Pass the Excedrin

Kee-rist!  my grandmother liked to say when pushed past her patience and trying hard not to throw something.

I know the feeling.

For reasons I can't fathom, once your check numbers make into the 5 digit range, my bank drops the 1st digit on the bottom part of the check.  This means that the check number on the bottom doesn't exactly match the number in the upper right corner - not rocket science to decipher - but more than adequate to stump the fine folks at Rite Aid and their check verification service.  

It's not within their parameters, the cashier tells me with an indifferent shrug, We can't take it.

I protest and ask for a manager - pointing out that every other pharmacy in this city, every grocery store and every department store, even the post office - all take my checks with barely a second look.  The manager, a squinty eyed, chubby little gnome in bifocals and a stained polo shirt, listens to his cashier and hands me back my check and ID with a muttered and bored, Sorry.  In return, I gingerly hand him back the little Rite Aid plastic bag with my medication in it - he takes it uncertainly, reminding me of the dog walkers I see carrying their little plastic bags of poop and this gives me a minor but very definite thrill of satisfaction - and I walk out.  

The second night, I'm feeling optimistic so I try Walgreen's.  All goes well until the unsmiling and defensive cashier begins to ring up the sale, at which point the computer has some sort of technological seizure and it's suddenly All Stop.  With no back up plan for this kind of glitch, it takes just under 25 minutes for them to sort it out and I wind up paying three times Rite Aid's price.  There is no apology offered for the delay.

Thank you, I tell the sullen little girl behind the counter, with as much insincerity as I can summon, I won't be having you fill this again.  I consider making a formal complaint to the manager but decide I've filled my quota of interactions with idiots for the day and wasted enough time.

Service.  I don't expect it anymore but I'd settle for someone who could spell it.

Kee-rist.

The Last Brownie

I could hear it from the front steps.  

Answer me! my mother was screaming, a raw and frantic sound followed by the unmistakable sound of a slap. I found my key and the door swung open - the first thing I saw was my youngest brother - cornered, crying, and shielding his face.  There was blood streaked down his arms and shards of glass in his hair.  My mother, standing over him with a broken whiskey bottle in one hand, was almost unrecognizable with rage. Answer me!  she screeched and gave him a fierce, open handed slap with her free hand.  He crumpled, pawing at the wall and covering his head with his hands.  I had no weapons except my school books but my Business Math was thick and solid and I threw it without thinking.  It struck her shoulder with a nasty but satisfying thud and got her attention.  She turned and took a few staggering steps toward me but tripped on the edge of the carpet and went down in a heap.

Run!  I yelled wildly at my little brother, Run!

And he did, leaping over her like a you would a mud puddle and not looking back.  The screen door protested with an ear splitting slam as it hit the side iron railing and another as it slammed shut.  She was still pulling herself up off the floor, breathing like a dragon and reaching for whatever was at hand - it turned out to be the old black rotary telephone, always a reliable stand by - and I dropped the rest of my books and fled.

What the hell did you do?  I demanded as we ran across the yard and headed blindly up the sidewalk.

Nothing! he panted back, his face was white and there was a bloody bruise on his cheek.  Then, the truth gasped out in time to his pounding foot steps. EXCEPT. I. ATE. THE. LAST. BROWNIE.

I began to laugh, despite the fact that we were running for our lives, despite the angry stitch in my side.
We veered to the left onto the dirt road and skidded to a stop.

Moron! I yelled at him but I was still laughing, Look what you've gotten us into!

Retard! he threw back but aimiably enough, You threw the damn book!

The dirt road - really just a narrow, unmaintained dirt lane, barely wide enough to accommodate a single vehicle and then only if you were prepared to sacrifice your shocks and struts - would one day be a back route to a new and shiny, cookie cutter sub division.  Now however, it was just a mostly forgotten, no-name dirt road that dead ended several hundred feet from Spy Pond.  The pot holes were several inches deep and several feet across - all things considered I thought it was doubtful that we'd be followed but who knew what a drunken, madwoman was likely to do - so we took a few minutes to catch our breaths and then began a slow shuffle down the dusty lane, listening for the old convertible engine and cautiously looking backwards every few yards.

So, my little brother said presently, What are we 'sposed to do now?

It was a good question, I thought, a valid and relevant question,  a timeless and unanswerable question.

Well, we could always call Dad, I said tentatively.

My little brother gave me a dark look.  Oh, right, he said with a bitter-edged laugh, Like that'll do any good.

What about Nana? I asked.

Aw, go play in traffic, he muttered and kicked a good sized rock clear into the ditch.

Fine, dipstick, then you come up with something, I said and flipped him the bird, but we have to go home sometime.

