I am not looking to be congratulated, or to make a political statement or to comment on the state of our society.
I am writing this because it is something that happened to me, and I can't seem to write about anything else until I put this out.
A few days ago, I went directly from my pilates class to the supermarket across from the gym to pick up a few things. When I got on line, a couple in their late 20s were in the process of purchasing their groceries. The man was standing at the bagging station and the woman was studying the computer price read-out. I heard her say, "I thought the cereal was on sale." She turned to the man for instructions about what to do. He told her to put the several boxes of cereal back. Then she held up a can of Spam and questioned the price of that.
It was obvious that this couple could not afford to buy even cheap food staples.
I suddenly felt embarrassed to be wearing my exercise outfit and carrying the wonderful Gucci bag that Edward had so generously presented me with for Valentine's Day.
I imagined that they were the working poor -- people who made too much money to qualify for food stamps but not enough to adequately feed their family.
I decided that I had to do something to help them, but I was also concerned that in my desire to be generous, I would do something that the couple found humiliating. I didn't have a lot of time to think about it either.
I turned to the woman and told her that I wanted to pay for the boxes of cereal. She smiled at me, immediately said thank you, and I could see visible signs of relief.
I imagined that there were kids at home, and they would now have their favorite cereals to eat in the morning.
The man walked away without a word, and I assume that I did indeed humiliate him or perhaps cause the couple to later argue about this incident. An added element is that I am Caucasian and they are African American.
I tried to make it better by telling the woman that she will do this for someone else someday.
Maybe that made it worse. It was only $15 worth of cereal, for God's sake.
She paid for her $60 food order with a credit card, and I thought maybe I should just pay for that as well. I didn't, not because I didn't want to spend the money, but because I didn't want to make her feel more indebted to me.
She couldn't have been nicer, and there were few words between us, but it was an awkward experience for all of us, even the cashier. After the couple left, the cashier told me how I did a nice thing.
She was, however, so unsettled that she forgot to give me my change.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
It's a Home Depot Kind of Day
We are now in our third week of the bathroom renovation and are approaching grouting of the tile. To this end, Cash, the contractor, told me today to buy two boxes of non-sand grout. "Me?" I asked. He said that no way, no how, was he going to pick the color.
Wow. Spoken like a man who has post traumatic stress disorder from having once picked a bad grout.
So I trundled myself off to my local Home Depot where I met Mike, the helpful floor guy. We looked at grout samples next to my marble sample and decided that only nutmeg colored grout would do.
Horrors. There was only one box of non-sand nutmeg left, and I required two.
Not knowing how quickly the grout was needed, I cried out, (literally, I cried out so loudly that another Home Depot guy came over to assist) "I'm desperate."
"Nope. Only the one box."
"Can you put a rush on it?"
"We don't rush anything at Home Depot."
That really begged for a snappy retort, but instead of spending my time thinking of one I asked if he could call a nearby Home Depot to see if they had the grout.
Eureka.
So I fired up the red Mercedes and headed over to the Port Chester Home Depot where they had plenty of the stuff.
I arrived home to find that Cash, the contractor, had forgotton to mention that I needed to buy sanded grout for the shower floor.
I figured this was retribution for Edward having forgotton to buy Debit's coffee this morning.
Debit, the guy who does all the real work, was really very nice about it, even after I suggested that he must have pissed off Edward to get this kind of treatment. But I actually fixed the problem by calling Edward at a meeting and getting him to leave the meeting so that I could scold him by phone and tell him to damn well get the coffee on his way home. Debit must remain in an agreeable frame of mind.
So after Cash's pronouncement about the need for more grout, the Mercedes and I headed back to the first Home Depot, and while I was driving, I got to thinking of a sweet story about Phil in the paint department. One day, I wanted to get a can of spray paint which is kept locked up to avoid kids using it for graffitti purposes. One is supposed to show proof that they are over 18 in order to buy it. For obvious reasons, (just stop laughing, now) no one has ever asked for my i.d. This day, an earnest, serious, young man helped me select my spray paint, and as a joke I said, "Don't you want to see my i.d.?" He looked me straight in the eyes and said absolutely seriously, "Boy, I would love to see your i.d."
