Cell Phones Are Here to Stay, But . . .

Most of my friends and family members had cell phones well before the end of the last century. I wasn’t convinced that I needed a cell phone until the middle of September 2001. While I think that I someday might trade up to a much smarter phone, I currently have a slightly upgraded pay-as-you-go phone for convenience and security reasons.

Very few people have my cell phone number, and those who do seldom call it because I also have a landline that I’m not ready to give up. When people do call the cell, it's generally because I'm not home, and they're trying to track me down to meet for breakfast or get together later in the day.


When I answer my cell phone in a public place, I keep the conversations short and discreet. If I should ever need to discuss an urgent personal issue on the cell, I'll go to a place where I think the fewest number of people will be able to hear my side of the conversation.


I don't understand why so many people seem to think it's okay to loudly discuss very personal issues on their cell phones while they are shopping, traveling on public transportation, or having lunch at a restaurant. I'm sorry about the crappy way their lives seem to be going, but I really don’t want to listen to what should be private phone conversations about their problems with work, finances, family members, the legal system, or the next door neighbor's cat.


 
And if I should, perchance, make eye contact with the gabbers, they shoot me a look that would kill a zombie. Hey, if they’re loudly yakking about it in public, it's not private.

 
And if their conversations are that interesting, I might take notes.

 

[I actually did take notes while listening to a bus passenger’s very loud cell phone conversation a couple of years ago. I later wrote a mini-post about her, um, lack of discretion and published it on Blogger on March 30, 2012.]

 

Snarky Me and the Bookmobile

I admit that I probably was not nice recently. This is an explanation, not an excuse.

 

A couple of weeks ago, I got up way too early after a night of too little sleep. At 5:55 a.m., I left to catch a bus to the train station. I rode the 6:30 Sprinter to Other City, where I boarded a local bus that dropped me off near a popular restaurant. As usual, I stopped for a coffee fix to perk up before going to my volunteer job.

 

The coffee fix did nothing for me. I dragged myself into the library and hoped the morning would fly by.

 

I started sorting beaucoup donated magazines and books in all sizes, shapes, and conditions. Forty-five minutes later, I decided that I needed to go upstairs for boxes and other supplies. I had one foot in the elevator when a man’s voice boomed, “Excuse me.”

 

I was the only one in the area, so I figured he was talking to me. I removed my foot from the elevator and swiveled my neck in the direction of the voice. “Where did you park your vehicle when you came in this morning?” he asked.

 

He explained that someone’s car either had blocked the bookmobile or had been parked behind the bookmobile. I didn’t catch exactly what the issue was. I think my mind got stuck on the word “bookmobile.”

 

I couldn’t recall ever seeing a bookmobile anywhere near the library. Actually, I couldn’t recall ever seeing a bookmobile anywhere since I got out of elementary school, way back in the Early Jurassic Period.

 

I hesitated for a couple of seconds, and then I said, “Well, if the vehicle I came in on this morning was parked out there, the Sprinter would be sitting in the parking lot.”

 

He looked bemused, but not amused. I guess that wasn’t the answer he wanted. A vision of the Sprinter sitting in the parking lot flashed through my mind. I giggled. He frowned and went off to continue his search for the owner of the offending vehicle.

 

When I left the library, I noticed that the aforementioned bookmobile was still parked on the premises. Actually, it would have been impossible not to notice that particular bookmobile. It’s a 74-foot tractor-trailer known as the OverDrive Digital Bookmobile. The Digital Bookmobile travels around the country, visiting schools and libraries and educating students and library patrons about eBooks and eBook platforms.

 

Going home on the train that afternoon, I decided that my comment about the Sprinter was probably just a tad bit snarky. I felt kind of bad about that. I really do try to be nice, but, hey, I was tired and a bit moody.

 

Sorry about the snark, but it’s probably not for nothing that I have a (custom made) T-shirt with lettering that says, “Sarcasm: just one more service I provide.”
 

