My buddy Chris used to tend bar with me at an upscale restaurant that closed two years ago. The two of us were the main bartenders for awhile and Chris was nearly always messing w/me. Fine, have your fun - but as one friend of mine likes to say about me, I kind of like to lay in wait and find the perfect opportunity to even the score. Actually, I like to take a commanding lead.
And so it was one night when Chris apparently prowled through my locker, like a raccoon prowling through a dumpster in search of something to eat. In this case Chris was searching for something he could use to mess with me. What he ended up with, was my tube of toothpaste - which he injected dry blue cheese into using the olive injector that we use to make blue cheese stuffed olives. Fucker! No matter, as luck would have it there isn't a toothpaste on the market that either looks or smells anything like blue cheese - and for better reasons than someone not noticing that someone played a prank on them.
I'll admit to being a little surprised, unpleasantly so, the morning I went to brush my teeth after staff meal - but again, the blue cheese/AquaFresh concoction that Chris so kindly made for me didn't get anywhere near my pearly whites. What it did do, was make me think, it's on - and I've got nothing but time for my day tavern shift to think of ways to repay this debt.
Right about now is where I'll say that I'm not the kind of person who would mess with someone like this for no reason other than to mess with someone - but I used to be, and I was really, really good at it. I'll spell it out for you: If you're the kind of person who does something like this to me first, I'm probably the last guy you want to owe you this type of favor.
The first idea I thought of was to tape 40 or so cocktail napkins together, end to end in the dispensers on the bar. I know how Chris will take one or two napkins and walk towards a guest. Knowing that makes me know that this is a good start - but it's only the warm-act. Imagine his surprise when he walks away with what he thinks are one or two napkins and sees that he's got a whole paper-doll string of them along for the ride. Childish. Close to being hilarious - but again, I've got more in store for my old pal.
I talk it up amongst my fellow tavern shifters that day. Lucky for me I did too - because one of them, I think it was Sean, suggested putting plastic wrap neatly over the mouth of some glassware and showed me how if you do that just right, it goes unnoticed until someone tries to pour liquid into the glass - which bartenders do all the time. Sweet, merciful Jesus, do I ever like this little trick! Mad props to Sean for the suggestion - but there's a clown coming to this party and that clown will steal the show.
The "clown", or high point of my series of payback pranks, was brilliant. I asked one of the servers to run to the grocery store after lunch was over and buy a pack of mouse traps for me. My plan was to cut an outline for the trap in the cocktail napkins and have the set trap rigged with a handful of coffee beans so that when he pulled a napkin from the dispenser he got a bit of a shock and a bunch of coffee beans flying at him. Relax, no one is going to get hurt here - but neither is someone going to put blue cheese in my toothpaste and have that deed go unanswered. What am I going to do, tell? Please!
What I did, was ask one of the servers who finished their shift early, to go to the grocery store and buy a pack of mousetraps for me. Yes. Mousetraps. Thankfully, my request was granted. What I did, was cut an outline out in the cocktail napkins that allowed the trap to sit beneath the top few napkins. I taped the bar to make it more like a paddle, and once the trap was set, I put a handful of coffee beans in the trap and covered it perfectly with a few cocktail napkins. The idea was that when Chris pulled a napkin off the top, the trap would spring and hurl a handful of coffee beans at him. By the way, two test runs with this trap had it working beautifully!
My plan was beautiful, it all came together perfectly and it would've worked too...uhm, until Jimbo came into the picture. Despite the fact that I briefed Jimbo when he came in for his evening shift in the tavern that afternoon, when Chris went outside to smoke and Jim came behind the bar to grab a beer for a guest and reached for the napkin, Jim was left remembering what he'd forgotten moments before.
"Chris come back here....it's going to go off!"
I express my disappointment that I'm having to get up from my seat at the bar, where I'd parked my ass for a front row seat to see my pranks bear fruit. I'm not going to waste time scolding Jim for forgetting about my little trick - I've got a trap to reset! By the way, I barely got that done without getting busted by Chris when he came back behind the bar - but I did succeed, thankfully.
Although the trap was reset w/about half the number of beans it originally had, my plan worked very well. It shocked the living B-JEEZUS out of Chris, and it really amused a customer. Chris couldn't believe that I put a mouse trap in the napkins and went to such lengths to do that. He kept saying as much. I couldn't believe Chris put blue cheese in my tube of toothpaste and thought I would let that go unnoticed. I kept saying as much.
Chris: "What would you have said if that would've gone off with my finger in it?!"
Me(also Chris): "I dunno - probably something like, well now, that oughta teach you not to put blue cheese in my fuckin' toothpaste huh?"
What happened next was almost as funny as the look on his face when the mouse trap went off as he pulled the napkin, he couldn't stop asking me what else I'd done behind his bar. Actually that was it - show's over, but damned if I was going to tell him that.
I watched as he opened his cash drawer and stuck a pencil in every slot thinking that the other trap was somewhere in there. I told him he could relax, that while he was right to assume there was indeed another trap, it was in my car (actually years later, it's still in my car) and I suggest he not force me to use it. I couldn't seem to convince him that I was done. Ah...poetic justice shall be the shadow of the man who runs scared - wow, that's pretty good huh? I just thought of that!
Sarcasm spoken here
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Don't Sing For Your Supper!
I recently got a new cell phone - somewhat reluctantly. It's not that I didn't like my old phone, a Motorola Razor, it's just that after two years, the battery wasn't holding a charge. The cell phone market is highly competitive and it seemed a bit silly to spend $45 on a new battery when I could get a new phone for nothing.
I called my cellular provider and inquired about my upgrade options. Seeing as how I wasn't under contract, I thought that if they wouldn't allow me an upgrade at least comparable to what they were offering new customers, I would look into another provider.
What I ended up with was good and bad. The good was that my cellular provider would allow me to upgrade to a new phone by paying $50 and then getting that money back in a rebate. The bad news is that it took some lengthy phone conversations with my provider's customer service department spread out over three weeks. I found myself repeating my basic information dozens of times, being on hold for 27 minutes on one call( which, by the way feels like an entire flippin' day) and being extremely aggravated at the whole process.
I'll hold the typical stereotyped jokes about how companies have universally shipped their customer service departments over to India - but rest assured, I could spit out loads of those kind of jokes after my last call to my provider prior to my new phone being in stock and shipped to me.
I spent 30 minutes on the phone that day and every passing minute had me wanting off the damn phone more than the previous minute. I repeated things like my name, the last four digits of my social security number, what my phone number is, what my new phone would be and all kinds of other things I wouldn't have thought I'd have to - all more times than I care to count.
Just when all of this seems like it's about to end, and best of all, I'll be off the damn phone after losing count of how many times I've thought "didn't I already tell you that, like, three times?" my customer service rep says the following:
CSR: Okay sir, I do appreciate you giving me the opportunity to assist you with this matter today, and on a scale of one to five, with five being the most positive, how would you rate my service to you today in assisting you with this matter?"
Me, thinking: What The Fuck??...are you kidding me? Actually, I think you have A.D.D. and that's not exactly an attribute in your line of work. It seems doubtful to me that anyone in your department notes a customer's account, and even more doubtful that you even thought to scroll down and read any of what I was told - I say this because you tried to get me to pay for what I was told I would be getting for free. Given that I've spent twice as much time on the phone as I really needed to (never mind wanting here) I would say that I'd rate your service a one, maybe a two. The thing is, you don't get to ask me that - direct me to a survey if you must, but don't put me on the spot - not when my answer is influenced by the fact that what I want most right now is to get off the damn phone!
Me, answering CSR: five.
Me, thinking: that ought to get me off the phone!
