die Brandy die

I'm calling our energy company customer service. Someone named Brandy has answered the phone and I don't know if she's pissed about her stupid name or the Motrin hasn't kicked in for her menstrual cramps but she's a bitch. Or possibly her boyfriend finally admitted he cannot live with someone who has such a caustic personality.

There's no such thing as office etiquette anymore. Or the company purposely hires the most obnoxious person they can find to man the phones and make it so difficult that good citizens just simply give up.

Brandy's messed with the wrong citizen. I live for shit like this. I was born arguing and I'll probably die the same way.

Energy company people came to my townhouse association and installed new utility boxes behind our buildings. In the process they pulled several hundred dollars worth of newly planted perennials. As the grounds consultant I am responsible for anything on the ground - including torn up things with dirt clinging to their roots. I am not angry. I am calm. I just want to report my situation, be taken seriously and respectfully, and get my goddamn money back.

None of this was going to happen on Brandy's shift. She talked in circles, contradicted herself, didn't listen or retain well and her passive-aggressive approach was giving me the spins. She wanted something called meter numbers and I didn't see the point nor did I want to go sloshing through several feet of snow drifts and a -20 wind chill factor when it would make so much more sense to just give her the building numbers.

Only six of our fifteen buildings were affected but damn Brandy, I'm gonna tell you all the buildings need restoration, just because I want to take up as much of your time as I possibly can. Minutes and more minutes tick by and I can hear her typing, typing, what is she doing, is she enrolled in some college class so she can quit her pathetic job that she obviously hates and she's doing her mid-term paper? I finally grab my book off the end table. I can play this game, too, you sad, sad excuse for a human resources person.

What ever happened to professional attitude? Whatever happened to "the customer is always right?" Okay, I come from a long line of self-employed grandfathers and I know that is not true. But people should be able to talk constructively and work towards a solution. Brandy, if I don't get what I want, I'm coming for you, girl. I'm retired. I can sit on the phone all afternoon.

EDD-IEEE!

While in Jamaica my husband signed us up for a dinner party called Meet the Chefs. I didn't want to meet the chefs or anybody else for that matter. I would rather read about them in a newsletter or something in the privacy of my room. My husband should know better.

"I'm bringing my kindle," I announce at breakfast. "If I have to sit and make meaningless conversation with people I don't know, I need a back-up plan."

Luckily, I have downloaded some pretty interesting authors on my apparatus - writers like Nora Ephron, Caitlin Moran and the new kid on the horizon, Lena Dunham, all of 27 years old and directing and writing her own HBO series. Funny smart strong women. I started reading Lena's collection of essays and thought uh-oh, too young. I'll check back when she's 50 or more, when she's lived some, got her hands good and dirty. Then one afternoon I was dreadfully bored of watching Midwestern tourists downing fruity rum drinks and turning red by the pool and I gave Lena another try. This time she clicked for me.

It was like the first time I watched Raw with Eddie Murphy and he's wearing that silly lavender leather suit. What a bunch of pornographic sexist drivel, I sniffed.  And since I never watch anything once I tried again only to say, my god, that Eddie really understands women.
"Buck naked zebra bitch?"  EDD-IEEEE!

Lena writes things like, "her vagina looked like a three-day-old sandwich." I know. Only it's funnier when she says it.

In between books I take mental surveys of Jamaican resort life. Four women with fake boob jobs. No woman with 28" hips has breasts the size of these overly fertilized gourds. Women know this and we judge accordingly. Of course, men don't care. These incredibly out of proportion women must need to buy two bikinis. One bottom to fit those Brownie scout hips and another for the 42"DDD bra..

Only one guy in a Speedo, thank god and I actually see three separate people put their fingers in their mouths as if to gag. It almost makes me want to follow him around to see how many more people do this - but then again not.

dazzled i'm not

Dear Dazzle:

I am returning this shirt to you because I ordered a size large and the thing you sent me would fit a medium-sized poodle and snugly, I might add. Where is your factory located - India? I ask you this because I once purchased a jacket in an Indian shop and I am a small person and the only one that fit was an extra large.

I know I was supposed to go to your website and acquire an authorized approval code, whatever that is but I found that website impossible to navigate - very confusing and illogical. A drunken monkey must have created it.

Do you do this purposely to discourage people from returning your elf-sized shirts? Well, here it is anyway with the receipt and I had to pay for the special  envelope twice at the post office because I couldn't remember if I had paid the fee when I first got the thing. I am painfully honest especially when confronted by federal employees. I blame this on early childhood influences such as Catholic nuns, an OCD girl scout leader, a sadistic babysitter and my ex-Marine father.

I thought about giving it to my six-year-old granddaughter but since the text says THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE I thought it might encourage inappropriate comments from mentally ill strangers. I could handle that, possibly relish it but she has not learned that skill. Yet.

I want my money back. Sincerely . . .

