: the tight squeezes :

Do we need to live cheek by jowl, like sardines packed in a can? Is the planet that crowded? No, no, and no, but it sure seems that way.

Just yesterday I was in line at the grocery store. There was a man in front of me, but no one behind me, the store was experiencing a rare and pleasant lull. Check-out lanes were open, cashiers were standing idle. It was almost calm, until some dude and his wife pulled into line. The man planted himself about four inches from my shoulder, the wife wedged herself and their shopping cart in behind me, pinning me against the counter in front. Penned in on three sides, I felt like a rodeo bull in the bucking chute. I wanted to buck and kick, too, or throw an elbow.

This was not an isolated incident, stuff like this happens everywhere. Parking lots, for instance. You pull into a virtually empty lot, dozens upon dozens of vacant spaces. You pick one. Before you can even get the motor turned off, whoosh, a rusted, battered panel van pulls in centimeters from your side view mirror. They throw their doors open, leaving behind a door ding to remember them by. Three acres of wide open parking places, but none of them will do as nicely as the one next to your car.

And there’s public restrooms. I can think of no venue where closeness is less welcome. The stall doors have locks on them, that should be a hint. But it isn’t. You could travel a hundred miles north of civilization at 3 o’clock in the morning to pee in the restroom of an abandoned office building and someone will burst in. That person will make a beeline for the stall next to yours. And they’re not quiet about it, either. Banging the door, rustling and groaning, rattling bags, digging through purses, and most loathsome of all, talking on cell phones. What the hell has happened to modesty? Where’d it go?

And embarrassment? Don’t people get embarrassed anymore? They should, they have plenty to be embarrassed about.

I, for one, could no sooner make a phone call while I pee than I could conduct the New York Philharmonic naked. To my way of thinking, cell phone + restroom = serious boundary issues. Get help! There are places where cell phones simply don’t belong, a restroom is clearly one of them. Does this really need to be pointed out? No phone call is so important it can’t wait until you’re finished. No one wants to hear from you that much. No one. Personally, I’d rather hear from an obscene caller than someone in a restroom.

Wouldn’t you? Next time, let’s pull a Gomer Pyle and make a citizen’s arrest.

Copyright © Publikworks 2011.

: my christmas list :

‘Tis the season for wish lists and dreams come true, for climbing into Santa’s lap and asking for the impossible. A pony or a race car. And why not? Santa and the elves would be out of work if we didn’t. The North Pole would be a ghost town. I don’t need that on my conscience, so I came up with a list of things I’d like Santa to bring this Christmas. Of course, if he’d like to drop them by earlier, there’s a plate of cookies here with his name on it. The milk’s in the fridge. Okay, here goes:

Hi, Santa Claus:

It’s me, Lisa, the goofy kid, skinny with dark hair, ran with scissors? I was on and off your naughty list quite a bit, but I think you forgot to take me off that last time. Unless you’re still holding that ‘hide the spoon’ incident against me? I’ve apologized for that, you know. And I’ve been pretty good lately, no tomfoolery or shenanigans. I’ve minded my Ps and even my Qs. So if you could see your way to returning me to your nice list, there are a few things I need this year.

♦ A paying job — this one is at the top of the list. I figured if anyone could help me find a full-time position with a stable company, it’s you. You have connections all over the place. I have experience as a copywriter, but I can do other things, too. Research, proofread, fact check; I can edit, type (39 wpm!), and create content. I also do dishes and floors, windows if you’re not picky about streaks. I’m pretty much open to anything that doesn’t involve heavy lifting, welding, or standing in one place too long.

♦ A computer miracle – you don’t need to bring me a new one, they’re awfully expensive. But if you could heal the one I have I’d appreciate it. Three crashed hard drives in a week have taken their toll. On the computer and on me. It doesn’t get along with anything these days, getting in fights with Firefox and Safari and Camino, WordPress, too. Before that first crash, my computer got along with everyone. Could you, Mr. Santa, make it go back to that? To getting along? I’m very fond of my computer, please make it better.

♦ Relocate my upstairs neighbor  — this might be kind of tricky, but I figure with all the ground you cover on Christmas Eve you could pick him up here and drop him somewhere remote on your way home. Like an icecap. I’m certain he’s the Son of Frankenstein; he doesn’t walk, he stomps. The blades on the ceiling fan wobble when he’s in motion up there. It’s a symphony of crash, thud, stomp, kaboom all day and all night. The ceiling pops and snaps. Aren’t the holidays supposed to be peaceful? I would love some peaceful, please.