CSR: Oh why thank you very much sir! I do appreciate both your opinion of my service to you in this matter and the opportunity to assist you today with this matter, and I would like to thank you at this time for choosing blah,blah,blah for your cellular service and continuing to allow us to serve you...at this time I would like to ask you if there is anything else I can help you with today?
Me: no, I think that's it.
I'm pretty sure I could hear this woman blush over the phone. The only reason I gave her high marks was because I didn't want to have to explain my ass and therefore stay on the phone a little longer. I understand the need for customer feedback - I have worked in customer service and some of that work was actually for a cellular provider. My current job is one that feedback is directly proportional to my income - but I disagree with such a direct manner of getting said feedback. I'm just saying.
I called my cellular provider and inquired about my upgrade options. Seeing as how I wasn't under contract, I thought that if they wouldn't allow me an upgrade at least comparable to what they were offering new customers, I would look into another provider.
What I ended up with was good and bad. The good was that my cellular provider would allow me to upgrade to a new phone by paying $50 and then getting that money back in a rebate. The bad news is that it took some lengthy phone conversations with my provider's customer service department spread out over three weeks. I found myself repeating my basic information dozens of times, being on hold for 27 minutes on one call( which, by the way feels like an entire flippin' day) and being extremely aggravated at the whole process.
I'll hold the typical stereotyped jokes about how companies have universally shipped their customer service departments over to India - but rest assured, I could spit out loads of those kind of jokes after my last call to my provider prior to my new phone being in stock and shipped to me.
I spent 30 minutes on the phone that day and every passing minute had me wanting off the damn phone more than the previous minute. I repeated things like my name, the last four digits of my social security number, what my phone number is, what my new phone would be and all kinds of other things I wouldn't have thought I'd have to - all more times than I care to count.
Just when all of this seems like it's about to end, and best of all, I'll be off the damn phone after losing count of how many times I've thought "didn't I already tell you that, like, three times?" my customer service rep says the following:
CSR: Okay sir, I do appreciate you giving me the opportunity to assist you with this matter today, and on a scale of one to five, with five being the most positive, how would you rate my service to you today in assisting you with this matter?"
Me, thinking: What The Fuck??...are you kidding me? Actually, I think you have A.D.D. and that's not exactly an attribute in your line of work. It seems doubtful to me that anyone in your department notes a customer's account, and even more doubtful that you even thought to scroll down and read any of what I was told - I say this because you tried to get me to pay for what I was told I would be getting for free. Given that I've spent twice as much time on the phone as I really needed to (never mind wanting here) I would say that I'd rate your service a one, maybe a two. The thing is, you don't get to ask me that - direct me to a survey if you must, but don't put me on the spot - not when my answer is influenced by the fact that what I want most right now is to get off the damn phone!
Me, answering CSR: five.
Me, thinking: that ought to get me off the phone!
CSR: Oh why thank you very much sir! I do appreciate both your opinion of my service to you in this matter and the opportunity to assist you today with this matter, and I would like to thank you at this time for choosing blah,blah,blah for your cellular service and continuing to allow us to serve you...at this time I would like to ask you if there is anything else I can help you with today?
Me: no, I think that's it.
I'm pretty sure I could hear this woman blush over the phone. The only reason I gave her high marks was because I didn't want to have to explain my ass and therefore stay on the phone a little longer. I understand the need for customer feedback - I have worked in customer service and some of that work was actually for a cellular provider. My current job is one that feedback is directly proportional to my income - but I disagree with such a direct manner of getting said feedback. I'm just saying.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Feet Night!
The Thai place I tend bar at feeds us dinner every night at the end of the shift. Now before I say anything else about tonight's post-shift dinner, allow me to say that I'm a pretty fair foodie and a pretty fair cook as well. I do tend to favor Japanese food and sushi over Thai food - I've got some very good reasons for that, none of which I'll share in this post.
At about 8:45 tonight, Dave, one of our servers, comes up to the bar and says he needs me to do him a favor. "Sure - whaddya need man?" I say.
"I need you to go right now and take a look at what they made us for dinner tonight - and be sure you take a good whiff of it!" I rather doubt that I'll be surprised really, because these days I'm less and less surprised by what I see at work. I head towards the kitchen, wondering what's in store for us for dinner.
I've been at this place, which I jokingly refer to as "House of MSG", for about a year and a half. I've seen some employee meals that made me feel like I was in a flippin' Unicef commercial - "Please send money now - you can make a difference in someone's life today for just pennies a month." - and I've passed on quite a few of those. I'll either buy something off the menu, go someplace to eat after work, or make something at home. I am not a man who eats things that don't look good. Yeah, I said it.
I go back to the kitchen and Dave is over my shoulder : "Those are FEET!"
Yes, that's exactly what I see a huge bowl of. A big bowl filled with chicken feet. It looks like the feet are sauced with a sweet brown sauce that is used for General Tso's or Sesame chicken, and a few of the dried hot red peppers are scattered over them. As a friend's father used to say, you can't polish a turd. Nothing could make tonight's staff meal appealing for me - except maybe a week without food.
"Yes they are" I calmly reply. In my mind I'm thinking, what THE fuck???
How do I put this delicately? No thanks. One of our cooks (I hate to use the term "Chef" at this place) asks me why I don't want to eat them and then cross-references them with something I won't repeat here.
Again, I know the culture is different - but so is the soil you're standing on in the country you chose to come to, America. I'm sorry, but if chicken feet were so damn good you would see more chicken feet places than burger joints. If chicken feet were so damn good, bars and restaurants would have "Feet Night" instead of "Wing Night" - guess what? They don't !
I've tried some things I never thought I'd try, and some of those things I've liked - but Andrew Zimmern I'm not. Perhaps a little nod to Dr. Seuss:
I will not have those chicken feet
Those are not what I will eat
I do not care how you will fry
these feet you will not make me try
I'm hungry yes, the hour is late
but do not put those on my plate
...uhm, yeah, that's about enough on that one huh?
At about 8:45 tonight, Dave, one of our servers, comes up to the bar and says he needs me to do him a favor. "Sure - whaddya need man?" I say.
"I need you to go right now and take a look at what they made us for dinner tonight - and be sure you take a good whiff of it!" I rather doubt that I'll be surprised really, because these days I'm less and less surprised by what I see at work. I head towards the kitchen, wondering what's in store for us for dinner.
I've been at this place, which I jokingly refer to as "House of MSG", for about a year and a half. I've seen some employee meals that made me feel like I was in a flippin' Unicef commercial - "Please send money now - you can make a difference in someone's life today for just pennies a month." - and I've passed on quite a few of those. I'll either buy something off the menu, go someplace to eat after work, or make something at home. I am not a man who eats things that don't look good. Yeah, I said it.
I go back to the kitchen and Dave is over my shoulder : "Those are FEET!"
Yes, that's exactly what I see a huge bowl of. A big bowl filled with chicken feet. It looks like the feet are sauced with a sweet brown sauce that is used for General Tso's or Sesame chicken, and a few of the dried hot red peppers are scattered over them. As a friend's father used to say, you can't polish a turd. Nothing could make tonight's staff meal appealing for me - except maybe a week without food.
"Yes they are" I calmly reply. In my mind I'm thinking, what THE fuck???
How do I put this delicately? No thanks. One of our cooks (I hate to use the term "Chef" at this place) asks me why I don't want to eat them and then cross-references them with something I won't repeat here.
Again, I know the culture is different - but so is the soil you're standing on in the country you chose to come to, America. I'm sorry, but if chicken feet were so damn good you would see more chicken feet places than burger joints. If chicken feet were so damn good, bars and restaurants would have "Feet Night" instead of "Wing Night" - guess what? They don't !
I've tried some things I never thought I'd try, and some of those things I've liked - but Andrew Zimmern I'm not. Perhaps a little nod to Dr. Seuss:
I will not have those chicken feet
Those are not what I will eat
I do not care how you will fry
these feet you will not make me try
I'm hungry yes, the hour is late
but do not put those on my plate
...uhm, yeah, that's about enough on that one huh?
