Power Policy Gone Astray

Some shopping trips are smooth sailing. Others just don’t flow as expected from the start. I hit a local Kroger late yesterday afternoon to buy sub fixin’s for movie night. It started with no French bread. Or was there? I saw the empty shelves but asked anyway in case there was someplace else to look. The reply was no and confirmation was that there was no more coming out of the oven.  Finally I picked up a loaf of Italian and headed over to the deli.

My next quest was to find salami with the peppercorns imbedded throughout. The guy behind the counter said Genoa. He sliced me some but when I looked, there were no peppercorns. I inquired why that might be. He didn’t know that there weren’t any peppercorns because he wasn’t paying any attention. Startled at this response, I decided he had pulled his answer out of thin air, though I did look on-line later to find he was actually correct. Since his Genoa salami was without, I walked away wondering if this was what I really wanted for dinner tonight when, lo and behold, I came upon a random table with several loaves of French bread. Okay…back on the menu.

I wanted to be done and out of there but it turned out I picked up an item that was buy 5, get an even bigger savings off of each of the 5 items. Most of the time I rationalize that I’ll spend a lot more on the other 4 items than I will save, but I had already passed a few products that I could use with that same offer. That being the case there was no need to leave money on the table. Retracing my steps through the store I now found too many buy 5 items which meant I either needed to find more items or prioritize my top 5 needs. It turned out more loss time was not one of my needs so I chucked the overage.

Mission finally accomplished and I was ready to check out. I went through the self-check-out minding my own business when a bit of an argument ensued behind me. I looked and saw a woman, probably around 30-35 and a clerk 50 plus years telling her she couldn’t buy the wine in her hand because she did not have her driver’s license with her. After a short exchange, he conceded to check with his supervisor who was within hearing and viewing range. The supervisor glanced up and shook her head ‘no’. I had to do a double take thinking I was mistaken on my original assessment of the woman’s age. Seriously? This woman was well over 21. The man shrugged his shoulders and had the audacity to tell her he believed he had seen her in the store before. Without saying it, the implication in my mind was that he had sold her or seen her buy alcohol before.

That was it. I told her to give me the bottle. I have my license and would be happy to make the purchase. I rang it up and the clerk came over. He refused…refused to sell the wine to a 64 year old woman because he was suspicious that she might give it to a 35 year old. Honestly….am I wrong to still be shaking my head?

I considered sending a complaint to the store but the last thing I want is to be bored with how it is protective policy and their associate was right in assuming the woman wasn’t old enough to buy liquor because he is not allowed the use of his own mind. Plus, I would not want to be the one responsible for this clerk and his supervisor attaining associate of the year awards for saving the store from the criminal activities of two plotting, mischievous women who have been able to drink alcohol well within their rights for years.

Sigh….

A Groupon Experience

There always has to be a first in all you do. Here's my first YouTube video...

Groupon Mystery Package

Bingo!

Twelve years old in 1967 and we stood appalled at where the world might lead a body and its mind. Francine and I had worked with our Girl Scout troop for hours collecting baby food jars, soil, moss, tiny flowering herbs and ribbons to tie around the bottom of small, handcrafted terrariums. They were gifts of spring for a local home for the aged. We were excited to be selected as ambassadors for our troop and took the responsibility quite seriously.

Upon our arrival, friendly nurses asked if we wanted to take the gifts to the residents. Delighted, we started to go bed to bed along a corridor. Old, wrinkled people lay in the beds; some chipper, some not, some simply not there. Our gifts were greeted with joy though. It seemed even in this state of woe, their best faces met us as we came by. We smiled and chattered through emotions neither Fran nor I had ever experienced. Drama unfolded when handing the small terrarium to a woman who perked up and accepted it with bright eyes. Her elbow pulled the perceived treat to her wide open mouth. Fran and I both lunged to snatch the terrarium away as she went to bite into it like an apple. Our shuffling drew the attention of a nurse who realized these two little girls might be over their heads. She offered to distribute the rest of the gifts. Fran and I were only too grateful and took our leave.