♦ Ed Burns — or maybe he goes by Edward Burns now. I’d like to find him under my tree on Christmas morning. You don’t need to wrap him, but a red bow on his head would be fun. And little elf shoes on his feet.

♦  A hat with earflaps — I lost mine in 2009, I can’t survive winter without it.

Thank you, Santa. Give my best to the Mrs. and the elves in the workshop. Be sure to call if you get lost.

Sincerely yours,
The goofy, skinny kid

Copyright © Publikworks 2011.

: i bought socks :

It’s Black Friday, you know, prime shopping time. Malls and shopping centers are as good as under siege and I wanted to join the crowd. Already today, an over-zealous Walmart shopper used pepper spray to shoo away rival buyers from the Xboxes. She wanted first dibs.

As a rule, I steer clear of Walmart from November until February. You should, too. Modern day holiday shopping has taken on an element of danger. Online shopping, that’s for me. I can park myself wherever I want, plus a shirt and shoes are optional. I don’t even have to brave the cold and snow.

But I digress

Socks. Curiously, they’re my weakness. There’s no sweeter feeling than wearing fluffy new socks, none. They put a spring in my step and a song in my heart; they transform an average day into a glorious event. Most people don’t share my enthusiasm or pretend to understand it, but I believe in the power of new socks. And underwear, there’s magic in those, too.

My supply of socks had started looking kind of down on their luck, with threadbare heels and dingy soles. They were thin and tired and out of shape. When I’d pull a pair from the sock drawer, I could hear the weary sigh. They’d been worn to a frazzle. Not all of them, mind you, just the everyday socks. The dress socks are in fine shape, bright and snug and cheerful.

Then, this afternoon, the mood struck: I had to buy new socks. Now. So I hopped in the car and took off for the mall. Of course, the parking lot was packed tight with cars and the stores were teeming with rabid shoppers, but the sock department was wide open. I browsed at my leisure, unbothered. Finally deciding on a lovely 3-pack of luxuriously thick, cottony socks — on sale for eight bucks, normally fifteen. I splurged and bought two packs, that’s six pairs. I am rich with toasty, beautiful, cushy socks.

I could join a marching band and still have happy feet. I could scale Everest in these babies, they’re some seriously thick, warm socks. I might not be able to get shoes on, but who cares? I have new socks and, oh, life is good.

* Image | sweetclipart.com   Copyright © Publikworks 2011.

: please, put down the ketchup :

Come on, I’m begging you. There are other condiments, other seasonings abroad in the land. Lots of them. Have you ever tried mustard? Mustard’s good and you get a choice of sunny yellow or brown. There’s also horseradish and avocado and Worcestershire and olive oil and mayo. But, no, we are awash in ketchup.

The thing is, I’m not a fan of red food — tomatoes, pimentos, red peppers, not even apples. I like blue food, especially Icees and blue cheese. I like green food, too. Any color, but red. This aversion is probably due to the fact I don’t like tomatoes. There, I’ve said it. I know that verges on unpatriotic, but it’s the truth.

Do you know why I won’t order a cheeseburger at McDonald’s or any other fast food place? Because that order gets me a sandwich, all right, one that’s dripping with ketchup. No mustard, just ketchup and a lot of it. Even the paper it’s wrapped in has puddles of the stuff. I have to special order ‘no ketchup’, but even that’s no guarantee. It’s such an unusual, unimaginable request that cooks assume it’s a mistake and ladle it on, anyway.

Fast food burgers should come with a spoon. And a towering stack of napkins, tossing in a stain remover wouldn’t be a bad idea, either. Especially now that Heinz has redesigned their packaging. The cute, new packets have three times more ketchup and facilitate the easy dipping of your fries as you barrel down the highway at 70 mph. It’s a Christmas (close enough) miracle.

Should I decide to pick up a pizza, there’s two gallons of pizza sauce lurking under the extra cheese and pepperoni. Taking a bite makes me feel a little too much like Dracula, which is not an especially enjoyable sensation. And it’s messy, besides. Why does there have to be so much? Is soggy, limp pizza more of a delicacy or something? I’d rather taste the cheese and toppings than the sauce, but that’s just me.

