“Take a slow sweet sip and console your sorrow. What‘s planted this morning will wither tomorrow.”
It is a strange slow November day. It was in the fifties last week, but today the temperature is back in the eighties. The sky is clustered with clouds but they fail to temper this warm winter day. The heat drains me into laziness, but the cloudy skies make me overly contemplative. It is hard to raise my spirits and can’t help feeling a nagging downcast air. I can’t get a story out of my mind that Paul shared with me last week.
A co-worker of his had recently missed work to attend a funeral. A funeral wasn’t too surprising for me because it seems a like a long year of funerals, one after another. I know that’s an illusion though, because funerals are happening all over the world everyday, not just this year. I am just more sensitive and awake to them. This particular funeral bothered me, even though I had no connection to the deceased. I was mourning over a stranger.
Six months ago this lady was in her fifties living a life along side her husband in the semblance of your everyday happy life. Six months ago life was normal and routine until her husband passed away unexpectedly. I can’t fill in the blanks of what occurred during then and now, but what I do know is this. Last week her body was buried. She died from stopping to eat, nothing had passed her lips but alcohol and cigarettes in the months since. She died from a broken heart.
It has really been hanging in my spirit lately and it seems surprising to me that such a thing is even possible. I confided in some friends who pointed out that it was a very simple equation. Husbands death + Alcohol - Food +Cigarettes = Death. I guess I can mentally wrap my head around the fact that physically the equation is possible. I just don’t want to believe that spiritually such a story is possible.
Of all of the people I have known who have experienced loss and great loss, I have always seen such a strength and determination. I witnessed people grow through grief and assumed that this was the natural process of grieving. Love and life always conquers all. I didn’t take into account that not every story involves a happy ending. Sometimes life ends before a proper ending can be written.
In a movie or book, it always seems so poetic and proper when a spouse dies shortly after their lover. In real life it’s jarring and disturbing. I am searching for a possible ending of joy that can come from this woman’s life and final six months. I can sense it's a futile search though, and insulting to try. Only on a cloudy warm winter’s day like this, is it possible to believe that one can die from a broken heart.
Saturday
Backside to the Wall
Or "One Night Only"
(note: this is a repost from earlier this year, but I was reminded of the wall earlier today and wanted to the give the wall it's due)
For the past month there has been construction non-stop next door to our coffee shop. During the holidays it had been a seasonal Brookstone store. Once the holidays were over however, construction crews moved in and began hammering away at the space next to us. Something new was moving in. The new store would need an entire new setup and layout than Brookstone had. I was curious as to what would be moving in. After asking a couple of people, I had the answer. It was going to be a Chico’s.
At first I was excited because I thought Chico’s sold super nachos and breakfast burritos. How convenient would that be! Breakfast blend coffee and breakfast burritos from Chico’s! A perfect pairing! Unfortunately, someone was quick to inform me that Chico’s did not sell Mexican food, but was in fact a clothing store. A clothing store for mature fashionable women. A one stop shop for things I didn’t need. Why couldn’t it have been nachos!
The good news was that it could bring in some new customers and new faces. So I was fairly patient with the construction and the loud noises. A bookcase nearly fell on my head several times, but no one got seriously injured. The crews always started early before daylight and worked through the better part of the day.
It was Friday morning when I walked into our coffee shop and I could hear the familiar noises coming from next door. I could hear hammers working and saws cutting as I made my way to the counter to start my day. Halfway to the register, I was caught by surprise by a noise that I have never heard coming from a wall before. I stopped. The noise came again. I laughed out loud. I couldn’t believe my ears. It sounded as if our wall had eaten a weeks supply of bean burritos and had finally decided to let it all out.
There were big sounds, little sounds, elongated sounds, and several large booming sounds. It was a gasternal symphony of sounds.
Our wall had become the largest standing whooppee cushion.
I found out that they were using a special drill that day to cut holes through metal. Apparently, the drill also cuts through cheese just as well.
It was Friday morning, our busiest day of the week, so I jumped quickly behind the espresso bar and began to work. Just like clockwork, our morning rush began. Customers were used to the construction by then and ordered drinks before waiting in front of the espresso bar to receive them. At first there were two customers waiting, then five, and soon there were was a crowd of about twelve. I worked feverishly trying to get the drinks done in a reasonable amount of time.
It was about that moment when the noise started up again. I looked up in time to see a customer glance at another customer with a downward stare and then take a step away. More noises followed. Uncomfortable shifting of shoulders and looking around. More booming noises from next door and suddenly the sleepy crowd became alert and awake. Everyone could hear it, but no one was talking about it. The wall tooted away contentedly oblivious to the fact of the ever growing awkward crowd.
I decided I needed to step in.
I extended my arms as far as they could go in a diagonal fashion, with my highest hand pointing out towards the offending wall.
“MAN, “ I said loudly, determined to be heard over the offensive harmony, “ SOMEONE SHOULD REALLY GIVE THAT WALL SOME BEAN-O!”.
I flashed the largest smile I could create and wriggled my fingertips at the end of my still extended arms. I looked around the crowd searching for the first smile or laugh that would put everyone at ease and get us started on a great Friday.
Nothing. I waited five seconds. Still nothing. Ten seconds. Not one smile or laugh escaped the crowd. Blank faces stared back at me.
I quickly dropped my arms to my side and got back to making drinks. It was the longest twelve drinks of my life. As the crowd filed out, drinks in hand, I realized that my life as a stand up comic had lasted an entirety of two minutes.
(note: this is a repost from earlier this year, but I was reminded of the wall earlier today and wanted to the give the wall it's due)
For the past month there has been construction non-stop next door to our coffee shop. During the holidays it had been a seasonal Brookstone store. Once the holidays were over however, construction crews moved in and began hammering away at the space next to us. Something new was moving in. The new store would need an entire new setup and layout than Brookstone had. I was curious as to what would be moving in. After asking a couple of people, I had the answer. It was going to be a Chico’s.
At first I was excited because I thought Chico’s sold super nachos and breakfast burritos. How convenient would that be! Breakfast blend coffee and breakfast burritos from Chico’s! A perfect pairing! Unfortunately, someone was quick to inform me that Chico’s did not sell Mexican food, but was in fact a clothing store. A clothing store for mature fashionable women. A one stop shop for things I didn’t need. Why couldn’t it have been nachos!
The good news was that it could bring in some new customers and new faces. So I was fairly patient with the construction and the loud noises. A bookcase nearly fell on my head several times, but no one got seriously injured. The crews always started early before daylight and worked through the better part of the day.
It was Friday morning when I walked into our coffee shop and I could hear the familiar noises coming from next door. I could hear hammers working and saws cutting as I made my way to the counter to start my day. Halfway to the register, I was caught by surprise by a noise that I have never heard coming from a wall before. I stopped. The noise came again. I laughed out loud. I couldn’t believe my ears. It sounded as if our wall had eaten a weeks supply of bean burritos and had finally decided to let it all out.
