Reclaimed 5: Religion Hunter Bites the Dust

The following was inspired by headlines a couple years back. By this reposting, the leader responsible for the deaths has been charged and sentenced. I'm not sure whether I think it's a fair sentence or not for the situation. Make your own decisions.

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Five days a week I’m a news junkie. On weekends I take a complete break. Come Monday morning, I’m again ready for the news, catching up on whatever happened over the weekend. The first thing that slapped me in the face Monday morning, even before the every-five-minute repeat of the weather, was this story: a local woman had died after traveling to Arizona to participate in somebody’s idea of a sweat lodge ceremony. After keeling over from excessive heat (possibly literally biting the dust), she was taken to a hospital and later died. Authorities stated homicide charges were pending.

The headline is mine, so if you find it disrespectful, facetious, obnoxious, and judgmental, blame me, not the local news outlet. The story and what I took from it pushed so many of my buttons that every one of those adjectives fits what’s behind the headline. And I will confess right up front I’m reacting to very few facts.

I refer to her as a religion hunter. It’s not exactly a compliment. To me it’s more of a sickness, and it’s endemic in this society, perhaps throughout our species. I do understand the need to find something outside of one’s self, something bigger, hopefully wiser, something to fix whatever is ailing, whether in me, loved ones, or the world. We seek something to be worthy of our awe. Religions fill this need for most of us, offering answers to those questions. Sometimes the answers are easy, sometimes impossibly hard.

What bugs me most about religions lately is that religiosity itself has become sacred. It’s the same way nationalism has become sacred to some people. To me, as I understand sacred, that concept should be reserved for God, or Allah, or whatever higher being or ideal. To make the trappings that surround the group-think teaching, that describe the divine and set down rules to follow, as themselves sacred just succeeds in driving us a step farther away from the divine. Admittedly, they can be helpful, but so can a vacuum cleaner. While cleanliness is next to godliness, I’ll never call a vacuum cleaner divine.

Possibly one of the better arguments against making religiosity itself sacred is the number of people who are driven away from whatever the religion espouses in search of some new, different religion. I’m not talking about those turned off completely from the concept of religion. I’m talking about those actively hunting a new religion. This woman apparently was one of those, participating in some very minor (“fringe”) sect, adopting a Native American ceremony in search of meaning. If the Native American religion had been adopted (i.e., a context given to the ceremony to supply meaning) I’d have expected different skin tones and facial features on the group’s leader, and perhaps a name like Yazzie or Two Bears. But apparently they took the quickie route, not bothering to learn about harmony and beauty–or sensible, safe precautions–but going for the gimmick: the sweat lodge. I have to believe that’s as offensive to Native Americans as someone coming into a Catholic church, dispensing with reading the Bible or going through confession, and presenting themselves at the altar for confession. Voila–quickie Catholic on the half shell.

Since religiosity itself has become sacred, nobody questions what others do to “find” religion, or what they do in order to serve their particular brand of religion. So folks go along with the stupid, the selfish, the dangerous, as long as somebody tags it with “religion.” Another recent story points this out. A teenager with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma was denied standard medical treatment by his parents in the name of religion, until the courts stepped in to order treatment. Nobody questioned the sincerity of the parents religious beliefs, even though these beliefs didn’t manifest themselves until AFTER the kid’s first course of chemotherapy, when the kid quite understandably hated the pain and discomfort of the treatment’s side effects and protested having to go through with round two. So is it still religion when the prime precept seems to be keep my kid comfortable even if it kills him?

Being a religion hunter says a couple of things about you. First, you are likely sincerely seeking that something outside yourself. Unfortunately, the longer you look without finding, the more you are likely to become prey to the grifters, the charlatans, the greedy, and the idiots who just might kill you. Second, it says you are looking to others to give you what you are unable to give yourself. If you hunt out religions, you must carry the belief that other people know something, hold some secret, that you haven’t found yet–and that it’s something that they can share.

I’ve long since had a problem with that. Being around groups of other people works against growing religious feelings in me. Partly it’s a trust issue–too few of them have earned it. Partly they’re a distraction from whatever I’m trying to achieve. We are such a gregarious species that it’s difficult to be in the presence of other people and ignore them, but that’s what I’d need to do in order to find something I’d call divine. I’ve concluded that religious groups are enforcers of the group-think necessary to keep the leaders in power and control the masses. That idea alone is a further turn-off for me. Finally, I’m simply not convinced that others know some mysterious secret, or that they can share it. I’ve had the distinct displeasure of working with somebody who KNEW that he knew exactly the right words to ensure his own salvation. He also KNEW that knowledge of those words was limited, and he was one of the select few and I wasn’t. Others haven’t been so obnoxious about it but still cling to the firm belief that there is only one way, and theirs is it. It apparently comforts them.