Saturday, March 21, 2009
It's The Little Things...
Sometimes it's the little things that mean a lot. Cliche, I know - deal with it. All I can say is that lately I find myself noticing some very little things that mean a lot to me. I guess you could say that to me, any of these things really aren't that little - they're actually very big things that I cherish, yeah - I said it.
So what kinds of things am I talking about? Here are a few of the things that either always jump out at me at just the right time, or that I'm thinking of currently:
1) A hand made birthday card that my niece Amy made for me two years ago. It's drawn in pencil and she drew me on the front with the caption "sad - Befor", on the inside, the card reads as follows: today is you'r day, you are ___(I'm not telling, but it's 40-enough, thank you) years old. good luck! happy .B. day! - on the back of the card is another rendering of me, but this one is smiling and reads, happy/after. Makes sense to me - isn't everyone happy after their birthday?
2) A square tray made out of popsicle sticks that my nephew Matt gave me - probably 9 or ten years ago. One of the sticks broke off and I still have it - I'm going to glue it back on. The tray sits on top of a small bookshelf where I put my keys. It's there in order for me to see it all the time.
3) A few emails with encouraging words from friends - I keep these and look back at them from time to time on days when I feel like I'm struggling. Sometimes I take a line from emails like these and print it out to stick it on my bulletin board - that's how inspiring and uplifting a kind word from one of my friends can be, and I consider myself very friend-rich.
4) Along the same lines as #3, a text message sent to me by a friend, seconds after I got off the phone with him and he asked me to be a groomsman in his wedding. This, on a day when I found myself wondering if I'd made a difference for anyone else. I felt like the universe, and my friend both were tapping me on the shoulder and telling me that yes, I had indeed made a difference. Who would've thought that a simple text message would end up meaning so much?
5) A small mason jar that was given to me filled with real maple syrup from the property of a woman who used to decorate the upscale restaurant where I used to work. BJ, the woman who gave me this jar of syrup, passed away last summer after a long battle with cancer. She was a delightful woman to talk to, actually to listen to. She had this incredible way of bestowing warmth, wisdom, humor and complete kindness to anyone she was around - and I only had the blessing of being in her presence every once in awhile. I'm a bit of an odd duck in that I only eat pancakes in the winter months. For some reason I find blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup on a winter morning very comforting - and I always think of BJ and what a delightful person she was when I have pancakes now. I hope I always will.
6) A note on a torn off piece of paper that reads: Thank You! U were Great! This note was left by a customer who was very particular about what they wanted. I only wanted to get them exactly what they wanted, but for some reason that became a bit difficult due to my manager interrupting me and making things much harder than they needed to be. What makes this note special is that the kind of aggravation that took place that night is a regular occurence at my place of employment - though it needn't be. This customer made a point of going up to the front desk and asking for a pen and the paper to write it on - and they left a nice tip as well. To me this note says, "see? it's them, not you."
7) A card from a couple from Australia, who were visiting friends in this country, friends who happen to be among my friends. The last thing I expected was to receive a card from these two people telling me that the best thing about their trip to the United States was meeting the friends of the people they were visiting with. Maybe it shouldn't have surprised me so much, because these particular people are among the nicest people I know and I'm lucky to be anywhere in a circle of friends that include people like these.
8) A rather bright red canvas Chinese newspaper boy hat. This hat is a bit bright, especially for a man, a bit of a tight fit, and it only looks good on me worn backwards so that it looks kind of like a beret. The hat was given to me by a guy who came over here from Laos and worked as the lead cook at the Thai place I'm currently employed with. Everyone called this guy Papa John, and much of the time, Papa John was a bit crabby to the men at work - but he was always giving the young girls food, pushing a stool towards them and telling them to sit down and rest while they ate. Most of the time I left John alone - but I saw kindness in that man's heart and I could tell that his crabby mood at work was born of loneliness and being unhappy. All that man did, at least in the time that I knew him, was work - six days a week and 12-14 hour days. As if it wasn't hot enough in the kitchen, the owner had John outside mowing the damn lawn in the summer months too. John himself wore a hat like this and gave me my hat after I complimented him on his one night. John passed away at 45, two weeks ago. I once thought this hat was perhaps a bit bright for a man to wear - at least if that man is me. Now I'll wear it whenever I want to and I don't care what anyone else thinks about it, so there.
There you have it, the little things that mean a lot to me.
So what kinds of things am I talking about? Here are a few of the things that either always jump out at me at just the right time, or that I'm thinking of currently:
1) A hand made birthday card that my niece Amy made for me two years ago. It's drawn in pencil and she drew me on the front with the caption "sad - Befor", on the inside, the card reads as follows: today is you'r day, you are ___(I'm not telling, but it's 40-enough, thank you) years old. good luck! happy .B. day! - on the back of the card is another rendering of me, but this one is smiling and reads, happy/after. Makes sense to me - isn't everyone happy after their birthday?
2) A square tray made out of popsicle sticks that my nephew Matt gave me - probably 9 or ten years ago. One of the sticks broke off and I still have it - I'm going to glue it back on. The tray sits on top of a small bookshelf where I put my keys. It's there in order for me to see it all the time.
3) A few emails with encouraging words from friends - I keep these and look back at them from time to time on days when I feel like I'm struggling. Sometimes I take a line from emails like these and print it out to stick it on my bulletin board - that's how inspiring and uplifting a kind word from one of my friends can be, and I consider myself very friend-rich.
4) Along the same lines as #3, a text message sent to me by a friend, seconds after I got off the phone with him and he asked me to be a groomsman in his wedding. This, on a day when I found myself wondering if I'd made a difference for anyone else. I felt like the universe, and my friend both were tapping me on the shoulder and telling me that yes, I had indeed made a difference. Who would've thought that a simple text message would end up meaning so much?
5) A small mason jar that was given to me filled with real maple syrup from the property of a woman who used to decorate the upscale restaurant where I used to work. BJ, the woman who gave me this jar of syrup, passed away last summer after a long battle with cancer. She was a delightful woman to talk to, actually to listen to. She had this incredible way of bestowing warmth, wisdom, humor and complete kindness to anyone she was around - and I only had the blessing of being in her presence every once in awhile. I'm a bit of an odd duck in that I only eat pancakes in the winter months. For some reason I find blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup on a winter morning very comforting - and I always think of BJ and what a delightful person she was when I have pancakes now. I hope I always will.
6) A note on a torn off piece of paper that reads: Thank You! U were Great! This note was left by a customer who was very particular about what they wanted. I only wanted to get them exactly what they wanted, but for some reason that became a bit difficult due to my manager interrupting me and making things much harder than they needed to be. What makes this note special is that the kind of aggravation that took place that night is a regular occurence at my place of employment - though it needn't be. This customer made a point of going up to the front desk and asking for a pen and the paper to write it on - and they left a nice tip as well. To me this note says, "see? it's them, not you."
7) A card from a couple from Australia, who were visiting friends in this country, friends who happen to be among my friends. The last thing I expected was to receive a card from these two people telling me that the best thing about their trip to the United States was meeting the friends of the people they were visiting with. Maybe it shouldn't have surprised me so much, because these particular people are among the nicest people I know and I'm lucky to be anywhere in a circle of friends that include people like these.
