Happy Exploding New Year's Eve!

Fireworks have a long and respected history, but I'm just a tad uneasy seeing them in the hands of my pyromaniacal adolescent neighbors. Yes, the explosions are pretty, yes they're awesome, but they're explosives, for Pete's sake! Shooting in the air, in front of my house!

One of said pyromaniacs several years ago caused a fire that destroyed the unimaginably ugly chain-saw carving of a bear on another neighbor's porch. We were all grateful, but kind of sorry that half of the roof went with it. TV News people try to look somber when they report injuries, but I suspect they have a secret office pool to guess how many of us will burn ourselves with our exploding entertainment. Aside from the obvious reasons (danger, destruction, etc.), if I was King of the World, I would ban fireworks for one reason: because they're scary!

Men have come back shell-shocked from every war fought since the Chinese invented gunpowder, yet we willingly re-create battle sounds in our neighborhoods--and call it fun! We are obviously crazy. However, dogs and small children are not crazy, so fireworks scare the bejeebers out of them.

Maybe the problem isn't that we have occasional fireworks; maybe the problem is that we don't have enough fireworks. Maybe kids and dogs wouldn't be so frightened if it was a daily occurence. My daughter recently moved to Naples, Italy. "Mom," she said on the phone, "Neopolitans love their fireworks! The shoot them off for weddings, birthdays, and just for fun. There are fireworks every night!" She took her old dog to Italy with her. Fortunately for him, he is deaf.

Our little dogs are not deaf, and they don't hear fireworks every night. They just don't understand about the Chinese and gunpowder and maniacal boys with matches. At midnight, I'll be on the couch watching the festivities on TV with a trembling dog plastered on each side of me. It's kind of a tradition with us.

Happy New Year!

Wha-a-a?

The TV next to the elevator in my office this morning showed a crowd of Pakistani people shoving and wailing. As I got into the elevator, a 40-ish woman in front of me said, "What’s going on there?"

“They killed Benazir Bhutto yesterday,” I said.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

[Wha-a-a-?]

Woman Goes to Doctor to Show Social Security She is Alive

(This is an actual headline from a KOMO 4 TV Associated Press news story. Honest, I don’t make these things up!)

My 95-year-old Great Aunt says the reason the people in her retirement apartment community are so happy is because they woke up that morning and found out they were still alive. No one should contradict you when you make that joyous discovery. But someone’s bound to give it a try, and that someone is more than likely to be the government.

A 76-year-old woman in Pasco, Washington was told by Social Security that she was dead. She was a little bit surprised. Not only is she not dead, but neither is her 97-year-old mother, whom Social Security hasn't tried to kill off yet.

So, how do you go about proving you're not dead? Doris Pennington brought her very-much-alive self to the Social Security office and showed them her driver's license. They looked at it and told her a doctor's note might help. A doctor's note!? (Um, Doc--could you please verify I'm alive?) So she got one.

It's a good thing she's so lively; I know a couch potato or two who might have trouble proving life still exists in their mostly-inanimate bodies. Even with a doctor’s note.

They say Doris will probably get her benefits reinstated, but they don't know how long it will take. She’s getting a little anxious. Apparently, the prospect of going home to live with mom at the age of 76 doesn’t appeal to her.

I'm Dreaming of a ...Self-Stick Envelope!

We're late this year. I don't know how it happened. Young Geezer and I just finished signing our Christmas cards and putting them in the envelopes. Yes, I'm one of those people who sends a Christmas letter; no, I don't fill it with great and wonderful things we did all year (it would be very short.) This year I wanted to send a photo and a letter. That might have been a little too ambitious for my non-multi-tasking brain.

Somehow, I didn't get as many photos printed as I thought I had, so I had to go through the list and decide who might possibly live through being deprived of a picture of two little middle-aged people. Since the answer was "almost everybody," it didn't take long. Then I found out I miscalculated when I counted the cards, so we wound up putting stamps on three envelopes we didn't need. Getting to the bottom of the pile of letters, I found one page of a two-page letter. I asked Young Geezer to rip open the last envelope because I thought I only put 1/2 of a letter in it. (I hadn't; it was good to go--until we ripped it all apart, that is!)

