Walk up window

Some of the more "interesting" interactions I have with the public are during non-business hours at our little PSAP (Public Safety Answering Point / 911 center)  We have a walk up window when the records department is closed.
We pull up the blinds, and anyone can walk up.  I've maintained that in this era of multitudinous means of communicating over the airwaves, if someone walks to the police department there's an 80/20 chance they have a screw loose.  The 20 percent are people who want to check on reports, lost and found items, or to ask if they can have a permit to carry. I love those, I eye them up and down like Larry David. Then I say,  "You have to come back during business hours."  Some day one of those will probably come back and shoot me.  Oh well.

Today was Saturday, and a frail old woman with a Parkinson tremor appeared at the window.  I'd estimate her age well past 80. She rested her hands on the platform outside the widow, and sighed.
"Can I help you?"  I asked.
"Yes, I am a scrupulously honest person who is tormented when I think I did something wrong."
"Are you here to surrender?"  I asked arching my eyebrow.
"Well, you know that trailer you have over here." She gestured to the west side of the police department.  "I was driving up the road and there was a car going 20, so I pulled around them and accelerated, and then I saw the speed sign said 40, and realised it was me going 40."  She took a deep breath and sighed. 
"THEN it dawned on my I had crossed the double line and compounded my blunder." she leaned back and twirled her head reliving it all.
"So you ARE here to surrender." I leered at her with all the judicial gravitas I could muster.
"Well not just yet." she held up her hand palm forward.  "First I have to ask, what is the machine for. Enforcement?  Do I have to go home and fret about the ticket coming my way?  I will fret you know, I'm burdenned by a conscience that keeps me up at night."
"You'll be glad to know that machine is called a smart trailer, and it only shows people their speed to make people aware of how fast they are going. It also keeps statistics, but it did not take your picture and it doesn't issue tickets."
"Oh, thanks goodness, don't they have those machines that do take pictures and such?"
"Minneapolis had the stop light cameras that issued tickets, but they were done away with because of some 4th ammendment issues."
"Oh yeah I remember that." she looked hopeful.
"The smart trailers are usually put out because neighbors request them. Like on France north of Minnetonka people use that like a drag strip." I offered.
"Oh don't I know it, that's quite the speedway yes."
"I use it for a speedway myself." I offered conspiratorily.
"Oh you do do you."  she leaned in chuckling.
"Well heck yeah, I have to get to work!"
We shared a laugh.
"Thankyou so much for the information, you've taken a load off my mind, and I can assure you I will be much more mindful of my driving after this." She turned to leave.

"OR" I suggested devilishly "You'll go straight back to the street, and see how high you can register on the sign."

"OH YOU!" she laughed and staggered out of the lobby laughing.

Technology.........pffffffft!

My coffee pot did not brew coffee this morning before work.  Technology betrayed me.

Pet Peeves

Yesterday I went to Cost Cutter's in Robbinsdale, and the very nice Hispanic lady is there. She's in her late forties, attractive, with a gift for gab, and knows how to cut old fart's hair. You ask her to lower the ears and leave a little on top, it comes out perfectly. She has told me in the past she has a lot of male relatives who were in the Marines, so she is very adept  at Flat tops.  I told her with my square head, a flat top might be too much. It might scare kids, or turn the villagers against me. To her credit she got the Frankenstein joke.

Yesterday as I'm listening to her  parent of teens war stories, before I knew it, she had a comb pressed to my eye brow and she was trimming them. My beautiful crazy eyebrows getting cut down.  TIMBER!

OMG!

NOT MY EYEBROWS!!!!

For over a decade I've let my eyebrows grow. They had achieved notable full bushy misdirection. A delightful haphazzardness. My tiny way of letting my grey hair, freak flag fly.
In 1955 Edward Steichen published a book of photography called "The Family of Man".  One of the memorable photos was the white eyebrows of an ancient French magistrate. That picture stuck in my head. They were crazy eyebrows, and when my eyebrows started turning gray 45 years later, I started to grow my own set of "crazy eyebrows."

The barber chopped them down. UGH.  My horror and disgust was all internal. I did not say anything. Even when she moved to the other brow. Like a true Minnesotan, I took it silently.  There was no point to protest. She meant well, and why save one patch, when they first one has already been cut down.  Deforested.

