I couldn’t believe it. It’s even still difficult for me to accept now.

I guess you simply would have to see Scott to see where I was coming from. Peppered hair. Square jaw. Broad shoulders. Always walked tall and with purpose. Looked healthy. Very healthy.  This was a man on a perpetual mission.  He had things to do continuously. Sometimes he’d get sidetracked and do other things, but he always kept his eye on what had to be done.

It was extremely clear that Scott enjoyed action. Activity.  The guy was in very good shape physically.  He spent his weekends serving as a football referee.  He certainly didn’t live the sedentary lifestyle. Yet sometimes it just happens: dead at 54 from a heart attack. It’s not always about physical fitness (although it certainly does help). Some people die after living a long life; others’ have their lives cut short sooner than expected.

Scott’s memorial service is going to be tomorrow during the business day.  We were told by our current management to check in with them if we wanted to go — to ensure that we have enough coverage at work. I won’t be going, however, so it’s really not a huge issue for me.

Come to think of it — I really wasn’t a huge fan of Scott’s in the workplace. I vaguely remember when he took over our department. He was a loose cannon with his words, trying to make an impact and often seeing the results backfire in his face. I think he was trying to scare people into submission when, several years back, he gave his “I don’t give a shit about morale” speech. To his credit, he changed his philosophy soon after.

This was a man who loved to talk. About himself and his own thoughts. If there was an opportunity to bring people together for a meeting where he could shine, he would do so.  And throw in his own personal anecdotes about how he had rubbed shoulders with the high level executives of our company on the golf course. Or how he had the foresight during the dot com bubble to buy stock in some of the faster climbing properties. I recall a training class I was orchestrating where he came in to say hello — and ended up monopolizing the opportunity to tell everyone about the misfortune he had, moving to a new, exclusive community and not having his DirecTV hooked up yet.

I know that he wanted to give the impression that he was buddy-buddy with his employees.  There were certain things he remembered, but he made sure to let us know that he remembered it. He made a big deal once about how he knew I wouldn’t be working on the Jewish holiday of Yom Kippur.  He knew which co-workers loved the Cowboys so he could trash talk with them during football season. It turns out that one of his kids was born exactly a week after Av was; after some reminding he figured out that we had that in common.  He even solicited suggestions for Av’s birthday party (which were way out of our budget). I think he may have started to invite Av over for a playdate once, but he was sidetracked and started talking about his 57 inch HDTV instead.

But he did know me as an employee. Keep in mind that this was my boss’s boss. (And, for a while, my boss’s boss’s boss.) I had proven myself pretty early on that I could do my job exceptionally and be a go-to guy for special projects.  When I received a promotion a few years back, it was actually done via a phone conversation by his boss who works at a different location. But he wanted to be the one to tell me, so he called me into a meeting the next day to surprise me with it. It was a nice feeling.

Overall, I wasn’t so impressed with him as a manager. I’m sure that he had an incredible load of responsibilities on his plate — including people yelling at him from all different directions seven days a week. He would, in some cases, simply do his own yelling down the chain until something would get done. Sometimes he would get involved in an issue; sometimes not.  There was one recent issue that he and I worked together — on a conference call late on a Saturday night until 8:00am Sunday morning. Well, kind of. I was on the call the entire time as I was doing some diagnostic work around the clock. He turned in a few hours into it. I was the one who called to wake him up at 6:00 to rejoin the call. But the way he told it — it was quite the rough night for him.

But he did say thank you to me. And some of my co-workers.  Not everyone, though. He played favorites and non-favorites. He would poke fun at people light-heartedly just a little too long for it to be comfortable, but not quite long enough to make a strong case to HR. He would speak with absolute certainty about the future plans for our organization — and then change the story an hour later. He certainly had his place in the organization — one where he made things happen — but there were many other aspects of the job where we secretly hoped that we would slip under the radar so things would progress as they should without his interference.

I’ve had many supervisors in my employed years. Many of them have been mentors and guides. People to whom I’ve looked up and emulated. Some of whom I continue to share a relationship to this day.

Scott was not one of them.

Look — I’m sorry. There really isn’t much which I can say about the guy. I’ve come home from work angry because of things that he’s said or done. For work where credit wasn’t given as it should have been. For moves he made which simply wasted time and energy on my part or the part of co-workers.  I’m certainly not happy that he’s dead. Nor am I rejoicing that he’s no longer leading our organization.  But professionally for me, he didn’t fit the role of someone who took me under his wing. Or taught me how to advance in my career goals.