Cranberry-Apple Pie for Breakfast

Once a week, on Wednesday morning, I volunteer at a library in a city about fifteen miles away from where I live. Before going to work (yes, it is work, even if unpaid), I stop at a restaurant near the library for coffee and pie (yes, pie).

The fruit pies at this restaurant are yummy. The pies are made with real fruit, not with the gooey, too-sweet canned pie filling that so many restaurants seem to use.

While talking to the owner one morning, I mentioned that cranberry-apple pie is my favorite. She made a note of that and said she would make one the next Wednesday. And she did. A week later, I had the very first piece of a fresh-baked cranberry-apple pie at 7:30 a.m.

I’m going to miss that place (and the pies) when I eventually find a new volunteer gig closer to home.

Revelation at the Train Station

I was at the Sprinter station one afternoon, waiting for the train to Oceanside. The train station usually isn’t a very exciting place. However, things got, um, rather interesting about ten minutes before train time.

A man and woman standing some distance away from me began arguing. I couldn’t hear what the man said, but the woman obviously was annoyed by the word he used to describe her. “I’m not a chick. Stop calling me a chick,” she shrieked three times in as many minutes.

Hmm…. She looked like a “chick.” And sounded like one too.

The man apparently refused to cease and desist. A few minutes before the train arrived, the woman freaked out and yelled, “I am not a chick. If I was a chick, I’d have [female anatomy] and a [more female anatomy].”

Crickets!

Travelers on both sides of the platform stopped talking, texting, smooching, or whatever else they were doing and craned their necks in the direction of her voice.

About a half second later, the woman realized that everyone at the transit center had probably heard her. “Sorry if I announced that to everyone,” she hollered.

We were sorry too.

Maybe a Little Pricey but Worth It

I finally and officially earned my bachelor’s degree in January 1998. The road to that B.A. in English was a long one, both figuratively and literally. And, unlike a lot of college students then and now, I was lucky that I didn’t have to go into debt to do it.

I estimate that, over three and half years, I probably spent a minimum of $5,000 of my own funds to earn my B.A. as a part-time, non-traditional, transfer student at a public liberal arts college. I paid for my tuition, books, transportation, supplies, and occasional lunches. And, oh yeah, coffee and a donut in the morning before class (an old boyfriend from Way Back When scolded me about that).

How did I keep myself out of debt? Well, I'll admit it wasn't that easy. I do like nice things, and some of those nice things are pricey. But I managed to keep my personal expenses to a minimum. For example, I bought most of my clothes at Wal-Mart, bought school supplies at the dollar store, and used the college computers instead of buying one of my own.

 

I used a combination of resources to pay for my education expenses: wages from a part-time job, savings, and a very good tuition payment plan that let me spread my payments over ten months.

 

Was my undergraduate degree in English worth the money? Yes, for me it was. I realize that many English majors end up with jobs that have little or no relation to their studies. I am very lucky to have had the opportunity to put my skills in English and writing to use as an editor at a non-profit organization. No matter how good those skills are (and professors, employers, and clients have told me they are very good), I would not have been hired as an editor if  I did not have that B.A.

Introducing the Sprinter

I started writing a post about something that happened while I was waiting for the Sprinter. Then I thought, if I'm going to write about the Sprinter, maybe I'd better explain what it is.

So, here goes.

The Sprinter is the name of the light-rail train system that operates between the cities of Oceanside and Escondido, California.

Although riding a bus is tolerable for travel within each of the four cities the Sprinter serves, the train is the most efficient way to travel between cities. That's because the Sprinter doesn't stop every forty-five seconds to let passengers board or depart. And the Sprinter doesn't stop for red lights. And the Sprinter never gets stuck in the middle of rush hour gridlock. (Actually, the train contributes to that mess. Can you guess why?)

Anyone who frequently uses bus transportation will tell you that riding a bus can get a little bizarre (and even creepy) at times. I've witnessed too many obnoxious individuals acting out on buses (blog fodder for future posts?). However, people usually behave on the Sprinter. I suspect that's because armed security officers ride the train.

