Scourge of the Supermarket

Carolyn J. Rose

You know who they are.

But do they?

And if they do know, do they see any reason change their ways?

I’m talking about people who hold up progress. Not progress on the scale of bridge building or highway construction, but progress checking out of a supermarket in a timely manner.

Being a Virgo and loving to make lists and check things off, I’m well prepared for the weekly hunt for provisions. I even go so far as to structure my list to match the layout of the store. That way I can zip through the aisles without having to backtrack. I can get the chore done faster.

Unless I hit a roadblock at the checkout stand.

Those roadblocks aren’t always obvious. They certainly don’t wear signs advising those in a hurry to detour around them. In fact, some might resent being passed by the more aware and organized.

So, congratulating myself on my progress so far, I unload my groceries. And, being a Virgo, I have a system for that as well. Frozen foods go together, refrigerated items gather in a pack, fruits and vegetables clump together, cans line up in military fashion, and then eggs, bread, and bags of chips take up positions in the rear. I place my cloth grocery bags at the front of the line, get out my debit card, and—

Progress comes to a screaming halt.

The shopper ahead of me seems stunned, not by the tally, but by the concept of having to pay. This shopper—who may be any gender, any age, or from any background—peers at the display, and peers at the groceries piling at the end of the moving conveyor belt. The checker repeats the total and, at the speed of a barely awake sloth, the roadblock shopper digs for a wallet. Then dithering begins in earnest. The roadblock shopper considers paying with a card, wonders if he or she has enough cash, counts out bills and coins, decides to use the debit card after all, ponders a mix of cash and card, then speculates about using a credit card instead.

By this time I’ve passed through frustration and low-level rage to considering whether a jury would convict me for what I’d like to do. Next, I fight the urge to walk away, to do without the items I so carefully set on the belt.

Sympathy for the checker keeps me in place. This is only an occasional problem for me, but not for the person running the cash register. There will be other roadblock shoppers unloading their carts—maybe within an hour, maybe before the end of the day, and definitely in the days to come.

Because they’re out there. Not only at the supermarket, but at movie theaters, coffee shops, bookstores, food carts, and many other places where money exchanges hands.

And the next time you think you’re making progress, one might turn up in front of you.

Ten-pound Tyrant

Carolyn J. Rose

I live with a ten-pound tyrant.

If there is a dog out there with a stronger sense of entitlement and privilege than Max the Maltese, I’ve yet to meet that canine.

 I’ve shared space and time with a dozen dogs over the years. Every one of them would seek me out and relax against me for a hug or a cuddle. Not Max. He doesn’t cuddle and, unless he’s hungry or wants to go out, doesn’t look for me at all. He hangs with the Y chromosome guys. If there are no men around, he makes himself comfortable in the basement man cave and waits for one to appear.

Even after nine years of this, I still try to win him over. I offer full-body massages, ear scratches, tummy rubs, and treats. Like a potentate receiving tribute from his subjects, he accepts it all as if it’s no more than what’s due to a dog in his lofty position.

There are days, perhaps 50% of them, when he condescends to lick my nose when I ask for a kiss after getting him into his harness and clipping on the leash in preparation for a walk. But he offers only a single lick. On other days I get the thousand-yard stare. Occasionally I decide to wait him out and stare back. One day out of 20, perhaps in the spirit of noblesse oblige, he relents and delivers the barest tongue-tip of a lick. Nineteen days out of 20, I cave and we go out the door.

And yet I come back for more—although I often ask myself why. In the course of my life I’ve walked away from several unbalanced relationships like this one. But this little guy has his paws around my heart. All he has to do is cock his head and give me the doggie equivalent of a smile and he’s guaranteed himself another week of excusing his refusal to obey my commands and overlooking his snubs.

So I work with what I have. And I make what I have work for me. I use Max as a model for Cheese Puff, the scruffy orange mutt from my Subbing isn’t for Sissies mystery series. In appearance, they’re nothing alike, but their attitudes and actions are similar.

And, okay, they’re similar because I transfer fact to fiction. But according to the fine print on my poetic license, I’m allowed to do that.

Losing my Religion

By Michael Nettleton 

While shelving videos at my library-subbing job, I happened to spot The Life of Brian the Monty Python sendup of the story of the central figure of Christendom. I first saw it back in the early eighties when it was newish. On a whim, I took it home to watch again. It’s still laugh-out-loud funny and thought-provoking movie. Unless you’re a Bible literalist. In that case it’s high heresy, anti-Christian, and perhaps the spawn of Satan. Or perhaps you take yourself too seriously. 

Whatever.

It started me thinking. (This is the point where my wife Carolyn jumps in and says “Uh-oh.”)