.

d d

I volunteered to be the designated driver for my 90-year-old aunt and my husband as they celebrate their December birthdays. I have never been a designated driver because I like to drink but I am well-equipped for the job. I perform well in emergency situations. One time I emptied my whole college dorm when I woke up and discovered my bed was on fire. I pulled the alarm and refused to leave the building until every last coed was safely outside. Nobody was going to die in my fire. The firemen had to escort me out of the building and my picture was on the front page of my town newspaper.

Harleys are a big deal in the Midwest, nobody knows why.  My little aunt identifies herself with this segment of the population and tonight she is wearing the orange Harley sweatshirt with 2004 LEAF RUN emblazoned on the back, short leather skirt and knee high black boots. She has sewn black sequins on her black leather cap. And check out that black and white zebra nail polish.

I pick up her up and she and my husband are giggling. They are looking forward to their tryst in the night, all the naughties they intend to commit and then I will be there to safely transport them home.  My aunt has always had a huge crush on my husband, reminding me how sexy he is and "what kind eyes he has," can both exist in the same body? I remember ten years ago or so she and I were listening to a rock band down near the river marina and the lead singer was a young black man, comely and muscular and she whispered to me, "that man could park his shoes under my bed anytime." She told me about her lifelong crush on Harry Belafonte, all this from a little country girl living in a small farming village.

I slap my hand on the old time wooden bar and tell the bartender, "I do not care how much I beg or whine do not DO NOT serve me any alcohol." My aunt is all of 4'8" and with her knee high boots she looks like one of those strange John Lennon-drawn cartoons from Yellow Submarine. Her dentures are too large for her tiny mouth and she is all teeth and boots. I do water, diet Coke and finally n/a beer and then a pizza with meatball sized-chunks of sausage that will visit and revist me in the night to come.

 "I'm the designated driver," I tell the red-faced loud-mouthed person next to me. "You're D D!" she shrieks in my ear. Yes, I'm Dee Dee, this woman does not need to know my real name. I glance at the clock for the 100th time this hour.

 

how many dancing santas will this stage hold?

I'm sitting on a bus at 7:15 on this cold Sunday morning and listening to a woman older than me. She has a shiny blond pageboy haircut sprayed into frozen waves and lots of plastered on foundation two shades darker than her real face color. She laughs too much.

I zone out her prattle and wonder what she looks like first thing in the morning. That blond hair would be matted to her scalp and there would be smeared mascara on her pasty cheeks.  She looks like she requires a lotta time to get ready.

 I am traveling through frozen Wisconsin cornfields to a dinner theatre. I am with my 85-year-old aunt and she has small wads of toilet paper in her ears. This is her first winter in the Midwest after thirty years of living in a small trailer in Arizona.

I am not like these women. I don't wear garish holiday sweaters. Lipstick is my only cosmetic, very European and I do this because my natural lip color is fading and soon my mouth will be a small black hole at the bottom of my face. I don't need to wear four rings on each hand or designer jeans imbedded with shiny enormous rhinestones glued to my butt.

The chatter is constant and loud, these women do not need to come up for air. They have mastered the art of conversation without the use of oxygen. I am not one for endless loops of words. I may resort to the toilet paper in the ear thing.

She gives us Christmas quizzes on red and green paper. I refuse to circle any answers. The only thing more humiliating than taking this test is exhibiting enough interest to answer the questions. I stare straight ahead at Blondie's doughy face as she spits into the microphone. Her cheeks wiggle and wobble when she talks.

At the all you can eat buffet I watch the girls downing Bloody Marys and drinks with large umbrellas, I'm guessing six inches in diameter. I decide to treat myself and order a diet Coke. It comes in a 32 ounce glass and I need both hands to lift it up to my disappearing mouth. "And the best part,"chirps the red-cheeked waitress, "is it comes with free refills!" That will not be happening as I do not like peeing on a moving bus.

I am sitting in the dark theatre and audience members surround all four sides. We are all old and there are dozens of walking assisted devices taking up space in the aisles threatening to trip us and create more walking disasters. I can hear several people snoring and the farm wives behind me talk and laugh no matter how many dirty looks I give them. They think they are in their living room watching TV.

The actors are singing and whirling around the small stage. They are fresh-faced, sparkly lads and lasses with unbelievable skin and teeth.  Was I ever that young? Did I sparkle?  My friend Sandy's son is a famous symphony orchestra trumpet player and he says they're all on coke. He has played for many dinner theatres: two shows a day, they skip meals and snort coke to stay thin and alert. They do have a lot of energy and these shiny creatures seem to vibrate and twinkle and glow from within. There are four children in the program and I am hoping they were not given coke and I'm especially concerned about one lively little girl.

