Monthly Archives: June 2013

Never Mix, Never Worry

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VirginiaWoolfOne of my favorite trauma-dramas is Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. Each time I watch it, I swear I will never watch it again. But then a decade will go by and someone will bring up Elizabeth Taylor or Richard Burton and I’ll remember how brilliant they were in this film and mention it to my husband Gary (who would watch it several times a year if we lived in separate houses) and before I know it, I’ve seen it again.

Afterward, I sit in stunned silence, my childhood flashing like zoetrope images across my brain, unable to go to sleep until 3:00am, and swear I will never watch it again.

Part of the reason the movie is so disturbingly alluring is because it is filled with epic lines.

One of Gary’s and my favorite exchanges is when Martha (Taylor) commands George (Burton) to “fix the kids a drink.”

Nick (George Segal) asks his tipsy wife Honey (Sandy Dennis) “What would you like?” And she says, “Ohhhh, I don’t know, dear, a little brandy maybe. ‘Never mix, never worry!’”

My friend—avid It Happened at Purity blog reader, dog sitter, Godmother to our daughter, and retired College of the Redwoods Financial Aid Officer who I’ll call MW—failed to heed the advice of never mix, never worry on a recent shopping trip to The Purity.

MW had taken care of our 14.5-year old dog Wilson for a weekend while we were out of town. The following Thursday, after a stressful day, she went to The Purity. While the checker rang up her purchases, long time employee Marcia (pronounced Mar-see-a) filled one of MW’s reusable bags.

She opened the second bag, peered inside, looked at MW and said, “What do we have here—underpants?”

MW—who is the most modest woman I know—issued a dog-like yelp loud enough to set off the pagers of every volunteer firefighter in town.

Marcia, who has worked at The Purity for a couple of decades and witnessed things you and I cannot even imagine, took the incident in stride and claimed to own a pair of similar hue (bright fuchsia).

Reusable shopping bag

Reusable shopping bag

MW stuttered to explain that she’d used the bag on an overnight stay and had apparently neglected to remove all garments. Marcia chuckled and said that she’d done the same thing a week before.

While MW blushed and prayed for immediate death, Marcia simply packed the groceries on top of the panties and called it a day.

Overnight bag

Overnight bag

The moral of this story: Reusable shopping bags are designed to be used as shopping bags. Overnight bags are designed to be used as overnight bags.

Never mix, never worry!

Fort Bragg Sidewalk Crack Gardens

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In the spring and summer months, I often see announcements for garden tours. I’ve never taken one and never will. I avoid anything that makes me envious of beauty that I am woefully unable to create.

If you are an avid gardener, you might say, “Just buy some books and follow directions.” Thank you, but no. I also avoid any labor that requires being outside for longer than 15 minutes at a time.

In my walks around Fort Bragg with my 14.5-year old dog Wilson, the blooming Sidewalk Crack Gardens have recently caught my eye. I’m certain I could be successful at this gardening technique which appears to involve little more effort than neglect.

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Fort Bragg Sidewalk Crack Garden Tours are self guided. Start anywhere two blocks east or two blocks west of Main Street. Walk north or south. Whenever you feel like it, take a left or a right. (You might want to add a shimmy or shake to your step to get in a little aerobic exercise.)

At every intersection, step forward off the curb and immediately step backward onto the curb. Put your hands over your head and shake them as you turn yourself around. Shout: “Woo! Woo!”

If you manage to avoid arrest after an hour, go home and stretch for at least 10 minutes.

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Going Postal

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PostOfficeMuch to my dismay, super helpful postal clerk Chris retired without asking me. For years, she was the only clerk for the first hour after the post office opened each morning. Since not many people realize it opens at 8:30, I skedaddle down there around that time whenever I need assistance.

Last week, I had to mail a package to my granddaughter and discovered Unpleasant Clerk had taken Chris’s place.

Unpleasant Clerk and I have a bit of a history. In the rare times she’s agreeable, I suspect she’s under video surveillance by her supervisor. Her attempts to be nice are so unnatural that they make me squirm.

One busy afternoon a few years ago, an octogenarian woman was in front of me in line. She held a package that was about four-by-six inches. She must have had some bad past life karma because she was next up when Unpleasant Clerk became available. With gentle sweetness, the woman explained that she didn’t have the proper tape to seal the top flap of the package and asked if the clerk would tape it for her. She even said please.

Unpleasant Clerk gave her a look of passing a constipated turd, gestured to the back wall of postal paraphernalia, and said, “You need to go over there and get some strapping tape.”

The woman turned to walk towards the wall.

Unpleasant Clerk said, “You need to take your package and go to the back of the line.” By this time the line was eight people deep.

The woman looked defeated, but graciously accepted her fate.

EckhartTolleI was next in line for Unpleasant Clerk. I wanted to say something really nasty, but at the time I was reading Eckhart Tolle’s A New Earth and learning how anger is the result of the ego rising to defend. I shoved my ego behind me. Otherwise it would have punched her in the face.

I got home and ranted to my husband Gary about the clerk’s despicable behavior until he begged me to stop. Unsatisfied, I called our local postmaster. I attempted to report the incident with as little theatrics as possible, the bottom line being I didn’t understand why Unpleasant Clerk could not have used six inches of tape to help that old woman.

The postmaster patiently listened and said, “Postal Service employees are not allowed to tape customer packages.”

“But we’re only talking about a few inches. Certainly each employee is allowed to use some discretion.”

“Postal Service employees are not allowed to tape customer packages.”