I feel the need for music to accompany this next part. How about REM?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xwtdhWltSIg

 

I am a fervid agnostic. Which is like saying I’m a well-organized anarchist. An agnostic is a person who believes that nothing is known or can be known of the existence or nature of God or of anything beyond material phenomena; a person who claims neither faith nor disbelief in God. Fervid might be the wrong modifier. We don’t proselytize much. 

To paraphrase former Secretary of State Donald Rumsfeld, who was trying to defend the lack of proof that Iraq was involved in 911: “There are known knowns, there are things we think we know. We also know there are known unknowns. That is to say we know there are some things we do not know.” Now there's some state-of-the-art gibberish, yes?

Maybe I’m a born skeptic. I was the kid in Sunday school who asked questions like, “Why did Adam have a navel?” and “Adam and Eve had sons. Where did they find wives?” I was sent home with a lot of notes for my parents to read. I’m not sure what they said. I’m guessing the word “heathen” might have been included.

So, what led to me losing my religion? If indeed I ever had one. A couple of incidents come to mind. One of the teachers of my small town Sunday School class, a pillar of the local community, banged his bible and ranted about the “wages of sin,” and “burning eternally in hell,” for our transgressions. Because of him, I learned how to pee without touching myself. A bit messy, but apparently necessary. Until . . .

One day my friend Donny and I were standing on a corner in a nearby larger town waiting for my mother to pick us up from a movie. Suddenly, the doors of a local saloon banged open and our smug, self-righteous Sunday school teacher tottered out, arm in arm with a busty lady wearing a heavy layer of war paint. They staggered toward a motel with a flashing VACANCY sign. 

From that moment forward my bathroom habits became much tidier.

Later in life, I was a disc jockey in another small town. My immediate boss, the program director, had been a drug-taking hippy until he was “saved” and “born again.” Rod (not his real name) and his wife made it a habit of dropping by the apartment I shared with my future former wife and “testifying” to us and trying to get us to see the light. We began spending evenings with all the lights out and ignoring the knocking on our door. Rod’s most annoying habit was attributing anything good that happened to him as “God’s will.” This included a last minute touchdown that won a football game for his favorite team. Anything negative that happened, even if he had instigated it, was “The work of Satan.”

Rod was also a certifiable paranoic. He was convinced the big boss had it in for him and was poised to fire him. He began picking up the general managers private phone line on the production room console at the same time the boss did and listening in to the conversations.

One day, I got called into the GM’s office. My stomach roiled. This couldn’t be a good thing. “Mike,” he began. “I have some bad news.” Now, my stomach is flip-flopping like Simone Biles halfway through her floor exercise. “I’ve had to let Rod go. I thought he was doing a really good job, but I found out he was listening in on my telephone conversations. I couldn’t have that.”

That sizzling sound you hear is Satan rubbing his hands together in glee.

Following Facebook, I see a lot of people using their religion as a bludgeon: Quoting scripture (or what they claim is scripture) to castigate those who practice a different religion are of a different race, of a different sexuality, possess different political beliefs or, face it, have different anything.

Many of the people I work with, do community theater with, sing in choirs with or have chance encounters with are devout Christians. None of them try to convert me or express scorn that I don’t share their convictions. It seems to me they are living in the spirit of the savior they believe in. Them I like.

And I, it appears will remain an agnostic until my last breath. I won’t let fear of death prod me into believing something I can’t prove. 

I enjoyed my rewatching of The Life of Brian. It made me laugh and think about man’s need to explain the unfathomable. The film is not about ridiculing people’s religious beliefs. Instead, it uses satire to point out the absurdity of listening to people who claim to be prophets or speak directly to God. It is a counterpoint to those who use the Bible to reinforce their prejudices or repay petty grudges. 

A closing note to those people. I am not the spawn of Satan. Honest.  

Small and Simple Joys

Carolyn J. Rose

I used to wonder about the validity of those quotes about the importance of the little things in life, but lately I get it. I still appreciate big things—like a new car or a vacation. I get a thrill from those. But the little things give me a tiny tingle and a warm and fuzzy feeling.

Here, in no particular order, are a few of the small joys in my life.

A new pair of fleece-lined, snug-fitting slippers for chilly mornings.

A trip to the library to browse the shelves and the pleasure of discovering that a new book I was waiting my turn for is on the lucky-day shelf.

Happy hour.

Peas sprouting in the garden.

Zero problems detected on a dental visit.

Discovering that last year’s shorts still fit.

Having a garage so I don’t have to scrape the windshield on a frosty morning.

Finding a candy bar that got shoved to the back of a shelf and is still good.

Sliding into the pool at the community center when it’s just the right temperature and not too crowded.

Getting a January sunbreak so I can walk without soaking myself.

Finding a thrift store treasure with a half-price tag.

Having my neighbor tell me he has his chain saw warmed up and will gladly do some trimming for me.

Slicing that first ripe tomato warm from the sun.

Having just enough zucchini for us and our neighbors and not so much I have to leave it on doorsteps ring their bell and run.

Good friends.