Small Town Anthropology

I dropped the kids at school and motored the 10 miles to town to buy a birthday present. I decided to go to a place that was mostly foreign to me – the Mall.

When I rolled into the lot, I got a SWEET parking spot right in front of the main doors. In fact there were very few cars in the lot, just about 5 or 6 full sized Buicks, Oldsmobiles, and Fords.

As I got out of the car, it dawned on me that the mall would not be open at 8:15 in the morning. So I stood in the nearly vacant parking lot in my Carhartt work clothes staring at the font doors, when a sudden urge to go to the bathroom fell upon me.

The parking lot was, of course, the first option, but I thought better of it. Perhaps one door was unlocked for early employees or janitors. There had to be a restroom in there somewhere.

To my surprise, the first door I tried was unlocked. In fact they were all unlocked! How careless!

I crept inside with cat-like stealth and took in my surroundings. The lights were on, but all of the store fronts had little jail cell curtains covering the entrances. I scuttled up to the main hall junction and ran smack dab into a group of burglars.

They were in a pack headed down the hall. They were all in their 60’s and 70’s wearing JC Penny track suits and white sneakers. They nodded and smiled as they cruised by.

The thrill was too much to pass up. I joined them.

As we passed the Sears, I spotted two more gangs of burglars roaming the mall in a startling systematic way… counter clockwise. The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. I had not joined a roaming gang of geriatric burglars, I had joined the Mall Walkers!

I had heard that such a tribe of people existed, but I truly didn’t think I would ever get a chance to see them, much less, participate in their ritual. I felt a bit like Dian Fossey as I scurried along behind them, trying to decipher their language and migration patterns.

I spotted the entrance to the restroom next to Bed Bath and Beyond across the way. I avoided sudden movements so as not to frighten the Mall Walkers as I traveled directly across the main concourse.

I did not hear the alarm. I did not smell the pheromone. I did not receive the psychic signal. But something alerted the Walkers, and they all turned to look at the intruder.

I had broken the cardinal rule of the Mall Walkers. I had left the designated path. My Carhartts suddenly seemed grotesque to me. How I longed for a track suit and white sneakers in that horrible moment.

I coyly strolled to the restroom and avoided eye contact. When I emerged from the restroom, I kept a keen eye out for the alpha males. I’ve heard they’re the most dangerous. I wondered if there was a silverback waiting in the Crocs booth that separated me from my nearest exit. I made my way past the Orange Julius without breathing.... trying not to show fear. I heard they bite you if they sense fear.

The morning sun seemed too bright after my time in the Walker's lair. On top of that, I couldn't find the car right away. I think that's a mall thing.

Once located, I steered my Subaru across town to Target. They open early, and the patrons wear pajamas at 8:30 am, not track suits.

DMV Lines

The Department of Motor Vehicles line painters must have good senses of humor.

I went to get my motorcycle license at the DMV, and I got stuck behind some poor student-driver trying to park an SUV in a compact car spot. The catch was that they were ALL compact car spots – I’m talking, Mini Cooper size.

It’s pretty dern funny if you think about it for a second.

Inside, the waiting area was arranged like a game show with the chairs from one side of the room facing the other side. I chose the side with a couple of big guys. I figured if this turned into a fight, we could take the elderly lady and the woman with three kids sitting across the way.

I saw that everyone had a number ticket, but there was no Take-A-Number machine in sight. I figured out that there was an alien energy field that was keeping anyone from making eye contact or talking unless their cell phones rang, and then they were forced to speak very loudly. I began to feel like I had slipped into the alternative reality where Captain Kirk has a goatee.

Eventually, I asked one of the guys behind the counter where the number machine was. With a Prozac smile, he motioned me over to a line of people blocking the machine, which was crammed against the wall. I looked to see if the line of people were doing the Red Rover hand holding thing so I could break through. Before I had picked out the weakest link in the line, he took a number for me and handed it over; number 374.

I sat down and listened as they called number 008… then 565… then 141...
I scanned the room to see if anyone else thought this number sequence was a bit strange. When my random number lit up, I asked the lady at Counter #5 if Willy Wonka installed their number system.

She didn’t respond, she had perfect skin, and I heard ticking, so I think she was an android.

She asked me why I was there. I told the android that I would like to take the motorcycle test. She looked at my license, then told me to look into a set of huge binoculars and read off some numbers.

