Fly? No. Thanks. I'm afraid. Not so much of terrorists. Or engine failures. Nor Marshalls with loaded weapons in pressurized cabins. Nope. It's the TSA screening I'm scared of. Firstly, I think I might have foot odor. Second, I don't profile well. I LOOK like someone who likes fire and enjoys blowing stuff up, because well, I do, but in mostly innocent ways. Also, I have lots of pockets. I like pockets. You never know when you'll need a dog treat or an aspirin, a blob of grease, or a firecracker. Or a serious pocketknife. And like most hoarders, its MY stuff, and I don't want to lose it, even if I don't know exactly what all it is. And like a ten-year-old, I can empty my pockets for a full ten minutes without ever finding what makes the detector beep. So, I'd get searched. Strip searched. And I might like it. And before you know it, I'd be working my way back to the head of the security line, missing my flight for a patdown. Soon I'd be one of those airline miles junkies who buy houses and cars with credit cards to get enough accumulated to fly to a European airport only to immediately reboard the plane, and fly back with two friskings under my belt. I'd know all the cavity specialists by name and have favorites, a notch on the handle of my carry-on for each experience. I'd be hopelessly hooked and homeless in an airport in Newark. And my family would find me and intervene, sending me to strip search rehab, and I'd have to memorize and live by the two-step program, and I would try, really try, but one night on the street two uniforms would walk by and one would ask a question I didn't hear, and the other would answer "Search me?", and I would fall to my knees and cry "NO... NO! Search MEEE!"
So. Don't ask me to fly. Besides, I don't have a passport. Or money.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Grubbin it up here, Boss
- Wolves. I was evidently raised by wolves. I never considered that someone would complain if I drank from the carton if nobody else in the household drank milk, but complain they did, which left me with a choice; to pursue my vice in secret by swilling from behind the fridge door, or to be blatant and challenging about it, growling as I guard the box in my embrace.
- You might say "There is another option!", but I tested that theory. I bought an extra carton and marked one 'WOLVES'. I didn't touch the one unmarked, and it went untouched. So much for others turned away by my habit. You might also suppose that I could just use a glass. The washing seems a bit wasteful, and would also require me to think and behave differently. This mind is besieged with requests for change without having the ability to even prioritize, much less act upon them. So, I openly imbibe in spite of the obvious health effects of whole milk and domestic discord.
- Then, in the workplace, another request for wolflessness. In a nondescript print on the anonymous dry erase board in the break room, someone had dared to display "NO GRUBBING IN THE M&Ms!! USE A CUP!!". Now, first of all, the wolves who raised me never bought a pound of candy, ever. And if they had, they would never have left it displayed in a bowl for just anyone to help themselves. And if that accident of fate WERE to occur, nobody would be surprised at the multitude of snarling snouts that would quickly empty the bowl, much less complain that no one knew where those snouts had been. So I am amazed. Amazed that I work for a company that actually makes an effort to fatten it's employees. Amazed that those well fed wage earners cannot refuse the beckoning of the sweet bowl to the tune of a pound of peanuts and dark chocolate per day. Amazed that, evidently, some of my coworkers, instead of just whisking a handful to their desks, are evidently sorting, swirling, and jumping in the candy bowl like children in a McDonald's ball pit! (We all know what disease laden bacteria breeding infestations THOSE are!)
- The guilt begins to settle in. I think about all the places my fingers have traveled in the course of the day. Desktops, keyboards, stair rails, door knobs, steering wheels, shared pens and pencils, eating implements, armpits, and WORSE! I DO wash my hands several times per day, but I certainly cannot guarantee the contents of the water I wash them in. I feel horrible that at least one among my colleagues is living in fear of what the rest of us may transmit to the common vital m&m source. So, I resolve to do something about it.
- It's clear to me that behavior needs to change, and it's very unlikely the message on the board will change it. There are twenty people who will scoff at the writing, give the bowl a swirl, and trail a vapor of chocolate breath back to their desks without another thought. A few concerned citizens with less to do will stop to ponder for a moment whether 'tis a greater sin to use an extra styrofoam cup (putting the company's 'green' image at stake) or to palm at the risk of being confronted. (The latter always wins.) One or two will shrug, fill a cup to the brim, and take half home at the end of the day for the rat terrier they resent and wish to poison. (Sorry. Bit of a tangent there.) But, obviously, the note on the board will cause none of these folks to adapt in a big way. Humans are resistant to change, and it occurs to me that it would be much easier to change the viewpoint of one person than thirty, and I set about finding out who wrote the note.
- "Grubbin' it up here, Boss!", I say to the receptionist, while I shake the bag. She laughs, so I know it wasn't her that wrote the note.
- "I've never heard you use 'grub' before!", I say.
- "Nope. And you won't, either." (Denying her involvement.)
- "But I heard you...", and I point to the message on the board. "Uh, Uh."
- "Were they really upset? Did they talk about it?"
- "Don't know. That showed up on the weekend. I was off." (Now we're getting somewhere.)
- "Probably just one of those night shift mood things. She sort of has a point, if you think about it."
- "HEEE" (quick to the defense of the sisterhood) "won't score points being bossy, even if he's tired."
- And so I've got my man; male, night shift on the weekend, and surely not the marathoner or the guy who takes the newspaper to the bathroom for his morning 'constitutional'.
- "Grubbin' it up here, Boss!", I say while shaking the bag the next morning, and every shift change thereafter for a week. I leave an article describing the permitted number of bug parts in the M&M manufacture process. I disinfect the desk surfaces before leaving, hinting that we all should, but only to him. I mention that the cloth chairs he uses must be loaded with dust mites in that they are inhabited 24 hrs per day. I wonder out loud about the air filtration in our old building. I leave out the link to the video site that shows disgusting things that happen in commercial kitchens.
- Where my help for this poor tortured individual ends, others catch on and take up the slack. Taped next to the message on the break room board is an empty candy wrapper and a note; "$1 from the vending machine in the hall! - Ungrubbed!". Someone else Saran-wraps the candy bowl. A few candies get left on a disinfecting tissue on the table next to a filter mask and safety glasses. A fake audit form is filled out concerning the spread of deadly diseases on workplace snacks citing specifically items that don't melt in your hands.
- The pressure is relentless, and our poor burdened soul eventually succumbs. As I walk in one morning, he picks up the M&M bag from the break table in full sight of the entire crew. "Grubbin' it up here Boss!, he says as he sticks his bare hand into the bag. "Grubbin' it up!"