He is survived by a wife (whom I haven’t met), a young son (whom I haven’t met) and a young daughter (whom I haven’t met). It sounds like he was a man surrounded by a wonderful family and a wonderful community. At least I’d like to think so from the way he spoke of the people he held dear. I honestly hope that they will be there at the memorial service tomorrow, supporting his wife and kids through this difficult time for them.

I’d really like to believe that Scott was a stand-up guy. That the limited slice of what I saw of him wasn’t the full story. That it was the exception to the rule: a tarnished role for someone who, outside of this environment, could shine far more brightly.

Rest in peace, Scott. Peace, blessings and comfort to your family.

___

* Not his real name.

* A while back I posted a query on Facebook regarding an outdoor lamp I was trying to replace at the front of our home. The issue at hand was removing the old lamp: it had (likely) been installed when the house was built in the mid-1970s. And the screws holding the lamp in were more rusted and stripped than Joanna Kerns after shooting a made-for-TV movie on Lifetime.  I received some good advice for extracting the screw (Thanks to MetalMom and her husband!) — which worked to an extent. But the real problem was caulk. Stuffed inside the junction box. Which, when  you’re an immature oaf like I am, sounds really quite funny.

Anyway — after hacking through the mess of caulk, we were finally able to get the old lamp off and the new one installed. And re-caulked (snort).  So the new lamp is up and working! And it has a motion sensor! And a “dusk to dawn” mode! (Which disappointed me a bit; it apparently means that the light goes on automatically when it gets dark out. And has nothing to do with vampires and watching Salma Hayek dance with a snake.)  I’ll post pictures sometime soon…

* My kid is wonderful. Smart. Clever, even. But he doesn’t quite understand how jokes work. Some of the stuff that works (slightly) for him is material which he simply imitates from television.  He doesn’t understand those jokes, but he knows that they get laughs and he copies it with the proper inflection.  But when left to his own devices, he simply doesn’t know how to tell a joke. They often go a lot like this:

Him:  “Hey – want to hear a joke?”

Me: “Sure…”

Him: “I just finished that and now — Meeeshon Accomplished!”

Me  [ . . . ]

Yeah. It’s that random.  It almost makes me want to teach him to say “Ay, Dios Mio!” after each punchline so I know that the joke is over…

* Went to visit my Dad today. On the way back home, I got curious and decided to drive by the old house — the one where I grew up. And the one that, as of two months ago, no longer belongs to my dad.  I suppose I wanted to know if it was still there, still looked the same, had been converted into a convenience store  a la Grosse Pointe Blank, etc.

As I drove by, there was a minivan which had just pulled into the driveway. Out came a mom and a kid, probably about eight years old. She was carrying a violin case and was wearing a Hello Kitty backpack. I didn’t get any other details (I was driving the speed limit at the time) but it seems like this new family is making their own memories in their home. Which is a good thing. I wish ‘em the best.

* I’m impressed with Apple’s “Genius Bar” mode of technical support. The speaker on my iPhone was beginning to die. I wasn’t sure what to expect in terms of technical support — as I’ve read about the horrors of Geek Squad and other similar store-brand fix-it departments which have left customers feeling ripped-off and agitated.  Genius Bar, however, was different: First, I was able to pre-book an appointment to bring in my iPhone to a store location. That, in itself, helped to ensure that I wouldn’t be kept waiting. (And it probably helps to diffuse frustrated, waiting customers a bit as well).  I was helped almost immediately.  When the problem was seen and was unable to be fixed, I was simply provided with a new (or refurbished?) iPhone. One that was working. my service guarrantee would cover that one as well. Easy.  It made me realize that some models of customer service actually can work.

* Finally finished the remaining episodes of Prison Break. I had followed the show from day one and have felt that it was one of the better shows that has graced the airwaves over the past four years. I rolled my eyes a bit when they resurrected the character of Dr. Sara “Surprise! I’m not really dead!” Tancredi. But hey — they added Michael Rappaport as a main character, so I found it to be an acceptable suspension of reality.   They managed to tie everything up at the end in a neat little bow, but not without a whole lot of other unbelievable moments.  All in all — glad I watched, but more glad that it’s over.