So, personally, I have to get away from other people to explore my own spirituality, to examine my conscience, find my values, discover whatever is worthy of awe. A quiet couple hours in the woods, watching waves pound the shore, watching storms build and pass, letting my eyes devour the mountains, or really listening to a Beethoven symphony–these are things that help. I don’t expect to find all the answers, nor even most of the questions. I doubt I’ll ever be a religion hunter, though I can manage a smidgen of sympathy for those who are.

And a part of me appreciates the irony that our local religion hunter already has found out the answer to the question all of the rest of us have: what happens after death? While I’m really, really interested in that answer, I’ll wait for it.

Blue Cross-Eyed

This problem is so old, we thought it had been resolved months ago.

Apparently not.

Daddy is on Medicare. That doesn't cover everything, so he's also paying for what is affectionately called "Medigap" insurance. Blue Cross is the carrier.

Over a year ago - I've lost track now of just when - we ordered new checks from his bank. They got lost somewhere, since the bank sent them to his old address, even though they sported his new one. The bank recommended for security's sake to switch to a new account, with of course a new account number. (They also sent the replacement new checks out ASAP. And free.) This meant we had to contact those who either had direct deposit from the old account or had automatic withdrawal. It sounded simple: Social Security, Blue Cross, and his pension.

The first two were straightforward enough. Blue Cross sent paperwork requiring info and Daddy's signature. Social Security required Daddy's info plus him on the phone to verify this is what's happening for real. It took waiting for a "good" day, one where Paul was home and could handle the details - like dialing the phone and fighting his way through the voicemail system to get a human. The third involved waiting until we got some kind of mailing from the pension company. We hadn't a clue who or where they were, and the info the bank had was next to useless. Luckily something arrived within a few months, and the bank was patient about transferring over the $18.29 to his new account each month.

Yeah, don't want to miss out on those pension payments.

That all took a while, but it was finally all accomplished before the end of last year. Whew!

About the first of June, we received a letter from Blue Cross. It notified us that they had successfully completed the changeover to the new bank account. What? Really? After all this time, finally? Can you really be that incompetent? And just what have all those monthly premium withdrawals been about this past 6 months if not an indication that the switchover had gone as planned way back when? I filed it in the "ignore me" pile, one step away from the "recycle me" pile, and went on about my business.

The next day's mail brought three more letters from Blue Cross. The first one informed me that they had been unable to make the withdrawal they needed for the premium payment from Daddy's bank account, and we needed to make sure it got paid pronto or his coverage could lapse.

Really. I kinda thought not, after yesterday's letter.

The second was a lengthy form to fill out and have Daddy sign giving the new account information and authorization for them to withdraw his monthly premiums.

Hey, guys, been there done that, check your files, I'm busy.

The third was a duplicate of the letter from yesterday informing us that they had successfully completed the transfer over to his new account and we could expect to see his premiums deducted from it on a monthly basis now.

Oh goody. Imagine my excitement. Whee.

I put all four letters in my lunch cooler, fully intending to call Blue Cross and ask them just what the heck they thought they were - or weren't - doing, and rub somebody's nose in the mess. But, hey, I got busy, and they sat. And sat. It's not like I don't have enough life in my life these days, after all. Maybe not just how I envisioned it, but....

I just finished balancing his latest bank statement last night, and there was another withdrawal from Blue Cross at the expected date in the expected amount. Apparently my actions were sufficient, except for my anticipated satisfaction for rubbing somebody's nose in their incompetence. Oh well, we all make those little sacrifices sometimes. It was time to pull those four letters out of my lunch cooler.

Well surprise! Now that it's summer and I'm carrying canned ice again and the humidity is climbing, they seem to have started mildewing.

Oh shucks, something else to clean. And mildew or no, they've earned their way into the recycle pile.

I wonder if Blue Cross would fit in there as well.

Still Plenty of Stupid

Yup, there's still plenty of stupid out there, even including mine. What do I plead in my defense? Sleep deprivation, having gotten just over three hours the night before? A different routine, what with the detour and trying to stock up on everything so I don't have to go out this whole holiday weekend? Starvation with supper delayed about 5 hours since my last meal? Or... but wait, let's be honest and tell what happened first.

Once home last night, I started loading up with everything I needed to head into the house in just one load, with Paul coming out for the rest of the shopping bags. I was halfway through a new Dana Stabenow book, one of the rare ones not set in Alaska, and didn't want it to wait over three days before finishing. (There are times I have "home" books and "car" books, but this wasn't one of them.) I couldn't find it on the seat where I'd set it about 3:00 o'clock after catching a couple pages between runs. No, it wasn't in my cooler, the logical place if I'd packed it early. (By day's end, more things fit in it than at the start.) I checked under the seat, even opened the door in case it slid down into the pocket of the door or the space between door and seat.

Nada.

