Flashback Friday: Of Baking, Biking, and the One Armed Man.

I used to tell the kids in my Sunday School classes stories from my childhood to make them see that I wasn't always the very together, oh so grown up person I am today.  (Yes, readers, I can hear you laughing...)  This is one of their favorites and, I might add, the very first story I ever sold to a magazine.  Enjoy!

I crashed my bike into the back of big silver car while I watched a one armed man build a house. 

Let me elaborate.

It was one of those sticky hot summer days when I was twelve.  It was the kind of day kids today would spend in each other's basements playing video games or drinking canned beverages and instant messaging each other.  But, since this was 1980, there were no video games, canned beverages came in bottles mostly, and instant messaging meant you ran over to the other kid's house and yelled at their window until they came outside. 

For fun on this hot sticky day, I was baking my chocolate chip cookies for my county fair 4-H baking project.  Because that's what you want to do in a house with no air conditioning.  You want to bake cookies.

It was a Thursday, and the reason I remember that is because my mother only did laundry on Mondays and Thursdays and everyone knows that fairs run Thursday through Sunday.  So it was a Thursday morning and we were, predictably, out of chocolate chips.  (When I say "out" I mean either we never had any or my father ate them in the in the middle of the night and then put the empty bag back in the freezer.)  So I hopped on my Schwinn three speed "Sundowner" model bike and got pedalling to the grocery store a mile away.

About halfway to the store, I noticed some workmen fixing  a house.  What really caught my eye was a one armed man climbing down the ladder.  I couldn't take my eyes off of him.  See, this was the guy who'd been electrocuted months earlier.  We'd prayed for him in church every week.  I could have SWORN he was dead.  I was so certain of it, that I stared and stared and stared at him...

BAM!

That's about the the time my bike smacked into the back of a big silver sedan outside the Methodist church.  I rolled up onto the trunk of the car and then onto the street.  The workmen stopped and yelled across the street, asking me if I was okay.

Humiliated, I popped back on my bike and waved at them, ignoring both the gash in my knee and the fact that the front end of my bike was so bashed in I could barely get the front wheel moving.

I got to the grocery store, picked up my chocolate chips and went to the counter.  The lady at the counter knew my parents.  (Everyone knew my parents.  My dad was the Lutheran school principal and my mom was the local piano teacher.  In a town of 1200, they were movers and shakers.)  She said, "Dear, do you know your leg is bleeding?"

I said, "Yes," waved at her, and got back on my bike.  This time I pedaled as hard as I could, but the front tire was smashed against the central frame of the bike and wouldn't budge.  So I had to walk the bike home, holding the front end up.  The good news was that the workmen were on a break someone in the back yard of the house.

When I got home, I immediately went to my mother to tell her what happened.  I mean, I couldn't hide this one.  First of all, there was something really wrong with my bike.  Second, I was pretty sure who ever owned that care was going to call her anyway and third, my leg really hurt.

Mom was in the basement pumping away on the wringer washer.  She loved her wringer washers.  She didn't get an automatic one until I was almost 30.  She loved wringer washers so much, in the 80's she bought one just for parts so she could keep hers going.  Anyway, she was down there, pounding away on the little foot pump that kept the wringer rolling. 

"Mom," I said in my most pathetic voice, "I hit a car with my bike because I saw that dead guy with the one arm building a house."

I know...it sounds nuts to me now, too.

All my mom heard was, "I hit someones car with my bike and we're going to have to pay to repair it."

She asked me for the coordinates of my accident.  Sure enough, when I told her, she rolled her eyes upward and said, "Oh Lord, that's the Thompson's. Did you stop and tell anyone?"

By now the blood on my leg was a really more a river soaking into my sock.

"No.  I had to get the chocolate chips."

So, in her ratty jean shorts and tank top, her laundry outfit that she'd worn to do laundry in since her high school days, my mother walked me the six blocks to the Thompson's house.  Mrs. Thompson's husband owned the only funeral parlor in town.  She came to the door looking calm and cool.  They had two air conditioning window units in their downstairs.

Mother explained my story, minus the one armed guy building the house who I thought was dead.  We looked at the car, which had sustained a scratch about an inch long and one, Mrs. Thompson said, "would buff out."  Her brother worked at a body shop, so she knew this sort of thing.

