with all of my alterations complete, I arrive for work in my new duds and I am one of THEM.  I don’t precisely know who THEY are, but I’m “with it” now in my new zippered and denim look.

Only thing now, I am sporting sneakers with the jeans (looks better than dress shoes), and will have to start hauling a gym bag to go with the sneakers to appear like I work out.

TIPPING – AM I CHEAP WITH MY 15%

It’s always an awkward moment when the bill arrives at the end of the meal; sitting and staring in wonderment about the tip. If the bill comes in one of those little “books”, then you can sort of leave the dough and quickly escape if it’s a pittance.  One must assess the situation; mind swirling, was she/he good/bad/absolutely crappy or a fantastic server.  The server can make or break a meal.  It also depends on the food quality too, as that really wouldn’t be the server’s fault.

We have a diner close to home; dining there regularly.  The food is reasonably priced and the food portions gigantic and delicious.  Major problem:  The waitresses.  A couple of the women are average, but we seem to get stuck with the ones who have a scowl on their faces and who obviously don’t want the job.  The meal arrives in good time, but try asking for xtra coffee, or fill up of water, or a straw or more napkins or a smile.  These usually arrive after we are finished the meal and heading out the door (except the smile).  They’re quick to hand you the bill before you are even finished your meal.  So then there’s the tip.  We visit this diner so often, I feel guilty leaving no tip, yet why should I leave a large tip?  So I usually leave on average 15%.  Maybe they think I’m cheap, and perhaps that is why I don’t receive my xtra coffee or straw or smile!

Eat in restaurants aside; I don’t tip people who serve me in fast food places.

I usually tip my hairdresser 20% when I have a color, highlights and cut done.  I appreciate this service, and due to the fact that when she removes the towel and I find out I DON’T look like a skunk!  Phew!

I took a taxi to work last week.  The driver could hardly speak English, basically asking me how I was and where I was going.  But, he got me there safely and on time, wore a nice shirt and tie, and I gave him a 15% tip.  Perhaps generous, but I think this is the going rate.

Found this amazing site on Tipping, gives you the etiquette on how not to get dirty looks.  I would never even think of tipping at a Children’s Party or at the Supermarket.  But there it is, in black and white, I guess you tip!

Graphic:  Flicker photographer: pingnews.com

WHOOF! You Mean I Gotta Eat This Stuff?

My mother was an excellent cook; however one dish she prepared throughout my younger years made for at times a nightmarish supper.  It was called “Minced Meat and Potatoes”, consisting of minced hamburger, boiled potatoes, gravy and onions.  The rest of the family appeared to love this dish, but not me.  We did not have dog to assist in this predicament; I was on my own!  Simply thinking about it gives me the heave-hoes to this day!

Other people’s childhood memories are:

“Liver and onions – which was worse, the liver or the onions or both?”

“When my sisters and I were kids, my mom made us eat pigs’ brains cooked with omelettes”

“This brings back memories… My mom used to make this stuff out of diced spam and cubed Velveeta cheese mixed up with miracle whip and she would bake it on toast.  This was the worst and even the poor dog didn’t deserve such torture. FYI, SPAM is considered a main food in Hawaii.  Love you, Mom, but ewwww!”

“Eggplant…and something my mom made with orange juice and chicken?”

“My mom used to make Mustard Greens, and to this day I don’t really know what they are or how she cooked them…I just know I hated them”

“How about a horrid Carrot Casserole each Thanksgiving. Each year, I’m subjected to eating that hateful food”

“Tuna casserole with crumbled potato chips on top. I can’t eat canned tuna to this day”

“Very greasy fried eggs cooked in lard w/bacon, which was also greasy.  Geez, a whole plateful of grease” Yuummmmm!

I Want a Massage – Dammit!

IS IT MESSAGE OR MASSAGE?

Just arrived home from my third weekly massage.  I discovered this Registered Massage Therapy salon around the corner from my home, and it has been a lucky find indeed.  Searching for ages, it seemed unattainable to score an after work appointment anywhere else, so here I found it.

Don’t know if anyone has ever had one – it feels immensely relaxing.