He scowled at me, took aim at another even bigger chunk of rock and gave it a fierce kick.  It sailed over the ditch in a gritty cloud of dust and crashed into the gate of someone's back picket fence.  Discretion being the better part of valor, we ran.

We ended up at the drugstore, drinking vanilla cokes at the scarred up old counter, arguing about what to do next and watching the ancient wall clock.  Six o'clock came and with it, the old Mercury station wagon pulled up to the curb.  My daddy emerged, still in his good blue suit and looking not only considerably older than he had just that morning, but sadly weary.  He saw us through the plate glass windows that bordered Massachusetts Avenue and motioned us out.  We went.  Not willingly, but we went.

We're gonna get it, my little brother muttered to me as the drugstore door closed behind us.  

Not if we tell the truth, I said stubbornly even though a big part of me thought he was right.  I had more experience but he was the one with the bruise and I still thought that might count for something.

We'll talk about this later, my daddy said tiredly, Right now supper's getting cold.

But we never did.  We rode home in a dull silence, picked at cold pork chops and glazed carrots, passed on dessert.  Except for the fresh whiskey stain on the carpet - and the missing black rotary telephone (it had finally succumbed to a fatal crack in the receiver and was casually replaced a few days later with a fancy pink princess model, lighted dial and all), there was no trace of the afternoon's disturbance.  There was also no trace of my mother who had retreated to her darkened bedroom to lay on her single bed with cold compresses on her eyes - another "headache", my daddy said, falling back on an old and familiar lie - come morning, she would be pale and shaky and her eyes would have that haunted, hungover look.  By the time we left for school, she'd be guzzling aspirin and drinking cooking sherry from a faded Corelware coffee cup as if nothing had happened, as if we weren't even there.  And except for the evidence on my little brother's face - swollen cheek and blackened eye, an unwanted but respected badge of honor - we pretty much weren't.

Truth or Consequences

There's nothing like a software upgrade to effectively ruin your day and wreck a reasonably functioning program.  It isn't quite the nightmare of the original upgrade but it beats whatever's in second place.  Essential forms have vanished and no one seems to be able to say where or why or how to restore them, new steps are in place but we have had no instruction on how to use them, things that used to take 20 keystrokes now take 30.   Typically, it takes two full days before tech support even bothers to return a call and still one more before they grasp the problems - their first three so called fixes fail miserably - and this is called progress.

Having been through this before - the initial upgrade was, not to put too fine a point on it, an absolute debacle - we have no illusions.  We get as much done beforehand as possible and steel ourselves for the worst.
We are not disappointed.  With the upgrade completed, the system reverts to creeping speed, freezing and crashing once an hour or so.  The day takes on a familiar nightmarish quality and once again I find myself thinking about staying in bed and letting someone younger and less demanding deal with all this nonsense. The doctor snaps and growls his way through the morning, almost as disgusted with the system as we are but still, despite our pleas, not willing to step in and make some waves. 

It's a curious thing to me that no one seems able to design a medical software program that actually meets the needs of a medical practice but it's even more curious how useless these designers and sellers become once their system is in place.  Our software rep, an outgoing and lovely young lady who likes to promise far more than she can deliver, courted us for weeks with lunches and training and 24 hour access.  Calls were returned promptly and solutions were found within days if not hours.  We've barely seen her since the program was installed and when we do it's clear that she considers us a high maintenance client, demanding and troublesome and hardly worth her time.  Only the doctor is able to get her attention.  Worse, she blames us for the flaws, suggesting time and time again that everything that goes awry originates with us.

In the midst of this small drama, the surgery center sends us the surgical schedule for the following day and the doctor's case isn't on it.  The nurses frown - they both know that the paperwork had been submitted exactly as required and days before - but a hasty call to the center confirms their fears.  Never got anything, the admitting nurse initially claims.  Later this is altered to We called and told you there was no free time slot.  The story has a certain flexibility, it changes depending upon who we speak to, the one constant being that they bear no responsibility for the mix up.

I don't care whose fault it is, the doctor tells us somewhat grandly, I just want it fixed so it doesn't happen again.

It's an adult attitude, a mature attitude, an admirable attitude.  Especially when you're not the one being accused.

I've worked for years to detach myself from these small resentments and the drama they breed but the nurses and I don't handle this at all well.  It feels too much like a personal attack and we are disgusted and very angry.
The doctor tries to smooth our ruffled feathers, assuring us he knows we all did our jobs despite what the surgery center claims - their history of this kind of error is long and anything but uncommon - but it's not enough.

Let it go, he tells us with a smile, It's not important.

Oh, but it is.