I began riding the train in February. After enduring the trip to Escondido aboard the Snail Special a few times, I realized that the Sprinter was a faster and less stressful way to travel to my Wednesday morning volunteer job. I was very pleased with the train service.

That is, until the Sprinter shut down indefinitely.

(to be continued, also see 10-11-2012 semi-related post, They Can't Arrest You, but They Can Shoot You) 

Another Hiatus (Sorry About That)

Yes, I know. I haven't been blogging for a couple of months. And I won't be until July (June is almost over, y'know). My excuse, um, reason is that I'm waiting for my new computer to arrive.

In the meantime, I’m doing some writing the old-fashioned way—with a pen and notepad. I’m making notes for the Camp NaNoWriMo challenge that I’ll be attempting (again) in July.

I participated in the April challenge. Well, sort of; I had the best intentions. I signed up to write ten-thousand words, but, with other things going on, I ended up writing about five-hundred words.

Maybe I’ll do better this time. Maybe….

Hiatus

On hiatus for a while. Finalizing plans for a family member’s memorial service. Be back soon.

My Parents Are to Blame for This

[Note: As short as this post is, I’ve incorporated material from two previously published essays (Tucson Citizen, July 1987; Themestream, January 2001). The revised Themestream essay eventually will be posted in its entirety on another (sorry about that) site. Until then, here is a preview.]

Give me a task, and I’ll do it well, unless, of course, it involves some sort of housework.

And there is a good reason why. As a toddler, I was terrorized by Mom’s vacuum cleaner, a baggy brown behemoth that roared through the house two or three times a week. When Mom wanted to run the vacuum cleaner, she had to conscript a relative to take me somewhere—anywhere.

My parents couldn’t figure out why I was so frightened by the darn thing. Who knows? (I certainly don’t.) Maybe the noise drove me crazy. Then again, one morning the machine came dangerously close to sucking up the cat. Maybe I thought it would get me next.

My histrionics, I mean hysterics, drove Mom and Dad a little crazy. Mom hoped it was just a phase I was going through. Even then, she looked forward to the day when I could start helping out around the house.

That finally happened when I was eight, and it lasted about ten minutes. I was no longer afraid of the vacuum cleaner. However, on my first try, I lost control of the machine, crashed into the china cabinet, demolished two table lamps, and knocked my little brother into a magazine rack.

“For Pete’s sake, Mary Frances,” Dad yelled, “do it yourself before she destroys everything.”

Unfortunately, Dad’s instinct for self-preservation condemned my mother to doing most of her own housework forever.

The Newsletter That Never Was

When I was ten, I got the bright idea to create a newsletter. I never followed through with that idea for several reasons. Reason one: I was ten. Reason two: I didn’t know how to type, which was a requisite for creating a professional looking newsletter.

However, reason three was the one that really shot down the idea. A newsletter has to report news, but I had no idea as to where to find some. Nothing exciting ever happened in our small town. And, at ten, the people I knew didn’t seem at all that interesting.

By the time I was twelve, I suspected that at least a few of those individuals were, or had been, involved in some really interesting stuff. Unfortunately, the adults who knew all the details usually tried their best to stay mum about them in front of the kids. By the time we were teens, though, my friends and I had figured it out for ourselves, thanks to keen observation and a little surreptitious eavesdropping.

At sixteen, I was more interested in dating than I was in writing a newsletter, which was probably just as well. I don’t think a newsletter would have gone over big then. By that time, several of my peers were adding grist to the gossip mill, and a couple of those peers had issues that seemed to appear in the newspapers on a semi-regular basis. Anything I dared to write about them would probably have made some people very unhappy with me, people like their parents, their probation officers, and whoever else was involved in whatever they did.

And even if I had wanted to resurrect the newspaper idea, it wouldn’t have worked. As a high school junior, I had to take a requisite typing class. Two weeks into the class, I discovered that I hated typing.

Hope to Get Back to Blogging Soon

Haven't been blogging much during these last two months. We lost a family member in November.

Hope to get back to blogging and working on other writing projects soon. Also resuming editing services in February.

Just One of Those Things You Always Remember

I was fourteen then and in the ninth grade.

