It’s pretty much universally accepted that we all learn valuable lessons at our first job. I certainly did.
My first real job was at a burger joint in Connecticut called The Big Toppe. It was modeled around a circus in that there was one picture on the wall of a clown. And right from the start I learned important things.
That first day, I was guided by a “counter girl” named Barbara, who really took me under her wing in those early days. And she taught me many of the rules that I’m sure she still lives by.
First, at head counter girl Lisa’s insistence because I was the new girl, Barbara took me out back to show me how to clean the restaurant’s restroom. Taking the key from the hook, Barbara grabbed the spray bottle of ammonia and water, walked me to the restroom, opened the door and led me in.
“All you have to do is stand here for 2-3 minutes. Then spray ammonia into the air and leave. Nobody will ever know the difference.”
Lesson number two was important, but only while I worked there.
“Make sure to talk to Frank (the manager) when you wipe down anything. That way he’ll think you are a good worker. Otherwise, don’t bother wiping.”
My next and most important lesson came one day when she wasn’t working but I was. Barbara stopped by The Big Toppe with her friend Mary to get some (free — if Frank wasn’t looking) carryout to take to the beach. Barbara’s friend was horribly ugly, and I saw her picking her nose when she was in line. “Yuck!” I thought.
Unfortunately for them, Frank was around and was making sure that nobody got free food that day. So, while Barbara chatted with me, Mary went back out to their car to get lunch money.
“She’s really ugly isn’t she?” Barbara said.
I tried to be nice and said “I’m sure she’s really nice.”
“Oh, no,” said Barbara. “She’s a real jerk. But I try to always hang around jerks. They make me look good.”
That was Barbara’s third bit of lifelong advice. Always hang around assholes so you look good.
I realized last night that Barbara is now working for the GOP. How else can you explain the fact that House Republicans invited this asshole to the President’s State of the Union Address?
It would be difficult to find a bigger asshole than Ted Nugent
Remind me never to go into restroom on the House controlled side of the U.S. Capitol.
No, if he’d had a dog he would never have had Juliet say “What’s in a name…”
Because you see, there is something about naming a dog that makes people choose poorly.
I was reminded of just how poorly recently at the park. John and I were walking our dog Cooper by the river when we came upon a couple with a Giant Schnauzer walking in the opposite direction. Their dog and Coops had met before, but I hadn’t asked the dog’s name. This time I did.
“It’s, ummmm …” said the owner with a sigh, “Gladiator.”
I fussed over Gladiator, petted him, let the dogs sniff and even smooch a little bit and then we continued on our way.
As we walked away, I chuckled to John, “Oh I remember feeling like that.”
“Like what?”
“Embarrassed to have to introduce my dog,” I responded, thinking of Goliath, my alcoholic German Shepherd. (John will never stop laughing at me for having chosen that name.)
It was a stupid name. And I chose it. For the first time in my life, I had a pet with a stupid name and I couldn’t blame someone else.
Well, I could, actually. And I did. You see, I had brunch with some friends one Sunday. We were talking about Saturday morning cartoons, what we liked, what we didn’t like when Frank brought up “Davy and Goliath.” For the folks in the room, Frank described Davy and Goliath:
“It was a Christian-based show where Davy, the boy, always wanted to do something a little bit wrong or dangerous. His dog, Goliath, served as his guardian angel. Whenever Davy wanted to do something of questionable intelligence, Goliath was always there saying ‘I don’t know, Davy,’ and tilting his head to indicate that the idea was pretty stupid. “
I realized then and there that I wanted a guardian angel. I wanted someone who would protect me and stop me from doing stupid things. I wanted ‘Goliath.’
Fortunately, a few days later, I found him. My dream dog. A German-shepherd/Malamute mix puppy who was about 4-1/2 months old. Trouble was, he was a wee bit psychotic. And huge. Unfortunately, I DID name him “Goliath.” (Goliath I am sad to say became an alcoholic. I wrote about it here.)
I loved that dog. But almost immediately I hated introducing him, because he grew into his name. He was huge. And having a huge, psychotic dog named Goliath doesn’t get you into the best parties.
Naturally, I blamed Frank the next time I saw him. It was, after all, all his fault.
It wasn’t my first experience with a stupid dog name. Growing up, my father had for reasons nobody ever really understood, named one of our dogs Oklahoma. None of us had ever been there; we speculated years later that perhaps there was a college football game on TV. No, Dad would never tell us why, but we had a dog named Oklahoma. Okie for short.
Next time around, my brother Fred was in his hippie, metaphysical stage. I will not say that drugs had anything to do with the fact that he named our next dog Klingsor, after a Hermann Hesse novel. I was always a little bit thankful that the dog’s name wasn’t Siddhartha, although that would have made me a hit with a certain crowd. Dad, however, in a rich bit of irony from the man who named Oklahoma, thought it was a stupid name and modified it. Dad always called Klingsor “Mr. Klink,” after the colonel on Hogan’s Heroes.
For sheer embarrassment at the back door, though, my friend Keily had a dog with another ridiculous name. Her sister had been given the honor of naming their puppy, and Rose thought that she should name it after something she loved. She named the dog “Baseball.”
