Category: blog

My part-time job is a lot like my full-time job if my full-time job was featured in a movie scene.

 

I did the math the other night, both with an actual calculator and in my head, and both jobs are sixes, times two. I’ve got twelve years until I can retire at my full-time job and I’ve been at my part-time job for 12 years. I did the math again and, at the part-time job, I make less hourly than the amount of time I’ve been there. Clearly, I should have done the math a long time ago – this is not my most profitable option.

 

Anyway, I digress, let’s get back to the part about the movie scene. Technology is key in this day and age and, as a result, I know several programs and software systems. More importantly, I know the right people to call when I’m having problems with any of my programs and software systems. This is especially important at my part-time job when my port locks, but let’s first talk about what happens prior to it locking.

 

I DOS work part-time. Literally, I work on a disk operating system, more affectionately known as DOS. If you didn’t use computers until the late nineties you might not be aware of this fine technology. If you did, you might understand why my employer still uses the system. Emphasis on might. DOS takes a lot of keystrokes to complete a task. You’d like to update your ten-digit phone number? No problem, that will take a minimum of 35 keystrokes. Have a question about a recent purchase? 400 keystrokes later I might have an answer.

 

While recently assisting a customer she inquired about what I was typing. “Your phone number, as requested. Do you feel like you’re in a movie scene at a government office?” I replied. “Yes, actually, I do.” “DOS, it’s what I do. Or, should I say, it’s what I DOS. Makes sense, the eighties are making a comeback,” I informed her. “That’s true,” she replied and asked, “Where can someone get banana clips these days?” I made a few suggestions but, unfortunately, couldn’t do a quick internet search for her for two reasons 1) my port had locked – two many people in her DOS account at one time and 2) DOS only, no access to the web. I’m not the best at math but those two reasons seem reason enough to move to a new system.

Several years ago, perhaps eight, I purchased a three-year membership at a local fitness center. The package included a few appointments with a personal trainer and, as an eager fitee, I went to all of my appointments with her. Then, I stopped going. Going to the gym was so much easier when I went with Har and we would get frozen yogurt immediately after – partners and treats are great fitness motivators.

After three years, my membership expired and I surprisingly received an option to renew my membership for an annual fee of $30.99. I love a good deal, so I mailed in a check. Then, I went to the gym once, maybe twice, that year. Like clockwork, the next September, I got the option to renew again for the same low price. Every year I renew and every year I rarely go. “I don’t want them to think I’m taking it for granted,” I told Tree who purchased a three-year package last year. He has been going a lot more frequently than me and invited me to join him and Awkward for a workout.

It had been a while since I’d been there – at least six months, if not a year – so I agreed to join them. I arrived to find Tree in the free weights section. “I’m heading over to the machines,” I told him and added, “Check this out (pointing to my love handles). I don’t remember seeing these last time I wore this shirt.”  I then made my way to the machines to work off the love.

Being that this was my first gym visit since my surgery, I couldn’t lift as much weight as I have in the past. I also noticed a major indentation on my left shoulder as I would lift. Tree came over to join me and I pointed it out to him. “So,” he replied. “So, now I can’t compete in a shoulder contest,” I told him. “Were you planning on doing something like that?” he asked. “No,” I replied, “But I can’t now if the opportunity ever presents.”

I had seen someone using the ab machines and thought that looked like something I could tackle, plus, there were no mirrors nearby to sadden me with my reflection. Tree joined me and, a few minutes later, so did Awkward. “Look how sad your fat is,” Tree told Awkward. Awkward laughed and told me, “He was commenting on my sweat earlier and I told him it was my fat crying.” I looked at Awkward, who was sweaty, then looked at myself. “Hmmm, like me, my fat doesn’t have any emotions.” Sweat free Tree piped in, “Neither does mine.”

After 30 minutes we decided to call it a day. Or, in my book, a year – don’t want to take it for granted.