Back in the Mid-Jurassic Period, students were allowed to leave the school grounds for lunch. On that particular day, I was walking to the diner with a friend who was in the eighth grade. I’ll call her Lily, but that wasn’t her real name.

We were halfway there, when Lily stopped in the middle of the street, grabbed my arm, pulled me closer, and whispered in my ear, “See that guy coming toward us.”

How could I not see that guy coming toward us? He looked nasty—scowl on his face, black leather jacket, tight jeans. The word hood popped into my head.

“That’s [Tough Guy],” Lily said. 

Although I hadn’t been formally introduced to Tough Guy, I knew some things about him, and they were not good things. He was a person whose reputation preceded him.

“He had to get married,” Lily whispered as he strutted past us. “Now he has to get divorced because he has to get married again.”

Yikes, I thought. “That’s crazy,” I said. “And anyway, maybe you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

Actually, Lily sort of heard right. The timing was a little off though. Tough Guy did get divorced within a few months. And he did have to get married again, but that happened about five years later.

He married Lily.

Ain't Misbehaving Much

When I was growing up in the Mid-Jurassic Period, my friends and I looked forward to wearing costumes and going from house to house on trick or treat night. We enjoyed doing this every Halloween until the year I was in the ninth grade. That year, we got a lecture instead of treats. A woman at the first house we went to yelled at us, saying we were too old for trick or treat. “You should be ashamed of yourselves,” she said before telling us to go home.

That woman took all the fun out of trick or treat night. But, even though she turned us away, we never even thought about playing tricks on her. We didn’t go to any other houses. We were afraid that those people would also turn us away. We went home empty handed, figuring that our trick or treat years were over.

They weren't. Sort of.

The next year, my friends and I came up with an idea to have what we considered a little harmless Halloween fun. We decided to do some window waxing, but we wanted to make it easy for people to clean up. We knew that removing wax from windows was a chore; so we “borrowed” bars of soap from home. About 8 p.m., we went to check out the window-waxing possibilities on the main street of a neighboring town. (Yeah, in retrospection, that was sort of dumb.) That town was larger than the one where we lived. We figured we wouldn’t be recognized if we were caught in the act.

While my friends scouted out their territories, I claimed a spot in front of a TV repair shop that had a Closed sign in the window. I could see a light at the back of the shop, behind an open door that led to what was, most likely, office space. Probably left the light on to discourage thieves, I thought.

I started spinning soap circles all over the window. A few minutes later, I glanced up and saw a man standing in the back of the shop. He was laughing, but I freaked out anyway. I dropped the soap and took off. I found my friends, and we got the heck out of there.

From then on, I behaved. Well, at least on Halloween.

Bus Lines: They Can't Arrest You, but They Can Shoot You

I’ve been a bus rider since I was thirteen. Yes, I do have a driver’s license, a brand new one, actually (lousy picture, but thank you, California). However, I’ve found that, for me anyway, using public transportation is more convenient most of the time. I don’t have to worry about finding a parking space or dealing with distracted drivers, meandering pedestrians, and a variety of emergency vehicles. And riding the bus is less expensive than adding a second vehicle to the household.
 
Several times during the week, I’ll take the neighborhood bus to the downtown transit center (DTC). From there, I’ll walk to either the library, Starbucks, or Barnes & Noble. All three are within reasonable walking distance, and I can use the exercise. I don’t know who or what created the bus schedules, but whoever or whatever was responsible for them did a great job. Most of the buses arrive at and later leave the DTC at the same time. If I want to travel to one of the outlying shopping centers or to another city, I generally have a short wait before transferring to another bus.
 
Once in a while, the neighborhood bus runs late, and I miss my connection. That’s when I spend twenty or thirty minutes doing some serious people watching. Hey, it’s a bus station, and bus stations do tend to attract “interesting” people. I try to be inconspicuous when observing fellow bus riders (or the individuals who seem to just hang out there every day). I admit that I sometimes pull a notebook and pen out of my backpack and jot down my observations. Discreetly, of course.
 