8) A rather bright red canvas Chinese newspaper boy hat. This hat is a bit bright, especially for a man, a bit of a tight fit, and it only looks good on me worn backwards so that it looks kind of like a beret. The hat was given to me by a guy who came over here from Laos and worked as the lead cook at the Thai place I'm currently employed with. Everyone called this guy Papa John, and much of the time, Papa John was a bit crabby to the men at work - but he was always giving the young girls food, pushing a stool towards them and telling them to sit down and rest while they ate. Most of the time I left John alone - but I saw kindness in that man's heart and I could tell that his crabby mood at work was born of loneliness and being unhappy. All that man did, at least in the time that I knew him, was work - six days a week and 12-14 hour days. As if it wasn't hot enough in the kitchen, the owner had John outside mowing the damn lawn in the summer months too. John himself wore a hat like this and gave me my hat after I complimented him on his one night. John passed away at 45, two weeks ago. I once thought this hat was perhaps a bit bright for a man to wear - at least if that man is me. Now I'll wear it whenever I want to and I don't care what anyone else thinks about it, so there.
There you have it, the little things that mean a lot to me.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Probably?
I have to wonder what is wrong with customer service these days. While it may be easier to call a number in the hopes of getting something taken care of, it's not easy to actually get past being on hold, and a ton of red tape. There always seems to be something that lengthens the amount of time it takes to have your problem solved so that you can go on about your day. Sometimes it's not much better in person:
Yesterday I went to a branch of my bank that is located in a grocery store and has extended hours - perfect for me, a guy who works nights and deposits cash a few times a week. After I deposited my cash, I went about some grocery shopping. At the far end of the store, I noticed the bank teller who handled my transaction not five minutes earlier - now handing out fliers for a joint bank/grocery store offer. She even made eye contact with me. Stay with me, the importance of this will show itself shortly.
As I'm at the checkout and I reach into my wallet to get my check card to pay for my groceries, there's no card. Either I left it at the bank counter, or I dropped it somewhere in the store. I excuse myself from the cashier telling her that I think I left my check card at the bank and I'll just run over and get it. What happened next was a little bit odd:
Me: Did I just leave my check card here a few minutes ago?
Teller: Probably...Christopher......?
Me - thinking: probably?...what do you mean, probably? probably is what I thought when I ran to the counter half panicked because I thought that either I dropped it somewhere in the store or the bank would be closed...probably is not for YOU to say - I either did or I didn't!
Teller: do you have any form of identification?
Me - thinking again: yeah - I have indentification, the same I.D. that I used at your fucking counter like ten minutes ago. Not only that, but I was probably your last customer and you made eye contact with me at the back of the store - so if I probably left my damn check card at your counter, you probably should have said something like, oh I don't know...."excuse me sir - I think you left your check card at the bank counter" - which is what I probably would've done/said if our roles were reversed.
Me, actually talking to the teller: Sure.
At this point the teller takes my driver's license, looks at the name on it, writes down the license number and my name - I guess because she probably needs to check and make sure that it is probably my card. I know she was probably just doing her job and following procedure - but the fact that she seemed to remember my name would seem to suggest that she probably knew it was my card.
I leave with my card, though the teller has a look that says she thinks something is probably not quite right. I wonder if I realized that I left the card as I got three steps from the counter after I made my deposit and turned around to get my card if she probably would've asked for my I.D. then...
Yesterday I went to a branch of my bank that is located in a grocery store and has extended hours - perfect for me, a guy who works nights and deposits cash a few times a week. After I deposited my cash, I went about some grocery shopping. At the far end of the store, I noticed the bank teller who handled my transaction not five minutes earlier - now handing out fliers for a joint bank/grocery store offer. She even made eye contact with me. Stay with me, the importance of this will show itself shortly.
As I'm at the checkout and I reach into my wallet to get my check card to pay for my groceries, there's no card. Either I left it at the bank counter, or I dropped it somewhere in the store. I excuse myself from the cashier telling her that I think I left my check card at the bank and I'll just run over and get it. What happened next was a little bit odd:
Me: Did I just leave my check card here a few minutes ago?
Teller: Probably...Christopher......?
Me - thinking: probably?...what do you mean, probably? probably is what I thought when I ran to the counter half panicked because I thought that either I dropped it somewhere in the store or the bank would be closed...probably is not for YOU to say - I either did or I didn't!
Teller: do you have any form of identification?
Me - thinking again: yeah - I have indentification, the same I.D. that I used at your fucking counter like ten minutes ago. Not only that, but I was probably your last customer and you made eye contact with me at the back of the store - so if I probably left my damn check card at your counter, you probably should have said something like, oh I don't know...."excuse me sir - I think you left your check card at the bank counter" - which is what I probably would've done/said if our roles were reversed.
Me, actually talking to the teller: Sure.
At this point the teller takes my driver's license, looks at the name on it, writes down the license number and my name - I guess because she probably needs to check and make sure that it is probably my card. I know she was probably just doing her job and following procedure - but the fact that she seemed to remember my name would seem to suggest that she probably knew it was my card.
I leave with my card, though the teller has a look that says she thinks something is probably not quite right. I wonder if I realized that I left the card as I got three steps from the counter after I made my deposit and turned around to get my card if she probably would've asked for my I.D. then...
Monday, January 12, 2009
A Dirty Job
As far as bachelors go, I'm quite a bit more domestic than a lot of guys out there. I clean regularly and I cook perhaps better than most. I can cook at least as well as any of the women I've dated, better than some I suppose. Nonetheless, I'm still single...
Somehow one of the things I've never done in my 40-plus years, is clean an oven. I probably never would have either had it not been for the oven in my apartment filling the kitchen and living room with smoke and setting off the smoke alarm every time I've used it recently. Yep, I'm going to have to clean this thing. I didn't think I really used the oven that much as I do most of my cooking on the stove top. I guess two years of making pizzas, steaks or salmon filets now and again, along with a batch of slice-and-bake cookies and some other oven cooked things I've forgotten have left the inside of my oven walls covered in a smoke alarm triggering funk of brownish-blackness.
How hard can this be to clean right? Buy a can of oven cleaner, spray it on, wait a bit and wipe the mess away - right? Just to be sure, I ask a female friend if she's ever cleaned an oven.
"Yes - why?", my friend asks. Why? Because I'm hoping you'll be a dear and offer to come over and clean it for me? Actually that thought didn't occur to me until much later, and no, I wouldn't have asked. I just wanted to get a heads up on anything I needed to keep in mind or be careful of. What I got, was her simply telling me that there was basically nothing to it- spray the stuff on, leave it for a few hours and then wipe it off.
I ask her if I need to avoid spraying the cleaner on the heating element, she says no, that it's pretty hard to avoid that and not to worry about it. I don't believe her, and using my MacGyver logic, devise a plan to wrap the heating element in aluminum foil. I know that one of two things will happen if I don't do this: either the oven cleaner will corrode the heating element into an electrical fire hazzard, or it will infuse it with a toxic fake lemon scent. I cannot allow this to happen. I will not allow this to happen.
At the grocery store, I have three choices for the task at hand, all of them aerosol cans. The first is bargain brand at barely 1/4 the cost of the other two name brands. Since the bargain brand is so much cheaper, I decide that it can't possibly do a good job on my oven. As if the standard-issue, rental complex electric oven is something I'm proud of. The leading brand says "Fume-free" - looks like we have a winner folks!
Back at home in my kitchen, it's on. I open the oven and cover the heating element with strips of foil. It's a damn good thing I did too, because the instructions say not to spray the cleaner on things like heating elements as it could result in the heating element being damaged. See? I know, good thinking, right? For those of you watching at home, it uhm, takes around ten strips of aluminum foil to completely cover the heating element.
Now I'm ready to let this oven know I mean business. I douse the oven walls with the leading national brand - liberally. I notice the white foam soon turns to a brownish bubbling mass of foam. I decide that I cannot afford to take a passive stance with this mess and I spray the living shit out of the inside of my oven - poetic justice being served for it setting off a very hard to reach smoke alarm - take that oven - you shall exist in a state of greasy brown/black funk no more!