Then Mrs. Thompson looked at me and said, "Do you know your leg is bleeding?"

I said yes and then Mom thanked her and we walked back home. All the way home M

By the time we got home, my sock was wet with blood and my leg was sticky.  I was afraid to say anything because, well, I still wasn't sure if Mrs. Thompson's brother would be able to buff out the scratch and if he could, what would it cost?

"Mom,"  I said as she started going back to the basement to continue doing laundry, "I'll pay for the damage to the car, but can I have a band aid for my leg?"

It was then that my mother realized I was hurt.  She took me into the bathroom, washed my cut, bandaged it up, and stuck my sock in the bleach bucket until next laundry day.  Later, like twenty years later, she told me she was so wrapped in the fact that she was a mess, that she never even realized I'd cut my leg.

Oh, but I made the chocolate chip cookies before noon that day.  And I got a second place ribbon.  The judge liked the cookies, but said that using all butter on such a hot day made the cookies too thin and chewy.

I'll bet the one armed guy would have loved them.

Good "old" self check: Why I won't be shopping at Woodman's again.

Happy Thursday all!

Since Peaches moved out I really don't have a reason to get my girth out of bed much before 7:30, which is about when I need to run a brush over my teeth and get into my desk chair for work.  Generally, however, I do get up a shade before 7, get a walk in, feed the cats, make coffee, that sort of thing.

I accomplish more before 8 AM than I do the entire rest of the day.  Wait...that didn't sound right.

Anyway, this morning, I decided to get up at 6, and get some light grocery shopping done.  Now, we have two 24 hour stores the same distance from my house. One is Meijer, one is Woodman's.  Product by product, price by price, I like Woodman's more.  They have more local brands that I really like. They have the flavor of Yoplait yogurt that Skippy really likes.  The thing is, I always feel a little claustrophobic in Woodman's because they are always more crowded, they have a lower ceiling, which makes them feel smaller.  Also, Meijer has a better meat and produce department.

So the biggest deciding factor for where I go and spend my grocery dollar tends to rest on the check out experience.

When it comes to check out, I like Woodman's more, as well, because they unload the cart, scan stuff, and load the cart again.  Given the constant pain I have in my hands and back, any help I can get with the groceries is appreciated.

The thing is, Woodman's NEVER has enough cashiers, which means standing in line forever, which, if you have read this blog for longer than a week, you know standing in line is not my favorite thing to do.  (Self check is NOT an option.  It's too hard on my hands and back.)  So if I shop at Woodman's it's either because Hubby is with me or because it's a weird time of day when the sto
re won't be mobbed.

Self check? You ask. Do I use self check?  NO!  Not if I can help it.  Unless they're handing discounts out for using a machine that gives you no customer service and yells at you for mystery items in the bagging area.

And, of course, I have trouble handling self check because it's never just SELF. Something always goes wrong, then I have to WAIT for a person to help me.  Add that to the sweat I build up (which triggers hot flashes) loading and unloading groceries and scanning them and bagging them and what you wind up with is a giant sweaty woman aching hands and back, swearing never to return to self check again. 

So today I arrived at the 47 check out lanes at the front of my Woodman's store.  It was 6:50 AM.  This is notable because, as I learned THIS MORNING, there are no live cashiers before 7 AM.  Oh sure, there's a big sign that says there's a full service lane....but there's no one in it. Which means self check.  So I hauled my cart down to self check...where there was a back up!  WHO ELSE IS SHOPPING BEFORE 7 IN THE MORNING ON A THURSDAY?

Apparently everyone.  Well, okay, four people which was just enough to bog down the self check system and make me wait in line.  TO CHECK OUT MY OWN GROCERIES.

Also, the people checking out their groceries at self check were all having, let's say, difficulty.  I actually waited four or five minutes before giving up and moving down to the regular lanes.  Better to wait for someone to open up a cash register than to watch people separately and in oh so many different way bog down the check out process.

I waited the six minutes (actually more like eight) it took for a cashier and bagger to walk over to an actual check out lane and open up. I then got my cart in there and let them do their work. It was early, so I expect little polite chit chat and I got what I expected.  But since I'd bought enough items for the silence to be uncomfortable, I thought I'd just kick things off a little.

"So I figured I'd wait for you to open up. I can't really do self check on my own," I said with a smile on my face.

"Oh then you're not going to like the news," muttered the cashier.

