It's Policy

I don't mean to complain, but I would be enormously grateful for just one day when it wasn't necessary to declare war just to get something simple done and done right.

My trusty old Nikon lens begins to grind and shimmy on it's mount and I dutifully pack it up and send it for repair. A few weeks later, it's returned but being at work, I miss the Ups delivery truck. Fortunately, I live within a few minutes of the distribution center so I call to tell them not to bother with a second delivery attempt, I'll come by and pick it up once the trucks have had time to get back.

“No,” the Ups rep tells me shortly, “You can't do that.”

“No?” I say innocently and having no clue I'm about to unleash the demons of customer service,

“Why not?”

“The shipper has frozen the delivery options,” I'm told with a bored tolerance that's quite close to indifference, “It can only be delivered.”

“Okay,” I say mildly, “Then let me give you a different delivery address.”

“No,” the agent repeats, “We can only deliver it to the address you gave originally.”

“How,” I say tightly, “Do I get the delivery options unfrozen?”

It's another 20 futile minutes to get Nikon on the telephone, explain the situation, and have them tell me, in a tone of voice eeriely like the bored tolerance of the Ups agent, that no, they can't call and release the package. It's policy, they tell me flatly, once the order has been placed, there's nothing they can do. I demand to speak to a manager, not because I expect a different outcome but because somebody needs to be told how imbecilic this so-called “policy” is.

When the smoke clears and I decide I've had enough of this nonsense, I decide to do what I should have done in the first place and drive to the Ups distribution center to lay my case in front of the local people. I'm immediately apologized to and the package is traced within a matter of seconds - it's still on the truck and the truck is still out - but it's due back that evening and I'm welcome to come back after eight or first thing in the morning. With a brief but artful tap of the keyboard, the agent arranges for the pickup.

“Whatever did you call our 800 number for,” she scolds me gently, “They wouldn't know their collective ass from a hole in the ground.”

“How is it,” I can't resist asking, “that you still have a job when you can clearly think?”

Sometime in the night, the beginnings of a not very nice idea take root in my mind. I have an overwhelming urge to cause some mischief at Nikon and when I pick up the lens the following morning and sign for it, I take pains to use a name that's not my own and make sure my signature is indecipherable. I think I might just call their illustrious customer service department in a few days and ask them what they've done with my lens, maybe make a federal case out of wanting a refund. They'd catch on in time but maybe it might upset their policy applecart just a smidge.

The idea appeals to me. Betcha my mischief can out run your policy.

The Myth of Common Ground

Just outside one of the city's oldest biker bars, someone has nailed up a wire wastebasket with a hand written sign that reads “Check Your Politics Here”. It starts my night with a smile.

It's a weeknight and while the crowd is light, the music is deafening. Whitney, the blonde, blue eyed bartender, waves to me and a few moments later a diet coke and a red plastic basket of popcorn appear at my elbow. I suspect that the wastebasket and sign might be her idea since last time I was here, a post-election difference of opinion between two bikers got out of hand, a full fledged brawl broke out and Whitney, who stores (and isn't afraid to use) a 357 she keeps behind the bar, was forced to intervene and restore order. In the process, she broke an expensively lacquered fingernail and took it more personally than anyone expected so I didn't imagine she would let it happen again. After that night, the popular opinion became that being petite and pretty didn't mean you didn't know your way around a gun and there'd been no more disputes, political or otherwise.

If you frequent as many bars as I do, there are certain things you get used to. Here in the south, biker bars, in particular, are colorful places and you're almost guaranteed to find at least one prominently displayed confederate flag. The patrons tend to be loud, intimidatingly conservative and opinionated to the point of crude if they're not getting their point across. For someone like myself, this can be hostile territory and while I've never felt threatened or unsafe, I do try and respect the environment.

My friend, Jack, a tree-top tall, blind-in-one-eye old rider with a mane of coarse and untidy grey hair well past his shoulders, slides into a chair facing me and plunks his beer on the table with a dull thud. He grins and gives me a salacious wink.

"Whaddup, girl" he says conversationally, 'Still ridin' that liberal horse?"

"Reckon so, Jack," I say, "Still draggin' your ass in its dust?"