Check everything again. Frustratingly, still nada. I gathered up what I could and stomped off into the house in a snit. Yep, mild-mannered me, in a snit. Imagine! I kept asking myself when I might have left the car unlocked to allow somebody to steal it, but I hadn't. I just didn't know what might have happened to it, and even paperbacks are expensive enough these days that I didn't feel kindly disposed to having to replace it. I let Paul and my dad know why I was upset, and started unpacking what I had brought in. Finally finished with all that, plus putting away the stuff Paul brought in for me, it was finally time for my supper. After 8:00, I'd put off eating because tonight's supper was a Wendy's apple-chicken-pecan salad, and it takes actually sitting down to finish the prep and eat it. Not a meal for driving! But oh, so yummy, and I hadn't treated myself to one for weeks. Opening the bag, there was my missing book, right where I'd apparently thoughtfully packed it for convenience in carrying it into the house after all my other errands were run.

Blaming the detour? Well, the Broadway bridge is out for replacement in Forest Lake, and Wendy's is opposite that bridge from Walmart, my next stop. Not my usual route. Blame the other things on my list? Maybe. But what really sidetracked me last night is my outrage at the stupidity of the Walmart employee who ran the checkout counter I went through.

My basket was already full of heavy things, like bottles of juice for my dad, cottage cheese and meats, and gardening stuff. The last thing on my list was fresh fruits, and there was a deal on blueberries. I carefully selected through the little plastic containers they were in, since often squished or over-ripe fruits show through the bottom of the plastic. The plastic itself is flimsey, not much protection from accidents. I found two I was satisfied with. Any more, and they spoil before they get eaten anyway.

At the checkout, I handed them to her last, asking politely if she'd mind putting them in a separate bag so they wouldn't get squished. She cheerfully obliged. While I was paying with my card, she "helped" by putting everything in my cart for me. I didn't see the blueberries. Where were they? She lifted off one of the heavier bags to show me the blueberries where she'd carefully put them, in their separate bag, on the bottom!

I admit I got quite sarcastic with her at that point: "Oh, that's really helpful." Apparently she didn't catch the tone, because she accepted it as a compliment. I'm not sure she got it even after I added, "Not!" just slightly louder.

So I left, thinking I could possibly feel a bit better for my own stupidities, knowing I'm not alone in them. But I'd rather have the blueberries.

Just Which Part of Blind Don't You Get?

There's a dry-erase board on the wall in my dad's hospital room. It lists his name, nurse/aid of the moment, family phone number, dietary needs, and other important information needed at a glance about the patient. One of those items is "PT is legally blind".

The first evening I was there to see him, the TV in his room was tuned to what I later found out was channel 71. There is no picture. There is music, nice soothing selections like the "Moonlight Sonata" by Beethovan, or "Nutcracker" selections. The music is sprinkled with bird calls, some of which we actually recognize, like chickadee and cardinal. He enjoys listening to it.

Nearly all subsequent visits, the staff has turned the TV so the picture is on and the sound off. Last night I corrected it immediately - as I do now that I know how to tune in the good stuff - and the next staffer to walk in "corrected" it to screen on, sound off. I changed it again, and before I left somebody had again "fixed" it.

If Daddy could see the controls, I'd teach him how to do it himself. But if he could, he wouldn't need to. And that leaves him at the mercy of the staff. So tell me, guys, just what part of "blind" don't you get?

Idiots Parade

Sometimes I find idiots annoying and/or amusing. Other times they are more than annoying. I've been collecting samples of both for the blog this week.

On the level of annoying, let's start with the check printers. My dad ran out of checks a couple weeks ago, and I called the bank to reorder. I'd been postponing, since at 96, one doesn't suppose one needs to get another 2 year supply until it's actually necessary. It finally was, and we went through all the details for the order in a quick phone call. They were to arrive in 7-10 days.

There was a holiday in there, and she didn't actually specify whether those were calendar or business days, so I exercised patience until 2 weeks had gone by. Then it was time to check what had actually happened to them. We didn't need to deal with somebody else using them, after all. After counting that it had been the actual two weeks that the check company requires one to wait before they will track missing orders, my bank contact got ahold of the check company and found out that they had been delivered.

To the old address.

Now he moved out of there 15 months ago. All the bank correspondence had the new address. The checks had the new address. I verified at the time of of the order that they were to be sent to the new address.

But still.

The rush re-order arrived yesterday. I haven't heard yet if the old ones were returned.

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Next on the annoying list is my brush with turning into the grammar police. It's not my favorite idea of how to spend time, but I'm quite good at it. It might be a family thing, because my daughter is too, even better than I am. I've learned some things from her. But this tale starts with what is one of my favorite things to do: read all of a favorite author that's available.

This time it was Dean Hovey. He has three books out, all mysteries set in Pine County, Minnesota. They're quite good, except for one thing. Whoever proofread them, or copy-edited them, or whatever, didn't. They pass the spell-check test, but that doesn't catch "that" when it should have been "than." They were full of those kind of errors. But even more glaring was the misuse of pronouns. Somebody can't tell the difference between nominative and objective case, particular when two persons are referred to. Now if the big names confuse you, it's just the difference between when to use "he" and "him", "I" and "me." One, the nominative, is the person doing the action: I and he. The objective is the person that the action is being done to: me and him. Those kind of errors were all through the books, and few things interrupt the suspense faster than stopping to rail at the stupidity of someone using the wrong words.