And then there’s the ubiquitous salsa. It’s everywhere, you can’t escape it. People eat it by the bowlful, by the jar, even. They make full meals of salsa and chips. The chips I understand, the salsa is a mystery. It’s watery, for one thing. And the spicy taste isn’t a pleasant spicy, it’s an angry spicy, harsh and spiteful. Well, I have harsh and spiteful aplenty, I don’t need more from an ill-tempered condiment, thank you.

I don’t have anything against ketchup, I’m sure it’s a fine product. Colorful, too. But where’s the moderation? One skinny hamburger doesn’t require dousing with a full bottle of ketchup. Pizza wasn’t meant to be served as a liquid. There’s just no need to be so heavy handed with the ketchup, a modicum of restraint is what’s called for. Not a straw.

PS. Happy Thanksgiving! With or without ketchup.

Copyright © Publikworks 2011.

: there won’t be a visitation :

My hard drive didn’t make it, there was a fatal error. It was quietly laid to rest yesterday in a private ceremony. Last minute heroics were unsuccessful in a valiant attempt to save the accursed device.  Well, not by me, personally, but by the tech guy.

At the first sign of trouble, though, I did rush my computer over to him. In a panic-induced frenzy, I babbled an overwrought and greatly exaggerated tale of death throes and last gasps.  The dramatic picture I painted, complete with wild hand gestures, elicited an eye roll and a mumbled, ‘sounds like a software issue’.

Software? Really? I started breathing again, shallow breaths, but breathing all the same. The hard drive was only a couple days old, mind you. The thought of buying another one, with labor costs, wasn’t even remotely attractive.

Hours later, the tech guy called with glorious news of corrupted system files; the drive could be resuscitated. My whole body unclenched. But, he warned, the drive would have to be wiped, I’d lose all my data. Big freaking deal, I still had back-ups from the first crash. Wipe away.

By that night, my computer was back on my desk humming happily. I reloaded software, restored as many bookmarks as I could remember, and loaded my data files. My computer was back and I could go back to avoiding my nemesis, the despicable touchscreen. Except it wasn’t and I couldn’t.

No sooner had I restored everything than my computer went all weird again. That’s technical language, went all weird. So I went commando and launched the Disk Utility program. Ha, that’d fix it. The program dutifully checked the drive and declared it ‘ok’, then proceeded to verify permissions or some such thing, but reported no valid packages. That’s when the computer started wheezing and shuddering; it gave a final feeble cough, sent a wisp of smoke skyward, and went toes up. Red type on the screen stated: Fatal Error.

Tears came to my eyes, a lump to my throat, and my heart fell into my shoes. Why, I asked? Why do these things always happen on Fridays? After five? Is there new legislation regarding disk failures? A new type of blue law? Well, step aside, this is an emergency.

I dashed off an email to Monsieur Tech Guy, lamenting the demise of my newly repaired hard drive. And on Sunday morning, this knight in shining armor, this beatific Prince Charming, replaced the failed drive with a working drive. For free.

Software’s been loaded, bookmarks bookmarked, and data restored. So far, so good. Although I noticed a curious and significant reduction in available disk space. Closer inspection revealed the replacement disk is 20gb smaller than the one I bought. And it’s used. Does the fact that this information bothers me make me an ingrate? A terrible person? I’m absolutely certain it makes me nervous.

Copyright © Publikworks 2011.

: here’s to the misfits :

There’s a four part series airing on pbs called America in Primetime. Each episode focuses on a particular character type found in television shows: the Independent Woman (think Murphy Brown), the Man of the House (Dick Van Dyke), the Misfit (see below), and the Crusader (Marshal Matt Dillon).

Last night was the third episode: the Misfit. Being a television fan and a misfit, I, naturally, tuned in. And you know what? Turns out weirdos and oddballs and outsiders are a beloved bunch.

Characters like Louie De Palma, dispatcher at Sunshine Cab Company; Dwight Shrute, assistant regional manager at Dunder Mifflin/Scranton; Beavis and Butt-head; George Costanza. These maladjusted, self-absorbed, socially inept characters are heroes to us all. We love an underdog and, apparently, we love an oddball just as much.

I’ll be honest with you, though, that hasn’t been my experience. And I have a lifetime of first-hand, insider knowledge. Being different is hard.