"Next year," I declared, " everyone better have a computer, because we're going electronic!" Young Geezer couldn't answer; his tongue was stuck on the flap of an envelope. I will, of course, forget I said this, and will recreate another version of this same misadventure next year. But maybe by then I'll be smart enough not to tell people about it. (Nah. Not a chance!) Maybe next year we'll even get a sponge to moisten the flaps of the envelopes (but why, when it keeps Young Geezer so well entertained?)

Ho, ho,ho, Merry Christmas, etc.!

You Got Me off the Couch for THIS?

I tend to gravitate toward dog people. Not that I have anything against cats or cat people; it just seems that we dog people have an understanding, a knowing that we aren't as tough
as we think we are. One of my cat friends sniffed, “Dogs are so needy!” Well, yeah. That's kind of the point, isn't it? Why would you put up with a dog if it didn't adore you, entertain you and follow you around?

I don’t usually have the patience to reason with small children and large dogs. I like my dogs small so I can pick them up for my convenience or their safety. But every once in a while, a big dog steals my heart. Or, as in the case of greyhounds, a whole breed of big dogs.

My Seattle Sis sold her condo and bought a house with a yard so she could get a dog. She was that most pitiable of creatures--a dog person with no dog! After much research and many rescue agency visits, she decided upon a greyhound. She filled out paperwork, jumped through hoops (OK, not literally), had a home visit by the agency, and put up a big, expensive fence. Then she proceeded to fall in love with a breed of dogs that has inspired admiration and love from humans for millennia.

Greyhounds, it turns out, are big ol' couch potatoes. Except for two or three times a week, when they need to run around like crazy dogs. Maybe it's because the rescue greyhounds come from dog tracks, where they are kept in crates every day except when they run. This one pretty much owns the couch and has to be displaced when company comes. Sis talks to this guy, lets him sleep on the bed, and is careful to keep the house cool in summer and
warm in winter for his zero-fat, short-haired body. In short, he has found doggie Valhalla.

Sis believes, as I do, that it’s just plain disrespectful to dress a dog up. That doesn’t stop her from doing goofy holiday photos, usually adding the props with photoshop. Imagine her dog’s surprise (and mine) when she actually made this poor boy wear these things. He had to get up off the couch and he had to wear stoopid stuff on his head to get his treats.

It's not exactly cruelty to animals, but it probably ruined his afternoon (well, for at least
the minute-and-a-half that dogs seem to remember anything.)

I think he looks a little pissed off, don’t you?

Foodies vs. My Immigrant Grandmothers

It didn't used to be cool to be an American who was too ethnic, who continued cooking the food and speaking the language of "the old country." Now it seems everyone is writing articles and stories about the food traditions of their immigrant parents and grandparents, making all of us wish we had such a heritage. My foodie friends smack their lips when they talk about exotic meals only grandma could make. Alas, like many Americans, I am a mutt. My immigrant grandmas came from different parts of the world and their families had to focus more on survival than on cooking.

My Mexican-American grandma's house always enveloped me in the aroma of simmering beans and warm tortillas--the Mexican peasant's meal. My German-American grandmother lived with with us and rhapsodized about "braunschweiger "[smoked liverwurst] on rye, the German-American working-class's favorite lunch box filler.

Mexican Granny grew up on a little ranch in Sonora where food was plain but plentiful-- when the various bands of thugs didn't plunder it during the constant political upheaval in early-20th Century Mexico. (When Pancho Villa's name was mentioned, she spat, "He was not a hero! He was a teef!") Her family hid the girls and the food in secret cellars during the raids, covering the trap doors with rugs and old women in rocking chairs.

German Grandma grew up in Pittsburgh; her father died when she was nine. Food was scarce and she quit school at 13 to work and help support the family. She had sharp memories of going to bed hungry, which prompted her to give my sisters and me ice cream with cocoa powder almost every night as a bedtime snack. Her love of cream came from skimming the cream off the top of the milk in the "spring house" in the not-so-hungry days before her dad died. We heartily embraced her cream tradition, but liverwurst was a harder sell. She never quite got us to love that pinkish brown tube of meat paste the way working-class German-American kids did at the turn of the 20th century.