The book for this month’s book club was Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield. As is often the case with the club, some people read all of the book , some read some, and some read none. Fortunately, all came prepared to celebrate the book driven theme: the eighties.

 

Being in a hurry between work and club, I rushed home, threw the Riunite and Arbor Mist in the freezer, wrapped some pigs in a blanket and threw them in the oven, then went downstairs to assess my costume box. A few minutes later I was donning a fitted navy sequined dress with shoulder pads, blue and pink eyeshadow, gold heels and a side ponytail hairpiece. I called this ensemble, ‘school dance.’

 

I arrived to find the host decked out in day-glo fishnet leggings, a tutu, a shirt tied in a knot at the waist, oodles of bangles, a lace headband and crimped hair. As the other guests arrived so did the flashbacks. We all gathered around the counter where we had access to some of the best eighties snacks: Doritos, pigs in a blanket, Reese’s Pieces, Skittles, Chee-tos (they were hyphenated in the 80s), and other fine assortments. Our drink selection was equally as promising: Riunite, Arbor Mist, Boones Farm, Bartles & Jaymes, TaB, Rum, and other wines. Missing from the picture were several of our club members and several prime drinks from the eighties: Seagram’s Wine Coolers, Orange BANG!, Slurpees and the ever popular Orange Julius.

 

As we listened to the great tunes of the eighties and sipped on our headache inducing beverages, we came to a few conclusions:

 

1. Eighties music is great.

2. The fact that anyone got laid or drunk is surprising – the clothes weren’t flattering and the drinks were like punch.

 

It’s no surprise, however, that a common term used to emphasis that something should not or will no longer be happening references the eighties. 86ed.  Mmmm hmmm. Put your shoulder pads and punch-based beverages away, they’re so last three decades ago, so 86ed.

Rated R used to make fun of me because I didn’t watch TV. When I spent the weekend at her house, however, the joke was on her because I was enamored with their Antenna TV. I could have watched for hours. Primarily because the public television station was running a Lawrence Welk marathon. I was in heaven. Rated R was in hell.

 

“I would rather stare at a blank wall in silence,” Rated R told me as I snapped photo after photo of Lawrence’s Musical Family. When the sister act came on I informed Rated R and Cream Of Tartar, “Lawrence has inspired so many.” We then showed Cream Of Tartar one of the Saturday Night Live Finger Lakes skits – he was mesmerized. “There’s no looking away from the little hands,” he told us. So true, so true. In fact, for me, there was no looking away from any of Lawrence Welk. You know you’re watching TV magic when the shows main sponsors are companies pushing sleep aids, laxatives, denture cleanser, aftershave and multivitamins – to name a few.

 

Rated R and Cream Of Tartar, however, disagreed. As a non-musical family they were very ready to change the channel to something more upbeat, like Dateline. As popular as the Champagne Lady might be, it’s hard to compete with ‘baffling crimes and compelling real-life dramas.’

 

Sadly, just like forty plus years ago, Lawrence Welk lost out to the younger crowd. Good night, good night, until the next public television station marathon Lawrence and, “though its always sweet sorrow to part, you know you’ll always remain in my heart.”

Rated R and I spend a lot of time in the outdoors. By ‘outdoors,’ I mean the exterior areas of our homes – the garage, yard, stoop and patio.

 

While outdoors, we enjoy observing, critiquing, drinking, eating, and holding yard sales. We typically keep to ourselves, but often invite non-creepy neighbors and friends to join us. For whatever reason, we also end up with a random dog or cat in our mix. Bitches beget bitches. These animals generally come alone – sans owner – and stay with us for several hours.

 

Most recently, while holding a yard sale at Rated R’s new home, a little brown dog joined our ranks. He stuck around all day, played with potential buyers, and was patient with the wee one. We tried out several names with him – Hank, Huck, Finn – the name that seemed to work best, however, was Knock Knock. Knock Knock. Who is it? Exactly.