- I'm thrilled I could help. It occurs to me, though, that I, raised by wolves, might be blessed. Wolves are happy to have a job. They'd be thrilled to have something to eat without risking death to get it. They can't worry about all of the parasites and stomach upsets hovering on every surface they touch. They maintain an ordered, cooperative society that caters to the best interest of the pack. They are civil to each other, because that is in their own interest. There are worse ways to be raised. And by the way, on the rare occasion that I can't walk past a dark chocolate covered peanut, I now use a napkin because, raised by wolves, I hadn't ever thought about it.
- You might say "There is another option!", but I tested that theory. I bought an extra carton and marked one 'WOLVES'. I didn't touch the one unmarked, and it went untouched. So much for others turned away by my habit. You might also suppose that I could just use a glass. The washing seems a bit wasteful, and would also require me to think and behave differently. This mind is besieged with requests for change without having the ability to even prioritize, much less act upon them. So, I openly imbibe in spite of the obvious health effects of whole milk and domestic discord.
- Then, in the workplace, another request for wolflessness. In a nondescript print on the anonymous dry erase board in the break room, someone had dared to display "NO GRUBBING IN THE M&Ms!! USE A CUP!!". Now, first of all, the wolves who raised me never bought a pound of candy, ever. And if they had, they would never have left it displayed in a bowl for just anyone to help themselves. And if that accident of fate WERE to occur, nobody would be surprised at the multitude of snarling snouts that would quickly empty the bowl, much less complain that no one knew where those snouts had been. So I am amazed. Amazed that I work for a company that actually makes an effort to fatten it's employees. Amazed that those well fed wage earners cannot refuse the beckoning of the sweet bowl to the tune of a pound of peanuts and dark chocolate per day. Amazed that, evidently, some of my coworkers, instead of just whisking a handful to their desks, are evidently sorting, swirling, and jumping in the candy bowl like children in a McDonald's ball pit! (We all know what disease laden bacteria breeding infestations THOSE are!)
- The guilt begins to settle in. I think about all the places my fingers have traveled in the course of the day. Desktops, keyboards, stair rails, door knobs, steering wheels, shared pens and pencils, eating implements, armpits, and WORSE! I DO wash my hands several times per day, but I certainly cannot guarantee the contents of the water I wash them in. I feel horrible that at least one among my colleagues is living in fear of what the rest of us may transmit to the common vital m&m source. So, I resolve to do something about it.
- It's clear to me that behavior needs to change, and it's very unlikely the message on the board will change it. There are twenty people who will scoff at the writing, give the bowl a swirl, and trail a vapor of chocolate breath back to their desks without another thought. A few concerned citizens with less to do will stop to ponder for a moment whether 'tis a greater sin to use an extra styrofoam cup (putting the company's 'green' image at stake) or to palm at the risk of being confronted. (The latter always wins.) One or two will shrug, fill a cup to the brim, and take half home at the end of the day for the rat terrier they resent and wish to poison. (Sorry. Bit of a tangent there.) But, obviously, the note on the board will cause none of these folks to adapt in a big way. Humans are resistant to change, and it occurs to me that it would be much easier to change the viewpoint of one person than thirty, and I set about finding out who wrote the note.
- "Grubbin' it up here, Boss!", I say to the receptionist, while I shake the bag. She laughs, so I know it wasn't her that wrote the note.
- "I've never heard you use 'grub' before!", I say.
- "Nope. And you won't, either." (Denying her involvement.)
- "But I heard you...", and I point to the message on the board. "Uh, Uh."
- "Were they really upset? Did they talk about it?"
- "Don't know. That showed up on the weekend. I was off." (Now we're getting somewhere.)
- "Probably just one of those night shift mood things. She sort of has a point, if you think about it."
- "HEEE" (quick to the defense of the sisterhood) "won't score points being bossy, even if he's tired."
- And so I've got my man; male, night shift on the weekend, and surely not the marathoner or the guy who takes the newspaper to the bathroom for his morning 'constitutional'.
- "Grubbin' it up here, Boss!", I say while shaking the bag the next morning, and every shift change thereafter for a week. I leave an article describing the permitted number of bug parts in the M&M manufacture process. I disinfect the desk surfaces before leaving, hinting that we all should, but only to him. I mention that the cloth chairs he uses must be loaded with dust mites in that they are inhabited 24 hrs per day. I wonder out loud about the air filtration in our old building. I leave out the link to the video site that shows disgusting things that happen in commercial kitchens.
- Where my help for this poor tortured individual ends, others catch on and take up the slack. Taped next to the message on the break room board is an empty candy wrapper and a note; "$1 from the vending machine in the hall! - Ungrubbed!". Someone else Saran-wraps the candy bowl. A few candies get left on a disinfecting tissue on the table next to a filter mask and safety glasses. A fake audit form is filled out concerning the spread of deadly diseases on workplace snacks citing specifically items that don't melt in your hands.
- The pressure is relentless, and our poor burdened soul eventually succumbs. As I walk in one morning, he picks up the M&M bag from the break table in full sight of the entire crew. "Grubbin' it up here Boss!, he says as he sticks his bare hand into the bag. "Grubbin' it up!"
- I'm thrilled I could help. It occurs to me, though, that I, raised by wolves, might be blessed. Wolves are happy to have a job. They'd be thrilled to have something to eat without risking death to get it. They can't worry about all of the parasites and stomach upsets hovering on every surface they touch. They maintain an ordered, cooperative society that caters to the best interest of the pack. They are civil to each other, because that is in their own interest. There are worse ways to be raised. And by the way, on the rare occasion that I can't walk past a dark chocolate covered peanut, I now use a napkin because, raised by wolves, I hadn't ever thought about it.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Last Bob
- He only became "Last Bob" because one day the previous Bob just slipped into the trees and was never heard from again. But from the moment Last Bob became "Last", he was special. Now that he, too, is gone, the world is a sadder place.
- Don't get me wrong, I didn't always like Bob or understand him. His jaundiced skin, flippant manner, and relentless droll smile rankled me when my friend brought him along to play golf. I am a traditionalist. His presence denigrated the game. No real player would ever be seen with Bob on the course. Not that any of US ever broke ninety. After all, we're in Alaska. But we do all love and respect the game, and Bob's high visibility and doofey grin eliminated the sham that we are anything but hackers even before anyone witnessed the result of our stilted swings. I hated Bob because of what his just being there said about ME, until I got to know him, and where he was coming from.
- Bob, I'm sure you understand by now, was a golf ball. Not just any ball, of course. He was the cheapest chunk of junk plastic manufactured by the Wilson Staff company for abuse on a golf course. He was limey yellow, with a decal of the goofball kids cartoon character, Sponge Bob, smirking from his dimples. The sound and feel of a Sponge Bob ball off the club face is that of a chisel on granite. Bob is the ball that bad players pull out on the water holes, the lost ball you find while looking for your own but don't pick up, the odd one you find mixed in with range balls, the ball nobody wants. Bobs are reject balls, and I questioned him being brought into the cart.