* That’s all for now. I don’t use bullets for my posts, so I suppose I’ll save the last asterisk for me.

Throwing up, however, was probably the best thing to happen to his digestive system at the time.  It’s nasty and gross, but sometimes it’s simply a necessity to purge “the bad stuff” from one’s system. He felt much better after it happened. (Until he threw up again. And then he felt better. Again.) No fever.  No lethargy.  We probably could have sent him to school today.  It’s a place where all of his friends are. It’s after a long weekend. And he looks forward to P.E. on Tuesdays.

But he didn’t go to school today. We adhered to school policy: since he threw up, he stays at home for at least a day. And he stays home until he has recovered.  This is certainly not the easy way out for us: I’m taking personal leave from school as I spend the day with him.  And it’s not like I can run errands while he recovers.  But hey – rules are rules. He stays home.

It was on my mind when I read this story in today’s Washington Post.  It’s a piece which appears every year in most newspapers — a light-hearted, feel-good story congratulating one or a few students who have gone through thirteen years from kindergarten through twelfth grade without being marked absent. Kind of like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off in reverse.

Don’t get me wrong — I think it’s a nice sentiment. And I’m all for people attending school as much as possible. But there was something in the article which made me wonder if some people take this a bit too far:

Austin, 18, thinks he knows the moment he decided nothing would keep him from school. It was about fifth grade, the night before a standardized test. “I was puking buckets, and my Mom asked, ‘Do you want to stay home?’ And I said, ‘No, I’ve got to go to school, I’ve got to take the test.’ ”

First and foremost:  there seems to be a natural inclination to associate vomit with “buckets.” So much so that I become nauseated by the word “buckets” alone. Why not move to a more classy word to describe the magnitude of scale of blowing chunks?  “I was spewing plastic souvenir beer cups” could be a suitable alternative.

But it’s the whole notion of someone really that sick — I mean puking buckets — deciding that school is more important than recovering from being sick which gives me a touch of indigestion.

Furthermore, it’s the parents of these kids who don’t step in and realize that letting their kids go to school under such circumstances would be irresponsible not only to their own offspring but also to the kids of other parents who stir up the bile into my esophagus.

I mean — puking buckets! What the hell are they thinking? Does one let her son go to school simply because he wants to? Because discouraging what is perceived as such a chore might send the wrong message to that kid?

I understand that I’m one of the fortunate parents out there who is lucky enough to have a job which allows me a limited amount of paid leave for sickness and doctors’ appointments for myself and members of my immediate family.  Not all parents have such a luxury available to them.  And I can only imagine that the decision to keep one’s kid home when s/he is sick is a tough one. That being said — I would only hope that the welfare of the child would come first when the case is cut and dry. If the kid has a fever? If the kid has been vomiting? That should be a no-brainer.

This doesn’t just apply to attendance at school. I work in very close quarters with my colleagues. When one of us is sick and comes to work if potentially affects everyone. Some of our management gets this and encourages us to stay home when we’re sick (again, taking advantage of our paid leave). But we have some management in place who all but harrass those who opt to take a sick day to recoup. Perhaps they think that the system is ripe for abuse and are trying to make sure that absenteeism doesn’t run rampant. But while they’re doing this, they’re discouraging the contagious from staying home — and promoting the passage of germs from one employee to another.

Is it commendable to have a perfect attendance record? Sure. But at what cost?

But I did try something new: I went to my local supermarket and rented a movie through Redbox.

First — a quick film review a la LeSombre:

You know what? Not nearly as funny when I do it. Hmmm…

But yes. I’m that behind the times that I haven’t seen The Dark Knight until almost a year since its theatrical release and a good six months since it came out on DVD. (Or Blu-ray. But let’s get real: is the type of person who can’t get off his ass to the video store to rent The Dark Knight in a timely fashion really the type of person who has a Blu-ray player? Thought not.)

Was the movie good? Yes.

Was it good enough for me to endure Blockbuster’s four bucks and change — as well as time served — to rent it? Perhaps. But I wouldn’t have made it that far to find out.  Instead, I happened to be at the supermarket. I waited behind a couple who was trying to select a movie for about 90 seconds before it was my turn.  And I paid $1.05 (including tax). Not bad.