Try shouting out any of these names for your dog when you’re calling him to come in from the back yard. Everybody in the neighborhood hears you calling your dog. You shout: “OKLAHOMA!” and neighbors want to shoot you because they get that damn song stuck in their heads every single time. They hear you calling “BASEBALL!” and realize that your family is in a league all their own. They hear you calling “KLINGSOR!” and think you are having a bad reaction to LSD. They hear you calling “KLINK!” think you’re looking outside for a TV character and realize that the neighborhood is going to the dogs.
They hear you calling “GOLIATH!” and become convinced that you do, in fact, need a guardian angel. Or a straight jacket and a padded cell.
As the owner of one of these dogs, you want to hide under a rock. You want to pretend you’re dog-sitting. You want to let everybody know that you didn’t give that dog that stupid-ass name, even if you did, in fact, give it to him.
You know how you’re supposed to learn from your mistakes? Well, dog owners don’t necessarily.
After Goliath died, John and I of course needed a dog. Jacob was a year old, and we researched big dogs that are good with kids. We decided to get a Bernese Mountain Dog because they’re great with kids, beautiful, and tend to not try to kill the mailman like Goliath did.
It was of course the olden days. Before email, the interwebs, and modern communications. We found a breeder who had a puppy. She sent a picture to us by mail, to see if we were interested in driving 5 hours to see him in person and possibly take him home. I ripped open the envelope the minute it arrived and called John:
“He is the cutest puppy in the world. We have to get him.
And we have to name him “Adolf.”
I can still imagine John sitting at his office desk, pulling back the telephone receiver and looking into it thinking “I married a mad woman.”
But tell me, what would you have thought if you’d received this picture:
I mean, really now. What would your first thought have been?
Fortunately, while still on the phone telling John we had to get the cute little guy, I realized that Charlie Chaplin also sported that same mustache, and so the puppy that we did in fact bring into our family, became Charlie. Phew! That was a close one.
To William Shakespeare I will say this. What’s in a name? Long term embarrassment if you’re not careful.
***
Loyalty demands that I include a picture of Cooper, my now elderly but still incredibly sweet dog, pictured with his big brother Jacob. Cooper was, thankfully, named by his breeder.
One of the first birthday parties my son Jacob went to was for a little British boy who was living near us in Connecticut. One of the highlights of Josh’s party was that we played “Pass the Parcel.”
Pass the Parcel is the British non-violent equivalent of Musical Chairs. There was a large lumpy parcel, wrapped loosely in newspaper – inside was a treasure. Music was played, and the parcel was passed from hand to hand until the music stopped. When it did, whoever held the parcel removed a layer of wrapping, and the music started again. Ultimately a wonderful treasure I have long since forgotten was revealed and given to the kid who removed the last bit of wrapping on the parcel.
I quickly realized that Pass the Parcel had Musical Chairs beat. I am also sure that Vickie K would agree. She was the poor birthday girl I propelled across the room at her 6th birthday party when I snagged the last remaining chair when the music stopped. I wonder why I wasn’t invited to her 7th birthday party.
But actually, today I realized that I don’t like Pass the Parcel after all. You see, today I realized that I AMthe bloomin’ parcel.
Some of you may know that I have been a bit under the weather lately. I have Crohn’s Disease, which sucks. Things in my gut have been a little too active lately. Which in turn makes me rather inactive, as in sleepy. Naturally, being the smart girl that I am, I called my doctor. Doctors. I have a lot of them.
In the past two months I have visited my internist, who passed the parcel to my gastroenterologist.
I visited my gastroenterologist who passed the parcel to my urologist and passed the parcel to a radiologist (who I assumed was connected to the barely visible face behind the window of the radiology lab I was in).
The gastroenterologist read the report from the previous parcel holder and passed the parcel again. This time to my gynecologist.
I must admit that being passed once again was once too much for me. I lost it. I burst into tears, wondering if these doctors have any clue what it is like to be a patient. If they have any clue what it is like to be a goddamn parcel, passed from latexed gloved-hand to latexed gloved-hand. I don’t think they do.
So tonight I am rethinking my health care options. And I see changes in my future.
Because I know one doctor I can go to who will look at my entire body. He will press my abdomen, my lumpy bits. He will look at my teeth, my eyes, my nether regions. He will look into my eyes, clip my toenails and check all the areas that need attention. He will not send me to other specialists because he specializes in everything. He will not send me out for tests because he knows how to do them and will do them right there in his office. All I have to do is not bite him.
Yup, next time around, I’m going to my vet for my healthcare.
Our vet is a man and Cooper is really much more handsome.
My dog, Cooper is nearly 105 years old. He is declining, but hey, he is 105 years old! But no matter what is wrong with him, we take him to the same place, and Dr. C. looks at him, figures out what is wrong with Coops, prescribes the medicine, fills the bottles with pills, and sends us all on our way. When the time comes, the vet will give Cooper a peaceful end.
So yeah. Next time I’m sick, I’m going to the vet. I won’t even have to say a word.