I paused and then said something really witty.
Well, actually, I said something ungrammatical that made no sense whatsoever but I wanted to say something witty.
He then said, "I'm Phil, and I'd like to help you with anything. Please call me. I'm Phil. Phil in paint."
Maybe, constant trips to Home Depot aren't so bad.
Wow. Spoken like a man who has post traumatic stress disorder from having once picked a bad grout.
So I trundled myself off to my local Home Depot where I met Mike, the helpful floor guy. We looked at grout samples next to my marble sample and decided that only nutmeg colored grout would do.
Horrors. There was only one box of non-sand nutmeg left, and I required two.
Not knowing how quickly the grout was needed, I cried out, (literally, I cried out so loudly that another Home Depot guy came over to assist) "I'm desperate."
"Nope. Only the one box."
"Can you put a rush on it?"
"We don't rush anything at Home Depot."
That really begged for a snappy retort, but instead of spending my time thinking of one I asked if he could call a nearby Home Depot to see if they had the grout.
Eureka.
So I fired up the red Mercedes and headed over to the Port Chester Home Depot where they had plenty of the stuff.
I arrived home to find that Cash, the contractor, had forgotton to mention that I needed to buy sanded grout for the shower floor.
I figured this was retribution for Edward having forgotton to buy Debit's coffee this morning.
Debit, the guy who does all the real work, was really very nice about it, even after I suggested that he must have pissed off Edward to get this kind of treatment. But I actually fixed the problem by calling Edward at a meeting and getting him to leave the meeting so that I could scold him by phone and tell him to damn well get the coffee on his way home. Debit must remain in an agreeable frame of mind.
So after Cash's pronouncement about the need for more grout, the Mercedes and I headed back to the first Home Depot, and while I was driving, I got to thinking of a sweet story about Phil in the paint department. One day, I wanted to get a can of spray paint which is kept locked up to avoid kids using it for graffitti purposes. One is supposed to show proof that they are over 18 in order to buy it. For obvious reasons, (just stop laughing, now) no one has ever asked for my i.d. This day, an earnest, serious, young man helped me select my spray paint, and as a joke I said, "Don't you want to see my i.d.?" He looked me straight in the eyes and said absolutely seriously, "Boy, I would love to see your i.d."
I paused and then said something really witty.
Well, actually, I said something ungrammatical that made no sense whatsoever but I wanted to say something witty.
He then said, "I'm Phil, and I'd like to help you with anything. Please call me. I'm Phil. Phil in paint."
Maybe, constant trips to Home Depot aren't so bad.
Barnie Tees are Here!
Are you tired of wearing last year's leftover's? Well, believe me, we're tired of seeing you in them. Get something better: Barnie Tees.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Edward Takes a Taxi
Yesterday, in the cab ride over to Madison Square Garden to see the Rangers play Tampa Bay, I got to thinking about Edward's pecadillos about taking cabs.
For example, he had the cab driver stop about a block away from the Garden instead of driving up to it. When I asked him why we can never get out exactly where we want to be, Edward said, "what, you can't walk a block?"
Now, normally, I would be a patsy to this type of abuse and let my question go, but this time I persisted.
Finally, Edward admitted that he wanted to save 50 cents.
So this is why I am forced to walk through ice and mud and God's knows what. To save a half a buck?
When it's time to leave, it is also not permissable to get a cab from the street that you happen to be on. And Edward is really a stickler on this one. When we got out of the Garden, he said let's walk over to 6th Avenue to hail a cab. Ok, that strategy makes sense, since every idiot in a Ranger shirt was trying to get a cab on 7th, but then, as usual, when we got to 6th, he said, "Ok, let's go to 5th, and if that doesn't work, we'll go over to Madison."
Why bother, when we can just walk home?