The selection isn’t so hot. But then again — neither is Blockbuster’s on a random Saturday evening at 10pm.  But there are some pretty great advantages:

* One dollar plus tax. One-day rental = one dollar. Every additional day is another dollar.  This goes up to the twenty-fifth day at which point you’re charged a maximum of $25 (plus tax).  That’s really not bad. Considering that a five-day rental at Blockbuster might cost almost five dollars but usually doesn’t span to the whole five days?  You’re getting a relatively good value. I felt much better about paying a dollar than four. There are many movies for which this is the case.

* Redboxes are all over the place. There are six within a five mile radius of where I live. Some are in 24-hour supermarkets; some are at 7-Elevens.  For me, the notion of renting and returning a DVD while I’m already at a location is a good option.  And also:

* You don’t have to return your DVD to the same Redbox location. Again, helpful in that one doesn’t have to worry about making a special trip — at least not nearly as much as one would to head to one specific location.

* No leery-eyed clerks watching as you select “Revenge of the Boarding School Dropouts” for viewing. This is as straightforward as it gets. Yes, you need a major credit card to rent movies — but as I recall you need one to apply for a Blockbuster membership as well. In fact, I remember them taking my drivers license information! Icky.

* Free promo codes! Well, kind of. They used to have codes redeemable for free rentals every Monday which are being cut back to once a month.  But that’s still something for them to gain momentum.

* Email-driven receipts. If you enter your email address, you’ll receive a receipt when your transaction occurs — and you’ll get one when your movie is returned! I’ve had issues with drop-box locations “losing” my movie for several days after it has been returned…

* DVD Reservations: If you’re looking for a copy of Who ‘Dat Ninja and are afraid that your local Redbox won’t have it — you can go online and pre-reserve it! You’ll have 24 hours to get to the location you choose with the DVD before it  becomes up-for-grabs again.

I know I’m late to the party on this one. I feel like you’re looking at me the way I looked at my Dad seven years ago when he told me that he discovered this great invention called “Top Ramen” at the grocery store.  But still — Redbox has certainly found a market for those folks, like me, for whom NetFlix is simply a bit excessive. For those one-time rentals this can’t be beat.

They even have a part of their FAQ on the website alerting customers to the possibility of credit card skimmers on Redbox machines and how to identify them. How cool is that?

(This post is in no way sponsored by Redbox. If you want to shower me with free promo codes, however — I’m not going to stop you.)

Today (well, yesterday) is (was) a special day. For May 16 has been a day of celebration. It was the day that my brother — whom I’ve so affectionately nicknamed Captain Awesome, turned 40.

Happy birthday, Captain Awesome!

(This picture was taken in 1984 – approximately 25 years ago this coming fall. Captain Awesome is the guy on the right.)

What can I say about my big brother that hasn’t been said before? He’s a great guy all around. Very dedicated to our family. As well as to his wife and three daughters. And his friends. And colleagues at work. And students — he’s been teaching formally and informally for years now.  He’s someone who truly makes an “outside the box” learning experience for all.

He’s also an incredible musician. Composer. Arranger. He’s pretty amazing at writing. And his vacuuming skills? Second to none.

Most of all, though — he’s my big brother. One who, right now, is probably turning an uncomfortable shade of pink for seeing that I used that picture up top.  There’s an interesting story behind it, actually: he was invited by a friend to be in this photo op with the president. But he was also a strong supporter of the guy who was running against the president at the time. Montague or something.  All I remember is that he was the presidential candidate who said “Where’s the Beef?”  Or maybe I’m remembering that wrong. But anyway — he was the only one there who decided not to wear a Reagan button for that very reason!  You might not think of that as an interesting story nowadays, but by 1980s standards it was.

Happy 40th, CA. Hope it was a wonderful one for you…

Which is why I’m reminded of another happening this past Sunday — an exchange between Hilly and myself  where a bit of foolishness manifested itself. In typical fashion, Hilly urged me to post this adventure for all to see! For you, the audience, to read, chuckle and mock the foolish party involved! And so — in the sole interest of entertaining you — I’m posting the incident here. I’d like to give it a lighthearted title. Like “The Divine Nature of Modern Day Prophecy Through Didactic Symbolism In A Chaotic Realm.”

Now — before I begin — I know Hilly quite well. And I’m sure that, no matter what I write, she’ll comment on this story and say something like “Really? You remembered it that way?” Or “Shiny, what the hell is the matter with your recall ability?” Or something else which will get her all into a tissy because I have something minor wrong. Like an exit number or mile marker. Or, heaven forbid, I might describe a different variety of palm tree than it actually is.  Simply take this as a forewarning to take her almost certain corrections with a grain of salt.