This episode reminded me of a recurring service issue over the years.

Perkins restaurant has been the scene of similar assaults on my psyche. I like that they bring the coffee in those brown coffee pots you can self serve the refills. I'd prefer if  they'd just let me self serve the first cup.  I really like to put one cream from the half-half containers, then the asthetic joy of pouring my own coffee onto the cream. It's magic.

Typically ruined by the waiter or waitress pouring the coffee into the cup before I get a chance. I've made a fuss in the past, leaving everyone feeling awkward, and requiring me to explain myself.  Julie will often waive across the booth and assure the waitress/waiter its not their fault I'm odd.

If a server deals with me pouring my own coffee, they're getting a better tip than the usual 20 percent.

There's a practical aspect of the half and half.  Perkins often serves the bottom of the pot cups of tar. The presence of half and half tells you if the cup is toxic or fresh.  Grey means send it back, light brown keep it around.

I'm still waiting for a server to ask "would you like me to pour your coffee, or would you like to do it yourself."  That would be awesome.  I'm fairly confident it will never happen.  More likely they'll pour the coffee over the back of my hand, and apologize effusvely to me, but thinking, "what kind of dolt puts their hand in the way of pouring coffee."

Through it all, I suffer silently, and look over at my spouse and read her mind.
She's  running through all the Curb Your Enthusiams episodes she'll tell you I made her watch.

I gave the Cost Cutter stylist a two dollar tip, and ran to my truck to take this picture of the eyebrow clear cutting devestation.

St Anthony Pray for ME

We were out of toilet paper so Julie, heading off to work asked me to go get some. I said I would and when I  was ready to set off for the store I could not find my keys.

I'm kind of legendary for losing my keys, and have made a real effort to put distance between the lost key episodes. In the past when I worked nights and suffered from very serious mind numbness that I suspect all night shift workers suffer from.  Just before I had to get to work, I would rush around the house frantic, would get everyone worked up and involved in my malfeasance, and key quest, causing everyone a collective adrenal dump just before their bedtime. This struggle would almost always involve my wife dropping the dreaded, "where did you have them last?" posit?  While I was searching for my keys I would go blank with rage. I think plaque forms around these brain bruises. "IF I KNEW WHERE I HAD THEM LAST THEY WOULDN'T BE LOST NOW WOULD THEY DEAR."  So today's episode of me looking in the usual suspect spots 3 and 4 times, slithering on my belling under the bed, under furniture,  moving things around looking up high and low, was perfectly futile.

Today my wife Julie was very kind about it, answering my texted please.  She ran down the list of spots I've hidden them in the past. Check, check, quadruple check.... "Wow, you really lost them this time."   "I KNOW!"

I finally gave up, I surrendered, letting my brain go blank and attempted to recreate the night before.   The last place I remembered having them was the dining room when I rushed in with two large bags from Athens Cafe.  I had dropped the bags on the table and sat down to pick through the food with Josh and Julie.  I don't remember the keys after that. So part of todays search was pawing through the kitchen garbage for the keys.

After dinner the civil defense sirens had sounded, and the sky was lemon green, so we discussed going into the basement, but instead followed Julie out to the front door to look at the western sky. She whistling the "Wicked Witch" theme from Wizard of OZ. Otherwise known in our house as Julie's theme. (Another story for another time.)  We were outside watching the storm come in, admiring our garden, when it started to hail. We argued about how big the hail was. It was pretty impressive cracks, pings, Hollywood ricochet sounds.

In utter desperation I went back into the dining room.  I was looking around the toaster when something caused me to look down INTO the toaster.

There were my keys. IN THE TOASTER. So ok I concede looking in the last place I remember having them worked. It only pains me a little to concede, but the concept does NOT work when you're panicked.

Darn gremlins.