My foodie friends build family cookbooks full of inherited Italian, Yiddish, and Asian recipes. I have an important job to do for them--I am the gourmand who consumes their creations with gusto and exclamations of appreciation--and I'm good at it!

The flavors of my childhood--tortillas with beans and Jack Cheese, ice cream with cocoa powder--don't tax my minimal cooking abilities. It's a good thing; I can whip them up for my friends any time without searching for exotic ingredients or sweating for hours in the kitchen. Then the payoff: they reciprocate, sending my palate on amazing international journeys as they share the flavors of their childhoods.

I've often heard America called a "melting pot." Maybe this is what we're talking about!

Dryer Balls and India's washer women

I bought a set of those mysterious little dryer balls you see on TV. Two knobby little rubber balls in the dryer are supposed to make your clothes soft without chemicals. Huh?

They do, indeed, make my clothes softer than when they are dried without my little blue buddies. Oddly, they also make the lint trap fuller.

I remember a young Indian woman I worked with a few years ago. She told me they didn't have a washing machine in her well-to-do home in India.

"How do you wash clothes?" I asked. "Oh," she said, "Some people come and take clothes to the river." I had a vision of a river running with suds. That didn't seem right, so I asked, "How do they get them clean?" She laughed. "They beat them with rocks!" I wondered how the clothes turned out. "Soft," she said, then: "Clothes don't last long."

Uh,oh.

I Don't Think the Beavers Did This

I never saw a natural stream until I was 10. I thought all birds were small and brown. And the closest I came to experiencing wildlife was catching tadpoles in the local drainage ditch. I grew up in a flat suburb of Los Angeles, where the streets are a grid and you can't get too lost because you'll run into the ocean on one side and the mountains on the other.

When I moved to the Seattle area, I was amazed that people in the northwest could actually live next to gurgling salmon streams, surrounded by tall, fragrant cedar trees populated by many-colored birds. I've lived here nearly twenty years and I still stop in awe to gaze out the window at the lush green landscape.

We saw a new beaver dam Saturday on the stream by the path where we walk the little dogs. The creek is two miles from our house, in a business park. We noticed the covered 18-inch storm drain pipe coveres were 2/3 submerged. Ducks glided through their new pond, upending occasionally to graze the bottom of the stream. We saw the gnawed tree trunks and the teepee-shaped stumps that proved the dam was a construction, not just natural tree decay.

"Do you know what the leading cause of death in beavers is?" Young Geezer asked. I admitted ignorance. "Falling trees," he grinned. Seeing the size of those stumps, I could believe it.

"What do you think will happen when we have a heavy rain?" I asked, "Do you think they'll open those storm drains and that will be enough to prevent flooding? It was Young Geezer's turn to admit ignorance. We finished our walk and returned home--just as snow began to fall.

Snow turned to rain, more rain, and then more rain. In fact, it's still falling--and today is Monday. I don't know what happened to the beavers and the ducks, but I do know the creek rose so much that the business park was evacuated today. Young Geezer's office is in that business park.

"Why do you think it's flooding so badly this year, when it hasn't before?" I asked him.

"Well, it's obvious," he said. "It's the beavers." I think he was only half-joking.

Somehow, I don't think the beavers did this.




(Picture, "City of Woodinville," by Rick Powell from King5.com weatherpix)

My Most Favorite Christmas Present of All Time

I’ve never gotten a car or a horse or even a trip to Hawaii for Christmas. If I had, I’m sure it would be in my cavalcade of great memories, although even then, I don’t think it would surpass my favorite Christmas present of all time. I was 18 and just moved into my own apartment. My youngest sister was six. I didn’t make much money as a hairdresser, but I tried to get a present for each of my five sisters, my mom and dad, and my grandmothers. I joined them for dinner at their house, bringing my little box of presents.

“M” was, in my opinion, the sweetest, most beautiful child ever born. I helped care for her as a baby and a toddler and didn’t think anyone could love a child more, until later, when I had a child of my own. I remember I made her present the most special one I could. I don’t remember what it was; I just remember trying to get something she really wanted. My dad sat under the big Christmas tree, working through the mound of presents. He called out the name on the tag of each and handed it to one of the little kids to act as runner to the recipient. Near the end of the distribution, he pulled a small package, carefully wrapped by small hands. “To ‘S’, from 'M'!” he called out. “M” was the next runner, so she brought it to me with a shy smile.