Until recently, if a friend - casual or even close - shared my love of music or devotion to animals but not my politics, it wasn't enough to keep them from being a friend.  I might snipe some here and there, just as they would with me, but I wasn't ready to write someone off over a political difference of opinion.  We could always agree to disagree, so I thought, and concentrate on our common ground.  That, I told myself, was what adults did.  It wasn't ideal but it was practical, reasonably cordial and it worked for years, might still be working today but for the last election.  Much to my dismay, I've come to realize that there are certain things about certain friends that I can't overlook.

It's painful to think that I have friends who are rabidly racist and I didn't know.

It's painful to think that I have friends who think women shouldn't be able to vote and I didn't know.

It's painful to think I have friends who would let the poor starve and I didn't know.

It's painful to think I have friends who would close our borders, take away social safety nets, turn their backs on civil rights, deny science, dismantle consumer protections, deregulate anything that can be deregulated in the name of profit, and embrace a world of exclusivity that isn't even open to most of them.  It's not only painful that I didn't know.  It's shameful.

Except that I did know.  I just chose not to confront it.  I thought I could pretend it wasn't there, that it wasn't significant enough to worry about.  Because here's the thing for my friends like Jack:  even if you aren't a racist or a predator or a woman-hater or a hypocrite, you voted for one.  And it's pretty much the same thing.

So long, Jack.  Gonna miss you.

The Cold

The cold creeps into my bones like a slow water leak. I feel it in my toes and on the back of my neck. It seeps insidiously under my fingernails. We're halfway through March and there's no way it should be this bitter but even the sun's glare has an icy undercoat. I find the warmest room in the house and pull on my thermals and heavy duty socks, wind my trusty muffler around my neck and shoulders and slip into my leather jacket. I'm about to head out the door when I remember my finger-less wool gloves, a gift from a much loved and understanding cousin, one I hadn't anticipated needing until next year. I also remember that the day before when I walked into the office, it was 57 degrees inside. No time like the present, I think, and backtrack to snatch them out of the corner cupboard. It's time to confront this arctic wasteland, this adversary, this merciless and most feared enemy, The Cold. It has to be done quickly before I lose my nerve.

By mid afternoon it's warmed up enough to be civilized but the next morning, the grass is crunchy with frost and so am I. All my life, The Cold has made me impatient, ill-tempered, unhappy and bitter with resentment at everything I can't control. But for the eight small lives that depend on me, I would jack the heat to 80, light the fireplace and the space heaters and stay under the covers until Memorial Day. I'm quite sure that the traditional view of hell is, temperature-wise at least, backwards. If it exists, it's bound to be stone cold, damp-to-the-bones cold, forever cold.

The third and fourth mornings are carbon copies of the first and second with deceptively bright sunshine wearing a knit cap and a coat of icy-sleeved cold.  According to the forecast, warmer weather arrives tomorrow, as much as 30 degrees warmer by the day after and there's no choice but to bundle up and wait out one more day.

A scant three days later, I throw open every window in this small, old house and invite the sunshine and sweet breezes inside.  Birds sing in the azaleas again and the crepe myrtle is starting to bloom.  Instead of leaves needing to be raked, the grass needs cutting.

Hope, shy but strong, beats back The Cold and blossoms alongside every stubborn dandelion.

Coming of Age

I came of political age in New England during the Nixon debacle, a hard and bitter time for this country. I was surrounded by like-minded friends who were enraged and appalled by the man and his gang of thugs and once they were finally driven out, disbarred or imprisoned, I rejoiced while my mother wept. I kept my faith and never imagined such a time could come again. I suspect I thought that complacency and a vote every two or four years would be enough to sustain me. Certainly I expected that corruption had been put in its place and that the country had learned a valuable lesson. And then it was 2016.

These days I wake each morning surprised we're not at war. The corruption I thought we would never see the like of again has become pathological and the president we elected drives and sustains it. The freedoms we claim to treasure are slipping through our fingers.  The backward drive to undo years of progress is in full swing.

They even have a clever name for it: Post Election Stress Syndrome.

Before Nixon, I was too young to be an activist. Afterward I was too busy. But between then and now, I came to believe all those in power were - or would come to be – corrupt at best, toxic at worst. The business of politics didn't concern or affect me much and when I did think about it, it was like thinking about dirt. I saw no decency in it and hoped it would wash off.