I thought to contact the publisher, but their name is not mentioned anywhere in the book. (How does that happen?) So, I went back to the library website where I reserved them, and found it there: J Press. The internet gave me an email-form to contact them, so I let them have my opinion on the topic. It was acknowledged with a form that thanked me and let me know that I'd get a return message within 48 hours.

Uh huh. Sure. That was Sunday. This is Wednesday.

Mr. Hovey, if you Google yourself and read this, you deserve a better publisher. One that knows grammar.

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If one is looking for a high silliness quotient in idiocy, one can hardly do better than Christine O'Donnell, the Republican senate candidate for Delaware. You've surely heard of her by now. She's the one who "dabbled" in witchcraft by having a "date" on a bloody Satanic altar (which has nothing whatsoever to do with Wicca), and chose Christianity because she liked meatballs too much to become vegetarian for Hare Krishna, her previous top choice. Her campaign ad insists that she's not a witch, whatever we've heard. "I'm you."

Hardly!

She claims to be a constitutional expert and promises to govern according strictly to the constitution. Unfortunately, she's just a bit weak on what it says. In a debate yesterday, she challenged her Democratic opponent to tell her just where in the constitution it talked about the separation of church and state. When the audience of lawyers started to howl in laughter, she smiled and joined in, her expression clearly showing she thought they agreed with her that she'd just won the game of Gotcha.

Gotta wonder if she's figured it out yet.


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For personal irritation, a fellow I met at work today wins the prize. I might have been amused, but his idiocy kept me standing an extra 10 minutes while I was trying to make a pick-up. I lose my sense of humor quickly under such circumstances.

It was bad enough that I'd had to cross an unnecessarily large and showy lobby just to reach the elevators that brought me up to the 6th floor. My mood was further compromised by the fact that it was a secured floor, and I had to walk to the other end of the elevator lobby and stand around while sorting through all the information next to the telephone just to find the number for the mailroom, and by the fact that nobody answered the first set of rings. After trying again, I finally got through and explained what I was there to pick up.

It took two more minutes for the mailroom guy to come out to the lobby. Empty handed. He couldn't find the package. Did I have a contact name? Did I know what it was? I showed him the sum total of the information I was given on the screen of my phone, even handing the phone to him so he could see for himself.

Only he couldn't see for himself. The hand with the phone just got further and further from his face, until he finally turned to me and admitted he couldn't read it. I read it for him, joking that he needed longer arms. Yeah, he'd been putting off getting glasses. He disappeared another five minutes.

It gave me plenty of time to condemn him for a vain idiot - silently of course - who didn't want to spoil his pretty face with glasses that might let him actually function in his job! And let me get on with mine, instead of standing around and standing around.

The box he finally handed me was plainly marked as I'd originally told him it would be, in letters plenty big enough that even I didn't need glasses to read them.

Apparently I'm a hidden sexist: I thought only women were that stupidly vain!


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The final piece of idiocy comes under the heading of public policy. This time it comes with serious consequences. It would be worse than annoying if it spread to here. Much worse.

Three nearby metropolitan counties, Ramsey, Washington, and Dakota, are discontinuing Meals on Wheels. Instead, frozen meals will be delivered once a week by a Presbyterian group. Now, I'm sure they are well-meaning folks, and this change in service won't seriously disturb independent seniors. But Meals on Wheels doesn't simply provide bulk food.

It provides a hot meal once a day. Already cooked, already assembled, so vulnerable adults do not have to struggle with working a stove, sorting out a balanced meal from a large quantity of items, remembering that it's lunchtime. In time, I might add, to start thawing the desired items. There comes a time in life, should we be so lucky to live that long, when these simple things are the kinds of things that make the difference between independence and dependence. If preparing your own food were that simple, many seniors wouldn't be using Meals on Wheels now. It's not done from laziness; it's from mobility, vision, breathing and cognitive issues that accompany aging.

Food quality must suffer from such a move. My dad's meals now include a variety of fresh salads, jellos, puddings, fresh bread, and other things that either could not be provided at all, or would suffer greatly from freezing/thawing or long term refrigeration.

As important as all that is, Meals on Wheels provides one more vital service, and "vital" is not an exaggeration. Somebody stops in the home to check on the senior once a day during the week. We recognized its importance the day my dad fell in the bathroom and struggled for over an hour to get up before his meal arrived. He would have been there for seven more, thoroughly demoralized and perhaps more badly injured, had that visit not happened!

This is supposed to be a money-saving idea. Unfortunately, it's going to drive a segment of seniors out of their homes and into nursing homes or other kinds of assisted living facilities, a much more expensive option. And those who can't afford or manage such an option will slowly - or possible not so slowly - fail to thrive.

A Whole Lotta Stupid

There's a whole lotta stupid floating around out there. Life is short, so I'm only going to deal with two cases today.