After a while...never mind how long, I open the door and take a damp sponge to the greasy lemony scented foam. Hmm...seems to work pretty well, though I would've thought that more would come off after....after...20 minutes? Has it only been 20 minutes? I give the door another dousing of cleaner and tell myself I'm not touching the oven for at least two hours.
On the phone with my mom, I casually mention that I'm cleaning my oven. The only advice she offers? "Leave it on for quite awhile."
Well of course...I know that. It's not like I'm going to try and wipe it off after like, 20 minutes - again.
Nearly three hours later and this is where the fun stops. No one tells you this. This is the point where things start to suck. It is also the point of no return. You have to finish what you started.
Yes the oven walls will wipe clean with amazing ease, but that is of no comfort now. There is nothing comfortable about being on your hands and knees and wiping the inside of an oven. What wipes off so easily, is still inside your oven. While it's no longer stuck to the walls, it has now turned into a puddle of black-brown lemony-greasy scented funk that is surely toxic. Don't get it on you. Don't let it touch anything you want to keep. Make sure you remove every last drop of this stuff from the inside of your oven. No one tells you this - so I will. Oh, just to be safe, don't breathe the fumes - I'm pretty sure they'll make you retarded or dissolve one, or both of your lungs.
What the hell am I supposed to do with this mess? How will I get it out of the oven? Won't it eat through whatever I put it in? Do I need to go back to the store and buy a container that says "Biohazard Material" on it? Sponges seem unable to absorb this toxic puddle, paper towels aren't any better. I decide I've got to act fast and grab some empty plastic containers to put the biohazard liquid in - quickly! I can't have much time with this stuff. I've got to get it out of my apartment, because soon it will eat holes through everything. Let the fact that it will eat through the apartment dumpster in the parking lot be someone else's problem. If anyone asks me if I threw this toxic mess into the complex dumpsters, I'll simply say no.
All this is in the front of the oven. The entrance to the cave, if you will. Further inside the cave, I start to realize just how nasty this job is. Thought it was nearly over didn't you? I know - me too. Now is when I realize that I may not be able to get all of this cleaner out of the oven - this is bad news because surely the oven will not be safe to use if I don't get every last bit of oven cleaner off the floor, ceiling and walls of my oven. Now is where I turn into an injured and struggling comic book super hero, struggling and straining to breathe, or see inside the cave and press on: ...Must...gasp...must finish...can't...see....fumes...making...me...dizzy...gasp...oven clean....must get...gasp...finish. If I can't do this, the oven will be a toxic hotbox that will fill my apartment with poisonous gasses as I preheat it to make my next pizza. No one tells you this.
Just as paranoia is setting in, I realize that a miner's hat with a light would let me see the spots that still need cleaned. At this moment, Paranoia's two friends, lower back pain/strain and knee pain arrive. Unwelcome guests, even at a cleaning party. No one tells you this. I think back to a time in my childhood when I noticed my mom cleaning her oven. I didn't give it much thought until I finished cleaning my own oven. Funny how now it seems like childbirth would be easier to go through than the dirty job of cleaning an oven. So for every time you cleaned an oven and none of us noticed, THANK YOU MOM!
Oh I finished the job alright - though I wish I could say that I'm confident that I got every last bit of the greasy cleaner foam - which is toxic remember, out of my oven and that it's now safe to use. I'm not so sure, maybe I can live off things that I can cook using only the four burners on top of my oven, at least for a month or two, however long it takes for the oven to be safe again. No one tells you this.
Somehow one of the things I've never done in my 40-plus years, is clean an oven. I probably never would have either had it not been for the oven in my apartment filling the kitchen and living room with smoke and setting off the smoke alarm every time I've used it recently. Yep, I'm going to have to clean this thing. I didn't think I really used the oven that much as I do most of my cooking on the stove top. I guess two years of making pizzas, steaks or salmon filets now and again, along with a batch of slice-and-bake cookies and some other oven cooked things I've forgotten have left the inside of my oven walls covered in a smoke alarm triggering funk of brownish-blackness.
How hard can this be to clean right? Buy a can of oven cleaner, spray it on, wait a bit and wipe the mess away - right? Just to be sure, I ask a female friend if she's ever cleaned an oven.
"Yes - why?", my friend asks. Why? Because I'm hoping you'll be a dear and offer to come over and clean it for me? Actually that thought didn't occur to me until much later, and no, I wouldn't have asked. I just wanted to get a heads up on anything I needed to keep in mind or be careful of. What I got, was her simply telling me that there was basically nothing to it- spray the stuff on, leave it for a few hours and then wipe it off.
I ask her if I need to avoid spraying the cleaner on the heating element, she says no, that it's pretty hard to avoid that and not to worry about it. I don't believe her, and using my MacGyver logic, devise a plan to wrap the heating element in aluminum foil. I know that one of two things will happen if I don't do this: either the oven cleaner will corrode the heating element into an electrical fire hazzard, or it will infuse it with a toxic fake lemon scent. I cannot allow this to happen. I will not allow this to happen.
At the grocery store, I have three choices for the task at hand, all of them aerosol cans. The first is bargain brand at barely 1/4 the cost of the other two name brands. Since the bargain brand is so much cheaper, I decide that it can't possibly do a good job on my oven. As if the standard-issue, rental complex electric oven is something I'm proud of. The leading brand says "Fume-free" - looks like we have a winner folks!
Back at home in my kitchen, it's on. I open the oven and cover the heating element with strips of foil. It's a damn good thing I did too, because the instructions say not to spray the cleaner on things like heating elements as it could result in the heating element being damaged. See? I know, good thinking, right? For those of you watching at home, it uhm, takes around ten strips of aluminum foil to completely cover the heating element.
Now I'm ready to let this oven know I mean business. I douse the oven walls with the leading national brand - liberally. I notice the white foam soon turns to a brownish bubbling mass of foam. I decide that I cannot afford to take a passive stance with this mess and I spray the living shit out of the inside of my oven - poetic justice being served for it setting off a very hard to reach smoke alarm - take that oven - you shall exist in a state of greasy brown/black funk no more!
After a while...never mind how long, I open the door and take a damp sponge to the greasy lemony scented foam. Hmm...seems to work pretty well, though I would've thought that more would come off after....after...20 minutes? Has it only been 20 minutes? I give the door another dousing of cleaner and tell myself I'm not touching the oven for at least two hours.
On the phone with my mom, I casually mention that I'm cleaning my oven. The only advice she offers? "Leave it on for quite awhile."
Well of course...I know that. It's not like I'm going to try and wipe it off after like, 20 minutes - again.
Nearly three hours later and this is where the fun stops. No one tells you this. This is the point where things start to suck. It is also the point of no return. You have to finish what you started.
Yes the oven walls will wipe clean with amazing ease, but that is of no comfort now. There is nothing comfortable about being on your hands and knees and wiping the inside of an oven. What wipes off so easily, is still inside your oven. While it's no longer stuck to the walls, it has now turned into a puddle of black-brown lemony-greasy scented funk that is surely toxic. Don't get it on you. Don't let it touch anything you want to keep. Make sure you remove every last drop of this stuff from the inside of your oven. No one tells you this - so I will. Oh, just to be safe, don't breathe the fumes - I'm pretty sure they'll make you retarded or dissolve one, or both of your lungs.
What the hell am I supposed to do with this mess? How will I get it out of the oven? Won't it eat through whatever I put it in? Do I need to go back to the store and buy a container that says "Biohazard Material" on it? Sponges seem unable to absorb this toxic puddle, paper towels aren't any better. I decide I've got to act fast and grab some empty plastic containers to put the biohazard liquid in - quickly! I can't have much time with this stuff. I've got to get it out of my apartment, because soon it will eat holes through everything. Let the fact that it will eat through the apartment dumpster in the parking lot be someone else's problem. If anyone asks me if I threw this toxic mess into the complex dumpsters, I'll simply say no.