I exclaimed in delight, complimenting the wrapping job. I expected a piece of bubble gum or candy. As the wrapping fell away, I saw that a lot of thought had gone into this present. Inside was a small tablet, a stub of a pencil, and a rock. Not just any rock, but a rock “M” found and thought was beautiful. My heart was touched. I wanted to tell her how sweet and wonderful I thought she was. I wanted her to know how much I missed seeing her every day. But I was 18; I didn't know how to express all that. She was six; she probably wouldn't have understood.

She probably has no idea that her little present turned out to be my Most Favorite Christmas Present of All Time. It’s been 42 years. D’ya think I should tell her?

Squeaky Toy Emergency

Our tiny black dog is a squeaky toy addict. Not just any squeaky toy, however; only the ancient, frayed, smelly one will do. It's almost as big as he is. He wants to play tug-o-war, chase it, and squeak it constantly. He could be a poster child for the weight-loss properties of exercise; he never holds still long enough to let a calorie stick to him!

He is genuinely distressed when he can't find Squeaky. That tragedy befell us tonight. He looked upstairs, downstairs, and in the basement. He looked at us beseechingly, unable to rest without his beloved Squeaky. He was pitiful.

We sighed. We got up from the couch. We looked. We gave up.

Just when I thought we would have a sleepless night with a worried little dog making Squeaky reconnaissance forays during the night, I noticed a suspicious lump in the dog bed. I pulled up the blanket and found Squeaky, folded and smashed like an old Kleenex. Little black dog dashed over and grabbed it, dancing in ecstasy. If he could talk, he would have been saying, "There you are! Where have you been? So glad to see you!" We resumed our nightly routine of throw and fetch, squeak-squeak-squeak, throw, fetch...

It's hard to follow dramatic storylines on TV over the constant squeaking. A more disciplined dog owner might have let Squeaky stay lost for a while. Fortunately for one little black dog, I am not only undisciplined, I am also a real sucker for big, begging dog eyes. (Oh shut up, Cesar the Dog Whisperer!)

Toy Poodles as Multi-Purpose Household Items

So you think toy poodles are useless little frou-frou dogs, eh? I submit that they are actually multi-purpose household items:

1. Heater: Stuff one in the front of your jacket on a cold day.
2. Exercise Aid: Hold one to your chest while doing sit-ups
3. Emotional Discipline: Don't give in when they look longingly at your sandwich.
4. Personal Trainer: Do give in when they beg for a walk.
5. Toy: Dress them in cute clothes. Get lots of attention (some of it positive.)
6. Entertainment: Hold tiny treats over their heads. Watch them walk on their hind legs almost indefinitely: (But then, give them the treats!)
7. Hot Water Bottle: Pull one under the covers with you for a few minutes on a cold night. Be amazed at how much heat a 6-pound dog can generate.
8. Couch Potato Buddies: Sit on the couch. Be prepared for how quickly they appear from the far reaches of the house to assume permanent positions on or about your person.

In our house, it is against the Law to get up when dogs are sleeping on you. The other person is bound by Law to get your drinks and snacks for you. Young Geezer hasn't yet figured out I carry beef jerky in my pocket. When he does, I'll be doing a lot more of the fetching and carrying!

Cupcakes Bad; Muffins Good

A new food rule in my agency’s high-tech, high-stress work rooms attempts to keep employees from losing their concentration and messing up the equipment with their snacks. Interpretation of said food rule, unfortunately, is left up to managers.

Here’s an eyewitness report of one the new food rule being enforced in a work area:

“Somebody brought cupcakes to work. The manager made them remove the cupcakes from the room because they violated our new food order.

“The next day, somebody brought in muffins with icing. These were perfectly acceptable.

“The reason? We're not allowed to eat ‘cake’ in the room and ‘cupcake’ has the word ‘cake’ in it.

“Cupcakes with frosting?—Bad.
Muffins with icing?—Good.”