- My friend, you see, is often an intense person when it comes to golf. He only learned to play as an adult, after his career was established, and his body had already begun to stiffen. But he attacked the game seriously when he chose it, buying the finest fitted hybrid clubs, a library of instruction manuals, and lessons from the best local pro. When his game progressed enough, he traveled to golf meccas in Florida, Hawaii, and the Monterrey Peninsula, to steep himself in golf tradition on it's finest courses. He came to know and accept the nature of the game as an allegory to life, a journey of growth, sometimes frustrating and occasionally magic. We never discussed it, but I've heard his preoccupation with golf began as a distraction from the pain of his disintegrating family. We have talked about his need, sometimes, to let a bad shot go and lighten up on the course. Usually though, after a couple of painless holes, a couple of painful jokes, and a couple of cans of swing lube (beer), he displays a mellower side. We share a special fellowship in our love of the game based on fun, integrity, and dignity; and he is the last person I'd expect to show up with Bob.
- The first time I saw Bob we were playing Anchor Point. My friend pulled a yellow sleeve from his bag, opened the box, and plunked them into the clip in the cart. I saw the googly eyes, took a closer look, and recognized the cartoon.
- I wrinkled my brow, rocked my head, and gave him a "What-the-hell?" look.
- He curled the corner of his mouth and shrugged an embarrassed "What-can-I-say" back.
- I turned away and shook my head in disapproval.
- He looked the opposite way, as if trying to go unnoticed.
- After two days sharing carts and a small car, words weren't necessary.
- Truth be told, Anchor Point was just the carnival course where Bobs fit. The greens are artificial and won't hold an approach shot anyway. The forest is thick and looking for lost golf balls is a futile exercise in bug spray effectiveness. All that was missing for the full adventure golf experience was a windmill. My friend actually played pretty well for early in the season, and lost two Bobs. I lost three Titleists, and I swear I saw him smile at the other Bob when he put it in his pocket.
- We played Birch Ridge at Soldotna on the same day. This is just a little nine hole course, but I knew I'd like it before my foot touched the grass. The pro's home was a perfect victorian gingerbreaded sweetheart that greeted you just inside the gate. There were guest houses out on the course. A fire pit and benches lined the tournament party tent. The staff dressed and acted professionally. The cart ran like a bat from hell (for a gold cart), the greens looked immaculate, and the practice facility was spacious. It was a player's course, and I was dismayed when the familiar yellow box emerged on the first tee.
- I looked at the ball tray and pleaded with my eyes.
- He crossed his arms in defiance and looked straight ahead.
- I pushed my supplicant hands toward Bob and then opened them as if to ask "Why?".
- He poofed a disgusted breath, pulled out a traditional white ball, teed it up, and sliced it completely over the trees bordering the property. One hundred yards up the fairway, nearly out of sight of the clubhouse, he plopped a yellow ball onto the short grass, hit a beautiful long approach shot onto the green, and bogeyed the hole.
- That was the first time I saw him speak to Bob. Now, all players encourage their golf balls. "Get up!, Run!, Bend a little!, STOP-RRIGHT--THERE!!" are common entreats. But my friend and Bob seemed to be having a private conversation between shots, even between holes. What I could overhear was gentle, confiding even. Sanity is not a requirement on the golf course, but I was beginning to worry. Two more Bobs were lost that round, but my buddy shot a reasonable score, and I knew I hadn't seen the last of Bob.
- A full month later, I got a call from my friend inviting me to participate in a scramble the next day, all expenses paid. I laughed because I was driving past the course we'd play (in Palmer) when he phoned, and it was drenched, a record breaking rainy summer leaving puddles and bogs in every low spot on the open fairways. I told him no, I had a house guest, and besides, the tournament would probably be canceled. He reminded me that summer was getting away, and that the course condition was not important because it was a scramble. He sounded as if he really wanted me to play. I glanced over at the lady who'd enjoyed our guest room for the past four days, and asked him what time to expect me for the shotgun start. "Will you be playing Bob?", I asked. He hung up on me.
- It rained all night. When I crossed the Knik River bridge, The fog was so heavy I couldn't see the water. My friend called and asked where I was. "I'll be there", I told him. "But I don't know why. It's pouring."
- "We'll play. It's Alaska.", he answered. Sure enough, it was only drizzling when we teed off, and the sun came out at the turn.
- When I met our team, I knew we wouldn't share the leaderboard. This was going to be a strictly-for-fun outing. Scrambles are usually a good time, but they devastate my game for days afterward. Once a ball is safely in the short grass, the rest of the team tries to blast a drive as far as they can, with the usual effect that half the time you play the original and spend time searching for lost mis-hits. For a week afterward, I always have to work at slowing my swing, regaining my tempo. My friend was placing Bob squarely in the center every drive, quietly cheering him on during every ball flight; "Go Bob.., Atta boy Bob."
- Palmer is fairly flat and wide, but there are a few holes where you can miss by a little and pay a lot. Next-to-last Bob disappeared in the birch forest next to a long par three that my friend tried to reach with a fairway wood. It seemed to me he searched for an inordinately long time and was visibly disturbed during the hunt. I helped look for a while but tired of the devils club and mud pretty quickly. When I returned to the cart, I took his putter from his bag and reached into the compartment where he usually keeps his green repairer and distinctive ball mark, a steel wheat penny made back in the war shortage days. There was an empty box in the pocket, and I removed it for easier access. Sure enough, it was the box the Bobs arrived in. Taped in the corner was a little ladybug gift card with squiggly print. It said, "Daddy, I heard you like golfing now. I hope you like Sponge Bob because I do too. I love you. Penny
- I gathered myself before he emerged soaking wet from the woods. I handed him his putter. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the now familiar yellow ball. "Last Bob", he said, mostly to himself.
- "Maybe you should hang onto that one", I suggested.
- "Nah."
- He hit his putt first, and drained it.
- With honors on the next hole, he produced a low draw that carried well down the fairway, caught the backside of a hard hummock and ran forever, at least 290 yards, no mean feat on a soggy fairway.
- "HOOYAH, BOB!!", I yelled. The guys on the green ahead looked back at the shot in disbelief, pumping their fists and thumbs upping us. The rest of the team wasted good shots thirty to fifty yards behind Bob, and we managed to birdie the hole, again with Bob falling first.
- "Since when can you hit a draw?", I asked my friend.
- "Since now, I guess."