Two indignant young girls flew up the stairs to my house. We talked through the events of the day over and over convinced that it was the fault of the nurses that these aged human beings lived in dire straits. My dad counseled if we were so passionate, we should send a letter to the local paper. We considered that; but, the information we had didn’t seem sufficient to justify our indignation formally to the whole town.

I’m glad now at 55 years old that we held off writing that letter. The experience may have been traumatic to Fran and me, but those nurses were caring for people, whether sick and dying or lying deserted and depressed. For myself, even though I lashed out against them, I did not really get a sense of cruelty from the nurses. I was shaken at the sights, sounds and smells of circumstances I did not know or understand.

My husband, B, and I have been calling Bingo at an assisted living facility for a couple years now. Each week provides a thought provoking reflective mixture of community drama, fun and sadness which I will begin to serialize here. It’s been in my heart for a long time. I’m looking forward to organizing and releasing my insights and emotions; be they right or wrong.

Losing at the Slots

Last night was too much fun! With only a couple days at Treasure Island in Vegas, I was excited to find a gambling buddy!

He was winning nicely on one of their quarter slot machines when I started hitting on mine just a couple away. He glanced over with dancing eyes. Obviously this nameless gentleman enjoyed watching others win as much as scoring for himself. His attitude was downright infectious!

A real estate broker, at least 60 years old, he visits Las Vegas monthly. It is quite apparent that he is aware of a gambling problem. This knowledge keeps him staying and playing the small ticket slots.

Our chatter was all about the thrill of the spin as much as the excitement of the win; the anticipation of the ‘almost’ and the groan of nothing at all.

I was up $100 when I realized I was expected with my group for dinner. It was a fabulous meal but the fever kept me restless!

Two hours later I'm back anxiously looking about for some sign of my compadre. The sulk ended as I heard, then saw him pop around the corner looking for me and coming back for more.

Alas though, Lady Luck had deserted me. With despair, I spun away my winnings and then some. A momentary burst of excitement ignited as my friend hit the biggest jackpot of the night - 809 quarters! We whooped and hollered! But, even his hit too quickly started dwindling and the evening was now late and it was time to part.

A pat on his back and a simple thanks sent me smiling on my way having enjoyed such delightful camaraderie during this crazy, fun night!

**This great picture (taken outside the Treasure Island Hotel where they presented "Sirens of TI") is from RoadsideAmerica.com. (A Siren in Greek mythology is a creature half bird and half woman who lures sailors by the sweetness of her song.)

Duathlon

I couldn’t conceive of doing the triathlon; can’t swim. But, I was intrigued to discover that there was a duathlon. No swimming; only running and biking. I had biked off and on for several years, but had only been running for about 6 weeks. Frankly, this in itself was quite a feat for me. The last 30 years were spent telling anyone who suggested jogging or running as a viable form of exercise or stress relief, just how much I despised it. There I was, though, stretching and pacing about with a group of a hundred of my peers preparing to run 2 miles, bike 18.5 miles and then run another 3.1. There were 500 plus other participants who would start off swimming one-half mile rather than run the first 2 miles. They were the triathletes.

I was prepared for a big “On your mark. Get set. GO!” or ”Runners, take your positions!” Instead, there was a low key announcement made over a bullhorn about 20 minutes after the event was scheduled to begin. So low key that only the movement of the crowd ahead registered for me a sure start of the run.

I was towards the back, but not for long. I quickly became the tail end. My initial strategy was to stay with those around me, but they had obviously been in training a couple more weeks than I had been. My anxiety increased as I struggled to find my rhythm. I gulped at the air, panting uncontrollably. When I finally shook my head and composed myself, I dedicated my focus to self encouragement. “Relax, focus, get the rhythm. There it is. Okay now, there’s a good chance, I say, a real good chance of coming in last here. That’s going to be okay. I’m here only to see how well I can do. I’m not competing with anyone. So, just relax and have fun.” It was apparent that I was way out of my league; but, I was feeling calmer and determined to stay the course.