Well, no one has asked me why I’m taking notes. Not yet.
 
Several individuals roaming around the area have (unsuccessfully) asked me for money, but people usually mind their manners. So far, I haven’t witnessed anything wilder than a man screaming obscenities at no one in particular. (I moved away from that one pretty darn fast.)
 
Last week, I overheard a driver and a passenger discussing a fellow who has been permanently banned from the DTC. Among other things, he made inappropriate suggestions to a female bus driver. “It takes a lot to get you banned from the transit center,” the driver said. “Whenever that guy shows up, we call security.”
 
Security, in this case, is the transit police. The transit police can enforce rules, resolve conflicts, and order people off the property. Sounds like they mean business, and they do. However the business they’re allowed to mean is rather limited. I recently learned that the transit police are not authorized to make arrests. In the event of a serious issue (I don't want to even imagine what that might be), they must send an SOS to the city police. That seems a bit odd because the transit police are armed.

Hmm…. So they can’t arrest you, but they can shoot you.

They're Watching You, Me, and Everyone Else

Recently, I walked into a well-known office supply store, politely declined offers of help from two eager-beaver sales associates, and headed to the ink cartridge display. Right away, something seemed off. Then it dawned on me that there weren’t any ink cartridges on the shelves, just rows of tickets where the cartridges should have been. The tickets read: Take ticket and bring to register.

I didn’t see a ticket for the cartridge I needed, so I convinced myself that the store didn’t sell that type. Or was out of it. Or something. Yes, I could have asked, but I wasn’t that desperate to spend twenty-five dollars. My printer wasn’t in imminent danger of running out of ink. I thought it might be nice to have a spare, but it really wasn’t that important.

So I abandoned my original plan and wandered into the school supplies area, searching for cheap notebooks and other bargains. After telling a third sales associate that I was “just looking,” I decided that I didn’t see anything I wanted to spend my money on. And, anyway, Other Half was waiting impatiently in the vehicle.

On my way out, I stopped to rummage through the sale bins near the front of the store. That’s when I noticed that the cashier was wearing a headset. Hmm, when did that start? I didn’t remember seeing a cashier wearing a headset on my previous visits. I figured she was on the phone with a customer until I heard her say, “Woman in pink flowered shirt and black slacks heading in the direction of the copy and print area.”

Yes, she was describing a customer who had just entered the store. And she wasn’t being quiet about it either. I wasn’t that close to the register. However, I had no trouble hearing the cashier as she alerted the troops. I thought it was more than likely that the woman in the pink flowered shirt and black slacks had heard her too.

Looking around, I spotted several other associates who were also wearing headsets. Oh, I had noticed employees wearing headsets in other stores. But I had never heard of store personnel using them to track each customer the minute he or she stepped into the store. Although I suspected that this was some new security measure, I thought it was a bit annoying.

I was even more annoyed when I realized that the employees must have tracked every move I made. Now I knew why an associate seemed to pop up every time I turned sideways. Silly me. I had thought they were simply being overzealous because, at that time, there seemed to be more employees than customers in the store. I wondered if my very laid-back outfit, an oversized white T-shirt and well worn faded jeans, tagged me as a potential shoplifter.

As I headed to the door, the cashier noticed me and asked if I had found everything I was looking for. My first instinct was to suggest that she should be more discreet when describing customers and their likely destinations. But I was brought up to be nice. So I told her what I wanted, adding that the store apparently didn’t carry that type of ink cartridge.

“Oh,” she said, pointing at the wall behind the registers, “we have those.”

Okaaaay. I’m in that store at least once a week. How could I have not noticed all those shelves stacked with what seemed like a half-zillion ink cartridges? “Have people stolen a lot of those?” I asked.

The cashier nodded.

As she handed me the receipt for my purchase, another customer walked into the store. “Man wearing plaid shirt and carrying messenger bag, heading toward computers,” she announced to the outlying associates.

“Wow,” I said, “you really must have a lot of shrinkage in this store.”

“Yes,” she said, “we do.”