- What followed is the most amazing thing I've ever seen on a golf course. My friend played a string of seven holes with Bob not missing a single fairway or green. Our playing partners were loudly singing the praises of Bob and his flight every shot, following our lead. While perhaps not professional quality, my friend's shots were by far the best I'd ever seen him produce, and we managed together to put a string of respectable pars and birdies together with our dismal earlier scores. It became a celebration, and the enthusiasm was spreading to the groups around us. At the post tournament scorer's table, the recorder said she heard we were having a great time. She tallied our unspectacular total and looked confused. "Today wasn't about a number", I told her. "Today was about Bob."
- The seventeenth hole of the day parallels a cliff along the braided Matanuska River. My friend decided to cut the blind corner just a bit. He didn't miss by much. Last Bob went over the edge and must have hit a rock. He was sitting up prettily on a sand bar hundreds of feet below us across a ripping torrent of milky water. The four of us gathered, staring at Bob from the cliffs edge. I took my hat off and put my hand on my friend's shoulder. The guys from the other cart followed suit. My friend tested his footing once, as if he meant to go after Bob. I wouldn't have stopped him.
- When we returned to play, my friend sat in the cart for while, took a deep breath, and removed a bright pink Top Flight from his shag bag. I started to protest, but he interrupted; "I'm calling him FLAMER."
- When flamer fluttered weakly into the deep grass on the next shot, I tried to lighten the mood by suggesting "Flame Out" as a more appropriate name. Starting the next hole, I put the thought in his head that he should do his best imitation Gay Pride parade dance if he didn't clear the ladies tee, never considering it might actually happen. Of course, he topped the shot and it dribbled about thirty feet. He immediately went into the most spasmodic episode of dainty twirling and flopping I've ever seen. When he finished, nobody smiled, or even moved. Four hundred yards away on the clubhouse deck, a man's mouth actually hung open. We finished the hole in stunned silence.
- "What, not good enough?", my friend asked as we returned the cart.
- "TOO good.", I answered.
- Several minutes later, he spoke again. "Thanks for understanding. You know. My being silly about Bob."
- "No sweat. Sometimes it's cool to be silly. But FLAMER! PLEASE... God I miss Bob."
- Don't get me wrong, I didn't always like Bob or understand him. His jaundiced skin, flippant manner, and relentless droll smile rankled me when my friend brought him along to play golf. I am a traditionalist. His presence denigrated the game. No real player would ever be seen with Bob on the course. Not that any of US ever broke ninety. After all, we're in Alaska. But we do all love and respect the game, and Bob's high visibility and doofey grin eliminated the sham that we are anything but hackers even before anyone witnessed the result of our stilted swings. I hated Bob because of what his just being there said about ME, until I got to know him, and where he was coming from.
- Bob, I'm sure you understand by now, was a golf ball. Not just any ball, of course. He was the cheapest chunk of junk plastic manufactured by the Wilson Staff company for abuse on a golf course. He was limey yellow, with a decal of the goofball kids cartoon character, Sponge Bob, smirking from his dimples. The sound and feel of a Sponge Bob ball off the club face is that of a chisel on granite. Bob is the ball that bad players pull out on the water holes, the lost ball you find while looking for your own but don't pick up, the odd one you find mixed in with range balls, the ball nobody wants. Bobs are reject balls, and I questioned him being brought into the cart.
- My friend, you see, is often an intense person when it comes to golf. He only learned to play as an adult, after his career was established, and his body had already begun to stiffen. But he attacked the game seriously when he chose it, buying the finest fitted hybrid clubs, a library of instruction manuals, and lessons from the best local pro. When his game progressed enough, he traveled to golf meccas in Florida, Hawaii, and the Monterrey Peninsula, to steep himself in golf tradition on it's finest courses. He came to know and accept the nature of the game as an allegory to life, a journey of growth, sometimes frustrating and occasionally magic. We never discussed it, but I've heard his preoccupation with golf began as a distraction from the pain of his disintegrating family. We have talked about his need, sometimes, to let a bad shot go and lighten up on the course. Usually though, after a couple of painless holes, a couple of painful jokes, and a couple of cans of swing lube (beer), he displays a mellower side. We share a special fellowship in our love of the game based on fun, integrity, and dignity; and he is the last person I'd expect to show up with Bob.
- The first time I saw Bob we were playing Anchor Point. My friend pulled a yellow sleeve from his bag, opened the box, and plunked them into the clip in the cart. I saw the googly eyes, took a closer look, and recognized the cartoon.
- I wrinkled my brow, rocked my head, and gave him a "What-the-hell?" look.
- He curled the corner of his mouth and shrugged an embarrassed "What-can-I-say" back.
- I turned away and shook my head in disapproval.
- He looked the opposite way, as if trying to go unnoticed.
- After two days sharing carts and a small car, words weren't necessary.
- Truth be told, Anchor Point was just the carnival course where Bobs fit. The greens are artificial and won't hold an approach shot anyway. The forest is thick and looking for lost golf balls is a futile exercise in bug spray effectiveness. All that was missing for the full adventure golf experience was a windmill. My friend actually played pretty well for early in the season, and lost two Bobs. I lost three Titleists, and I swear I saw him smile at the other Bob when he put it in his pocket.
- We played Birch Ridge at Soldotna on the same day. This is just a little nine hole course, but I knew I'd like it before my foot touched the grass. The pro's home was a perfect victorian gingerbreaded sweetheart that greeted you just inside the gate. There were guest houses out on the course. A fire pit and benches lined the tournament party tent. The staff dressed and acted professionally. The cart ran like a bat from hell (for a gold cart), the greens looked immaculate, and the practice facility was spacious. It was a player's course, and I was dismayed when the familiar yellow box emerged on the first tee.
- I looked at the ball tray and pleaded with my eyes.
- He crossed his arms in defiance and looked straight ahead.
- I pushed my supplicant hands toward Bob and then opened them as if to ask "Why?".
- He poofed a disgusted breath, pulled out a traditional white ball, teed it up, and sliced it completely over the trees bordering the property. One hundred yards up the fairway, nearly out of sight of the clubhouse, he plopped a yellow ball onto the short grass, hit a beautiful long approach shot onto the green, and bogeyed the hole.
- That was the first time I saw him speak to Bob. Now, all players encourage their golf balls. "Get up!, Run!, Bend a little!, STOP-RRIGHT--THERE!!" are common entreats. But my friend and Bob seemed to be having a private conversation between shots, even between holes. What I could overhear was gentle, confiding even. Sanity is not a requirement on the golf course, but I was beginning to worry. Two more Bobs were lost that round, but my buddy shot a reasonable score, and I knew I hadn't seen the last of Bob.