"Yeah, they're tearing out all of these lanes and putting in all self check," added the bagger, a sort of emo-hipster girl who could not have been more than thirteen.  (Also, she was clearly being trained by the cashier who was clearly exhausted with the training.)

"All?"  I gasp.

"Well, like, half of them.  That's what Gary decided," said the cashier.  "I wish I could decide stuff."

Granted, they never have more than half the check out lanes open at any given time. In fact, if Woodman's would open half the lanes, I would probably not have to stand in line there and I'd shop there more often.

Still, this was really disconcerting news.

"I'm not sure I like that. I have arthritis. It's hard for me to use the self check," I said in a conversational manner.  "Is this a matter of a labor shortage?"  (Woodman's is CONSTANTLY looking for cashiers. I figured maybe they just gave up looking.)

"No, this is a keeping things moving thing," grumbled the cashier.  "Other stores have all these self check lanes and it seems to be working."

You know what else would work?  Adding literally one, just one, more cashier to every shift.  Seriously.

"Wow. That's really disappointing that they are going that route," I say.

"Yeah, a lot of the old people aren't going to like it.," mumbles the emo-hipster bagger. 

Let's let that sink in for a moment.

Tiny blonde sad teen girl who is training on the job...did she just call me old?   Did she just lump me in with the OLD PEOPLE who can't operate self check, not because their hands are crippled with arthritis, but because they are confused by technology?  Did she just add me to the group of patrons who will be unhappy with this change not because it means, yet again, fewer services for the same amount of money, but because I'm too old to do things for myself?

I AM NOT OLD!  I was shopping before 7 in the morning! Old people don't shop then...well except for that one guy who was really bogging down self check this morning.  You know where old people are at 7 in the morning?  They are at DENNY'S. They are not grocery shopping.

I tried to reign in my rage.  "Well, I'm glad you're still going to have some real check out lanes.  I like having the extra help."

"Yeah, well, this wasn't my decision," said the very weary cashier.  "And a lot of old people are going to really not like this."

AGAIN WITH THE OLD!  First of all, aren't those OLD PEOPLE, also your customers?

Second...I combed my hair, I brushed my teeth, I put on eyeliner and a cool radio station T-shirt. I AM NOT OLD. I protect the use of self check because I don't like self check, and if it's not a matter of labor shortage, then why should I have to check out my groceries and scan them and bag them and load them in my cart?  

They don't make me do all that at Meijer.  

They also don't call me "Old" at Meijer.  

Just sayin'.

My family will never let me live this down.

Good morning all!

I realize I'm behind in blogging of late. What can I say?  I'm old, I'm tired, and I'm not finding a lot of humor lately.  Well, that's not true.  I have been enjoying stories from Skippy and Peaches and Hubby about their work lives, which have become, on all three fronts, dramatic at an almost Shakespearean level.  Peaches mumbled something earlier this week about how, if she had a blog, she would regale her readers with the tale of why she went to the doctor's office covered in a floury paste.  (New employee at the bakery was a bit TOO enthusiastic about mixing water and flour in the giant floor mixer. Put that puppy on HIGH and watched as what essentially amounted to wallpaper paste flung itself everywhere.)

She did say, "Hey, if you don't have a topic and if Dad manages to not do anything stupid this week, you can use the story."

Hubby was not amused by that.  But I was. Hence, I shared the story.

However, I was the one who did something so magnificently stupid, it's doubtful anyone in the family will let me forget it.

But I share anyway, because I live to entertain.

So it's been brought to my attention that I startle easily.  Actually...it's become a giant running joke in the house that I startle whenever someone walks into a room.  A big part of this is because I spend much of the day alone in my house. I work from home and, while Skippy and Hubby are generally off at work or out running errands, and Peaches has her own place, I'm on my own with the cats.  So it seems like every time someone walks around the corner, I sort of jump a little.

It's gotten to the point where it's become a game. Peaches will come over to play with the cats or pick up something or do laundry. Even if I'm expecting her, she'll walk into the room and I'll startle.  Hubby made my heart skip a beat last week when he walked downstairs into the basement where I was folding laundry.  (To be fair, ever since seeing "Night of the Living Dead" I've been a little iffy in basements.)

Skippy actively tries to scare me, the little snot.