That reminded me of one very, very, very, listen to me, it was a damn cold night when we went out to dinner with Cheeks-A-Flying (CAK) and his lovely wife, the Queen of Jurisprudence, Mommy. We emerged from the restaurant to a blast of frigid air and an available cab right in front of us. When Edward announced that we needed to walk at least one block over to get a different cab, because this one was headed in the wrong direction, Mommy, who may be a shark in the courtroom, but is a total sweetheart outside of it, actually showed irritation. "So, he'll turn around," she yelled with such a sneer that we were all taken aback and dutifully marched single file into the cab without further discussion. Way to go, Mommy.
It was kid's day at the hockey game yesterday, and some of the kids were finding it a particular challenge to go to the bathroom wearing their Ranger apparel. I could hear one little girl, whose Ranger shirt landed close to her ankles, complain to her friend that you had to hold your shirt way up high or else you got wet. I'll have to remember this the next time I go to a formal event.
In order to celebrate kid's day, the Garden handed out "posters" which were actually 11" X 14" pieces of glossy paper with a picture of the Ranger players printed on them. Only those younger than 13 were allowed to get one. Geez, how generous. Then, during the third period, the Garden announcer, as well as the Jumbotron, stated that it was time for the t-shirt toss. Needing more gym attire, I happily waited for the t-shirts to fly, and the possibility that I might nab one. What actually happened? -- nothing. Nary a t-shirt was tossed, not even a used one.
The Rangers lost, but mostly I wondered if Tampa Bay Lightening fans get better treatment at their arena than we get at the Garden, especially given the price of the tickets.
For example, he had the cab driver stop about a block away from the Garden instead of driving up to it. When I asked him why we can never get out exactly where we want to be, Edward said, "what, you can't walk a block?"
Now, normally, I would be a patsy to this type of abuse and let my question go, but this time I persisted.
Finally, Edward admitted that he wanted to save 50 cents.
So this is why I am forced to walk through ice and mud and God's knows what. To save a half a buck?
When it's time to leave, it is also not permissable to get a cab from the street that you happen to be on. And Edward is really a stickler on this one. When we got out of the Garden, he said let's walk over to 6th Avenue to hail a cab. Ok, that strategy makes sense, since every idiot in a Ranger shirt was trying to get a cab on 7th, but then, as usual, when we got to 6th, he said, "Ok, let's go to 5th, and if that doesn't work, we'll go over to Madison."
Why bother, when we can just walk home?
That reminded me of one very, very, very, listen to me, it was a damn cold night when we went out to dinner with Cheeks-A-Flying (CAK) and his lovely wife, the Queen of Jurisprudence, Mommy. We emerged from the restaurant to a blast of frigid air and an available cab right in front of us. When Edward announced that we needed to walk at least one block over to get a different cab, because this one was headed in the wrong direction, Mommy, who may be a shark in the courtroom, but is a total sweetheart outside of it, actually showed irritation. "So, he'll turn around," she yelled with such a sneer that we were all taken aback and dutifully marched single file into the cab without further discussion. Way to go, Mommy.
It was kid's day at the hockey game yesterday, and some of the kids were finding it a particular challenge to go to the bathroom wearing their Ranger apparel. I could hear one little girl, whose Ranger shirt landed close to her ankles, complain to her friend that you had to hold your shirt way up high or else you got wet. I'll have to remember this the next time I go to a formal event.
In order to celebrate kid's day, the Garden handed out "posters" which were actually 11" X 14" pieces of glossy paper with a picture of the Ranger players printed on them. Only those younger than 13 were allowed to get one. Geez, how generous. Then, during the third period, the Garden announcer, as well as the Jumbotron, stated that it was time for the t-shirt toss. Needing more gym attire, I happily waited for the t-shirts to fly, and the possibility that I might nab one. What actually happened? -- nothing. Nary a t-shirt was tossed, not even a used one.