- A full month later, I got a call from my friend inviting me to participate in a scramble the next day, all expenses paid. I laughed because I was driving past the course we'd play (in Palmer) when he phoned, and it was drenched, a record breaking rainy summer leaving puddles and bogs in every low spot on the open fairways. I told him no, I had a house guest, and besides, the tournament would probably be canceled. He reminded me that summer was getting away, and that the course condition was not important because it was a scramble. He sounded as if he really wanted me to play. I glanced over at the lady who'd enjoyed our guest room for the past four days, and asked him what time to expect me for the shotgun start. "Will you be playing Bob?", I asked. He hung up on me.
- It rained all night. When I crossed the Knik River bridge, The fog was so heavy I couldn't see the water. My friend called and asked where I was. "I'll be there", I told him. "But I don't know why. It's pouring."
- "We'll play. It's Alaska.", he answered. Sure enough, it was only drizzling when we teed off, and the sun came out at the turn.
- When I met our team, I knew we wouldn't share the leaderboard. This was going to be a strictly-for-fun outing. Scrambles are usually a good time, but they devastate my game for days afterward. Once a ball is safely in the short grass, the rest of the team tries to blast a drive as far as they can, with the usual effect that half the time you play the original and spend time searching for lost mis-hits. For a week afterward, I always have to work at slowing my swing, regaining my tempo. My friend was placing Bob squarely in the center every drive, quietly cheering him on during every ball flight; "Go Bob.., Atta boy Bob."
- Palmer is fairly flat and wide, but there are a few holes where you can miss by a little and pay a lot. Next-to-last Bob disappeared in the birch forest next to a long par three that my friend tried to reach with a fairway wood. It seemed to me he searched for an inordinately long time and was visibly disturbed during the hunt. I helped look for a while but tired of the devils club and mud pretty quickly. When I returned to the cart, I took his putter from his bag and reached into the compartment where he usually keeps his green repairer and distinctive ball mark, a steel wheat penny made back in the war shortage days. There was an empty box in the pocket, and I removed it for easier access. Sure enough, it was the box the Bobs arrived in. Taped in the corner was a little ladybug gift card with squiggly print. It said, "Daddy, I heard you like golfing now. I hope you like Sponge Bob because I do too. I love you. Penny
- I gathered myself before he emerged soaking wet from the woods. I handed him his putter. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the now familiar yellow ball. "Last Bob", he said, mostly to himself.
- "Maybe you should hang onto that one", I suggested.
- "Nah."
- He hit his putt first, and drained it.
- With honors on the next hole, he produced a low draw that carried well down the fairway, caught the backside of a hard hummock and ran forever, at least 290 yards, no mean feat on a soggy fairway.
- "HOOYAH, BOB!!", I yelled. The guys on the green ahead looked back at the shot in disbelief, pumping their fists and thumbs upping us. The rest of the team wasted good shots thirty to fifty yards behind Bob, and we managed to birdie the hole, again with Bob falling first.
- "Since when can you hit a draw?", I asked my friend.
- "Since now, I guess."
- What followed is the most amazing thing I've ever seen on a golf course. My friend played a string of seven holes with Bob not missing a single fairway or green. Our playing partners were loudly singing the praises of Bob and his flight every shot, following our lead. While perhaps not professional quality, my friend's shots were by far the best I'd ever seen him produce, and we managed together to put a string of respectable pars and birdies together with our dismal earlier scores. It became a celebration, and the enthusiasm was spreading to the groups around us. At the post tournament scorer's table, the recorder said she heard we were having a great time. She tallied our unspectacular total and looked confused. "Today wasn't about a number", I told her. "Today was about Bob."
- The seventeenth hole of the day parallels a cliff along the braided Matanuska River. My friend decided to cut the blind corner just a bit. He didn't miss by much. Last Bob went over the edge and must have hit a rock. He was sitting up prettily on a sand bar hundreds of feet below us across a ripping torrent of milky water. The four of us gathered, staring at Bob from the cliffs edge. I took my hat off and put my hand on my friend's shoulder. The guys from the other cart followed suit. My friend tested his footing once, as if he meant to go after Bob. I wouldn't have stopped him.
- When we returned to play, my friend sat in the cart for while, took a deep breath, and removed a bright pink Top Flight from his shag bag. I started to protest, but he interrupted; "I'm calling him FLAMER."
- When flamer fluttered weakly into the deep grass on the next shot, I tried to lighten the mood by suggesting "Flame Out" as a more appropriate name. Starting the next hole, I put the thought in his head that he should do his best imitation Gay Pride parade dance if he didn't clear the ladies tee, never considering it might actually happen. Of course, he topped the shot and it dribbled about thirty feet. He immediately went into the most spasmodic episode of dainty twirling and flopping I've ever seen. When he finished, nobody smiled, or even moved. Four hundred yards away on the clubhouse deck, a man's mouth actually hung open. We finished the hole in stunned silence.
- "What, not good enough?", my friend asked as we returned the cart.
- "TOO good.", I answered.
- Several minutes later, he spoke again. "Thanks for understanding. You know. My being silly about Bob."
- "No sweat. Sometimes it's cool to be silly. But FLAMER! PLEASE... God I miss Bob."
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Friday Foodie Forum
- Mushroom omelets. Nothing special, right? Unless you have fresh eggs, veggies from the garden, just picked wild boletes from the forest, and character swiss from, well.., the fridge. There are things done right up here. Potatos, carrots, fish, berries, and wild mushrooms (among others). And for the first time in five years, I wish, while hunting and gathering yesterday, that I'd used sunscreen.
- Some AK things, though, Holy McGuffy. We decided, after a few years, to give Garcias in Eagle River another chance. Oops. I ordered the chile verde, pork and Anaheim peppers with fixin's. They served about ten half inch cubes of tough pork in a sauce that tasted like it was made from chile powder, and then spilled the black pepper jar into the mess. It came with a dollop of sour cream on the side, cold bland rice (refrigerator cold), and a pile of jalapenos. (SACRILEGE!!) Cold torts right off the store shelf. The salsa was standard Old Mexico watery chopped tomatos and onion with an overload of cilantro. (I'm tired of debating the cilantro issue. Please don't bother.) If someone wants to make a fortune in Alaska, they could start a restaurant offering quality Northern New Mexico cuisine using roasted Hatch green chile, barely burnt red sauce, sharp quality cheeses, freshly made flour or blue corn tortillas, meats that melt, and yesterdays beans. Serve in a rustic building with flagstone floors, vigas, and a view of the forest, and you could charge $30 a plate and have folks beating the doors down.
- The Palmer potato should be coming soon. Everywhere believes they have the best potato, and while not having traveled the world potato tour, I'll put new Yukon Golds from Palmer, Alaska right up there with any of them. They taste nutty and sweet. Incrediyum.