First, there's the idea that a fur coat will not only insulate you against cold, but works equally well to insulate you against the heat. Insulation is insulation, just like in your attic, right? So maybe you don't have to pity long-furred dogs out in the hot sun all day: they're just fine.

Bullshit!

If you really believe that, put on your fur (real or fake) coat next 90-plus degree day and go sit in the sun for a few hours. Let's see how long it takes before heat stroke sets in. Heck, I'll even come over and time you. (Note I didn't say I'd call an ambulance. If you're really that stupid....) That's why you actually are out there - if at all - in shorts and tank tops and flip flops. Lack of fur isn't your problem on hot days.

So what is?

Everybody who propounds this bit of nonsense is forgetting one key word: metabolism! We are mammals. We produce heat as we burn calories. That's what the word calorie means. It's a unit to measure heat produced, not fat set aside. If heat doesn't have a chance to escape, we will die! Simple as that. Fur keeps our self-produced heat in, a great thing for cold weather. Not so much in summer.

Right now everybody's opining on the BP oil spill and how to fix it. The most often repeated bit of stupidity is to just blow it up! Boom Baby Boom!

This seems like sound advice. It happens all the time after well explosions on dry land! It puts out the fire by sucking up all the oxygen, turning your flaming gusher into a simple gusher, where now people and equipment can approach and cap it off.

So what's wrong with this picture? First, there's no fire to put out, the whole point of using explosives. Second, what's down there on the sea floor is about a thousand feet of mud. Blowing that up is just going to kick a whole lot of mud into the water along with the whole lot of oil that's pouring into the water, and that's just not going to do a thing but raise a cloud. Well, unless you are one of those folks who thing if you make it so you can't see the problem any more means it isn't there. That works when you're one or two, but only in your head. We need grown-up solutions here.

Let's say we did get the explosive down to the bedrock that's covering the pool of oil and blew that up. How exactly did you imagine that would help? Sure, some pieces might go down instead of up or sideways. We're not closing an entrance to a coal mine here. Making a whole bunch of tiny holes along the top of the area is not going to keep the oil in place. The stuff is pressurized (part of how it's made, heat and pressure). It's also lighter than water, wants to float. It's full of methane, a gas that's also lighter than water, really really wants to float, wants to float so bad it came up the pipe and caused the explosion in the first place that sank the rig. Lots of tiny holes are just what this stuff wants to escape its underground underwater prison. And if you've just blown up its covering, there's now nothing to secure any kind of topper in that would seal off its escape, not to mention the hundreds you'd now need.

So stuff your boom-baby-boom ideas with your drill-baby-drill ideas and start being useful: think of and start implementing ways to begin using less oil in your daily lives and using more renewable enery like wind and sun. A windmill falling over does not destroy thousands of miles of ecosystem for decades or longer.

Waste

I gotta wonder: how much does it cost to get one of those banners made that you haul around behind an airplane?

I also gotta wonder: how much fuel does it take to keep one of those planes up a couple hours? And what's its carbon footprint?

I also gotta wonder: how much does it cost to have one of those planes fly your banner over the freeway during rush hour while everybody's hurrying to escape up north for the fishing opener?

Most of all, though, I wonder: Who is the stupid idiot who commissioned the whole thing with tiny print in a busy busy sign that nobody can actually read even while they pull off and park for a moment, much less while they're driving in heavy traffic? Because however much it was, it's a complete and utter waste!

A Minor Driving Incident

Today I pulled up to an intersection and stopped to wait for the light to change to green. I noticed the car driver behind me trying to wave me forward. I wondered what the heck he thought he wanted? I hadn't missed the light changing (quick double-check), it wasn't an emergency vehicle, and I was nose up to the crosswalk, just where I thought I should be. I mentally dismissed him.

Then I saw he was opening his car door and heading towards me. Oh oh, lock the door and crack the window. "Say, can you move your car up so I can make my right turn?"

Yeah, like right turns are a right and/or a mandate on a red light. There just wasn't any excess room in this tiny lane.

As he turned back to his car, I noticed my light turn green and called out, "Sure thing," to his back as I proceeded through the intersection. I believe he got back into his car in time to make it through on the green. I doubt he had time to buckle, however.

Moron!

The Stupidity Fee

In my business, we can charge loadtime on a run which takes over 10 minutes to pick up and drop off. Usually we don't do it until the run goes significantly over the ten, although we're more likely to do so as the frustrations mount up. Sometimes it's just a stupidity fee.

Take yesterday. I was picking up something for one of those companies which makes us sign a confidentiality agreement especially for them, meaning I can't give you names, theirs or their customers. I'll assign letters. I walked into the front office of Company M, minded by locks and a security guard behind a window. I asked for anything they had going to Company S. Usually that's all it takes. The package will be right there, clearly labeled.

It's always fun when they look at you like they never saw a courier before and couldn't imagine what one would be doing in their office. We refer to is as the "as if we're from Mars" look. The guard gave me directions to go way behind the building to a phone between docks 12 and 13 and call to get in. OK, whatever. He should know, right?