And every time I startle, or say, "Oh geez! You scared me!" these people, the people who are supposed to LOVE ME, mock me. Or they tell me, "Hey, I cleared my throat, I jingled my keys."

Well I'm a writer. Half the time I'm thinking about plot lines. The other half I'm either singing 80's tunes in my head or thinking about what movie to watch next.

So yes, it's become quite the joke...let's scare mom. Hahahahahahahahaha.

Snotwads.

But here's the thing, and this is why I'm pretty sure I'm never going to hear the end of it.

Today I managed to scare myself.

I've been working a lot in the basement on my own. Since Peaches moved out, we've got a bit more space down there and I'm moving stuff around (and getting rid of a lot of nonsense) so we have room for a home gym. (We have all the pieces for a really killer gym. I'm serious.  All we have to do is actually set it all up and use it. Want to work out?  Come on over!  We have everything but a pool.  Unless you want to take a dip in our non functioning sump pump.)

So I was down there clearing off a shelf so that I could store a tiny playhouse vanity table my mother has decided can no longer live at her house. It's a tiny little thing that's nearly 100 years old. Everyone in my family has played with it. Mom refinished it and let Peaches and my nieces play with it at her house, but now my parents are decluttering and so it comes to stay with me.  

My plan was to put it on a top shelf, lying on its back in such a way that the three fold out mirrors were protected but the thing didn't take up floor space.  To do so, I carried the vanity downstairs, set it on the floor and then grabbed an old sheet to cover it.  While approaching the vanity I saw someone's legs and feet in the basement. I knew I was completely alone, but my view to the stairs and much of the space was obstructed. All I could see was feet...

I. Freaked. Out.

I jumped and in that moment, I prepared for death...because I was certain someone was in the basement with me and it wasn't a family member.

Aaaaaand that's when I realized something:  I was looking at a reflection of my own feet and legs in the tiny three paneled mirrors of the vanity.

Now, I should also note that while I was typing this blog, Hubby came home from a work trip. I went to get a glass of water, not realizing he was home, and startled big time when I saw him. He CLAIMS he yelled, "O-la!" when he walked in, but I'm here to tell you, our house is not that big.  I heard nothing!

My family is going to startle or mock me right to death.

Could "Change of Life" mean standing in line is now entertaining?

It is a well known fact that I hate waiting in line.  It is also a well known fact that I always seem to wait in line behind someone who is making a gigantic deal out of nothing and holding up the line with complete nonsense, which then triggers my rage button.

I'm pretty sure this menopause thing...which I'll call chang-o from now on (for Change of Life) has changed my attitude about standing in line behind dumb dumbs. Listen to two stories from the last few days and see what you think:

Story #1.

I got in line at my local Meijer grocery store  (I tend to go there because it's way less crowded than Woodman's and generally has enough live cashiers to deal with the people in the store.)  There was no one ahead of me, but the cashier was scanning items.  I though maybe she was training or checking prices or something. She finished scanning the items ahead of mine. Mine were loaded on the belt.  I was, in terms of grocery check out, at the point of no return.

That's when she looked at me and said, "It's going to be a while."

Oh crap.

While I appreciated her honesty, no one likes to hear that, especially when they have frozen zucchini noodles on the belt.  (That's another blog.)

But still, I was curious.  What situation had I walked into?

"He's getting cash and she's getting a cake," the cashier said as if reading my thoughts.

Now I was really curious. Who would plan their lives so poorly that they have to get cash and one more item after they've put their stuff on the belt?  And who would possibly expect the world to stop long enough for them to get those things?

I got my answer a moment later when the oldest man in the world walked up to the cashier.

He had a wad of cash in his hand. The cashier told him the total.  "That's without the cake," she added.

"Is that with the cake?"  He asked.

"No. She hasn't brought the cake yet."

"So where's the cake?"

The cashier blinks, her brain realizing she has to adjust to now speak to an older man who is very deaf.  "SHE HASN'T BROUGHT IT HERE YET!"

But the man isn't listening. he's got his back turned to her.  He's getting his coin purse out of his back pocket. Now, the cashier and I believe he's getting exact change, since he had to go get cash.

Nope.