- The carrots here are like crispy candy. I can't describe them better than that.
- There, I've done delved into the realm of restaurant and food blogging. All I've established is that I like fresh ingredients, and that I'm a Mexican food snob without the guts (or money) to start my own restaurant. Guess I'll stick to my day blog.
- Some AK things, though, Holy McGuffy. We decided, after a few years, to give Garcias in Eagle River another chance. Oops. I ordered the chile verde, pork and Anaheim peppers with fixin's. They served about ten half inch cubes of tough pork in a sauce that tasted like it was made from chile powder, and then spilled the black pepper jar into the mess. It came with a dollop of sour cream on the side, cold bland rice (refrigerator cold), and a pile of jalapenos. (SACRILEGE!!) Cold torts right off the store shelf. The salsa was standard Old Mexico watery chopped tomatos and onion with an overload of cilantro. (I'm tired of debating the cilantro issue. Please don't bother.) If someone wants to make a fortune in Alaska, they could start a restaurant offering quality Northern New Mexico cuisine using roasted Hatch green chile, barely burnt red sauce, sharp quality cheeses, freshly made flour or blue corn tortillas, meats that melt, and yesterdays beans. Serve in a rustic building with flagstone floors, vigas, and a view of the forest, and you could charge $30 a plate and have folks beating the doors down.
- The Palmer potato should be coming soon. Everywhere believes they have the best potato, and while not having traveled the world potato tour, I'll put new Yukon Golds from Palmer, Alaska right up there with any of them. They taste nutty and sweet. Incrediyum.
- The carrots here are like crispy candy. I can't describe them better than that.
- There, I've done delved into the realm of restaurant and food blogging. All I've established is that I like fresh ingredients, and that I'm a Mexican food snob without the guts (or money) to start my own restaurant. Guess I'll stick to my day blog.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Golf Conundrum
- I used to think I could play golf. Without the occasional bad hole blowing up a round, I was pretty competitive in the crowd I chose to be with. I also loved the game. I've found few other ways to spend time so totally zoned that all the usual brain clutter is silenced.
- But then I grew up. Golf is a waste of my time. Golf is a waste of my money. Golf is a waste of my/our land and water resources. Golf is selfish. (Proof: I've used I/my ten times already in this post!) Better to spend time building something contributing to the common good.
- Then, after ten years mostly golfless and living in Alaska, a coworker pushed for participation in a company tournament insisting that anyone owning clubs would not be exempted. (It's AK!) So, out came the five wood, the railed rescue club that never failed in the past. The matted practice range is daunting after so much time. My body has changed. The clubs are relative antiques that have been shipped and stored and stacked for ten years. I've forgotten all the technique that used to be automatic. My muscle memory is just that, a memory. My vision and focus are shot.
- But the picture of a real golf swing is still wonderously embedded in the closet of my brain, and I just step up to the ball and stroke it. There is no feeling like that of a well hit golf ball. When this magic club strikes a friendly ball on it's center, there is no impact feedback. It's as if the ball didn't exist in the swing, just the click of it's departure, and the "feel" that the distance and direction will be spot on. And even though I know I will never be as good as I was, or as good as I could have been, even though the season here is frustratingly short, even though fishing and berry picking and touring must suffer, I'm hooked.
- The rest of the practice session and tournament didn't go all that well, as I should have expected. My solace was the poor play of the group, in general. But everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. My door prize was a new modern driver, which I'm learning to use to effect.
- UPDATE: My friend has a quest. I love quests. He wants to play every course in Alaska. He doesn't offer a reason why, and I don't ask. "How hard can that be?", I wonder to myself. So I offer to be Sancho to his Don Quixote, windmilling titleists on every groomed patch of mossy grass in this far flung land. I didn't know, when I offered, that there are some very remote places in Alaska that also happen to enjoy golf. So, I'm with him in the spirit of his quest, if not actually in the traveling to Kodiak for a round of golf part. We did play five courses on the peninsula in three day at the beginnng of this season, though. We did not play them well, but we played them. I counted every stroke.
- Another UPDATE: Yesterday, I played the course I've been hoping to see since the bug bit again. Eagleglen is a track built for the military, designed by a famous architect. (Robert Trent Jones Jr.) It winds through a spruce and birch forest, crossing Ship Creek several times and rolling through generally gentle hills. It is a beautiful place to see, and a wonderful course to play, being forgiving and wide for beginners, and offering challenging risk/reward opportunities for true players. Convinced by my playing partners that it was not particularly long or hilly (it wasn't), and boosted by the first perfect weather in a while, I walked, carrying my bag. It was one of those incredible days that you'll remember forever, doing something you love the way it was meant to be done in a special place with good people. As an aside, at 5:30, taps was played on the loudspeaker on base, followed by the Star Spangled Banner. Play stopped on the course while everybody held their caps over their hearts. As if planned (?), an F22 fighter jet drowned out the 'rockets red glare', and I felt the stongest welling of patriotism since the days following 9/11.
- So. I've rejoined the pill in a pasture dark side, knowing full well that golf time can't be recovered, and money spent playing could make a big difference in a suffering child's life in South America (or South Anchorage, for that matter). If you climb mountains, hunt, bicycle groomed trails or tear up wild ones, race cars or snowmobiles, run rapids, or just play video games, you are using resources that could probably be better used, except that it brings you joy, and that is where the value lies. To me, golf is art; in watching those who play it well, in appreciating a course layout, in learning to play different shots, dabbling in the tradition and history of the game, or just allowing for a day idled outside with friends. There has always been debate over the value and expense of art and entertainment to society, but I believe we have an inherent need for it, in whatever form. That doesn't mean we should not try to limit the impacts of our play, but I'll ignore the nitrates from golf courses causing algae blooms in the ocean while I'm on the course, because that's really the point of being there.
- But then I grew up. Golf is a waste of my time. Golf is a waste of my money. Golf is a waste of my/our land and water resources. Golf is selfish. (Proof: I've used I/my ten times already in this post!) Better to spend time building something contributing to the common good.
- Then, after ten years mostly golfless and living in Alaska, a coworker pushed for participation in a company tournament insisting that anyone owning clubs would not be exempted. (It's AK!) So, out came the five wood, the railed rescue club that never failed in the past. The matted practice range is daunting after so much time. My body has changed. The clubs are relative antiques that have been shipped and stored and stacked for ten years. I've forgotten all the technique that used to be automatic. My muscle memory is just that, a memory. My vision and focus are shot.