Dock 12 was at the far end of this side of the building, and dock 13 around five corners to the other side. Yes, I said five. It's not an exact rectangle. Meanwhile I drove slowly, looking for both dock 13 and anything resembling a phone. When I found 13, there were stairs next to it, and sure enough, a call box at the top. You push and hold a button while you speak, release to listen while you wait, hoping somebody heard you because you did it right and somebody was actually around to hear and respond. Finally somebody answered. They came to the door let me in, and before I went two steps, handed me a hairnet and insisted I put it on.

O goodie.

I explained my errand, looking for a package going to company S. They looked confused. I say, "they," because a series of consultations ensued, nobody seemingly having ever heard of Company S or knowing why somebody might send something there or what it might be. After the original person disappeared for a bit, she returned with the instructions that I needed to go to the front office and ask for Enrique.

O goodie.

Back around I drive, reenter the office, walk up to the same guard, and explain what they told me. He seems astonished by this piece of news, but calls Enrique. "Uh, what's your name, Miss?" Miss? Huh? Is he blind? I've got to be twice his age. I give my name, which he passes along. Now this is particularly stupid, because as a courier we're just bodies in uniforms with vehicles. Names are never necessary unless we have to clear security, and that clearly wasn't going to happen here. Enrique wouldn't know me from a hole in the ground.

As the guard hung up, I asked him, "You did remember to tell him I was looking for a package for Company S, right?"

Suddenly a lightbulb went on. "Oh, Company S. I thought that sounded familiar," he tells me as he hands me a small box with Company S written on it in large letters. The box had been sitting there the whole time, of course. They always are.

I refrained from suggesting to him that it was a pity that it hadn't sounded familiar the first time I asked for the package.

"I'll tell Enrique I took care of it for him," he said as I left. Yeah, and while you're talking to Enrique, tell him you were the one who messed it all up in the first place, why don't ya? Sure, that'll happen. Shaking my head, I just called in and asked for loadtime charges for the 17 minutes it had taken to do two minutes' worth of work. Pure stupidity fee.

I kept the hairnet.

Confusions

The Epley maneuver does work wonders for vertigo, when you can do it right. All the turning alnd holding and stuff, that's not the problem. The problem is determining which side is the affected side. They never explain that. When the room spins when you roll over on your left, does that mean the left or right side is the affected one? And when it spins again when you roll back, which side is it then? How about when it spins when you bend forward to pick something off the ground, now which side?

I compromise: I do the maneuver both ways. One has to be right, wouldn't you think? If I'm lucky, this works, meaning, I think, that I picked the correct side last and now everything's back in place. If not, well, I have been known to throw up.

Meclazine helps. In fact, it's so strong, I take only half a pill. This keeps me from sleeping behind the wheel. I don't just take it after throwing up, or seriously wanting to. After vertigo, there is a period where one is hyper-sensitive to one's head position. Not dizzy, just hyper aware. It commands your attention. It reminds you of where you've just been and threatens to take you back there. Meclazine cuts through that and lets you focus on other things, like the color of the light just ahead of you. This is a good thing.


* * * * *

I found another stupid sign yesterday, and trust me, I really wasn't in the mood for it. It was the end of a long day of walking, lots of short runs in long places. In other words, little rest between long walks. Everything from the knees down ached. This is when the last stop of the day just has to go to a patient in a nursing home. Well, to the floor nurse who's the only person authorizes to sign for his meds. And of course it's suppertime. Not only are all the patients out in the halls and wanting something from whomever passes, but the staff are all busy. You can't even find the wrong staffer to point you to where the right staffer is for that signature. I'm already grumpy walking in the door, just thinking about it.

Sure enough, our patient is up on third floor. There on the column between elevators is this sign: "Push up and down buttons to call elevator". Huh? Several possibilities hold. Either it's because the patients are so completely senile that, while they can still read, they don't know how elevators work. Or it's one of those gimmicks that keep the senile folk from escaping to another part of the building. Some places make you punch in the year on a keypad before the elevator works. Maybe here you have to punch both buttons at once. Or maybe it's just another stupid sign.

I try pushing just the up button. The elevator on my right opens its door and two people step out. This doesn't really answer my question: they might have brought it, not my button-push. On third floor, I ask a passing staffer which way the sign is meant. Do you really have to push both buttons? She says, "No." I just can't resist, "Oh, so it really should read 'or' instead of 'and'."

She doesn't get it.

On the way out, passing the front desk, I overhear a conversation between a little old lady in a wheelchair and the sweet young thing behind the desk.
"I need you to put my shoe on."
"I just did,"
"No you didn't, I need my shoe on."
I looked. Her foot is sticking straight out, and sure enough, the shoe is on, one of those black leather-look things with a pair of velcro straps to fasten it.
"Yes, I did."
"No you didn't."
"Yes, I just did. Look at your foot. Your shoe is on it. I just put it there."
"I need you to put my shoe on."

Maybe she's the one who wrote the sign.