Someone feeling wronged is like someone feeling thirsty.
Don't tell them they aren't.  Sit with them and have a drink.
 ~ Lemony Snicket

Break Out!

The day is cold, some mild sleet is falling, and I'm running late between photo shoots and already frazzled when the little dachshund decides to go visiting.  He finds a weak spot in the privacy fence and in seconds has dug under and through to the other side where he joins up with Buster, my neighbor's bad influence of a Shih Tsu.  There is much celebration before I figure out where the little badger dog has disappeared to - it takes finding the gap between the fence and the ground, spotting the newly turned earth, and finally getting down on all fours to peer under - whereupon I find myself nose to nose with a wildly excited Buster and before I can react, he lunges forward and plants a sloppy kiss on my frozen face.  I jerk back and slam my head on the bottom of the fence - oh, that's gonna bruise - and I curse loudly enough to wake the dead.  All I get is a glimpse of the little dachshund, running happily back and forth clear across the neighbor's yard.  I call, I shout, I whistle, I coax, but all to no avail except for Buster who eases down on his belly and effortlessly crawls under and through to my side of the fence.  The little dachshund tries to follow but loses his nerve at the last minute and slips through my grasp.  For a fraction of a second I think To hell with it, one dog is as good as another,
but then Buster dives back under the fence and commences a frenzy of barking.  My little badger dog joins in and soon the entire neighborhood is alerted and talking.

With no other choice, I pick myself up and scrape off my jeans, brush wet leaves from my hair, wedge a fallen log into the space between the fence and the ground and trudge next door.  I'm cold, wet, severely annoyed, and in no mood to have no one answer my knock.  The doorbell sets off a second wave of frantic barking but doesn't get answered and my heart sinks when I realize that I'm running out of options.  I make my way around the house and am confronted with a double set of locked cyclone fence gates.  Hoping that I'm not noticed and that no friendly neighborhood watchperson will feel the need to call the cops, I take several deep breaths and begin to climb.  A slideshow of broken hips and ambulances is playing in my mind by the time I navigate the second gate but this is my dog so I persevere and finally reach the backyard.  The little dachshund, now fully aware of how seriously in trouble he is, decides to pretend it's all a game and shies off, it takes a full five minutes to corner and catch him.  It's only as I'm scaling the gates on my way out with a small dog tucked under my arm that I realize how it will look if anyone sees me - the recent rash of dognappings has been very much in the news lately - and the slideshow suddenly speeds up and now includes visions of jail cells and dog owning neighbors with shotguns.  I hadn't the foresight to bring a leash and when I finally reach the front yard I can't help but revert to stealth mode, making a mad rush to my front door with the little dog struggling and protesting in my awkward one armed grip.  

Safely inside - although still half expecting to hear the wail of a police car - I put him down and give him a severe scolding.

Bad dog! I tell him repeatedly, Very bad dog! 

I've never spoken to him this way before and he has the good grace to be ashamed, at least for a few seconds,
then he lies down with his head on his paws, tail still, eyes pleading up at me and the scolding dies in mid sentence.  What if my neighbor hadn't had a fenced yard, I think.  What if Buster had been not a harmless and affectionate little Shih Tsu but a lock jawed killer mastiff with a mean streak.  The what ifs are too terrible to contemplate, I realize, so despite the gnawing suspicion that I'm being had, I scoop him up into my arms and hug him fiercely. 

Promise me no more digging, I say quietly, and we'll say no more about it. 

He rests his head on my shoulder and sighs. 

Releasing the Hounds

There's a chill in the Sunday air as we start February and it rains on and off all day, a quiet, polite patter I can hear on the roof and see on the leaves as they bend over the railing and toward the back door.  Big, fat, and splashy raindrops hang on the branches - they sway and glisten against the dark sky - then fall with soft thuds onto the deck and the muddy ground cover.  The dogs, so eager to go outside that they rush the back door, suddenly turn cautious, carefully making their way off the wet deck and onto the slick leaves with light, little footsteps.  Shivering and looking miserable, the small brown dog returns immediately while the black one, barely damp and hardly bothered, noses her way to the back fence and begins to bark.  The little dachshund joins in, his coarse hound-like voice sounds gravely and very much in charge.  As always, he has to be coaxed back inside - he enjoys starting the chain letter effect of getting all the dogs in the neighborhood talking to one another and then pretending he wasn't involved.