The first run was one mile out and one mile back using the same path. With only the first ½ mile behind my back, several of my newfound mentors (I had to drop the notion of peers) were already returning. They were sprinting easily and chatting about who could even imagine what. I turned the corner exiting the park and felt the turmoil in the air as a dozen of them wind channeled past me. They were within minutes of transitioning to their bikes; but, I refused to dwell on that and continued to forge ahead.

A trick I had learned, though potentially dangerous, was to keep my eyes to the ground while I run. It is the only way I can concentrate without getting overwhelmed at the distance still left to be covered.

I raised my head searching for the one mile turnaround and to my surprise, see another lone runner still moving toward it. Hmmm. I look away, then back again. I do believe that his frame size increased with that glance. One more test confirmed that I was not only keeping up, but I was gaining on him. Now, this was exciting! My legs didn’t move any faster but my mind was fired up. ”Oh, yes. He is mine!”

He rounded the corner a quarter mile ahead of me. He started his journey back and saw me. As we passed face to face, the silence was broken by the competing gasps of our panting. I made my turn and felt an internal rush as I closed in for the take! He must have tried to keep up with the pros longer than I had because I passed him with ease. My personal victory soured a bit though as he mumbled “I suppose this means I’m it.” It was more of a statement than a question. Since I had just learned myself what it was like to give in to accepting last place, I offered “You’ll catch up with me on the bike!” Then I slowly yet proudly left him in my dust!

My triumph was short lived. I gazed ahead to see bikes whipping out of the park. These riders were runners and swimmers. The swimming heats were every ten minutes. (My group of runners started off with the first heat.) I turned back into the park with a half-mile stretch still ahead of me. The riders were intense. Some hollered words of encouragement. Embarrassed, my speed picked up, but not by much. By the time I got back to the transition area, few people were watching for runners coming back in. Most had forwarded their support to the swimmers and riders.

My friend, Denise, though, bless her soul, was there for me. She cheered me in, offered me water, led me to my bike, and excitedly sent me off again! Passing the first riding checkpoint on my way out, I heard someone yell, “Make sure you stay all the way to the right with that bike.” I didn’t have to look around. I knew who he was talking to. I nodded and dug into cycling. The hundreds of bikes that overtook me were stupendous to look at. The speed and ease of their ride was fun to watch. (Yes, I was envious; and clearly, even in my fogged state, knew this was my old cloppy bike’s last ride.)

I decided not to use the odometer or stop watch on my bike. I didn’t need any discouragement; I wanted to finish this ride without regard to time and place. I’d ridden 30 miles on my bike before. Now that I had plenty of time ahead of me to think, I calculated that that had been 15 years prior. I wondered why I hadn’t added any training into my regimen for the cycling piece of this event. It would have been a good idea.

We rode the perimeter of the lake. It took me over an hour. I was alone most of the time except for the occasional group of riders who had swum in the later heats and sped past.

Three quarters of the way through the ride, I broke the intensity by wondering when the last time was that I had been out riding like this. “I should take advantage and enjoy the beauty of the land.” That did nothing for my speed and instead, led my mind to pine for the presence of my husband.

I buckled back down just as an athlete whizzed by me. “I think the last turn is at the bottom of the hill!” she shouted back. Yes! I peddled faster downhill, cruised around the corner and there it was! I choked back my extreme weariness at the enormous grand finale climb. “Concentrate, concentrate, you can do this! One spin of the wheel at a time!” It was an unbelievable feat reaching the top of that hill! There was one more mile, but an easy last mile.

Denise called out to me in glee and helped me park my bike. I couldn’t really talk. Mostly I just grunted and sucked down water. This was the last stage and before I could give it any thought, I started my final run. My legs were wobbly, but they were moving. I was torn between the excitement and settling back down. There was still much work to be done. I must have looked like hell because someone mistook my inability to function socially with negativity and chided me for not smiling and thanking him for his support.