He pulled out a credit card and handed it to her. He stuffed his cash back into the coin purse.

the cashier ran the card and handed it back to him. At this moment the wife rolls up. And by "Rolls up" I mean she's in one of those scooter things stores provide.  In her front basket she's got a "cake."  It's actually a fluff dessert, the type that's layered whip topping/pie filling/whip topping. There might be cake in there...but I doubt it. Very pretty, very tempting.  Believe me, I've wanted to eat one for years.

Now, The Oldest Man is four steps away from the bagging area.  Roller Girl hands the cake to the cashier, who scans it and says, "That's six dollars even."

Oldest Man shuffles back, and takes the cake.

Roller Girl has not been paying attention to this transaction.  She's been adjusting her blouse or something.  When she finally looked up, she asked, "Did he get the cake?"

"Yes," Says cashier, "He has the cake."

Whereupon Roller Girl starts to wheel away from the cashier.  It takes a moment for the cashier to realize that Roller Girl thinks Oldest Man paid for the cake and she's about to leave without paying.

"No, no!"  yells cashier.  "He HAS the cake. You still have to PAY for the cake."

Roller Girl stops her ride, sighs heavily, and then backs up....beep....beep...beep.  SHE pulls out six dollars in cash.  Cashier takes it and then Roller Girl rolls away.

Cashier just shook her head and thanked me for waiting. I thanked her for the great theater.

That's when I realized standing in line was not automatically pushing my rage button.

Which brings me to story #2.

After church on Sunday we stopped at Kohls.  The good one, in Muskego. The two stores in Waukesha are terrible.  Besides, we've been going to church in Muskego...so it really works out.  (For me.)

On this trip, all I had to do was return an Amazon item that Peaches bought and didn't like.  Hubby dropped me at the door because we didn't intend to shop and he didn't care to stand in line with me.

 There was one person in line ahead of me.  SCORE!  I figured this transaction should take me three minutes, tops.

The person ahead of me went to Kathy, one of two women working the returns counter.  Meanwhile, I got Ashely.  As I set my item on the counter the phone rang. Ashley stared at it as if it were a foreign sound to her. (She was younger...it might have been.)  After it ran four or five times (something that does push my rage buttons immediately...answer the phone!)  she picked it up.  She mumbled a bit for a moment then put the phone to her chest and said, "Kathy....Kathy....Kathy...."

Kathy finally looked up and Ashely asked, "Is there a bigger store than this around here?"

The woman behind me said, "There's nothing in Muskego other than this store."

Kathy said, "No there aren't any big box stores in Muskego other than us."

All three of us looked at each other, sharing the one thought, "What a weird question to call about."

Ashley returned to the phone and mumbled some more.  Then she put the phone to her chest again.  "Kathy....Kathy....Kathy...."

Kathy finally looked up again.  Ashley said, "This woman wants to know if there's a bigger Kohls around here.  I'm not from around here, I don't know.  Maybe like Wau keh sha?"

Yeah, Ashley not's from around here.  She didn't pronounce Wau KEE sha correctly.  So why is she answering the phone?

That's when the growing line of women behind me started shouting out locations of other kohls. The first thing we all did was say, "Don't go to Waukesha, those stores are terrible!"

Ashley listened to the cacophony of store locations and then stared at me like a deer in the headlights.

"124th and North Ave in Brookfield," I said with great authority.  That's the biggest store I know.  Also, that's a store that's already got their holiday decorations up even as we speak.  They're like the anchor store for the area.

Ashely, however, not being from around here, mumbles, "Ummmm, so 124th and north Brookfield ave?"

Because that's what I said.

Apparently the woman ( oh yeah, it's a woman, no doubt) on the phone wasn't happy with that answer because she kept Ashley on the phone for another two minutes before Ashely put the phone to her chest and said, "Kathy....Kathy....Kathy.....which Kohls has a bigger shoe selection than we do?"

It was hubby who pointed out, when I related the store to him later, that the caller was probably standing in this store's shoe department at that moment.

Further proof that this was a woman.

"You have the best shoe selection of any of the kohls' I've been in," I tell Ashley because, let's face it, the customer Kathy is trying to help is getting pretty annoyed.

Ashley relays this message and after another two minutes, she hangs up. She thanks me for waiting and then reaches for the Amazon returns scanner. Which apparently is not working....

"Kathy....Kathy...Kathy...."

It took a solid fifteen minutes to return the item. Normally this would have sent me into a hot flash inducing  rant.  But nope, I related the story to Hubby with mirth.