It doesn't.

Wind Storms

My friend Michael's estrangement from his family, now in its 3^rd month, has brought back memories of my own, now in it's 30^th something year. Forgiveness, so people like to say, brings peace of mind and allows you to move on. It's funny that my peace of mind took root the very moment I cut those family ties and fully blossomed with my mother's death. Forgiveness never got a foot in the door.

Traditionally speaking, this should have troubled me, I suppose, but like the azaleas outside my window, the seasons came and passed and came and passed again while I was tending other flower beds. I didn't suffer or lose sleep over it. My conscience didn't stir with regret or guilt, not even with might-have-beens and eventually, it faded and became unimportant. Though there were still traces of poison,  to paraphrase Anne Lamont, the urge to hit back gradually drifted away. Maybe that's what forgiveness really is, not so much an active act as a passive giving in to forgetting and allowing time to do what it does best.

Michael, never one to take the I'm sorry you feel that way approach, has wounds that are newer. They are sharp edged and raw with anger, still bleeding with what he sees as betrayal and selfishness. He swallowed his pride and asked for help, fully expecting his family to unite behind him but prepared to shame them if they refused. Today he would rather reign fire than forgive but tomorrow, who knows.  We all blow with the wind now and then but The wind, as the old fishermen used to tell each other, she blows in all directions.

Casual Encounters with the Idle Rich

I can't abide buttered parsnips, crooked pictures, or useless society women. The first I can avoid, the second I can fix, but the third - whose only function is to marry and breed more useless society women - is a plague.

They're immediately identifiable by their valley girl speech, their gushing insincerity, their Neiman Marcus wardrobes and their need to mention their neighborhood, which car they came in, and at the very least, two references to how long they've had their nanny. They bring 20 or 30 outfits to a one look photo shoot. There's a touch of entitlement if not outright malice to their magpie chatter and a careless privilege when they “accidentally” spill out a half dozen black credit cards and tell me to choose one. They're overflowing with suggestions on how the photographer should do her job, all of which begin with, “Now of course, I'm not a professional but......” and of the thirty outfits (all with price tags prominently displayed), there's not so much as a facecloth to wipe the drool off the baby's chin. “What could my Bessie Mae have been thinking not to put in a baby wipe,” they twitter, bat their silvery shadowed eyes and give their hair a practiced, over the shoulder toss. I cringe with every word and gesture and pray that I'll be able to keep my sausage and egg biscuit down.

There is a bright spot with this particular moron mama because when she turns sideways to me, I notice her nose. Not only is it unfortunately crooked with a shocking hump in the bridge, it's ski slope long and ends in what looks like a wheel barrow caught in a snow drift. It hooks hard to the left and all her concealer and artfully applied Elizabeth Arden can't diminish it. I know I should be ashamed of the delight this gives me but then she looks down at me, peering over that amazing hump and giving me a nasty, glittery smile with her ironically perfect teeth.

“Oh,” she says with a dismissive sneer that's impossible to miss, “Was I supposed to bring my own toys too?”

Instead of counting to ten, I run through the first five local plastic surgeons I can think of and smile back through my own impeccably perfect bridgework.

“We'll make do, dear,” I tell her cheerfully and for a fraction of a second I think I see her jaw clench but then she remembers that apart from the occasional, sugary sweet reprimand, women in her position don't engage the help. She thanks me, gathers up her child and her designer accessories, slings her Prada bag over her shoulder and stalks off, Gucci heels clicking like rapid fire gunshots.

Would that money could buy class and manners the way the class-less and unmannered rich think it does.

Little Dogs, Little Tyrants

It wasn't 'specially cold, wasn't even raining 'specially hard and two of the three dogs headed out the back door without hesitation. The tiny one, however, took one look at the raindrops splashing on the wooden deck and scurried off like a wounded crab. I caught him in three steps,

carried him outside and deposited him on the damp grass under the shelter of the shrubbery. The look he gave me was part apprehension, part bewilderment and part betrayal.

“Seriously,” I told him firmly as I tried not to laugh, “You won't melt.”