I trotted through some trees on a dirt path leading out to the road. The final piece of this event was across the dam overlooking the lake. It was a narrow path for runners going both directions, but a befitting finale. As I started across the bridge there were a good many people returning. I was amazed at the number of people who had quit running altogether and were just walking fast. It had never occurred to me that I would see this. I had had no intention whatsoever of letting up. Granted, my run wasn’t that much over a fast walk... I went farther across the bridge. More and more people were walking. Gosh darn it. It just seemed like a good idea. I’d been moving for almost two hours now. No. No. And then I just did it. I slowed to a fast walk at the 2 mile marker. The sign itself seemed to scream at me to "Stop!" Horrified, I walked for only a few minutes and then took off again. Gratefully, I was in a running state when I heard someone say “Hey, I thought you said I would catch up with you on the bikes.” I shrugged as he passed going the other way and elated in my head “Oh, my God! I stayed ahead of him!” That took me a ways more, but I had lost my gait and had slowed down, making it harder to pull it all back together. I was feeling pain and weariness like I’d never felt before.

Back down the path through the trees and out into the gauntlet of the finish. Cheers led me to the line of completion, timing me at 2 hours and 14 minutes. Denise congratulated me! I walked around in a daze; dirty, breathless and exhausted.

I ranked 98 out of 100 in the duathlon. (There was another gentleman who dropped out during the ride.) Denise drove me home where I slept for the rest of the day (noon on). I didn’t run the rest of the year. It took everything I had that day. There’s a good chance, I say, a real good chance I needed more than 6 weeks of training.

A Little "Big Easy"

Sitting home tonight is downright boring! We're just 18 hours off the plane and ready to go back!

We left Ohio for New Orleans early Saturday so we'd have plenty of afternoon to explore. The plane rides were short, on time, and smooth sailing! We scurried to the Marriott Hotel at the edge of the French Quarter. We threw our belongings in the room, changed from winter to summer attire, and hit the streets.

There is no easing into the Big Easy. It hits you hard and fast. We found our way to Jackson Square with its entertainers and taro card readers, then down Decatur St., on to the French Market with its beignets, muffulettas, whilst jazz and blues waft through the air.

The muffaletta sandwich originated in New Orleans. It can be ordered as a whole or a half. Sitting outside at The Gazebo Cafe, Brian and I decided we would share a whole sandwich and accompany it with some onion rings and cheese fries. Good grief! There was enough food for 4 starvin’ folk! The muffuletta alone started with a 10" round foccacia bread. Sliced horizontally in half, the bread was then stuffed with meat and cheese and an olive oil salad of green and black olives, carrots and bits of cauliflower. Coupling that with an earthy live version of The Animals' "House of the Rising Sun" made it one delicious way to delve into N'awlins!

Bourbon Street, of course, was the highlight of the night. A group of us started with a spectacular dinner at the Red Fish Grill. Never have I tasted such a succulent blend of textures and spices as was prepared for my Hickory Red Fish dinner. Even my husband who is a definite hamburger and fry guy, enjoyed every bit of his Wahoo!

The rest of our party headed back to the hotel while Brian and I made our first nocturnal sojourn through this historic district. It was Saturday night and eight of the 14 blocks of Bourbon Street's French Quarter was lighted and coming alive! The balconies were becoming crowded with patrons dangling beads they were anxious to distribute. (The custom is a reward of beads for any girl daring enough to expose her breasts.) Tempting as it is to think about getting into the spirit of things, it is only fleeting. Surely, this would come back to haunt me.

Ever seen the walking, dancing Kool-Aid pitcher? I pointed at a corner bar and with a now needed raised voice asked Brian "Is that a walking hand grenade?" By golly, it was! Apparently an explosive advertisement for a popular shot drink sold amongst a carrier of red, white and blue test tubes. Seems to me there might be something wrong with that, but maybe I'm just 30 plus years out of step.

On another corner a man walked curiously around an elegant statue. Statue? No - mime. He touched her hand chattering with amazement to his wife. I interrupted by telling him he's not supposed to touch. "She's a mime and you should probably drop a dollar in her box to make up for your faux pas!" I proceeded then to take a dollar out and dramatically pay for her performance. She took my hand and sprinkled what I guessed to be mime dust in my hand with illustrated instructions to blow it in the wind. The man and woman enjoyed it all with wonder. They were from New Jersey, she said. "Obviously a long way from the cow pasture!"