So I ask you...does this mean that the Chang-O has not only changed my feminine punctuation, but also my rage issues?  Will waiting in line be fun now?  I mean....I used to want to punch people and howl.

Now, I don't.

At leas not the last two times.  Let's see what happens the next time I'm at the pharmacy....

The first casualties when computers take over the world: Kids and Receptionists.

Hello everyone!

I don't generally write about my job these days because, well, I work alone, from home, and my co workers are miles away from me. If they annoy me, I simply close down my instant message window and go get another cup of coffee.

Nope, no more Elsie W or Noelle C in my life.  My job's not funny. I never work with insane, stupid people ever again.

Or so I thought.

To explain what I do for work now is complicated, and I think it's a little confidential, so I won't go into detail. Let's just say I set up job interviews for people I've never met.  Which means I talk to a lot of people on the phone every day.  Many of those people are smart, kind, helpful, and good natured.

Any some of them have been cripplingly stupid.

I blame the Internet.

I've asked some teacher friends of mine so I'm not just basing this claim on my own opinion, but man...the Internet is making some of us (and you probably don't think it's you, but it might be) really, really stupid.  When I was a kid, if you wanted to know something about a foreign country, you went to the encyclopedia, you pulled the correct volume, you flipped through the pages until you found the country and you read about that country.

In order to do that, you had to be aware of where the bookshelves were, which books were encyclopedias, which letter of the alphabet you had to find, and how to find something in a book. You also needed to know how to walk to the book shelf and back without disrupting a classroom full of other kids looking up the same information about other countries.

That all required some skill. And that was skill that then translated into a job later as a receptionist or

Can type and file while on the phone

. Can't walk more than fifty feet

 in the shoes she's wearing.

Knows who's going to get fired next week,

who's pregnant and not admitting it, and who likes whiskey 

in their morning coffee.

Will be cooking a four course dinner for herself and her husband

when she gets home.

office manager or what have you, because you knew how to look things up, gather information, read, walk, and alphabetize.

Which meant if you were looking for a job when I was a kid, you could call an office, get the woman (I'm not being sexist, the person who answered the phones 90% of the time when I was a kid was a woman.) at the front desk, ask her if they were hiring, and she could tell you what positions were open, what hours were available, how to apply, what their phone number and address were, and who to talk to about an interview.

Things have changed.

Whereas you'd be a shoo in for a receptionist job if you could talk on the phone and make coffee, now you need (I'm not kidding, I do this for a living, remember) a college degree, you need to know how to operate all the Windows systems including Excel, you need to have book keeping experience, be bilingual, be able to process payments of all types over the phone, and be able to lift 60 pounds at any given moment. You also must be able to sit for long periods of time, be on your feet 8 hours a day, and be certified in CPR.

Has an MBA, runs marathons, builds websites for fun.

Has no idea what the company actually does. Doesn't know 

the names of more than seven other employees.  Uses her oven

for storage. 

You know what you do not need to be a receptionist?

Any sort of working knowledge about the employment needs of the company. You only need to know these words, "It's on the Internet."

How do you need all that knowledge and still not need to know whether or not you're hiring?  How do you need to be that educated...and still know nothing?

Well, I know, you're going to tell me that companies now have HR departments.  That's fine.  I get it.  So when I get the receptionist who graduated from Berkley with a PHD in ordering coffee from Starbucks but has no idea what the office address is (I seriously had that conversation with a receptionist the other day.  I asked her what her street address was, she had no idea what I was asking.) that's when I ask for the HR person or the Personnel department.

And you'd think I was asking that receptionist for her social security number.

This was an actual conversation I had the other day:

Receptionist: ABC Company

Me: I'd like to speak with someone in your human resources department.

Her:  Why?

Me:  I'm calling to ask some questions about an open position.

Her: Have you looked on our website to see if we are hiring?

Me:  Yes, and it says you are, so I would like to ask some questions regarding the position.

Her: You have to apply for it online before you can talk to anyone in HR.

Me:  I'm just trying to find out if the job is still open.

Her:  You have to apply online to find that out.

At this point I realize I'm not getting anywhere with her.  So I bid her a good day. I hang up. I dial the office number again, this time instead of pressing 0 for the operator I press 4 to report an absence to HR. Sure, not the most honest way to do things, but hey, I have to do what I do.