There were big sounds, little sounds, elongated sounds, and several large booming sounds. It was a gasternal symphony of sounds.
Our wall had become the largest standing whooppee cushion.
I found out that they were using a special drill that day to cut holes through metal. Apparently, the drill also cuts through cheese just as well.
It was Friday morning, our busiest day of the week, so I jumped quickly behind the espresso bar and began to work. Just like clockwork, our morning rush began. Customers were used to the construction by then and ordered drinks before waiting in front of the espresso bar to receive them. At first there were two customers waiting, then five, and soon there were was a crowd of about twelve. I worked feverishly trying to get the drinks done in a reasonable amount of time.
It was about that moment when the noise started up again. I looked up in time to see a customer glance at another customer with a downward stare and then take a step away. More noises followed. Uncomfortable shifting of shoulders and looking around. More booming noises from next door and suddenly the sleepy crowd became alert and awake. Everyone could hear it, but no one was talking about it. The wall tooted away contentedly oblivious to the fact of the ever growing awkward crowd.
I decided I needed to step in.
I extended my arms as far as they could go in a diagonal fashion, with my highest hand pointing out towards the offending wall.
“MAN, “ I said loudly, determined to be heard over the offensive harmony, “ SOMEONE SHOULD REALLY GIVE THAT WALL SOME BEAN-O!”.
I flashed the largest smile I could create and wriggled my fingertips at the end of my still extended arms. I looked around the crowd searching for the first smile or laugh that would put everyone at ease and get us started on a great Friday.
Nothing. I waited five seconds. Still nothing. Ten seconds. Not one smile or laugh escaped the crowd. Blank faces stared back at me.
I quickly dropped my arms to my side and got back to making drinks. It was the longest twelve drinks of my life. As the crowd filed out, drinks in hand, I realized that my life as a stand up comic had lasted an entirety of two minutes.
Reaching Out
Paul and I were heading northbound on Craycroft. We probably travel this road nearly every day of the year because it is the same way to Paul’s parents house and to the gym. Our daily routine usually involves a trip to the gym and/or Paul’s parents house or a mixture of the two. The median is divided by concrete dividers that house various desert vegetation including flowers, bushes and cactus.
We are riding along when the car ahead of us catches my attention. It appears that the driver in front of us is part giant. He seems like a big fellow whose frame is barely contained in his car. It is further accented by the fact that his car seems unusually small. A big guy in a little car.
Most people usually just blend into their cars, but he sticks out and appears that any minute he is going to burst out of his car. I am trying to decide if he is actually as big as he seems or if the cars is just so small. It seems like a combination of the both. I am trying to decide his actual height, when his left arm pokes out of the car. His large arm reaches out and grabs a branch from a tree and rips it out and throws it to the ground.
Paul and I look at each other for a sec and then stare back at the car in front of us. His arms stays hanging on the left side of the car, nearly touching the ground. He continues to rip out vegetation and pull out branches as he drives along. He pulls out flowers from bushes, uproots small trees and scatters branches along the median. He is a giant of destruction leaving behind splinters of dead vegetation in his wake.
I am pretty shocked and amazed and how much he can reach and destroy from the reach of his car. Finally he comes along a part of the median which contain large cactus with prickly thorns. He hand remains out stretched and seems poised to give the cactus face a whack. I begin to flinch imagining the pain those thorns could do to a hand. He seems undeterred and is ten seconds away from contact.
I am glued to his hand awaiting the outcome. The giant or the cactus? One second from impact and he pulls his hand suddenly at the last possible second. I sigh a relief. He catches us watching him from his rearview mirror. He speeds off in a zigzag fashion never to be seen again.
That’s my adventure of the day.
We are riding along when the car ahead of us catches my attention. It appears that the driver in front of us is part giant. He seems like a big fellow whose frame is barely contained in his car. It is further accented by the fact that his car seems unusually small. A big guy in a little car.
Most people usually just blend into their cars, but he sticks out and appears that any minute he is going to burst out of his car. I am trying to decide if he is actually as big as he seems or if the cars is just so small. It seems like a combination of the both. I am trying to decide his actual height, when his left arm pokes out of the car. His large arm reaches out and grabs a branch from a tree and rips it out and throws it to the ground.
Paul and I look at each other for a sec and then stare back at the car in front of us. His arms stays hanging on the left side of the car, nearly touching the ground. He continues to rip out vegetation and pull out branches as he drives along. He pulls out flowers from bushes, uproots small trees and scatters branches along the median. He is a giant of destruction leaving behind splinters of dead vegetation in his wake.
I am pretty shocked and amazed and how much he can reach and destroy from the reach of his car. Finally he comes along a part of the median which contain large cactus with prickly thorns. He hand remains out stretched and seems poised to give the cactus face a whack. I begin to flinch imagining the pain those thorns could do to a hand. He seems undeterred and is ten seconds away from contact.
I am glued to his hand awaiting the outcome. The giant or the cactus? One second from impact and he pulls his hand suddenly at the last possible second. I sigh a relief. He catches us watching him from his rearview mirror. He speeds off in a zigzag fashion never to be seen again.
That’s my adventure of the day.
Tuesday
Knife in my Gut
or "Ocean Ommitance "
Two days after my thirtieth birthday and I find myself on a table getting cut open and put back together.
Originally, I had hoped that I might be in Brazil for my thirtieth birthday enjoying an internship, but with the economy in it’s current state, it was canceled. With no Brazil in sight, I decided to go ahead and schedule a surgery. I felt a surgery was still a notable life experience. Perhaps not as beautiful and breathtaking, but noteworthy nonetheless. I didn’t want a significant birthday to pass without a significant event. I was careful to schedule it after my actual birthday because I wanted to give myself at least a couple days of enjoying birthday gifts and friends before going under the knife.
I haven’t had a real surgery since I was seven and I was unsure about how the whole procedure worked. I was diagnosed over a year ago and I kept putting my surgery off. I felt that now that I was accomplishing thirty, it would be the first adult thing I could do. Adults were people who scheduled and had surgeries. This would be my crossing of the threshold called adulthood. Unfortunately I was still naïve about the severity of surgical procedures and gave no more thought to it than scheduling a haircut.
“I need to schedule an appointment for a surgery next week.” I told the receptionist on the other line. “Preferably sometime before Friday because I am leaving for California then. Maybe you have an appointment available Thursday? The earlier the better since I have a flight on Friday morning.”
There was a noticeable pause on the other end.
“I really don’t think it’s such a good idea,” she said sweetly,” Why don’t we reschedule when you get back? You are going to need some recovery time. There are plenty of openings three weeks from now.”
It was generous of her to suggest moving it, but I have never been known to deter from an idea once I have decided something. I think she sensed my solidity and although there were absolutely no appointments available on Tuesday, she made some magic happen. I told her that Tuesday would do and penciled it on my calendar. Tuesday gave me three days before my vacation. It seemed like an exorbitant amount of recovery time but I was sure I could find things to do.