A fresh stretch of balcony and I watched as a young woman arched her back to the boys above and exposed, might I say, some very large and voluptuous “tits” (street jargon). I'm grabbing Brian, "Did you see her?!" as she was showered with beads. He missed her! We walk by and I heard her shouting up "Show me your beads!" I tried to turn Brian. "Oh my gosh, she's doing it again!" He saw only her reward. Too much fun!

Music or sexy young women beckoned at each doorway. Back down the road and its getting louder and more raucous. A sign went up in the middle of it all. "Repent! Repent! Your sins!"

Restroom time encouraged us to enter a jazz house. I asked and was directed to a couple doors being loosely guarded by a man and woman. The lady opened the door and followed me in. The meaning of her presence didn't come to me until I came out of the stall. A squirt of some of the worst smelling soap at my hands while my attention was being drawn to a tip jar. A suggestive dollar hung over its edge. Rummaging for change reminded me of an experience in Mexico that was downright blackmail. If you didn’t have any tissue of your own, you were at their mercy!

One last pass through the party. The boys were leaning way over cat calling to all the girls to "show us your tits"! Those needing to repent were telling those wanting them to, to mind their own business. A girl's mechanical legs looked destined to swing in and out of Big Daddy's window for eternity. Novelty shops brightly advertised the voodoo and masks and vampire blood and boas. The music was down right energizing!

Next morning at breakfast, the chatter spanned beyond Bourbon Street.

You can gamble at Harrah's. It's right up the street from the Marriott. In fact, one of the instructors at the convention had been there and won $15,000 on a penny slot! What?! Apparently, if you play all options, it costs $4.00 to "pull the arm". That might be 400 pennies, but the potential is 1,500,000 of them! While he was waiting for his money, he hit a bonus $900 on another penny slot machine! Unbelievable.

A movie is currently being filmed right outside the Marriott on Canal Street. The production crew would block off the road and send a trolley down the stretch with people waving and screaming for no apparent reason. 12 Rounds is currently the name of it. My husband is sure that he was captured crossing the street at the perfect time and is destined to be a superstar.

The conference sponsors came to New Orleans to help stimulate the economy. Touched by the people, their culture, and recent plight, they embraced a local high school; contributing heavily to their lives and their education. It was a moving and soulful demonstration of extended community.

A late comer to breakfast found a seat next to me. I turned to look and smiled broadly as I recognized her as the girl with the great tits.

Phew! At least it wasn't me this time!

Skunked!

If you've ever flown, you have an airline story. If you've tried to fly these last couple weeks, you have horror stories of being left stranded for hours when Skybus chose to drop out of the race without notice, or the FAA decided to crack down for real on MD80 planes that had ties spaced 1/4" too far apart around some wires warranting failed inspections.

I've been fortunate enough to have a job that has had the fringe benefit of travel. I've been places I may never have ventured to on my own. Chicago is definitely my kind of town! Vancouver is an unbelievable experience. You can't vacation better than Los Cabos, Mexico where I celebrated my 50th birthday drinking Sammy Hagar's tequila in Sammy Hagar's bar, Cabo Wabo!

After a 15 year hiatus, my husband, Brian, and I returned to New Orleans for an extended business weekend.

The trip down went without a hitch. I try hard to listen and watch as the stewardess' drone on about passenger rules and regulations while using visual instructions to show how to buckle and unbuckle a seat belt. Definitely, you cannot smoke on a plane. Who doesn't know that? No matter where you are, you can no longer smoke unless specifically designated. Not my rule, but one the federal government is expected to enforce. And enforce they will if you smoke on a plane; especially if you try to put your cigarette out in the restroom's trash compartment forcing the stewardess to extinguish the fire that is ignited. I recall wondering who in the world would attempt to smoke in a plane this day and age. Well, I don't know who it is, but heard a first hand account of someone who's plane was forced down due to these very circumstances. Everyone suffered from it with a whopping 18 hour delay to their destination. Now, that's a bad day; though a great travel tale!