All this is in the front of the oven. The entrance to the cave, if you will. Further inside the cave, I start to realize just how nasty this job is. Thought it was nearly over didn't you? I know - me too. Now is when I realize that I may not be able to get all of this cleaner out of the oven - this is bad news because surely the oven will not be safe to use if I don't get every last bit of oven cleaner off the floor, ceiling and walls of my oven. Now is where I turn into an injured and struggling comic book super hero, struggling and straining to breathe, or see inside the cave and press on: ...Must...gasp...must finish...can't...see....fumes...making...me...dizzy...gasp...oven clean....must get...gasp...finish. If I can't do this, the oven will be a toxic hotbox that will fill my apartment with poisonous gasses as I preheat it to make my next pizza. No one tells you this.
Just as paranoia is setting in, I realize that a miner's hat with a light would let me see the spots that still need cleaned. At this moment, Paranoia's two friends, lower back pain/strain and knee pain arrive. Unwelcome guests, even at a cleaning party. No one tells you this. I think back to a time in my childhood when I noticed my mom cleaning her oven. I didn't give it much thought until I finished cleaning my own oven. Funny how now it seems like childbirth would be easier to go through than the dirty job of cleaning an oven. So for every time you cleaned an oven and none of us noticed, THANK YOU MOM!
Oh I finished the job alright - though I wish I could say that I'm confident that I got every last bit of the greasy cleaner foam - which is toxic remember, out of my oven and that it's now safe to use. I'm not so sure, maybe I can live off things that I can cook using only the four burners on top of my oven, at least for a month or two, however long it takes for the oven to be safe again. No one tells you this.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
McNugget Love?
I almost never go to McDonald's. It's always a last resort type of thing when I do go, and it's always bad it seems. Never say never, but it wouldn't bother me much if I never set foot in a Micky D's again. Oh I've had my time of actually liking the food, but it's long past that now. I've enjoyed a Big Mac or two in my 40-enough years, Quarter Pounders, hamburgers, cheeseburgers, a fish sandwich here and there - but for all practical purposes, I'm done.
So what's my point? Ah, the latest commercial for chicken McNuggets, slathered with an excessive amount of R&B in the form of a song, a GOD-AWFUL song at that. Not only is it awful, it sticks in my head the way most of the menu at Micky D's would stick to the walls of my arteries if I actually ate there. As a friend of mine said, it kind of serves to illustrate just how cheezy R&B is these days. I'm not trying to hate here, but give me Earth, Wind & Fire, The Isley Brothers, Tower of Power, Al Green or Sly Stone any day over most of my current choices in that musical genre. I don't want to run down the entire song, but the opening line goes like this:
I woke up and found you creepin'...blah, blah, blah, something, something, McNugget love....
The drama plays out when the composer/singer of the song is denied any McNuggets by his lady love. Allow me to write my own song and finish it as if I were the guy in the commercial:
I woke up to find you creepin'
Smelled that greasy chicken while I'm sleepin'
Girl I can't eat no chicken that they stuff into a mold
Dip it in some batter & deep fry it frozen cold
Lady love's not sharin' but I can't say as that hurts
'Cause I know when you're finished girl you're gonna have the squirts
Okay, sorry - perhaps a bit vulgar, but now you get an idea of how I feel about Chicken McNuggets, and yes, I've eaten them too. Every time I've had them they've given me heartburn and I finally got the note-to-self about not eating them again. I suppose this is a rather pointless post huh? Maybe, just maybe it'll help get that blasted song out of my mind. In the commercial, the guy's lady love does compliment his song despite still denying him the golden goodness he's foolishly craving. I wonder if my commercial would have the woman say "that's a stupid song - here, try one of these."
So what's my point? Ah, the latest commercial for chicken McNuggets, slathered with an excessive amount of R&B in the form of a song, a GOD-AWFUL song at that. Not only is it awful, it sticks in my head the way most of the menu at Micky D's would stick to the walls of my arteries if I actually ate there. As a friend of mine said, it kind of serves to illustrate just how cheezy R&B is these days. I'm not trying to hate here, but give me Earth, Wind & Fire, The Isley Brothers, Tower of Power, Al Green or Sly Stone any day over most of my current choices in that musical genre. I don't want to run down the entire song, but the opening line goes like this:
I woke up and found you creepin'...blah, blah, blah, something, something, McNugget love....
The drama plays out when the composer/singer of the song is denied any McNuggets by his lady love. Allow me to write my own song and finish it as if I were the guy in the commercial:
I woke up to find you creepin'
Smelled that greasy chicken while I'm sleepin'
Girl I can't eat no chicken that they stuff into a mold
Dip it in some batter & deep fry it frozen cold
Lady love's not sharin' but I can't say as that hurts
'Cause I know when you're finished girl you're gonna have the squirts
Okay, sorry - perhaps a bit vulgar, but now you get an idea of how I feel about Chicken McNuggets, and yes, I've eaten them too. Every time I've had them they've given me heartburn and I finally got the note-to-self about not eating them again. I suppose this is a rather pointless post huh? Maybe, just maybe it'll help get that blasted song out of my mind. In the commercial, the guy's lady love does compliment his song despite still denying him the golden goodness he's foolishly craving. I wonder if my commercial would have the woman say "that's a stupid song - here, try one of these."
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Dog vs. Cat
I'm not ready to get another dog yet - for a number of reasons. I wish I could say that I'm ready right this very minute, but I can't. I've been using this time to research other breeds of dogs that I might enjoy having as my next dog. I tend to favor bigger dogs, but most dogs can win me over given the chance. In the end it won't really matter what kind of dog I end up getting as much as how that dog behaves will matter. Since my dog was absolutely perfect, those are big paw prints to fill.
I've briefly considered the idea of getting a cat, but the fact is, I'm not much of a cat person really. I love the interaction of man and dog. I love the expressions a dog can, and does make with its face. While one might not think that a dog is capable of giving you a look that gives you an incredible guilt complex, I'm here to say that a dog can indeed look at you in such a manner. As a friend of mine once said, when Maggie did that it usually spelled n-e-w t-o-y.
I'm not trying to suggest that cats don't have their good points. Who wouldn't want a box of shit in their house? Sorry, I couldn't resist that one. Seriously, I just prefer dogs really. I like how they get excited about doing things and they let you know it.
Cats, at least to me, are often aloof. Almost like they're too cool to be a pet. The feeling of my dog being happy to see me when I come home is much more satisfying than what I would get from a cat. Given how much I tend to humanize pet behavior, the odds are heavily in favor of dogs.
Imagine the following:
I come home to my cat, it's been a long day and my cat seems very happy to see me - although I wouldn't have guessed he or she gave a shit while they were sitting in the window barely noticing me coming up the walk.
I open the door to my cat running up to me purring loudly and rubbing up against my legs, doing figure eights in and around my feet and legs. In my tendency to humanize this behavior, I read this as:
Cat: purr, purr, weave in and out of your legs, keep purring, move tail, keep purring, keep moving, purr, purr, follow your every movement, maintain purring and physical contact
My translation of this behavior: I'm so happy, SO glad to see you, oh my god, you're back - so soon, oh it's so good to see you, I'm never happy when you're not here, I couldn't function without you despite us both needing our space, have I said that I'm happy you're home or that I love you? I have? Would you mind if I said it again? I do and I can't seem to say it enough at this moment, listen...if it's not too much trouble, could you pick me up and hold me close? If you think I'm purring now, just wait...
