Lest you think there is nothing to bagging groceries, I offer up the following:
This morning I went shopping at my local market and as there was no bagger, the cashier, C., bagged my groceries. She put the cold cut together, the dairy products together, etc. When she was done I had four bags of things needing refrigeration and four bags of things that didn’t.
This was the best job of bagging groceries at this market that I’ve experienced and I told C. so. She remarked that she’d bagged them the way she would have liked them.
Nothing beats experience. Unpacking my groceries this morning was a snap.
So thanks again.
I finally figured out what bothers me about the buttons on the elevators in my building at work. The buttons on either side of the door are not exactly the same: the bottom buttons on one side has a slightly different layout than on the other. Also for some reason I expect the buttons to be mirror images of each other and they’re not. Oh, yes, and the placement of the floor numbers is to my mind somewhat less than intuitive.
Still, I’d be awfully happy if they’d at least get both banks of elevators (”banks” being a somewhat grandiose term –) on one button. As it is, we all press the buttons on one side and then the buttons on the other side — these elevators are pretty slow — which means that probably half the time the elevator is stopping on a floor where everyone has gotton on another elevator — which slows things down even more.
I take the stairs a lot.
When I was in my 20’s I was living on the corner of Third Avenue and 14th street in Manhattan. The corner was a regular hangout for drunks, bums, drug dealers, prostitutes, and the like. I was working during the day and taking ballet lessons at night.
One evening in class I twisted my knee doing a pique turn. It hurt, but as the studio was quite a distance from my apartment, I took the subway home. By the time I climbed up the subway stairs my knee had swelled to the size of a melon and my calf hurt. In short, I could barely walk.
As I was gloomily contemplating the long avenue block from the subway entrance to my apartment, one the area’s usual seedy residents, a young black man, approached me.
“Need some help?” he asked.
“Yes!” I leaned on his shoulder and this angel in disguise helped me home. On the way we discussed sports injuries (he studied karate, who knew?) while I left a few more of my stereotypes lying there on the sidewalk.
I am taking Mondays and Tuesdays off for the rest of the month of August starting with this week; thus this is the fourth day I have been down on the cape.
I’ve done a lot more dog walking, weeding, scrubbing rocks in our fountain and the like than I usually do.
I’m having a blast but my body is complaining. My back hurts. Specifically, I can “feel it” on the right side right below my shoulder blade. Oh, yes, and in my shoulders.
Clearly I need to get up from my desk more when I’m at work. Lots more. Lots, lots, more.
We were talking while walking around the block this morning about Moose.
Now I am a city gal, born and raised in Manhattan, so our Moose sighting ten or twelve years back was my first. We were in New Hampshire on vacation and had driven down the Kangamangus Highway in search of same.
So there we were, innocently driving along, when we smell something very like rancid old feet. After swearing to each other that we had indeed showered that morning we saw the Moose. In fact, several of them.
Boy, are they big. And they just stood there. They towered over our car. It’s easy to see why people are killed when they drive into them. So here is a Moose quote:
Of all the wonders of nature, a tree in summer is perhaps the most remarkable; with the possible exception of a moose singing “Embraceable You” in spats. ~Woody Allen
and with this (new to me) old New England saying:
Strong as a Moose.
I have written a couple about my father (”If You Were Still Alive” and “Seasons”, both of which appear in “Reese Tyler Poetry Awards 2006″ from InkPot Press) but the poem I am working on now is the first one about my mother I really like.
Interestingly, my mother doesn’t appear (explicitly, at any rate) anywhere in the poem.
The two poems about my father are just the opposite.
Initially I tried to write about my mother the same way I wrote about my father — eg, just wrote *about* her. But that didn’t work. It appears that what I have to say about my mother is a different order of fish entirely.
I am still thinking about this.
I wasn’t all that fond of bridges before the collapse of the bridge in Minnesota; I am even less so now. This past Friday when driving across the Bourne Bridge on my way to our place on the cape I couldn’t help wondering for a moment if the bridge was safe.
It also reminded me of my worse “bridge” memory: driving across a bridge in Portland on my way to a conference. The bridge was two lanes, under construction, and there were no railings. Ulp!
I received the letter below from Joyce Anthony. Please email her your support, and *don’t* buy Hartz Mountain Flea Powder.
Returning home from a routine trip to the library on Friday, July 13, 2007. I found one of my beloved cats lying on the floor in a pool of blood, her tiny body wracked with convulsions. Checking on the others, I found two more unable to stand, their legs too shaky to hold their bodies, their bodies trembling fiercely. Wrapping these three in towels, we headed for the Pet Emergency Hospital, where one of the first questions was whether I had recently given the cats a flea treatment—I had, that very afternoon. The next question: “Was it Hartz?” Again, my answer was yes. This was my first year using this particular brand. When I left the hospital that night, it was without my three cats. They were too far gone to make it through. I left with instructions to bathe the remaining four and watch them closely. I followed this. They were quiet and nervous that night. By the next morning, another cat was in full-blown seizures and the other three were blinking rapidly and jerking, their muscles starting to be affected. Another trip to the Pet Hospital. When I left this time, one more of my babies was gone and the other three had been admitted. I was scared they would not make it. These three did come home. They survived physically, but my heart goes out to them as they wander through the house crying for those who are gone. The look on the vet’s face got me thinking and I started to research. This was not the first tragedy caused by Hartz flea treatment. Cats have been dying from this product for years—yet the product remains on store shelves. Unsuspecting consumers, wanting to protect their pets and trusting the Hartz name buy and use it—sometimes it is fine, all too often it ends in tragedy. I am asking you today to take a stand with me and demand that Hartz remove their flea treatment for cats from the shelves. Hartz knows the danger, they are aware of the record, yet they continue—this slaughter must stop!! The warning on the box states simply the product should not be used on cats under five pound, pregnant or ill. None of my seven fell into any of those categories—all were over five pounds, five over ten pounds. None were pregnant. All were healthy. The youngest was just over two years old and the oldest six—not kittens. Yet EVERY SINGLE ONE had a reaction!!! How can you take a stand? The first step is to make a copy of this letter and post it anywhere and everywhere you can. Let people know the danger of this product. Next, contact Hartz at: Consumer Relations Department The Hartz Mountain Corporation 400 Plaza Drive Secaucus , NJ 07094 USA Consumer Hotline 1-800-275-1414 Monday – Friday | 9 am – 5 pm EST And insist they remove their product from the shelves. If you see the cat flea treatment on a store shelf, talk to the store manager, let him or her know the danger and ask that it be removed. Hartz, how many more lives must be lost before you stop this needless slaughter? Is it going to take you seeing the pain and horror in your child’s eyes when they watch a beloved friend die? Is it going to take looking into a pair of golden eyes that are begging for help as you hold the convulsing body that just hours before ran and played? If there is any compassion at all within you, you will see the need to remove this product immediately. I panic every time one of my remaining three moves quickly. Hundreds of others out there do the same. It is too late to save so many—it isn’t too late to save the rest!!! I ask each and every employee at Hartz to stop by the pet shop on your way home tonight—or maybe you have a cat at home –really look into that cat’s eyes and ask yourself this: Doesn’t that cat’s life mean anything? Is the money worth the pain and suffering? If that doesn’t change your mind, look into your child’s eyes. What would you do if you gave this precious child medicine to help him or her and instead of helping, the medicine attacked every muscle, caused convulsions – and death? My cats were my children—just as so many others are to those who love them. Find your conscious, search your hearts—and stop this senseless slaughter!!!
Joyce A. Anthony