Strange Prom Dress...Put It On And Dance.

By this time tomorrow, we’re supposed to experience the next level of democracy, one that’s almost socialism. Democrats bluster, “We do too have the votes to pass Obamacare.” Republicans jeer, “Oh, no, you ain’ got it like that.” We shall see. Overnight, five no votes turned to yes. On the other hand, four yes votes turned to no.

Obama’s worst enemies need to admit it; the man accomplished something. In the face of tremendous negative pressure, he’s brought the USA to the brink of profound change. Hillary Clinton poured her heart into this cause but had to give up. Her egg-headed reasonableness wasn’t enough. Obama did it with a combination of charm, slick politics, backroom deals, and nationwide barnstorming.

I think it’s too big, messy, and riddled with wierdness, but I also think we need it. Now. Some doctors will probably get mad, take their brains, and go play elsewhere. Our taxes will inflate.  Crazy ideas got tucked into the bill coming up for a vote today. But…we need a national health care system.

This bill reminds me of a prom dress I saw on a kid long ago. She was a heavy girl from a poverty situation but a boy asked her to the prom. She had no dress and couldn’t afford one. Several of her friends and relatives worked together; they went to Goodwill and bought a handful of garments, all for under ten dollars…a lot of money for them. Then they somehow cobbled together a prom dress from the fabric in those dresses. Did it fit? Not exactly. Was it pretty? Um…strange would be a better word. But she wore it, and she danced.

Hard line Republicans would tell her, “Y’all don’t need to dance. There’s nothing in the Constitution about dancing being a human right. Poor people who want to dance should wait, save, earn, work and maybe about the age of forty, they could afford to go to the prom properly attired.”

Way left Democrats might say, “Let’s buy this girl a custom-made Dolce and Gabbana and make rich people pay for it.”

Centrists would caution, “Leave it where it is. What her aunties made is not the dress we’d all prefer, but it will get her there.”

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More About The Roof Goof

The roofing contractor left my house this morning after telling me a tale of woe about Home Depot. In search of facts, I called Home Depot and reached a customer service person. I told her my story and asked, “Could any of what he said be true?”

She said, “Of course not. When a customer pays a sale price, they get their merchandise at that price regardless of what the price is on the day they pick up their order. However, let’s check that order. I can access orders in every department of any Home Depot in the area.”

I gave her the fellow’s name and she said, “We have his name and phone number on file in a list of contractors, but he doesn’t have an order waiting here.”

I called him. He laughed, “Oh, slip of the tongue. I meant Lowe’s.”

So, I called Lowe’s, told my story to a second helpful person. She checked their computer and told me, “Yesterday he tried to get an order of forty-eight bundles of shingles without paying for them. We kept the order on file in case he shows up with money, but it’s not an active order.”

This after he told me that Home Depot held his order hostage for the last two weeks while trying to get him to pay $400.00 more than the sale price he paid…with money supplied by me. He waved around a piece of paper that looked like an order form and had PAID stamped on it.

He didn’t even try to buy shingles until yesterday, fifteen days into the job, and was turned down because it looks like he lost the money I gave him. I will say for the man, when he went wrong, he went big.

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The Roof Job, Cont.

This is day 16 of the roof job from hell. I haven’t even seen any roofers for the last eight days. They took off a couple of days because of rain and never came back.. My roof is unfinished. My yard is a horrible litter of roof debris. To say that I am angry would be like saying that molten lava is warm.

But I finally got a chance to share a few thoughts with the number one roofer. He showed up at my door about an hour ago. We sat on the porch and I told him how I really feel about his work…or lack thereof.

You see, he made the mistake of asking me for more money. I began my remarks with a little math lesson, took his receipts for materials, added them up, subtracted that number from the amount of the first check I gave him. Then I took labor costs out of the remaining amount and he was still good by over a hundred dollars. Then I reminded him that he’d come back and asked for a great deal more money on top of what he originally got…and which was clearly more than enough. “What,” I wanted to know, “happened to all that other money, two large checks?”

 Then he went into a long rant about Home Depot. He showed me the bill for shingles and it was marked PAID. However, he said that Home Depot won’t give him shingles because in the interest of not waiting for an order down the road, other contractors are willing to give Home Depot more money for shingles he bought earlier at a lower price. Every morning he calls Home Depot and once again they’ve sold his shingles to someone willing to pay a higher price. He said he needs more money so he can pay a higher price in order to get shingles I already paid for. Lord have mercy. What a story.

Then he went off on a long spiel about a friend who needed rent money and he gave him a thousand dollars from the roofing funds supplied by me. Now the friend won’t repay.

Needless to say, I did not give him more money.

I asked, “Where have you been for the last eight days?”