Actual Cat Meaning: you're home. Nice - did you have to leave the door open so long when you came in? You let a draft in that only served to remind me that I'm not allowed outside. I noticed a few things while you were out that need attention: one, my water tastes funny, what's up with that? Also the food in my bowl is stale and if you're going to insist I eat it, I will not be held responsible for any undesirable effects I'm certain it will have on my digestive abilities. Oh yeah, I took a dump under your bed, but you'll figure that one out in your own due time and when you do, I'm perfectly fine with the fact that you'll likely blame yourself for not addressing the litter box soon enough. Oh and I did you a favor while you were gone - I noticed that there is no cat scent behind the couch. How the hell do you expect that should you decide to bring another animal in here, they would have any way of knowing that the area behind the couch is mine and mine alone? I use that for keeping things I don't want you to know about secure....you know like maybe your keys, one or two of your credit cards or perhaps an important bill that you'll tear the house apart looking for...just stuff. So I did you a favor, since I was already back there, and sprayed the entire length of the couch - you're WELCOME!
Somehow I just don't think a cat would do for me. I've always been more of a dog person I guess. There you have it.
I've briefly considered the idea of getting a cat, but the fact is, I'm not much of a cat person really. I love the interaction of man and dog. I love the expressions a dog can, and does make with its face. While one might not think that a dog is capable of giving you a look that gives you an incredible guilt complex, I'm here to say that a dog can indeed look at you in such a manner. As a friend of mine once said, when Maggie did that it usually spelled n-e-w t-o-y.
I'm not trying to suggest that cats don't have their good points. Who wouldn't want a box of shit in their house? Sorry, I couldn't resist that one. Seriously, I just prefer dogs really. I like how they get excited about doing things and they let you know it.
Cats, at least to me, are often aloof. Almost like they're too cool to be a pet. The feeling of my dog being happy to see me when I come home is much more satisfying than what I would get from a cat. Given how much I tend to humanize pet behavior, the odds are heavily in favor of dogs.
Imagine the following:
I come home to my cat, it's been a long day and my cat seems very happy to see me - although I wouldn't have guessed he or she gave a shit while they were sitting in the window barely noticing me coming up the walk.
I open the door to my cat running up to me purring loudly and rubbing up against my legs, doing figure eights in and around my feet and legs. In my tendency to humanize this behavior, I read this as:
Cat: purr, purr, weave in and out of your legs, keep purring, move tail, keep purring, keep moving, purr, purr, follow your every movement, maintain purring and physical contact
My translation of this behavior: I'm so happy, SO glad to see you, oh my god, you're back - so soon, oh it's so good to see you, I'm never happy when you're not here, I couldn't function without you despite us both needing our space, have I said that I'm happy you're home or that I love you? I have? Would you mind if I said it again? I do and I can't seem to say it enough at this moment, listen...if it's not too much trouble, could you pick me up and hold me close? If you think I'm purring now, just wait...
Actual Cat Meaning: you're home. Nice - did you have to leave the door open so long when you came in? You let a draft in that only served to remind me that I'm not allowed outside. I noticed a few things while you were out that need attention: one, my water tastes funny, what's up with that? Also the food in my bowl is stale and if you're going to insist I eat it, I will not be held responsible for any undesirable effects I'm certain it will have on my digestive abilities. Oh yeah, I took a dump under your bed, but you'll figure that one out in your own due time and when you do, I'm perfectly fine with the fact that you'll likely blame yourself for not addressing the litter box soon enough. Oh and I did you a favor while you were gone - I noticed that there is no cat scent behind the couch. How the hell do you expect that should you decide to bring another animal in here, they would have any way of knowing that the area behind the couch is mine and mine alone? I use that for keeping things I don't want you to know about secure....you know like maybe your keys, one or two of your credit cards or perhaps an important bill that you'll tear the house apart looking for...just stuff. So I did you a favor, since I was already back there, and sprayed the entire length of the couch - you're WELCOME!
Somehow I just don't think a cat would do for me. I've always been more of a dog person I guess. There you have it.
More Musings From Over The Top
I'm new to mourning the loss of a pet. My dog was 13 when she passed away. It wasn't until the last 2 years of her life that she really acted like the old dog she was. She slept a lot, had practically no interest in her toys - which I'd spent a small fortune on during 11 years of owing her, she grunted a lot at times when she moved around and her hearing was questionable, though it often seemed selective. A friend of mine gave me the book Marley and Me nearly two years ago. I started it, but put it aside in favor of other things and only finished it a few days ago. Everything in the book about Marley's actions as he became an old dog is pretty much exactly what I saw with my own dog. I found myself taking more time to appreciate all the wonderful things I saw in my dog.
Now that she's gone, I miss so many things. I tried to prepare myself for the inevitable as I watched my dog become a senior citizen, but there's really no way to prepare yourself for the end of such a wonderful friendship. For the most part my days now are not as painful as the ones that immediately followed the one awful day of owning a dog that I had - but there is an empty feeling to them that I often have no choice but to think of. This is the first time I've gone through this and it's the other side of 11 years of ideal pet ownership. I'm not the first person to feel this kind of pain, I won't be the last one. There is another side to this time as well and every passing day gets me further away from the pain and closer to the healing.
People who aren't dog lovers don't really get it. At the risk of sounding over the top, I can truthfully say that I miss my dog as much as I miss anyone who has passed from my life. The fact of the matter is that my dog was at the upper end of a lifespan for a big dog. There's nothing I can do about that. I can't exactly write my congressman or get enough signatures on a petition to change the lifespan of a dog, no matter how wonderful that dog was. It is what it is.
My sister said that my grief was normal and that she'd only start to worry if I hired a pet psychic to communicate with her. As much as I miss that dog, that's not going to happen - but if it did....
Pet Pyschic: hi, have a seat please.
Me: Thanks, have you got a box of tissues?
Pet Pyschic: yes, but that's an additional fee
Me: I'm okay with that
Pet Pyschic: Let's begin then. I'm just going to close my eyes and relax and I want you to do the same. Think of your dog...
Me: got it
PP: now I'd like to ask you a few questions - I'm seeing a dog, but there are many dogs in my vision and we need to find your dog
Me: yes, of course - please
PP: your dog is a female....is she a black dog?
Me: yes - why do you have to bring color into it?
PP: very good, a large female black dog...and what is her name?
Me: Maggie
PP: ah...there are some issues, Maggie was adopted by you later and had other names...
Me: uh, yeah...I got her from the Humane Society when she was around 2
PP: let me ask you something about Maggie....did she like to play fetch? I'm seeing a ball....was there a tennis ball?
Me: fetch? are you kidding? She took being a retriever very serious. Yes there was a tennis ball, there were lots of tennis balls, they were often covered with dog saliva - that acted like a glue to hold dirt and grass to them, thus making the game of fetch more disgusting with every toss. Hell yes there was a tennis ball, but there were sticks, frisbees, nerf footballs, soccer balls and tons of other things as well.
PP: I'm seeing her tail wagging - did she wag her tail?
Me: Wag her tail? Of course she wagged her tail - I often thought she would break it off from smacking it against tables, walls, appliances, it often sounded like it had to hurt!
PP: Here, (hands me a soggy tennis ball covered with dog saliva, grass, dirt, tiny pebbles, etc) I want you to relax, close your eyes and throw the ball for Maggie....she wants you to throw the ball....
Me: what? where did you get this...?.....throw....huh?
PP: Please...this is a really important step in communication with your dog and in your healing process, so please, embrace it fully, relax, embrace the feeling, embrace the ball...cock your arm and release the ball
Me: well, okay.....(throwing ball....immediately followed by a loud crashing sound, like the sound of several picture frames being displaced and falling in various directions and glass breaking, maybe a few unspecified nick-nacks falling)
PP: Oh my...SIR! My pictures!..I didn't mean to literally throw the damn ball!...I meant for you to imagine throwing it!...I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave sir....you can pay the receptionist on your way out....