The Rangers lost, but mostly I wondered if Tampa Bay Lightening fans get better treatment at their arena than we get at the Garden, especially given the price of the tickets.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Next Time Reebok
The Wildlife Conservation Society run is approaching (see blog post, Barnie Runs for Narcissism, Merchandise and Penguins) and in order to prepare myself properly, I realized that I needed, of course, to go shopping.
I had already bought a sport watch. And now, what I really wanted was a pair of stilettos and a leather jacket. But I couldn't see how even I could rationalize buying these items in the service of running (but I'm still working on that one). So, I went over to the Nike store at the mall.
I was looking forward to this experience as I had had a lovely time speaking by phone with Tina, at Nike Support, for what seemed like all morning, about my malfunctioning sportband sport watch which turned out to be, surprise, surprise, a malfunctioning me, not the watch. And I can't even blame the problems on Edward, the hubby (but I'm still working on that one).
Tina at Nike found it very funny that I hadn't figured out where to properly place the sensor from the watch, and I was instead running with it under my heel, which was causing me all kinds of problems. She wondered how I ran anywhere with basically a big stone in my shoe. Every time I told her to stop laughing, she just guffawed some more. We had a grand old time, and happily at the end of it, my watch was working perfectly.
So I expected to have some more fun at the Nike store at the Mall.
No such luck.
For a very, very big store, there is not much merchandise and even less help. Or were they just avoiding me? And I couldn't even blame that on Edward since he wasn't with me (but I'm still working on that one). Finally, I flagged down a 12-year-old saleswoman, who turned out to be the manager, and asked for a particular style of running pants in my size. She directed one of her male sales staff to retrieve it for me. After a period of time where I swear I watched kids in the store grow and go off to college, I gave the manager a look that said I could do something newsworthy if I didn't get some service before my hair needed to be colored again. With fear in her eyes, she quickly hustled to the back room, which must be some kind of black hole, because she didn't emerge again until just before I was about to walk out, and I never saw the male underling again.
Eureka! She was holding a pair of running pants. But just as she handed them to me, she jerked them back stating that she had made a mistake and had selected the wrong style.
But, she was off again before I could say anything, and this time she was running. Her gait was good and she had a pretty good style, but she needed more pump in her arms.
Black hole again. Were salespeople being eaten up at the mall?
Finally, she returned but with nothing, and she wasn't even that sorry about it. She ran away.
I know Edward is behind this somehow.
I had already bought a sport watch. And now, what I really wanted was a pair of stilettos and a leather jacket. But I couldn't see how even I could rationalize buying these items in the service of running (but I'm still working on that one). So, I went over to the Nike store at the mall.
I was looking forward to this experience as I had had a lovely time speaking by phone with Tina, at Nike Support, for what seemed like all morning, about my malfunctioning sportband sport watch which turned out to be, surprise, surprise, a malfunctioning me, not the watch. And I can't even blame the problems on Edward, the hubby (but I'm still working on that one).
Tina at Nike found it very funny that I hadn't figured out where to properly place the sensor from the watch, and I was instead running with it under my heel, which was causing me all kinds of problems. She wondered how I ran anywhere with basically a big stone in my shoe. Every time I told her to stop laughing, she just guffawed some more. We had a grand old time, and happily at the end of it, my watch was working perfectly.
So I expected to have some more fun at the Nike store at the Mall.
No such luck.
For a very, very big store, there is not much merchandise and even less help. Or were they just avoiding me? And I couldn't even blame that on Edward since he wasn't with me (but I'm still working on that one). Finally, I flagged down a 12-year-old saleswoman, who turned out to be the manager, and asked for a particular style of running pants in my size. She directed one of her male sales staff to retrieve it for me. After a period of time where I swear I watched kids in the store grow and go off to college, I gave the manager a look that said I could do something newsworthy if I didn't get some service before my hair needed to be colored again. With fear in her eyes, she quickly hustled to the back room, which must be some kind of black hole, because she didn't emerge again until just before I was about to walk out, and I never saw the male underling again.