He replied, “I had to finish other jobs. People were getting upset.”

Upset? Cough. Strangle.

He wasn’t gone ten minutes before here came another knock on the door. It was one of those useless roofers who did who-knows-what up there for a week. The man said he’d come for his money. I told him he’d have to get the contractor to pay him. He said, “I can’t catch him.” The man, a big guy, looming over me, glared and said menacingly, “Lady, I want my money.”

So, lesson learned. The next time there’s a knock at the door, I’m not going out there alone. I’m hitching up T-Bone to go along and stand between me and crazy-wicked roofers.

I can’t see it but somewhere on the front of my house there must be a sign, “The old woman who lives here can be cheated or intimidated into giving money to bad people.”

That WAS true, but not any more. This job has made me so cynical that I wouldn’t believe my name is Ahno unless it could be proven against me.

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Motivated

I can cook and serve a meal for more than a hundred people all by myself. It happened yesterday. The lady responsible for March 18’s soup kitchen lunch had an unavoidable conflict and asked me to sub for her. The friends who help her didn’t show up, because she wasn’t there. None of my usual helpers knew I was working, and I didn’t get on the phone to recruit help. Just trudged forward until it was over.

Faced with a hard job, I remember a TV documentary about some horrible event in history when sick and starving people were forced to march a long distance. It was winter, snow on the ground but most of the marchers had no coat and some of them went shoeless. They were given no chance to rest. When one got too slow, the guards shot him / her. Most of them kept moving. That march is the gold standard of motivation that gets things done.

Yesterday, I asked myself, “Ahno, if you knew that slowing up or resting would get you shot, could you keep going?” Working there in the kitchen, I imagined a gun aimed at my back. Kind of dramatic, but that’s how I cooked and served chili-rice casserole, salad, collard greens, succotash with bacon bits, apple slices, cupcakes, and sweet tea…and washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen.

Each of us has the potential to be a real sure enough army of one…we just don’t push ourselves very hard. At least I don’t. Once in a while, though, it’s good to remember that...properly motivated...I can do anything. And so, of course,  can you.

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"Attention Walmart Customers..."

Yesterday in a New Jersey Walmart, a customer got hold of the loud speaker and announced, “Attention Walmart Shoppers…All black people leave the store.” Later, store management viewed checkout video, trying to identify the culprit. Crazy, eh?

So what you might say if you got the chance to make an announcement to Walmart Shoppers?

“Walmart customers, state law requires that we make you aware…meat products for sale here came from dead animals.”

“Please carefully return each and every shopping cart item to the shelves where you found them.

“By local ordinance, this store is a carbon dioxide-free zone. No breathing while shopping.”

“Parents accompanied by children, at this time, please climb into your shopping cart. It's the kids' turn to push.”

“Shoppers, a thirty-foot python is loose in the store. Watch where you step. This is a valuable snake.”

“To the customer standing in the snack foods aisle, eating chips out of a bag you opened…put back every single chip or you’re going to jail.”

“All fat shoppers stay as far to the right of each aisle as possible…and suck in your stomach.”

“Cashiers, be alert. The one-hundredth customer to buy more than ten dollars worth of celery soup may leave the store after a while."

“Shoppers, if today is your birthday, pay the cashier as you complete checkout.”

“Shoppers, one of you left your kids in the car. Thanks.”

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A Sinai Situation

Passover begins on March 29 at sunset. I’ve been thinking about that whole story.

Long ago a relative gave me my own personal kid’s Bible. Just before Passover, I read about the Exodus.

Joseph went down to Egypt because his jealous brothers sold him into slavery. Once arrived in Egypt, Joseph’s brains and talent led him to stardom. He became the Pharaoh‘s best chum, brought all of his relatives safely to the land of plenty in a time of famine back home. Yay. Happy ending.

Then along came “a Pharaoh who knew not Joseph.” Uh-oh. Hundreds of years of slavery for the Hebrews. Bitter bitterness.

Finally, an unlikely deliverer, a shy stutterer…Moses. The poor guy couldn’t function without his more confident brother, the rabbi, Aaron, nearby.

Moses made various demands. Pharaoh laughed, but eventually he crumbled, “Get these Hebrews out of Egypt!!! Now!”

Then, as the Hebrews made their way across the sand  toward the Red Sea, Pharaoh changed his mind, “Let my slaves go? I think not. Bring them back!”

Sooner or later, however, Hebrews stood on the other side of the Red Sea. They’d walked through water on dry land, each adult picking up an object of remembrance. And then began a forty-year march around and around the Sinai Desert. God fed them manna. He brought forth water from rocks. Their clothing did not show wear nor did their sandals.