Most mornings, he has to be manually retrieved.  While the other two go about their business then trot obediently back inside and jump willingly into their kennels, he finds a place where he blends in and then calmly sits and pretends he doesn't hear me calling.  I make my way into the yard and spend several minutes trying to locate him - he's perfected the art of camouflage and he sits like a statue - then carry him back inside.  He immediately runs into the sun room and I follow, scoop him up and carry him back to the kennel.
After a year and a half of this slightly comedic routine, I've given up on his ever accepting confinement.  I slip a biscuit through the bars and harden my heart against those sad, pleading, manipulative eyes.  Twice a day, five days a week we practice this little routine and it kills me every time but were I to leave him free, the cats would know no peace and there's no telling what the condition of the house would be at days end.

I'd so hoped that he would see the other two dogs go so willingly to kennels and follow their example but it wasn't to be.  Perhaps he was confined his entire first four years, perhaps he sees it as a punishment, perhaps it's just a naturally occurring stubborn streak, I doubt I'll ever know.

The bright side is coming home at night to an avalanche of welcome.  The moment my key slides into the front door lock, the competition begins - it's an Olympic event for barking and howling - and though it's several minutes before I can even hear myself think, I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Hold onto the chaos long enough and you can tame it a little.  But only a little. 
  

It Ain't Woodstock

The usually bright and airy coffee shop is darkened and crowded with people young enough to be my children. The music thunders and ricochets like heavy equipment, the walls shake and the floor vibrates.  Here in the unfamiliar land outside my comfort zone, I tread lightly - the natives are restless, I don't know the language, the music is like an alien force assaulting my senses - but the crowd loves it.  They dance and applaud and sing along to every lyric then shout for more.  It ain't Woodstock.

If you're not afraid, the world is full of new places, new people, new sounds.  The familiar atmosphere of the coffee shop is transformed - youth and energy will do that - and as always, I'm glad I've ventured out into this world of strangeness and tell myself I should do it more often.  Lyrics don't seem to matter as much as volume and motion, the harsher and wilder the better, but you can't deny the passion or the joyfulness.  I'm not sure if there's any talent here but it seems a secondary and mostly insignificant consideration.  

My mother and daddy had their doubts when, as a teenager, I fell in love with rock and roll.  Compared with today, it was pretty tame, certainly not worth the label of the devil's music and no imminent danger to my young soul.  But it was different - no Mills Brothers harmony, no sweet Sinatra crooning, not even Pete Fountain's blues clarinet - and it was a threat.  My mother saw it as noise and revolution, an integral part of the drug scene and the madness that would surely follow.  She banned it, not understanding that anything she was so violently against would increase its power a hundred fold.  When that failed, she made fun of it, again not understanding that whatever she demeaned, I would defend to the death.  Imagining how she might react to metal or rap makes me smile.  Lamentable but harmless, my daddy said, frowning ever so slightly then going back to his book while my grandmother - a Lawrence Welk and Liberace fan until her dying day - threw up her hands and invested in earplugs.

The following night I drift back into the blues and the sweet, gentle sound of an acoustic guitar, the wail of a lonesome, train-time harmonica.  It's good to make room for the new and the misunderstood, but I wouldn't want to live there.

Three Yards of Drama

I have a bad feeling as I drag out a cat carrier and casually place it on the dining room table, hoping against hope to snare the older black cat without three yards of drama.  He has not been himself for the past few days and I know a checkup is warranted - at 12, he's no longer young - and I'm doing my best not to think about renal failure and the consequences.  All I manage to capture, however, is the kitten who hasn't the good sense to realize the implications of a carrier on the dining room table.  The adult cats scatter the moment they see it.  There's something to be said for age and experience.

I pretend that there's nothing out of the ordinary going on - this doesn't even fool the dogs - and when I'm ready to walk out the door, I nonchalantly scoop up the cat on my way and stuff him into the carrier.  As if to confirm my suspicions, he protests but only half-heartedly and he's unusually quiet on the drive to the clinic.
I'd prefer him yowling about this indignity and it worries me.  He maintains his silence when we arrive, glaring at the technician with a bravado I'm convinced he doesn't feel and it's at that moment when I realize that despite my optimistic assurances and determination not to worry, there's a place inside where I'm preparing myself to lose him.  It's not easy to leave.

The hunger strike lasts two days - through the confinement, the lab tests, the blood lettings, the unfamiliar surroundings - and the vet eventually calls to tell me I can bring him home.  Aside from an elevated white count, they've found nothing wrong except a suspected viral infection.  If he's glad to see me, he hides it well and sulks all the way home.  I try to match his attitude and pretend I was never worried.   

Once again, I've fretted uselessly and lost sleep unnecessarily.  As for the cat, by bedtime all is forgiven and at some point in the night I wake to find him peacefully sleeping, snug between my shoulder and the extra pillows.  I sleep better knowing he's home.