- But the picture of a real golf swing is still wonderously embedded in the closet of my brain, and I just step up to the ball and stroke it. There is no feeling like that of a well hit golf ball. When this magic club strikes a friendly ball on it's center, there is no impact feedback. It's as if the ball didn't exist in the swing, just the click of it's departure, and the "feel" that the distance and direction will be spot on. And even though I know I will never be as good as I was, or as good as I could have been, even though the season here is frustratingly short, even though fishing and berry picking and touring must suffer, I'm hooked.
- The rest of the practice session and tournament didn't go all that well, as I should have expected. My solace was the poor play of the group, in general. But everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. My door prize was a new modern driver, which I'm learning to use to effect.
- UPDATE: My friend has a quest. I love quests. He wants to play every course in Alaska. He doesn't offer a reason why, and I don't ask. "How hard can that be?", I wonder to myself. So I offer to be Sancho to his Don Quixote, windmilling titleists on every groomed patch of mossy grass in this far flung land. I didn't know, when I offered, that there are some very remote places in Alaska that also happen to enjoy golf. So, I'm with him in the spirit of his quest, if not actually in the traveling to Kodiak for a round of golf part. We did play five courses on the peninsula in three day at the beginnng of this season, though. We did not play them well, but we played them. I counted every stroke.
- Another UPDATE: Yesterday, I played the course I've been hoping to see since the bug bit again. Eagleglen is a track built for the military, designed by a famous architect. (Robert Trent Jones Jr.) It winds through a spruce and birch forest, crossing Ship Creek several times and rolling through generally gentle hills. It is a beautiful place to see, and a wonderful course to play, being forgiving and wide for beginners, and offering challenging risk/reward opportunities for true players. Convinced by my playing partners that it was not particularly long or hilly (it wasn't), and boosted by the first perfect weather in a while, I walked, carrying my bag. It was one of those incredible days that you'll remember forever, doing something you love the way it was meant to be done in a special place with good people. As an aside, at 5:30, taps was played on the loudspeaker on base, followed by the Star Spangled Banner. Play stopped on the course while everybody held their caps over their hearts. As if planned (?), an F22 fighter jet drowned out the 'rockets red glare', and I felt the stongest welling of patriotism since the days following 9/11.
- So. I've rejoined the pill in a pasture dark side, knowing full well that golf time can't be recovered, and money spent playing could make a big difference in a suffering child's life in South America (or South Anchorage, for that matter). If you climb mountains, hunt, bicycle groomed trails or tear up wild ones, race cars or snowmobiles, run rapids, or just play video games, you are using resources that could probably be better used, except that it brings you joy, and that is where the value lies. To me, golf is art; in watching those who play it well, in appreciating a course layout, in learning to play different shots, dabbling in the tradition and history of the game, or just allowing for a day idled outside with friends. There has always been debate over the value and expense of art and entertainment to society, but I believe we have an inherent need for it, in whatever form. That doesn't mean we should not try to limit the impacts of our play, but I'll ignore the nitrates from golf courses causing algae blooms in the ocean while I'm on the course, because that's really the point of being there.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Sleepless Rambling
1: I squinted when my words were later hurled back in my direction. I know why I've got crows feet. You are what you eat.
2: People work themselves to death in salt mines. I don't get it. Salt is just ocean - less water. Put some ocean in a bowl protected from rain and wait. Voila!
3: The next time I see someone in a pricey car parked across two spaces twenty feet from the WalMart entrance, I'm gonna wait 'til the car on their driver's side moves, then park six inches from their door, film their reaction when they come out, and make them famous on a TV home video show. With the money I'll win, I can fix the dings in MY car from doors and carts being thrown into it. Or maybe I'll have enough to quit shopping at WalMart (for philosophical reasons), or even enough to buy a new car, which, of course, I'll want to show off to my fellow WalMart shoppers while protecting the fruits of my hard won wealth.
4: I know someone who jumps a foot every time the cell phone vibrates in her pocket. Everyone around her also recoils when she gets frantic for no apparent reason, like horses on the trail when the lead spots a rattlesnake. She doesn't get many calls, but when she does, the whole room becomes energized. I call her occasionally from the business phone a few feet away just for effect. I'm considering packing my own cell on vibrate, or maybe just randomly flinching or squirming like a chipmunk ran up my pants leg, just to create some buzz.
5: A safety memo came out warning of the dangers of leaving the paper shredder powered up when not in use. I wonder out loud what horrible accident created the need for this notification. I'm picturing the destruction of a perfectly good silk tie and someone's face. I.., um, someone... printed a copy of the document and mangled half of it in the shredder, then smeared a bit from a catsup packet on what remained. It rested on the brink of the trash can for the night shift to notice. It was not IN the can the next morning, and I'm fearing a long and expensive investigation into whichever sophomoric moron is not taking safety seriously in the company. If they find them, they should fire them.
6: We set a record for consecutive days with rain in Anchorage. Woo-hoo. Not many folks seem to be celebrating our accomplishment. I, on the other hand, am a lemonade fan. A wet summer has many (ok, some) benefits. The parks are not crowded, so, while we took our lab swimming (he doesn't mind the rain), we picked over forty types of mushrooms. We brought them home for study, compared them to the trusty guide, and found three that "might" be edible (and might be poison). So, I took the puppy into the dark forest on the slope of my property, and found more interesting varieties, all without food or hallucinogenic value (darn). But we learned a lot, and the shrooming season has just begun. We did find that the rain has not dampened the bugs' spirits, or slowed any plant growth. There were a few berries, and a place where a large animal made a day bed (probably at night). It's looking like we can put off getting refrigerated air for another year, and there will be plenty of mulch for the perennials. I haven't spent much time or money on golf, or wasted any effort searching for northern lights or meteor showers. I chose not to feed my lawn in the rain, so it's growth has slowed to where weekly cuttings are enough. Anywhere else, these rains would create torrential floods, but there is no natural topsoil for our gardens here, so the water just drains away. And as any true Alaskan knows, it's plain silly to complain about the wet; You don't shovel rain...
7: At the end of the golf season you can find bargains on golf balls. I bought some new Armour brand for a third of the normal price. They seem very playable, but I understand the marketing problem that exists with the hot-dog connection.
8: My partner was wearing a tortoise-shell claw in her hair. It looks like some kind of medieval torture device. I asked if the thing was a brain monitor and how it was doing. She said, "Actually, it's not doing much of anything." She said it. I didn't. Not to worry; She seldom reads this stuuuuuu
Ow.
2: People work themselves to death in salt mines. I don't get it. Salt is just ocean - less water. Put some ocean in a bowl protected from rain and wait. Voila!