Why didn’t God just trot them poste haste into the “promised land?” Because of the “hardness of their hearts.” They whined and complained, “We had it so good in Egypt…melons and cucumbers instead of just manna.” Moses, said, “What? Good? You were slaves!” They didn’t care. They were in complaining mode and it kept them out of the promised land for one entire generation.

Yesterday morning I woke up complaining. “My house looks like a dump. Those roofers have ruined Casa Ahno. My yard is covered in roofing junk and I’ll probably get slapped with a fine.” Rant. Snort. Then I remembered the Hebrews in the wilderness for forty years, cranking and grumping. I switched gears, “Thank you, God. It’s a beautiful spring day…”

As I sat here, munching a slab of kosher, for-Passover, no-salt matzo, made in Jerusalem, I thought, “This stuff tastes like nothing whatsoever. No. Wait. It tastes like manna!” I shared it with three not-exactly-Jewish Chihuahuas. A tradition. My mother’s mother liked matzo.

We four, three tiny dogs and I, face a Sinai of an unfinished roof on my house, hoping that’s not how it will be for the next forty years. Delivered from months of rain pouring down inside walls, we now face ugliness and unfinished roof work…in the wrong color, already. But complain? Who, us?

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Beware The Ides Of March

A couple of thousand years ago today Julius Caesar was stabbed to death as he walked into the Roman Senate. Everybody helped to do the deed, even good-buddy Brutus. Was Caesar unlucky? Outside the circle of God’s protection? Ignoring cause-effect? We have no way to know; it was too long ago. But here we are at March 15, 2010. How’s the Ides of March treating *you* so far?

At least three factors influence who, what, where, when, how, and why…natural law, divine providence, and chaos.

Natural law…otherwise known as cause-effect. If this, then that. Forget to drink, you’ll feel dry after a while. Run your car off the road into a tree and you won’t be driving that car the rest of the way home.

Divine providence is a positive force…and may it be with you. We’ve all heard, “God’ll git you for that.” Everyone can cite examples of people who live wrong and go down hard but it’s not that God’s chasing bad guys with a ball bat. We have a choice. God doesn’t shanghai us into good conduct. For those, however, who keep the rules, He sometimes does beneficial intervention. A friend called the other day and I asked how he was; he replied, “I’m blessed.” That means he’s feeling divine providence at work.

Chaos. Jeff Goldblum’s character made a big thing of this in one of the Jurassic Park movies. What can happen, probably will happen. And sometimes a crazy event comes along for no reason, an element of randomness built into how things are. That’s luck, both good and bad. On the same day, your neighbor, visiting Las Vegas, puts one token into a slot machine and wins a million dollars while back at home, a tree falls on your house. He got lucky. You were unlucky.

If it's turning out to be a bad day, you're probably saying, "If only I'd been warned. I could have avoided all this trouble." Maybe not.  Julius Ceasar was warned and look what happened to him.

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Huffing And Puffing

What a crazy-busy weekend. Starting Friday evening.

I made a list…everyone’s favorite appetizers. Then I rounded up ingredients and changed the list…missing some of this but well-supplied with that. Once organized, I got going.

Throughout the night, I got up and did various tasks, punched down dough, mixed more dough, checked items in the oven, reset timers, went back to sleep.

At the crack of dawn Saturday I went into whirlwind mode, doing two things at once. Work, work, wash the dishes. Work, work, wash the dishes. I barely had time to look up and check the clock. How much time remained? Could I complete this job? Onward.

My back was “killing me.” I tried working while leaning both elbows on something, the counter, the table. Some relief but not much. I swore, “I’ll never again agree to do this. Too old. Can’t do it any more.” But I *was* doing it.

The clock ticked on. A stack of filled containers appeared in the laundry, grew higher. Then a second stack.

And then it was nearly sunrise on Sunday. Five items to go. Impossible. I grit my teeth…literally…and poured on speed.

The sun was up. I checked the clock. 9:00 A.M. Called Lydia, “Please come by here on your way to church and take a bunch of food containers.”

She and the kids showed up, disappeared with stacks of containers. In the rush, Cutlet wandered outside toward the street. Benny caught and returned her to the house.

I cleaned up, dashed out to the car, shopped briefly at Bottom Dollar for jalapeno potato chips and dip.

By the time I arrived at the church kitchen, Lydia and her friend Tracey had things well underway. Lydia said, “This is your best ever. You outdid yourself.”