 

Rated R was growing quite fond of Knock Knock and was seriously considering keeping him. “You know, they say pets pick their owners,” she told me. “Looks like you’ve got a new dog,” I replied. “I really want him,” she said then sent a text to Cream Of Tartar advising him of our yard sale gains – $40 and a new dog. Because Knock Knock didn’t have any tags, Cream Of Tartar suggested we phone animal services so they could retrieve him. Reluctantly, we did so.

 

About 40 minutes later Knock Knock was put in the back of a patrol car and was headed to the clink clink. It was sad to see him go – he’d been a good three hour companion. “I wish I had taken a picture of him in the back of the police car,” Rated R told Cream Of Tartar and I later. If I had a dollar for every time I heard that I wouldn’t have to hold yard sales. We’re not sure what will come of Knock Knock. Hopefully, like some people we know, he’ll get a couple of hot meals and be released on Monday.

Now that I’ve got my retainers and whiskey back I’m ready to take on the world again. I would have done it without them,  but what fun would that have been? I would have been sober, with crooked teeth, and without the lisp that Tree loves so much. The lisp is not from drinking, it is from straightening. I’d share a video with you to prove it, but Tree accidentally deleted it – one of his biggest regrets in life.

 

With all of my belongings back home I decided to check my box. As luck would have it, it was full – the result of me not requesting a mail hold, not to be confused with a male hold. Or, is it? Wanting me to experience a male hold, Sleepless recently found someone for me to date. “I just met a sexy mailman. I want you to go out with him and me and Ice Cream Man.” She went on, “He was pretty cool. But maybe the ‘mail’ gives him a cooler rating than he really is. Could’ve been the uniform.:) He’s 35 and has an 11-year-old daughter. And did I mention he’s a mailman?!”

 

I’m not big on being lined up or dating people with kids, but I like meeting new people and Sleepless was pretty excited about this, so I agreed to go if he called her. Some might say I’m a hypocrite for not wanting to date someone with kids, but that’s not it at all. I’ve dated and married (that one time I was married to that one guy) people with kids, and now I just want to be like the mail – priority.

 

Maybe dating a mailman is a good idea. If he is anything like his employer he will bring free supplies to my door, deliver (free) on Saturday, pickup packages for me (again, free), provide friendly phone service, and nearby service at the Post Office (naughty). One question weighs heavily on my mind: Will he deliver? Will this end in signature confirmation or return to sender? I don’t know, but I do know this, Sleepless will track, confirm and restrict delivery if necessary.

 

 

 

 

With the heavily tagged bag in my possession I headed to the home of what I assumed was an elderly couple to retrieve my luggage. I immediately phoned Q to apprise her of the situation.

 

“I’m headed to do a, what do you call it in the biz? A drop,” I informed her. “Did you check to see what was in their bag?” she asked like a good investigator. “No, but that would have been a good idea. With my luck it is a suitcase of drugs that DEA has been tracking.” I replied and added, “Oh well, I really need my retainers.” “You may need a retainer for an attorney,” she quipped. I had no idea one could pay an attorney with a tooth device. “That makes sense. There are a lot of crooked attorneys out there who need to straighten up and fly right. I know I do, I want straight teeth and my baggage bag – this is not flying right!” I replied.

 

I also kept YumYummy abreast of the situation. “Let’s hope he didn’t ‘sample’ your underwear,” she said. “I’m actually hoping to find him in my underwear, his wife in my bikini, and the Crown Royal open and on the counter.” “Better for you to have the Crown Royal, a guy in your undies and another guy in your bikini,” she advised. That’s true because that sounds like something Tree and FatGirl have done at my house so –  a scenario with which I am very familiar.

 

Sadly, rather,  fortunately considering the ‘players,’ unlike Goldilocks, nobody had been messing around with my belongings. I arrived to find an elderly woman, with a lot of plastic surgery and wearing a floor length white house dress, waiting for me at the door, my suitcase by her side. “We just got back from a cruise and have been relaxing all day. Haven’t even had time to look at our bags.”