3: The next time I see someone in a pricey car parked across two spaces twenty feet from the WalMart entrance, I'm gonna wait 'til the car on their driver's side moves, then park six inches from their door, film their reaction when they come out, and make them famous on a TV home video show. With the money I'll win, I can fix the dings in MY car from doors and carts being thrown into it. Or maybe I'll have enough to quit shopping at WalMart (for philosophical reasons), or even enough to buy a new car, which, of course, I'll want to show off to my fellow WalMart shoppers while protecting the fruits of my hard won wealth.
4: I know someone who jumps a foot every time the cell phone vibrates in her pocket. Everyone around her also recoils when she gets frantic for no apparent reason, like horses on the trail when the lead spots a rattlesnake. She doesn't get many calls, but when she does, the whole room becomes energized. I call her occasionally from the business phone a few feet away just for effect. I'm considering packing my own cell on vibrate, or maybe just randomly flinching or squirming like a chipmunk ran up my pants leg, just to create some buzz.
5: A safety memo came out warning of the dangers of leaving the paper shredder powered up when not in use. I wonder out loud what horrible accident created the need for this notification. I'm picturing the destruction of a perfectly good silk tie and someone's face. I.., um, someone... printed a copy of the document and mangled half of it in the shredder, then smeared a bit from a catsup packet on what remained. It rested on the brink of the trash can for the night shift to notice. It was not IN the can the next morning, and I'm fearing a long and expensive investigation into whichever sophomoric moron is not taking safety seriously in the company. If they find them, they should fire them.
6: We set a record for consecutive days with rain in Anchorage. Woo-hoo. Not many folks seem to be celebrating our accomplishment. I, on the other hand, am a lemonade fan. A wet summer has many (ok, some) benefits. The parks are not crowded, so, while we took our lab swimming (he doesn't mind the rain), we picked over forty types of mushrooms. We brought them home for study, compared them to the trusty guide, and found three that "might" be edible (and might be poison). So, I took the puppy into the dark forest on the slope of my property, and found more interesting varieties, all without food or hallucinogenic value (darn). But we learned a lot, and the shrooming season has just begun. We did find that the rain has not dampened the bugs' spirits, or slowed any plant growth. There were a few berries, and a place where a large animal made a day bed (probably at night). It's looking like we can put off getting refrigerated air for another year, and there will be plenty of mulch for the perennials. I haven't spent much time or money on golf, or wasted any effort searching for northern lights or meteor showers. I chose not to feed my lawn in the rain, so it's growth has slowed to where weekly cuttings are enough. Anywhere else, these rains would create torrential floods, but there is no natural topsoil for our gardens here, so the water just drains away. And as any true Alaskan knows, it's plain silly to complain about the wet; You don't shovel rain...
7: At the end of the golf season you can find bargains on golf balls. I bought some new Armour brand for a third of the normal price. They seem very playable, but I understand the marketing problem that exists with the hot-dog connection.
8: My partner was wearing a tortoise-shell claw in her hair. It looks like some kind of medieval torture device. I asked if the thing was a brain monitor and how it was doing. She said, "Actually, it's not doing much of anything." She said it. I didn't. Not to worry; She seldom reads this stuuuuuu
Ow.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Low-Word
- Pizzaman has really good local pizza. They also serve schooners of microbrew. So, with our house trembling from guest prep, there was little question where I was going for take-out. When I walked through the door, a line of folks waited for seats. One bleached little southern lady in heels bypassed the line and beat me to the cashier. "How long is the wait?", she drawled.
- This cashier is one of my favorites. She is cute, courteous, professional, and very, very pregnant. She asked about the size of the party and estimated a fifteen minute wait.
- The tourist raised her eyebrows, hesitated a second, brought three fingers to her cheek, and wailed "Oh Low-word!". Thats the way she said it; two full syllables. The hostess noticed my reaction, but controlled her own. She shrugged an "I'm sorry", and the little belle wheeled and stormed away.
- The cashier smiled at me, reached for my order, and told me what I owed.
- I threw my hips to the side, raised my hand to my cheek, shook my head, and moaned "O Lo-word!!"
- I must have done it well. She doubled over and roared. The next customer in line was laughing one of those mouth-wide-open-but-no-sound-coming-out guffaws, and the waiting-for-tables crowd, who hadn't heard the earlier exchange, were smiling that somethings-funny-but-we-don't-know-what confused half grin. I shrugged an "I dunno" at them and waited for calm, but it wasn't happening. The poor girl laughed so hard that she sat, actually sat, on the floor gasping. Two waitresses ran out of the dining room to her side. "My God, What happened? Are you okay?"
- Through tearing eyes, she was staring up at me staring at her with a fake concerned look. "He... He...", she tried between heavy breaths, "is gonna make me have this baby!"
- The man behind was shaking his head. One waitress was giving me hate looks, the other was helping the plumpish one to her feet. She took some time, softly cradled her belly, then waved the other staff away, composed herself, and took my money. She thanked me with a smirk, then pointed her finger at the man behind and said "Don't even think about it!"
- From the car I could see her calmly handle business with the next customer, and as she called someone to fill in, I saw her mouth the words you come to expect from a woman in her condition, "Low-word, I gotta pee!"
- This cashier is one of my favorites. She is cute, courteous, professional, and very, very pregnant. She asked about the size of the party and estimated a fifteen minute wait.
- The tourist raised her eyebrows, hesitated a second, brought three fingers to her cheek, and wailed "Oh Low-word!". Thats the way she said it; two full syllables. The hostess noticed my reaction, but controlled her own. She shrugged an "I'm sorry", and the little belle wheeled and stormed away.
- The cashier smiled at me, reached for my order, and told me what I owed.
- I threw my hips to the side, raised my hand to my cheek, shook my head, and moaned "O Lo-word!!"
- I must have done it well. She doubled over and roared. The next customer in line was laughing one of those mouth-wide-open-but-no-sound-coming-out guffaws, and the waiting-for-tables crowd, who hadn't heard the earlier exchange, were smiling that somethings-funny-but-we-don't-know-what confused half grin. I shrugged an "I dunno" at them and waited for calm, but it wasn't happening. The poor girl laughed so hard that she sat, actually sat, on the floor gasping. Two waitresses ran out of the dining room to her side. "My God, What happened? Are you okay?"
- Through tearing eyes, she was staring up at me staring at her with a fake concerned look. "He... He...", she tried between heavy breaths, "is gonna make me have this baby!"
- The man behind was shaking his head. One waitress was giving me hate looks, the other was helping the plumpish one to her feet. She took some time, softly cradled her belly, then waved the other staff away, composed herself, and took my money. She thanked me with a smirk, then pointed her finger at the man behind and said "Don't even think about it!"
- From the car I could see her calmly handle business with the next customer, and as she called someone to fill in, I saw her mouth the words you come to expect from a woman in her condition, "Low-word, I gotta pee!"
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