 

Poop discussion ahead - TMI alert */*

TMI alert (you've been warned) I'm going to my new doctor tomorrow and I'm trying to anticipate what she might ask me. I'm 54 and diabetic and morbidly obese so I can probably guess. I'm not conceited in the least. How can you be obese, 50 plus diabetic and entertain conceits?  What I'm interested in discovering is if she is going to explore my psyche. My Park Nicollet Physicians Assistant once inquired if I was depressed. I guess I do have a "hang dog" countenance, a "dreary vibe."  Either that or it was on her list of things to inquire from a post 50 fat guy with diabetes. Perhaps I'm in a demographic that gets asked, "are you depressed."  Anyhow, it will be interesting to see how the visit goes. I've gained 15 pounds since my last new low of 286...back in the 3's as they say on Biggest Loser, my favorite soap opera. While I'm vowing to be completely honest with my new Doctor, if she asks me what makes me happy do I dare tell her?  I'll tell you blog, my greatest joy is what got Martin Luther all giddy too. So much so he nailed it to the Cathedral door. One of the many treatises he nailed to the door to let the Vatican know their franchise had competition for the souls of Christianity.

What Marty and I have in common,  I am thrilled by a good BM.  When I have a nice effortless BM, and it is a good color, and holds together, and slides out, but is solid, with a hint of leafy texture, and I don't have to push, I have a good solid two minutes of glow. It's made better when I have to employ a very modest amount of TP to get cleaned up. I took my 4 oz of Cyclone Cider for several days in a row, and I've had several very good days.   You have to wonder what the bishops thought of Martin Luther."What makes this guy tick." Wrong question, they should have asked, "What makes this monk go?"
Don't judge me too harshly dear blogoshpere. Have a nice day.

Garbage/Recycling remembering dear old dad

http://www.twincities.com/soucheray/ci_16961507

Soucheray's column made me think about these matters. The picture of Joe peeking through the blinds to see how his recycling efforts were received made me chuckle.

I have bristled at those admonising notes they leave behind. Usually from the trash collectors, we've been really lucky with the recyclers. A "sustainable new urbanist" could describe my wife. I see the point, but don't get quite as exercised as she does.
Complaince with others expectations has never haunted me, or even vexed me so much.

Joe's column about the recycling reminded me of an episode my late father experienced on the cusp of trash handlings modern era. You might not remember hardware stores use to sell metal trash cans with holes to fascilitate burning. Most people burned some if not all of their trash. My father was your classic weekend alcoholic who faithfully executed my mothers "honey-do" lists so that he could drink in peace. The chore he actually enjoyed was burning trash in the trash can with holes. He'd tend the fires so that it burned very impressively, and he'd sit nursing dozens of cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. This was the early 60's in Racine Wisconsin. One particular fire he had going reminded us of the Buddhist monk that set himself alight and was prominent on the national news at the time.

One day some self righteous Dane (Racine has the largest population of tea totalling Danes in north America, although there's no shortage of drunk Danes either.) decided that burning trash was antithetical to what he'd read in Rachel Carson's tome "Silent Spring." So the city passed a ban on trash burning. My father continued to burn his trash on Saturdays. A snoopy neighbor lady ratted him out. The fire department visited my father every Saturday for the next several weeks.
My father argued with them, they cajoled my dad, it got testier each week.

Finally the commander of our local fire engine told my dad that if he burned trash the following week, "it would be dealt with." My dad fulminated and cursed and in his plaid shorts, and argyle kneesocks, and scuffed penny loafers shook his fist at the departing fire engine.

The next week my dad pulled out of the garage that weeks cumbustibles and bent over to start the fire with his zippo that he carried through Africa during World War II. There was a breeze as there always is in Racine, hard by the shores of Lake Michigan, and dad opened a can of PBR, and lit a cigarette, when, as promised the red Racine Fire Department engine rounded the corner. My father ignored them till the captain got out, handed my dad a citation, then mounted the engine and manned the water cannon. The confidence drained from dad's face. Before he could utter a word the water jet hit my dads burn can, and it and my dad when shooting across the driveway and up against the garage. My dad was one of the few white men of that era who completely empathized with the civil rights protesters who were hosed by the fire department down south, who were competeing with burning monks on our nightly news back then.  I pointed out to my father in my insouciance of youth, "It could have been worse dad, they could have set the dogs on you."

Professional garbage sorting, and the era of garbology was upon us, recycling, and hand wringing about recycling was just around the corner.

Dad died in '85.  I often wonder what he'd make of the world since 1985. I think he'd get a kick out of it. I wonder what he'd make of  http://www.storyofstuff.com/