Plenty of loved ones volunteered their presence on Tuesday , but I wasn’t having any of it. I scolded Paul and wouldn’t allow him to miss work because we were already leaving on Friday. He was generous enough to respect my request but he was insistent that his dad drive me. Paul’s dad tried to talk me out of getting the surgery before Friday‘s trip. He was making jokes but expressing his concern, during the drive over but I assured him I would be fine.
It wasn’t until after I signed the contract that I started to reconsider his advice. The contract stated that if something happened which resulted in my death that I was consenting a hundred percent. I was mulling the contract over, sitting with my lower cheeks to the wind.
“I could be wearing my last outfit on earth.” I thought rather grimly. A white polka dotted hospital gown.
I could hear an older couple through the thin sheet curtain behind me. They were being very sweet to each other and I could tell their tenderness was heightened due to their circumstances. If anything went wrong with her surgery, they wanted to make sure to say their proper goodbyes to each other. I started to sweat it a little, but before I could put my pants back on, I was lead away and put under.
* * * * *
A couple of hours later and I woke up scratching my nose. The nurse took that as a good sign and I received my walking papers with several stipulations. The first was to take it easy for a couple of days and second, I wasn’t allowed to enter the ocean. I could get my stitches wet, but the doctor didn’t think it was a good idea to enter the ocean and chance getting an infection. My uncle had just told me a story about a friend whose stitches got infected so bad that they had to operate on him three times . There would be no ocean for me in California.
It was as small price, but one I was sure I could pay. To Paul, that would be the greatest doctor order ever: to not enter the ocean. He loves going to the beach, but he hates the water. He thinks it’s unhygienic, dirty, and he believes seaweed is the mucus of the devil. He actually has never entered the ocean before and refuses to get close. He enjoys the sand and the laying about, just never the water.
It was our third day in California when we finally made some time to check out the beach. I didn’t even bother putting on swim trunks so that I wouldn’t be tempted. I just left on some basket ball shorts. It has been a couple of years since I have seen a Californian beach. We set up camp and pulled out some books and prepared to catch some sun rays. Placing the book aside though, I couldn’t help but walk to edge of the water and get my feet wet.
My recovery had been coming along fine, but for the first time I started to feel pain internally. It wasn’t my stitches so much as it was my soul. I have always associated the ocean with a form of communion with God. I stared at the ocean wistfully and decided to move in closer, at least up to my knees. I stared at the horizon and noticed everyone playing around me, splashing and riding waves. I barely even noticed the two white feet approaching next to me. It was Paul.
“The water is so cold!” he said as his feet touched the ocean for the first time. Just then a wave came in and touched the bottom of my basketball shorts. “Whoa,” said Paul, “be careful, you don’t want to get your stitches wet.”
“It’s just the waves.” I told Paul, “I don’t think it will go much higher.”
I showed Paul how I liked to play in the waves and how the sand sort of melts when the waves pull it back in. He smiled and stuck his toes in the sand and practiced catching waves with me, just to the bottom of his shorts also. This went on for awhile until a huge wave pushed to the shore and left a two foot piece of seaweed attached to Paul’s leg. His eyes widened and he shook it off faster than I thought possible.
“You still don’t like the ocean, do you?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.
“No.” he said giving a half smile.
“You didn’t want to touch the water, did you.” I asked smiling.
“Nope.” he answered quickly.
“You are completely done now and want to head back to our books and the sun.” I asked him, curious but confident at his response.
“Yes. Please.” he said emphatically, already moving out of the grip of the ocean.
I looked back at the vastness of water and then turned and started to follow Paul. I know the only reason he came out was to offer his solace and make my quiet misery bearable . The comforting investment about turning thirty is knowing that living doesn’t just consist of significant events but rather significant people.
BONUS PIC
Two days after my thirtieth birthday and I find myself on a table getting cut open and put back together.
Originally, I had hoped that I might be in Brazil for my thirtieth birthday enjoying an internship, but with the economy in it’s current state, it was canceled. With no Brazil in sight, I decided to go ahead and schedule a surgery. I felt a surgery was still a notable life experience. Perhaps not as beautiful and breathtaking, but noteworthy nonetheless. I didn’t want a significant birthday to pass without a significant event. I was careful to schedule it after my actual birthday because I wanted to give myself at least a couple days of enjoying birthday gifts and friends before going under the knife.
I haven’t had a real surgery since I was seven and I was unsure about how the whole procedure worked. I was diagnosed over a year ago and I kept putting my surgery off. I felt that now that I was accomplishing thirty, it would be the first adult thing I could do. Adults were people who scheduled and had surgeries. This would be my crossing of the threshold called adulthood. Unfortunately I was still naïve about the severity of surgical procedures and gave no more thought to it than scheduling a haircut.
“I need to schedule an appointment for a surgery next week.” I told the receptionist on the other line. “Preferably sometime before Friday because I am leaving for California then. Maybe you have an appointment available Thursday? The earlier the better since I have a flight on Friday morning.”
There was a noticeable pause on the other end.
“I really don’t think it’s such a good idea,” she said sweetly,” Why don’t we reschedule when you get back? You are going to need some recovery time. There are plenty of openings three weeks from now.”
It was generous of her to suggest moving it, but I have never been known to deter from an idea once I have decided something. I think she sensed my solidity and although there were absolutely no appointments available on Tuesday, she made some magic happen. I told her that Tuesday would do and penciled it on my calendar. Tuesday gave me three days before my vacation. It seemed like an exorbitant amount of recovery time but I was sure I could find things to do.
Plenty of loved ones volunteered their presence on Tuesday , but I wasn’t having any of it. I scolded Paul and wouldn’t allow him to miss work because we were already leaving on Friday. He was generous enough to respect my request but he was insistent that his dad drive me. Paul’s dad tried to talk me out of getting the surgery before Friday‘s trip. He was making jokes but expressing his concern, during the drive over but I assured him I would be fine.
It wasn’t until after I signed the contract that I started to reconsider his advice. The contract stated that if something happened which resulted in my death that I was consenting a hundred percent. I was mulling the contract over, sitting with my lower cheeks to the wind.
“I could be wearing my last outfit on earth.” I thought rather grimly. A white polka dotted hospital gown.
I could hear an older couple through the thin sheet curtain behind me. They were being very sweet to each other and I could tell their tenderness was heightened due to their circumstances. If anything went wrong with her surgery, they wanted to make sure to say their proper goodbyes to each other. I started to sweat it a little, but before I could put my pants back on, I was lead away and put under.
* * * * *
A couple of hours later and I woke up scratching my nose. The nurse took that as a good sign and I received my walking papers with several stipulations. The first was to take it easy for a couple of days and second, I wasn’t allowed to enter the ocean. I could get my stitches wet, but the doctor didn’t think it was a good idea to enter the ocean and chance getting an infection. My uncle had just told me a story about a friend whose stitches got infected so bad that they had to operate on him three times . There would be no ocean for me in California.