Then she asked me to look back in the binoculars and tell her where the red dot was. I told her it was in the box. She didn’t respond. I asked if it was supposed to be in the box. She said it was. I asked if it was ever not in the box. She said, “If it’s not in the box, you don’t get your license.”

I was happy that the dot decided to be in the box when I looked. I wondered if the dot was malicious or just randomly wandered out of the box sometimes.

After poking Computer #3 with the correct answers, it told me to go to Counter #1. I took my place hiding the number machine. When it was my turn at the counter, Prozac Smile asked me why I was there. I told him that I took the test, and the computer instructed me to go stand in front of the Take A Number machine.

Prozac Smile happily informed me that while I had passed the test with 100%, there was a riding skills test that I couldn’t take because the lines had to be repainted in the parking lot across the street.

And so, I left, with no motorcycle license, to find the nearest Shriners’ Lodge, so that I can borrow a motor scooter for the skills test that isn't scheduled.

Tooth Fairy in Rehab?

My son lost a tooth.

It wasn’t his first by a long shot. He’s old enough to know that too many questions about the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, or Santa could derail the money train.

He did what he was supposed to do. He taped it under his pillow. The Tooth Fairy was supposed to give him a buck or two and that would’ve been the end of it.

What can I say? I have no excuse. I’ve been wrapped up in the remodel that I’m doing in my house. It’s all I think about these days.

After two nights of Tooth Fairy no-shows, my son said to me while I was tucking him in, “Dad, why hasn’t the Tooth Fairy come to get my tooth?”

This, of course, hit hard. He’s growing up fast, but he’s still so innocent in many ways. It’s a parent’s job to keep the magic alive as long as possible, right?

I knew what I had to do.

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at my beautiful son.
After I gathered my courage, I told him:

“The Tooth Fairy is a drinker, son. I’m guessing three, maybe four shots of tequila a night. She wasn’t always like that. When I was a boy, she was a strict vegan and a serious light-weight when it came to booze. But then the Easter Bunny and the other One-Nighters, like Santa, kept getting the spotlight despite that fact that Tooth was working nightly shifts – 365 days a year.

It started with wine coolers, then she started hitting malt liquors and Boons Farm. These days it’s all about the Cuervo Gold.

So, you see, son, she’s probably just sleeping off a binge and she’ll be back in business tonight.

If she leaves you Canadian money, don’t fuss about it. The Looney is stronger than the dollar right now.

Sweet dreams, little man… sweet dreams.”

Dirty Laundry

Here’s a nugget of knowledge for you, free of charge...
If you stop doing the laundry, your kids will wear funny clothes.

It starts out innocent enough; out of town trip, projects, meetings, or 4” of fresh powder at the local ski hill on the night before “laundry day”.

Eventually, though, one has to acknowledge that laundry stopped becoming a priority. Things like sucking the helium out of your kid’s Red Robin balloon and singing Wham! songs get higher ranking than folding clothes.

Then, one day you find the whites are piled up quite a bit higher than the snow outside. Your children are making laundry angels in the floor. There’s Frosty the Laundryman, and ooo, look, there’s a laundry fort with nifty pantyhose curtains and a proud bra-flag waving in the air.

My daughter came upstairs for breakfast this morning wearing a too-small dress shirt, sweat pants, and two different socks. I managed to stop myself before criticizing her. After all, it’s my fault she’s dressed like a homeless person.

My son came upstairs five minutes later wearing someone else’s clothing. I complimented him on his problem solving skills and asked if I should expect any phone calls from angry parents.

Two days ago, I almost did the laundry after seeing something move. I was fairly certain that the "spontaneous life" theory was shot down a couple hundred years ago, but they didn’t have polyester back then – polyester is a game changer.

Turns out it was just the dog, which had gone missing earlier. She didn’t seem to have suffered any serious trauma from being lost in the linens, but I think she's afraid of boxers now.

The Grape Lady

I did my grocery shopping today. I’m still processing my experience in the produce section.

I spotted GRAPES on the list, so I moseyed over to the grape isle and sidled up next to a senior citizen by the Dole seedless (green and red… score!).

This grandmotherly looking lady was taking clumps of apparently unworthy grapes out of one bag and cherry picking clumps from others to put in her “special” bag. Every dern holey plastic grape bag was open and this lady was working like she had a tape worm at an all-you-can-eat-buffet.