But, back to my adventure. On the way home from a terrific time in New Orleans (A Little "Big Easy"), there were three of us traveling together. We were informed that New Orleans still had staffing problems so we needed to be 3 hours early to get processed. Within 30 minutes of our arrival, we were sitting at our gate already informed that though our plane to Memphis was on time, we'd be delayed an hour for the final leg to Columbus. Two hours plus was left at our disposal. Our traveling companion, Tim, used that time to identify a suspicious character and scope out his activities. I preferred to slink down in my seat and catch up on emails. I did see the gentleman in question on the plane though as I was boarding. Dark, sinister eyes looked hard into mine. Tim had gotten to me!

Once in Memphis we were elated to see that our connecting flight was not delayed after all! We scurried through the unusually quiet halls of an airport to our new gate. A few minutes before we were to board is when it began. First the expected 40 minute delay, then another hour. More disconcerting than the detainments was when the customer service agent asked "Does anyone see any planes in the air?" And in her next breath our flight was cancelled altogether.

They drove their herd of commuters to various customer service counters to discuss available options. Separated from Tim, we were finally being helped by a young lady who immediately informed us, without a smile, that she was not clocked in and only stopped to help. Tim flew by hollering that he'd just gotten booked on a plane taking off in a few minutes to Columbus via Cincinnati. Excited, I asked our agent if we, too, could get on that flight. After a few precious minutes of silence except for the occasional tapping of keys, I inquired what our odds were. She could get us from here to Cincinnati, but not on to Columbus. Disappointed, I asked what's next. Well, come to find out we had already been booked by another agent for a new flight. I was going direct to Columbus, while Brian detoured through Detroit. "That's not good," I said (surely with exasperation). "We need to travel together." And perhaps with just a bit more frustration, I might have accusatorily asked "Who would separate us?" This merely elicited the story that she was not clocked in but had merely stopped by to help. She transferred me to the Detroit agenda and printed off our tickets just as Tim was back to say that the miracle flight he had gotten had left the gate before he could breathlessly arrive. The agent next to us sympathized immediately and re-ticketed him on our flight. "First Class!" he exclaimed with glee. Heading to our new gate together, I looked at our tickets. Heck, Brian was in first class also! Cool, but wait! What's this? Row 18? Our teller knew full well Brian and I were husband and wife! Even though the seat was obviously available for Tim, she blatantly chose to keep us apart.

I told the agent at the new gate what had happened. She chuckled and said she would see what she could do. We settled in for another wait. There was one announcement only about the threat level of the airline sector being Orange. Brian and I quietly discussed whether that was new or if it had been orange for a long time. Maybe we always just heard when it turned orange which is High but not when it lowered. We were already uncomfortable because of the suspicious character earlier in the day.

I sat first class with Brian on the way to Detroit. Just being on the move was the true highlight here. Did it mean we would be home any sooner? Even though we flew over and bypassed Columbus to get to Detroit, we were now only a 4 hour drive instead of an 8 hour drive should we need to change our plans. Take 2 through another series of delays. Meantime I inquired at the counter about the seating arrangements for the last leg home. The agent said she could move us together in the back of the bus (I'm now in row 25) but there was nothing up front. I decided to let Brian stay in first class for his comfort. It was a short ride.

Last to board, I was taken aback to see my 2 travel companions sitting with no one next to them. In fact, there were 8 seats open in first class. I just shook my head. Really now, what was the point?

It was noted in the paper a day or so later that enhanced security had been put into place that day we returned when pipe bombs were found on an arriving gentleman passenger in Florida. This served to cause a ripple throughout the airline schedules.

I might have said at the time that I had been skunked by the customer service agent who wasn't clocked in. But, yesterday, my dog decided to sniff the derrière of a real live skunk. I've a whole new respect for the terminology.

Like I said though, everyone who has ever flown has a story to tell.