DSC_0015By this time, my ego had grown powerful enough to stage a military coup in a third world country. I went online and filed a formal complaint with the US Postal Service. Their response? “Postal Service employees are not allowed to tape customer packages.”

I went back to Tolle’s book for comfort. I gave my ego permission to stop trying to change Unpleasant Clerk and the entire United States Postal Service. Exhausted, I took a nap.

Since that time, I have used each interaction with Unpleasant Clerk as a challenge in keeping the cork on the hot vial of hatred I hold in my liver towards her. I issue pleasantries. If not reciprocated—hey, look at me, I’m still breathing normally. I compliment her hair and jewelry. If she doesn’t shimmy with appreciation, my life is unchanged. I try my best to role model humanitarian behavior.

Last week’s package for my granddaughter contained a decorative pillow. Unpleasant Clerk asked the requisite questions about liquids, perishables, explosives, and rattled off a couple of prices. I was thinking a pillow should cost no more than five or six bucks to mail. Conflicting with that thought were quotes of $12.99 and $15.99.

My mind went, “What the hell? Did I hear that right?” My mouth went, “I’m sorry, but what are those prices?”

And she said—are you ready for this?—she looked like a bulldog standing guard at a property line and said, “I already told you.”

I stared at her, wondering if she allotted herself a finite number of words each day. Did she carefully meter her morning words to avoid becoming speechless by afternoon?

My ego bored holes into her retinas and forced her to break eye contact. “I know you already told me. I merely asked you to tell me again.”

She did. I paid, went home, and ranted to Gary until he begged me to stop.

I thought about calling the postmaster or filing an online complaint. Given that my last attempts were unsuccessful, I decided a better solution is to stop going to the post office in the early morning. That way, I increase my chances of interacting with another clerk and can save my ego’s energy for trying to figure out why so many people in Fort Bragg have gardens growing in the cracks of their sidewalks.DSC02855

Competing with Third Graders

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I don’t think of myself as a competitive person, but sometimes an event happens that awakens my elbow-jabbing evil twin who will do everything in her power to win—or to at least not come in last place.

DanaGrayFor the past few months, I’ve been hanging out with my eight-year old friend Mackenzie on Friday afternoons. I arrive at Dana Gray 25 minutes before dismissal so I can participate with her class in the 1.60-mile walk led by her teacher.

Since third graders have only 75% of my leg stride, I thought the teacher would conduct a leisurely stroll. But Mrs. C-K doesn’t cut these shorties any slack. She sets a vivo tempo.

In order to keep up, the kids and I have to focus. But we’re easily distracted by endless chatter and my surrounding group rarely pays attention, which often creates gaps between us and the rest of the students and requires jogging stints to catch up.

One day, a girl said, “We got a dog.”

“I’m so happy for you. What kind?”

qunicy“He’s a golden retriever.”

“I love golden retrievers. What’s his name?”

“Buddy. He’s 12 years old.”

Wow, that’s setting her up for early heartache—adopt a dog whose finite number of days is going to arrive sooner than later.

“My mom broke up with my dad so we got a dog.”

I’ve met her dad. A 12-year old golden retriever is a fair trade.

I take position toward the back of the line so I can keep a watchful eye on the group of students between the teacher and myself. This puts me next to a boy with a running litany of complaints—he ate too much at lunch and has a side ache; he’s hot and has a headache; he has a cramp in his leg; his shoe keeps coming untied. I suspect the worst parts of his week are these mandatory walks.

Recently, Mrs. C-K has shaken things up by leading the class to the high school track and challenging them to complete six laps.

IMG_1194When Mackenzie informed me of this change, I relished the opportunity to strut my stuff on the track. After all, I did compete in one triathlon and didn’t die or come in last place.

(Okay, so I finished something like 500 out of 503. I’m prepared to do better next time which, God willing, there will never be a next time. Also, the competition wasn’t open to third graders. If it had been, I might have made a better showing.)

I’m no stranger to running—I jog two to three miles a couple of times a week on the treadmill at the gym. (I can barely walk afterwards, but hey, all I have to do is make it to my car and drive home.)

HighschooltrackOn the high school track I would not have to supervise children or be distracted by tales of parental breakups, elderly dogs, and physical maladies. I could easily knock off six laps in 25 minutes.

It is truly amazing how fast a third grader can run when unleashed on a track and given a goal. I quickly found myself in the caboose section with you-know-who. He was having a heat stroke. He should have stayed home from school. He wanted to call his mother.

“You can do six laps. I know you can,” I said.

He wasn’t convinced.

“I’m 100 years older than you. If I can do it, you can do it.” (The product of mid-century parenting, I’m sometimes triggered to exploit shame as a motivating force.)

While impressed that I’m 108, he didn’t move any faster. I gave up and joined a group of girls who appeared to take the challenge seriously.

The girls and I high-fived a vow to complete six laps.

Lap four took one of the girls out. Lap five took out two more. I felt betrayed.

When time was called, the kids compared slash marks the teacher had placed on their hands with scented marker each time they completed a lap. My complainer friend—who had only finished four laps—said his hand smelled so good he wanted to eat it.

All but five of the kids had finished their six laps long before me and a couple had managed seven. One girl completed eight.

Limping back to Dana Gray, I determined that I would have made a better showing if I hadn’t been held back by Complainer Boy. Also, I hadn’t dressed for running—I was in jeans and had not worn my best running shoes. The burrito I ate for lunch didn’t help.

IMG_1187I stared at the back of Little Miss Eight Laps and issued a silent throw down—next week, honey, I’m going to dust you.