Thanksgiving/Black Friday

Ah, Thanksgiving! The time of year to eat obscene amounts of food with family—some of whom you adore, and some of whom you wish weren't branches and leaves of your family tree.We say a blessing before we eat, and we fervently hope we won't have to spend the meal rolling our eyes at the gross jokes of that one inappropriate family member (we all have at least one.) It is, in effect, an endurance meal. We do our best, then sigh with relief at the end and are grateful we don't have to do it again for a year. Well, except for Christmas.

Didn't Thanksgiving and Christmas used to be separate? I kind of miss that. It isn't enough to pack up roughly half of our belongings and our cranky kids to travel incomprehensible distances for Thanksgiving dinner. We now have the Olympic Shopping event known as "Black Friday"—the day after Thanksgiving. We are expected to drag our bloated bodies out of bed in the wee hours to save the economy by cramming ourselves into shopping malls that are as packed as Japanese commuter trains. (Kinda of my idea of hell.) The Thanksgiving Day newspaper is about ½ pound of newspaper and three pounds of ads. Businesses we never hear from the rest of year lure us on TV with promises of joy for our families and bargains for us.

On the other hand, it's heartwarming that we Americans feel so strongly about having dinner with our flawed families each year, then making heroic efforts to buy great presents for them. We might not always have the warmth and sensitivity that we like to portray in our movies (and TV commercials), but gosh darn it, we know how to make things happen! We're Americans, by gum! Of course we love our families—see what we go through for them?

My hat's off to those tough and dedicated people who show up at the malls at 4 A.M on Black Friday to make their budgets cover their families' Christmas dreams. Thank you for saving the economy! For my part, I'll probably be chewing TUMS and shopping on the internet. I hope that doesn't make me less of an American.

Bemused Patriot

When I was a flight attendant, I sometimes worked in Europe for weeks without coming home. I didn’t realize how much I missed the American flag until I passed the American embassy in a cab. I got tears in my eyes at the sight of the red, white and blue rippling in the breeze. Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that I was a patriot.

Many years later, my daughter joined the Marines. I came to be acutely aware of the cost of keeping our flag flying. I met with mothers of other Marines, shared their pride in their amazing, dedicated sons and daughters, and was there for them when pain and tragedy befell them.

I am bemused that the definition of patriot has come to mean someone with certain political and religious affiliations. I don’t belong to the groups normally associated with “patriotism.” I don’t even talk about it much. I didn’t plan it or choose it, it’s just there in my heart. I love our beautiful, flawed country and I’m fiercely proud of our flag.

A faded or tattered American flag flying on a home or a business makes me sad. I try to contact people to respectfully ask them to take it down or replace it. No one has told me to mind my own business. I guess that’s because they know that, in a way, I am.

Drunken Birds

After the landscapers removed some pine trees in my favorite area of my work parking lot, I got my car thoroughly cleaned. No more trees coating my car in fine golden pollen or dropping needles down the vents! I stepped out the door at the end of the next work day to claim my clean car--and right into a 1960s horror film. Hundreds and hundreds of blackbirds covered the parking lot berms, jostled each other in the trees, and rose in cacophonous clouds. I think Alfred Hitchock must been frightened by a scene like this before he made the movie, "The Birds."

They pecked the ground, the asphalt, and each other. They bumped into each other and flew up angrily at cars that dared to disturb them. Looking at the berm, I found the normally inconspicuous ground cover was laden with tiny red berries. Feast time for birds! I would have high-fived them, but I fear those claws, especially after seeing that Hitchcock movie. Then I saw my car. All thoughts of high-fives vanished. Pink bird doo streaked every window, creating the effect of artwork done by—well, drunken birds. My screaming and arm-waving didn't faze the birds, but it did attract the attention of the building guards. Never a good thing.

My co-workers say the berry season doesn't last long. I hope they're right. It's a long walk from the center of the treeless south lot where the unamused guards "suggest" I park until then.