Sadly, I understood why. Although I like certain stores in that area, it’s not the greatest neighborhood. I realize that it’s in the store’s best interest to maximize security in order to minimize losses. However, tracking every customer who walks in the door just seems too tacky and a tad disrespectful. And that policy probably will not encourage people to shop there.

On the way home, I imagined how the cashier might have described me: Woman wearing jeans, a tan bucket hat, and a white T-shirt that reads Saguaro Romance Writers. She’s dragging a blue rolling back pack. Stopped at the ink cartridge tickets. Hmm … looks confused.

Must Rescue Newspaper---Again

When we moved from Arizona, I thought my days of “rescuing” the newspaper were over. So not true. I still have to take in the newspaper first thing in the morning, which currently means around 5 a.m. These days, however, all I have to do is open the door and pick it up—providing that it’s there, of course.

Arizona was a different story. Prior to escaping from the desert heat, we spent almost fourteen years living in a small apartment complex. Hoping to discourage door-to-door solicitors and other perceived undesirables, The Powers That Be fenced in the property around 2006. Until then, the newspaper delivery guy (NDG) dropped the newspaper at our back door. After the fence went up, NDG was literally on the outside looking in.

Other Half (OH) was most unhappy. He just couldn’t do without his morning newspaper. So I called the circulation office and told the customer service representative what NDG would have to do in order to keep OH from cancelling his subscription. I wasn’t too hopeful, but the CSR went for it, probably after considering the decline in newspaper sales.

For the next four or five years, each weekday morning around 6 a.m., NDG wheeled into the unfenced part of the driveway, leaped out of his SUV, and lobbed the newspaper over the exit gate where, I suspect, it ricocheted off the neighbor’s bedroom window.

Each weekday morning around 6:15 a.m., I trudged out to the parking lot and picked up the newspaper. On weekends, NDG had the courtesy to show up at 7 a.m., which was great, because I had no intention of getting up early on those days to rescue a newspaper that I suspected wasn’t worth the price of the subscription.

The newspaper usually was right where it should be. But maybe ten or twelve times a year, it went AWOL. Most of those times, I’m sure it wasn’t delivered for some legitimate reason. Maybe NDG got sick halfway through the route, maybe he ran out of newspapers, or maybe he was on vacation and the substitute NDG didn’t have a clue as to who got a newspaper.

At other times, I’m fairly certain that another tenant grabbed the newspaper. Why? Well, some days I’d hear someone walking through the parking lot, or I’d hear a car stop and a door slam before the car drove out of the yard. And then, when I went out to pick up the newspaper, it wasn’t there.

When the newspaper goes AWOL here, in the land of better weather, I figure it’s just an oversight on the part of the current NDG. Maybe he’s on vacation. (I’m fairly sure it’s a he because the newspaper is delivered around 4 a.m.) Or maybe he’s sick. Or something.

And, anyway, this is a 55-plus apartment complex. I’d really like to believe that 55-plus persons ceased pilfering newspapers years ago.

But then again, who knows?

Bus Lines: Viewer Discretion Advised

People should use discretion when posting on Facebook and other social media sites. Everyone knows that, or everyone should. And everyone also should know how to exercise a little discretion and a lot of common sense when sharing personal information in public places.

For example, take this little scenario that happened recently.

A woman got on the bus, plopped into the seat in front of me, and called a friend. I'll call the woman Loud Lady, because she was. “You'll never guess who I slept with last night,” Loud Lady said.

Ears perked up at the front of the bus; a couple of heads swiveled around.

I wondered if the friend guessed right.

“No,” Loud Lady said, giggling, “not the one I’ve been going out with. The other one.”

Oops. After that news flash, the woman realized she had a captive audience. She probably figured it out when she noticed several passengers glaring at her, including the woman accompanied by three small children.

“Well, I guess everyone on the bus heard that,” Loud Lady told her friend.

“Yep, we sure did,” the fellow sitting across from her piped up.

I thought about advising her to try texting the next time she has a news flash.

I thought about it, but I didn’t.

How Did This Happen?