Now that she's gone, I miss so many things. I tried to prepare myself for the inevitable as I watched my dog become a senior citizen, but there's really no way to prepare yourself for the end of such a wonderful friendship. For the most part my days now are not as painful as the ones that immediately followed the one awful day of owning a dog that I had - but there is an empty feeling to them that I often have no choice but to think of. This is the first time I've gone through this and it's the other side of 11 years of ideal pet ownership. I'm not the first person to feel this kind of pain, I won't be the last one. There is another side to this time as well and every passing day gets me further away from the pain and closer to the healing.
People who aren't dog lovers don't really get it. At the risk of sounding over the top, I can truthfully say that I miss my dog as much as I miss anyone who has passed from my life. The fact of the matter is that my dog was at the upper end of a lifespan for a big dog. There's nothing I can do about that. I can't exactly write my congressman or get enough signatures on a petition to change the lifespan of a dog, no matter how wonderful that dog was. It is what it is.
My sister said that my grief was normal and that she'd only start to worry if I hired a pet psychic to communicate with her. As much as I miss that dog, that's not going to happen - but if it did....
Pet Pyschic: hi, have a seat please.
Me: Thanks, have you got a box of tissues?
Pet Pyschic: yes, but that's an additional fee
Me: I'm okay with that
Pet Pyschic: Let's begin then. I'm just going to close my eyes and relax and I want you to do the same. Think of your dog...
Me: got it
PP: now I'd like to ask you a few questions - I'm seeing a dog, but there are many dogs in my vision and we need to find your dog
Me: yes, of course - please
PP: your dog is a female....is she a black dog?
Me: yes - why do you have to bring color into it?
PP: very good, a large female black dog...and what is her name?
Me: Maggie
PP: ah...there are some issues, Maggie was adopted by you later and had other names...
Me: uh, yeah...I got her from the Humane Society when she was around 2
PP: let me ask you something about Maggie....did she like to play fetch? I'm seeing a ball....was there a tennis ball?
Me: fetch? are you kidding? She took being a retriever very serious. Yes there was a tennis ball, there were lots of tennis balls, they were often covered with dog saliva - that acted like a glue to hold dirt and grass to them, thus making the game of fetch more disgusting with every toss. Hell yes there was a tennis ball, but there were sticks, frisbees, nerf footballs, soccer balls and tons of other things as well.
PP: I'm seeing her tail wagging - did she wag her tail?
Me: Wag her tail? Of course she wagged her tail - I often thought she would break it off from smacking it against tables, walls, appliances, it often sounded like it had to hurt!
PP: Here, (hands me a soggy tennis ball covered with dog saliva, grass, dirt, tiny pebbles, etc) I want you to relax, close your eyes and throw the ball for Maggie....she wants you to throw the ball....
Me: what? where did you get this...?.....throw....huh?
PP: Please...this is a really important step in communication with your dog and in your healing process, so please, embrace it fully, relax, embrace the feeling, embrace the ball...cock your arm and release the ball
Me: well, okay.....(throwing ball....immediately followed by a loud crashing sound, like the sound of several picture frames being displaced and falling in various directions and glass breaking, maybe a few unspecified nick-nacks falling)
PP: Oh my...SIR! My pictures!..I didn't mean to literally throw the damn ball!...I meant for you to imagine throwing it!...I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave sir....you can pay the receptionist on your way out....
Over The Top
On this past election day, I had to put my wonderful dog down. It was a very difficult time, to say the least. The first few days that followed were even tougher to get through and lately, I suppose I've reached a certain level of accepting the inevitable, but it's still tough. I've written a ton of thoughts and ideas down, but I've yet to sort through them and see if I have something worth working on with any of it.
I think I'm somewhere in the middle as far as pet owners - devoted, perhaps on the outer fringes of codependency, but not so fanatic as someone I know who actually anguished over getting home late and waiting to feed fish until morning for fear of waking them up. I'm speaking the truth here. The same person who said they had to take back roads to a destination because the kittens don't like it when the car goes over 35 MPH. I'm speaking the truth here. That is over the top, and perhaps smack dab in the middle of codependency. I find it hard to believe fish would be traumatized by being fed at a later hour, or that kittens would have an internal speed limit. I'd imagine such scenarios playing out in the following manner:
Fish: swim, swim, swim, swim away, swim, notice food, eat food, see food fall to bottom, follow food, eat food, swim, swim, swim away, swim....etc, etc, large human face looming, swim, etc, etc, that's my day, every day.
That's what fish do.
As opposed to:
Fish: swim/sleep/sleepyswim/swim/sleepy/swimmysleep....HEY!!...What the??....it NEVER gets light this time of night...!!...what the.....oh shit! FOOD!...aw crap, I'm not even hungry...swim, dart about, swim....Jesus that light is bright....can you give me a swimmy minute to wake my scaled ass up already? Aw man, all this food is hitting the bottom, it's gonna touch fish poop and it won't be any good.....couldn't this have waited until morning???
Thanks a lot asshole, thanks for making the day for all the bottom dwellers!
Or the kittens:
Kittens: meow, meow, purr,meow,meow
Translation: oooh, we're riding in the car! Where are we going? I have to use the litter box...are we there yet?
All of this would, of course, be at speeds of 35 mph and lower...but once we come to the highway:
Kittens: meow, meow, whine, meowy-whine, non-stop whine...
Translation: Oh God...is that an onramp? oh no, please...don't....are you going into overdrive? oh God, we're gonna die, we're all gonna die, I'll never see my little ball with the bell inside it again....oh please, slow down - I need a litter box, I want to scratch something - PLEASE
That is over the top, at least it sure seems that way to me. Not to worry though, I'm sure that to many people my own manner of being a pet owner is over the top as well. More on that later!
I think I'm somewhere in the middle as far as pet owners - devoted, perhaps on the outer fringes of codependency, but not so fanatic as someone I know who actually anguished over getting home late and waiting to feed fish until morning for fear of waking them up. I'm speaking the truth here. The same person who said they had to take back roads to a destination because the kittens don't like it when the car goes over 35 MPH. I'm speaking the truth here. That is over the top, and perhaps smack dab in the middle of codependency. I find it hard to believe fish would be traumatized by being fed at a later hour, or that kittens would have an internal speed limit. I'd imagine such scenarios playing out in the following manner:
Fish: swim, swim, swim, swim away, swim, notice food, eat food, see food fall to bottom, follow food, eat food, swim, swim, swim away, swim....etc, etc, large human face looming, swim, etc, etc, that's my day, every day.
That's what fish do.
As opposed to:
Fish: swim/sleep/sleepyswim/swim/sleepy/swimmysleep....HEY!!...What the??....it NEVER gets light this time of night...!!...what the.....oh shit! FOOD!...aw crap, I'm not even hungry...swim, dart about, swim....Jesus that light is bright....can you give me a swimmy minute to wake my scaled ass up already? Aw man, all this food is hitting the bottom, it's gonna touch fish poop and it won't be any good.....couldn't this have waited until morning???
Thanks a lot asshole, thanks for making the day for all the bottom dwellers!
Or the kittens:
Kittens: meow, meow, purr,meow,meow
Translation: oooh, we're riding in the car! Where are we going? I have to use the litter box...are we there yet?
All of this would, of course, be at speeds of 35 mph and lower...but once we come to the highway:
Kittens: meow, meow, whine, meowy-whine, non-stop whine...
Translation: Oh God...is that an onramp? oh no, please...don't....are you going into overdrive? oh God, we're gonna die, we're all gonna die, I'll never see my little ball with the bell inside it again....oh please, slow down - I need a litter box, I want to scratch something - PLEASE
That is over the top, at least it sure seems that way to me. Not to worry though, I'm sure that to many people my own manner of being a pet owner is over the top as well. More on that later!
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