It was as small price, but one I was sure I could pay. To Paul, that would be the greatest doctor order ever: to not enter the ocean. He loves going to the beach, but he hates the water. He thinks it’s unhygienic, dirty, and he believes seaweed is the mucus of the devil. He actually has never entered the ocean before and refuses to get close. He enjoys the sand and the laying about, just never the water.
It was our third day in California when we finally made some time to check out the beach. I didn’t even bother putting on swim trunks so that I wouldn’t be tempted. I just left on some basket ball shorts. It has been a couple of years since I have seen a Californian beach. We set up camp and pulled out some books and prepared to catch some sun rays. Placing the book aside though, I couldn’t help but walk to edge of the water and get my feet wet.
My recovery had been coming along fine, but for the first time I started to feel pain internally. It wasn’t my stitches so much as it was my soul. I have always associated the ocean with a form of communion with God. I stared at the ocean wistfully and decided to move in closer, at least up to my knees. I stared at the horizon and noticed everyone playing around me, splashing and riding waves. I barely even noticed the two white feet approaching next to me. It was Paul.
“The water is so cold!” he said as his feet touched the ocean for the first time. Just then a wave came in and touched the bottom of my basketball shorts. “Whoa,” said Paul, “be careful, you don’t want to get your stitches wet.”
“It’s just the waves.” I told Paul, “I don’t think it will go much higher.”
I showed Paul how I liked to play in the waves and how the sand sort of melts when the waves pull it back in. He smiled and stuck his toes in the sand and practiced catching waves with me, just to the bottom of his shorts also. This went on for awhile until a huge wave pushed to the shore and left a two foot piece of seaweed attached to Paul’s leg. His eyes widened and he shook it off faster than I thought possible.
“You still don’t like the ocean, do you?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.
“No.” he said giving a half smile.
“You didn’t want to touch the water, did you.” I asked smiling.
“Nope.” he answered quickly.
“You are completely done now and want to head back to our books and the sun.” I asked him, curious but confident at his response.
“Yes. Please.” he said emphatically, already moving out of the grip of the ocean.
I looked back at the vastness of water and then turned and started to follow Paul. I know the only reason he came out was to offer his solace and make my quiet misery bearable . The comforting investment about turning thirty is knowing that living doesn’t just consist of significant events but rather significant people.
BONUS PIC
Time Traveling Dinosaurs
or "How an ipod saved my life"
The gentleman was extremely excited and he insisted I check out his computer screen. I was intially hesitant, but as is always the case, I was more curious than a normal person should be. The first picture was on his computer background. It was pink, fleshly, and mostly unidentifiable.
"Don't you see," he said pointing to the screen,"It's dinosaur flesh! Real live dinosaur flesh!"
I took a closer look, but still I couldn't make out any dinosaur that I have ever seen in a book. To be fair though, it was a cut-away cross section of dinosaur flesh. They don't usually show those in children's books.
"Don't you see," he exclaimed,"It's one of the world's biggest discoveries in recent years. They checked the DNA to all current DNA types available and there are no matches.It is an incredibly well preserved piece of dinosaur flesh. It really sort of changes everything, doesn't it?"
I thought about it for a moment.
"Well, I guess it depends on how well it cooks up with bacon and eggs." I said.
I wondered how much of the flesh they actually recovered. He continued with more details of the excavation and the implications it could have about the existence of God. I tried to follow his train of logic, but I wasn't sure if he was saying that it would prove or disprove the existence of God. Personally, I found it hard to believe that anybody would change belief teams based on discovered dinosaur meat. I think a majority of people have made up their minds on the matter long before looking at any physical evidence.
I tried to think of any implications that dinosaur flesh would have on my own personal life. Nothing immediately came to the surface. I tried to imagine it on a grander scheme. Would my life change if they had found a whole dinasaur walking around? Maybe perhaps some T-Rex that was discovered roaming around in a hidden jungle somewhere. (Assuming that there are some hidden jungles still existing on earth...although I sort of doubt it).
I just couldn't see how my own day-to-day life would change drastically from the discovery of dinosaurs. I started to take inventory of all the discoveries made during my lifetime and what they did to change the course of my life. Which discovery drastically changed my world? It was undisputable. The iPod changed my life forever.
I am dangerously aware that it may sound shallow, but I know a lot of people who feel the same way.
The first thing the iPod did for me was completely execute the radio. I would never have to listen to the same ten songs every hour again. It really allowed me to explore and enjoy more music. Uncountable amounts of songs are released on the internet everyday. Paul rounds them up on the computer and I put them on my iPod. It makes me feel connected to the pulse of the world.
Technically, I know that wonder really falls under the discovery of the internet, but without an mp3 player you couldn't fit it all into your pocket. Not to mention that with out it, audio books wouldn't fit there either, along with language courses, e-mail, and of course the ever present facebook. ( We won't even get into all of the apps, this isn't a paid advertisement).
Dinosaurs versus the Digital age? I think the dinasaurs are better off staying extinct. I am sure there are still plenty of discoveries waiting to change our lives. Here is my list of discoveries that I feel could be life changing:
1.Time Traveling - If this were discovered, it could definitely change
things up a bit.Although to be fair, it would probably not be in the reach of most people and if it was, I am sure it would be ridiculously expensive. So maybe it wouldn't really change anything after all.
2. Teleportation - Another great discovery that would be make the world smaller. If anyone could be anywhere within seconds, nothing would ever be the same. Of course, again I am sure it would be outrageously expensive and rule restrictive.
3. Life on other planets - Depending on what they knew and shared, I think that alien life would majorly shift our world views. Nearly every book would need to be rewritten in some way or another.
4. Fix-all cure/Eternal Life - Much of our life and view points revolve around our fraility and demise. Take those things out of the equation and what would we do with eternal life and flawless health? It would be interesting to see how great or evil we become.
These are my ideas for future life changing discoveries. Maybe they are kind of grand and far reaching, but I am curious to see what everyone else's ideas are. I know there are millions I haven't thought of, and probably a couple of actual pratical ones! Let me know!
Wednesday
Personal Identity Protection
or "Debit Debts"
Week five of my walking cast and I am pretty much regulated to working at the register. Most of the other positions in the coffee shop require a lot of quick movement both with the legs and the hands. At the register you can get away with less movement as long as you keep your mouth moving chatting up the coffee consumer . Thankfully, I don’t get tired of moving my mouth, as many can attest to. I would like to think that others don’t mind my mouth moving so much either, which I will just assume they don’t. I spend most of the mornings creating conversations and taking orders.
One thing I have noticed working at the register, is that banks are issuing personalized picture bank cards. I have so many debit cards pass through the line this week with pictures plastered on face of the card. I don’t recall seeing any last month and now this week I have seen at least fifty. Picture after picture and I start to realize that I am getting bank card envy. The face of my debit card hasn’t changed once in the twelve years that I have had it. Always the same, year after year. No spice to our relationship. Money goes on the card, I spend the money.