I mean, no one would choose to be a misfit, the odd man out. There’s no glory in being a brown shoe in a world of tuxedos. The unconventional and non-conformists among us aren’t hailed as champions, but as troublemakers. They don’t fit the mold or follow a pattern or ask for permission. Not because they refuse to, but because it never occurs to them. Such oversights come at a cost  — socially and professionally.

We may love them on television, but sitting in the cube next to us? Uh, not so much. Misfits tend to be awkward and flaky and temperamental. As a rule, they’re not very good at small talk or joining in. They don’t have many social graces or a charming wit. What they do have is a single-minded curiosity and an urge to follow their heart instead of the rules.

So, here’s to us, to the ones who don’t fit. To the tongue-tied, the blushers, and the brainiacs. To the dreamers and wallflowers and mathletes. Take heart, we’re making progress.

Copyright © Publikworks 2011.

: the longest journey :

That would be the one you take with a shopping cart. In the grocery store.

You know the place. It’s the giant, sprawling edifice, the one that stocks everything from Armor All to greeting cards, but is out of whatever you went there to buy. No, let me rephrase that, they’re probably not out of it, they just haven’t re-stocked the shelves. They’re very busy, you know, arranging flowers and serving lattes and hosting wine tastings. Your little crisis will just have to wait, bub. Now, go sit in the bar.

We’ve all gotten accustomed to these carnivals in a warehouse, where you need a gps system just to find the peanut butter. We lace up our hiking boots, grab our compass, and enter the mouth of the beast. Have you noticed the size of the shopping carts these days? They’re the size of a coal cart. I guess it’s to accommodate the giant, economy size packages of toilet paper and road salt. If you can lift them that high.

A simple trip to the grocery store now requires a minimum investment of 45 minutes. The quick dash is a thing of the past. And the crafty, dastardly way the stores are laid out just chaps my cheeks. If you run out of milk, something I try never, ever to do, you’re led on a merry romp through the entire store — covering a distance of about two miles roundtrip. The one thing you need, heck, the thing everyone needs, is the absolute farthest from the entrance. That isn’t by mistake.

Grocers aren’t fans of the quick dash, they think it should be outlawed; it isn’t profitable. Leading you through the store, past Chips Ahoy and Fritos and Ben & Jerry and Entenmann’s, that’s profitable. It’s the same reason the check out lanes are chock-full of impulse buys — candy bars and National Enquirers, lint brushes and chap stick. I used to fall for these schemes, buying things I didn’t need, then I caught on. Now I can afford cable, almost.

Of course, if you want a gallon bottle of Jack Daniels or a lottery ticket or the DVD of Jackass: The Movie, you don’t have to strain yourself. They’re three feet from the entrance, all festively displayed. I guess they keep the liquor conveniently located in case you’re a bit unsteady on your feet or get lost on the way to check out. The lottery tickets, well, they want to catch you before you shop — while you still have folding money.

Remember when they were called supermarkets? I want them to go back to that, to being super. Not mega, just super. Don’t you?

Copyright © Publikworks 2011.

: daylight, schmaylight :

Much to my surprise, I’ve discovered a kind of benefit to the always untimely end of daylight savings time. In the past I’ve gotten annoyed and depressed when it gets dark at four in the afternoon, but this year I tried to look for the bright side. It wasn’t easy to find, either, given that the bright side, too, grows a little dim in this gloom.

The extra hour of sleep is nice, no question, but really, one hour? Is that supposed to compensate us for four long months of bleak, sunless living? Fat chance. Who’s responsible for this? Who? Isn’t winter already punishment enough? Taking away the sunshine just adds insult to injury. By the time January gets here I’ll have turned into Hans Moleman.

Oh, and the asteroid that’s going to fly by this evening? Well, it’s making good time zipping along at 29,000 mph (in your face NASCAR) and is scheduled to pass closest to earth at 6:28 pm. Don’t expect much, though. The thing is dark charcoal in color, so sightings will be faint. Even with a decent telescope. If it was daytime, well, maybe we’d have a shot at seeing it. Damn daylight savings..

The one positive aspect of early nightfall, and there is only one, is how much better I look in low light situations. Like the pitch dark. The laugh lines fade, the crow’s feet disappear, the stray, untweezed eyebrow hairs vanish. Flaws are nicely hidden by the dark. No one laughs when I have on one blue sock and one black sock, because they can’t tell in the gloomy light. Hell, they can’t tell I’m wearing two different shoes — between the ankle-deep snow and the dark.