Eureka! She was holding a pair of running pants. But just as she handed them to me, she jerked them back stating that she had made a mistake and had selected the wrong style.
But, she was off again before I could say anything, and this time she was running. Her gait was good and she had a pretty good style, but she needed more pump in her arms.
Black hole again. Were salespeople being eaten up at the mall?
Finally, she returned but with nothing, and she wasn't even that sorry about it. She ran away.
I know Edward is behind this somehow.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Barnie and Edward and the Other Woman
Today is Sunday, and Debit, the major worker on our bathroom renovation, is living with his other family. We did, however, abandon him yesterday for some fun in the city.
For the wild, throw-caution-to-the-wind Edward and me, that entailed dinner and a movie.
At the movie theater, Edward asked for two tickets - one adult and one senior. The total came to $22.50, which Edward double-checked with the cashier and then paid while grumbling to me about the high price. We then moved on to the concession stand where Edward ordered a coffee, and I commented that healthy treats like raisins and nuts were actually being sold in addition to the evil ones. Edward responded, "It's not in the budget."
I very sweetly and kindly offered Edward some important advice:
"If I predecease you, and you're out on a date, I would recommend that you don't complain about the price of the movie tickets and that you offer your date whatever snack she wants without regard to price. Furthermore, I don't think you should wear that knit hat - ever."
We preceded to enter the theater, where the coming attractions had begun, and it was so dark that I literally had to feel my way along the seats for fear of falling. This was an effective technique, as the theater was mostly empty, until I hit something - a woman's head. I expressed my heartfelt apologies, which the woman was nice about accepting, and somehow we sat down.
Then Edward announced he had to go to the bathroom.
Would you go on a date with this man?
So he crawled out of the theater and went back to the lobby.
Knowing how difficult it would be for him to find his way back, I watched for Edward's return. Despite my flailing my arms and yelling his name, Edward managed to take his seat next to some other woman.
Was he "jumping the gun" so-to-speak and trying out dating just a little prematurely?
I yelled his name again, which forced him to leave the other woman and crawl along, grabbing seats down the aisle toward a seat next to me.
Then, the unthinkable happened.
He hit the same woman I had clocked. Only he gave her a really good whack. It was so hard, her head popped forward.
"Edward!" I said, "You hit the same woman I hit."
"Well, she has a big head."
Thankfully, just then, the movie started. What was it, you ask? "The Fighter," and it was very good.
For the wild, throw-caution-to-the-wind Edward and me, that entailed dinner and a movie.
At the movie theater, Edward asked for two tickets - one adult and one senior. The total came to $22.50, which Edward double-checked with the cashier and then paid while grumbling to me about the high price. We then moved on to the concession stand where Edward ordered a coffee, and I commented that healthy treats like raisins and nuts were actually being sold in addition to the evil ones. Edward responded, "It's not in the budget."
I very sweetly and kindly offered Edward some important advice:
"If I predecease you, and you're out on a date, I would recommend that you don't complain about the price of the movie tickets and that you offer your date whatever snack she wants without regard to price. Furthermore, I don't think you should wear that knit hat - ever."
We preceded to enter the theater, where the coming attractions had begun, and it was so dark that I literally had to feel my way along the seats for fear of falling. This was an effective technique, as the theater was mostly empty, until I hit something - a woman's head. I expressed my heartfelt apologies, which the woman was nice about accepting, and somehow we sat down.
Then Edward announced he had to go to the bathroom.
Would you go on a date with this man?
So he crawled out of the theater and went back to the lobby.
Knowing how difficult it would be for him to find his way back, I watched for Edward's return. Despite my flailing my arms and yelling his name, Edward managed to take his seat next to some other woman.
Was he "jumping the gun" so-to-speak and trying out dating just a little prematurely?
I yelled his name again, which forced him to leave the other woman and crawl along, grabbing seats down the aisle toward a seat next to me.
Then, the unthinkable happened.
He hit the same woman I had clocked. Only he gave her a really good whack. It was so hard, her head popped forward.