Never Boring

There is much to like about my Saturday job clerking at the auction house. It’s done sitting down, so there’s no wear and tear on my knees. It’s only 5 miles from home, so it’s a vacation from driving, and after 25 years of 70-80,000 miles a year, I can appreciate that even though I still like driving. Nepotism is a de facto company policy, making us all much like a single extended family. Many of us gather socially away from work. There’s always something to learn, something to buy, friendly people to greet, and sometimes the very demanding job of trying to keep up with the auctioneer when he’s on a push to finish. All those things keep it interesting. But when I say it’s never boring, I never thought that would mean a day quite like yesterday. Yesterday we lost two employees, for very different reasons.

The first one I heard about at the after-auction employees meeting. This is where we go over the good and the bad of the auction, give opinions, complaints, thanks and kudos as appropriate, all with an end to making the next auction smoother and more professional. While waiting for everyone to finish their post-auction cigarettes so we could begin, one of our members, whom I’ll call “M”, filled in Doug, our boss, of the actual circumstances behind one young fellow’s leaving. I’ll call him “T”. "T" had informed Doug just before the start of the auction that he had a new job waiting for him starting later the upcoming week. “M” had had trouble keeping a straight face during the announcement, and now told us why. What “T” actually had was an interview, after calling about an ad in the paper. Some local farmer needs somebody to drive a large farm vehicle to spread chemicals over the fields. “T” hasn’t quite figured out yet that he’s not exactly in a position to get the job since he doesn’t happen to have a driver’s license! I believe “M” used some phrase like “dumb as a sack of hammers.” Nobody who’s worked with “T” at the auction house disagreed with that assessment.

The second employee leaving wasn’t due to a resignation but to a firing, and this isn’t something Doug does lightly. He’ll put up with a lot from some of us, at least in part because he can’t afford to pay any of us well.

It started with a comment I very likely heard during the auction but took no note of at the time since it was not directed at me. I have to concentrate on my clerking job, so that all the right people pay the right amounts for the right items. I have to be perfect. It escalated to a point where I became directly involved, though quite against my inclination. The two people involved I’ll call “Madame” and “Missy”, names picked solely for their respective ages.

Madame, like many of us, started out as a customer and graduated to employee. For the last several weeks I had heard only complaints about her work from different people, including Doug. But I repeat, Doug hates to fire people. I had not much opinion on the issue, since I’m only there on Saturdays, unless I pop in during the week to see what’s upcoming in merchandise. I did however have opportunities to listen to Madame talk about a variety of things before and after auctions, and was becoming uncomfortable with the difference in our ethical standards on a particular issue. She frankly thought that everybody did _____ but simply lied about doing it, so why shouldn’t she do it also? Furthermore, since she was at least honest about doing it, she was actually more virtuous than everybody else. Personally, I haven’t done _____ since childhood, and would have trouble sleeping well if I did. My parents taught me well on that topic. I became wary of Madame.

Missy, the younger member of a family who works at the auction pretty much en masse, earns college money while still in high school. What I do observe tells me she is bright, works hard most of the time, and adheres to standards I can appreciate. While mature for her age, she is also still a kid. As you can probably tell, knowing nothing of the dispute ahead of time, I’m already prepared to take a side, though I’ll keep an open mind.

Madame presents the issue to Doug at the meeting as her having been disrespected during the auction, in front of the customers, by Missy. Madame’s concern, of course, is that this behavior makes Missy look bad. Customers have complained.

Missy asks what she said that was disrespectful and when?

Apparently, at one point Missy saw Madame holding an item up for the customers to view while bidding on it, thought it needed to be held higher, and told Madame so. No frills of politeness, no abusive language, just, “Hold it higher.” Missy defended her comment saying it needed to be said. People don’t buy what they can’t see.

At this point, I figured it was all over. Both made their points, both might have learned something. But Madame just wouldn't let it drop, as if she absolutely needed to win, to put Missy in her place. She kept pushing the issue.

Missy then asked which customers complained? Madame couldn’t remember any of their names. Since by far most of our customers are regular repeat customers, and often addressed by name by Doug during the auction, most of us learn many of their names. We greet them as they walk in by name. We know about their families, and they about ours. These would be the customers who would feel comfortable enough with staff that they might make a comment during the auction. Missy called her on it, saying if she couldn’t come up with any names, she must have been making that part up.

Madame, at this point, threw her cup of coffee at Missy.

Well, she tried, anyway. Between the two of them were the front counter, the desk, about ten feet of floor space... and me. I was sitting patiently waiting for the two of them to settle their issues like adults, and suddenly I’m all wet: hair, glasses, face, clothes. Missy brings me the paper towels I ask for, and after I try to dab everything dry, I continue with the desk, the notepad, the picture frame, the pen holder, whatever else has been nailed.

Meanwhile Missy’s mom goes straight out around the counter at gets in Madame’s face. The action is not limited to verbal exchanges at this point, but the two of them lock hands and are pushing back and forth as I take a second from mopping up to see what’s happening. Missy’s mom said later that Madame was trying to bend her thumbs in directions they weren’t meant to go in. In other words, it wasn't just defensive, stay-away-from-me mode, it was full attack, I-want-to-hurt-you. Mom squeezed back, and thinks she heard something crack in Madame’s hand.