Drunken Leaves

"Little drunken maple leaves," I thought, seeing them lying on their faces on the pavement. It rained earlier, leaving wet asphalt beneath balding red and gold maple trees. Overpowered by a breeze, more leaves lost their tentative hold as I watched. They free-fell and landed, evenly spaced, on their faces. Each stem pointed skyward, moving slowly like little arms and legs. I remembered a long-ago story by a military friend who was on leave after boot camp, about a Drill Sgt. who made the recruits lie on their backs with their arms and legs reaching for the sky. "Dying Cockroach," he called it. They couldn't put their arms and legs down until the DI said they could. My friend said it was excruciating, but he "made it" when most of the guys didn't. A couple of years later, he broke his back in a motorcycle accident and the doctors said he would never walk again. He did. He "made it" when another person might have listened to the doctors and given up.

I don't know why that memory came up from the depths while I looked at the leaves. I don't know why it seems like it was just yesterday, when I can't even remember what I had for breakfast today. Being a Boomer is sometimes very weird.

And show the guard your ID…

My group’s office supplies are in a supply room three floors above us. It’s a long way to go for a paper clip. Groups on that floor are supposed to go to their own group’s supply rooms, which could be on any of five floors--or in the building next door. [What? You don’t think this is a good system?] Today, our group’s Grand Poobah of Office Supplies and All Things Good , [title changed to protect the unwitting perpetrator of a work absurdity] sent us this email:

“During the past few months, we have noticed that the supplies order has increased considerably. We have also noticed employees from other offices taking supplies from the our supply room. [What? People too lazy to go to their own supply room in a galaxy far, far away?] Therefore, we are beginning a new process for our group’s employees to get supplies.

"Effective immediately, the supply room will be locked at all times except from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m We ask that you plan to pick up your supplies during those hours.[What if I miss it by two minutes and I really, really need it? Will begging work?]

"Those who have keys to the room are employee X [whom I’ve never met and couldn’t find if I was on fire and she possessed the only fire extinguisher] and myself. She will be the primary contact. [Ah, Queen of Supplies!] If neither of us are available to assist you, there will be a note on the supply room door directing you who [sic] to contact [I have a bad feeling about this!].

"I realize that this new process might be an inconvenience at times [because having a supply room half a building away wasn’t inconvenient?] Given the circumstances, we cannot just ignore this problem [oh, yes you could. Please, please, just ignore it!] I apologize in advance for any inconvenience this might cause you. [OK, then. As long as you’ve apologized.]"

It’s 10:05 a.m. I need a green folder for a file that is due in 25 minutes. I hope begging works. I hope I can find Queen of Supplies (and I hope she has that fire extinguisher. I think I may be on fire.)

Safe in Seattle

This is how Seattle looks from space today. OK, this is how Seattle looks from space every day between November and May. If you want to be safe from missle attacks by orbiting satellites, this is the place to be. They'll never find us.

Headline: "Gun backfires as car-repair tool"

Is there any way you would not read a story with this headline?

Hats off to the headline writer for making a Boomer with a shotgun and a stubborn lug nut sound amusing. My summary:
"He was bound and determined to get that lug nut off," said the deputy [so determined, apparently, he forgot that shotguns aren't really precision tools.]
"...nobody else was there and he wasn't intoxicated." [Well, why not? It would have been a swell party trick!]
He was working on a Lincoln Continental. The wheel was about arm's length away when he fired the shotgun. [Can't you just hear the doors of his rational brain slamming shut?] He was peppered with buckshot and "other debris" in both legs and is now in the hospital. No word on the condition of the Lincoln.

No walk for you; you come back one day!

We'll be treated to sustained winds of 40 mpg today with gusts up to 60, if the earnest young TV weather forcasters are right. Hmm. I guess I won't walk the toy poodles. I don't want to wind up flying poodle-shaped kites.

Retire in Washington?

One of my retired friends sent me wikihumor (stuff a bunch of people made up) titled, "Where to Live After Retirement". It's a group of tongue-in-cheek lists about various locations. (For example: "You can retire in Florida where...You eat dinner at 3:15 pm," "You can retire in New York where...you think Central Park is nature," etc.) Washington state was not mentioned, probably because people in Arizona don't say to their spouses: "Honey, I'm really tired of all this sunshine, let's retire someplace where it rains a lot!"