So anyway…

We decided to drive up the shore a bit after spending some time at Daytona Beach. This was a nice opportunity for us to explore the different types of beach experiences people have in Florida.  Daytona was very touristy. Lots of gift and souveneir shops. Hotels on every block. Relatively crowded beaches with bike and chez lounge rentals all over the place. Planes with banners unfurled overhead.  But we wanted to see some of the less touristy places. We drove up I-95 a bit near Flagler Beach, and then hit up A1A, the road on the Peninsula which (on the most part) parallels the shores of the Atlantic Ocean.

And drive we did. It was fascinating to see the off-the-beaten path rentals. The beach houses on stilts. And, evem further up, the secluded beachfront mansions which were beautiful. And the occassional biker bar to the side of the road.  There was one called “Finn‘s” which we were going to take a picture of — but the light turned green too soon.

It was around this time that Hilly noticed that she was running low on gasoline. The light had just come on on her dashboard. I mentioned that this meant we probably had about 20 miles or so to go and not to worry. In fact, I believe that I was quite chill about the whole thing.  But she was quite intent on finding a gas station right then.

We didn’t have a working GPS in-dash — but we did have our iPhones! A simple search for “gasoline” was able to pull up some results. I advised to keep driving; a gas station was sure to come up shortly.  She agreed and we kept driving.  But there weren’t actually any gas stations — despite what Google Maps was telling us.

I remained calm as Hilly started to panic a bit. She looked at the iPhone and was very afraid that we would run out of gas in a secluded stretch of A1A in the middle of an almost deserted, backwards looking town a few miles south of a place called “Hammock.”  While I simply decided to have faith that something would turn up, Hilly was becoming a bit hysterical. “We need to turn around,” she gasped. “I don’t see any gas stations on the map beyond this point. We need to go back!”

I decided that it would be best to choose my battles and not let this be one. We drove for a few more yards and, while I remained cool and collected, we turned into the parking lot of a dilapidated Orthodox synagogue at the side of the road.  We circled the parking lot to exit and make our U-Turn — and that’s when I saw something crucial: a gas station only a few more feet up the road! It even took Hilly a few moments to see it for herself!

After all this time — after all of  Hilly’s worries that we would get stuck because of something probably misread on Google Maps — there was what we were looking for after all! “And all because of this Orthodox synagogue out in the middle of nowhere!” I laughed. “I suppose this is a sign — a sign that my God (the Jewish one)  is superior to your God (the Christian one) because… um…”  And then I said something witty about having only found the gas station after Divine Intervention through the synagogue parking lot! I suppose you had to be there.

“Ah, Shiny” she replied, “you’re just so darn witty. And smart! And clever. I think you should blog about this and demonstrate the prowess of your God through such miracles.”

And so I did. And I got most of it completely right. I think…

So — that’s the story. Wasn’t it fun?

–

Oh — while we were walking around Daytona, we came across this dude whose money-making scheme was to find peopl and put rare, tropical birds on their shoulders and take pictures of them for money. We decided to do this.

And the picture turned out quite lovely. At least I thought so. Hilly was not happy with the way she looked in the photo and made it abundantly clear that I was not allowed to post the photo to my blog or to Twitter.

But it bugged me a little. Only a little, of course, because I was pretty sure I would ignore her directive very early on.  That notwithstanding, I was concerned because I truly felt it was a good picture and she didn’t.  I eventually bugged her enough to the point where she agreed I could post it if I cropped her out.

But come on! The symmetry of the picture only exists when there are two birds! And the bird on my shoulder was (and I don’t want to sound too snooty here)  very monochromatic.  It simply wasn’t something I felt comfortable doing.

So I decided I would post the picture anyway.  A quick substitution was made for Hilly:

I only wish he had smiled a bit more. Yummy…

She noticed that the Atlantic didn’t have that same blue look as the Pacific. The sky was a clear, bright blue, but the water closer in looked a grayish green. Kind of like that color people describe as “green khaki” even though it looks nothing like khaki. She asked me if I knew why the water simply appears not as crystally clear blue as it does on the left coast.

Of course, I made up some sort of answer that sounded more plausible in my head than it actually did when I spoke the words. The matter was dropped, but the question still bugged me.