Now I can spend the money with pizzazz. Well, in theory I can. First I have to decide on a picture for the card. I start stressing about what I want to put on the card. Pets seem to be a big draw. From puppies to birds to mean looking monsters, people love putting their pets on their cards. I don’t have any pets. I have plants, but no pets. I wonder if people will think I am strange if I have my plants lined up for a picture.
At first, I think that I would rather have some characters from my favorite tv show on my card. The idea seems stunningly generic though and I feel a tinge of guilt for being lame. Besides, rules for the personalized card states that the picture must be a personal picture and not copyrighted. Although, I know several people who have skillfully skirted that rule already. I guess the trick is, if you are going to pick copyrighted art or a picture, it has to be an obscure or unrecognizable image. Does it defeat the purpose of having a personalized card if no one recognizes the image on it?
Probably not, I guess a person should just pick a picture that they enjoy and brings them a sense of joy to see. You still have to balance out your choice though. The possibility that other people will catch a glimpse of your card is pretty high. Sure, lots of places have self-checkout and swipe now, but there are places you will have to hand over the card. You don’t want to open up a tab at a late night drinking establishment with a Care Bear card. Or maybe you do. These kind of choices say a lot about who you are.
It is the end of the work week and a stranger hands over his debit card with a personalized picture. I survey the card. It is sweet picture of a blonde around his age and I can assume safely it is his wife from the ring on his hand. It never crossed my mind to do something so tender to my own card. In fact, it is safe to say that tender things rarely cross my mind.
“Awww….” I say taking the card for the swipe, “that’s a endearing personalized card. It’s the first time I have seen a spouse on the card. I heard it’s free, right?.” I leave the question out there waiting for a response. I am fairly sure there isn’t a charge, but it doesn’t hurt to make sure. He shrugs his shoulders and looks towards the pastries in an uneasy manner.
I am never very easily deterred so I keep on in my line of questioning.
“Well,” I add, still working my angle and holding the card, “ I heard it was free. How was the process of getting the card? Was it a long process to get one?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, but he picks out a pastry instead. He is thinking it over and seems unsure of the answer to give. I start to think that maybe the process isn’t as easy as everyone else stated it was. Technology can be a pain sometimes, that I know.
“Not to mention, “ I continue, “It’s difficult to decide on a picture. I was thinking of maybe a landscape pic. I heard that cars are the number one pick for guys. Pictures of their own cars. I was surprised to hear that, although I guess it makes sense. At least you found a good picture though.”
He leans over the counter towards me and begins to speak in a lower voice. “Actually,” he says clutching his drink and pastry, “ I didn’t even realize you could do that to a card.I guess my wife knew. She went online and ordered it for me. It just came in one day and there it was. My new debit card.” He walked away, quickly tucking the card back into his wallet.
I guess the bank really does offer personal identity protection.
Week five of my walking cast and I am pretty much regulated to working at the register. Most of the other positions in the coffee shop require a lot of quick movement both with the legs and the hands. At the register you can get away with less movement as long as you keep your mouth moving chatting up the coffee consumer . Thankfully, I don’t get tired of moving my mouth, as many can attest to. I would like to think that others don’t mind my mouth moving so much either, which I will just assume they don’t. I spend most of the mornings creating conversations and taking orders.
One thing I have noticed working at the register, is that banks are issuing personalized picture bank cards. I have so many debit cards pass through the line this week with pictures plastered on face of the card. I don’t recall seeing any last month and now this week I have seen at least fifty. Picture after picture and I start to realize that I am getting bank card envy. The face of my debit card hasn’t changed once in the twelve years that I have had it. Always the same, year after year. No spice to our relationship. Money goes on the card, I spend the money.
Now I can spend the money with pizzazz. Well, in theory I can. First I have to decide on a picture for the card. I start stressing about what I want to put on the card. Pets seem to be a big draw. From puppies to birds to mean looking monsters, people love putting their pets on their cards. I don’t have any pets. I have plants, but no pets. I wonder if people will think I am strange if I have my plants lined up for a picture.
At first, I think that I would rather have some characters from my favorite tv show on my card. The idea seems stunningly generic though and I feel a tinge of guilt for being lame. Besides, rules for the personalized card states that the picture must be a personal picture and not copyrighted. Although, I know several people who have skillfully skirted that rule already. I guess the trick is, if you are going to pick copyrighted art or a picture, it has to be an obscure or unrecognizable image. Does it defeat the purpose of having a personalized card if no one recognizes the image on it?
Probably not, I guess a person should just pick a picture that they enjoy and brings them a sense of joy to see. You still have to balance out your choice though. The possibility that other people will catch a glimpse of your card is pretty high. Sure, lots of places have self-checkout and swipe now, but there are places you will have to hand over the card. You don’t want to open up a tab at a late night drinking establishment with a Care Bear card. Or maybe you do. These kind of choices say a lot about who you are.
It is the end of the work week and a stranger hands over his debit card with a personalized picture. I survey the card. It is sweet picture of a blonde around his age and I can assume safely it is his wife from the ring on his hand. It never crossed my mind to do something so tender to my own card. In fact, it is safe to say that tender things rarely cross my mind.
“Awww….” I say taking the card for the swipe, “that’s a endearing personalized card. It’s the first time I have seen a spouse on the card. I heard it’s free, right?.” I leave the question out there waiting for a response. I am fairly sure there isn’t a charge, but it doesn’t hurt to make sure. He shrugs his shoulders and looks towards the pastries in an uneasy manner.
I am never very easily deterred so I keep on in my line of questioning.
“Well,” I add, still working my angle and holding the card, “ I heard it was free. How was the process of getting the card? Was it a long process to get one?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, but he picks out a pastry instead. He is thinking it over and seems unsure of the answer to give. I start to think that maybe the process isn’t as easy as everyone else stated it was. Technology can be a pain sometimes, that I know.
“Not to mention, “ I continue, “It’s difficult to decide on a picture. I was thinking of maybe a landscape pic. I heard that cars are the number one pick for guys. Pictures of their own cars. I was surprised to hear that, although I guess it makes sense. At least you found a good picture though.”
He leans over the counter towards me and begins to speak in a lower voice. “Actually,” he says clutching his drink and pastry, “ I didn’t even realize you could do that to a card.I guess my wife knew. She went online and ordered it for me. It just came in one day and there it was. My new debit card.” He walked away, quickly tucking the card back into his wallet.
I guess the bank really does offer personal identity protection.
Thursday
The Chocolate God
It finally slows down at the coffee shop after a busy afternoon. I grab a damp towel to wipe down the espresso bar area while my fellow barista takes some dishes to the back. The counter area around the syrups can get fairly sticky, so I decide to start there. Earlier this week Barry inspected all of the syrups pumps and found some of the washers in the pumps needed to be replaced.The loose seal in the mocha pump allowed for a small leak. Thankfully, someone placed a small cup underneath the nozzle until the new washers would come in.