I had a boss that made me keep a sign on my desk that 

said, "Director of First Impressions."

I put it on Elsie W's desk...and watched the fun.

And this is the following:

Her:  A B C company.

me:  (It's the same receptionist.)  HR please.

Her:  Why?

Me: I pressed 4 to speak to HR.

Her:  You didn't press 4. You got me.

Me: Believe me, I pressed 4.

Her: Well you got me.

Me:  But I'd like HR. please.

Her:  You can't talk to anyone in HR.

Me:  Why not?

Her:  You have to press four to get them.

Me:  (I'm biting the inside of my mouth to keep from screaming.)  I. Did. Press. Four.

Her: Oh, you know what?  They're all at a conference today. No one from HR is in the office at all.

Me:  So how would I report an absence?  (because now I'm curious about the workings of the company.

Her:  The same way you would normally, you press four and leave a message.

Me:  I. Did. Press. Four. But. I. Got. You.

Her:  (Loooong pause.)  Oh, wait.

Me: What?

Her:  I picked up the wrong line!  Ooopsy doodle. Can you, like, just hang up and dial again and press four?  I don't remember how to transfer you from this line to HR.  I won't pick up again.


I'm shocked to report that the company isn't actively hiring a new receptionist.  They were, some months ago, and I looked at the job requirements. Sure enough, if "oopsy" got this job, it means she has a Bachelor's degree or higher in business, 5-7 years of reception and book keeping experience and can type 90 words per minute.

Pity she doesn't know how to transfer a call to HR.

The people who answer the phone for the company used to know everything about the company.  It was part of the gig. It's what made you a good receptionist.  When I worked as one, I knew who was in the office, who was on vacation, who was sick at home in bed (and who was lying about being sick).  I knew who would take random calls and who would not.  And I certainly knew if we were hiring.  Sure, I have a Bachelor's degree, but it's not in business, and everything else I learned by keeping my eyes and ears open.  I had to learn things before the Internet came along.


The Internet made us all stupid.

Now the Internet does everything for us.  Literally.  Kids don't have to look up anything in an encyclopedia. They don't even have to look it up online.  They just ask Siri or Alexa or whichever of the computerized brains we're allowing to do our work for us.


Think I'm kidding? Okay, it's back to school time...your kids are going to have reports and whatnot they have to do.  When they come up to you and say, "I have a report on Lewis and Clark," try telling them this:

"Well let's go to the library and do some research in the encyclopedias."

Let me know if you get some version of this look:

And then, for fun, wait until the night before that report is due...and shut down the wifi in your house.  Yeah, you might have to give up an evening of Netflix, but hey, it's worth it to watch their little faces melt and their little brains explode when they can't ask Alexa to do their homework for them.

Oh Hubby, sweet, silly, non-menopausal hubby.

Hello everyone!

So Hubby and I popped in a Harry Potter movie over the weekend. Doesn't really matter which one...we weren't actually watching it, we just needed some background noise while packing up the kitchen with Peaches, who moved into her own place.  (Some kids move out and the worst stuff to move is the bedroom. That is not the case when the kid moving out is a culinary/pastry student.)

Anyway...

While packing up, of course, I had several hot flashes.  I'm not a subtle person, I think we all know that.  So every time I have a hot flash, I announce it by saying, "There goes another shred of my youth, floating away."

After listening to this for several days, Hubby has decided to add his own take on menopause and hot flashes, and he uses Harry Potter as his example.

"Hot flashes," says he, "Are like the dementor's kiss."

For those of you not in the know, you're going to have to go and read the Harry Potter Books or see the movies. Or both, which would be the best way to go about it.  I don't have the time to explain a dementor's kiss and its ramifications within the 7 book, 8 film construct of the Potter universe.

Ooooh, did I just get all author-ly on your fannies?

Anyway, Hubby went on to explain how he envisions hot flashes. "It's like a dementor's kiss, every hot flash sucks out a little more joy from you."

So when I'm done with this I'm going to be joyless?  As in, "I had some joy going through menopause, but that's gone now?"

YOU MEAN THIS IS AS JOYFUL AS I'M EVER GOING TO BE THE REST OF MY LIFE?

"No, instead of joy, it's youth. Hot flashes suck out the youth."