I dozed off on the flight back to DC (where I’m currently typing this) and woke up to an amazing sight 35,000 feet up: below the wispy clouds I saw the deep, vibrant blue on the ocean. The white clouds were even reflecting off of a blue so powerful and pure. And there was the beach. And from what I gathered, a road parallelling it. A1A.

This was the blue Atlantic Ocean I remembered. Beautiful. Piercing even. I now had something I could take back to Hilly and report: it does exist on this side of the country. Just further up the coast.

And then I opened my eyes a bit more, becoming fully awake.

I was looking at the blue engine Of the Southwest plane this entire time. And the reflection of the yellow stripe of the body of the plane right under it.

I’m a bit of a tool when I’ve just awoken…

The personnel might change from time to time, but on the most part we have good service. We can call in refills by phone most of the time through their automated system. There usually isn’t a long line and, when there is, it moves quite quickly. And we’ve gotten to know the employees quite well. Like Lisa, who is very cool and who has helped to get adhesive eye-patches for Av which are rare to stock.

And then there’s Ned. (No. It’s not his real name. But if it were, the ressemblence to Ned Ryerson in Groundhog Day would simply be uncanny. Ned has always struck us as slightly off, but he’s always been helpful and friendly enough. And even that’s not the most important factor: Ned does his job adequately and quickly enough.

This past Friday I had an interesting interaction with Ned.

It was Friday afternoon. K had called in two prescriptions that morning, and the recorded message advised that they would be ready by 11:00 am. Since I was picking them up at 6:00 pm, it gave a pretty sizable window in case things were running behind.  I didn’t have to wait more than two minutes in line before Ned waved me over to his register.

I mentioned that I was picking up.  He aksed me for the last name; I told it to him and spelled it out. He went over to the “T” drawer* and rummaged around a bit, looking for these two prescriptions that had been called in. He kept looking — but couldn’t find the two bags.

He then looked on the shelf above — to see if maybe the medication hadn’t yet been bagged and shelved — Nada.

He then asked the spelling of the last name again — which I provided to him.  I told him what types of medication were requested when he asked me. I even called K up to confirm that she had called the refills in earlier that morning.

Ned was getting flustered. It seemed pretty apparent as one of the pharamcists from her perch behind the wall behind the counter — about four steps up — looked up from her work. My eyes met hers and I smiled, not being able to do much else. She was nice from our few previous experiences. She wore a headscarf and dressed modestly — not an uncommon sight in our neighborhood.

She decided to help. As she descended the stairs, she asked Ned if he had tried looking under my wife’s first name, as the prescription might have been mis-categorized. He looked with no success. Then she offered to look herself. About forty seconds later she found them — in the “T” section. Where Ned had been looking this entire time.

The whole ordeal took slightly less than five minutes. I was happy that I could get this done and over with and could pay and get out of there.  Ned was apologetic, but I smiled and said that the important thing was that we found the prescriptions and all was right with the world.

Ned, however, was dissatisfied.

“Yeah,” he said, “but I should have been able to find them without you having to wait all this time! I should have found them…”

“Hey — you’ve found countless prescriptions for us over the past few years. These things happen. Don’t worry about it.” I tried to calm him down so I could pay and get out of there.

Ned had different plans.

“Yeah, well — you know how when you play a sport or something? Like baseball? And it’s okay when you lose if you’re playing against someone better than you. But when you play against someone who isn’t so good? You beat yourself up over it.”

I smiled and tried to change the subject by providing commentary to my debit card shwooooping through the card reader. He decided to provide some commentary of his own by leaning into me a bit, as if to secure a more familiar relationship. After all — he theoretically knows about all of those hypothetical remedies I may or may not had prescribed to me. Maybe he thought of me as someone in whom he could confide?

“I mean — it’s okay if I don’t find it right away. But she found it. She did. I mean, shit. She found it.” This didn’t sound pretty. He had an axe to grind with headscarved lady. Was it because she wore a headscarf? Because she was a woman?  Because she got to stand four steps above him every day?  I didn’t know. All I could gather was that Ned did not like that this woman could find a prescription that he could not. In the “T” section where it was supposed to be.

I’m totally okay with him liking or not liking whom he chooses. But it’s rather unprofessional to discuss this with a customer. Even if you know what kind of inner thigh salve he may or may not use.  The pharmacy — even the supermarket as a whole — should have a united, professional front of customer-facing representatives whose job it is to help the customer and work as a team doing so.