While I was wiping the area I glanced inside the cup and this is what I saw:
"Hey, check this out!" I called to the barista in back.. She peered inside the cup.
"It's a chocolate smiley face!" I said with a smile on my own face.
"It's kind of creepy." said said.
"Well, at least he's smiling at us." I said looking back inside the cup.
"Yeah, that's true. It sort of looks like he is winking at us." she added.
"Maybe he is trying to tell us something." I said cupping my hands into a megaphone over my mouth.
"WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL US CHOCOLATE SMILEY FACE!" I yell into the cup.
Five minutes later, several women walk in and order a couple of drinks.The oldest lady begins speaking to me, but her english isn't that great. She pulls two items out of her purse and is trying to talk to me but I can't understand. Her friend steps in and explains,"She says it is too hot inside the car and if you don't mind, she wanted to give these to you two before they melt."
She handed me two Symphony chocolate bars. I love Symphony chocolate bars.
"I will only take them if it helps you out!" I said already reaching over the counter for the chocolate. The ladies received their drinks and headed back into the mall.I handed my fellow barista one of the chocolate bars.
I cupped my hands back into a megaphone.
"THANK YOU FOR THE CHOCOLATE, CHOCOLATE SMILEY FACE!" I yell into the cup.
The Chocolate God has spoken.
While I was wiping the area I glanced inside the cup and this is what I saw:
"Hey, check this out!" I called to the barista in back.. She peered inside the cup.
"It's a chocolate smiley face!" I said with a smile on my own face.
"It's kind of creepy." said said.
"Well, at least he's smiling at us." I said looking back inside the cup.
"Yeah, that's true. It sort of looks like he is winking at us." she added.
"Maybe he is trying to tell us something." I said cupping my hands into a megaphone over my mouth.
"WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL US CHOCOLATE SMILEY FACE!" I yell into the cup.
Five minutes later, several women walk in and order a couple of drinks.The oldest lady begins speaking to me, but her english isn't that great. She pulls two items out of her purse and is trying to talk to me but I can't understand. Her friend steps in and explains,"She says it is too hot inside the car and if you don't mind, she wanted to give these to you two before they melt."
She handed me two Symphony chocolate bars. I love Symphony chocolate bars.
"I will only take them if it helps you out!" I said already reaching over the counter for the chocolate. The ladies received their drinks and headed back into the mall.I handed my fellow barista one of the chocolate bars.
I cupped my hands back into a megaphone.
"THANK YOU FOR THE CHOCOLATE, CHOCOLATE SMILEY FACE!" I yell into the cup.
The Chocolate God has spoken.
Tuesday
Secret Saucy Techniques
or "Late Night Learnings"
It is Friday night and it is far later than I would like it to be. I can’t believe I am shopping for ingredients at a 24-hour grocery store during the latter part of those 24 hours.. I had plans to be home much earlier in the evening but as it turns out, Paul’s very close friend Laila was having a going away party. We had a fantastic time with good company, conversation and as it turns out charity. Laila has always been very involved in the community and even at her going away party, she manages to raise five hundred dollars for a women’s leadership organization. Her going is still giving. That’s the kind of life Laila lives. I can’t tell if she does it to make me feel guilty or inspire me. Either way it was an evening full of laughs and inevitable tears.
After we say goodbye, I picture myself slipping into bed and enjoying a couple hours of rest. Instead I am at the all-night grocery store. I am only one of four people there and I wander the aisles looking for ingredients. Twenty people are expecting a spaghetti lunch tomorrow with garlic bread and salad. I am taking it to work in the morning so I only have a limited time left. For the first time, I am making homemade spaghetti sauce. Usually I wouldn’t attempt something new this late, but my sister-in-law gave me a great recipe that she swore was an authentic Italian recipe she received from a friend. The ingredients to the sauce appeared to be a lot cheaper to make for twenty people than to purchase bottled sauce. Plus, I love a good challenge.
We get home and I pull out various pots and pans and lay out the sauce ingredients, the garlic bread and the pasta. I pause for a moment and feel sort of hypocritical about cooking a ‘authentic’ Italian meal. Earlier in the evening there was a very heated discussion at the table about there not being enough Mexican cooks on TV. Every person on every food network was cooking Mexican food, except for the Mexican’s themselves. Not to mention, a majority of the ‘authentic’ recipe’s include canned beans and pre-made taco shells. I agreed whole heartedly in the discussion earlier, and yet here I am an hour later making what I consider to be authentic Italian food. I know nothing about authentic Italian cooking.
Although to be fair, I am making this food in the privacy of my own kitchen and not passing it off to thousands as the gospel truth. I think that whatever people want to cook and eat in the privacy of their own kitchens, is their business. There were no cameras rolling in my house and definitely not everything I do in my kitchen is audience approved. In fact, just the other day I was using a tortilla to eat Chinese food. Would I recommend that on a food show if I had one? Probably not, even though it tasted good (and disgusted Paul).
Personal philosophy aside though, I had to get this sauce done. I started to heat a large silver pot over the stove while I boiled some water and pre-heated the oven. I threw some garlic and olive oil in the pot and let them sauté. At the same time, I prepared the bread and opened the pasta boxes. I added more ingredients to the silver pot while I chopped away at some vegetables and herbs. I filled the silver pot with more ingredients and hit high on the stove. I know that I probably should slow cook the sauce to let it absorb flavor, but I really haven’t got the time. I throw the bread in oven and finish up the spaghetti and then check back on the sauce. It seems kind of sticky on the bottom but I give it a good stir. I package up the meal and let the sauce cool before I place it in the fridge. Mission accomplished. Time for bed.
I wake up the next morning and get everything ready to go. Before I get set to leave, I try the sauce to see if the flavors have settled nicely. It tastes great to me and I am feeling pretty accomplished. Paul asks for a sample and makes a curious face while trying it.
“How is it?” I ask, already assured it was a success.
“It has kind of a strange taste to it….”says Paul trailing off, “What did you put in it?”. I go over the ingredients with him and I can tell he is weighing through every ingredient carefully.
“Hmmm…maybe you put too much olive oil because it has a unique taste that I can’t really place.” he says while still trying to figure it out in his head.
“It’s fine,” I say “it tastes like spaghetti sauce. I have to go.” I gather up the meal and head to work where I know my food will get tested by many others throughout the day.
“Try my homemade spaghetti sauce!” I say while serving up a plate.
“Hmmm…Joseph ….this is good….” says one of my loyal testers, “What did you put in it? It has a very intense flavor. I can’t quite figure it out.” I go over the list of ingredients with her but she still seems confused. “No, there is something else in there. A smoky intense flavor. Did you use liquid smoke or anything?” she asks nodding her head still mulling it over. “No,” I say ,” I used wheat pasta, maybe that’s what you taste.” I tried to think if I had deviated from the recipe, but I was pretty sure I hadn‘t.