I decided that my friends could come up with a funnier Washington State list. I was right. Here are their pithy contributions:

You can retire in Washington where…

1. The phrase "The Mountain is out today" is a weather report
2. There are 27 different names for rain
3. Throwing away anything recyclable is considered a felony.
4. You spend eight hours at work and ten hours getting there and back.
5. Starbucks is considered a sovereign nation.
6. There is a special name for two days of rain followed by a sunny day: "Monday."
7. Salmon is a religion.
8. Thirty days without rain is considered a drought.
9. Loggers have applied for protection under the endangered species act.
10. The main danger at coastal beaches is giant logs, not sharks.
11. Bill Gates and Paul Allen are considered modern-day sex symbols.
12. You never, ever, ever enter a crosswalk until the light is green, no matter how long the street has been empty.
13. You will always be an outsider until you learn to pronounce Puyallup, Snoqualmie, and Tulalip.
14. You will learn to recognize 53 shades of gray.

Wanna retire in Washington?

Poke it with a Stick First

My husband, Young Geezer, is several years younger than I am. This gives him the distinct advantage of having someone close at hand who has recently experienced the horror of declining physical abilities he is just now discovering. Eyes, for one thing.

" The only thing worse than not being able to see close up any more," he said, "is not realizing you can't see close up any more." He picked up a piece of "lint" from the floor, only to discover it was not lint; it was a spider. A live spider.

I tried to stick to my role of sympathetic, experienced Older Geezer, but it was hard to do, given that I was choking to keep from laughing. I think I made some appropriate sympathetic noises, then I gave him my best, hard-earned advice on the matter: "Always poke lint with a stick before you pick it up. If it moves, don't pick it up." (Of course, we could don one of the many pairs of annoying little reading glasses that we have stashed all over the house--but how adventurous would that be?)

Daily Work Absurdities

Yesterday, I needed a certain photocopied yellow form for a document. The shelf on which the forms reside was devoid of all but one lonely yellow page, onto which was stapled a slip of paper (when was this written--in pre Post-It Note Dark Ages?) with the note ,"Last one. Go to mail room to get more." My document had a certain deadline, but the allure of a trip to the mail room to get out of my dark, hot cube for a few minutes was inescapable, pathetic cube-victim that I am.

After an exhiliarting ride in the world's slowest elevator, I presented the form to the mail room clerk.
"We don't do those any more," she said.
"Who does?" I asked.
"They do their own now."
"Do you know where I can get a blank form?" I asked, bemused.
"I don't know anything about that. My job is to tell you we don't do them any more."
"Um, you said 'they' do their own now. Do other people use this form?" I thought maybe I could ask one of these obviously more experienced people where to find the electronic form--if one existed in this time warp.
"Oh, yes. Lots of people use it."
"Do you know where they get the form to copy?" By now, I thought I was stuck in an Office Space sequel.
"No, I don't know. My job is to tell you we don't do it any more."
"Do you know who these people are?"
"No, I just know we don't do them any more. Oh, and I can give you yellow paper to do it yourself."

I lugged my prize ream of yellow paper back up the world's slowest elevator, intent on finding a blank form to copy for myself and my fellow worker bees. Not yet fully beaten down after only four months of daily absurdities in this job, I was determined not to be the one who took the last of anything--coffee, paper in the printer, etc.--without restocking for my fellow inmates.

A more experienced worker bee gave me the phone number of a senior secretary who might have the form (thank God some secretaries still survive in the age of do-it-yourself technology! Nurses and secretaries are the ones who always know everything and can get things done while their clueless bosses take the credit.) It turns out she had something similar, did I want her to email it to me? I did. I got it and told my experienced worker bee that I would alter it for our use and put in our template folder. "Oh, you can't do that. Only certain people can add new forms." I tried to point out that it wasn't really new, since the department had been using hard copies since the Dark Ages. But no, it just couldn't be done. I suggested emailing it to everyone in the department who might find themselves wandering the halls with a ream of yellow paper. OK, maybe that would work. But we might have to give it a new Quality Control number. One of us would have to look into that. I smiled a smile that to me meant, "better you than me," and probably to her meant, "OK, I'll get right on that."

I fixed. I emailed. I got the copy center to create 500 copies. It took an hour and a half. Oh, an hour and 45 minutes if you count the time I spent walking around outside, trying keep from screaming.

I have another kind of document to turn in next week. I wonder what delightful surprises await me there?