All this takes maybe ten seconds, long enough for Doug to recover from the shock of it and put in his two cents’ worth. “Madame, you have to leave this building. Go. Get out of here now.” There was also the standard bit about her behavior was inappropriate, he couldn’t have unstable people working for him, and she was fired - all said to her back, either as or after she left. I didn't see exactly. I was still kinda busy. He did send two of the other employees after her to make sure she actually left. She had.

Now Missy’s dad comes out from the back room, loudly announcing he’s ready to punch Madame, even if he sees her on the street in the next weeks. It doesn’t matter if he has to go to jail for it! He threatens to call the police and have her charged with assault. Nobody assaults his family without him taking action! Nobody assaults his family’s friend without him taking action!

Oh gee, he means me. How sweet. Oh wait, no, not so sweet if he thinks he has to avenge me and it gets him in trouble! Don’t do it!

Do I need to say that the employee meeting was sidetracked from the auction for way more time than Madame deserves to have spent on her? “B” bemoaned he had no camcorder for the whole thing. Missy noted that all her siblings start to quickly back away from the action as Mom starts to raise her voice and head in Madame’s direction: they know that voice. Doug asked me if I want to make a comment? I note that he’s said she’s fired: that’s enough for me. I also note that a couple feet in another direction and the coffee would have gone all over the computer and cash register, with less than splendid results.

Eventually we get back to the meeting, get paid, and go our separate ways. Most of us will be back next Saturday, for the Antique and Collectors Auction.

I doubt it’ll be boring.

Tidbit

Sometimes it’s not what the sign says but where it’s placed. Location location location.

For months a Super America convenience store in Mendota Heights had a help wanted sign displayed. One would think in this sluggish economy that job positions would fill rapidly, but apparently not. It was worded perfectly clearly. There was no ambiguity. Clearly they had openings to fill. It was placed right at eye level, where you couldn’t help but see it, right on the door. It directed you to ”Apply Within,” seemingly a perfectly reasonable request, unless you happened to notice that the door it was prominently displayed on also said “Women”.

Schadenfreude I

I try to be a better human being than that, really, but sometimes when I see another's misfortune, I think that they really deserved it. At the very least, it's satisfying to see consequences imposed, and easier knowing I wasn't the one who had to do the imposing. That way I can still tell myself that I'm a nice person.

The first case in point happened maybe 10-15 years ago. It was one of those January mornings when it was -31 and roads all over the metro were icing up from the exhaust of slowly moving vehicles in rush hour traffic. Black ice! Even if you couldn't see the stuff, and an observant person could, you should be able to feel the increasing lack of traction under your tires. And if you were still too sleep-deprived or whatever to notice road conditions, the radio had been trumpeting all morning the dangerous conditions and the mounting toll of spin-outs and accidents, part of what was slowing traffic down so more ice was laid down so more vehicles lost traction so traffic got slower.... It was the classic vicious spiral.

My journey that morning took me south from Minneapolis on 35W to the Crosstown Commons and beyond. They're supposedly fixing it now, meaning for a couple years it's even more dangerous, but at that time two freeways came together at right angles, with the larger squeezing down to two lanes, doing a 90 degree right turn to connect with the other for a mile while they swapped vehicles back and forth, and then performed a 90 degree left turn and went north/south again. In that mile you went from the right two lanes to the left two lanes to keep going the same way.

That morning with the black ice, traffic was a pretty steady 25-30 MPH, fine if you didn't need to turn or slow or anything. An annoying black SUV had been tailgating me for the last couple of miles before the first turn. The driver sped up a bit, moved back, and flashed his lights at me to move over, presumably so he could tailgate the car in front which also was going the same speed I was. Both knowing how futile his quest for increased speed was, and keenly aware how dangerous to me such a lane change was, I kept steady on my course. If anything, I backed slightly away from the car in front of me, figuring more space was needed for safety with this impatient idiot a part of the mix.

I white-knuckled it through the turn, now hoping against hope that the newly added left lane from the Crosstown was either clear or that the joining vehicles didn't see a sudden need to pull over right in front of me and risk a spin-out that I couldn't avoid. Fortunately, it was clear for a space, which gave the idiot behind me just the break he thought he needed. Gunning his engine, he fishtailed out of my lane into the left one... and kept fishtailing down the lane, overcorrecting with each move, until about halfway along the commons his SUV tried to mount the concrete barrier separating our lanes from the oncoming one.

The rest of us gave a huge sigh of relief that his antics hadn't impacted our cars, literally, and continued at our steady crawl to our destinations, risking brief glances over at the black SUV hung up on the barricade with one wheel hooked over the top. I, for one, laughed as I passed, partly from the adrenaline rush easing off from another accident avoided, and partly because the idiot so deserved it!

Let him stew!