I checked in with the rest of the tasters. Barry seemed to enjoy it and I think he had two platefuls. That made me feel relieved and I asked him what he thought. “It is very unique,” he said, “I picked up on some different flavors the second time I had it. Did you use roasted or grilled vegetables when you made it?” he asked curiously. We usually shared cooking ideas between the both of us. “No,” I said, “I just used the vegetables as they were.” I really started to rack my brain. Several more people commented on the sauce and were asking or guessing about my secret techniques.
Finally a good friend pulled me aside and grilled me about my sauce process and ingredients. I gave a step-by-step play of the previous night. “Wait a minute.” she stopped me. “ It was sticky at the bottom but you stirred it?” she asked. “Yeah,” I continued, “I just gave it a good stir and it was fine and then I let it cool down. And then…”
“Joseph,” she said, “You burned the sauce.”
I thought about it. It was true. The intense smoky grilled flavor that everyone was trying pinpoint was the taste of nothing else but my inexperience and impatience. I felt slightly flushed with embarrassment, but I was also comforted. So many of my friends were willing to consider I had a new cooking technique rather than dismiss my burnt spaghetti sauce. That or maybe they were just good fibbers. It still felt consolatory to be surrounded by those who look past the flaws and search for the fantastic.
It is Friday night and it is far later than I would like it to be. I can’t believe I am shopping for ingredients at a 24-hour grocery store during the latter part of those 24 hours.. I had plans to be home much earlier in the evening but as it turns out, Paul’s very close friend Laila was having a going away party. We had a fantastic time with good company, conversation and as it turns out charity. Laila has always been very involved in the community and even at her going away party, she manages to raise five hundred dollars for a women’s leadership organization. Her going is still giving. That’s the kind of life Laila lives. I can’t tell if she does it to make me feel guilty or inspire me. Either way it was an evening full of laughs and inevitable tears.
After we say goodbye, I picture myself slipping into bed and enjoying a couple hours of rest. Instead I am at the all-night grocery store. I am only one of four people there and I wander the aisles looking for ingredients. Twenty people are expecting a spaghetti lunch tomorrow with garlic bread and salad. I am taking it to work in the morning so I only have a limited time left. For the first time, I am making homemade spaghetti sauce. Usually I wouldn’t attempt something new this late, but my sister-in-law gave me a great recipe that she swore was an authentic Italian recipe she received from a friend. The ingredients to the sauce appeared to be a lot cheaper to make for twenty people than to purchase bottled sauce. Plus, I love a good challenge.
We get home and I pull out various pots and pans and lay out the sauce ingredients, the garlic bread and the pasta. I pause for a moment and feel sort of hypocritical about cooking a ‘authentic’ Italian meal. Earlier in the evening there was a very heated discussion at the table about there not being enough Mexican cooks on TV. Every person on every food network was cooking Mexican food, except for the Mexican’s themselves. Not to mention, a majority of the ‘authentic’ recipe’s include canned beans and pre-made taco shells. I agreed whole heartedly in the discussion earlier, and yet here I am an hour later making what I consider to be authentic Italian food. I know nothing about authentic Italian cooking.
Although to be fair, I am making this food in the privacy of my own kitchen and not passing it off to thousands as the gospel truth. I think that whatever people want to cook and eat in the privacy of their own kitchens, is their business. There were no cameras rolling in my house and definitely not everything I do in my kitchen is audience approved. In fact, just the other day I was using a tortilla to eat Chinese food. Would I recommend that on a food show if I had one? Probably not, even though it tasted good (and disgusted Paul).
Personal philosophy aside though, I had to get this sauce done. I started to heat a large silver pot over the stove while I boiled some water and pre-heated the oven. I threw some garlic and olive oil in the pot and let them sauté. At the same time, I prepared the bread and opened the pasta boxes. I added more ingredients to the silver pot while I chopped away at some vegetables and herbs. I filled the silver pot with more ingredients and hit high on the stove. I know that I probably should slow cook the sauce to let it absorb flavor, but I really haven’t got the time. I throw the bread in oven and finish up the spaghetti and then check back on the sauce. It seems kind of sticky on the bottom but I give it a good stir. I package up the meal and let the sauce cool before I place it in the fridge. Mission accomplished. Time for bed.
I wake up the next morning and get everything ready to go. Before I get set to leave, I try the sauce to see if the flavors have settled nicely. It tastes great to me and I am feeling pretty accomplished. Paul asks for a sample and makes a curious face while trying it.
“How is it?” I ask, already assured it was a success.
“It has kind of a strange taste to it….”says Paul trailing off, “What did you put in it?”. I go over the ingredients with him and I can tell he is weighing through every ingredient carefully.
“Hmmm…maybe you put too much olive oil because it has a unique taste that I can’t really place.” he says while still trying to figure it out in his head.
“It’s fine,” I say “it tastes like spaghetti sauce. I have to go.” I gather up the meal and head to work where I know my food will get tested by many others throughout the day.
“Try my homemade spaghetti sauce!” I say while serving up a plate.
“Hmmm…Joseph ….this is good….” says one of my loyal testers, “What did you put in it? It has a very intense flavor. I can’t quite figure it out.” I go over the list of ingredients with her but she still seems confused. “No, there is something else in there. A smoky intense flavor. Did you use liquid smoke or anything?” she asks nodding her head still mulling it over. “No,” I say ,” I used wheat pasta, maybe that’s what you taste.” I tried to think if I had deviated from the recipe, but I was pretty sure I hadn‘t.
I checked in with the rest of the tasters. Barry seemed to enjoy it and I think he had two platefuls. That made me feel relieved and I asked him what he thought. “It is very unique,” he said, “I picked up on some different flavors the second time I had it. Did you use roasted or grilled vegetables when you made it?” he asked curiously. We usually shared cooking ideas between the both of us. “No,” I said, “I just used the vegetables as they were.” I really started to rack my brain. Several more people commented on the sauce and were asking or guessing about my secret techniques.
Finally a good friend pulled me aside and grilled me about my sauce process and ingredients. I gave a step-by-step play of the previous night. “Wait a minute.” she stopped me. “ It was sticky at the bottom but you stirred it?” she asked. “Yeah,” I continued, “I just gave it a good stir and it was fine and then I let it cool down. And then…”
“Joseph,” she said, “You burned the sauce.”
I thought about it. It was true. The intense smoky grilled flavor that everyone was trying pinpoint was the taste of nothing else but my inexperience and impatience. I felt slightly flushed with embarrassment, but I was also comforted. So many of my friends were willing to consider I had a new cooking technique rather than dismiss my burnt spaghetti sauce. That or maybe they were just good fibbers. It still felt consolatory to be surrounded by those who look past the flaws and search for the fantastic.
Thursday
Ahoy, Anger Ahead
I woke up pretty upset yesterday and I was incredibly angry. I tried to let my feelings subside but after an hour I was still riled up. I was getting ready for the day when Paul woke up and entered the room.
“Good morning.” he said yawning.