I would only consent to a female massage therapist, as I would not feel at ease or would allow a male therapist.  On one occurrence, I called this salon and the therapist’s name was ‘Robyn’, so I assumed a woman.  Upon arriving, a tall male came to greet me; I was shocked and disappointed and hastily said, “sorry” and left. 

Hoisting myself onto the massage table was complex, and I first felt awkward and virtually comical attempting to lay face down thus grabbing the top sheet and light blanket to cover me.  Struggling with the sheet, I darn near tumbled off of the table.  I’m not graceful at the best of times, but then maybe others experience the exact problem.  Most uncomfortable is laying face down, initially trying to adjust the pillow under the boobs, ultimately ending up with them pancake flat.  The head is placed in a donut shaped metal piece which is covered with padding, and face poking through.  I find after time spent in the face down position for ½ the session, my sinuses will have drained.

Adapting to someone working on your naked body takes time, and for me, I prefer to leave my undies on.  It’s just a personal choice.

After all of these adjustments and positioning, it is time for the massage.  Since I work on a computer most of my day, I have found these massages are a huge benefit.  I am aware I do not sit correctly in my steno chair, and I have attempted to correct it, but habits always creep in and there I am slouching and leaning over my keyboard.  I prefer her to center mostly on my back, neck and shoulders.

For me, the only annoyance is the background music played during the session.  Birds chirping and flute music grate on my nerves.  Now that is just me, I’m sure other people feel relaxed by this. 

An hour passes, the massage therapist is finished and I feel wonderful.  Time to recover, and usually by this point I am on the dopey side, half asleep, and now having problems propping myself up.  At least I have less trouble hopping off the table.  Time to dress, and get back into the real world.  Wow, can’t wait until my next appointment.

 

NON-SCENTS!!

I’m really pissed off; this topic being ‘sneezing my brains out’ due to other inconsiderate people.

I have allergies; mostly to odors, such as perfumes and cigarette/cigar smoke.  I am a true-blue anti-smoke activist, and ever so fortunate to live in a city which bans smoking in public indoor places.   Of course, I always seem to be the one standing at the crowded bus stop, where ¾ are enjoying their ciggies and smoke is blowing my way.  Woof!

Daily though, I must contend with my co-workers; the women who consider it a necessity to saturate themselves in perfume.  I fail to understand this due to the fact that 80% of the employees in my company are women.  I’ve worn perfume in the past, and appreciate it feels special to have a fragrance on.  (But, just because you like your perfume, doesn’t necessarily mean others do.)  These women arrive in the morning all perfumed up, then apply a new coating in the afternoon.  At times, I have actually walked in the washroom and was confronted by a perfume spray bottle at the sinks.  Can’t they just dab themselves with the stuff?  Why layer?  Are we at a cocktail party at our computers?

So therefore, are these women?

ü  Impressing other women

ü  Impressing the remaining 20% of the male office population

ü  Completely inconsiderate and don’t care

ü  Trying or experimenting with new perfume they got as gifts

A few men shouldn’t be left out of this reprimand.  One manager is very much the bather of men’s cologne.  Wow, hits you in the face and rapidly you feel a migraine beginning.

There are signs on the washroom door stating to be ‘sensitive to others’; however, no one heeds it.  So I will continue to hold my nose when entering, and one day will open my big mouth and shout (haven’t thought what exactly I would say yet)!

He Swept Me Off My Feet (from the files of a dating service)

My father operated a dating service for a couple of years in the 1970’s, very profitable, and difficult to believe it thrived prior to the use of computers.  I was employed to assist in matching people, which was most fascinating, enjoyable and exciting. Clients would initially register, complete their profile, submit a photo and their data then filed in a massive binder waiting for a match-up.  We had great success with our company, as 24 couples matched, and finally marrying.

Dad refused to permit me dates with any clients.  But, I was 22, unlucky with previous boyfriends and hopeful to come across someone, so kept my eyes open.

In secret, I dated one chap who was equally uninteresting and conceited.  For our first date, he picked me up at my apartment, where we later spent our date seated at a quiet bar, munching peanuts and beer.  Bragging about his business ventures and new-found wealth, he appeared distracted as his eyes constantly surveyed the bar while still in conversation with me. I suspected his sprints to the ‘little boys room’ were either time spent grooming his not-hair-out-of–place hair or possibly a drug problem.  Lacking a sense of humor, for in my books is virtually a #1 quality, he lacked it to the highest degree and so I sent him to the dump pile. 

