We have gotten through yet another fleeing vision of what used to be a holiday: Thanksgiving. This year I abdicated all pretense of feeding anyone and my family dined at a restaurant. My daughter declared this the best Thanksgiving she had ever had. No doubt this had something to do with the number of cocktails she’d imbibed. My children are grown, so they don’t need to have any more memories made for them. They typically go out with friends after they’ve visited each respective parent and step-parent combination. This is the new age combination and we strive to be new age.
However, I myself like to maintain the age-old tradition of Black Friday shopping. You know what I’m talking about. One of the crazies that gets up at Oh! dark thirty and sets off on the hunt for bargains galore. This year was no different.
I arose, sans alarm clock, wide-eyed and awake at 6:10 a.m. Not the typical roll over and hope for a few more minutes. No no, not this dedicated begetter of bargains. I was awake, walked and fed the dog, dressed, made-up and on my way. Comfort is the name of the game here. The things that sustain a middle-aged women in times like these are donning a comfy bra and sturdy underwear. In the thick of it, one doesn’t need surprises down below. If you’re looking for more salacious reading, there are other websites for that kind of thing. Here at the Smart Aleck Press, we like to maintain the inane.
The remainder of the uniform was typical: baggy jeans, sweatshirt, light jacket and gloves. Stock was taken of debit cards, car key storage, extra tea in the insulated mug and energy cookies. This last was yet another item lacking in this barista’s bid for mother of the year. I bought, didn’t make, the cookies. Gluten free, they were sustaining nonetheless. And away I went.
I don’t do this every year, but each time I wonder what are the rest of those people doing up at that hour? Are half-priced bath sets that enticing? Does a three foot salami log for $3.98 really make life better? Why isn’t there anything that you truly need on sale, like paper towels and toilet paper. I am still moderately supporting my adult children. They don’t need money, but they suck up paper products at an unbelievable rate. Convinced that I must still provide them with basic necessities, I prefer to purchase such things at a discount.
For the better part of the morning, I slogged on. I was feeling forlorn after realizing that I’d forgotten my coupons at home until I happened upon the change jar that counted the money as it went in. This would make someone happy for $7.98. My son works at a job where he gets tips. I could just imagine the gleeful countenance this gift would bring. However, I would settle for a “Gee, thanks” knowing that secretly this was the gift that truly counted.
I fought crowds, stood in line, worried over the location of items advertised earlier in the week. I went back and forth to the car, drove here, drove there and finally went home after 6 1/2 hours. This trip was not an unqualified success. There were still several people on the gift list who would need presents purchased to put under a tree. But it did serve to put one in mind of the season as one communed with the search of the harried and hurried.
Despite missing leftovers, I had a little extra energy from not having to put away turkey/dressing/potatoes/rolls/green bean casserole and/or portion it out to various relatives or friends who I know would never bring back those storage dishes. So I just relaxed at the end of the day and congratulated myself on a job well done. It was time to sit back and put my feet up. I thought it was best to save my strength for the upcoming shopping on the day after Christmas!

Perspicacity

We here at the Smart Aleck Press feel it is important to follow your dreams. If there is something out there that you know is meant to be yours, it seems reasonable that you should do whatever it takes to make that happen in your life. The eight-fold path includes the qualification of “the right vocation.” When one is happy in one’s work, the remaining steps of the eight-fold path almost seem to fall into place. As one is looking for that which makes one happy, the qualities of the right vocation are important considerations.
For this simple barista, dreams of power dance often on the edges of the mind. Not just any kind of power either. I’m talking about being nearly all-powerful. Doubtless you know what that means. The kind of power that allows access to doors that are locked for others. The kind of power that gives recognition and gratitude upon ones arrival. The kind of power that makes others call your name and know that you will bring the relief they so desperately want.
Being a barista means a life of service that is unparalleled by others such a wait staff, bartenders, valets and the like. They too may dream of another life, with glory the by-product of fulfilling their dreams. This barista dreams of power. Power that is announced, power that is heralded for even small feats of labor. This barista has always dreamed of being: a maintenance man. This is someone with real power in this life time. And they have the ring of keys to prove it. The power they wield comes with wrenches, hammers, putty and duct tape. The emergency solutions alone provoke others to whisper their name with gratitude. When something needs to be done, they are called into service and serve they do. Unlocking locks, duct taping just about anything, finding ways in and out of situations that mystify mere mortals. This is REAL power.

But the resolution to opening doors, managing the lost and found and generally saving the day must come with humility. To serve is to rule but also, to rule is to serve. One cannot maintain this power with out knowing who one serves. Those that need file cabinets unlocked, those that need shop vacs brought into service, those that need coffee dispenser fixed – IMMEDIATELY – they are served by the maintenance man!

When this barista indulges in the day dream of becoming a maintenance man, the soft jingle of the ring of keys can almost be heard. The gentle thud of work boots on carpet can almost be felt. The thrill and excitement of coming to the rescue of those most in need, say if someone finds a mouse, these are the stuff of dreams. One day, yes, one day, this barista will accede to that kind of glory!

(Don’t look now but the turkeys are coming.)