“I am so annoyed and irked right now.” I snapped at Paul.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, half awake and definitely not expecting my morning response.
“Well,” I started, “ I was dreaming before I woke up that I was moving and that I was waiting for a moving truck but they never came. Finally I was upset by their absence, so I went to find them. When I got there I found my flat screen tv was smashed and glass was lying all around the sidewalk. When I looked at the house I could see my mattress against the wall. When I asked the movers about it, they said it was fine where it was for overnight. It definitely wasn’t going to rain and so I had nothing to worry about.”
Paul just smiled and shook his head. We aren’t moving anywhere and we don’t own a flat screen tv. In fact, I never even considered owning one. I was upset for the majority of the day.
Strange.
* * * * * * *
UPDATE
Today I went home and headed for a nap because I had gotten up super early to prepare for work. As I was going up the stairs I noticed a moving van blocking the way. There were several guys from the moving company standing around talking. I walked upstairs and noticed the door across from us was wide open with bare furniture but didn’t think anything about it.
When I woke up, we headed for the gym and I noticed the moving guys were gone.
“How annoying were they?” said Paul, “It looks like they broke stuff and didn’t even bother to pick it up.”
I looked around and noticed broken glass along the side walk. On the first landing there was sole rolling wheel that looked like it had belonged to a bed frame.
Strange
Somebody mentioned to me that is was like Final Destination….but with furniture.
“Good morning.” he said yawning.
“I am so annoyed and irked right now.” I snapped at Paul.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, half awake and definitely not expecting my morning response.
“Well,” I started, “ I was dreaming before I woke up that I was moving and that I was waiting for a moving truck but they never came. Finally I was upset by their absence, so I went to find them. When I got there I found my flat screen tv was smashed and glass was lying all around the sidewalk. When I looked at the house I could see my mattress against the wall. When I asked the movers about it, they said it was fine where it was for overnight. It definitely wasn’t going to rain and so I had nothing to worry about.”
Paul just smiled and shook his head. We aren’t moving anywhere and we don’t own a flat screen tv. In fact, I never even considered owning one. I was upset for the majority of the day.
Strange.
* * * * * * *
UPDATE
Today I went home and headed for a nap because I had gotten up super early to prepare for work. As I was going up the stairs I noticed a moving van blocking the way. There were several guys from the moving company standing around talking. I walked upstairs and noticed the door across from us was wide open with bare furniture but didn’t think anything about it.
When I woke up, we headed for the gym and I noticed the moving guys were gone.
“How annoying were they?” said Paul, “It looks like they broke stuff and didn’t even bother to pick it up.”
I looked around and noticed broken glass along the side walk. On the first landing there was sole rolling wheel that looked like it had belonged to a bed frame.
Strange
Somebody mentioned to me that is was like Final Destination….but with furniture.
Monday
Spot
Changing the trash at my work isn’t the worst job ever. Thankfully a vast majority of it just smells like coffee. It makes what some people consider a unpleasant job, a not so unpleasant job. As an added bonus, the receptacles for the trash is located right outside of our store. It’s in a large loading dock area that is used for mall deliveries but is also the unofficial break room for the entire mall. Anytime throughout the day you will find up to six people hanging out before clocking in. Some are smoking, some are taking in the sun but most are usually playing with their phones. When you work indoors all day, it is nice to get some non air-conditioned air.
There has to be hundreds of people who work at the mall, but surprisingly a vast majority of us know each other. If not by name, at least by facial recognition. Everyone is pretty polite if not very friendly and it is highly convenient to be kept informed of sales going on before they happen. One of the perks of being at a mall store -- lots of special discount days. I was taking out a bag enjoying some sun when I ran into Barry.
“Hey ,” says Barry excitedly, “ Guess what! I saw a baby bat flying around here yesterday!”
“Really?” I reply back, “ I don’t think I have ever seen a live bat before.” I racked my brain trying to think if that was true. I can’t recall ever seeing one, although I might have seen a stuffed one at a museum when I was young. I am not sure how prevalent bats are in Arizona, although I know that we do have them.
“Yeah, it was so tiny and furry. It was flying in circles and it kept trying to go over the wall but ended up only bumping into it.” says Barry. I looked around the loading dock area. The walls are incredibly high, probably at least the height of three diesels piled on top of each other. It dawns on me that I forgot that bats can’t see very well. I don’t have a ton of bat knowledge. Batman knowledge, yes. Real bats, no.
I start to picture the little bat flying around trying to escape but it just wasn’t going high enough. It seems so strange that a bat just couldn’t see the open air and fly away into it.
“Awww….poor guy!” I say feeling bad for the poor flying chap.
“Yeah, he had this black dot around his eye, so I named him Spot.” said Barry proudly and described him more in detail.
“Well,” I say, “ I wish I could have seen him.”
“Oh,” says Barry walking around the loading area, “He is still here.”
I follow Barry to an area near the generator. Lying in a pool of water two inches deep is Spot face down with his little arms out stretched out. I can only see his furry back and baby fingers with stretched out wings. I can’t see his trademark eye but I can tell he was adorable. He was tiny and cute and dead.
I guess I still haven’t seen a live bat yet.
There has to be hundreds of people who work at the mall, but surprisingly a vast majority of us know each other. If not by name, at least by facial recognition. Everyone is pretty polite if not very friendly and it is highly convenient to be kept informed of sales going on before they happen. One of the perks of being at a mall store -- lots of special discount days. I was taking out a bag enjoying some sun when I ran into Barry.
“Hey ,” says Barry excitedly, “ Guess what! I saw a baby bat flying around here yesterday!”
“Really?” I reply back, “ I don’t think I have ever seen a live bat before.” I racked my brain trying to think if that was true. I can’t recall ever seeing one, although I might have seen a stuffed one at a museum when I was young. I am not sure how prevalent bats are in Arizona, although I know that we do have them.
“Yeah, it was so tiny and furry. It was flying in circles and it kept trying to go over the wall but ended up only bumping into it.” says Barry. I looked around the loading dock area. The walls are incredibly high, probably at least the height of three diesels piled on top of each other. It dawns on me that I forgot that bats can’t see very well. I don’t have a ton of bat knowledge. Batman knowledge, yes. Real bats, no.
I start to picture the little bat flying around trying to escape but it just wasn’t going high enough. It seems so strange that a bat just couldn’t see the open air and fly away into it.
“Awww….poor guy!” I say feeling bad for the poor flying chap.
“Yeah, he had this black dot around his eye, so I named him Spot.” said Barry proudly and described him more in detail.
“Well,” I say, “ I wish I could have seen him.”
“Oh,” says Barry walking around the loading area, “He is still here.”
I follow Barry to an area near the generator. Lying in a pool of water two inches deep is Spot face down with his little arms out stretched out. I can only see his furry back and baby fingers with stretched out wings. I can’t see his trademark eye but I can tell he was adorable. He was tiny and cute and dead.
I guess I still haven’t seen a live bat yet.
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