Back on the bus the chatter is louder fueled by those large colorful drinks. I just want to curl into a ball and have soft tropical breezes kiss my fevered brow. I will not talk for the next four days, I swear, tired little introvert that I am.
 

sorrry i'm late

"I'm sorry I'm late," I say to my husband, "but I didn't want to come anyway." He sighs and waves me in the door. I sign the ledger, this is the veterans' center and why am I signing in anyway? I am not a security risk but I could be and I have been. I marched in a lot of anti-war protests in college and I know my picture is in more than a few FBI files. I hope my hair looked good.

I have agreed to attend a buffet luncheon with all the guys. Symbols of male aggression adorn the walls, weapons, military uniforms, a grenade on someone's desk. Nothing is color coordinated but I know these men have carefully and intentionally designed this getaway place to comfort and calm the ongoing battles in their heads.

There are several roasters of meat, atop a pool table,  piles and piles of meat, mountains of meat, too much meat, a gluttony of meat.  Randy, an Afghanistan vet is being applauded for providing all this animal protein. I hear him tell the guys his grandmother died in April 2013. He gathered up all the meat from her funeral dinner, bagged it and threw it in the freezer. Until now. Here it is for consumption, I will avoid those crock pots, they smell oily and unnatural.

The only vegetables are canned corn and Van Camp pork and beans. This is all I will put on my plate. One of the guys puts his hand in a roaster and pulls out a greasy grey pork rib and plops it on my plate. "You're gonna want to eat one of these," he says. When no one is looking I transfer it to Dave's plate. I'm fairly certain the big guy's stomach acid is much more intensely concentrated than mine. I've seen him eat sloppy joes slathered in peanut butter and mayonnaise with sliced pickles.

 The man sitting next to me is a Korean veteran and he is 84 years old. Why do old guys always have that dusty-looking skin? You just want to take a rag soaked in furniture polish to them.  He is dressed in a plaid blazer and sweater vest, corduroy trousers. I remember old black and white photos of great grandfathers playing cards around the kitchen table, factory laborers dressed in Sunday suit coats and ties, this generation liked to dress up. Thank god that's changed.

He has funny stories, he used to be a county supervisor so you know he has funny stories. His red nose looks like mutilated pink play dough, he must like the drink.  He says, why must I always be the oldest guy in the room? Come back on Wednesday, I tell him. My father, all of 90 years, stops by to play euchre. I notice his dinner-sized plate is heaped with cherry cream something and cookies plus potato chips. How he lived to be a great age on this diet is a mystery for the ages. I like it here.

I munch my corn and beans and look around the room. Some of the men are disheveled, clothing stained with holes and they never look up from their plates. They are here because they are hungry, they have no interest in socializing. Their fingers are drumming on the table, feet tapping tapping tapping, always always movement.  I remember the first date with my spouse. His knee never stopped bouncing for the entire two-hour movie.

 

i will want a fork

I am going to eat at the Japanese restaurant. My oldest son resides in Japan and he teaches English. This is pretty much what all Americans do who live in Japan. I'm thinking it might make me feel closer to him, having a meal here. He can only afford one trip home a year.

 Most ethnic restaurants in my hometown americanize their menus. There's always those cheeseburger and chicken nugget entrees at the bottom of the menu but I have heard this place is the real thing. I order the shrimp tempura. The little Asian waitress asks, "You will want a fohk?" Excuse me? "A fohk?" I'm sorry, I, what oh a fork! Yes, I will want a fork.

I have never learned to use chopsticks and I never will. I don't care how culturally cool it appears to be I will not do it. Here we have Asia, an ancient, introspectively wise culture and this is how they manuever food into their mouths? Any three-year-old knows you can pick up more sand with a shovel than a stick.

And then it arrives. Asians have cornered the market on food presentation. A work of art has been placed in front of me and I don't know whether to eat it or take it home and display it on my coffee table. There are five very long shrimps forming a little upright tent, their tails sticking straight up in the air. There is rice and dumplings and an orange with its top cut off and the fruit removed and quartered and put back into its peel. Pretty. There is sushi but that will be ignored. I know seaweed is very healthy for me, but for chrissake, it's seaweed.

Other things have been tempured. A large piece of broccoli, something square and white, something square and orange, a large golf-ball sized thing with black skin peeking through the golden panko. Eggplant? Mushroom? Bull testicle? It squishes and leaks juice into my mouth when I bite leading me to believe it is the latter of those possibilities.

The little waitress comes back smiling and bowing and I ask her what the mystery items are and she cannot say so that's disconcerting. She may not understand my English. I think the whole world should adopt bowing. It is a polite gesture and possesses a sort of dignified beauty about it. It may reduce the amount of terrorism all around us. I say it's worth a try. I leave her a large tip and I have always been a big tipper and I want that mentioned in my obituary.

As I leave the place a truck is parked outside and staff are removing food boxes and taking them into the restaurant. There is a picture of a large orange koi, an Asian goldfish  painted on the side of the truck. My Japanese-English-teaching son has these same fishes tattooed on his back.  I am wondering just what the heck I got served in there.