The look changed to indignation when a raindrop landed on his head and startled him. He jumped a little then shook it off and took a few small, tentative steps sideways. All I could think of was Harry Potter in the maze but without Harry's courage. Another raindrop landed, closer to his hindquarters this time, and he shivered miserably. While the small brown dog and the little dachshund watched - in amusement, I had to wonder - I brushed the branches and shrubs away and re-located him to a mound of pinestraw. This seemed to reassure him and he nosed about for several minutes then finally hiked one tiny leg and did what had to be done.

“What a good boy!” I told him when he trotted back and made a hasty run for the back door.

Safely back in the house and only a little damp from his adventure, he immediately regrouped and reclaimed his un-timid inside self, snatching a treat from my outstretched hand, unleashing a Wagnerian chorus of barking at the cats and tearing after the youngest at full speed.

Twenty minutes later, he's laid out fast asleep and snoring like a freight train. Little dogs rule.

Babies R Us

Not being a mother myself, I've always felt a little handicapped when it comes to babies. I know enough to agree with the new parents about how amazingly beautiful and precious and perfect their newborn is but I've never quite seen it. I don't mean to be crude but they all look like squinched up monkeys to me and I doubt I could tell one from another.

The agency gets quite a lot of baby pictures from parents who are convinced their little angel can be, given the chance, the next Gerber/Pampers/Ivory Soap/Huggies baby. We hear how playful and sunny-natured they are, how well-behaved and affectionate, how they love to have their pictures taken. We hear how easy they are to work with, how bright for their age they are, how talented and how astonishingly photogenic. We hear with sickening regularity, how everyone who meets little Bambi or Jessilynne or Jackson or Owen says they should model. Mothers, far more than daddys, gush at how well their little bundle of joy takes direction.

Oh, please.

Infants eat, sleep, cry and soil their diapers. They're not even house broken never mind career-oriented.

Some of these parents, I have no doubt, are sincere but others are looking for no more than what they think will be a quick payday. Exploit your child, get rich quick, and land on Easy Street. It never occurs to them that the grainy, out of focus cell phone image might not be worth the pixels it takes to create. It never occurs to them that they might have to make an actual investment in their child. They're offended by the idea that we're looking for children who can read and focus for more than 15 seconds and actually sit still and quiet for 20. They don't seem to realize that a 6 month old baby ought to be allowed to be a baby.

So we're headed into this new project cautiously - a department store in a nearby state has put out a casting call for all ages starting at 6 months – and Michael has decided to test the waters.

I have a sudden urge to look for a life jacket.

What Would Michael Do

Never let it be said that my friend Michael hasn't taught me a thing or three about the art of the threat.

The internet was out again when I got home and At&t had an automated message in place so they didn't have to listen to their irate customers. I was annoyed but outages are painfully common and it's not always shoddy equipment or incompetence so I decided not to make a federal case of it. It took ten hours to repair and I was back on line by midnight but the very next morning, my wireless network mysteriously disappeared and with it, my internet access. Determined not to lose my temper this time, I put in the call. I had a suspicion that conserving my energy from the day before might come in handy.

For a full half hour I went through the standard script and repeated all the standard quick fixes that had already failed. I was speaking English but wasn't sure what language I was hearing, being only able to pick out a few words here and there, still I persisted until we got to the inevitable point where I was told I'd need a technician. Their first available appointment was Monday. Could I be at home between 8 and 12?

A 10 hour outage just the day before and now I'm told it'll be two days before it can be repaired? I didn't think so and firmly but calmly said as much but all it got me was a shrug I could practically hear and a lukewarm apology. What would Michael do, I asked myself and the answer came with blinding clarity - he would lie, bluff, threaten and not give an inch.

“Let me explain this as clearly and succinctly as I possibly can,” I said, feeling poisoned by own pleasant-ness, “Comcast can be here in a heartbeat and they'll be delighted to have everything changed over by the end of the day. While they're doing that, I'll be organizing my Uverse file,

every missed appointment, every bait and switch promise of fibre optics, every guarantee of blazing speed and every outage. I'll deliver it personally to the Public Service Commission by close of business. So, unless I see an At&t technician here today, there won't be any At&t service on Monday. Do you have any questions?”

Apparently he didn't because although it killed me to swallow that much rage, it got me my internet back that very day.

We are stuck with technology when all we really want is just stuff that works ~ Douglas Adams