Coffee hour. We served…roast pork and fresh grape salad on home made French bread crostini / sandwiches made of super-thin slices of home made fruit cake and cream cheese / sandwiches made of cinnamon swirl bread and cream cheese / pimento finger sandwiches / tuna salad finger sandwiches / pecan clusters / sugar cookies with toffee bits / cornbread mini-muffins served with a dollop of sour cream and a twist of crisp bacon / biscuit pockets filled with crab salad / egg salad finger sandwiches / ham rollups in a toothpick with black olives / cheese, devilled ham, and cherry tomato on rice crackers / chicken salad finger sandwiches / red pepper humus finger sandwiches / miniature pizzas / meatballs in barbecue sauce / three kinds of cupcakes / brownies / donut holes …all made from scratch and ultra-yummy.

Does this happen every Sunday at Christ and St. Luke’s? Of course not.

Next such array of munchies? Easter Sunday. Immediately after the last service.

Finally all the dishes were washed and put away. Lydia worked her heart out. She made some of the items served and also did the serving. We staggered forth to our respective rides.

Three tiny faces greeted me, peeking out from under the door blinds. I took the Chihuahuas for a quick walk, and then I stretched out on the heating pad. Went instantly to sleep. Didn’t wake up until a short while ago.

Was all that work worth while? Yes. The congregation ate, chatted, ate, laughed, ate, hugged, ate, commiserated, ate, showed pictures of grandkids, ate, expressed concern, ate, met new people, ate, asked questions and got answers. Coffee hour builds the church community. A very good thing. But I’m glad it’s over for this time.

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Soupy-Droopiness

At the top of the Pilot Online homepage for a few days there’s been a picture of Robert Pattinson. He’s an icon in a cult where feebleness is worshiped, where girls like young men who can’t stand up straight, who exhaust themselves talking on the phone and watching TV. Listen to young people’s music…big-name male vocalists sing falsetto in wispy little creaky-weaky voices. They look and sound puny and childish.

Years ago I was fortunate to know a gifted if attitudinal handyman. To work with him was a valuable apprenticeship. However, his helpers had to stay alert. He was known to shout, “Get your hands out of your pockets, white boy!” He would definitely have said that to Robert Pattinson.

Oh, the droopiness. The scruffy, not-quite-ready-for-the-day look about this lad, one of those young people who slump, who habitually lean, whose hands are in their pockets, whose faces tell the world, “I was born to prop up this wall so go away and leave me alone…but be sure you do my laundry, cook good meals, and provide me with lavish material advantages.”

Teenage girls adore this particular slumper. That, right there, will tell you why teenaged girls shouldn’t be allowed off the leash. Give them a few years and they’ll wise up. They’ll come to value a man who fixes the car when necessary, a guy capable of paying the bills, someone who goes to work and then comes home to handle family relationships without whining. Someone facing life with his shoulders back, his eyes forward, seeking opportunity.

For parents, the trick is to get daughters through their teen years unattached and unencumbered with babies. Get a girl past her twenty-fourth birthday and she’ll start looking for a man who wants to accept his role in the real world, son-in-law material. He’s got a job and a respectable haircut, and he stands up like his spine can handle the stress.

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The Roofer Calls At Midnight

I’m beginning to wonder. Is the man in charge of my roof job losing his mind?

He spent less than ten minutes at my house on Thursday. Yesterday he never appeared at all. His crew got here by 9:00 A.M. and went through the motions, but he didn’t show up. Yesterday was day nine of a job that ought to have lasted two days.

Then, last night at 11:45 P.M. he called my house. Fortunately, I had the phone nearby.

Me (sleepily); “Hello?”

Long silence. I thought, “Here we go. It’s going to be a heavy-breathing weirdo.” A fun thought, actually. I’ve perfected my anti-weirdo technique and value a chance to hone it ever-sharper. I make dog noises…howl, bark, yap… cow noises…moooooooo…duck noises…quack, quack. Or all of those.

But no. It wasn’t a weirdo, at least not one I’ve never met. It was Mr. Roofer. “Ahno? Are you OK? Is water coming in?”

Now, suppose I said, “Yes, I’m awash in roof leakage.” What was he planning to do? In the rain, in the dark, he intended to come over and work where he’d not worked in daylight?

Actually, the roof did leak all night, only in a new place. Rain came in over the dining room, soaking the swirled plaster ceiling. Sigh.

By now I’m in the position of a woman I once scorned for her supine attitude toward her abusive teenager. I saw this lady absorb so much damage from the kid…and she didn’t respond, just stared straight ahead with a resigned expression on her face that said, “I can’t fix it. It’s never going to stop. The best I can do is to endure in a dignified and stoical way.”

That’s where I am re. the roof job. I could fix this guy by writing up a complaint to the city licensing department. He might never work here again. And that might be more than fair. However, I remember all the times he did good work at my house. I wonder what’s wrong with him. Is he cracking up? What about this very aberrant behavior?

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