Last week, I received a catalog from a jewelry making supply company. I’ve ordered items from this company six or seven times during the last twenty years. Although I haven’t ordered anything from it in at least two years, I find a sale catalog from the company in the mailbox three or four times a year.

So I wasn’t surprised to get the catalog. What surprised me was that it was addressed to me at my new location. No, there wasn’t a yellow sticker from the USPS attached to it with my forwarding address. And anyway, I don’t think the post office forwards catalogs.

My current address was printed on the back of the catalog? I haven’t notified the company regarding my change of address, and I don’t plan to do so unless I order something from it online.

So now I’m wondering: How did that company get my new address? And who or what else has it?

My Date Did NOT Set My Best Friend on Fire

One February, way back when we were teens, my best friend, Kate, talked me into yet another blind date. The guy she liked lived ten miles away. He didn’t have a car, but his friend did. We met the guys at a nearby restaurant where we sat and talked for a couple hours.

Well, Kate and “Donnie” talked for a couple hours.

As for me, I wished that I had stayed home and read a good book. My date, I’ll call him “Joe,” was not someone my parents would have approved of. I won’t go into details, but I did notice that he had a lot of gray in his hair. I suspected that he had probably graduated from high school shortly after the end of World War II. Fortunately, Joe dozed off about twenty minutes after we were introduced.

Hey, I wasn’t that boring.

Thirty-plus years later, I wrote an anecdote about that bizarre double date and entered it in a Worst Date contest sponsored by a newspaper that no longer exists. Of course, being a writer, I, um, embellished the story a bit.

On Valentine’s Day, the newspaper published an article written by one of its reporters. The article included several worst date anecdotes submitted by readers (with no last names mentioned). Mine was the lead in. I knew it couldn’t miss. It began with, “My date set my best friend on fire.”

My entry related how Donnie had lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the ashtray. The hot match scored a direct hit on the cellophane cigarette wrapper, which burst into flames. I wrote that my dozing date woke up, assessed the situation, and started huffing and puffing. Thanks to Joe’s lung capacity, the mini torch went airborne and landed on Kate’s fuzzy black sweater.

Well, that was my story then, but I’m no longer sticking to it.

The reality: My date did not set my best friend on fire. I confess that I combined the blind date story with another “incident” that happened when Kate and I were at the restaurant a few months earlier. Yes, the ashtray fire really happened the way I wrote it, but Donnie and Joe were nowhere in sight.

Today, when friends read the tear sheet of that article, I tell them the truth: “Actually,” I say, “I’m the one who set Kate on fire.” But not to worry, Kate wasn’t hurt. Her sweater was only slightly singed, and the Pepsi stains came out in the wash.

Cinderella, Snow White, and the Elves (Yes, Elves)

Way back when I worked full time, a coworker told me about a research paper she had written for a college class. I don’t remember the name of the class—something to do with child psychology, most likely. Her subject was fairy tales.

I’ll call my coworker “Susan,” although that wasn’t her real name. Susan interviewed several women while researching her project. She asked each woman what her favorite fairy tale was when she was five years old.

According to Susan, whatever your favorite childhood fairy tale was, that’s how you thought your life was going to turn out. In other words, if your favorite fairy tale was Cinderella or Snow White, your five-year-old self figured you’d grow up, meet a handsome prince, and live happily ever after.

Right.

Unlike my friends in kindergarten, I wasn’t impressed by Cinderella or Snow White. I liked the story about the elves and the shoemaker. I thought it was really neat that the elves helped out the tired shoemaker and his wife by making shoes while the couple got a decent night’s sleep.

I guess my preference meant that, when I grew up, I thought I would find someone to do my chores for me. Chores like cooking and cleaning for example.

As it turned out, that did happen. Sort of. Other Half retired many years before I did. So, while I worked full time, he did most of the housework.

But no longer. Now that I’m retired from full-time work, Other Half figures that he’s retired from doing just about anything around the house.

So I do it all now. And I’ve accepted that. But I’m also beginning to suspect that the shoemaker took advantage of the elves.