I kept looking all the way through the giant binder and came across a guy named Mike.  He was a tad older than I, but just his facial expression told me that he was sensitive and sincere.  I called Mike and we decided to meet up at the local hot spot club.  Dad was unaware of this date either; I went on the sly.  Another blind date – I was nervous. This was back in the 70’s.  ‘Saturday Night Fever’ disco ran rampant within my club circuit, with everyone attempting to dance and dress like John Travolta.  Lots of men were fully clad in “Stayin’ Alive” white pants and vests; which came to be the norm, together with strobe lights and a lighted dance floor in each club.  The music from the 70’s seemed so long ago, but to this day, I honestly miss it!

I was a tad apprehensive meeting someone on a blind date inside a bar, so decided to remain outside.  Mike said he drove a red Chev Malibu, so my eyes were fixated on every car entering the parking lot.  Mike drove in promptly at 7:00, his hair a bit straggly, but otherwise smartly dressed.  Inside, however awkward, he was soft spoken, slightly hesitant to dance, but as the evening progressed, I knew that this was to be my future husband.  We engaged in brilliant conversation, both of us were unperturbed and realized the stress of a first date, never-mind a blind date.   He was funny, unpretentious and best of all, was not a braggart.  I encountered this characteristic in so many previous dates.  Why is this attribute used to impress a woman?

Lastly, to make a long story short, we wed one year later, presently celebrating our 32nd anniversary.

The Uncommon Cold – Ah! Chewwww!

Well, I’m home sick today from work with a miserable cold.  I’ve been ill for four days now.  I’m not good with colds due to the fact that you are not only plugged up, it’s difficult to sleep during the night and also have to have a box of Kleenex at your every sit/stand spot.  And it’s amazing, I contend with major migraines, yet colds I do not take in stride.  Also, I have a tough time talking (I think my hubby is smiling at that one).

Remedies for me – I have thrown out the window.  Perhaps this is why my recovery has been slow.  I just don’t believe in all of these over the counter medications; actually I am slightly paranoid at taking them.  Each one has a caution ‘CONSULT WITH PHYSICIAN BEFORE USE”.  I know why they have that, in order to protect themselves, however, if on a Friday night while I am standing in the drugstore sneezing my brains out looking for a medication, how would I consult my doctor?  It would be redundant then, wouldn’t it?  Also, ER and walk-in clinics are out; what would they really do for me – just long waits.  Chicken soup?

So many of the “cough drops” contain high amounts of sugar.  Are you eating 80% sugar and 20% medicinal ingredients?

So I will spend today, trying to relax, Kleenex by my side and continue to sneeze.  Doggie is at my side.  Do dogs get colds? (Must look that up).

VENDING RIP-OFF

Well, I was 3X unlucky this week; I have lost my hard earned money to vending machines.  You would have thought after the 2^nd one, I would known better, but I was desperate and craving salt & vinegar chips.

My first rip-off was $1.60 for bottled water at a machine outside of a department store.  I put in the coins and then the coins came back.  That should have been my first clue to a dud machine, however I persisted and inserted them again, and you guessed it – nothing came out.  Rip-off #2 was a few days later at machine inside of a mall.  Thirsty for a Coke Zero, I inserted my $1.20 and it ate my coins ‘cos nothing came out.  I was ready to kick the machine, but didn’t want to cause a scene and have security called over a can of pop.

Rip-off #3 was for the chip craving, and my own fault really; three times and your out.  But the machine looked new and inserted my $1.10.  (I actually inserted $1.25 and didn’t get the change or the product).  On the machine I noted the phone number on a sticker: “If you aren’t completely satisfied with this product or service please call XXX-555-1234”.  So, I called and the number was an answering service, left a message.  No response and called many times after that stating the “manager was in a meeting”.  Convenient, I’d say OR there is no manager.

I think this vending machine service is a scam.  How many times does this happen?  Are these purposely faulty machines or just a fluke at random purchases?  I especially detest when purchasing a chocolate bar or chips it comes right to the end and hangs there.   You are unable to reach it to retrieve and you’ve lost your money.