Which made me think of this movie clip:

Anyway, thinking about Hubby's picture of what I'm going through, while it's a bit naïve, I really can't fault him for it too much.  (Except that it's also funny, which is why it's in the blog.)  I mean, if you know Harry Potter (and seriously...it's a cultural touchstone. How can you know nothing about Harry Potter?  Go right now, get the books, sit down and read them. They were written for young teens.  Third graders burn through them in a matter of a couple hours.  You're an adult...READ THE BOOKS.  Or, conversely, take about 20 hours of your life and watch all 8 movies. But, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart...you really need to acquaint yourself with Harry Potter!)

Wait, where was I?

Hot flashes.

So below is a clip of a dementor's kiss.

Pretty gruesome, right?  Except...well...I mean...here's how hubby, poor, sweet, silly, non-menopausal hubby, is wrong:

A dementor's kiss is COLD.

RIGHT NOW I WOULD LOVE A DEMENTOR'S KISS!  I don't care how much joy or youth or whatever it sucks out of me....I NEED SOMETHING COLD!

Maybe it's more like the MACHINE from the Princess Bride...you know, the one in the Pit of Despair?

Is any of this normal? Asking for a friend...sort of.

Hello all!

First of all...gentlemen...this post deals completely and frankly (would you have one of my posts be anything but frank?) with menopause. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.


I thought menopause would be one of those things you sort of ease into. Like a gradual increase in some symptoms and a gradual decrease in others.

Nope.

I began menopause on June 27, 2019.  I know this because that's the end day of my last female punctuation and the first day I really noticed the hot flashes.

HOT FLASHES!  Here's something women seem to neglect to mention when they talk to other women.  (Sort of like some of the more interesting stuff that comes with pregnancy and delivery...why don't we share more?)

I thought I knew what hot flashes would be like...but I did not.

It's sort of like being tied to a rope and having someone lower you over an open fire.  Oh, wait, you know that part in "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom" where Kate Capshaw is in that cage and lowered into a pit of fire?  THAT.

I have a hot flash roughly every seven minutes sometimes. And when I'm not flashing, I'm still in a state of dripping, stinking sweatiness. I keep turning down the AC and I need to buy more fans because apparently the number I have blowing directly on me at all times isn't enough.

But it's not just that I'm steaming lobster dipped in butter hot all the time.  It's also the...well I guess the medical texts call them "mood swings."  I like to better think of them as "momentary urges of rage of and murderous thoughts."

To be completely honest, for those of you who don't know me well, I've been an emotional person my whole life. I dance a delicate little line between normally exuberant and clinically in need of medication.  In fact, back in my late 20's....(ahh...the good old days, when I was sure I'd lose the baby weight and be a size 10 forever.) I was put on a low dose of Prozac because the five days before my female punctuation every month were so...dangerous for those around me.

I'm not saying my last doctor's appointment was rough...but my doctor doubled my Prozac level.

I've also noticed my language has gotten saltier. I mean, sure, my favorite pastime for decades has been to string together colorful cuss words for the amusement of those around me. But typically I would do it in private, like in a college dorm room, or in my kitchen when only my kids are around to appreciate it.  But lately, it does not seem to matter one %$@#$%%&* tiny bit. I simply don't seem to give a %&*^&)(# who hears me.

And poor hubby. He tries. He suggests things to ease my anger, ease my heat issues. He doesn't blink when I turn on another fan and turn the AC down to it's lowest setting and still kick off the covers.  Nope, he just puts on another layer and tries to stay quiet.  Because generally when me makes suggestions it only serves to further annoy me.

But is this normal?  I mean with PMS, there was a beginning and an end time. This doesn't seem to have an end. Every hot flash brings me more rage.  I'm not in any physical pain, but I have lost what little patience I have with things like standing in line at the pharmacy or sitting on hold on the phone.

Not that I eve had a lot of patience for either of those things.

I know I've ranted about how I was ready for menopause, and one of the reasons was that my laundry would be less because of less punctuation overflow.  I did NOT, however, take into consideration the amount of laundry I would need to do because of my tremendous B.O.!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And the whole idea that I would ever wear white pants is ridiculous anyway.  I'm still me...I still spill...also, it seems a side effect of menopause is NOT the shrinking of the fluffiness.

I notice that I have more hot flashes when I'm stressed.  So here's a question: If I really, really stress myself out for like the next week...can I get to the end of menopause faster?  Cuz' that would be great....