Winter seems to have left it’s finger print on our part of the world with a powdered sugar dusting of the white stuff. There was enough white precipitation to stick to lawns, trees, both coniferous and deciduous and any cars left outside. The morning commute evidenced many vehicles who displayed poorer driving skills because they refused to clean off the hoods of their cars. The white stuff kept blowing up and distracting them.
In general, I have strong antipathy toward the white stuff. Like the villain in the Harry Potter books that shall not be named, I can only refer to frozen wet globules as “The ‘S’ Word. The reason for that is: I just don’t like it. It’s not more complicated than that.

I don’t like that it needs to be moved around with a shovel, scraped off cars and windshields, pushed out of the way of doors and clinging to the summer furniture left out on the deck. This is a wicked reminder of warm and joyful times past that required fewer clothes and summer beverages. Never mind that one drinks those beverages to reduce internal temperatures to the current ambient temperature, it’s the principal. I didn’t even like playing outside in it as a kid. Frost bite often set in when the group of us continued throwing balls of it as if this were really fun. It wasn’t. As I recall, my neighbor Bobby kept hitting me with disturbing accuracy. His brother Jeff kept wanting to kiss me when we weren’t flailing about in knee high trenches of the stuff. Their older brother left priest school quite a few years later. Hmmm, wonder what was going on there? But that’s a different story for a different day having a different drink.

I’m not sure if getting pummeled by ice balls has made me this jaded. Don’t really care. I don’t like, you can’t make me so there! A little immaturity goes a long way in these important matters. Have to end now – hafta go out and brush off the side walk. Somebody’s gotta move the “S” stuff.

October left it’s calling card with leaves strewn about the yard.

Not so much a mess it seems as fragments of fall-ish dreams.

Swept up and raked and moved along the remaining grasses of the lawn.

Utterance of wind and sere, whisper come hither, come here.

Trees bared and then grey, matching skies of the day.

Longing goes on for summer now gone.

Melancholy it seems replaces soft summer dreams

As the longing goes on for the summer now gone.

Here’s a phrase you don’t hear too often anymore:  Village Idiot. The words have been popping into my head ever since we got a new dog.  The household was rather quiet all summer after the passing of our 11 year old boxer bitch.  She was a grand old dame named Dorothy who was prissy in every sense of the word.  She believed herself to be empress of all she surveyed.  What with her own ruffled pillow to sleep on in the den, her feet barely touched the floor all winter long.  It was just too uncomfortable for someone of her stature.

Dorothy had very good manners, took commands in English and French. She was clean and fastidious in all her endeavors.  We put her to sleep when it appeared there was no help for the sudden on-set of symptoms that went unidentified but continued to weaken her.  She passed quietly after we said our good-byes.  I believe she is resting in heaven and many others wait on her as we did on this plane. 

To be sure, her passing left the house a little too quiet.  Then, a rash of burglaries in the neighborhood left me feeling unsettled without a dog to put up the pretense of protection.  I was not comforted by my spouses efforts.  My darling husband offered to be ever at the ready with a shot gun from the gun cabinet.  The problem with that scenario was that he was wielding the damn thing while he ran around in the nude.  A naked fat man with a gun and hair sticking up is not a fearsome sight.  It is ludicrous.  The before-bed routine found him strategically planning the right lighting in case the burglars broke in,  with the locks in the house alternately locked or open to confuse them.  He thought he was Robert Ludlum.  I thought he would likely kill us by some mistaken maneuver.  To make matters worse, I kept thinking about some scene from an old Army movie where the inductees are made to stand at attention in the rain while they repeated “This is my rifle and this is my gun.”  You’ll guess which was which.  I laughed hysterically every night when my husband secured the premises.

I knew we had to get a dog!  Even if it was only to keep ourselves from dying of embarrassment.  So we contacted our old friends at Minnesota Boxer Rescue. Initially, several dogs we were interested in had been taken.  Then one day, we both fixed on a photo of a 2 1/2 year old brindle boxer male. He had a tilted head that begged to be kissed and appeared quite handsome.  Good thing he is handsome, or he might not get forgiven for much of what he does.  He would single-handedly revive the term village idiot. 

His formal name is Bruno.   He came with it, sometimes he answered to it so we kept it.  However, his official title is village idiot.  During the first two weeks we had him, he managed to take two fence posts out of my fence to see if he could chase a cat in the next yard.  He chewed on several door knobs and left large gaping dents.  He found a way to stand on hind legs and chew on window blinds in the laundry room.  Walked into screen doors, ran into walls.    When the dog shakes his hand and the ears flap back and forth, my husband describes this as the dog slapping himself with his own ears.  This from a man who sees no problem walking around naked with a shotgun in semi-darkness.  I love my husband, but he is not the face, or body,  of homeland security. 

And I love this dog.  He has many problems.  His back legs are too long and the back right hip socket just doesn’t work well.  This will have to be addressed at some point but in the meantime, he jumps as high as any terrier when he’s happy to see someone.  He loves to go on walks despite the leg problems.  He would just as soon be off leash and on the run, but  he just doesn’t know the command for “Come” yet.  He likes to open the front door and take himself for a run sometimes.  As stated, he won’t come when he’s called but he’ll be damned if he’ll miss a car ride.  So we get the car out, back it out of the driveway  and he’s on point for an open door that’s just for him.  All of these things are not too unusual.  In the days, hopefully years to come, there will be more stories of antics dumb and dumber.  But of all the antics so far, no one can figure out why he eats sheet rock off the walls.  Now you know why we call him “The Village Idiot.”

Fall fell.
So did my motivation.
There is no entry for the 10th month of 2013.
How sad for you. ;-(

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