I didn’t want to give him a lesson on work and customer service ethics, so I forced a smile once again and came back with something like “Well, the important thing is that I have the medicine now.”  While he was waiting for my electronic transaction to go through, he decided to go further into detail with his dsiappointment in himself.

“I’m so mad at myself. I get so mad sometimes…”

I wondered quietly to myself if I should try to analyze him. I had, after all, caught up with most of the current season of In Treatment…

“… One time I took my stapler, and… and banged it against the counter I was so mad. I even broke the stapler!” He seemed proud of the destructive force of the anger.

I was proud of the fact that my receipt was printing and I would be out of there in a matter of seconds.

He stapled the receipt to the bag and I thanked him with a grin.  And escaped quickly into frozen foods while I processed this a bit in my own head.

Look — Ned is a good guy. Works hard day in and day out. I certainly don’t want to get the guy fired or anything. But what he said to me, a customer, was unquestionably inappropriate.  He expressed a dislike for one of his co-workers who had been able to succeed where he hadn’t. He expressed feelings of rage to me (although towards himself). He mentioned an inappropriate channeling of his anger to a customer.

I don’t know Ned’s schedule. But I’m thinking it might be a good idea to talk to the pharmacy supervisor and report my observations about the interaction I had with Ned on Friday. Again, I don’t want there to be repercussions here.  I just want to make sure that the manager is aware that the work environment may be affected by similar statements to that which Ned spoke to me. Besides — I’d feel it more catastrophic if he enters in the same banter as a customer who might not be as understanding as I and with whom the interaction might become more volatile.

So I’m going to have a chat with that manager over the phone. Preferably tomorrow.

What do you all think? Am I going about this the right way? Any suggestons?

______

* As many of you may be aware, “Shiny’s Takeout” is just a pseudonym to which I’ve clutched in order to shield my audience from my true last name which is often spelled and pronnounced incorrectly due to the ethnicity of such a surname. But yes — it is, indeed, Taekoweiczotski.  It’s a bitch to spell when you’re waiting for medication — and sometimes that wait is reason for that medication in the first place.

Which, I suppose, was one of the elements which led up to my mom finding this big-ass grocery bag full of condoms in the summer of 1993 amongst my stuff.

I suppose this warrants an explanation: The previous two summers were spent on campus at the University of Maryland as an orientation advisor. This was a combination paid job (albeit not very much — but it did come with some free room and board) and academic experience (there was a three-credit course as a prerequisite) which had me doing more than just giving tours of campus: we were assisting as academic advisors and peer leaders in many different aspects of student life.  We also talked to the incoming students about certain resources on campus which could help them out in a bind. And made them aware of some of the aspects of independent living that might require them, to, um…

Oh, screw it. We showed them a movie about AIDS and HIV and talked about safer sex. And then passed out free condoms, courtesy of the University Health Center.

I already had a standing relationship with the Health Center coming into this — as I was already a peer educator regarding issues of sexual health, sexual communication and sexual assault awareness.  And because of this, I was good friends with Mary, the gatekeeper of the free condoms. Instead of just going to the Health Center to pick them up for each subsequent orientation program, Mary just gave me an industrial sized box and had me divvy them up for the other orientation advisors during their “let’s pass out free condoms to anyone who wants them” sessions.  Which I did.  There were always plenty; this was a very, very big box.  And it turned out that there were a good several hundred extras at the end of the summer.

So I kept them. Passed them out to friends during the school year. Hell — used a few myself. (Yes, they were in bulk packaging, but they had a recognized name brand.)  And in moving my stuff back home at the end of the school year (as I would be out of the country all summer), a bag of them happened to come home with me.

… and was found by Mom a few weeks later.  Who brought them up in conversation with me at that time.

You see, my Mom and I had a truly wonderful relationship — one where we could have possibly talked about anything and it would all be okay.  Or at least both of us felt that we were progressive enough that there would be no subject taboo enough to bring up.  But it was more of an understanding rather than one which was actually used in practice, as we discovered on an eerily awkward car trip one fateful August day.  She brought up the condoms. I laughed and told her about the peer education stuff I had been doing with them. She laughed. We were laughing. It was very casual, care-free. And then I made some comment about how having this supply saved me some money in the long run. She laughed. I laughed. We were laughing some more. And then we spent a good thirty-five minutes in the car not saying word one to each other.