At my age, I should be grateful for the help. Bright, sunny days do me no favors. They have the harsh, unflattering glare of a lighted, magnified make-up mirror. I avoid those like the plagues they are. I should do the same with sunlight, like Dracula did.

Copyright © Publikworks 2011.

: a little sunday fun :

First, let’s take a look at the new short from Pixar:

Okay, let’s move on to online pranks. They’re a great way to liven up a lazy Sunday afternoon. Let’s begin with google easter eggs:

• Go to google and type a-s-k-e-w in the search box. It’s silly, but entertaining.

• Go to google and type illuminati in backwards and add .com. See where it takes you.

• For google chrome users, type do a barrel roll in the search box. Then hang on.

> Now head over to Wistia, a video-hosting site, and their About page. While the rollover function is perky and bouncy, try typing in D-A-N-C-E.  http://wistia.com/about/team

> Think you’ve seen all the great 404 messages? Here’s one you might’ve missed: http://www.apartmenthomeliving.com/404.html

: what’s in your wallet? :

Capital One asks that all the time and it’s none of their damn business. But, what the heck, I’ll tell you — an insurance card, library and debit cards, eight dollars, my driver’s license, and a Bazooka comic — with a fortune that says I’m destined for the Olympic swimming team.

Except for Bazooka Joe, I only pack the essentials. No pictures, no coins, no plastic. That’s because it’s not a real honest-to-goodness wallet, not in the traditional sense. It’s an old ID case from college, nice and compact. I kept leaving my grown-up wallet on shelves in bookstores or in shopping carts. That doesn’t happen with my ID case, it’s small enough to stuff in a pocket.

I don’t carry a purse, either. I did once upon a time, but not for years. With a purse, I felt burdened, beholden to a load of junk I had no real use for. Dried out chapstick, vintage ketchup packets, a beat up paperback, dog leash, calculator, safety pins, a can of Coke, hand lotion, penlight, broken aspirin, Snickers bar.

That wasn’t a purse, it was a mini-mart. As a result, one shoulder is lower than the other and my clothes hang funny. Not funny, ha ha, but funny, what the Hell?

Truth be known, I’m a shade compulsive, a fan of order and neatness. I’m also lazy. The combination is not harmonious. By its nature, a purse is portable chaos. Peering into that dark, jumbled pandemonium made my teeth itch. But trying to restore and maintain order was just too daunting. My pocketbook was out of control, in total anarchy. I had to give it up or go crazy. I did a little of both (does that make me an overachiever?).

These days, when I need more than an ID case, I resort to a backpack. With the abundance of compartments and pockets and secret hideaways, order breaks out all over the place. This goes here, that goes there, zip, snap, done. A place for everything and everything in it’s place and all that.

Ain’t life grand?

Copyright © Publikworks 2011

: don’t look up :

Lately all manner of paraphernalia has been dropping from the sky: satellites, asteroids, thirty horrifying inches of snow. What in the world is going on?

The UARS satellite came crashing to earth in September, landing in a remote area of the South Pacific, southwest of Christmas Island. Sounds like a merry place to land, doesn’t it? Christmas Island. I’d like to land there myself — in the warm, tropical sunshine. If only I could persuade NASA to launch me.

A second satellite, this one German and the size of a minivan, crashed into the Indian Ocean, around the Bay of Bengal, in October. The parts that survived re-entry hit the water at 280 mph — you know, I imagined it’d be faster. Wile E. Coyote drops that fast.

And now scientists are abuzz with the approach of 2005 YU55, an asteroid. On November 8th, said asteroid will do a fly-by of planet earth, missing us by 200,000 miles. Which brings it closer than the moon. Earthlings need not be afraid of 2005 YU55.

Snow, that’s what we need to fear. Last weekend’s storm in the northeast dropped as much as 30 freaking inches of snow in some parts of Massachusetts and New Hampshire. That’s just uncalled for. Such calamities shouldn’t occur, not before Halloween. Or after, for that matter. We’re trying to have a civilized society here, but we can’t if folks are up to their knees in cold, wet, heavy, immobilizing snow.

I don’t know about you, but I’m unnerved by all this. Snow shouldn’t be falling. Asteroids shouldn’t be whizzing by. And satellites should stay in orbit. You know what should be dropping from the sky? Hundred dollar bills. Or new tires. Or Cheetos. Something we could use, for crying out loud.

Copyright © Publikworks 2011.