Oh Lord. I’m not quite sure how to handle the guilt. Will I need therapy? Drugs? Electric shock treatments?
I considered going to confession. But as a lapsed Catholic I didn’t want to risk it.
You can’t be too careful
What will happen to me? To my family? How will my husband, my son, my brothers, live with the shame of being family members of one such as me.
And what if I go to jail? I’ve never been, but I’ve watched enough prison movies to know I wouldn’t do well there. I won’t last long at all. The other cons will hate me and make sure I pay dearly.
But it’s not my fault. I didn’t know. If I had, I know I’d have lived my life differently.
You see today I learned that I am a serial killer. You’d think I might have noticed before now, wouldn’t you? That I’d be scurrying around, digging holes in the basement floor or the back yard. That I would be having all sorts of bonfires. That at a minimum I would have purchased a wood-chipper to dispose of the evidence.
Nope. It wasn’t necessary.
You see, I have been carrying the bodies around with me for decades. No wonder I’m tired all the time.
I know you didn’t listen to the video. But you should have. Because then you’d know that because I have used birth control pills – contraceptives – Pastor Kevin Swanson thinks I am a serial murderer with a uterus filled with dead fetuses.
Ewwwww. Got any Massengil?
Make mine a double!
* * *
Tell me, is there a contest going on to see which right-wing fanatic can say the stupidest thing ever heard by mankind?
It isn’t often that I agree with seriously right-wing politicians. But today is an exception.
You see, Maine Governor Paul LePage told a group of school kids that newspapers are dangerous. And I have to agree with the Gov.
My concern doesn’t come from the fact that, like Governor LaPage, no newspaper has ever, or indeed would ever consider endorsing either of us for public office, although that’s true. No newspaper has ever endorsed him for so much as dog catcher. No newspaper has ever endorsed me either, but that’s less awkward since I’ve never run for public office. And he, ummm, has.
I’m pretty sure that a newspaper was never involved in an actual threat to LePage’s personal safety, though. I can’t say that I have remained personally unharmed, unmolested by the press. Because that would be a lie.
You see one morning I was held hostage by the Washington Post. I’m serious. I’ve never told the story before. It’s too traumatic. Too terrifying. Too humiliating.
The Culprit (Google Image)
It was a long time ago. So long ago that the Post was still a reasonably unbiased paper, before it became the tool of the neocons that control it now. So long ago that its investigative reporters still investigated politics and corruption and didn’t simply reprint GOP talking points. So long ago that the Post only cost a quarter.
The trauma haunts me to this day.
I was late to work that morning and flew through the Metro’s turnstile and down the escalator. Of course I’d just missed a train. But at least I had a moment to catch my breath and buy a newspaper.
I looked at my watch: 9:45. Shit. I had a 10 a.m. meeting.
I walked over to a newspaper vending box and inserted my last quarter, pulled down the door, took out a newspaper, and let the door go. They have a spring-loaded gizmo so they automatically close.
Google Image
What happened next appeared dreamlike, in slow motion.
The door closed ever so slowly but inevitably. And just before the door’s final slam, the strap from my purse fell off of my shoulder and down; down to the inside of the machine’s door. The door closed with a slam, with my purse strap closed inside.
I was trapped. I couldn’t get my purse strap out of the machine. I couldn’t get the attention of the Metro guy because he was too far away, and I didn’t want to leave my purse unattended. I didn’t have another quarter to re-open the box.
Worse, I was alone, it was late morning by commuter standards. There were no other commuters in sight. No one was coming down the escalator. No one to rescue me. No knights in shining armor. Nobody even wearing a three piece suit.
So I started to laugh. The silliness of being held hostage by a newspaper vending machine made me laugh so hard that tears streamed down my face. I laughed so hard I snorted; I cackled. Had there been any children present they would have been terrified of me. I couldn’t breathe and began frantically trying to catch a stray bit of oxygen now and then.
After several minutes, a few people came down the escalator but they avoided me. Clearly they thought I was a lunatic. They bought papers from other machines because I was laughing too hard to ask them to please, please release me. Laughing too hard to explain just how funny life can be. Laughing too hard to explain just what I was laughing about.
Eventually, exhausted, I spied one lone man coming down the escalator, and asked him to please, please help me out. Please buy a paper because I really did need to get to work. He bought a paper, and I was freed.
When I finally got to work, I went into my meeting late. My makeup was smeared, and I looked like I’d been crying. Everybody was worried about me.
“What happened to you, Elyse?” They all asked. “Are you alright?”
Instead of starting to tell the story of what had happened, I immediately started laughing-crying again, so that it took a while for me to explain that I had been held for ransom by a Washington Post newspaper box. Not much work was done because everyone was too busy laughing.
“You’re the only person I know who has adventures everywhere they go,” said one of my co-workers.
“So, Elyse,” asked my boss, the head of the department, “how much ransom was paid for your release?”
“A quarter.”
He roared with laughter again.
Sigh.
So you see, Governor LePage is right: newspapers can in fact be dangerous. You never know what’s going to happen when you try to pick one up.
FiftyFourandAHalf 