I suppose she was cool talking about such things with anyone. And I was cool talking about such things with anyone.  We both had no problem with the subject matter.  We just didn’t feel like continuing the conversation.  The conversation between us was kind of like getting store-brand ice cream: there’s really nothing wrong with it. In fact, it’s all good. But after partaking of it, in hindsight, you realize that maybe it would have been better if you went in a different direction.

I brought up the conversation with my mom about the bag of condoms when I was chatting with my dad’s girlfriend. I was going through some of the old boxes — this one happened to have old emails and pictures of women with whom I had relationships during my college years.  It was weird seeing a box of my past — memories of who I was in my late teens and early 20s. How I looked, how I acted, and how I treated other people was still a work in progress towards where I went with it a decade and a half later.  There were certainly memories in that box that I wasn’t proud of, and others which I wish I had brought with me along the journey to the present day.

Much of this I choose not to share with others — whether on this blog or in person.  I don’t think anyone would have a problem hearing or reading it.  Perhaps I don’t want it to cloud what people think of me in the here-and-now. Either way — it’s a choice I have made on a case-by-case basis: some things I share, some things I don’t.

I’ve been wrestling with this recently as I’ve gathered more people who are closer to me in real life who follow my blog and/or Twitter.  In my blog’s  previous incarnation I kept things carefully guarded so my identity remained a bit of a mystery. But now? Things are a bit more open. My Dad follows me on Twitter and has read my blog. So have other relatives who have known me since I was an infant, as well as others who have known me on a far less intimate level.  Can I share everything here? Do these people really want to hear about my big bag of condoms and my prophylactic usage in the early ’90s?

Probably not.

But I’m going to post this stuff anyway.  Some of it may cloud your already pre-conceived constructs of me.  It may make for awkward periods of silence. That’s fine. Besides — most of the stuff I write will still (hopefully) be funny, and it’s always okay to laugh at something which may be rather inappropriate.  Please read (or refrain from reading) what you’d like. I’m totally cool with that.

But I must warn you: if hearing about the bag of condoms made you a bit skittish, you’re probably going to be queasy once I blog about the cabhinet full of dildos…

And constipated. Tonight marks the end of the eight-day holiday of Passover — one whose dietary restrictions react with the colon like a bunch of “Tea Party” attendees who accidentally got lost and found their way to a Phish concert: there could possibly be some synergy and sweet music, but it eventually gets painfully confrontational and people ultimately plead for a peaceful evacuation.

(Now that I’ve got the biological humor out of the way…)

Life has been busy on many different fronts: As I mentioned last week, my Dad just sold his house. (Yay!) And this being one of the major Jewish holidays, we’ve been spending a lot of time with family. Av’s Spring Break coincides with Passover — a departure from the daily grind. We celebrated the first evening of Passsover with my Dad and his girlfriend at their place. It was quite nice.

And then my brother and sister-in-law were in town! It was great seeing them. As well as my aunt (Mom’s sister) and uncle. Always a pleasure. It’s just nice to be able to step away from the computer for a while and partake of family. I’m happy that I’ve got a great one.

Part of my trip to my Dad’s, however, had another motive. There were still quite a few boxes of stuff that we had to go through and claim. My Mom was known to save absolutely everything and anything — papers, report cards, birthday cards and notes. She was also quite organized about everything: It was interesting seeing a shoebox of personal checks from the 1970s and 80s that were still in pristine shape.  I didn’t take those. But I took many boxes of books, my old schoolwork, and credit card solicitations from my college years that I never got around to “processing.”

I found a note I had written my parents one evening when my brother was babysitting. I suppose I had to write it as a proactive measure for not getting all of my homework done or something. It was the best way to address when I was in trouble — and, believe me, I was an expert at that.  But it would serve as a measure to (a) address the issue before they had a chance to do so; and (b) carefully divert blame to my brother.  I was clever. I was a genius.  I already knew how to beat the system nearly three decades ago. It was the early 1980s and nothing could stop me.

And thus, dear readers, I’m applying this same strategy now. I know I haven’t blogged lately, but I’m presenting a proactive excuse note for your consideration.

(I just don’t have the time to craft a new one; the following is an encore presentation of a note from 1981 to my parents.)