"Edward!" I said, "You hit the same woman I hit."
"Well, she has a big head."
Thankfully, just then, the movie started. What was it, you ask? "The Fighter," and it was very good.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The Seat is Too Big
Overdraft, the plumber, arrived yesterday. He didn't want to be bothered by silly interruptions - like Edward's question, "Who are you?" when he opened the door. Overdraft wanted to get right to that bathroom renovation.
Soon, I heard my name. "Where is the diverter?" Overdraft asked.
"Damned if I know."
After Overdraft explained exactly what I had purchased for the shower heads and why I needed this all important device, he pointed out that he doesn't do this work for a hobby, he is an actual plumber. I yelled to Edward, "There's a plumber in the house!" To which Edward responded, "Don't let him leave!"
Unfortunately, the guy at Klaff's has neglected to sell me a diverter.
No problem. Overdraft has a matching one in his truck that he is able to sell for a mere 200% mark-up.
Following our witty repartee, Overdraft returned to the bathroom where Debit was banging away. He closed the door after which there was a flurry of Polish being spoken.
I opened the door, "You know, Debit is my friend, and he is going to tell me what you said, after you leave. Right, Debit?" Though I am certain Debit had no real understanding of this statement, he nodded his head in agreement. He's back on my team.
Later, after Overdraft leaves with a partial payment and a promise to be back in two days once more work is completed, Debit asks me how big I want the seat in the shower.
Huh? I'm expected to make such a monumental decision?
I proceed to sit on everything in sight and measure, measure, measure.
Debit and I come to a decision about the seat. He builds it. I do paperwork. He calls Cash, the contractor. Uh oh.
Cash wants to speak with me. I take the phone. Cash is not there. Cash is again on the line. I say, "hello." Nothing. Cash calls back. I say, "Cash, do not hang up on me again." Nothing. Cash is there. "I didn't hang up, I'm in a bad cell area." Nothing. Cash is back on the line for good. "The seat is too big."
The seat is too big?
"How the hell do you know?"
"It's not like the one you had before."
Debit and I take turns sitting on it and having an overall zen experience with the seat.
"Go f---k yourself, Cash."
And so ends Day number 5.
Soon, I heard my name. "Where is the diverter?" Overdraft asked.
"Damned if I know."
After Overdraft explained exactly what I had purchased for the shower heads and why I needed this all important device, he pointed out that he doesn't do this work for a hobby, he is an actual plumber. I yelled to Edward, "There's a plumber in the house!" To which Edward responded, "Don't let him leave!"
Unfortunately, the guy at Klaff's has neglected to sell me a diverter.
No problem. Overdraft has a matching one in his truck that he is able to sell for a mere 200% mark-up.
Following our witty repartee, Overdraft returned to the bathroom where Debit was banging away. He closed the door after which there was a flurry of Polish being spoken.
I opened the door, "You know, Debit is my friend, and he is going to tell me what you said, after you leave. Right, Debit?" Though I am certain Debit had no real understanding of this statement, he nodded his head in agreement. He's back on my team.
Later, after Overdraft leaves with a partial payment and a promise to be back in two days once more work is completed, Debit asks me how big I want the seat in the shower.
Huh? I'm expected to make such a monumental decision?
I proceed to sit on everything in sight and measure, measure, measure.
Debit and I come to a decision about the seat. He builds it. I do paperwork. He calls Cash, the contractor. Uh oh.
Cash wants to speak with me. I take the phone. Cash is not there. Cash is again on the line. I say, "hello." Nothing. Cash calls back. I say, "Cash, do not hang up on me again." Nothing. Cash is there. "I didn't hang up, I'm in a bad cell area." Nothing. Cash is back on the line for good. "The seat is too big."
The seat is too big?
"How the hell do you know?"
"It's not like the one you had before."
Debit and I take turns sitting on it and having an overall zen experience with the seat.
"Go f---k yourself, Cash."
And so ends Day number 5.
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