 

First world problems.  The only thing they’ve done today, aside from doing nothing, was sleep. Luckily, they weren’t drinkers, had good teeth, and didn’t appear to be drug runners. Actually, they were old and just got back from a cruise – there’s a good chance that heavily tagged left behind bag was packed full of pharmaceuticals. Damn. Glad I don’t the facts – I don’t need any extra ‘baggage.’

 

 

 

Once I arrived home and the no baggage situation hit home (literally), I started to realize how much I had lost. My two main priorities were:

 

1) my retainers

2) my recently attained maple whiskey

 

Everything else could be replaced but replacing these items would be problematic.

 

I had braces over twenty years ago and lost my retainer some time in between now and then. About 11 years ago I begged my insurance company to approve a new top and bottom retainer. My begging paid off and my orthodontist made a new set for me. The new trend was putting stickers on them, so MiniMe selected a villain for the top retainer and butterflies for the bottom. A year later, my orthodontist died.

 

A dead orthodontist and a tough insurance plan make replacing retainers (with cool stickers) very difficult. Having no baggage just got costly for me.

 

I live in a place where getting any sort of specialty alcohol can prove cumbersome. Thus, if my maple whiskey, I mean baggage, is not found I stand a chance of not tasting it or something like it until I travel again. Translation: I’ll have to wait at least a month or so. First world problems are like alcohol, major depressants.

 

About 12 hours after not retrieving my baggage and not hearing from the airport I decided to take matters into my own hands and return to the airport for a follow-up investigation.

 

My longing for straight teeth and sweet spirits proved fruitful. A baggage service representative allowed me to peruse the bags in custody, I identified my baggage doppelganger (the same old bag with the tags that was left on the carousel the night prior), and we called the owner.

 

“Hello, just checking to make sure you have all of your luggage?”
“Yes, we have all of our bags.”
“All of them?”

“Yes, all of them.”

“Have you opened any of them?”
“No.”
“Do you mind opening the small black carry-on and checking the contents.”
“Oh, my, this isn’t our bag.”

 

I knew it. Some old bag has my black bag.

It was a breezy, muggy day when I opted to leave Canada and walk to America.

 

Tourists swarmed the aptly named Clifton Hill Tourist area. Rightly so, cotton candy had been marked down from $3.75 to $2.00. A good deal any day of the week.

 

Being that it was Labor Day in America and Labour Day in Canada – the one ‘work’ holiday shared by both countries – the borders were crowded.

 
Canada being recognizing this day years ago as t time to campaign for improved wages and workplace conditions. America was more focused on the great successes achieved economically. Regardless of why both countries chose to celebrate this day, the focus is now more vacation than work related. For those vacationing, it is a great day. For those working, even at the cotton candy stand, it is miserable.

 

Just ask U.S. Border Patrol at one of the oldest Border Patrol Stations in America – Niagara Falls. The main reason this station was erected in 1924 was to prohibit the smuggling of alcohol and moonshine. Coincidence that I had Canadian Maple Whiskey in my bag? Maybe.

Like in France, I declared things, such as my ass. I’ve been packing France in my pants for the last four years – most expensive souvenir ever. One thing I can declare, with great clarity, is that U.S. Border Patrol agents are not a welcoming bunch. The first sign is the barbwire surrounding the station. Second sign is the door, “That must remain shut until I tell you to open it!” Third, is the first question they pose, “You an American?” Fourth, the strange questions they pose, “How did you get here?” “I walked.” “Why?” Considering this station only serves pedestrians, this question seems a bit unfair.

I realize Border Patrol’s jobs aren’t great and probably pay very little for what they deal with on a regular basis. Thus, their work is truly a labor of love. It’s just too bad they can’t focus more on the love than the labor. If it weren’t for love, we wouldn’t have labor…and delivery…and none of us would be here.