I stopped my shopping experience and stared at her for a moment just to take in the whole picture. She noticed me standing there and suddenly stopped poaching, then picked right back up at a slower rate, with occasional furtive glances my way.

Apparently, she thought I wouldn’t notice if she were trading grapes slowly, but she didn’t know who she was dealing with. Sure, it threw me off, but only for a second.

She eventually left to do more fruit trading, and I gathered up a tainted bag and continued on my quest for turgid bok choy... That’s how I roll.

It is only now that I sit in my house after rinsing the grapes with bleach and 7th Generation bathroom cleaner that I wonder which bundle of grapes she put in my bag and what she didn’t like about them.

Am I eating grapes that are too small? Too far apart? Not “grapey” enough?

I’m confused and feel like I’m missing something important in life.

If I ever see her again, I will follow her and learn her fruit quality detection techniques. She will be my Yoda. Oh, yes... she will.

Septic Tanks and Vacuum Cleaners

When I lived in West Virginia, I had the septic tank vacuumed out by John Goodman.

It was just after Arachnophobia came out, and I wondered why he needed the work.

As he stood next to his humungous Vac Truk, sucking the worst of my labors out of the ground, he told me the story of the only time his Vac Truk ever let him down.

“Vienna Sausage can (he pronounced it vy-enne),” he said, as his hose glugged away. “I sucked up a gall dern Vienna Sausage can. Hell if I can figure how it got in a septic tank. I didn’t figger a feller could flush down something like that, but I sucked it up in the Vac Truk, and knew, sure as shootin’, something was bad wrong.”

He patted the Vac Truk lovingly with a hand which appeared more tanned than the rest of his body, while he continued his war story. “I had to take the suction hose and pump apart right there in the gravel driveway. There was a good bit of solids stuck up in the hose… and of course, that had to come out first… then I found it… a Vienna Sausage can! A gall dern Vienna Sausage can. Still had the label on it.”

So, this morning, as I vacuumed my floor, the pitch changed on the Kenmore, and I knew something bad wrong happened to the vacuum cleaner.

I thought back to Mr. Goodman in my West Virginia backyard, chewing the fat around the septic tank, and I decided to take the vacuum apart right there on the linoleum.

There was a lot of dog hair stuck up in the hose, so of course, that had to come out first. Then… a checker! A gall dern checker.

Berries Are Food, Too

I hope you folks haven’t forgotten about me!

I’m still alive, I’m still a dad, and I’m still a student of life. In fact I probably haven’t posted for a long time simply because I’m too busy learning new things.

For example, I may have come up with a new side dish!

Let me begin at the beginning.

I plowed into my elderberry bush next to the driveway. It’s okay, because I plowed into it with my plow. It’s a snowplow, not a bushplow, but that didn’t seem to matter to the plow or the bush, because the plow is fine, but the bush isn’t. The bush now looks more like the second Little Pig’s house... post-wolf.

I didn’t plow into the bush on purpose. I was just trying to push the snow off the driveway at high speed. High speed plowing throws the snow really well, but you tend to hit things or just run off the road, due to lack of visibility. It’s hard to see out because of the condensation, flying snow, and the fact that I haven't cleaned the windshield since... okay, I don't think I've ever cleaned it (you can see pretty well if you stick your head out of the window and blink a lot, but that is just unpleasant).

So, I hit this Elderberry bush pretty hard and broke it.
A lot.
A bunch of the berry clusters landed on the hood, which was hot from plowing. Then the berries started cooking on the hood. Then I parked, and the burnt berries froze to the hood. Then I plowed a few more times, and the berries were still there.

I knew it was stupid, but I couldn’t help looking at those burnt-frozen berries stuck to the hood and wonder what they tasted like. So, I picked some berries that were less likely to have Ford paint cooked to them, and tried them out.

You know how when someone tells you that a movie is really bad, and when you see it, you’re pleasantly surprised because of your low expectations?
Well this was nothing like that. I expected them to be really bad and they were really bad.

But then I got some frozen ones off the ground near the crash site that never took a ride on the hood, and they weren't horrible.

I don’t think they’re going to take the place of strawberries or blueberries, but they could do in a pinch… like if there was a world war and all the grocery stores in the world were obliterated by evil-doers.

Lesson of the day: frozen-burnt elderberries are bad, just frozen elderberries are not as bad.

There's a nugget you can use in everyday life. You're welcome.